Manna From Heaven
Chapter 35
Or to return...
Beeeep... Uhm… hi… Genevieve…
Hellooooo my sexy man!
It's Lamar. Look, I'm going to have to cancel our date tonight… this weekend. I... I had something…
What?
~~~...~~~
A tall, dark-haired man stood on the corner of the inner city at rush hour, scrutinizing traffic, looking for something, someone. When he saw the car he was watching for come up to the intersection, he pulled out his cell phone and pressed two numbers, his thumb hovering over the third…
~~~...~~~
…something has come up… yes Mother, I'm speaking to her now. No, I do not… look, Genevieve, I'm sorry, but we're not working out. I need someone more … well… and you're busy and we're moving in different … yes Mother, can you just please… right now just isn't our time. It's not you, it's me. We move in different circles. You've got a lot going on and we just have different things going on and it's unfair to both of us. Maybe … I'm sorry, this is just hard… I'm sorry. I… have tickets for us for the Red Cross Ball in a few weeks, but I don't think it would be in… your best interests to go with me, I'll find someone… else…I'm sorry. Good luck with your new business venture. I know you'll do well. Bye.
Click
Whadafu-
Suddenly, there was a squeal of brakes, a horn honking, a sharp jolt...
What?…What? Whose bed is this …where am I?
Genevieve's car flew sideways, her phone sliding down between the seat and the gearshift case. For a moment, the car tipped sideways, balancing precariously on the passenger tires before slamming back down to the pavement. Her head hit her driver's side window, the skin behind her ear splitting open. Her iPad flew in the air before sliding between the seats and into the floorboard behind the passenger backseat. She was vaguely aware of a car grill ramming her vehicle in front of the driver's door, turning her 45 degrees to the left, now almost facing the oncoming traffic she had inadvertently pulled into. She was thrown into the opposing lane directly in front of traffic heading in the opposite direction.
Her head jerked forward, the view the intersection seen through a cracked windshield, but the woman behind the steering wheel wasn't seeing any of it.
Guy…Guy…Thornton…Eleanor…Joffrey…Locksley…Hood…bastard!…NONONONO…nosy horse...dammit…not my stock...the priest-
Her front-end passenger side was rammed by a panel truck, knocking her back into the car who hit her to begin with, her front bumper curling inward.
Her head whipped back. .
Guy...Guy...Michael... Hood...my cross...the pond...clothes...kittens...kiss oh please kiss me again...the stock ... banana...the rent
Her side impact bag deployed, slamming her backwards into the seat. The seat belt did its job, yanking her back away from the console and steering wheel.
There was a man on the corner was yelling into his cellphone, watching the scene, moving through the horrified spectators on the sidewalks…
Isandra myback pain thewine Val banana Val Guy Sex ohGod Again Please my employees their jobs the child damn you Hood Tuck arrow skiiiiiiiieeessssssss arrrrrrrre bluuuuuueeeeeeeee Ripley's kittens Sex Love me please
The car that initially slammed into her came to a halt, only to be rear-ended, making it hit her again, now between the back driver's door, to the trunk, spinning her almost another 90 degrees, so she was now facing the direction she came from. In the spinning, the passenger rear of her car hit the truck again, knocking her back yet into another car, head on, the front driver's tire entering the cab of the car, coming into direct contact with her left foot, and ankle. Her front air bag inflated.
...thefaireguymarianisabellaclothesrodrickalricyesi'llmarryyouyesyesyesfairejoustvasieymygodmygodmygodhatefulplaceforgiveyouforgivememycompanyhoneysucklemyemployeesmarryyouguyguybananaguyworshipyouwithmybodyguyilove youguyguyguyguyguyguyguyguyguyguyguyguy...
Everything came to a halt.
Guy?
Smoke from the three automobiles, the truck, the deployed airbags, misted in the air, in the cabin of the car. There was the stench of burnt rubber...
The car alarm went off.
Her phone, which was wedged between the two front seats, was still plugged into her car stereo system.
Genevieve, I'm sorry, but we're not working out. I need someone more … well… and you're busy... Genevieve, I'm sorry, but we're not working out. I need someone more … well… and you're busy... Genevieve, I'm sorry, but we're not working out. I need someone more … well… and you're busy...
She was aware of searing pain all down her left side.
Guy?
And then it all went black.
~~~...~~~
Floating...
Pain... oh God the pain...
…and you're busy... Genevieve, I'm sorry, but we're not working out. I need someone more …
"My Lady?"
Guy?
"Guy?"
"Shhhh. I've got you. I've got you. Hold still. It will be okay. Do not move. I have called 911. I need you to stay still."
Fading...
Floating...
…and you're busy... Genevieve, I'm sorry, but we're not working out. I need someone more …
Oh God it hurts.
A calloused hand was pressing on her forehead, holding her upright against the backrest of her seat. A distinct voice, one used to issuing orders and being in charge. "She needs to be immobilized. Has anyone checked on the passengers in the other car?"
…and you're busy... Genevieve, I'm sorry, but we're not working out. I need someone more …
"Guy?" She was crying, she could feel the tears running down her cheeks. "Guy? Banana. Please. Don't leave me. It hurts. Banana."
…and you're busy... Genevieve, I'm sorry, but we're not working out. I need someone more …
"I am not going anywhere, m'lady. Help is coming."
"Banana. Banana."
Banana.
"I know, my lady."
Sirens. So far away, getting closer, getting louder...
…and you're busy... Genevieve, I'm sorry, but we're not working out. I need someone more …
"Ah, let's turn that miserable piece of shite off, shall we? Now where is it?" She was aware of someone yanking the cord and that wretched voice stopping. "There, that is much better.'
"Sir, we need access... you need to move'.
"NO! Don't leave me..."
… fresh tears.
Please don't leave me... banananaaa...
"...nanana..."
"I'm not leaving." There was the sound of breaking glass, metal screeching. "I'm getting in the back seat. I'm right here."
Please don't leave me!
"Rester avec moi!"
"I am not leaving you, m'lady."
Air.
Smoke.
Guy?
"I'm here. I am right here. I am right behind you. I've not left! See?"
"We're going to have to cut her out." There was the sound of something rustling. More sirens.
"NO! My caaaaar... banana banana banana..."
That laugh, that... chuckle... "I will buy you another car, Lady Genevieve."
Something, a blanket, was being pulled over her. Noise. Screeching noise. Metal ripping metal.
Air. Searing Atlanta afternoon stench. Burnt rubber. Hot metal. Yelling, screaming, people talking.
Sirens. More sirens.
"Come on, honey, come on, honey, stay with me…please beautiful… you've got a hot date tonight, I can see it."
Guy?
"I am here. I am not leaving. I've got you."
Banana.
"Stay with me… please… please… damn, I need an IV, hand me the fib…stay with me stay with me stay with me stay with…"
Banana. Guy?
Yes...
Floating…
~~~...~~~
Floating...
Guy?
"No chickie-poo. It's Val."
Where's Guy?
Who? Guy? What guy?
Nooooooooooooooooo...
~~~...~~~
Floating...
Freezing...
Suddenly, there was a warmth, a cocoon of warmth and protection and love and...
Guy?
Yes m'lady. I am here.
Butterflies along her brow...
Banana, Genevieve?
Yesyesyesyesbanana. Don't leave me.
The embrace tightened.
I am not going anywhere, m'lady. Sleep Genevieve.
Something warm coursed through her veins. Pain fading...
Banana?
Sleep.
Floating...
~~~...~~~
Floating...
"Genevieve..."
Grandma? Grandma?
"I need you to wake up."
Grandma?
"Come now, honey. I need you to wake up."
"Grandma?"
"Sweetheart, it's been three days. We need you to wake up. I need you to wake up."
"Grandma?"
Fingers on my brow. Bright light bright light...
"It's a glorious morning, beautiful girl. Let's sit you up so you can see it."
~~~...~~~
Genevieve spent the next two days ebbing in and out of consciousness. If she was awake, she hurt. They gave her pain killers and she either went to sleep or was so stoned out of her skull, she was useless. She dreamed of Guy, fading in and out of her dreams.
She was aware of her grandmother, nurses, including a huge, muscle-bound male nurse who strangely enough,reminded her of Michael the Red. He laughed the first time she called him that, croaking it out. "How'd y'know my name is Michael?"
"You just look like a Michael is all." Genevieve's voice sounded odd, the cadence clipped, not that relaxed Southern drawl she was used to. She supposed it was due to the soreness, tubes that had been down her throat. "Do you like archery?"
He paused, looking at her over the computer where he was entering her vital signs for the umpteenth time. "What makes you think that?"
"Intuition."
Her entire left side was one massive single bruise, from her neck to her ankles. She had a bruise across her chest and neck caused by her shoulder harness, a swollen lip from the airbag. A cracked collar bone, broken arm, cracked ribs, a broken leg, broken hip. Stitches just above and behind her left ear where she hit her window. She was tractioned, immobilized.
There was a puncture wound in her back right shoulder. Her grandmother told her they removed a shard of glass from it, most likely from her back window.
Her room was filled with flowers. Roses, tulips, sunflowers. Mostly roses. Yellow roses.
Several days after Genevieve came out of her coma, she was napping, only to be awakened by raised, angry voices.
"When she wakes up, she simply needs to sign this! There is no need to put it off."
Ficklebutte? What is Ficklebutte doing in my hospital room?
"Have you no common decency? Humanity?" Grace Truth Robinson was tiny, but she was a firecracker. Certainly no shrinking violet.
The man scoffed. Ooooh that's a big mistake, bucko. That's my grandma! "She really has no choice-"
"YOU!" Genevieve opened an eye to see her grandmother – who stood all of four foot eleven – up against the tall, rotund man. "You can leave, right now!"
"Do you even know who I am?"
"A pompass ass, is who you are!"
"You're arguing with the wrong person, bucko!"
Ficklebutte momentarily turned his head to the bed. "What did you say?"
Before he could register that his prey was awake and speaking, he found himself backed against a wall,
Genevieve's grandmother poking him in the sternum with her finger. "I can put a world of hurt on you, boy!"
"An' trust me. She can do it." Genevieve nodded, closing her eyes.
"Ms. Robinson-"
The door to the room flew open, Val coming in like a fresh breeze. "Grace, how is Gen... Oh. Mr. Ficklebutte. Good! Just the person I wanted to speak with." She was carrying a folder under her arm, a vase of yellow baby bud roses in her hand. As she closed the door behind her, she handed the vase to Genevieve's grandmother and plling the folder from beneath her arm, she opened it, flipping through the pages.
"Ms. Oelle. We are not altering the contract."
"Perhaps not this minute, but Genevieve's attorney has obtained an injunction, keeping you from forcing the stockholders meeting before February seventh. That is the first Friday in February." She held out a document with a sugary sweet smile. "I'm surprised your attorney didn't notify you."
"What?" He grabbed the paper and began to peruse it. "This can't be."
Val pointed to the bottom. "Yes, it can. Look there," she pointed, "Judge Abercrombie's signature, today's date from this morning and there," she pointed again, "is the court notary, Ms. Finch, making it all nice and legal." She winked at Genevieve. "Judge Abercrombie had a lot of things to say about you trying to pull a fast one while Ms. Robinson was in the hospital. None of it nice, I might add." Her voice lowered in a conspiratorial whisper. "And trust me, you do NOT want know what Ms. Finch said!"
Ficklebutte had his nose in paperwork. "Who is this?" He pointed to somewhere on the paper. "I thought George Stallop was her attorney."
Val's smile was pure saccharine. Oh boy, is he in trouble! Val on one side, Grandma on the other... "Mr. Stallop's wife passed away last week after a rather long illness. His partner has taken over as counselor."
Genevieve clamped her mouth shut. Oh, she needed to chat with Val and get this hyena out of her hospital room! Genevieve's grandmother was growing agitated. Without thinking, she set the vase of roses in Genevieve's good hand.
Ficklebutte was staring hard at the paper. "G. Crispin FitzGi-"
"Yes. That is Genevieve's attorney."
"I'm not selling." Genevieve croaked. "I don't know what you think you've got-"
"It's simple, Genevieve," the architect spat matter-a-factually. He was as oily as ever. "I own more stock in your company than you do. More than you and your employees put together." He tossed the injunction and the contract on the foot of the bed. "Save yourself some heartache and just accept the terms. That way, everyone is happy. Well," he smiled snidely, "most everyone."
"Get out." Genevieve hissed. "And don't come back."
"This," he stabbed a finger at the injunction, "will only put off the inevitable."
Genevieve's grandmother had had enough. Grace Truth Robinson pulled herself up to her full four foot, eleven inch frame and started pushing the man towards the door. "Y'know whut? Ahm jist done with you, boy! You can just kiss my hairy, unwashed lily-white Rebel Ass!" The finger was back out and making a bruise in the man's chest. "You need to git out an' git out now!" She slung the door open and grabbed the first person she could find. "Nurse?" She caught the poor woman making the rounds. "Make sure this mahn does not come back and harass mah granddaughter!"
The nurse was all professional. "Sir? You need to leave."
"I'll see you in February, Genevieve. Best sign it now." With that, he turned and stalked down the corridor.
"Do you need anything Miss Robinson?" The nurse was most definitely a sweetheart. "Pain pill? Something to drink?"
"My Glock, if he comes back. And my 12-gauge shotgun."
"An' mah pump-action rifle!" Grace chimed in. "An' Ol' Bessie!"
"That would be Grandma's sawed off."
The nurse turned white. "I'm sorry. Firearms aren't allowed in the hospital." She dipped her head. "Anything?"
Genevieve grimaced. "Yes, some pain medicine. And a Coke. Please." She waited until the woman left, the door swing shut. "I have a new attorney? When?" She reached down to where the injunction lay, only to remember she had a vase of flowers in her hand. "Would someone please put these on the table? Who is this new attorney? How did this happen?" Once the vase was taken from her, she reached for the injunction, looking over it thoroughly.
Val pulled up a chair. "How are you feeling chickie-poo?"
"Like I got hit by a car and a truck!" Her shoulder fell. "Everything hurts. Everything on my left side is broken, I'd set off a metal detector, I've got so many pins and stitches behind my ear and in my shoulder. There's blood in my hair, I can't bathe and I have to pee and shit in a bedpan."
And there is no hot black knight to help me do anything!
She started to cry. "They are talking about physical therapy and some douche-bag wants to steal my company from me and my boyfriend broke up with me and I don't even care because..." she was now hiccupping, "I dreamed and fell in love with a gorgeous medieval knight-"
"A knight in shining armor isn't a bad thing to dream about, chickie-poo."
"He wasn't in shining armor! He wore black leather!"
Grace was arranging the roses, the many vases in the window, the tables. "Do I need to hear about this?"
Val shook her head. "George's wife has been ill for a long time and he's been looking for a partner to help out and eventually take over his practice. He came to agreement with one just before Anne died. George's secretary didn't know. She's been wanting to retire, so he's going to let her and his new partner took over on Monday after your wreck. Look, now that you are feeling better, I know he's going to want to touch base with you as soon as possible. He was like raining hellfire in court this morning to get this injunction to halt the takeover. At the very least, he's going to want to know that Ficklebutte was here and tried to coerce you into signing this!"
"It is a take-over, isn't it?"
"A hostile one."
Genevieve was still reading the injunction, shaking her head. "I'm not a big player; a big wig! I'm just a small firm. Why would anyone want to take me out?"
"You stepped on someone's toes somewhere, missy!" Grace spoke up.
The women fell quiet as the nurse returned, administered a pain killer in Genevieve's IV drip and set a Coke on the tray. They waited until the nurse left.
"About my new attorney-"
"His name is Cris. He's single and gorgeous. Your grandmother," she nodded to Grace, who was blushing, "is inlove!" She got up and went to closet, pulling out Genevieve's duffel bag. "Cris cleared out your car – it's a total,you know, and he's dealing with the insurance companies. At least, your only ticket is for running the red were the only one injured. Your iPad is in here, everything is in here. I've charged the iPad and I'll bring your laptop if you want it, later." Val then set it on the bed, between Genevieve's feet. "Your iPhone is destroyed, but I put what was left of it in here." She patted her shoulder before standing up. "He said not to worry. If you don't want to sell, he's figuring out a way for you to keep it. Frankly, he said the contract is a piece of shit and under most circumstances, wouldn't even be considered serious in a kangaroo court."
"I want to know how Ficklebutte got so much of my stock to begin with. It was a private release, only meant for my employees."
Val's face fell. "That's what Cris said. Something happened somewhere. There was a leak or something. That man says he's got a handle on it." She smiled, her face lighting up. "I'll get your iPad out and you can read. I'm sure Cris has emailed you by now and the two of you can get acquainted. He's got a dangerous demeanor, chickie-poo. After what I witnessed this morning, he's a right bastard in court! He had Ficklebutte's attorney in a corner!"
"So, Ficklebutte knew about this injunction before you came?"
Val nodded. "I would think so. I came straight-away. I was afraid he'd try to railroad you before you knew about the injunction."
The pain killer was starting to kick in. "I'm not selling."
"Then don't." Val then smiled. "Either way, get some rest. I'll take your grandmother down for some lunch before I bring her back."
"I'm not hungry!"
"You are a curmudgeon and I see where Genevieve gets her spunk from!" Val steered Grace towards the door. "I believe there is a Wifi connection here. See if you can check your email." She nodded over to Genevieve's grumbling grandmother. "We'll just be at the cafeteria." With an unseen swiftness, the two women left the room.
Leaving it silent.
Genevieve took several breaths, trying to come to grips with all she had been through in the past several days. But try as she might, her dream of Dark Ages Nottingham and Sir Guy were more real to her. Even through the haze of the pain killers, the morphine, her dream was more solid.
It was not lost on her no one mentioned Lamar, even with her whiny slip. With a great deal of difficulty, she pushed the tray aside and tried to reach for her duffel bag, which was just out of reach. She was grunting in pain when the door opened.
A nurse's aide – she was much too old to be a candy striper – peeked around the door. "I have balloons and flowers and candy for a Miss Genevieve Robinson. Oh honey, let me help you with that." She came in, blue hair obviously just done that morning. She pulled behind her a cart loaded with flowers; roses, tulips, daisies, all of them yellow. As the door drifted shut, the woman picked up Genevieve's bag and set it on the rolling tray. "Here you go!" She unzipped it and opened it wide. "Is there anything in particular you'd like? You're rather at a disadvantage with only one arm, sweetheart."
Genevieve was barely listening. She was busy staring at the woman and her name badge.
'Anael'
"Do you believe in angels?"
"Ah, sugarplum, when you reach my age, you believe in most anything. Or you don't." She smiled and pointed. "Anything in particular?"
"No, I'll look through it."
The woman looked at her sadly. "Oh, let me help with your pillows and this bed." She began to fluff and restack, raising the bed a bit. "There. That's much better." She stood back, hands folded in front of her, as if waiting for orders.
It made Genevieve uncomfortable. "If you want to leave which ever one is mine-"
"They're all yours, sweetheart."
"What?"
The woman began to unload the cart, putting the flowers on the window ledge, the night stand, the ledge/desk at the foot of the bed. If there was room, space, she set them there. There were flowers, balloons, stuffed animals. The teddy bears and what-nots somehow made their way into her bed. Genevieve was completely overwhelmed.
"Do you want me to bring you the cards, read them to you?"
Genevieve was shaking her head. "No. My grandmother will be back in an hour or so and she and I will go through them together if I'm awake."
"All righty then." She placed them between the wall and a vase of flowers before grabbing the cart and turned towards the door. "You are truly loved, precious. Is there anything else you need?"
"Anael?" The woman looked over her shoulder. "I remember you. Was it a delusion? A fantasy? Did he really exist? Or was it a wild dream?"
It was quiet for a while, while the angel studied her closely. "Look through your things, Genevieve Faith. You'll find your answers." And with that, she disappeared through the door.
Genevieve wasted no time. Her pain killer was making her lethargic and she wanted to get her iPad out before it got worse. She pulled her gym clothes, jeans, and tunic out first. She attempted to toss them over to the chair (wadding with one hand was impossible) and missed beautifully and they ended up all over the floor. She found her butterfly vibe and handcuffs and pushed them to the side. Her grandmother was amazingly open-minded, but Genevieve didn't want to rub it in her face. She found her make-up bag, other things before finding the iPad and placing it in her lap.
Further digging found the remnants of her iPhone. As Val stated, it was destroyed, but as Genevieve picked it up to inspect it, her stomach -
Look through your things, Genevieve Faith. You'll find your answers.
The outer casing was in pieces, while the main part was somewhat intact. It was bowed in the middle, looked as if something had been rammed through it. Something sharp and large.
Like a broadsword.
Genevieve dropped it in her lap, unable to breath. With a renewed sense of urgency, she began to pull things from her duffel bag, looking... looking...
Where is it... where is it... my crucifix...
She pulled everything out. Nothing. One piece at a time, she began to replace, inspecting everything, the adult toys going back in first. Every bag, anything that could be opened, she opened, before replacing it. The Tylenol, the Q tips. It was not lost on her that there were dried traces of blood on the tips of her tweezers. Everything was replaced except the iPad, her sketchpad, and her make up bag.
With some difficulty, she opened it, dumping the contents in her lap and immediately saw the plastic baggie, mixed in with her make up.
A plastic bag of jewelry. She could see immediately that her crucifix was not in it.
But the betrothal ring and ruby wedding band that Guy gave her and married her at Ripley's was.
As was his wolf-head signet ring.
~~~...~~~
It took the better part of half an hour for Genevieve to pull herself together. In an attempt to resituate herself, she went through her iPad, the folder with the contract that was with her things, found the notes she made, he made while... there...
All of it. All of it was true. Everything she and Guy had discovered and discussed. True. Even his smarmy little notation – Wot is 'stock'?
It wasn't a dream. Wait, on second thought, it was a dream and now she was in the middle of a nightmare.
Genevieve's grandmother sat next to her between lunch and dinner, reading every get well card and floral arrangement card that had arrived. Her friends, her employees, pictures their children drew for her, which Genevieve made her hang up on the walls around the room. What she remembered as dark and gloomy upon her awakening, now became cheery and bright, the blinds in the window opened. October sunshine reflected on the bright yellow of the flowers all over the room. All of the stuffed animals at the foot of her bed had names, notes. And chocolate. So much chocolate. She picked one random box from the stockpile and had Val take the toys and candy (sans cards and notes) to the children's wing and told her to give them to the children that had the least.
The flowers made the room smell like a garden, quite a few again from friends, employees, colleagues. Old roommates. There was even bright geraniums from George, her attorney.
But there wasn't anything from Lamar. Or The Gator.
"What happened, Genevieve?" Grace was going through everything. "There's nothin' here from that boyfriend of yours. He hasn't even called, much less come by to check on you! After two... three years..."
"He broke up with me," Genevieve's throat was scratchy, hurting. "He called my cellphone while I was working out and left me a Dear John message." Genevieve's iPad was still in her lap; the rest of the contents, with the exception of the sketch pad and dropped clothing, placed back in her gym bag. Val had picked those up and replaced them before she headed back to the office.
"He did what?"
Genevieve hung her head. "That's what I was listening to when I ran the red light. He broke up with me. Told me I wasn't what he needed." She didn't tell her the horrible things Lamar's mother was saying that was overheard on the iPhone. "He didn't say it in those words, but he implied it. I was distracted."
Cool fingers lifted her chin. The light in the woman's eyes, which was the earliest memory Genevieve had, was very apparent. "Well, good riddance. He's a coward! He wasn't good enough for you, anyway, my beautiful girl. He is self-absorbed and selfish and his mother is a right nasty beast!" This caused Genevieve to laugh, making her ribs hurt. Grace met the twosome the first Christmas Genevieve and Lamar were dating. It was strained, an uncomfortable Christmas Eve dinner and Lamar's mother embarrassed Genevieve greatly, treating her grandmother like a piece of trash. "I've been prayin' you'd find someone else, someone who worships the ground y'walk on, someone who thinks you're all that an' a bag of chips!" She clasped Genevieve's good hand and pulled it to her cheek. "Y'need a man who will ground you, but still allow you to soar; someone who will take care of the details of life, while you're free to search the stars. He's out there, y'know. He's waitin' for you." She leaned back and snorted. "Y'know, you kept cryin' for a guy when you slept. I was hopin' you'd met someone else." She stood up and began to pick up the vases one at time. "I was hopin' the man who sent you all these flowers was him!"
"One man sent these?" Genevieve sat up. "All of them?"
"Mostly. Yellow. All of them yellow. I wonder what the significance of that is?" She grinned evilly. "Y'have an admirer, beautiful girl! She plucked the card from the first one. "Get well. Cris." She went to the next one. "Feel better soon. Cris FitzG."
Every single card, every single bouquet of yellow flowers, was from her attorney.
Her attorney that she hadn't met.
"Huh. This one is strange." Grace squinted at the card.
"What?"
"It says, 'Être forte' an' something else. It isn't signed, but I'll bet it's from him."
"Let me see." Genevieve reached for it. Grace handed her the card.
Être forte. Je suis là.
Genevieve concentrated on the card, the French. "Être forte. Be... be... forte... strong. Je ...I...suis là... am here. Be strong. I am here."
"Strange thing for an attorney to write on a get well note." Grace looked at the over-flow of flowers. "Strange that your lawyer should send you so many flowers. He arranged a car to bring me down from the farm and he's put me up in the Wyndham around the corner. Told me not to worry about it."
"He's paying for it?" Grace nodded. "Yes. It is strange."
They spent the afternoon talking, planning for when she was released from the hospital. She would need help, a car, there was a lot of physical therapy in her future. An attendant came in with dinner, roast beef and vegetables. After dinner, Genevieve was helped into the bathroom, where she quietly praised and thanked God for flushing toilets, and then was given a sponge bath, her hair brushed and cleaned with dry shampoo. It wasn't a shower or a long, hot soak in a tub, but it was an improvement.
Guy would laugh at me, if he saw me...
They had settled her back in the bed, aching, hurting. "Grandma? Where are the clothes I was wearing?"
"They cut them off you, sweetheart." Genevieve's heart clutched at the thought of the dress, her stockings, the emergency room people seeing her naughty little thong and stockings. "There was really no other way to get them off."
Genevieve nodded. "I can't find my crucifix with my things. Maybe it fell off in the car. I guess I'll ask Val to go look."
"Crucifix?" Grace was nosing over the new flower arrangements, sniffing the roses. "What crucifix?"
Genevieve's eyes came up in a lurch. "The one you gave me. The one your mother gave you."
Her grandmother never looked up. "I've never had a cross. Never was wealthy enough for a nice piece of jewelry except the wedding band your grandfather gave me when we wed." Now she looked up. "You took a pretty hard knock on the head, Genevieve."
Somewhere... her crucifix was somewhere. "Yeah, I guess I did." She changed the subject. "Who's minding the farm and animals?"
"Harvest is in, so's the only worry is feedin' and waterin'. Yer high school boyfriend an' his boys are takin' care o' things. Said take as long as I need." Grace fell quiet.
John. Of course, John would help out. He'd been the sweetest boy. His father owned the horse farm that was next to her grandmother's. Genevieve adored him in high school and had happily given him her virginity the night of the junior prom. They had struggled trying to get the condom on right the first time and he had spilled before they could get it on, leaving him embarrassed and her struggling to reassure him. The rest of the night had been wonderful and she cherished the memory. He waited for her when she left for college, and was devastated, but supportive when she decided to stay in Atlanta and intern the summer at the firm who eventually hired her after college. He moved on and married within a year after her graduation and Genevieve always wished him happiness and luck. Last time she asked, he and his wife – Sharone? - were expecting their first baby.
"Y'know, Sharone left him last year. Just packed up and left him with both of those little boys. She couldn't stand country livin'." She looked over her shoulder at her granddaughter. "The three of them went camping with the Boy Scouts and came home to her and her things gone. Personally, I think she just hated the smell of the horses. You want me to have him call? He's been mighty worried about you."
John. Sweet, sweet John who yes, would bend over backwards to help Grandma.
"No. I'll thank him later."
When Val came to pick up her grandmother, she brought Genevieve's laptop, along with an old-fashioned mouse and pad. While her iPad sufficed for most things, her laptop screen was much bigger and surfed faster. She spent the evening, propped up, with her leg no longer elevated. She scowled at her swollen toes, Grace promising to give her a pedicure with some ghastly awful color.
So sitting in the bed, she turned on the computer, waiting for the Wifi signal to click in. As soon as she had one, she went to Google.
Sir Guy of Gisborne.
She hoped to find reference, anything; he killed Robin Hood, killed the sheriff, disappeared in France...
Instead, the first thing to come up was a poem.
A sword and a dagger he wore by his side,
Of manye a man the bane;
And he was clad in his capull-hyde
Topp and tayll and mayne
"What? Horsehide?" Genevieve shook her head. "Wearing the tail and mane? That's not my Guy." She
continued reading, became more and more saddened...
Stabbed and killed by Hood. Beheaded, love triangle...
Nothing. Nothing of the man she remembered, loved, still loved... just...
"That's not my Guy."
History had not remembered the man well at all.
Her next search was of the surname. Gisborne. Gisburne, Gisbourne... although the information was an
improvement, it was still precious little.
Like Robin Hood, Guy of Gisborne seems to be somewhat of a myth...
Original spelling, Olde English for 'rushing brook'...
She recalled the pond and the stream that fed it and drained it, the sound of it. It was the last sound she
heard before...
Before...
What happened to you when I left? What did you tell Eleanor? Thornton and Fiona? Our friends, Joffrey and Michael... did Vaisey crow? Did Robin really murder you and behead you?
She almost threw up her dinner.
Giving up for the evening, she opened her social sites, her facebook and her email. Her wall was overrun with well-wishes, daily up-dates posted from Val, Oh nos, oh my God, prayers, healing thoughts...
Her email was equally appalling. She made a folder for 'after wreck' and anything that looked as if it fit the bill, she moved to it, leaving the mail from Val, George and several from a 'Cris FitzG.'...
Nothing from Lamar. Actually, she was glad. She was of a mind to delete anything from him, unread.
She opened Val's first. It was dated Sunday, after the wreck.
If you're reading this, chickie-poo, then you're up and feeling better. George has partnered with a new attorney who is taking over your account. We have enough work to keep us busy through March. Your grandmother (who is delightfully crass, just like you, btw) is staying at the Wyndham, around the corner. She's in room 874, if you need her. The new attorney – Cris – had her brought down and put her up at the Wyndham and has arranged for someone to drive her where she needs to be. I think she's in love already with the man!
Oh, before I forget. I just checked Bradley into a rehab facility, at his request. When he heard about your wreck... well, let's just say yesterday was a day of coming to grips for him and he contacted me just before he did something stupid. I'm glad he called and he seems intent on kicking this weekend drug habit of his. I'm not inclined to fire him and I don't think you are either. He wants to get well!
This was good, actually. Bradley was a Veteran, a former Marine with a bad case of PTSD. Genevieve and Val knew something was going on during the weekends; there were times he came in on Monday morning looking like something the cat dragged in. He was fighting depression, fighting demons. More than once Val or Genevieve had offered to help, offered to listen. Anything. He always smiled and thanked them. Finally, he was getting help! Making a mental note to send him a fruit flower basket and a book of dirty jokes, she filed the email in yet another new folder, (Wreck and sale) she then went to George's. It was dated on Monday.
Genevieve,
I was horrified to hear of your accident. I'll be praying for a speedy recovery.
I fear my secretary jumped the gun in telling you to find a new attorney. As you have guessed I am really in no place to oversee of the impending sale of your company and truly I feel I've fallen down on the job with this. I have joined with a new partner and considering everything, he is taking your sale pro bono. I read through the proposed contract along with Cris and I must say, I hope you tell Ficklebutte and Company to shove it up their ass. You might have difficulty with that however, but the new guy says if there is a loophole, he can find it.
Put your trust in him, Genevieve. His background is impeccable. Why an English Earl wants to be a southern lawyer is beyond me. I'll be in touch.
English? And an Earl?
Well, that's certainly posh!
And no mention of George's wife. How difficult dealing with this on top of her death must be.
Filing that one as well in the new folder, she decided to start with the new attorney from the beginning.
He introduced himself, wrote of his dismay about her wreck, reassured her that her well-being was more important than this silly stupidity from Ficklebutte. He mentioned that this mess would be pro bono. George felt wretched about not contacting her sooner and that he felt that if she didn't want to sell, they could manage to rip the whole from Ficklebutte's grasp.
He gave her his office number to contact him and let her know that his email went to his cell phone, so feel free to contact him any time. In fact, it would probably be easier to text or email, considering his schedule.
She looked at the date. Friday. It's been a week. Hot British lawyer is probably out on a hot date, but what the hell.
Typing with one hand was awful and it took time, but finally...
Cris.
Can I call you Cris. Crispin, FitzG or Mr. FitzG or Earl FitzG doesn't sound right. What should I call you?
I apologize. The drugs the hospital has me on are making me trippy. My office manager brought my laptop and I'm trying to catch up on email and things.
Ficklebutte came to the hospital today and my grandmother had to have him forcibly removed. He seems to think he already owns my company and tried to railroad me even though he knew about the injunction, putting off the sale. I've read through the contract today and it's making me sick. I think we have a lot to discuss, at your convenience, of course. We have until February to get my firm out of this mess.
I don't even want to think about the wreck and that can of worms. Everyone is probably going to sue me.
By the way, thank you for all the flowers. My room looks like a garden. Smells like one too!
She hit send and leaned back. She reduced the email, and turned on her Kindle application. After reading so many historical romances and then leaving the hottest dark knight ever back in Dark Ages, she wasn't in the mood. She opened the mystery folder and clicked on the first random unread book.
Within two page turns, tears were running down her cheeks. She couldn't concentrate, couldn't read through the blur.
Guy? What happened to you? Please please please tell me you went to France and all shit I read was a lie. How do I find you? How do I talk to you? Tell me you lived long, tell me you loved again. I miss you. I need you here. Please talk to me. Please.
She realized the pinging sound she was hearing was her email. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she reopened the window and looked.
It was the attorney.
Call me Cris. I am at your service. I leave the noble title back home on the Estate where my mother takes good care of it. I admit being overly fond of being called 'Sir' but not by just anyone.
Right this moment, I have one, simple question. Do you wish to sell your company to Ficklebutte? To anyone?
Genevieve one-handed fired back.
NO! NONONONONO! I have a copy of the contract and I've read it since he was here. It sucks moldy rocks. Can we find a way out? A loop hole? How do I stop this? How do I stop him? How on earth did he manage to obtain more stock in my company than I own? It was a private release! What do you need me to do?
Oh. Forgot. Thank you for taking care of my grandmother. You have no idea how much this has helped, having her here. She's all the family I have. As soon as I get a handle on things, I'll reimburse you for the cost of bringing her down and the hotel bill. Please keep track of it.
Again, she left the screen open, but reduced, while she went back to her book and tried to concentrate the young real estate mogul, trying to figure out her next investment, while tossing her pretty but sweaty curls out of her eyes while she walked on her treadmill and gazed out of her penthouse view of Manhattan.
Who writes this stuff?
The email pinged again.
Good Girl. Yes, there is a way. No, I do not wish to discuss it over the internet. I doubt your internet
connection is secure.
As for what I need you to do? That, is simple.
1. Get well. I need you strong and healthy. That means rest, take your pharmaceuticals, do as your doctor orders. I suspect in a few weeks, you will begin physical therapy. Remember to yell Ficklebutte's name when you wish to curse. It will sound more lady-like and you will get much satisfaction from it.
2. Tell your angel of an office manager to continue to lobby for business contracts and to run the office, business as usual, as if no sale is pending. Have her reassure your employees, your clients. You are not going out of business, not matter what poppycock that arsehole tells people.
3. You will turn over all over responsibility and authority of stopping the take over to me. Trust me.
4. It would also be helpful to you if you allowed me to handle the backlash of your car accident. You were the only one injured, but three automobiles, including your own, were totaled and two other vehicles sustained damage. You were only ticketed for running the red light, but your insurance company should only have claims for the vehicles. I am well acquainted with individuals of the insurance variety and they are a disgusting as Ficklebutte. Truthfully, insurance scum is similar to lawyer scum. By turning this over to me to handle, you can concentrate on the job of healing.
5. Do not worry about reimbursing me for the cost of bringing your grandmother down or the cost of her hotel accommodations. It was the least I could do. In a way, your grandmother reminds me of my own mother. She is quite the tiger when she thinks someone is upsetting her cubs.
6. I understand there is an office complex you are considering putting a bid on in one of the Carolinas. It would show the architectural community you mean business in continuing on if you continued to work on the project and put in a bid, if you desire. At the very least, it would amuse Ficklebutte and make him a bit more cocky. I personally look forward to emasculating the man. If you need a financial backer, I will be happy to supply the funds as a silent partner.
7. On second thought, do call me Sir.
8. It is late. You need to rest. I will be in touch, however be assured I will make an appointment to meet you in your office on Monday, February 3rd to discuss strategy for the stockholder's meeting on Friday the 7th. Ficklebutte thinks he has guns. I assure you what he has are nothing more than a child's empty water pistol and a cheap plastic one at that.
If you need anything, contact me any time. You are my most important client, Genevieve, therefore I am at your service.
Cris FitzG.
Genevieve read through the email several times, before responding, her fingers so not flying over the keys.
Not waiting for a response, she turned the laptop off before shutting the lid and setting it painfully on the rolling tray. Before she pushed it away, she picked up the plastic bag of jewelry that had been in her duffel bag and slowly retrieved her wedding band. She looked it for several long minutes, inspecting the weave, the intricacy of the metal work. Her left hand, where it belonged, was encased in a cast and what part of her fingers were exposed, were grossly swollen.
Therefore, she slid it on her right hand, followed by her betrothal ring. She then picked up the sketch pad she'd left out and flipped the pages past sketches of her dream home, the proposed working sketch of the Standrige-Coach Building for the Raleigh-Durham project-
How did he know about that?
-before continuing to the last sketch.
This sketch she had completed in her dreams, in a time almost a thousand years gone. She had drawn it in a convent, a convent that was probably in ruins now, overgrown with briars and thorny roses and God knows what else.
She laid her fingertips lightly on the charcoal lines, willing them not to smudge. The man's face was not quite full-on, the face full and serious, almost annoyed. His hair flowed, framed his face, was long, thick and black, the lips straight and thin. And that nose...
I love you. I miss you. I need you. Where can I find you? If I can't find you, I'll find Ripley's, I'll find the pond. I pray I find you there.
Laying the pad between her legs, and turning off the lights, she laid down, attempted to get as comfortable as possible and cried herself to sleep.
~~~...~~~
Only a few miles away, in Genevieve's office in the Equitable building, two lights glowed in the room – the small barrister's lamp on her desk and the computer screen from the laptop sitting on the conference table. In the glimmer of the computer screen, the outline of a man's face was reflected in the glass panes of the highrise office building. The custodian had come and gone, but he was left, alone, as he had been all week. Folders, files were spread all over the long table; he and the angel jokingly referred to it as The War Room in Genevieve's absence. As he leaned back, the light from the screen glinted off the chain and the silver piece hanging around his neck, clearly visible behind his opened shirt collar. He stretched long arms over his head, tired, waiting for the response. He wanted to return to his small apartment in Smryna, but he had work to do, phone calls to make. Perhaps he'd simply call the Marriott and see if they had a room for the night. With her statement she intended to fight, everything he'd planned would now have to be put in motion. Yes. A room at the would be just what he needed.
The wait, if she responded, could be more than a few minutes as he knew she was typing with one finger. Standing up, he perused the room for not the first time, taking in the artistic and photographic representation of buildings she had created, her life, before she had been yanked from all that was familiar.
Buildings, common areas, greenery, color. In one corner, was an easel, a large canvas with a partially completed scale drawing of an office complex, ranging from full color to simple lines penciled in. Behind her desk was a low, mahogany filing cabinet, pictures of her world, her and her grandmother riding, two young girls, one with a Genevieve smile, with their arms flung around each other. In this room, he had found a rich tapestry of her very essence, spread out on display...
For not the first time he picked up, and snarled at a picture of an ecstatic Genevieve and a rather reserved blonde man... the man's body language was wrong and it was as obvious as the nose on his own face! It took every ounce of self-control for him to set it back down where it originally rested, without throwing it through the window, trashing it.
Hearing no response from his laptop, he pulled out his cellphone and went to the far window, itself truly a door, that stepped onto a small balcony that overlooked a park and water fountain. In the corner was a bistro table, two chairs. Rather than sit, he went to the railing, looking over the bright lights of the city. His thumb pressed the preset and he waited impatiently for the person on the other end to answer.
"Took you long enough, brother."
There was squawking on the other end. Whoever was there was obviously in the middle of something he considered more important.
"Look, I do not care how comely the wench you are toying with tonight is. The Game is on."
More squawking.
"She has come out of the coma, she is aware, she does not want to sell. Ficklebutte accosted her in her
hospital room this morning." He stopped while the man ranted. "I have decided that was most likely a good thing. He made her angry and she is a right firebrand when she is angry. I discovered her landlines here were tapped and I have swept the room for bugs, found several, and moved them to the men's toilets. Let whoever is listening, listen to that for a while. Yes, I was thorough. You are welcome to come check for yourself."
Indignant yelling.
"Do you have something to write on? The quicker you write this down, the faster you can get back to your whore. Yes, I am sure she is lovely and yes, I am sure she is of legal age, if barely, and thinks you are a gift from God. Archer, I do not have time for this! Do you have something to write with? Good. Ficklebutte is done. I have finished that. It is completely over, save he does not know it and I do not wish for him to know at this point in time! I need you to do the following: find out everything you can, clean and dirty on Ficklebutte, anyone he's communicated with in the last year. I need to know who leaked the sale of Genevieve's stock and who sold it to him. I want the name of the inside trader. I need to know if it was someone within Genevieve's company or someone close to her that she would not suspect. I also want you to investigate Lamar Franklin Robencourt and his mother, Adelle Robencourt, formerly Adelle Hanglin. With an 'I'. Just for shites and giggles, investigate Genevieve's former architect firm, let me look..." he pulled a notepad from his pants pocket, flipping through it, "Fairburn, Hatfield and Smithton Architects... of course it is illegal! This was not done legally to begin with and I am in no mood to fight fair... yessss, that's why I contacted you in the first place! Do you have all of that? Good. Put this note away and make sure the sweet young thing you are with does not get a hold of it. Wot? No! I am in no mood for a threesome! Plan on being in the south sometime in January. Yes, as in Atlanta! Of course the meals and the hotel will be on me. It always is."
He hung up and started to dial another number, before remembering that it was the middle of the night where he was calling. Instead, he tapped his email through his phone and sent a short message.
Plan to be in Atlanta Georgia USA the first week of February. The shopping is lovely. Expect to see you at Christmas. You say where. Much love.
He spent a few more minutes standing at the rail, enjoying the relative quiet of the night – well, quiet compared to other big cities he'd lived in. Atlanta was a big town, a busy town, but it wasn't as noisy or smoggy as New York City or London. During lunch, he'd sat out on this same balcony and listened to a live marichi band playing outside the Mexican resturant just across the street. There was enough here to be cosmopolitan and when one tired of it, one could simply drive up the road and be immersed in the rural areas of the Old South in less than an hour. The weather was warmer than he was used to, but the leaves would be turning in a few weeks in the north Georgia mountains and while he doubted he would see them this autumn, perhaps next...
The breeze picked up and he inhaled the promising scent of fall on the wind. Over the many years, he hadlearned to glean things from the wind, the earth, the electricity in the air. The changing of the seasons was one.
He returned to the office, closing and locking the door behind him. He reopened his email, smiling to see a response from her. He read over that last message three times before smirking.
All of this for me? Boy, when this is over, you're probably going to own me, rather than Ficklebutte! Or at the very least, I'm going to owe you dinner.
Good night.
He leaned back, a long slender digit stroking the narrow philtrum over his lip. "My lady, I already own you."
With that, he turned off the computer, turned off the light and making his way from the office building, called the Marriott and reserved a room for the night.
He had one stop to make before he found rest in a rented bed.
~~~...~~~
Genevieve woke the next morning, her eyes tight and swollen from crying herself to sleep. The lump at the foot of the bed kept her from rolling a bit and remembered that she hadn't put away her sketch pad. She turned onthe light and rubbed her eyes...
...to find a small stuffed plushie wolf cub and a single long-stemmed red rose at the foot of the bed on top of bottom of the charcoal portrait of Guy.
I am here.
~~~...~~~
I just saw Haley's Comet, she waved
~~~...~~~
tbc