I spent the next hour, maybe more, backtracking through each day’s receipts. The pattern was the same.
The door jingled, or at least I thought it did. I inhaled quickly and pushed my chair back into the door frame in order to try to get a better view. I couldn’t see anything.
“Hey, anyone here?” I hollered, tipping back in my chair.
The door looked like it was shut tight.
Maybe it was just my imagination.
When I caught a flash of movement from the corner of my eye, it made me lose my balance and fall backward from the chair.
Untangling myself from the chair, I flipped onto my stomach and began pushing up to my feet. I wasn’t imagining things—footsteps were headed my way.
Before I could stand, I could hear the footsteps coming closer.
“Hey, I’m not alone!” I yelled. It was the first thing I could think of to say.
The next thing I knew, I felt something whack me on my head. Everything went dark.
When I came to, I couldn’t get my bearings. Was I on the ship? No, my bed wasn’t this cold or hard.
I squinted. The light hurt my eyes. Shutting them tightly, I urged myself to think. Feeling the floor, still damp from an industrial scrubbing, memories started coming back.
That’s right, I’m at Torte,
I thought as I tried to sit up on the concrete floor.
My head spun. The overpowering smell of bleach made me want to vomit.
What happened?
As my eyes adjusted to the light, I inched to my feet. My head throbbed. I put my hand to the base of my skull; a huge knot was beginning to form.
Someone hit me! I must have blacked out.
I rubbed the tender lump with one hand and picked the chair up with the other. Squinting again, I checked the clock. I’d only been out for a minute. That’s a good sign, right?
Then a terrible thought invaded my groggy mind. What if whoever knocked me out was still here?
Should I scream?
Who would hear me? It was after midnight. Main Street was surely deserted by now. Maybe a few late-night revealers would be stumbling to the pub, but otherwise screaming would be a futile use of my energy.
Instead I slid back into the office and threw the door closed behind me. I held the doorknob tight with my hand.
No way was I letting anyone in.
I wish it locked,
I thought, tugging the knob tighter.
Even though Thomas had dubbed me “Ms. Independent” I could really use his help.
With one hand clenched on the knob, I reached behind me to the desk and fumbled around for my cell phone. Thank goodness the office was so small.
I found my phone and punched in Thomas’s number with my thumb.
He answered after the third ring.
“Hello?” He yawned. I’d woken him.
“Thomas, it’s Jules, can you come to Torte?” I whispered with force into the phone.
“Jules? I can’t hear you, what did you say?”
“I need you to come help me,” I hissed. “I’m at Torte. Someone hit me.”
“Wait, what?” Thomas sounded alert. “You’ve been assaulted?”
“I think so. I was going over the books and the next thing I knew I was knocked out cold.”
“Stay there. Don’t move. I’m on my way.”
Time felt like molasses as I waited for Thomas. Every creek or hum of the overhead lights sent me into a panic.
My fingers were clenched around the handle. They soon went numb and were turning white. I didn’t care.
Who had hit me, and why?
Was I imagining the entire thing? Maybe when I tipped back in the chair I’d bumped my head and now I was hallucinating.
No.
I went back through what I remembered step-by-step while I waited for Thomas.
I had heard a noise, scooted the chair back to see what it was. Then I saw someone move by the front door. That shock made me fall backward, but it didn’t knock me out. I knew that for certain. I remember being tangled up in the chair and moving onto my hands and knees. That’s when I was hit. For sure.
Doubt crept in. Maybe I was losing it. Maybe I shouldn’t have called Thomas.
Too late.
“Juliet?” his voice called out. “It’s Thomas. Where are you?”
“In here.” My voice sounded squeaky.
I could hear Thomas sprint across the room.
He pushed the door open. My body fell back against the desk.
“Juliet, sorry, Jules.” He shook his head like he was scolding himself. “Are you okay?”
His cheeks were flushed and his hand went immediately to the holster on his hip. I’d definitely woken him. He wore jeans, a gray football T-shirt that I think he had back in high school, and moccasin slippers on his feet. His sandy hair looked tousled, like he’d been wrestling with his pillow.
I stretched my back and nodded. “I’m okay.”
He looked me over, as if trying to assess whether I was telling the truth. Satisfied that I wasn’t about to drop dead, he ordered me to wait while he secured the space.
“Here.” He dragged another chair into the office. “Sit. I’ll take a look around.”
Every muscle in my body felt tight. I tried rolling my shoulders and stretching out the kinks. My head pulsed. It felt like it was transmitting waves of pain like a radio signal. I needed ice and a handful of Advil.
Thomas must have read my mind. He returned with a bag of ice wrapped in a red Torte kitchen towel and a glass of water.
“Where were you hit?” he asked, handing me the ice and setting the water on the desk behind me.
I took it and placed it on the back of my head. “Right here.”
“Let me take a look.” He moved my hand and the ice pack. His touch sent goose bumps up my arms.
Stop, Jules, it’s just the ice.
“Nasty lump you got there,” Thomas said, examining my head. “How long were you out?”
“Not long,” I replied as Thomas carefully returned my hand and ice to the bruise.
“Do I need to call EMS?” He held his index finger in the air. “Can you follow my finger?”
He proceeded to move his finger left, right, up and down. The act of forcing my eyes to follow his rapid movement made me dizzy, but Thomas seemed satisfied.
“You’re tracking okay. How do you feel?”
“Sore.” I removed the ice for a minute. My head burned with cold. “A little dizzy, but that’s nothing new. I’ve been dizzy for a couple days now.”
“I think you’re okay. It’s good that it’s swelling out. Better than swelling internally, you know? You’re probably gonna have a nasty headache for a few days. You have any anti-inflammatory medication?”
“There’s a first-aid kit in the kitchen.”
“Sit tight. I’ll grab some.”
He ran to the kitchen. His slippers slid on the slick floor. I watched him grab the counter to stop skidding.
Skating back to me, he thrust a bottle of Tylenol in my hand. “Take three of these.”
He waited while I swallowed the pills.
“Good. All right.” He leaned against the door frame. “You want to fill me in on what went down?
“Honestly, I’m not sure.” I put the ice on my head again. “Like I said, I was going over the books after the cleaners finished. I thought I heard the door open and—”
Thomas put his hand up to stop me. “Was the door locked?”
I thought for a second. “No, I don’t think so.”
He gave me a disappointed look. “Are you telling me you didn’t lock the front door after a murder occurred here?”
“Sorry.” I shrugged. “I guess I didn’t even think about it. It’s Ashland, after all.”
Thomas raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. He clearly didn’t agree. “Go on.”
“Anyway, I heard something and rolled the chair to check it out. I fell over and the next thing I knew I was knocked out.”
“Could you identify who assaulted you?”
“No, they hit me from behind.” I shook my head.
“Is anything missing?” Thomas motioned to the kitchen. “Nothing looks disturbed, but you’d know better than me.”
I gave him a sheepish grin. “Well, I kind of locked myself in here. I’m not sure.”
Thomas laughed. “It’s all clear now. You up for checking everything out with me? Just in case?”
He helped me to my feet. “You might as well bring that with you.” Pointing to the ice pack, he said, “Keep it on as long as you can. That will help with the swelling.”
“I don’t even know what we’re looking for,” I said, keeping the ice pack firm on my head and taking small steps. The room was spinning, but I didn’t want Thomas to know I wasn’t a hundred percent.
“Anything that looks out of place.” Thomas guided me with his hand on the small of my back. It felt familiar.
“I didn’t see any signs of forced entry or damage, but you should check the cash register. It could have been kids out to steal a few bucks. Who knows?” He steered me through the bakeshop, starting in the kitchen and working our way to the front. The cash register was intact, nothing appeared to be missing from the kitchen, and the restaurant booths and tables were neat and tidy from the cleaners.
Whatever my assailant was after, they’d either succeeded in taking it or it was still here. Thomas said as much, but I couldn’t help but feel like he was holding something back.
I felt a bit silly for waking him and having him rush over for nothing.
After he was satisfied that we’d searched every square inch of Torte, he suggested we lock up and told me he would walk me home.
The moon rose above the hills, casting a bluish glow on the sleepy village. We didn’t speak on the short walk to my apartment. He insisted that he see me to my door and even then followed me inside to make sure that space was secure.
He left me with strict instructions to check in the next morning and to lock my front door.
I waved to him from my front window and watched him stroll down Main Street. If he thought I was being silly, why all the formality with checking my apartment and making sure I locked the door?
A new thought invaded my headspace. What if whoever attacked me wasn’t there to steal anything? What if they were after me?
A few hours later I woke to the sound of my alarm blaring in my ear. Why did it sound so loud, and hurt so much?
Every cell in my body quickly remembered last night’s events and the giant bump on my head. It had been years since I’d had a headache like this. In fact, I think the last time was a staff party on the ship when Carlos and I first became an item. I remember it well.
* * *
I’d spent seven years after I graduated from culinary school working my way up. When you’re starting out, most ships only contract you for short stints—three, maybe six months tops. It’s pretty common to pop between ships which leads to a constant flux of coworkers and bosses. Once I finally landed a more permanent position, I was able to make more lasting friendships.
It didn’t take long to develop a crush on Carlos. His constant teasing, flirting, and forcing me to do his dirty work (aka, playing practical jokes on my boss) ratcheted up the tension between us. However, Carlos was in a long-term relationship with a Spanish beauty. My bunkmate made sure I was aware of this when she noticed that I started putting on lipstick and braiding my hair before work.
“He’s taken, you know,” she said, casually flipping through a gossip magazine from the top bunk as I studied my reflection in the mirror.
“Who?” I played dumb.
“The Latin Lover.” She rolled her
r
s and batted her eyelashes. “Trust me, you’re not the first one to swoon. Every girl on this ship has crushed on Carlos, but he’s seriously taken. Some Spanish beauty back on land. Rumor has it they’re getting married next time he takes leave. Sorry, sister.”
I pretended to remove an eyelash from my eye in the mirror and blew her off. “That’s cool. I’m not even into him.”
She gave me a knowing smirk. “Sure.”
Later that week the crew had one of its staff parties. The ship had a separate lounge for staff. Pay may not have been much, but in the staff bar, drinks were dirt cheap and flowed faster than the water outside.
It was my first staff party. I pulled out the sea-foam-green cocktail dress I’d brought along and let my long locks fall to my shoulders. Ignoring my roommate’s warning to keep my crush at bay, I spent an extra few minutes applying makeup, misting my neck with rose water, and putting on my favorite silver antique dangling earrings. When I surveyed myself in the mirror I didn’t look half bad. The pale green shimmer in the dress brought out the green flecks in my eyes and complemented my ash-blond locks.
Carlos sauntered up to me with a martini in his hand as soon as I entered the room. “A toast to you, my little one.”
I thought he was handsome in his kitchen whites, but he oozed sexy in relaxed khakis and a sky-blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
“No, thanks, I don’t like martinis,” I said, refusing the drink and pushing my way past him.
I’m sure he considered this a challenge. It wasn’t. I hate martinis.
He looked injured and then determined.
As I circulated the room, I could feel his eyes on me. He found me minutes later, this time with a glass of wine in his hand.
“Julieta.”
He dropped the
j
and replaced it with a lilting
h.
“Would you like instead this tempranillo? It’s very far away from the martini. You try?”
“I love tempranillo.” I smirked when Carlos looked surprised that I was familiar with the Spanish wine.
That night I loved tempranillo more than I ever had or ever will again. I think I finished an entire bottle by myself. I can vividly remember his dark eyes illuminated in the candlelight, and how he spoke with his hands flying with equal passion on every topic we covered from soufflés to politics. He refilled my glass without me noticing.
I did notice all eyes on us when he led me to the dance floor (I must have been tipsy) and swept me around with his smooth dance moves.
The next morning I woke up with a killer headache and a case of full-blown infatuation. I had it bad. My hangover headache cured itself in a day. But my infatuation with Carlos never released its grip on me.