Purple Orchids

by Samantha Christy

  I tried to explain to Maddox that Gavin wouldn’t be here all of the time; most of the time, in fact. I don’t want Maddox getting too attached too quickly. I don’t want him thinking we’re going to become one big happy family. Because it’s not going to happen.

  Even so, a part of me hopes that maybe we can find some kind of middle ground. A way to make things work for Maddox. For us. But those kinds of happy-endings only happen in books. I should know. I write them.

  I’ve often heard that relationship problems are the backbone of the music industry. If you listen to the words of the majority of songs, they are about one of two things: falling in love or getting dumped. Apparently, when a musician is experiencing either one of those, writing songs comes easily to them. Not so for writers. Or at least for this writer. I haven’t been able to put two sentences together for weeks. Not that I’m experiencing love or loss, but admittedly, I’m on an emotional roller coaster right now. Scenes should be flowing out of me. Love scenes. Fight scenes. They should be coming to me without much thought at all. But whenever I sit down to write, it’s pure crap. I can’t concentrate. Every love scene morphs into a re-creation of the night I lost my virginity. Every fight scene reminds me of why Gavin and I once fought—Karen.

  There is a knock on my front door, offering me a welcome break from my writer’s block. I open the door to a large bouquet of my favorite flowers being held by the same kid who delivered them to me just two days ago. Has it really only been two days?

  The kid winces when he hands over the flowers. “Still in trouble, is he?”

  I laugh, putting the beautiful arrangement next to the others that haven’t even begun to wilt. I reach into my purse on the entry table and pull out a tip for him. “No, he’s not. He’s just trying to stay on my good side now.”

  “Oh. Good,” he says. “Thanks for the tip. Have a nice day.”

  “Yeah, you too.” I close the door and stare at my entry way that now looks like a flower shop before the prom.

  I pull out the attached note and read it.

  Bay,

  These flowers got nothin’ on you, darlin’. Your face is more beautiful than I remembered. I could stare at it forever. I took a picture of it while you slept and you look just like an angel. Utterly divine.

  Love,

  Gavin

  I feel a pinch in my chest and I wonder if a tiny piece of the armor surrounding my heart has broken away. I shake the thought from my head as I re-read the note, amused by the way he writes exactly as he speaks—with a southern drawl. I take the new bouquet into the kitchen. I top the vase off with water and place it in the center of the table.

  Smiling, I head back to my home office, wondering if this romantic gesture will spark my creativity. But before I get the chance to find out, my laptop dings, alerting me to an incoming e-mail.

  It’s from Mrs. Chandler, Maddox’s second-grade teacher. I read through the e-mail that says she thought I should see the journal entry Maddox wrote this morning during their writing time. I open the attachment she scanned in and recognize the messy handwriting of my seven-year-old.

  The first thing I want to do with my dad when I meet him is that I would want to get to know him like I would want to know what his job is and how old he is and when is his birthday. My mom said he played soccer. I play soccer to. I would like to know if he likes other sports like football and what is his favorite team. Then I would ask why I did not meet him until now. I would say why did it take so long for me to meet you. I saw him at that hotel. He said I was a good swimmer. So maybe he likes me. So I can’t wait till I meet my dad on Saturday.

  I close my eyes.

  Please let this be good for him.

  chapter thirty-three

  Unable to get any work done, I check my watch again. It’s just past noon. Five minutes after the last time I looked. Ten hours. That’s when Gavin will be in Maple Creek again. Ten hours for me to decide how tonight will play out.

  I look around my office then crane my neck to see out into the living room. Flowers are everywhere. Twice a day he’s sent them. That scene from ‘The Wizard of Oz’—the one where Dorothy is in the field of flowers—that’s my flippin’ house right now.

  Each magnificent arrangement was delivered by the same kid who I now know to be Chad. If I’d known there were going to be so many, I may not have tipped him so well the first time, because, come on—all I did was set a precedent.

  Every delivery was accompanied by a note and each note told me how well he knows me by describing something about me, usually a body part.

  Gavin has called me every day. I’ve tried to convince myself it’s no big deal, but then I almost slipped and broke my neck in the shower last night, trying to scramble out of it to get the ringing cell phone on my vanity. My eyes roll up thinking of it.

  “You know you want to go, Baylor,” Callie says, startling me when she comes around the corner to place yet another flower bouquet on the credenza.

  I ignore the flowers and give her a hard stare.

  “Oh, come on,” she says, petulantly. “You can’t tell me that’s not exactly what you were sitting here thinking about right now.”

  Without a single word of acknowledgment, I spin my swivel chair around so my back is to her and I continue answering some fan mail that Jenna forwarded to me.

  “Live in denial all you want,” Callie says, walking out of my office. Then from down the hall she mutters something about her not having plans tonight except to play with Maddox and that certain people need to take advantage of her awesome babysitting skills.

  I ignore her obvious attempt at manipulation as I read through the mail. Jenna made a comment on one of the e-mails she forwarded to me. She said the sender was getting a bit stalkerish, making demands for me to accept personal meetings and pose for photos with her.

  Every once in a while, one of my books will set a reader off. Usually because it hits home with them, and not in a good way. Some have sent me hate mail if they didn’t like it when a character died or got their heart broken. Fans sometimes forget my characters aren’t real. They identify with them. Love them. Hate them.

  Become vengeful for them.

  And since I don’t write under a pseudonym, I’m not hard to locate, given I’ve lived in the same town and in the same house my entire life.

  Callie usually collects any fan mail and gives it to Jenna to deal with. I did it all myself until a few years ago, after my sixth book had come out, when things started to really take off for me. But now, I can get dozens of letters in a day and it’s become too much to deal with that and keep up with my writing.

  I’ve gotten a few threatening letters over the years and it did really bother me at first. Then I quickly came to realize that people were just venting about something I wrote that made them feel. Writers don’t get stalked. We don’t get harassed like musicians and movie stars. And unless you are someone like Stephen King, you usually go about completely unrecognized. It’s an anonymous kind of fame and it suits me perfectly fine.

  I make a mental note of ‘Kylee M.’ as Jenna has added her correspondence to our watch list. I wonder if it’s a coincidence that a heroine in one of my books has the name Kylee Manning. I also don’t miss that she has the same exact initials as Gavin’s wife. So by default, I already dislike her.

  Gavin’s wife. Ugh. I shake my head at the absurdity of what she did to us. Then suddenly, I’m left wondering if he interacts with her. They are still married, after all. I’m sure they own a home together. Oh, God, does he still live with her?

  My curiosity overtakes my resolve, and before I can think better of it, I’m initiating a text to him. Something I haven’t done before this very minute.

  Me: So, when you’re in L.A., where do you stay?

  It takes him at least twenty minutes to respond. The whole time, two very different scenarios are playing out in my head. One is from the movie ‘War of the Roses,’ where Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas almost killed each
other trying to live together during a divorce. The other thought I have is that maybe, being the elaborate schemer that Karen is, she could be trying to get him to go back to her somehow. I mean, she did it once before.

  My phone finally pings.

  Gavin: Is that your way of asking if I see Karen?

  Me: Well, I was just wondering where you stay when you’re there. You know, in case I have to send you something or whatever.

  My head falls forward onto the desk in front of me. Nice one, Bay.

  Gavin: Sure you were, darlin’. The answer is, I’m renting a condo near my offices at the film studio. I’ve been avoiding her since the day I came back from Chicago. I will continue to avoid her. I direct all her correspondence to my lawyer. Is that the answer you were looking for?

  Me: Jerk.

  Me: And, yeah, maybe.

  Gavin: Haha. Baylor, you don’t have to worry about that. I’m done with her. Everything I do from here on out is about you and Maddox. I can’t wait to meet him. To see you. Did you get the key?

  Me: What key?

  Gavin: Check the latest delivery.

  I get up and walk around my desk, over to the credenza where Callie deposited the most recent bouquet when I was, as she put it, ‘living in denial.’ I open the small envelope. Inside is an Oak Leaf Hotel key card. My heart races. I sit down and stare at the card—turning it over and over in my hand. It’s too much. It’s too soon.

  It’s too tempting.

  Me: You haven’t even checked in yet. How’d you get a key?

  Gavin: I booked the suite for an entire month. I figured if I was going to be there two or three nights a week, I might as well be able to leave some of my shit there. That is, unless you have a better place I can leave my shit.

  Two or three nights a week? That’s how much time he plans to spend here? Wait, leave his shit where, here?

  Definitely too much.

  Me: I’m sorry, Gavin. I told you. I have plans. I’ll just see you tomorrow at 2, okay?

  Gavin: As stubborn and independent as ever, aren’t you . . . ‘Thing 2’?

  If I’m so damn stubborn then I don’t need to reply to his stupid text, now do I? I put my phone down on the desk and walk towards the kitchen when I hear it ping again. I scurry a little too fast back into the office to check the text. Dammit.

  Gavin: Sorry, darlin’. I’m pushing you, aren’t I?

  Me: Maybe a little.

  Gavin: Okay, 2 o’clock tomorrow. I’ll just have to stare at your gorgeous picture until then.

  The day drags on. I contemplate texting him back, more than a few times, to say I’ll meet him. I get one last bouquet of flowers that has a note complimenting my eyes. He always said how much he loved my eyes.

  After reading to Maddox for over an hour, I turn in early. He’s excited about tomorrow. He’s nervous about tomorrow.

  I’m terrified about tomorrow.

  Lying in bed, trying to fall asleep for the past two hours, I hear a text come in and reach for my phone on the nightstand.

  Gavin: Just wanted to let you know I arrived. You don’t have to text me back, I know you’re out with friends. I can’t wait to meet Maddox. I can’t wait to see you. Until then, sweet dreams, darlin’.

  Oh, why didn’t you go? my body screams at me. He’s probably sitting there looking all gorgeous, drinking his whisky and wondering how tomorrow will play out. I could end a lot of needless tension if I get up right now and drive over there. My fingers hover over my phone, aching to text him back. Aching to tell him I’ll be there in mere minutes.

  I know exactly what my heroines would do if this were one of my books.

  Suddenly, I jump out of bed and quickly shuffle to my office in thick socks that muffle my footsteps on the hardwood floor. I flip on the soft light over my desk that only illuminates my laptop, leaving the rest of the room in shadows. I push aside my current work-in-progress, gathering up numerous notes and outlines and shoving them haphazardly into a folder. I open the lid to my laptop and start typing.

  W.I.P. – Untitled Book #15

  He was a sophomore. Me—a freshman. And from the very second he looked down on me sprawled out at his feet, I knew he was my destiny . . .

  chapter thirty-four

  The doorbell rings at 1:57 p.m. My heart races. Maddox’s eyes light up. Callie smiles.

  Callie hangs back in the living room while Maddox accompanies me to the door. He has grabbed my hand and is holding it tightly. He never holds my hand anymore. Claims he’s too old for that now. He’s scared. Or nervous. Or both. I’m about to throw up myself, so I completely understand. Our lives are about to change forever as soon as I open this door.

  I take a deep breath and give my son a reassuring smile. Then I open it.

  Gavin stands on the other side of the threshold, mirroring my apprehensive expression. He’s holding a couple of gift bags in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other. For a second, Gavin looks about as sick as I feel. Then he closes his eyes and quickly takes a breath, shaking whatever feeling he had away. He gives me a confident smile and a wink before looking down at Maddox.

  He puts down the bags and holds a hand out to him saying, “It’s really nice to meet you, partner,” in that alluring southern drawl of his.

  Maddox looks up at me for approval before reaching out to shake Gavin’s hand. “You, too,” he says quietly.

  “Hi, Gavin,” I say.

  “Baylor,” he replies, holding my eyes. I can tell he wants to say more, but we both know this meeting is not about us.

  I step back and say, “Come inside. I’ll get us all something to drink.”

  Callie comes around the corner. “I’ll do that. You guys go sit.”

  I introduce Gavin to Callie before she scurries off to the kitchen. The three of us walk over and take a seat in the living room. The uncomfortable tension that ensues is disheartening and I hope it isn’t setting the tone for the entire afternoon. What am I supposed to say to facilitate conversation between Gavin and his long-lost son?

  Luckily, Gavin must have taken a page out of the what-to-do-when-meeting-the-son-you-never-knew-you-had manual, and he puts the two gift bags in front of Maddox. “I brought a few things for you. Do you want to open them?”

  Maddox again looks at me for permission. “Go ahead, buddy,” I say.

  He reaches into the first bag, carefully removing some tissue paper. He pulls out a cowboy hat. He turns to me and states the obvious, “It’s a cowboy hat.” He looks over at Gavin. “How come you got me a cowboy hat?”

  I give Maddox a punishing stare as I chide him. “Maddox!”

  “No, no, it’s okay,” Gavin says to me. Then he addresses our son, “In case you haven’t noticed from the way I talk, I’m from Texas. And everyone in Texas wears cowboy hats.” Gavin shoots me a brief seductive look and I just know he’s remembering that day I wore one in his room. Naked.

  “Oh, yeah. Is that why you talk funny?” Maddox asks, as I try to hold in my giggle. “But my mom said you were from California.”

  Gavin nods at him. “Yes, I am. California is where I live now, but I grew up in Texas and I’ll always consider it my home. Just like how you’ve grown up here and no matter where you go, Maple Creek will always be where you are from.”

  Maddox studies the hat. “Did you ever ride a horse?” he asks.

  “I sure did, partner,” Gavin says. “In fact, when I was your age, we had horse stables out back at the house where I lived.”

  “You had horses in your back yard? Cool,” Maddox says.

  “It was pretty cool,” Gavin tells him. “And maybe someday, if it’s okay with your mom, we could go riding. I’m sure we could find a place around here. But you’d have to wear the hat, of course.”

  Maddox immediately puts the cowboy hat on his head and Gavin leans over to adjust it.

  “Thanks,” Maddox says. “Can I open the other one now?”

  “Sure.” Gavin moves the empty bag out of the way.

>   Maddox rips through the packaging, more excited about this second gift, now that the ice has been broken. A smile stretches from ear to ear when he pulls out a brand new soccer ball adorned with autographs. “Wow!” he exclaims. “Who signed it?”

  “The L.A. Galaxy soccer team,” Gavin says.

  “Really?” Maddox looks at him with wide eyes. “The whole team?”

  “All twenty-five of them,” Gavin says. “When I told them I was coming out here to meet you for the first time, they insisted I bring this. They also said that if you ever come out to L.A., they’ll get us V.I.P. tickets to a game.”

  “Mommy,” he turns to me, “did you hear that?” His eyes are about to pop out of their sockets.

  Score one for Gavin. I crane my head around Maddox and Gavin gives me a wink. “Wow, that sounds incredible,” I say.

  Gavin and Maddox spend the next few minutes discussing the players that signed the ball and I’m surprised that Maddox knows so much about them. I raise my brow at Callie who has come back in the room.

  “Hey, we watch a lot of soccer when you write, so sue me,” she says, depositing a tray full of glasses filled with lemonade on the table.

  When they are done discussing the ball, Gavin gets all serious. He looks Maddox directly in the eyes. “Your mom said she explained everything to you about who I am and why I’m here?”