Poison Flowers (4 page)

“Well, there you are. I was beginning to think I would have to leave without saying goodbye.”

Kim stood in the doorway to the den, her lustrous black hair piled in unusual disarray. I allowed my gaze to travel across her one last time, filing away how her angular cheekbones accented her swarthy features, how her acute slimness gave her a certain air of elegance, of sleekness.

God, I was going to miss her.

“Marya, aren’t you going to talk to me?” Kim poked her bottom lip out in that adorable pout I was far too familiar with.

“Yeah. Listen, I’m sorry about that fight this morning. I didn’t mean what I said. I don’t know what gets into me sometimes.” The workout had mellowed my attitude and I was backtracking on my earlier ultimatum.

I lifted apologetic eyes. To my surprise, Kim smiled. A real smile too, from the old days. It was a big improvement over the pinched smirks I’d been getting the past few months.

“It’s that damned Irish temper, is all,” she explained, as if I knew nothing about it. “I’m all right. You don’t have to fret about it.”

I walked to the tall hall butler and removed my damp overcoat. I found it was easier to share my feelings with my back to her. “Well, I do fret. I never wanted this to happen, Kim.”

There, the door had been opened just a bit.

Kim sighed and strode forward to drop an overnight bag on top of the orderly rank of suitcases. She stood just behind me. My back ached to feel her palm against it.

“It makes sense this way, hon. I feel relieved, better than I have in a long time. I bet if you examined your feelings, you’d find you feel the same way.”

Anger bubbled inside as I bowed my head. “I don’t have a Carla to curl up with, or an Amy to whisper to me that I’ve done the right thing.”

I closed my eyes, regretting the scathing words as soon as they left my mouth. I sensed Kim stiffen, the words obviously finding their mark. “That’s okay. You’ll have your career and karate classes to keep you company,” she replied in a quiet, scornful tone.

I reached up and tugged at my mop of short hair with all ten fingers. “Ah, hell, Kimmy. Nobody can make me as angry as you.”

She smiled with enigmatic calm. “I guess that’s my special charm.”

I eyed her sideways, finding myself wanting to smile in spite of the pain and rage I was feeling. “Do you still care for me?” I asked, wheedling like a child.

Kim lifted her eyes to the ceiling as if seeking divine guidance. “You’re the one who kicked me out, Marya. I might stay if you asked me.”

“But you won’t give up the others.”

“I told you I would. I work with Carla, though. That would be tough, shutting her out.” Her gaze was sad. And she wasn’t about to give up her hard-won job in interior design. I knew that from a previous argument. Futility swamped me and I could only stand and study the woman I loved. Silence fell between us.

Three years of my life gone. Kim was walking away with them as easily as she was carrying away her well-stuffed bags. I would never be able to think fondly about our years together. The pain would destroy me. A list of
if onlys
rattled through my brain. If only I hadn’t worked so much. If only I hadn’t spent quite so much time studying the martial art. If only I had been a more attentive lover. Then anger returned. If only Kim had remained faithful. A hard knot closed off my throat and tears threatened to blur my vision.

“Hey, help me carry these last ones out, will you?” Kim asked hesitantly. She sighed and I knew she felt the same futility I felt. There seemed to be no easy way. It was a lose-lose situation.

I opened the front door and hefted the two largest bags. Kim gathered the rest and followed. Her Honda Accord sedan rested next to my Isuzu Trooper for the last time. I opened the door of the Honda and placed the bags onto the backseat next to some stacked boxes, holding the door wide so she could place the other bags inside. Trying to feel useful, I pressed the lock button and closed the door securely.

I stood helplessly. I couldn’t find a place to put my hands, hands which seemed as if they belonged on Kim. Then Kim was in my arms, her cheek pressed against my shoulder. She was so right there, so familiar. She lifted her face and our kiss was soft and forlorn, filled with an idealized longing for what might have been. Afterward, she moved away and I felt a coldness enter the space where she’d stood.

Kim leaned against the car and stared up at the large brick home we had lived in for the past three years. She rubbed her thinly clad arms, shivering in the early evening chill.

“I’m sorry we can’t love one another anymore,” I whispered finally.

“That’s not it. We’re just traveling in different directions. It happens.”

We fell silent, mulling over this obvious truth. A cool mist began to fall and Kim shivered again.

“Marya, if you ever need anything…” Her voice cracked in mid-sentence.

I nodded and, unable to speak because that damned lump was choking me again, I grimaced in what I hoped was a smile and waved Kim away. I turned and walked into the house. Closing the door, I heard the engine of Kim’s car purr into life, a perfect counterpoint to the silent and dying memories filling the rooms behind me. I pressed my face to the heavy wooden door panel.

“But I need you,” I whispered.

Marya woke in a cold sweat, an anguished cry of need reverberating in her mind. She remembered how she had loved Kim and how good it had been in the beginning. She also realized that what Kim had said was true. She
had
turned away, had turned to the martial art. Now, in the early dawn hours, in her parents’ guestroom, she admitted that to herself and wondered—When had she lost interest in Kim? Why had she turned from her? What would it have taken to keep her attention steady? Would she never find someone who would hold her interest for the long haul?

The
Schuyler Times
building was located in the middle of the downtown area, just off the main street on a quiet, tree-dappled side street named Collier Lane. It appeared much the same as every other newspaper office Marya had worked in—dark and small, messy, and smelling of old ink and paper. A pleasant-looking woman sat at the desk just inside the door. She glanced up in inquiry as Marya let the door slide shut behind her.

“I’d like to apply for the reporter position you have open,” Marya said, trying to smile confidently.

“Oh,” the receptionist replied and then paused as if in thought. “That must be Andy’s beat.” She rose slowly—she was going to have a baby, Marya realized, and soon. She was obviously in the last stages of pregnancy.

“Oh no!” Marya blurted without thinking, then blushed. “I’m sorry. Here, may I help you?”

The receptionist smiled in real amusement this time, her small slanted eyes crinkling at the corners and her wide mouth showing almost as much pink gum line as teeth. “No, I’ve got it, but that’s the exact same thing I said eight months ago when Doc Bradley told me I was in this condition: ‘Oh no!’”

She laughed as she waddled away. Within minutes she was back, this time following slowly behind a rapidly moving man. He was slightly shorter than Marya’s five foot eight and leaning toward portliness, with scant, dark hair combed across his ruddy scalp in a last-ditch effort to deny his baldness. His dour round face was cheered by a pair of twinkling brown eyes, jaundiced at the corners from a hard life of too many cigarettes, too much coffee and too many long hours reading copy. She knew the look well.

“Well, you must be Dick and Patty’s girl. I’m Ed Bush, editor here. Tell me your name again.” He eyed her sharply as he shook her hand, obviously expecting a quick response.

“Marya, Marya Brock, from Seattle,” she responded hurriedly.

“Seattle, huh? You know Buzz Wheaton from out there? Runs the
Seattle Star
. Good man, Buzz.”

Marya smiled with delight. This was common ground. “Yes, sir, I worked for Mister Wheaton for ten years.”

The editor let fly a low whistle. “Brock? You’re not that guy Brocklyn, are you? The way Buzz talked about you I always pictured you as a man.”

She smiled, fondly remembering her old boss. It had been hard to leave him. “I’m not surprised, sir. He never called me anything but Brocklyn, and I’m sure that’s how he referred to me when talking to others.” She almost turned in response as she imagined she heard his bellow of “Brocklyn, get in here now,
”
echoing around this newsroom.

Ed Bush studied her from head to toe. “Well, you’re no guy, but with your reputation, his loss is my gain and as soon as I get the chance I’m going to call him and give him hell for not setting you up with me. Didn’t he know where you were moving to?”

“Yes, he did. He gave me a letter of recommendation, but I’m sure it’s generic. I mean, I could have applied at any paper in this area.”

Ed grinned suddenly. “Come with me. I’ve got to see this letter.”

He led the way through the small newsroom and down a long hallway. Feeling curious glances thrown her way from the other employees, Marya chanced a few small smiles at them and got a few back in return. The people here seemed friendly enough, she decided.

The editor led her into his small, cluttered office, which reeked of cigarette smoke. Stacks of inky newspapers framed his large, old-fashioned wooden desk, and bookshelves chock full of outdated books and periodicals spanned the wall behind his chair. Taking this chair firmly in hand, he spun it around and plopped himself into it, causing a welter of metal shrieks to fill the still air. He motioned her toward the other chair.

“Okay, let’s see the letter.”

She pulled the envelope from her briefcase and handed it across the desk. He took it and again motioned for her to sit.

She turned, closing her briefcase, and saw that the only other chair was occupied by a very large cat. Tabby gray in color, the cat, an old tom by the look of him, was clearly well loved and well fed. He purred contentedly and arched his neck as if seeking a stroke from her hand. Chuckling at his silent demand, she set the briefcase aside and lifted him from the chair into her arms, sliding her bottom into the warm spot he’d vacated. She buried her nose in his scentless fur and felt his sides heave as he purred with each breath.

She felt very good here, very much at home. She hoped that she would get the job.

The rustle of paper distracted her; Ed had shoved something across the desk. A tan envelope had been inside the larger white one. She had to laugh at the writing on the outside. There, in Mr. Wheaton’s distinctive scrawl were the words:
Ed Bush, The Schuyler Times, You old goat.

“Has he got me pegged or what?” the editor said with a laugh as he perused the note that had been inside. “It says here I’m to treat you right because you’ll be one hell of an asset to the
Times
. Is that true?” He turned his tired eyes on Marya.

“I can only promise my best effort, Mr. Bush.” Marya met his gaze evenly.

He stood abruptly and handed her the white envelope.

“There’s another letter in there in case you ever need it, one of the generic kind. Buzz and I go back a long way, you know. We went through about ten years of school together, beginning in elementary school and ending up at the same college. Odd we ended up on opposite ends of the country.”

He came from behind his desk and moved to the door.

“It’s deadline day on the B-front. Get to work.”

“You mean I’ve got the job?” She stood and tried not to stare at him.

Ed glanced back while lighting a fresh cigarette.

“Of course, if you want it. I’ll get Carol to settle you in, but you’ve got to set Caesar down. We call him the energy drain. Every time you hold him for any length of time he just sort of sucks all the get-up-and-go right out of you.”

Marya replaced the cat gently into the chair with one final pat.

“Not a good idea on deadline day,” she muttered to the editor’s retreating back. She grabbed her briefcase and hurried to catch up, ready to go to work.

The outside walls of The Way of Hand and Foot gleamed in the rising sunlight as Dorry pulled into the parking area and slotted her truck into the reserved spot next to the side entrance.

She sat back and sighed, her gaze falling fondly on the lacy crepe myrtle trees she had planted next to the building soon after purchasing the low, flat structure. The trio of trees had just finished blooming and a few remaining bedraggled pink flowers winked at her as they danced in an early morning breeze.

Over to her left, by the front door, she had commissioned a beautiful waterfall that fell smoothly into a shallow, concave rock and water garden. Late water lilies nodded there as if reluctant to awaken this early. She opened the truck door so she could hear the soft susurrus of water falling into water. It was a beautiful South Carolina morning.

She keenly recalled her fear when she’d actually realized she was buying a building and creating a business. That she was sinking her family’s hard-earned money into a venture that could win or fail by the vagaries of people, the economy and of willful, destructive nature. She took in a deep breath, reminding herself that had been many years ago now and that the
dojang
was thriving.

In spite of her reputation.

Lifting her cell phone from the bench seat, she pressed a button and saw that three more calls had come in during her short drive to the
dojang
. And this all before seven a.m. She sighed again, wondering how best to handle the situation. She really had no desire to talk to her, feeling like they had already said everything that needed to be said. Yet she had sounded frazzled, like something was wrong.

Frowning and steeling her resolve, Dorry snatched her duffel off the seat and left the truck, cell phone in hand. She unlocked the thick steel door and entered the back hallway of the
dojang
. Back here she could smell the cleaning fluid used by Ella Mae who cleaned for her three nights a week. Progressing along the hallway, pausing only to toss the duffel full of her street clothes on the couch in her office, she was soon inundated with the welcome smells of rubber mats, steel and sweat from the
dojang
.