Contents
Copyright Ebook
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
This is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and story contained within, are created within the fertile imagination of the author. Any resemblance to persons, whether living or dead, or any events, are purely coincidental. Well, except for Pioneer Outfitters, they are totally real and were used with permission. Oh, the horses were real, too.
No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means electronic, mechanical, printing, photocopying, recording, chiseling in stone, or otherwise, without the written permission from the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. For information regarding permission contact the publisher.
Copyright© 2013 by Brian D. Meeks All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-9851046-7-2
A Touch to Die For
by
Brian D. Meeks
CHAPTER ONE
Chapter One
He looked into her green eyes and let his mind take a snapshot of the moment. Her hair, wet, the terrycloth robe hugged her body like he had the night before. The smell was of lilac, but it was the look that would stay with him the longest. At that moment, when he froze time, her smile seemed to glow, and the one raised eyebrow spoke volumes that he wasn't sure he could fully comprehend.
Room service had brought breakfast while she showered. The dream, "The Girl," who had been rattling around in his mind for the better part of two decades stood before him now, and the morning-after moment had arrived.
There are questions, the asking of which leads to regret, and yet, the doubt that is chosen instead is of equal burden. Things which must seem obvious across a cart of food - the signals, the touch, the looks - they are circumstantial by nature. His internal voice took to crafting a narrative. He always imagined life as it might be between the pages. This is what it means to be a writer.
We crave truth, fact, and certainty, yet we also yearn for mystery. Truth and mystery cannot live together.
Or can they?
Is that the holy grail of the human spirit? Perhaps the solving of that riddle is the answer to the question simply stated "True Love"?
He didn't have his laptop handy and cast the prose aside.
She butters a piece of toast and says nothing. She is comfortable in the silence. It shows strength. Is it a clue? He doesn't know; maybe it is a game, her game. The first words don't come to mind. A piece of bacon gives him something to nibble on, a time-out to gather his thoughts and start the journey of a lifetime, the journey of any lifetime.
He reached across and took her hand and said, "I'm leaving for a while. I can't say how long. Upon my return, I'll have two plane tickets with me. Will you use one of them and come along?"
He waited for the questions: Where are we going? How long will we be gone? Can I have a little notice? Are you crazy? but she simply grabbed a piece of bacon and said, "Yes."
It was hard to remain calm. His brain was shifting into an overdrive of adrenaline, lust, and adoration. He wanted to say Really? and find out why she would say such a thing. He wanted to ask her about that time back in the middle of nowhere when they were alone together and he wasn't being cool but was being a coward. He wanted to discuss every moment of their lives and figure it all out, but that just wouldn't do.
The hunger he earned the night before would have to wait. He walked into the bathroom, showered, got dressed, and picked up his keys and phone from the nightstand. He walked to the door and didn't turn around. He heard her say, "Later," as he walked out.
CHAPTER TWO
Chapter Two
The young man set a cup of coffee down on the table in front of him. He liked that the cafe still offered sugar cubes and not packets. His watch, a Movado, felt strange on his arm. Wearing a watch was a new habit or would be one in a few weeks. It seemed like such a strange thing to take up in the age of smart phones, but he wanted it. The watch told him it was 7:00 am in California. He was not in California.
Two lumps would do. The clink of the china as he stirred them in reminded him of the wind chimes on his mother's porch. He wondered if they were still there after all these years.
The Amalfi Coast was a feast for the eyes. The blue waters below hosted all manner of boats: ones with sails, ones with motors, and ones with boys pulling ores. The length of coastline in Southern Italy drew tourists from all over the world. He had come down the night before along the Strada Statale from Vietri sul Mare. The car, a 2008 Alfa Romeo BAT 11 Bertone Coupe, was the most beautiful car he had ever seen. It seemed to straddle the future and the past. It was a classic and timeless...just like "The Girl."
It had been eight days since he left her. She had been a model for most of her adult life, but, in the last ten years, she had found another passion: art. The seeds had been planted in Paris. On the rare day off, she would go to the Louvre. She had described it as a magical place where people could be alone without pity. It had taught her how to be comfortable with herself, and he admired her greatly for it.
He imagined her day. She would be just about ready to head to one of the galleries. There were three: one in L.A., the second in Sacramento, and the third in San Francisco. She was a sort of talent scout who looked for new faces. Twice a year, each of the galleries showcased a rising star. The last one she had found was a transplant from London, who, in a fit of teenaged rebellion over his parents moving him to L.A., had taken up spray-painting buildings with graffiti. His work started to build an online following after a blogger wrote a piece about his style, and she tracked him down. Now, he stuck to massive canvases, but it hadn't quenched his fire. His show opened next week.
"The Girl" would be too busy to be wondering about him; he was sure of that. Still, he thought that there should be some sort of reminder sent post-haste. A postcard wouldn't do because writing, "Wish you were here," on the back was both cliché and grossly inaccurate. He burned for her to be with him. Saying that, though, would have been a bad idea. He stopped stirring the coffee.
It had gotten lukewarm during his daydreaming. Like the watch, the coffee was mostly an affectation as he had never developed a taste for the brew. He took a sip and had to admit that it was starting to grow on him. The last eight days had been filled
with more coffee than he had ever had before. It was time to make a gesture, though not too grand.
CHAPTER THREE
Chapter Three
He had been using his very best café Italian, and it had served him well or, more accurately, gotten him served. The bill paid, he asked the young man, "Scuzi, do you speak English?"
"Si, I talk English, French, and, how do you say, German. My German not so good, but English is excellent."
"I would like to buy a present for someone. She likes art and history. Where could I go to find something special, something Italian, something memorable?"
The boy gave a broad smile and said, "Signore, I know just such a place. Your lady friend - she is beautiful, no?"
"Si."
"You want something to impress the beautiful lady?"
He stood and said again, "Si, but only a small gift."
The boy motioned him to follow, and they walked into the street. "It is not far. See the church? You go a sinistra...sorry, to the left. You walk until you smell Pasticceria Romolo."
"Do you mean see?"
"No, I mean smell. Their desserts are bellissimo, and you always smell them before you can see them. At the shop, you turn right, and you will find the perfect little shop. It is my cousin's place. Tell him Agapito sent you and he will give you great deal."
Everyone has a cousin, uncle, or aunt who can get you the best deal. I love Italy, he thought as he patted Agapito on the shoulder and said, "Grazi."
"You know what, I call him and say you're coming. What is your name, signore?" Agapito had his cell phone out and was dialing before he knew what had happened.
"Mitchell Bessemer."
A flurry of Italian ensued and, with hand gestures and nods, it seemed Mitchell would be getting the deal of a lifetime. Mitchell thanked Agapito again and added a few more Euros to the tip.
Mitch, as his friends called him, pulled his Moleskin out and wrote down Agapito's name, the café, and a couple of quick thoughts. He had been writing a travel blog for just over a year. It was a hobby more than anything, but it had developed a following, and he looked forward to writing each new post. The best part was that nobody knew it was his as he used the pen name "Angry Travel Mongerer." His best friend from college had even sent him a link to his post on Paris, writing, "I think you'll enjoy this guy's sense of humor."
Mitch turned at the church, walked no more than 100 meters, and it hit him, the smell of baked goods that might well change one's life. For a moment he considered putting off the shopping for another day, but somewhere up the road was a cousin waiting to give him the "family" discount. It would have to wait.
Shopping was, without question, one of his least favorite things to do. Buying a gift for another added a level of discomfort that was nearly unbearable. Choosing something for "The Girl" might prove fatal. He could already feel his blood pressure rising as he neared the shop. Stress was his kryptonite.
He would not buy just any gift; it would need to strike him as unassailable in its qualifications for the mission. It would sing to him. At least, that was the hope because if Mitch had to think and ponder, it would surely be the death of him.
#
The man in the lightweight Italian suit had followed him from the café. He, too, had a Moleskin. For the last eleven days he had been watching Mitch and taking notes. The moment Mitchell put his hand on the waiter's shoulder, it started. Something clicked deep inside his mind, and the gears began to turn. A week and a half, thousands of miles, and the crossing of an ocean all without purpose or reason, and now he had it.
Clarity, so bright and blinding, that a lifetime of fog had been lifted. All the success that hadn't filled the emptiness suddenly had a purpose. He understood why he had gone to M.I.T. and how his relentless pursuit of ideas that seemed to serve no other purpose than to make huge piles of cash had been part of a grander scheme that hadn't been known to him until three minutes ago. He noted the time.
CHAPTER FOUR
Chapter Four
Mitch had found the shop to be a joy though nothing had jumped off the shelf and declared, "I'm the gift you've been looking for. Put your mind at ease and buy me." There was, however, a beautifully hand-carved elephant that he bought for his mother. Agapito had told the truth; his cousin had given him a very good deal.
The warm sun on his face and the old world feel of the buildings made him want to write. Mitch decided to go back to the hotel and pen a post about his day. Writing always helped him think. Maybe an idea for a gift would present itself. At that moment he came to a bookshop. Mitch never walked past a bookshop without stopping in for a look.
Mitch liked to read books in other tongues, but he found a copy of Farewell, My Lovely by Raymond Chandler in English and took it to the counter. There it was, the beginnings of the perfect gift. He pulled a black Moleskin off the rack. He would write her something, not a love letter but interesting nonetheless, and send it.
He spent the rest of the walk back to his room congratulating himself on his brilliant idea. She had mentioned enjoying his books and writing something just for her would have to be something she would treasure. Plus, it was the sort of gift that he wouldn't have to worry about her wanting to return. If she didn't like it, she'd just chuck it, and he would never know. It was perfect.
Back at the room, he spent a moment on the veranda and looked out at the blue water. The ocean air filled him with just the spark of inspiration he needed. He sat at the little table, pulled the Moleskin out, and dated the first page.
Dear S.,
I thought I'd write you a story.
Enjoy,
M.
Mr. Whiskers was tired from having done nothing for the last hour. He found a lovely little sun puddle and curled up for a nap. He had no idea of the adventure that awaited that night when he went on the prowl, so the nap would serve him well.
He smiled at himself. She liked cats and an adventure involving her beloved feline would certainly be enjoyed. He could mix in stories she had told him, embellishing them when needed, and craft a delightful little tale. Perhaps he might be able to include clues to their next adventure.
#
Anne Marie set the coffee on her desk. "Have you heard from your mystery man yet?"
"I'll tell you the same thing I've said every day for the last week: it's none of your business."
"I can tell you haven't. Nobody has a good enough poker face to fool me. I think he is some sort of player. I don't know why you won't tell me about how the date went." She paused to look for a reaction. Nothing was forthcoming.
Anne Marie had bought her boss coffee for four years, told her all the gory details of each tragic relationship, and even introduced her to the latest victim. A bike messenger knocked on the glass door, and Anne Marie whirled around, signed for the package, and dropped it triumphantly on her boss' desk.
The bike messenger shook his head and walked away.
"Open it. Where is it from?"
"You might need professional help," she said and used the silver letter opener to slice the tape from the box. She pulled back the flaps and tilted it so that Anne Marie could see. "It's from that guy I went out with last month."
"Gawd, that is ugly. What is it?"
"I think it is a Peruvian doll wearing Pre-Columbian clothing. He thinks I love all things art."
"Why don't you tell him you're seeing someone else?"
"I have work to do."
"You won't tell this guy to buzz off because you're too busy? What, do you like him?"
"I'm telling you to buzz off."
Anne Marie rolled her eyes and walked out.
CHAPTER FIVE
Chapter Five
Alexis Liao sat at the bar with an expensive glass of wine, her fourth, in front of her. She was a mix of Chinese, French, English, and a bit of Canadian, all muddled together to create what she thought of as the perfect mutt. There was something about not having a clean heritage and the teasing she had received in school
that had left a mark on Alexis' soul. It had driven her to be better than everyone at everything.
While living in D.C. in her early teens, her uncle had taught her Wushu and Kung Fu. Another uncle, her father's brother, had been invited to the Olympic trials in France for Judo. He once said Alexis had more natural ability than anyone he had ever seen.
On her 18th birthday, her cousin from the Canadian branch on the family tree had been abducted. She had spent the entire summer before college trying to help find her until it ended in tears on the last day of August. The body was found, but the killer was not. Her plans for a degree in biology and med school were replaced with the forensic sciences. She got straight A's and completed her Master's degree in psychology before joining the F.B.I.
Her time at Quantico was the happiest of her life. She met her future husband in a combat training class. They were paired up for sparring, and she overestimated his ability to defend himself against her attack. When he came to, her worried face was the first thing he saw. He was smitten, and soon they were dating. He later joked that with an ass-whooping like that that he had to marry her because he didn't think he could take another pounding. Three days before their tenth anniversary, he died of natural causes.
There was no foul play, no bad guys to chase, nobody to blame, and this was beyond her ability to grasp. She had woken up each morning for six months believing he would still be next to her. The first time she didn't sense him, it made her angry. That day, during a raid of a biker bar in Nevada, an especially offensive man in leather had spit on her as the team was trying to get things under control. The leather-clad spitter had his knee shatter so quickly that he didn't know what hit him. His two friends, who were stunned by the ferocity of the attack, tried to help. One of them never fully regained the use of his left arm, and the other spent a month in a coma and woke with the I.Q of a second grader. The two agents who pulled her off of a terrified biker who went by the alias "Crusher" both ended up with serious bruising around the eyes.
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