Secrets In Our Scars

by Rebecca Trogner

  My economics professor at the community college calls Mangler a recession-proof business. Our customers are some of the wealthiest families in the United States. Not the ones you see written about in the tabloids, but the families who guard their privacy fiercely. Their ancestors owned the oil and coal companies, invented machines, ran factories, and laid the tracks trains run on today. The money made from those early exploits provides dividends allowing them to live out their lives in the beautiful countryside of Virginia like displaced royalty.

  Aunt Mae gives her identical twin the side-eye. “Then why’d we accept the contract?”

  “Because we’re the best in the business and I won’t have some city company coming in here and doing our job.”

  While my aunts bicker, I sip my coffee and concentrate on acting normal. Without meaning to, I mutter, “I don’t think we should deliver to them again.”

  “Did something happen?” Aunt Stella asks.

  Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut? I sip my coffee to steady my nerves. “I don’t think they liked me on the movie set.”

  From their reflections in the glass, I see them look at each other and back at me.

  “Were they rude?” Aunt Mae, at seventy-two, is sharp of mind and wit.

  Yes, I want to scream, but control my voice and heave out a sigh. “Not welcoming.”

  “Humph. Serves us right for taking in cheap linen.” Aunt Stella shakes her head. “I knew I shouldn’t have done it. And the costumes—probably made in China.”

  I retreat to the sorting room like a wounded animal. I wish I could go home and take a long, hot shower and scrub the top layer of my skin off. Instead, I pick the easiest mending job, Mr. Yancy’s foxhunting coat. The buttons need replacing and the frayed hem needs restitching. When I mentioned he might consider a new one, he’d replied he could get a season or two more out of it. The man is rich as Croesus but would fight you for a dime.

  The basic repairs take twice as long as usual with my lack of focus and the intermittent shaking of my hands. Get a grip, I tell myself. It’s over. You’re fine. You were almost out of there anyway. But I hadn’t had to escape on my own because the other man, the one who seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the trailer by his sheer size, helped me. I retrieve his business card from my shorts pocket and smooth the crumpled edges.

  Roy Blackwood

  President

  Titan Services Group

  “Daisy,” Aunt Stella calls, “you have a visitor.”

  I’m in no mood to socialize, but I tuck the card away, take a deep breath to compose my face, and walk around the corner to see him, here, at Mangler. He being Mr. Roy Blackwood, looking like a giant beside my petite aunts.

  “Daisy,” his voice is rich and dark. His brow lifts in a sardonic arc. “I think we have some unfinished business.”

  I’m silently praying he doesn’t reveal anything in front of my aunts. “We do?” I squeak.

  He reaches inside his jacket, pulls out a folded sheet of paper, and places it on the counter. “I forgot to sign the invoice for you.”

  “Oh,” escapes on a breath, and I lean against the wall for support, hoping I look nonchalant.

  “Well, it sounds like our Daisy had a hard time of it at that set of yours.” Aunt Mae makes the word ‘set’ sound distasteful.

  His eyebrow rises higher as he looks from my aunt to me. Please don’t tell them, I beg with my eyes. “The shooting schedule has been hectic. There was confusion when Daisy arrived.”

  My anger flares at his nonchalant tone, which is ridiculous given I want him to keep our secret. But a part of me is speared through the heart as he quickly brushes it aside and charms my aunts. I think of all the things I should have done at that trailer instead of freezing up and gulping for air like a freshly caught trout. Like before. Like always.

  Deflated, I drop into a chair like an unloved doll.

  “Our Daisy won’t be rushing off like that again.” Aunt Stella crosses her arms. “Driving out there and waiting around in the midday heat. Why, she came back looking like a sheet left too long in the bleach-water. I tell you, we’ve had nothing but trouble from those movie people.”

  Aunt Mae throws in an “Amen.”

  “No siree,” Aunt Stella continues, like a fully loaded truck barreling downhill with no brakes. “No more deliveries.” She squares her shoulders. “They drop off and pick up. That’s what’s in the contract we signed.”

  “I agree.” He cuts a quick glance my way. “You have my word the responsible party regrets the egregious mistake.”

  My slight aunts tag-team Roy with their grievances against the movie people and their manners and the poor state of the costumes. They remind me of small birds chasing a hawk away from their nest.

  To his credit, Roy’s at ease as he nods and agrees and even commiserates with them.

  I want to hate him, to blame him for what happened to me. But as I observe him with my aunts, that’s not the way I feel, and though it makes no sense to me, I relax in his presence and scrutinize him unobserved.

  Roy’s suit is custom, the fabric expensive, and the cut classic. His shoes have a mirror shine. The way he holds himself is confident, like he knows no one can beat him. The hard lines and angles of his face add to his magnetism. In short, he’s devastatingly handsome, and I’m sure he’s well aware of this fact as his eyes periodically flick over me and the rest of the room.

  How old is he? Why is he here? And why was he in the trailer? And how did he know how to help me? Now that I’m calmer and in a safe environment, I realize Jason was vaguely familiar. Obviously, he’s an actor, so I must have seen him in something. I’m mentally scrolling through the articles I’ve read about the movie when I realize the room is silent and everyone is watching me like they’re waiting for me to respond.

  Aunt Mae’s head tilts to the side. “Dear, did you hear what Mr. Blackwood asked?”

  What did I miss? “Sorry.” I sit up straight and tuck a curl behind my ear. “What?”

  “I was telling your charming aunts I’d like to make up for my brusque behavior and take you out to dinner tonight.”

  Mae and Stella are smiling like schoolgirls. Mr. Blackwood has won them over. Et tu, aunties.

  There’s no way he wants to have dinner with me. Not someone like him. “No,” I respond firmly and add, “I appreciate you taking the time to bring the invoice.”

  His lips form a seductive smile. “Breakfast tomorrow.”

  Before I can answer, Stella gives me a stern look, and pipes in, “Yes, she’d love to.”

  I shake my head, knowing resistance is futile. They’re tenacious as terriers and have no intention of letting a handsome man, one they perceive as being interested in me, escape.

  “Good.” He adjusts the cuff of his shirt. “I’ll see you at ten.”

  In silence, almost like we’re all in a collective trance, we watch him walk out of Mangler. A man wearing an equally impressive suit opens the rear door of a black Suburban, and Roy slides his substantial body inside.

  “Always love a man who knows how to dress well.” Stella flips the door sign to the closed position.

  “His tailor must be English,” Mae pipes in. “Fits his body perfectly.”

  “And what a body.” Stella giggles like a teenager and fans her face with the invoice.

  “I don’t want to go,” I tell them.

  “Pfft,” they reply in unison.

  Chapter Two

  Hiding in the back room, I pretend to repair a beaded gown and glare at the clock’s minute hand ticking off the seconds. At precisely ten o’clock the brass bell above the shop door jingles.

  “Daisy,” Aunt Mae calls. “Mr. Blackwood is here.”

  I hate how happy my aunts are about this. All morning, they’ve been talking about how I should change into a dress, or put on makeup, or do something with my hair even though I’ve repeatedly told them this is not a date. Neither of them is buying what I’m selling.

  “Roy
, please call me Roy.”

  I hear his deep voice before rounding the corner. My aunts smile up at him like tweens at a Bieber concert.

  Mae frowns at my attire. “There’s our Daisy.”

  I don’t need to dress up for Mr. Lethal. As if he’ll even notice my shorts, Converse sneakers, and Mangler polo shirt. Of course, he’s dressed like a Wall Street banker in a dark-blue suit with a white shirt and a silver tie.

  “Ladies.” Roy nods to my aunts and opens the door for me.

  He sets a brisk pace as we walk along Federal Street, or maybe it’s a leisurely stroll for him since his legs seem twice as long as mine. I jolt when he rests his hand ever-so-slightly on the small of my back. Curiously, the heat emanating from his fingers sends tendrils of warmth up my spine, easing my anxiety.

  “Look.” I launch into the speech I’ve practiced all morning. “I know the guy at the trailer must be important, but it doesn’t matter because I don’t know who he is. And it wasn’t a big deal. And you’re his bodyguard and want to protect his reputation. I get it. But it’s not necessary, because I’m not going to say anything.” I keep my eyes on the sidewalk ahead. “You can go back and tell him I won’t cause any trouble. So this meeting isn’t necessary.”

  He snorts. “Why would you think I'm his bodyguard?”

  Why wouldn’t I? He’s ginormous, fast, and his hawkish eyes always seem to be searching for prey.

  “I’m sure you’re busy. Let’s just forget about this.” I try to stop and turn, but his hand gently propels me forward, so I peek through my thick hair to gauge his receptiveness to my plan. Eyes straight ahead, jaw clenched, not looking one bit interested in deviating from our meeting.

  He stops in front of Federal Street Café. When he removes his hand from my back, I sway slightly as he opens the gate. “I hope this is acceptable.”

  I eat here at least twice a week. “Fine,” I mumble in defeat.

  “Mr. Blackwood, so nice to see you again.” Connie and her megawatt smile greet us at the door.

  Like many of the businesses in Middleburg, the café was once a home and retains the same floor plan with only the necessary modifications. Connie leads us across the front room—I assume it was once the living room—to a far table by the bay window overlooking the inner courtyard. I notice the glances Roy receives as we make our way to our table. The women follow him with their eyes, and the men show irritation at being suddenly ignored by their companions.

  Connie places menus on the table like she’s a model at a Detroit car show. “Will this do?”

  He gives a noncommittal nod and pulls out a chair for me. I’m always unsure how this works. Do I half sit and pull it forward? Do I sit and let him push it forward? Either way, I’d hate to scratch the old hardwood floors with the chair legs and decide to be a woman of the twenty-first century. For the first time since meeting Roy, I take charge of the situation.

  “I got it.” I position the chair and slide into it.

  Connie’s smile drops. “I’ll get your coffee.”

  Roy smirks and takes the chair across from me.

  Instead of reading the menu I spy on Mr. Lethal while he’s engrossed in the breakfast options. He’s relaxed, comfortable in a suit. Yesterday, he had a two-day stubble. Today, he’s freshly shaved. There’s something familiar about him. Not the specifics of his face, but more his size and voice that triggers recognition. Why can’t I remember? His silver cufflinks catch my eye. Of course, they’re engraved with his initials. I lean closer. He’s opted for the first, last—larger than the other letters, and middle-name arrangement. The R and B I know are for Roy Blackwood. The Z has me stumped.

  “A glimmer of a smile, Miss Aldridge?”

  Oh shit! How long has he been watching me?

  He continues, “It suits you.”

  Connie’s back with her blond hair freshly combed and her lips accentuated in a darker shade of red. While pouring coffee, she smiles at Roy like she’s won the lottery.

  “Thank you.” His eyes are firmly fixed on the front door.

  “Daisy, I had no idea you knew Mr. Blackwood.” She’s fishing. I know there’ll be a text from her after we leave.

  I nudge my cup toward her. “Movie costume business.” When it’s filled, I cradle the warm cup between my hands.

  “Oh.” Her lips form a perfect circle. “We’ve had scads of business since Mr. Blackwood made this his regular place.” She lightly touches his shoulder, and I notice his jaw tighten. “We do appreciate all the business you’ve brought in. Why, we had a huge party last night.” Connie’s settling in for a long one. Aunt Mae says she could talk the legs off a table. “And everyone was all worried about the movie people coming to town.”

  I cringe at the compliment wrapped in an insult and notice Mr. Lethal’s hand form a fist on the table. Were his knuckles scraped and bruised yesterday?

  “Connie,” I interrupt. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

  “Oh, sure.” She flutters her eyelashes at Roy. “You know how I am. Meeting all the new people.” She steps closer to Roy. “So glamorous compared to...” She nods her head toward the rest of the patrons.

  Roy clears his throat. “Miss Aldridge?”

  “The usual.” I give Connie a warm smile she doesn’t notice as her attention has already returned to Roy.

  “I’ll have two hunter’s omelets, breakfast potatoes, and four slices of toast with butter on the side,” he says. “Is the orange juice freshly squeezed?”

  She giggles and slightly bends at the waist, showcasing her cleavage. “Squeezed those juicy oranges myself.”

  Connie is all but taking off her bra and waving it like a matador. In a way, Roy does remind me of a bull. I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

  He hands her both our menus. “A large glass.”

  “Right away.” And she sashays off.

  “Why are you biting your lip?”

  Does he see everything? “Why are your knuckles bruised?” I counter.

  He leans back, stressing the wooden structure of the chair, and relaxes his giant paw of a hand until it’s flat against the pressed, white linen. “There are times when punishment requires a blunt approach.”

  “You beat someone?” Jason? Did he hit Jason? God, I hope so.

  “Tit for tat, Miss Aldridge.” He glances at my lips.

  Connie’s a kind person, always upbeat even if she’s having a bad day. He should be nicer to her. I sit up straight and cross my legs. “You probably think we’re all a bunch of rubes, being from Los Angeles and all.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I have clients here.”

  “Why were you rude to Connie?”

  “Is she a friend of yours?”

  I capture an errant curl and tuck it behind my ear. “We graduated in the same high school class. She was a cheerleader. We didn’t talk much.”

  “You look younger.” He taps his index finger on the table. “You see such things as beneath you?”

  “Cheerleading?” I shake my head. “No, I meant she was popular.”

  He nods and scans the room. “My intention wasn’t to be rude. This is a place of business. I tip Connie well. I think I’ve been quite generous to her.”

  I scoot forward in my chair and whisper, “But you know she likes you, right?”

  A glint of amusement flashes across his green eyes. “I’m well aware, Miss Aldridge.”

  “Just Daisy. Miss Aldridge is one of my aunts.” Women probably flirt with him all the time. “Have we met before?”

  His only response is to continue tapping his finger on the table.

  “You acted like you knew me.” Well, I think he did. But what the hell do I know? I had been close to passing out.

  “Did I?” His eyes scan the room.

  “Maybe you’ve seen me around town or something.” He straightens his tie, which was perfectly fine. “There’s no way I’d forget meeting you.” He cuts his eyes back to me. “’Cause you’re massive. Not fat.” I quickly add. �
��I mean you’ve got a lot of muscle, and are tall, like treetop tall, and handsome. I’m sure you know that though, and...” Where’s a sinkhole when you need one?

  A slight smile plays across his lips like he’s accustomed to people saying idiotic things in his presence.

  I sip my coffee and spy the sugar packets tucked inside a teacup sitting inches from Roy’s hand. It’s stupid, but I’m uneasy about reaching for it. As if he knows what I’m thinking, his fingers push it toward me. Thank you, I almost say, but he’s not even paying attention to me, his face a mask I cannot read.

  “What do you like to do?” he asks, focusing his intense gaze on me.

  “Um, do…I like books, a lot, and movies. Oh, and I jog, more cross country really, like whenever I’m anxious or worried, and…” Can I sound any more pitiful?

  “I imagine you have a boyfriend. Attend a lot of parties in town and socialize.”

  Is he making fun of me? “No, not my thing.” I don’t know why, but I need to make myself seem more worthy of his attention. “I’m going out tonight with a friend, to the Red Horse Tavern.”

  “A date?”

  Why does he keep asking that? “I don’t date.”

  Before he can say anything, Connie arrives. Her arm lined with plates. She carefully removes each one and places it on the table.

  He glares at my food. “You’re joking.”

  What’s he got against cinnamon rolls? “They’re good here.”

  “That won’t do.” He sets his eyes on Connie like he’s aiming a gun. “Bring her some eggs.”

  She wilts under his disapproval.

  “I don’t like eggs.” I sit up straight and place my hands on the table.

  He whips his eyes to me. “You’re eating a decent breakfast.”

  Connie seems unaware her mouth is gaping as she watches our exchange.

  Who does he think he is? “Rude, much?” I tilt my chin up. “Mister, I’ll have a heart attack for breakfast.”

  “Hmph.” He rakes his hand through his hair. “Milk. Do you like milk?”