by Robin Hill
“At the office?” He snorts a laugh. “Amanda’s always there. Sometimes I wonder if she stays the night.” His expression turns pensive. “Look, I know things suck right now, but try to hang on. One way or another, it will all be over soon.”
“It sounds so ominous when you put it that way.”
“Sometimes it feels ominous,” he mumbles under his breath. Then he takes my hand and trails his thumb along the edge of my ring. “I’ve missed you too, you know.”
Nerves tickle my stomach as I enter the front doors of Darian’s office building. I’ve been here before, but I’ve never made it higher than the first floor. Darian usually meets me when I come for lunch, and we walk to one of the nearby cafés. Today I’m early because I want to surprise him.
The elevator doors seal me in, and I peer at my reflection in the mirrored chrome. My blond hair falls in thick layers around my shoulders, framing my lightly blushed cheeks and pale pink lips. My nails are glossed in a seductive red, and my legs are sheathed in silk and anchored by four-inch black heels. I’m wearing a short—but not too short—black halter dress that drapes over my curves in a way that makes it look like I have curves. It’s fitted, and if Darian looks closely, he’ll be able to see the indentions from the clasps on the garter belt I ordered specially for this occasion.
Lunch or something, Jane said. After an impulsive online lingerie shopping spree, I decided to go with or something, though I’m not about to admit that to her.
The doors slide open, and heavy stares land on me as I step inside the lobby.
Don’t mind me. I always dress like this to bring my fiancé a bag of sandwiches.
“I’m here to see Darian,” I say when I reach the front desk.
A young, waiflike woman with cropped black hair and perfectly applied eyeliner looks up from her laptop. “Do you have an appointment?”
“An appointment? No, I’m—”
“Mr. Fox is tied up all day, I’m afraid,” she says behind an apologetic smile. “I’d be happy to schedule–”
“I’m his fiancée. We’re supposed to have lunch.” I hold up the bag as evidence. “Should I text him maybe?”
A vibrant grin breaks out on her face, and I flinch as her hand shoots across the desk.
“Oh my God, you’re Francesca! Let me see!” She goes for my ring excitedly, then stops just short of grabbing my wrist. “I mean, Ms. Valentine,” she says, lowering her voice. “I’m so sorry. I’m not usually like this, but Riley…um…Mr. Fox’s assistant told me about you and I was convinced you were a myth.”
This has me laughing. “You can call me Frankie, and it’s lovely to meet you…”
“Leslie,” she says. “Let me get Mr. Fox for you.”
Before Leslie has a chance to buzz him, the office door behind her opens and Darian steps out, towering over her tiny frame like a formidable giant. It takes him a second to notice me, but when he does, his eyes stretch as wide as his surprised-to-see-me smile. “Hey, you.”
Holding up the takeout bag, I give him a small shrug and he beckons me inside. I thank Leslie and follow Darian into his office, discreetly locking the door as I close it behind me. It’s larger than I expected. The far wall is one massive window that perfectly frames the ocean. Darian’s desk sits directly in front of it, a leather couch to the right and a small conference table to the left—covered in plastic food containers. I set the bag of sandwiches down amongst them.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I spaced. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
I stalk toward him as seductively as I can in my heels, careful not to trip and fall face-first on the carpet. “You can make it up to me now.”
“Are you”—a swallow bobs in his throat as his gaze slides past me to the conference table—“hungry at all?”
“Not for food.” I reach around the back of my dress for the zipper and pull it down slowly, never taking my eyes off his. His mouth drops open as the fabric hits the floor.
“Francesca!” he whisper-shouts. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
His gaze burns a trail down my body. I take another step forward and lift up on my toes, touching my lips to his. I try to draw him into a kiss, but I fail.
“Babe,” he says, still whispering. “I can’t do this here.”
“I locked the door. You can totally do this here.” I pull at the knot on his tie. “I’ll be quick.”
His hands close around mine, stopping me. “I really can’t. Let me take you to lunch.” He scrunches his face. “Fuck. Can’t do that either.”
I fall back on the balls of my feet, embarrassment coloring every visible inch of my skin, which, at the moment, happens to be a lot of it. “It’s okay,” I say, hiding behind my crossed arms. “I just thought…”
He picks up my dress and hands it to me. “Please don’t be upset.”
“I’m not upset,” I say, my uneven tone suggesting otherwise as I put it on, battling the zipper with shaky hands. “It’s not like it’s the first time you’ve given me back my clothes by way of rejection.” I grimace. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”
“Francesca, that’s not what this is. You’re breathtaking…and distracting. I want nothing more than to knock everything off my desk and take you right here, right now.”
“Then what’s stopping you?”
A knock comes at the door right before it swings open. Amanda marches in with her nose buried in her phone. “I’ve texted you twice,” she says without looking up. “I have to escort you now?”
“Well, for one,” Darian whispers so that only I can hear him, “the lock’s broken.” Taking my hand, he laces our fingers together. “Amanda, you remember Francesca.”
Her eyes snap to mine. “Frankie, what a surprise. I hear congratulations are in order.” She smiles, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think she was being sincere. “Darian, I’m sorry to rush you, but we’re already late.”
“I have to get to a meeting,” he says to me, “but what about dinner tonight? I’ll take off early and we can go grab something.”
Amanda clears her throat. “Hate to burst your bubble, but we’re on LA time right now. Unless by early you mean eight o’clock. I’ve already scheduled two calls.”
“Shit.” Darian sighs. “Go on without me and I’ll be there in five minutes,” he tells her, then says to me as soon as she’s gone, “I’m not winning any points with you today, am I?”
“You’re like negative points.”
“I’m going to this meeting with blue balls if that helps.”
And I’m going home to play Cubilete with Gloria.
I smile. It totally does.
I wake to the sound of a zipper closing—the quick pull of the slide, the teeth coming together in a metallic squeal. Darian’s standing at the foot of the bed, his packed carry-on duffel at my feet.
“What’s going on?” I ask, pushing myself up against the headboard.
“I have to go to Austin.”
“Since when?”
“Since early this morning.” He straps his watch to his wrist. “I was just about to wake you.”
“You said Austin was Amanda’s thing. Why do you have to go?”
“Austin is her thing,” he says, leaning against the dresser, “but she can’t go and there’s an emergency.”
I pull my knees in. “What kind of emergency?”
“Permit issue.”
“And you can’t handle it over the phone?”
“Need to meet with the architect.” He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “It’s a quick trip. Up and back. I’d take you with me and make a weekend of it, but I can’t afford to be gone that long with all the shit going on here.”
“What shit? Why won’t you tell me?”
His gaze falls to his feet. “Francesca…”
“Darian, it’s not that I think you’re intentionally keeping things fro
m me. I know you’re busy and don’t want to talk about it, but—”
“Exactly. I am busy and when I’m here, I don’t want to waste our time together talking about work.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration. “Fine,” I say, watching as he picks up his bag and shoulders the strap. “What time’s your flight?”
“As soon as I get to the tarmac.”
“Then you should probably get going.”
“Oh no you don’t.” His duffel lands with a plop on the floor. “I’m about to get on a plane, Francesca,” he says, his annoyance clear as he sits down on his side of the bed. “No fucking way I’m leaving while you’re upset with me.”
I wince at my carelessness. “You’re right. I’m sorry. We’ll talk about it when you get back.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” he says, gathering my hair and pulling it away from my face. “Please don’t be mad at me.”
“I’m not mad. I just…I miss you. You won’t talk to me, but you’ll talk to her, and I get why—I guess—but it still bothers me.”
His fingers stall on my neck. “You have absolutely nothing to be jealous of.”
You’re not getting it, I want to say, but talking about it now is pointless. I decide to change the subject.
“Your birthday’s coming up. Maybe when you get home, we can plan something?”
“No plans,” he says. “Just you.”
“Just me? Sounds pretty boring.”
“You, me, a tent on the beach…” He drags a thumb across my jaw. “Naked.”
“Naked camping,” I say dryly. “I can’t wait.”
The Changeling
Darian: There’s a permit issue with the Austin office.
Amanda: Shit. Why’d they call you?
Darian: IDK. It’s fine though. You’ve got that thing today and I’m already at the airport.
Amanda: At the airport? It can’t be handled from here?
Darian: I’m meeting with the architect.
Amanda: OK. Keep me posted.
Frankie
My phone buzzes with a call from an unfamiliar Miami-based number, and my heart launches into my throat. Darian should be thirty thousand feet in the air right now.
Should be.
I press the Answer button and hold the phone to my ear. “This is Frankie.”
“Frankie, sweetheart, it’s Evelyn. Darian gave me your number. I hope that’s okay.”
Christ on a cracker. It’s just Evelyn. Clearly, my argument with Darian has me on edge.
“Hi. Yes. How are you?”
“I’m lovely, dear. Just a little restless. I talked to Darian earlier to see if you kids had dinner plans, but he said he’s traveling, so I wanted to ask you.” She lowers her voice. “And just between you and me, I’d prefer a little girl time. No offense to Darian, of course.”
I smile. “Of course.”
“If you’re available, I’d be thrilled if you’d come keep an old lady company. Not to brag, but I make a mean margarita.”
My smile widens to a grin. “Actually, a margarita sounds pretty good.”
“Fabulous. I’ll text you the address. And, sweetheart? Be sure to take an Uber.”
“I will. See you tonight,” I say before disconnecting the call.
That was unexpected.
I stare blankly at my computer screen, wondering what I’m going to do with myself for the next seven hours. Where’s Gloria and her Cubilete when I need her?
My excitement at having some female social interaction outside of this house begins to wane the more I think about it. Evelyn isn’t just any female; she’s Julia’s mother. My stomach knots. It’s probably a good thing I skipped breakfast this morning.
Luckily, I have a very eager best friend to distract me. Jane’s wedding planning texts start rolling in right when I need them. She’s in dress mode today, and while I appreciate her enthusiasm, I’m not feeling her choices. After the seventh fail, I decide to call her.
“Don’t hate me,” I say as soon as she answers. “I had no idea we were so different.”
“We’re not on most things.” She chuckles. “Though your taste in music’s pretty lame.”
“I’m surprised we didn’t already know this about each other.”
I plan low-key parties for a living, so it makes sense that I’d want a low-key wedding. But Jane’s style seems to be kind of glamorous. And she’s usually anything but.”
“I got knocked up in high school,” she says, “and you swore you’d never settle down. Weddings weren’t something we fantasized about.”
She’s right, come to think of it. I scroll through the elegant dresses and smile. “I can’t wait to plan your wedding.”
“Fat chance, Valentine. I’m never settling down either.”
At ten past six, the Uber driver pulls to a stop in front of Evelyn’s flower shop, nestled on the corner between a breakfast café and a steep wooden staircase. It has a glass storefront, the interior illuminated by string lights. Old whiskey barrels teeming with flowers line the windows. My gaze travels to the hand-painted sign hanging above the door, and my heart constricts in my chest.
Julia’s Garden.
I take the steps to the right of the shop up to Evelyn’s apartment, and the door swings open just as I reach the top. Evelyn grabs my hand, pulling me inside as if she’s afraid I might make a run for it.
“Come in, come in,” she says, a sprawling grin planted on her face. “I’m so happy you came.” She steps back and regards me in much the same manner she did the night we met. “I’ll be honest; I was a little worried you were going to cancel on me.”
A shy smile follows the heat spreading over my cheeks. “No, of course not,” I say, though the thought may have crossed my mind.
“Don’t be embarrassed, dear. We don’t know each other all that well, and we both have to admit…this is a little strange, right?”
Before I have a chance to respond, she turns away from the door and pulls me toward her kitchen. “But not for long. I made margaritas.”
Evelyn’s apartment is about the size of my cabin. The front door opens into the living room and the kitchen sits directly behind it, separated by a narrow bar and two barstools.
“What can I do to help?” I ask.
She pats the ceramic tiled counter and nods to a stool. “Relax and take a load off.”
My lips curl in a smile as I watch her float through her kitchen, humming to herself as she pulls down glasses from the cabinet above the sink. She presses a button on the blender, just long enough to mix the concoction, and pours us each a drink.
“To new friends,” she says, lifting her glass.
“To new friends.” I take a sip, and I’m immediately thankful I didn’t drive.
“I have appetizers,” Evelyn says, placing a platter of finger foods in front of me. “Dinner’s too formal, and I just want us to stuff our faces and get tipsy.”
Her warm and gracious demeanor calms my nerves and I begin to relax. “I was a little nervous coming here without Darian, but I’m glad I did.”
“Me too, sweetheart. Me too.”
We pick at shrimp cocktail, summer sausage, and squares of cheese. We talk about Darian and Anabel and, eventually, Julia. During our second margarita, she asks about my family and my business. If I like Miami. If I’m homesick. Then we talk about her, the flower shop, and what flowers I’d like for my wedding.
“Transportation will be a bugger,” she says of the honeysuckle arch she’s determined to get to the island. “But where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
As the night progresses, I can’t help thinking of my own mother. What would our relationship have been like at this point in my life? Would we have spent time together like this? Drinking and laughing and gossiping like teenagers? Would she have approved of Darian? Would she have been proud of me?
Evelyn’s hand on my wrist pulls me from my thoughts.
“You’ve been so good for Darian,” she says. “Sometimes he seems like his old self. Makes me wonder if he’ll ever perform again.”
“Perform?”
“His music,” she says. “All that talent…it just breaks my heart.” She sighs deeply. “Does he ever play anymore? Have you heard him sing?”
I think back to that day by the pool when he serenaded me with The Doors. “Only goofing around,” I tell her. “Never seriously.”
“Oh, sweetie, I sure hope that changes.” She smiles. “I’m no expert when it comes to music. I mean, he obviously knows his way around a guitar. But his voice…” Her eyes close and she shakes her head as if remembering. “Dear God, his voice is something special.”
Evelyn is a joy to be around, and we become fast friends. By the end of our visit, I have her number on speed dial and another girls’ night planned for next week.
“Friday at seven,” she says as I make my way down the stairs. “I’ll text you the place.”
When I get home, I’m too wired from my evening with Evelyn to sleep, so I change into my pajamas and head to the backyard with a thick blanket. I lie in the grass with stars in my eyes and Morrison in my ears. With the warm breeze licking my skin like flames from a summer fire, it’s almost a perfect night. The only thing that’s missing is Darian, whose timely text makes me miss him more.
Darian: You at Evelyn’s?
Frankie: I’m home now. Thanks for the heads-up BTW.
Darian: Sorry about that. She called right as we were taking off. Have a good time?
Frankie: Yeah, actually. Had a great time.
Darian: What are you doing now?
Frankie: Lounging in the backyard listening to The Doors.
Darian: What album?
Frankie: Waiting for the Sun.
Darian: Ahhh romantic.
A shooting star rockets across the sky, prompting a memory from my childhood.
“Look, Frankie. Make a wish,” Dad said and laughed at the intensity building on my five-year-old face.
