Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 01 - The Trouble With Charlie (2 page)

Becky was in her comfort zone. Happily single, twice divorced, she was cute, breezy. Short. With a pert little nose, wide grin, breasts like big feather pillows. Men flocked to Becky, and
she took care of them as she did her kindergarteners, a mother duck with swarms of hungry ducklings.

Not me. I stood untalked to. Undanced with. At five foot nine, I was too tall to be “cute.” In fairness, though, a few guys did approach me. One was stocky, wobbly on his feet, as tall as my chin, wearing a thick-lipped grin. His gaze fixed on my chest. “I’m Pete. Wuzs yrr name?”

He watched my bust as if he thought it would answer.

“Wann’ dance?” He shouted over the music, his voice gruff.

My breasts didn’t reply, but Pete didn’t notice. Already distracted, he craned his neck to ogle some other woman, rotating so that his back turned to me. I stepped away, looked for Becky. Again, she waved me onto the dance floor. I shook my head. The music pounded on, jangling my bones. I stepped out of myself mentally, viewing the bar from above. Saw myself, a woman out of sync with her surroundings. Gawky and out of place.

“Nothing can be that serious. Come on. Give me a smile.”

The guy had a strong jaw, broad smile. I felt a jolt, something like fear?

“Oops, look at this—” He reached out, lightly tapped my earlobe, and produced a quarter. He feigned surprise. “Here. This was in your ear!”

The stranger had shiny, playful eyes. Too shiny, too playful. Maybe dangerous. I felt the urge to run. But he held the quarter out, watching me until I took it. Then, eyes still on mine, he cupped his hand and—poof—produced a red chiffon scarf, looped it around my neck.

Wait. He was a magician? The place had a floor show? Oh Lord. I thanked him, stuffed a couple of dollars into his pocket, lifted my beer in a silent toast.

He frowned, retrieving the cash. “Hey, I don’t want money. All I want is your smile.”

My what? My face got red-hot. I steadied myself. Why was
my adrenalin pumping? He stared at my mouth, waiting. I smiled. Actually, I laughed. Nervously.

“Success!” He grinned, put the money back on the bar. “I’m Joel.” He yelled above the din.

“Elle.”

His eyebrows rose. “Elf?”

I blinked, shook my head. Charlie called me Elf. No one else ever had. “Elle. Like the letter.”

“Your face lights up when you smile, Elle.”

More blushing. More inexplicable panic. In the dim light, maybe he couldn’t see. “So you’re not the house magician?”

“No, no.” A broad grin. “I create illusions for fun. To cheer people up.”

“And help you meet women?”

He laughed. Nice lips. Strong jaw. Good teeth. Carnivorous. “Sometimes.”

I smiled. “So. Does it work?”

“You tell me.” His eyes twinkled. Playing.

I looked into my beer, drank. Tried to think of a clever response. Couldn’t.

“You seem tense.” He studied me, as if reading my body language. “Recent breakup?” his voice roared above the music.

He could tell just by looking at me? Oh Lord. I hesitated, not wanting to admit it. I rubbed my temple. “Just a headache.”

His eyes softened, sympathetic. For a heartbeat, they reminded me of Charlie’s. Odd, since Joel’s were grayish and danced, and Charlie’s were dark brown and dared. Their eyes looked nothing alike. Maybe it was that he’d called me Elf.

“Press here.” He took my hand to show me. His touch was warm, firm. Unfamiliar. “What happened to your hand?”

I looked at the bandage. I’d cut myself earlier, had forgotten about it. A kitchen knife had slipped while I was cutting fruit, slicing my palm. And it must have been deeper than I’d thought
because blood had seeped through the gauze. “No big deal. I got attacked by an orange.”

As if from the ceiling, I watched myself talking, smiling. Letting a man touch her bandaged hand. Seeming to enjoy herself. Flirting.

Joel smiled and, avoiding the gauze, squeezed a precise spot, just between my forefinger and thumb. And poof—magically, the pulsing in my head eased. “If you press this spot, you relieve pressure. You slow the blood flow to the brain. Something like that.”

“You’re a doctor?” We were shouting in order to be heard.

His smile was sly. “No. Not a doctor. Just intrigued by anatomy.”

He let go of my hand. The headache started up again. Immediately. I set my beer on the bar, began squeezing the spot. Relief. Amazing.

“I’m pretty good at reading people, Elle. Know what I see when I look at you?”

I didn’t answer.

“I see a beautiful woman who’s very sad.”

He did? I looked at his eyes, didn’t know what to say.

“Remember, life’s full of surprises. Everything can change suddenly—presto. Like magic.” From thin air, he produced a single red rose. He held it out, his eyes still on mine. “It’s for you. Take it.”

I did. Impressed. And unsettled.

Somebody jostled me on his way to the bar, and I glanced away, regaining my balance.

“See you around, Elf. I mean, Elle.” Joel squeezed my shoulder, then moved on, disappearing into the crowd, leaving me shaken. A rose? A single, long-stemmed rose? It was another coincidence, nothing more.

Alone again, I stood sandwiched between warm bodies at the bar. Holding a beer and a rose.

Okay, I decided, I’d done enough for one night. Had taken the first step, proved I could go out, even talked with a hot guy. So I could go home. With luck, I’d get there in time to catch the end of
NCIS
. I located Becky on the dance floor and waved to her, mouthed the words, “I’m going.”

“Behind the bar.” She pointed to the ladies’ room.

“No,” I moved my lips. “Home.”

“What?” She cupped her ear, gyrating. The guy she was dancing with now was swarthy and buff, mesmerized by her backside.

I made my hand into a telephone, held it to my face. “Later.”

She looked disappointed. “You’re leaving?”

I nodded and, before she could protest or pout or even miss a grind, I’d pushed my way through the crowd, dashed out the door, and escaped into the chilled evening air. At the corner, I hopped into a taxi, thinking of Charlie who, until that night, had been the only man ever to give me a rose.

The night was warm and the cab stale, so I cracked the window, watching couples walking hand in hand or arms circling each other. We inched slowly through traffic on Main Street, passing crowded upscale clubs, boutiques, and restaurants. Manayunk had grown in the hills above the Schuylkill River, had housed mill workers, but now it was gentrified. Populated by young professional types. I lived only a few miles away, near the Philadelphia Art Museum, in the townhouse that had been Charlie’s and mine. Now it was just mine, or would be when our divorce was final. I played with my empty ring finger. There was nothing to regret. Nothing left to save.

Nor was there a reason to feel so raw about attending a Happy Hour. There was no shame in being single again. In looking for companionship. Divorce didn’t make me a loser or a failure. Or unattractive. It didn’t mean I sucked at life. All that it meant was that Charlie and I hadn’t worked out. Millions of
women were separated or divorced. Millions of men, too. I didn’t like bars, that was all. There had to be other, quieter, more comfortable venues to meet men. Like health clubs. Super-markets.

By the time the cab pulled up to my house, I’d almost convinced myself that I had hope. It wasn’t definite that I would grow old lonely, sad, and celibate. I was an educated, professional woman, a second grade teacher. When I stood up straight and held my stomach in, I was kind of stately. I had big hazel eyes and full lips. Charlie used to say I was striking; other men must think so, too. But, then again, finding a new man wasn’t the answer. What I needed was a new passion, something fulfilling that I could do alone. Maybe I’d take classes in Italian. Or Portuguese. Or Tae Kwon Do. Or opera or skeet shooting.

I exited the cab with more dignity than I’d entered and stood tall as I unlocked my front door, only to slump again when I stepped inside, confronting what was left of my home. The blank spaces on the walls where Charlie’s art had hung, the empty corner where he’d kept his aquarium, the half-vacant shelves that had held his books, the bare corners where his philodendra had clustered. Everything was a reminder that Charlie was gone.

Never mind. Spaces could be filled. I’d redecorate. Get new stuff. I set my bag on the hallway table and took a deep, cleansing breath. Maybe my head was aching because I was hungry, had eaten only carrot sticks for dinner. On the way to the kitchen, I stopped, sniffing. I wasn’t imagining it. The scent. I knew it, had lived with it for ten years. The air smelled of Charlie. Old Spice. Had he been in the house? Was he still here?

“Charlie?” I stood still, listening. He still had keys. Our divorce wasn’t final; I hadn’t changed the locks. Even though he shouldn’t and, as far as I knew, hadn’t come in, he still could.

“Charlie?” Louder this time.

Silence. He wasn’t there. Of course, he wasn’t.

Even so, I stepped into the living room again, checking, seeing no one. Nothing out of place. Obviously, I was imagining the scent. Or maybe the house had just held onto it, absorbed it in walls, in floors. I went back to the kitchen, suddenly drained. My arms felt leaden, making it difficult to open a bag of Spring Mix. My hands were stiff, fingers sluggish, struggling to add chunks of bleu cheese. Slicing an onion, forgetting about the cut on my hand, I pushed the knife as if slicing through bone. Felt the wound reopen, a warm gush. What was wrong with me? I stopped cutting, pushed on the bandage to stop the bleeding, leaned on the counter to rest. Sensed movement behind me, a tickle on the nape of my neck. A light kiss—

“Charlie, dammit—” I spun around, knocking the knife to the floor.

No Charlie.

Again, I called his name. Heard no reply.

Finally, I decided there hadn’t been anyone moving behind me. And the tickle hadn’t been a kiss, had been just a tickle. I gave up on slicing the onion, added a few cherry tomatoes, a sprinkle of walnuts. Poppy seed dressing. Dinner for one.

Head aching, hand stinging, arms inexplicably wooden, I lifted my plate to go to the study, thinking about which rerun would be my dinner companion.
NCIS
or
Criminal Minds.

“Elf.”

The voice was definite. Clear. And Charlie’s. He was there, after all. What the hell was he doing in the house, sneaking up on me? I turned around, annoyed.

But no one was there.

“Charlie.” Not a question this time. I’d heard him say my name, knew he was in the house. Saw movement in my peripheral vision. I set the plate on the counter, looked down the hall. “What are you doing? Cut it out.”

Silence.

I glanced into the study, went back to the living room.
“What the hell, Charlie? Do you think you can just come in any time you want, like you still live here?”

I checked the front closet. The powder room. Yelled up the stairs. “Charlie, dammit. Answer me.”

But he didn’t.

My headache raged. Arms hung heavy, weighed tons. As if their muscles had turned to concrete. Moving, walking took unusual effort. What was wrong with me? Was I having a stroke? I tried to remember the symptoms. What were they? Headache? Yes, I had that. Fast pulse? Had it. Stiffness, or was it limpness on one side? Either way, I had both on both sides. Oh dear. Was I having a double stroke? Could that even happen?

I told myself to calm down, stop being dramatic. Nothing was wrong with me except that I’d listened to music that was hundreds of decibels too loud and imbibed too many beers on an empty stomach. Clearly, I’d imagined Charlie’s voice and the flicker of movement behind me. I wasn’t having a stroke, and he wasn’t in the house. My nerves were simply jangled. Calming myself, taking deep, even breaths, I wandered back to the kitchen, picked up my plate, opened the fridge for a Diet Coke, and got an overwhelming whiff of Old Spice.

“Elf.”

My dish clattered to the floor. I pivoted, shrieked a curse.

Where was he? This time, there was no doubt. I was certain I’d heard him. Scanning the room, I stomped across the salad-strewn floor. “Dammit, Charlie. Is this a game? Hide-and-seek? Because, trust me, I’m not in the mood.”

My words sliced empty air. Charlie wasn’t there. But improbably—impossibly, something else was. On the floor, in the middle of the kitchen doorway.

A single long-stemmed red rose.