Hat Trick

by Morris Fenris

  “I can’t foretell what will happen, in any way,” Jeff told her, standing at the driver’s side open window to lean slightly in. “So don’t get too anxious, okay? I’ll call you as soon as I can. I promise that much, Livvie. I will call you.”

  More fateful words. The same he had used, the last time she’d seen him just before Christmas, ten years ago.

  Nodding, she mustered up the bravest smile she could find. “Drive safely, Jeff. I wish you—all the best.”

  He stepped back, giving her a little wave, and she pulled hastily away before he could see the tears in her eyes or sense the pain that had just cracked her vulnerable heart wide apart.

  Chapter Five

  The rest of Saturday passed by in a slow drag of non-events.

  On the way home, Olivia stopped at her local market for groceries. Then made another stop at the nearby wine shop for a bottle of their best chardonnay. A final stop at The Bloomery, treating herself to a spicy bouquet of zinnias and marigolds.

  Bruno greeted her excitedly at the door when she walked inside from the garage, almost buried under an armful of packages.

  “Hey, baby,” she crooned. “How are you? Did you miss me as much as I missed you?”

  Of course he had, despite the care and attention of a dog-walker’s two visits and his overnight stay next door with her dog-obsessed neighbors, who shared a residence with three of their own. Bruno was always well taken care of during her infrequent absences, even if he did complain bitterly in doggie language that he was abused and neglected and planned on dialing the ASPCA Hotline for help at the first opportunity.

  Winding happily around her legs with every step, he did his best to impede progress as she made her way from laundry room to kitchen.

  Once her purchases had been safely stowed away, she spent time in the back yard with her enthusiastic mutt, who had, in his opinion, suffered terribly while she was gone. He finally tired enough of playing catch to settle at her feet, underneath the cushioned swinging loveseat where she had sunk down for a restful view of her surroundings and a sample of the delicious wine.

  It never failed to restore her sense of rightness in the world, this lovely spot she had envisioned and then created with such care over the years. Plenty of green grass to keep even Bruno satisfied; a little maze of landscaped areas holding beds of crushed white marble, rose gardens and mixed-flower gardens, and a young Japanese maple just coming into its prime; a flagstone walkway that flowed through the whole like a living stream of water; birdbaths and bird feeders to accommodate year-round visitors.

  Even now, sitting quietly while the afternoon sun waned and a few birds fought off their squirrel enemy in an ongoing battle for sunflower seeds, the sense of peace and harmony pervaded her restless soul and helped ease a distinct feeling of unease.

  She had come so far, in her quest to locate Jeff Quinley, in her mission to seek redress.

  And she’d been so close. As recently as this morning, she’d been so close.

  Now, that achievement might have slipped right through her fingers, gone forever.

  Heartache. Loss. Failure. Olivia wanted to weep.

  But she wouldn’t. Not yet. Not quite yet.

  Sunday, too, passed by, of no more consequence than the day before. The telephone did not ring, nor did any perception of mental closeness, of emotional communion, return. Jeff did not call her. And she—she was not about to call him. No, by God, she would not call him! For once, pride grabbed the upper hand to prevent Olivia from making a fool of herself once again. She had taken a chance on him from the very beginning, and been swatted back off her feet; she had given him a second chance. All for naught.

  Somehow the unending hours moved on.

  She and Bruno took a long, energetic, and quite tiring walk. On her return, she stopped to thank her neighbors, who were outdoors harvesting all sorts of healthy things from their vegetable garden, for dog-sitting.

  “Why, honey, you know you can leave him with us any time,” Mrs. Gibson assured her. “Our boys just love Bruno, and they all get along so well.”

  It was true. Two half-grown German Shepherds and a pit bull rescue, racing around through a few fallen leaves in the back yard, had come sniffing up to the picket fence to greet their foster brother with a great wagging of tails and friendly little yips.

  “The zucchini, Ruth,” her husband called out from where he was kneeling in the middle of Little-Shop-of-Horrors vines, which seemed to be growing as he spoke. “Ask her about the zucchini.”

  “Certainly, dear,” his wife called back. “We have so many, Olivia, and they’re just taking over the garden. As you can see. Would you like to take some? They make quite delicious bread, and—um—er—well, lots of other dishes.”

  In the end, Olivia returned home with a paper bag full of rich red Beefsteaks, the aforementioned zucchini, and a few peppers and onions. How nice of neighbors to share their bounty!

  “Ratatouille, Bruno,” she decided, as they walked into their own kitchen. “Doesn’t that sound good for supper?”

  A free meal was nothing to sniff at. Plus, the work of peeling and slicing and chopping would keep her occupied for some time. Physically, anyway. Too bad the mind would still be free to wander.

  Tackling some long-delayed household chores helped break up the monotony of a day at home with no sign of even the possibility for change. Then, then, was apparently to be the continuation of her life; might as well get to it. Mouth set into grim and unaccustomed lines, Olivia dusted and vacuumed, started a load of laundry spinning in the washer, prepared her ratatouille ingredients and set them to simmering.

  The enticing scent of garlic and spices began to fill the air while she worked in her home office. Bills needed to be paid, and a new marketing plan proposed and prepared by her admin at Just Livvie needed to be looked over. Approve? Disapprove? It was, if nothing else, an interesting premise that deserved discussion with her group at the office.

  Eventually she returned to her old love, getting down on paper the ideas still in her head for the Christmas line. Not only hats, now, but other accessories: a few pairs of dressy, sexy boots; some jewelry to catch the eye; long, classic gloves in a myriad of colors. The era of an elegant Jackie Kennedy in her beautifully tailored suits and fashionable little pillboxes was Olivia’s absolute favorite. If a time machine could transport her back to the early sixties, she would go willingly and happily.

  Well—maybe not so much. Other responsibilities and dependents from this era would interfere.

  Perhaps, however, she could do her part in helping customers to re-live a bit of the glamour of that time, with her own updated creations.

  Soon she was lost in the world of imagination, sent far away on a different plane. At least, until the slightly scorched odor of her neglected pan on the stove sent her scrambling to rescue.

  Finished with dinner and clean-up, finished with make-do work, finished with another walk for Bruno, she wandered the house aimlessly. Not much on TV that she might even consider watching. The most recent hardcover by Diana Gabaldon lay half-read beside her favorite living room chair. At least that appealed.

  It was nearly midnight when she finally went to bed, only to lie awake and unrefreshed, with a worn-out Bruno beside her, for too many hours.

  Still no call from Jeff. Still no answer through the cosmos to her desperate plea for the connection she needed.

  And then she did weep. Finally, softly, and heartrendingly.

  Ten o’clock on Monday morning found Olivia and her senior staff settled into her warehouse office for their usual weekly meeting. She was cordial as always, greeting everyone with a slight smile and a gesture toward the pot of fresh-ground coffee and box of doughnuts that awaited. Still, her unusual quietness had drawn, not comments, but questioning concerned looks exchanged between the four employees sitting around the conference table.

  Once she had initiated an informal discussion about the marketing proposal put forth by her able admin, she sat b
ack and let everyone run with the idea. Accounting Department’s Jimmy, a bespectacled young man with thinning hair and an earnest manner, offered several alternatives to Gwyneth’s plan; Russ, older and more responsible, pumped in a few additions to enhance the plan’s strength and longevity.

  “Okay, then,” Olivia said, once the cross-talk had started to die down. “I’ll take your suggestions under advisement and get back to you. Thanks for your input, everyone. Anything else to bring up?”

  “Gotta talk to you about one of the new sketches you brought in, Liv,” Heather, the blonde, intense, but very talented assistant who headed their catch-all fashion design section, spoke up. “Love the way it looks, but the style calls for a type of fabric no longer available from the wholesaler. And changing the weight of the fabric may have an effect on the end product.”

  “Mountain Crafts Manufacturing, right?” Pausing for a moment to consider gave no indication that Olivia couldn’t quite get her thoughts in order to make a rational decision.

  “Yes, and they’ve offered a substitute that might work out very well. But—I don’t know, I need for you to look at it and give me your opinion. What you’ve done is perfect for our Christmas line, and I don’t wanna make a mistake.”

  A chorus of protests rose up from the others: No, of course she wouldn’t make a mistake; her own judgment was impeccable; she knew just what she was doing, and hadn’t things always worked out right?

  Olivia nodded. She loved the loyalty and support that team members provided for each other. Like a family. The same was true of the rest of her small force. It was just that today, of all days, she was simply unable to concentrate.

  “I’ll be happy to look over the fabric, Heather. Let me get a few things squared away here, and then I’ll stop at your work space. Is that it for the moment? Okay, then, I guess we’re all set.”

  Taking that as the gentle dismissal she had intended, her crew filed out. Only Gwyneth, as the last to leave, paused at the doorway. “Everything all right, Liv?” she asked carefully.

  “Sure, just fine, Gwyn. Why do you ask?”

  “I dunno.” Her pensive frown said it all. If the boss were upset for any reason, then the entire staff could be affected. Mood-shifting started at the top and rippled down, with both positive and negative impact on personality, interaction, and creativity. “You just don’t seem yourself this morning, that’s all.”

  Briskly Olivia gathered papers together, organizing everything into a binder lacquered her signature hues of bright teal and black. “Oh, I had a busy weekend and not much sleep, and here it is Monday with a lot to do. Your ideas for that new campaign are great, Gwyn. I’m proud that you have such a flair for marketing.”

  Delighted pink rushed into the girl’s cheeks. “Thanks, Liv. I enjoyed it.”

  The buzz of Olivia’s cell phone vibrated across the wood of their table. As she picked it up, heart suddenly pounding and mouth gone dry with anticipation, her admin gave a little wave and slipped out the door.

  “Hello?”

  Disappointment, always cruel, lurched across her insides like a raging Visigoth. Was she doomed to wrestle with disappointment for the rest of her life?

  “Hi, Mom. Uh-huh, good to hear from you, too.” With a sigh she was barely able to suppress, Olivia sank back into her cushy, five-legged office chair and prepared for a homey conversation. “Yeah, I know Labor Day is just around the corner, but I can’t squeeze a visit in right now.”

  “Oh, honey, that’s too bad. You run such a tight schedule. But I understand. Thanksgiving for you guys, then, maybe?”

  “Mmmm…maybe. We’ll see how things are going by then. We’re working on a Christmas line to get out in the stores, and on the website, by then.”

  From a thousand miles away, her mother’s voice radiated with pride. “I check your site all the time, Liv, and I rave to all my friends about how beautiful your things are. Some of those hats have a lovely vintage look to them that those of us of—” self-consciously Dorothy cleared her throat, “—of a certain age can appreciate.”

  Warmed, as always, by such love and support, Olivia managed a weak smile that went unseen. “Thanks, Mom. That means a lot to me. How’s everything there?”

  “Oh, about the same. No fires to put out, just normal little everyday events. And you, Liv—” another round of quiet throat-clearing, “—are you making headway with your—um—project?”

  This time her sigh could be heard through the connecting line. “I thought I was. It seemed like it. But then I hit a snag, and—well, to tell you the truth, I don’t know where I am right now.”

  Her mother’s voice was rich with sympathy. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. I know you feel you need to get this resolved, and not just for yourself. But we’ve all gotten along okay, haven’t we? It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if this venture of yours didn’t pan out.”

  “Probably not. And you’re right, to a point. I strongly feel I have to talk to Jeff, though, and explain. But the timing hasn’t worked out so far.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, I do worry so about you sometimes. You’re so far away—even if you have become famous and successful—and I miss you. The boys are all within range, so it’s easier to nag them. But you’re out of reach.” Dorothy chuckled, and her daughter joined in.

  “I miss you, too, Mom. And everybody. Give my love to Dad, okay? And, Mom? Thanks for calling to check up on me.”

  If Olivia’s voice wobbled a bit, at the end, her mother chose to ignore it. “Every time, Liv. Take care of yourself. Love you!”

  Her phone rang again in early afternoon, while she was finishing the necessary paperwork for a proposal to her bank, for additional funding. She had already begun to explore her options for expansion of the business, either a move to newer, larger quarters, or the purchase of extra space here, at their present location. Both were feasible, but both required an outlay of cash not readily available at the moment. Thus an appeal to the first financial institution on her list, with more probably in the works.

  She pulled the cell from her stack of papers and glanced at the number being shown. Nope. Not familiar, not one she recognized. It would be quite tempting to let the call go to voice mail, but curiosity won out. “Hello?”

  “Liv? Livvie, is that you?”

  At the sound of his voice, tinny and distant in scope, she was overcome by a sudden rush of relief so enervating that it bent her forward with the need to protect her vulnerable center. The time lapse between their last rendezvous and his casual greeting, just now, had lasted too long, the silence inflicting a severe blow to her ego and dealing a death strike to her confidence. Did she dare hope for anything more?

  With eyes closed against further pain, with throat muscles feeling paralyzed, she was barely able to respond. “Yes. Yes, it’s me. Jeff?”

  “The very same.” Something that seemed to be a chuckle, albeit weak and strained. “Lissen, Liv, got a favor to ask.”

  All those endless, sleepless, wordless hours she had endured—and he wanted to ask a favor?

  Involuntarily her voice radiated the chill of an icebox. “Yes?”

  “Well—just wonderin’ if you got a few free minutes…Kinda loopy, been takin’ some happy pills, and I—huh. Need a ride.”

  “A ride? I suppose I—yes, I think I can leave the office for a little while.”

  “Ahuh. Good. Pick me up, maybe, be my—taxi—?” Definitely a spasm of laughter then, but cut off mid-chortle.

  Olivia froze. Was the man drunk? Had he taken up residence in a bar somewhere? “Certainly. No charge. From where to where, Jeff?”

  “Uh—not sure where to yet, at the end of the trip. Start off by comin’ to Jamison County—Hospital, though. Room 314.”

  She nearly dropped the phone. “Hospital? Jeff! What happened?”

  “Too much to talk about—at the moment, Snookums. Tell you everything—when you get here…all the details. Okay, gonna—gonna hang up—now…”

  Click. Sile
nce. Olivia pulled the phone away from her ear to stare at its blank window as if to find answers there. Crazy.

  “Gwyn?” Pausing briefly beside the admin’s desk, in a rush to plop her little straw skimmer in place and fling her tote over one arm, she caught the girl’s attention even while hastening to the front door. “Nothing pressing going on here at the moment, right? I have to leave for a little while. But I’ll check back in later.”

  Gone before a startled Gwyneth could say yea or nay.

  She found her way to the aforementioned hospital with no problem; it was a place just over the Connecticut / New York State border, well-known for catering so much to the local well-heeled population that its reputation had become stellar by any measurement.

  Beautiful, too, as hospitals go, thought Olivia, parking in the nearby lot. Smooth, sleek modern lines; lots of huge plate glass windows currently uncurtained to receive the afternoon sun; exquisite landscaping that included plenty of blooming late summer flowers and a positive phalanx of bees.

  An enormous marble lobby led to the bank of elevators, which led up to the third floor, which led down a wide, quiet hallway to the room she was seeking.

  And her gentleman caller, who was currently resting, tucked into a metal bed that seemed as imposing and as fully accessorized as a Boeing 757 lined up on the tarmac.

  “Jeff? Hello, I’m here.”

  Appearing much the worse for wear, with skin an unnatural pasty color and eyes not completely focused, he gave her a woozy smile for greeting. “Hi, Liv. Thanks for comin’. And for wearin’—that pretty hat…” Were he not incapacitated, the look he gave her would have been lascivious. Instead it appeared merely pitiful.

  Entering to swish open the privacy curtain, thus better allowing light to flood the room, she took a seat beside the bed and surveyed him and his condition with a critical eye, much as his own physician might have done. Hair charmingly tousled, probably due to the large bandage taped fast to his forehead. Cheeks whose stubble could not conceal the bruise—rug burn?—discoloring one side of his face. Left shoulder and upper chest wrapped in dressings and immobilized by a sling.