by Julie Cannon
Callie was puzzled. She put the lid back on her coffee, not wanting it to cool down too fast. Dillon was looking at her as if what she had said was the perfect explanation. Maybe it was. She didn’t talk to the majority of her friends about her situation and they didn’t ask. It was as if the last three years hadn’t even happened.
“I thought you said you drew the line at the better-or-worse part?” Callie asked, trying to shake her melancholy.
Dillon laughed. “As a matter of fact, I did. But since all I’ve learned is your first name, that rule doesn’t count.”
Callie finally smiled and felt warm inside. She knew nothing about this woman, and she was reacting to her every mood like she was connected to her.
“All right. But tell me when you get bored.” Callie expected a flippant remark, and when Dillon didn’t say anything she began.
“Three years ago two men broke into my house. My brother Michael was staying with me at the time while his apartment was being fumigated. He heard the commotion and came into my bedroom and saw the men pounding on me.” Callie took a sip of her coffee, wondering when the pain of what happened that night would go away. “To make a long story short, Michael beat up the guys, and as a result one of them died. He was convicted of second-degree murder and sentenced to forty years in Lompak prison. The jury obviously didn’t care that the men were beating the shit out of me or that one of them was seconds away from raping me. Forty years. They gave my brother forty years for saving my life.” Callie felt the weight of her words settle on her shoulders.
“I’ve been trying to get his conviction appealed but it costs money, a lot of money. So I’m broke, working two jobs to pay the legal fees, and exhausted. My best friend, who begged me to meet her at the Incognito, by the way, stood me up. And to top it all off, I humiliated myself in front of the only woman who’s given me more than the time of day in months.” Callie stopped and looked upward. She felt as if she had been reading from a long list of woes that hung in midair somewhere above her head, like a black cloud. “That’s about it.”
Dillon drew on her experience, trying not to display any outward sign of emotion. She hadn’t expected Callie to literally dump everything out on the table and was surprised at her own reaction. As Callie had rattled off each of her challenges Dillon’s stomach sank, and by the time Callie reached the end, it seemed to have dropped to the floor. Jesus, what a bunch of shit this lady has on her plate.
This endless tale of suffering reinforced her gut reaction, telling her to leave this woman and her megaproblems. First of all, she didn’t have time for this mess, and secondly, she always bowed out, sometimes not so gracefully, at the first sign of what she termed issues. She wasn’t interested in someone else’s problems. She had enough to deal with at work and didn’t want a woman who couldn’t keep her own life straightened out. That was why her relationships were sexually fulfilling, yet brief.
She studied Callie across the table. She wasn’t at all what Dillon had expected. She held her head high, and for the first time since the I-want-to-fuck-you disaster, Callie was looking directly at her. Her gaze didn’t waver. As a matter of fact, a flicker of defiance in her eyes seemed to say, “You asked for it.” Dillon guessed Callie’s age at forty-two, which made her about eight years older than Dillon. Her face had a few lines—from the stress she was under, no doubt—but bore no other sign of her age.
After a few moments of silence Dillon finally spoke. “I can’t believe I’m the only woman who’s given you the time of day in months.” She echoed Callie’s words. “You’re beautiful. Men and women would fall all over themselves to get to you.”
Callie was shocked at Dillon’s response. She had expected her to stumble for an excuse and dash out the door as quickly as possible, but instead she complimented her? Dillon was the most unusual, yet interesting woman she’d met in a long time. She herself was stunning. Her hair was almost jet black with thick waves, one of which kept falling across her forehead. A few streaks of gray were evident, and Callie pegged her in her mid-thirties. Her eyes, which had looked black in the darkness of the bar, were in fact gray and held no sign of pity, only the expectation of a reply.
“No, I’m not.” Callie shook her head. “I’ve got circles under my eyes, lost at least ten pounds, and developed a huge intolerance for practically everything. And somewhere in the past three years I’ve lost my temper. I’ve looked everywhere for it, but I have no idea where it is.”
Dillon’s heart fluttered when a small smile transformed Callie’s mouth. She sipped her coffee, giving herself a chance to calm down. “Thanks for the warning, and at the risk of you ripping my head off, I disagree. You’re a very beautiful woman. You do look a little tired, but it’s”—Dillon glanced at her watch—“eleven thirty on a Friday night. Everyone’s tired.”
“Then what are you doing here?” Callie asked, almost defensively.
“Chatting with a charming, funny woman.”
Callie laughed, involuntarily, it seemed. “Well, I guess if I can’t find my temper, it’s good that my humor and charm haven’t deserted me.”
“Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night?” Dillon almost glanced around to see who had spoken. She had no idea she was going to say that. It was her turn to feel awkward. Callie searched her eyes as if she were looking for the hidden meaning of life.
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“For the reasons I outlined a few minutes ago. I’ve got too much shit going on in my life, and I’m sure you don’t want any part of it.”
“I’m not planning to take ownership of your problems or solve them for you. It’s just dinner. If I didn’t want to see you again, I wouldn’t have asked. Believe it or not, I am capable of giving a woman the brush-off.”
Callie laughed. “Yes, I expect you do have lots of experience in that area.” And other areas as well.
“I think I’ve just been complimented.”
Dillon frowned, her forehead creasing, and Callie wanted to reach out and smooth the tight lines. “You were—I mean, I did. You’re a very attractive woman in a roguish kind of way. I’m sure you could have any woman you choose,” she stammered.
“I don’t think I’d go that far. You told me no.” Dillon looked surprised.
“Ah, but you told me no first.” Callie had relaxed and was enjoying their teasing.
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about that.”
“No, I said that you were not to bring it up. I can,” Callie stated, trying to keep her grin from spreading.
“Oh, I get it now. Sometimes I’m a little dense on the nuances of things.” They grew quiet for a few minutes before Dillon asked quietly, “Will you reconsider?”
Callie wanted to. It had been eons since she had been out to dinner, and something told her a meal with Dillon wouldn’t be at the local Italian restaurant. She wanted to learn more about her. What she did, what she liked, what she thought about world peace—everything and nothing. Callie wanted a normal existence. She missed her life, the one she had before the two men broke into her house and ruined it and that of her brother. It was only one dinner. What harm could it do?
Plenty. It would make her realize just how unhappy she was, that’s what it would do. If she let herself experience a sense of normalcy, even for just one evening, she would crave it even more. No, abstinence was the only way she could cope. Maybe after Michael was free she would be able to get on with her life. She shook her head.
“I’m sorry, Dillon. I don’t think it’s a good idea.” She was devoid of emotion.
Chapter Four
“I don’t care what they want. I own the building. My vote is bigger.” Dillon shifted her attention from Greg to the next folder in the stack on her desk. They were reviewing the lease applications for a property she had purchased several years ago and recently remodeled.
“Dillon, Carlson Bakery has been in this location for three generations.”
“All
the more reason for them to want to stay.” Dillon closed the folder that contained the neatly printed application from the family bakery.
“Dillon—” Greg said.
“If they don’t want to abide by the signage requirement, the answer is no. I don’t care how long they’ve been there, what they sell, or how many children they’re supporting. I don’t care. I do care about the property, what it looks like, and my reputation. Other than that I do not care,” Dillon snapped at Greg.
This wasn’t the first meeting where she had flexed her muscle with a tenant. Her properties had a certain look, and she was determined to keep her designs pure.
“What about Dennis Shore?”
“What about him?” Dillon recognized the name of the man from whom she had bought a different piece of property earlier that month.
“He’s not happy with the purchase price.”
“So what? He signed the papers and cashed my check. If he had a problem with the sale, he shouldn’t have signed.”
Shore, a gentleman in his late eighties, was the original owner of a house located on a prominent corner downtown. His wife had died suddenly, and the day he put the house up for sale Dillon happened to be driving by on her way to work. She immediately stopped and made him an offer. She had lowballed him just to see his reaction and then forced herself to contain her surprise when he accepted immediately. The price was far less than the property was worth, and she realized that he might not be aware of what he had done, but when the required seven-day cooling-off period had passed, she moved ahead.
“His grandson is making noise.”
“Too bad. If he thought ol’ Grandpap had diminished capacity, he should have said something in the beginning, not three weeks after the ink has dried.” Dillon held up her hand to prevent Greg from speaking. “End of discussion, Greg. What’s next?”
Dillon’s phone rang and Greg answering it, saying a few words before he handed the receiver to Dillon. “It’s Bill Franklin,” he said, setting a cup of black coffee on Dillon’s desk and dropping back into the chair across from her. “He wants to talk to you specifically to confirm dinner.”
Dillon looked up from the single sheet of paper she had been reading all morning. However, she couldn’t remember a word she’d seen, which contributed to her short temper. It had been a over week since she and Callie had shared a dance and a cup of coffee. It felt like forever.
Their cup of coffee had turned into three, and they had talked for another hour after Callie turned down her dinner invitation. They walked back to Callie’s car in silence, and Dillon had wanted to kiss her good night. Callie must have read her mind because she quickly unlocked the door and got inside.
Dillon had thought of Callie often since watching her pull out of the parking lot. She was disappointed when Callie wouldn’t eat with her. Actually, she was more than disappointed. She wanted to spend more time with Callie, but she had never begged a woman to be with her.
Seeing that Greg wasn’t about to leave, she punched a button on the phone. “Good morning, Mr. Franklin. It’s Dillon Matthews.”
“Ms. Matthews, it’s good to finally talk with you.” Bill Franklin’s voice boomed into the office through the speaker phone.
“Yes, it is, and please, call me Dillon.”
“And you must call me Bill. All this formality is nothing but a waste of time for a man my age.”
“Everything I’ve read and seen about you, Bill, indicates you’re the picture of health.” Dillon rolled her eyes at Greg, who was grinning at her.
“My wife is looking forward to Saturday night. She loves playing hostess. She’s invited a few other couples, a small dinner-party kind of thing, you know. I hope you don’t mind.”
Dillon grimaced. She absolutely hated these command performances. She thought she would be with Franklin one-on-one and would seal the deal that evening. She was wrong. “No, not at all. I’m looking forward to it as well.” She tossed a paperclip at Greg, who held his hand over his mouth stifling a laugh at her lie.
“Good, good, Phyllis will be so pleased. Your assistant did tell you to bring someone?”
Dillon detected a slight emphasis on the word “someone.” “Yes, he did. He said dinner is at seven?” Dillon wanted to divert the topic away from her yet-to-be-decided date.
“Actually dinner is at seven thirty, but everyone will be arriving around seven for drinks. Feel free to come any time.” Franklin hesitated and Dillon didn’t fill the space. “Um, Dillon, I hate to ask, but Phyllis insisted I find out the name of the person you’ll be bringing. Place cards or something like that,” he said vaguely.
Dillon felt Greg’s eyes on her, probably on full alert for her answer. She hadn’t yet determined who she would ask and didn’t know why she hadn’t called any one of a number of women, so she thought quickly of a response. “Callie.” Yes, Callie would be perfect. She was desperate for some attention, and Dillon was confident she could persuade her to go with her. She would be ideal, even though she didn’t look a thing like June Cleaver.
“Wonderful.” Dillon could almost see the smile in Franklin’s voice. “We’ll expect to see you and Callie next week, then.”
Dillon didn’t pay any attention to Bill’s sign-off because she was already thinking two steps ahead. “Greg, get me the address of a flower shop in town called Cramer or King or something like that.”
“But you always use Royal Florist,” he countered, getting up.
“I don’t need to order flowers. My date works there.”
*
“Callie, honey, what is wrong with you lately, girl? You can’t seem to think straight. No pun intended, hon.”
The voice of Callie’s boss came from over her right shoulder, and she knew he had caught her daydreaming again. It had been a long week and an even longer weekend, and she had to shake this constant thinking about Dillon. Everywhere she went she looked for dark curly hair. Every time the bell above the door of the flower shop chimed, she glanced up in anticipation of Dillon walking through the door. She fell into bed exhausted and even then couldn’t stop seeing the soft gray eyes.
“Sorry, Ross, just a little distracted, that’s all.” She busied herself with the arrangement she was putting together. It was a simple corsage and she could do it in her sleep. But between her jobs and traveling three hours each way every week to see Michael, sleep wasn’t high on her list of priorities.
“What’s up, Callie? I know you’re worried about Michael, but he’s a smart guy. He knows what he has to do to be safe in there. He’ll be okay. You need to take care of yourself for a change.”
Callie carefully set a rose on the counter and hugged Ross. “I know, I know,” she said, sighing. “I’m trying. I did go out last weekend.” She didn’t tell him that it was only to meet Audrey, and other than talking to Dillon she had had a terrible time. She didn’t want Ross to know that Dillon had sidetracked her attention. More than once she had kicked herself for turning down Dillon’s dinner invitation, but she knew it was the right thing to do. She couldn’t handle getting involved with someone right now.
“Do tell,” Ross demanded excitedly.
“It was no big deal. I went to the Incognito, had a few beers, danced a little, and went home. Alone,” she added at Ross’s expectant look.
“That’s it?”
“That’s about it.” Callie knew Ross wanted her to have met someone and been swept off her feet. He was an old queen and wanted everyone to be as happy as he and John were.
“Callie, honey, when was the last time you got laid?”
She couldn’t help but laugh. Ross was one of those people who thought sex was the cure for anything from depression to sore feet, and everything in between.
“You probably know that better than I, Ross.”
“Hmm, I think it was sometime in 2006—the spring, I think.”
Callie loved Ross’s sense of humor, and she could always count on him to chase away the blues. She was still laughing when t
he front door opened.
She glanced up and her laugh stuck in her throat. Dillon stood on the threshold staring right at her with an expression she remembered from the dance floor. Actually, she remembered it every night when she closed her eyes. She grabbed the counter for support as Dillon moved closer.
“Hi,” Callie said tentatively.
“Hi.” Dillon found her voice from somewhere. The other night, Callie hadn’t laughed like she had when Dillon entered the flower shop. The sound was full and deep and tickled the inside of her stomach. She pushed it aside, intent on her plan. “I hope you don’t mind that I stopped by,” she asked, glancing around the shop.
The man standing next to Callie nudged her. “No, no, it’s fine,” she stammered. “How did you find me?”
“Google,” she replied. She looked back and forth from the obviously gay man to Callie. “Will you be taking a break soon? I’d like to talk to you. I can wait in the car until—”
The man, who Dillon assumed was the owner, interrupted her. “She was about to when you walked in. Callie, go ahead. I’ll hold down the fort.” He gently pushed Callie in Dillon’s direction.
Dillon stepped aside and held the door as they walked out. “Would you like to get something to drink?” She gestured to the snack shop two doors down.
The flower shop was located in a strip mall surrounded by an Italian deli on the left and an insurance office on the right. Earlier, when Greg gave her the shop’s address, she recognized it as one of her properties. Several years before now, the strip mall had been dilapidated, and after buying out the leases of the current occupants, she had extensively remodeled it inside and out. Some of the original occupants wanted to return but Dillon declined, desiring a more elite clientele in the property.
“Sure.”
They settled in two chairs on the snack shop’s patio, each sipping a cold drink.
When Dillon had walked into the shop, at first Callie thought she was dreaming. But she was recovering now, and her mind was beginning to function.
