Inferno Anthology (194 page)

THE DEEP-RED VINYL
seats of the semicircular booth situated on the edge of the dance floor tried unsuccessfully to imitate fine upholstery. Music filled the air, too loud and too fast. In Anthony’s mind, it created the perfect climate, requiring him and Claire to sit close in an effort to hear one another. He also had a bottle of the Red Wing’s finest Cabernet Sauvignon. Looking at his watch for the hundredth time, he read the hands as they said 10:30 PM. It was then that he saw Claire walking across the empty dance floor toward his booth.

This night was definitely filled with out-of-character behaviors. Not only did Anthony Rawlings
not
fraternize with regional associates, he
never
waited for anyone. Under any other circumstance he would have been up and gone by 10:05 PM. His friends, associates, and employees all knew his obsession with punctuality. Tonight was different.

As Claire eased herself into the booth, she smiled a fatigued grin and apologized, “I’m sorry for the delay. There was a problem with the cash register, but all’s well now.”

He gently touched her hand. Momentarily, he was transfixed by the contrast: large and small. “I was beginning to wonder if you were standing me up.” His grin hinted toward levity. “But since I could see you across the room, I hoped I might still have a chance at friendly conversation.”

Claire’s exhale and upturned lips told him she was relieved. Was it because he was still waiting or merely that her shift was complete?

“Perhaps we could have a glass of wine, and you could enjoy sitting instead of standing.”

“I believe that would be very nice.”

Anthony poured the wine and noticed Claire’s expression relax. The transformation occurring before him was from bartender, to the real Claire Nichols. He watched as she took the glass, placed her lips on the rim, closed her eyes, and relished the thick red liquid on her tongue. Anthony fought the urge to think too much about her actions. “So what’s a classy girl like you doing waiting on stooges like us?” Anthony’s rich voice refocused Claire’s attention.

Her eyes twinkled with emerald lights as she turned to face him. “Why, Anthony, I do believe that self-deprecating statement was a compliment to me, in a way.” Her intonation held the Southern accent far from her native Indiana cadence. He only arched his eyebrows in response, waiting patiently for an answer. Claire shook her head succumbing to his charm. “I’m an out-of-work meteorologist. My news station was bought about a year ago. In their infinite wisdom they decided I was no longer needed. So this…” She said as she glided her free hand open above the table. “…is my new glamorous life. Don’t knock it. It pays my student loans as well as multiple other bills.”

His deep laughter was nonjudgmental. “Wouldn’t you rather be doing the weather thing than this?”

“Of course, but honestly, this isn’t so bad. I have some great friends here. There’s always something happening, and I meet nice people like you.” Claire took another sip of the wine and leaned a little closer. “So that’s my story in a nutshell. Sir, it is your turn. You said you are here on business. What kind of business do you do?”

“I’m actually involved in many businesses. I came to Atlanta for an acquisition, and some associates convinced me to come here to your revered establishment to try the world-famous fried green tomatoes.”

“Oh, they did. Did you?”

Anthony nodded. “Yes, I did.”

Claire looked into her glass in an attempt to hide the snicker that escaped her lips. “Did you like them?”

He likewise looked into his glass. “No, I don’t believe I’m destined for Georgian cuisine.” Unable to keep it silenced any longer, Claire’s laughter caused him to look up. “Why are you laughing?”

“Because I think they are awful! Every time someone orders them, I want to whisper, ‘No, don’t do it.’ It’s just that they are so—”

“Slimy!” They said in unison and chuckled.

The conversation progressed effortlessly. She asked about his acquisition. Would his trip be successful? Anthony was honestly surprised at her depth and knowledge. It was a shame that her news station hadn’t kept her on. She deserved so much better than tending bar. Of course, that was what he told her. They discussed her career opportunities. Due to Anthony’s involvement in multiple endeavors, he offered the possibility of assistance with more profitable employment. Claire thanked him for his offer, but doubted his ability or desire to truly assist.

“You know, your destiny could be as simple as an offer and a signature away.” He channeled every deal he ever made, which were more than he could count or recall. Placing a napkin on the table, he drew her attention to the center design. “Just imagine, instead of the swirly lettering saying
Red Wing
it was blocked and read,
Weather Channel
.”

The bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon was almost empty. Claire closed her eyes and did as Anthony instructed: she imagined. Exhaling audibly, she said, “That would be wonderful. It would be the offer of a meteorologist’s dreams.”

Closing in on the deal, he said, “Well, Claire, if this napkin were that contract…” He reached for a pen in his breast pocket and wrote at the top of the napkin
Job Contract.
“…would you be willing to sign? Would you really give this all up for a job offer?”

She didn’t blink. “In a heartbeat!” Removing the pen from Anthony’s hand, she signed,
Claire Nichols
next to the bar’s insignia.

About midnight, Claire thanked Anthony for the lovely company and explained that she was very tired from her long day and needed to get home.

“I’ll be in town for a few more days. Perhaps I could call you for dinner? It isn’t proper to offer a lady alcohol without food.”

“Thank you, I’m honored, but I believe I’ll chuck this up to my brush with an amazing gentleman and go on with my glamorous existence. I fear that the
Weather Channel
will not be contacting me anytime soon.”

Although her refusal surprised him, he didn’t let it show. In the long run, it wouldn’t matter, but he would play into her chastity. “I truly understand; dangerous man from out of town tries to learn your secrets and offers to help you with your aspirations. You’re wise to keep your distance.” Although his grin had sinister written all over it, he assumed she would detect the facade.

“A girl can’t be too careful. Truly, I’m honored, and I don’t think you seem that dangerous.” She began to scoot out of the booth, but he caught her hand. Their eyes met, he bowed his head, and kissed the back of her hand.

“It was wonderful to meet you, Claire Nichols.” With a smile, she retrieved her hand and slowly slid from the booth.

The next minute, he was alone. He took the pen, signed his name, and wrote the date on the same napkin. He carefully folded it and placed it in the pocket of his suit jacket. Then he pulled out his phone and texted his driver:

“PICK ME UP NOW.”

He always used full words. Text language was a joke. Closing his eyes, he thought, yes—my acquisition is going quite well. Thank you for asking.

To look backward for a while is to refresh the eye, to restore it, and to render it the more fit for its prime function of looking—forward.

—Margaret Fairless Barber,
The Roadmender

CLAIRE CONTEMPLATED HER
situation as she ate. She hadn’t taken the napkin discussion seriously. Anthony probably expected that. She didn’t prepare to move from her Atlanta apartment or even consider the possibility. His recollection of a document that legally bound them was a complete shock. Claire’s gut told her it wasn’t legal, but what recourse did she have to fight from this room? She’d searched high and low for a telephone, computer, or some form of communication—nothing.

She actually thought she would walk out of this twisted nightmare; however, it wasn’t a nightmare, twisted or otherwise. It was her reality. Her mind searched for a way to survive and escape.

Claire relished the warm oatmeal, fruit, bacon, perfectly brewed coffee, and juice. Yesterday, she’d hardly eaten. Today, she was ravenous, devouring every ounce, even checking twice for more coffee in the carafe. At least starvation wasn’t part of Anthony’s plan.

Standing for a shower, she moved gingerly, experiencing the same aches and pains of the day before—perhaps intensified. Claire wasn’t sure if she wanted to see herself in the mirrors, as she cautiously stepped into the generous bathroom and slowly approached the dressing table. The image that reflected back looked scary: hair messed and tangled, face sporting various shades of red and blue. The worst image had to be her lips: swollen, looking as if she’d received Botox injections. This time there were no tears; instead, she stared and considered.

Grandma Nichols told her more than once she was an unusually strong young woman. In Claire’s mind Grandma was always strong. Grandpa’s work in law enforcement took him away from home. Grandma never complained. Instead, she was the heart of the family: always there for everyone and often giving advice, such as: “It’s not the circumstances that make a person a success. It’s how that person responds to those circumstances.” Grandma believed every situation could be made better by the right attitude. Claire dropped the robe. Beholding the vision in the mirror, she believed Grandma never anticipated a situation like this.

After the shower, Claire decided to
not
dress appropriately in expectation of an Anthony visitation. If he were to walk in her suite, he would find her in jeans, a t-shirt, and fuzzy socks. Furthermore, there would be no make-up and no hair primping. It may be a small act of rebellion, but Claire didn’t have many rebellious options. Every bone in her body wanted to fight. She tried to fight during the past two nights, but that hadn’t worked well.

Entering the grand closet/dressing room, Claire realized that yesterday she hadn’t truly appreciated all it had to offer. First, she began to look for underwear, but remembered that it didn’t exist in any of the drawers. So, Claire searched for jeans. There were multiple pairs, different shades of blue with different leg styles. Wearing jeans must not break any rules; if it did, they wouldn’t be there. The brands she read on the labels she’d only seen in stores like
Saks, Hudson, J Brand
, and
MIH
. She never in her life tried on jeans like these. They were soft, amazingly comfortable, and fit perfectly.

Feeling a chill as she removed the robe, Claire decided a sweater would be better than a t-shirt. The countless choices were equally as fashionable. She decided on a
Donna Karan
pink, fuzzy cashmere sweater. Before putting it on, she looked for a bra. Apparently, bras were against the rules too; however, she did find a drawer full of various colored camisoles. She chose pink.

It was like a treasure hunt, as she searched the drawers and cabinets of the closet. Still rummaging for fuzzy socks, she found multiple drawers of lingerie. The silky black and red negligees in multiple lengths made her uncomfortable as they reminded her of a
Victoria’s Secret
fashion show. Finally, she discovered socks. Claire couldn’t comprehend that all of these lavish and extravagant clothes were for her. Truthfully, she didn’t want them.

Driven by curiosity and boredom, she read the labels on the evening dresses:
Aidan Mattox, Armani, Donna Karan
, and
Emilio Pucci
. These dresses alone could pay her rent in Atlanta for six months. Fleetingly, she wondered about last night’s dress. Its tag would remain a mystery since it disappeared when the room was cleaned.

Next, she inspected the shoes: pumps, sandals, boots, and slip-ons—most with four-inch heels or more. The brands were equally as high-priced as the dresses:
Prada, Calvin Klein, Dior, Kate Spade
, and
Yves Saint Lauren
. Never really a shoe person, Claire usually wore casual footwear:
Crocs
and sneakers, rarely heels and never that high. Of course, every pair was her size.

Her mind slipped back to high school. Ten years ago, she would have done anything for a closet supplied like the one in which she stood. Back then, her sister helped her fit in despite her parents’ modest income. Emily took her to consignment shops, bargain-hunted and shopped sale racks. It worked. Claire was part of the
in
crowd, wearing the right clothes, shoes, and carrying the right purse. As she turned slowly and took in all the clothes, she wished she didn’t have this closet or any of the memories.

Hearing the
beep
, she knew the suite door had opened. Her heart raced. Who was here? How long had she been in the closet? Stepping into the suite, she saw lunch being delivered by the same young man that brought dinner the night before. Claire hadn’t notice last night, but he appeared Latino. She asked him about the food. He smiled and said, “I bring Ms. Claire lunch.” She asked about Catherine, if she would be visiting. He replied, “I bring Ms. Claire lunch.” Claire smiled and thanked him for the lunch. Other questions seemed senseless.

Each response and smile the young man offered was unaccompanied by eye contact. Claire thought about his job: bringing her food. Obviously, with the lack of make-up, he could see her bruises. Hell, he opened a locked door to bring her food. What did he think of her, of the situation? The idea of seeing her plight from someone else’s perspective weighed heavily on her chest. Sadness intensified at the realization: she once again was completely alone.