Chapter 33
Sydney
As I close the Uber door behind me, I reach for my luggage, dragging it toward the front door as the headlights retreat from my drive. Home sweet home.
I wish.
I’d taken Broadie up on his offer to get away. Sadly, Genni had too much going on at work, as did Pepper. I quite honestly didn’t think to ask Carol Ann with all of those kids. Heck, from the way she describes him, it sounds like it’s all her husband, Skeeter, can handle just keeping them alive each time we have a girls’ night for a few hours. Asking her to fly to another country seemed as if it might be testing fate.
Jamaica was so beautiful. Quiet, picture-perfect white sand beaches overlooking aquamarine waters, the temperature perfect for lounging the day away. There was access to kayaks, catamarans and paddle boards, or snorkeling equipment to enjoy the reefs nearby. Dr. Weston’s all-inclusive resort was laid back luxury at its finest.
Whether you’re interested in yoga or the spa, they have it all. There were lively pools, restaurants, and bars, or more private dining options. Yet, sadly, they all made me yearn for Matteo. Which is maddening.
You were supposed to be going there to get over him once and for all, you pathetic woman.
Glancing around, I find a Cadillac Escalade parked a few doors down again. Yet this one seems different somehow. Was it the license plate that was off? Patting my pockets for a pen and scrap of something to jot down the plate number, I come up empty-handed. I consider running inside to look for something until I shake my head at the preposterous notion.
That fool man has bamboozled my head so much my mind’s playing tricks on me.
Unlocking the door, I nearly forget about the crazy alarm system until I hear a shrill beep and rush to enter the code. Good grief. What was the point of this, exactly? If he was going to hightail it out of here, did he really care? I slam the door behind me, the frustration at my reality returning as if I hadn’t just flown to another country to forget about this exact situation.
While the trip did nothing to heal my broken heart, at least I was able to spend some quality time with Poppy and scratch another destination off of my sightseeing bucket list. That was worth every second I was away. Maybe Jamaica was like a rebound boyfriend. I laugh. It was simply the practice I needed before tackling other locations on my own.
Next stop, Italy—
Knock, knock.
Jumping at the unexpected sound, I turn on my heel and return to the door. Had I left something in the Uber?
Peering out of the peephole, I scrunch my face in surprise at what I find there. Opening the door wide, a young man stands before me in a baseball cap, holding a gorgeous bouquet of roses. A white van emblazoned with the Cygnature Blooms logo sits in the driveway where the Uber driver had just vacated.
“Hi.”
“Hello. Are you Sydney Cunningham?”
“Yes.”
The young man offers a boyish grin. “Great. Could you sign here, please?”
Reaching for his clipboard and pen, I scribble my name in the box beside the X and return it to him before lifting my hand. “Oh, wait just a moment.”
But before I can go in search of my purse, he quickly corrects me. “Oh, no ma’am. The tip was already taken care of.” He hands the fragrant blossoms to me, the weight of the etched crystal vase surprisingly heavy. I can’t help but dip my nose into the center of the blooms and inhale. They’re exquisite. “Have a great day.”
“Thank you.” Walking inside, I carry the flowers over to my counter. It’s not my birthday. I wonder if Broadie or Poppy sent these? Or even Genni, knowing I’d be returning today? Retrieving the small white envelope, I carefully open it and slide out the decorative card stock.
I think about you every day.
Ti amo,
M
Grrr. I quickly rip the card in two. I’ve barely dragged my grief-stricken heart back home, and this asshole has the nerve to send me flowers. Roses, no less. Vibrant, deep red roses. The most romantic of flowers. What a snow job. Just one more tool in his arsenal to keep me hanging on. I’m tempted to drive right over to his body shop and hand them back. But I refuse to go looking for him.
I’ll show him what I think of these.
Pulling open the kitchen drawer where I keep my lighter, I yank it toward me before clutching the heavy vase of roses to my chest. Returning to the driveway, I stomp over to my garage door and punch in the key. As the door lifts, the portable fire pit comes in to view. This should do.
I drag it out behind me, the jarring high-pitched sound of metal against asphalt making goosebumps cover my skin. Marching back inside, I retrieve an old newspaper from the recycling bin. Crushing the ink-covered paper into balls, I scatter them over the bottom of the vessel, and pivot toward the roses. I take one last inhale before retrieving the blooms and dumping the water onto the lawn. Lifting the aromatic stems into my arms, I lay them on top of the wadded up newspaper, and point the lighter at the contents.
With my arms crossed over my chest, I stand watch as the edges of the blooms furl under the heat of the fire. The scene in front of me bearing resemblance to a Gothic Halloween movie poster.
It’s been months without him. Months. He crawled into our bed, whispering words of love and commitment, pledging his unyielding devotion to me. Then vanished, just as he had years before. What a joke!
After all these years, he’s managed to find a way to keep me here waiting. I’ve been smart with my money, my schooling, my career. Everything but my heart. Because all he had to do was hypnotize me with his romantic Italian words, and I’m right back where it all started. Each time he’d walk away, it’s as if he knew there was no consequence. Because I’d be sitting here waiting.
Well, I’m done. I’m tired of crying over this man. I’m not giving him another opportunity to say I’m sorry. It’s all a lie. He’s not sorry.
My life sounds like something out of a Taylor Swift song. I’ve been wasting so much time pining for this man, hoping he’d come back to me. I opened my heart back up, only for him to walk away. Again, and again.
Had he merely wanted another bite of the apple? The forbidden fruit he’d walked away from. Had seeing me on that date with Sam all those months ago caused the possessive asshole to stake his claim, just to discard me once he was done?
I could’ve loved him all of my life and been blissfully happy. I’m certain that night in our bed, he was pleading with me to understand something. But what?
Doesn’t matter. A marriage is between two people. Yet it feels like there’s been a third here. I didn’t commit to secrets. Ones he doesn’t feel obligated to share with “his wife.” I mock his possessive words out loud. The two of us together, we’d shined brighter than the sun. Yet now I’m all alone. And I’m tired of being left in the dark.
The night sky is lit with swirls of floating ash, a charred mix of my heart’s mistakes burning among yesterday’s news. The aroma of singed rose petals blankets my tear-streaked face. It feels like a metaphor.
But this is my life.
It’s been just shy of a month since I returned from Jamaica. Every day feeling like I’m trudging through quicksand. Merely trying to get one foot in front of the other. When does this get better?
I’m not feeling sorry for myself. Those days are long gone. Heck, I only have to replay the news of sweet Alexis Patterson getting abducted at gunpoint to remember how blessed I am that my life’s as boring as it is.
“I’m heading out a bit early, Sydney. My grandson’s celebrating his birthday with his friends and family at a local arcade. I probably won’t last long with all the bells ringing and the kids screaming, but I want to get there in time to wish him a happy birthday before he gets caught up in all the gaming and his little buddies.”
“Oh, of course, Beatrice. Have a great night. I hope he has a wonderful birthday.”
“Oh, I’m sure he will. Pizza, friends, games, and prizes. How could he not?” She beams, the little laugh lines at the corners of her eyes only exaggerating her glee. “We don’t have any more patients today. I’ll see you Monday.”
I wave. “Bye. See you Monday.”
Glancing at my watch, I discover it’s later than I thought. Wow, four o’clock got here quickly today. Reaching for my work bag, I start to gather my things for home when my cell phone begins to dance across the desktop. Pulling it closer, I find Carol Ann’s name on the screen and grin.
“Hey, long time no chat.”
“You’re darn tootin’. Way too long. Do you have anything going on tonight?”
There’s no point checking. I’m not on call. The only plans I have are with my bubble bath and a new book boyfriend. “I’m free. What do you have in mind?”
“Want to meet at Wong’s Tacos?”
“Oh, I’ve always wanted to try that place. Yes, good call.”
All of a sudden, I hear static on Carol Ann’s end of the line and determine she’s moved the phone to yell at her children when her mom voice barks out. “What in the Sam Hill are you holdin’? Uh uh. I don’t care what your dad said about it not being dangerous. You are not bringing that snake in here. Turn it back around and sling that thing over the fence like you got some sense!”
Oh, my god. This woman. I don’t know how she does it.
“Okay, I’ll meet you there at six. And it won’t be a minute too soon.” I can hear the exasperation in her voice.
Do not laugh. Do not laugh. “Okay. Six.” I try to breathe out through my nose. “See you then.”
“Don’t think I can’t hear you laughing, Ms. Cunningham. Just you wait. One day you’re going to have kids, and I can’t wait to remind you that motherhood is the best job on the planet.” I can practically hear her eye roll.
But any laughter quickly dies at her statement. I’ve moved on from thoughts about having a child on my own. So, her joke falls flat. I decide instead to placate her. “You’re right, Carol Ann. I’m sorry.”
“Well, since I’m such a good friend, I’ll let you whip out your fancy gold American Express card and buy me a drink to make up for it. I’ll message the girls with the time and the place. See ya soon.”
The line goes quiet and a laugh bubbles back to the surface at her crazy antics. This wild southern momma is just what I need tonight.
Strolling from my parking space down the sidewalk to Wong’s Tacos, I smile at the bounce in my step. Oh, I’ve missed feeling this way. Excited about my evening. Heck, excited about anything. You’d think I would’ve felt that way when I flew to Jamaica. I’d always wanted to go. And it was a tropical oasis. But in hindsight, it was too soon after Matteo pulled his disappearing act. I should’ve waited.
The overhead signage for the restaurant doesn’t give much away. From what I’ve read, it’s what they refer to as a Mexinese menu, combining beloved Mexican and Chinese dishes in a bright, eclectic atmosphere.
The place is packed. Trying to take the place in, I find both cultures are represented in the artwork, lighting, and the pretty table settings. Pepper waves in my direction, and I join them near the hostess stand.
We decide to saddle up to the bar to get our drink on as we await our table. It should feel like a typical Friday night with the girls, but something is off. Looking over my shoulder, I peer out the glass windows at the front of the eatery. Wong’s Tacos is located in a busy shopping area of the far west end of Richmond. The parking lot is packed. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, yet I can’t shake this familiar feeling of dread.
“Hey, you okay?” Pepper gives me a curious glance over her strawberry basil rum smash.
“I’m fine. I can’t explain it, but something just seems off. I’ve had this feeling a few times lately.” I take a sip of my wongarita, noticing the look Pepper gives Carol Ann. What was that about?
“What on earth does that taste like, Carol Ann?” Genni dips her chin toward Carol Ann’s yu zo crazy, ginger moonshine cocktail.
“It’s good. It has a punch to it. Like me.” She winks.
“Ladies, your table is ready,” the hostess announces.
“You guys head over, and I’ll settle our bar tab.”
“You sure?” Genni asks.
“She’s sure.” Carol Ann gives me a smug grin over her drink.
I chuckle, knowing she’s only teasing after our phone call. Yet as I close out our bill and head toward our table, I find my three friends all watching me with a concerned expression. My heart rate begins to pick up, fearing I’m missing something. It’s a table for four, so it’s not like they’ve invited some blind date to crash our evening. So, what is it?
Sliding into the booth next to Genni, I begin to ask what has them appearing fretful when the server comes to the table, bringing water.
Carol Ann sits up taller, pointing at the menu. “Can we get an order of the fried egg rolls to share? And I’ll take the Kung Pao tacos.”
I take a last look at the rest of the menu items. All of the selections are tempting, but I’m drawn to the Peruvian Chicken while all of my compadres seem to want tacos. Genni chooses the Brussel sprout tacos. That’ll be a hard pass from me. Pepper orders the shrimp tempura tacos. I almost ask her to make it a double so I can try one.
My mouth is salivating as servers deposit plates of food on the tables around us. I’m so distracted that I almost miss a throat clearing.
“So, I asked you all here because I felt Sydney might feel more comfortable if we have this conversation together. In a cheery place she should feel safe.”
My eyes spring open in alarm at Carol Ann’s declaration. Is this some sort of an intervention? Heck. I haven’t brought up Matteo in ages. Geez, I’ll ask someone out right here at the bar if it’ll get them off my back. I mean, that bartender was cute. “What’s going on?” I stammer.
Genni reaches over, gently placing her hand over mine.
“Y’all are scaring me.”
“No, no. Nothing to be scared about. I’m hoping after what I’ve learned, things will be a lot clearer.”
“Am I going to need another drink for this?”
“Yes,” the three of them answer all at once.
Slumping in my chair, I take a fortifying sip of my wongarita, place the pretty blown margarita glass down, and grip the table for support.
“So, you remember me telling you about my crazy cousin, George?”
Folding my hands on the table, I purse my lips. Not only because I have absolutely no idea who George is, but knowing Carol Ann, it’ll take an hour before we get to the end of this story. I pick up my drink again.
“You remember. I’ve told you a mess of George stories. That guy is not the sharpest tool in the shed.” She shakes her head. “I mean, if his IQ was two points higher, he’d be as smart as a rock.”
Genni giggles. “I’m proud of you, Syd.”
I turn toward her, mystified. “Why?”
“You’ve learned to only eat or drink before or after Carol Ann’s speaking.”
Ha. It must’ve been a learned response. Because all I can think about is the expressions on my friends’ faces and where this story’s eventually going to end up.
“How many cousins do you have, Carol Ann?” Pepper asks.
“You know, I’m not 100 percent sure. Especially since half of ’em aren’t biologically related.”
Pepper scrunches her face. “Like they’re step-cousins?”
“No. Where I’m from, anyone you’ve spent more than a few years knowing gets called a cousin or an aunt or uncle. But sadly, George is blood kin.”
“Anyway,” I huff, waving my hand, trying to get this story moving. “You’ve got me all worked up. I was starving when I got here and now all I want for dinner is Pepto Bismol.”
Carol Ann’s hand reaches for mine. “I’m sorry, Syd. Okay, where was I? So, my cousin George is forever telling tall tales. At least, that’s what I thought they were. I usually can’t sit long enough to listen to him tell the whole thing. Most of the time, I see George when our family gets together for a meal or something. He always eats like he’s so hungry he could gnaw the bark off a pine tree.” She wrinkles her face. “It’s gross.”
I’m starting to think I could go to the bathroom and come back, and we’d still be nowhere close to the part of the story that applies to me.
“Carol Ann.” Genni glares at her before nodding in my direction.
“Oh, right. So, George has been spinning tales for years that he works for the CIA. I mean, first, wouldn’t he be sworn to secrecy or somethin’ if he was working with them? Second, why on earth would the government hire a bobble head like him? I mean, George is so dumb, if he fell into a barrel full of titties, he’d come out sucking his thumb.”
Pepper begins to choke on her drink, and I can’t contain my giggle that it’s someone else’s turn.
“We all know he works at some metal smith shop.” She takes a bite of her egg roll. “Holy smokes. This egg roll is good enough to make you wanna testify.”
Thank god I ordered that extra margarita. Carol Ann is making my head throb. And leave it to her to criticize her cousin for blabbing his secrets. She’s doing the same dang thing. In the middle of a crowded restaurant no less.
“Then he let it slip that he was working at Luke Barrett’s metal shop. You know, the one that’s over in that industrial section of Hanover. Custom Metal Works.”
My fork clatters against the pretty plate decorated in colorful Day of the Dead skulls. I remember Matteo saying Luca owned that shop before he sold it and moved away years ago. Had he sold it to this Luke guy? She definitely has my attention now. I glance up in time to see the server with a tray full of food and lean back to allow them room to deposit everything. “Thank you.”
“Enjoy, ladies.”
Carol Ann picks up her taco, takes a bite, and thankfully picks up with her story. “The whole thing seemed suspect to me. If he really worked with the CIA, I wasn’t sure how much he’d be allowed to share.” She takes a drink. “But he loves feeling important. So, I figured I’d keep asking for juicy details, like I was watching a true crime episode on TV. Then see if he’d bite.”
Carol Ann stops abruptly to eat her food like she forgot she was mid-story. The three of us sit blinking at her, hoping she won’t leave us hanging while she cleans her plate.
Genni’s patience cracks first. “Well?”
Carol Ann looks up, seeming perplexed. “Well, what?”
“Oh, my god. Did he bite?”
“Oh, yes. Cheese and rice. I didn’t want my taco to get cold.” She swallows. “From the way he tells it, he was hired by the CIA to investigate Luke’s metal shop after Luke was accused of smuggling in drugs. He spilled everything, assuming I’d never know any of the people involved.”
“Oh, wait. I remember that. It was all over the news,” Pepper exclaims.
I’m baffled. I don’t recall any of this.
“And he wasn’t just accused. Luke Barrett was arrested.”
Glancing at Pepper, I tilt my head. “Wow. For the life of me, I can’t place this story. How on earth do you remember his name?”
Pepper’s fair skin immediately turns scarlet. “Okay, I’d never act on it in real life. I’m not like one of those women who writes love letters to the Menendez brothers in jail or anything. But that Luke Barrett was smoking hot.” She giggles before pointing at me from across the table. “You’d probably like him, Syd. He had dark hair and was covered in tats.”
“She probably would find him attractive. But unless all of a sudden, you’re like some of my kinfolk, you wouldn’t act on it.” Carol Ann shakes her head.
“What on earth are you—”
“Luke Barrett is Matteo’s brother.”