Kiss Me If You Dare

4

A sign pointed the way to Business District. I turned up a hillside blooming with early summer splendor. At the top of the rise, the road ran straight. A gap between the farthest buildings showcased the blue Pacific. I drove down the three-block stretch and checked out the shop selection. From the timeworn building fronts, I got the overall impression that Del Gloria was a hardworking town, one without the time, money, or inclination to cater to snooty tourists. I patted the wad of money in my jeans pocket. That attitude would bode well for my hardly earned dollars.

I spotted what I was looking for and slammed on the brakes. I eased the Jag into a slanted parking space in front of the Del Gloria Thrift-Mart. For a moment, I felt at home in this strange land. Even on California’s rocky coast, folks had a yen for secondhand clothing.

The door dinged as I entered. To one side, a circular rack of women’s tops were marked 75 percent off. I headed toward it like a paint splotch to a new pair of jeans.

After thirty minutes of scrutinizing stains, checking sizes, and tracking down a variety of work-wear, I proceeded to the register.

The cashier rang up my items.

I pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and waited for change. She counted it into my hand with barely a glance at my face. It was nice to be in a college town. The steady influx of strangers gave me the anonymity necessary to pull off this crazy safe-house scheme.

A moment later, I was on the sidewalk headed for the department store. Inside, I picked out my interpretation of interview clothes: a deep blue jacket over a white blouse topping a pinstriped knee-length skirt and navy Mary Janes with a spunky heel. Completely conservative. And so not me. But neither was impressing people with my clothing. I brought the ensemble up front, loaded up the counter with socks, undies, and a few modest bras, and pulled out my bills to pay.

The clerk tallied and bagged my items, then I scooted out the door.

One block down was the drugstore, where I splurged on an assortment of cosmetics, personal care items, and fresh bandages. I even bought a hair dryer and curling iron.

The black Jag was waiting for me, crowded between standard issue Toyotas and Hondas. I got behind the wheel and headed for Cliffhouse.

An hour later, I was showered, dressed, and driving to Walters Hall for my interview.

My chest constricted with nervous tension and my knees shook. With only a few hours’ notice to prepare,

I couldn’t think of a thing I had to offer DGC. What college would even want me? Besides marrying Brad and settling down and possibly continuing to renovate homes on the side, I had no spectacular future plans.

At the thought of Brad, the ache near my shoulder flared up. I rested my arm in my lap. I’d done too much already today. The doctor had told me to take it easy. Shopping wasn’t exactly a contact sport, but my body would need a few days to recover from the exertion. I gritted my teeth, determined to make it through the interview before giving in to the pain.

I eased the Jag past a group of students on the sidewalk. They waved as I drove by.

I found a parking space close to the door and got out.

A woman stopped at the front bumper. She held a stack of books in one hand. The other was on her hip. Short, kinked brown hair, a few shades darker than her skin, lifted at random in the breeze.

“I thought you were the doc,” she said, annoyance in her voice.

“Oh.” I looked at the Jag and a lightbulb came on. “No, he lent me his car for the morning.” I smoothed my skirt and auto-locked the doors.

She gave me a probing once-over. “Who are you, a recruiter from the naval base?”

Her attitude got to me. I pulled rank. “No. I’m the professor’s niece from Galveston.” I thrust my good hand toward her. “Alisha Braddock. Nice to meet you. And your name is?”

I detected a flush creeping up her cheeks. She switched her stack of books to the opposite hand and shook mine in a quick salute. “Portia Romero. Nice to meet you.”

I gave a final thrust. “I’ll make sure to let Uncle Denton know you’re looking for him. Bye.” I flung a smirk over my shoulder and headed to my interview.

The nerve of some people. I steamed about Portia Romero’s hoity-toity attitude all the way to the front entrance of Walters Hall. I stopped at the stone steps, took a deep breath, and tried to clear my mind.

My big second chance at college. A re-do. A turning back of the clock. All I had to do was make the best of the next six months. Maybe the credits would transfer to a college back in Michigan and I could finish school there. As soon as Brad called me home.

Inside, I scanned the directory. Dean of Admissions, Suite 401. I swallowed hard at the other words that popped off the marquis: Dean of Bible Studies, Philosophy, Theology… not exactly my cup of tea.

I took the elevator. My heart rate increased with the altitude. The doors opened. Stark black marble and a potted plant gave a sober welcome.

Inside, the acrid scent of just-installed industrial carpet matched its blackberry-pie hue. A tawny counter, the color of flaky crust, separated visitors from staff. I folded my hands on the textured surface and forced them to be still. Near a bank of windows overlooking the campus, an attractive redhead sat behind a desk.

“Hi,” I said, getting the woman’s attention. “I’m Ti-” I caught my blunder and swallowed. “I’m Alisha Braddock. I’m here for an interview with the dean.”

A smile lit her face. She toyed with something on the arm of her chair and the whole thing backed out from the desk and wheeled over to the counter. She reached up a hand in greeting. “I’m so pleased to meet you. Professor Braddock is a favorite around here. He’s told us so many wonderful things about his niece from Galveston.”

“He has?” I leaned over the counter and shook her hand.

“Of course. And I can see why. You’re beautiful. Just beautiful.”

I dropped my arm, dazed. “Oh, that Uncle Denton,” I played along. “He shouldn’t have.” For the moment I was glad to be decked out in my dress duds. It felt good to be considered beautiful by a complete stranger, even if she was just trying to butter up the niece of the beloved “Doc.”

“Dean Lester will see you in just a moment. Go ahead and have a seat.” She nodded to the row of chairs by the door.

An assortment of Del Gloria College literature was scattered in tidy array on a coffee table. I picked up a course catalog to peruse while waiting. The cover showed students in caps and gowns looking off toward some rosy future. I flipped to an inside page and scanned photos surrounding a Bible verse. More smiles. More hype. I read the quote, written in flowery script. “Jesus said, ‘It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick… For I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.’”

The words hit at some deep level, wriggling their way into my brain. I tossed the catalog back on the table, not caring for the feelings evoked by a few simple words and images. My fingers instead found the zipper on the patent leather pocketbook I’d bought to match my heels. The doc’s remaining five hundred dollars were the only items inside. No driver’s license, insurance card, cell phone, or checkbook. Zzzt… zzzt… zzzt. After a minute of the mind-numbing noise, I tucked the thing under my arm and resorted to clicking my heels instead. The leather made a funny squeak.

The secretary was talking to someone.

“Miss Braddock.” The words found their way through my mental wanderings.

I whipped my head up and blushed. “Oh, I’m so sorry. You’re talking to me.” I put a hand to my temple.

I jumped up and followed her to a glassed-in office.

“Dean Lester, this is Alisha Braddock, here for a two o’clock interview.” The secretary wheeled out, shutting the door behind her.

“How nice to meet you, Alisha,” came a lilting southern accent. “I’m Dr. Jordan Lester. Please. Be seated.” The African-American woman indicated the overstuffed armchair opposite her desk. Her persimmon blouse and bold turquoise jewelry made the exact opposite statement of my conservative garb.

I sat, sinking into soft chenille.

Dean Lester came around to the front of the desk and perched on a corner of it. One leg of her black slacks rode up slightly to reveal ballet flats with a touch of sparkle. I had a feeling this wasn’t going to be a typical college entry interview.

“Tell me about yourself.”

Her gentle voice and sincere smile nearly put me at ease.

I cleared my throat. “Well, to begin with, I’m Professor Braddock’s niece from Galveston.” I hated the lie, but it came easier every time I told it.

“Galveston? You sound more like you’re from Minnesota.” I blinked fast. “Well, yes, I was in Minnesota before Galveston.” That first part wasn’t a lie.

I waited for another question. She just kept smiling. Crossing my legs, I smiled back. The silence dragged on.

“Well?” she prompted. “Tell me more.”

I blew out a nervous breath. I grew up an orphan, nearly married a con artist, was best friends with a murderer… My arm throbbed at the thought of Candice LeJeune. I rubbed at it as I devised a suitably vague answer for the dean.

“I like houses,” I said. “I like to fix them up.”

“Why?” The sparkles on her shoes glinted like a disco ball as she swung her foot.

I shrugged. “I like to fix broken stuff. I like to take things that are ugly and make them beautiful again.”

She looked at a notepad on her desk. “Then I think it’s appropriate Professor Braddock has assigned you to our Revamp Department.”

I perked up. “Wow. Sounds like it’s right up my alley.” She wagged a finger. “The program has less to do with renovating houses and more to do with building character. I hope you’re up for a year of intense introspection.” Introspection. Didn’t that mean looking inside myself? I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.

Her face retained its pleasant expression. “I’m looking at the course list the professor put together. Pending transfer of your credits and taking the maximum course load, you can receive your degree in as little as one year.”

My eyes studied a speck of lint on the blackberry carpeting. In one year I could have my college degree. Too bad I wouldn’t be here that long. I thought about Brad doing his police thing and making sure the bad guys got locked up so I could go back to Michigan and be his wife. Out of nowhere, my arm sent off a shot of pain that bent me into my lap.

“Are you all right?” The dean touched my shoulder.

“Yeah.” I took a minute to breathe. “Sorry. It’s almost time for more aspirin.”

“Your uncle informed me of your injury. Would you like to finish this later?”

The pang passed and I straightened. “No. Let’s get it over with.”

She paused, then looked back at her notes. “Professor Braddock left a few notations about your childhood. Apparently your parents died when you were young?”

I hesitated, not sure what Denton’s story line was. I figured it would be best to stick as close to the truth as possible so I wouldn’t confuse myself, let alone everyone else.

“My mom died when I was eight. I think my dad is still alive. I just don’t know where he is right now.”

The dean raised her eyebrows. “You say that like you have plans to locate him.”

“I do. Someday.” I’d often wondered how my life would have been different if my father hadn’t turned in the local drug lord and gotten himself on the man’s hit list. Would he have stuck around with my mom and me? I guess I’d never know.

“How does that fit into your studies?”

I blinked, knowing I didn’t have the first clue where to look for my dad. “I’d like to finish my degree, but sometimes things get in the way.” I was an expert at letting my college career get derailed.

Dean Lester sighed and walked around her desk. She sat in the oversized executive chair. “Miss Braddock. Your uncle has agreed to support you for the duration of your study at Del Gloria College. Should you choose to leave the program, that support will be withdrawn.”

My blood surged. “Uncle D doesn’t own me. I agreed to start classes. I never promised to finish them.”

The dean stared at me in silence. Then she leaned forward. “I’ll leave that between you and your uncle. In the meantime, I feel you are an excellent candidate for the program. Highly qualified, in fact.”

The tone in her voice didn’t exactly imply that was a good thing.

The dean rose to shake my hand. “You can pick up your schedule from my assistant. Congratulations on your acceptance to Del Gloria College.”

I dropped her hand, bewildered as she shooed me out the door.