Saint & Sinner: A Second Chance Romance Read online

  “So,” he said with a smirk. “You came in with nothing. Fifteen-years old and wet behind the ears, but word is ya fell in with the in-crowd and became quite the mogul in there. You’re one lucky bastard, aren’t ya?”

  I placed the cheap plastic pen down and straightened to look at the officer. Ginger hair, mid-thirties, bad teeth and thought he knew everything because he watched the news on TV. He had no idea. Luck had nothing to do with it. I had a plan and I stuck to it religiously. Not for one moment did I deviate from it. Not even when I was sleeping.

  He wagged his finger at me. “Don’t go blow it all on greedy hookers and fast cars, cause, once the money’s gone you’ll be back on the hamster wheel until you run right back into this place. If ya don’t have money in the big bad world you’re about to head out into, ya might as well still be behind bars, only now the world gets to mock you for it … to your face … every goddamn day.”

  Even when I was dirt poor no one dared mock me, but he was entitled to his opinion. I grabbed my things.

  “How d’ya do it, anyhow?” he asked. “Word is you got some sort of financial education. Met the right crook, did ya?”

  “Ask around,” I said, and turned away.

  “Arrogant bastard,” I heard him swear in a low tone. Then he called after me. “Hope you don’t get sent back in here too soon. I need a bit more time to work my way up to captain, or one of his bitches. There’s no way you’re getting out of here again without me benefitting from that wizard brain of yours.”

  His dark chuckle serenaded my exit, as the iron gate unlocked, and I was escorted out by another guard. The metal doors clanged behind me.

  When I was let out of the gates of the prison, I stopped and took a deep lungful of air. Freedom. Obviously, it was my state of mind, but the hot, desert air smelt sweet. I’m coming, little Willow. I’m coming for you.

  Just as had been arranged, there was a dark Mercedes with tinted glass awaiting me a little distance away. It made its way toward me. The driver immediately jumped out of the front seat, and headed over to me.

  “Caleb Wolfe?” he called.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m Bernado Barros. Marie Spencer sent me to pick you up and take you to your home.”

  “Good,” I said, and started walking towards the back of the black Mercedes.

  Bernado leaped into action and pulled the door open for me. I got into the wonderfully air-conditioned space and he closed the door. After he slid into the driver’s seat, he turned around to hand me an envelope. “That’s from Ms. Spencer.”

  The car pulled away smoothly.

  I didn’t look back. I leaned into the plush seat and opened the envelope from my lawyer’s understudy. Inside was the property deed of my new house, along with the keys, credit cards, a note telling me someone had fully stocked my fridge and wardrobe, and a cell phone.

  I switched the phone on, and found Marie had already set her phone number on speed dial. I cracked my first smile in a long time. She was definitely efficient. I placed a call to her.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Wolfe,” she said crisply.

  “Thank you, Marie. When’s the meeting with the psychiatrist?”

  “Just a second.” I hear the sound of her typing on her keyboard. “Your appointment with Dr. Gregory Aggarwal is tomorrow morning at 190 Blue Ravine Road. It’s a forty-five-minute drive from your house. I’ve arranged for Bernardo to pick you up.”

  “No need,” I said. “I’ll drive myself.”

  “Well, um … you can’t, yet. Legally speaking. You’ll need to take your test first. The license you had at fifteen would have been a restricted permit.” She paused. “Might be a good idea to stay on the straight and narrow path from now on.”

  “Send Bernardo,” I muttered.

  “Thank you. You’ll be glad to know your driving license test has been scheduled for after your meeting with Dr. Aggarwal. And right after that you’ll be able to pay a visit to our offices … if you wish, of course.”

  I said nothing, my thoughts filled with what Dr. Aggarwal would say.

  “Shall I pencil you into Mr. Albright’s diary for tomorrow, then?”

  “Maybe, let’s see how things go.”

  “Oh,” she exclaimed, surprised. “I thought you might want to. We’ve been in contact for a couple of years now, and only met twice in person. Plus, it’d be good for you to see the firm and meet the team that have been managing most of your affairs so diligently, would it not?” She cleared her throat. “It’s Valentine’s Day the day after tomorrow, and it will be a great opportunity for us to express our gratitude to you for the relationship we’ve forged over the years.”

  “Marie,” I said quietly. “I’ll do my best, but since you’ve been managing most of my affairs you must be well aware of what my priority is.”

  “I am,” she said. “Of course, I am. Willow Rayne is one lucky woman.”

  I didn't respond to that. Willow was a lot of things, but lucky, I was certain, was not one of them.

  I ended the call quickly after that and pulled the watch out of my pocket. The pad of my thumb brushed over the strap, the memory coming to mind of why it was in my possession.

  It seemed as if a lifetime had gone by since those days, but in my head and in my heart, it felt like it was just yesterday, we had stood next to the burning house and mixed our blood. Even now, if I closed my eyes, I could see her. Her lips trembling, her hands cold. So cold. But her enormous eyes filled with love. So much love it kept me alive for twelve years.

  “Bernardo,” I called.

  “Yes, Sir?”

  “Do you know a good florist in Folsom?”

  “A good flower shop, Sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not really, Sir,” he replied, looking at me in the rearview mirror.

  “Alright. Then take me to Natoma Street. There’s one there, if I remember correctly.”

  “Uh, we’re no longer heading to your house, Sir?”

  “It’s just a detour,” I replied.

  “Yes, Sir,” he said sharply, as he changed his route.

  3

  Willow

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G0np-5xbkus

  -if it takes a thousand tears-

  I snipped off the stem of a Red Magic Daylily, and brought it to my nose. Its scent was not the most fragrant, but it filled my body with a strange sense of wistfulness. It was the same as being transported to one’s childhood by the smell of apple pie baking or incense smoke. Although in my case, bizarrely, I had no memories attached to the flower, so couldn’t understand why it had such an effect on me.

  Perhaps it belonged in that black hole of my life. Those two years that are lost to me. In the beginning I used to try to remember, but every time I did, I would end up with a pounding headache. The doctor advised me not to force the memories. If they were going to come back they would come back on their own, one by one, or all at once.

  After all these years I knew they were not coming back. I didn’t mourn for them, but I couldn’t help the niggling feeling that I was missing something important. My friends tell me I was just a kid. Nothing that important could have happened to me in those years. I had just moved into Redburn and probably just went to school and hung around with the other school kids. Although it did bother me that none of my friends came to see me in hospital or afterwards. Not that I would have remembered them, but still. Did I have no friends at all?

  Rising to my feet, my full basket dangling from the crook of my arm, I headed for the back door of the shop. A gloved Sandra was repotting a rubber tree.

  Her nose wrinkled at the sight of the flowers I carried. She waved the trowel in her hand at me. “Ugh, you’re not including those again, are you?”

  “I have some ideas,” I said. “Roses are pleasant, but this should add a new twist to the bouquets.”

  “Well good luck keeping them fresh,” she remarked, as I continued on my way.

  I set the basket down on my work surf
ace, and was about to begin when the hum of a car engine arriving at our front door made me turn my head.

  “I think the roses are here,” Sandra said, pulling off her gloves. She headed out of the store and the sound of low laughter as well as some friendly banter filtered over. Ah, Bradley was here. They would make a good pair. I wished Bradley would ask her out. It was obvious by how much time Bradley spent in the shop that he liked Sandra, but was too chicken to make the first move.

  Soon enough both of them came in carrying three buckets of flowers.

  “Hey, Bradley,” I greeted with a smile.

  “Willow,” he responded, with a big grin. “How’s it going?”

  “Well, as of last night, I will officially make a healthy profit for the first time since I started this business three months ago,” I said quietly, but the words made my heart swell with happiness and pride.

  “That’s grand news,” he said sincerely. “Don’t forget. You’ll have an insane patronage today and tomorrow too.”

  “Yeah, the online orders have been pouring in too,” Sandra said on her way out of the shop to bring me the rest of the roses.

  “Wait for me,” Bradley said, and hurried after her.

  “Wow,” Sandra exclaimed, pushing open the door. “I didn’t know luxurious cars came to our street.”

  I looked up from my arrangement and saw the shiny black Mercedes parked in front of the Caribbean grocery store a few shops down from us. Its windows were tinted, and there was very little that I could see so I lost interest very quickly.

  “I’d love to see who it belongs to,” Sandra said dreamily. “Maybe it’s a handsome, cocky, twenty-something that was sent over here to sweep me off my feet.”

  “Hey!” Bradley protested. “I’m a handsome, cocky, twenty something.”

  “Aren’t you thirty? Plus, you’re not loaded. That person over there has a life that I very much want to have a taste of.”

  “Well, I’m afraid he’s not coming over,” I said, nudging her arm with my elbow as I returned to the store. “Back to work you. We only have three hours before we have to send the flowers to the restaurant.”

  “Fine,” she groaned, “but you all keep an eye on the car. I want to at least see what the owner looks like. I bet it’s some celeb from LA.”

  “Or it’s some older man with an erectile dysfunction and an estranged wife,” Bradley muttered.

  We both turned to Bradley at his bitter comment, but he shrugged and winked. “You never know,” he said. “The wildest things happen these days.”

  “You mean in your mind,” Sandra said. “The wildest thing to happen in this town since Johnny Cash was that Whitney Gallow starred in Hoarders, so I don’t know where you’re getting your news from.”

  “He’s leaving,” I announced, another carton in hand. Bradley and Sandra both paused to watch as the vehicle pulled out of the curb and began to slowly head our way.

  “He’s coming over,” Sandra squealed and spun around to face me, her hands quickly smoothing her hair. “I bet he wants to buy flowers for someone. For Valentine’s Day. Oh my God, he’s probably a Hollywood director or something. We should take a picture and put it on our Instagram page. Just think, this shop could become famous,” she babbled excitedly.

  I was amused, but I couldn’t help the flare of hope in my heart. What if he truly was rich with an Elton John personality who needed his home to be filled with flowers? That’s exactly what the shop needed. Regular income.

  Just as the car reached our shop, we all stared at it, trying to see beyond the tint. However, it did not slow down, but sped up. We watched as it zoomed past.

  “I guess he really came just to buy groceries,” Bradley mocked.

  “What a bummer,” Sandra said. “The one time we have an interesting visitor on our street and he speeds off without dropping in here.”

  I agreed with her. There goes my fantasy of an Elton John type customer who spends an insane fortune on flowers every month.

  “At this rate, Willow, we’re going to end up alone with fifteen cats and fifteen cat litter boxes to clean out.”

  “Fifteen?” Bradley asked. “That’s quite a specific number.

  “I have a thing for the number.”

  I smiled because I knew all about her attachment to that number. It was a bit crazy, but who was I to judge? I was more than a little crazy too. She had a thing for the number fifteen and I had a thing about lollipops. I couldn’t bear to see anyone eating a lollipop. It actually made me feel physically sick. If I accidentally, come across a child sucking a lollipop, I have to immediately turn away, otherwise, I would have to snatch the thing out of that child’s mouth. That was how weird I was.

  “Are you going to tell us about this fifteen thing you’ve got going?” Bradley asked, his voice teasing.

  “It’s my birth date, my mom’s birth date, the day I first got my period, my first job at Target, the day I got accepted into college, the day my brother got married, the day—”

  “It is now clear that the fifteenth of all months should be renamed Sandra’s Day,” Bradley said, handing the delivery receipt to me.

  “No arguments there,” she agreed heartily. Then she turned towards me. “Anyway, Willow, tomorrow evening we’re painting the town red. We’re going to close the shop early. No, don’t you dare give me that look. We are closing early. Anyone who hasn’t bought their flowers by 7pm on Valentine’s Day is a piece of shit that we don’t want as a customer.”

  I was shaking my head so she changed tack.

  “Fine, we’ll bring our cute clothes here, close up by eight, and go man-hunting then. I am ready to be devoured.”

  I wasn’t, but I kept my opinions to myself.

  “Okay, I’m leaving,” Bradley said, and quickly exited the shop.

  I returned to my flowers without a word. “I haven’t gotten your response, Willow,” she said in a cautionary voice, and I turned a sheepish smile on her.

  “Let’s see how tomorrow goes.”

  “You’re not getting out of this,” she warned sternly. “I’ve already seen how it’ll go. You, in that gorgeous red dress of yours with those sexy strings at the back, and my red stilettos. I’ll be in my black halter-neck and my brand-new pumps.”

  “Ah, I get it,” I said as I reached for a packet of flower food. “We’re going as sin and death.”

  “Exactly,” she agreed roundly. “The men will flock to us like greedy little bees around a honey pot.”

  I swallowed a lump in my throat. Men flocking around us was the last thing I wanted. That was the other bizarre thing about me. I had a vague, explainable fear of men. Which was, quite frankly, weird, because no man had ever been anything except gentle and respectful toward me. And what was even more crazy, was a deep, unshakeable impression I had that I was waiting. Waiting for someone. Like the bride of a soldier that was waiting for her sweetheart to return from a war in a far-flung country. Sometimes I even felt a pang of longing. As if I was calling for my other half to come back to me.

  Totally bizarre.

  Once I went out on a date, and I had to pretend I had a headache and leave halfway through, because I felt guilty the whole time. As if I was cheating on this invisible, unknown man I was waiting for.

  It was strange, very strange, but there was nothing I could do about it. My skin actually crawled when my date touched me. And that reaction was the same for any man who came on to me.

  4

  Caleb

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yeBl1qcWjSg

  -You will remember me for centuries-

  “No, I wouldn’t recommend bringing up any recollections of the past you shared with her. Her mind has obviously shut out the entire period because it is too painful to bear. Telling her what happened between the two of you might even mean planting memories. That could cause her to get confused and start to distrust which memories are real and which are imagined. I cannot express enough what harm that could do.”

  I s
tared at Dr. Aggarwal’s sallow-skinned, gaunt face. Behind his spectacles, his eyes looked watery and full of sorrow or exhaustion. It was as if he had absorbed all the troubles of his patients into his own body.

  I glanced down at my hands, the complicated blue tats snaking up my arms. I was a kid when I had them done. They looked childish and cliché now. HATE on the four fingers of one hand and LOVE on the other. First came hate, then after I met Willow came love. I asked my next question. “It’s been more than twelve years since her accident. Isn’t that way past the norm for her to recover her lost memories? Isn’t there something we can do to help her regain her memories?”

  He nodded. “You told me she was undergoing dialectical behavioral therapy to help process her trauma, but gave up on it due to its ineffectiveness?”

  That was what the private investigator I hired found out. “Yes.”

  “That’s the thing about dissociative amnesia,” he said. “Lost memories will return when they want to, and there’s little that any one of us can do to force it. It is an extremely frustrating thing not to be able to remember vast chunks of your life, but it looks like she’s accepted her own limitations in forcing them to come back and is allowing nature to take its course instead.”

  “I don’t want to cause her any pain or discomfort whatsoever,” I muttered.

  “No, of course you don’t. I can see you care very much for the young lady.”

  I looked down at my hands curiously. They were trembling. All the fights, all the danger, all the pain I endured in prison and I’d never seen them tremble. “Is it possible then, she might never regain her memories?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid you’ll have to accept that possibility. You were present during this traumatic time, weren’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “Then maybe your future interactions with her will trigger some old memories that will in turn help in her recollection. But it would be wise not to rush her, or force her. Don’t be the one to bring it up.” He paused. “Perhaps just seeing you might trigger something.”