Naturally, Charlie – First Chapter
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Chapter 1
Charlie Barrow
“Damn it!”
My day starts with an irritation that some might see as an omen of things to come. Others might see it as a minor speed bump. I see it as another hassle in a gigantic series of hassles, but a hassle all the same. My life seems to be filled with agitations these days.
The toothbrush drops, and I watch as it bounces off the sink and straight into the toilet. With a frustrated sigh, I lean forward and spit the toothpaste out, realizing now that I only got to my bottom left molars before my grip slipped and the toothbrush went down.
I look at the blue stick floating in the middle of the toilet, mocking me as it drifts around. Pinching it between my fingers, I rescue the toothbrush from the cold porcelain bowl. My life isn’t that bad to argue whether I should keep it or not. I toss the brush without a second thought and finish getting dressed for work.
I spill my coffee—er, I mean when a guy running into the Coffee Hut hits me with his shoulder, thus causing the coffee to bubble through the little spout on the lid and land on my shirt, I chalk it up to another annoying mishap in this stage of my life. After the coffee incident and ToothGate this morning, I need to pay closer attention to the world around me. These tedious little occurrences are still new to me, but they all add up to a large amount of unnecessary aggravation. I’ve always believed that it’s the little things that make up your life. The bigger events just connect them. This is a philosophy I live by now.
I arrive at Smith & Allen, an auction house representing property from private estates and corporate collections. It’s regarded as “preeminent in the marketplace of quality masterpieces, antiques, and antiquities.” That’s what’s written in the brochure. I’ve been known to believe in such greatness before, but today won’t be one of those days.
I make my way through the maze of cubicles to my own little sectioned-off grey area and find a large manila envelope crowding my tiny, tidy desk. I set my coffee down and toss my purse in the bottom right drawer, kicking the cabinet closed.
“Red or green?” Rachel Russo asks. She’s my friend, coworker, and all around party girl.
“Green.” I keep my voice flat, trying to maintain a straight face while I tease since I’m clueless to why she’s asking me about colors.
I slide my jacket down my arms. Catching it in my hand, I hang it on the hook attached to the half wall that divides our two cubicles. When I sit, my chair does a slow bounce, adjusting to the weight it’s now holding, and I slide my body forward.
“You don’t even know why I’m asking.”
I don’t have to look at her to know she’s pouting. I can hear it in her tone. I give in and play along. “What’s it for?”
“Tonight. We’re going out. So, my va-va-va-voom red dress, or my green-means-go-home-with-me dress?”
I can’t hold back the laughter no matter how hard I try. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And on the market. So, which one?”
“On the market? What happened to Paolo?” I stand, leaning forward so no one overhears our personal conversation.
“He went back to Rome.”
“Since when? Weren’t you supposed to see him last night?”
“Yes, and I did, right before he left for the airport. I gave him his going away gift.”
“Do I even entertain the question?”
“Yes.” Her response is laced with giddiness.
“What was his gift?”
“Me, him, naked on his balcony with a bottle of red wine.”
My mouth drops open. Okay, I didn’t expect that. “Rachel! He has a second floor walk-up that overlooks the street.”
She shrugs as if public nudity is common. Well, maybe it is in New York, but still. “It was a fantasy of his, and I enjoyed it. I look good in the nude. Remember when I modeled for a sculpting class? I got asked out by three of the students.”
“That doesn’t count.” I roll my eyes. “One was the teacher—the very female teacher—one wore bifocals and was older than your grandfather—”
“And the other was Paolo.”
I plop back down in my seat. “Point taken. Are you going to miss him?”
“I gave him the best night of his life so he misses me. See how that works? I predict no more than a month before he’s knocking on my New York City door again.”
“And by door, I’m guessing you mean your va-j? You know, you’d do well as a call girl.”
“Jealous much?” She jokes with me as she sits back on her side of the divider.
“All the time.” I always enjoy a good morning-time exchange.
With the envelope in hand, I scan the address label that’s typed on the front:
Ms. Charlotte Barrow
Smith & Allen
584 Madison Avenue
New York, New York
10022
I blow a harsh breath as if I’ve been punched in the gut. My heart aches as I read the return address:
Mrs. James Bennett Sr.
12 Sutton Place
Penthouse
New York, New York
10021
I drop the package to the floor, the smooth paper like acid on my skin. At least that’s what it feels like to me. Mrs. James Bennett Sr., also known as Jim’s mother, has a knack for the low blow covered in a superficial camouflage of tact. And she doesn’t disappoint today.
Tears fill my eyes as I search for anything to distract me, to make me not think about Jim. I look at my calendar and focus on the inspirational phrase below the picture, needing support, any support, I can get. I read, digesting the quote word by word. When you have confidence, you can have a lot of fun, and when you have fun you can do amazing things – Joe Namath.
Okay, a sports personality giving me life advice might seem strange, but I can deal with that. I mean, he is an icon—even if I don’t know what for. I have confidence. I can do this. I take a deep breath then slowly exhale. I am a strong, confident woman! I am a strong, confident woman!
I pick the envelope back up and run my finger along the return address, touching the package and being careful not to be burned again—metaphorically. Turning it sideways, I open it as if it’s anything else that comes across my desk needing my attention. Some papers and a three-inch-square box spill out before me. Proper etiquette dictates opening the card before the present, so I reach for that first.
The card isn’t a card, though—it’s an invitation to his funeral. I can’t believe his mother is turning her own son’s funeral into a social event. One of the main reasons Jim and I were never meant to be—our upbringings were just too different.
I knew the funeral was coming, although I didn’t know if I’d be invited. My original plan was to crash . . . for Jim, in remembrance of the good times. As I turn the card over in my hand, I can’t stop the roll of my stomach seeing it in print. He’s gone, deceased, dead. Tears fill my eyes when I realize I’ll never see him again.
Can I do this right now? I drop my face into my hands, my elbows supporting its weight, and I stare at the box. Memories flood from the last time I saw him—saw him alive. Maybe if I’d taken him back, he’d still be alive now. Maybe if I had pushed the hurt, the pain away that day he came to my apartment, he’d still be here. I’m tired of wondering if I’d taken him back whether I could have saved him.
I’m just tired.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I replay my mother’s words, letting them in, and hope they give me the strength I need. “You didn’t cause his accident, just like you didn’t cause him to make the decisions he made. He alone chose those.”
He alone.
Alone.
Alone, like I am now.
Jim’s gone forever and I’m alone.
I wipe away the tears before they fall. I’m at work, and though some of my coworkers are aware of his death, I try very hard to keep my personal life out of the workplace. I think I’m strong enough to be here today, to deal with this, but not if it comes with the added pressure of smiling to reassure sympathetic coworkers. I can’t do that.
But I can do this, I reason with myself. Not that I have much choice. I set the card down and pick up the box, hesitating as I lift the brown lid to peek inside. There in the fluffy white filler lies a simple white-gold ring with little diamonds sparkling like tiny stars randomly embedded in the band. I hold it between my index finger and thumb, remembering the life to which this ring once belonged.
I shake off those memories, not wanting to travel down that lane again, especially not at work.
The three days prior, I called in sick to mourn his loss, my loss, everyone’s loss. It wasn’t enough time to come to grips with his death. The sadness sits like a rock in the center of my chest. It was more like a small hole before I found out he died. My heart was healing, enough time had passed, and I was moving on. When his sister called me, the hole gaped open once again. Today, it’s more like a hard mass. Maybe that’s my heart. I can’t tell these days, so I try not to think about it.
I put the ring, with care, back into the box and close the lid. I rummage through the papers included and find two letters and a poem that Jim wrote for me. I close my eyes, rubbing my temples, as my annoyance flairs. It’s a photocopy of the poem, a private moment we once shared. I should have the original, but in my hurry to leave, it was left behind. Now that Jim’s gone, I assume the original remains in the tight grip of his mother.
I’m quite surprised she sent my engagement ring, but I’m sure the reminder of the rift it caused is insignificant compared to the disappointment she felt toward me for loving it so much. I’m sure she wanted to rid herself of it—rid herself of me—once and for all. The other ring wasn’t returned to me. I bet she kept it—or sold it. Either of those scenarios wouldn’t surprise me, because that ring was really hers all along.
I pile the papers back into the envelope and slide the invitation and box on top of them before placing it inside the large drawer where I keep my purse. Once more, I kick the drawer shut.
“I’m in for tonight.”
“Great! I discovered this cool place downtown—not too trendy—but it’s got a great, hip vibe.”
“Fantastic!” I feign enthusiasm, because although I’m not excited about going out, I need to go and try to start living again.
It’s Friday, and standard for our business, I get a large amount of tedious paperwork piled in my inbox regarding this weekend’s auctions. The day seems to flow by without any major interruptions, apart from the unexpected visit from Mr. Smith. He’s our auction house’s founding leaders’ grandson and is a descendent of the original, blue-blooded families in this city.
Frederick J. Smith III provides an endless source of enjoyment among the staff. He’s older than the States and less animated than a sponge. He’s a character unlike anyone else I know—other than Jim’s mother. They’re very similar, more similar than I recognized before today.
“Ms. Barrow, I’m still not able to place your ancestry. You can fill me in when I have more time. It has bothered me so.”
“It’s Scottish, sir.”
“No, no, Charlotte. I said when I have time.” He walks off with strong intentions for the coffee room, accompanied by his assistant. “Oh, how I do love those foamy lattes you make, Teresa.” She follows him down the corridor to make him that special treat.
I swivel back to my desk and notice it’s almost five. Rachel pops her head up over my cubicle wall, all smiles and excitement.
“You ready?”
I pause to shut down my computer. “Yeah, I’m ready.” Grabbing my jacket off the hook, I swing it on while pulling my purse out of the drawer. That’s when I see the package again. I had managed to forget about it most of the day, getting lost in my work. But I can’t avoid it now. I remove the papers and box, and toss the envelope in the trash.
Stuffing it all into my oversized purse, I make my way toward the elevators. Rachel keeps pace as the doors open like they know how desperate we are to leave. We glance over the crowd then squeeze in. As soon as the door opens, we race each other to the exit. That brings a smile to my face—a welcome reprieve from the heavy of today. After a quick good-bye at the corner, we separate, having already settled our plans to meet up later.
I walk to the closest subway and straight onto a train. My mind wanders, as it always does when I’m on the train, the tunnel whizzing by. It’s how I decompress from the day.
As the subway approaches the next stop, I notice a man—an attractive man—standing on the platform. Dressed casually, he’s wearing worn jeans, a light-blue, button-down shirt, and sneakers. A large group pushes in behind him when he steps on. His face is handsome and his eyes are kind. He’s really good-looking, and for the first time in forever, I kind of want to flirt. Maybe I should talk to him? I probably shouldn’t. He’ll think I’m a weirdo. This is New York City. People don’t like strangers talking to them on the subway. I watch as he lets everyone around him take the available seats, while he remains standing. His politeness is refreshing.
I’m staring too long, realizing a few seconds too late that this is my stop. I jump up from my seat and right into him. Since this is New York, no pardons are needed, but I still say, “Excuse me.” I like to be polite, too.
“No, I’m sorry,” he replies, maneuvering out of my way. Our eyes meet for a solid second before I turn back toward the exit doors.
I get stuck between a pole and a woman a foot shorter than me who refuses to budge. I look down at her and repeat, “Excuse me, please.” I push forward without trampling anyone, but the doors close before I can reach them.
Deflated, I stand there, once again reminded that this is my life now—a series of hassles and a distinct difference from the one I once led. Life used to be sunshine. Life used to be easy before . . .
When I turn around to grab a pole, I notice the handsome man already entering the next train car. I continue watching until the door slides closed behind him.
The next stop comes, and I work my way through the crowd and up to street level, choosing to walk the five blocks back to my apartment. This is the second time this week I’ve had to backtrack like this. Sometimes I think I should give up the subway altogether and try the bus. It seems more natural for a person with my lack of aggression. I left my feistier side with Jim six months earlier. I still haven’t mastered this new me yet.
A long bath eases some of the tension in my shoulders, but my mind is still left to flounder. The black dress I slip on is always flattering, but gives me the ability to blend into the background. Rachel can garner all the attention. It makes it easier since I’m not in a dating mode at this point in my life.
I stock my clutch and notice the invitation lying on the counter where I dumped my bag out when I got home. I pick it up, contemplating once again if I’m ready to read it. It will upset me, so I choose to walk away, leaving all the memories that come with it behind for the night.
Waving at me with enthusiasm when I walk in, Rachel looks like her confidence is soaring as she gets some much-desired attention at the swanky bar she’s chosen to prowl tonight. She introduces me to the two guys she just met, Bob and John, who seem to be enamored by her charms. Their names make me question if they’re using aliases tonight. Just like the guys themselves, they are generic.
I’m welcomed, and John even rushes to the bar to get me a drink. When he returns, he hands me a gimlet, and I graciously accept, though it’s not a cocktail I normally drink.
I need this night more than I let on to Rachel. I can’t be depressed anymore. It’s too . . . depressing. I will enjoy tonight.
After a few minutes of talking about himself and his law firm, John winks at me then leans over. “You want to get out of here?”
Is he for real? Shocked by his arrogance, the answer is easy. “No. I just met you!”
He starts backtracking. “Just one drink back at my place. You know, and see where it goes from there.” He touches my hair, looking at it between his fingers. “I’ve always heard redheads were fun.”
Is that a perverted challenge of some sort? I don’t smile. His rudeness doesn’t deserve my niceties. I smack his hand away before backing up. “Well, you won’t be finding out with me tonight.”
I turn to walk away, giving Rachel a get-rid-of-them look before I head to the bathroom.
“You all right, Charlie?” Rachel asks.
“Just gonna powder my nose.” I let my tone indicate how I’m feeling.
I’ve learned there are a lot of misconceptions about me and my fellow crimson comrades. Most men are predictable and make unwarranted assumptions. I fall into a stereotype of fiery-tempered sexpots. I’m passionate about my work and the ones I care about, but hot-tempered, no.
The other common belief is that we reds sleep around. I’m not easy, despite what people assume based on my follicles. My natural hair color is rare, so it draws men in like a moth to a flame. But I often see the disappointment in their eyes when they discover I’m more what is considered the girl-next-door type than a vixen. At least it’s a good way to weed out the jerks like the one tonight.
Escaping, I make my way through the barflies flocking to this club’s light.
One thing I’ve learned living in Manhattan is that a man who takes you home to do the deed earlier in the night has no intention of staying home. He’ll be right back on the prowl before midnight. I don’t mind a one-night stand if needed. I had one once, although it turned into a relationship, so I guess it doesn’t count. I do mind, however, being one of several for a guy who gets greedy and abuses his good looks. At twenty-five, I’ve already learned it’s hard to find a meaningful relationship in this city. Most are too self-centered to make the effort, and the others . . . well, are like me, just not that into the hunt.
I check my lipstick in the bathroom mirror before squeezing past a gaggle of girls celebrating a pending marriage. I don’t think about what could have been my life. I try to convince myself I should feel lucky I found out the bad stuff when I did—before the marriage.
Rachel waves at me. A different man is standing with her at the bar. I’m not surprised she’s receiving so much attention; she’s gorgeous with her long, dark, wavy hair, brown eyes, and Italian heritage.
Not that I’m bad-looking or anything like that. I receive my fair share of attention. It’s just more an acceptance that I’m not the typical sexy type, not like Rachel. I’m average height for a woman, but heels put me right at five-six. My body isn’t athletic, but I exercise, so I’m fit . . . enough.
I look to her right just as her next conquest turns. Our eyes meet, but not for the first time. My mind flashes to the subway when Rachel introduces him. “Charlie, this is Charlie. How funny is that?”
“Very,” I say, distracted by the sweetness of his smile and his handsome face. His brown hair is tousled, kind of wind-blown, but definitely not styled like most of the men in this city. I like that. His hair looks touchable, but I resist the temptation. A small laugh escapes me, and my real smile reveals itself before slipping away.
“You made it off the subway?” he asks.
“What?” The music is louder now, and the bar area is noisy.
“The subway?” He leans closer, and his warm breath hits my cheek. I detect a hint of whiskey. “I see you made it off the subway earlier today?”
“Oh, yes. Barely.” I smile, wanting to blush and giggle like a schoolgirl, but I’m too intrigued that he remembers me. I look into his kind eyes, recalling the color from the train. They’re light bluish-gray. His pupils are dilated in the darkness of the bar, but I can see the sincerity in them. “I got blocked, and had to jump off at the next stop and walk home.”
“Sorry that happened. People can be rude sometimes.”
“No worries. I’m getting used to it.”
“The rude people or walking home?”
“Both.” I laugh.
He laughs, too. “That’s a pity. You’re not from New Yo—”
“I’m ready for that drink you mentioned. Are you, Charlie?” Rachel interrupts, redirecting his attention back to her.
“Yes,” we reply in unison then look at each other and burst out laughing.
“Jinx! You owe me a martini.” I state this as if everyone knows this game.
He smirks, waving over the bartender. “I thought on jinx it was always a Coke?”
“I don’t drink Coke.”
He chuckles just as the bartender signals he’ll be over in a minute. Without missing a beat, he says, “Martini it is, then. So, your name really is Charlie?”
“It’s Charlotte, but I prefer Charlie. It’s what I’m used to. Is your full name Charles?” Did I just ask that stupid question? I blush this time, the alcohol not helping. This doesn’t faze Rachel, but doesn’t go unnoticed by Charlie.
He smiles again, tilting his head as if trying to figure me out. “Yes, but I don’t feel old enough to be called that.”
Rachel laughs too hard to sound natural, and she leans toward him, putting her hand on his thigh. “Charlie here tells me he’s interested in dogs.” She makes it sound as if a dog is some rare animal found in Siberia.
He nods, giving her his attention again before turning back to me. I also nod to show a courteous interest in the topic, though I have none. Looking at her, I finally clue into what all of her odd expressions and bulging eyes mean.
I’m enjoying myself for the first time in what seems like forever, but I’m reminded that she met him first. I’m the one who interrupted, so I should go. I should go before I get invested in a guy who has already been marked by my friend, because I don’t screw over my friends. “As much as I’d love to stay and chat more about dogs, I’m really tired after the day I’ve had. I think I’m outty.”
“Audi, like the car?” he asks.
Rachel is rolling her eyes behind his back, so he can’t see. She hates my lingo. It’s a bad habit left over from my more frivolous college days. I look at Charlie and smile again. “No, outty. It’s just a stupid way of saying ‘out of here.’ My college roommates and I used to say it.”
“I’ve never heard the word before.”
Rachel steps forward and laughs nervously. I’ve embarrassed her. She rests her hand on his shoulder, staking claim. “She always says the silliest things.”
“I think it’s cute,” he says with a gentle smile on his face.
I look away quickly, thinking there is more to his words than the basic meaning.
“Silliest, as in adorable,” Rachel says, her tone overly dramatic. “I meant she always says the most adorable things. I don’t know how she comes up with them.” She tilts her head toward the door, signaling me to leave.
“Well, I really should get going—”
Rachel’s hugging me before I finish my sentence. “Yes. I’ll see you Monday.”
“Yeah, Monday,” I mumble. The sudden and rapid good-bye is disorienting.
Charlie takes my hand and says, “It was really nice to meet you, Charlie.”
“You too, Charlie.” I emphasize his name for fun. What am I doing? I start to back up, now embarrassed by my own ridiculousness. He doesn’t release my hand right away. Just when our arms are stretched as far as they can go, he tugs me forward again, both of us enjoying the moment. After another dirty look from Rachel, I drop my hand to my side and walk away. One more glimpse back, and I see him shift his hand to his lap.
Is this what a real connection feels like? It’s been so long, I’m not certain anymore. As much as I want to stay and get to know him better, Rachel looks pleased with my imminent departure. Just as I’m about exit, I glance back, my eyes meeting his one final time.
I catch a cab, abiding by one of my golden rules: No subways after nine o’clock. Settling into the back seat, I reminisce about tonight. It was a good time, which was a nice change.
Thinking of Charlie, I’m glad Rachel found someone interesting this time. To most men, she’s the epitome of a single city girl—if she sleeps with a guy too soon, she won’t be considered wife material, and if she doesn’t have sex with him soon enough, he won’t want her as a girlfriend. I know under her optimistic enthusiasm she gets lonely. Hell! We all do. Right now, I’m just trying to enjoy the fact that I had a great time with a fascinating man . . . oh yeah, and Rachel, too.
I push down the pang of jealousy surging through me because she met him first. I take a deep breath and chant, “I will not fall for Charlie. I will not fall for Charlie.” After I repeat the phrase several times, I rationalize that walking away was the right thing to do. Rachel has staked her claim, so I can’t dwell on him, although I want to.
I crawl into bed later that night feeling hopeful, which is a nice reprieve from my usual sadness. I smile thinking that maybe, just maybe, I can find someone as charming as Charlie one day, too.
….
Hope you consider getting to know Charlie Adams in the next chapter and following along with this friends to lovers, modern day When Harry Met Sally romance. Naturally, Charlie is currently on sale for a very short time.
Also, make sure to check out the post before this one with details on a special prize for Naturally, Charlie readers and gifters.
XO,
S.
