Chapter 3
Charlie groaned, rolled over, opened one eye and tried to focus on the clock on the desk next to the bed. Ten? In the morning? Had be been ill? He never slept until 10 in the morning, even on a Saturday, unless he was sick. His memory started to kick in gear. Or shot. Sometimes he slept late if he was shot. He smiled at the ridiculous thought, and suddenly remembered why he felt like he had been hit by a truck. Both eyes opened wide. Time to call Amy.
Groaning again at the movement, he leaned over to snag the cell off the desk, flipped it open. While he had refrained from calling her, like they agreed, he had programmed her number into the phone four days ago, assigned it a speed dial number. He hit the "send" button and forced himself to sit up on the edge of the bed.
"This number has been disconnected. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please hang up and dial again, or call your operator for further assistance."
What?
Maybe he had entered the number wrong? Charlie looked at the display. That was right, wasn't it? He didn't make errors with numbers very often…but maybe he had been distracted. He stood painfully and leaned over the desk, searching through the papers. There it was. The ship newsletter, where she had written her number in the margin. He compared it to the cell display. Definitely correct.
He scratched his head while he called directory assistance. There were listings for 7 Amy Martindales in L.A. County. Unbelieveable. He sat at the desk and scribbled down each number, then started dialing. He got answers at three — all the wrong Amys. Charlie placed the cell on the desk and started looking at it as if it were a snake. The clock caught his eye again and he sighed. He had to go to campus today, finish writing his final for Monday afternoon's class. He padded down the hall for a shower. .
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Alan plopped the meat into the roaster, began surrounding it with the vegetables he had just prepared. He heard a door open and turned, carrot still in his hand.
Don held up his hands. "Don't shoot."
Alan smiled, turned back to his task. "Morning, Donnie. I thought you'd be working every weekend for a year after taking four consecutive days off!"
Don wandered over to the counter. "Good. Enough for leftovers, roast beef sandwiches for a week." He handed his father the salt shaker, and Alan glared at him a little before he put it down.
"I did that already. Leave me alone. You've never complained about my roast beef, let me make it."
Don backed off, sat at the table. "I kind-of thought I'd be working today myself, so I didn't really make any plans. Is Charlie here?"
"Hasn't come down yet."
Don looked at his watch. "It's 10:45."
Alan finished and placed the pan in the oven, moved to the sink to wash his hands. He came to the table still drying them. "I know. He's still getting up at night and coming downstairs, so I thought I'd let him sleep."
Don frowned, and Alan hurried on. "Not as much, I don't think. The cruise was good for him." He sat down and held his oldest's gaze. "You haven't said much about this Amy."
Don was saved from answering when the door from the dining room swung open and Charlie joined them, cell phone to his ear. "I understand, thank you. I'm sorry to have disturbed you." He disconnected, sat at the table.
His father raised an eyebrow. Charlie was dressed as if he were going to school. "Good morning. You do understand that it's Saturday?"
Charlie smiled. "Good morning, Dad. And yes, I do. Finals are next week, remember?" He looked at Don. "Hey. Did we have plans?"
Don shrugged. "No, I just came by to see if I could talk anyone into anything. Kind-of at loose ends, today." He looked at Charlie carefully. He looked okay, a little distracted, but he always was during finals. "How are you after yesterday afternoon?"
"What happened yesterday afternoon?" Alan tensed. Usually when the boys kept secrets from him, it called for tension.
Charlie leaned back in the chair, yawned. "I went to Don's office."
Alan smiled. "Really? That's good news, son." He exchanged a look with Don. "How was it?"
Charlie stood back up and crossed to the refrigerator. "It will be easier next time," he said, peering inside. He shut the door without taking anything. "Do we have any potato chips?"
Alan looked at him disapprovingly, then sighed. "I guess it is closer to time for lunch than breakfast." His eyes brightened. "Let me turn the oven to low, and we'll all go to lunch. Then you can go to work, and Donnie and I will…" he looked at Don. "Catch an early matinee?"
Don pushed up from the table. "A plan. I love a plan." .
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Charlie tried to force himself to concentrate on the final. One reason he wanted to come in on Saturday to do it was because the empty building usually made it easier, but today, all he could think about was Amy. He had connected with all seven Amy Martindales listed, now, and none of them were his Amy. Giving up, he saved the work on his lap top and started opening desk drawers, finally finding a phone book in one of them. He looked at the year. Fairly recent.
He turned to "day spas" in the yellow pages. Amy hadn't told him the name, just that it was in the city. He looked at the list. Apparently day spas had a lot of competition. He picked up the phone and started dialing.
He was lucky, this time. On the third call, he hit pay dirt.
"Adventure Spa, this is Michelle speaking. How can I help you this afternoon?"
"Michelle, I wonder if you could help me. I'm trying to locate a stylist named Amy Martindale, and I've forgotton the name of the spa…"
"Oh, yeah, Amy works here. Let me find her book…"
His heart rose as he listened to the rustling. Thankfully, Michelle held the phone away from her mouth before he heard her yell, "Kimbo! I can't find Amy's book!" Her voice came back more clearly. "I'm sorry, sir, I'll be right with…" She faded out again. "What? When?" She took on a sarcastic tone. "Thanks for letting me know. How am I supposed to schedule people when…" She became more formal again as she came back to Charlie. "I'm sorry, sir, I've just been informed that Amy Martindale no longer works here. I'm sure I can schedule you with one of our other stylists…"
His heart dropped again, a little further this time. "When…When did Amy leave?"
"I understand she notified the owner on Monday morning that she was quitting. What kind of services were you looking for?"
Amy's, thought Charlie. "I…I'm sorry, I'm going to have to get back to you. Thank you."
Charlie hung up, stood and started pacing the room. Phone disconnected. Job quit. What was going on? He had her address, she had given him that, too. He would drive by her apartment.
He grabbed his backpack and turned for the door of his office, only to see Amita standing there. He looked at her, surprised. He hadn't seen her since Tuesday, and he certainly didn't expect to see her today.
"I thought you might be here. I know you like to come and write your finals in solitude."
He didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything.
She took a step toward him. "I wanted to apologize. For lunch."
He shifted his backpack. "It's all right, Amita, I was probably out of line myself…but I still don't really know what happened, why you got so upset…"
She took another step, closing the distance between them. "I know. That's what's still so upsetting."
He looked at her, puzzled.
She blushed. "I can't believe I did this."
He was getting nervous. "What?"
"Mark. When he came here for the weekend, we both knew right away that it wasn't going to work, that one of us really wanted to be with someone else. I asked him to pretend, whenever Larry or your Dad was watching us."
Now he was confused. "I'm sorry…but why pretend?"
She took another step. She was right in front of him now, farther into his personal space than he usually allowed. He caught a faint scent of roses.
"I wanted them to tell you what they saw." Her voice was lower than usual, breathy. She was looking right into his eyes, and he couldn't look away. "I wanted to make you jealous." She moved even more, and he could actually feel her body against his, felt her breasts when she leaned, whispered into his ear. "One of us wants to be with you, Charlie."
And then she was kissing him, and he was responding, his backpack thudding to the floor, his brain screaming at him to stop, her hands screaming at him to go on. With effort, more strength than he knew he had, he broke off, stepped back, away from her. They were both breathing hard.
"I'm…I'm…" Charlie couldn't string words together. Charlie couldn't string thoughts together. What the hell was happening?
He was still backing off, and stumbled over his backpack, had to grab the corner of the desk. He saw the offending pack, remembered. He needed to find Amy. He grabbed the pack, looked again at Amita, thought that he might die where he stood. Finally, without another word from either of them, he brushed past her and left.