by Rae Renzi
“Mom, I was glad to come. Hysterectomies are routine these days, but you’ll still be down for a little while. Anyway, it’ll be nice to have some time to visit without all the hubbub.” She hitched her carry-on bag over her shoulder and eyed her mother. “Gosh, I almost don’t recognize you anymore.”
Sharon Lord touched the cuff of her silk shirt. “Yes, well. Keeping up appearances, and all that.”
Casey frowned. “You know we could have refused all that makeover stuff. I would have been just as happy. Happier.”
Her mom squeezed her arm. “I know, honey.” She turned and linked her arm through Casey’s as they strolled toward the parking garage. “But I’m sure Mrs. Trabor—”
“If you say, ‘Mrs. Trabor meant well,’ I’ll scream.”
Sharon laughed. “No, I don’t suppose she did. I suppose our appearance fell somewhat short of her standard. But I’ve learned to ignore others’ intentions if it’s expedient. No matter what Mrs. Trabor’s motivation was, I thoroughly enjoyed the spa day with you, and I got a haircut and some new clothes, to boot.”
The wedding, almost a month to the day after Casey’s return from the river, had been small and private but rushed. Reed had seemed driven to accomplish the deed, and Casey had complied. Reed’s parents had been torn; they’d wanted to have an event worthy of the Trabor scion but were transparently relieved that the short time frame provided an excuse for limiting exposure of Casey and her mother to their social circle. The attitude, although expected, had annoyed Casey and embarrassed Reed. They’d all been happy when it was over.
Sharon dug around in her purse to find the car keys. The car at least was familiar to Casey. The old Toyota sedan, fourteen years old now, had spirited them away from the scene of their humiliation in the small town in Iowa where Casey had grown up, then seen her off to college and finally to graduate school. It was an old friend. She gave it a little pat, threw her bag in the back seat and got into the front.
“Always pragmatic, Mom. Well, we survived.” As she buckled her seatbelt her cell phone rang. “Oh, hang on. Must be Reed.”
Her mother snorted. “As if a woman who survived in the wilderness for two weeks couldn’t manage a commercial air flight.”
“Yeah, well…” Casey glanced at her phone, and her heart skipped a beat. The number wasn’t Reed’s. It was a number with a Los Angeles area code, the same number she’d been ignoring for two months.
She snapped the phone closed and jammed it into her purse. “Wrong number.” She shifted in the seat to face her mother. “Luckily, Reed and I live in D.C., which isn’t nearly far enough away from Baltimore and the Trabors, but it’s far enough for now.”
“Well, yes. I can imagine that living on their doorstep wouldn’t be comfortable. That Reed is a gem, though, in spite of his upbringing. I don’t believe a kinder, more generous man exists.”
Casey shot her mom a sideways glance. Reed had many outstanding qualities, but generous didn’t leap immediately to mind. So when he’d offered to help her mother buy a new townhouse in Knoxville, she’d been surprised and pleased.
Instead of driving to the shabby one-bedroom apartment she’d occupied since moving to Knoxville, Casey’s mother turned the car into a modestly upscale neighborhood and stopped in front of a small, neat row of four townhouses. One of the mailboxes had S. Lord printed on the side.
She beamed. “What do you think?”
“Wow, Mom. This is great.”
Her mother put the key in the door and pushed it open. “It has a foyer. And a coat closet.” Her fingers skimmed over the polished wood of the closet before she stepped through the arch. “Here, come on in.” She showed Casey the living room with its vaulted ceilings and tall windows, the kitchen separated from the dining area by a granite center island, up the carpeted stairs to the master bedroom and luxurious bath. They looked at this, touched that, talked about artwork for the walls.
“After I recover from the surgery, I thought…well, I might ask some of the ladies from work over for a little luncheon or tea. What do you think?”
The look on her mother’s face was so hopeful, so heartbreaking. It had been isolating all these years, moving from town to town, trying to outrun her shame, until she’d settled in Knoxville three years ago. She’d taken an entry-level job as a stock clerk—it didn’t require a background check—and had worked her way up to Housewares Department Assistant Manager. And, for the first time in a long, long time, she had a group of friends.
“I think that sounds like fun, Mom. This place is designed for entertaining.”
Her mother gazed around the room, a sweet smile on her face. “It is, isn’t it? It’s just perfect.”
And it was. It was just perfect for her mother, not large, not fancy, but pleasant and comfortable, and in the kind of neighborhood she’d always wished for. Casey felt grateful to Reed. And a little nervous.
The week went quickly. The procedure was without complication and, displaying her usual resilience, Casey’s mother was back on her feet within days. They had a slow-moving shopping trip, a dinner out, at which Casey met two of her mother’s new friends, and lots of time to hang out on the townhome’s little patio and talk in the late summer breeze. Casey couldn’t remember a time when her mother was so relaxed. It was almost as if Casey’s marriage had relieved her of a worry, a burden she’d carried all these years. As if, with Casey safely married, she could finally let go.
Casey wished she felt the same.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Casey yanked on her skirt, adjusted her posture and knocked on the open door of her boss’s office at Westbrooke and Associates. She’d been looking forward to this meeting for weeks. She crossed her fingers behind her back.
“Come on in, Casey. Take a seat.”
Harley Holcomb’s meaty hands were folded on top of an open folder on his desk. In Casey’s idiosyncratic method of categorization, Harley was a chocolate-coated caramel, with salty sprinkles on top. The salt was the first thing you got, but if you made it past that, it was all good.
He casually flipped through the folder on his desk. “Now, let’s see. If I understand the situation, you’re here to ask about an ancillary research project in lieu of an annual bonus. That about right?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“You’re sure you’d rather have this than a chunk of money at the end of the year?”
“Yes. Yes, I am absolutely one-hundred-percent sure about that.”
“Hmm. That’s pretty unusual. But then, you are unusual. Something of a surprise, in fact.”
“I don’t understand.”
He glanced up at her from under his brows. “It’s been my experience when someone’s hired as a favor, they generally have to be held to a different standard than the rest of the staff. Usually lower. That didn’t happen here. Surprised me.”
“Wait. You hired me as a favor?” Casey sorted through every possible explanation of that statement and came up with nil.
“I didn’t, no. I hired you because I got leaned on. It was someone else’s favor—someone high up. But, turns out, he did me a favor. Your work is good. Real good. And I was not inclined to be generous in my evaluation.” His heavy eyebrows knotted.
“Oh, you mean I’m not a slacker?”
“Now, don’t go getting your hackles up. What I’m saying here is, in my opinion, you’re worth any configuration of bonus you want.”
It took a few seconds for the message to sift past Casey’s troubled thoughts, but finally, she got it. “You mean I get to do my research?” she asked guardedly.
“Twenty-five percent of your time, starting next month.”
A warm feeling suffused her, a feeling of taking a sure step in the right direction. Finally. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Harley. You won’t regret it, I promise.”
She raced to her office and picked up her phone, eager to share the news. “Reed, I got it! I get to do my research project.” She sat on the edge of her chair, still exc
ited.
“Hey, that’s great, Casey. But, uh, listen, I can’t talk now. I’m very busy. We’ll talk tonight, okay?”
Casey paused before she said, “Yeah, sure.” She sat twisting a curl of hair around her finger and staring out the window for some time after.
Casey was pleased when Reed suggested going out for dinner the next evening to celebrate her bonus. She was less pleased, but not entirely surprised, that he also invited his boss, Senator Carr. They seemed inseparable.
Still, Casey wished she and Reed might have one evening to laugh together and share their daily fare, talk about their little triumphs and disappointments. They’d seen little of each other recently, since the wedding, in fact. When they did see each other, it usually had the shape of a business meeting—who paid the rent, what to do about her car or his, who should call the landlady about the leaky toilet. That part worked like a well-oiled machine, but something was missing, something she was sure they could find, if only… Well, it wouldn’t happen during dinner with the senator. Maybe after.
Casey and Reed arrived at the Baltic restaurant first and were sipping wine when Senator Carr swept in. Eyes followed her, and not only because she was one of the current powerbrokers on the Hill. Her simple azure silk dress floated on her body, hinting at lush curves beneath, and her hair and accessories were perfect, suggesting attention to detail. Casey just knew that Senator Carr’s undergarments matched each other, the dress and probably her toenail polish. She was like a white chocolate truffle with a center of brandied cherry—a smooth exterior with the promise of something juicy inside. Her walk left little doubt that she was fully aware of her capital, both political and sexual. She approached the table, glamour trailing her like scent on a breeze.
Reed rose to his feet, his eyes like a pointer in the field. If he’d had a tail, he would have wagged it. Casey, dressed in her usual plain black pantsuit, suddenly felt dowdy.
The senator took the seat Reed pulled out and greeted Casey warmly. “Well, Casey, I hear that congratulations are in order.”
The waiter placed a plate of burek appetizers on the table.
“Well, kind of.” Casey dug into the little chicken pies. “I’ve been given my own research project.”
“Isn’t that your job?” The senator picked delicately at her food.
“Well, yes, but usually on projects of interest to the company and its clients. Now I get to have my own project.”
“I see. And what’s your project?”
“Casey’s looking at how the film industry foreshadows socio-political trends. It might have broad implications if it works out.” Reed’s voice held a hint of pride, which was nice.
“Interesting. How will you explore that? Spend a lot of time in movie theaters?”
Casey sat back while the waiter placed an entrée in front of her, a beef dish with a rich red sauce. “Not really. The research is historical—which movies influenced things later on. So I’ll look at films that were popular in their day but raised eyebrows at the time they were released.”
“Films that might have pushed at social boundaries at the time?”
“Yes. There are some obvious ones. Like Sidney Poitier’s films—it doesn’t seem the least controversial now, but back then a black leading man was a rarity.”
“That’s true. There was also a stigma attached to having Latin ancestry.” Senator Carr leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Was it Rita Hayworth who was originally rebuffed because she was half Spanish?”
“Yes, in fact, she changed her name and underwent electrolysis to change her hairline so she didn’t look so Latin. Of course, her smoldering looks—very Latin—eventually gained her stardom, but she paid a price.”
“I guess we all pay the price for our passions.”
“Sounds like an admonition.” Reed smiled at his boss.
“Oh, no, Reed. It’s passion that moves us forward. We need people with passion to balance out all the so-called logic in this place.”
“If I remember, Senator Carr, your passion is child health?”
“My favorite topic is child risk. If the average person knew how many children end up on the streets they’d be stunned, and they should be terrified. These lost and maltreated children are our future citizens. It’s my mission to carry that message out to the population.
“There, see? I couldn’t help myself. I hope you’ll forgive me. Now, let’s turn back to your much more fun topic, Casey. Where do you start? With those old studio films?”
“Maybe some, but big studios don’t really do controversial things. I think the real action will be in the films made by small independent studios.”
Reed leaned forward, a spark of interest lighting his eyes. “Or maybe their financials—you know, who they supported, or who they had under contract, but hadn’t felt the time was quite right.”
“Exactly. Small-budget independent films that would reveal which direction the big studio heads were exploring. Oh, Senator, are you all right?”
Senator Carr had paled, and she now coughed into her napkin. “I’m fine. I’m so sorry, just a little tickle in my throat.” She downed a swallow of wine. “I should think that to influence social-political trends your films would have to have a fairly wide audience, so the big studios would be better to target.”
“Yes, you might be right, but that’s exactly what I have to find out.” Casey turned her attention to her dinner. “Wow, the food here is fabulous.”
“Yes, it is. I’m stuffed to the gills.” The senator, still looking ill, folded her napkin and rose. “That was absolutely delicious, and you’re a genius, Reed, to think of this place. Casey, your project sounds fascinating. Do keep me abreast, won’t you?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Reed glanced through the door of his office into Patricia Carr’s. It was late afternoon, and the frantic pace of the day had begun to wane. Patricia looked up and smiled. “There are a few things we need to go over, Reed. Let’s have a little afternoon conference. Why don’t you come on in.”
He hesitated, but the rush came over him like an ocean wave, picking him up and carrying him helplessly along, as it had for the last couple of weeks. It was thrilling—as long as he didn’t think about what would happen when the wave finally hit the shore.
He picked up a notepad, walked into the senator’s office and closed the outer door, making sure it locked. He sat on the leather sofa, feeling heat pulse through his body.
The senator looked up at him with gorgeous cornflower-blue eyes and smiled. She wore a snug zip-front dress that at once emphasized her curves and compressed them into a professional configuration. Her fingers found the zipper and tugged it downward. The front of the dress peeled open like a flower bud opening its petals. She picked up her phone and buzzed her secretary. The zipper traveled further downward, liberating the abundant flesh hiding beneath. “Donna, please hold my calls for the next hour.”
Sliding around her desk, she came toward Reed slowly, unfastening her bra in the front, and pulling it back to reveal her full, luscious breasts. They bounced provocatively when she walked forward, her pink-tinted nipples already hardening.
“We have a lot to cover today,” she said, leaning down so her breasts hung just in reach of his mouth.
“I don’t mind working late,” Reed said.
Casey sat at her desk, immersed in her project as day segued into evening. Her second-floor office, transformed from janitor closet to jewel box by a richly colored oriental carpet and good lighting, was quiet and private—too out-of-the-way for people to idly stop by to chat, and too small for spontaneous meetings. The ceiling-to-floor window overlooking a stand of maple trees gave the illusion of space, but it was only an illusion.
She glanced at her phone, reached over and picked it up, hesitated, placed it back on the desk and returned to her work.
Five minutes later, she straightened in her chair and stretched. Her eyes drifted to her phone again. Her hand hovered over it for a second b
efore she snatched it up and hit the speed-dial. “Reed, hi. I know you’re busy, but I thought I’d cook tonight. What would you—”
“Hey, can I call you back later? I’m in a meeting right now.” Reed’s voice sounded husky, hurried.
“Oh. I see…well, actually, I don’t. Reed, I think we really need to talk. This isn’t—”
“Casey, later, okay? I can’t talk right now—I’m not alone.”
“Oh. Sorry. Okay, later, then.” She slowly folded the phone, placed it on the desk and pushed it away.
A sharp rap sounded behind her. She half turned toward the door. “Come in.”
A man holding a huge bouquet of wildflowers tentatively poked his head around the corner from the hallway. “Excuse me, are you Casey Lord-Raines?”
“Lord-Raines? I-I…I’m Casey—”
“Good deal. This office’s not that easy to find, you know? Here ya go.” The man sauntered over. “I don’t mind telling you that this bouquet was hard to come by. The fellow that ordered it? He was determined to have those wildflowers. Nothing else would do, he said.” He deposited the flowers on her desk and left.
The flowers weren’t sophisticated or elegant. They were wild. Jubilant black-eyed Susans, tiny white asters, deep blue lupine, yellow and pink primrose, lacy yarrow—all gathered into one enormous bouquet, unrestrained and teeming with life. Messy and beautiful, as nature was. Only one person would have sent them.
Casey sat there staring, too stunned to move. When she roused herself, it was to reach into her drawer and take out a chunk of chocolate. As the restoring confection melted in her mouth, she reached for the arrangement and, one by one, touched the flowers, so like the ones she’d held that day on the river. She closed her eyes and smelled them. Their fragrance mingled with her memory of the dusty damp smell of the river, sweet and lacerating.
