The Redemption(47)

“Ms. Floros, hello?”

I turn around and see his house manager. “Hi, Marguerite. Um…” Suddenly I feel the need to explain why I’m here as she looks at me curiously. “Dex needs clothes overnighted to him. He was running late, so Tommy asked me to come here and pack a case.”

“I can help you. I know where everything is.”

Relieved, I say, “That would be great.”

She goes to his closet and pulls down a duffle bag and has an arm full of T-shirts when she walks back out. “These are his favorites. I keep them together. That way he can find them easily. Maybe three pairs of jeans?” She sets the stuff down on the bed.

“Yes, that will work.” I start to put the shirts in the bag as she goes back to the closet for more clothes. Peeking over at her, I say, “I saw a picture on his nightstand.”

She stills, her hands stopping on a stack of jeans. She recovers quickly though and says, “Yes,” and nothing else.

“It’s of me.”

“Yes,” she replies when she returns. She sets the jeans down, her eyes lowered as well, almost seeming to avoid my questioning ones.

Wanting to pursue it more, I ask, “Can you tell me about it?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You clean his room. So you know it’s there. Has he ever mentioned it?”

“Ms. Floros—”

“Please call me Rochelle.”

Her kind smile reappears. “Rochelle, I’ve only ever had instructions, not explanations.”

“That sounds like Dex. He’s not the best at explaining his actions.” A dig I should have probably saved for him.

Walking to the dresser, she shuffles around and I continue packing the bag. She looks over at me and says, “It’s to remain there.”

I stop what I’m doing, and ask, “What is? The photo?”

“Yes, those are my instructions. He wants it there, except when he knows he’s going to be having company. Then I’m supposed to put it in the drawer.”

“Those are pretty specific instructions.”

With a small smile, she says, “Yes, they are.”

She doesn’t need to explain anymore, the drift is caught in her expression. After adding his boxer briefs into the bag, she puts two handfuls of socks, then disappears into the bathroom. She’s not gone long, but long enough for me to slip over to the nightstand and grab the picture. I tuck it into the bag, hidden from view just as she returns with a toiletry case and sets it inside the bag. It’s zipped closed. She grabs a little lock from the closet and fastens it. “Women steal his clothes. They all want a piece of him,” she says, protectively.

Grabbing it off the bed, I turn and head out of the bedroom. “I’ll ship it from the office address so they won’t know it’s his.”

Following me down the stairs, she says, “He cares about you.”

I stop with three steps to go and look over my shoulder. She seems like she might want to say more, but I don’t. “Thanks for helping me pack, Marguerite.”

“You’re welcome.”

Outside, I toss the bag in the back of my SUV and drive away feeling more confused than when I arrived, as if that was even possible. After I ship the duffle bag, I call the makers of his preferred drums. Cost is not a factor so they’ll hit the road themselves and have them delivered and setup for the show tomorrow. He’ll be happy. Tommy will be happy. And I can go back to dealing with my work.



Dear Cory,

I don’t want to talk to anyone else about this, so I hope you don’t mind my nonsense. I should be working. Should being the operative part of that sentence. But I have so much on my mind. I was just thinking the problem with plans, like working, is that your mind and heart don’t care about the day-to-day routines. They care about things that affect them and make them work harder, beat faster.

Today I had a fascinating conversation with Marguerite, Dex’s housekeeper. The conversation has played on repeat all afternoon and pretty much the entire next day.

I found this photo he had… I sigh. You know, I shouldn’t bother you with silly stuff like this. I miss you.





XO


I close the journal and think on the photo. A photo of me that he keeps on his nightstand only adds to the bewilderment I have over this whole situation. What Marguerite said about the photo makes me think that maybe there is something more to this story. But my more logical side cannot come to any solid conclusion to why he would lie to me. So I am stuck—do I believe what Marguerite said or do I believe what I saw?





I arrive at the café a few minutes early, but I’m impressed that Chad Spears has arrived even earlier. “Hello,” I say, approaching the table.

“Hi.” He stands and comes around to pull my chair out for me. We greet each other Hollywood style—a faux-kiss to the cheek. “You look beautiful,” he says.

“Thank you.” I sit down as he takes his seat across the small table from me. “Have you been waiting long?”

“No, less than five minutes.” The waiter approaches and Chad asks, “Champagne, Rochelle?”

“Are we celebrating?”

“Yes.”

“Champagne will be great then.”