Chapter 8
T he alarm beeped. Amelia smacked it, sending it skittering off the edge of her bed and onto the floor. Note to self, should have bought a nightstand instead of that last pair of shoes. It was the third day that week she’d woken up feeling blah and irritable. The last few months had been a grand, exciting adventure. First she graduated college, then she landed a dream job and moved cross country. After securing her first, grownup apartment, she met Piedmont and began dating him. Lows always follow highs. She could hear her mother’s warning ringing in her ears and tried to let it soothe her. Of course she was feeling blah; no one could live on adrenaline forever. But for a naturally upbeat optimist, these occasional bouts with the blues almost made her feel panicked. What if she never recovered? What if she slipped into a depression that lasted forever?
I will be bubbly again, she vowed as she dragged herself out of bed and into the shower. It wasn’t a hair wash day, and for that she was thankful. She wasn’t in the mood for a blowout, a frightening indicator of her mood. Usually she loved doing her hair and makeup, almost as much as she loved doing other people’s. It was why she became a stylist, after all—because a fun hobby spiraled into a career. But today she didn’t want to spend forty minutes laboriously drying and styling her hair. She still did full makeup because clients at the salon might change their minds and run away if their stylist rolled up looking like she’d just fallen out of bed and put on the closest pair of pants. And, as always, applying makeup had a fortifying effect on her. It wasn’t even the way it looked so much as the soothing, familiar routine.
By the time she was ready to leave, she felt more like herself. The blah feeling was a blip, and one she probably needed to embrace. For the last few months, she had been going eighty miles an hour, burning the candle at both ends. Perhaps the yucky feeling was actually her body’s way of protecting herself, of telling her to take a step back, to get a little more sleep, to take a night off of charity events with Piedmont and read a book instead. She would listen—bump up her vegetable intake, get some more sleep, practice a little self-care, and all would be well again in a few days.
She opened the door to the hallway and froze, one foot in the air like a startled fawn. On her doorstep was a single yellow rose. Poking her head out, she looked in both directions but saw and heard no one. She knelt, picked up the rose, and inspected it. There was no note, but she assumed Piedmont had made an early morning delivery before work. He started his day at the crack of dawn and, knowing she liked to sleep until the last possible moment, likely wouldn’t have wanted to wake her. Since she hadn’t yet reached that stage of adulthood where she owned a vase, she stuck the rose in a glass of water, grabbed her bag, and headed out.
It was a five block walk to the Metro, then two stops, followed by another four blocks of walking. Amelia owned a car, but parking in the city was such a nightmare she barely used it. Selling the car altogether was something she’d been contemplating more and more. The only time she used it anymore was to drive to Ridge and Maggie’s house in the suburbs, but she could always take the train and ask them to pick her up from the station, a mere three miles from their house. It wasn’t a great car, but selling it would give her a few thousand to feather her nest and create more of a buffer between herself and poverty. Maggie and their brother, Darren, were natural savers. Their oldest brother, Johnny, couldn’t care less about money, and Amelia had always had to work harder at keeping it than anyone else in the family. There were just so many pretty, interesting things to buy in the world. At the same time, she desperately wanted to make it, to stand on her own two feet and be a grownup. There was no good way to do that if all her money went toward shoes, clothes, makeup, and eating out, as it had in college. As a testament to her newfound discipline, she had recently opened a separate savings account with an automatic monthly withdrawal. Currently she was only putting in a hundred dollars a month, but over time that would add up. And she could always count on her parents and grandparents for some birthday money. She would put that in, too. Or maybe half, after she splurged on one or two things she’d been wanting. Okay, if ten dollars of birthday money went into the new account, at least that was something, right?
Maybe her newfound blah mood had something to do with her upcoming birthday. Not that twenty three was old by any stretch of the imagination. But she couldn’t help feeling like she was on the cusp of some sort of monumental change. While still in college, it had been easy to convince herself she was still a kid. She’d been learning, preparing for her life. She’d gone home for holidays and had remained on her parents health insurance. Now she had a real job and was responsible for everything on her own. It was hard to continue to feel like a kid while railing at the government for taking so many taxes from her check.
Amelia rounded the corner into the posh neighborhood beside hers. It amazed her how things could change so quickly in the city. Her neighborhood was filled with crummy little studios and walkups like hers while here, a mere two blocks away, were lush townhomes and condos with elevators and doormen. One such doorman had become something of a friend because she saw him every day on her walk. Before moving, she had worried the city would feel aggressively large and scary. The trick, she had learned, was to break it down into several microcosms. It wasn’t a massive city of millions; it was the neighborhood where she lived, the neighborhood where she worked, the store where she shopped for groceries, the church she visited when she could convince herself to get out of bed on time on Sunday mornings.
“Good morning, Dennis,” she called to the doorman a few paces away. He was a pleasant, fatherly sort of man who never failed to put a smile on her face. And today when he turned to greet her was no different, except for the fact as he smiled and called out a greeting, he also extended his hand and offered her a flower, a white carnation.
Amelia stopped short. Was it coincidence she’d received two flowers on the same morning? “Is this from you, Dennis?”
Dennis grinned. “A secret admirer, Miss Amelia,” he replied tipping his cap.
Amelia hurried away, flustered and confused. It seemed an awfully romantic thing for Piedmont to do, but she wouldn’t put it past him. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more likely she found it, and now her heart beat quickly for another reason. What if he was planning to propose? What if it was some kind of trail and at the end of it he would be waiting with a ring? He had mentioned their future a few times, but in vague terms of “someday.” Surely he wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment, was he? They had never even said ‘I love you’ yet.
No, she was being ridiculous. Of course Piedmont wasn’t proposing. She had no idea what he was up to, but she could safely rule out any kind of engagement at the end of it.
On the next block, a man was playing a saxophone, his music case open in front of him. Amelia wished she carried cash for times like these, but everything went on her credit card. She searched her pockets, in case she could locate a spare buck or loose change. In the pocket of her sweater, she struck gold and pulled out a dollar to place in the case. The man nodded as she passed and, without seeming to break stride, handed her a flower. Amelia stopped short and looked at the man, but it was impossible to read his eyes because he was wearing sunglasses. He resumed playing the saxophone as if there had been no interruption, and Amelia continued to walk, hurrying now so as not to miss her train.
She slipped between the Metro doors as they were beginning to close, sat down, and tried to calm her breathing. The cheerful flowers clasped in her hand drew several smiles from the people around her. She smiled in return, though in a dazed sort of way. The middle aged woman beside her seemed especially taken with them until at last she scooted closer and spoke.
“Pretty flowers.”
“Thank you,” Amelia replied.
“Are they for someone or from someone?” the woman asked.
“They’re from someone,” Amelia said.
“Ah, a boyfriend?” the woman guessed.
“I think so,” Amelia said slowly. She couldn’t imagine Piedmont taking the time or energy to set up a delivery by two random strangers, but who else would do such a thing? Her sister was creative and sneaky enough to do it, but if she did, it wouldn’t be flowers. It would be croissants or muffins or some other baked good they shared a mutual and fawning love for. For a second, her mind wandered, dreaming of the possibilities of receiving a bouquet of chocolate croissants.
“There’s my stop,” the woman said, drawing Amelia’s attention back to the present. She stood, put her hand in her coat, and handed Amelia a flower. “Have a good day, Amelia.”
Amelia was too stunned to even say thank you. She stared at the woman’s retreating backside, mouth agape. What in the world of big city mass transit was going on?
She was so dazed she almost missed her stop and had to bolt for the doors, once again narrowly missing being smashed between them. The station was its usual mob, a swarming mass of humanity that varied between commuters and panhandlers. When Amelia first arrived in the city, she had been devastated by the homelessness and need of so many street people. Now, after so many months in the city, she was beginning to feel immune, and that worried her. How did one see so much suffering on a daily basis and not become immune? It was a question she still hadn’t answered, and the lack of clarity confused her.
Take it as a sign you’re becoming an actual adult, Amelia, Maggie had said when they talked about it. When you’re a kid, everything has a clear answer. Homelessness and poverty seem easy to solve. But when you’re an adult you see all the shades of gray. Numbness and cynicism are two different things. You can’t walk around with a bleeding heart all day long. You have to do what you can, where you are.
I’m a stylist who charges two hundred dollars for a haircut, Amelia said.
That’s how Mother Theresa got started, Maggie replied, ending the conversation in laughter with no resolution.
Now Amelia’s usual sense of throbbing guilt returned as she passed a half dozen panhandlers in various states of distress, their signs and cups compelling her to give money she didn’t have. One of them had a dog, adding an extra layer of heartbreak.
Usually they sat passively by and didn’t approach, but as Amelia reached the end of the line, one of the men stood and began making a beeline for her, his cup held out in front of him. Her brother-in-law had tried to tell her not to make eye contact— They can spot a sucker a mile away, and you have the kind of face that says you’ll open your purse for them— but it was too late. She had already locked eyes with the man and seemed unable to sidestep him.
“Got a dollar, lady?” he asked, his voice gruff but his face kind.
Amelia checked her pockets once more to be sure before answering. “Sorry, I gave my last dollar to the saxophone guy.”
“Saxophone guys get all the loot,” he grumbled and then withdrew the hand behind his back and handed her a flower.
“What is going on?” she asked his retreating backside, but he didn’t answer and, even though she was watching him, she somehow lost sight of him in the pulsing crowd.
“What is happening?” she exclaimed to no one in particular, startling an old woman beside her so badly she smacked Amelia on the arm with her newspaper. Wincing, Amelia made a beeline for work, feeling almost paranoid and suspicious of everyone she encountered, wondering if they were going to hand her a flower.
She emerged from the Metro station and bypassed her favorite bakery, almost shading her eyes as she went by. When she first started her job, stopping at the bakery had been a fun part of her routine. But the daily pastries and coffees were putting a major dent in her efforts to be a responsible adult, the kind who has enough money in the bank for emergencies. The kind who realizes croissant and latte cravings do not count as emergencies.
The owner of the bakery knocked on the window and Amelia stopped short, causing the person behind her to also stop short and yell, “Hey, watch it.” She moved closer to the window and pressed her face to the glass. The owner beckoned her inside. Amelia pointed to her chest. He nodded. Yes, you.
Tentatively, she opened the door and stepped inside. The smell of warm sugar and butter filled her nostrils, reminding her of exactly what her attempt at financial discipline was costing her.
“Amelia, I haven’t seen you in two weeks,” the baker, Michael, commented.
“I know, and it’s been miserable. But I’ve been trying to be good. You have no idea how many times I’ve almost broken and bought out your entire supply,” Amelia said.
“Your sister’s done that twice,” Michael said. Maggie was the one who had introduced her to the shop. She had an eye for those sorts of things.
“I’m sorry,” Amelia replied, feeling she owed him an apology of some kind, although he probably wasn’t going to go under without her six dollar daily habit.
“You’ll come back when you can,” Michael said, waving her apology away. “But today I have something for you.”
Amelia tensed. “You do?”
He nodded and lifted a plate onto the counter. It held a croissant, cut into four pieces. “I tried putting hazelnut spread in the croissants this morning, and I need an expert opinion. Care for a sample?”
“Do squirrels fly? You know I do,” she said, eagerly reaching for a sample.
“ Do squirrels fly?” he asked, tilting his head at her in question.
“I have no idea. It’s something my mother says. She’s from the south and she says a lot of things none of us can figure out. We’ve learned to nod and smile a lot,” Amelia explained, downing the croissant and resisting the desire to lick her fingers. “That was amazing, I mean, true inspiration. I think you might be on to something here. Best-seller status, for sure.”
“So that’s a yes then,” he said, smiling.
“That’s a for the sake of humanity never stop making them,” she said, and he laughed.
“Thanks.”
“No, thank you,” she said. She gathered her flowers and turned to go, but he hailed her back.
“Oh, one more thing.”
She turned to him, dearly hoping for more croissant, when he handed her a flower. “You sneaky devil. Were the croissants a ploy?”
“Yes, but after your over-the-top support, I’m going to make some more, see if they sell,” he said.
“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me who set this up?” she asked, holding her flower aloft.
“I think you’ll find out soon enough,” he said.
“Cryptic, Michael,” she said, shaking her head.
He laughed. “See you.”
She wanted to tell him she’d be back after she reached her first savings milestone, that his pastries and coffee and friendly service would be the one splurge she’d allow, at least for one day. But she could only imagine his expression if she unloaded so many personal details on him. So she merely smiled and waved, picking up the pace even more to make it to work on time.
The best part of Amelia’s walk was the dog park. She was from a family of dog lovers and had always envisioned herself immediately getting a puppy upon graduation. But of course that was when she was still a kid, six months ago. Now she understood not every apartment allowed animals—hers didn’t. And even if she could miraculously find an apartment in her price range that did, she’d have to pay more for a monthly pet allowance. Then there was the monthly cost of ownership—food, vet bills, possibly even a dog sitter to check in on the days Amelia worked long hours and couldn’t get home. Plus she’d have to take the dog out, first thing in the morning, late at night, as soon as she got home from work after being on her feet for ten hours. Much as she hated to admit it, she wasn’t ready for a dog. She would content herself living vicariously through Maggie’s new puppy, the same way she would probably someday content herself with being an aunt until she was ready for children of her own.
The farther she delved into adulthood, the more she realized it wasn’t as fun and shiny as she’d always hoped it would be, her finances and the lack of a dog being her biggest struggles at the moment. But the dog park never failed to bring a smile or brighten her day. When she had time, she paused by the gate and watched all the dogs frolic happily with their owners. If she was lucky, someone would take pity on her, or possibly a dog would sense her need, and she’d get the chance to pet a few furry heads, scratch a few ears. Those days were the best, even though she often feared she was turning into a creepy dog stalker. She hadn’t yet reached the stage of dog desperation where she carried treats in her pocket and tried to lure strays into her car, but the longer she went without a dog, the closer she got.
But today she had no time to linger by the gate and hope for a pity cuddle. Today she would barely make it on time, thanks to the string of unprecedented flower deliveries. So she hurried past the park, not intending to stop, when she heard little paws scraping behind her. She turned to look and saw a dog, a red rose dangling from its mouth.
“Seriously?” she said, kneeling to take the rose and pat the dog. The dog had other ideas and tackled her, bowling her backwards so she sprawled on her back, all the flowers scattering askew on the sidewalk, along with her purse.
“Are you okay?” a man said, coming to peer over her.
“I’m fine.”
“Sorry, he gets a little too enthusiastic sometimes,” he said.
“Totally worth it,” Amelia told him as he helped her up and stooped to gather her flowers and purse and hand them back to her. By this time she was so frazzled she almost forgot where she was going. Her legs began heading for the salon before the rest of her caught up, the power of muscle memory.
“Your nine o’clock is here and waiting on you,” Julie hissed as soon as she opened the door.
“What? No, it’s supposed to be a nine thirty,” Amelia replied.
“Nine,” Julie mouthed, shaking her head.
Great, just great. Now Amelia would have no time to put her purse in her locker, fill her water bottle, settle her station, and review the upcoming appointment to learn what she could about the client. Her day was turning into a roller coaster—blah, then surprising, then amazing, then hectic, and now frustrating.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Amelia said as she approached her station, sounding as frazzled as she felt. “You wouldn’t believe the morning I’ve had.”
“Try me,” Ethan said, turning in her chair to face her.
“Oh, it was you,” she blurted.
“Your money was on the boyfriend?” he guessed.
“A little bit,” she confirmed.
“That was probably a safe bet,” he said. “You look like you could use this.” He presented her with a vase filed with water.
“Do you always carry vases of water for unsuspecting women?” she asked, gently depositing each flower lovingly in the water.
“I live my life by a certain code—to protect flowers and keep them from dying,” he said.
“This was sweet and thoughtful and amazing and, some might say, romantic,” she said.
“You sounded not quite yourself last time we talked. I thought you could use a pick-me up,” he said.
“How? How did you do it?” she asked.
“I called in a few favors, some people I’ve worked with in the past who are always up for a bit of fun,” he said.
“And the dog?”
“We were on the same SEAL team before he got transferred,” Ethan said.
“You indexing guys are a laugh riot,” she said, smiling.
“Indexing is a high-stress job. We like to unwind on our downtime,” he said.
“Speaking of work, I thought you were leaving the country today,” she said.
“I’m heading to the airport in,” he grasped her hand and drew it closer, checking her watch. “Ninety minutes.”
“Is your watch broken?” she asked as he maintained his hold on her hand.
“It’s set to military time. So confusing,” he said. By taking her hand, he had inadvertently, or maybe not so inadvertently, moved her closer to the chair until she was right in front of him, their legs touching.
“So,” she said, resisting the urge to slide her arms around his shoulders by reminding herself they were most likely being watched by all of her coworkers and possibly their clients, too.
“So,” Ethan repeated. “I’m here for that consult.”
“Consult,” she repeated, confused.
“Someone told me I’m going gray and need to have my hair colored,” he said. “I thought it best to get a professional opinion.”
“Let me take a look here,” she said, and now she did lean forward, sifting her fingers gently through his hair. “Hmm, it looks pretty good to me. How old are you?”
“Twenty eight,” he whispered.
“That’s pretty old, but you’re in luck. I think you’re going to be able to keep your natural color,” she said. “Unless maybe you’d prefer the gray?”
“I’ve been told I have the coloring for it,” he said.
“You do have excellent coloring. Very, uh, healthy,” she said.
“It’s probably a good thing I don’t need anything done. I was browsing a brochure while I was waiting, and I don’t think I could afford you,” he said.
“Maybe we could make some sort of exchange. I could do your hair, and you could index things for me,” she suggested.
“I don’t come cheap either,” he said.
“Yeah? What’s a good indexer go for these days?” she asked.
“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” he said. The heat from his gaze was so intense, it left her a little breathless.
“You left me nowhere to go from there,” she said.
He laughed. “I should go anyway. I have a flight to catch.”
“Have fun in ‘Canada’.”
“I’ll try,” he promised.
“Wear sunscreen. Last time you came home with a pink nose.”
“You know how brutal that Canadian sun can be,” he said. “Are you going to walk me outside?”
Danger, danger, danger. If she walked him outside, she’d be in his arms and kissing him like an ant on tree sap. “I have a client in a few minutes,” she said, clearing her throat when it came out all raspy.
“I guess this is goodbye then. I’ll see you sometime after I get back.”
“Hey, thanks for making my day and possibly my year,” she said.
“Only a year? Guess I’ll have to try harder next time.” He kissed the tip of his finger and touched it to her cheek before standing and making his way out of the salon. Amelia could swear it wasn’t her imagination all eyes were on him.
“Who was that?” Her client had arrived and was now standing beside her watching Ethan walk out of the shop, along with everybody else. Amelia hadn’t filled her water or put her purse away, but she found she didn’t so much care anymore.
“A friend,” Amelia said.
“Have mercy, is he available?” the woman asked.
“For your granddaughter?” Amelia asked. Her client was seventy two and on the last visit told Amelia she had a granddaughter about her age.
“Child, you don’t waste a man like that on someone who doesn’t know what to do with him, and it’s been a while since I had a pet,” the woman mused.
Amelia tried to imagine Ethan’s reaction to the disconcerting conversation. “He’s not exactly the kind of man who likes to be kept.”
“I suppose that’s why we like that kind,” the woman replied, sighing. “They’re like tropical birds, attractive but best left in their natural habitat.”
It was amazing to Amelia the woman could capture Ethan’s essence after merely a glimpse: he was beautiful but wild and uncontained.