Mayne Attraction: In The Spotlight

by Ann Mauren

  “Isn’t that what you got last time?” she asked after the waitress was heading off with our dessert order.

  “That’s what I get every time, Mom,” I replied, as I briefly locked eyes with Hoyt who without saying so acknowledged that we’d had this conversation the last time with a nod.

  “Don’t you want to try something new?”

  No.

  “Mom, Tuxedo Cheesecake is fabulous every time. Besides, you need to have something reliable to fall back on when yours doesn’t work out like you hoped,” I said with a smile because I knew I had her there.

  She just smirked but Hoyt flashed me a quick smile and arched eyebrows, validating me again.

  “Neophobe,” she accused.

  “Homophobe,” I accused right back, but with lots of cheek because I knew she would feel obligated to explain my response to Hoyt (whose expression was now decidedly alarmed) and thereby have to use the word ‘homosexual’ in clarifying that although fear of such was an alternate meaning, a person with a fear of monotony or sameness was the primary definition of what I had accused her of being.

  Hoyt hated our game, and couldn’t play even if he wanted to.

  When dessert arrived, even before she took a bite of her White Chocolate Raspberry Swirl flavored cheesecake, she was eyeing mine, lustfully. With an internal sigh, I took a knife and cut my dessert in half. Then after feigning interest in her dessert I offered, “Mom, would you like to split and share?”

  She gave me a sympathetic look, as though she felt pity for my plight of being stuck with a whole slice of boring old Chocolate Tuxedo Cheesecake.

  As if she was deliberating about whether she should decline and teach me a lesson or take the high road and be charitable, she paused before answering my query.

  “Well…okay,” she finally said with a sigh.

  She finished off her half of my dessert before I did.

  As we were walking out of the restaurant she asked, “What were you looking at for so long at the jewelry store?”

  “Oh, they have a very rare deep tone aquamarine on display. It’s amazing. I was surprised to see it at a store like this. I can’t imagine anybody around here buying a ring like that. It’s not the kind of piece you’d normally find at a mall jewelry store.”

  She was intrigued.

  “Let’s go see it,” she suggested enthusiastically.

  She was always especially interested in things I liked. But I entertained no false hope that she might buy it for me. I knew the price had to be well into the five-figure range. But she enjoyed gawking at beautiful things as much as I did, so we strolled arm in arm back across the hallway to the display window. Hoyt was opening up his cell phone and promised to catch up momentarily.

  I was surprised to see a completely different arrangement in the window…some kind of black pearl necklace and earring set. I looked around to see if I was at the wrong window…they did have more than one…but I was sure it had been the closest one, right beside the bench. I walked over to the next one, which contained a ruby necklace display, same as before. The windows on the other side of entrance were full of the same merchandise as before.

  Strange.

  Mom could see the confusion in my face.

  “It’s not out here anymore,” I muttered, still mystified.

  “Why don’t we go in and ask about it?” she suggested.

  I nodded in agreement and we entered the store. She did the talking when a sales lady approached.

  “Excuse me, we were wondering about the aquamarine piece that was in the window before we ate dinner,” she began.

  The sales lady had a puzzled look on her face, but then shook her head, as if banishing a thought, and smiled at us.

  “Yes, the three carat aquamarine in platinum? We just sold it, not thirty minutes ago.”

  She was beaming, I realized. It was, no doubt, the afterglow of a large commission enhancing her mood.

  Mom countered, “Well, that’s too bad. Do you mind telling me what was the price? We didn’t see before.”

  The sales lady took on a bit of an arrogant aura as she informed us, “That piece was priced at just under fifty thousand and worth every penny—absolutely stunning. We just received it this week,” she said, turning a little wistful.

  Mom raised her eyebrows as she looked at me. That price sounded right to me, and my eyebrows stayed relaxed in place.

  Mom wasn’t done digging.

  “Do you mind telling me what kind of person bought it?”

  She leaned in, happy to dish.

  “It was a man buying it as an engagement ring for his girlfriend. I bet she’ll say yes,” she said and laughed at her joke.

  It didn’t seem funny to me, though. I felt a prick of jealousy.

  “No doubt,” Mom agreed.

  “Can I show you ladies something else?” she asked hopefully.

  “No that’s all right. Mystery solved. Thanks for your help,” Mom concluded smoothly as we exited the store.

  Hoyt was standing across the hall at the display window of a golf shop, daydreaming, along with several other men, about a new set of clubs. He snapped back to reality when we approached.

  “Do we still have time for the cruise?” Mom asked, suddenly remembering we were supposed to be on a schedule.

  “Sure. It will be close, but I called while you were in the jewelry store and they’re not sold out. We’ll be fine on time, if we leave right now,” Hoyt assured her.

  “Is that what you’d like to do, then?” she asked me, though I had already agreed.

  “Sure,” I confirmed as she took one of my hands and one of Hoyt’s, so that she could walk between us on our way back to the car.

  In my free hand I carried a doggy bag, which held two completely untouched halves of a slice of White Chocolate Raspberry Swirl Cheesecake—but not my purse.

  The riverboat cruise was nice. We rode on the famous ‘Belle of Louisville’, the height of luxury and comfort in river travel in the early 1900’s. No other river steamboat in American history has lasted as long, been to as many places, or traveled as many miles as the Belle. I hoped I looked as good when I was in my nineties. She was even still racing her old nemesis, the Delta Queen, in The Great Steamboat Race, held every year since the sixties on the Wednesday before Derby Day. We got to see the ‘Golden Antlers” on display in the Captain’s office. It was the trophy that resided with the winner each year. Belle had beaten Queen twenty-two versus nineteen times up to this year. Hoyt seemed to believe the rumors that the winner has always been predetermined, but I clung to the notion that the race’s winner was determined by steam and good old fashion girl-power gumption, not sterile coin flipping. They had the calliope going while we sailed, and I particularly enjoyed that. As it turns out, Belle has a beautiful voice, too.

  It was a warm night, but not too hot, and the breeze coming off the water felt wonderful on my face. The sun was low on the horizon, but it didn’t get dark until close to nine o’clock, so I could see fairly well. I’d been planning to wear my sunglasses, thinking that this would help disguise my staring at people, but the dusky lighting made it too dark to get away with it. So I just had to be surreptitious about my snooping. I tried to look carefully at each face, particularly the eyes. This was trickier than I’d thought it would be because once we were moving, most people were standing with their backs to me, facing out toward the river to see the water and the scenery floating by.

  I counted thirty-eight passengers on the top deck. A handful of people were inside, below, but it didn’t seem likely that someone watching me would spend the whole time out of sight hitting the bar. I did what I could to observe the people around me but there were no suspicious or familiar looking characters, so eventually I switched to enjoying the scenery myself. There was a gorgeous glowing sunset, the orange and pink and purple kind, and it made the occasion all the more pleasant.

  The cruise lasted for an hour, returning to the dock around nine. We were making our way to the
stairs to disembark, when, in a moment of stupid forgetfulness, I had an involuntary turn around reaction to the sensation of not having my purse with me. But then I went with it, realizing that it was exactly the right thing to do, if I had actually lost it. Mom noticed my hesitation and body language and asked, “What’s wrong?”

  I answered with appropriate concern, “My purse. I think I left it.”

  We backtracked to where we had initially been seated, before rising to stand at the rails like everyone else. There was no purse, of course. I acted concerned and a little upset, though its loss, including the actual purse itself, would constitute no more than seven dollars of financial setback, I estimated.

  Mom tried to soothe me by asking, “Honey, do you think you may have left it in the car?”

  No. I smiled inwardly.

  “Maybe…I hope so,” I replied with real nervousness, wondering if anyone was watching and listening to this. I couldn’t tell for sure, and it was frustrating.

  We eventually made our way to the car. Hoyt hit the button on the remote to unlock the doors and I climbed into the back. It was nearly dark now. I stepped on something as my feet came to rest behind my mom’s seat. To my amazement, and wonder, and dread, I pulled up my recovered purse, placed for me where I would think I’d left it, in my step-father’s locked vehicle, while I’d been sailing on the river.

  Now I knew for sure that I would need to be extremely careful, from this moment onward, because people with tricks I couldn’t begin to imagine were watching me very closely, and responding to my experiments.

  Chapter 6 – Trust

  Mom and Hoyt were already long gone for work one morning. It was mid-July and I was still sleeping in late in the mornings—part of the novelty of nowhere to be while school was out for the summer. There was bright, annoying light flooding all around the edges of my “room darkening” shades (a misnomer if ever there was one) making me feel awake, when all I really wanted was to keep dreaming.

  So now I was just lying there with a pillow over my head. Adding to my annoyance with the present alignment of the solar system, my own body was rebelling. My back was starting to ache the way it does when I’ve been in bed for too long; a similar phenomenon was occurring with my bladder.

  As I continued to lay there, laziness still winning out over annoyance and discomfort, I heard the familiar sound of the mail truck working its way up the street. My mind was drifting and it reminded me of a conversation I’d once had with my mom about Postal Service vehicles.

  “For one thing,” I began “you’d think they would buy American.”

  Her expression remained politely attentive, though she stared slightly through me.

  “You know, right side steering wheels? British, obviously,” I continued.

  Her eyebrow raised a fraction.

  “And then they aren’t equipped with standard mufflers, the kind that muffle sound,” I added with a smile, amusing myself.

  “What?”

  Her reply was a little uncertain, as though she was just now tuning in.

  “Think about it…the sound, I mean. You can always hear the mail truck coming. Nothing else sounds like that, right?” I ventured.

  She was looking at me but seeing something far away now as I waited for acknowledgement of my important findings. Refocusing her eyes on my face she offered, “I gueeessss.”

  Her tone added the “Whatever sweetheart. I wish for your sake that you weren’t so strange.”

  That conversation had taken place before Grandpa died. I chuckled to myself imagining how different her response would have been if I had brought it up more recently. She’d be totally zoned in, and ridiculously enthusiastic. She’d probably even throw me in the car and run me to the post office to arrange a tour and a ride-with.

  I snapped back to the present.

  Was that the doorbell?

  As if in answer to my question, there was a quiet knock downstairs. I jumped out of bed, fully dressed—from yesterday. I didn’t go anywhere or sweat, so what’s the difference?

  He must have known I was in there. I thought for sure he’d be heading back to his truck on the street. But he was still patiently waiting for me on the porch when I got to the door after what seemed like a long time to me.

  “Good mornin’,” he began. “I have a certified letter for uh…” he looked down to read it, “Eee…lary Mayne?”

  He seemed to question his pronunciation, rightly so.

  “Um, yes. That’s me,” I replied.

  “All righty then.”

  He secured the envelope to a clipboard and handed it to me. There was a pen with a dirty looking string duct taped to its top that secured it to the board.

  “I just need your signature right here,” he said as he pointed to the line on the green form that was affixed to the front of the letter.

  I made a mental note to be sure to wash my hands first thing; no telling how many germs were on that pen.

  Once I signed, he tore the form off along the perforations. Then he handed me my letter and slipped the green form with my proof of delivery signature into an envelope taped to the clipboard.

  “You have a good day now,” he offered cheerfully and headed to his truck.

  He got back in and though my door was closed now, I could tell when he stepped on the gas.

  My eyes turned to the upper left corner of the envelope.

  “The Bank of Louisville?”

  I checked the address line. Sure enough, it was addressed to “Ms. Ellery S. Mayne, 2300 Epton Lane, Louisville…

  “Huh.”

  I went to the kitchen to open it. First I washed up. Then I opened the knife drawer. It was one of my many and oddball pet peeves to see people (well, primarily my mother) rip open and destroy perfectly good envelopes when it was so much neater to just use a letter opener. We didn’t have a letter opener, however, so I guess I could understand my mom’s method, to an extent. But we did have knives, and they worked remarkably well for this purpose.

  Inside this intriguing envelope was a single sheet, more Bank of Louisville letterhead. It notified me of a trust that had been established in my name and that now I was of legal age I needed to meet with the trust administrator to discuss my rights and obligations.

  Obligations?

  It was signed by Dwight Matthews, Legal Counsel, Trust Administration Department.

  “Huh.”

  I picked up the phone and started dialing. The number connected me with his pleasantly efficient sounding assistant. I told her my name and she put me through directly.

  “Hello Ms. Mayne. Thank you for calling so promptly. I’d like to meet with you as soon as possible to discuss your trust. And I’m sure you have a number of questions for me.”

  He had a very friendly and relaxed manner, which put me at ease.

  “Uh…yes sir…I suppose I do.”

  He didn’t know it, but I was still cruising in shy mode.

  “Well that’s completely understandable. Now how soon can you meet with me?” he asked.

  “Um…I’m available today, but I don’t drive,” I informed on myself.

  He chuckled a little, no doubt at my greedy enthusiasm and said, “Oh, that’s not a problem. I can send a car for you if you’d like.”

  Although this had the feel of legitimacy, I decided to use common sense and some caution. After all, how hard would it be to fake some important stationery and use my own greed against me to lure me in? I certainly didn’t want a repeat of the ‘perfume’ incident, though it might be interesting to see who would rescue me this time.

  “No, that’s okay. I can get a ride. What time should I meet you?” I countered.

  “I’ve got an opening from noon to two o’clock today. I was going to order in some lunch for my staff today. You can join us, if you’d like, then we can talk after that,” he offered, putting me at ease again.

  He had a really nice sounding voice. If he looked anything like he sounded he would be very handsome.
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br />   I agreed and he gave me detailed directions to his downtown office on Broadway, and his direct line in case I got lost. I thought about calling Hoyt and asking him to drive me down there, and then maybe we could stop over and see Mom at the library afterwards. Hoyt could come and go from work as he pleased unless he had a specific meeting on his schedule. He was always pleasantly willing to help me out on spur of the moment chauffeuring requests. And that was even before I became so mental. Now he and Mom both practically tripped over each other to comply whenever I asked to be taken somewhere, which admittedly, was rare these days.

  But then my thoughts took a different tack. This business about me being of legal age must have started a mental ball rolling up there. It seemed like this was something I should go and see to all by myself.

  There was only about an hour and a half until noon.

  A game plan began to take shape in my mind. I hopped in for a quick shower. Then I blew dry and fussed with my hair until it was perfectly smooth and twisted into a braid down my back. I decided that this occasion called for better clothes than what was available in my closet. So I picked out an ensemble of my mom’s that had looked great on her. Once I had that all in place I decided that I was going to have to put on some makeup, too. Since I didn’t have any of my own, I picked through her cosmetics drawer until I had made the amateurish improvements I thought I required. Then I did something very grown up—something I’d never done before—I called a taxi.

  I felt absolutely ridiculous wearing a hat, but at the same time I didn’t think I could pull off the outfit without it. It looked best with the hat, I assured myself, and I purposely turned the volume down on the internal critical commentary that was beginning to sound alarmingly like an episode of “What Not To Wear.”

  Besides, a hat helped to obscure and offset my extremely youthful face and hairstyle—in fact that had been the point of the whole ensemble and the motive for raiding Mom’s closet in the first place.