Phoenix Heart Read online

  During the interview the week before, that same strand of hair had fallen down across his forehead, and while I’m sure my mouth had continued in some way to function, muttering at least semi-intelligent words, all I’d been able to think about was how much I’d wanted to reach across and brush that strand of hair from the forehead of Dr. Andrew Marshall Richards.

  “Just your typical, run-of-the-mill, science teacher.” I laughed. “With Caren Granzella, that run-of-the-mill, drop-dead-gorgeous, supermodel clinging to his arm. Not in my wildest fantasies.”

  “Caren who?” he asks as he approaches Melanie with the silence and power of a panther. “She is nothing to me. Only you can…”

  “Well, I am glad to hear you say it.”

  I looked up at Cheryl’s face and a chill shivered through my little dream. “What?”

  She looked around the empty lunch room and then back at me. “I said I’m glad to hear you say it.”

  “Well, thanks a bunch.”

  “Mel, in spite of what you think, you’re pretty,” Cheryl said. “And you’re smart. And you’re funny. I think Andrew Richards would be lucky to have you. But, I don’t want you to do what you always do.”

  “And what is that?”

  She looked at me for a long moment, took a deep breath, and then said in a rush, “Fixate on some unavailable guy so that you have an excuse to bypass all the real guys.”

  “Huh?”

  “And even if he were interested, then you’d convince yourself you’re not worthy, too unattractive, whatever.”

  I sat back in my chair and stared at her. A flush rose in her cheeks, but she didn’t break the gaze. Someone told me once that only truth hurts; by that measure, what she had said had to be absolute gospel.

  “Wow, thanks Cheryl,” I managed to say.

  “Melanie, you’re my best friend. I want you to be happy and you are not happy. You went after this trip to San Francisco because you think something will happen, right? That’s what you said.”

  “So?”

  “It’s always this way. The perfect trip will change your life. Getting into the perfect grad school will change your life. Meeting Mr. Perfect Andrew Richards will change your life. And yes, all those things are great, but until you realize that life is not perfect and you decide you are going to change your life, you can go on ten thousand trips and the only one coming back will be the same old Melanie who left, the Melanie who is so lonely that sometimes when I look at you it feels like someone has my heart in their hand and they’re crushing it.”

  She was leaning across the table, her eyes wet, her voice shaking.

  I could feel my eyes begin to burn, so instead, I smiled. “Cheryl, I really appreciate the fact that that was very difficult for you to say, and that it shows me what a good friend I have, but you’re pretty far off-base.”

  Cheryl blinked, started to say something, shook her head, and looked down at the table.

  “Don’t be upset,” I said. “You know, maybe at one time I was like that. I don’t know, maybe you are right about when I was younger. But I just told you, I don’t have any fantasies about Andrew Richards or anyone else. I just want to go on a fabulous trip to San Francisco and if you want to be the ‘two’ in ‘trip for two,’ you’d better hope I win.”

  “You are lovable,” Cheryl whispered at the table. Then she looked up, and this time the smile I’d raised on my face like a shield dropped away.

  “I don’t know…”

  “Your parents were sick. No, not parents. Your sperm donor and your egg donor were sick, twisted people.”

  “Stop it.”

  “You are lovable and one of these days a man is going to come along who won’t let you run away. When you try to laugh it off or find an excuse why he’s not the one, he’s going to grab you, turn you around and say, Hey, listen to me! I love you, and for once you’re going to believe him.”

  We stared at each other for the longest moment before I blinked and looked out the window. Sprinklers swept the park across the street. The wet grass sparkled in the bright sunshine. “Swami Cheryl sees all and tells all, huh?” My voice was only a little shaky. “Since you’re so good at telling the future, maybe you’ll tell me whether or not I won that blasted contest.”

  “Change the subject if you want, but someday I’m going to get a lot of satisfaction telling you I told you so.”

  I turned back to her. She stared at me, the set of her face daring me to contradict her, and while ordinarily I would have managed to change the subject, to pass the whole conversation off as a joke somehow, I couldn’t because too much of me was crying out at that moment, pleading with The Fates that Cheryl would get her chance to tell me exactly that.

  “Ladies?”

  We both jumped and looked toward the stairs leading down to the bank lobby. Mr. Jackson stood on the steps looking up at us. “I do hate to break this to you but lunch is over. Would you like to come down and relieve Ms. Williams and Mr. Eagleton so that they might have lunch?”

  “It would be a joy and a privilege, Mr. Jackson,” I said.

  Mr. Jackson’s lips twitched and the slightest flush colored his pale, wrinkled cheeks. He nodded, turned and disappeared down the stairs, the glint of the overhead light on his bald pate the last thing to be seen. His voice floated up the stairwell after him. “I knew it would be.”

  His words were followed by an awkward silence. Cheryl cleared her throat. “Mel, look, I’m sorry. Maybe I went too far.”

  I held up a hand. Mr. Jackson’s interruption had been enough to let me regain control. “Just stop Cheryl. I’ve heard enough. You know, you may have to wait to tell me I told you so, but I’m not going to wait to tell you something.”

  “Mel.”

  “No, please. I’ve been wanting to say it for quite a while now, and you really have to be told. You have a piece of spinach salad stuck between your two front teeth and it looks really gross.”

  Cheryl looked up. A grin slowly spread across her face. She took a step around the table. “You, you…”

  I threw up my hands and backed away. “No, stop, please! Your wit is cutting me to shreds.”

  “One of these days, Melanie. One of these days.” She waved a fist. “Pow! Right in the kisser.”

  “You’re scaring me to death.” I began clearing the last few things off the table. “You go on ahead. I’ll clean up and be right down.”

  “Okay.”

  I watched her disappear, and then I turned the magazine toward me. I touched the photo, touched that strand of hair hanging over that broad forehead, traced my finger down the side of that face. Then I flipped the magazine closed, swept it and the rest of the trash off the table into a wastebasket, and headed downstairs.

  * * * *

  “Melanie.”

  I looked up from the spreadsheet on the screen over to Mr. Jackson. “Yes sir?”

  “It’s five o’clock. Lock the doors, will you?”

  “It is?” I looked up at the clock, and then around the lobby. There were only four people left in line. The agonizingly long afternoon had suddenly come to an end. “Sure, I mean, yes sir, of course.” I took the keys from him, walked over to the front door, and knelt down to lock the bolt at the base of the door then stayed nearby, unlocking and locking the door as the last customers left. Just as I bolted the door after the final one, a shadow came between me and the lowering sun. I looked up to see three men in business suits coming up the front walk. I shook my head and smiled an apology. We’re closed, I mouthed.

  The man in the center, silhouetted against the bright light, was a tall, thoroughly intimidating man with steel-gray hair and a coal black suit. He shook his head, pulled a wallet out of his pocket and flipped it open to show an ID. I squinted through the glass, trying to decipher it.

  “It’s okay Melanie, let them in.” I jumped, and turned to see Mr. Jackson standing above me, his expression carefully composed.

  “Uh, yes sir.”

  I unlocked the
bolt and the man pulled the door open as I tried to scramble back out of the way. They barely waited for me to move, almost stepping on me in their hurry to get in.

  “Jackson,” growled the grey-haired man, “we have things to discuss.”

  Mr. Jackson looked to be struggling with some strong emotion. He swallowed hard then managed to get a small, “Yes sir,” out.

  The four men walked toward Mr. Jackson’s office in the back of the bank in total silence. Ten pairs of eyes followed until the door closed behind them.

  “What is it?”

  “You think he’s in trouble?”

  “I bet it’s an audit.”

  “It’s always the little quiet ones. I bet he’s been embezzling for years.”

  “He probably gambles...”

  “...has a mistress...”

  “...drugs, cocaine for sure...”

  “...I always thought he was a little too good to be true.”

  “Will you guys cut it out?” I said. “This is Henry Jackson we’re talking about.”

  “Come on, Melanie,” said the assistant operations officer, “you saw them. You think guys like that come in from corporate to talk about how many buns to order for the company picnic? Something big is coming down.”

  “The only thing big that’s coming down around here is your mouth.”

  He grinned at me. “You know, Brenner, we’ve all been discussing the fact that we are glad you’re quitting to go back to school fulltime. We’re going to have a party to celebrate. They’ve declared a bank holiday. All the schools are going to close.”

  I laughed and then just as I was about to open my mouth for a truly withering reply, Mr. Jackson’s door reopened. The four men walked out and all of us suddenly realized we had a tremendous amount of work to do.

  “May I have your attention?”

  All heads popped up in unison. Mr. Jackson stood in the lobby with the three men at his back. “Could you all come over here? I have something I have to tell you.”

  Mr. Jackson’s expression was bleak, the other men’s, stony-faced.

  “As you know, I was going to call you together this evening to announce the results of our savings account contest, but I’m not going to be doing that now.” He swallowed and looked back over his shoulder.

  I looked over at Cheryl. She shrugged and shook her head. I don’t know, she mouthed.

  “Instead, I’m going to introduce Mr. Richard Champsworth, our executive vice-president of operations, who,” he turned back to the group and smiled broadly, “will be announcing the winner in my place. Mr. Champsworth?”

  As the man in the coal-black suit stepped forward, I felt my heart give a sideways jerk.

  “To begin with, I must say that all of our employees throughout the system put in an exceptional effort.” Mr. Champsworth looked much less intimidating when he smiled. One of the men behind him stepped to the side and I noticed for the first time that he was carrying a camera. My knees began to feel weak. “You should all be very proud of yourselves, just as we are of each and every one of you. However, one of your group was responsible for such an exceptionally high number of new accounts that when the results first came in, we had the numbers rechecked.”

  The men chuckled softly and the crew shifted and looked at each other, and then, as if they’d rehearsed it, they all looked toward me.

  It’s really happening. Oh my lord it’s really happening.

  “But, as it turned out, the numbers were absolutely correct.” He turned toward me. “Ms. Brenner, when you get back from your trip to San Francisco, you’re going to have to let us in on your secret.”

  There was a scream from Cheryl’s general direction and then a number of hands were reaching out to pat me on the back and push me forward. The other man of the trio turned out to have a plaque and a fat envelope packed with tickets and certificates. The camera flash went off time and again as Mr. Champsworth shook my hand and all the other employees, even the assistant operations officer, hugged and congratulated me. Mr. Jackson just beamed and then he broke down, went wild and planted a dry kiss on my cheek.

  Later, I couldn’t remember a word of the speeches or the good wishes. All that I remembered was this little voice inside saying over and over, It’s really happening. I did it. It’s really happening.

  CHAPTER 3

  As I approached the door to the lab, I could hear the clink of glassware, the low whirr of a table-top centrifuge, and a woman’s and at least two men’s voices.

  First man: “It’s the new dish soap; I know it’s slowing their growth.”

  Second man: “Maybe you just shouldn’t have sneezed on the plate.”

  First man: “Hey, it’s bacteria, isn’t it? What’s a little more or less on the dish?”

  Second man: “So why didn’t it stimulate growth, instead of stunting it? Huh? Tell me that?”

  “Hey, you’re the one who suggested it was the sneeze, not me. You can’t have it both ways.”

  Woman: “Why don’t you children go argue somewhere else and let me clean this glassware?”

  “Just use the old soap, Peg, will ya?”

  I came up to the door and peered around the corner. An older woman with yellow rubber gloves up to her elbows stood at a sink with glass beakers and flasks piled nearby. Two young men, one of whom was Chuck Benson, were standing next to her. Chuck looked much as he had outside the interview room door: hair still uncombed, wearing a t-shirt and jeans, the t-shirt faded red this time instead of green. He wore a white lab coat hanging open in the front. The other young man stood at least half a foot shorter than Chuck’s six-feet, had thick, dark-rimmed glasses, and thin pale hair combed back from a thin, pale face. The combination of the set of his face, the hair, and the glasses made me glance quickly down to his white shirt under his open lab coat to look for a pocket-protector (no) and to his wide black belt for a calculator (yes, Hewlett Packard scientific). He stood in front of Chuck, almost bouncing on his toes, looking wound tighter than a rubber-band airplane ready to fly.

  It was Chuck pleading with Peg to use the old soap. The other guy’s lips were pursed with irritated disgust. “Charles, it’s not the soap,” he said. “You and your voodoo biology. Why don’t you just bring a dead cat in here and wave it three times over the petri dishes?”

  “Did that last night,” Chuck said. “Didn’t work.” He leaned toward Peg. “Old soap, okay Peg?” He smiled and winked, and the older woman’s eyes crinkled up.

  She patted his cheek gently with one yellow-gloved hand and I heard the wet sound the rubber made against his cheek. “For you, anything.”

  “A queen among women,” he said and took her hand and bowed over it.

  “Soap is not the answer,” the other guy said prissily.

  Chuck smiled easily. “Lance, maybe it isn’t, but it doesn’t hurt to try.” His eyes shifted and he saw me standing in the doorway, clutching my notebook, a pen, and a piece of paper. “Hey, you survived.”

  I smiled nervously. “Barely.”

  “Congratulations.”

  I shrugged and referred to the piece of paper in my hand. “This is room 413?”

  “Sure enough.”

  “I guess this is my first lab assignment.”

  “Hey, great!” Chuck said with a broad smile.

  “She’s not going next to me,” Lance said. “There’s not enough room and I’m not going to be stuck with a first year.”

  Chuck turned, his smile fading. “Lance.”

  “I wouldn’t think of disturbing you,” I said. They both looked at me. “I know your work is very important Mr...”

  “Parker,” he said.

  “Mr. Parker. I’ll do my best not to be a nuisance. Of course, if you ever should have time, with your experience anything that you’d be willing to tell me would be invaluable.”

  The pursed lips relaxed a fraction.

  “I know how difficult it is having someone around who’s totally ignorant, and I’ll try not to get in anyone’
s way.” I smiled my most winning, yet humble smile.

  “Well,” he said. “Fine, then.”

  I saw the woman at the sink turn her head and give me a small wink before smothering a smile and turning back to the soapy glassware. Lance looked over at Chuck, but Chuck had a most serious expression on his face and was nodding at my words.

  “What’s your name?” Lance asked.

  “Melanie Brenner.” I started to add “sir,” figured it would be too much, and swallowed it.

  “Ms. Brenner.” He nodded sharply then turned and headed for the back of the large room, the heels of his cowboy boots clicking on the linoleum. Cowboy boots.

  “Very good,” Chuck said sotto voce.

  “I worked in a bank for four years,” I said quietly. “If you don’t learn about the uptight side of human nature in a bank, I don’t know where you do.”

  “Ah, Lance is okay. Takes everything way too seriously, but we’re working nights to clone him a sense of humor. So, Andrew said we’d be getting new first year meat in.”

  My stomach gave a little jump. “Andrew?” I asked in a choked voice. “This is Andrew Richards’ lab?”

  “Oh, no, you’re not one of them, are you?”

  “One of whom?”

  He stepped back a pace and eyed me clinically. “The quivering females who faint at the sight of Andrew Richards.”

  I glared at him, ignoring my heart beating calypso time in my throat. “I don’t faint at the sight of anyone or anything. I just didn’t know whose lab this was.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  He eyed me again and I just tried to look as calm and professional as possible, with just a little irritation showing. I don’t think I fooled him.

  “Come on, there’s bench space back here. They give you a desk in the basement?”

  I nodded.

  “Keep it as long as you can. Space is at a premium up here, and so is privacy.”

  I nodded again.

  “Peg.”

  The woman at the sink looked back over her shoulder. Her hands were sunk in a sink full of white soap bubbles with the wet, gleaming tops and ends of glass beakers showing through. Her white hair swept up from her neck and twisted in a coil on top of her head. Her face was slightly flushed and perspiring, but her smile was energetic and her eyes full of life midst the wrinkles surrounding them. Even with the white hair and wrinkles, though, I had the impression she was no older than mid-fifties.