Holding You Read online

  HOLDING YOU

  JEWEL E. ANN

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Jewel E. Ann

  All rights reserved.

  Holding You © 2013

  IBSN # 978-0-9913106-0-9

  For my mom,

  who first recognized the author in me.

  PROLOGUE

  “Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.”

  ~Edna St. Vincent Millay

  Why is my heart still beating? My body is numb and it’s the only thought floating through my mind. I’m dead, yet my heart still beats.

  “Ma’am? Is there someone we can call, family or friends?”

  Th-thump, th-thump, th-thump. It’s the sound of limbo. My soul is desperate to leave my body but it doesn’t know where to go. Th-thump, th-thump, th-thump. It’s the last drops of water before the well runs dry. It’s the last seconds on the clock before the bomb ignites. It’s the final moment before being sucked into the abyss.

  “Ma’am, we’re going to take you to the hospital and have you examined. You’ve inhaled a lot of smoke and we may need a chest x-ray and some blood tests.”

  Th-thump, th-thump, th-thump … then total darkness.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Here’s all you have to know about men and women: women are crazy, men are stupid. And the main reason women are crazy is that men are stupid.”

  ~George Carlin

  LEAVING THE MIDWEST was my goal. I craved oceans and mountains. So when I got my big chance to make my escape, I loaded up the moving truck and said goodbye to Chicago and hello to … Milwaukee. My mom, God rest her soul, was right when she said, “Mother knows best,” and “bloom where you’re planted.” I’d spent all of my youth waiting for her to express her opinions on things so I could form my own. Mine being the opposite of hers.

  At thirty-one I was settling into my new life, the one that started over after the crappy hand of cards I was dealt in my early twenties. Finding my purpose in life was overrated. Merely existing was enough. I focused on the moment by immersing myself in the lives of other people through volunteering and providing assistance for the less fortunate. It sparked a positive energy in me that I needed. At least, that’s what I envisioned. Seeing true hunger and families of five sleeping on the floors of rundown apartments gave me the necessary resolve to unofficially graduate myself to step five in the grieving process. Acceptance.

  Milwaukee was magnificent in the spring. I loved living by the water. It wasn’t the Atlantic or Pacific, although Lake Michigan wasn’t a shabby body of water either. The majestic view never ceased to amaze me. Living so close to the water had become symbolic of my state of being, always teetering on the edge of drowning, a swaying pull from both directions.

  Being a self-proclaimed free spirit, I never missed an opportunity to stop and smell the roses, or the lilacs in the spring. The connection I felt to nature and all life had magnified in intensity over the years. Sometimes it was a curse as much as it was a gift. My “connecting to nature” was often misconstrued as having my head in the clouds.

  The crisp spring air seduced me. Closing my eyes, I raised my arms up like angel wings, tilted my head back to feel the glorious sun bathe my face, and inhaled a slow deep breath, taking a small moment of earthly pleasure as I smelled the most exquisite fragrance.

  A horrifying clash of sounds jerked me back to reality. Expelling the air from my lungs, I felt as if the wind was literally being knocked out of me.

  “ADDY, WATCH OUT!”

  A car’s horn, screeching tires, a familiar voice.

  I was drowning in sensory overload. The essence of lilac still filled my nose. A tingling chill washed across my skin, my vision was hazy from the sun, the salty taste of blood filled my mouth, and shouting voices vibrated through my ears.

  “Adler Sage Brecken what are you doing?” Mac squealed in a winded panic.

  My best friend’s face came into focus. Her green eyes were tight and brows furrowed behind a wispy curtain of windblown strawberry blonde locks. I struggled to decipher if her look was one of anger or concern. Her mouth was twisted into a grimace and it was never a good sign when she used my full name. I released my bloodied lip from my front teeth that had dug into it with the adrenaline rush. Taking another deep breath, I started to explain myself when my mind registered a deep angry voice coming toward me. I held up my finger to stop Mac from speaking and tilted my head in the direction of the sound. Although clearly agitated, the voice was laced with a hint of Spanish accent.

  Did I just hear someone call me a spaced-off, seventies throw back, pot-smoking, dumb blonde? What the hell?

  Looking down I realized I was standing in the street and, as if in slow motion, my peripheral vision picked up a pair of men’s black leather designer shoes just a few feet from me. Directly in front of me was a white SUV with the words Range Rover in chrome. Turning to my right, I homed in on a white linen, button-down shirt exposing the top of well-defined chest muscles covered in the perfect shade of olive skin. Glancing upward, my eyes captured a strong, sharp jaw line, ruddy lips pursed in a formidable line, a Roman sculpted nose, reflective chocolate eyes framed with thick long lashes, and a full head of disheveled black hair. As if I had all the time in the world, I finished my sight-seeing tour by working my way back down Michelangelo’s clothed version of David to those shoes that presumably cost more than most people’s monthly rent.

  “Hello? What the hell is your deal?” David growled between his clenched teeth.

  “She’s just got a lot on her plate today, sir, sorry for the near accident, glad everyone’s okay. Come on, Addy.” Mac huddled me to her side, looking over her shoulder at the almost accident, and pulled us toward the sidewalk.

  I jerked away from her grip and crossed over into David’s personal space. My squinted blue eyes darted up to his firm dark gaze, demanding his attention.

  “First, I was not spaced-off,” I call it meditation, “second, my style is organic and earthy, not seventies throw back,” maybe modern hippy, “third, I don’t smoke pot,” anymore, “and finally, I may be blonde, but I am NOT dumb!” I didn’t back down one inch, partly to prove I was a force to be reckoned with and partly because my nose had found a new fragrance. Despite the aphrodisiac effect it had on me, it was probably some ridiculously expensive cologne made from thousands of poisonous chemicals, and I cringed just thinking about the headache I would get from the toxic cocktail. However, in that moment my body was producing extra moisture in all the right places and everything about David was a heady combination. Especially that damn sexy accent.

  “Well, I about ran your organic, earthy, smart-mouthed, blonde pigtailed, sexy ass over, Pippy,” he said with an arrogant smirk.

  “You’re supposed to yield to pedestrians in the cross walk you egotistical, reckless maniac!” I spat in a knee-jerk reaction. Then my emotions regressed just long enough for my brain to catch up.

  Sexy ass?

  His eyebrows raised as he gripped both of my arms and turned me around. “The cross walk is about fifteen yards that way, Pippy. Maybe you should think about using it next time to practice your role as Maria in the Sound of Music.”

  Shit, shit, double shit!

  The morning sun reflecting off the lake on one side and my brick building on the other. And sure enough, the stop light was another half a block up the street.

  “Let’s go, Mac, we’re going to be late.” I tilted my chin up, threw my shoulders back, and walked back into Sage Leaf Café. After sneaking a quick glance back to see if Mac was coming, I
noticed Mr. Tall Dark and Hot as Hell slipping on his sunglasses while pulling away from the curb in his “feed a small country for a day” SUV. Instantly, I felt a rush of relief wash over my body. That was until Mac walked through the door and donned her Cheshire Cat grin.

  “OMG, LMFAO, Maria in the Sound of Music, did you catch that? That is what you looked like out there—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it, whatever, and what’s with all the acronyms? What are you, twelve?” I grumbled over my shoulder as I walked toward the kitchen.

  *

  My small but growing business, Sage Leaf Café, was closed because we had landed a great catering gig at Zen Garden, Milwaukee’s newest “green” hotel. We were the only all-vegan café in Milwaukee. Five years earlier, I purchased an old two-story, red brick building that faced Lake Michigan. I hired a local green remodeling company to convert the main level into my café and the second story transformed into my loft. The café had a recessed entry framed by two large arched windows with green awnings and Sage Leaf Café in white with a light green sage leaf as the accent on café. The spacious interior had high ceilings with contemporary brushed steel fans and dark wood-stained LED pendant lamps. At the back was the kitchen and juice bar with glass refrigerated food displays and bar stools. The crisp white walls were tastefully decorated with environmental posters and quotes such as: Let food be thy medicine and medicine be thy food – Hippocrates; Nature does not hurry yet, everything is accomplished – Lao Tzu; and Environmentalism is about Right vs Wrong, not Right vs Left – Rustle the Leaf. Square tables made from dark-stained wood with brushed steel pedestals filled the middle. The chairs were salvaged from another restaurant that went out of business. We painted the wood light green and they looked brand new. Each table had a living centerpiece of either herbs or wheatgrass growing in a cubed glass container.

  My loft was my sanctuary. The view of the lake was nothing short of stunning when the iridescent reflection of the sun shimmered across the surface like dancing diamonds. Every detail from the building materials to the interior design was feng shui’d. I’d spent many months checking the architectural salvage store for the perfect pieces to show up. Framed mirrors to dressers, coffee tables to coat trees, I was always in search of something that told me a story. Since I’d become so busy with my café I had to sweet talk Conner, the assistant manager, into calling me whenever pieces of possible interest came in. Conner was a muscle-bound, heavily inked, sex-on-legs guy, roughly ten years my junior, who had a bit of a crush on me and a definite appetite for my gourmet vegan cuisine. As long as I showed up wearing something sexy and carrying a brown bag of food, I was in like Flynn.

  Eager to experience the beautiful essence of Lake Michigan at sunrise, I woke up at five every morning, except Sunday, and took a thirty minute jog on the lake path. Then in my east facing sunroom I flowed through an hour of yoga and fifteen minutes of meditation followed by hot tea, a shower, then down to my café for a green smoothie and to open up shop. Self-pity liked to rear its ugly head in the evening. I kept busy concocting new recipes, updating the café’s website and Facebook page, or reading. The closest thing I had to a social life was live performance nights at the café on Fridays and Saturdays. We stayed open until 11:00 p.m. and usually ended up with only standing room by ten. The patrons varied in age from early twenties to late fifties depending on the night’s entertainment.

  I had enough employees to cover my shift if I wanted a night off, but I usually offered to stay until closing since it had become my safe social setting. The regular patrons felt like friends that I hung out with. We smiled and shared a few pleasantries. I made them delicious, organic, vegan food and drinks, and they fed my deflated ego with over-the-top compliments to the chef.

  I casually flirted with lots of men, the twenty-somethings to forty-somethings. We kept the chitchat light and about them. Men loved to talk about themselves. This might have been a turnoff to most women, but for me it was a necessary requirement. The moment a guy got too inquisitive was the moment I found another customer to check on or an “emergency” in the kitchen that required my attention. That was never the real case since Sage Leaf Café was a well-oiled machine, with every employee as passionate and knowledgeable about healthy vegan food as I was. My employees thought getting a job at the café was harder than getting into an Ivy League school. Having received acceptance letters from most of the Ivy League schools, I didn’t think that said much. Then again, I wasn’t your average student.

  My “virtual café dates” were great. No attachment, everybody went dutch for the meal, and the date ended by 11:00 p.m. when the OPEN sign flipped to CLOSED. I’d accumulated a box of napkins, business cards, and scratch paper with over a hundred names and numbers. I was flattered but never enough to call any of them. Mac joked that we should’ve converted the date offer box into a free lunch drawing, but we never did that either.

  *

  The morning’s unexpected events had put us a bit behind. Thankfully, I’d padded our schedule with an extra hour. Lizzy McDonald, one of my most loyal patrons, was part of the hotel’s management team. She oversaw accommodations for VIP requests. A supposed financial guru from Chicago was staying there and holding a meeting with local land developers and some bigwig city officials to talk about expanding green business trends in Milwaukee.

  There was some local press coverage planned, so the VIP request was for an eco-friendly business to cater the lunch meeting. I highly doubted there would be a single vegan at the meeting, or vegetarian for that matter, but I knew our menu would still be a huge hit; not because I was overly confident or conceited, but rather from years of experience with carnivores, herbivores, and omnivores alike raving about my made-from-scratch creations.

  “So, Addy, want to talk about what just happened outside?” Mac asked with the most devilish grin, curly strawberry blonde hair wild and untamed—like her personality—framing her face.

  “No, I want to finish packing all this food and bag the fresh garnishing herbs so we stay on schedule … anyway there is nothing to discuss,” I mumbled while avoiding all eye contact.

  Mackenzie “Mac” had been my best friend since college. Her twiggy figure had at least three inches on my conservative five foot six somewhat curvy stature. We met our freshman year at a peaceful protest in front of the University of Chicago’s Student Union. There were over two hundred students there that day demanding the school source their meat from small local farms instead of large factory farms. It was friendship at first sight. I was wearing a “Runs on Veggies” T-shirt and she was wearing a “What the Kale?!?” tank top. We of course were not supporting meat consumption from any farm, but rather a step in the right direction. Our make love, not war brains believed the logical step after local farms was veganism.

  Twelve years later we were still two peas in a pod, two kale leaves from the same plant. Our relationship was deep-rooted and forthright. We kept no secrets from one another, therefore lying to her was like lying to myself.

  “I guess it must have been my imagination then, that the fine physical specimen you were inches away from in the street had your panties drenched and nipples at full attention, huh?”

  “Oh my gosh, Mac! He about ran me over. I could have died this morning and you’re trying to turn this into some smut novel you like to read!” I gasped, still averting eye contact.

  “WE … some smut novel we like to read. Don’t act like you don’t have your iPad library filled with every smut novel published in the last ten years. That’s why you don’t date, you know no man will ever satisfy you like sex-script.”

  “First, I don’t read that many novels, and second, you know that’s not why I don’t date. Just get the rest of those bags and let’s go,” I ordered with an end of conversation finality.

  *

  Our small crew arrived at Zen Garden Suites by eleven forty-five. With the help of a few hotel staff, we had everything unloaded and into the kitchen by noon. Lunch for twenty was to be ser
ved in a small conference room with floor to ceiling windows overlooking Lake Michigan.

  I oversaw my staff assembling the mixed garden greens salad with pickled beets, asparagus, and ginger fig dressing while Mac assembled the roasted vegetable sandwiches on fresh-baked, sprouted grain buns with spinach basil pesto, spicy stone-ground mustard, and yellow heirloom tomatoes. The hotel serving staff was distributing the cucumber mint water and raw juice spritzers when Lizzy McDonald came into the kitchen to give us specific instructions on following the rules of the luncheon.

  Rules of the luncheon? What the hell?

  “Mr. Jamison requests the hotel staff to serve the meal and tend to any needs of the guests. After dessert is served, you will be invited to the front of the room where Mr. Jamison will shake hands with you, thank you for the meal, and pose for a few photos.”

  The old Addy would have blown a gasket, insisting the Sage Leaf Café staff serve the meal that we prepared. It was a real testament to my growth that I willingly allowed my staff to be hidden in the kitchen until Mr. High Society Jamison decided it was socially acceptable to make a token appearance at the end of the meal. The new Addy, after years of emotional discipline through yoga and meditation, smiled brightly and nodded to Lizzy in agreement.

  More like submission.

  Flying under the radar allowed me more time to finish the dessert plates—raw cheesecake with coconut cream and raspberries. Not having expected the official photo op at the end, I didn’t dress for the press. Stealing a quick minute, I made my way to the ladies’ lounge to freshen up.

  I removed my long, wavy blonde locks from my messy bun and finger combed through the tangles. Women always asked where I went to get my hair done, but I had never even highlighted it. My unique hair color was all in the genes. My mom was a natural platinum blonde and my dad had a thick head of copper blond hair, so I ended up with something in the middle. I braided my unruly long bangs and clipped the braided strand off to the side.