Chapter Four
On my birthday, an enormous arrangement of daisies was delivered to Mangler. My aunts are convinced it’s a gift from Roy, though there was no card and no call.
Days turned into weeks. I spent an embarrassing amount of time on the Internet searching for anything about Roy Blackwood. There’s surprisingly little about him personally. The business website for Titan details his military service in Special Forces. How he started his company with the help of a few investors. The services they provide range from private security to corporate security to—my eyes pause over the words—a private military. I’ve never heard of a company having a military.
It conjures up images of legions of Roman soldiers marching as far as the eye can see. Roy, of course, at the head of this vast army of men, leads them to their next client riding a large, white horse—maybe a draft horse. Did they have those in ancient Rome?
I’m thrilled when I find a couple of old images of him from the military, wearing what I guess is battle gear. If not for his eyes, I wouldn’t have recognized him with a helmet and the thick beard. He’s lined up next to two other soldiers, all holding rifles. Pistols are holstered at their hips and all manner of things are strapped to and hanging from their uniforms.
Mr. Lethal, indeed.
I don’t know why, but I bookmark the site and find myself going back to the image often, as if I study it long enough, it will explain the inner workings of Roy Blackwood. And maybe that will help me understand why I can’t put him out of my mind. Why, in quiet moments, his face rises to the surface. I remember our almost kiss and wish I’d been more brave. And always the constant question as to why he was interested in me.
In the grocery line, all the tabloids had Jason’s bruised face on their covers. According to unnamed sources, Mr. King was so immersed in the authenticity of his performance he insisted on doing his own stunts. The injuries were caused by his dedication to his craft and were not life-threatening. The sources also believe this film could be the one to win him an Oscar.
At least Jason was punished for his actions, though it’s not nearly enough.
Vincent was positively giddy when I told him about Roy. Not the Jason parts, but how I met him while delivering the costumes, and the part about going out to breakfast, and the tavern growling incident. He and my aunts insist I should call Roy to thank him for the flowers. I’ve pulled out his card, rubbing my fingers over the raised lettering like Aladdin’s lamp, but no matter how many times I try, I can’t seem to dial his number.
And the weeks slip by until September is here, and the weather won’t break, though everyone’s convinced tomorrow will be cooler.
When I’ve accepted the fact I won’t hear from the enigmatic Mr. Blackwood, a box appears on the shop counter with my name on it.
“You don’t think?” Stella eyes the box with suspicion.
I focus hard on the red polka dot wrapping paper like I can force it to disappear. “No.”
“You haven’t gotten anything, have you?” Stella takes a hesitant step toward the gaily wrapped package.
“There’s no daisy.” I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. “And it’s not wrapped in white paper.”
“Open it,” Mae urges, with Stella beside her, looking like she’s ready to pounce on it. “It’s not doing us any good to stare at it like a bunch of vultures.”
Since Stella and Mae are twins, everyone assumes they have the same personality, but there are differences. Like Mae is the enforcer and Stella the strategic thinker. Or Stella loves cherry pie while Mae can’t stand the smell of it.
I approach the box like it’s a spider, a jumping spider, and do my best to get a grip on my rampant nerves. The bow unravels easily and pools on the counter. I lift the lid and find a small jewelry box nestled in a profusion of red tissue paper.
“Maybe it’s from Roy.”
In unison, they both let out a long sigh. There hasn’t been a day go by since I met Roy that they haven’t asked if I’ve heard from him.
I retrieve the small velvet box. The hinged lid opens and, inside, a pair of diamond-studded earrings twinkles back at me.
“Oh, Daisy,” Stella exclaims. “It must be from Mr. Blackwood. I told you he was sweet on you.”
“At least a carat each.” Mae’s large, almond eyes are mesmerized. “Excellent quality. Looks like a platinum setting.”
I place the earrings on the counter and search for a note. In frustration, I tip the box over, and from amongst the tissue paper a card floats down like an autumn leaf, landing face-up for us to read.
Sorry, Jason.
Good God. I step back and will myself to remain calm.
“Who’s Jason?” Stella asks.
Mae’s turning the card over to see if anything’s written on the back. “And why’s he sorry?”
“It must be a mistake,” I sputter, my mind furiously spinning how to keep them from asking questions.
“It has your name on it.” Stella’s inspecting the box, looking for an indication of where the earrings were bought.
“It must be meant for another Daisy.” How lame can I be? Very, it seems.
“Don’t be daft. You’re the only Daisy in Middleburg.” Mae points out the obvious.
Finally, unable to think of anything else to do, I put everything back in the box and place it on the middle shelf behind the counter. “We’ll wait. The delivery company made a mistake. Someone will come for it.”
From their facial expressions, neither of my aunts thinks my explanation is plausible, but they have the tact, for once, not to press. When they’re busy with a customer, I grab Roy’s business card from my purse and step out on the back stoop.
Should I bother him? Will he brush me off? My mind ricochets from one doubt to another.
“Call,” I finally say. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
The phone is picked up on the first ring.
“Titan,” a man answers.
It’s not Roy, and why should it be? His business number would be printed on the card. Did I expect he wouldn’t have a receptionist answering the phones? Before I can complete all my inner dialogue and speak, the call disconnects. Did he hang up on me? Well, I didn’t say anything, but I was thinking. I was definitely going to speak. I hit redial.
“Titan.” It’s the same man.
“May I speak to Roy Blackwood, please?”
“He’s unavailable. Would you like to leave a message?”
“This is Daisy Aldridge. I’m…” What am I? Friend? Business? Charity case?
“Yes?” prompts the voice, impatient.
“Mr. Blackwood helped me with a situation in Middleburg. Can you have him call me?”
“Of course, I’ll relay the message when he calls in at 1400 hours.”
I’m puzzling out what he means.
“Is there anything else?”
“No, thank you.” I disconnect and realize I didn’t leave a number. I scowl at the phone. Before I can decide if I should call a third time, Stella yells for me.
A couple hours later my phone rings while I’m walking to Mangler with a dozen lemon cookies from the Upper Crust Bakery. One-handed, I balance the box and retrieve the phone from my back pocket. No caller ID.
“Hello,” I answer, fully expecting it to be a telemarketer. The connection is bad, not with static but what sounds like a giant wind machine.
“Daisy, are you there?”
It’s Roy. “Yes, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you.” In the background, the wind noise increases.
“I’ve got a couple minutes of connection time before the flight goes dark. Are you alright?”
“Yes. It’s…Well, I got...”
“What?” He’s yelling over the noise.
“Jason sent me a present,” I yell back, causing the person beside me to scurry past.
“The stupid mother…”
I think he says more, but it’s lost in the tornado of sound.
“My aunts were there,” I continue, hoping his side of the connection is better than mine. “They’re questioning me. Please, I have to do something.” I duck onto the side street between Middleburg Bank and the post office. “I don’t know what to do. They don’t know what happened. They can’t find out.”
I’m not sure he’s heard me until his distorted voice says, “I see.” Followed by him talking in the background to someone else, I think. “Daisy…listen to me. Paul will be there to sort this out. Follow his lead.”
What does he mean? Did I hear him correctly? It’s so difficult with whatever that noise is. Before I can ask, the connection drops.
At precisely four o’clock—I know this because that’s our closing time and we’re all by the counter getting ready to lock up for the day—a man wearing a suit walks up to our shop window, stops, looks at the Mangler sign, and strolls through the door.
“Ladies,” he says. “I’m Paul from McLean Jewelry.” He places his business card and a gift bag on the counter. “There’s been an embarrassing mix-up.”
This is the man Roy had said would come. I’m slightly dazed as I listen to him explain, in a logical manner, how a delivery to a Daisy in Middletown, Virginia, got mixed up with my delivery. And how unlikely that two Daisys would have deliveries on the same day. My aunts are eating him up with their eyes. He’s in his mid-to-late twenties, with sandy-blond hair, blue eyes, and a nice suit. He’s much smaller than Roy, which means he’s an average-sized male, but even dressed in a suit, you can tell he works out.
“I apologize for the horrible mistake. This is your gift.” He winks at my aunts and retrieves from the bag a green leather box embossed with a golden crown. “If you would, open it to ensure there isn’t another unfortunate event.”
I open the lid to find a gold Rolex watch with diamonds sparkling around the dial.
“Yes, there, much better.” He’s smiling. I’m stunned. “And here’s your card.” Paul pulls it from his suit jacket and holds it out for me.
Daisy, time moves much too slowly away from you. Roy
Paul rubs his hands together. “Now, I need to retrieve the package we sent in error?”
Stella hands it over before I even look up. She knows a profitable trade when she sees one.
“Again.” He bows slightly, holding his tie in place. “I deeply apologize for the misunderstanding.”
“Thank you,” I mumble, not taking my eyes off the gorgeous watch as the bell above the door jingles.
“Seems Roy has fallen under your spell.” Mae lifts the watch, tests the weight. “It’s real.”
“Did you doubt it?” Stella scoffs.
They’re both waiting for me to say something. “I don’t know why Roy sent it.” I snatch the watch back from Mae, place it back in its box, close the lid, and put it in the bag. “I’m giving it back to him. It’s way too expensive.”
From the look in their eyes, I know they don’t believe a word I’m saying. In unison, they grab their handbags to leave.
“Whatever you say, dear,” Stella calls as the back screen door slams behind them.
I run my fingers over the green leather. I’m in awe that Roy sent me a watch, a beautiful watch with diamonds. I want to open the box and stare at it, maybe slip it on my wrist. A tiny voice inside me whispers, Roy is a good man I don’t need to fear, in any sense.
He was forced into it, says a much louder voice. True, I suppose. I gather my things to leave.
Driving home, with my gift snug against my leg, I struggle to keep my mind occupied and not left to its own devices. My once-dormant compulsion has hounded me since the earrings arrived. Who am I trying to kid? It’s been nipping at my heels since the incident with Jason.
My scars tingle. Yes, we’re here, wanting more.
I twist my hands on the steering wheel. “Go away,” I shout and focus on where I’ll run this evening.
I’ll set a fast pace up the hills and follow the animal trail through the woods and maybe cross over into the property to the east and run to the pond. That should work off the tension given it’s a good five, maybe seven, miles of rough terrain.
I park the old Buick in front of my home, afraid to open the door. It’s silly, I know, but I’m a jittery mess and expect Jason will spring at any moment from behind a tree like a demented Jack in the Box.
“Jesus,” I yelp when my phone rings. Please let it be Roy.
It’s not. “Vincent?”
“Love,” his voice is wispy and cigarette-tinged. “The Argentinians are back, and I’m in desperate need of a run.”
He’s referring to the polo players here for the season. Vincent’s family hosts some of the matches and sponsors a team.
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“You little minx.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Unfortunately, I do.”
I can tell he’s rolling his eyes. “Meet me on my porch at six.”
“Slipping into my spandex now. Ciao.”
Vincent…spandex…can’t wait. At least he won’t be mistaken for a deer and shot. With two hours to burn, I grab Roy’s gift and sprint inside, go directly upstairs, and change into running shorts and a tank top. Knowing Vincent will soon be here makes me less anxious. I’m still in the danger zone, though, and know idle hands will seek out Reggie’s blade, and I can’t allow that to happen.
My home, a farmhouse built in the 1920s, isn’t large, but it’s neat and clean and mine. The front porch extends the full width of the house and wraps around to one side where there is a door into the kitchen. An oak staircase divides the house, with the living room on the left and the kitchen on the right. An addition was put on the back in the fifties, adding a mudroom/laundry room and a half bath. Upstairs are three bedrooms, two baths, and a sleeping porch.
This used to be Mae and Reggie’s home. They were childhood sweethearts and married for more than fifty years. When he died of a sudden heart attack, she couldn’t bring herself to return to the house without him.
It had been the saddest day of my life when Stella and I packed up their belongings and sealed the boxes. Knowing Reggie would never use his favorite fishing pole again. Or seeing the box he kept with every note and card Mae ever gave him. Packing up their precious possessions had made it real.
Grabbing my bucket of cleaning supplies, I head to the guest bathroom. It’s the smallest, with only a shower and sink and toilet. It doesn’t take long to spray everything with Clorox cleaner and scrub until the tile and chrome are sparkling.
My bathroom takes longer, as it has the original tub, marvelously broad and deep and so heavy it will probably be here after the house is no more. It sits in an alcove with a curved archway and surrounded by mint and black tiles. The rest of the bathroom is more sedate, though still in the same Art Deco style.
I tidy up the bedrooms and go downstairs to spray the kitchen counters and table. Sweep out the few bits of debris I’ve tracked onto the hardwood floors and give the furniture a once-over for dusting.
Amazing how much a clean and orderly house fills me with a sense of rightness in the world, even though things are far from right.
Pulling my long hair into a high ponytail, I grab my Nikes and go outside to the porch swing and wait for Vincent. A few minutes later, a look-at-me red convertible creeps down my gravel driveway.
Extricating his lanky frame from the small car, he groans, “I have one word for you. Asphalt.”
“When I win the lottery.” I meet him halfway.
He wasn’t lying; he’s wearing purple Lycra shorts. Where would he even buy those things?
“Where we going?” he asks, stretching his long limbs.
I don’t want to scare him off before we get started. I point toward the hill and take off.
“You’ve got a baby face,” he yells. “But inside, you’re a cruel woman.”
I set the pace, letting him fall in beside me as we run upon the rock-hard ground. The September rains haven’t started yet, and everything is dry and weedy.
“I gotta get in better shape,” Vincent pants. “If I’m gonna ride the polo players.”
“Stop.” I bump into him. “I don’t want to hear about your sex life.” I sprint ahead into the woods to follow the animal trial.
“Someone’s got to educate you,” he calls from behind, laughing.
Except for his footfalls and breathing, it’s the last I hear from him until we’re past the woods and almost to the pond. I’m calm, exhausted, and at peace, with my lungs burning and my legs unsteady. I’m self-aware enough to know this is just a pain of a different kind, but this is beneficial, right? Keeping my body in shape is a good thing.
“Daisy, come on, you’re killing me.”
I stop, jogging in place until he catches up.
His feet are dragging, arms hanging down, and he’s pitched forward. “Why did I let you talk me into this?”
I stop moving and plant my hands on my knees. “You called me. Something about polo players.”
“Walk, please,” he wheezes. “Take the road back.”
“You’re getting old,” I taunt.
I won’t admit it to Vincent, but I’m perfectly content to walk the short way home. The road is gravel and dusty, but it’s quiet, and with the evening light filtering through the trees it’s almost magical.
About three-quarters of the way home, Vincent proclaims, “I’m moving to New York.”
“Why?”
“Like you said, I’m getting old. I don’t want to be that guy, you know, who does nothing. Who lives off his trust fund.”
Vincent’s third or fourth—I’m not sure which—grandfather invented and patented a safety device for elevators. It keeps them from falling if there is a power failure. Because of this, and his ancestor’s shrewd business sense, Vincent’s family is what’s referred to as old money. They live off investments and never have to work. They still do work, as they aren’t the kind of people to be idle. His mother’s a fashion designer in New York, his father a developer of boutique resorts.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” I don’t want him to go. “So you’ll work with your mom?”
“That’s the plan.”
He’s always traveling anyway, I tell myself. “It’s only New York. I can visit anytime I want,” I say to reassure myself more than him.
“Maybe you could shut down the shop for a few weeks. You and your aunts can visit.”
He knows how I hate to leave them alone to work the shop. Financially, we could manage it, though I don’t know how I would convince them. They’ve worked six days a week their whole lives. It’s hard to reconcile, especially living in Middleburg, how some people are born to such wealth and others work hard for every penny. Resentment would be easy, but I find that lazy. Instead, I think it’s what we make of our lives that matter, not how we start out.
We’ve turned onto my long driveway and hit the peak of the small hill, my home’s chimney in sight.
“You expecting company?” Vincent asks.
My heart skips, but I’m not as tall as Vincent, so it takes me a few strides more to reach a point where I see a black Suburban parked next to Vincent’s car. The door opens. Mr. Lethal steps out.
“Is that Roy?” Vincent tosses his arm over my shoulder. “Baby girl’s got herself a dangerous man.”
I swallow hard, my throat dry. Roy’s walking toward us dressed in fatigue pants, black boots, and a khaki-colored shirt. His hair, longer than before, skirts the top of his shoulders. A full beard covers the lower half of his face. When he’s within a few strides of us, I see his eyes are weary like he hasn’t slept in days.
“Miss Aldridge.” He stops and waits for us to reach him.
So this is soldier Roy. He looks like the picture I found on the Internet, except he’s not holding a gun to his chest.
“Roy,” I croak. “You’re here.” In a suit, his body was intimidating. Now, with his biceps bulging against the thin fabric, he looks like the personification of a warrior. I catch his quick glance over to Vincent. “Vincent Stuart, this is Roy Blackwood.”
“Call me Roy.” He holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you.” I notice he uses his left hand—though I know he’s right-handed—so Vincent does the same and removes his arm from my shoulder.
The contrast couldn’t be sharper between the two men, Vincent tall and thin and wearing purple shorts, Roy a mountain of a man decked out in military fatigues.
“Right.” Vincent is the first to move. “I need to get home and take a shower.” He stops at his car. “Unless you need me to stay?” He’s making sure I’m okay before he bolts.
I shake my head. “Thanks for the run. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“You better.” He folds his body into the driver’s seat and creeps along my gravel driveway.
Roy’s fingers lightly touch my palm as he takes my hand and walks me to the house. “I called first. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
I’d forgotten how much I love his hands, their warmth and size. How would they feel on other parts of my body? “What?” Oh, he thinks he’s intruding. “You aren’t.” In my excitement, I start babbling. “I missed you and hoped I’d see you again. And now you’re here. With a beard.” I go to touch it and yank my hand back. “It looks good. I like it. And your muscles. Wow!”
I need a muzzle, a goddamned muzzle to keep from embarrassing myself.
His eyes crinkle at the corners. “It’s good to see you too.”
It pains me to let go of his hand, but I do to open the screen door.
“You should lock your doors.” He runs his fingers over the molding. I’m sure he notices there isn’t a deadbolt. “Things happen, even out here.”
As he passes, I notice the right side of his shirt is covered in blood. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing.” But he winces when he reaches back with his hand.
I lead him into the kitchen and pull out a chair. “Sit,” I order. “I’ve got hydrogen peroxide. I can clean it up.” There’s a lot of blood, and I doubt some cotton balls and disinfectant are going to do the trick.
“You don’t want to see this.” He remains standing. “Scott will take me back to the Red Fox. He can fix me up there.”
I step into his space and lightly place my open palm on his stomach. Under my touch, his muscles flex and that delicious heat of his flows into me. I lift my eyes to meet his. “I want to help you.”
He evaluates me with those hawkish eyes of his. “Are you squeamish about blood?”
My body leans in close enough that his breath flutters the fine hairs around my face.
“Daisy,” his voice, husky.
What am I doing? I snap out of it and step back, remove my hand from his body and, luckily, remember what he asked. “No, not squeamish.”
“Do you have any liquor in the house?” He pulls a phone from his military fatigues. “Scott’s waiting for me outside.” He engages the call. “Bring the kit. I’ve popped a couple stitches.”
I nod. “Where have you been?”
“Overseas,” he responds. There’s a knock at the screen door. “We’re in the back room,” Roy calls.
How many facets are there to Roy? The businessman, the soldier…what else? The lover, my libido responds.
Scott appears in the kitchen doorway, dressed like Roy, with the same matter-of-fact, task-oriented manner. “Ma’am.” He dips his head to me and drops his backpack on the kitchen chair. “Whoa.” He tips his head back, inhaling deeply. “Cleaner than an operating room.”
I might have used a bit too much Clorox.
“No offense intended.” His boyish face looks sheepish. “Makes me think of home. My momma thinks God himself invented Clorox and it’s her duty to use it liberally.”
I like Scott. I’m trying to ferret out where he’s from. My guess is South Carolina or Georgia.
“Can I get you anything?” My hospitality gene kicks into overdrive. “I’ve got ice-cold Coke in the fridge.”
Roy eyes the two of us like he’s watching an extinct ritual. “I’m bleeding over here.”
Scott shakes his head. “Don’t mind him. He’s always grumpy after a stabbing.”
I wipe the silly grin off my face when Roy catches my glance. He looks pissed. Is it the injury? Or does he not like me talking to Scott?
Scott inspects Roy’s shoulder. “Blood’s stuck your shirt to the wound. Gonna have to cut it off.” He pulls scissors out of his pack and efficiently slices through the fabric. He nods in my direction. “Do you have a trash can I can use?”
“Sure.” I jump up and grab it from under the sink and place it next to Scott’s feet.
“And the liquor,” Roy reminds me.
“Right.” I go to the dining room and open the china cabinet. In the back, behind the serving dishes, is a bottle filled with clear liquid. “I think I’ve got whiskey,” I yell. “Will that do?”
“Yes.” Both men respond.
When I return, Roy’s seated with his back facing me and his arm resting on the chair back. There is a deep gash down his right shoulder, partially stitched, red and inflamed.
“Oh God.” I exhale, a clammy sweat breaking out over my body.
Scott gives me a quick once-over. “Ma’am.” He waits until I turn my eyes from the wound to him. “I don’t need you fainting.”
“I'm all right.” I nod, mainly to convince myself.
“Go on and sit. Hand Roy the bottle.” He waits for me to get situated.
I place the bottle in front of Roy, whose eyes are closed as Scott cuts each stitch and pulls the blood and pus-soaked material free of the wound. With eyes glued to the cookbooks lined up on my kitchen shelf, I do my best to ignore the sharp intake of Roy’s breath each time Scott pulls out a suture and the awful wet, plopping noise it makes falling into the trash bag. Throughout, Roy is like stone, never moving.
Scott steps back. “Sorry, brother, suturing this up won’t be easy.”
“Quit your nagging and do it,” Roy replies, dropping his head onto his folded arms.
I make the mistake of looking at his back. Is that muscle? “You can’t sew him up like a pair of pants. He needs painkillers and…” I’m not sure what he needs, but having triage in my kitchen doesn’t seem right.
“It’s nothing.” Roy opens his eyes and places his hand on mine. “Scott’s a medic. He knows what he’s doing.”
“Damn right, so you should listen to me.” Scott dips his head to me. “Let me use a local anesthetic on this.”
The look Roy gives Scott over his shoulder is withering.
“Why not?” I’m a twitchy mess thinking of how much this will hurt.
“Cause he’s an ornery old goat,” Scott replies.
Roy snorts and nods at the bottle. “Open it up, if you would.”
I try, but my hand keeps slipping. “It’s stuck.”
Roy reaches for it and positions the bottle to twist the top off—in one try—without jolting his injured shoulder. He gives it a smell. “What did you say this was?”
“Whiskey, I think.” Catching a whiff, I scrunch up my face. “Mae calls it her medicinal joint remedy.”
“Whiskey’s a brown color,” Scott interjects.
What do I know, I don’t drink.
“Take a couple good swigs,” Scott encourages. “You’ll need it.”
“I have Advil, will that help?”
“Not for this.” Roy takes a long drink and coughs. “She drinks this?” I nod. “It’s grain alcohol.” He takes another healthy swallow. “Give me a minute,” he says over his shoulder to Scott.
“Not going anywhere with you open like a gutted fish.” Scott assesses me for fainting, I think. “Can you get me a warm washcloth?”
I stand, checking the status of my legs; I’m good. I pull out two clean dish towels and run the water on hot.
He pulls items from his pack and places them on the table. “I’ll lay them over the wound. The heat will help.”
I nod, trying to keep my face composed. When the water’s hot, I run the towels under the tap and wring them out as best I can. “How did it happen?”
“It happened.” Roy takes another substantial swig and gives me a quick glance before closing his eyes.
“He was saving my ass…sorry, butt.” Scott uses a scissor-like instrument to grab each towel from me and place it over the wound.
I remember how Roy dealt with Jason. “Were you punishing someone?”
“No, Daisy, a rescue mission.”
I mentally scroll through what news I’ve read. I don’t recall anything about any hostages.
Scott grabs a pill bottle from his pack and shakes out two tablets. “Go on and take two of these now. They’re antibiotics. Don’t give me any grief; you’re halfway to an infection already.” He places the large white pills in Roy’s outstretched hand. “Daisy, you’ll need to give him”—he digs in his case—“a couple of these in four hours.”
“Won’t need those.” Roy pops the pills and washes them down with another healthy dose of Mae’s liquor.
“You will.” Scott shakes his head. “It’s more antibiotics.”
I take the medicine bottle, turning it from side-to-side, looking at the horse-sized capsules inside.
Scott grabs the liquor bottle from Roy’s hand, screws the top back on and puts it on the kitchen counter. “It’s time to get this shit-show on the road.” He gives me a guilty look. “Sorry, Ma’am.” He goes over to the sink and washes his hands, shaking them dry, and heads back to Roy.
“Daisy.” Roy demands my attention. “Distract me.”
Distract him. How? “I could bring my laptop in. You could watch something on Netflix.”
Scott rips open a package and uses an instrument with a clamplike tip to grab a long, curved needle with the suture already attached. “Ready?”
Roy nods. His face pales, and sweat beads on his forehead as Scott works. Through clamped teeth, Roy asks, “Are Mae and Stella your biological aunts?”
I’ve never known anything else, so I’m always surprised when someone is curious about us, but it’s perfectly logical. As Mae puts it, “a girl as white as Wonder Bread with two old black women ain’t an everyday occurrence.”
“No, they adopted me.”
“Keep talking, Daisy,” Scott urges, not taking his focus off his task.
Oh, I see now. This is the distraction thing I’m supposed to do. “They found me on the back steps of Mangler. I was wrapped in a white blanket.” When I was little, I never tired of having them tell me this story. “They were in the shop. It was a Tuesday, early, before they’d opened up. Mae had just put on the coffee when she heard squalling coming from the back. They found me on the top step of the back stoop and scooped me up and brought me inside. Mae went to the Safeway for formula. Stella held me and called the sheriff.”
Roy speaks over his shoulder to Scott. “They’re black…African American.”
“They don’t mind the description you use for their color. Well, except for the N-word. They find that offensive, even in music and shows.” I realize I’ve veered off course into uncomfortable territory for white people. “So the sheriff came and took what information there was about me—newborn, white, and healthy—and left. By the time someone from social services came by there was no way they’d let me go.”
Scott stops mid-stitch. “So they kept you?”
“Finish it,” Roy urges.
I’m not sure if he means Scott or me. “Yep, I became Daisy Aldridge because there was a daisy tucked inside my blanket. I celebrate the day I arrived as my birthday.”
“Do you know who your parents are?” Scott asks.
It’s a valid question, but one I’m never sure how to answer. To me, my real family is Stella, Mae, and the dearly missed Reggie.
“My biological parents, you mean. Well, I used to think my mother would appear one day. It’s not like you can forget where you left your baby.” Roy places his hand over mine. “Something must have happened, or, maybe she’s a horrible person, not caring if I lived or died.” He squeezes my hand. “Though it’s like whoever left me knew Stella and Mae would find me and care for me. It’s been so long now, I guess no one’s gonna come back for me.”
Scott nods.
“Though...” Should I tell them? Maybe they can help? Or perhaps they’ve heard of something like this before?
Roy lifts his head. “Go on, we can hear you thinking.”
“Every year, right around my birthday, I receive a gift.”
Roy’s eyes narrow into slits.
“You just find a gift. Not knowing who it’s from?” Scott asks while working. “How do you know it’s from the same person?”
“Always a box wrapped in white paper with a daisy on top.”
Roy grunts in that masculine way he has. Is it pain or consternation?
Scott ties off a stitch. “And the gifts?”
“Relevant to the year. Like the person knows me, or knows someone who does. The year I entered dance class I got a tiny glass figurine of a ballerina. The year I got my license it was a toy car.”
“And this year?” Roy asks.
“Nothing.” This is the first time I haven’t received anything.
“Where are they left?”
Scott asks a good question. “By Mangler’s front door. By my car. At the back door to the shop, or on the sidewalk. Always around the store somewhere, but never where we can detect who left them.”
“Easy enough,” Roy grumbles. “We’ll put perimeter cameras around the store.”
“We have cameras on both doors.” I do my best to keep from sighing or rolling my eyes. Does he think we’re morons?
“Trust me; ours are better than anything you could buy.” Roy’s speech isn’t slurred, but a bit slow.
“He’ll be alright.” Scott winks. “Slipped a happy pill in with the antibiotic.”
Roy turns his head enough to glare at Scott behind him. “Fuck you, Scott.”
“Right back at ya, brother.” Scott twists his wrist, and the needle dips into Roy’s back. “You’re doing great, Daisy. Tell us more.”
“I was three when my aunts realized this was a pattern and talked to the sheriff. He said he couldn’t do anything.” Even though I try to ignore it, I’m disturbed by the presents and the unknown giver, and it sits on my chest like a giant weight. I read once how people were tortured with weights put on their chest until they were crushed to death. Sometimes, I’m overwhelmed by it, like with each passing year the uncertainty and fear will render me senseless. “When I was older, I talked to Sheriff Brody and asked if he remembered anything strange, you know, on the day they found me. If there was a horse show in town, a party, or something causing a lot of visitors in the area. He said there wasn’t a thing.”
Scott catches my eye and lifts two fingers, mouthing two more minutes. I scramble for anything to say. “No missing persons were reported. No babies were stolen from hospitals. It’s like I appeared out of thin air.”
“We’re done, Buddy.” Scott pulls a squeeze bottle from his pack and drenches the wound with a brown liquid. “Hold on while it dries. I’ll get a bandage.” He catches my eye. “Try to keep him from exerting himself too much this evening.” He winks. “I’ve already closed this up twice.”
My face flames, thinking of what he’s implied.
Roy lets out a long, exhausted groan.
“Are you alright?” I ask.
“All good.” Without lifting his head, he reaches out and takes my hand. “You’ve got me now. I’ll find the person haunting you.”
I’ve never thought of it like that. And it should reassure me I haven’t received anything this year, but it doesn’t because that means whoever it is has dropped dead or stopped caring, and I’ll never know who I am.
“Thank you.” It’s all I can think to say and yet it’s inadequate, because I sense in ways I can’t comprehend yet, Roy will make it better. And not for the first time, I wish I knew why I feel this way. Why am I drawn to him? Why does he care for me? I’m a second away from asking when I notice his grip loosen, and his breathing deepens. I slip my hand away and go out to the front porch. It’s cooler now, with a slight breeze rustling through the trees, a harbinger of things to come. Scott slips in next to me without a sound.
“He’ll be alright.” He gives me a quick once-over. “I don’t know what you are to him, but when he got your call, he was a man possessed to get back to you.”
“I’m…we’re friends.”
“Right.” Scott goes to the Suburban, places his pack inside and pulls out another. He drops it on the porch and reaches into his pants pocket. “If you can, get him to take one of these when he wakes up.” He extends his hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Daisy Aldridge.”
He’s assumed Roy is staying with me. I have the room. He’s injured. It’s the least I could do. Like Reggie taught me, I firmly grasp his large hand and shake. “You too. I’ll take good care of Roy.”