Adelaide Confused (2 page)

Arnie was not good-looking,
and under normal circumstances he’d never make Renee’s league. But
he was fortunate enough to be the polar opposite of Peter. And
although he was an ugly man, he was a man’s man, burly-like. Plus,
he adored Renee, which was what she’d needed.

They’d been meeting for
years (like most of Sterling’s regulars, there was no place better
for adultery and one night stands).

Ben ignored me when I
returned. I stayed only long enough to retrieve my apples, heading
for the office. I needed to prepare for a check-out.

I was sitting on a swivel
chair, feet propped on the front desk, reading a smutty romance
novel when Stephen breezed in. Rangy and pimpled, ‘awkward teen’
didn’t begin to describe Stephen.

He’d soon be finishing his
sophomore year of high school. I’d hired him the summer before to
be our cleaning lady. He hadn’t been the only applicant, but he had
been endearingly honest.

While others had professed
a desire for reliable work, I had sensed their indifference during
the interview. Don’t get me wrong, indifference was a blessed
emotion. Frankly, it was probably the only reason I was still sane.
But it wasn’t what I was looking for in an employee. For once I’d
been hoping for desperate. But then I met Stephen.

“Why do you want to clean rooms at
Sterling’s?” I’d asked.

He squint-blinked at the
question for a moment before answering. I thought he had a nervous
tick, but no, he just had the wrong eyeglass prescription. “I don’t
want to clean rooms, but my mom says I’m old enough to buy my own
video games now. She says I have to get a job.” I’d hired him then
and hadn’t regretted it since.

I set my book aside,
leaning for the clipboard. “Rooms one through three, and
take—”

My instructions were
interrupted when a young couple, toddler in tow, bustled through
the door. I could guess that staying at a cheap motel was part of
their frugal vacation planning, we got these types.

Stephen waited while I
helped the husband check-in. The wife attempted to pick up her
runny-nosed daughter, but the girl squirmed and wiggled, so the
wife abruptly set her back down. Without bothering to wipe up its
nose, I noticed.

When they were gone I
continued giving orders. “Take the bug spray with you, it’s been a
few weeks.”

Stephen nodded absently,
then asked, “Why do you hate kids?”

Most teenagers were not
observant. To be observant you had to pay attention to something
other than yourself. I’m not judging teens—I thought I was the
center of the universe at fourteen too. I’m just reiterating that
‘awkward teen’ did not begin to describe Stephen. Like I said, he
was observant.

I shrugged noncommittally, trying to give him
an honest but uncomplicated answer. “They’re diabolical,” was the
best I could come up with.

He abstractedly brushed the
greasy curls from off his forehead. I could feel his interest; he
wanted to discuss this further. “Most people describe children as
innocent,” he said, verbally prodding me to continue.

“
They are innocent,
guileless, but that’s kind of what freaks me out. Since they lack
experience, they haven’t grown a conscience yet. So they can lie to
your face and not feel a thing. They smile when they want to cry,
and cry for no reason at all. They’re little bags of unfitting
emotions.”

He stood, collecting the
clipboard. “Yeah, but I still don’t see why that should bother
you.”

I shrugged. He left. Of
course he wouldn’t understand, no one would, because no one knew
that I was empathic.

My shift had been
uneventful until Francesca called. Up until that point I’d been
nose-deep in one of my many raunchy novels. On the cover a gasping
breasty woman was clutching her beefy tanned man. It was probably
titled something absurd but catchy like
Poked by a Pirate
. Stephen, who’d
been loitering around the office for the last hour, wandered over
to flip through the pages as I set it aside to reach for the
ringing phone. He was probably hoping for more pictures.

“
Sterling’s Motel, how may
I help you?”

Francesca didn’t beat
around the bush. “My car’s broken.”

“Again?”

“
No, still, it’s not fixed
yet.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“
I’m not sure. Maybe the
mechanic said something got too hot, I really don’t
remember.”

“
Where did you take it to
get fixed?” I asked.

“
I didn’t take it anywhere,
Brock did. But I told him I’d meet him at the club.”

“When?”

“
Eight,” she
confessed.

“You know I don’t get off until nine.”

“’
Kay, pick me up at my
apartment when you get off.” The conversation ended as abruptly as
it’d started. I hung up when I heard the dial tone.

“
I need a ride home,”
Stephen muttered, his wide eyes glued to an open page.

“
Liar,” I said as I
snatched the book from him. “You just want to see Francesca. But is
it really worth pissing off your mom?”

Stephen’s mother didn’t
approve (as she had put it) of his riding around with older women.
Not that he really needed a ride. The walk home for him was less
than ten minutes, but rainy days did happen.

“
I’m not going to obey
inane rules. That would only encourage stupidity.”

“
Fine,” I relented. I was
of the opinion that he needed to experience more than video games,
work, and an overbearing mother. “You can come along, but finish
your homework before we go.”

Missy arrived five minutes
before nine; she worked the night shift. I was uncertain of her age
as she regularly wore a layer of pale foundation and colored her
eye sockets black. I surmised Missy wanted to be a
vampire.

Appearances aside, she had
an outgoing personality and conversed well with most everyone, with
one exception—me. She wasn’t obvious about it, and I might’ve never
known she harbored negative feelings if it wasn’t for the fact that
I could feel them. A common mesh of irritation, contempt, and envy
dripped from her whenever I was near. Honestly, I was pretty numb
to stuff like that. It didn’t bother me to work with Missy, and I
never let on that I knew how she felt. I gave her an update and
escaped the negativity. Stephen said goodbye and followed me
out.

I didn’t waste time letting
him settle in the passenger seat. Rearranging later would be a
pain. Instead I pulled a lever, leaned my seat forward, and slid it
up the track. This created a tiny gap that lanky Stephen could
crawl through. My car was old, a 1980’s Chevy Chevette, and if it
wasn’t properly handled, it wouldn’t run.

We reached Francesca’s
apartment in a matter of minutes. I pulled up to the curb and
honked twice. I could feel Stephen’s infatuated anticipation
growing stronger as we waited. Really it wasn’t his
fault.

Francesca and I had met
when I first moved to the island. Hoping to capitalize on my rare
ability, I applied at the Crowne, the island’s finest (not to
mention, most expensive) hotel. For a time I was the hospitality
specialist, meaning I groveled to the wealthier guests, seeing that
their every need was met. Being empathetic gave me an edge. I did
well at the Crowne, but lacked the patience and humility required
for such a job. So I quit before I was fired.

Francesca had been manning
the Crowne’s front desk since high school. She was a local; St.
Simon’s born and bred. But hospitality wasn’t her only job.
Francesca was capitalizing on her own special gift—her body. With a
mass of dark hair, sharp arched eyebrows, and natural blood-red
lips, she had the sultry and seductive thing going on.

Working at the Crowne had
given Francesca ample opportunity to rub elbows with the blue
bloods. Her favorite type was the young, wealthy, and dumb. She’d
had a string of boyfriends (and I use that term lightly) who
habitually bought her things. Flowers, yeah. Clothes, sure. But
Francesca could give any escort service a run for its
money.

Robert, or Bobby, bought
her a new pair of boobs. Edward paid for a new name. She hadn’t
always been Francesca Black. (Katie Wainer just didn’t suit the
image she had in mind for her future.) And Stewart had been
extravagant, buying her a French bedroom set. I suppose he’d been
most interested in the new bed... you get the point.

We didn’t have much in
common. She got her legs waxed and nails done. I didn’t, and I
didn’t wish I did either. But for all that, she wasn’t superficial.
On the contrary, I’d say she was painfully practical. But what it
really came down to was that she put up with me, even when I had
unexplainable episodes.

She’d talked me into
seeing
The Time Traveler’s
Wife
when it had come to our local
theater. I’d specifically asked if it was a drama, knowing from
experience how bad things could get when a crowd’s strong emotions
were rushing through me. She’d said no, claiming it was probably a
romantic comedy. I’d tried to stay calm, but by the end there was
no hope for it. I had been hysterical. And if you’ve seen the
movie, then you know that a slight sadness did not encompass what I
felt.

She’d found me in the
bathroom sobbing but didn’t bat an eyelash, just took me home. That
happened just weeks after we’d met. I’d been sure she would avoid
me after that. She didn’t, instead she acted as if it had never
happened. I’d had numerous similar episodes, Francesca witnessing
many, but she hadn’t abandoned me yet.

A spike of excitement, a
dose of anxiety, and a whole lot of lust—Francesca must’ve been
coming. With a grating screech the passenger door opened and she
slipped inside. “Thanks, Adelaide. I know you’re not one to play
chauffeur, but it’s an emergency. Brock’s leaving in a week and my
carpets need cleaning.”

“I’ll do that for you,” Stephen offered.

Francesca turned in her
seat. “Oh, hey Stephen, that’s sweet, but I prefer to take
advantage of men I don’t particularly like.”

In a backwards sort of way,
she’d paid him a tremendous compliment. I could feel him beaming
all sorts of things, mostly pride and adoration.

“
So, how do you ask for
that? I’ve had a fun time, will you buy me something?”

“
See, that’s your problem,
Adelaide,” she accused. “You lack subtlety.”

“
How do you subtly ask a
man to have your carpets shampooed?” I questioned wryly.

“
I invite him over for a
glass of wine, which I’ll make sure he accidentally spills. And
while he’s in the throes of guilt, I’ll casually mention I’ve been
meaning to have them redone.”

“
Wait,” I protested. “I
thought you wanted the carpets cleaned, not redone.”

“
I’ve changed my mind. Wine
stains you see, so I may as well just change them out, plus, the
current color is somewhat dull.”

“You’re being fickle.”

“Brock won’t care.”

As we neared the Sleeping
Oaks Country Club, I said, “So I’m guessing Brock will drive you
home.”

“
Yeah, I’ll be al—”
Francesca gasped, cutting herself off. Her hand descended on my
wrist as I put the car in park. No, not a hand, the thing cutting
into my flesh was more of a claw.

I jerked my wrist, trying
to shake free. “What are you doing?”

“
What?” She looked at me as
if in a daze, then down at her hand. “Oh.” She let go, turning back
to stare out the window. “It’s Reed Wallace,” she half
whispered.

Every bit of townie gossip
I heard had come from Francesca, so I prepared myself for some
seedy details. “Who is Reed Wallace?”

She looked at me, then at
Stephen. “Neither of you have heard of him?” she asked, sounding
scandalized. We looked blankly back at her. “The both of you need
to get out more,” she instructed. “He’s only the richest man to
ever step foot on St. Simons. Hell, he owns half the island! He’s a
business magnate, CEO of his own real estate company. He’s also
unbearably good-looking and a popular socialite. You need to meet
him.” She abruptly got out of the car and came around, trying to
usher me out as well.

“
No,” I scowled. “I don’t
want to meet some nancy-boy business man.”

“
Stephen needs to meet him
too. Trust me, both of you, you’ll regret it your entire lives if
you don’t.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” I argued.

But Stephen, aglow from
inclusion, agreed. “If Francesca thinks we should...” He let his
voice trail off, but I saw the pleading look in his
eyes.

“
That’s just your hormones
talking,” I complained. But capitulating, I got out of the car to
meet some strange man that Francesca was half crazed
over.

The first glimpse I got of
Reed Wallace was his backside as he hunched over. Next I noticed
his shoulder blades jutting sharply as he flexed to press a duffle
into the trunk of his car. The only illumination came from tall
parking lamps; they dropped a gentle glow on the entire area. How
Francesca had recognized him, I didn’t know.