Zoe

Jay Greenstein

Jay Greenstein

All rights reserved

Published by Continuation Services at SmashWords

Copyright 2018

Other Titles by Jay Greenstein:

Science Fiction

As Falls an Angel

Samantha and the Bear

Foreign Embassy

Hero

Monkey Feet

Starlight Dancing

Wizards

Trilogy of the Talos

(Sci-fi)

To Sing the Calu

Portal to Sygano

Ghost Girl

Sisterhood of the Ring

(Sci-fi)

Water Dance

Jennie’s Song

A Change of Heart

A Surfeit of Dreams

Kyesha

Abode Of The Gods

Living Vampire

An Abiding Evil

Ties of Blood

Blood Lust

Modern Western

Posse

Romantic Suspense

A Chance Encounter

Kiss of Death

Intrigue/Crime

Necessity

Betrayal

Hostage

Young Adult

My Father My Friend

Romance

Zoe

Breaking the Pattern

Short Story

A Touch of Strange

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It 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 recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this book are fictitious and created by the author for entertainment purposes. Any similarities between living and non-living persons are purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

A Chance Encounter

Chapter 1

As he completed his fourth trip around the block, Drew’s frustration level climbed one more notch toward anger, and his mantra of, Come on, parking spot, became a snarl.

He grunted in satisfaction as a spot opened nearly a block away, then cursed when a Toyota claimed the prize only seconds later.

Drew, you are a moron, he muttered for the forth time that day, pounding a fist on the wheel. You should know better than to take a car into center city.

He looked longingly at the parking lot on the corner as he passed. For thirteen dollars, he could park only minutes from Zoe’s door.

Okay, he muttered. Once more around. Then I pay for the lot. But he was lying. It was the challenge that kept him circling, not the cost.

The graffiti marring the brick of Zoe’s building brought the wish that she would move to someplace more appetizing—and safer. A three-story tenement apartment, part of a long row of identically drab buildings, it and its sisters were once the pride of an immigrant neighborhood.

With its white marble steps, and its boot-scraper a proud and useful adornment to the sidewalk next to those steps, it announced to the world that it was the home of honest hardworking families. Philadelphia was once known as a city of neighborhoods, and this one was noted for its cleanliness, and for the pride of the women who daily scrubbed those steps to pristine whiteness. Now they were worn and dull, the once proud marble rounded by the track of countless tired feet. The boot scraper, its function long lost, was reduced to metal stubs, unnoticed, and useful only as a reminder of the past.

The walls he studied were of weathered brick, dark with nearly two centuries of sheltering those who lived under their protection. The past life of those walls contained no glory, only the mundane task of providing shelter. Now those walls were showing their age. Now they sheltered a newer immigrant, many of whom who cared little for appearance. Sisters of the building were gone, leaving gaps in the row. Some stood boarded up and abandoned, or reduced to sheltering vagrants and addicts. Soon they would all know the wrecking ball, or perhaps the kinder hand of restoration, as the gentrification of the inner city slowly spread. Given the state of the economy, probability favored the ball.

Looking down again, he was confronted with the high-tech ugliness of a syringe, kicked into the corner of the sidewalk, by the landing.

He shook his head in disgust and headed inside, where the odor of age came as an affront to his suburban nostrils, amplifying the ambience presented by the street outside: mildew combined with the effluviums of nearly two-hundred years of habitation, overlaid with the odors of today’s families and yesterday’s meals.

He creaked his way up the stairs to the third floor, walking the length of the narrow hall on each floor to reach the next stairway, avoiding the children’s toys left lying in their tiny indoor playground. He winced at the shouts of argument, held in an incomprehensible language, in one of the apartments.

Being on the top floor was an advantage, Zoe claimed, because it kept her waistline trim.

He slid his key into the lock, the frown turning, as it always did, into a smile as he let himself into her apartment. As always, he stood bemused in her living room, such a contrast to what lay just outside the door.

It wasn’t the cleanliness, nor the aroma of incense and exotic cooking that filled the apartment. It was the sheer Zoe-ness of the place. Even had he never met her, he would know her after a glance around her apartment. What other woman’s apartment could still whisper of femininity with a wood lathe crammed into one corner? Who else could, or would, hang a formal Geisha’s kimono next to an African fertility mask, and somehow have them blend perfectly?

And of course, in the midst of the orderly disorder there was the project. Always somewhere in evidence, it changed from week to week, even from day to day. But there was always at least one. He crouched in front of the latest, trying to make sense of it.

It was a needlepoint, beautifully done. Nearly complete, it showed a cutaway view of a well, with several medieval looking women, classic gossiping women by their appearance, intently watching a group of men hanging within the well, holding to each other and forming a human chain, with the bottom man upside down and holding a bucket, just above the water.

The man at the top gripped what looked to be a broomstick, bridging a stone railing that bordered the well, his face strained with the effort of supporting the weight of the men below him.

He studied the thing for a time, but could make no sense of it. As usual with her work, the detail was exquisite, but the point of the picture was unclear. He finally gave up and went in search of Zoe.

Where the hell are you, love? he shouted, without a response. He stuck his head into the bedroom. It was empty.

I’m in the tub, Drew, she called from the bathroom. There’s an open bottle of wine in the kitchen. Pour for us both. I’ll be out in a bit.

Will do. As he turned to leave the bedroom a stray thought brought a smile. Acting on it, he stripped off his shoes, pants and shirt, ending up in shorts and socks.

Then, flinging open the bathroom door with a crash, he laughed in an evil manner, striking a pose with his back to the doorway. She squealed in surprise, sinking down into the huge old tub.

The bathtub, like the rest of the room, dated from the great depression, and rested its taloned feet on ancient linoleum.

The water, spotted with the froth of the bubble bath she favored, came navel deep, baring small breasts, with their almost colorless nipples.

Little tits! he said, gleefully. "I love little tits!"

Taking care not to land on her legs, he vaulted into the tub and splashily sat, facing her, creating a wave that nearly slopped water onto the floor.

Settling himself into the water and leering as she tried to pull her legs under her, he fished one of her feet out of the water, commenting, Skinny legs too. I thrive on skinny legs.

With that, he bit her on the calf, then lost his smirk as the soap flavored his mouth.

Phoo...that tastes lousy, he said, his voice filled with disgust.

She retrieved her leg, poking him with her big toe. It serves you right, smart-ass, now get out of here. If you don’t plan to buy, you don’t get to inspect the merchandise.

Smiling again, he took the toe that was poking at his chest and lifted it to his mouth for a gentle kiss, as his mood turned thoughtful.

Darling little sister, why haven’t I ever taken you to bed?

Hah! She pulled her foot back and poked him again, harder, repeating her jabs until he stood and stepped from the tub, hands raised in surrender.

She fished in the water, retrieving her washcloth, then turned her attention to him, making no effort to cover herself while she said, That’s a dumb question, Drew. Forgetting that I’m not the incest kind of little sister, you never asked me. And in any case, you never wanted to.

He leaned against the wall and toweled his legs while he studied her. Her nudity brought no surge of desire, just the warmth to his thoughts her presence always brought.

There is that, he admitted with a shrug. She wasn’t much to look at. Blessed with a lively mind, and a talent for virtually any handicraft ever developed, her body left a good deal to be desired: Small breasts, lacking any differentiation of color at the nipple, virtually no hips or derriere, and a slim neck of no particular loveliness. Her lack of physical charms was rounded out with an expressive face that, in kindness, could be called plain. An honest face though, and a trustworthy face—but not one to inspire passion in a passing male. Still, he adored her. In all the world, she was the only one he could truly call a friend.

Don’t you lay on the bed with those wet drawers on, either she ordered, as he retreated to the bedroom. And for God’s sake spare me the sight of you without them! She, he was certain, would dry off in the bathroom.

He slipped out of the shorts, peeled off his socks, dried himself, and finally put on his pants, minus the undershorts, calling, If I get myself caught in the zipper this way, it’ll be your fault lady.

She leaned past the door, a towel wrapped around her long hair, saying, It would serve you right for pulling a stunt like that. My inadequacies are my own, thank you, and are not subject to casual inspection. Her tone was light but forced. This time he’d gone too far. It wasn’t that he’d seen her nude. They had little body modesty between them, having shared tents and shelters together on dozens of camping and backpacking trips. It was the way he’d forced his way into her private space without a reason that had her upset.

I’m sorry if I upset you, kitten, it’s my hour to be stupid. Any more than that was better not said.

She came into the bedroom, bundled in her favorite old terry bathrobe, a sad smile on her face. Oh, Drew, she said, shaking her head. You are such a pain in the ass, and you have to be the dumbest male I know. But I can’t stay mad at you. She patted him in passing, then sat and began combing out her hair, preferring it long and straight, hating the work of styling that so many women made an avocation. She claimed to detest the idea of working so hard, only to end up with something you couldn’t touch, but from what he could see, she spent even more time caring for hers, though not in the same way.

From the bed he watched for a while, wondering at the patience with which she worked. Her hair was her only vanity, a toy with which she constantly played. Perhaps it was to keep her always-busy hands from finding time to do nothing, but her glossy black waist-length hair received more attention than almost anything else of a personal nature. She brushed it, twisted it as she sat talking, toyed with it, and in general, used it as a substitute for chewing her nails or smoking. For the thousandth time he wished she would find a man, someone to give a new focus for her life. But then he remembered the question that needed answering.

So, Buglet, what the hell is that thing you’re needling to death in the living room?

That brought a smile, and, You don’t know the story of the Beckum well?

No. What’s a Beckum?

Not what, Drew. It’s ‘where.’ Beckum is a town in Germany, whose primary claim to fame is a story about its well. She turned to face him, still brushing.

According to legend, several hundred years ago the mechanism that lowered the bucket into the water broke, with no carpenter available to craft a new one. The well supplied much of the town’s water, so something had to be done, till the carpenter arrived. Finally, the men you see in the picture came up with what they said was an answer. They’d hang in the well as a human ladder and scoop water directly, passing it up in buckets.

He laughed. It doesn’t sound too well thought out to me.

She smiled. I suppose not, but anyway, that’s what they began to do. It went well for the first few bucket loads, until the man on top, the one holding to the bar, found his hands beginning to slip. So, he let go for a moment to spit on his hands and wipe them on his shirt front.

He stared for a moment, forehead furrowed, before he snorted. Then in a voice filled with disbelief, said. He let go?

She shrugged That’s what they say.

He sat up and crossed his arms. That’s it? You’re doing a needlepoint of a three-hundred year old really bad joke?

She laughed, her eyes sparkling. And that pays you back for your own bad joke, you moron. Now bring me up to date on your life. I need my Drew-Faces-Life soap-opera fix, and you’ve been gone for almost a month.

He spent a moment, trying to decide if she was putting him on with the story. But in the end, it was too silly to be anything but the truth. With a story like that to go with it, it would make one hell of a conversation piece.

He leaned back against the headboard, saying, I may have more story than you have brush strokes left on your hair. He watched her for a moment, frowning, before adding, This may be a dumb question, but why don’t you have huge arm muscles from all that brushing?

She laughed. "I do, you idiot, they just don’t look that big." She tossed the brush onto the dressing table as she turned and launched herself at the bed, pinning him with her slight weight, holding his arms against the headboard with surprising strength.

Now talk, you hairy bastard, before I rip your throat out with my teeth. She bared fangs in a grimace, then sat back on his stomach and poked a finger at his chest. Give, glamour boy, my life at Crafts ‘n Shit has been dull, dull, dull for weeks.

He struggled to a sitting position, pushing her down to sit on his legs, facing him. Sidetracked by her comment, he took her thin shoulders in his hands, unable to keep concern from his voice.

Zoe, they’re just using you. You know that. They pay you next to nothing. They use your talent to bring in business that you don’t get a piece of, and they don’t even give you the credit you deserve. Why, Zoe? Why do you stand for it?

We’ve been over this before, she said, exasperation coloring her words. For one thing, I get a thirty percent discount on the crafts I use for myself. And there’s plenty of time for me to work on my own stuff while I’m there. You don’t—

I don’t what? he said mockingly. "I don’t know that your skills and your advice bring in customers for them? And make lots of money for them?"

She waved that away. And for me, Drew Don’t forget I sell most of my work to people I meet at the store. I make nearly as much through my own sales as I do through salary. Besides, it’s in walking distance from here.

If you live through the trip.

She waved that away with a hand-flip, saying, As always, you exaggerate. The neighborhood isn’t all that bad. And in any case, who’d want to attack me? She smiled slyly, adding, And who knows, I might like it.

A decision that had been playing in the back of his mind for months crystallized with a snap. He pulled his legs under him, spilling her onto the bed.

No! No by God, you don’t joke your way out of it this time.

But—

No. I’ve stood for this crap for long enough, and by all that’s holy, I refuse to watch you be used any longer. Ignoring her shocked expression he moved from the bed to pace the tiny area between bed and dresser for a moment before turning to face her once more, certain he’d made the right decision.

Since you’ll never get the gumption on your own to do what’s right, I’m going to do it for you. He waved a finger toward her. "Listen carefully, now: As of this moment, I, Drew Stiles have decided I’m going to open a craft store of my own. And since I am, I need both a partner and a store manager. He gave her a second to absorb that, then added, You, Zoe. You’re going to be both."

° ° ° °

Chapter 2

What? But.... She sat up, hands extended with palms out as she said, "Drew, I don’t want to open my own store. She slid to sit on the edge of the bed, facing him. I thought you of all people would know that."

He threw up his hands. "Then what the hell do you want to do? I can’t believe you intend to work at Crafts ‘n Crap, or whatever they call it, for the rest of your life. He squatted and put a hand to her shoulder, squeezing tightly, as he tried to make her understand. Damn it, Zoe, I have to get you out of there. I know how good you are, and I hate to see your talent wasted on people who don’t even know what they have...and wouldn’t care if they did."

She touched slim fingers to his hand until he gentled his pressure, then reached out to stroke his cheek.

You are sweet, Drew. You’re my dearest friend and my most loyal fan. You’ll never know how glad I am that I went on that stupid camping trip. She shook her head and laughed as though remembering some incident, patting his cheek before dropping her hand and sitting up, saying, My God, what a disaster. At least I thought so at the time. She laughed again. I can still see you standing there after the water dumped.

° ° °

It began with an invitation. The university was to be closed for spring break, but money was too tight for either a trip home or to an exotic gathering spot. Several of the crafty set, as the group was known, were into backpacking, and invited Zoe to join them in an outing on the Appalachian trail.

A first-ever camping trip sounded like fun, something she’d been planning to look into in any case. In her mind, a camping trip was a brisk walk and an outdoor meal, followed by toasted marshmallows and songs around a campfire. At least that was how the movies presented it. Hopefully the madman with an axe who was often a part of such stories wouldn’t be making an appearance.

Enthusiastically, she researched the equipment needed for the trip. A student who was going home for the holidays supplied a backpack, and she had her own sleeping bag. True, it was printed with teddy bears, a leftover from teen sleepovers, but the weather was mild, and it should do. In fact, since food, and its transportation, had already been arranged for, all she had to buy was a pair of lightweight hiking boots.

She began the trip in high spirits, half-awake and jammed into the rear seat of one of the cars, looking forward to a pleasant adventure. And it was, until they arrived at the trailhead and she tried to put her pack on.

It wasn’t going well. First, she tried to put it on as she would a coat, but the weight was too much for her to handle. At home in the dorm, when she fitted it and adjusted the straps, she placed it on the table and backed against it. Unfortunately, in her mental vision of starting the trip she visualized a grove with picnic tables, or some equally convenient platform. Here, there was nothing but a parking lot with a trail leading off into the woods.

Giving up on lifting it into place, she settled to the ground in front of the thing and rump-walked backward until she was firmly against the pack. Her arms went into the shoulder straps, and the fit seemed right, but she was at a loss on how to get to her feet, and felt like a turtle trapped on its back. As much as she hated to do it, she was going to have to ask for help.

From her left and above came a quiet chuckle. Blushing with embarrassment, she looked up into a tanned and smiling face.

Looks like no one showed you the trick.

Trick?

Of putting your pack on. Here, get out of that mess and watch me. He helped her remove the straps and struggle to her feet, then selected his own pack from the neatly arranged line next to the car. My scoutmaster showed me this when I was thirteen years old. He found me doing just what you were. It’s a common mistake. He stood the pack in front of him, facing away, and placed his hands on the top bar.

Look at my hands and the direction the pack is facing. This is the secret of the whole thing. If you don’t start like this, you end up with the damn thing facing the wrong way.

She studied his hands, noticing how tanned and square they were—strong hands that were resting on the bar as though holding a railing.

Okay. And then?

And then you lift it, like this, he said, demonstrating. He swung the heavy pack up and to the side, as though it weighed nothing, turning it so it was behind him and facing his body, raising it until his arms were fully extended above him, the pack facing his back, and supported above his head by his straightened arms. Holding it that way for a moment, he said, Now comes the easy part. You slip your arms through the straps, one at a time, like this. He did as he said, and after each hand went through the strap he took hold of the bar again, so he was supporting the pack above him, though with each arm through a shoulder strap.

Got it? When she nodded, he said, And that’s it. You just let it drop into place. Following his own advice, the pack dropped smoothly to his shoulders.

She was hard pressed not to let her jaw drop. It was something so obvious, once demonstrated, that it was hard not to feel especially stupid for not having seen it.

Her rescuer then reversed the procedure, ending up with the pack in front of him once more.

Your turn, I— He stopped, and extended his hand, grinning and saying, I’m sorry, I nearly forgot.... Hi, new friend, I’m Drew.

His hand was warm, and the handshake firm but impersonal and brief. Nodding to her reply of, Hi, Drew, I’m Zoe, but dispensing with the usual pleasantries that went with exchanging names he said, Okay, try yours.

He had a nice smile, and seemed familiar. Perhaps from one of her classes? She tried to place him, but nothing came.

When she didn’t respond, he lifted her pack and placed it in front of her, frowning and asking, What does this thing weigh?

What? Brought back from where her mind had wandered, she mentally replayed his words, before saying, Twenty-one pounds. Why? I weigh a trace over one-ten, so it’s twenty percent of my weight. Is something wrong?

One of the first things she learned in