“I’m still sorry,” I told him.
“Thank you,” he replied and dropped his hand. “What I was saying was, once Katherine died, things with your Dad…” He stopped then went on, “See, I’m a cop, so is Malcolm, Ally’s father. It wasn’t… your Mom… with your father bein’… she didn’t feel…” He stopped again, I could tell this was difficult for him because I saw his teeth clench. Then he kept going. “Once Katherine was gone, she didn’t bring you around anymore.”
That’s when it finally hit me. All of it.
Sometime, a long time ago, my Mom had friends. Good friends. People that probably loved her, loads. Made her laugh, made her giggle, made her feel special, made her feel safe.
Which meant…
Sometime, a long time ago, I’d been one of them.
Sometime, a long time ago, I’d been the baby of The Nightingale/Savage/Townsend Clan.
Sometime, a long time ago, my Mom lost her friends and I lost my chance to be a good, normal, nice person surrounded by genuine friends, people that truly cared about me.
I lost all that had been their life. All that made them laugh with each other, tease each other, take care of each other.
Heck, Indy had just gotten married! I could have been one of her bridesmaids!
I tried to hold on but I couldn’t help it, I could feel the tears welling in my eyes.
I thought I was used to the loss but, apparently, I wasn’t.
And that stunk.
“I hate my father,” I told Tom Savage quietly. Then before I could stop it, my breath hitched (repeatedly) and I hissed, “I hate him!”
Hector’s hands disappeared from my shoulders, his arms slid around my chest, his body got closer and I felt his jaw against the side of my head.
Still I tried to gain control (this, by the way, didn’t work and I felt the tears slide down my cheeks).
“Sadie, sugar –” Daisy whispered gently and at her words the Rock Chicks and Ralphie pulled in ever closer.
“I want you to come over for dinner tomorrow,” Tom said. “Indy and Ally’ll be there. So will Lee, Hank and Roxie. Hector too. The whole family.”
The whole family. He said, “The whole family.” I’d never had a “whole family”. Not their kind of family.
Well, I guess I did, once, but I lost it before I knew I even had it.
I pulled in my lips. Hector’s jaw left my head and his arms gave me a squeeze.
There was no way I was going to dinner at Tom Savage’s house with all my babyhood friends reunited. There was no way I was going to set myself up for that kind of loss. There was no way I was going to let any of this go on any longer than it had to.
The only thing I knew was that I had to devise a plan to get myself safe, safe from the Crazy Balducci Brothers and safe from any further emotional turmoil.
Tom must have read my intent on my face because he added, “I have pictures. Of your mother. You could –”
I immediately changed my mind. “I’ll be there.”
Hector gave me another squeeze.
Tom gave me a smile.
Indy threw her hands up and yelled, “Party!”
Ally laughed with obvious relief on the word, “Righteous.”
I relaxed into Hector’s warmth, looked down at the photo and made my decision.
I’d let myself have this one small gift, a gift, I told myself, that was from my Mom.
Then as soon as I could finagle it, just like my Mom, I was going to disappear.
Chapter Eleven
Hector’s Rose
Sadie
“Sadie, maybe you should come in and talk. I’m not sure this is –” my dead grandmother’s financial manager, Aaron Lockhart, said in my ear.
“Please Aaron, just do it,” I interrupted him.
It was after work, I was in my bedroom on the landline not delaying a minute in putting my newly formed plans in place.
One thing my Mom left me was Aaron Lockhart. He was old as the hills, stooped, had wispy white hairs across his liver-spotted scalp and he still worked full-time because, he told me, when he tried retirement his wife nearly drove him to murder.
Since he liked his work, and his freedom, he got in his car every morning at 8:30 and his driver drove him to his office in the Denver Technical Center (known as DTC). He left work at 5:30, which gave his wife plenty of time to have a couple of martinis and mellow out a bit before he got home (he told me this too).
Aaron and I had never been close – my father didn’t like him and wouldn’t allow it – but in an ironclad agreement devised by my dead (but clearly, while she was alive, shrewd) grandmother when she set up my trust, he was appointed to manage my trust fund which had not been touchable until I was twenty-one. He also managed the income derived from the flat in London I inherited which had been rented out since around the time of the Blitz to an old lady named Mrs. Burnsley and a small villa on Crete which was hired out to tourists. I’d never been to either of these properties, my father also wouldn’t allow that, but I’d seen pictures. The flat was close to Covent Garden. The villa was in a small fishing village by the sea.
When I opened Art, I asked Aaron to help me to keep it clean, away from my father and entirely law-abiding, and he did.
Aaron was one of the few people I knew who, regardless of his age, was not frightened of going head-to-head with my father. I admired him, totally trusted him and I’d always liked him but, as ever, I’d never let it show.
I’d just asked him to find out Mrs. Burnsley’s plans for her future in my flat as well as the schedule of occupancy on the villa in Crete. One or the other of them might well be my next destination or a future one as the case may be.
As I didn’t want to put old lady Burnsley out of her home or devastate excited tourists who were looking forward to their time in the sun on a Greek Island, I’d also charged Aaron to find other properties. I didn’t care where just as long as they were manageable on a fixed income and there was at least an ocean between me and the Crazy Balducci Brothers. I also asked him to set up an auction of my belongings that were in storage.
Finally, I asked him to find a way to sign over Art to Ralphie and Buddy without a dime needing to change hands. It would be my thank you for taking care of me. It wasn’t much, but it was the only good thing I had to give.
I wanted no memory of my old life. I was going to pack up my suitcases, board a plane and set up a new life far away where no one had heard of Seth Townsend. Where no one knew who I was, what I was or what had happened to me. And where I could find some peace to decide who was the new me, get used to her and, if I was lucky and I could forget Ralphie, Buddy, Daisy, Hector and all that came with them and, maybe, I could be content.
I heard the doorbell ring and I pulled in my breath. Hector was there to take me out to dinner.
“I’d prefer to have a chat about this,” Aaron said to me as I listened to far away, muted male voices.
“My mind’s made up,” I told Aaron.
“Please, Sadie, as a friend of your family, a particular friend of your grandmother’s, afford me this one courtesy,” Aaron pushed it.
“Sadie!” Buddy called up the stairs. “Hector’s here.”
Darn it!
I had to get off the phone before someone came up to get me and I had no idea how I was going to get away alone to talk to Aaron. In my current circumstances with Hector’s edict being followed to the letter by Ralphie and Buddy (and, by the way he was acting, Ralphie had appointed himself my personal, very well-dressed, completely unskilled, gay bodyguard), it was impossible.
Why did everything have to be so difficult? It was my money and my property, for goodness sake!
“Sadie!” Buddy called.
I put my hand over the mouthpiece and yelled, “Coming!”
“Sadie?” Aaron said in my ear.
I took my hand off the mouthpiece. “Either you do it or I hire someone else to do it,” the Ice Princess told Aaron. “Your choice but I wan
t it done and I want it done as fast as possible.”
I heard Aaron sigh, I knew he was going to give in and I felt a quick charge of relief.
“I’ll see to it,” he assured me.
Thank God. One thing checked off the to-do list.
“Thank you, I’d be grateful for that.”
“Sadie!” Now it was Ralphie yelling from closer to the door and I knew he was climbing the stairs. “Double H is here.”
I covered the mouthpiece again and shouted, “I know! I’ll be right down!”
“Seems you’re busy. I’ll let you go,” Aaron said. “Stay well.”
“Thank you,” I replied.
Then I heard the disconnect.
I had the phone in the receiver and I was snatching up my purse when Ralphie burst in.
“Ralphie!” I whirled to the door. “I said I was coming.”
“I thought you were climbing out the window,” Ralphie retorted.
I wished I’d thought of that and made a mental note to remember it in case I needed it in the future.
“Get a move on, sweet ‘ums. I think I already taught you this all important lesson but I’ll repeat as necessary. We don’t keep hot guys waiting at the door. Skanky guys, yes. Slimy guys, definitely. Hot guys, um… no.”
I gave Ralphie a glare, my glare deflected off Ralphie’s grin and pinged around the room until it disintegrated.
I squared my shoulders, found My Ice and headed out my bedroom door.
* * * * *
It was debatable whether one could call Hector and my “just the two of us” date “enjoyable”.
Firstly, I dressed in my armor, head-to-foot (but not toe) silvery-gray. I had on a shimmery, boat-necked, long-sleeved, tight-fitting, knit shirt with a small, delicate pendant of diamonds shaped in the form of a flower hanging from a platinum chain at my neck and matching drop earrings. This was paired with a slim-fitting, just-above-the-knee, somewhat-shimmery, silvery-gray skirt with four, precise kick pleats, one at the front and back of each of my knees. Elegant, gray, patent leather pumps with a spike heel and black toe, a couple of scent-refreshing sprays of my signature perfume, a quick shake of my fingers coated in my favorite pommade (to define and separate the curls and waves) through my otherwise unencumbered hair and my black trench coat completed my ensemble.
When I walked downstairs and Hector, wearing jeans, boots, a skintight white, long-sleeved t-shirt and black leather jacket (what a pair we were!), saw I changed out of my nice but somewhat casual day wear into Ice Princess Gear, he gave me a little, amused grin and shake of his head.
I ignored him, bestowed goodnight kisses to my roommates and swept, head held high, out the door.
Secondly, Hector informed me in the Bronco that Buddy had given the police the keys to my storage facility. The “lab boys” found nothing to place Ricky at my apartment such was the immaculate cleaning job Ralphie and Buddy did, but they did find traces of blood and hairs on my couch and mattress. Some of it, he explained, they figured was mine, some of it, they hoped, would belong to Ricky.
I hoped so too but I didn’t share.
However, I did wonder how this was going to affect the auction of my “estate”. I didn’t share that either.
Lastly, Hector took me to a Mexican restaurant off Broadway, down south in Englewood. It was called El Tejado and it was not the kind of place where you wore a shimmery, silvery-gray outfit and little diamonds shaped as flowers.
I ignored my discomfort, walked into the casual, worn-in restaurant like I went there every day and sat down in the booth, planting my behind dead center so Hector would get no ideas that he was sharing my seat with me.
He slid in opposite me, still grinning and I got the impression my act didn’t convince him and further he found it highly amusing.
I ignored this too.
Dinner, luckily, didn’t last long. They didn’t mess around with taking and serving your order and I figured that had something to do with the line at the door. A line, incidentally, that we circumvented by Hector smiling at the lady behind the cash register, her face lighting up in recognition, the two of them exchanging rapid-fire Spanish and her elbowing her way through the crowd and seating us at a booth that was getting its finishing wipe down by a busboy. This, I noted with a glance at the door, was not greeted with delight by the waiting customers but I ignored that too.
There was barely any conversation due to my avid fascination of, at first, my menu then the restaurant’s décor then every person in line waiting to get in then my fellow patrons and finally, my newfound wonder at watching a no-sound Mexican soap opera on the television above the bar.
No matter how tasty the food was (and it was tasty), I hardly ate a bite (thank goodness Blanca wasn’t there or she would have had a conniption). Hector paid, we slid out of the booth, he walked me to the Bronco with his hand on my elbow and then it was over.
Dinner down, I just had to survive “the talk”.
If in one day I could survive three lectures, a sex talk, a reunion with the husband of my long, lost mother’s best friend, the revealing of the knowledge that Indy, Ally and Lee were babydom playmates and a “just the two of us” dinner with Hector then I could survive “the talk”.
No problem.
I stared out the window of the Bronco wondering if I might be in Crete next week or next month. Then I wondered if I would like Crete. Then I wondered if they spoke any English on Crete. I was mentally planning on downloading English to Greek lessons on my iPod when Hector parked on a street.
I came out of my thoughts, looked around and immediately realized my mistake at letting my mind wander.
We weren’t outside Capitol Hill where the brownstone was located, we were somewhere else. A clean, tidy, well-established, family neighborhood with clean, tidy, well-kept houses with clean, tidy, well-kept lawns and moderately-priced vehicles lining the street.
“Where are…?” I started, my head turning toward Hector but he was out of the Bronco and rounding the hood.
Blooming heck!
He opened my door.
“Where are we?” I asked the minute he did.
He grabbed my hand and with a firm tug he pulled me out of the car. He dropped my hand, I fell into his waiting ones, he swung my around, set me on my feet on the sidewalk and twisted to slam my door. Then he took my hand again and charged up the sidewalk.
I walked double-time to keep up with him all the while pulling at his hold. “Hector, where are we?”
He didn’t look back when he answered, “My place.”
Blooming, blooming, heck!
“Why are we at your place?” I asked when he stopped at the front door.
“Privacy,” he replied, unlocking the door, shoving it open and before I could make a run for it he had a hand in the small of my back and he was pushing me in.
I entered and stopped.
I was standing on a two step up, dark wood platform, half walls to either side made of the same wood and columns at the end of each. Straight ahead, down the two steps and about five feet away was a wall, along its side, a set of dark wood stairs and matching banister.
On the left side of us was a room that held a jumble of furniture and boxes but also a beautiful, tiled fireplace that looked like it had been scrubbed, the wood of the mantel sanded and refinished to a warm sheen. The walls looked freshly painted in a dusky gray-blue and the floors were obviously refinished. There were closed French doors I couldn’t see through at the other end of that room well down from the wall that separated the room from the stairs.
On the right side of us was another room, filled with paint cans, brushes and tools (hand tools as well as big, heavy power tools with lots of cords). The fireplace in that room looked grimy and as yet untouched but refinished, it’d be gorgeous. Beyond that room was an open doorway which led to a kitchen.
Hector’s hand at my back guided me down the steps and we stopped. He headed left, I heard the rustle of plastic and I turned to watch h
im.
He was uncovering a big, overstuffed armchair covered in midnight blue twill. Once uncovered, he dragged it into the empty but renovation implements room and positioned it in the center.
On the way back, he shrugged off his jacket and threw it on the banister. Then he came to me, walked around me, pulled off my trench, tagged my purse, threw my coat on his and hooked my purse straps around the newel post.
After doing all of this, he grabbed my hand, strode to the chair, sat and then tugged my hand again sharply until I went off-balance. His hands went to my waist and he guided my body until I was seated in his lap.
I didn’t protest any of this not because I didn’t want to but because I was coming to terms with the fact that, obviously, Hector was fixing up his own house.
This affected me deeply, for two reasons.
First, for as long as I could remember, my father had a personal groomer who came to the house every two weeks. She trimmed my father’s hair, gave him a clean shave and finished off with a manicure. My father’s fingernails were perfectly clipped and shone so brightly it was almost like he was wearing a coat of clear polish. As far as I knew, he never picked up anything but a fork, a pen, a book or a golf club in his life. Never a hammer or a paint brush. Never. He’d also never operated anything with a cord except, perhaps, his razor (though, I must admit, I’d not familiarized myself with his personal hygiene).
In fact, most every man of my acquaintance was much the same.
Second, because of the above, when I was seventeen or eighteen I had this stupid, silly, girlish, in the very, very back of my mind daydream that one day I’d find a real man. A man so unlike my father as to be his antithesis. A man who was strong enough to take me away from my horrible life living in my beautiful but cold ivory tower with bad people swarming around me like killer bees. We’d fall in love and he’d whisk me away, we’d buy some junker bungalow that we’d fix up, intermingling our renovation efforts with having and raising a plethora of children who we would spoil rotten and love to distraction. Often we’d cease our duties, laughing at each other, paint dabs on our cheeks and dust in our hair, while our children frolicked amongst our jumble of restoration paraphernalia.