She smiles. “Follow me.”
I go behind her and don’t bother trying to memorize my way out. I don’t expect to ever be back here again, so there’s no point. I wave at Linny as I go by, and she waves back, no tears in sight and a smile on her face. If I can turn a teenager’s mood around, I can certainly consider my day a win. I know when I was her age, my emotions were not that easily swayed.
Jennifer gets me to the reception area and I wave goodbye to her as I step into the elevator to ride it down to the lobby. The same driver who dropped me off is waiting at the curb, and he signals stiffly to me and points to the open back door of the dark vehicle.
“Are you going to take me to my hotel?”
“Yes, if you wish. I am at your disposal for the next two weeks.” He doesn’t crack even a hint of a smile.
“Cool. What’s your name?” I hold my hand out.
His handshake—delivered with an expression that shows he’s less than thrilled with the physical touching—is brief and limp. “My name is Mr. Blake.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Blake. Would you mind doing me a favor?”
He stands at attention, not meeting my eyes. I think he’s staring at my earlobe. “What do you need?”
“Before I go back to the hotel, I’d like to go to this bank.” I hand him the business card.
He takes a look at it and nods briefly before handing it back to me. “Very well, ma’am.”
I rest my hand on the top of the door before I get in. “Please don’t call me ma’am. I prefer Amber.”
“I’m more comfortable with formality,” he says, putting his hand on the door. I think he’s hinting at me to get inside and stop bothering him.
I frown. I’m riding around with the fun police. This isn’t going to be cool at all. “Okay, whatever you say, Mr. Blake.”
I climb into the car and he shuts the door behind me. I sigh. This should be exciting, but being with him is a downer. Still, I can’t believe I’m actually here in New York City and staying for a full two weeks with my own driver, and that soon I’ll have ten big ones in a new bank account. I feel like Cinderella—Cinderella with a cranky pumpkin-stagecoach driver.
The idea of being a princess makes me think of that cake in Toronto, and my excitement over this new opportunity turns to worry. Did I just fall into a trap by signing those papers? Am I going to regret this? Did I just sell my soul to the devil?
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I thought the bank was going to be a hassle, but the people in there were really nice. An hour after arriving, I’m walking out the door with a thousand dollars cash in my purse and a brand-new debit card. They also offered me a credit card, but I declined. My mothers have told my sisters and me for years and years that living on credit is a bad idea, so I’m paying cash wherever I go. And the first place I need to go is the underwear store.
After the driver opens the door and helps me get settled in the car, I lean forward, holding on to the front seat. “Mr. Blake, I need to get some clothes. Do you know a good place where they have everything, including underwear?”
He clears his throat, staring straight out the front window. “Yes.”
“For regular clothing, I like the vintage stuff. I already went to a few stores around town I liked. My favorite was over in Brooklyn. But they don’t really have underwear, and even if they did, I probably wouldn’t buy it because it’s used.”
“Understood.”
“Can you take me to a place that does just underwear? Not used, but brand-new?” I look at the side of his face. His right eyelid is twitching. “You do know a place that specializes in new underwear, I assume . . .”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Gosh, he is so uptight. He really should loosen up. “Good.” I pat his shoulder. “Let’s go there. But first let’s also go get some hot dogs at Gray’s Papaya, because I’m starving.” I scoot back to settle into my seat belt. Who can say no to a hot dog? Mr. Blake and I can bond over a papaya drink. Maybe then he’ll let me use his first name.
He moves out into traffic.
“Do you like Gray’s Papaya? I discovered them yesterday, and even though the dogs gave me a stomachache, I decided it was worth it.”
“No.”
Dammit. “Oh. That’s too bad. I was going to buy you a Recession Special.” I look at his reflection in the rearview mirror. I get nothing from him—no reaction whatsoever.
“And a papaya drink. They’re really good. Packed with vitamins.”
Still nothing.
“There’s a guy there who asked me if I was going to eat my hot dog or have sex with it.”
Finally, I see a twitch. It’s his right eye again.
“Are you a bodyguard too? Because you might need to go in with me and make sure that guy doesn’t harass me again.”
“No.”
“No bodyguarding?”
“No.”
“That’s too bad.” I think about that for a few seconds. “But what if you drop me off somewhere and someone rushes up and attacks me?”
He says nothing.
“Will you try to save me or just get back in the car?”
He sighs but says nothing. He just drives.
I’m getting the distinct impression I will be screwed in the event of a physical altercation.
“When I buy my hot dogs, will I have to eat them in the restaurant or can I eat them here in the car? I don’t know the driver/drivee protocol yet.”
“I prefer that you not eat them in the vehicle.”
“Are you allergic?” I ask in a caring voice.
He frowns but doesn’t respond.
“To hot dogs. Are you allergic to hot dogs? Or chili maybe? Or is it the papaya? Because I can skip the papaya if you need me to.”
“I’m not allergic.”
We weave our way through traffic, and the silence inside the car weighs on me. “So . . . how long have you been driving for Lister?”
“Two years.”
“Do you like it?”
“Sometimes.”
I smile. “Is now one of those times?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Of course it is. I don’t know why I even asked. I’ll bet it gets boring sometimes, though. Driving around all these people in their stiff, starched shirts.”
He says nothing.
“If you were driving a taxi, you’d see lots of people from all over the world. Now that would be interesting. Don’t you agree?” I lean forward, staring at his profile.
“Sure,” he says absently as he takes a right turn.
I do a fist pump. Yes! I got him to give me a voluntary answer. I’m going to see if I can get another one before we reach the restaurant.
“Yeah, but you also get held up sometimes, if you’re a cabbie, huh? And nobody from the law firm has probably ever held you up.”
“No.”
“So, there’s that benefit. Boring passengers, but none of them want to rob you.”
“No. Yes.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m not going to rob you. But I may have to eat my hot dog in your car because I don’t want that old guy perving out on me again.”
“Do what you have to do.”
I smile the rest of the way over to Gray’s Papaya. I’ll get Mr. Blake to warm up to me eventually. I’ll wear him down like drops of water eventually drill holes in boulders.
When I see the sign for the restaurant, I point out the front window. “Would you mind going around the corner over there? I don’t want anybody to see me getting out of this car.”
He does it without comment.
“I love your car, don’t get me wrong. I just don’t want anybody thinking I’m stuck-up.”
I wait but get no response. I tap him on the shoulder and speak in a hushed tone. “This is the part where you say that I’m not stuck-up.”
He pulls around the corner and parks the car. After he lets me out, I pause on the curb, standing next to him. He’s several
inches taller than I am. “So, you want a Recession Special?” I ask.
“No, thank you.” He folds his hands at his waist and stares at my earlobe again.
I reach up and tug at it, just to be sure there’s nothing on it. “Okay. But if you change your mind, just shout.” I leave him and walk up the sidewalk to the restaurant, taking my place in line. I order like a pro, not even batting an eyelash when she asks me what I want. I already feel like a New Yorker. When I tell her it’s to go, she packs it up for me. I’m on my way out when I see that weird old man again. My stomach clenches into a knot.
“Don’t even try it,” I say as he makes eye contact and looks as though he’s about to move in my direction. He’s just outside the door and I’m ready to run if necessary. “I am not in the mood for your rudeness,” I add.
He starts laughing, tipping his head back and opening his mouth really wide so I can get a good view of all the holes where teeth should be. Then I look at where he’s standing and see that there’s a bunch of belongings and things piled up next to him. Is he homeless? I’ve heard homelessness is a big problem here, but he’s the first person I’ve seen who looks like he might be. I have seen quite a few people here who would look very at home at Glenhollow; on the farm, we often have visitors who don’t use soap—they think it’s toxic or something. It makes this man suddenly seem less threatening.
I walk over and stop in front of him.
His laughter subsides. “What are you looking at?” he growls.
“Nothing. You. Not to say that you’re nothing or anything. I’m just looking at you for no reason.” Leave it to me to have an uncomfortable conversation with a homeless man.
“Well, you can just move along. I don’t like people staring at me.” He’s coming off as slightly aggressive now. I should probably be scared of him, but he looks so pitiful, I can’t muster the emotion.
“Are you hungry?”
He sticks his bottom lip out at me. “What?”
“I asked you if you’re hungry.” I raise my voice and enunciate in case he’s hard of hearing. “Are you hungry?”
“No. I don’t need your charity.”
“Okay . . .” I hold the paper sack up in my hand so he can see it. “But inside this bag, I’ve got a chili cheese dog with onions. Are you sure it doesn’t sound interesting to you?”
His face loses some of its angry wrinkles. “No. I can’t eat onions or chili. Gives me gas and bad breath.”
I have to bite my lip not to smile. His teeth are brown, and I can smell his breath from here; I don’t think onions are his problem. “How about a dog, no chili, no onions? Would that interest you?”
“Maybe.” He shrugs with effort, as if he’s carrying a heavy weight on his shoulders. “Who’s asking?”
“Me.”
“Who’s me?”
I roll my eyes. “Amber. Amber Fields is asking if you would like a hot dog without chili or onions.”
His voice lowers. “Well, if Amber were offering that hot dog with ketchup and spicy mustard, then I might say yes.”
I wink at him. “Stay right here.”
I rush back over to the line and get another order going, this one with a cup of coffee and a papaya drink added to it. Maybe I can get some vitamins into this guy with the fruit drink, but if not, at least I’ll help him get his caffeine fix. I also get a third hot dog to add to my bag, this one with the same fixings as the old man’s. Maybe Mr. Blake will change his mind.
I get out the door as soon as I can, worried my original hot dogs are going to get soggy. I hand the old man his bag. “Bon appétit. What’s your name?”
He looks inside. “What’s all this?”
“Hot dogs, caffeine, and a fruit drink with vitamins. Eat it, drink it, and stop being so grouchy . . . whatever your name is.”
“It’s Ray,” he says gruffly.
“Okay, Ray. I hope you have a wonderful day.” I totally just pulled a rhyme out of thin air. Sweet. I walk away with a bounce in my step. It feels good to be nice to people.
He starts laughing as soon as I start walking, and then he shouts at my back loud enough for the whole block to hear. “What are you going to do with your hot dog, Amber Fields? Eat it or have sex with it?”
I know I should be disgusted at his rudeness, but all I can do is giggle. “I’m going to eat it, Ray!” I yell over my shoulder. When I look back at him, he’s giving me a thumbs-up and laughing enthusiastically enough to arch his back.
This guy’s got nothing better to do than to scare the shit out of people with sexual innuendo outside a hot dog store. There but for the grace of God go I. I’m going to think of him every time someone makes me want to pull my hair out, because he’s a great reminder that life could be a hell of a lot worse.
When I reach the car, Mr. Blake is waiting. He opens the door for me and I slide inside. He gets in too and sits there with his hands on the steering wheel.
“I know you said you didn’t want anything, but I got you a dog anyway.” I put the wrapped package over the seat into the front with him. “Save it for later. Maybe you’ll get hungry and you won’t want to stop somewhere for food.” I unwrap my first dog and take a big bite.
“Don’t spill on the seats,” he says.
“Okay, geez, lighten up. I know how to eat a dog without spilling.” The moment the words are out of my mouth, a giant blob of chili hits my chest. I quickly clean it up, hoping he won’t see me, but then I catch his gaze in the rearview mirror. I roll my eyes and sigh. “Can we go to the underwear store now, please?”
He puts the car in gear and turns out into traffic without a word.
What is it with these New York people? Everyone’s so grouchy. I chew on my food, wondering what it will take to cheer up this particular grouch. I smile. Maybe his name is Oscar and he can’t help himself. Oscar the Grouch. “Is your name Oscar by any chance?” I ask him, secretly giggling inside.
“No.”
I can’t hold the laughter in anymore. “Okay. Just asking.” It cheers me up way more than it should to tease him like that. What else can I ask him that might loosen him up?
“Do you have any kids, Mr. Blake?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“One.”
“Cool. I have two sisters but no kids of my own yet. How old is yours?”
“Seven.”
“Wow.” The word is out before I can stop myself.
He looks at me critically in the rearview mirror.
I cringe. “Sorry. It’s just . . . you look like you might have older kids.”
Yep. I’m a jerk. I should probably just shove this last hot dog in my mouth and leave it there.
“I married late in life.”
I’m relieved and surprised that he’s not holding my social gaffe against me. Words pop out of my mouth unbidden. “The confirmed bachelor is wooed away by his one true love.” I catch his expression softening in the mirror. I’m in!
“What’s your wife’s name?”
“Mrs. Blake.”
I snort. “Good one.”
He might actually smile a tiny bit. Either that or he’s getting a leg cramp.
“And what does Mrs. Blake do for a living? Does she work outside the home, or is she a stay-at-home mom?”
“Yes.”
“Both?”
“No.”
“Which one?” I have to force a smile this time. He’s really making me work for this.
“She stays at home.”
“So your child is in school during the day?”
“No. She’s at home. With my wife.”
“Homeschooling? I was homeschooled.” I sigh and shake my head. How I wish my story were different. “My whole life. From birth to age eighteen. I took an equivalency exam and officially graduated with the local school, but I never spent a single day there.”
At the next traffic light he stares at me in the rearview mirror.
“What?” I ask, wiping at my face. “D
o I have chili on me?”
He goes back to looking at the road. The car is silent for a while, and then out of the blue he says, “She’s not homeschooled.”
“Oh.” I have to think about that for a little while. She’s seven and at home with his wife, but she’s not being homeschooled.
“What’s her name?” I ask, knowing I’m probably going to regret asking more questions, but also knowing I can’t quit here. We just got to the scary part of the conversation, and what kind of asshole backs out when it gets scary? Not this one.
“Elizabeth.” The sound of her name on his lips is like a weird antidote to his coldness. His shoulders slump a little and his arms get a bend in them.
“Do you call her Elizabeth or does she have a nickname?”
“We call her Lolly.”
“Like Lollipop. That’s cute.”
He grips the wheel hard, over and over. I can tell he’s stressed, so I leave it alone for now. I don’t want him to hate me so much he abandons me in the underwear store and tells Lister he’s refusing to drive me anymore. All Lister needs is another reason to dislike me.
Now that I have my clothing situation figured out, it’s time to deal with the Ty issue. Do I want to go to his place? Yes and no. We have a connection that’s undeniable, but that doesn’t mean I have to act on it. I’m working for the band now, so it could get really complicated. But then again, I’m only here for two weeks, and wouldn’t it be silly not to have fun too? All work and no play makes Jill a dull girl. I decide to throw caution to the wind and have some fun for a change. My life doesn’t always have to be about responsibility and doing the smart thing.
I pull out my phone and press the button that is Ty’s phone number, waiting for him to pick up. I end up in his voice mail.
As I listen to his voice instruct me to leave a message, I get nervous. Should I hang up or speak? What if this is a mistake? What if he’s changed his mind and he doesn’t want to go out with me anymore? If I hang up without saying anything, he’ll be forced to call me back and it’ll be all up to him. That’ll be the easiest way to handle it. Unless he doesn’t call. Then I’ll sit there all night wondering if he even knows that I called or what I did to make him change his mind.