WG2E All-For-Indies Anthologies: Viva La Valentine Edition (31 page)

“Let’s go.”

“What’s wrong?”

“‘What’s wrong’? Where have you been? I’ve
been driving around Hollywood looking for you since
four-thirty!”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“I’ve called you about a hundred times.
What’s wrong with your phone?”

“It – it wasn’t working right.” I searched
his face for clues. Signs of worry, concern, admiration, love. His
expression was unreadable. I looked down and saw my wallet in his
hand. I grabbed it and shoved it into my bag next to the books I
bought for him. Unwelcome tears stung my eyes. This was not how
this day was supposed to end.

• • •

We drove in silence. I stared out the
passenger side window. I didn’t know what had gone wrong. But the
lack of conversation, the brief one-word answers to “How was your
day?” were cloaked in emotional restraint. If he was going to shut
down, so was I. The past twelve hours had been an ordeal and I was
exhausted. I felt like a balloon pricked by a pin, the air slowly
seeping out of my independent, modern attitude, leaving me saggy
and collapsed.

“I don’t get you,” he said.

“What don’t you get?” I said. “I was alone
all day in a city where I am a stranger. I kept myself busy all day
so you wouldn’t have to worry about me. You’re supposed to be proud
of me.”

“Is that what I’m supposed to be?” he asked.
“Not worried? Not concerned?”

“I went out of my way to be independent so
you could see I can take care of myself.” I dumped my handbag on
his bed and picked up the two books I bought for him. “I didn’t
have a wallet and I spent the only money I had on
you
. This
was at,” I checked the receipt inside the Horror book. “Eleven
fifty-nine.” I sorted through other receipts that lay on the bed.
“I had a slice of pizza at three thirty-seven. Bought an album at
Amoeba at six forty-two. Sat down at a table at Jack-In-The-Box at
six fifty-three. Check the call logs on my cell phone, if there’s
any battery left. The evidence is right here!” I threw the phone on
the bed and it bounced once then landed by his thigh.

“Evidence? I’ve been driving around looking
for you for four hours and you want to give me evidence?”

“You were at your first day at a new job — I
didn’t want to bother you!”

“What do you think that says, that you think
I’m the kind of guy who would let you wander around Hollywood for
hours all by yourself? In the dark? When you don’t know anybody
else here?”

“It says I’m an independent, modern,
thoughtful woman,” I said, repeating aloud the mantra I’d been
repeating all day.

“It says you’re afraid to believe in me, in
us. You’re afraid to believe in anything but yourself.”

I snatched my nightgown from the open luggage
and slammed the bathroom door behind me. I turned on the shower,
peeled off my clothes, dove under the hot water, and stood there
for a long time. Long enough that even though I wanted to ignore
what he said, it got through.

That’s when I discovered being independent
had its downside. Especially on Valentine’s Day.

I turned off the shower, wrapped myself in a
towel, and came out of the cloud of steam into the bedroom. On the
bed were a silver ice bucket and a bottle of champagne. Rose petals
decorated the comforter. A pink cardboard heart-shaped box sat next
to two champagne flutes on the floor and Jay was asleep on the side
of the mattress.

I ran my fingertips over the light brown hair
that curled by his sideburn. He half-opened his eyes and looked up
at me.

“I’m probably never going to change,” I
said.

“Most people don’t.”

“Can you handle that?”

“I don’t have any evidence, but I think it’ll
be okay.”

He pulled me down next to him on the sofa.
His strong arms held me tight and I felt his breath on the back of
my head.

“Now, before this thing goes any further, is
there anything you want to tell me about St. Patrick’s Day?” he
asked.

“I’m not Irish so it’s just another day to
me,” I answered. “But when it comes to the Fourth of July, all bets
are off.”

ABOUT DIANE VALLERE

Diane Vallere is a 20-year fashion industry
veteran who writes about shoes, clues, and clothes. Her short story
“Identity Crisis” is featured in FISH TALES: The Guppy Anthology
(Wildside Press, 2011), and her debut mystery DESIGNER DIRTY
LAUNDRY comes out June 2012. Catch up with her at
www.dianevallere.com
.

By Christy Hayes

One

Celia Mason grabbed her best friend’s arm as
they strolled down a crowded New York street. “God, I hate
Valentine’s Day,” she said, as Beth sidestepped a puddle left from
the recent downpour that had only added to Celia’s bad mood. “If
one more person in the office had roses delivered, I was going to
gouge someone’s eyes out — and I work with a bunch of gay men!”

“I’ve always wondered why guys send roses on
Valentine’s,” Beth said. “Don’t they feel like they’re getting
suckered? I mean, a week before and a week after, the price drops
by half. I don’t think I’d be with someone who’d get suckered like
that.”

Celia patted Beth’s hand. “Gary didn’t send
any flowers?” she asked.

“No, of course not. He said dinner would cost
him enough.”

“At least you’ve got a date.”

“What are you going to do tonight?” Beth
asked. “Go home and admire your new bag?”

Celia held up her I-hate-Valentine’s-Day gift
to herself — a designer hobo she’d been salivating over, but
couldn’t justify until now — and reached inside the Bloomingdale’s
bag to admire her retail therapy. “Feel how soft the leather is.”
She let the bag swing from her arm. “I’ve got a bottle of wine
chilling, and my favorite movie waiting at home.”

Beth whimpered. “Good wine and When Harry Met
Sally. Do you think Gary would care if I stood him up?”

“Yes, he would care, and don’t even pretend
to be jealous.” Celia stopped mid-stride and whirled around on the
street. “Oh, crap!” she said. “Where’s my purse?”

“Ummmm.” Beth stopped walking and pointed at
the Bloomingdale’s bag. “Right there.”

“No.” Celia’s voice inched an octave higher
as she danced around the busy street. “My real purse with my real
wallet.” She looked back toward the two blocks they had just
walked. “Oh my God, Beth, where is it?”

“When was the last time you had it?” Beth
joined Celia as they quickly retraced their steps.

“I don’t know,” Celia chewed on her bottom
lip. This was the absolute worst thing that could happen. Hadn’t
her brother warned her incessantly about identity theft and how to
prevent it from happening? “I used my phone in the cab, but you
paid the fare.” She lifted her head to look Beth in the eye. “I
don’t remember having it after the cab.” She let her head fall as
dread crawled up her spine. “Do you think I left it in there?”

“Where else could it be?” Beth asked.

Celia looked wildly around as cabs zoomed by
on one of the busiest nights of the year. “I may as well have
offered it to a street person. What am I going to do?”

“Celia, I know you’re upset, but let’s not
panic.”

“Not panic? Not panic? That cab could be
anywhere by now. It could be in Jersey for all I know.” Celia held
her hand out, her fingers wiggling like a crack addict waiting for
her pipe. “Give me your phone. I need to call and cancel my credit
cards.”

“Why not just call your phone?”

Celia rolled her eyes. “Do you really think
my purse snatcher is going to answer the phone?”

“First of all,” Beth said, slipping back into
lawyer mode, “your purse wasn’t snatched, you left it in the cab.
And second, it’s worth a try.”

“Shouldn’t I cancel my cards first?” Celia
could envision her brother’s angry face bobbing up and down. “Yes,
Celia,” he would say in his gritty I-mean-business voice. “Cancel
the damn cards!”

“One phone call, Cel. It’s worth a try.”

Beth passed over her phone after plugging in
her password. Celia should have used a password on her cell, but of
course it was too late now. She dialed her number with shaking
fingers.

“It’s ringing,” she said. She wrapped a lock
of hair around her finger as she paced up and down the street.

“That’s good.” Beth gave an encouraging shake
of her head, but her eyes told a different story. They were too
wide, too aware of all the things that could happen — cash gone,
her accounts cleaned out, some crazy stalker waiting on her
doorstep with a knife and a ransom note.

“Hello?” said a male voice.

“Oh, hey! Who’s this?” Celia asked.

“Who is this?” the voice said on the other
line.

“I’m…” Celia slammed her free hand on her hip
and barked into the phone, “you’ve got my phone and I want it back.
I want my purse back, too.”

“I’ll bet you do, Celia.” She wasn’t too
jazzed to notice the sarcasm in the voice that taunted her over the
line. “I was just sitting here wondering what kind of woman would
leave her purse in a cab.”

“Obviously, I didn’t mean to leave it in a
cab.” She bit back the words “you moron” since she desperately
wanted the guy to cooperate. “How do you know my name?”

“It’s clearly printed on your driver’s
license, along with a…not-so-flattering picture. I haven’t seen
hair this big since watching VH-1’s best of the 80’s special.”

“I have naturally curly hair, thank you very
much, and that picture was taken over five years ago.” She patted
the dark curls that had sprung free in the rain.

“Are you still 5’5”, a hundred-and-thirty
pounds?” he asked.

“I’m closer to one-twenty-five,” she said,
before she realized how silly it was to have to defend her weight
to a perfect stranger just because he’d snooped through her purse.
“Wait a minute. Are you going to return my stuff — intact — or are
we going to play twenty questions for the rest of the night?”

“What’s he saying?” Beth asked.

Celia shushed her with an impatient glare and
a wave of her hand.

“I’m having fun,” he said with a laugh in his
voice. “Besides, how do I know it really is you? I can’t just turn
this purse over to anyone. The real Celia Mason may not like
that.”

“I am the real Celia Mason and believe me,
I’m fine with it. Who are you and, more importantly, where are
you?”

“I’m in a cab you recently vacated, heading
to Madison Square Garden for the game. Where are you?”

She rubbed her forehead and took a calming
breath. Okay, she told herself, he’s an American and he’s going to
a game. She could handle him. It was like dealing with one of her
brothers. “I’m…” She craned her neck to read the street sign
several feet away. “I’m on 65th and 3rd.”

“Well, Celia,” he said. “If you want your
purse back, you’d better get to the Garden before game time.”

“When is game time?” she asked. She couldn’t
remember the last time she’d been to a game, or any event, at the
Garden.

“You’ve got ten minutes to get down
here.”

“It’s Valentine’s Day! Do you know how hard
it’s going to be to get through the theatre district in ten
minutes?”

“You’re right, you’re right.” She could hear
a horn honking through the connection. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll
buy you a ticket and leave it at Will Call. Once you’re inside, you
can come to my seat. Hang on a minute and I’ll tell you where I’m
sitting.”

“You’re going to buy me a ticket?”

“Well, technically you’re going to buy you a
ticket. The box office takes American Express. A gold card?Very
nice. What do you do for a living? Oh wait a minute, here’s your
business card. Publication Project Manager, Museum of Modern Art.
Impressive.”

Celia felt her chest tightening with anger.
How dare he rifle through her things and demand she go see a stupid
basketball game! “How am I supposed to get to the Garden when
you’ve got my wallet?”

“You borrowed a phone from Beth, was it? Must
be a good friend considering the ring tone. Haven’t heard Queen’s
You’re My Best Friend in while. Borrow some cash. Your best friend
won’t mind.” She heard rustling and the sound of her phone being
dropped. “Okay, I’m in section 342, row K, seat 12. I’ll be the one
with the purse.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she
mumbled.

“Afraid not,” he said. “What better way to
spend Valentine’s Day?”

“I know people,” she threatened. “My
brother’s a cop.”

“Good to know, Celia. I’ll see you at the
game.”

“Wait,” she pleaded. “What’s your name? What
if I can’t find you?”

“It’s David. David Willingham.”

Celia huffed out a breath when she heard the
connection go dead. She passed the phone back to Beth.