Pink Neon

by Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

  “I’m gonna have me a boutique,” Cecily told Nia. “I want to sell pretty things to the ladies.”

  “What kind of stuff you talking?”

  “Jewelry, perfume, beautiful scarves, sunglasses, maybe even make-up,” Cecily answered. She dreamed of owning such things and the few she did, she treasured. “Inside, I’ll paint the place pink and decorate it cool.”

  “Where you going to have a place like that? Downtown?”

  “I don’t know but I will. Someday.”

  “Never happened, though,” Cecily said aloud. “But it will.”

  And so will the lover I dreamed about.

  Until the last six months or so, when her bitter marriage unraveled and she surfaced to breathe, really breathe, for the first time in years, Cecily had almost forgotten her old dreams. In addition to the boutique, she yearned for a lover, a tough man who wasn’t afraid to do whatever he found necessary. She needed a man who would listen to her heartbeat in the still of night but who would fuck her every which way but loose when she needed it. Cecily’s teen boyfriends were a sorry bunch but the few times she let Walker Thomas, her first steady date, get intimate, his fumbling hands disappointed her, left her needing more. Willard Bradford hadn’t done much better.

  Her hand slipped beneath the warm scented water and found her mound. Cecily fingered her clit, working until she felt the pea-sized nodule grow larger as sweet sensations rippled through her body. Then she reached deeper to find her g-spot. In a familiar rhythm born of long practice, she increased pressure then went gentle. Each variation increased the erotic sensations and she savored each one. Cecily raked her hand against her clit as she rubbed her g-spot for ultimate delight. By design she brought her body to the edge of orgasm, then drew back to prolong the intense need. To finish, she put her head back against the edge of the tub and thrust her body upward into her hand. She imagined a man’s hands stroking her body, dreamed of a stiff cock without conscience stabbing into her throbbing cunt, as she inhaled the masculine rich aroma of his musk. Sweet Jesus, waves of pleasure washed over her body with force, her body a beach and the orgasm the incoming tide. She gloried in it as she shuddered and after, she sank deeper into the now tepid water.

  Languid and sated, Cecily wondered how damn fine sex might be with the kind of man she fantasized about. If she accomplished nothing else in Branson, she vowed she’d find out – and soon.

  Chapter Two

  Four weeks later….

  On the day before her new shop opened, Cecily stood in the center of the store with both hands planted on her hips. Her faded jeans, discount and not designer, hugged her curves and the hot pink scoop necked tee she wore came from a discount rack, not Bloomingdale’s on the Magnificent Mile. Three days after her arrival in vacationland, Cecily spent an entire day looking at properties with a local realtor. As soon as the realtor figured out money wasn’t an issue, she narrowed down the choices to six. The moment Cecily saw the building, a small cinder block structure tucked in between an old-fashioned ice cream shop and a small theater, she wanted it. Although far from pretentious, the building boasted bright pink neon trim around the edges of the roof and Cecily liked it. She imagined the drab beige exterior painted a light blush shade and a new sign, also neon.

  “What was in here before?” she asked the realtor, a friendly but nervous woman named Constance.

  “I don’t remember for sure, an ice cream parlor maybe or it could’ve been a small taco place,” she said. “Things change so fast out here on the Strip and businesses come and go so often I can’t keep track unless they stay awhile. I think it might’ve been a smoke shop for a bit, too but I wouldn’t swear to it. I could research it, though, if it’s important.”

  “It’s not.” Cecily had her mind made up. The location offered potential and she liked it a hundred times more than the hole-in-the-wall strip mall vacancies or the faux log cabin the realtor offered. She’d driven around town enough to decide she’d rather not locate downtown where the narrow streets tended to be clogged and businesses had to compete with the glitzier Branson Landing nearby. Some of the properties on the short list were too far out of the popular areas. The building sat on the uphill side heading south, just past Dolly Parton’s Dixie Stampede. It should be a high traffic area and the pink neon wasn’t just a plus, it equaled the final selling point. “I’ll take it.”

  She signed the papers a few days later and took possession. In between those events, the same realtor found her a small two-bedroom house to rent near North Branson Park. The ranch style home on Woodridge Drive faced one side of the neighborhood park and sat under large trees. To her Chicago tuned mind, the rent appeared to be cheap. By the time Cecily drove to her new business for the first time, keys in hand, she’d moved into the house, minimally furnished it with functional items, and bought a wardrobe of inexpensive clothing. At discount retailers and a couple of used shops she picked up some dishes, a few pots and pans, and some glasses. She bought silverware for one at a dollar shop then picked out some basic kitchen utensils. At her boutique Cecily replaced the dark brown interior carpeting with light pink carpet boasting cream-colored roses, painted the inside walls a deep, rich vanilla and installed shelves. Cecily named the place ‘Pink Neon’ and to complement the existing lighting, she ordered a new sign with the name in script to put up above the door, gaudy and large.

  Over the next week Cecily filled the shelves with lovely things, silk scarves, purses, fragrances, some cosmetics, sunglasses, and a shelf of adorable knick-knacks. She added a section with gourmet foods, coffees, and teas. Along one wall, she put up a rack with feather boas, satin jackets, and some funky hats. Cecily added some coffee mugs she liked, ones shaped like full-bellied green and red peppers, others in the form of a formal top hat. She put out a few plates and cake stands, even added a tiny section of unusual music CD’s. A few books written by favorite authors took up space on a shelf along with some exotic fragrances, scented candles, potpourri and incense. Within the glass cases she placed near the front door and cash register, Cecily added costume jewelry, exquisite pieces with low price tags. Until her divorce, she’d worn nothing but genuine gems, expected as the wife of one of Chicagoland’s major jewelry dealers. Her ears displayed diamonds, expensive pearls circled her bronze throat, and her fingers erupted with precious stones of every flavor. Her walk-in closet at the Canal street house, one she’d shared with Willard Bradford the Fourth featured built in jewelry drawers and each area brimmed with expensive creations. Downstairs in his study, Will kept higher quality items within a safe, although no one else knew the combination to open it. Now she wore some of the same costume jewelry she sold with pleasure. She didn’t have to worry about insurance, loss, or theft with her current choices.

  As Cecily surveyed her new domain, a grin erupted across her face and she laughed aloud. Pink Neon managed to bring her long-standing dreams to life and she loved it. On impulse, she pulled out her phone to call Nia. “Hey, girl, everything’s ready to roll,” she said. “You ought to come down.”

  “Shit, I would if I didn’t have to work,” Nia said. “You know how it goes.”

  “I used to,” Cecily tittered. “And I’m about to find out all over again.”

  “You sound happy,” her cousin said.

  “I am.”

  “Then maybe I shouldn’t tell you.”

  Some of the sparkle faded from her bright mood. “Tell me what?”

  “Your ex is dead.”

  “Willard’s gone? What happened? Did he have a heart attack in the arms of one of his lovers or a stroke from snorting cocaine?” Cecily didn’t feel a bit of grief or remorse. His vices, the drugs and infidelity, were old news. His delight in dressing like a 1940’s pin up girl and picking up other transvestites at private clubs wasn’t, though, not to her and had been the final straw in her decision to leave.

  “Hell, no, sugar, someone whacked him.”

  “Say what?”

  “Somebody shot the son-of-a-b
itch dead on the front steps of that fancy house on Canal Street and broke in before or after to steal a bunch of the jewelry.”

  “When?”

  “Week or so ago, I think. I almost called but I didn’t want to distract you.”

  “Aw, I don’t care,” Cecily said. “I’m just glad I got out of there before it happened. It’s none of my business now.”

  After the call, she retreated into the combined office and storeroom space to ponder Willard’s death. Cecily considered her emotions and decided she didn’t care. And she didn’t suffer from denial, either. With no love lost between them on her part, there wasn’t anything she could dredge up except relief.

  Willard Bradford approached her as a teenage girl after she competed in a teen pageant at a Chicago mall. He coveted Cecily and all but bought her. She’d never understand why the white man, twice her age, desired her but he did and forced her into marriage with his money. First, he bought the dry cleaners where her mother worked as a presser and threatened to either close the shop or fire Mama. Then he purchased the duplex where the Browns lived and sent an eviction notice. Bradford’s next move involved buying the residential care facility where her grandma Ella Brown lived and threatening to remove most of the patients.

  Cecily caved and let him take her out to dinner. He arrived in a vintage Triumph spitfire, snazzy and sleek. Willard brought her two dozen roses, not crimson but peach, and another dozen in yellow, this time for her mother, and a basket of gourmet goodies. They dined at a bistro along the Mag Mile. He took her to bed two nights later and proposed within the month. By then, he’d showered her family with presents, fixed the crisis situations he engineered, endeared most of her blood kin to him, and Cecily accepted. His not so veiled threats what he’d do if she turned him down inspired her demure ‘yes’.

  After a storybook wedding attended by wealthy people both local and global, they settled into the spacious new mansion he’d built on Canal Street. Cecily bobbed along like a cork on an outgoing tide and the sole voice of reason came from her Aunt Terri who whispered in her ear at the lavish country club reception, “What’s a rich white dude want with a skinny ass poor black girl? Tell me that.” Cecily couldn’t explain and even now, divorced and with her one-time spouse dead, still couldn’t.

  All of it’s over now and my future’s beginning. She resolved to forget the past and thrust all thoughts of Willard Bradford out of her mind. Pink Neon opened in the morning and her task was to make everything as perfect as possible. And to do so, Cecily decided she’d pick up something delicious for supper, a bottle of wine, and unwind. She would face the morning rested and calm, capable and ready.

  *****

  Beneath his mirrored sunglasses, his eyes burned and below his brimmed cap, Daniel Padilla endured a headache of epic proportion. Although he preferred to blame it on the drive down from Kansas City, he suspected the multiple Tequila shots he tossed down after checking into a cheap ass motel sometime after midnight might be the cause. He intended for the alcohol to help him sleep and it did but since the price turned out to include serious pain, he wished he’d stayed sober. Uneasy waves stirred in his belly but he spooned a little vanilla ice cream into his mouth anyway. It might ease the nausea and at least it’d make his cover look genuine. So far I don’t like Branson and I sure as hell never thought I’d come here again but I’m here. So far it sucks worse than I thought it might.

  He watched as a woman came outside from the shop next door, a tricked up boutique with a pink neon sign above the door. Daniel studied her face and after squinting, he decided despite the cornrow braids, the casual clothes it was Cecily Brown, recent ex-wife of jewelry magnate and millionaire Willard Bradford. She’s a lot prettier this way. His fingers fumbled open the manila file lying on the picnic table where he sat. Daniel studied the photos through his bleary eyes and removed the shades for a better view. The woman in the pictures wore her hair down, sleek as satin and styled. Her conservative garments whispered of both wealth and professional privilege. The muted colors, soft pastels, dowsed her beauty instead of enhancing it. Daniel snorted as he counted the rings on her well-shaped hands and noted with derision the dangling diamond earrings she wore. Rich bitch. Yet he found her attractive in person, graceful and almost beautiful. Nothing about the jeans and simple t-shirt she wore looked pretentious. But he wondered if she’d really killed her former spouse and made off with the jewels. She sure as hell doesn’t look the type but you never know. If he’d learned any lesson in his ten years with the FBI, Daniel discovered anyone could do anything.

  If he hadn’t been sure, he would’ve doubted this woman could be the same one in the pictures. That woman looked elegant but empty, stilted and confined. The gal he watched sashay across the parking lot radiated heat. Pink highlighted her coloring and enhanced her looks. She paused at a vintage GTO he’d love to own and opened the door. Cecily Brown slid into the passenger seat and Daniel watched her lips tilt into a smile as she turned the key in the ignition. As the motor caught, he heard a burst of music from the CD player, the unmistakable retro sound of The Pointer Sisters. Daniel listened as Cecily sang along, her voice a rich alto, true to the tune as it blended into ‘Fire’, the classic hit.

  For a moment he forgot his headache and the spoon in his hand dropped into the paper container of ice cream as he stared. Cecily Brown, he thought, was fire. His battle-scarred heart lost its rhythm as Daniel watched her pull out onto the strip, her voice ringing out over the traffic sounds enough he caught snatches of the song. Provocative, evocative the lyrics touched a chord within, one he thought broken and unresponsive. Shit, the song’s older than both of us. But it retained power and heat. The music evoked feelings he thought he buried long ago. With pure instinct Daniel tossed his half-eaten ice cream and jumped in his black sedan to follow her.

  He trailed her down the Strip and when she turned into a huge discount store, he did too. Daniel hung back enough to escape her notice but he parked less than five spaces away from her bright red sports car. When she sidled into the store he followed at a discreet distance.

  Trained to spot detail, well-schooled in the art of building a profile about a person from their habits, Daniel found her tastes eclectic but pleasing. Cecily moved with confidence through the crowded aisles. She selected a loaf of crusty French bread in the bakery, a bag of salad in the produce department, and a bag of frozen salmon fillets from the freezers. Then she doubled back to choose a lemon. He noticed she didn’t grab the first one, either. Cecily picked up several, squeezed them and rejected them. Daniel counted six before she put one in her cart, without a bag. He pursued her to the spice and seasoning aisles where she bought lemon pepper, Cajun blend, and a lower sodium salt product. In the dairy aisle she bought real butter, a half gallon of low fat milk, and a package of cheesecake dessert topped with strawberry.

  On the way to the front, she moved with slow deliberation. More than once she paused to check a display of something and in the liquor area she chose a bottle of a good, sweet red wine. Daniel expected her to head for the checkouts but she crossed the width of the store to pick out shampoo and Moon Petal Musk bath salts. As she bent over to place the items in her cart, her ass lifted up and Daniel’s dick noticed. Focus, man, she’s under investigation and you’re the man on the case. Don’t get involved. But he knew he had, right or wrong. The woman intrigued him in a way she shouldn’t. Every professional bone in his body screamed a warning, told him to pull back but the man within couldn’t look away, a classic moth drawn to her flame.

  I bet she’s got some city dude holed up wherever she lives, probably someone who helped her with the crime. And damn me, I gotta know the truth, one way or another. If she’s guilty, I’ll see she’s convicted and if she’s innocent, god help me, I don’t know what I’ll do. But I’d like to find out.

  Daniel Padilla, the one the other agents called ‘the Glacier’, sensed a thaw in his protective shield, a crack in the layers he’d covered his emotions and heart. And
without remorse he followed Cecily home.

  Chapter Three

  Saturday morning dawned bright and clear. Cecily rose early to prepare for her grand opening. To boost her confidence and calm her agitated nerves, she power dressed in black designer jeans with a sleeveless pink Issey Miyake blouse. The pleated deep rose top suited her dusky coloring well and Cecily applied a lipstick she’d found in the same shade. She spritzed a heavy dose of Calvin Klein’s Eternity, enough to envelope her in a cloud of fragrance. She grabbed her keys and headed out to the car, drove through the first fast food place she saw for coffee and a sausage biscuit then to Pink Neon.

  Although she’d bought some radio ads, paid for a few television ads with the Springfield stations, and placed a notice in both the local newspaper and the weekly shopper, Cecily worried no one would come. After careful consideration she’d decided not to have a ribbon cutting or serve refreshments. Both seemed too overdone. Instead, she planned to give each of the first one hundred customers a small piggy bank, pink with gray splotches, as a gift. She also had ordered tons of business cards to hand out and would offer a drawing for a $100 gift certificate. Otherwise, it would be a standard business day – if any buyers showed up.

  She nibbled the biscuit and sipped coffee. Then she walked around the shop, making sure everything was in place. Cecily stowed her purse under the counter and put a scented candle on the candle warmer. As the sweet rose fragrance wafted through the space, she turned the open sign to face outward and made sure the door remained unlocked. At seven forty five, Pink Neon was open. All she needed now were a few customers.

  Out on the Strip traffic remained light. Cecily stood by the cash register and gazed out the single window. She counted pickup trucks hauling utility trailers behind and family vans and sports cars. A few delivery trucks rumbled past with their loads of bread or milk or cupcakes. Time slowed and seemed to stop. Her nerves twisted into pretzel knots and when she swore a half hour must’ve passed, she peeked at the clock. It wasn’t even eight o’clock yet. With a sigh she drank the dregs of her now cold coffee.