Trickiest Job (2 page)

“Really, I’m just passing through,” I insist. I grab my bags and practically run for the door.
 

The signs that it’s time to hit the highway couldn’t be any clearer.
 

I’ll just reclaim my dirty clothes, pack up the hotel room and be on the road within half an hour.

But the dry cleaner is closed, the lights extinguished. That doesn’t stop me from pounding on the locked door.
 

It takes several minutes in the car before I start to feel calm again.
 

~ ~ ~

I don’t drive back to the hotel.

It’s obvious that this is my last day in town. As soon as the dry cleaner opens tomorrow, I’m going to call, tell the owner not to send my clothes out. Then I’ll swing by and retrieve my things en route to the expressway.

If there’s any chance of seeing my sister, it’s now or never.

When I ran away, I’d only had my driver’s license for a short time, so it’s strange to drive roads I used to only watch passively. I drive aimlessly for half an hour before I have to admit that I’m semi-lost.

GPS to the rescue.
 

The dictated route takes me past my old high school. I can’t help but slow as I pass the lush lacrosse fields, the tennis courts in the back.
 

If I’d stayed, I would have had the top spot on the varsity tennis team. My mother was an avid player, and she bought private sessions for me the moment I expressed interest. I think she worried that if she didn’t distract me with a proper lady’s sport, I’d take up football or join a punk band.
 

After my parents died, I continued to play three days a week. I didn’t miss a single lesson. Those sweaty hours on the courts, my mom’s old racket in my hand, helped keep the hysteria at bay, though I didn’t realize it at the time. Tennis lessons were the only thing my grandfather agreed to keep paying for, at least for me. Maybe he knew I would rebel if he took them away.
 

The school building itself seems smaller, neater. But I’m strangely intimidated. If I hadn’t left, I would have graduated—my grades were good—but even the idea of graduation feels mysterious, unattainable. When I’m watching television, I can never flip past anything set in a high school.

The guy in the SUV behind me lays on his horn, and I stomp on the accelerator.
 

I’m flustered, confused, and because I’m in the wrong lane, I miss my next turn. The GPS reroutes me into the state park. I know the winding, curving paths that run through it. Our grandfather liked to bring Layla and me here to practice tripping and falling. Sometimes he’d set up a few folding chairs, a table. The park has plenty of soft grass and very few witnesses.

Plenty of ticks, too. I remember the cook-housekeeper, Miss Susan, taking me behind the pool, a dark green can in her hand.
Cover your eyes and pinch your nose, dear
, she would say. I taste bitter insect repellant in the back of my throat, and my fingers tighten on the steering wheel.

As I get closer to the mansion, breathing becomes more difficult. I know I’m not ready for this. It’s too much, too fast.
 

He won’t be there
, I remind myself. It runs through my head like a mantra.
 

My grandfather is a man of habit, married to his routines. He never leaves the city before the end of the work day.

Still, it’s almost impossible to make myself turn down the wide lane.

I come to a stop across from our mansion, and I park under the trees. It takes me an eternity to force myself to turn off the engine.
 

Other than panic, I don’t feel much at all. That’s the mansion, looking the same. Through the gate, I can see some of the honeysuckle bushes lining the driveway. They’re in full bloom, and I remember their sickly sweet odor. I remember squeezing drops of dewy nectar onto my tongue.

A luxury car turns down the street, and I frantically grab my phone and hold it in front of my face while angling my head away.

I keep an eye on the car as it passes, though, and it doesn’t slow. When it’s gone, I drop the phone into my lap.

Too spooked to make myself go to the gate, I continue to catalog everything in sight.

There’s the sidewalk where Layla fell and knocked out a tooth when she was five. She burst into tears, convinced it was one of her permanent teeth, that the others would fall out, too, and she’d starve.

That was Layla, always so practical. I can even still see the pink dress she was wearing, a few drops of blood staining the hem.
 

My mouth dry, I put my hand on the car door handle. All I have to do is get out, cross the street, ring the buzzer.
 

I don’t even need to go through the gate. Layla will come out, and she’ll give me a huge hug, and we’ll go somewhere and talk for a bit. She’ll tell me she’s happy, that it wasn’t easy after I left but things are great. She’ll tell me about college.

I’ll lie and tell her about a life I’ve never lived, about a loving boyfriend and close girlfriends, a stable job. I’ll promise to stay in closer touch, and I will.

But I can’t bring myself to push open the door.

My shoulders, apparently exhausted from the effort of merely existing, sag. The phone sits in my lap, and I find myself thinking of my former bosses, which leads to flipping through my address book until I find Romeo.
 

I wouldn’t have to explain much, really. Just the sound of his voice would help, would give me strength. I think of the platonic night I spent in his bed… how badly I wanted to tell him everything. If only he’d asked then.

My finger hovers over the icon for his cell phone. One little tap, and his deep, reassuring voice will fill my ears.

But when I finally do tap the screen, it’s to dial the number below his cell phone’s.

“Good afternoon. Romeo Wood Bison’s office,” Tamara says, and it’s nice to hear her voice.

“Hi,” I say. “It’s Lindsay.” And I brace myself for her to ask what the hell I want, or where I disappeared to.

“Oh, hi,” she says. “He’s in a meeting right now. Do you want to leave a message?”

“No… I was just curious to know how everything’s going with the employee reassignments at Food4Life. Are there any problems?”

“I have no idea,” she says with a little laugh. I can tell she’s distracted, likely busy doing one of the millions of tasks necessary to keep order in the life of a man like Romeo. “Mr. Tarraget is roaming around the office,” she says. “Why don’t I—”

Hawthorne.
“No! I mean, it’s not necessary. I don’t want to bother anyone. I figured you would know if things weren’t going smoothly.” I should get off the phone, but hearing her voice reminds me of better times, and it’s also nice to have a conversation with someone who can answer.
 

No offense to Bandit, of course. And as much as I enjoy my online courses, they’re no substitute for an actual life.

“There certainly haven’t been any panicked meetings or extra memos, if that’s what you mean.” She lowers her voice. “But the partners have been rather grumpy as of late.”

“With Hawthorne, how can you tell?” I ask reflexively.
 

“He’s not so bad,” she says. “The two of you make an Olympic sport of pushing each other’s buttons. If this were a movie, you’d be married by the end. Speak of the devil… I think I hear him now. Let me grab him. He’ll be able to answer your questions.”

“I have to run.” Horrified by how far I let the conversation go, I hang up.
 

The moment I put down the phone, I’m overcome by an aching sense of loss. To my left is my former home. To my right, the disconnected phone.

I reach up to refasten my seatbelt and realize I never unbuckled it.
 

It seems that deep down I had no intention of leaving the safety of my car.

Chapter 3

Back in the room, I stuff the mini-fridge full of groceries, feed Bandit, then go to the gym.

The gym is one of the hotel’s best features. Having access to it has kept me sane, relatively speaking.
 

It takes up a corner of the top floor, and even though four stories isn’t high up enough to see much, there’s a little meadow on the other side of the parking lot and plenty of open sky to lose myself in.

Best of all, I seem to be the only person who ever uses it.

I hop onto the closest of the three treadmills and pick up a steady jog. I’m not trying to set any speed records, but as mile after mile rolls under my pounding sneakers, I feel the tension of the afternoon begin to fall away.

By the time I’ve finished my cool-down, I’m feeling pretty optimistic. Tomorrow, I can stop by to see my sister, and this time I’ll do it.
 

Of that, I’m certain. If nothing else, the fact that it’s my last chance will force the cowardice out of me.

I roll out one of the yoga mats. It was in the same slightly crooked position I left it in yesterday—and I do congratulate myself for that bit of ingenuity; it’s hard to find opportunities to innovate while spending twenty-three hours a day in a hotel room—so I don’t bother wiping it with disinfectant before sitting and beginning my stretches.

What was I so afraid of earlier? Not my grandfather; he would never be home before 6:00.

Not my sister, either; even though I’ve been horrible about emailing regularly, Layla never takes it as a personal affront. But why would she? Our grandfather has the world convinced that I’ve got deep psychological issues.

I lie on my back and tuck in my knees. But instead of doing my crunches, I just stare at the bland, white ceiling, at the recessed lights that I didn’t bother flipping on because it’s still bright outside.
 

And I become aware of what kept me from buzzing the gate.

What if Layla believes our grandfather’s lies? If she pities me… or worse, what if she were to call our grandfather and tell him I’m there, to hurry back and get me? She knew what a monster he was, but I’ve been gone seven years. She was a kid when I left.

Even if none of that is true, she surely has a million questions, and I’ve got no answers worth sharing. Her questions are easy enough to ignore when our communication is spotty, but face to face…
 

It won’t be easy to see the hurt in her eyes and say nothing. I can never tell her the truth, and I don’t have a good excuse.
 

It takes me ten minutes to do twenty crunches, and I eventually admit defeat and return to the room.

After my shower, I wrap a towel around my waist and mentally prepare for the herculean task of blow-drying my long hair. I open the door to let the steam out before picking up the dryer.
 

Usually Bandit runs in and leaps at the cord as it jerks around, which is either cute or irritating—sometimes he accidentally scratches my leg.
 

“You’re missing your chance to make me crazy,” I call out. He’s probably asleep in the chair next to the window.
 

Just as I’m hanging the dryer back on the wall, I hear my phone ringing.
 

Excitement jolts through me. And hope—though I don’t know what I’m hoping for. A break from the solitude and drudgery? I go out and look at my phone.
 

It’s Hawthorne. Of course it is.

In a million years, I’m sure I’ll never be able to rationalize why I answer, but I do.

“Hello,” I say, and I make sure to sound happy, like I’m enjoying life and not holed up in a hotel room.

There’s no response, and I realize I took too long to answer—he’s about to hang up.
 

“Hello!” I yell.

A moment later, he says, “I assumed I’d gotten your voicemail.” The timbre of his voice sends a slow shiver tiptoeing down my spine.

“How can I help you?” I ask as I sit on the edge of the bed.
 

“How can
I
help
you
?” he asks, so self-satisfied that I want to smack him. “You had some questions about the work reassignments?”

It’s impossible to tell if he’s being sincere or if the smug quality of his words signifies skepticism. This is Hawthorne Tarraget, after all; probably the only time he’s not being condescending or arrogant is when he’s asleep.

But I take him at face value. Beggars, choosers, and all that.
 

“I did,” I say brightly. “There were a few I had concerns about. Kempden. Varese.”

“Allow me to alleviate your concerns,” he says, and I know I’m being humored. “Kempden has been sick almost every day this week. He’s either going on interviews or he’s got an offer elsewhere and doesn’t want to lose his personal days.”

“A regrettable turn of events,” I say, trying to match Hawthorne’s snooty tone. I’m surprised by how disappointed I feel; I tried hard to make Kempden happy.

“Don’t take it personally,” Hawthorne says. “I’m sure his plan was in motion weeks or even months ago. As for Varese, she’s working a lot of late nights.”

“Good. I suspected she was ambitious. There’s a lot more room for her to grow now.” I really don’t want to get off the phone. “And the others? How is it overall?”

“Well, it’s only been a week,” he says, and I brace myself for a lecture. In fact, I can already see his ice-blue eyes glowing maliciously at the opportunity to criticize me.
 

“But you did a phenomenal job, Lindsay. I anticipate our retention rate will exceed the industry average.”

“Oh,” I say, surprised by his kind words.

As he elaborates, his voice falls even deeper. He’s speaking more slowly, and I find myself having a difficult time paying attention to the meaning of his words.

Hawthorne has a sexy voice.
 

He’s refined and articulate, and he always says exactly what he means. Even though his blinding certainty that he’s always right infuriates me, there’s something to be said for a decisive man who knows what he wants and goes after it.

Occasionally I ask Hawthorne questions to keep him talking. The damp towel wrapped around my torso is a bit chilly, so I let it fall to the floor, then wiggle my naked body under the covers.