Living Violet

by Jaime Reed

  This was none of my business. Everyone had their family problems, and Caleb was no exception. Then why did it feel different, freakishly different? I couldn’t blame him for ducking out on a guy who resembled a bounty hunter, but what did Caleb do to have the angel of death track him down?

  I reached the main entrance when a hand shot out to open the door for me. When I looked up to thank him, I nearly jumped out of my skin. How did he cross the store so fast?

  The man’s big body towered over me, leering in cynicism. His rugged features spoke of hard knocks and way too much sun. He exhibited the world-traveler appeal, and telling by the dirt on his clothes, he spent his time raiding ancient tombs for buried treasure.

  His violet eyes came alive with amusement as if he reached some great revelation. “So you’re Caleb’s missing rib. Wouldn’t have pictured it.”

  His gruff tone made me recoil. “Excuse me? How do you know me?”

  “I saw him kiss you a few moments ago. Caleb never makes the first move. He never had to, until now.” He placed a thick hand over his chest and gave a slight bow. “I’m Haden, his older brother.”

  Seeing him up close, the similarity was uncanny; however, the man’s wide, husky build and slick, coal-black hair threw me off. They even had the same eyes, the weird amethyst shade, but his held a mystical glow as if he wore florescent lenses.

  “So are you in love with him?” he asked, but it sounded like a demand.

  The question snapped me back to the present. “Whoa! That’s so none of your business.” I passed through the open door.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Haden followed me out and teetered back from the hot gust of summer air. “I can understand if you are. The men in our family are irresistible. It’s kind of a curse, actually. But I warn you, the women who love us don’t have happy endings. So guard your heart. One kiss will seal your fate.”

  Was he for real? How this “don’t hate me because I’m beautiful” routine worked on women stood as the mystery of the ages. Waiting for cars to pass before crossing the lane, I called back, “Apparently, conceit is a hereditary trait as well.” I halted midstep and turned to him. Not sure of his reaction, I averted my gaze while confessing, “I couldn’t help but overhear you talking about a patriarch. Is your father royalty or something?”

  He paused to consider his answer, his expression gentle and composed. “We have a legacy, a birthright of sorts. But Caleb in his pigheadedness refuses to claim it. He’s ignoring his obligations and that may cost him in the end.”

  I nodded, though more questions emerged with each obscure answer, questions that I didn’t have the right to ask. “I hear the family ties are strained. I’m sorry.”

  He stood next to me, so close his arm brushed against my back. “So am I. Perhaps you can talk some sense into him, help him bridge the gap.”

  I bristled. “Me? That’s personal, and I’m not that tight with him to offer family counseling. Besides, he doesn’t seem like the type to disown his family without good reason.”

  “True.” He gave a lazy smile. “You’re not easy to impress and you have boundaries. No wonder he wants you.”

  Hefting my bag on my shoulder, I spun around to face him. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because Caleb won’t. I told you, he’s stubborn, something I reckon you two have in common. You have a wild ride ahead of you.” He flicked my name tag with his fingers. “Who knows, Samara, you might live to tell about it.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled away, with no apparent destination in mind.

  I stood still for a full minute, watching his big body dissolve into the throng of window-shoppers on the sidewalk. That graceful stride exuded carnality, danger, and all the things mothers warned their daughters about. I noticed that was one of many attributes that ran in the family.

  Both brothers had those strange, luminous eyes that tricked the mind, a power that crooked its finger to invite me in. I’d come across enough players in school to know when to cut and run, but Caleb Baker operated on a whole other level of seduction. Against my better judgment, I had to know what waited on the other side. I just hoped I didn’t go insane in the process.

  8

  Once dressed, I dragged my rolling suitcase down the stairs.

  Though it was only a two-day sentence, I went down the checklist of needed items and artillery. Grabbing my keys, I headed for the door, but cringed at the sound of approaching footsteps.

  “You heading out now?” Mom asked from the dining room.

  I winced. “Yeah.”

  “Okay, honey. Call me as soon as you get there. And make sure you lock all your doors, and watch your speed. If a cop flashes you, make sure you stop at a public place, with plenty of people. There was a story on the news about this man impersonating police by using one of those party lights in his car. Anyway, you don’t wanna know what happened to the poor woman he stopped. They like to get you in a wooded area, somewhere where there’re no houses or buildings you can run to for help.”

  There it was. This wouldn’t be a proper sendoff without the parting gift of terror. I knew Mom worried, but she needed to work on her timing. This woman struck fear in the hearts of everyone in my neighborhood and friends brave enough to cross our threshold. So was it really a wonder where I got my suspicious nature? I’ve lived under this woman’s roof for seventeen years; something was bound to rub off on me.

  “Come on. Give me a hug.” She spread her arms and pulled me in.

  Trying not to wonder what happened to that victim’s body, I said, “I promise, I’ll call you as soon as I get there.”

  “Okay, honey. You got a sweater?”

  “It’s June.”

  “Just in case. And you know the number to Triple A?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Phone charged?”

  “Yep.” I nodded and pulled the door open.

  Wheeling my suitcase to the car, Mom rushed after me with a bottle of water. “And make sure you have plenty to drink. I don’t want you having heat stroke like those women at Europia Park.”

  I popped the trunk then stopped. “What?”

  “Two women collapsed in Europia Park a few days ago.”

  After dumping the load inside, I turned to look at her. “Where did you hear this?”

  “Where have you been, Samara? It was all over the news.”

  “You know I don’t watch that show. Plus, I got you here to fill in all of the good parts. So, when did all this happen?”

  “Tuesday. I thought you knew about it. You didn’t see anything while you were there?”

  My mind rolled back to the day in question. “I saw two women fall out, but I thought it was from heat exhaustion.”

  “Maybe. But it resulted in a full-blown heart attack and stroke. Luckily, they survived, but they’re in bad shape. It can happen at any age, Samara. So be careful.”

  Mom handed me the water, then moved in for another hug. Though Dad lived only an hour away, Mom still acted like I was going off to war. I didn’t look forward to the devastating farewell when I left for college next year.

  I climbed in the car while she stood on the porch and waved. She smiled, as if pleased that her baby had received her daily helping of bewilderment and paranoia. But in this instance, the suspicion came with a good reason. A girl can never be too careful, especially alone.

  I pulled up to Dad’s place around five. Mr. Watkins and company lived in a gated community on the outskirts of Richmond. Dad would never be featured in Fortune magazine, but his house told everyone that he carried a little change in his pocket. I cruised up the path, admiring the geometrically groomed shrubs and the endless stretch of lawn.

  Dad was in the process of loading the trunk of his car when he turned and waved.

  After I climbed out or my car, a warm hug greeted me.

  “Hey, baby girl. Thanks so much for doing this. I know it’s short notice.”

  “It’s cool. Nothing personal; it’s just business,
” I murmured against his chest.

  When we pulled away, I saw Rhonda coming out of the house with more bags. Though a tall waif, Rhonda wouldn’t be strutting down a runway anytime soon. She was afflicted with extreme butterface (everything looked good but her face), and she seemed deathly allergic to tact.

  Two hyper children flanked her sides like pups begging for scraps. Those playful cherubs deceived all unaware, most of all their mother. Kenya stood to the left, giving me the neck-and-eye-roll combo, and Kyle was straight “mean muggin’ .” Staring at those darling faces, I could see a little bit of Dad flashing behind their eyes.

  Deep, deep down I loved my siblings, but they played too much and owned an endless supply of pointless questions like, “Why does your hair look like that? Why do you talk like a white girl? When are you gonna untie us from this chair?” And so on and so forth.

  Bottom line: I didn’t look like them, and they saw me as an outsider—an outsider who had no qualms with whipping out a belt in public. With any luck, they would outgrow this animosity. But today wasn’t that day.

  Doling out a smile she’d likely practiced all day, Rhonda chimed, “Hello, Samara. Good of you to come.”

  I returned the gesture. “Is it?”

  “Yes, of course it is. You know you’re welcome here anytime. I’ve invited you to come to church with us every Sunday, and you never come.”

  I unloaded the suitcase from my trunk. “We have several churches in Williamsburg, Rhonda.”

  She must have taken that as a challenge. With quirked eyebrow and raised chin, she asked, “Oh? What church do you and your mother attend?”

  “The ones on TV.”

  Lifting her eyes skyward, she let out a loud, exasperated sigh. “Samara, it’s not the same. There’s nothing better than fellowship person-to-person. There’s a support system to help you through those troubled times.”

  “You mean people getting all in your business and gossiping about you in the name of goodwill? No thanks. I like to keep my spiritual life private.” Translation: I don’t answer to you, so keep it movin’.

  “Still the little spitfire. You get that from your mother, you know. It’s a shame how certain habits pass down to children.” She glowered at me with pity in her eyes. “I’ll pray for you. You need it.”

  And you need a hot-oil treatment, stat, I wanted to say, but Dad stood next to me, holding his breath.

  I’m the last one to talk about ethnic hair, but home girl was positively nap-tastic! My dad was a good-looking dude; he could have done better than this. Plus she’s mean! But Dad loved this woman enough to marry her, so she must be doing something right. I saw the love in his eyes, a look that he could never give Mom. I didn’t have the heart to cuss Rhonda out. Dad looked so excited about this trip, and I needed to conserve my energy in order to survive the weekend.

  Rhonda shooed the children back into the house with a flimsy warning about disobedience. Their innocent smiles slid away the moment her back turned. Kenya served me a look of malice, and Kyle dragged a finger across his throat to illustrate his point.

  I shook my head, wondering which was worse—that a six-year-old boy could issue a threat with the best of them or that he meant it.

  Once the preliminaries were over, Dad and Rhonda went down the emergency numbers and security precautions and then set out. I waved good-bye, squared my shoulders, and prepared for battle.

  The inside of the house was spacious and surgically sterile, like those model apartments inside rental offices. Everything was white, with no sign of organic life, but rather a mock-up of a human family dwelling. How they managed to keep the furniture clean with two worrisome kids running around expanded the boundary of belief.

  The rumble of footsteps on the second floor declared that the battle of Armageddon was upon me. To say that the twins were a handful was an understatement of epic proportions, not suitable for the faint of heart or those with back problems. As expected, the next four hours consisted of random flashes of traumatic events the brain fought to suppress: Running up and down stairs twenty-six times (yes, I counted), chasing Kyle a half mile when he ran out of the house, hurdling over toys and bikes, getting peanut butter stuck in my hair from Kenya’s “beauty shop treatment,” wringing a steak knife and Dad’s power drill out of Kyle’s clutches before he hurt himself, or me, and hiding my cell phone from Kenya, who had developed an obsession with buttons. During all this, I clung to the image of my new car like a talisman, the only thing that kept me going.

  Thank goodness for technology. I put on a movie they both agreed on, and urban street fighting kept them distracted long enough for me to prepare dinner and draw their baths.

  Once the kids were asleep, I crashed on the couch, listening to Caleb’s music. My body relaxed as the melody dissolved into my sore muscles and joints. With the house quiet, I thought of Caleb Baker and all the mystery he encompassed.

  The boy was interesting; I’d give him that. He gave me butterflies, though I would never reveal that to the rest of the world. I couldn’t explain it, but the more we talked, the better he looked. My mind drifted to the night at Europia Park and how he held me on the bridge in Italy. He smelled of sweat and vanilla ice cream. His arms around me felt like home. All I wanted to do was stand there all night.

  Slicing through the cotton-candy cloud, logic intervened. Its opening argument featured two women who had collapsed in a theme park on Tuesday. Both had encountered heart attacks, not even thirty yards from where I’d stood. That was the third time that a woman had had a bum ticker within a span of a week.

  I never believed in coincidences, so there was no point in starting now. The common variable stood out in bold neon, daring me to overlook it. I thought of Haden’s warning about guarding my heart around his brother. It was a rhetorical statement, of course, but it haunted me nonetheless. So much power and magic invested into a tiny organ.

  Caleb certainly held an air of enchantment, a shadowy aura that prickled my arms, but never broke the skin. There had to be a logical explanation for all of it somewhere. But there just wasn’t enough hard evidence to convict him of anything aside from liking me. Above all else, that notion was the hardest one to believe.

  No matter how loud that little voice kept screaming in my head to keep away, an even louder voice demanded to know more, to see more, to feel more. Maybe Nadine was right, I was just making excuses not to like him. This new experience quickened my pulse with excitement, and damn if I didn’t want to know where all of it would lead.

  9

  The first few days of the new month were a bit stagnant. People prepared for the Fourth of July, wearing patriotic colors and waving banners in the air. The smell of barbecue complemented the flute songs of marching soldiers in Colonial Williamsburg.

  Mia and Dougie were tighter than ever. I kept an eye on my watch, anticipating the next altercation waiting around the corner. Mia scrambled around town, hunting for the perfect outfit to wear at Robbie Ford’s party on Saturday. His Fourth of July bashes were legendary, and everyone who was anyone at my school would be there. Robbie’s recent graduation marked the event as the last hurrah before he and his class scattered across creation. Mia wouldn’t stop talking about it, and couldn’t wait to exploit our new position as the upper echelon of James City High School.

  Meanwhile, Mom was still looking for love in all the wrong places online. While setting up a user profile, she tore the house apart trying to find pictures of her, sans love handles. She even signed up for a speed-dating session next week.

  Dusting off that gym membership, Mom initiated an emergency makeover. She wiped the house clean of anything above ten calories, leaving nothing but ice cubes and a cool breeze in the fridge. She ate nothing but chicken broth and green tea all week. I would lose my baby fat in God’s sweet time, so I had to rely on my survival skills for sustenance. But I had to draw the line when my Tae Bo DVD suddenly went missing.

  The store was busier than usual, but I almost looked
forward to going to work. And there was only one reason why. Caleb and I continued our customary trash talk with a side dish of public affection. These subtle spars went on throughout the week. We began swapping more music, then progressed to books and movies. He also had a thing for the old black-and-white flicks, and he wasn’t afraid of subtitles. Yep, this guy was slowly growing on me.

  By Saturday, I had to stop myself from bouncing when he approached the counter with hunger in his eyes. Unfortunately the look wasn’t for me, but for the apple tart in the bake case.

  After I rung up his order, he asked me what I was doing later that night.

  I paused behind the register. “Um ...”

  “You’re still afraid I’m gonna put something in your drink, aren’t you?” He smirked.

  Looking down, I handed him his food. “No. I just got plans.”

  “Oh yeah? What kind?”

  “The kind that conflict with us going out.”

  He leaned closer, forcing me to meet his gaze. “What are you doing?”

  I gave a dismissive wave. “There’s this party my friend’s giving tonight, that’s all.”

  “Cool.” He took a bite of his tart and walked away.

  Before I could check myself, I blurted out, “You wanna come with me?”

  His brows knit together as he mulled over the idea. “Would this party consist of high school kids?”

  I shrugged. “Some.”

  “With no parental supervision?” he asked.

  “Likely.”

  “And beer?”

  “Copious.”

  “No thanks.” He kept walking.

  “I’ll be there,” I emphasized, hoping that would sweeten the deal.

  He stopped, then turned around. He swallowed, then asked, “What time?”

  “Nine. I’ll meet you here.”

  Flashing a smile, he drifted from sight, leaving me to collect myself and withstand the scandalized look from Nadine.

  She stood with her mouth open and coffee overflowing from the cup she poured. Catching herself, she grabbed a rag and tended to the mess.