Читать книгу Dear Rita - Simona Taylor - Страница 11

R ita felt the hair at the back of her neck snap to attention. She put her hands to the base of her skull, tugging at the long, dark brown double-stranded twists that fell about her shoulders. How’s the coffee? How could this man, whoever he was, know where she was, and what she was drinking? The possibilities nauseated her. Either someone knew her habits so well that he could make an educated guess as to her whereabouts at seven every morning, or she was being watched. Right at this very moment.

Wildly, she looked around, unable to keep the movement casual and circumspect. Had she been followed? Could someone be right there, in Starbucks, quietly watching her? She glanced from table to table, her heart feeling uncomfortably large in her chest.

But all she could see were the regulars, caffeine addicts just like her who turned up every morning, just as she did, to sit in companionable, familiar surroundings while they had their morning fix. Rita knew them so well, she even had names for them.

Across from her, there was the tall, agonizingly thin man who wore business suits and smelled of expensive cologne. Every day he carefully withdrew the financial section of the papers to read over his coffee, then left as silently as he came, abandoning the rest of the paper in a neat heap for whoever occupied his seat next. She privately called him William Wadsworth, Senior.

Closest to her was an older man, who wore a cable-knit cardigan and tweed jacket whatever the weather, and who took plain coffee and a cheese sandwich every morning. No variations. No substitutions. He arrived at the same time, had his breakfast and left at the same time. Sometimes he timidly invited her or one of the other regulars to sit at his table, but whenever she accepted he never said much, just had his coffee and threw her the occasional shy smile. He always left a fifty-cent tip on the table. Rita felt sorry for him. She thought of him as Uncle Harold.

Then there was the strange Goth girl who, like her, always took the same seat if she could get it, near the window. She was about eighteen, although it was hard to tell under the mass of black, greasy hair that fell over her face. Her skin was the color of oatmeal, and the thick, smudged kohl rimming her eyes made her look as though she was losing out on a lot of sleep. She wore the same black hoodie, dark gray jeans, black socks and black high-top Converse sneakers every day. The only hint of color about her was the dozen or so plastic bracelets on one arm, and an oversized silver pendant, representing some arcane symbol, between her small breasts.

She was hunched over her PDA, thumbs flying as she moved the controls to her game, head bobbing to the rhythm of the music being piped into her ears via noodle-thin wires. Rita had decided that her name was Drucilla.

A few joggers were buying drinks at the counter, and a young couple she hadn’t seen before were wrapped up in each other, sharing a chair made for one. Otherwise, the coffee shop was quiet.

The staff, then? Could someone behind the counter have discreetly shot off an e-mail, and were they now covertly watching her, enjoying her reaction? That would be hard to believe. She glanced in their direction, but they were engrossed in their duties, hurrying to and fro in their green aprons, getting ready for the morning rush. Unless the brace-faced youngster fiddling with the digital register was also logged on to the Net at the same time, the scary note hadn’t come from inside the coffee shop.

That left someone outside. The prickling of her scalp morphed into a throb at her temple. She looked furtively out the window, wondering queasily which of the dozens of pedestrians hurrying down Independence Avenue could be the one. But nobody so much as glanced inside. Served her right for sitting at the window. Making a sitting duck of herself. Tomorrow she was sitting against the farthest wall, facing the door.

The coffee tasted bitter and cold to her now, although it was neither. She set it down and packed up her computer.

Outside, in the mild autumn air, she turned west on Independence and followed it a few scant blocks before turning north onto Jubilee, where her apartment sat midway along the short street. It was an aging building, a sedate brownstone that only rose to a height of five stories, so that the nearby buildings towered over it, cutting out much of the natural light. Carved busts of angels once adorned the facade, but, after the first one worked free of its moorings and fell, the landlords took the rest of them down. Pale, angel-shaped scars remained on the wall, ghostly outlines etched into the grime.

Real estate agents euphemistically described the building as “reminiscent of its former glory,” but she liked its charm. Elaborate brickwork decorated the doorway and windows, the tilework throughout was spectacular, and the hot water worked most of the time. Besides, when you considered what they were charging for rent in Santa Amata, she was getting a bargain.

As she ran up the five steps to the main door, she glanced at her watch. She was ten minutes late for her daily jogging date with her best friend, Cassie, thanks to her distraction back in the coffee shop. Hurriedly, she took the stairs to the third floor, not bothering to wait for the elevator, opened up her apartment, tossed her computer and newspaper onto the couch and left again. There was no need to change as she was already in her sweats.

By the time she made it to their regular meeting place, the convenience store around the corner, Cassie was there, leaning against a parking meter and doing stretches, bringing her knee up to her chest and holding it for counts of twenty. Considering her more-than-generous bustline, which dwarfed Rita’s fairly substantial C cups by several sizes, this was not quite as easy as it seemed.

“You’re late, Steadman.”

Rita began her leg bends. “I know. Sorry. I was, uh….” She wondered if she should say anything about the nasty e-mails. Was it worth getting into? She did get them from time to time, so it wasn’t a big deal. Although there was the eerie possibility that A.F. had known where she’d be this morning, she decided to forget it. “I was answering mail,” she said instead, quite truthfully.

“And pumping your body full of poison,” Cassie countered. As a penance for keeping her waiting, she loped off, not affording Rita the time to warm up.

Rita caught up with her, even though the mild throbbing at her temples persisted. Maybe a jog was just the ticket to make the beginnings of a stress headache go away. Cassie was one of those health food evangelists who took pleasure in pointing out the dietary transgressions of others. She thought eating red meat was a crime and had to know exactly which spring her water came from. In spite of this, her curves were not those of a fervent dieter, but Cassie dismissed her bustline and bottom as hereditary, and left it at that.

Rita defended her drug of choice. “The detrimental effects of coffee are greatly exaggerated. It’s good for you, actually.”

“Says who?”

“Says the May issue of Niobe. If there’s anybody who should remember that, it should be you.” Apart from being Rita’s best friend, Cassie was also a senior editor at the magazine.

Cassie blew a raspberry. “The opinions expressed therein are not necessarily those of management.”

Both women laughed.

“Speaking of which,” Rita said as they found their stride, “how’s work?”

Cassie rolled her eyes. “Don’t ask. I had the awfulest, awfulest day yesterday. The art department sent up the new cover layout, and it’s a joke. The model weighed about twenty pounds! Does anyone around there ever listen to what I say? Niobe is a magazine for real women, not scarecrows! I sent it back and told them to get me a model with some flesh on her bones. Someone who looks like she’s had a meal this month. You know?”

“Just wait ’til the scarecrows’ union gets on your back.”

“Oh, yeah? Ha! Your mom’d be proud of me. You know how she’s always raving on about a positive body image for women—never mind she’s still a perfect size six at her age.”

At least that would make her proud of someone, Rita thought. “She called me this morning.”

“Yeah? Speak of the devil. What are Ma and Pa Kinsey up to this time? Nude boogie-boarding in Ibiza?”

“Close enough. They’re off to Vegas. Signings, lectures, interviews, the usual.”

“I heard Bea on the radio the other night. She was a riot! Is it true she had male strippers at her book signing in Denver?”

“That’s what she told me. And I wouldn’t put anything past her.”

“Aw, Rita, don’t be like that. You have no idea how lucky you are to have them as your parents. When I was young, my folks threw a fit if I bought a skirt that showed off my knees. Yours have got to be two of the most modern, forward-thinking sixty-year-olds around. It must have been so cool growing up in their house.”

So you’d imagine, unless you actually had to do it, Rita thought. But she trotted along, pretending she had to take her pulse. Cassie didn’t push it, and they both fell silent.

They jogged in perfect synchronicity with the ease of two people who had done this for a very long time, dodging commuters and other joggers, keeping up the rhythm by running in place at traffic lights, all the way down to De Menzes Park, the pride of Santa Amata. The spread covered several acres of prime, gently undulating land. At the turn of the last century, it had been a horse farm, owned by one of the founding fathers of the small east-coast city. After the grandson of the patriarch died in the late 1950s, his widow donated it to the city. They turned it into the site of choice for a host of community activities, from Girl Scout bake sales to Little League games to summer kite-flying contests to outdoor yoga classes.

They entered by the eastern gate and took their favorite footpath, the one that led to the enormous man-made lake that took up almost a quarter of the park’s area. The trees that ringed the lake had begun shedding their leaves, which crunched under their pounding feet like musical accompaniment.

Cassie cleared her throat. “Rita…” she began.

Rita was too engrossed in the pleasing rustle of the leaves to pick up on the note in her friend’s voice which, under other circumstances, would have set off alarm bells. “Yeah?”

“You know how I’m always saying you should get out more often?”

“You know how I’m always saying I’m happy with my life just the way it is? Dateless?” she joked back.

Cassie didn’t laugh. “Well,” she began, and then stalled. She tried again. “Well…”

This time, Rita heard that note loud and clear. “Well, what?”

“I have a favor to ask you.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. “Tell me you’re going away for the weekend and need your plants watered.”

“No, it’s not that.”

She was almost afraid to ask. “What, then?”

“I need you to go out on a date with me.”

“Sorry, I’m not that sort of girl.”

“You’re being deliberately obtuse, and you know it. I need you to go on a double date with me.”

Rita halted, shoes scraping on the footpath. “You’re kidding, right?”

Cassie, who had stopped a few yards farther down, turned and jogged back to her side. “No, I’m dead serious.” She jogged on the spot, keeping her rhythm, even though Rita was standing stock still.

“Cassie, we’re two sane, adult women. I haven’t been on a double date since I was seventeen. Why, for heaven’s sake? Is my lack of a love life that pathetic? Because, let me tell you, I’m perfectly—”

“Perfectly happy being single. I know. It’s not that. I need you.” She stopped her on-the-spot trot and faced Rita.

“Okay,” Rita gave in wearily. “Out with it.”

“Remember last week how I told you about this guy who chased down a purse snatcher for me?”

“Ah, yes, your knight in a three-piece suit.”

“His name’s Clark.”

“Okay, Clark. What about him?”

“Well, he asked me out.”

“You talked to him for ten seconds and he asked you out?”

“Well, uh, it was more than ten seconds. After this total stranger chases down my purse for three blocks and brings it back, I feel like I owe him a few moments of my time, you know? So I thank him, and the next thing I know we’re chatting. About the weather and the news and the Middle East and what we do for a living. Then what d’ya know? We’ve been standing on the sidewalk for more than half an hour. He apologizes for keeping me, and says he’d better let me go. I say, nice meeting you. And then we go on talking for another fifteen minutes.”

“You stood on the sidewalk in rush hour traffic talking with a stranger for forty-five minutes?”

“He brought me back my purse!”

“Thank him, slip him a twenty, and go your separate ways.”

Cassie was scandalized. “You don’t slip a twenty to a lawyer in a fifteen-hundred-dollar suit!”

“Lawyer, huh?” Cassie and a corporate man? Could’ve blown her down. Cassie’s idea of a thrill was a galaxy away. Her men tended to sport do-rags, wear way too much bling, and drive hand-detailed, ten-second rides. Most of them had jobs that paid by the fortnight.

“Yeah. His name’s Clark. Got his own company, on Temple Street. Niiiice. He’s involved in the negotiations for that new mall they’re putting up on—”

Cassie had a tendency to ramble. Rita reeled her back in. “What about the date?”

Cassie came back to the subject without any further prodding. “He called me up and asked me out.”

“You gave a stranger on the street your number?”

“Not exactly. I told him I was a magazine editor, and he tracked me down. Not many magazines come out of this neck of the woods, I guess.”

“Not that many. But don’t you think that someone tracking you down, calling around blind and asking for you, was kind of creepy?”

“No! It was romantic!”

“Ah. Romance.”

Cassie pouted. “Well, it was!”

Rita didn’t bother arguing. “So, you like him?”

Cassie’s dark skin glowed prettily. “Uh-huh.”

“Go out with him, then.” It wasn’t the kind of thing she herself would have done, but Cassie was different. Cassie walked around with magenta hair.

“I will, but you gotta come, too.”

“Why?”

“Because he could be wacko.”

“What makes you think he’s wacko?”

“I don’t think he’s wacko, I said he could be wacko.” Cassie’s large brown eyes were pleading. “Rita, please. You know how things have been with me. After what happened and all…”

Rita softened at once. The left sleeve of Cassie’s lime-green sweat top hid a long, ugly scar, inflicted a little less than a year ago by an ex-boyfriend just days after she’d tried to call it quits. The man had begged her not to end the relationship, peppered her with calls and unwanted visits, before his passion turned to rage. He stormed into her office drunk, calling her every name he could think of for dumping him, while at the same time begging for a second chance. When Cassie refused, he went after her with a letter opener. Only the intervention of a security guard had prevented a tragedy.

The fact that her jealous lover had been put away did nothing to erase Cassie’s fear. It killed Rita to watch her, a natural flirt who gravitated toward men and loved going out, withdraw from male company. Her friend hadn’t been on a date since. Now she’d met someone she liked, and was afraid.

“Let’s walk,” Rita said gently. She didn’t much feel like running anymore. They fell into step along the footpath. “Tell me more.”

“Well, he calls me up at the office yesterday and apologizes for hunting me down like that. I say okay, no problem. He says he really wants to see me.”

“And you said?”

“I say I’d like that. But if he wants a date, it’s got to be a double. He says okay, he understands. Please, Rita. Just one date. Just so I can get to know him better. And you can give me your opinion on him. You know I value your advice.”

“Dear Rita,” she quoted, smiling, “can you tell me if I should see this man again?”

“Exactly.”

Rita stopped walking again and looked out onto the lake, buying herself a few seconds. The reds, oranges and yellows of the changing leaves were reflected in the rippling water, and the clear blue of the sky filled the middle. Why not? It was only one night. That was what friends were for.

“So,” she said, “who’s the frog your prince is bringing along?”

“He’s not a frog. He’s a very good friend of Clark’s. His partner, in fact.”

“Another lawyer?” Ick. She wasn’t one for the corporate type, either.

“Uh-huh. Clark says he’s smart— and good-looking.”

“Ah, a smart, good-looking lawyer. Let me at him.”

“Rita!” Cassie protested. “You never know, you might like him. Like your dad says, sometimes serendipity doesn’t just happen. Sometimes you have to hunt it down.”

“My dad says a bunch of things,” Rita said briskly. “But I don’t need to like this guy. I don’t even care if I do or not. I’m in, but just for you, okay? Does this catch of a guy have a name?”

“Dorian. Dorian Black.”

“Dorian Black? What, is he Dorian Gray’s evil twin?”

Cassie made a face. “I know! Sounds like a joke, but that’s what Clark said.”

“Does he have a cursed painting in his basement, too?”

“Attic,” Cassie corrected.

“Huh?”

“Dorian Gray’s cursed picture was in his attic.”

“Oh. Right. And when and where are we going to have the pleasure of their company?”

“Tonight.” Then Cassie added, sheepishly, “Clark suggested Vimanmek Palace.”

“You hate Thai food. You think curry is a toxin and coconut milk causes heart attacks. You told him so, didn’t you?”

Cassie gave her a level look. “I told him that sounded lovely.”

Rita tried not to roll her eyes. “So my favorite feminist is willing to gulp down cuisine she thinks is sure to kill her rather than admit to a new guy she doesn’t like it.”

“That’s pretty much it, yeah.”

“The sisterhood of feminists will miss you,” Rita couldn’t resist teasing, but put her arm around her friend. “Don’t worry. We’ll have a nice evening. I’ll scope out your guy, and I’m sure that by the end of the evening his report card will be glowing.”

Cassie hugged her gratefully back. “Thanks, girl.”

“Don’t ever say I don’t love ya.”