The Vanishing Year(15)
While I don’t think I’m actively being pursued, the idea of hiding is long ingrained, the thought of going back claws at the back of my throat.
“Yeah, of course.”
We stand to leave together. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his hand hovering lightly above my back, guiding me out. Men and their shows of chivalry. He opens the door for me and I step out into the busy sidewalk. The sun is gleaming and I squint, fishing around in my pocketbook for sunglasses.
“Call me when you have the article written. I really loved the photos, Cash. You’re a talented photographer.” I pause then because I’m being sincere and his smile is wide, a faint flush in his cheeks from the compliment. He walks with me to the corner, where I will go uptown and he will head downtown, to his office.
The white walk sign blinks and I step off the curb. The roar of an engine is the only sound I hear; the voices of the crowd are muted. I look up and freeze. A car is careening through the intersection, its headlights bouncing as the car hits a pothole. My feet are solid lead blocks, glued to the pavement. Suddenly, something hits me hard and I feel myself tumble through the air. I scream and close my eyes, my fingers losing their grip on my purse strap. When I open my eyes, Cash is breathing hard on the ground next to me, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his eyes wildly scanning the intersection. The car—in retrospect it was a gray sedan, glinting in the sunlight—is nowhere around.
“It turned left!” Someone from the crowd points to the alley.
“Did you get a plate number?” Cash shouts back before scrambling up and running halfway down the street in the direction the car turned. He decidedly gives up, jogging back to me. I sit up. My shoulder burns where it hit the pavement.
“What the hell was that?” Someone says.
A slight Hispanic man is crossing the intersection, wiping his hands on his white apron. He’s left his food cart across the street and his eyes are wild.
“That car, miss.” He is breathless and nervous. “Are you all right? He saved your life.” He gestures toward Cash, who is preoccupied, looking up and down the street.
I nod and stand up, half-embarrassed, and force a laugh. “They must have been drunk.”
“Ah, no miss. That was no drunk. He was parked, you see. Right there.” He points to his peanut cart. “Across from me. For an hour or more. When you cross the street, he gun the engine.”
“What do you mean? Like he was trying to hit us?” Cash stands, belligerent with his hands on his hips, ready for a fight with the unknown driver.
“Not you, sir, you headed the other way.” He shrugged apologetically and pointed to me. “He was after her.”
CHAPTER 5
The idea of going home to my apartment just to sit there holds no appeal. Cash hadn’t wanted to leave me, but no one had a license plate number. A small crowd had gathered and someone patted me on the shoulder, meant as comfort, I suppose. There wasn’t anything anyone could do and I had doubts that the car had really been after me. It seemed too random, too surreal. I figured it more likely that the driver had simply been careless or distracted, realized he was late, and in a panic ran a red light. I shooed Cash back to his office to write his piece. Reluctantly, he began his walk downtown but kept glancing back in my direction.
I walk uptown on Sixth Avenue, all twenty-two blocks, and stand uncertainly outside the glass and mirror front of La Fleur d’Elise. Even with the hike uptown my heart is still thundering from the near miss.
It’s been awhile since I’ve been back—almost a year—and my cheeks flush. I picture Lydia in the back room, prepping and cutting, and Elisa in the front, relaying celebrity gossip through the propped-open industrial steel door. La Fleur is primarily an event florist. Designer to the stars. Elisa has long held one of the top spots for floral design in the city.
I shake my hands at my sides and wriggle my shoulders to loosen them up. This is a completely terrible idea. But I have nowhere else to go. I have half a mind to just turn around and go home, or duck into a boutique, anything. I stare at the sea of taxis, a yellow tide, and my eyes glaze over. The decision is made for me.
“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in.” Lydia is standing in the doorway, her arms folded over her chest and her feet crossed at the ankles. Something glitters on her eyebrow.
“Is that a new piercing?” I squint at her and give her a friendly smile. I hope it works.
“Is that Armani?” She juts her chin at me. I hold my hands up, palms out. Her black spiky hair is tipped with blue. Long, dangling earrings. Black leather and lace get-up. Possibly fishnet stockings under a long black gauze skirt. Red lipstick curled around blinding white teeth. We used to sit on that stoop and smoke cigarette after cigarette.
She steps back, holds open the door. Her head jerks toward the front room. I walk through the door, and she bumps me with her shoulder.
The shop is bursting with color and I’m nostalgic. The front shop, small and exclusive, is open by appointment only. Castoffs and leftover blooms are sold to small corporate banquets or private clientele.
“The library looked incredible the other night. Thank you.” I dip my head, avert my eyes.
“Thank Javi, he did the designs, not me.” She walks ahead of me, waves me back into the back room, which looks typically chaotic. “He’s not here, though, although he’ll be sorry he missed you.”