Have You Met Nora?

by Nicole Blades

  “I can’t. I’m sorry,” she said, unable to fully look him in the eye. She stepped back from him and slicked her drenched hair. “I’m sorry.”

  Fisher rose to his feet and moved closer to Nora. “What is happening right now?”

  Fucking Ghetto Dawn. Nora shook her head and stepped back from him again. “It’s just work shit. I shouldn’t have brought it home.” She slipped out of the shower and grabbed a towel, wrapping it tight around herself.

  Fisher turned off the water and followed her out of the shower. He grabbed a towel and pulled it around his waist, never breaking his gaze on Nora. “What the hell could be so horrible that you did all of that?”

  She turned away from him and faced the mirror, but didn’t look up at the reflection. “It’s nothing.”

  “Nothing? It looks like a brawl went down. When I came in and saw all of that and you weren’t answering me—Jesus—I didn’t know what I was going to find in this bathroom.” He padded over to his side of the countertop and leaned back on it. Nora could feel his eyes on her, peering, but kept looking down at her sink. “Babe, this is not nothing.” He tilted his top half toward her. “Talk to me. Please.”

  “It’s just a lot of small things stacked up on top of each other and . . . they just kind of fell over and spilled all over the kitchen.” She glanced his way. “Sorry about that. I’ll clean it up now.” Nora tightened the tuck of the towel around her chest and started to make her way toward the bathroom door.

  “Hey, hey, wait a minute.” He grabbed Nora by the waist and pulled her into him. “That can wait. What’s up with you? One minute you’re trying to eat me alive and now”—he dipped his head to her bowed one—“you’re doing everything to get away from me. Can’t even look at me.”

  Nora forced her eyes to angle up and stay locked on his. “I’m embarrassed, okay?” She said it as quickly as it came to her. “I was out with Jenna and we had too many one-too-manys and I came home horny and pissy drunk and you caught me in here masturbating and then—”

  “Hang on. What?” He frowned, but there was a slick grin just beneath it. Nora knew that his poker face was the worst.

  “Yes, okay, yes, I was rubbing one out when you busted in. And now I’m totally mortified.” She buried her face in his smooth chest and held her breath, barely blinking, waiting to see if the story floated. It wasn’t until she heard the soft rumble of a chuckle stirring in his lungs that she exhaled.

  Fisher pulled her into a deep hug. “Mack, I don’t know how many times I need to say this for you to start trusting it: You can be yourself with me. I love everything about you; always will. These are facts.”

  Facts.

  Nora’s eyes shot open at the word. Dawn, the cookies, the smirking note, all of it came crashing into her brain like a trash can on fire.

  Ghetto Dawn had risen from the dead, and she was poking Nora in all of her soft spots with a blunt knife. She needed to be stopped and shoved back down into her muddy grave. These were the facts that were staring Nora in the face, and this time she had no plans on running away from them.

  CHAPTER 11

  Nora squinted at Oli, narrowing in on her full lips. She couldn’t understand the words leaving Oli’s mouth and thought staring at it might help.

  “Again, I’m just telling you what the customer service lady told me,” Oli said. She looked annoyed and exasperated mixed together in one batch of pissed. Nora couldn’t figure out whether it was because of what happened or because she’d asked her to repeat the story a third time. “She said that a flag was placed on the account. Suspicious activity. I think they think it’s possibly identity theft.”

  “Possibly? You and me—we are the only ones authorized on this card,” Nora said, taking a break from peering at Oli’s face. “If there are funky charges, then it’s absolutely identity theft.”

  “I know, but there was something weird going on. I tried to chat up the rep on the phone to get the scoop. She sounded young. The young ones always spill tea. But she kept saying, That’s so weird. Like, repeatedly, with every keystroke.” Oli nodded slowly and stretched in her seat, her limbs splayed like a starfish in the spotless white chair. “Wait. Maybe”—her body snapping up straight and index finger jutting out—“this is something larger scale. What if someone fucking with our corporate card is only the small potatoes of a much bigger, nastier scandal? Maybe this is only a small part of a major hack to ruin corporate America, like on that show with our boy—Mr. Robot.”

  Nora was back to squinting at Oli, but with a scowl added, “Could you not?”

  “Sorry.” Oli shrugged. “I’m reading this thing in the New Yorker.”

  Nora flipped open her laptop. “Does the client know about the declined charges?”

  “No, and Isobel was very cool about everything. She said we could just pick up the order and submit payment later. And, yes, I’m taking her and Riko out for dinner next week as a thank-you. They tried to say no, but I made it an offer they couldn’t refuse.”

  “Good.” Nora turned her attention back to her computer. “I’ll call and thank them anyway.”

  “Cool . . .”

  Nora moved her eyes up from the screen to Oli. “You’re lingering. Is there more bullshit to add to this already hot-garbage day?”

  “Hot garbage. Well, shit. I was going to ask if you’re getting hyped. Wedding is two weeks away, almost exactly today. But”—Oli made a face like a bird and took her voice high into her nose—“mi naa badda, bwoy. Mi mudduh seh mi too chatty-chatty.” She swept her hands, dramatically, across the space between them as if wiping a slate clean. Her smile broke through, ruining her serious take. It always quietly tickled Nora when Oli spoke patois and put on a Jamaican accent. The quick impression smoothed away Nora’s grimace. “Nora, you are wound extra tight. And for no reason. I mean, the wedding planner is no joke, everything’s coast. You should be so Gucci right now—that’s what Mateo keeps saying whenever he sees you all tense and bothered. Which is a lot lately, I should add. I already told you that we’ve got your back here. You can relax, Nor. We know what we’re doing.... You just got to let us.”

  “I know. You’re right.” Nora gently swatted her laptop closed and looked at Oli with soft eyes and a tilt of her head. “Listen, I need to apologize for the other day. I’m holding on with this tight fist and it’s a total waste of energy. I know you have my back.”

  “Always,” Oli said, nodding. “And no need to apologize. The other day is the other day. We’ve moved on to today, right?”

  “Right.” Nora smiled. “Thanks, Oli. And we’ll sort out this credit card fraud thing. I’ll give a call in a sec. I want to do a bit of my own CSI on it first.”

  “Cool. Keep me posted.” Oli stood up. “I’m taking Kazzy with me to Botang and Lo to pull shirts in about ten.”

  “Good move. Botang and Lo always delivers.” She reopened her laptop. “If I head out before you’re back, I’ll email you”—Nora raised her brow—“not to check up. Just to blow kisses and sing sweet, sweet T-Swift songs in your ears.”

  Oli chuckled. “Why, are you breaking up with me?”

  “Never ever that.” Nora’s grin stretched even more as she began clacking away at her computer with alacrity.

  “Open or closed?” Oli asked when she got to Nora’s office door.

  “Maybe closed,” she said. “I may have to put my big-girl voice on for these customer service rep assholes.”

  As she was about to close it, Oli popped her head back in the door. “Oh, totally forgot: We’ve got a new client.”

  “Yeah, I know. The dating app kid. Jay. We went over this, Oli.”

  “No, it’s another ’nother new client. I just had the prelim on the phone with his right-hand man—well, lady; it was a woman—yesterday. She was actually really nice.”

  Nora’s eyes shot up from her screen.

  Oli continued. “She seems, like, really on top of the guy’s style needs and preferences. Personally”—Oli slipped m
ore of herself through the half-open door and lowered her voice just above a whisper—“I thought it was another one of those gross Manhattan sugar-daddy bullshits, but after talking to her for a good bit, I don’t think she gets down like that. She might actually be on Team Punaani. Plus, her boss is, like, way old, she said. He’s based in Vermont, I think. Retired heart surgeon. Pascal is his name. Dr. Pascal Bourdain.”

  Nora’s breath caught in her chest. “What?” She clenched her jaw and felt a twitch span her entire face. “What did you say?”

  “Which part?” Oli said.

  “Who did you talk to on the phone yesterday? What was the woman’s name?” Nora rose from her chair, leaning into the desk like an animal about to pounce.

  “Oh, her name’s really pretty, but she had to spell it for me: Nwad. She was really—”

  “Nice. Yeah, I know,” Nora hissed.

  “Everything good?” Oli slid through the door entirely and took steps toward Nora.

  Fix your face. “Yeah,” she said, and sat back down, her lips still pursed. “I was remembering something.” She shook her head and smiled, but knew it probably looked more like a sneer or pained wince. “Do you mind emailing me that file and any notes on”—Nora exhaled—“Dr. Bourdain. I just want to check him out and stuff.”

  “Absolutely.” Oli nodded and went back to the door. “You sure you’re all right?”

  “Totally,” she said beneath another strained grin.

  “Cool. I’ll send it before we head out.” Oli closed the door behind her.

  Nora stayed still, staring at her computer screen until it went black. “What the fuck?” She leaned back and moved her gaze to the ceiling high above her. Her stomach started churning. Thinking about all of it was beginning to hurt her brain. The ping of her email brought her attention and her laptop screen back from dim.

  To: Nora Mackenzie

  Subject: Bourdain prelim file

  From: Olivia Chung

  Here you go . . .

  Pretty standard.

  STOP WORRYING.

  ::OC

  Nora didn’t bother clicking on the attachment. Pascal Bourdain was dead. She knew that any information about his style interests would be pure fiction and the contact information for Nwad fake. Nora scrunched her brows. This was a waste of time, pulling at threads in this counterfeit tapestry. She needed to reach into her computer and squeeze Dawn out. Make contact. Nora opened up Google and searched “Dawn Brooks” again. She tried Facebook again and tried even ridiculous variations on the spelling. She tried Immaculate Heart’s alumni website again. Twitter again. Instagram again. And back to Google again. She closed her eyes and tried thinking back to that night they collided again. Tried to see more, find clues: What was Dawn wearing? What was she carrying besides the coffee tray? She tried slowing down the moment again. Everything again, and still nothing. No trace of her.

  She looked around her desk for something safe to pitch at the wall, but instead snatched up her office phone and dialed.

  “Hey, Callaway, I know you don’t do work calls, but this is quick and important.”

  “Okay. What’s up?”

  Nora shifted in her seat. “It’s a weird question.”

  “Go for it.”

  “If you had to find someone, who would you call?”

  “Living or dead?”

  “Callaway, I’m serious.”

  “So am I! We’re going to press on book five from the Manhattan Medium. Dead is a viable option.”

  “Alive. If you had to find someone living, who’d you call?”

  “You mean, like a private dick?” Jenna chuckled.

  “Jesus. Yes, a detective. Do you have a go-to?”

  “No, but . . . our receptionist, Kate, she had some crazy catfish horror story and needed to track down this guy. Well, someone we think is a guy.”

  “So, yes, then?” Nora said, clipped and annoyed.

  “Yeah. Yes, I know someone who could help. Wait, so, who are we trying to find?”

  Nora scanned her email inbox. “This client. He’s trying to be funny with the money he owes us, and I need to track him down.”

  “Hmm. Isn’t that something your accounts person can do? I mean, a detective? For some dude trying to stiff you on the invoice—that seems a bit drastic, no?”

  “It’s more involved than that, obviously,” Nora said.

  “All right. Noted,” Jenna said. Nora could practically see her through the phone, her hand raised to her face and eyebrows pulled up to her hairline. “I’ll ask Kate for the guy’s info and email it to you. Works?”

  Nora nodded. “Works. Thanks.”

  “Is there . . . something else? You sound like there’s something else.”

  “Well.” Nora closed her computer and exhaled. “There’s one other thing. It’s kind of a huge favor.”

  “If it involves more college boys and piss-water shots, I’m going to pass—shockingly.”

  “It’s a tea party.”

  “I already don’t like where this is going. I’m having flashbacks to back home.”

  “Just . . . hear me out. It’s up at the Beaumont house tomorrow. Lady Eleanor is hosting a gathering for me. In my honor.”

  “Oh, sweet Jesus. Are you fixin’ to ask me to go with you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Nora, honey. You know I love me some big hats, small cups, and ghastly floral prints, but as my grandma Gigi used to say: This is not my blessing, sweetheart. This is all you. Ellie wants to show you off.”

  “That’s what Fish said. She wants to show me off to her friends, like I’m the new show pony they’ve just acquired. It’s insulting.”

  “Insulting? To be the belle of the ball and have all those blue-haired blue bloods welcome you into their grand fold is far, far from insulting, Nor. And can you blame her for wanting to trot you out? When it comes to show ponies, honey, you are a blue-ribbon thoroughbred. It’s goddamn ridiculous how amazing you are.”

  Nora’s face crumpled. She knew the tears were next. “Jenna, I—”

  “Don’t you dare, Nora. Just accept the truth for once. Plus, I have to run, so this is me getting the last word. And relax. You’ll be fab tomorrow. Byeeee.”

  The agitation in her stomach climbed up her chest and settled at the back of Nora’s throat with a burn. She slumped down in her seat, spinning it around to face the wallpaper, and let her eyes glide along the stretch of the wisteria. Her mind drifting along with it, remembering the last time Dawn carved a hole in the center of her good life and dragged the guts clean out of it. Nora wrapped her arms around her middle and squeezed, trying to hold it all in, but the pain of the incised wound was too great, too real. She curled over in her chair and tucked her pounding head between her knees. This was what she used to do when she wanted to fade into the walls. Head down, tuck. She did it most nights in the lonely basement room after her mother had gone to sleep. Nora would sit up, ease herself over to the edge of her bed: head down, tuck. After her mother was gone, lowered slow and gentle beneath the earth, it was the only way to stop the ringing in her ears: head down, tuck. At Immaculate, whenever she feared that her golden casing was beginning to tarnish, when Dawn added her toxic imprint to any amity that Nora had enjoyed: head down, tuck. And it worked until it didn’t, like on that haunting day, when Elise Bourdain let the insurmountable truth slip out.

  “You knew,” Nora had said, the air struggling to escape her lungs. “All this time, all these years, you knew.” She was in the old-fashioned, wood phone booth at the end of the hall by the boarders’ den, the black receiver pressed hard against her ear, trying to hear what she couldn’t hear. The silence on the other end of the line was long and harrowing. Then two words, low but piercing: “I’m sorry.”

  It had never once occurred to Nora that Mrs. Bourdain knew and that she still did nothing to stop her husband’s sick habit.

  She had buckled at her waist and fell forward all while still gripping the phone. “That’s why I’m
here,” Nora had said, seething. “You sent me away, not him.” Even with her head tucked between her knees, nothing had changed. Her brain was a brush fire. The next words out of Mrs. Bourdain’s mouth registered as a jumble of sounds and Nora slammed the phone down before the string of noise ended. She tried again: head down, tucked. But it was useless, ruined. Nora packed up her few belongings in the small hours of that night and left Vermont for good. It was the only fix.

  The ding of her email sounded loudly. Startled, Nora spun around in her chair and flung open her laptop. Twenty-eight new messages. She scrolled down to Jenna’s—P.I. info!—and clicked on it. Nora quickly scratched the man’s name and number on a slip of paper from her desk and stuffed it into her bag with her cell phone and left, convinced once again that this was the only fix.

  CHAPTER 12

  More than his hair or his luminous blue eyes or the small constellation of flat moles that dotted the left side of his jaw, it was Fisher’s back that Nora could stare at forever. Broad, brawny, unwrinkled, his back seemed sculpted from some rare, undiscovered clay. In the mornings, awake long before he was, Nora would often open her eyes hoping that he had turned away from her in the night and his back would be there to greet her. If not, she would gently nudge and roll him over so that she could press her body into it, nestle her face deep into the curves of its muscles and inhale him. She would run her hand smooth along the top of his shoulders, glide down the side of his ribs, and wrap her arms around him and try to sync up to the rhythm of his breath. And she’d stay there until he was finally ready to wake up on his own, reach around and grip her thigh or pull her leg over him like covers.