Finding Spring Read online

  “Ready to work your magic?” he asks.

  I sure hope so.

  9

  Paul

  When I place the phone into Gerty's small hands, my fingers brush against hers. I close my eyes and remind myself that she works for me. I'd step back a little to give her space, except we're standing in a two by two foot cube. If I back up, a casual passerby would be able to see me. There isn't really anywhere else to go.

  Her fingers fly over the phone. “Did she enter her iTunes password?”

  “Yeah, but why does that matter?”

  “It's an old trick, and I hope it works. It’ll only work once, if it does at all.”

  “What are you going to do if it doesn't work?” he asks.

  “Let's hope it does.” She presses the home button and asks, “Siri, what time is it?”

  Cynthia's phone displays a clock with the time. Gerty taps on the clock, which brings up the world clock screen. Then she taps on the timer option and selects “when timer ends.” She scrolls to the top of the list and selects 'Buy More Ringtones.'

  That opens the Apple Store.

  Gerty hits the home button and opens the phone, completely unlocked. I swear under my breath. It's pretty disconcerting that with one little backdoor, like the owner entering an iTunes password in the past few minutes, Gerty can loop around the phone's security. “That's amazing.”

  “Don't distract me,” she says. “We don't have much time.”

  “Do you see anything?” I ask.

  Her fingers fly past screens so fast I can't even tell what she's doing. “Yep,” she says. “It's here. Look, see the network?” She shows me. Delivery, just like she said. She takes a screenshot of it, forwards several files to another email address, and deletes the file send path.

  Then she starts doing something I don't understand.

  “What's going on now?” I ask.

  “I'm cloning her phone so we can send messages from it and receive hers, too.”

  She finishes and hands the phone back to me. When her sky blue eyes meet mine, I've never been more impressed by any woman in my life. I know a lot of genius researchers, but some of them can’t tie their shoes. This woman is smart and capable, and heart stoppingly lovely. “You did all that in minutes, while remaining completely calm. How many times have you done this before?”

  “Never.” Her eyes are wide, her mouth parted. Almost invitingly.

  “You've never done that?” I ask. “And you did it that fast? Without any issues?”

  “It's a good thing it worked,” she says. “Because you need to get back with this or Miss America will start to suspect your absence.”

  I reach for the phone, but she reaches around my hand and slides it into my suit pocket.

  “How's dinner going for you?” I can't quite keep myself from prying. “Was he upset you asked to change your plans?”

  She turns up to look at me like I knew she would, her lips parted again, and her hair tumbling down over her shoulders in messy curls. I lean down without thinking and press my lips against hers. She curls into me with a tiny sigh and my arms reach around behind her back to pull her closer still. Her lips move softly against mine, and a voracious hunger consumes me. I want more, so much more.

  “Excuse me,” a deep voice says behind us at coat check. “You haven't seen my date, have you? She's wearing a black dress and silver heels. She thought she left her phone in her jacket and came back to look for it. It’s been almost five minutes since she headed this way.”

  Gerty stiffens next to me and I back away from her, pushing flat against the wall. Her voice wavers when she speaks. “I better go.”

  I nod. “Call me when you get home so we can go over what we found.”

  She swallows and tucks her hair behind her ear. I want to reach out and trace the line of her jaw. I want to press my fingers against her lips. I want to drag her toward me and claim her mouth again. But that's moronic. The guy five feet away is probably her boyfriend. The perfect Adonis guy with the exotic accent.

  But she trembled against me when I kissed her, and she sighed. Unless I’m misreading everything. After all, I’m her boss, and I just badgered her into coming here to do something illegal. Then I kissed her in a coat check closet like a creeper.

  She ducks out, and I follow thirty seconds after. When I head back for my table, Gerty and her date are already eating lobster. Good for her, ordering the most expensive thing on the menu.

  Cynthia looks distinctly annoyed about being alone. “Where did you go?”

  “I had a call and didn't want to be rude to the restaurant's other guests. It's about my new prototype and I had to take it, so I stepped out. I'm sorry you had to sit alone.”

  She looks around. “Thanks to your leaving, I think my phone may have been stolen. I left it at the table when I went to the restroom, but now it's gone.”

  I point at the ground. “Is that it?”

  She curves around to look, but I dart ahead of her and pull her phone out of my pocket. “Is this it?”

  I hand it to her and she glances at the screen. Locked. She beams at me. “You are so smart. I swear I looked everywhere, but it must have been hiding under the foot of the table.”

  “I do my best.”

  The rest of dinner is pure torture, trying to pay attention to what Cynthia's saying when all I really want to do is go introduce myself to Gerty’s date and find out who he is to her. His coloring is too different to be her brother, and he called her his date. Still, maybe he's just a friend? Or a cousin perhaps? She chastised me for assuming her plans were a date with a twinkle in her eye. Didn't she mention she was still in school? He could be a professor, maybe?

  I'm grasping at straws here, but they aren't wearing rings, so at least I can assume they aren't married. The waiter shows up with both checks in the same folder like I asked.

  “Hello?” She snaps at me. Cynthia must have asked something and I tuned it out.

  “Oh, sorry. What was that?”

  “I said, your place or mine?” She bats her eyes.

  I put down enough cash for both checks, including the food Gerty ordered to go.

  “I think something I ate didn't agree with me. I feel nauseous.” That's true enough, although the cause of my nausea is actually the thought of Cynthia trying to extend this date one second longer than necessary. “I better head home.”

  “You're sending very mixed signals, Mr. Campbell.” She's trying for coquettish, I think, but it comes off both petty and shrill.

  “Let me be clear, then. I invited you here tonight for one reason.” I consider telling her the bald truth, but that would tip my hand. “I wanted to very kindly, very rationally, inform you that we are entirely done. You aren't welcome at my home or at my office, or anywhere else. You didn't seem to understand me earlier, and I loathe big scenes at my office or elsewhere, but you and I are entirely incompatible. I'll inform my receptionist not to let you back again, and I've changed my gate code so you shouldn’t try my house either.”

  Her mouth drops in a very satisfying way.

  “Thanks for meeting me for dinner, and I wish you the very best in the future.”

  She stands up and grabs my hand before I can walk away. “You don't mean that.”

  I shrug. “Actually, you're right. I don't.”

  She sighs in relief. “You have such a weird sense of humor, Jack. I swear, sometimes I don't get you at all.”

  “Oh, I wasn't making a joke earlier,” I say. “All of that was true. I didn't really mean it when I wished you the best in the future. I don't care much what happens to you tomorrow or any day after that. It's just something people say.”

  I don't wait to see how she takes it, and I don't look back when she exclaims in outrage. I stride toward the door purposefully and drive home like a madman. Once I'm home, I decide to go for a run instead of just staring at my phone. After all, I have no idea how late it will be before Gerty's date is over and she contacts me.

 
Four miles later, I shower. Only after I’m clean and dry and dressed do I allow myself to glance at my phone screen.

  Gerty texted me twenty minutes ago. I THINK WE HAVE WHAT YOU NEED.

  I call her, hoping she can talk.

  “Hello?” she whispers.

  Is she still with that guy? Worse, is he asleep next to her? I stifle a groan.

  “Are you okay?” she asks, not whispering this time.

  “I'm fine. Just wondered why you were whispering. I mean, I'm obviously dying to know what you found, but I've completely taken over your life and I feel bad about it.”

  “I am exhausted,” she says, “but I've been distracted decoding the files I found. And there's definitely correspondence between Miss Dalton and a man named Bennett Parker. He's an executive with a company called WelshAllyn. They're a pretty famous medical equipment manufacturer, right?”

  I lean back against the headboard of my bed. “They are, yeah. I’ve got a meeting with them next week, actually. Can you send me what you found?”

  “Sure. What email address do you want to use?”

  I can't give her my SITB one. Thanks to the key logger, they can probably access that email. But I can't give her my real email address without telling her my real name, which gets sticky. I trust her, but do I trust her that much?

  “Actually,” I say, “Why don't you give me yours. I'll email you in a minute, and then you can reply with the documents.”

  “That's fine,” she says. “Mine is Jenky Girl 123 at gmail dot com. And yes, I know that's a stupid email address, but I've had it for a while.”

  I wish I could see her face right now. She's so pretty when she blushes.

  Which I should not be thinking about.

  There is absolutely no way she can work with me every single day as my assistant. It'll drive me mad, but I can't fire her. That would be utterly unfair. She's been an absolute champ. She basically saved both me and the company in the last twenty-four hours.

  “Hey, listen,” I say.

  “Yeah?” her voice is husky.

  I imagine she's lying in bed just like me. I wonder what her pajamas look like. I shake my head to clear it. “You've gone way above and way beyond. I know you didn't want to be my assistant.”

  “It's been fun, actually.”

  “Even so,” I say. “What you really wanted was an IT spot.”

  “True,” she says tentatively, clearly unsure where I'm going with this.

  “Well, consider that my repayment for your help. I'm promoting you to head of Information Technology for SITB. If you need an assistant in there, well, we can hire you one. But as of Monday, you'll be IT manager, not my administrative assistant. You're clearly too talented to be stuck doing scheduling and files.”

  “That's so generous of you,” she says. “Thanks. A lot.”

  “It comes with a pay raise,” I say. “Of course.”

  Silence.

  “Hello?” Is she still there?

  “I don't even know what to say,” she says.

  “Being speechless is fine for now, but I hope you're okay with testifying next week. Because the second we get off the phone, I'm calling my lawyer. This is such amazing news.”

  “Well, don't let me keep you.” Her voice is small. Is she upset for some reason? Or does she just want to get off the phone with her absurdly inappropriate and possibly way out of line boss? Oh my gosh, is she going to sue me? Was I that off base?

  “Thanks again,” I say. “I'll send you an email momentarily.” As soon as I can set up a new account.

  “Goodnight Mr. Campbell.”

  “Sleep well, Miss Jenkins.”

  Even though the files she sends me have everything she said and more, I can't sleep, not for hours. I keep thinking about her soft curls, her sky blue eyes, and her long legs in that black dress.

  10

  Trudy

  I spend all day Saturday doing anything and everything Troy wants, and we stay up late watching a Cars marathon on Saturday night. Sunlight streaming down on my face wakes me up on Sunday morning and I stretch luxuriously. Days when a mom can sleep in are good days.

  I still can't quite believe that, thanks to my resourcefulness, I'm the new IT manager at a startup. It's my dream job, and one that should have taken me a year or two to achieve. Maybe more. I should be giddy. I should be on cloud nine. I can cross something huge off the list on my nightstand. I pick it up and look at the lofty goals I created for my new life.

  I crumple the stupid list in my hand.

  Before I have time to try and puzzle out my bizarre lack of excitement regarding my promotion, Troy pads into my room, his 'blue blue' blanket trailing behind him. “Mommy, someone's knocking at the door.”

  I pick up my phone and look at the clock. Nine-fourteen a.m. Troy needs breakfast soon. I shouldn't have slept in, but who in the world would come over this early on a Sunday? I swing my feet out of bed and into a pair of slippers. I shiver and pull a jacket on over my pajama t-shirt. “It's okay, baby. I'll come answer it. I'm glad you didn't already open it.”

  Troy tilts his head and scrunches his nose. “Uh, I never answer the door. You told me a lot and lot of times.”

  I pat his head on my way past. “I'm glad you were listening.”

  Could it be Chris? My pulse accelerates and my hands shake at the thought. Per the court order, he's not supposed to come by my house at all. His parents supervise his visits with Troy when he asks for one. The court ordered not more than twice a month, but he’s only requested to see him twice since leaving us.

  Luckily, my former in-laws seem to understand he isn't responsible enough to take Troy on his own, at least, not until Troy's old enough to manage his diabetes himself. If Chris ever demonstrates enough discipline to learn about managing it, then we can revisit the idea. Seeing as he didn't even want to have the baby at all when we found out we were pregnant, I doubt he's about to reverse his level of interest without some other motivating factor.

  I did just file for garnishment of his wages. He could be here to yell at me for that. I’ve been expecting it.

  “Please don't be Chris,” I whisper softly. “Not today, not here.” I force myself to breathe in and out, and then I walk to the door. I wish Mary had a peephole. Since she doesn't, I hold my phone in one hand, ready to dial 911 if necessary. I shift the door open a few inches, slowly.

  The old man standing in front of me braces himself on a cane to stand upright. He couldn't possibly look less like my ex-husband. Underneath a puffy jacket, his blue shirt buttons down, but the buttons are skewed by one and his grey pants look two sizes too big. His sky blue eyes light up when he sees me, and I realize inasmuch as he looks nothing like my ex, there are a few similarities between them.

  “Hey Daddy,” I say. “Long time no see.”

  “Gertrude!” He lifts one shaky hand toward my face, like he wants to touch me.

  I step back from him and his eyes fall to look at his feet. “I was hoping we could talk.”

  “Who is that, Mommy?” Troy asks.

  His head pokes around my leg, and I pull him toward me and close the door until there's only an inch of space through which to see. “Go play with your new train table, baby. Mom's got to talk to this man for a minute.”

  Troy's curious eyes peer at my pathetic father, looking him up and down. Eventually he shrugs and turns around like I asked.

  My dad's eyes fill with tears. It might work on someone else, but I don't appreciate the obvious manipulation. I’ve endured years and years of his crocodile tears anytime things were bad to inure me to them.

  “My grandson,” he chokes out. “He's so beautiful.”

  “He is.” My voice is flat. “What do you want, Dad?”

  He looks up at the sky as though praying and then turns back toward me. “Can't I come inside for a moment? I need to talk to you. I knew Mary would slam the door in my face.”

  “Oh please,” I say. “Don't act like I'm a monster. I come visit you f
our times a year. It usually takes me days to track you down first, and you're almost always drunk as a skunk. I haven't shut you out of my life or abandoned you. I'm just keeping a healthy distance between you and my perfectly beautiful baby. I think that's a reasonable boundary, Dad.”

  He looks so frail this time, like a stiff wind could knock him off the steps and he'd shatter like a glass vase on the ground below.

  It's like he can sense that my resolve is wavering. “I'm sorry about that. I need to apologize to you, but it's so cold out here.”

  I glance behind me at the junker car parked in my driveway. The passenger door is red. The rest of the car is silver. Except the back fender, which is blue. “Your project car?” I ask.

  He nods.

  Dad always works on a project car when he's sober enough. Once he sold one for an eight hundred dollar profit and in a fit of generosity, he bought Mary and me both our own pair of rollerblades. It's the only gift I can recall him ever giving me, other than the occasional black eye if I riled him up while he was hammered. “Sit out there while I feed Troy. Once I've got him fed, I'll turn a movie on for him and let you come inside.”

  He nods and hobbles down the stairs. I really hope this isn't a terrible mistake. Once Troy has swallowed his last bite, I turn on Mickey Mouse for him in my bedroom and wave my dad into my tiny breakfast nook.

  “Did you want some coffee?” I ask.

  “Do you have any tea?” he asks.

  “Since when do you drink tea?”

  “I'm avoiding anything with addictive substances of any kind,” he says. “Coffee has caffeine and it makes me jittery.”

  I cross my arms and glare at him. “You're telling me you're actually sober? Like, for more than two days? Or because you can't afford booze? Are you here because you need money?”

  He flinches. “I know it's hard to believe, but when I heard Mary was getting married and I wasn't even invited to my own daughter's wedding, it woke me up.” His eyes fill with tears again.