Glorious Sunset (3 page)

What was the matter with her? Brenda was a twit. Why did she let her upset her? So what if she had Gary? He wasn't any prize. So what if Violet had once thought he was
the one?
Didn't mean anything. So what if Brenda passed her technique off as her own? Didn't mean anything. So what, right?

She was working that bag like an accordion. After a few minutes her lungs had relaxed, along with her shoulders, neck, and stomach; and she lifted her head, sighing as her body relaxed into the chair. She balled up the bag and tossed it into the trash, allowing her brain to take over now that her silly emotions were in check.

She breathed her relief. Thank goodness she'd made it into her office. There was no way she could ever let her employees see her like this.
Again, that is. Score one for Brenda. This time.
Violet was none too happy but she had more important things to think about. Her friend had bested her, but Violet was nothing if not wily. She was nothing if not resourceful. She was nothing if . . .

Her receptionist's head jerked upward when Violet's office door opened. Violet strode toward her, calm and in control once again. She knew what she had to do and everyone had to see her do it. She picked up the receiver and punched out some numbers.

“Tracy? Violet Jackson. So, what is going on over there?” She laughed a fake laugh that would have been believable had it not been forced through a grimace instead of the requisite smile. “Has your boss lost his mind? I thought he was going to look at all the bids before making a decision.”

Bickman's overworked assistant was a competent, resourceful woman. Violet had known from the first moment she'd tracked Tracy down as she left work and followed her halfway home to accidentally trip over her and introduce herself as a “new designer with a few ideas” that Tracy was a force to be reckoned with.

Tracy, on the other hand, was used to being targeted by eager business people, job hunters, and paparazzi on behalf of Ronald Bickman. Tracy answered warily, “I'm sorry, Violet. I tried to convince him to continue seeing designers but he was really impressed with Odyssey Designs.”

“It doesn't take much to impress him, does it? Never mind. You've got to get me in to see him.”

“Oh, Violet, he's already made up his mind.”

“Has he already signed the contract?”

“Not yet, but it's right here in his in-basket.”

“Pull it for me.”

“I can't do that, Violet.”

“One meeting. I just need one meeting. It's not as if I'm panhandling. We are already scheduled to meet on Monday; just move the appointment a few days early.”

“I was going to call you about canceling that.”

“Look, this is a courtesy thing, Tracy. I'm not trying to be a pest but the man didn't even give the rest of us a chance. Now, I'm sure somebody is telling him that Brenda is the best out there, but he doesn't realize there's a whole flock of us. And frankly, Brenda is following my lead. Everybody in the business knows that Melting is my technique. He can settle for Brenda or he can work with the original.”

“I don't know.”

“Ten minutes, that's all I need. From one professional to another he really needs to show some courtesy. Why, if the media knew how he'd blown off some of the best designers in the city, well, there might be bad publicity, don't you think? I mean, I wouldn't say anything to the media, but these things get out, especially with Brenda going around telling everyone about it. It would be in his best interest to reconsider. I know you can convince him of that.”

Tracy was quiet for a long spell. “Okay. I'll give you a half hour day after tomorrow in the interest of fair play. I'll work it out with him somehow. But if he says no in the first ten minutes . . .”

“I love you!”

“Then you accept defeat and go away quietly.”

“You're a gem!” Violet yelled and hung up to award her assistant, Carol, a smile that the woman didn't return.

“Did you just schedule yourself to see Ronald Bickman when your friend already has the deal?” Carol asked.

Violet waved her hand in annoyance. “Oh, pshaw, she took my technique, anyway. Besides, she would understand. This is a dog-eat-dog world, Carol. You didn't think those tears of hers were real, did you? She screwed me over and then had the nerve to admit the only reason she got the contract was
because
she screwed me over. I can't sit still for that. I love the girl but she needs her behind whipped and I'm the sister to do it. Do me a favor, call the florist and send some flowers to Tracy, a really big arrangement. And send it to her home, will you? We don't want Bickman to get any ideas.”

“You mean, like you're bribing his secretary?”

Violet wrinkled her nose at her. “Whose side are you on anyway?” Didn't really matter, though. She knew one thing: she was going to get that Bickman account or die trying. Her stomach rumbled menacingly. First lunch. Then strategy.

Nothing topped off sweet revenge quite like spicy kraut. Violet spent most of her lunches in her office scarfing down a bag of potato chips while working but today she had to get out of that office. Being located downtown meant she had a decent amount of restaurant choices, but she really loved the hot dog vendors. She still remembered when her father had been alive, still remembered the occasional trip to a game or to the park and the vendor who would load up her hot dog so that a little girl could dream about someone making something special just for her, something just to her specifications. She would look to her father with a smile and he would chuckle at her expression, and then they would share a walk or a talk and all was right with the world. Her taste in toppings had changed but her love of the experience hadn't.

She had just been handed her hot dog covered in mustard, onions, and sauerkraut; and when she turned to walk away her heel caught on something, almost toppling her.

“Darn!” she yelled, checking her heel and relieved that it was still fine and the hot dog had only lost a little kraut in the incident. She looked down to see what had almost done her in and saw a piece of something that reflected light. She squinted and the glare disappeared but she could still see metal. “Hey,” she said to the vendor, “can you hold this a minute?” She handed her hot dog to him.

He looked at her like she was insane.“I'm busy, lady.”

“I just asked you to hold it for one second.”

“I don't want to hold it.”

She rolled her eyes and put the hot dog on his cart earning a glare from him with which she was not concerned. It wasn't the vendors she had soft feelings for, only the hotdogs.

She looked down at the metal that appeared to have an edge of lace. Kneeling, while making sure to keep her skirt smooth so she wouldn't award all the lunchers in Bicentennial Park a look at her goodies, she reached down to grasp the metal. She would be highly embarrassed if it turned out to be a bottle cap, but her curiosity had gotten the better of her. She worked it from the dirt with her hands, getting them dirty, but doing it nonetheless. Behind her the vendor was whining about the amount of space her little hot dog was taking on his big cart, but she was busy. Finally, her back-and-forth motion pulled the piece free and it came up. She smiled triumphantly and looked at it.

It was a piece of jewelry. A brooch. A large, gaudy, tacky piece of jewelry. But the metal seemed real and it seemed sturdy. The stone no doubt was a big piece of glue, but perhaps she could use it as an accessory, maybe something to pin to a curtain or on a lampshade. There was something about it, something that stopped her from tossing it onto the ground, where it probably deserved to be.

She dusted it off, thinking, and spoke out loud: “I'm no expert but you look African to me. And I know just the person to tell me for sure.” She wrapped the brooch in a napkin, dropped it into her purse, and stood, walking over to retrieve her hot dog. “Thank you,” she said to the vendor. He mumbled some not-too-kind words under his breath but she intentionally ignored him as she sauntered away biting down on her delicacy with relish. People didn't know a thing about customer service these days.

 

 

That afternoon after work she made a stop at her favorite antique shop on Parsons Avenue. It was a great place to shop for things to accent her designs. She had spent a pretty penny on items she found there to accent her works of art, which was what she considered every completed design. Tables, chairs . . . she had a keen eye for style that spanned the ages.

She entered the shop, approached the counter, and rang the bell. She stood there, tapping her foot on the floor and fingernails on the counter, growing more impatient by the moment before finally leaning over it for support to enable her to toss her voice through the doorway behind the counter and into the little room beyond. “What's a girl got to do to get some service around here?”

Seconds later an old man shuffled out, not surprised in the least. “You young people, no respect. And don't go flashin' that smile at me 'cause I know your mama ain't raised you right.”

Violet promptly dropped her cordial smile. “Don't worry about what my mama did, old man. I'm here on business.”

“What kind of business? I ain't got nothing new in and you done already bought up the best stuff in here.”

“I'm not here to buy, Skeeter. I'm here to sell.”

“Sell? What you got to sell?”

She pulled the brooch wrapped in a napkin out of her purse, unwrapped it, and handed it to him. “What do you think of this?”

He looked at it closely, pulled out a magnifying glass from under the counter, and pressed it up against the brooch to look closer. As Violet watched she saw the unmistakable sign of recognition before he made a valiant attempt to disguise it. He cleared his face and looked at her innocently.

“That looks like a fine piece of costume jewelry you got there, darlin'.”

Violet narrowed her eyes at him. “Doesn't look costume to me,” she bluffed, though she had indeed thought it was costume jewelry until his pitiful poker face had given it away. “That looks like a ruby to me.”

He rolled with the game. “They make 'em nowadays so you can't tell the real from the fake.”

She tossed back, “But this isn't a new piece, Skeeter. It looks pretty old. Strange pattern. Not European.”

He threw on his wise, amused old man expression. “You think they didn't have fakes back in the day? Look, whyn't you hand that over and I'll take it off your hands. I'll even give you a coupla' dollars for it. Bound to be somebody out there want to wear something big and gaudy like that.”

Violet watched him a moment longer and her lips pinched with the resolution that the old man was an old liar and not to be trusted. “Thanks, Skeeter. But I think I'll hold on to it. I could use some good costume jewelry.”

His eyes darted to the piece. “Okay, I'm being generous 'bout this. But I'll give you two hunnert for it.”

She felt a lick of satisfaction. “For a piece of paste? That's awful generous of you, Skeeter. I couldn't take advantage of you that way.”

“It's okay. I got somebody in mind who loves to throw money away. I buy it for two hunnert, she'll buy it for double that. So you see, everybody gets something out of it.”

Violet smiled and wrapped the brooch back in her napkin. “That's awfully tempting. But you know, I can use a good piece of costume jewelry myself.”

“Okay. Three hunnert.”

“Thanks, Skeeter.” She turned to leave feeling his eyes on her the whole way and knowing he was panting after the piece like a dog in heat. Heck, she thought as she walked out, it might be worth enough to get her out of her crummy apartment and into a place with some real style. She left the store practically skipping.

By the time she reached her apartment she was running through the possibilities. She would have to find a reputable appraiser. Skeeter was a thief to the nth degree. That piece could be worth a fortune and he would steal it from her with a smile and a shake of his old head. Not in this lifetime!

She pulled the jewelry out of her purse and tossed the purse on a table. Unwrapping it, she looked closer at it. It still looked like a big old glob of paste to her. But then again, when was the last time she'd had a good look at a real ruby? Unfortunately, precious gems did not make their way into her possession every day. Perhaps she'd misjudged it.

She went into the kitchen and reached under the sink, rummaging around for a cloth. She had some solution for cleaning silver somewhere. She was going to look for it but stopped herself. She'd seen on TV somewhere that some people had cleaned the value right off an antique. No, she'd leave the cleaning to the professionals. But she did use the cloth to pull some of the remaining soil from the crevices. There, it looked a little better. The stone, itself, was breathtaking, really. She buffed the surface lightly, looking deep into it like Skeeter did, trying to see the worth. She didn't see anything but she did feel the strangest flutter in her abdomen. Apparently her lunch was wearing off. She shrugged. Still looked like paste to her.

“Well,” she said to the piece. “Skeeter was willing to scam me to get you so you're not going anywhere until I figure you out.” She rolled it in her palms and buffed it a little more. “Oh well, maybe if nothing else you'll be good luck.” She put it down onto a table and sighed. She then hummed her way out of the room and into her bedroom, but not before noticing a sparkle in the depth of the glob of “paste.”

Maybe it was time for a visit to the optometrist.

The morning rose and woke Violet with a smile on her face thinking of Bickman. He wouldn't know what hit him. She'd sell her case like she'd never sold anything in her life and then she would tiptoe into Odyssey with a smile on her face and fake tears and ask Brenda to be happy for
her.
She flushed with pleasure just thinking about it.

She proceeded with her morning toilette: showering, brushing, polishing, and shining. Her daily peppermint face mask tingled on her skin and she knew the firm encasement would soon birth moist, supple skin, one of her best features if she did say so herself. She'd remove it after coffee. And last, but not least, she returned to the bedroom and sat cross-legged on her bed as she meditated. One second, two seconds . . . that was enough!

Hopping off the bed, Violet wrapped her fuzzy pink robe tight around herself, put her feet into matching pink fuzzy slippers and proceeded out of the room and across the living room to the kitchen. She poured herself a cup of coffee, placed it on the table, and headed to the door for the morning paper, her body sensing a large mass in the shadows between the kitchen and the door. She tilted her head, and darned if the shadow didn't appear to have a shape, kind of like a large man crouching, forearms resting against spread knees in a warrior stance. But that was silly. She really needed coffee.

She took a step toward the door when, before she could think straight, the shadow moved and stretched and the large mass morphed into an equally large man who stepped forward and now stood before her. He was tall and broad, imposing mostly because of the dark eyes almost hooded by the prominent brow. His mouth was tight in a line and his jaw was square and firm. He stood there, intimidating even though he seemed there by happenstance.

He began to speak, a voice low and deep, rich with the promise of ability to rumble at will. But it was calm as he said, as matter-of-factly as you please, “I am King Taka Olufemi of Jaha. Do not be alarmed; I come in peace. And for goodness' sake, cover yourself, woman; there is a man in the room.”

Violet froze, feeling her blood gel in her veins. The skin of her face was itching like crazy under the peppermint mask—an inconvenient allergic reaction to fear. She'd discovered it the first time she stood to give a presentation before a lecture hall in college. Fifteen minutes later she was so relieved to be done she barely noticed that her face burned like crazy after a fifteen-minute unconscious assault by her own hands. No wonder that hall of students looked shell-shocked by the end.

Luckily, the promise of gunk under her manicured nails and even more intense terror at her very first home invasion kept her hands from her face. But Violet was no wimp. Fear wouldn't keep her stupid. She soundlessly moved into the kitchen, opened a drawer, and pulled out a gun to point at him.

“And this is Smith & Wesson of Violet's house. You've got two seconds to get out before I shoot.”

The man sighed and spoke, his eyes to the ceiling. “This gets old. Every time the same thing. Since when did a nobleman of Africa become the most dreaded and feared mortal on the earth? As if I would stoop to the behavior of a common criminal simply because I have brown skin. It is an abomination. It is a cruel joke.”

Violet cocked her pistol. “Okay, that didn't work, so let's try it again. Turn around, walk out that door, and take your little friends—or whoever the heck you're talking to—with you.”

He looked at her, his eyes boring into hers uncomfortably. “If I walk out the door, woman, you will forfeit three wishes. You are free to do so but I warn you, it is unlikely you will ever get the chance again if you decline.”

“Oh, I see. You're here to grant me three wishes. Right. A genie.”

“I am no genie. My Arabian friends died out long ago. Though my offerings are similar I am not of that species. Alas, there is no category for me. I am in a unique confinement. Surely, the only one of my kind.”

“Confinement,” she said with a quick twist of her face, which clearly told him what she thought of his explanation.

“You tire me, woman, and I have been aching to get out for a good long time. I think a cup of that juice of the bean would help to revive me.”

She had to do a double take when she realized he was looking at her coffee pot.
Coffee?
This joker had a lot of nerve and she was losing patience and itching to do something with her trigger finger.

“One more step and you won't have to worry about revival. I mean it. Who are you and what are you doing here?”

He breathed in exasperation. “Who am I? A fool. What am I doing here? Making a further fool of myself.” He walked into the room right past her, seemingly oblivious to her panicked waving of the gun, and sank into the sofa. “I am old, woman. So ancient, if you knew exactly how much so you would put that silly weapon away in respect and deference to my age and wisdom. I am Taka Olufemi, King of Jaha, the jewel in the heart of West Africa. My purpose here is to grant you three wishes. Decline this and I will go away, but it seems a silly thing to do. You have power at your disposal and a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to better your life, which is more than some of us are awarded. Not to mention the fact that it will earn me a short time of freedom.”

Violet's head and body swiveled back and forth in disbelief from where he had been and where he now sat. Had the man really made himself at home on her sofa? And her with a gun trained on him?
He must be mentally ill.
She rubbed her forehead. “Okay, let's take this one step at a time. Look, I don't want to shoot you, so just answer the questions I ask. How did you get in here?”

“You brought me into your home.”

“That's a lie.” She looked to the door that was still locked, the chain still on the hook, the bolt still on. “I locked the door last night so don't give me that crap.”

“You came upon a piece of jewelry, did you not? You are the holder of the piece, are you not?”

The piece. The piece? Ah, the brooch.
She looked to the table and it was still there. “And?” she prompted.

“The jewelry is my vessel. It is my home. I am only released when a person such as yourself polishes my stone.”

“Okay, enough of the filthy talk, mister.”

Taka rolled his eyes. “I do not talk filth, woman. I am a king. I wouldn't lower myself to speak filth.”

“Yeah, yeah, King Taja of Kaka.”

“You intentionally massacre my name. You are an extremely disagreeable woman.”

Violet had had it. “I'm an incredibly disagreeable woman who has lost her patience. Get out!”

“You are relinquishing your right to your wishes?”

“I'm giving you a chance to live, scumbag. Go on, there's the door.”

“The only way I can leave is through my stone. You must take the jewelry and dispose of it. It doesn't matter where; it will survive for as long as the Great One deems it necessary.”

“Whatever. Look, go!” She waved the gun at him in an effort to be scary.

He merely sighed. “Goodbye, woman. I regret you have pilfered this opportunity.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She perched, one hip jutted out and her gun up in the air in a Bonnie and Clyde stance, ready to pop it right at him if need be. She hadn't yet had an opportunity to put those shooting lessons to good use.

She backed up to give him room to go by her. She wasn't an idiot. He was big; she wouldn't give him the chance to get too close. The second he left she would call the police; surely some institution would be missing a big guy who called himself King Tacha of Baba.

But as she stood there waiting, he faced her, unmoving, and yet his image wavered, watery like a painting. She blinked; surely her eyes were overtired because his very body seemed to be slimming, and his features seemed to be smearing. His colors were dissipating, his clothing melding. Her mouth went dry as his face blurred and seconds later what stood before her was a plume of smoke. And seconds after that, the top end of the plume pointed, rose into the air, and carried the rest across the room, pointed itself at the brooch which sat on a table, hovered for a moment, and then shot into the stone like a cannon causing the jewelry to buck, jerk, and fall onto the carpet with the impact.

Violet's fingers shook with a sudden onset of palsy. She looked at the jewelry on the floor. It was still and harmless.
And yet
. . . She stepped closer to it, staring. There had to be an explanation. There had to be a logical explanation. She was still dreaming; that was it! But she wasn't dreaming. The sofa still held the imprint of his behind but he was gone. It didn't make any logical sense.

She looked down at the jewelry, stuck a toe out, and kicked it, jumping back quickly. It didn't move. It was sitting there harmless as you please. And yet the man had disappeared into it. It didn't make any sense! She racked her brain trying to remember all he'd said, something about being a king, something about granting three wishes, three wishes. But if he wasn't a burglar, he might very well be what he said he was. But she didn't believe those kinds of things could happen. But he disappeared right before her!
But, but, but!

She thought about Skeeter and his eyes when he'd recognized the piece and how he'd tried to cheat her out of it. She thought about the three wishes the big guy had told her not to pilfer. Three wishes. Anything she wanted.

She picked up the brooch, looked at it hard, and then began rubbing the stone furiously. “Come back! Come back. I changed my mind. You have to give me a chance!” She stopped and nothing happened. She put the gun away, and went back to rub the stone again. Nothing happened. Finally she moved to sit on the couch, staring at the piece in despair. “My God, what if it's real? All those stupid fairy tales are true? No wonder he wanted me to sell it to him so bad. The thief!” She put the brooch on the coffee table in disgust and rose to wander into the kitchen, too absorbed in her thoughts to notice the plume of smoke materialize. At the sound of his voice she whirled to see him standing there again.

“Ah, she comes to her senses. It is about time; your stubbornness almost cost you dearly. Usually my friend is not so generous to allow a second chance. For some reason He has taken pity upon you; though if it were up to me your ingratitude would have already sealed your fate.”

Violet's eyes widened and she smiled, cracking the mask and getting a waft of peppermint scent. She could tell he was talking because his lips were moving, but darned if she could hear a word he said. Her brain was racing with possibilities. But first, she had to know he was the real McCoy. “Okay.” She rubbed her hands together. “Do something. Prove it.”

“What?” Taka looked at her, annoyed and insulted.

“Prove it. Prove who you are.”

He rolled his eyes upward. “I am here to do good for them and yet I have to prove myself constantly. They are ungrateful creatures.” He glared at her. “I suppose we can't move on until you are sufficiently satisfied with parlor tricks?” Her look affirmed his suspicion. He sighed. “Close your eyes.”

“Not a chance. I want to watch.” Violet was a consummate skeptic, and proud of it. She hadn't gotten as far as she had by being gullible.

“Just one second. A long blink.”

Violet frowned.
Okay,
she thought, closing her eyes briefly, about two seconds. “There, I blinked,” she started, to be struck dumb when she opened them again. Her eyes grew wide as a different scent reached her nose and filled the air around her. Her lips curved slightly, falling open involuntarily. Her apartment was filled, every corner, every open space, with violets. She turned in a circle to see them all. She shook her head with disbelief. “My God. You've filled my apartment with—”

“Flowers, yes. Women seem to like that best of all. No matter the place or the time, women always like flowers.”

“No, you've filled the room with violets. That's my name, you know. Violet.”

“Sheer coincidence, I assure you,” he said. “He chooses the type. A parlor trick to get mortals to believe.”

But Violet did another twirl looking at them. All different shades of violet, like the sky sometimes right before dawn. Like the silk that decorated some of the walls of Shades of Violet. Like . . . He couldn't know, could he? When she was in high school she went through a particularly bad period because she didn't seem to fit in with any group of friends. Her mouth was too smart for most people and she didn't have enough money to be with the “in” crowd. She wasn't smart enough to be a nerd. She was just an outsider, and felt it every day.

One of the most special days of her life, she'd awoken one morning to find her mother had filled her bedroom with pots of violets. They weren't fancy or expensive. Some were African violets, some were other kinds. They weren't all the same color, or even all healthy, but they were all violets. And they were all for her.

When she'd come down to breakfast, her eyes shining with emotion, her mother had been at the stove cooking, with her back to her. Violet had not known what to say since it had seemed their relationship had taken a back burner in recent years since her mother had remarried and had new children to care for. So she'd sat down at the table staring at her mother's back though filled with emotion, willing the right words to come from her trembling lips.

But amazingly, she hadn't had to say a thing. Her mother, feeling her eyes on her, had said, simply, “You're unique; that's why I named you Violet, honey. Don't ever forget that you're special. You're every shade of special.”

And now, today, violets filled her room and she felt that same moment of complete acceptance and love. She also felt, without a doubt, the man in her home was not there by coincidence.

She turned to him, her eyes glittering. “You're for real?” He glared at her fiercely and she caught a glimpse of what he must have looked like going into battle.