The box holds one of the flashy new iPhones that all my friends at school waited in line to buy when it first came out. There are already twenty or thirty numbers listed in it, most under M, for MacTavish. Thank god I have a good memory for numbers, and I rapidly input Sam’s, Mom’s, and Lucia’s numbers as well. Maybe I can look up some of my college friends on Instagram.
There’s a text waiting for me:
Another red-hot flush of shame scalds me.Good girl.Like a child he can manipulate.
I look up, trying to distract myself from the humiliation and see a nice little place on the corner. As our driver Vincent navigated the city, Talon recited information about various neighborhoods as we drove through them and outlining their virtues in a bland tour-director tone. So, I know we’re still in the older, more bougie part of the city.
“Let’s stop there.”
Talon twists to look back at me. “Where, ma’am?”
“Remember we had the deal about calling each by our first names when- okay, never mind. I’d like to stop at that place, the Red Poppy Coffee House.”
He looks dubiously at the old limestone building. There’s a huge oak door and a little red sign in front. “I’ll have to do a walk-through. Will ye stay here with Vincent, then?”
Vincent’s our driver, because apparently guarding my body is a job that does not allow Talon to drive and protect me at the same time. That’s new, Wyatt did both when…
I’m not going to think about Wyatt. I’ve always kept a lot of things packed away in a corner of my brain, thoughts, and memories that I just couldn’t face at the time, and I fold up the pathetic image of me confronting Wyatt at my wedding in tiny pieces and shove it in that corner. I suspect one day soon, all those folded up memories will come bursting out. But not today.
I jump a little as my car door opens suddenly. “Mrs. MacTavish, if you’re ready?” Talon offers his hand to help me out.
The coffee shop is perfect. Inside, it opens to a huge vaulted ceiling with stained glass windows and brightly colored murals. There are all kinds of old brass lanterns that look Turkish, mismatched tables and chairs, large, comfortable-lookingcouches and in all, the precise opposite of the rigidly ordered domain of Mason MacTavish.
People are playing chess by the fireplace, and a group of what looks like Uni kids are studying together on a bank of couches. It feels like Vancouver, like it could be next to my apartment or the campus and I might see someone I know, someone to sit and have coffee with.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
Talon follows me up to the counter and we eye the flaky croissants and perfect little squares of shortbread. As I order my peppermint tea, anda plain coffee (of course) black, no sugar, for Talon, I realize I might not have a way to pay for it. Even if I have cash, it’s going to be US bills. Just as I hesitantly pull out my wallet, Talon’s suited arm reaches across me with a black credit card, “two sandwiches and those cream cheese pastries as well, please.”
“Why thank ye, kind sir,” the barista simpers. He’s hipster with a capital H, down to his man bun and skinny jeans, and a huge smile on his bearded face. Talon grunts and moves down to look at the baked goods.
“Thanks, uh…” I squint at his nametag, “Niles.”
“Oh, it’s my pleasure lass,” he says. “Though if you’re not dating that fine specimen, can ye introduce us?” Niles nods at Talon.
I’m startled into a round of giggles that feels more cathartic than one might expect. “Oh, we’re… coworkers. I don’t know him very well yet.”
“He’s so big,” Niles says, looking a little misty. “I just love the big ones.”
Yeah, I thought I did, too.
“Well, you might see more of us,” I offer. “It all hinges on one thing.”
“Which is?”
“Just how good this cup of tea is.” I wink.
“Aren’t ye a fierce little buttered biscuit!” Niles says approvingly, beaming at me as if I’m the cleverest thing in all of Scotland.
Fortunately, the tea, served in a big white mug and a slightly chipped saucer, is delicious, as is the cream cheese pastry I’m gobbling down with all the charm and manners of a seagull going after the last stale bit of bagel.
Talon sits stiffly in the other armchair, his plate of a sandwich and shortbread untouched. He seemed startled when I asked him to sit with me.
“Well…” I cast about for questions to ask, anything not relating to the MacTavish clan and its highly illegal activities. “If you can’t give me your first name, can you tell me your last name?”
He takes a sip of his coffee, then clears his throat. “MacTavish.”
