Tilly 10.
Whoever said that absence makes the heart grow fonder was correct…and a doodoo head. It’s been more than a week since I’ve seen Wilson with my own eyes and not through the lens of a phone camera. Or felt the heat of his body rather than replay the moments we were alone in my office over and over. How his voice tickled more than my ear drums.
We’ve spoken on the phone, Facetimed, and texted just about every day, but it’s not the same. It’s not enough.
My desk phone rings and it startles me. I pick it up quickly, “Hello?” A second too late I remember where I am and who I am. “Thank you for calling Aged Barrel Bank, this is Tilly, how may I assist you?”
“Tilly, my dear, this is Matt Michaels. How are you?” The director of Building a Village. I sit up straight in my chair, pasting on a professional smile even though he can’t see me.
“I’m well, Mr. Michaels, it’s lovely to hear from you. How are you?”
“It’s Matt. You know that.” I do know, but it feels weird to address so informally. He’s in his late 60s but has more energy than I do at half his age. “But I think your parents raised you and your brother right.” My smile is genuine thinking of my parents. They would have liked Matt. And Wilson…darn it. Not the time to think about Wilson.
“They did, and it’s kind of you to say so.”
“I just got off the phone with Tybalt and he encouraged me to check in with you. We still have a few weeks, but events like this can creep up on you.”
“They can. But I’m happy to report we only have two tables left, out of fifty-five, though I suspect they will be snatched up by the end of the week.”
“How wonderful. How did you manage that?”
“Funny story actually.” I tell him about cold calling local businesses and their fair-weather reactions, and how Kohlman Associates were eager to help, even connecting us with politicians statewide, including the governor’s office, and those wishing to donate from as far as southeastern Ohio. He’s silent as I explain, however, the silence continues for several long seconds once I finish.
“A motorcycle club?”
I roll my eyes but reassure him. “They are comprised of mostly ex-military, highly decorated, and a true family.”
“They are not…criminals?”
“Kohlman Associates is run by one of their members and is a respected attorney. Keenan Kohlman.” I hear clicking in the background, grinning when I realize he’s searching Lincoln’s name on the internet.
“Huh. I see. Well, I’ll be.” His earlier hesitancy dissipates at whatever he’s reading. “It’s always a good sign when those outside of the community are excited to help. A happy omen if you ask me.”
“I think so too, Matt. Everything with the venue is squared away, menu selected, and entertainment secured. Auction items will be finalized within the next two weeks, and I will begin to arrange drop off.”
“Even if you weren’t Tybalt’s beloved sister, I knew you were the right person for the job.”
“Thank you.” That means a lot.
“Dale Rawson is our head of security. He will be in contact next week to meet with you, tour the facility and begin setting up security protocol for the event. Do you need anything from me or Building a Village?”
I take a second to think over my ever-growing to-do list. “Not at this time, Matt, but thank you.”
“No problem, dear, you think of anything, you let me know.”
“I will.” I pause, allowing the excitement to build, “I think this is going to be a huge success.”
“Me too, I can feel it. We’re gonna change the world...or at least northern Kentucky.” I laugh with him before we say our goodbyes. Glancing at the clock, I’m surprised to see its nearly quitting time. Cleaning up the tiny piles on my desk, I shut down my computer a few minutes early and step out into the main part of the bank.
I approach Cambyl with a friendly smile, since she’s the only available teller, and didn’t speak…intimately, about the Congressionals MC. “How’d it go today?”
She returns my smile and shrugs. “Same as always. Mr. Beach’s flirting game was off today.”
“Mr. Beach?” I flip through the rolodex in my mind and try to place the name.
“He’s like 83 years old and a charmer.” Her smile widens, “Always tries to sweet talk me into two lollipops instead of one.”
I lean in conspiratorially, “Give him two next time. At 83, he deserves a little extra sweetness in his life.”
“Will do.”
“I need a good bakery, Cambyl, anywhere you can recommend that’s still open?”
“Oh.” She turns in her chair to face me. “Can’t go wrong with Independence Bakery.”
“Is it by the courthouse?”
Cambyl giggles softly, “No, that’s The Independence Bakery.”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“Common mistake among transplants. THE Independence Bakery and Independence Bakery are two separate establishments, run by a brother and sister who despise each other.”
“Oh, ok.” Cause, what else do you say to that? “They’re good, though?”
“Best donuts anywhere!” She crows. Heather and Vicki pop up from behind their cubicle partitions.
“Independence Bakery?” Cambyl points to them as proof that they’re worth the trip.
“Thank you for the suggestion. Y’all need anything before we close?”
“Nope, boss, all good out here.”
I walk back to my office and stop at the sight before me. Patrice hovering over my desk, her hand clicking on my computer mouse.
“Looking for something?” I ask, feigning calm. Inside I’m seething that she’s in here. She yelps and jumps back from my desk.
“You scared me, Ms. Manager!”
“I’m sorry, didn’t mean to scare you in my own office.” I walk in, but she leaps forward and presses something on the keyboard before I make it to my desk. “In the future, Patrice, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use my computer without permission. You have your own…for a reason.”
“It wasn’t long ago; this was my office.”
“Yes, and now it’s not. However, given your familiarity, I’m sure you can find the exit without problem.” I wave toward the door and wait for her to leave, huffing and puffing the entire way. I sit at my desk, moving the mouse around the screen, but I’m not sure what I’m looking for. All my pertinent files or programs are password protected, still…I’ll have to keep my office locked when I’m not in here, even just a quick trip to the lobby or bathroom. I don’t trust Patrice, at all.
Gathering my light jacket and purse, I shut down my computer once again, then double check the door is locked on my way out. I wave to the girls and wish them a good evening.
Punching in the bakery in my car’s GPS, I leave work in the rearview. Luckily, they have some donuts and a few other pastries still available, so I take what they’ve got left. They thank me profusely and a young man even loads it into the car for me. I enter the clubhouse address and head over, ignoring the return of the riotous cocaine butterflies in my stomach during the short drive.
A man wearing a leather vest that reads “Prospect” checks my ID, then waves me in with a grin and a wink. The parking lot is full, though I’ve never been here, there are more cars than bikes. Are they having a party?
I park a ways down from the main entrance, stack the bakery boxes on the trunk, then carefully pick them up. I walk slowly through the gravel lot. Another guy wearing a “Prospect” vest licks his lips and opens the door for me. I chuckle knowing that lip lick is for what I’m carrying, not me. I shift my hands and the boxes to the left to see where I’m going and come to an abrupt stop. Sex. People are having sex. Out in the open. My heart lodges itself in my throat for a second, until I scan the room and don’t find Wilson. He’s not participating in this particular group activity.
Ignoring the groans and grunts and high-pitched wails of pleasure, I beeline for the bar, setting the boxes on the top and wiping my sweaty hands on my dress pants. I’m a little out of my element here.
“What can I get ya?” Yet another prospect asks me from behind the bar, a dirty rag over his shoulder.
“Wilson.” I manage to croak out. He raises an eyebrow. “I’m Tilly—” I don’t even finish saying my name before his friendly but professional expression morphs into recognition.
“I’ll let him know you’re here. Would you like a glass of wine?”
“You have wine?” I wince at how judgmental that sounds, but he laughs it off.
“Ol’ ladies tend to have a more discerning taste than the brothers.” I nod, realizing it makes sense having met Betty and Stacy. He pulls out his phone and types quickly, then efficiently fills a glass of red wine and places it gently in front of me.
“Thank you.” I lift the glass and take a small sip. That’s delicious. The ol’ ladies have great taste.
“Wilson will be down shortly.” He nods toward the tower of boxes, “Whatchya got there?”
“Here, for being so nice.” I open the top box and pull out a glazed donut.
“Will you marry me?” He says before stuffing the entire donut in his mouth. I hide my smile behind my wine glass. His cheeks puffed out, eyes rolling back in enjoyment, his body jerks when a voice sounds from behind me.
“Poaching a brother’s woman is a serious offense, prospect.” I glance over my shoulder to see Madison standing with his tattooed arms crossed over his leather clad chest, glaring at the prospect. Wilson, Hayes, and Adams at his sides.
Around the donut, the prospect mumbles, “I was speaking to the donut, sir.”
In an effort to save the young man, I spin around on the bar stool and do my best Vanna White impression, waving my hand up and down the tower of goodies. “My thanks for reaching out on behalf of the charity gala. We are two tables shy of capacity. Thank you all, so much.”
Wilson breaks away from the group and in the next second I’m in his arms and he’s twirling us around in circles. Happiness bubbles up inside me until I’m laughing with him and grinning so wide my mouth hurts. He stops us, still holding me aloft, his forehead pressing into mine.
“Thank you, Wilson.” I whisper.
“Anything for you, Tandoori.” I narrow my eyes and purse my lips.
“We aren’t doing that.”
He throws his head back, his Adam’s apple pronounced and bobbing in his throat as he laughs heartily. “Oh, yes, we are, Tandoori.” He says it louder this time so everyone can hear.
“Tandoori?” a woman gasps, “That’s so…so…racist? Is it racist?” Long dark curly hair and a beautiful slender face stare up at a bald black man dressed in a suit.
“Probably not. I’m sure Wilson has a reason.”
“You mean how Khalil is Carver. After George Washington Carver?” The entire room bursts into raucous laughter. I exchange a glance of confusion with the woman, and we wait impatiently for someone to explain.
Wilson slaps his thigh as he comes down. “Yes, Audrey, you’re correct. Same reason Khalil is Carver, Tilly is Tandoori.”
Groaning, I put my arms around the boxes of sweet treats and pretend I’m going to take them back. “I have a delicate stomach. It doesn’t appreciate yogurt like it should.”
The woman, Audrey, nods in understanding, her curls bouncing around her shoulders, before her head snaps back and she stares at the man next to her with blatant horror. That starts him laughing all over again. Her head swivels around until she finds whoever she’s looking for. I’m momentarily distracted as several men relieve me of the bakery boxes with scowls.
“You’re allergic to peanuts!” Her shout draws me back, to find her rushing over to another light skinned black man, slightly taller than the one she was standing next to a minute ago. Audrey wraps her arms around the man and turns a feral mama-bear sneer to the rest of the room. “You bestowed the road name Carver on him because he’s allergic to peanuts!”
“Do you not know how road names work, darlin’?”
She whirls around for a standoff with the president. “I don’t know, Madison, I guess if you aren’t a founding member who chooses their own name, you’re given a name that marks the lowest moment in your life, or a disability or physical trait you can’t alter, or…or…”
Madison shrugs, “You seem to have a good handle on the concept.”
“Pet.”
Wilson comes over to stand next to me, his arm bumping mine as he leans back against the bar top. Tilting his head toward me, he whispers, “That’s Lincoln. His ol’ lady Audrey, and Lincoln’s blood brother Carver.”
“What?” Audrey crosses her arms over her chest and glares at her ol’ man.
“We didn’t give him the name.”
She visibly deflates, losing her angry steam in an instant. “Oh.”
“Mom and Dad did.”
“WHAT?!? That’s so much worse!”