18
Trystan
David, don't hang up," I say quickly when the phone rings again.
"H-Hello?" It's a man's voice, crackled with age.
"David is that you?"
"Where's Emmy?"
"She's not here right now. David, where are you?"
"What do you mean she's not there? She said this was her mobile phone. That she had this with her all the time."
"I know, David, I just spoke with her and—"
"Who are you?"
"My name is Trystan, and I'm a friend of Emmy's. I—I'm helping her."
"Helping her with what?"
"Well, right now I'm helping her get in touch with you. She's worried because she doesn't know where you are."
"I need to talk to Emmy."
"I know, sir. She wants to talk to you too. Can you tell me where you are so she can come and meet you?"
There's quiet then the sound of sighing. "I—I'm not sure. Oh, this is so embarrassing. I—I thought I . . ." He's beginning to sound panicked.
Thinking quickly, I try to keep him distracted. "It's okay, David. Happens to all of us. Are you in a restaurant?"
"Yes," he says. "I know this place. Well, I thought I did. Miguel was the maître d’. Excuse me, young man," I barely hear the last part as he's covering the phone. Then I hear talking and David saying indignantly. "No, I'm not lost!"
"David," I try and get his attention. "David! Can you listen to me?"
There's more muted sounds and then the line goes silent. I look at the phone to see he hung up.
"Shit. Anyone find out where he called from?" I ask, even as I dial the number back.
"I think it's called the Paris Cafe?" the dark haired accountant stammers.
It rings. I know the place. It's in the Seaport near the financial district. That makes sense.
"Paris Cafe, can I help you?"
"Yes, that elderly man that was there, please don't let him leave."
"Sir?"
"The man. David. Can you keep him there? I'll cover his tab. Just feed him and keep him there."
"Sir, we're not open for dinner yet. And he was belligerent and rude to—"
"This is Trystan Montgomery, I will literally read you off my credit card number and you can charge me whatever you see fit for your trouble. But he is confused, and he's a missing person. His—" Damn it. What was Emmy to him? Niece? "His family are looking for him."
"He's left, sir."
"Christ! Well, get him back and offer the poor man a safe place to wait while we get him back to his family. I don't think you want the bad press if something happens to him, do you? This is the equivalent of a lost child right now. So get off the fucking phone and go and find him."
"Yes, sir!"
I hit end, my chest heaving. "Fucking incompetents."
I blow out a breath. I dare not tie up the line by calling, so I text Emmy.
David called, he's near the financial district. Paris Cafe. I don't add that he might not still be there. But then I realize they might not get him back. Shit. I go back and delete the text before sending and try again.
David is okay. He's in the financial district. Tracking him down now.
Emmy: OMG. Did you talk to him? Is he okay? Where is he? How did he get there?
He's fine. More when I know. Oh, and what's his last name?
Emmy: Same as me. Dubois.
Soon as I talk to him again, I can have a car there in under thirty minutes to pick him up and bring him back out to Far Rockaway. I'll let you know as soon as he's safely picked up.
It's a promise I hope I can keep.
I borrow Ravenel's phone to call Dorothy and get the number for my driver and explain the situation to him.
Then I dial back the bar. "This is Trystan Montgomery, did you manage to get David back?"
I look up Armand's number in Emmy's phone as I massage the tension in the back of my neck. What a day.
Hi, it's Trystan. Not sure if you heard from Emmy, but I'm renting her place tonight and apparently I can get the key from you?
I pull up the address Emmy sent me and when I map it, I realize I can walk there pretty easily. Charleston is still bustling in the early evening. Bars and restaurants are starting to fill. I find myself in the same cobblestone alley she sent me to the first morning to have breakfast at Armand's place. Makes sense then that he's taking care of her cat and has a key since he works such a short distance away. The café is closed up, I hope he knows I'm coming. I find the address pretty easily and stop by a gate in a wall. It's locked.
Looking through the bars down the narrow plant-lined pathway, I look ahead to the periwinkle blue front door. It's so Emmy, I think, even though I have no idea why I should assume that. As I look at it, it opens and Armand steps out.
"Ahh, Trystan! Emmy told me you are renting her little casa." He reaches back inside the house and the gate buzzes open.
"Armand." I greet him.
He nods, looking at me speculatively as I approach. "Interesting new development, no?"
I shrug. "I needed a place to stay."
He nods slowly. "Of course, of course." He stands aside and gestures me inside.
I have to duck slightly through the doorway as it's basically built for a hobbit. Inside, the space is rectangular with a small kitchen against the closest wall to me, an eating area in its mirrored spot to my left. The rest of the room is a cozy living area facing a fireplace. One side of the fireplace has shelves stuffed with books, the other is the beginning of a narrow staircase that disappears behind the chimney.
Luckily, I can actually stand up straight, though I probably shouldn't do any jumping jacks. It doesn't feel claustrophobic though. The wide windows on three sides showcase the lovely gardens surrounding the tiny house. I look outside the window. "Emmy do this?"
"Si. Fireplace has gas," Armand informs me and shows me how to turn it on. Though I can't imagine using it in this town. Does it ever get cold? I can't remember.
"Hot water takes a few minutes and bedroom is upstairs. Beer is in the fridge, Emmy told me to buy some. I must go. But I'll see you for breakfast?"
I'm looking around taking in my surroundings. It feels both familiar and strange to be in Emmy's home. It's tiny. But somehow it fits her. There are small, framed pictures on the walls, covering any white space that isn't filled with large colorful paintings. The dining table, if you can call it that, has a sewing machine on it, and rolls of fabric are leaning, stacked in the corner. Books are piled here and there, but it doesn't seem cluttered.
In fact, it's everything I imagine Emmy to be. It's the Emmy in my mind personified. It smells enticing, clean, but unfamiliar. There's a sense of a life well-lived and opportunities seized. It's vibrant, a bit edgy in parts, fun, yet comfortable. Unexpected but still . . . traditional.
"Where's the cat?" I ask
Armand makes a disgusted sound. "Who knows? But she eats her food and makes her shit, so I know she's here." He shrugs. "I'll be back to check on the cat tomorrow. Unless you want to?"
"No, not really."
"Okay. Well."
"Wait. You want to stay for a beer?" It's weird to ask. I mean he's a friend of Emmy's. But then, I don't really know Emmy.
"I wish I could, but I'm meeting someone, and he seems like a punctual type of guy. Maybe tomorrow?"
I nod, his revelation answering a question about his relationship with Emmy I wasn't sure I wanted to ask. "Maybe tomorrow. Thanks, Armand."
"Night, Trystan."
He closes the door behind him, and I breathe out a long sigh of relief.
I head up the stairs, stooping to get up there without hitting my head. The stairs open up into a large room built into the eaves of the roof line. Despite its use of space, it doesn't feel like an attic. It's light and bright. The floor is covered in sisal, and the bedding on the queen bed is white and fluffy. The main event, though, is an old antique claw-footed tub set under a long shed dormer window on one side of the room. I stare at it. Visions of that yellow bikini-clad Emmy with soapy, glistening skin and pink from heat and steam assault me, except now there are just bubbles where the bikini used to be.
Jesus. It was a really bad idea to think staying at Emmy's place wouldn't be fodder for many a spank bank fantasy in my future.
I drag my eyes away from the tub to a door into what I presume is the actual bathroom on the other side of the room. I drop my laptop bag off my shoulder down to my hand and lay it on the bench that's at the foot of the bed. I inhale the smell of sunlight, natural fibers, and a light floral scent that's all Emmy. I suddenly remember noticing the scent of Emmy at the airport when she sat next to me briefly.
The bathroom is small but clean. A sink, toilet, and shower decorated in white and off white.
The phone in my pocket buzzes.
Emmy: You settled in? Armand says you found it okay. I'm sorry if it's messy, I normally declutter before I rent it out. And don't forget to put clean sheets on the bed.
I turn around and stare at her bed again. My pulse is doing weird erratic things, and . . . I blink and shake my head. I should go back downstairs.
Settled in fine. Thanks. How's David?
Emmy: Can I call you?