The Opportunist Part 18

"If I wanted advice from a s.l.u.t, I'd call a nine hundred number," I said, s.n.a.t.c.hing the box from her. She'd laughed and doled it out anyway.

Caleb's knock never came. I tried calling his cell, which went straight to voice mail. Caleb was never late; he arrived everywhere he went at least ten minutes early. I tried to curb the thoughts of him being in an accident; however, eventually my worry got the best of me. I called the hospital but they informed me that no one by my description had been admitted that night. I thought about calling his parents, but considering how my last meeting with them went, I couldn't get myself to dial the number. I re-cradled the phone and bit my nails instead. There was only one other option. He was still at work and had lost track of time. That had been happening a lot lately anyway, his job was so demanding he sometimes forgot the time we were supposed to meet somewhere or that it was our year and a half anniversary and we were supposed to buy each other garden gnomes in celebration. I wasn't mad. I was okay with it. I would just drop by the office to remind him. Yes. I grabbed the keys and sprinted down the stairs.

The office building that housed Fossy Financial was located in the sugar district of Ft. Lauderdale, two blocks past the Bonjour Bakery where Sylvester Stallone bought his croissants at seven bucks a pop.

The building that housed Fossy was also home to numerous other services that only the wealthy could afford, so naturally there was a guard. He peered at me through swollen eyes that suggested too much liquor the night before and issued a grunt.

"Buildings closed for the evening," he shot at me in an irritated voice.

"So why, are the doors open?" I cheeked, eyeing the few people milling around in the lobby. They were all swathed in b.u.t.tery colored silks and custom made tuxedos. The whole scene screamed 'Behold the Wealthy' in the most obnoxious of ways.

"There's a party on the fifth floor-a private party," he emphasized. "The doors are closed to all customers."

The fifth floor was Caleb's floor. I realized this with a sinking feeling in my stomach. He never mentioned a party to me. True, he had an especially busy week at work but how does one forget something like that?

"Well, I just happen to be attending the Fossy party," I said using my best snooty voice.

"Yeah? I don't think so," his eyes were roving over my jeans and t-shirt.

"My names on the list pal," I said quickly. I didn't even know there was a list. "Ava Lillibet. Check for yourself." Ava was a colleague of Caleb's, he spoke about her horrid garlic breath and melon sized breast implants often. I stuck out my chest just in case. My feeling about the list was correct and seconds later, the fat eyed guard located my fake name on the paper in front of him.

"Okee dokee, Ms. Lillibet. You can go right up," I didn't look at him as I whipped around and headed over to the elevators. Hopefully the real Ms. Garlic-breath wouldn't make an appearance any time soon and blow my cover. The elevator ride was torturous. When I heard the 'Ding', I sprang out almost tripping over my own feet. I batted my eyes in surprise. There was no sign of desks, or fax machines or poker faced employees. The entire floor had been cleared of its serious nature, and replaced with elegantly laid dinner tables with floating candle centerpieces and polished crystal goblets. All of the shades in the office were open to show the impressive view of the Ft. Lauderdale waterway. Beautiful people mulled over trays of caviar that were traveling across the room in the hands of white-gloved servers. I pressed myself against the closest wall and began scanning the room for his face. No Caleb. Not with the flighty group of secretaries that always kept me on hold way too long and not with his stepfather, whose smile was now turning on a group of investors. I felt a rush of anxiety. What if he was waiting for me at my apartment right now and here I was snooping around his office like a paranoid...

I would do the halfway decent thing and leave, before I made a total a.s.s of myself. I shimmied towards the exit sign hoping to find the stairs. I would have to pa.s.s through a corridor of what looked like offices but there was little chance any of them would be occupied while there was a party in full swing. I made a dash for it. I was almost to the end of the hall, perhaps three steps away from the stairs, when I heard his voice. I found it strange that over the trilling of Chopin and the constant humming of a dozen conversations, I heard his voice.

I heeled to a stop and c.o.c.ked my head, not because I heard him speak, but because of the way he was speaking-urgent and intimate. I leaned in toward the closed door of his office and heard a woman's throaty laugh. My heart kicked into third gear.

"Would you like to find out?" her voice was clearly flirtatious. You couldn't mistake that, not even through the two inch paneled door. Chopin's trilling Appa.s.sionato was playing in the background, as I jerked back.

Find out what? I held my breath and pressed my ear against the door. Did I even want to know?

"Some things are better left in the freezer," my mother used to say.

I pressed closer until my face was squashed against the paneling. There was no more talking. Whatever was happening on the other side of that door was happening quietly. I took a step back. This was my cue-enter crazy girlfriend. I will not yell, I told myself. I will handle this with cla.s.s and decorum. I grabbed the doork.n.o.b, twisted it and flung it open. The door moved aside like a curtain, revealing a scene that would be embedded on my memory for always. It would change everything. Ruin everything. Break everything.

Chapter Fourteen.

The Present I left. Leah could have him, but I didn't want to be around when she did. I didn't take much; a couple of books and photo alb.u.ms that belonged to my mother. Everything else had been destroyed. I stuffed everything into the car along with Pickles and hit the gas. I'd left my box of Mr. X memento's laying in the center of my scarred coffee table, along with the envelope of pictures that Leah had stolen. She had stuffed five one hundred dollar bills into the envelope as well...I left those too. If I was going to do this-it had to be done. No more toting around trinkets that had the power to turn my heart into ground beef.

Before I'd walked out the front door for good, I'd held the penny, face up in my palm. d.a.m.n penny. d.a.m.n Caleb. I closed my fingers and squeezed as hard as I could, until my fist turned white and I was sure that the words, "Good for one free shot of affection-A KISS!" would be stamped on my skin. Then I'd opened my hand and let the penny drop to the carpet. I slipped a goodbye note underneath Rosalie's door, in which I lied about a job in California, and promised to write to her as soon as I was settled. I dropped my keys off at the leasing office and I drove. I felt an emotional weight lift from my shoulders when my car eased onto I-95, and I felt free when I crossed over the state line into Georgia, but I felt absolute relief when Cammie threw her arms around me.

"Welcome to Texas, best friend," she smiled kissing me on the cheek. "Let's begin your new life."

The Past Wind battered angrily against the car, howling her protests at not being let in. Outside, the cracked gla.s.s of the windshield gathered the dancing snowflakes from the air, spreading a blanket of white across the red tinged spider web. Two pa.s.sengers sat slumped and bleeding in the front seats, neither was conscious and the driver was soaked in his own blood. No ambulance had been called, as the car had yet to be spotted in the snowstorm. The pa.s.senger woke moaning and clutching his head. When he pulled his hand away there was blood smeared on his finger-tips.

He looked around at the dark interior of the car wondering where he was and who the bleeding man beside him could be. He felt odd, like all of his organs were straining inside of his body. Feeling along the door, he grabbed hold of the latch, but it wouldn't budge. Then he realized the obvious, something his cloudy mind hadn't registered at first. The car was crushed to half of its original size. He released his seatbelt and felt around his pockets for a phone, after finding it, he hit 911. When the female operator answered he spoke, not recognizing his own voice.

"There's been an accident. I don't know where we are," or who I am he wanted to add, but didn't.

He set the phone next to him and held his head. A police car would be sent once they tracked the signal. He waited, shivering whether from the shock or the cold, he didn't know. He tried not to look at the body next to him. Was it a friend? His father? His brother?

He knew help had arrived when out of the corner of his eye he saw the reflection of the cruiser lights dancing on the windows. Voices called and doors slammed. Soon there were people reaching in and pulling him out of the car.

"We have to use the Jaws of Life," he heard a fireman say. Someone was shining a light in his eyes; another was wrapping him in an orange fleece. They loaded him onto a stretcher as the snow landed on his face. A voice that sounded far away asked him what his name was. He shook his head wondering if he should make one up. Josh was a good name, he could have said Josh, but he didn't. He wondered if the man next to him was alive and then he heard the sirens of another ambulance and the skidding of wheels on gravel as it pulled away sirens screaming. He lay back against the flat pillow and tried hard to remember.....and then he did. Things good and bad came seeping back into his brain like warm water through a cracked block of ice. He flinched as he remembered things that he'd rather forget.

The EMT asked him if he was all right. He shook his head yes, though on the inside where it counted, where wounds couldn't be salved and sewn, he wasn't. He rubbed his head, knuckles against temples and wished that he couldn't remember. How easy it would be if his mind had been wiped clean like an eraser board. No trace of the happy or miserable, just a clean fresh start. The ambulance came to a smooth stop and the twin doors were opened by a set of gloved hands. He allowed himself to be pushed and pulled and prodded through the emergency room doors until he lay in a stark white room waiting for an MRI. He remained silent. A doctor entered the room where he waited for his results. He was an Indian man with a kind face. He wore a wedding band on his ring finger with three rubies embedded in the gold. His name tag read Dr. Sunji Puni. He wondered if Dr. Puni was happy and if those three red stones symbolized his children. He wanted to ask, but still he said nothing. The doctor in his accented voice spoke.

"You have a serious concussion. I want to run some more tests on you to be certain that there is no extensive damage to your brain. The EMTs informed me that you were having some confusion as to who you are." The patient said nothing, though he stared at the flat white ceiling as if it were a great work of art.

"Can you tell me your name?" Still, he said nothing, his eyes moving back and forth, back and forth.

"Sir? Do you know who you are?" the doctor's voice was concerned now, having hit an octave higher than before. I know, I know! His mind screamed. The patient turned his head until he was looking into heavily lined black eyes. He'd made his decision right then and there. There would be a lot of trouble over what he was about to do, but he didn't care. He had to find her.

"No," said Caleb Drake. "I don't remember anything at all."

One Year Gone Two Years Gone Three Years....

Four.

Chapter Fifteen.

Four years pa.s.s. They taste like cardboard.

I am different. I am a galaxy away from where I used to be. I live in the solar system, "Sooo moved on".

Mr. X is just a memory now. Heck, I'm not even sure all of that even happened. My reality is that I went to law school, graduated, got a job as an a.s.sociate at a large firm.....

After I graduated, I bought a townhouse with Cammie with the last of my mother's insurance money. It's a good thing I got the job too, because my bank account was dwindling down to empty. We drink a lot, eat out more, and spend all of our free time at the gym, working off the alcohol and restaurant food. Cammie is working in decorating, a practically extinct career nowadays, but somehow she managed to land a job with a company that decorates for the immensely wealthy. We both do well. I win most of my cases. I still have the ability to twist the truth, something that has come in handy in my field.

A month ago, I got a call from my old boss, Bernie. She wants me to come and work at her firm, says if I do well she'll make me partner. Cammie and I drink on it all week. She's wanted to move back to Florida for years. Cammie says that its time I face South Florida again. She says it's where I belong. Texas is for friendly people, she tells me. I belong somewhere fast paced and rude. We decide to sell our townhouse and transplant our lives.

I have a boy, well, male friend-did I mention that? He is wonderful. He promises that we can make our long distance relationship work until he can be transferred to be with me. I believe him. He wants to marry me, he says so all the time. I believe him on that, too.

I pack my things into a U-Haul with the help of Turner, that's my boyfriend, and we drive across three state lines listening to the best of the eighties. Cammie calls every thirty minutes to check on me. She is following in a few months, probably with three U-Hauls.

Turner ma.s.sages my neck while I drive. He's such a peach. When we arrive at my new condo, which I will not be sharing with Cammie, there are men waiting to carry my furniture into my new home. Turner hired them to help, so we wouldn't have to do it ourselves. I wouldn't have minded, but Turner hates to get his hands dirty. After the movers leave I wander from room to room admiring the very impressive view. From the south side windows I can see the ocean as it melts into the horizon and from the west, every rooftop in a mile radius. The condo is in Sunny Isles and it cost me more than my mother had made in her lifetime. I am a good defense attorney, I am an excellent liar. Life has turned out the way I always wanted it to. Except for...anyway...I love my condo. Turner and I will no doubt christen it tonight. Fun. Yay! He is very handsome in a conventional, clean-cut way. He is tall, olive skinned, and pretentious. He wears dress shirts all the time. No seriously-he does. He is also a lawyer, so we have lots and lots in common. Real Estate law-but still...

Oh and he hates basketball, just like me. Fabulous right?

I met him the day I took the Bar. He asked to borrow a pencil. What type of idiot comes to take the bar without a pencil? I think. When I handed it to him he just sat there and looked at me.

"What?" I said, not even trying to hide my impatience.

"I need your number, too." He said it so 'matter-of-factly' that I gave it to him. I respected the gall.

I am happy.

After the movers leave, we order sushi, or I do, because Turner doesn't eat 'raw fish.' I walk around my new condo in one of his t-shirts because I haven't unpacked my things yet. We have s.e.x. He takes me to the BMW dealership the next morning and buys me a car as a house warming present. Wowzer, right? At six o' clock that evening, I drive him to the Ft. Lauderdale airport in my new, red sports car, and we kiss before he gets on the plane.

"This will work," he tells me.

"How do you know?" I say, smoothing the lapels on his jacket.

"Because we're going to get married."

"We are?" I reply with mock surprise. He always says this, and I always say that.

"We are," he affirms and then he gets on his knee and pulls a box out of his pocket.

I drive home, engaged. I look at the ring all the way there, as if it's going to bite me. It's a Tiffany's iceberg-big and gaudy. It reminds me of something but I can't remember what since I have soooo completely moved on.

In three months I have taken the Florida Bar Exam and pa.s.sed. I start my new job as a Defense Attorney for Spinner and a.s.sociates. The secretary oooh's and aah's at my ring. She asks me about Turner, what he does, what he looks like. She has a slight gap between her two front teeth which I stare at as she sings the names of her two miniature c.o.c.kapoo's: Melody and Harmony. She tells me how her grandmother's garden gnomes were stolen from her yard in broad daylight. Broad daylight! In Boca Raton nonetheless. I sympathize with the gnome situation and set up a play date for Melody, Harmony, and Pickles.

When I settle behind my desk for the first time, I feel accomplished. My things are unpacked at the condo, my drivers' license has been changed back to Florida, I have groceries, and yesterday I visited my mother's grave to fill her in on my engagement. This is my new life, I realize with mild surprise, and then I lower my head to my desk and cry because it is really my old life with hollow upgrades. I call Cammie to tell her this and to tell her that I made a big mistake moving back here. Big. Huge. She listens to me cry and then tells me that I'm stupid and she'll be here in three weeks, to hold on and hold down, things will get better.

"Okay," I say, but I don't believe it-not even for a second.

But things do get better. At first, I adjust to my new routine anxiously. When I fled to Texas four years ago, I arrived practically empty-handed. I built a brand new life there, filling my cabinets with plates and gla.s.ses and a new Thomas Barbey print for the hall. There was nothing left to remind me of my adventures in Florida. Now, when I walk through my new home, I am putting on the same lamps and making tea in the same kettle that was part of my Texas life. It is confusing. But with all things new, there is a stage of uncomfortable acclamation. After a few weeks, Sunny Isles becomes my home, Spinner and a.s.sociates becomes my job, and the Publix at 42nd and Eisenhower becomes my grocery store. Cammie arrives with Pickles a week later as scheduled. She stays with me for a month before moving into her own place, which is a short thirty-minute drive away. Cammie doesn't like Turner. Did I mention that already? She says that he is as predictable as a virgin's period. I mean, she doesn't hate him, but she could definitely do without him, as she reminds me on many occasions. I like Turner. I really, really do.

He visits me every two weeks or sooner if his schedule permits. He always brings Pickles a pair of his old socks to play with, which she rips apart in about two hours. I find his sock gifts slightly disturbing, especially when I start finding remnants of the soggy wool stuck in-between the couch cushions. I wish he would just buy rawhide instead. I make this suggestion one night as we are driving to a new restaurant on the south side. The humidity has mellowed and the air that is blowing in the open windows of the car is whipped and cool. It reminds me of a warm winter so long ago.

"They are chewy bones," I hear myself say in a slightly bored and detached voice. "She likes them."

"Okay, babe." Turner places his hand on my knee and starts bopping his head to the music on the radio. He has such square taste in music. Square, square. I hum the Sponge Bob Square Pants theme song and look out the window. My body freezes up almost instantly, Turner looks at me in concern.

"What's wrong babe?" he asks and slows down the car. Babe.

"Nothing, nothing," I smile to hide the salt water in my eyes. "I just got a cramp in my leg-that's all." I pretend to rub it.

But that wasn't all. While staring out of the window, the spastic blinking of colorful lights has caught my eyes. When I focus in on them my stomach clenches painfully.

Jaxson's Ice Cream Parlor It was like a door opened and all the memories I had hidden away came tumbling out. Pennies and kisses and pools and all the things I had condemned to h.e.l.l. Blast. The last thing I felt like doing tonight was entertaining a sulking heart.

"Why don't we go there for dinner?" I say in a fake, cheerful voice, nodding towards Jaxson's. Turner looks at me like the crazy woman I am.

"There?" he says. The disgust so obvious in his voice, I flinch.

"Sure. Don't you ever get sick of all the frou-frou restaurants we go to? Let's do something different. Come on..." I stick my bottom lip out a little because that usually works with getting my way. He sighs dramatically and turns into the plaza. I wonder what the h.e.l.l I am doing and why I am such a sucker for punishment. I want to prove to myself that this is just another food providing establishment. There is no magic, there is no escalated romance, and most of all, I want to be able to be in a place that holds old memories and not have a mental breakdown. h.e.l.lloooo Jaxson's.

It was much the same as it was over seven years ago, the only thing missing from Jaxson's is Harlow-whose absence is noteworthy. I see his picture on the wall by the register and beneath it are the dates August 10th 1937 to March 17th 2006. I smile at him sadly as we are led to our table by a gum snapping teen. She doesn't have cla.s.s. I think ruefully.

"Nice place." Turner's sarcasm is not lost on me as I gaze at the unlucky and lucky table.

"Shut up. Stop behaving like a sn.o.b."

He immediately softens up.

"Sorry sweetheart," he says taking my hands in his. "I'll be open minded, okay?"

Sweetheart. I nod surly and turn to studying the menu.

So far so good. At least I wasn't shaking or crying or anything. Maybe I really was okay. We eat our dinner and order desert. I try not to think about the conversation that transpired under this roof years ago, but occasionally phrases like: "because, I cared more about knowing you than I did about winning another stupid game" pops into my head. I sweep them out quickly and look at my wonderful fiancee who has lowered his standards tonight to eat with me here. Blessed. I am so blessed.

When we leave, I stop at the penny machine and my heart rate accelerates. Maybe Turner will notice it, I think. Maybe he'll do something cute and romantic with one of the messages. But, Turner walks right out and I trail after him, disappointed. I do not have s.e.x with him that night.

A week later there is a knock on my office door.

Ms. Kaspen?" it's the secretary. "Ms. Spinner would like to see you in her office."

c.r.a.p! Bernie always sees through me. I compose myself, running my fingers across the front of my Dior skirt. I like to buy expensive things. If I wear something that costs more than a month's salary, I amply feel that the rotting carca.s.s of me is at least shrouded nicely.

I head over to her corner office, practicing my 'life is great' smile. I knock and she bellows for me to come in.

"I have both good and bad news for you," she says when I enter. Same ol' Bernie, she always has cut right to the chase. Gesturing for me to take a seat in one of her cow patterned chairs; I sit and cross my legs.

"Which would you like to hear first?" she asks. Bernie has silver in her hair now and a life partner named Felecia.

"The good," I say biting the inside of my lip. Bernie's bad news could be anything from "I am shutting down the firm to become a caterpillar farmer" to "I lost the number to my favorite deli." I feel the need to mentally prepare.

"The good news," she begins, "Is that I'm giving you, your first big case-and it's a big one, Olivia."

"Oh...kay," I say feeling a bubble of excitement well in my stomach. I have the urge to jump up and ra ra sis boom ba!

"What's the case?" I say calmly.

"Ever heard of a little pharmaceutical company called OPI-Gem?" she asks.

I shake my head "no".

"They're one of the baby pharms. Six months ago they released a new drug named 'Prenavene' into the market. Three months after its release date, twenty seven separate hospital reports were filed in which Prenavene was found in the systems of heart attack cases, two of those being under the age of thirty with no prior health problems. "There was a formal investigation and the Feds dug up a whole lotta p.o.o.p on these people."