Sweet Secrets

by Rhonda Sheree

  Today the job search is less fruitful than yesterday. I’d managed to email my résumé to a few local businesses seeking staff accountants and bookkeepers. Today, however, there weren’t any fresh postings of jobs on the websites I searched.

  “Tomorrow, maybe,” I say to myself and log off.

  I head over to the reference computer and execute a search for Grayson’s name. Sure enough, three titles pop up. The Abandoned Boy, The Saved Man. Interesting. Building a Career with Two Hands and a Pipe Dream. Yeah, I could definitely use a book like that. But it’s the third title that really catches my attention: Learning How to Love, Lose, and Live Again. Checked out.

  Darn. I guess there’s always the bookstore. Since the other two are shelved, I grab them from their respective places and settle down at one of the carrels. Grayson’s black-and-white picture takes up the entire back of both books. I could stare at that picture forever. Even without the intense color of his eyes one can see the beauty in them. And something else. I hold the book so close to my nose that it almost touches.

  Sadness? No, that it isn’t. I stare a moment longer. There’s something about those eyes. I can’t put my finger on what the emotion is that I’m witnessing. Turmoil? Conflict? Maybe. Definitely maybe. Just look at him. The half-smile doesn’t reach his eyes. This man, who’s writing books on how to achieve ones dreams, looks a bit…unfulfilled.

  I thumb through the business book about building a career. Lots of narrative and bullet points on how to advance one’s career, parables about those who have stumbled and prospered. If he knew what I was going through right now, he’d probably dedicate a copy to me. Then I pick up the other.

  Oh, my…

  Abandoned Boy is a relatively small book with a heartbreaking premise. I devour the entire story in about three hours. Grayson writes of his emotional detachment from his father after his mother abandoned them when he was nine. He writes of guilt and anger and then eventually of hate for his alcoholic father. But then some things began to turn around for him. Tears well my eyes as he writes of his favorite teacher, Quincy Cole. Dad. Grayson tells a story of a boy who felt rejected and then selected, singled out by my father, who felt a connection with him. With Grayson’s father’s blessing, Dad would invite him over for dinner, take him to sports games in New York, and, to my surprise, the two would share their writing with one another. I look up from the pages. Dad rarely spoke of his work, although he wrote often. He dismissed it as nothing more than a fanciful hobby.

  I wipe a tear from my face and power through the story. It’s a good one. A simple, sweet homage to a mentor. When I’m done, I flip it to the front and look at the dedication page. It read simply, To Q. I’ll be forever indebted.

  Dad would’ve liked that.

  My cell phone cuts a shrill tune through the quiet atmosphere. I don’t dare look behind me because I can imagine the dirty looks I’m getting.

  “Yeah,” I whisper into the phone.

  “Hey, Callia. It’s me, Robert.”

  I almost drop the phone from my hand. Robert Watkins. I hadn’t expected to hear from him ever again.

  “Hey, Robert.”

  “Is this a bad time?”

  “No, no. I’m just in the library.”

  A pause. Then he says, “The library? What’re you doing there?”

  “Reading,” I say as though it’s the most obvious answer in the world. I don’t want to share my job predicament with anyone, especially not Robert. “What’s going on?”

  “I miss you,” he blurts out.

  “You miss me or miss whipping my thighs into shape?”

  “Both. Honestly. I miss hanging out with you, Callia.”

  “That’s sweet. Yeah, we did have fun times together didn’t we?”

  “Shh!” Someone hisses at me. I put the “Be Right Back” placard near my books, then grab my purse and head downstairs and out into the fresh air.

  “How is it going up there?”

  “Okay, I guess. Nothing’s ever as perfect as you hope.”

  “Hmm,” he says. He has a purpose for the call. I can sense his reluctance to get to the point. “Things are the same here. I’m headed out the door in a few minutes. The gym.”

  “That’s cool.” I perch on a metal bench. “What’s up, Robert?”

  “Yeah, well. You see, I have quite a bit of vacation saved up and I was wondering if maybe I could come see you.”

  This I was not expecting. “That’s so sweet,” I say and exhale the breath that I was holding. “You want to visit New York?”

  “No,” he said. “I want to visit you.”

  “Robert, you know, we…”

  “I know we broke up, Callia. This isn’t a marriage proposal. I just miss you. You never took crap from me, ya know? I never realized how much I liked you challenging me.”

  “Or telling you to go to hell when you complained about my baking.”

  “Yeah,” he chuckled into the phone. “I’ve got a girl I’m seeing now.”

  “Wow, that was fast.” To my surprise, the jealous note in my tone was not pure histrionics.

  “She’s been wanting to go out for ages. Now we’re chilling. But if I tell her to eat a mud pie I think she’d do it.”

  “Gross.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, that kind of attitude does have its benefits.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Robert continues. “But it also has its limits. So, what do you say? You feel like entertaining company?”

  “Robert, I’m not really set up to have company yet.”

  “I can stay in a hotel. It’s no big deal.”

  “Yeah, but my job.”

  “You mean working with Jonesie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Callia, I already know what went down. You quit before you started.”

  “Word does travel fast in the military,” I marvel, thinking about the chain. Jonesie must have told an old connect that’s still active duty, and that person must have told another, and so on, until word reached Robert.

  “Tell you what,” Robert says. “Take some time to think about it. I was hoping to come up next month. That gives you a few weeks. If you prefer I don’t come, that’s fine, I guess. Just let me know. But, Callia, it would be really cool to see you again.”

  “Yeah,” I say, feeling more mushiness inside than I should have. “I’ll let you know. Hey, my other line is beeping.”

  “Peace,” he says and disconnects the line.

  I switch over to the other call. “Hey, Carmen.”

  “Don’t hey me. Why didn’t someone tell me about the breakin? I can’t believe no one told me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I had other things on my mind. And Mom was knocked out.”

  “Someone knocked her out?” she screeched into the phone. “She didn’t tell me that!”

  “No, I meant sleep knocked her out. I didn’t see her this morning before I left for work.”

  “Where are you? I want to come visit.”

  “I’m just leaving work. Why don’t we meet for coffee?”

  “Fine,” she says. I can tell from her clipped tone that I’m going to be in for it. She gives me an address and disconnects the phone in a hurry.

  Chapter 16

  The coffee shop is in the downtown area of Richmond. I’m surprised that Carmen wants to meet on this side of town. We arrive around the same time and pick up our orders when our names are called: a blueberry muffin and mocha with whipped cream for me; a non-fat vanilla latte for her.

  When we get to the bar area that looks out onto the street, Carmen takes a bottle of hand sanitizer from her oversized bag, squeezes twelve inches of the goo on the table, then uses about twenty napkins to scrub down our area. Only then are we ready to sit.

  “How was your day?” I ask conversationally.

  Carmen snorts. What a surprisingly unappealing sound coming from someone dressed like an English princess on her way to afternoon tea. She wears a flowy white blouse that ties
into a fat bow at the neck, a tight skirt with ruffles around the knee and kitty heels.

  “You can do hair in those fancy clothes?”

  “I can do hair in a wedding dress,” she replies. “And my day has not been good. Marcus and I are splitting up.”

  Considering Carmen and I have never been particularly close, I wonder if she feels as uncomfortable in this moment as I do.

  Carmen appears to be struggling to maintain her composure, yet her forehead doesn’t wrinkle, her brows barely quiver. Now that I take a good look at her up close, I realize that nothing is moving on that ultra-smooth face except her lips. What has she had done? She’s only twenty-six.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. Never mind the fact that I’ve never spoken to her about anyone named Marcus before. “How long have you been together?”

  “Two years,” she says. “What I thought were very good years until he gave me the boot today.”

  “Is there any way you two can patch it up?” I take a bite of my muffin. Too dry. I’m more appalled at this place for selling dry muffins than I am by Carmen crying on my shoulder about losing a guy.

  “Patch things up? Sure, if his wife drops dead.”

  I cough at a few stray grains of muffin lodged in my throat. “I’m sorry—wife?”

  “Sinclair,” Carmen says with a roll of her eyes. “What a name.”

  “What’s wrong with Sinclair?”

  “It’s a pretentious name!” she snaps. “You should see how she struts around the salon. Like she owns the place. I mean, well, she does own it, but she acts like she does, you know? All uptight about us constantly sweeping and washing towels. It’s exhausting.”

  “You’re sleeping with your boss’s husband?”

  “I’m an independent hairstylist, Callia. I rent a booth from her—that’s it.”

  “Carmen, let that guy go.”

  “We can do big things together, me and Marcus,” she says. “With my talent for hair and his talent for numbers, we can do big things.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He works at a bank not too far from here.” That would explain her business in Richmond. She probably looked in on him to make sure his wandering eyes were only wandering on her. “He’s a teller but he’s going places, let me tell you. He has so many ideas for inventions, new products. Marcus just needs the right woman to push him in the right direction. Who knows what he could achieve? He’ll be so rich. If you can’t snag a rich man, the next best thing is to snag one with potential.”

  “You seem to be doing fine on your own. What do you need a guy to take care of you for?”

  She turns to me. “Because that’s what men are in the world to do, Callia. To conquer, to plant their seed, to protect their homes. And now that you’re done with that whole government servitude mindset, maybe you’ll be able to snag a guy of your own who can take care of you.”

  “I don’t care about how much money a guy makes,” I say and sip my coffee.

  Carmen doesn’t say anything with her mouth. Her eyes, however, do a quick once-over of my suit—which is a good-quality suit, even if it is off the rack from the mall—and turns up the corners of her lips.

  “You should,” she finally says. “It’s pretty obvious you could use an upgrade.”

  “Maybe so, but I haven’t gotten dumped by a married man who woke up and realized where his true allegiance lies.”

  “Mean and insensitive. That’s the big sister I remember.”

  “Insensitive. Really? Like you not even asking about Mom after knowing what happened last night?”

  Carmen puts her hand over her heart and makes faces like she’s thinking really hard about crying. “You all didn’t even call me.”

  “We didn’t want you to worry. But now that she told you, I’d think you’d ask me about her.”

  “Who were they? Drug addicts?”

  “I don’t know. Kids, I think. They had the wrong house.”

  “Are you going to press charges?”

  I shrug and look out onto the street. The downtown area looks like any you’d find in a small suburb. Clothing shops for women, children, and pets. A relic of a small, locally owned bookstore called The Reading Lane.

  “I don’t know. If Mom wants to. I don’t know if I want to get involved.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know?”

  “Can you lower your voice please?”

  “No! They deserve to be locked up for what they did. Scaring an old woman and her mother.”

  I knock her with my elbow. We both share a weak-spirited chuckled.

  “I’m serious,” Carmen continues. “They should pay.”

  “We’ll see.”

  We sit in silence for a moment while we watch a young man make his third attempt at parallel parking in front of the coffee shop. I could’ve fit a yacht in that space.

  “I want him back,” she says. Her lips are turned down into a pout.

  I look at her. Real tears are streaming down that gorgeous heart-shaped face.

  “He isn’t yours for the taking,” I remind her. Focus, Callia. Don’t get soft-hearted by those tears. Remember, this is the woman who seduced Grayson.

  “There’s never been a man I’ve wanted that I couldn’t have,” she says. No argument from me. “The only man who never paid me a bit of attention was Daddy.”

  “What? No, Carmen. I’m not going to let you go there.”

  She dabs at a tear and resumes her composure. “It doesn’t matter, Callia. It’s only an observation. I was supposed to be the favorite. I was the baby.”

  You still are, I think spitefully.

  “You and Dad were very opposite,” I say gently. “But he loved you as much as he loved me.”

  “I need to get him back,” Carmen says. She’s staring out the window as though she’s in a trance. As quickly as her eyes had teared, they have filled with hope.

  “Well, honey, if you know how to make the dead rise again, I guess you’re a more talented woman than I’ve ever given you credit for.”

  She rolled her eyes to me. “Not Dad. Marcus! I have to win him back. Make him see what a desirable woman I am to other men, then he’ll want me back.”

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  “He will.”

  “What about his wife?”

  “What about her? Callia, she’s had her time with him. Now it’s my time. Finally.”

  I take another sip of coffee and poke at my muffin. “The blueberries in here aren’t even fresh. Or even frozen. They’re dried. I think this muffin comes from a box.”

  Carmen expels a big whoosh of bored breath. “Great. Make sure you tell that to Grayson the next time you see him.”

  I look up at her. “Grayson? What’s he got to do with my muffin?”

  “Hello?” She says to me like I’m a dunce for all ages. “This place is called The Coffee Lane. Get it? Grayson Lane?”

  “He owns this place?”

  Carmen nods her head then points across the street. “The Reading Lane?”

  The Reading Lane. I hadn’t caught the connection. “He’s really a mini-mogul around these parts, huh?”

  “Yeah, whatever. What are we going to do about me and my problem?”

  “We?” I say.

  “You’re going to help me, aren’t you?”

  “Help you ruin a marriage? As much fun as that sounds, Carmen, count me out. Besides, you’re pretty and you’re a fantastic hairstylist. Why in hell do you need a man—a married man—to take care of you?”

  “Because I want the fairytale and work should be an option, not a necessity. If I want to stay home and raise kids then I need a man who can provide me a certain kind of lifestyle. Don’t you get that?”

  “Find a single guy, why don’t you?”

  “I love him, Callia. Do you have any idea how complicated love can be? It’s not like I went and sought him out.”

  “Sorry, kiddo. You’re on your own with this one.”

  I pick up my purse a
nd start to get off the bench. I think our tête-à-tête is done.

  “Nobody in this family has ever helped me!”

  What? I swivel around on my heels. I am floored: She thinks she’s the black sheep in our family! Not for a second would I ever have guessed that Carmen thought she was getting the raw deal. But perception, as they say, is reality. And who am I to deny hers?

  “I will help you do anything, Carmen. But I won’t help you do that.”

  “I’ve got it,” she says, her eyes widening.

  “Good, I’m glad you’ve got it.” I start to walk toward the door. Carmen grabs my suit jacket.

  “Grayson.”

  I look at her like she’s lost her mind. “What?”

  “Mini-mogul. And he’s single. Grayson. You’ve got to help me hook up with Grayson.”

  “Oh, no. I’m not a matchmaker.”

  “Please,” she coos. Then Carmen releases my jacket and tilts her head. “You don’t still have a thing for him, do you?”

  “What? God, no!”

  “I know in high school you two were going to go to prom and all, but you two weren’t serious, were you?”

  “Now you’re asking if we were serious?”

  “Remember what a pitiful kid he used to be? Dad’s project, as if he didn’t have his hands full with the two of us.”

  “And by the two of us you mean you,” I say.

  “Was it serious?” she asks again.

  “No,” I say.

  “Good,” she says. “Mom says you two are staying with him for a while.”

  I shrug. “Yeah, so?”

  Carmen beams and I see how a man could be tempted to leave his wife to bask in her glow. “So guess who’s coming to dinner?”

  Chapter 17

  The next few days my nerves were a bundle of frayed wire. Tonight? Is she going to pop over tonight? I can take Carmen in small doses. But to have her here, in this little sanctuary that Grayson and Mom and I have created, fills me with a dreadful anticipation, like waiting for the inevitable stiletto to drop.

  My best defense has been solitude. In the evenings, my routine has consisted of offering Mom a recap of my workday, an inventive tale that she seems to appreciate. After a fictitious yawn, I head up to my bedroom with a diet soda to help me swallow my guilt. Then I stay sequestered for the rest of the evening. That is, until Gail, a proud woman who never saw a mouth she didn’t want to stuff with southern cooking, brings me up a plate of food that’s so good I forget all about the fact that my tummy is getting softer by the day.