Leaving Brody’s hideout came off without a hitch, but sneaking back into his own home was a different story. As luck would have it, Monique did not have an early class that morning, as he had hoped. He ran almost headlong into his wife and her interior designer as he rounded the corner to his wing of the apartment.
“Tobias! You’re finally home. I was afraid I’d be receiving a ransom note,” Monique said glibly, as she offered her cheek to her wayward husband. “Well, how did it go? You look like something the cat dragged in.” Tobias dutifully, if reluctantly, kissed her cheek and offered a curt hello to the man who managed to sustain his career by redecorating his home, over and over.
“Good to see you, Tobias,” Jackson Smythie said, as he extended his free hand.
“We’ve been sorting through fabrics all morning,” Monique said, her voice full of the weariness of such a chore, “but I think we’ve got a good place to start, don’t you, Jackson?”
“Oh absolutely. What we’ve settled on is going to look fantastic, I’m sure.”
Monique favored her designer with a grateful smile, and turned back to Tobias, as if she had lost track of his presence. “So, darling…you’ve been gone for days. I trust you made good progress?”
“Yeah, we did. But it takes a lot of effort to put an album together. I’d almost forgotten how demanding this gig is,” Tobias said, stretching and yawning for affect.
“Well, you must be knackered. Why don’t you have a nice, hot shower and rest a bit,” Monique suggested, her mind already on to more pressing matters, like paint chips and floor treatments. “Jackson, the one you have in your right hand… I think that shade would be perfect in the powder room—that deep red with onyx plumbing fixtures. Don’t you think?”
“Actually, I was going to suggest this pale lavender with alabaster fixtures…”
“Oooh…I wonder what a combination of those colors would look like—you know, lavender on one wall, this red on the other.”
“Hmm…” Jackson said meditatively. Tobias winced at the thought of what those two would do to his home. He took advantage of their preoccupation to make a surreptitious exit, only catching Monique’s eye as he turned the corner to the hallway.
“Oh, Tobias—” she called out.
He popped his head back around, making it known that he didn’t wish to be waylaid. “I picked up another phone for you and canceled service on your other number. It’s on your bathroom counter. Try to hang on to this one—it’s the only way I have of keeping tabs on you.” Tobias nodded solemnly, knowing how true that was.
Tobias took his wife’s advice, as showering had already been on his agenda. He let the scorching hot water blast down upon him for as long as he could stand it, then he thrust the dial as far right as it would go, dousing himself with frigid water for a full minute, in an effort to revive his senses.
When he was thoroughly clean and alert, he wandered tentatively out into the corridor, listening for voices, as he towel dried his thinning hair. He cautiously ventured into Monique’s wing of the apartment and found no trace of her. Hurriedly, he dressed, traded the clothes in his overnight bag with fresh ones, and did an online search for hotels.
After locating a once grand establishment no longer in vogue, offbeat enough to assure him obscurity, but still sufficiently posh to maintain a presidential suite with a grand piano, Tobias called for a taxi. He rechecked his bag to make sure he had packed his notations and a copy of the recordings made so far, and with a casual but defiant glance at his new cell phone, he took his leave of Monique’s domain.
Ten
It was with a sense of relief that Priscilla pushed through the door of her dodgy place of employment on Monday morning. As surreal as working at Frank’s was, it did have the one advantage of being fairly predictable. Predictable in the safe sense, with just enough aberrations in the form of patrons to keep it from becoming mind-shatteringly dull.
Of course, her latest distractions had apparently bailed, leaving only the mildly quirky regulars. But if there was a God out there somewhere, surely he would send replacements. They didn’t have to be as generous as Phil, or famous like Tobias Jordan, as long as they had more dimension than the usual clientele that frequented Frank’s Coffee Shop.
What had her viewing Frank’s as a refuge on that particular morning was the unsettling events over the weekend. Not that anything so terrible had happened, but Friday night made her realize she was starting to work against herself again, allowing herself to do things she normally wouldn’t dream of doing.
She didn’t trust her judgment at the moment, especially after letting herself be dragged around town by Darlene and Rochelle. It made her cringe to envision herself traipsing around town with the likes of them, dressed like three hookers on an uptown holiday. Maybe her odd attire had affected her, she speculated, thinking of her rash act after leaving the nightclub. Drinking outside her social bounds had been one thing; going home with a stranger was quite another.
Priscilla attended her setup chores with uncommon zeal, as she tried to evade thoughts of Matthew the bartender. When that proved to be impossible, she countered the inevitable reproaches with the argument that getting laid every six months or so had to be the bare minimum for one’s mental and physical well-being. She was sure there was medical proof to back up this theory, or at least anecdotal evidence. Even Rochelle the Ding-A-Ling knew that indefinite abstinence was no good, though she certainly couldn’t know it from personal experience.
It wasn’t as though Priscilla felt compromised by her actions; she had gotten what she had bargained for and so had he. They indulged in sex with abandon, the kind inspired by knowing theirs was a one-time encounter. In the aftermath, their one-night-stand played out more amenable and dignified than most, culminating with Matthew making her breakfast and insisting on paying her cab fare home in the morning.
The thing that bothered her was the way she was living her life like a flea, hopping from one misdirected host to another, without any apparent regard to the repercussions or her future. This was no news flash, simply the story of her life.
So why was she so disappointed with herself? Because she could tell by her actions—including the lack of self-recrimination for sleeping with Rochelle’s heartthrob—that she no longer possessed a will of her own. Whereas it used to bother her when her life took twists and turns she didn’t like, she had more or less become fatalistic, as if it were only natural for chance encounters to dictate her future.
It was in this preoccupied state that Priscilla belatedly became aware of Phil’s presence at his usual table. So convinced she’d never see him there again, it took a moment to register that he and his daughter were not the product of an overwrought mind. They were sitting there side-by-side, both doodling with such seriousness it was as if it were their sole purpose for being there.
Confused by his presence, Priscilla approached their booth cautiously, hoping to make sense of things by the time she came face to face with him. To prolong the process further, she made a detour to the setup station for backup placemats.
“Daddy, draw a turret right here for me,” Caitlin said. She passed her placemat to her father and waited with anticipation.
“Well, there are all different types of turrets. What kind of do you want? A fairytale castle turret, or an Italian turret, or a Moorish turret…”
“A Russian turret,” Caitlin decided emphatically.
“Okay,” Philip agreed, as he began to improvise a Russian turret.
“Here are a few backups, in case you need to draw different styles,” Priscilla said, laying the extras on the displaced silverware opposite them.
“There you are!” Philip exclaimed, looking up at Priscilla ecstatically, as if the incident from the previous week had been entirely forgotten.
“Hi Priscilla,” Caitlin said, glancing away from her father’s progress for barely a second. “Make another one right…here,” she directed him. “My daddy’s making me Russian turrets,�
�� she said for Priscilla’s benefit.
“They’re very fine turrets,” Priscilla said, feeling a vague admiration for the girl’s devotion to her father. “Are you two hungry?” she asked, as she flipped to a new ticket.
“Famished,” Caitlin said, looking straight up into Priscilla’s eyes for the first time; Caitlin’s precociousness made her smile.
“Well, in that case, we’d better hurry up and get your order in. What’ll it be?”
“Pigs in a blanket,” Caitlin replied crisply, her attention already back to her father’s handiwork. Priscilla’s pencil paused above her order pad.
“If you can bring an order of pancakes and a side of sausage, I’ll roll them up for her. She had them up in Boston last week, now it’s her favorite meal. I think she’d eat them three times a day if she could.” Caitlin shot Philip a sly smile that confirmed his theory.
“Tall stack?” Priscilla asked. Philip nodded. “Pigs in a blanket, coming right up. And for the turret drawer?”
“Would it be too much trouble to get that special omelet of yours?” Philip asked.
“No problem at all,” Priscilla assured him, though the chef had been in a particularly irascible mood all morning, and his cooperation on anything was not guaranteed. But if there was one customer who could take bad news regarding his food, it was Phil. The look of sheer gratitude on his face entirely negated the conclusions she had drawn just a few short days ago. It stirred some remote part of her heart to think Phil might be a constant in her life after all.
“Did you want coffee or tea?” she asked as she turned to go.
“Tea, please.”
“Milk for your friend?”
“Thank you,” Philip replied serenely.
He watched Priscilla as she navigated her way the kitchen, then turned his focus back to Caitlin. He cherished these moments with her even more after the panic of last week, when fears of losing custody had sent him driving to Boston in the middle of the night.
Philip looked down at the top of Caitlin’s head while she busily drew an edifice to support his two turrets. He wondered idly if his rash actions would come back to haunt him. It took a bit of persuading to make the teachers in charge relinquish her to his custody. He realized he had put them in an awkward position, in light of the impending divorce. Times being what they were, he had to sign a make-shift release form to take the monkey off the school’s back. All he hoped at this point was that Marianne wasn’t seriously plotting to limit his visitation rights.
“How do you like my Russian castle, Daddy?” Caitlin asked, holding up her creation for his opinion.
“It’s absolutely delightful,” Philip said, picking up the placemat to better admire it. “Very nice, indeed. I like the entrance and all this around the outside.”
Caitlin beamed with pleasure. “That’s a moat and that’s the drawbridge,” she pointed out.
“I see. Good security,” he said approvingly. “Can I keep this one?” Philip asked. Caitlin nodded. “You better sign it first.” He returned the drawing to Caitlin and watched as she wrote her name, using a different colored marker for each letter.
“Time to move the masterpieces,” Priscilla said, hot plates hovering in her outstretched hands. The diners quickly obliged, putting their works aside for safekeeping. Philip set a clean placemat in front of each of them and Priscilla set down their respective plates.
“Pigs in a blanket for Miss Caitlin and Phil’s special omelet.”
“Thanks for rolling them up,” Philip said.
“No problem. Just be sure to take those toothpicks out before you eat them—they’re made with real pig bones,” Priscilla said jokingly.
“Are they really, Daddy?” Caitlin asked.
“If Priscilla says so.” He looked up at their waitress, gratitude fairly oozing out of him.
“Enjoy,” Priscilla said before briskly moving on to her next table.
“I have four pigs in four blankets,” Caitlin said, gingerly removing one of the toothpicks.
“That’s a lot of food for one little girl,” Philip said as he took a bite of his omelet.
“You can have one, Daddy,” she said, airlifting one off her plate and setting it on his. “What should we do with the pig bones?” she asked, holding one aloft, examining it carefully. “They look a lot like toothpicks, don’t they, Daddy?”
“Yes, but they don’t have sharp points like toothpicks.” What an angel Priscilla is, Philip thought to himself, as he realized she had broken off the points so Caitlin couldn’t hurt herself.
“Oh, you’re right—I see the difference,” she said. She tore off a piece of her paper napkin and wrapped the toothpicks in it. “I’m going to save these,” she said. She stashed her new treasures in a zipper pocket of her backpack, then poured a copious amount of syrup over her breakfast. As any child would—rich or poor—she played with the drips off the dispenser, quite ignoring the pool of sweet goo on her plate.
“Come on, sweetheart. Eat your breakfast. I’ve got to get you to school.” Caitlin consulted her watch for verification. Finding that her father was not trying to rush her out of habit, she dug into her pancakes and sausage with gusto.
Philip watched his daughter devour her breakfast, his heart swelling with love for her. She was absolutely the kindest, dearest sole on the planet; an affectionate, darling companion to him. He was startled when he picked her up in Boston, for it seemed to him that she had grown over their brief separation.
As they sat in the restaurant of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, he marveled at the change in her features. She was looking more and more like Marianne—the shape of her face, the way her hair was darkening, even some of her expressions reminded him of Marianne—everything expect the eyes. Caitlin’s eyes were the only feature that hadn’t come from her mother.
Caitlin’s eyes—blue-gray and full of frank wonder—were almost exact copies of his. Not only did it touch him to see this attribute in her, it was also a relief that Caitlin did not possess the cool, distant, inaccessible eyes of her mother. One enigmatic stare in the family was quite enough for him. He liked to be able to look into someone’s eyes and know he had made a connection.
With Marianne, he couldn’t even be certain she heard what he said half the time. But not with his daughter; she treated everyone to solid confirmation of her comprehension. No mind games or power trips with her. Philip leaned over and kissed the top of her head.
“Daddy, eat your food. My school starts in twenty minutes, and you haven’t hardly eaten anything,” Caitlin gently reprimanded him.
“I ate my pig and its blanket.”
“Pig in a blanket,” she corrected him.
“My pig in a blanket,” he said, cutting off another bit of his omelet, which he got down with difficulty. He reached for his wallet, and took out two twenties and tucked them discreetly under his placemat. “C’mon, kiddo—we’ve got to scoot.”
“We haven’t paid yet,” Caitlin protested.
“I left Priscilla some money,” he said, standing up, waiting for Caitlin to collect her drawing materials.
“Don’t forget your drawing, Daddy,” she reminded him, handing him her Russian castle with the moat.
“Nope, can’t forget that.”
Caitlin slowly scooted out of the booth, looking around for their waitress. “Bye, Priscilla,” she called out, waving.
Priscilla looked up from her other customers and waved. “See you next time, kid.”
“Goodbye, Priscilla,” Philip said as they moved down the aisle.
“Bye, Phil.” Priscilla realized she hadn’t given him his check yet, and she reflexively reached into her pocket for it. But it was too late, Philip and Caitlin were already out the door.
“What were the specials again?” a customer was asking as she came back to the task at hand.
“Corned beef hash and Belgian waffle with strawberries,” Priscilla said distractedly.
“Those were the specials yesterday.”
&nbs
p; “Yeah, I’m afraid that’s about the extent of Frank’s creativity,” Priscilla replied.
“I’ll try the hash, then, with eggs over-easy.”
Priscilla gathered the menus, hung their order, and dealt with her other patrons. The morning passed quickly, seeing as they were actually fairly busy for a change. The crowd thinned out as eleven o’clock rolled around, giving her and June a chance to set up for lunch.
“See that guy going out the door?” June asked Priscilla as the two waitresses refilled salt and pepper shakers behind the counter. Priscilla nodded.
“He just left me an eight dollar tip on coffee and a Danish. Eight and change. I think he’s sweet on me,” June confided. Priscilla raised her eyebrows in appreciation of this stroke of good fortune. She decided, for several reasons, not to mention she had received a twenty-five dollar tip off a two-top. In his haste to get Caitlin to school on time, Phil had over-compensated her, even more so than usual.
At that very moment, Philip walked through the door, as if merely thinking of him had conjured him up. He glanced around until he spotted Priscilla, smiling brightly once he had located her. He motioned at his customary table and Priscilla nodded. He took a seat and waited.
“Wasn’t that guy just in here a couple of hours ago?” June asked.
“He was,” Priscilla confirmed as she walked around the counter to find out what had prompted this encore visit.
“You’re going to destroy your digestive system completely coming here twice in one day,” she said. She had brought the lunch menu with her, but as he had only eaten a fraction of his breakfast, she seriously doubted he’d want to order something else.
“Oh,” Philip laughed nervously, “I’m actually not very hungry,” he confessed.
“I didn’t think you would be,” she said, letting the menu drop down to her side. “So, what brings you back here so soon?” Something told her she wasn’t going to like the answer. Philip didn’t have an opportunity to respond; there was a loud commotion at the door as a busload of Asian tourists poured in. Immediately, June glanced around for backup.
Alligators in the Trees Page 11
