CHAPTER ELEVEN
Shaking hands with a few people after the conference, my eyes search the room for Sutton. Our hotels are pretty close to one another, I could offer to walk her back. I catch a glimpse of her as she slips out the door. Quickly excusing myself, I head after her, my eyes searching the lobby and hallways of the hotel, but she’s nowhere to be found.
The automatic doors open, leading me outside. Really, automatic doors? That’s as impersonal as you can get. Where’s the doorman? The bellhop? The little bottles of water to help combat the heat?
I step out onto the sidewalk. Steam seems to be rising off it today. The humidity’s so thick it makes it hard to breathe. Turning my head side-to-side, I look down the busy streets, cars and tourists all around, hoping to catch Sutton, but she’s gone.
Starting down the sidewalk, the bell from the streetcar, the blow from the tugboat on the Mississippi, the bottle cap tap dancers on the street are the rhythm of my walk back to my hotel. The speech went well, but I wonder what Sutton thought. I couldn’t get a read on her. Every time I glanced her way, she either was looking down, or I’d find myself getting distracted and having to look away. And I wasn’t even picturing her naked. It seems now I have two women, Sutton and Dr. Lorraine, who have me on a sex diet. How did that happen?
My conversation with Sutton is on repeat in my mind, making me grin the whole walk back. But it’s the conversation that I walk in on that quickly changes my mood from light to dark.
They are both smiling, but they’re smiles full of venom. Women have the uncanny ability to smile through most things—pain, anger, tears. My mom was good at that. She’d stub her toe then smile and say she was fine. She did that every time a man hurt her, too.
A woman can hate your guts and smile right at you. It’s scary. And I’m looking at it right now, standing in my office—Annie and Vicki.
I know these two don’t like each other, but it almost seems like they are competing to see who has the fakest smile on her face. I don’t bother to fake a smile. I hate my stepmother, Vicki, and there’s no reason to fake it.
“Afraid what Tawny might find out?” Annie says, glaring at Vicki. “Because I know a whole hell of a lot.”
Vicki’s posture relaxes, but there’s no mistaking the threatening tone in her voice. “Don’t forget what I know about you. What you did.”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Tawny’s missing!” Annie says, unable to disguise the concern in her voice.
Vicki straightens her spine, her bleach blonde hair pulled into a tight bun. Gone are the skin-tight groupie clothes she used to wear. She traded her leather pants in for mom jeans, but the over-processed hair and cheap boob job are undeniable. “I thought she might be here.”
Tawny is the only legitimate excuse for Vicki being in my presence, and she uses it far too freely. “What did you do to her?” I ask.
“Me?” Vicki replies. “You’re just like your father. You both think that little girl hung the moon.”
“Tawny’s a good kid. Despite you,” Annie says, flashing me a look. “Takes after her father, I guess.”
“Annie, that’s not helping,” I say. I don’t look at Vicki, but direct my voice to her. “Vicki, what did you fight about this time?”
“She wants to go to some summer program . . .”
“The one in New York?” I ask. “I thought she got waitlisted?”
“She did, but a spot opened up. She needs to be there next week.”
The true reason for her visit is now clear. “How much?”
“Well, with transportation and everything, it’s close to five thousand dollars,” Vicki says. “And you know your father didn’t leave me anything when he died.”
No, my father didn’t leave me anything when he died. I know he left it all to her, and she’s blown through it in two short years. I still don’t know how much it was. I know he had a hefty life insurance policy, and that their house was paid for years ago, but other than that, I’ve got no clue.
“I think I know where Tawny is. I’ll go talk to her,” I say.
Annie takes my arm, pulling me aside a little. “You already pay for Tawny’s tuition, her music lessons. You paid for her braces and . . .”
“I don’t need a list.”
“You’re letting Vicki use you again,” Annie says.
“I don’t have a choice. You know that.”
Annie glares at Vicki and whispers to me, “But I have a choice.”
“Annie,” I say, taking her elbow. I don’t need to say anything else to remind her. There are things we don’t discuss, secrets between us. Annie knows what I’m thinking, and I see her dissolve. We both turn our eyes to Vicki.
“I’ll just wait here,” Vicki says, taking a seat.
*
New Orleans cemeteries are an interesting place. People are buried above ground here, since the city is below sea level. The mausoleums look like tiny houses, only these store the bones of the dead. I’ve always found it odd that the city’s old cemeteries are popular tourist attractions. Why would you want to be surrounded by the dead? Things that are dead should stay that way—buried and locked away, like secrets. Of course, there are always grave robbers hoping to find some treasure, just like there are people hoping to hear our secrets.
I knew Tawny would be here among the rows of mausoleums. Some are bigger than others. Some maintained better. Each one with its own story. Tawny is leaning against the white stone facade of Ashton Kingston’s grave, our last name engraved in the middle of the miniature cathedral holding what remains of him.
I hear Tawny’s angelic voice. There are no tears on her face. She cries through her song. It’s how, if given a choice, she chooses to express herself. Standing back out of her sight, I give her a few more minutes of peace, of space.
Ashton wasn’t much of a father to me—absent, partied hard, gambled—but he was utterly devoted to Tawny. I think he saw her as his second chance, the one he never really got with me. She is the child he and Vicki struggled for years to have. Just one of many reasons Vicki has to hate me. I represent what she couldn’t give him for so long, and am a constant reminder of the affair he carried on for years with my mother.
I take a step closer, and Tawny turns to me, not at all surprised to see me. That warms my heart. She knows I’m always here for her.
“I miss him,” she whispers.
“I know,” I say, sitting down next to her.
“You don’t miss him?” Tawny asks.
“We weren’t close. You know that.”
“He regretted that,” she says. “He told me. He told me how much he loved you.”
“He wasn’t a good father to me, and I wasn’t a good son,” I say, the regret as thick as the humidity.
“I wish you loved him,” she says.
“I did. It was complicated.”
“Like me and Mom,” she whispers, looking up at me. “She told you I got in?”
I nod. “It’s great. I’m proud of you.”
“Mom says we can’t afford it, but I know she has the money. She always has new clothes, and she just bought that new car.”
“You don’t need to worry about any of that,” I say. “You know you can always come to me.”
She starts to hum softly, her version of weeping. I wrap my arm around her, and she leans her head down on my shoulder. It’s hard to believe she’s almost sixteen. I remember the day Vicki announced she was pregnant so clearly. Something occurs to me. “This is an all-girls program, right?”
She giggles, lightly punching my side. “If New York boys are anything like New Orleans boys, then they won’t know I’m alive.”
I get to my feet, helping her up. “Can we keep it that way for another ten years or so?”
“Only ten?” she teases.
“Twenty years would be better,” I say, and we head to my car.
“Then what’s your problem?” she asks. “You’re thirty, and every woman we pass on the street knows you’re alive.”
I chuckle. Tawny’s got no clue about my personal life. Of course, she knows about Daphne—we were together awhile. “Trying the single thing.”
“I give it a month,” she teases, having no idea how right she actually is. “I saw all the looks between you and Miss Sutton the other night.”
I open the passenger door for her and head around to my side. “You caught that, huh?”
I start the car, and she says, “You should send her flowers or something.”
“Maybe,” I say, noncommittal as usual.
She fiddles with my radio. “Did you really mean it when you said I could come to you for anything?” I glance at her. “Cause I’m turning sixteen this year. Getting my license.”
I pat the dash of my car, knowing she hates it. “She’ll be all yours.”
“The G-Wagon?” she says, making a grossed-out face. “It’s like a luxury tank.”
Tawny hates my car. She’s not one for labels or status, so the heavy price tag doesn’t impress her. When she was younger, she thought everything I did was cool, but that seemed to end with her interest in dolls. “Right, so you’ll be safe.”
“I want an MG Midget,” she says. “Vintage.”
“Convertible,” I say. “Not gonna happen.”
“I guess there’s always the streetcar.”
God, for a pint size female she sure can jerk my chain. “Or the convent.”
She leans her head back, grinning at me. “Thanks for cheering me up.”
“Anytime.”
“You’re the best brother in the world.”
*
The first thing I do when I get back to the office – after refereeing Tawny and Vicky’s reunion – is have Annie get me the name of our florist. I’m going to take Tawny’s advice and send some flowers to Sutton, letting her know I’m thinking about her. Besides, that’s what guys are supposed to do. I never really have before, except on holidays or something, and Annie usually took care of that without me ever even knowing. I always got the credit, though. But this time I want to order them myself, and I’m going to add my own touch.
Stumped on what to send, I turn to the internet and search for something exotic. She’s anything but basic, so the standard roses aren’t going to cut it. I land on something interesting. Did you know there are flowers called Clitoris Bulbaris and Wang Peonies? I wonder if Sutton would find that funny.
“Oh my God,” Annie cries. “What is that?”
“Flowers.”
“It looks like . . .” She takes one look at my face and cracks up. “Why are you looking up pornographic flowers?”
“I ran into Sutton and wanted to . . .”
“You can’t send her those!” Annie giggles, slapping me. “She already thinks you’re a major player.” I raise my eyebrows, and she shrugs. “We talked the other night at the bar.”
“About me?”
“Egomaniac!” She gives me a little wink. “But I did put in a good word.”
“Which word was that?”
“I just happened to tell the story of the time I called you late at night because I couldn’t unscrew the cap on the pickle jar, and you came over and unscrewed it for me.”
“That sounds like code for sex.”
She laughs. “No, it doesn’t. Well, okay, so it sort of does. But we were laughing about the struggles of being single, and why it’s good to have a man around sometimes. Like to unclog the toilet or open jars. I said you were my go-to guy and told the story. I thought it was sweet.”
“So she either thinks we’re friends with benefits or that you call me for every little thing. Perfect!”
Laughing, she says, “I like Sutton for you. I can see that. You need someone like her. Someone strong who can handle your crap.” Then she narrows her eyes at me. “But not your usual relationship.”
Something happens. A shift. Like the air suddenly changes. I can feel it, like a dark cloud on a rainy day. Annie feels it, too. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My muscles tense like I’m facing down an enemy. This shit is happening too much lately. The past creeping in. It’s got to be Dr. Lorraine. Maybe she’s really some sort of voodoo priestess. But she’s not getting into my soul. No way.
My computer screen goes black from inactivity, and Annie hits the keyboard, saying, “She’d be really good for you.”
Annie pats my shoulder and walks out, and I look up at my computer. Casa Blanca Lilies come up on my screen. If Sutton were a flower, that’s what she’d be—elegant and classy. I’ll save the porn flowers for later. I pick up my phone to order, deciding to get thirty—one for every day in the month. I arrange for delivery then hang up, and decide tomorrow I’ll order twenty-nine. Seems like a perfect way to count down the month.
*
“I sense a pattern,” Sutton says, her voice coming softly through the phone.
It’s late, but I can tell she’s still at work. Her voice is always softer when she calls me from her office. I wish she’d thank me in person for the flowers, but after a few daily deliveries, I know that’s not going to happen. She’s not going to give in. But she always calls to thank me. Sometimes it’s quick, and other times we find ourselves talking for hours. I’ve learned more about Sutton these past few days than I did in the two years I dated Daphne.
“I just texted you a picture,” she says. “They’re beautiful.”
I hit the speaker button on my phone then find her text. Unfortunately, it’s only a picture of the flowers, not her, not even her holding them. “I was kind of hoping you’d be in the shot,” I say.
“I’m not sending you a nude.”
“I wasn’t asking,” I say, laughing. “But now that you mention it!”
She starts giggling. “Sorry, it’s just at this point talking to a guy, I usually get the dick pic.”
“And is that a selling feature?”
She laughs again. “No, most of them need to be recalled.”
“That bad?” I ask.
“Pierced, bushy, shaved bald, pics of them holding things with it. Some dude even dressed his up,” she says.
I bust out laughing. “We are kind of obsessed with our cocks.”
“Just don’t send me a portrait of your dick, okay?”
“I think I’d rather you see it in person.”
“You have a line for everything,” she says.