What Was I Thinking? (8 page)

“He’s obsessed with having a baby, and I’m not
ready yet.” Cassie started to sniffle. “I know I’m overreacting, but we’ve been
fighting about it for weeks. It’s not that I don’t want a baby, I do. But I
thought we’d have some time for just the two of us first, you know?” sniff.

She stopped herself. She was a good friend,
after all. “I’m sorry. You called me. I shouldn’t just launch into my own
problems. What’s on your mind?”

“Everything has gone wrong this week, and I
don’t have any real friends with you and Kelly out of town and Nikki off with
Tad. I just feel so lonely, and like I can’t ever—”

Cassie interrupted again. “Don’t forget, you
never loved Tad. You were trying to decide whether to dump him, remember?”

“Well, yes, there’s that, but that brings up
the question of whether I’ll ever find somebody. He was the closest I ever got,
and even that was a mistake. I just feel so—”

“Believe me, anything to do with men is a
mistake. Dave says we agreed to start trying the minute the wedding was over,
and that I’m going back on my word, and I’m not—” sniff “—and he won’t even
listen when I try to remind him that we agreed to have kids but not right away,
and—” sob.

Oh, dear. “Cassie, it will be okay. You love
him, and you know he loves you, and you do both want the same things out of
life.”

“I don’t know. I really don’t. All we do is
yell, and I’m—” sob “—so tired and my throat hurts and from shouting and—” sob
“I just don’t know what to do.” That ended on a wail, which was completely out
of character for Cassie. So was shouting, come to think of it. I wondered if
she could already be pregnant, and having hormone fallout. It didn’t seem
tactful to ask.

I was completely at a loss. After all, I’m not
the one who’s good at relationships. But she wasn’t asking for a solution, just
an ear. So I would give that. “Tell me all about it,” I said gently.

She did. And I answered when she paused for
breath, trying to think of kind and encouraging comments, trying very hard not
to think “when can we talk about
me?
”
like a bad friend.

I loved Cassie, I really did. We’d been friends
since forever, and we had always been there for each other, but as we reached
the end of hour two, “what about
me?
”
was ringing louder and louder in the back of my head. I knew she was very
upset, but shouldn’t she have spared a thought for me? Or even pretended to?

“Oh! Dave’s here! And he brought a huge bunch
of roses and a bottle of champagne. I’ve got to go!” and the line went dead.

Well, crap. Was she a lousy friend, or was I a
total loser who didn’t deserve any friends, or were we both having lousy lives
right now? I didn’t know, but I didn’t think I could take much more.

* * * *

I went to bed. Didn’t take off makeup, didn’t
shower. Just dropped my clothes on the floor and went to bed. Figured it was a
better place to be inert and despairing than the living room floor.

I slept all day Saturday, waking once or twice
to go to the bathroom or drink a glass of water. When I finally came alert, it
was after six, and I had promised to meet Pete for a drink at seven. I didn’t
feel one bit like going, but I didn’t want to hurt him. Anyway, I didn’t feel
one bit like staying home either. It didn’t matter where I was unhappy, or with
whom.

I showered and
dressed,
putting on enough makeup to seem as if I’d made some effort, and got to the bar
just in time. It was okay. Pete made some jokes that I forced myself to laugh
at, and we managed some conversation. It wasn’t the date of the year, and I
felt bad for Pete, but it was the best I could do.

My phone buzzed, and I looked at it. Campbell.
The hell with him.
It was Saturday. I put the phone back in
my pocket.

“Do you need to go? If something came up, I
understand.” I didn’t need to go, but poor Pete needed an out from this date
from hell.

“I do, as a matter of fact. I’m very sorry.
Thanks for the drinks.”

“No problem. Maybe we’ll do it again some
time.”

“Sure.” With that, I made my way unescorted
back to my car. A week ago I wouldn’t have thought about being unescorted. Bert
had made a big impression in a short time.

I went home and sat on the couch. I couldn’t
possibly sleep again so soon, there was truly nothing on TV, I wasn’t hungry,
reading was too much work, and I was never going to call anyone, ever again. So
I sat.

Chapter Four

Routine and Roses

I stayed in my funk until I got home from
work—in a taxi—Monday evening. We’d worked late, but I didn’t have anything to
be home for.

Nobody cared that I was in a funk. I didn’t
either.

I hadn’t heard from the mechanic who had my
car, or from my insurance company. I’d call them both when I cared enough to
bother.

There was a note taped to my apartment door. It
said my neighbor had accepted a package for me, and I should go get it right
away. Huh. Well, I didn’t have anything better to do.

I knocked on the door of 4B. A middle-aged
woman opened the door. She looked sour. “I’m Addie Hull, from next door?” I
said hesitantly. “There was a note that you had accepted a package for me?”

“Oh. Yeah, I’ll get it.” Was she grouchy, or
was I just really touchy? Who knew? Who cared?

She was back in a moment, with a long white
box—the kind flowers come in, in the movies. I’d never seen one in real life. I
said thank you, and turned to go.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” she asked.

I turned back. “Sure. I just thought—”

“I’m actually a little curious,” she said.
“I’ve never seen a florist actually use one of those boxes.” She smiled a
little.

“Me too,” I admitted. “And me neither.” I
smiled back and started to untie the ribbon, balancing the box awkwardly.

“Oh! Come in. You can use the coffee table. I
wasn’t thinking.” She backed up, and waved me into her apartment.

“Thanks,” I said, sitting on the edge of the
couch and putting the box down. I got the bow untied, and lifted the top.
Inside was a spray of red roses, just like in the movies. How odd.

“They’re beautiful,” she said. “Your boyfriend
is great.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend. I can’t imagine who
would send these. In fact, they’re probably not for me. I’m sure it’s a
mistake.”

“Why don’t you open the card?”

“There’s a card?”

“Sure. It was tucked into the ribbon. Didn’t
you see?”

It had fallen under the coffee table when I
undid the ribbon. We found it, and sure enough, it had my name on the outside,
and my address. The handwriting wasn’t familiar, but it was probably the
florist’s anyway.

I slid a thumbnail under the flap and found a
plain, white card, with no external markings at all. I opened it, and saw just
one
sentence,
and no name at all. It read “The red
rose whispers of passion.”

I turned it over. No other marks at all.

I looked at my neighbor in wonder and shook my
head. “I have no idea at all who this could be from.” I passed her the card to
read, smiling for the first time in days. “I wish I did. Ever since I read that
poem in high school, I’ve wanted a boyfriend to quote it to me.”

She smiled back at me.
“Me
too.
But no one ever does. I’m Susan Garringer, by the way. I don’t
think I ever told you.”

“Nice to meet you.
I’m sorry you were bothered
with my package. I know it’s annoying. Everyone knows I’m not here during the
day, and packages should come to the office.” I rose to go.

“It’s fine, really. At least we’ve met, after
all these months. If you find out who it’s from, be sure to tell me. I’m going
to die of curiosity otherwise.”

I thanked her again and went home to find a
vase.

Tuesday was a rerun, though it’s hard to
maintain a full-blown funk when you’ve got a dozen anonymously sent red roses
waiting at home. When I got home, late again, there was another note on my
door, but it was friendlier this time. “Another one came. Come over for a glass
of wine and an opening party.
-Susan.”

I put my briefcase away, changed into jeans,
T-shirt, and flip-flops, and went over. Susan opened the door immediately, and
I saw the florist’s box behind her on the coffee table.

“Hello, again,” she said. “Like a glass of
white zin?”

“That would be great,” I agreed. “White
zinfandel is my favorite, but I don’t keep any in the apartment. I figure,
given how
sucky
work is, I’d start
drinking every day after work, and wind up with a problem.”

“Smart to be careful. Have a seat while I pour,
and then we’ll get down to business.”

She went to the kitchenette, and I picked up
the box. I didn’t start to untie the ribbon though. That seemed wrong, like
opening your Christmas presents while the rest of the family was still asleep.

After she’d taken a seat across from me, and
we’d each had a sip, I ceremoniously opened the box.
White
roses this time.
I opened the card. Sure enough, it was the next line of
the poem—this one about white roses meaning love.

“Wow.” We both said it at once, and then we
both laughed.

“Any clues on who it is?” Susan asked.

“Not a one. As far as I know, my ex-boyfriend
is still happily living with my ex-friend.”

“Oh, ouch!”

“Yeah.
But she can have him. He’s never
read a poem in his life and I’m not sure he’s ever sent flowers either.”

“Maybe a new admirer?”

“I don’t think so. I had a disaster date last
weekend, but I work with the guy, and he hasn’t acted love-struck or anything.
Other than that…well, I did meet another guy, but he went weird on me and I’m
pretty sure he’s going to avoid me until the end of time.”

I had an upsetting thought. “You don’t think
this could be a stalker, do you?
Some kind of weirdo like a
serial killer?”

“No.” She thought about it, and then shook her
head.
“Couldn’t be.
A serial killer would be sending
you severed fingers in boxes.”

“Oh. Thanks for that image. I’ll sleep great
tonight.”

She laughed. “Sorry. I have a vivid
imagination. So, tell me about the disaster date. It’ll get our minds off
bloody fingers.”

So I leaned back and told her all about it, and
about the horrible week leading up to it. She was a good listener, and it was a
pleasant evening. When I eventually went home, I was feeling better than I had
in a while.

The next night, I wasn’t surprised to have
another note from Susan. I was at least half expecting it, and I’d left work
right at five, unable to fight the anticipation. The note read: “You’d better
come right over. You’ve either got the line about the falcon, or some fingers.”
Laughing, I took down the note and tapped on her door.

The box was bigger this time, and the wine was
already out.

“Do you want to come over to mine?” I asked. “I
was going to warm up a casserole, and there’s plenty. It goes well with zin.”

“Sounds great,” she said, handing me the box
and picking up the wine.

I led her straight to my kitchenette, dropping
briefcase and purse on the couch as we passed it. I put the box on the table
and asked, “
what’s
your bet?
Red
roses and a line about a falcon, or bloody fingers?”

“It’s hard to call, but I’m going with the
falcon. You still don’t know who this is? I noticed there’s no card this
time—just a delivery ticket.”

“No. I’ve thought and thought, and the serial
killer is the most plausible scenario I’ve found. Pete asked me out again, to a
movie this weekend, but he didn’t say a word about flowers. Don’t you think he
would have?”

“Yeah, but who knows. Have you met anyone who
understands men?”

“Good point. Let’s cut to the chase here!” I
grabbed my kitchen shears and cut through the ribbon.
To heck
with decorum.
I lifted the lid, and my jaw dropped.

We were both wrong. It was flowers, but Mr.
Anonymous himself had cut to the chase. It was three dozen white roses with
pink streaks and red edges. They were breathtaking. I lifted them out
reverently, and we both stared.

After a moment, I turned toward the sink. I
would have to set them there to give them a little moisture while I looked for
a big enough
vase
.

“Addie! There’s a note!” Susan was pointing into
the box, where the corner of an envelope was peeping out from under the bottom
tissue.

I slid it out, opened the folded paper and held
it between us so she could read it, too. This had become a shared mystery.