‘It’s twelve hundred square feet and it was a sandwich shop, so it has a small kitchen built out already, which is fabulous. I think it’s got a lot of potential for a cupcake bakery.’ The real estate agent’s strappy sandals were cute, but they needed to be re-heeled. As she swept across the room to show Faith the details of the mostly empty space that smelled of old fryer oil, the metal clicked on the ceramic tile floor like a woodpecker going at a tin can.
Faith nodded absently.
‘And you can’t beat a Las Olas location,’ she continued cheerily, gesturing toward the plate-glass window that looked out onto Las Olas Boulevard, a tree-lined street filled with cafés and boutiques that ran from downtown Fort Lauderdale to the beach. The window and door, however, were covered with brown butcher paper to prevent people from looking into a vacant store and seeing it was actually vacant. ‘It will give your shop the visibility it needs.’
There was a long pause while the realtor waited for Faith to say something.
‘Forty-five dollars a square foot is … well, that’s a lot of cupcakes I have to sell just to make the rent.’ Her voice trailed off into a whisper as the sentence finished up. There was a substantial tear in the butcher paper and she could still see the many passing tourists enjoying an ice-cream cone, pushing strollers, window shopping. As they passed, a few of them approached the window and put their faces against the glass where the tear was, trying to see what was inside. She kept waiting for Derrick Poole’s face to suddenly appear, his hand cupped around his eyes as they scanned the room for any sight of her. She moved behind a pole.
‘You said you were hoping for something that was on Las Olas …? Faith? Has that changed? Because forty-five is the going rate. You’re gonna find that strip malls downtown or on the beach are in the same price range. Now if you want something on Federal, that’s further north and in a changing neighborhood …’
The realtor prattled on, but Faith had stopped listening. It was hard to plan for the future with any enthusiasm when her future was so uncertain. ‘I’m sorry, Jackie, but I …’ she said when there was another pregnant lull and it was obvious she was expecting her to say something. ‘I, ah, I … my mind is not in it today. I’m distracted, is all. It’s not your fault.’
She looked away from the window and around the abandoned sandwich shop. An Izzy’s Monster Subs specials board still hung over where there was presumably once a refrigerator case. Chairs were stacked atop a couple of lonesome two-tops, as if the place was closed for the night, not for forever – as if there was a chance someone might come in, rip down the butcher paper, fire up the grill and flip the closed sign back over. The space would go on, yes, but Izzy’s Monster Subs would not: Izzy had broken the lease and left town, presumably taking the refrigerator case with her. If Faith didn’t rent the 1,200 square feet, someone else would and put in a candy shop, or a wine bar, or a pet boutique. A wave of desolation came over her. Anything could be reinvented; anyone could be replaced. And it could even be made better than it was before.
It was time to call Detective Nill and tell him about the second man. As much as she didn’t want to see what was happening, she couldn’t keep closing her eyes, saying it didn’t happen just because she didn’t see it. The fibers found in Poole’s car that matched the fabric patch found in the woods could be from the second man – the man wearing the plaid shirt who’d taken Angelina into the woods with him after she screamed, ‘No!’ In fact, they probably were. It was time to finally be honest about what she had seen out there that night, both with herself and with the detectives. It was time to come clean and fix this incredible mess that seemed to surround her, that touched every aspect of her life, and as the lies piled up, consumed her every thought. She had to make it right, whatever the consequences to her own self might be. She had to do what she could to get Poole and his partner/friend off the street, not just so she could sleep at night, but for the other women who the two of them might hurt in the future. No, no, no. Use the right terminology. Open your eyes and see it happening. The word was kill. The other women those two men might kill. She thanked a disappointed and perturbed Jackie and told her she would call her sometime during the week, as she followed her out the back door of Izzy’s and into the alley.
She walked to Las Olas, where her car was parked, trying to ready herself. She lit up a cigarette, inhaling deeply, waiting for the nicotine to hit her bloodstream, do its magic and calm her. Everything would soon change for her. She had no idea what Jarrod would do once he found out about the drinking and the lies and the second man. Like Izzy, he might very well decide it was time to move on, that there was nothing worth saving here and it was time to shut the doors and start anew someplace else. With someone else. She swallowed the lump caught in her throat. If that were the case, they would likely split custody of Maggie. She’d affirmatively decided to stay with Jarrod after the affair because she didn’t want to raise Maggie in two houses, she didn’t want to kiss her daughter goodnight over the phone or not see her on a Saturday because it was ‘his’ night. She didn’t want to go to bed alone herself and wade back into a strange and scary world of dating. She didn’t want to date. She didn’t want things to change, so she had swallowed her anger and gone on, but now … now she couldn’t control the change. Now it was she who had caused the damage. The direction of their relationship, of her future, of Maggie’s future was in Jarrod’s court. He would decide if it was over, he would decide if she would be a part-time mother, tossed back like an unwanted fish into a dating pool full of divorcees and bitter women who had failed at a relationship.
Lost in her thoughts, she had walked past her car at some point. In front of her was the Royal Pig Pub. Waiters were clearing tables outside from lunch and setting up for dinner. She looked at her watch. It was two thirty. The restaurant’s plate-glass doors were being wiped clean and she could make out the large full bar, the monstrous TVs that hung everywhere. Next door was a Starbucks. The iPhone in her hand had grown slippery as she rubbed her sweaty fingers against the rubber case. Liquid courage to make the call she was about to make did not come in the form of a Frappuccino; she wished it were caffeine she craved. And lunch, she told herself. She hadn’t eaten.
She ducked into the ‘gastro pub & kitchen’ and walked up to the elevated, enormous rectangular wood bar that was the center of the restaurant, which looked a lot more like a pub than a kitchen. Giant flat-screen TVs filled every imaginable inch of wall space and sports games played on each one. The place felt abuzz with activity, although there was really no one there – a few scattered souls around the bar and those finishing lunch in booths. She found a spot in the far back, away from the prying eyes of those who might have reason to peek in the clean windows to see who was inside.
She pulled up Detective Nill’s number at PBSO and got it ready on her screen, placing the phone on the bar in front of her. All she had to do was press the green send button.
She was almost ready.
But first she ordered a Stoli and cranberry.