Читать книгу Single Mama Drama - Kayla Perrin, Kayla Perrin - Страница 8

Needless to say, I didn’t get any work done when I went back to my office, but I stayed there the full day nonetheless. I even lingered several minutes after five, giving most of our office staff a chance to leave so I wouldn’t have to face them.

I did peek my head into Debbie’s office to tell her goodbye, and she told me to make sure I stayed home the next day. There was no mention of Jason, but the fact that she was applying a fresh coat of lipstick told me he would soon be on his way up.

Shortly before five-thirty, I was heading to the lot where I’d parked my car, when I heard my name.

I turned. Kim, a heavyset, dark-skinned woman from the agency, was rushing toward me.

“Vanessa,” she said as she reached my side. Sadness creased her forehead. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to you earlier because I was out with a client. I’m so sorry about your ex.”

“My fiancé,” I clarified.

“Fiancé, right. I read the story on the Internet. Holy shit, it was gruesome. Killed with a bow and arrow! In bed with another woman! I can’t imagine what you’re going through. And when the news hits the papers tomorrow—”

“Thanks for your concern,” I said, cutting her off. But I wanted to say, “Do you think that repeating the dirty details is making me feel any better?”

I cut her some slack, because none of what had happened was her fault. I started walking again, picking up my pace a little.

She clearly didn’t get my not-so-subtle hints that I wanted her to drop the subject, because she fell into step beside me and continued talking. “I was dating this guy once. Big shot in some finance company. He took me out for all these fancy dinners, wooed me on his yacht. I wish someone had shot that asshole with a bow and arrow, because when I found out he was married—”

“You know, Kim,” I said, halting, “I’m really not in the mood for this.”

A hurt look passed over her face. “I’m just trying to say I understand what you’re going through.”

“Yeah, I know,” I told her. “Everybody does. More people have told me today that they’ve been cheated on than during the rest of my life combined.”

“I’m only trying—”

“It’s okay.” I placed a hand on her shoulder and offered her a small smile. “I know you care. Thank you.”

I turned to the right, leaving Kim standing on the sidewalk. Perhaps I was abrupt with her, but didn’t I have a right to be? Let’s face it, I’d had a really shitty day.

I don’t know why, but as I was walking south, I again got that feeling that someone was watching me. Turning, I saw no one suspicious, not even Kim staring at me with an evil expression. I saw office workers making their way to wherever they’d parked their cars.

And then it dawned on me that perhaps I was sensing Eli.

“Forget it, Eli,” I mumbled, imagining him trying to find a ghost whisperer to reach out to me. “Even an apology from the other side isn’t going to get me to forgive you.”

Only when I exited the MacArthur Causeway onto South Beach did I realize that I had somehow navigated my way home. I didn’t remember one bit of the drive, but given my state of mind, I suppose that was only natural.

Glancing at my car’s digital clock, I saw that it was ten minutes after six. Rayna would no doubt be anticipating my arrival at Carla’s place, as she always did this time of day. And yet when I got to Washington Avenue, I found myself driving past my condo and down to South Pointe Park.

I drove as far south as I could go, to where the street ended and the rocky shoreline began. With my car radio tuned to 99.1, I listened to Kanye West as I stared out at the water.

South Beach had been my home for only three months, but I loved everything about this place. My building was in the historic art deco district. Tourists loved taking walks along Ocean Drive and Collins Avenue, where they could check out the prewar art deco hotels like the Breakwater and the Colony and the South Beach. Buildings with rounded edges, decorative sculptural panels, sleek symmetrical patterns, and a few with futuristic forms. And even though some of the facades appeared small, most of the hotels offered idyllic private courtyards lined with palm trees and boasted pools with stunning designs. During the Depression, the art deco buildings had been designed with bold colors and shapes with the hope of a better future. As such, they had symbolized decadence.

At night, the Ocean Drive strip lit up in an array of neon colors, and that was part of what gave South Beach its appeal. Now, a new generation of architects had designed towering condominiums, which were popping up anywhere there was space. Like Portofino Tower at the southern tip of South Beach, where I now sat in my parked car. But I wasn’t partial to skyscraper condos in a part of Miami that had become world-renowned for its low-rise art deco designs. It’s one of the reasons I particularly loved my building. It was only six stories high, and featured both angular and rounded edges. The blue-hued windows provided a nice contrast with the white-and-cream-colored exterior. And the private courtyard was to die for.

I glanced up at the Portofino, then back at the stretch of beach that overlooked the bay. It was the end of the workday, and many people were out with dogs that had been cooped up in apartments while they’d been at the office. I watched small dogs prance, big dogs race, and contemplated how odd it was that the world around me was continuing as usual when my personal world would never be the same.

It was the beginning of a slow song that had me getting out of my Honda Accord and walking across the short expanse of grass to the rocky shore. I hugged my torso as I did, a wave of sadness crashing over me as I remembered how Eli and I had liked to take walks here in the evenings with Rayna.

And, Lord, the tears started again.

“Vanessa Cain?”

At the sound of my name, I whipped my head around. And saw a tall, thin black woman who looked vaguely familiar.

I brushed away my tears as she approached me. “Vanessa, I’m Cynthia Martin from the Miami Herald. You were Eli Johnson’s girlfriend, correct?”

My eyes widened. I stood there stupidly, in complete shock.

“I know this has been a very hard day for you.”

Suddenly, I realized what was going on. I asked, “You’re a reporter?”

“Miami Herald,” the woman repeated, this time handing me her card.

And then it clicked. I knew why she looked familiar. I’d seen her today at Bayside. I’d seen her face in the crowd.

Which meant she’d been stalking me.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Cynthia said. “But I do have some questions about your boyfriend. If I could have just a few minutes of your time.”

“Excuse me?” Slowly but surely, outrage was bubbling inside of me.

“A few questions, that’s all.”

“I heard you. I—I understood what you meant. Why do you want to ask me about Eli?”

“He was your boyfriend, right? Or…” Cynthia’s eyes lowered to my left hand, landing on my engagement ring. “Oh.”

I whipped my hand behind my back. “How do you know who I am?”

“Your fiancé’s death has been big news here,” Cynthia replied, not at all answering my question.

“You—you’re spying on me?”

“It’s my job to find people,” she said simply.

“How?” I demanded.

“Your name is on the deed with Eli’s,” Cynthia answered.

“Of course,” I mumbled.

“And I don’t expect you to remember, but I met you once before,” she added. “At a fund-raiser for Jackson Memorial Hospital. I had to coax Eli into letting my photographer take a picture of the two of you together, but that must have been before you got engaged.”

“That’s right,” I said softly, remembering the event. And remembering Eli’s reluctance at having us be photographed together. He had explained that he didn’t want the media to start harassing me. I’d appreciated his concern, but didn’t think that one picture was a big deal, and he’d ultimately agreed to a photograph.

The one thing I’d liked about Eli was that although he’d been a professional athlete, he didn’t crave the spotlight. Certainly not like Christian Blake, who was often pictured in the paper at some club, with a different woman on his arm each time. Eli freely admitted that he hadn’t been the most popular player on the Braves, but said that had been fine with him because it was the team’s superstars who constantly had their privacy violated and dirt dug up about them. He’d made his money, and was happy that he could live a relatively normal life.

After Eli proposed, I’d placed an announcement in the Miami Herald, and when I showed it to him, he couldn’t have been less enthused. Again, he’d said how he wanted to protect me from any media scrutiny by being associated with him. Personally, it seemed to me that he was overreacting, since during the time I’d been with him we’d been able to walk the streets, shop, and dine at expensive restaurants without any paparazzi bothering us. Yes, some guys recognized him from time to time, but since Eli hadn’t played professionally in seven years, he was hardly a blip on the media’s radar in terms of current celebrity gossip.

“I followed you from your office this afternoon, but I left you alone because you looked so distraught.” Cynthia’s words drew me from my thoughts like any slap in the face would. Feeling utterly violated, I grunted and marched past the woman en route to my car.

“Tell me what it was like learning your boyfriend had been murdered,” Cynthia called out. “That he’d been gruesomely shot with a bow and arrow.”

The words made me halt, but only for a moment. I quickly kept going and scrambled into my car. Cynthia hurried to my window and rapped on it with her knuckles. Ignoring her, I revved the engine, surged forward, then did a fast U-turn and sped down the street. In my rearview mirror, I saw her hurry to her own car, a gold-colored Saturn that had been parked behind mine.

Not about to give her the chance to follow me, I raced down the street, then turned left onto Fifth in a bold move that could have gotten me into an accident if a car had been coming. I zipped into the right lane, glancing in my rearview mirror as I did. Cynthia was stopped at the light. I kept going straight, hoping she’d think that I was heading back to the causeway. But when I hit Alton Road, I made a hasty right turn and sped north.

When I reached Tenth Street and saw no sign of the gold Saturn, I finally started to calm down. But the calm lasted barely a few seconds before my heart spasmed in my chest.

Cynthia had found my name on the deed, which meant she knew where I lived. She wasn’t the only reporter in the city. If she could find me, how many others would?

Cynthia, however, had met me before, and therefore knew where I worked. She’d likely tried to get the jump on other reporters by showing up at my office building. But if other members of the media had found my name on the deed and wanted to reach me for comment…

Urged on by the suddenly desperate feeling that I needed to protect my daughter, I made a series of turns and sped the rest of the way home.

Sure enough, I saw a throng of people milling about outside my condo. I didn’t need to see the cameras to know they were reporters. In my numbed haze, I’d driven right by my building and not even noticed them before.

Some surrounded the front door. Some hovered near the entrance to the building’s parking lot. Slowing, I drove past my condo, wondering what to do.

As I circled the block, I realized that I didn’t have a choice. I had to get inside, had to get to my daughter. And my best bet was to drive into the condo’s parking lot, as I always did. At the very least, it would provide me the protection of my car should the reporters recognize me, and I doubted any of them would risk getting run over simply to get the perfect photo of the grieving fiancée.

Eli and I had been photographed at the hospital fund-raiser, and that picture had made the pages of the Miami Herald. So had the photo that accompanied our engagement announcement. Clearly, the reporters surrounding my building figured they could spot me when I approached.

I wasn’t about to let that happen.

Before I rounded the corner that would take me back to my condo, I slipped off my sleek sunglasses and put on the large pair I always kept in my car. Then I placed my cell phone at my ear, and acted like I was in the middle of a fun conversation. A short while later, I drove past the reporters as though they didn’t faze me one bit. Cameras swung my way, as did curious glances, but I kept my cool and inched forward, even laughing loudly into my phone as I pressed my key card to the electronic sensor.

And then I was on my way into the indoor parking for the residents of Cosmopolitan Towers.

Inside, I breathed a sigh of relief. Good grief, this was insane! Here I was, having to sneak past reporters to get to my own home. Damn Eli. He hadn’t just died in the sleaziest of situations. He’d thrown me into a potful of drama.

Oh, he’d been right to be concerned that my association with him might bring out the paparazzi. But never in my wildest dreams had I thought it would be under these circumstances.

Just before I rounded the corner inside the parking garage, I craned my neck for one last look at the reporters pacing the sidewalk.

And I couldn’t help thinking, My life is about to get seriously complicated.