Black Widow

by Kristi Belcamino

  “You’re my friend,” I said.

  Exasperated sigh. “Fine. Who else?”

  “Thanh-Thanh?”

  “No. She’s your nice neighbor. You guys have never once hung out or even had a conversation, have you?”

  “No, but we could.” If she weren’t so gaga about her new boyfriend.

  “Who are your homegirls, woman?”

  “Nobody.”

  Checkmate. Mission accomplished, Darling. It’s now official—I’m a total loser.

  She brightened. “See, that’s your problem. I don’t know what I’d do without my homegirls. They listen to all my bitching about George.”

  “George is perfect.”

  She scoffed.

  “Well, he is,” I said. “Besides, I have Dante.”

  She ignored me. “My homegirls make me laugh. Make me cry. We share everything. That’s what you need. Women like you. Your age. Your peers. Women you can confide in. Share personal stuff with.”

  I cringed. “I’ve never had a female friend like that.”

  “What?”

  Even though she couldn’t see me, I shrugged. I was damaged. Big shocker.

  Chapter Two

  Floating Death Trap

  The next day I was still in bed when my door burst open, startling me out of a deep sleep.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I sat up, bleary-eyed, and fumbled for the Ruger 9mm under my pillow.

  I held it out and then let my arm dangle and drop to the bed covers.

  It was Darling.

  And Dante. My best friend. In the flesh. In my loft.

  Django, who just got a big fat F as a watch dog, hadn’t even barked or made a peep when they’d come inside this time. Instead, he was at their feet, wiggling so much he was practically a blur.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Intervention.”

  “An intervention is for addicts,” I stretched. “I haven’t even had a drink for ages.”

  “Well, that shows you need help,” Dante said. His smile, a flash of white against his olive skin, was infectious.

  “Stop,” I said and kicked my legs over the side of the bed.

  Darling bustled about in my galley kitchen, humming and grinding coffee beans. “Intervention to save your friends from your smelly ass,” she said.

  “Not smelly.” I sniffed my armpits and tried not to make a face.

  She lifted a well-groomed eyebrow.

  Okay. I probably smelled like death.

  I watched it all from my perch in bed, blinking, speechless.

  Meanwhile, Dante was leaning over my Bose speaker system.

  Soon some Latin dance music was blaring throughout my loft. Dante swiveled his hips in the way only a sexy man could and started heading my way. He stuck out a finger, gesturing for me to get up and join him dancing.

  I shook my head.

  Despite myself, tears pricked the corners of my eyes. What was wrong with me? Seeing my friends made me ugly cry now?

  Once my moka pot was percolating on the stove, Darling assembled a small breakfast feast on my kitchen table, pulling items from a bag: croissants and beignets.

  Finally, Dante, gave up on getting me to dance. He turned down the music and plopped onto the bed beside me.

  I couldn’t stop grinning as I searched his face. “Why are you here? Really?”

  “You flaked on us.”

  “I’m sorry. I slept in.”

  “You didn’t even call.”

  True.

  “And you didn’t return my calls.”

  I didn’t want to admit I hadn’t even listened to his messages.

  “I had to call Darling to see if you were even still alive.”

  “You know where I live.” I said, defiantly crossing my arms across my chest.

  “I barely made it to the board meeting. I had to rush back up to Calistoga. My new restaurant opens next week. It’s crazy time.”

  “And yet, here you are.” I grinned.

  He exhaled and shook his head. “How many times do I have to rescue your ass?”

  Taking my hand, he stood and pulled me to my feet. “Come eat.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Look at you,” he gestured at me. My clothes hung on me. “You’re not looking good.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  But I followed him to the table.

  I was pretty sure a wave of funk accompanied me on the breeze as I walked to my kitchen table. Sitting on the far side of the table to spare them any smells, I broke off a small bite of the croissant and nibbled it. I gulped down some coffee, gratefully. I’d been having coffee delivered by the local market. I’d dubbed it bathwater coffee. But I drank it, knowing if I went cold turkey on my morning caffeine, I’d regret it.

  I broke off another bite of croissant. Soon, before I had realized it, the entire thing was gone. I felt bloated and sick. It was the most I’d eaten in one sitting in some time.

  When we were done, Dante opened the door to the roof.

  “Let’s go get some air.”

  Django raced ahead of the three of us.

  I pulled a sweater on over my T-shirt and pajama pants. I grabbed a few plastic dog poop bags and followed him up the stairs.

  My private rooftop garden sanctuary was looking sad. The plants were brown. Leaves had fallen onto the patio under my grapevine-strewn pergola. Small piles of dried-out dog shit littered the area, along with a few fresh clumps.

  I picked up the petrified chunks first, saving the mushy ones for last. Finally, I was done. I tied the large plastic bag tightly and set it by the door. I glared at Django. “Don’t you dare poop again today.”

  His mouth was open in a toothy doggy grin as he panted in the sun.

  I brushed off a cushion under the pergola near where Dante sat and plopped down, stretching my legs out of the shade into the sun.

  Dante leaned forward and clasped his hands together. “I got you a present.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Just open it, baby,” Darling said. I narrowed my eyes. She was in on this, too?

  “I know when I was having a hard time dealing with Matt’s death, the thing that saved me was getting far away from home and all the memories of him.”

  We were both silent for a second.

  Matt had been killed at their wedding. A lunatic intent on killing me had instead taken out Matt and Bobby. Eventually, I got vengeance, but it didn’t ease the agony of knowing the two men we’d loved were dead because of me.

  Another reason not to fall in love ever again. I was deadly.

  Dante and I rarely talked about Matt and Bobby. It had been nearly a year, but it was still too soon.

  He stood with his back to me and continued talking. “It took a long time, but eventually I found I could go back and not want to cry every time I looked at something that reminded me of him.”

  I could feel tears welling in my eyes. Fuck.

  Darling looked away.

  “But you didn’t ever do that,” he said, turning to me. His eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. “You came back here right away.”

  “So?”

  “You never had time to heal.”

  “No such thing.”

  “You have to try.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to.”

  “I get that. I know you, Gia. And that’s why I think you need to do something. For me.”

  I was instantly suspicious. He paced looking out over the city as he spoke.

  “Do what?”

  “Take off. Go on a little vacation far away and do nothing except pamper yourself. Concentrate on healing.”

  “Whatever. I don’t need to waste time doing that.”

  Darling rolled her eyes and Dante laughed so loud it startled me. “Waste time? What do you think you’re doing now?”

  “I meet with the board once a week and check my emails once a day.”

  He flung his arm out dismissing my claims of business as the nonsense th
ey were.

  “I want you to take a vacation and then come back and kick ass at work. You’ve got all these investors ready to tear the door down to get a piece of the action, and the board is freaking out, saying they can’t get you to commit. They can’t even count on you to show up once a week. You need to get on board. Take charge of this company or let someone else take the reins.”

  I frowned. I didn’t want to deal with the company right now, but I also didn’t want to turn it over. It was the last vestige of the empire my father had created, nurtured, and loved.

  And I hated to admit it, but when I immersed myself in work for my father’s company, I felt like I had a purpose. If I were honest, the work I’d done for the company—designing innovative developments where homeless people both worked and lived—was the most rewarding thing I’d ever done in my life.

  My father must have known that putting me in charge of the company would magically transform me from drunken dilettante to proficient businesswoman practically overnight.

  At first it did. Then Bobby was murdered. Now I was back to loser.

  Dante leaned forward and handed me an envelope.

  “The vacation is on me.”

  I pushed his hand away. “No.”

  “It’s rude and disrespectful to refuse a gift given in love from a friend.”

  “Okay, fine,” I grumbled, but opened the envelope.

  I read the piece of paper. Dante had bought me airfare to Paris and a two-week Mediterranean cruise that took off from Barcelona, hit a few spots in Spain, spent a few days in Morocco, and ended in Portugal.

  I made a face.

  “What?”

  “A cruise? Seriously? Cruises are for old people. Fake tourists. Lazy people. People who would rather eat than sightsee.

  Dante shook his head. “You are a snob.”

  “Mmmm hmmm,” Darling said with her lips pressed tightly together.

  “No, I’m not.” I was indignant.

  “Yeah, you are.”

  “Whatever.” I tossed the envelope on the end table beside me.

  “If you feel like you’re slumming, you can pay the difference and stay in the penthouse. It goes for a cool two-hundred-fifty.”

  “Two-hundred-fifty?”

  “Two hundred and fifty thousand.”

  “For a fucking coffin-sized room on a floating death trap?”

  “I doubt it is coffin-sized. Nor a death trap.”

  He crouched in front of me, putting his hands on mine. “Gia? Take the goddamn cruise. The reason I decided on this—and believe me, I thought long and hard about the perfect vacation for you—is because on a cruise you won’t have to think.”

  He stood and clawed at his hair in frustration. “Gia. Look at you. You are a mess. You smell. You’re a goddamn skeleton. Your skin is yellow. Hell, the whites of your eyes are yellow. You have dreadlocks whether you want them or not.”

  True.

  “The cruise is perfect for you. It’s a painless way for you to re-immerse yourself in the world. It will be slow and easy living. Your meals are provided. Your room is cleaned. I’ve arranged a laundry service. You eat and drink and sunbathe by the pool. If you want, you can get off at the stops and actually live a little.”

  “What stops?” I peered down. There were some pretty damn cool excursions: old caves, Casablanca, swimming with the dolphins. Okay, it didn’t sound so bad.

  “Will you go? For me?” He gave me the look. The look he’d given me since we were ten years old. The look that always got him his way.

  “Fine.” I shrugged.

  “The only thing I ask is that you promise me you won’t spend the entire trip in bed There’s a shitload of things to do onboard. I spent a lot of money on this cruise to get your ass out of bed.”

  “Capisco.” I said it begrudgingly, because I knew what I’d just done. Made a promise I wouldn’t break. Dante knew I would never lie to him and that I kept my word.

  He stood and headed for the door back downstairs. Panic coursed through me. I’d just promised something that I didn’t want to do. Every fiber of my being balked at a cruise. Even stepping foot out of my loft seemed impossible right now.

  “Wait,” I called after him. “I just remembered. I can’t go.”

  He paused but didn’t turn around. “Pray tell, why not?”

  “Django,” I said as if it were obvious. “I can’t leave him.”

  “Thanh-Thanh has agreed to look after him while you’re gone.”

  Shit.

  He turned back toward me. “You’re burning daylight. Get in the shower. Your plane leaves in three hours.”

  “What?” I practically screamed the word. I watched his back disappear down the stairs. But then I smiled. He knew if he gave me any time to think about it, I would change my mind.

  Chapter Three

  Woman in Black

  Dante was smart to have me layover in Paris for two days.

  But he’d also made a huge mistake because I was never coming home.

  San Francisco was lovely, but this was fucking Paris, bitches.

  Each morning I’d wake in my little pied-à-terre, open my eyes, turn my head to the left, and drink in the spectacular view of the motherfucking Eiffel Tower.

  Then, while I was still in bed, there would be a little knock on the door, and some cute French waiter dude would bring me a croissant and coffee (okay, disclaimer—San Francisco’s coffee is way better, but that’s about the only thing I’d miss.)

  I’d take my coffee out onto the little balcony, put my feet up on the wrought iron railing, and write in my journal. The leather-bound journal and Cross pen Dante had slipped me at the airport had been a life saver.

  He’d pressed it into my hands and said, “Do me a favor, write about Bobby. Write about you. Write about your mother and dad. Or just play tic tac toe, but try to open this every day. I swear it will help.

  I’d first opened it on the plane. I stared at the blank page. After two glasses of wine, I began to write. And couldn’t stop.

  I didn’t dare go back and read my scribbles, but suffice it to say, it had a lot of “poor me” passages. But for some reason writing it all down felt good. Damn good.

  Now I actually looked forward to writing in it every morning.

  That morning I wrote about the man I saw at the hotel bar the night before. He was so mysterious. He was young and smoking hot, and he didn’t even give me a second glance. At first, I was a little put out but then found it refreshing. Imagine my surprise when a sophisticated older woman in her late forties swooped up in a cloud of perfume. He dropped everything and kissed her palm and was attentive to her every need. Holy shit. Was he a gigolo? But then I saw the look on his face. He worshipped her. They left together, and I gawked in astonishment.

  Some dude sitting beside me at the bar smirked.

  “What?”

  “You are American?”

  I shrugged. It was obvious.

  “You are surprised by that couple?”

  I shrugged again.

  “In Paris, we prefer women with experience. The confidence of an older woman,” he put his fingers to his lips and kissed them. “The sexiest thing imaginable.”

  He was right. Older women in Paris had it going on.

  I nodded. “Yeah, she was sexy as fuck.”

  He grinned.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, and put his hand on mine. “We like sexy younger women, too.”

  I pulled my hand out from his. “I’m sure.”

  I stood and left.

  Now, I wrote about the encounter and smiled. When I hit fifty, I was moving to Paris. Maybe sooner. Who knew? I put the journal down and stretched. I was going shopping in the Le Marais and then later that afternoon, I’d board the train to Barcelona where I would catch my cruise ship the following day. I was looking forward to the overnight train ride. I loved trains. Well, I loved the idea of them. I hadn’t actually been on one before. That’s why Dante insisted I take the t
rain.

  He didn’t miss a thing in planning this trip.

  I’d take the cruise and then come back to Paris to live. I’d eat croissants every day, stroll the Luxembourg gardens, spend entire days at the Louvre and then party at the clubs in the Oberkampf district until dawn. And in twenty years, when I was a woman of a certain age, I’d find a young stud to keep me entertained.

  First to get this damn cruise out of the way.

  Sitting around with people who were too lazy—or too afraid—to tour a country the proper way. Not my thing. But if it made Dante happy, I’d give it a crack.

  Wearing my biggest, blackest sunglasses, I surveyed the other passengers waiting to board the Stella Windstar cruise ship.

  A lot of old, stuffy, snobby people showing off their fancy brands. Hermes. Prada. Louis Vuitton. Dior. Chanel. Just what I suspected: lazy, rich, probably snobby, too.

  Whatev. What a waste.

  Then, I heard tinkling laughter. All heads turned.

  Down at the other end of the dock leading to our platform, a redheaded woman clinging to an older man was laughing.

  Finally, someone my own age.

  She was stunning. Tall, lean, silky red hair that fell straight down her back. Amber eyes, full lips, and cheekbones that could cut diamonds.

  Wearing a silky, flowing white pantsuit, she made her way up the gangplank to the wide platform where we all waited to board. Everyone stopped to watch. Although her outfit was not revealing, she clearly didn’t have a shirt on underneath the deep-cut lapels of the white blazer.

  The distinguished man at her side was dressed as her mirror image, in a black linen suit. His full mane of hair swept back and was mostly gray. He was probably in his sixties. She was clearly in her twenties. I would’ve thought the man was her grandfather until she leaned over and kissed his mouth with her voluptuous pink lips for so long the gawking crowd shifted uncomfortably.

  Once they reached the platform where we waited to board, people pretended not to stare. The red-haired woman talked excitedly to the man in a low voice. He grinned down at her indulgently. She held tightly to his hand, squeezing it with enthusiasm. She exclaimed and stretched up on tiptoe to kiss him again, this time pressing her body against him.