Chapter 13. Sirocco Winds
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
Fitz is in one of his Sirocco moods this morning, like the desert wind, restless and moody. He can't get an appointment with Dr. McMichaels for two weeks. Boston's fluctuating temperatures over the past month have people flooding the doctor's office with the common cold and flu-like symptoms. He threw the phone across the room when the receptionist said he should go directly to the hospital if he has a true emergency. He violently rakes his fingers through his hair as he paces back and forth in the office. He needs to figure out where he can get tested, fast. Olivia might think he's a rube if he can't get a simple blood test done. That he isn't ready for a sophisticated relationship with a woman like her. He whips around wildly at the knock on the door. Cyrus is standing just inside of the office.
"Sir. I was wondering— "
"Not now, Cyrus," Fitz says gruffly.
"This will only take a minute," Cyrus presses, stepping deeper into the office.
"I said not now, dammit!"
Cyrus' pale blue eyes bulge wide, his jaw drops, and his face blooms red. He quickly hurries from the office without saying another word.
Fitz is pacing again. His mind is racing, exploring options. Maybe he'll go to one of those Urgent Care clinics. No. He can't risk some young clerk accidentally sending the test results to his home. Maybe he should go to one of the city's Department of Health clinics. No. Too many city employees use those places for primary medical care. He doesn't want to run into anyone he knows. Suddenly, he thinks of Nico, Frank's son. Nico is a doctor, a cardiologist. If Nico cannot do the bloodwork, maybe he knows another doctor who is willing to do it.
XXX
The next afternoon, Fitz meets Dr. Nicolas DiMaggio for lunch at one of those vegan restaurants with communal seating. He hates the lack of privacy, especially today. He tries not to gag on the bland Shepherd's Pie as Nico raves about Carolina, his bride-to-be. Carolina teaches special needs children at a local elementary school.
Fitz takes a long gulp of water, trying to wash down the bland meal, as Nico talks a mile a minute about his involvement in every aspect of the wedding planning process: from selecting the venue and music to tasting all the entrée and dessert samples. He insisted on planning the honeymoon, though. He wants to surprise his bride. Fitz thinks back to his wedding. He didn't do any of those things; he just showed up at the church.
Nico says that his father wants him and Carolina to start a family right away. Frank insists that Carolina return from the honeymoon with a baby in her belly, preferably two babies. The men laugh roaringly at the ridiculous edict.
On the sidewalk outside the restaurant, Nico suggests they have dinner together with Carolina and Mellie before the wedding. He told Carolina all about Fitz, how he saved his life that night, and how much he loves and respects him as an older brother. Carolina can't wait to meet the legend.
On the drive back to BPD, Fitz can see Nico's beaming face in his mind's eye. The young man is over the moon about getting married. He couldn't erase the happiness from his face. He couldn't ask Nico to be complicit in his infidelity. He didn't want Nico to think that all married men cheat on their wives. He didn't want to shatter the fantasy about married life. He knows what it's like to have your dreams destroyed. He'll have to find another way to get tested.
XXX
The next evening, Frank stands in the spacious family room with soaring vaulted ceilings. He rubs his chin as he stares at the abstract painting hanging on the wall. He doesn't get it. How can random brushstrokes be considered art?
"I guess I will never understand it," Frank says, shaking his head from side to side.
"Don't overthink it," Fitz says, handing Frank an old-fashioned glass with a healthy splash of his favorite single-barrel bourbon, neat. "It's the white space that brings the brushstrokes to life."
"I won't waste anymore time overthinking it," Frank decides. He takes the glass from Fitz' hand and the two men walk across the room. They take their usual seating positions. Fitz sits on the sofa with his legs crossed. Frank sinks into the butter-soft leather lounge chair that's adjacent to the sofa.
"This damnable heat. When will it end?" Frank complains.
"No time soon," Fitz says, swirling the scotch around in the glass. "When are you re-opening the restaurant?"
"That crazy girl, Nikola, caused a lot of damage to my business. DiMaggio has never closed for a single day in ninety years. Those city inspectors say the building is structurally sound but the cracks in the walls must be repaired. They're in violation of code. They found other violations," Frank says, making air-quotes with his fingers. "I don't believe them, but I've decided to stay closed a while longer- modernize— renovate the whole place. Maybe we'll attract a younger crowd."
"Don't change too much, Frank. People come to DiMaggio for the food and its Old-World charm."
"Enough about that crazy girl and crooked inspectors. How have you been? You look tired."
"I'm fine," Fitz says, bringing the glass to his lips.
"Liar. Your handsome face tells me everything that's inside of you. You need sleep."
"Thanks for meeting me on short notice," Fitz says, subtly shifting the conversation.
"I'm the one who usually calls these meetings," Frank says, taking a sip from the glass.
Fitz expels a soft sigh. In all the years that he has known Frank, he has never once asked the man for a favor.
"I need your help."
"Of course," Frank replies without hesitation.
"I need a doctor." Frank's warm brown eyes cloud with concern. He leans forward in the chair.
"Are you ill, my son?"
"No. Nothing like that. I'm fine," Fitz says, his fingers tightening around the glass. "I need to get some blood work done. STI tests," he adds quickly.
"You got burned." Frank says evenly. He leans back in the chair. Fitz isn't sure if he sees glee or disappointment on Frank's face.
"No. No. I need proof that I'm — that I'm clean."
"Ah! I see," Frank says, clearly amused. "You finally found someone. She won't have you until you show papers."
"Do you know someone? I need it done quickly."
"Of course, I know someone."
Frank sets his glass down on the small marble pedestal table next to his chair. He angles his body sideways on the seat cushion and then pulls the wallet out of his back pants pocket. He slides out a business card, leans forward, and hands the card to Fitz.
"Go to him. You say I say hurry."
"Is he discreet?" Fitz asks, reading the contact information on the card.
"He's my doctor for thirty plus years." Fitz nods his head then stuffs the business card into his breast pocket.
"Don't put it there. Wives snoop in our pockets all the time. Keep it in the car or put the number in your phone. Lock your phone, too. You must now learn to be more careful," Frank advises.
"Thank you," Fitz says. Frank waves a dismissive hand in the air.
"You're family."
"Can I get you a refill?" Fitz asks.
"Yes. Yes. Just a finger. I have another appointment tonight."
Fitz smiles, thinking Frank is old-school. A finger pour of bourbon is about one-fluid ounce.
"I want to hear everything about this woman. A man doesn't go to all this trouble— this testing business— just to get laid. Is she worthy of you?"
"Am I worthy of her," Fitz murmurs half under his breath as he walks over to the bar cart. Holding the bottle of bourbon in one hand and the glass in the other, he splashes a finger of bourbon into Frank's glass. He picks up the bottle of scotch and splashes two fingers of scotch into his glass. He walks back across the room and hands Frank his glass. Then he sits back on the sofa. For a long moment, he stares down at the cream-colored, hand-knotted Himalayan wool rug that's spread underneath the cocktail table. Frank eyes him closely and takes a sip.
"It's Olivia."
"Of course it's Olivia," Frank says, not surprised by the admission. "You've been infatuated with her for months." Fitz smiles sheepishly.
"It'll be physical only," he adds, trying to sound casual.
"You can have sex with any woman," the wise man retorts.
"It's for five months— until she returns to New York."
"Are five months enough to hold you for eternity? You can't be loyal forever to your mistakes, my son."
"I'm not sure what it all means. I just know I want to be with her again." Frank's ears perk up at the slip-of-the tongue.
"A man needs someone to tell his thoughts to. A man needs a woman. He's lonely without her."
"She's headstrong. Stubborn. Smart."
"Your mind needs stimulating, too," Frank chortles.
"I think she's going to drive me crazy."
"She already has. Attraction isn't a choice. Beguile her. Make her want you as much as you want her."
The mentor stands, gulps down the last of his drink, then sets the glass down on the cocktail table with a thud.
"Don't forget to turn off the lights," Frank smirks as he walks from the room.
XXX
With the phone pressed between her shoulder and neck, Olivia talks to Abby as she walks over to the sofa. She's carrying a glass of wine in one hand and in the other hand a plate with Gorgonzola cheese, slices of cured meat, a few gherkins, and roasted garlic and rosemary crackers. She sits down on the sofa and starts to build her snack for Girls Night: cheese on top of a cracker, then prosciutto, next the tiny gherkin. She slides the bite-sized snack into her mouth and closes her eyes. Once or twice a year she allows herself to enjoy three of the tasty snack crackers. Consequences be damn.
"For the record, I don't approve of any of this. I throw up in my mouth a little when I say the word agreement," Abby says fervently., She brings the wineglass to her lips. "Email me a copy of that so-called contract. I want to see what you're getting into. Somebody has to watch out for you."
Olivia washes down the snack cracker with a healthy sip of wine.
"We're past the document review stage. If he gets the tests, then I'll know he's serious."
"So, the test is a test."
"In a manner of speaking, yes. He said he would get it."
"Never mind what he said. What did he do after he said it?"
"He left. Went home I guess."
"You know those tests are just a snapshot in time."
"He'll wear a condom."
"Condoms break you know?" Abby is almost shouting.
"Would you be such a Debbie Downer if Fitz weren't married?"
"That's the point. You're too clever by half, Liv. You lose them how you catch them."
"One, I'm not catching anything. Haha. Two, too many idioms tonight."
"This thing is going to bite you in the butt. He's just a small-town cop who wants to brag in the locker room about banging a world-renowned author."
Olivia rolls her eyes. Abby knows Boston is the third largest city in the Northeast.
"He's not like that," Olivia defends.
"You don't know what he's like when he's with his family and friends." Olivia silently agrees with the mother hen. She takes another sip of wine.
"I have to go. Good-night, Abigail."
Olivia looks over at Fitz' folder that's still on the coffee table. She wonders if he will get tested. She leans forward and builds another bite-sized snack.
XXX
Frank's doctor friend came through. The lab results came back negative, of course. Fitz feels like a schoolboy who is anxious to show his mother the vocabulary test with the big red A-plus and three gold stars at the top of the page. With proof stuffed inside his pants pocket, he heads over to Olivia's apartment. He's ready to reset the start date.
Standing outside the door, Fitz inhales deeply, then knocks. After a long while, the door swings open. Olivia stares at him blankly for a moment, then turns around and walks back over to the sofa. Her head is throbbing. Fitz follows her inside, stepping into a moment, his eyes adjust to the low light.
"Olivia? Are you all right?" His voice is filled with concern.
"Why are you here?" Irritated.
"What's the matter? What's wrong?"
"Migraine."
He runs his hand along the wall to the left until his fingers touch the light switch. He flips the switch on. Incandescent light from the table lamps and ceiling fixture flood the room.
"Turn it off! Turn it off! she cries. He catches a glimpse of her sitting on the sofa shielding her eyes with her forearm. He immediately flips the switch off.
"Can I get you anything? Do you need to go to the hospital?" blindly making his way over to the sofa. He sits down next to her.
"Why are you here?"
"Do you suffer from migraines often?"
"I ate something I shouldn't have," now regretting indulging in the bite-sized crackers last night. But she's tired of denying herself the things she wants, even if she has to suffer the consequences.
"How long do they last?"
"I don't want to talk." She's tired of him interrogating her like she's a suspect.
"Lie down," he says, patting his lap. She doesn't have the energy to argue with him. She lays her head on his lap and then pulls her knees up to her chest. He gently massages her scalp.
"Aren't you hot in here?"
"The air conditioner isn't working properly. My landlady called the serviceman."
Fitz nods. After a while, Olivia struggles to sit upright.
"I'm going to be sick," she says with urgency in her voice.
Fitz' head swivels around, frantically scanning the dimly lit room for something she can puke in. No time to waste, he scoops her up from the sofa and carries her through the bedroom to the bathroom. He sets her down on the floor, in front of the toilet. He sits down next to her, rubbing her back. Her body lurches. Clear liquid spills into the bowl. She hasn't eaten a thing all day. Fitz wipes her face with a damp cloth and then tucks her into bed. The bedroom is warm. Too warm. He walks back to the living room, lights the candle, and then calls Ferguson.
"I need you to go to the deli. Get a quart of chicken noodle soup, crackers, a couple bottles of water, and orange juice. Get a bottle of ginger ale, too. Text me when you get back. I'll come down and get it."
Great. Now he's playing nursemaid to the woman, Ferguson thinks as he drives to the deli
XXX
It is Edison's turn to lead this month's superintendents meeting and he's enjoying every minute. Standing in front of the conference room at the podium, Edison directs the pointer to the colorful chart that's displayed on the projector screen. Fitz groans silently, thinking, who schedules a three-hour meeting on a Friday afternoon.
"I've taken the liberty of drafting the overtime schedule for the next five months," Edison says. "As I don't know your personal schedules, what you see displayed is just a starting point. As you can see, each week is color-coded. I have assigned a color to each of us. I have entered my availability in blue to give you an idea how this will work. Mike, you're yellow and Grant is pink.
"I can't do the week of August first," Fitz says immediately, staring at the schedule. "Family plans."
"Okay. That's why we're reviewing the schedule as a team," Edison says in a fake tone of collaboration.
"I can do that week," Mike chimes in, halfway raising his hand in the air.
"That's good, Mike," Edison says. He types Mike's name in the slot for the week of August first. He highlights the week in yellow. "Grant, what about…?"
Fitz' phone dings. A new message. Edison folds his muscular arms across his broad chest. He shoots Fitz a disapproving look. All phones should be off or on vibrate during meetings.
Thank you for the other night. Got your results. Monday at 7.
Fitz turns off his phone and smiles to himself. Now he has something to look forward to over the weekend. He can even listen to Edison drone on for the rest of the afternoon. By six-fifteen, the overtime schedule is set for the next five months. Fitz and Mike stand to leave.
"One more thing." Fitz and Mike look over at Edison. "The mayor has pre-authorized all overtime for us superintendents and our direct reports. There is no cap on how much OT you can work, or said you worked," Edison chuckles. "For the next five months you can earn as much money as your hearts desire. Pad your pensions. This is a financial windfall for all of us."
XXX
It's Sunday evening and Mellie sits in the bed with her back pressed against the headboard. She thumbs through one of the women's magazines stacked on her nightstand. She flips the page as Fitz exits the bathroom. His hair is still wet from the shower.
"Matty looked good today. I'm glad he can still make it to church," Mellie says, not bothering to look up from the magazine. Fitz stays quiet. His brother's cancer is in remission. But everyone knows there is no cure for glioblastoma, just excruciating radiation and chemotherapy treatments.
"I didn't see Dan today," Fitz says as he roots through the dresser drawer for pajama pants. He removes the orange towel from around his waist and steps into the blue plaid pants. He pulls the drawstring tight.
"I heard he finally moved away," Mellie says dryly, staring at the beautiful model who seems to be staring back at her. Fitz wrenches around with eyes wide.
"Really? When?"
"I don't know and don't care. He should've left long ago with his whore."
"Mellie!" Fitz shouts. Mellie waves a dismissive hand at him.
"I'm only saying what everyone else has been saying for years."
"Saint Gregory is his church, Mellie— his family's church. We were altar boys together."
"All of his family are dead now. He had no reason to keep hanging around here. He made it unnecessarily hard on himself."
"What do you mean?" Fitz says, pulling the gray BPD T-shirt over his damp hair. He climbs into his side of the bed.
"Dan knows how they are at Saint Gregory's. We all do. They're not tolerant of anyone who's different— intentionally or by fate. Different means unacceptable."
"A man doesn't just walk away from the only thing he's known and tries to reinvent himself elsewhere. Not at his age."
Mellie sighs. "Well, he's certainly doing it now. A new group of women are coming to the center tomorrow morning. I need to get there early to meet the bus. You and the kids will have to get your own breakfast for once."
Fitz says, "Keegan wants gun violence down before the election. Mandatory overtime til then— starting tomorrow night. I won't be home for dinner some nights."
"Fine. Just make sure you don't miss Karen's play and her birthday. Everything is planned. Good night."
"Good night."
The couple lay back-to-back in the darkness, each living a life of quiet desperation. Tethered together for almost twenty years by family traditions and their faith yet separated most of those years by loneliness and disappointment. They are two people who never should have married and cannot see their way out.
XXX
The next morning, Mellie stands primly in front of the glass double doors at the women's center with arms folded across her chest. She assesses the bedraggled woman as they step off the bus. Battered and bruised physically and/or emotionally, they carry their meager belongings in black plastic trash bags, backpacks, and anything else they were given at the donation center, the first stop before coming to the women's center.
Sandra McGinnis stands next to Mellie, watching the embattled women walk in unison up the pathway that leads to the glass doors. Sandra has worked at the center for twelve years, a few years longer than Mellie. Her husband, a police officer, was killed in the line-of-duty four years ago. She has three children that she's raising alone. Her meager paycheck supplements her widow's pension from the police department. Sandra has been trying to find a man to replace her husband, but there haven't been any takers. Sandra isn't the most attractive or fit woman in Boston. Not by a long shot.
"What do you think, Mellie? Do you see anyone you like?"
"What do you mean?" Mellie snaps at her co-worker.
"Calm down, Mels. Don't get a bee in your bonnet. Alls I'm saying is you have a keen eye for spotting which ones will work out and which ones won't. You've helped so many of these women over the years."
"God wants us to help them all, Sandra. You know that."
The women file past Mellie and Sandra on their way to the next stop, the registration table. This is where they will repeat all their personal information for the umpteenth time today to another stranger. But that's how it goes when you receive charity. As the women pass, Mellie stares each one in the eyes. There's a certain look that she's learned to spot over the years. Some drop their eyes to the floor when she looks at them with her piercing eyes. Others glare at her, mean and angry. And those who have been around a while return the gaze.
XXX
Fitz has been fidgeting all day. Tonight is his night. It's not like he's taking Olivia on a date, buying her dinner, and then hoping she invites him back to her place for sex. They both know how the evening will end. Getting to the end is the problem. Does he greet her with a kiss? Do they sit around a while making polite conversation over drinks? Does he initiate the act? This is all new territory for him. He glances down at his watch. Three more hours. He decides to go down to the gym for an hour workout, take a nice hot shower, and then go to Olivia's.
XXX
When Fitz enters the apartment, he has a strange feeling that something isn't right. There is no music playing softly in the background, no fragrant scent saturating the air, and no half-empty bottle of wine on the counter. His copy of the agreement is still on the coffee table. Standing across the room by the counter, Olivia invites Fitz to have a seat on the sofa.
"I'm sorry you had to see me like that the other night," Olivia says flatly.
"Are you feeling better. We can cancel if— "
"I'm fine," she says quickly. "The headaches only last a few hours— a day at the most."
"You look better." The corner of her mouth twitches.
"Thank you for the soup— for everything. You didn't have to do that."
"Friends support friends," he says, repeating what she told him when he thanked her for listening to him the night they walked along the waterfront.
"Would you like a bottle of water?" she says.
"Yes. Thank you." He watches her take a bottle of water from the refrigerator, thinking she seems distant tonight. She hands him the bottle and then sits down stiffly on the sofa, nearly burrowing into the armrest. He unscrews the cap from the bottle and takes a couple of gulps.
"The air conditioner still isn't working properly. The serviceman hasn't shown up yet to fix it."
"Those guys never show up when you need them, especially in this kind of weather." He sets the bottle on the table.
"The meteorologists forecast rain this evening," she says.
"Hopefully, it'll cool things off," he says.
"It's supposed to be a soaker."
Fitz listens patiently as she rambles from one random topic to the next. Then, she pauses and stares at him suspiciously. Maybe Abby is right. Maybe he just wants to brag to his friends about sleeping with her.
"Have you told anyone in the locker room about our arrangement?" she says suddenly.
He scrunches his face. "Locker room?"
"We agreed that this arrangement would be kept between us. No one at BPD could know."
"I would never tell anyone at BPD. I promise."
She sighs, thinking she's made her bed, she will have to sleep in it, at least for a while. She clears her throat and stands from the sofa.
"Well, I guess we should get started," she says in a flat, business-like tone.
XXX
The next day, Fitz sits behind his desk trying to analyze last night as he would a work problem. The sexual experience was less than satisfying, nothing like the first time. Olivia was mechanical and passionless. She unenthusiastically fulfilled her part of the agreement. She moved. She made the appropriate noises at the right times. She was there, but not there. It felt like she was holding back. And as he dressed to leave, she barely uttered a good night. He sighs, walks over to the window, and stuffs his hands in his pockets. He stares at the people milling around the park. He wonders where Dan moved to. He shakes his then starts ticking off possible reasons for last night's lackluster interaction.
Maybe it was the oppressively hot bedroom and the sound of the annoying air conditioner blowing out warm, stale air.
Maybe Olivia doesn't trust him to keep their secret. She said something about locker room talk.
Maybe his expectations were unrealistic. Maybe the first time was the fantasy and last night was the reality. They don't have a history. He doesn't have enough data to know what is normal with her. Two interactions certainly aren't enough to reach a meaningful conclusion.
A more unsettling thought creeps into his mind. Maybe his performance was unsatisfactory. Maybe he didn't please her. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
After a long while, he realizes Olivia isn't a work problem that he needs to solve. She is a woman with whom he needs to build a connection. He thinks about what Frank said: 'Make her want you as much as you want her.' He needs to slow things down. Schedule be damn.
XXX
Boston is still in the middle of its second heatwave of the summer. Five consecutive days in the mid-nineties and higher. Flushed from the heat, Fitz huffs up the steep staircase. Sweat trickles down the sides of his face as he holds the oversized cardboard box in his arms. At the top of the landing, he rests for a moment, then knocks on the door. When Olivia opens the door, she looks hot and miserable. She is wearing a pair of cornflower blue biker shorts and a navy-blue camisole with spaghetti straps. Her hair is pulled away from her face with a wide paisley-print headband. Her face glistens with perspiration.
"What are you doing here?" she says tersely, "There are rules. You must call before— "
"May I come in?" he cuts her off, blinking the sweat from his eyes.
"What's that?" she says, staring suspiciously at the box then back at him.
"What does it look like? It's an air conditioner. Are you going to let me in? I can't hold this thing forever."
Olivia steps aside and Fitz walks straight through the living room to the bedroom. It feels like heat is radiating off the walls. He drops the box on the bed and wipes his brow with his forearm. He glances around the room thinking, this is the first time he has seen the bedroom in massive bed is pushed in the corner. A painting of a woman wearing a large afro and gold hooped earrings hangs on the wall to the right of the bed. She sits in repose on a sofa, her blouse unbuttoned down to her navel. Her full breasts are almost exposed. She's confident and sure of herself.
Across from the bed is a window that holds the useless air conditioner. A tall, narrow dresser and small closet are to the right of the window. The bathroom door is to the left. He looks at the wobbly night table next to the bed. He thinks about her stash of condoms in the drawer. He wonders if she's seeing anyone else.
"I didn't ask you to bring an air conditioner," hurrying behind him in bare feet. "I'll call Mrs. Shoffener again. She'll contact the serviceman."
"The serviceman isn't coming. He's never going to come. Right now, all you have is me. We need air in here, Olivia." She arches her eyebrow at the word we. "Now stand back, please."
Fitz bunches the two sheer curtain panels that cover the window up into a knot. Then, he unplugs the behemoth air conditioner from the wall socket. Next, he wraps his arms around the old unit in a bear-like hug; he tugs on it. The relic doesn't budge. Olivia stands on the balls of her feet, places a hand on his damp back, and peers over his shoulder.
"Will it come out?"
"It went in, it'll come out. The wooden frame is just warped from years of precipitation."
"Can I help?" Fitz looks over his left shoulder at her willing face, bemused.
"This isn't work for a woman."
"Be careful."
"Olivia, you have to stand back."
Grimacing, he pulls on the unit again. It starts to screech, metal scraping against wood. Chips of paint (probably lead-based) and dry-rotted wood fall to the floor. He gives it another powerful yank. Now he's holding the monster in front of him like a laundry basket full of clothes. They look at each other and laugh in relief. Fitz carries the old unit to the front door, sets it down on the floor, and then walks back to the bedroom. They stick their heads out of the window. A yowling gray tabby stares up at them.
"I never knew what was back there," she says, staring at the flower bed planted alongside the house.
"It's just a side yard. Where's your broom and dustpan?"
"I'll get it," she says, hurrying to the kitchen.
Fitz extends the broom and sweeps around the window frame, clearing away cobwebs and bugs that have died long ago. He bends to sweep the debris onto the dustpan.
"I'll do that," Olivia says, taking the broom from his hand. He pulls a knife from his pants pocket.
"You carry a knife?" looking up at him with surprise in her eyes.
"And a gun." He flashes a lop-sided smile then slides the blade down the top seam of the cardboard box. Olivia peeks inside.
"It doesn't look as big as the other one."
"The other one was ancient. It's not the size that matters, it's the BTUs." Olivia nods her head.
Fitz pushes the new unit into the window opening until it sits in the frame. He reaches inside his pants pocket and pulls out thin strips of wood.
"What's that?"
"They're called shims. Air conditioners never fit perfectly in windows. You have to put these strips of wood under them to keep it snug in the window. Can't have an air conditioner falling on someone's head."
"I see," Olivia says, watching him force the strips of wood between the window frame and the bottom of the unit. Fitz pulls the phone from his breast pocket, taps the screen a few times, then sets it atop the air conditioner.
"Perfect," he says triumphantly. He plugs the unit into the wall socket and then adjusts the cooling setting. The replacement hums softly. He unknots the curtain panels, letting them fall back into place.
"Thank you," she says, with a soft smile on her lips.
"Stand with me," extending his hand to her. Olivia takes his hand and he pulls her in front of the air conditioner. Cool air blows through the vents.
"This feels sooo good." Olivia stretches her arms above her head. Fitz does the same thing. For one minute they both laugh out loud, acting silly and enjoying the cool air.
Fitz tosses the warranty card and owner's manual onto the bed, then cuts the cardboard box up into wide strips. Next, he takes the strips of cardboard out to the old unit. Olivia sweeps up the rest of the debris from the floor then walks back to the kitchen area. Fitz is standing at the sink washing his hands. She cuts her eyes over at him. His face is damp and the shirt sticks to his back. He worked up a sweat removing and installing two air conditioners. She dumps the trash into the bin and returns the broom and dustpan to the small storage closet.
"It'll take about an hour for the whole place to cool off. Have your landlady send someone up tomorrow to haul away the old one and cardboard," he says, drying his hands with paper towels.
"It was very kind of you to do that. How much do I owe you?"
"You don't owe me anything." He tosses the used paper towels into the trash can as he walks around the counter.
"You forgot your phone," she says, handing it to him. "What were you doing with it in there?"
"I was using the level app." Her face says she doesn't know about a level. "A level is a tool used to determine if a surface is horizontal or vertical. Well, I guess I should be going."
"Would you like a bottle of water before you go?" she says quickly. "That's the least I can do."
"Okay." Olivia smiles internally, thinking okay must be one of his favorite words.
"Have a seat," she says as she slides a bottle of water from the refrigerator.
Fitz is enjoying the music flowing through the speaker. Olivia hands him the bottle and joins him on the sofa at a safe distance. Neither is sure if they should mention the less-than satisfying sexual experience they had a few nights ago. They don't.
"Thank you," he says, unscrewing the bottle cap. Olivia reaches over and gently pulls a dust particle from his eyelash.
"You really knew what you were doing in there."
"It wasn't difficult. Just a little heavy lifting— making sure things are tight." He brings the bottle to his mouth. The cold water quenches his thirst and cools his body.
"I never saw my father do any maintenance work around our home. He paid men from the church to fix things and paint."
"Houses require a lot of maintenance."
"I'm always calling a serviceman for one thing or another." Olivia says, staring fondly at the old workhorse by the door. Fitz follows her gaze. "It looks so lonely over there. I guess it didn't have anymore air to give." She laughs lightly.
"Everything has to be replaced eventually. Parts wear out."
She nods.
"I hope I don't offend you…"
"What do you mean?" crinkling her brow.
"This has to be the oddest apartment I've ever seen."
Olivia burst into laughter. "I know. I thought the same thing when I first got here. The proportions for everything are all wrong."
"What's big should be smaller and what's small should be bigger. Who puts glass French doors on a bedroom?" Fitz says.
"I can explain some of the design decisions," making air quotes with her fingers. "Reverend Norcross… do you know him?"
"I've heard of him," Fitz says.
"He said my landlady's son used to live up here. Junior. Apparently, Junior is a big man— around six-seven."
"Wow," Fitz says. "At least he's not called Tiny." Olivia is laughing hard at his joke.
"Since he's so big… he needed a really big bed," she sputters through the laughing.
"It takes up three-quarters of the room," Fitz says.
"I know. It's insane. And the paint color… who paints bedroom walls brown? Not tan… brown."
"I can paint it whatever color you want," he volunteers.
"That's kind of you, but Mrs. Shoffener said I couldn't change a thing. I think she's hoping Junior will come home one day."
Fitz nods.
"The picture of the lady on the wall, next to the bed— "
"It's a copy of a copy of a Mickalene Thomas. I love her work. Apparently, Junior does, too," she laughs again.
"I can see why," Fitz says. Olivia playfully slaps his shoulder.
"You men. Mickalene's work is about more than breasts, Fitz. She centers the beauty, power, and sensuality of Black women. Her work traverses different levels of love and desire."
Fitz nods. After a brief pause, he shifts the topic.
"You have great taste in music." A big smile spread across her face.
"Growing up, our home was always…I mean always… filled with music," she says reminiscently.
"I don't remember ever hearing music of any kind playing in our home as a kid," he says earnestly.
"Really?"
"A quiet house."
"What kind of music do you listen to now?"
"I don't really listen to music."
"So, you still live in a quiet house. I… I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."
"I guess I never thought about it that way."
"Good music is relaxing. It releases tension in the body."
"It sounds like you know something about music."
"My father has—had a massive music collection. A vinyl connoisseur. He listened to all genres: R and B, rock, folk, jazz, classical, marching band, experimental. Everything."
"People still buy records?" Fitz asks innocently. Olivia smiles, thinking his unawareness is adorable. He doesn't know about music and doesn't pretend to. She pulls her legs onto the sofa and folds them to one side. His mind says don't look at her bare thighs. His eyes have other ideas, though.
"Vinyl records are special. It's the only way to listen to music, Fitz. Vinyl captures sound in its purest form… no digital compression. You hear music the way it was meant to be heard… with all its imperfections and textures intact. When the needle lowers on the record grooves… and you hear that crackle sound… it's… it's everything. I only listen to vinyl when I'm home."
He loves the way her face lights up and how she gets excited when talking about something she loves.
"Do you miss Brooklyn?"
"I do. I can't wait to get back home."
"Well, I guess I should be going." He stands, walks over to the kitchen area, and drops the empty bottle into the trash can. Olivia follows him to the door.
"Thanks again," she says with soft eyes.
Fitz glances around the space and says, "It's already starting to feel comfortable in here."
XXX
Something is amiss. More than ever, Cyrus is convinced that something is going on with Fitzgerald Grant. Last week the man nearly bit his head off for trying to ask a simple question. He needs to find the source of the man's mood swings. He knocks on the office door. This time he waits to be invited inside.
"Come in, Cyrus," Fitz says, still looking down at a document on the desk. Cyrus frowns when he hears music playing softly in the background.
"You're listening to music?" His tone is disapproving.
"Music is relaxing, Cy. You ought to try it sometime." Cyrus turns up his nose at the idea of listening to music.
"I have some ideas on how to address the gun violence. I would like to bounce them off you— game it out. They will help you look good in Keegan's eyes. How about we discuss over dinner tonight?
"Not tonight," Fitz replies without offering an explanation.
"I know this is your week to pull overtime, but overtime doesn't have to be done within the confines of these walls. It can be done anyplace you choose. That's why we carry a little-known invention called the cell phone." Cyrus says, shaking his phone in the air.
"How about we discuss your ideas at lunch tomorrow?" Cyrus frowns. He knows when he's being dismissed.
"Lunch tomorrow it is. Have a good evening, Sir."
Cyrus walks back down the hall and toward the elevator, thinking now the man is listening to music at work. What's next, dancing in the parking lot? Cyrus doesn't like it. Something has changed and he needs to know what has happened. He won't let anything interfere with his plans. Come hell or high water, Fitzgerald Grant will be the next police commissioner.
XXX
It's Olivia's night. She actually smiles when she sees him standing on the other side of the door.
"Come in. Have a seat," she says in a happy tone.
"It feels good in here."
"Would you believe Mrs. Shoffener's serviceman never showed up?" She pouts a little. "It's been two weeks. I will have to speak with her."
"You have cool air, that's all that matters," he says.
"I have something for you," she says in a sing-song voice. He smiles. "I made a playlist for you."
"You didn't have to do that," grinning.
"I know. Do you have an iPhone or Android?"
"iPhone."
"Give it to me," holding out her sets the phone into it. She puts the phone on the counter and syncs it with her speaker. Then, she pulls him over to the sofa by the hand. She sits down; he sits a hair's breadth away from her.
"Since I don't know what kinds of music you like and you don't have a preference, I gave you a variety of genres— a mixtape so to speak."
He watches her connect his phone to her laptop with a cable. Then, she opens the music app on her laptop. Next, she uses the mouse to drag the songs from her music app to the music app on his phone. She moves a dozen songs to his phone.
"This is a starter playlist," she says. "If you don't like the songs, just delete them. You can always add new ones."
"I like what you listen to," he says earnestly.
"I have several playlists. They're personal. They're the soundtracks of my life."
"What do you mean?" he says.
"Some of my playlists are collections of music that remind me of important events in my life. I'm always amazed how a song can bring back old memories – good and bad. You'll create your own personal soundtrack."
He nods.
"Lean back. Close your eyes. You can't just hear the music. You must listen to it," repeating her father's directive. "Feel how the composer has used the notes."
Fitz nods again. He leans against the back cushion and closes his eyes.
"Now, slowly inhale and exhale."
"Are we going to do yoga or listen to music?" he quips.
"I want you to relax your body, first. Your mind will follow."
She guides him through three deep inhales and exhales, then clicks on the first song.
"Keep your eyes closed and really listen to the notes. Does it remind you of a special time or place in your life?"
She studies his profile, watching his eyelids flutter as he listens to the song. After a while he opens his eyes, rolls his head to the left, and looks at her.
"I felt nothing," he says flatly.
"That's fine. It just means the song didn't resonate with you. It didn't kiss your soul," now repeating what her mother used to say to her.
"Let's try another one. Close your eyes."
He rolls his head back to center on the cushion. The corner of his mouth curls up when the song starts to play. She smiles, too. He likes it.
"I like it," he says, enjoying the rhythmic sounds of the saxophone, guitar, and drums.
"How does it make you feel?"
"Happy," he says with eyes still closed.
They listen to the rest of the playlist. Fitz rejects the songs that don't kiss his soul.
"How do I add more songs to the playlist?" he asks.
Olivia gives him a quick tutorial on how to use the music app on his phone to create playlists and delete songs.
"Tell me another one of your moods," she says.
"Happy."
"We already did happy."
"I'm still happy," he says with a smile.
"Happy it is," wriggling her shoulders playfully. He leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and stares at the screen. Her fingers fly over the keyboard, moving songs from her laptop to his phone.
"You're pretty good at that," he says.
"Now you try it," she says, sliding the mouse over to him. "You can use the keyboard or the mouse."
Fitz tries to create a new playlist but sighs in frustration after a while. "I think I made a mistake." Olivia leans against his shoulder and looks at the screen.
"It's an easy fix," she says. "You learn by making mistakes."
She talks him through the process until he gets the hang of it. They exchange smiles when he makes his first playlist.
"Maybe I should organize my soundtrack based on my emotions."
"Maybe you should. A lot of research has been done on music-evoked emotions," she says, trying to stifle a yawn.
"You're tired. I better let you get some sleep," he says, standing up from the loveseat.
"I'm sorry. We didn't … I got so caught up in talking about music."
"Don't worry about it. I got everything I needed. Good night, Olivia."
"Good night, Fitz. I'll see you next week. Your night," she says with an inviting smile.
XXX
It's Monday. Fitz could hardly wait for the weekend to end. It's his night to see Olivia. They haven't had another interaction since the disaster, and he didn't press the matter. He thinks she needed to be sure of him, trust him. Sitting in the backseat of the SUV with earphones stuck in his ears, he is listening to the songs he added to the playlist. Ferguson looks in the rearview mirror and scowls at his boss humming and bouncing his head up and down. He wonders when the man started listening to music.
"You didn't use the peephole," he says, closing the door behind him. "You never know who's on the other side of the door."
"I knew it was you," she says breezily, swinging her hips as she walks over to the counter.
"You should always use the peephole, Olivia."
"How was your day?" she asks.
"A day," he says. "It always smells nice in here," glancing around the space.
"The candle scent is called Pink Grapefruit."
"Candles can be a fire hazard. Be careful."
"Do you work for the police department or the fire department, Superintendent?"
"You should make it a habit to always practice safety measures."
"I stopped to get us a bottle of wine on my way home tonight. When I first arrived in Boston, I Googled top wine stores. I found Vino. It's down on Fulton Street. Do you know it?"
"No, I don't."
"The salesman, Dominick, well… he's more than a salesman. He's very knowledgeable. I think he might be a sommelier. He sets aside some of the best varietals for me. I've probably spent a small fortune there."
"It sounds like Dominick is doing his job well," Fitz says sarcastically.
"He said I would fall in love with this one. It's been breathing for almost two hours. I can't wait for us to try it."
Fitz watches Olivia pour wine in two wineglasses. She walks over to the sofa and hands him one. He hates wine, but he doesn't want to disappoint her.
"Cheers," clinking her glass to his. She takes a sip and closes her eyes. "This is wonderful. You're going to love it." She waits for him to try it. He takes a tentative sip then sets the glass on the coffee table.
"I told you. It's wonderful, isn't it?" she says cheerfully.
"I made another playlist," he says hastily, evading her question.
"You did?" surprise filling her voice.
Fitz pulls his phone from his pocket and opens the music app. He hits the Play icon. His music interrupts the music that's been playing in the background. He waits for her reaction. Her smile is wide.
"You've discovered Miles. I like it."
They talk about whatever comes to mind while enjoying the music. Olivia walks over to the counter and raises the bottle in the air.
"More wine?"
"I'm good."
She can read in his eyes that it is time. No more tests. No more delays. She sets the bottle down on the counter and walks back to the loveseat. She crawls onto his lap, straddling him. The determination in her eyes turns him on. She's kissing him. He tastes the wine on her lips. He unbuttons her blouse down to her navel. He glides his tongue down her neck to her cleavage. Her breath quickens. His phone vibrates on the coffee table. Her eyes silently ask if he needs to answer it.
XXX
The air is cool. The sheets are crisp. Her nipples are like raisins. His warm mouth covers them, licking and sucking til they come alive. His fingers flutter inside her wetness, her clitoris swelling with desire. Thick and warm, his hardness presses against her thigh. With shaky hand, Olivia points to the nightstand. He's confused; he's been tested. The expression on her face doesn't waver. He reluctantly pulls a foil packet from the drawer, rips it open, and deftly slides it up. Right away, he's back on top of her.
"Wrap your legs around me," his warm breath is against her ear.
With her legs around his waist, Fitz fixes his eyes on her. She melts under the intensity of his gaze. Bodies slick with perspiration, his heart pumps harder as he thrusts with a tender ferocity. Her body shivers from the sensations. He pulls her close, kissing her tenderly as she trembles around his hardness.
Olivia is on top of him, exploring his mouth with her tongue. She runs her hand up and down his hardness, slowly guiding him inside of her again. She moves up and down. She feels wonderful. He moans with pleasure. His large hands encircle her body, pressing her close. As he explodes, he thinks what a wonderful way to die, the little death.
With the blowing air cooling their parched skin, Fitz smiles in the darkness. He's savoring the feeling of Olivia cuddled on his side and the soft music flowing from the living room area. He lifts her chin and kisses her tenderly. He doesn't want the night to end.