‘Cassandra, honey, it’s me. If you’re there, please pick it up. Please.’ His voice wavered. ‘I need to talk to you, hon. I need to hear your voice. Please answer the phone. Please.’
There was no answer.
‘FUUUUUUUUUUCK!’ His agony-filled scream echoed throughout the entire room.
Five minutes later, Mr. J was still sitting at the edge of the bathtub, his face buried in his palms, his cellphone on the tiled floor by his feet. His reflection in the mirror had grown tired of waiting.
Another five minutes went by before Mr. J finally moved his hands away from his face. His arms dropped by the side of his body aimlessly. He felt totally drained of energy. His eyelids flapped a couple of times, his pupils contracted, filtering away the excessive lighting as it reflected off the white tiles. It took him another minute to crash through the blur of confusion and regain focus, and as he did, everything seemed and felt different — the room, the air, his entire world. His blood had gone cold in his veins, his lungs breathed hate instead of oxygen, and he couldn’t feel his heart beating in his chest anymore. Everything inside of him had died with his wife. Everything except his brain. He needed to keep it alive. He needed to think. And think he did. A few minutes later, he reached for his phone and made the first of three calls.
Forty
As Hunter’s attention moved to the person standing before him he frowned, but the uncertainty in his stare lasted just a fraction of a second before it was substituted by a look of total surprise — a look that the woman standing there failed to recognize.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she said, unable to hide her embarrassment. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ There was a touch of disappointment in her tone.
‘Of course I do,’ Hunter said, returning his drink to his table. ‘The twenty-four-hour reading room at UCLA.’ He searched his memory for her name. ‘Tracy, right? Tracy Adams.’
Her disappointment gave way to a coy smile.
‘Your hair looks a little different,’ Hunter added. ‘That’s why it took me a second.’
Tracy’s wavy red hair was pegged back over her ears by two small hairclips, revealing a pair of dainty skull earrings, with tiny black rocks for eyes. The rest of her hair fell loose past her shoulders, framing a very attractive heart-shaped face, where expressive green eyes sat behind old-fashioned, cat-eye glasses, but the real difference was in her fringe. This time, instead of looping above her forehead to form a pin-up-style victory roll, it simply fell naturally over her face, partially covering her left eye.
‘Sorry about the intrusion,’ Tracy said, her demeanor still showing a little embarrassment. ‘I was sitting at the bar when I saw the hostess showing you to your table.’ Her shoulders moved up in a delicate shrug. ‘I thought I would come and say, “Hi.” ’
‘No intrusion at all.’ Hunter’s gaze gravitated towards the bar for a quick second. ‘I’m glad you did.’
Not wanting to sound too forward, he quickly accessed the scene. At the bar sitting area, no one was expectantly looking their way. Tracy also had her drink in her hand, which suggested that she hadn’t left anyone waiting for her back at the bar or at a table. Hunter indicated the empty seat across the table from him.
‘Would you like to have a seat?’
She hesitated for a moment before reinforcing her point. ‘Are you sure? I really wouldn’t like to intrude.’
‘You’re not,’ Hunter reassured her. ‘It would be a pleasure.’
The coy smile returned to Tracy’s lips and she finally nodded in acceptance. ‘In that case, sure. Thank you.’
She took the seat, placed her drink down on the table and nodded at Hunter’s glass, making a reference to when they first met by the coffee vending machine.
‘I must say, that looks a lot more appealing than a Caramel Frappuccino Deluxe.’
Hunter smiled. ‘I agree. Probably healthier too.’
‘So, what are you having?’ she asked. ‘The choice in here is overwhelming.’
‘Yes, that’s for sure,’ Hunter replied as his eyes settled on his glass. ‘Scotch. Kilchoman... Caramel Barley Deluxe.’
Tracy laughed. ‘Year?’
The question surprised Hunter.
‘Twenty-ten.’
She made a face, impressed. ‘Great choice. They’re a very traditional distillery. If I’m not mistaken, I think that they are the only ones that complete all parts of their whisky-making process on site. Nothing gets outsourced.’
Hunter tried not to frown at her again, but he was sincerely intrigued. Women in general weren’t very fond of Scotch whisky, which wasn’t at all surprising. Whisky was undoubtedly an acquired taste, one that at first would certainly overpower anyone’s palate and knock the air out of their lungs in the process. Hunter knew that only too well. The trick was to persist, to keep trying, to keep sipping it until one day it finally made sense. Women usually weren’t that patient with drinks. They either liked it at first sip or they didn’t.
‘It sounds like you know quite a bit about whisky.’ Hunter didn’t ask the question, but it silently floated in the air, begging for an answer.
‘My father was Scottish, from the Highlands,’ Tracy explained, before having another sip of her drink. ‘So I was introduced to it at a very early age, and I mean — very early age. He used to dip my pacifier in it when I was a baby to get me to go to sleep. After that, from when I was about four onwards, he would allow me a sip of his Scotch on special occasions, like Christmas and New Year. If my grandfather were around, he’d do the same. My mother didn’t like it at all and she used to tell my father off all the time, but he didn’t care. He’d just turn around and say, “Aye, let the lass have a wee snifter, hen. It’s guid for her, aaricht.” ’
To Hunter’s surprise, Tracy’s Scottish accent was absolutely flawless, and terribly sensual.
‘On my sixteenth birthday,’ she continued, ‘my father poured me my first full shot of Scotch.’ She paused, feeling the need to clarify. ‘Have you ever been to Scotland?’
Hunter shook his head. It was his turn to feel a little embarrassed. ‘No, unfortunately not. Actually, I’ve never been out of the country.’
A new, surprised look from Tracy. ‘You need to go sometime. It’s an astounding place, especially the Highlands, but since you’ve never been there, you might not know this — by law, pubs, bars, and restaurants in Scotland have to use a measured shot. No free pouring like over here, so when I say a shot, I mean about this much.’ She indicated on her glass. It was less than half the original measure Hunter had received.
‘Wow.’
‘But as I’ve said, from the age of four onwards, my father wouldn’t just allow me a sip of his Scotch and that was that. He would always explain about the nose, the palate, and the finish, so by the time I started having my own when I was sixteen, I could already discern flavors and underlying tones. Scotch is my favorite drink.’ She paused and made a half-pained face. ‘And I have just bored you stiff, haven’t I?’
‘No, not at all,’ Hunter shook his head. The truth was, he found Tracy very charismatic. Very easy to get comfortable with. ‘That’s a very interesting story.’
Tracy laughed. ‘I can tell that you don’t know many people with Scottish heritage then. They are very serious about their whisky over there, and they start training their young ones early.’
‘And it works,’ Hunter commented, ‘because, as I’ve said, it sounds like you really know your stuff. So now I’m curious. Since you’re a connoisseur, what are you drinking?’ He nodded at her glass.
She paused for a moment.
Hunter couldn’t tell if it was for effect or not.