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    Vanessa
    Vanessa
    Vanessa
    Ebook239 pages3 hours

    Vanessa

    By T. J. Robertson

    ()

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    About this ebook

    At a train depot Jack Shanahan, a lawyer, catches a glimpse of a blond beauty and, in a case of love at first sight, falls head over heels for her. No sooner does he succeed in getting an introduction than she vanishes. As he searches for her, adventure, action, and surprise become his companions. By the time he finds her, two other women have come into his life, thus complicating matters.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherT. J. Robertson
    Release dateJul 24, 2012
    ISBN9781476124384
    Vanessa
    Author

    T. J. Robertson

    Although I’ve made my living as a teacher and guidance counselor, I’ve always had a passion for writing. Thomas Bouregy and Company published my novel, Return to Paradise Cove, under their Avalon imprint. Two of my one-act plays, A Different Kind of Death, and The Flirt, have been produced, respectively, in New Haven, Connecticut, and Sacramento, California. Short stories of mine have appeared in commercial magazines such as Action and True Romance as well as in certain literary and professional ones.

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      Book preview

      Vanessa - T. J. Robertson

      Vanessa

      by

      T. J. Robertson

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright 2012 T. J. Robertson

      This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      * * * * *

      * * * * *

      * * * * *

      Chapter 1

      I saw her for the first time on one of those raw, blustery November mornings that serve as harbingers of the long, cold winter to come. As I stood shivering on the dimly lit platform of the depot and waited for the six-thirty train to Boston, I suddenly looked up and, out from the shadows, she stepped. The sparkle in her blue eyes lit up the morning darkness and the warmth of her ready smile tempered the chill in the air. Tresses of long, blond hair cascaded over the upturned collar of a charcoal-gray, cashmere jacket, worn over dark slacks, which could not conceal completely the shapely figure beneath.

      At such times I wished I could have been like my college roommate, Scott Folsom. He would not have thought twice about walking over and, with a confidence bordering on bravado, saying, Excuse me but haven't we met before?

      I don't think so.

      Unfazed, he would have persisted, It was at a restaurant in Paris--L’Amour de Ma Vie. I’m sure of it.

      I'm afraid not.

      He would have paused and, as if to jar his memory, slapped his forehead before exclaiming, Oh, now I know; it was at Die Schone Frau in Berlin.

      Wrong again.

      How about at Cinderella’s Glass Slipper in New York City? . . . No? The smile on his face would have broadened into a grin as he delivered the punch line. Then, it had to be at McDonald’s in downtown Boston.

      The ice would have been broken and, along with the laughter, would have come the introductions.

      The sound of the train, pulling into the station, brought my reverie to an abrupt end. As I followed closely on her heels and boarded the train, I could not help but notice that she looked as good from the rear as she did from the front.

      I worked at Greeley, Hobbs, and Stanton, a high-powered law firm that catered to well-heeled clients. Unlike my good friend, Rob Harney, I was not a hotshot trial lawyer with a penchant for three-piece suits and tabloid publicity. For the most part, I worked behind the scenes, completing the paperwork for routine civil cases, doing research, and preparing the briefs that, more often than not, made those hotshots so successful. I liked what I did; I was good at it; and, most important of all, I got paid well. In fact the money was so good that I was able to buy an old rambling colonial in a desirable part of historic Concord from which I commuted by train to my job in Boston.

      That morning at work I got a call from Trudy Cashman, a vice-president at Guaranty Trust, inviting me to supper at one of her favorite haunts, the Top of the World. Her bank was one of our clients and, during negotiations over a bank merger the details of which I was handling, we had met and become friends--more in a platonic sense than a romantic one. So, it was not unusual for us to go out and eat together.

      The Top of the World was a spacious, glass-sheathed restaurant, perched atop one of downtown Boston's tallest buildings and well-known for its international menus and breathtaking view of the city. I arrived early but since Trudy, along with the rest of the Guaranty Trust brass, was a frequent diner there, at the mention of her name I got the red-carpet treatment. And I mean in the literal sense; for, the hostess lead me across a plush carpet, its scarlet hue brightening beneath the lights of the glittering chandeliers, to Trudy's favorite corner table that overlooked Post Office Square on one side and offered a view of the harbor on the other.

      I glanced up from the menu to catch sight of her striding across the dining room. She was wearing pinstripe trousers with a matching double-breasted blazer and a string tie. Since she was already more successful than most of the men around her, I did not see any need for her to compete with them by wearing a suit that looked as if it might have come out of one of their closets.

      In a single motion she slid onto the chair opposite me and picked up the menu saying, I'm sorry I'm late but I've just come from a meeting with the banking regulators. She paused and shook her head peevishly. That fool, Higginbotham, wanted to include the Parkman branch, our most profitable unit, in the antitrust, sell-off agreement. Can you believe it?

      Nothing surprises me anymore, I replied dryly.

      Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the waitress, a cheerful, freckle-faced girl, wearing a pink uniform and white apron with a frilly border. Are you ready to order, Miss Cashman, she enthused, filling our cups with coffee.

      Yes, Becky,, Trudy replied warmly, I'm going to have the Armenian special tonight--rice pilaf, sprinkled with parsley; ground lamb kebabs with onions and peppers; some pita bread; and fruit compote for dessert. And please keep that coffee pot handy. Turning to me she asked, And what about you, Jack?

      Being a natural-born follower, why don't I try the same thing?

      Make that an order for two, Becky. With a wink she added, He won't be disappointed, will he?

      Certainly not, the waitress replied, smiling, turning, and moving off in a single motion.

      Trudy Cashman was not unattractive. Although her critics might joke that her flaming red hair was a perfect match for her fiery temper and her pointed nose, was made for sticking into other people's business, nevertheless, those features along with dark brooding eyes, copper-tone skin, pulled tautly over high cheekbones, and ruby lips, pursed with a perpetual peevishness, gave her a stern kind of beauty. And hidden beneath that male-like suit were an ample bosom and shapely figure--even though the latter, at times, teetered on the pleasingly plump side.

      Her tough, no-nonsense approach to the banking business struck fear into the hearts of many of those who worked for her and earned her a reputation as a selfish, uncaring administrator who was determined to claw her way to the top. Before word got around that she and I were friends, on more than one occasion I had heard her referred to disparagingly as Miss Ice Cube or the Dominatrix. I never allowed such slurs to go unchallenged and would always reprimand her detractors with a scowl or a phrase such as, Unjust torment may mean future unemployment. Usually they got the message and an apology followed.

      Their caricature of her was unfortunate as well as untrue. After all, who was better acquainted with her than I? Oh, sure, incompetent bank managers were certain to draw her ire and, rightly so, but I knew that beneath that bossy veneer beat a heart of gold--a sincere and compassionate one toward those employees at the lower end of the pecking order.

      Catching me staring at her, she asked, Is something wrong? At the same time she ran one hand over her hair and the other across the lapels of her blazer as if to tame an errant strand of hair and banish a particle of lint.

      No, I replied wistfully, I was just thinking how ironic it was that you and I were born and raised in Somerville--less than two blocks from one another--and our paths never crossed until we met over the legal niceties of a bank merger.

      Unfortunately, the high school I attended didn't admit boys. Like the sun between passing clouds, a smile appeared and vanished. How I hated the city of Slumerville, she scoffed.

      Don't you ever get a hankering to return to Trull Street and see what the old neighborhood's like? I said, leaning forward on my chair.

      Never, she replied with a firm shake of her head. Unlike you, I wasn't a Ball Square commando and the last thing I want is to return to the scene of the crime.

      I laughed, asking, What crime?

      The crime of being poor.

      In my neighborhood we were all poor, I said with a shrug, but we didn't know it.

      I knew it.

      Trudy, I replied, surprised at the depth of her resentment, you've got to take the good with the bad.

      What good? she asked, the petulance around the corners of her mouth deepening.

      Good friends and good neighbors can be found even in a place like Somerville, I replied, letting out a long, audible breath. If nothing else, for me its closeness to Tufts University was a plus.

      I haven't set foot in Somerville since-- She paused and swallowed hard before saying, --since my mother died.

      Breaking the awkward silence that followed, I said, I sometimes revisit my old haunts. If nothing else, it helps me to keep life in its proper perspective.

      The place holds too many unpleasant memories, she murmured. Besides, I'm not interested in where I've been, only where I'm going.

      It's really changed, I persisted. With its coffee houses, book stores, and ethnic restaurants it’s now a yuppies' paradise. If you go back for a visit, I bet you'll be pleasantly surprised.

      I'll take it under advisement. Again her faint smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Jack, she said, studying me intently over the rim of her coffee cup, you know how much we have in common?

      Only too well, I replied, fully aware that both of us grew up in homes with problems of alcoholism. In her case it was an irascible father who, more often than not, in his drunken rages, would beat up her mother, a saintly enabler. In mine it was a domineering mother who, under the influence of the spirits, would hurl an endless tirade of curses at her husband, a princely man of infinite patience--albeit another enabler.

      And I'm very fond of you.

      As am I of you.

      You know that you're the only man on the face of the earth with whom I can sit down and have a frank, personal conversation. She set her cup down hard as if to emphasize the point.

      Why do you suppose that is? I asked, rubbing my chin thoughtfully.

      I'm not sure.

      Did you ever stop to think that perhaps it has something to do with your relationship with your father?

      Not really, she replied, shifting uneasily on her chair.

      Again I broke the silence that followed. Have you ever asked yourself why you feel the need to compete with every man you meet?

      Even you? she joked, her face turning redder than her hair.

      To a lesser extent.

      Why is that, my philosopher-king?

      Perhaps I'm not as aggressive as are they, I said, choosing to ignore her sarcasm.

      Ah, that brings us to a very important point, she replied, seizing the chance to switch the topic of conversation from herself to me. You realize that you could be anything you wanted to be?

      Sensing what was to come, I sighed and answered, I'm perfectly happy with whom I am and what I've done.

      That's the problem.

      No, that's your problem. My voice was rising with annoyance. I have a decent job, an eight-hundred thousand dollar home, a new Camry, and a retreat in lakes region of New Hampshire. I don't feel a need to move into a house in the million dollar range, buy a Lexus, or look for a summer place on Martha's Vineyard. All to please my neighbors.

      The return of the waitress compelled me to end my lecture. After setting a wicker basket of pita bread, a large bowl of steaming rice, and a platter, brimming with succulent, charcoal-broiled kabobs, peppers, and onions in the middle of the table, she refilled our coffee cups and vanished as quickly as she had appeared.

      Trudy picked up a half-moon slice of pita bread, made a pocket, and stuffed it with a mixture of kebabs and vegetables. Ever the natural-born follower, I did the same. That you've done well, I don't deny, but you should raise your sights, she said between nibbles on her sandwich. You have the ability to achieve even more success.

      How much success is enough?

      Pursing her lips, she said, I've fought too long and hard to get ahead in the banking business. I refuse to go back where I came from. She paused before adding with disdain, A teller at the Cooperative Bank in Davis Square.

      Who says you have to go back? I asked, coaxing some rice pilaf onto my plate.

      If you're not moving forward, you're going backwards.

      You have a way of reducing things to their lowest common denominator, I said with a wag of my head.

      Now we're arguing, she replied petulantly.

      No, now you're treating me like the men you've had to compete against in the banking business.

      You're not like them, Jack, she scolded.

      Oh, no?

      No, she said, her voice trailing off to a whisper, I'm not in love with them.

      So much for our platonic relationship, I thought. Oh, sure, in the past there had been displays of affection for me--a playful squeeze here and a coy smile there--but this was the first time she had come close to telling me that she loved me even if it was in an indirect way.

      Breaking the stony silence, she resumed, But at the same time I don't want to get trapped in a relationship that's going nowhere.

      What you mean is a relationship that's not going where you want it to go.

      Whatever. She sighed in exasperation before saying, That's why I want you to know that Tom Staples and I have started seeing one another.

      I'm pleased for you, I lied, swallowing hard. Tom personifies the word, success. And I was not kidding. Not only was he an inventor with several lucrative patents and the founder of two high-tech companies but he also found time to serve on the boards of philanthropic organizations and other companies.

      It doesn't bother you? Once again her dark eyes found mine, trying to gauge my reaction.

      No, I replied, biting my tongue and looking away.

      She merely shrugged, toying with a strand of hair.

      Why should it? I persisted with false bravado. From the beginning our relationship's been platonic. Either of us can go out with whomever she or he wants.

      I just wanted to be sure. Now I was certain she was the one who was lying.

      In silence we finished our dessert and awkwardly avoided each other's glances, pretending instead to be watching the ribbon of cars on the street below, wending their way out of the city. When, at last, we set our dessert spoons aside and settled our bill, we rode down in the elevator without a word passing between us.

      Outside, along with the darkness, a light rain was falling and a myriad of lights began to flicker in the surrounding buildings. She leaned across and kissed me on the cheek, the fragrance of her perfume, to my surprise, acting upon me like an aphrodisiac. For a long time I stood, motionless, and watched her walk off and disappear into the night.

      Chapter 2

      Since I have always disliked the congestion, noise, and the grime of the city, getting up at five o'clock in the morning and trekking a half mile downhill to the depot to catch the six-thirty train into Boston was a small price to pay for the relative solitude, peace, and cleanliness of living in the suburbs. The blond with the sparkling blue eyes and ready smile was a welcome addition to the small flock of us early birds perched on the platform. What, for me, had been a dull, daily routine now became an interesting, if not exciting, one. Although she kept a discreet distance from the rest of us, sometimes her glance would meet mine and, if I were lucky, along with it would come a smile that would've melted a banker's cold heart. But, after several weeks, all that I knew about her was that she drove a Toyota Prius, arrived punctually at quarter past six, and parked in space number twenty-five.

      While I was trying to get up the courage to introduce myself to her, an incident occurred that not only made that possible but also was to have a profound effect upon our future together. I shall never forget that dank, dark Friday morning, which the storm clouds, looming ominously above, made all the more depressing. I was coming off of one of those weeks in which everything I had done at work had gone wrong and was looking forward to a weekend of rest and relaxation.

      I recall glancing at my watch; the time was six-fifteen sharp. Like clockwork, her Toyota glided into the parking lot and came to a stop in space number twenty-five. Out she stepped, the sheen of her flowing, blond hair shimmering beneath the light of the lamp post. After taking a few steps, she stopped abruptly and her body stiffened. What are you doing here? she demanded.

      I wanted to see you. Those words came from a tall, muscular stranger who, puffing on a cigar, was leaning against the car in front of hers and surveying her intently.

      Look, Peter-- She paused and swallowed hard, trying to maintain her composure. You know it's over between us.

      It won't be over until I say it's over! He hurled the cigar to the pavement and ground it with his foot as if to emphasize the point.

      Don't force me to take out a restraining order against you!

      "I could care less about a restraining

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