The Meridian Gamble (3 page)

And if Abigail had more time, she
would have felt relief knowing she wouldn’t have to spend years floating in the
limbo of the tanks.

Her body was engulfed in flames.

And she found herself rushing down
a tunnel, into a bright white light, just like in the movies. But it wasn’t
just a light, it was a place she could see into. And Abigail remembered
something they always seemed to forget in their time on Earth, something the
vampires had tried to get out of them, which the Luminos had never revealed,
because they couldn’t. And yet in these final seconds, it always came back to
her like an old friend.

Abigail remembered where it was
they went between lives.

“I really need to step up my game
now that I’m officially an ad exec. The pressure is on to bring in new clients.
But it’s so much more than just the networking that I’m loving; it’s the
creativity. Jacob assigned me to the Bijoux Jeans campaign, which is such an
incredible opportunity. My imagination is on fire with all the fresh new ideas
I have for marketing their brand …”

I roll my eyes, but Staci doesn’t
even seem to notice.

Now that she’s gotten her big
promotion, she’s quickly becoming obnoxious. I’m not even sure why I’m friends
with this girl, sometimes. She loves to brag, endlessly. Everything seems like
a petty competition between us, even though she’s clearly more successful than
I am. In fact, at times I’m not even sure what it is we’re supposed to be
competing for.

Though I suppose I’m kidding myself
to pretend it’s all one-sided. Staci knows I want to move ahead at the agency,
and I can’t help but to be just a bit jealous of her ascent. We both started as
receptionists at the same time, and now she’s an important creative executive,
or at least a junior one, while I’m stuck as a lowly assistant in the Human
Resources Department.

It’s so ironic, I work in the place
that fills the jobs at the company, yet I can’t find the right position to help
spur my climb up the corporate ladder. Which might be in part because I’m good
at what I do, and my boss won’t want to see me leave. I know he’ll block any
move I try to make. So I end up making subtle inquiries when jobs open up that
I might like, or worse, not making any moves at all for fear of alienating him.
And at times, I feel like my life is being defined by the risks I’m too afraid
to take. It can all be so overwhelming. It feels like I’m stuck in a dismal
fate that I’ll never change, like I’m a modern day Sisyphus pushing a boulder
up a hill.

“So tell me what you think of this.
I’m picturing a series of print ads and TV spots showing Bijoux Jeans in
classic movies, like a Saturday night at the cinema kind of thing,” she rambles
on.

“Gosh, that sounds so neat,” I say,
trying to feign enthusiasm.

“You could have ‘Star Wars,’ but
with Luke and Han Solo wearing Bijoux Jeans as they fight the stormtroopers. Or
‘Saturday Night Fever,’ but with Bijoux Jeans instead of the iconic white suit
…”

And I pinch my thigh, so I won’t
fall asleep while she’s talking.

I try to tell myself that everything
happens for a reason. Maybe I’m stuck in HR because I’m not meant to move ahead
in advertising. Because what I really want to do is write. Writing has always
been my thing. Even though I lack motivation at times, on another level, I feel
a certain compulsion to write my little stories down. I feel like they’re
important in some way, even though they’re just silly, romantic trifles.

I’m secretly working on a Victorian
novel, a tawdry tale about a rich girl named Caroline who is forced into
marriage to save her family’s fortunes. Her father hatches a scheme to unite
their company with that of another affluent family, and Caroline finds herself
torn between a growing love for her new suitor, and a forbidden attraction
toward his dark-haired scoundrel of a younger brother. But something is missing
from it. There’s a darker twist to the story I haven’t quite figured out. Something
about the rival family, and their sinister interest in absorbing the business
that Caroline’s family owns.

I’m thinking of adding in a magic
subplot, but it seems out of place in a romance novel.

And maybe I really am the one who
is a bad friend, because I’m basing one of the characters in the story on
Staci. In a very catty way. In my novel, Staci is Marjorie, the heroine’s
beautiful older sister who becomes insanely jealous when she isn’t the one
chosen for marriage by their rival’s handsome son.

I’m not really sure why Staci
reminds me of Marjorie, because they aren’t really much alike at all. Marjorie
comes from the rich upper crust of society, while Staci is a working girl
struggling to get ahead. Marjorie is a beauty with the perfect figure who all
the boys chase after, and though Staci is an attractive girl, she has a more
generous shape she constantly complains about. She goes to the doctor to find
new prescriptions that might help her conquer her weight problem, which she
swears is all chemical, and wears lumpy dark suits to cover her frame. Staci’s
hair is full of scorched blonde locks that tumble to her shoulders, which she
claims are the hottest new color, yet Marjorie has long brown tresses that hang
straight to the middle of her back.

But, on a deeper level, they are
more similar. Both are boy crazy, and both have a competitive spirit, which
some might even call petty. And there is something more, which I find hard to
explain. Sometimes, I feel like Marjorie is the girl Staci would have been if
she’d lived in the Victorian era, and came from a family of means.

Sometimes, I feel like Staci was
Marjorie in a past life. But the idea seems ridiculous.

And as we munch on our Chinese
Chicken Salads in the Asian Fusion restaurant, as I try to force myself to
listen to her blabber about marketing tacky jeans, the strangest thing begins
to happen. Right before my eyes, my friend begins to flicker and morph, and
change into a different person. I think I’m starting to go crazy with my
overactive imagination, because Staci begins transforming into Marjorie. Her
yellow hair grows longer, and its thick curls straighten into long brown
tresses. Her lips become more refined and seem to squeeze into a perfect,
heart-shaped pout. The bright swipes of blush on her cheeks turn into a light,
pale powder, and her figure seems to melt away in a manner that Staci can only
dream of, as her dark business suit becomes a high-collared, white lace dress.

For a moment, the entire restaurant
seems to disappear, and I’m transported to the breakfast table of a grand
Victorian manor. And Marjorie, the sister from my story, stares back at me.

I shake my head, somehow pushing
the vision away. And it scares me just a bit. Does this mean that I’m wildly
creative and meant to be a writer, because of the vividness with which I can
make my stories come to life? Or am I maybe going insane?

“So what do you think? Do you want
to go?”

Staci stares at me expectantly, and
I realize she’s been talking all along, and I have no idea what she’s been
saying. But I decide to run with it, because it’s easier than explaining the
place where my mind just went.

“Sure, I’d love to go. Where are we
going?”

“Downtown Pub!” she says, in an
exasperated tone. “A few of the people from Drexler Wexler are going to be
there. Who knows, there might be some cute, successful guys.”

And suddenly, I remember exactly
why it is that I hang around with Staci so much, because she’s the perfect
wingman, one who forces me out of my rut to go on the eternal hunt for hot men.
And though Downtown Pub probably isn’t my type of place, I realize that if I
want to move ahead in advertising, mixing with the suits from Drexler Wexler is
exactly the kind of thing I need to do.

“Heck, yeah. That sounds like a lot
of fun,” I force myself to say.

“Great,” Staci says. “Say, do you
mind if we cut out of here? I want to hit Bloomie’s on the way back …”

The waitress
walks by, and Staci waves her over so we can divvy up the check.

“So there’s this one guy at Drexler
Wexler I’m kind of into,” Staci says. “His name is Darcy.”

We’re walking down the sidewalk on
Fifth Avenue, navigating our way through the bustling lunchtime crowd.

“Oooh, tell me more! What’s he
like?”

“Well, he’s cute. And very
successful. He just made Executive Director of Marketing. We’ve kind of been
flirting over the phone, but I’m hoping if we get together, it can turn into
something more than just business.”

I know Staci. She’s probably making
a point to mention Darcy so that I’ll steer clear, which is fine by me. One of
the reasons she’s such a great wingman is that we have an unspoken agreement to
never go after the same guy. And it works out well in most situations, because
we’re both wallflowers who aren’t overly aggressive, and we both like different
types. Staci is into the boring businessmen, guys she thinks will cheer her on
as she climbs the corporate ladder and father her 2.5 kids. I tend to stay away
from the metrosexual type and go for more masculine men. I tend to want
something … more.

As she tells me about her lust for
Darcy, something catches my attention on the other side of the street, a man in
the crowd. He’s still a ways off, but I can see him with such clarity for some
reason, like my eyes focus in on him with telescopic vision; he’s
African-American, a bit taller than the mob around him, and dressed in a
business suit like every other guy. I’m not sure why he stands out to me, but
as I stare at him, the psychic weirdness of the day continues. And he starts to
glow.

At first I think it’s a trick of
the light. A kind of radiance seems to shine from within him, and forms a ring
around his body. And the longer I stare at him, the more distinct it becomes,
to the point that I no longer feel it’s an illusion.

Is anyone else seeing this? I look
to Staci, but she’s still talking about Darcy. The man stops at a crosswalk,
but the other people on his side of the street just stand there as if nothing
odd is happening.

And suddenly, the man transforms
just as Staci did, only much quicker. He becomes someone different. He’s
shorter with skin that’s just a slight shade more fair. He wears simple robes
and has a beard, and carries a walking stick.

For a moment, the entire scene
changes, and I see him in what looks like a small arena with sandy floors. Something
about the architecture makes me think it’s in Egypt, during the times of
Pharaoh. And in the daydream, the man’s head turns, and I’m certain he’s about
to look my way. I’m convinced it’s happening in the real world, too. I panic,
and in a flash, my fear returns my consciousness to modern times.

Thank God, we’re next to Saks. I
grab Staci’s hand and pull her toward the front doors.

“Oh, I saw this totally hot dress
in here that would look great on you. We have to go inside!”

“But I don’t really need a new …”

Before she can protest any further,
I drag her into the store.

“Upstairs. It was on the second
floor. Or at least I think it was …” I say, panting, practically flustered.

From the way Staci looks at me, I’m
sure she’s convinced that I’m crazy, but she goes along with it as I lead her
up the escalator. Before we ascend to the next floor, I look back at the doors
of the front entrance, and am relieved to see that we’re not being followed.

Of course, there is no dress on the
second floor. But luckily, there’s lots of other fun stuff to see, and we’re
soon happily perusing the racks. Staci tries on some ridiculously overpriced
jeans, ones that are hundreds of dollars a pair, and decides she has to have
them. And I see a top that’s nice. Afterwards, we go to the higher floors to
look for a gift for her Mom. We swing through the shoe section when she
mentions needing some new pumps, and both try on a few pairs.

As we shop, I think back to the man
on the street. I wonder what that strange glow around him was. Is it that I’m
becoming psychic in adulthood, and can see auras now? But how would that
explain how my vision of him changed to someone from ancient times, just as it
did with Staci, when she appeared to me as Marjorie? He certainly isn’t a
character in my Victorian novel, though I am writing another book set in Egypt.
Perhaps I was pulling up images from that one.

Or perhaps I’m going insane.

And I remember something I had long
forgotten, from when I was a child at the LAX airport with my parents. It was
before they had passed away, and we were picking up my aunt, who was visiting. There
was a man who had walked by us quickly on his way to a flight, too fast to
notice me, and I had seen the same glowing radiance around him that I had
detected today. I remember thinking he was magical at the time, perhaps someone
from the fairy realm.

But I don’t feel that way now. Even
though the spark around the man on the street should make me think he’s
special, it doesn’t. There’s something about the tall, glowing stranger that
makes me afraid. On some instinctual level, I feel that I need to stay away
from him. And I’m glad to have escaped him, so I can return to my normal life.

After trying on shoes, we hit the
first floor cosmetics counter. And as Staci samples a new MAC blush, she turns
to me.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to show
me a dress?”

And I look to her, pretending to be
confused.

“You know what? I think it was at Bloomie’s.
I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have dragged you in here.”

“It’s okay. It will give me an
excuse to go there tomorrow and spend my bonus,” she says with laugh.

And we take
our purchases and leave the store.

Work runs later than I had
expected, and we can’t leave for the bar together. So instead, I make plans to
meet Staci there. There’s a problem with one of the shipping computers in the
Mail Department, and of course, I’m the only one who knows how to fix it. It
amazes me that the lazy mail boys don’t even know how to put new labels in the
machine. And I’m running late, so I decide to skip going home to change.