by Isabel Jolie
Life is a journey. And it’s a one day at a time kind of thing. In the words of my favorite large turtle, you’ve just gotta go with flow. And live. Carpe diem and all that jazz.
Chapter 11
Mason
I wander down Clarkson Street, searching for the door to enter. Bare maple trees line the street growing out of allotted symmetrical square gaps in the concrete. The warm red brick apartment building spans the entire block and features arched windows that blend in with the Tribeca neighborhood and are reminiscent of the nicer parts of my neighborhood in Brooklyn. I kissed Delilah goodbye early this morning as she snuck out before the sun rose, barely twelve hours ago. Yet my body hums with anticipation, my cock half hard, joyful at this change of pace after so many years of hibernation. But my need for this blonde free spirit runs deeper than a hormonal need. She’s beyond amazing. She brightens a room. Her laugh and her glow and how her hands seem to move every time she speaks, as if there’s an invisible wire between the two and every time her mouth opens her fingers must react. She’s live art in action.
Her fondness for my daughter, well, I imagine anyone would feel a warmth and gratitude for anyone who treated his child well. But it’s more than that. She’s filling a void I hadn’t recognized in my life, and now that she’s filled the void, I find myself wanting to see her every single day. Thinking about her all the time. Checking my phone for texts. Smiling as I type to her.
I locate the heavy glass door and pull back on the antique brass pull. White marble graces the lobby floor, and pristine white sofas and a rectangular white pine table with white chairs fill the expansive room. The only color comes from the green base of a sizeable white orchid plant centered on the expansive piece of furniture.
It’s a beautiful lobby, but I’ve lived in New York long enough to know a beautiful lobby doesn’t mean spacious, gorgeous apartments. A doorman standing behind a coordinated white pine desk greets me with a professional, “Good evening, sir.”
I ask for Delilah Daniels, and after giving me a polite nod, he picks up a phone on the desk. He speaks then listens. After setting the phone down, he points to the sofa area and says, “Please have a seat, sir. She’ll be down momentarily.”
I head over to the sofa section but hesitate before sitting on the pristine white sofa. I did shower before coming over after work, but years of dirty, stained scrubs has trained me to be conscientious before sitting.
I flip through email while the doorman fixes me with a judgmental stare. Since I’ve been relegated to the waiting sofa, he’s probably thinking this is our first date. I open an email from a pharmaceutical rep in an attempt to avoid thinking about why she didn’t ask me to come up. Of course, if she did let me up, we might not leave. I stop reading email and stare at the elevators, but what I see is a play by play of last night. Her heavy, full breasts. Driving into her on the floor. I remember the way she looked with her hand down those white silk panties. I shift in my seat, grateful for the heavy denim.
I hear the click of heels on the marble floor before I see her. She rounds the corner, passing by the elevators. Her long blonde hair cascades around her, flowing over her shoulders. She’s wearing a black, off-the-shoulder sweater over faded jeans and brown suede heeled boots that expose the tips of her red painted toes. Looped over one arm rests a camel coat and a black handbag.
I know the minute she sees me because she smiles so big a flash of white catches my eye, and her hair bounces higher as her pace picks up. Those bright blue eyes sparkle, and she charges right into me. I catch her and hold her close, breathing in her flowery camelia scent. I never wanted to leave Minnesota, and as I hold Delilah, I’m hit with the idea that I’ll never want to leave her. I didn’t have a choice back then.
My lips brush hers, and as her body presses against mine, I fight the urge to ask her to show me her apartment. This is a date. Our first date outside of my home. This could be the start of something really good.
I twine my fingers with hers and lead her out the building and around the corner to 7th Avenue. The restaurant I picked is about a twenty-minute walk away, but those open-toed high heel boots have zero grime around the edges. They are either brand new or they aren’t comfortable walking shoes.
There are many things that come with being a momma’s boy. My dad used to scold Mom, telling her she was spoiling me, making me too sensitive and too soft. He may have been right. My love for my mother has no bounds, and I do believe I owe her everything. Anyone raised for years by a single mom working two jobs would likely share the same level of love and devotion. She taught me so many things, among them respect and concern for women. And she taught me some women’s shoes are inexplicably created with form over function in mind.
“Are you going to be okay in those shoes?” I specifically picked a restaurant we could walk to, but those boots have to have a five-inch toothpick heel.
She angles her head up to me and smiles. The lamp light shimmers on her lip gloss as she pulls her coat tighter around her. The winter air whips blonde strands behind her, and a few strands fly around and stick to those wet full lips. “Where are we going?”
“Marc Forgione. My mom suggested it.”
Her hold tightens on my forearm, and she bounces slightly on her toes. “Oh, I love that place! He’s one of my favorite chefs. No, let’s definitely grab a cab.” She steps past me, arm in the air, and a cab stops within seconds. She opens the passenger door and smiles at me as she waits for me to join her. Cab it is.
The cab delivers us moments later to 134 Read Street. I told Mom I wanted a romantic restaurant but nothing stuffy. I don’t particularly care for formal, stiff settings, but putting my preference aside, Delilah’s energy and joy shouldn’t be restrained in a place requiring hushed voices and still hands amongst a symphony of forks, spoons, and knives.
She bounds out of the cab as I pay. I follow the bouncing blonde into the restaurant. We take our place in the short line behind the hostess stand. The brick walls and warm, golden lights offer an upscale tavern atmosphere. The chef here has a stellar reputation, and the restaurant has great reviews, so I’m expecting the food to be phenomenal.
We’re seated in a back corner. A waitress stands at our table within seconds of us sitting. She reaches out to shake my hand, and I sit back, stunned by our unexpected VIP reception.
She laughs and says, “You’re Mason, right? I’m Leigh. I absolutely love your mom. Cindy’s so great.”
I relax as I put all the pieces together. Of course. Mom’s my source for our reservation, and she’s the reason we have the best table in the restaurant. “It’s nice to meet you. My mom has had great things to say about you.” In reality, I don’t think Mom has ever mentioned her, but I do appreciate the last-minute reservation.
Within minutes, Delilah owns the conversation, and I learn all about Leigh. She’s a cellist and waits tables at night, but also plays for weddings and gives cello lessons during the day. Delilah and Leigh exchange phone numbers because it turns out they like some of the same bands, and they agree to meet up at a show a couple of weeks from now.
Leigh speeds away after I request a bottle of the recommended white. I expect she didn’t budget twenty minutes of talk time for our table, and she has yet to get our food order. I waited tables all through undergrad and through vet school, so I’m in tune with what she’s up against. She’s friendly, but this is a high-end restaurant, and while she’s expected to spend time at each table, she’s also expected to meet all of her tables’ needs, and with a quick scan, I’d bet she has at least four tables in her section.
Delilah beams at me, and our waitress’s challenges fall from my mind. Her golden skin glows against the candlelight. I reach across the table to hold her creamy, smooth hands. She’s beautiful, stunning. Large diamond studs sparkle in her ears, and I notice she has chunky silver bracelets, several dotted with diamonds, as is her Cartier watch. The mix of diamonds speaks to the wealth Ashley bashed when she first came into the clinic.
She’s completely out of my league. There’s a sophistication to her that can’t be ignored when she’s dressed in something other than ripped jeans and t-shirts. Even her dainty rose gold nose ring bears an air of sophistication tonight. She’s probably aiming for a lifestyle far beyond anything I’ll be able to afford as a single dad struggling to buy his way into a veterinary practice and pay off student loans. I swallow hard as reality punches my gut. I’ve introduced her to my daughter.
The sommelier arrives with our wine and interrupts my downward spiral. After he leaves, Delilah and I raise our glasses. I search for the words for our toast, and Delilah speaks.
“To new beginnings,” she supplies, her candy pink lip gloss glimmering in the candlelight.
My phone vibrates in my coat pocket, and I take it out. This is Amber’s first time having Kara on her own, without me, so it won’t be surprising if she has to reach out with a few questions. It is Amber. I swipe to answer, but I’m too late. I wait a moment and watch the phone to see if a voicemail comes through. Or a text.
I offer Delilah an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Amber has Kara. She called. Do you mind if I step out to call her back?”
“Not at all! Do you want me to order for you?”
I tell her I’ll have the cioppino, and she asks what I want to start. The prices in this restaurant are unreal, and I don’t want anything else, but I tell her I’ll take the stracciatella and charge out the door to see what Amber needs.
The temperature has been steadily dropping since sunset, and I don’t have my outer coat since we checked them. I shiver on the sidewalk as I wait for Amber to pick up the phone. She doesn’t pick up. She didn’t leave me a message when I missed her call, so I text her.
Me: Everything okay?
I wait a few minutes. No response. Call again. Voicemail. My mom is out of town, back at the beach with her friends, or rather, with the guy I suspect is her new boyfriend. If she was in town, I’d have her stop by Amber’s to check in.
My gut tells me something isn’t right. I stare through the window into the restaurant. I can barely differentiate Delilah’s blonde hair from the sea of heads. Leigh is back at our table, presumably taking our order, or maybe sharing her childhood history.
I call Amber one more time and get voicemail. I grip my phone and return to our table.
Delilah twirls a strand of hair around her finger, watching me as I approach. I exhale with a huff and sit.
“Everything okay?”
I nod. Her wide eyes stare at me, expectant, so I augment my response. “Yeah. I couldn’t reach her.” I place my napkin in my lap as I consider how much to share. She doesn’t have kids. I can’t expect her to understand. And if I tell her about Amber, she’ll think she’s listening to a jealous ex. In reality, I couldn’t care less what Amber does and who she does it with. For our daughter’s sake, I wish she wanted to be an involved parent. I’ve been reaching out for years, in the hope that one day she’d decide she was ready to be a mother. When she called and suggested we get together the next time she was in town, I jumped at the chance. For Kara.
I place my phone on the table, screen side up so I can see if any texts come through.
Delilah studies me. “Are you worried?”
Hell, yes, I’m worried. Why isn’t Amber picking up her phone? She lives in a studio. There’s no way she can’t get to the phone in four hundred square feet of space.
Damnit. I’m derailing this date. I don’t like this, but short of leaving the restaurant and heading to Amber’s, I can’t do anything. I have a choice. Trust the mother of my child with our daughter, and force myself to relax and enjoy this date, or pack it up and head back to Brooklyn, knowing chances are I’m going to interrupt mommy-daughter bonding time? Bonding time I pushed for so my daughter won’t go through life yearning for a missing parent.
Delilah’s hand slides over mine, and the tension in my shoulders eases. I close my eyes, inhale deeply, and decide. “Sorry. What did you order?”
She grins, and in her natural, animated way, tells me all about how she was torn between the swordfish or the short ribs, fingers fluttering around her as she talks, exuding energy and youthfulness. I rest against the back of my chair as she shares more about her thought process on food selection, and she’s updating me on Leigh’s, our waitress’s, upcoming weekend plans when a long text appears on my phone.
Amber: Hey, you won’t believe this, but I got called in to sub as backup singer for Craven Five! Shelley’s sick. Holy shit!!! I took Kara back to your place and set her up with a Disney movie. She’s all set with popcorn. She promised me she’s gonna go to bed once the movie is over. Such a sweetie. Enjoy your date. Wish me luck!
A vision of Kara sitting in my apartment alone haunts me. She has never been alone in her life. I jump up and send my chair flying backward, crashing back onto the floor. Delilah, along with everyone else in the restaurant, stares at me.
“I’ve got to go.” Standing, I frantically search the restaurant for our waitress so I can pay and leave.
Delilah reaches across the table, concern etched into the corners of her eyes. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
I scan the restaurant for our waitress. “Kara’s at home. Alone. Amber left her.” Delilah gasps. My heart races, and I clench my fists. When I glance down, I see Delilah holding my phone and reading.
She thrusts the phone to me and says, “Go. Go. I’ll get our food and meet you at your apartment. Go.” She pushes my phone into my hand, and relief floods my center.
I take out a credit card and place it in her hand before rushing out, yelling “Thank you,” as I run toward the door.
I leap into a cab. I don’t have a landline phone and have no way of reaching Kara. The sense of helplessness overwhelms me. I lean forward on the seat and tell the cab driver it’s an emergency, and I need to get home as quickly as possible.
The driver jabs the steering wheel and mutters something, then throws his arms up and says, “Traffic.”
Friday night traffic in the city is hell. The cab stops and starts. Red taillights flash up the streets. The thick slow stream of bridge traffic has me wondering if the subway might have been faster. I tap on the CityMap app to double-check my choice, and it confirms cab is the fastest way home by five minutes.
Uncontrolled panic floods my system. I run through my options. I could call the police. They would go to the apartment. But what if they called social services? What if social services decided Kara wasn’t safe? Chances are all fault would lie with Amber, but who knows what she would say if the police questioned her? And who knows if they wouldn’t find some fault with me, her primary caregiver? Or if they might take her away from me while they carried out an investigation.
I’m not a religious man, but I do send out prayers to the universe. Please let her be okay. Please let her not be scared. Please let her be happy and watching a happy princess movie.
The cab stops, and I throw cash up front and leap out of the cab, sprinting into my building and running straight to the stairs. I don’t stop running, taking the stairs three at a time until I’m throwing open the stairwell door and running down the hall to our door. My fingers quiver, forcing me to use both hands to guide the key into the lock. When I finally get it in the keyhole, I twist the knob and throw open the door. The TV plays, the blue light the only light in the room. “Kara?”
Her little head rises from the sofa. I pick her up and squeeze her, and she sniffles. Then I hold her out and search for injury. Her cheeks are damp from tears.
“Daddy.” She points at the screen as tears fall faster. “He lost his daddy.” I watch the screen until I recognize the animation. Lion King. She hasn’t seen this one before. Damnit, Amber.
I reach forward, grab the remote, and flick the TV off. “Honey, are you okay?”
She sniffles and nods. Then she reaches forward and wraps her tiny arms around me and presses her wet face against my neck. My heart melts. I will never trust Amb
er with her again. Never.
Chapter 12
Delilah
As I approach, arms burdened with take-out bags, the wooden door at the end of the hall opens. Mason greets me with Kara on his hip, her sleepy head tucked against his chest. Kara smiles when she sees me, and she wiggles to get on the floor, but Mason holds her tight. He kicks the door to keep it open for me to enter.
I drop the brown paper bags on the bare kitchen table.
Kara squeals, “Deelah,” and holds an arm out to me. I step forward and wrap an arm around her and kiss her chubby, pink cheek. Mason’s arm loops behind me, and the three of us stand in the great room, holding on to each other. The slow burn in my back muscles subsides, and my eyes go all misty. The little bug is okay.
Mason had texted when I was in the cab, so I had read that she was okay, but seeing her means so much more than words on a phone. I mean, I figured she would be fine. In theory, she was safe, locked in her apartment. But she’s so little. Too little to be left alone. There are knives and sharp objects and scary thoughts if you let your mind wander. I breathe in deeply and sniffle to keep my swirling emotions in check. Kara doesn’t need to see me cry, even if the tears are of the happy sort.
Kara breaks the silence by slapping her hand against my cheek and saying, “You came!”
I break away from our threesome hold and empty the bags of food. “I did. And I brought food. Are you hungry?” I had the foresight to order a few desserts to go, as well as some buttered pasta and marinara sauce on the side in case Kara hadn’t eaten dinner yet.
I glance over my shoulder and meet Mason’s blank stare. He continues to hold Kara tight. She wiggles a bit to get down, but he shows no sign of letting her go. I head into the kitchen to grab plates and silverware and to give him a moment.
