Club Cupid

by Stephanie Bond

  She searched the crowd frantically, hoping to catch one more glimpse of him.

  “Hey, Red, over here!” she heard above the din.

  When she caught sight of him directly below her on the dock, waving both arms, she grinned wide, and waved back, crowding close to the railing. For a few frantic seconds, she wished she had stayed, wished he had cared for her as much as she cared for him, wished their life-styles weren’t a world apart.

  On impulse, she dug deep in the corner of her resurrected briefcase and seized a penny. As luck would have it, the coin was newly minted, shining so brightly it almost looked counterfeit. Stretching out over the railing, she called, “Here’s the penny I owe you for the coffee!”

  She dropped the coin, and watched it spiral through the air, glinting in the sun. Several feet below he caught the penny, juggled it, then held it up in triumph. Cupping his hands like a megaphone, he yelled, “What, no tip?”

  She laughed. “Yeah—buy a motorcycle helmet!”

  He made a face, but kept waving until he blended in with the crowd that grew ever smaller as the cruise ship pulled away. She stood by the railing waving when all the other passengers had dispersed. At last, Key West disappeared from the horizon and Frankie stared at the gigantic body of water around her, feeling very alone. Being in love for the first time had a way of ennobling a person, of stripping away nonsensical baggage until only those things most important remained. She was a happier person for having met Randy Tate. Really, she was.

  She enjoyed the return journey to Miami, even though she spent most of the time gazing out over the frothy wake behind the ship. Sunday afternoon she spent on the uppermost deck, safely swathed in towels and sunscreen, thinking hard about the philosophical wake-up call she’d been delivered. And Randy was never more than a heartbeat from her thoughts.

  Sunday evening she found the lovely pinkish conch shell he had given her, and thereafter kept it tucked in a pocket. She tossed her half-smoked pack of cigarettes overboard Sunday night, and Monday morning, began recording her trip in a journal. By the time the ship docked Monday afternoon, she’d reconstructed most of her hours in Key West, down to what she wore and phrases of the islanders, to sketches of the fanciful buildings. And throughout the partially illustrated, pieced-together snippets were Randy’s face and laughter and bar and motorcycle and tattoo and parrot and countless other memories.

  With only the small suitcase, she was one of the first passengers to disembark in Miami. She caught a cab straight to the airport and turned in her unused ticket to Cincinnati toward another flight—a roundabout trip back to Cincinnati that included a two-night stay in Atlanta. Then she fished out a business card Parker had given her and headed toward a pay phone.

  RANDY ACHED for Frankie—her face, her body and her laugh plagued him at all hours of the day. He’d drilled a hole in the penny she’d thrown him and wore it on a leather thong around his neck. He became moody, sniping at the waitresses and even yelling at Tweety like an idiot.

  One night Parker clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Just because you were foolish enough to let her go, don’t take it out on the rest of us, son.”

  Randy had scoffed and denied anything was wrong. And if something were wrong, he added loudly, it had nothing to do with Frankie Jensen.

  “Do us all a favor,” Parker had said. “Call the lady.”

  So late one night when he was sitting out on the balcony, he’d called directory assistance, only to find her number was unlisted. Then he’d called Ohio Roadmakers and had listened to her voice message like a coward—twice—before hanging up without a word. She was getting on with her life. It wasn’t her fault that he didn’t have much of a life to get on with. One thing was certain…the woman had left him with enough fantasies to keep his sheets wet into the foreseeable future.

  A few restless days later, he bought and read the first copy of the Wall Street Journal he had consumed since arriving in Key West. Suddenly the televisions in the bar were tuned to all news, all day. The only way he could keep thoughts of her at bay for any length of time was to engross himself in financial journals and tax codes.

  In mid-March, Randy received a suitcase-size package from Cincinnati. His heart pounded like a child’s as he opened the box, knowing full well it contained only his piece of luggage, but hoping it would include a long, rambling letter from Red letting him know how the project was progressing, or how the weather was miserable, or how much she missed him. Instead, she’d packed a slightly smaller, but heavy box in the suitcase, which he lifted with a wry laugh.

  She’d sent him a black motorcycle helmet, the old-fashioned half-helmet style with a chin strap—very hip and good for warm-weather riding. There was no letter and no return address, just a simple yellow memo square that read: I gave up smoking, so you have to start wearing a helmet. Frankie.

  He sat on the balcony wearing the helmet and staring at the note all evening, the wheels turning in his head. He’d simply not gotten his fill of her, that was all. Maybe if he at least saw Frankie again, outside of the island atmosphere, and realized that the novelty of their attraction had worn off, he could get her out of his system. Baseball season was right around the corner—he could take a long weekend to go to Riverfront Stadium and stop by to see her. To see how she and good ole Oscar were doing. To see if her eyes were still as blue as the water around the Keys.

  Before he could change his mind, he picked up the phone and called her voice mail at work. Her voice came on the line, slightly lower-pitched and well-modulated for business. “Hi, this is Frankie Jensen with Ohio Roadmakers. Please leave a detailed message and I will return your call as soon as possible.”

  When the beep sounded, his mouth went completely dry. “Uh, hey, Frankie. This is Randy…Randy Tate. Today is Friday, March the nineteenth, and you’ve probably already left for the day. Um, I got your package today. Thanks for the helmet—I really love…it. The helmet, that is. And congrats on giving up the cigarettes. Uh, listen—” He cut off as a piercing tone interrupted, then a mechanical voice said, “Thank you,” and disconnected the call.

  He swore a blue streak and stabbed in the number again.

  “Hi, this is Frankie Jensen with Ohio Roadmakers. Please leave a detailed message and I will return your call as soon as possible.”

  “Hey, Frankie, it’s Randy again…I was cut off before. Listen, I was thinking about heading to Riverfront for a Reds game sometime soon, you know, make a long weekend out of it. I was wondering if you would be available to go out with me, maybe get a bite to eat…or something…afterward. If you would—” The tone and voice cut him off again and disconnected the call.

  “Dammit!” he thundered, then hit the redial button.

  “Hi, this is Frankie Jensen with Ohio Roadmakers. Please leave a detailed message and I will return your call as soon as possible.”

  “Frankie, this is Randy—again. If you’d like to take in a game, call me and I’ll fly up. Three zero five, five five five, one two one three. Bye.” He hung up, then regretted his hasty goodbye. He should have told her he was looking forward to seeing her, talking to her, lying down with her…

  Oh, well, he decided, locking his hands behind his new helmet and propping up his feet. Now the ball was in her court. If she wanted to see him again, she’d call.

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE you’re really leaving, Frankie.” Oscar shook his head sadly and cupped both hands around his beer.

  “Yeah,” Susan chimed in. “How long has it been—nine years?”

  Frankie glanced at the date on her watch. “Let’s see…March nineteenth. In another six weeks I would’ve celebrated my ten-year anniversary.” She smiled happily and shrugged. “Except I won’t!”

  “A toast,” Oscar said, lifting his glass. “To fearless Frankie, may she be the most successful restaurateur in the entire city of Atlanta!”

  “Hear, hear!” chorused the group.

  Frankie looked around the table at the more than two dozen co-workers, her
eyes glistening. “Thank you, everyone,” she said, blinking rapidly.

  “Speech, speech!” someone yelled, and others joined in.

  She shook her head and drank from a frosty beer glass, relenting when the chant deafened her. “Okay, okay.” She cleared her throat, then said, “Thanks to all of you who made every day a great challenge. I’m so glad to be going out on the tail end of a successful project.”

  “That’s the understatement of the year,” Susan piped in, and everyone laughed.

  Frankie nodded. “You’re right, Susan, we did good. And I’m going to miss all of you so much.” Her gaze rested on Oscar. She gave him a wink and a friendly pat on the hand. He’d taken her leaving almost as hard as her parents, but she’d convinced him they had no romantic future together, regardless of whether she stayed. He’d been hurt at first, but after a few weeks, Oscar had finally come around, filling Frankie with relief that they were parting friends. Following another round of drinks, and a few war stories, people started checking their watches and pushing back their chairs to go home to their families. One by one they came by to shake Frankie’s hand and say goodbye.

  “So if your restaurant falls through, will you be coming back?” Charley asked.

  Oscar scoffed. “It won’t fall through, you dolt. Frankie said a restaurant would have to be pretty bad to fail in Atlanta, didn’t you, Frankie?”

  She nodded, her cheeks warming when she remembered Randy’s words. “Someone told me that once—I certainly hope it’s true.” What would he say if he could see her now? Thinking of the Valentine’s bon voyage picture stuck in her vanity drawer at home brought an affectionate smile to her face. Randy had been on her mind all day, probably because he should receive her package soon. She wondered what he would think of the helmet, and if it would fit.

  “What’s so funny?” Oscar asked, looking morose.

  “I’m just happy, that’s all,” she answered quietly.

  “I’d like to know what happened to you in Key West,” he muttered. “Did you have a near-death experience or something?”

  “No,” she said, laughing. “Sometimes getting away just gives you a little…perspective. Thanks for putting together this little going-away gig.”

  “Glad to do it,” he said, nodding at the last people to leave. “Can I give you a lift home, Frankie?” He looked hopeful.

  “No, thanks,” she answered gently. “I didn’t have time to load a couple of boxes of desk junk into my car before dropping by here, so I need to swing back by the office.”

  “I saw the boxes and carried them down,” he said with a defeated shrug. “It’ll only take me a couple of minutes to transfer them from my trunk to yours.”

  She gave him a fond smile. “Thanks, now I won’t have to go back to that empty office.” Frankie hesitated, wondering if she should record another voice message to say she’d left the company. Then she changed her mind. Everyone who knew her knew she was leaving…everyone who cared, that is.

  AS THE WEEKS PASSED into May, Randy’s hurt that Frankie hadn’t returned his call dulled, then flamed to anger. She’d been stranded, broke, dirty and scared when he first met her, and he’d gone so far as to extend his home to her. The least she could do was acknowledge his phone call and spare five minutes to see him if he came to her city.

  Friday nights were the worst, and this particular Friday night he found himself sitting in the bar office, tinkering with his new desktop computer and holding the phone, considering leaving her another message. He drank a mouthful of beer, then hesitated. Maybe he should wait until Monday during the day and try to catch her in her office. Then he sighed and rubbed his hand down his face. What did he care? He’d left Frankie a message—three of them, he recalled wryly—and she hadn’t bothered to call back with so much as a howdy-doo for the man whom she “couldn’t thank enough” for all he’d done for her.

  A rap on the door broke into his thoughts. “Yeah?”

  Parker stuck his head inside. “A minute of your time, Randy?”

  “Sure, come on in.”

  The older man closed the door, removed his reading glasses and poked the tip of the earpiece into his mouth. “Randy, I realize only a few days have passed, but I’m anxious to know if you’ve given any thought to my offer.”

  Randy sat up and crossed his arms. “Well, sure I have, Parker. It’s too much money not to give the idea some thought. But for the life of me, I can’t imagine why you’d want this place.”

  Parker’s mouth turned down in a thoughtful frown. “It’s not so complicated, my boy. I have the money, I’m here more often than not anyway, and, well, quite frankly, my agent thinks a tavern of my own would be good for publicity.”

  Randy’s eyebrows rose and his companion had the grace to blush. “Thinking of changing the name, are you?”

  Parker shrugged as a sheepish smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “Perhaps.”

  Randy chuckled, shaking his head. “There’s just one problem, old man.”

  “And that is?”

  “What the heck would I do?”

  Parker scoffed, dismissing Randy’s concern. “You’ve had your little rest, now it’s high time you got on with your life. Get back into investments where you belong.”

  Randy frowned wryly. “Parker, I know there’s a lot of money in Key West, but this isn’t exactly the financial pulse of the South.”

  “You’re a free man, you can go anywhere—Miami, Orlando…Atlanta.”

  Randy tensed for the sick feeling that descended every time he thought about Atlanta, but it didn’t come. Instead, flashes of the things he loved about the city entered his mind: the skyline, the hectic pace, the mild climate; blazing azaleas, pine trees and the Braves.

  He mulled over the idea for a while, then glanced up and shrugged. “Maybe I’ll…give it another try…someday.”

  “You can go into business for yourself this time.”

  Randy pursed his mouth, nodding slowly. “Develop my own portfolios and treat clients my way.” Warming to the idea, he squeezed his fingers to his temples, shaking his head. “Dammit, Parker, just think of all the money I’ve missed out on making for other people over these last ten years.”

  The old man smiled. “There will always be more money to be made, my boy.” He clucked. “But I can see in your eyes that you are making a wise decision in this new direction. You already seem more…energetic. I sensed you were looking to make a change ever since the girl left.”

  Randy didn’t have to ask who “the girl” was. In fact, for once he felt too good to argue, so he simply nodded. Loving Frankie—he stopped, then pressed on—loving Frankie had been a catalyst for his mind and body, reminding him he was alive, with a searching intellect. “I’ll need to take some refresher courses, renew my license, find an office…”

  “You can maintain your little home here—I’ll rent it out for you if you like. And with the money from the tavern, you should be able to secure a nice office space, say in Midtown?”

  Randy pointed his index finger toward Parker. “Midtown—now you’re talking.”

  “A chum of mine is refurbishing a charming old building to house apartments, professional offices, eateries, and the like. We can jet up next weekend and take a look around.”

  “Sounds great,” Randy agreed, his adrenaline churning. He trusted Parker’s taste implicitly.

  “So, do we have a deal on the bar?” Parker extended his hand.

  Randy looked around the tiny, shabby office for a few seconds, contemplating all the soul-searching and drinking he’d performed within the confines of its walls over the last ten years or so. Then he glanced to his friend and stood, accepting his hand with a firm shake. “Deal.”

  15

  FRANKIE FELT CLOSER to Randy in Atlanta, and not just in terms of physical miles. Since her café served only breakfast and lunch, occasionally she explored the city in the evenings on foot. At times, she experienced a tightness in her chest or a tingling over her skin and she would
imagine she and Randy had walked over the same ground. The notion was silly, she knew, but since moving to the city, she’d become more susceptible to daydreaming and flights of fancy. The experiences of the past few months had freed her mind and spirit—she was determined to make a go of the café, and in time, when her heart had rebounded, she’d find a man who would help her forget about Randy Tate.

  Thanks to Parker’s friend, she had found a decent apartment on the outskirts of Midtown, a leisurely walk from her brand-new eatery. She’d decided to take decorating chances in the one-bedroom flat she wouldn’t have considered in her conservative condo in Cincinnati. A couple of gallons of paint and a hundred yards of brilliantly colored fabric later, she had transformed the ho-hum quarters into a wonderfully eclectic living space, appropriately hip for the artsy area of town. Frankie immersed herself in her new life-style, dividing her time between working at the café, planting a herb garden on her apartment terrace, dining with neighbors, avoiding her parents…and missing Randy.

  She had planned to be so busy with the café that she’d scarcely have time to think about him, but for some reason he preyed on her mind with increasing intensity. The nights were the worst. From her pillow, she had a clear view of the D in the huge neon All-Night Diner sign on the other side of the wide street. The bright illumination reminded her of the lights of Key West, and a flood of other memories invariably followed. A spring heat wave forced Frankie to sleep with the windows open to cool her un-air-conditioned rooms. She lay on her new, crisp sheets and imagined Randy’s big, tanned body next to her, their legs tangled, their desires sated. Indeed, instead of his memory growing dim, he seemed to have mined his way deeper into her heart.