Locking eyes briefly, I manage to squeak out a reply, “No biggie, Mamma, I get it,” before I run quickly up the stairs to my pastel refuge.
I guess some things never change. I just wish I’d brought some cookies up with me.
I lie staring at the palm tree motif stenciled onto my walls for a long while, without actively thinking about anything in particular, and eventually fall into a fitful sleep.
100
Holy crap! It’s already four o’clock! I somehow managed to sleep the entire day away. Springing out of bed, I jump in the shower to get ready for the party, which starts promptly at five. The scalding water feels great on my back as I scrub my skin vigorously with a loofah. I read in Cosmo or somewhere that it helps breaks down fat cells. I should carry one of these things everywhere.
Crap! I suddenly realize in my hurry to leave Boston I forgot to borrow a dress from Evvy, and that I have absolutely nothing to wear. Rummaging through my old closet, I find an assortment of old prom dresses and one I remember finding at a thrift store that’s reminiscent of the Victorian Era, with a high lace collar and long, lace sleeves. It was way too big back in the day, so hopefully it will fit now. Fingers crossed.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I don a pair of cream satin slippers I wore to the homecoming dance my junior year and I’m reminded of Andy Fahill picking me up in his Dad’s red Fiero—which in my adolescent world was the coolest car ever made bar none—and promptly crashing into the side of a Buick before even getting to the dance.
I actually don’t look half bad. A bit prudish and old fashioned, but okay. I’m sure Mamma will have a string of pearls to accessorize. Bounding down the stairs, a bit too fast in my heels, I almost run smack into Mamma at the foot of the stairs. She looks alarmed, not so much by the near accident, but by my ensemble. “Liza, what on earth are you wearing?! It looks like a costume!”
Blam! Wow, that smarts.
“Well, Mamma it was all I could fit into from my closet. Can I borrow some pearls?”
She gives me another disappointed once over then heads to her bedroom. As I give myself a second look in the hall mirror a dark wave of insecurity drifts over me like a rain cloud.
She returns dangling a white string of saltwater pearls. “Now careful, ’cause the clasp comes loose sometimes.”
I nod and pull my braid aside as she fastens them around my neck. We exchange glances in the mirror, and I can almost see a hint of remorse on her face.“Well, now, that’s better; kinda brings it all together, see?”
John is early as usual, which actually helps my cause since things have gone back to strained between Mamma and me. Funny, I thought we’d somehow turned a corner that weekend, but I guess old habits die-hard. Mr. Gainey looks dapper in a grey cashmere sport coat and black slacks. He has a small gold pin adorning his lapel and gives me a coquettish grin that seems so out of place on this large, imposing man. He pins a white lily corsage onto the front of my dress, which completes my look quite perfectly, I think.
“Liza, you look absolutely breathtaking.”
I snort and mumble something unintelligible as he whisks me off to what I’m told is the party of the year. Cinderella’s got nothin on me.
101
When a valet parks your car at a house party, you know its gonna be a class act. Every car lining the secluded street just reeks of money, and the people walking into the house are positively dripping with it. I suddenly feel very underdressed as women arrive with mink stoles and layers upon layers of chiffon. As I clear my throat nervously, the illustrious Mr. Gainey seems to have read my mind.
“Liza, that dress is just beguiling. You look like royalty.”
I can feel the blood rise to my cheeks, and just like magic, the entire day of Mamma’s comments is washed away.
“Well, Elizabeth Beauchamp, is that really you?” A high-pitched voice screeches from behind me.
I turn to find Ginger Carmichael, John’s old high school girlfriend/head cheerleader, flashing her ruthlessly pearly whites in my direction. She looks exactly the same as she did back in high school. Her shoulder length flaxen hair, still perfectly coiffed, and her sun-kissed skin glowing as ever.
“It’s actually Liza Radley now,” I reply unenthusiastically.
She gives me a conspiratorial wink. “Not for long, from what I hear. I’m so sorry about your marriage,” she adds with a perky smile and turns her attention towards John. “Hi, John.”
“Hello, Ginger,” he replies stiffly, and puts his hand firmly on my elbow, guiding me towards the massive tent in the backyard. There are grand people clustered about and the scene is reminiscent of the The Great Gatsby with the croquet-sized manicured lawn and servants milling about with trays of champagne flutes. I guess that would make John, Robert Redford, and it would make me…I don’t know…the gardener maybe?
The hours roll by and in between the bubbly, finger food, and John’s attentive introductions, I’m actually managing to have a good time. That is until I spot the E’s standing off by the gazebo, an imaginary line separating them from the rest of the crowd. They were the cool clique in high school, and they called themselves the “E’s” (short for The Elite). Their Dads were all CEOs of huge companies, and their moms were debutantes. Each had a cotillion that would put Cinderella’s ball to shame. The “E”s were easily the prettiest, most well-groomed girls in school, and they snubbed anything resembling a school activity. No joining of anything, not cheerleading, not band nor drama club, just their intimate group of four strutting the halls in a row as if in slow motion. Passing them in the hallway always made me feel instantly ugly and less cool, and today is no exception. As they glide towards me, I absentmindedly clutch John’s hand and he squeezes back reassuringly. Glenda—the not so good witch—was the leader of the pack; she approaches with a sly smile.
“Elizabeth, right?”
I nod, practically hiding behind John.
“Yeah, I remember you from Home Ec. You made that silly pillow?” She says with an upward turn of her piercing green eyes.
“It was Hello Kitty,” I squeak, angry with myself for being bullied all over again by this pack of prima donnas. Knowing I should do or say something to stick up for myself I just stand mutely, playing with the ribbon at the end of my braid.
“Right, whatever, so we heard you’re living in Boston now? That must be exciting. I’ve barely been out of Savannah except for vacations, you know.”
The other girls agree, wordlessly nodding, and it feels like we’re in high school all over again, only they never actually talked to me back then, just snubbed me ruthlessly.
Glenda brushes an elegant hand over the poof of her skirt and exclaims matter-of-factly, “We heard your husband cheated on you with some teenager or something?”
Gulp.
“Not quite…” I search for something to say but words elude me so I just stand there wishing a hole would open in the soft dirt beneath my feet and swallow me whole. Then once again, like magic, John comes to the rescue.
“Actually, ladies, we must be moving on. Liza has yet to meet my parents and so many other guests are just dying to meet her. Have a good evening.”
He guides me through the crowd by the elbow and I mouth, “Thank you,” as he turns to make sure the guests aren’t trampling me. We make our way to a large pond on the eastern side of the property and the crowd begins to thin until we are suddenly quite alone. There is a group of curved stone benches nearby, carved with dangling grapes. John brushes one off, sits, and pats the spot next to him as an invitation. I managed to snag a couple of big, gooey, chocolate thingies off a tray on our way, and I offer him one. He declines so I happily partake in his share.
Breaking the silence, mouth full, I exclaim, “Thanks for that. I’m not usually a shrinking violet but something about those girls always makes me feel like I ride the short bus.”
He shrugs. “I know what you mean, they still make me feel odd and out of place too,” he says, giving my
chocolate-smudged hand a squeeze.
“Any news on your stalker? That really worries me, you living there all alone.”
“No, still haven’t figured out who he is, but luckily no B&E again.”
“B&E?”
“Yeah, breaking and entering. Jack’s been teaching me private eye speak.”
John’s jaw tenses up. “Right. Jack. The shop owner… So any suspects at all then?”
“Not really…except this did all start after I met Jack, so I suppose he might be prime numero uno… suspect-o,” I exclaim with a snort.
John shoots me a look, which lets me know he doesn’t think I should be discounting the theory too quickly.
“I don’t want to talk about stalkers, or spy shop owners, or anything else geographically linked to Boston tonight, Mr. Gainey,” I say with a defiant grin.
Kicking my shoes onto the grass, I release his hand and tiptoe into the pond. He follows without even rolling up the cuffs of his pants. The water is icy and slimy feeling and there’s something squishy under my left foot. It feels like a giant toad. We both laugh as he playfully splashes me a tiny bit, then I splash back much more vigorously at the expense of his wool pants.
“Liza, if I told you that the days I’ve spent with you have been the best days of my life, would you believe me?”
I let out a snort. “No.”
“Well, they have been. I know I’m supposed to be a confirmed bachelor, but damn it, Liza, something about you makes me feel so alive.”
I look into John’s kind eyes, contemplating what being his wife would be like. I’d never have to worry about a single thing, not money certainly, but also the important stuff like fidelity too. You can just tell that this guy doesn’t have a wicked bone in his body. He’s just not capable of bad things. But that still doesn’t make me feel like I want to jump into a relationship with him, or anyone else for that matter. As tempting as it is, I refuse to fall back into the safety net of having some guy take care of me again.
“I like you, too, John, but...”
“I more than like you, Liza…I think I may...” Just then my phone plays “Nasty Boys” a la Janet Jackson, the song that Josie programmed in as the text message alert. I take the opportunity to pull away from the “moment” John is trying to fabricate. Less than gracefully stumbling across the lawn barefoot, I pull my phone from the pearl-colored satin clutch I found tucked away in Mamma’s accessory drawer. It’s Jack, and the message says cryptically, “Calligraphy Boy strikes again. I need my partner.” Looking back at John, who’s now made his way out of the pond, I sense his apprehension.
“Everything alright?”
I shake my head vigorously. “No, it’s not. Jack needs me.”
I realize how this must sound, and from his expression John has taken it as a blow.
He stammers, “I don’t understand, Liza…you’ve only known the man less than a month… He could be the stalker. He could be dangerous. You have no idea…”
I give him a shrug. “Maybe, but I can’t help it, John. He needs me and I’ve got to go. Besides, my life is there, not in Savannah…and though you’re a really nice guy…”
He puts up a hand and stops me mid-sentence.“Please, no need to go on, I understand perfectly. My driver will take you to the airport or wherever you need to go.”
“But, John...”
He turns and walks away shaking his head then stops briefly as he quietly speaks without turning back, “If you ever change your mind…” and continues to walk away.
My heart breaks for him, but my head is on how I can get back to Boston as quickly as possible. If I hop a plane in the next couple of hours, I’ll be back before midnight.
I only hope its not too late…
102
My stomach has taken up acrobatics. I called Jack ten times but it went straight to voicemail. Seems like he has a strong effect on me even from another state. Changing flights went smoother than expected again, though I did have to trade in my first class ticket for coach to pay the difference in last minute fare. I sure could’ve used that free mimosa.
As I take my seat between a smelly, wrestler-looking guy and a smiling Asian tourist taking pictures of everything and everyone, I wonder whether I’ve made a big mistake. I futilely attempt a crossword someone left half done in the seat pocket then I order a vodka tonic to calm my nerves. I try unsuccessfully to keep my mind from drifting to whether Calligraphy Boy has somehow harmed or maimed Parella. The thought of him hurt cuts through my heart like a hot dagger and a not so small voice in my head keeps asking, “Why do you care so much, Liza?” And another medium-sized voice says, “What if Jack is Calligraphy Boy and he’s a dangerous maniac?” But I shrug that thought off. I mean, even if he is, I guess I’ll find out soon enough. I have no choice; I have to risk it…
103
The street looks shuttered and dark. All the businesses have closed for the night. There is a spooky silence as I let myself into Eye Spy, turn off the alarm, and call out. No Jack. I take the rear stairs, which look dim and sinister. I breathe slowly to keep myself from panic. As I climb to the second level, I end up face-to-face with a perfectly healthy looking Jack, holding an overfilled trash bag.
Giving him a swift sock in the arm I yell, “You jerk, you had me worried to death!” I storm past him into the loft apartment. “Why the heck haven’t you been answering your cell phone??”
Jack gives himself a little “I shoulda had a V-8” smack to the head. “Oh, man, I went to the movies and forgot to turn it back on.”
I give him a death stare as I stand, hands on hips.
“I’m sorry, Liza. It was stupid to leave it off. I just didn’t know what else to do, so I went to see a 'shoot ’em up' flick. I just needed to get my mind off of what happened.”
He heads to the trash shoot and drops the bag.
“What did happen, Jack?”
He gives me a frown reminiscent of a little boy who’s just dropped his ice cream cone. “He blew up my bike.”
“Oh, no!” If there’s one thing I know about Jack, it’s how much that motorcycle meant to him. It belonged to his father who painstakingly rebuilt it piece by piece with extra money he earned mowing lawns.
He gives me a small shrug. “It exploded inside the garage.”
“I’m so sorry, Jack.”
“Thanks…and Liza, I’m sorry about the other night…I don’t know why I lost my marbles. I never had a dame as a friend before, so this is all new to me.”
I can’t help but smile at this annoyingly adorable man standing in front of me. “Let’s never speak of it again,” I say, extending my pinky toward him. He cocks a brow.
“What’s this?”
“Pinky swear. It’s the most binding contract there is.”
He chuckles. “Pinky swear it is then,” he says as he interlocks mine with his. “Though it does make me feel a bit gay.”
“Oh, and how about the texting mister? I thought you said it was for teenagers, nerds, and losers.”
“I did.”
“So which one are you?”
“It’s good to have you back, you smart ass broad. Now let’s go catch ourselves a fancy writing arsonist.”
“But first, let’s grab some food, your treat,” I say with a challenging smile.
104
We head back to the Bell in the Hand Tavern. The late night crowd is in full swing. Luckily we get a different waitress this time. The new one still manages an ill-fated attempt at flirting, which gives me an almost irresistible urge to trip her.
“Let me tell you about our specials tonight,” she says gazing longingly at Parella, completely unaware of my existence. He’s distractedly watching the news and barely grunts a reply in her general direction as she rattles off some average pub fare masquerading as specials.
I cut her off midstream. “Can you give us a minute?”
She prances away defeated as I turn my attention towards the bar television to see what has Jack so rivete
d.
The anchor reports: “A few members were inside and appear to be unhurt. It seems the fire started in the records room, where earlier this week some files were taken during a minor theft. And now to Tawny on the scene.”
An image of the large, stone, Brother’s Lucerne clubhouse flashes onto the screen, as the blonde helmet-haired reporter holds a microphone and discusses the details with a firefighter. The captain has the air of someone nervous and excited to be on TV as he relishes his moment in the spotlight. “Looks to us like there may be an arsonist on the loose,” the stocky, mustached man says in a grave tone, then smiles stiffly into the camera, revealing a gap-toothed grin that would make even Madonna cringe.
“Looks like our boy’s been busy, first my bike, now the club. He’s kinda foiled my plans. I wanted to have another crack at that records room tonight.”
I get a chill up my spine. Who in the world would do this and why? Or was I sitting right next to him? I mean, he could’ve set the fire before my plane got in, right? But would he blow up his own bike? Darn it John Gainey for putting this ugly idea into my mind. I shake the thoughts from my cloudy, tired brain and decide that maybe a goodnight’s sleep will help me think clearer.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to hit the sack right after dinner. I’m a little jet lagged.”
“How long was the flight?”
“Four hours.”
Jack rolls his eyes.
“Okay, Princess. I’m gonna stake out the club and see if C. boy returns to the scene of the crime, but you’re sleepin’ at my place tonight. I don’t wanna risk it with this lunatic on the loose.”
A shudder ripples through me, but I try my best to ignore it. I mean come on, this is Jack, he wouldn’t hurt me…I know this guy…don’t I?
105
Somewhere through a deep slumber I hear a sound... A sound that doesn’t seem right. A sound that makes my subconscious bolt me awake. I spring up, vaguely disoriented. As I make out the shapes in my immediate vicinity, I vaguely recall that I’m in Jack’s storage room, and that the lumpy, uncomfortable thing beneath me is his version of a fold out couch. Through the grogginess, I try to place the noise that startled me awake and that’s when I hear it, a click, and the sound of the front door creaking open. The silent alarm goes off and I see the red lights flashing from the open doorway. I grope in the darkness, feeling around for something I can use as a weapon.
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