by Brinda Berry
The bed sags a little over my head. No way. He’s going to take a nap?
Resting my forehead on the floor, I allow myself a bit of self-pity and picture my rap sheet. It’s a bad hair day for a mug shot. The humid Nashville weather will make me appear a likely felon.
Clickety-clickety-tap-tap. He’s pounding the keys on his laptop and I imagine the worst. Prayer is not out of the question here. If he’s working from his bed instead of the fantastic desk in the other room, I’m going to scream. He works for hours straight. Why did he skip lunch to work on his computer?
The tapping stops. There’s some movement on the bed as he gets comfortable.
The television clicks on. I need to cough. It’s as if my mouth has dried and been filled cotton balls. Dry, tickly cotton balls. The sounds of a soap opera meet my ears. It’s unbelievable, but also a little amusing that he deviated from routine so he could watch daytime drama. Perhaps this is where he learned his poetic, yet dramatic writing style for his blog.
Ruining lives by exposing one postcard at a time.
My muscles ache from holding still as a two-by-four for an entire hour. Checking my watch, I try not to panic. Finally, the television clicks off and Leo leaves. I take my time extracting my stiff body from underneath his bed.
If he decides to do what he normally does at this time, I’ll have less than an hour to finish rifling through his apartment. At 1:00 in the afternoon on every Tuesday and Thursday, Leo visits the Nashville Library. I haven’t followed him inside, but he always goes in with a handful of paperwork and leaves empty handed. This excursion ranks high on his list of puzzling routines, but no more mysterious than most of the facts about him.
His apartment reminds me of a library. Everything has an organized spot, which makes the location of his blogging material sort of mind-boggling. Postcards for his Mr. Expose blog should certainly be beside his desk, an area I’ve already searched.
I look around the bedroom, partitioned off from the living room in his loft apartment. This place totally lacks storage space. One armoire sits in the corner, and a trunk lies underneath a long set of windows. The guy doesn’t have much stuff. This should be easy.
I open the double doors of the armoire to find the wooden space packed with jeans, one black suit, and some long sleeved shirts. Shoes are piled at the bottom. I close the doors and move on to the trunk.
“If I were a postcard, where would I be? Yes. Here.” I lift the lid. Crapola. The trunk is filled with t-shirts folded neatly into perfect squares of the same diameter. Did Leo get his training at The Gap? I squish my hands down into the spaces between shirts to make sure there isn’t anything else hidden.
I slam the lid and bump against a side table. A coffee mug tips over and liquid drizzles over the surface and onto the edge of a magazine. My heart taps double-time in my throat.
Oh, come on, Mr. Tidy. You couldn’t have put your mug in the sink? I grab the edge of my T-shirt and wipe at it before coffee can soak into the magazine.
I look down at the once white material. Ruined. Oh, Leo Jensen, you are truly a pain in the patootie. I like this shirt and living out of a suitcase doesn’t allow me one to spare.
I walk once more back through the open living area and kitchen. One wall has a bookshelf filled completely with hardbacks. I search the cabinets beside the refrigerator and another set built into the bottom of the island bar.
He has little food and only a few appliances, pots, and pans. No wonder he eats lunch most days in the bar.
No postcards hidden in the kitchen.
I catch a glimpse of someone in the large window lining one wall. A bolt of fear zings my heart like I’ve been electrocuted.
I’ve been caught.
Then I recognize the image. Wild hair that’s escaped my usual ponytail during the excursion under the bed. Frazzled expression. It’s only me, my crazy, mug shot-ready reflection. There is no way I’m getting trapped in here again. With a sigh, I let myself out, lock up, and return the shiny gold key to its place under the mat.
* * *
The next morning, I’m up later than usual. My cell alarm flashes 10:30 am. I push damp hair from my forehead. The hotel building lacks modern heating and air conditioning. Finally, cool air pushes up from the floor unit. I pull the string on the light-blocking curtains. A film of condensation obstructs my view momentarily, and I wipe my palm across the glass. The unit blows frigid air into the bottom of my oversized T-shirt and forces the fabric to billow bell-shaped around my thighs. I shudder.
Cold. I hate being cold. My mind flashes to another city. I detested Tacoma with its never-changing, dark horizons. My entire life turned blue and gray last winter. But I can’t blame everything on the weather.
Tacoma’s climate and people matched my life with Wesley—cold, distant, and lonely. A person on the outside, looking in with my nose pressed to the window. Tacoma was the perfect place to hide a wife and keep her estranged from family, far away in Texas.
Her family and his.
The view through my window isn’t the greatest, but it’s one I’ve studied for days—one rooftop below my fifth floor window, a busy street with lots of noisy traffic, and a row of restaurants and bars on the opposite side of the street.
Movement across the street reels my attention back to the present. Leo Jensen opens the coffee shop door and allows a girl to exit. She stops and spends several seconds smiling and talking to him. His classic All-American profile shines from all the way over there.
“Leo, you seem nice. Why were you so mean in the emails?” I step back and grab my binoculars from the nightstand before returning to the window. The two of them pull into focus.
The girl, a cute, twentyish brunette, shifts subtly closer to Leo. He backs away. I shake my head. Body language doesn’t lie. Lady, are you blind? The girl across the street obviously is, and keeps inching toward him.
Leo points toward the west, gives her a smile, and enters the coffee shop. The girl walks away, but I can still see her smiling long after he disappears inside.
I quickly get dressed and find my phone. Evidently, I slept like the dead, because I’ve missed several calls. My mother’s voicemail urges me to call my daddy. She doesn’t say what he wants, but I know he’s going to try to persuade me to move home.
The second voicemail is the one I dread listening to even more than my mother’s. I stare at the number that belongs to Isabella Warren—Wesley’s legal wife and the mother of his beautiful daughter, Charley.
Wesley. Dead, but still reaching out from the grave to affect us.
“Harper? I wanted to talk when you have time. You’re the only one who understands what I’m going through. Charley and I have a museum visit today, but you can call back anytime after nine. Hope you are doing well.”
I swallow the lump I get every time I imagine Charley missing her dad. Wesley.
It’s still hard to reconcile the Wesley who kept me in Tacoma with the Wesley that seven-year-old Charley knew—a kind, caring father. Trying to make the mental picture work is like squashing a one-foot-square block into an ant-sized pinhole.
First, I need to visit Dog Ears Bookstore, a cute little place only a couple of blocks from my hotel. The hotel concierge said Dog Ears stocks the best resources for books about the neighborhoods and places to live in Nashville.
I take my time, enjoying the scenery as I stroll the five blocks. Nashville feels like home. The city’s not exactly like Austin, but a close cousin. A cousin with more of a swagger—louder and more worried about getting your attention. Still, the music and the people are of the same family.
Colorful objects fill the bookstore window. There’s an elaborate tea set with hardback books stacked under various colorful cups. On closer inspection, it’s clear that all the books deal with tea.
Taking a deep breath, I enter and look around for an employee. There’s only one, apparently, and she’s with a customer, so I turn to the nearest shelf and pick up a book. The bookstore opened an
hour ago and most aisles appear empty.
A buoyant voice startles me. “I see you’ve found Fifty Ways to Please Your Lover,” the girl says, the same girl I spotted talking to Leo a day ago at the bar. Lucky coincidence? She gives me a cheerleader smile to match her voice.
“Excuse me?” I shift uncomfortably.
She cocks her head to the side and looks at the book in my hands. “Wrong book?”
“Oh,” I flip the book to the front. The cover, a naked couple locked in an incredibly acrobatic embrace, causes me to avert my eyes. “I…um…picked it up by mistake.” I shove the book back onto the shelf.
“What brings you in today? By the way,” she gives a devious smirk, “that book you picked up is a New York Times bestseller. I sell at least a copy a day.”
“I don’t want to please a lover.” I lower my voice to right above a whisper. Is my declaration a Freudian slip buried deep in my heart? Can the other customer hear this conversation?
She grins.
I want to crawl behind a shelf. “I don’t have a lover.” I am not helping the situation, but cannot seem to stop myself. “I don’t need a book for that.”
She bobs her head in agreement as if she deals with awkward customers every day. “OK then. Wonderful. My name is Josie. Can I help you find a great read today?”
The only other customer in the store exits and I refocus on Josie. “I’m browsing.”
“Sure. Let me point out some sections of the store. We have self-help in front of you. Popular fiction books on all these stands near the front middle. Popular non-fiction near the back. Fiction organized by genres and then author on the walls.” Josie points to a poster mounted behind the counter. “There’s a map of the store. Or ask me.”
“Non-Fiction. Is there a book about Nashville?”
“Too many to list. Follow me.” She leads the way to the left wall of the store. “Are you looking for a travelogue? Or a historical?”
I lift my shoulders, attempting a casual shrug. “I’m visiting. It’s my first time.”
She glances over at me before striding to the end of the shelf. “A Nashville virgin. You’ll want tourist stuff then. There’s so much to do that you’ll have to be selective.”
“I’m thinking about sticking around. Moving here, if I can find a job and a place to live.”
“Really? We must’ve made some impression on you. You aren’t a musician, are you?”
“No.” I pause for a minute. “I think I’ve seen you before. Were you eating lunch at Dastardly Bastards the other day?” I deliver my words slow enough to sound uncertain.
“Oh yeah. I eat there all the time. Good burgers.”
“You were at a table near me. I think you might’ve been with your boyfriend.”
She snorts. “Leo? No. He’s my brother. But you just reminded me of something. Are you looking for a house? Or an apartment?” Josie pulls a book about Nashville restaurants from the shelf and hands it to me.
“What?” I’m confused.
“You said you need a place to live. There’s an apartment in Leo’s building that’s empty. It’s for rent if you’re interested. The rental has these amazing high ceilings. Leo’s been hoping it doesn’t rent because the last renters were partiers and drove him insane. But you don’t seem the type to swing from the—”
“Can you give me the info? I’ll check it out. That would be amazing.” I pull out my phone. Some things are meant to be and I know without any doubt, I’ve been handed a plan.
“Let me see what info I’ve got.” She leaves to search on her laptop.
“I’m so glad I stopped in here.” I walk to stand in front of the counter and pick up a brochure that I have no intention of reading.
“I found the number. There’s a couple of guys who own a bakery and the apartments. Here’s you go.” She flips a Dog Ears Bookstore business card over and writes on the back, then hands it to me. “The apartment is above the bakery. I thought about renting it myself, but I don’t want to live so close to my brother. I love him and all, but…you know. I need some privacy. But he’s great,” she adds. “You’ll love him for a neighbor.”
“Is your brother a singer? I mean, he looked familiar. Maybe I’ve heard him play.” I’m reaching for anything to keep the conversation going about Leo.
“No. He’s a writer.”
“Oh.” I take a minute to grab a book from the shelf. “So, what kind of stuff does he write?”
I’m waiting for her to tell me all about the blog. Suddenly I’m not sure this is going to be easy. It’s not likely that she’ll just outright tell me where he stores his writing inspiration.
“Oh, he wants to write the next great American novel. We’ll see. He’s actually pretty good.”
She’s not answering my question. I want to talk about Mr. Expose, but I can see it isn’t going to happen. I slip the card into my pocket. “I’ll call as soon as I leave here. Thanks. And I’ll take this book.” I slide the hardback across the counter.
“So, the apartment’s small. It’s just you? No husband or kids?” Josie asks.
My pulse quickens at the thought of Wesley and how I begged him for a baby. No wonder he didn’t want a child. He already had one and a wife to spare. I shift and look at my left hand. “No husband. I’m a widow.”
“I’m so sorry.” She has a funny expression on her face. That awkward look people get when they wish they could suck back the words they’ve said earlier. I know the feeling. Explicitly.
She concentrates on her register and rings up the book. “That’s $24.99.”
I hand her my credit card. “It’s only me, starting a new life.”
A life without regrets and with my eyes wide open.
3
Worse Comes to Worst
Leo
“Where’s your stalker today?” Dane slides a plate of burger and fries across the bar. The pendant light above his head glints off his shit-eating grin. He grabs my cola and refills the empty glass without breaking eye contact.
I ignore his razzing and glance toward the stage as a guy taps the mic and perches on a stool, ready to croon to the diners. Dane teasing me about a stalker makes me think about my pain-in-the-ass ex, Tori, who turns up like a bad penny. The thought of her could ruin my meal. I’d rather talk about anything else. “Since when do you have lunch entertainment?”
Dane gives the guy on stage his attention for all of a second before looking at me. “Yesterday. So you’re interested in the music lineup now? Quit changing the subject. I’m talking about your personal fan club. The chic who watches you like you’re the last donut in the case. I told you man, she quizzed me about you yesterday after you left. But I didn’t divulge confidential information. My lips are sealed. I’m like an attorney. Or a bartender or a therapist.”
Dane’s stalker comment isn’t too far off. Not that I’m actually worried about the blonde who seems to be everywhere I go. Still, it’s weird, and my run-ins with Tori have me on edge. The first time, it was the eerie feeling of being watched that made me notice her. I was checking my post office box and the blonde was at Letters Express, where I check my mail for the Mr. Expose blog. I smiled at her and she looked away.
The second day she was there again. And every day that week. I shake my head. Shit. Soon, I’ll be thinking my entire life is a conspiracy theory and women are the archenemy.
“Earth to Leo. Come in, Leo,” Dane says. “If you want me to introduce you, I can. That’s if she comes in again.”
“Not interested.” I wish my words were the truth. I am interested, but there’s something about her that’s too intense. Too knowing. Her moss green eyes seem to look straight into my soul.
And I need a breather from intense.
Dane glances toward the door. “Yup, there she is. Just a little late today,” he says in his drawling Southern accent that charms all his customers. He wipes the very clean bar in front of him and watches one of his waitresses walk a menu and the girl over to a table in
the corner.
My shoulders tense. I resist turning to look at the blonde. I’ve watched her plenty over the past two weeks and maybe she’s thinking I’m the creepy one. “Poker at your place this week?”
“Eight o’clock. Bring some pretzels or something.”
“Sounds great.”
Dane lowers his head, pretending to read a newspaper he picks up from the counter. “Don’t look now, but the stalker hasn’t taken her eyes off you since the minute she walked in.”
“Quit looking at her and stop with the stalker talk,” I mutter and take a bite of my burger.
He chuckles. “She’s hot. She can stalk me anytime she wants.”
I finish swallowing before I answer. “If you’re so into her, why don’t you give her your number?”
“Because she’s all about you, you dumb shit.” Dane’s eyebrows draw together. “But you’re going to let one bad relationship hold you back.”
“No.” I wipe my hands on a napkin. “We’re not going there. I’m not discussing my dating life with a dude who thinks speed dating is a way of life. You could be with the girl you really want, if you’d quit chasing skirt.”
Dane’s mouth opens as if he’s going to say something, then stops. His eyes narrow and he shakes his head. Luckily, the sound of acoustic guitar prevents us from continuing the conversation. He shifts his attention to the musician.
I glance from the small stage near the windows back to Dane and nod approvingly. “Dang. He’s good.”
“Thought I’d try some live music for the lunch crowd,” Dane says. He looks over his shoulder at the waitress to his right. “What you need, hon?”
She holds out a sheet of paper. “The delivery guy is at the back door unloading. Sign the ticket.”
Dane takes the delivery slip from her, signs it, and hands it back. She doesn’t move. “Need something else?” he asks.
