Chance Encounter

By Tony Medeiros

His world is power suits, power politics, and maximizing corporate potential. Hers is housecleaning and hope for a better future. What do they have in common? More than either of them knows. Soon they’re sharing a heady mix of sex and ambition, and she’s way beyond what he had planned. Some hard lessons are in store for them before she comes back to earth and he learns what matters most.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tony Medeiros
• Release date: Aug 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311474025

Book preview

CHANCE ENCOUNTER

by

Tony Medeiros

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 by Tony Medeiros

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Chapter 1

The Encounter

It had snowed all night, just flurries by morning. It was now 9:30 in the morning, and the sun was shining. It was a perfect New England winter day—one of those bright, sunny days that make your eyes hurt from the combination of snow and sunlight. Although the day was sunny, heat was a rare commodity. I walked to the street from the parking lot. The collar of my wool overcoat was blowing, licking my cheek. I pulled my scarf tighter around my neck to keep the heat from escaping.

It seemed that the faster I moved crossing the street, the colder the wind felt. Must be what they mean by wind–chill factor. I grabbed the door handle to balance myself as I kicked the snow off my boots before entering the small café. I doubt if anyone actually called it a café. It was more of a hangout; it might have been described as a breakfast bar. But café was what I called it and what I was comfortable with. It was a family owned and operated business, a place where I felt at home. I’ve been coming here off and on for the past eight years, and they’ve always had the same waitresses.

I began working my way toward a corner table, stopping off at the rack that holds the newspapers. I scanned the rack and chose the local paper. It was my way of going old school, with no tablets to bring the world to you. As I walked, I could hear a woman talking to some guy. She was handing him a business card and telling him about her housecleaning business. I put my paper on the table, along with my black leather gloves and car keys. I slipped off my overcoat and scarf, placing them on one of the empty chairs. As I pushed the seat back, I caught a glimpse of the housecleaner talking to her prospective client. I was still eyeing her as I sat in my chair. My trance was broken by the waitress at my side.

Haven’t seen you around for a while, she said, pouring me a cup of coffee.

I never get the chance to come around as often as I would like, I answered with a smile.

It’s always nice to see you. Do you need a menu?

No, I don’t think so. I’ll have two eggs over easy and sausage.

I’ll put that right in. White or wheat? she asked before leaving.

White, I said as she walked away.

The housecleaner wasn’t talking to the gentleman any longer. She had a seat by the window on the other side of the room, but was in perfect view. I leaned back, opened the paper, and tried to get comfortable. I love this hangout. Mostly locals come here before they hit the job first thing in the morning. After the early morning hours, the customers are the locals that live nearby and work the second shift or in retail.

Sunny with light flurries and in the low thirties was the weather report in the paper. No shit, I thought, looking outside. I was enjoying sitting there alone, just listening to the people around me and watching their reactions.

In front of me was a table with three black men: two in their late sixties, I guessed, and the third in his early twenties. The youngest must have been the grandson of one of the men; you could tell they were related. They were talking about some neighbor named Betty, upstairs from them. She was having problems with her space heater. From what I could make out, it was something to do with the pilot going out.

"Damn, but that woman can bitch and complain! I could hear that bitch’s whine all the way downstairs," the self–appointed leader was saying to the others.

He had that bebop manner and a high–pitched tone. The other older man was laughing and even slapped his knee at one point. The youngest of the three just smiled a lot. He certainly hadn’t earned his stripes yet.

Well, why didn’t you go up and warm the bitch up? was his companion’s solution to the problem.

Warm the bitch up? I’m not touching that bitch! the leader announced.

Now the youngest of the three was laughing and almost in tears as his head moved back and forth, as if he were watching a tennis match.

Eyeing my paper, all I could do was smile as I listened to the banter of the two men. I looked up every once in a while to keep track. I was curious about the housecleaner. The language was less than gentlemanly. What is she thinking? I thought to myself. She never missed a beat, though, as the men spoke. She even looked over at them from time to time and smiled.

Suddenly the conversation changed to the local factory closing. They had a local paper of their own in front of them, and that was the main story.

Damn, another one bites the dust, the leader began to say.

Talking about losing over 600 jobs; just what the city needs! his friend shot back.

Yeah, my niece works there. Guess she’ll be out on her ass soon, the leader answered.

I used to work there. I bet I know her, a voice by the window answered. It was the housecleaner. I worked in the office for a year, before they had the first cutbacks. What was her name?

I watched in amazement as she just edged her way into the conversation. The men had the attention of a beautiful young woman. All eyes were on her, including mine.

Jenny Martin. She’s been there for over 15 years, he replied.

Yeah. She worked in receiving, right?

He laughed a little. No, she works on the floor, he said.

Yeah. She was chubby and smoked a lot. We used to hang out in the back where everyone smoked.

Yep, that’s her, he said with a smile.

Slick, I thought. What a clever way to join the group. I work out of town and know very little about the plant, but I would have to guess that 85 percent of the workers there are chubby. As for smokers, more like 95 percent. Put the two together, and you could have been talking about anyone. Now this lady had my undivided attention. I could tell that she knew it as she looked my way.

I sat wondering everything I could about this housecleaner. I determined that she must live in one of those rat–infested tenements in the inner city. Of course they weren’t really rat–infested, but my mother had always described them that way. I always found the description suspect, given that we ourselves occupied one when I was a toddler. It was in the days before our escape to the ‘burbs—a stepping stone to a better life, where anything was possible.

I imagined this woman’s tenement apartment to be as neat as a pin, small and cozy, with painted walls covered with prints of faraway places. I pictured a small kitchen with a table for four that actually only seats two comfortably, a bathroom with a claw–foot tub. An over–furnished bedroom with little room to move. I imagined porcelain dolls on shelves and stuffed animals lying on her bed. A combination of sophistication and girlish charm would be all over the place.

I was lost in my thoughts when the waitress placed my food in front of me.

That didn’t take long, I commented.

We aim to please. More coffee? she asked, holding the full pot.

Please, I said as she began pouring. Thank you.

I leaned back in my chair. The housecleaner was still watching as I began positioning my plate and utensils—and getting a kick out of it, no doubt. I made a clean cut of the egg yolk, dipped the toast, and began eating. I wanted to get back to the conversation. I wasn’t invited in, but I was paying close attention.

I loved working there, the woman said. The people were great. It was one of the best jobs I ever had. Then I got a job in a law office downtown. We lost a major client last month and I got laid off.

That’s rough. Seems to be happening all over downtown. No jobs anywhere, the leader said.

Yeah, well, I’m not worried. I’m ambitious and determined. I’m looking for a part–time job for now, because I’ve started my own housecleaning business. Actually, I started it a while back, hoping it would take off. She laughed. I’m still working on that part.

She was what colleagues and I called a hard woman—not hard in the true sense, but just rough, unpolished. The kind of woman that could out–drink, out–talk, and out–think any one of us, given the chance. Her voice and laughter were on the loud side, and she over–emphasized all her gestures. This girl needed work. She needed someone to reel her in and keep her in check. She carried herself well, though.

Her hair was shoulder length and permed. It was blond—natural, I think, with no dark roots. Even from a distance, I could tell it was soft, and I knew it would smell like spring. She wore makeup, but it wasn’t caked on. Her eyes were green, a light shade, and very intense. They almost held you in a trance. They were holding the three men in a trance at the moment. They were at her mercy.

What if…? My thoughts wandered. What if someone did take the time to polish this rough stone? What would shine through? She had all the right equipment. She appeared to be about 5’ 5" and in pretty good shape. She was slender in build, but could have used some toning. Her clothes were off the rack, but they fit well and were rather conservative. Maybe she had an interview.

This woman had confidence, that I would give her, and she pulled it off brilliantly. Guidance was what she lacked. She needed a mentor to help her learn the ropes. My world was building companies to their full potential. Why not a person? The same rule applies: maximize strengths.

Sounds like you’ll do just fine, the leader reinforced.

Yeah, well, I could make tons more money if I traveled. All the good jobs are too far away. I tried working out of town, once, four years ago, but I hated the commute. I grew up here. I don’t think it’s right to go away to get a good job.

Not true, I thought to myself, being one that traveled an hour or more each way to make a living. I opted to travel straight out of college. I interviewed with a local company once, maybe twice. The starting salary wouldn’t have paid the monthly mortgage on my townhouse. Of course, back then, I didn’t have the townhouse, but I wanted it, and for that, I needed money.

My current lifestyle disqualified me for anything local. I suppose that in a way, I sold out by not accepting my birthplace and its limitations, by not living within its means. What was she thinking of this guy wearing a wool blazer, turtleneck, and tailored slacks just to eat breakfast in? For me, the clothes were just part of my image, nothing more. That look was the norm for me.

All I knew right then, though, was that I was enchanted by this girl; something about her was different. She was so honest! Even in her deliberate dishonesty, she came across as genuine. If I could only bring that kind of conviction to a bargaining table, not only thinking I was believable, but knowing I was, that would insure success. If she only knew how to channel that gift, she would be unstoppable. She would make a perfect politician.

Well, if you guys need anyone to clean your house, give me a call, she said, pulling out her business cards. Each of the men took one and placed it in a safe spot. It was something to be treasured, a token to remember a beautiful girl by. It was the culmination of her pitch that I’d been waiting for, and she didn’t disappoint. Brilliant, was all I could think. This girl could give professional salesmen lessons on the delivery. Our eyes met again as she handed the cards all around; I gave a slight tilt of my head in admiration for a job well done. A warm smile from her seemed to say it all. She knew I knew and approved. She started back toward her table and sat down. Yes. She had made the three men feel important for a little while, and they knew she was something very special.

She had been sitting with some guy; I hadn’t noticed him before. He was someone who got lost in the scenery, part of the woodwork, totally nondescript. He had dark hair and was dressed in work boots, ripped jeans, and a worn, faded jacket. They spoke briefly, and he laid down some cash for the bill as they rose to leave. She led the way, of course. I don’t even know if he left with her. I was too busy watching her say her goodbyes to the men she now called friends. She smiled my way, with a nod to me this time. Who was this girl? I would never know. I never got her name, or even a business card.

Another cup of coffee? the waitress asked, standing by my side again.

No, think I’m all coffeed out, I said, still looking at the housecleaner.

The waitress tore the slip off the pad and placed it on the table. I’ll take that whenever you’re ready. No rush.

As I sat there alone, I realized that I knew more about this rough, unpolished girl than I had ever known about the women I’d had my last three relationships with. I knew where she grew up. I knew that she was ambitious, trying desperately to better herself. I knew her employment history for the past five years, and that she had once been addicted to cigarettes. I knew everything I needed to know about her, and it had taken less than 10 minutes. My last relationship had lasted 10 months, and I can’t remember if she ever told me what college she attended—or if I even cared.

There would be no question with this girl. She would make me care or kill me trying. I couldn’t help but feel emptiness when she left, as though I had just ended a relationship. It was the first time I could remember feeling empty.

The three men in front seemed to have lost their previous luster; they were talking to each other in a low tone, now. I tired of playing with my food. And not being interested in the daily news, I decided to call it a morning. I found a 20 in my wallet and placed it on the table. I slipped on my overcoat and gloves and wrapped my scarf around my neck. Somehow the cold air would fit my mood. That warm, funny feeling of a few minutes before was gone.

Chapter 2

My Life

After breakfast, I turned into the parking lot of the antique shop. I scouted the lot for an opening, hoping for a corner spot if possible. I drove farther down, close to the end, where I found such a spot. I didn’t want to be one of those people who parked their car at an angle to keep others away. I was much more discreet than that; an end spot always meant that one side wasn’t exposed to another car. I parked leaving just enough room for the other car’s door to open fully.

Yes, I was a little protective of my car and yes, it was a bit childish. But the BMW was my most prized possession—at least for the time being. I had waited five weeks for it to arrive after test–driving the silver 740i. I could have driven that one home, but mine had to be brilliant black; silver was the most common color. Common. The word still rings in my mind when I think of it. After dishing out a small fortune, the last thing I wanted was common. I got little argument from the salesman, who was no doubt a car–lover himself.

I opened the car door, stepped out, and looked around. Feeling the wind, I buttoned my coat to keep out the cold. After entering the store, I began to unbutton it to get comfortable. I kept the gloves on. I usually left my gloves on. They were thin leather and insulated. I always bought a size smaller than I should, to insure a tighter fit. After a few days with them on, they would stretch to fit my hands perfectly.

I began walking toward the back of the shop, where the bookstore was located. The shop was an old factory, renovated to house hundreds of lots filled with antiques. It was a huge building, with 30–foot ceilings. In the front section, it was mostly old odds and ends that people had found in the attic or garage after some loved one had passed away. Their hope was that someone would find some value in these treasures. Of course, it was mostly junk. The back housed all the furniture: tables, desks, chests, armoires. You name it, they had it—although it was also mostly junk.

Way in the back was Benjamin’s Bookstore. It was a small shop. The proprietor had designed it so that it looked as though it belonged in the 19th century. This was a place I could have gotten lost in for hours. Today, though, I was looking for something very specific: a first edition copy of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises.

I always start in the front to scan all the books. You never know when you’ll come across a treasure. With my forefinger, I touched each book. It was a guide, helping me to keep my place and to speed–read the titles and authors. The owner was on the phone, talking to a supplier. I don’t know if his name is really Ben; I never asked, and it never came up. I had made it down the first aisle when I heard him put the phone down. I got to the end and started down the other side.

And how are you, Mr. Perry? I heard Ben ask as I walked his way.

I’m doing well. Not much traffic in here today, I answered with a smile.

Well, it’s Tuesday and only a little after 10:00. It’s usually quiet around this time, he explained.

Yes, I suppose you’re right.

Looking for anything special today?

Why, yes, I am. Something by Hemingway.

Figured you had all his stuff already.

I do, but I’d like something in the way of an early edition, if you have it.

Go two aisles down, in the middle. He has his own section, he said as he pointed.

Thank you. I’m sure I’ll find it.

Ben remained at the counter and started writing, leaving me to my search. I was still using my forefinger as a guide, searching all the books, until I arrived at the place Ben had mentioned. My finger stopped on For Whom the Bell Tolls. Ben had an impressive collection, just about every book Ernest Hemingway had written. I picked out The Sun Also Rises. The cover was blue. I began to flip the pages, making sure no one had written in the book over the years. I checked the cover to see when it was printed: Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York, 1956. Not exactly what I was looking for, but in perfect condition. I looked at the inner cover, where Ben always writes the price. Twenty–five dollars for the set. Hmm. I didn’t want all three. I could take them if need be, but I would first try asking for just the one.

I continued my journey up and down the remaining aisles. However, nothing else really caught my eye, and some time had passed since I had first arrived. I pulled my glove back to look at my Cartier watch. It was 11:22. Time to go, I thought. I started toward Ben. He was unloading some small boxes—new acquisitions, no doubt. I walked over to the counter.

Find what you were looking for? he asked.

Always. You have an impressive inventory.

Thank you, he said as he smiled in agreement.

Ben took the blue book from my hand and opened the front cover to find his notation. His nose twitched a little, and he had a perplexed expression as he looked up at me.

You realize that this book is being sold as part of a set. There are three in all.

I know, but I really only want the one.

I hate to break up the set. Another look of uncertainty.

I’ll pay you full price if you want, but that’s really the only one I want.

He kept looking at the book in his hand, as if it would give him the answer, somehow. I had offered full price. What more could he want? After all, he could collect full price twice if he played his cards right, and that would be a hell of a mark–up.

Well, you are a good customer. I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm if I split up the books. After all, Hemingway is always in season, he finally decided.

He began punching a few numbers on the calculator to get the new price.

I really don’t mind paying full price.

Don’t be silly. I’ll only charge you for one, he said.

He started writing out the receipt, and I reached for my wallet. Ben had one of those old–fashioned cash registers; it must have weighed a ton. He handed me my change and said, Enjoy the book.

I will, and thank you.

*****

I had a twelve o’clock with Tom for tennis and didn’t want to be late. I knew it would take 20 minutes to get there, and then I had to change. I walked rather quickly out of the shop and into the cold to my car. I clicked the alarm off, unlocking the door, and drove across the city to the indoor tennis field.

On my drive, I couldn’t help but think about the housecleaner. Where was she going today, and what was she up to? Why hadn’t I asked for a business card? At least then I would have had some way, some way—for what? I argued. Great. Now I was arguing with myself. I knew it was crazy to think of her or to want a way to contact her. We were fire and ice, couldn’t mix; best to get her out of my mind. After all, that was the sensible thing to do. She was out of my reach and out of my world. What would we have in common?

Common. There was that word again. Why did we have to have things in common, anyway? How many times had I proven that that wasn’t the basis for a successful relationship? Maybe having nothing in common was the answer, and I had simply never explored that possibility. Now, I thought, I’m just finding ways to rationalize why I would want to meet her again.

But I couldn’t. I never even got her name, and the chance of ever running into her again was maybe a million to one. Therefore, in a way, fate had already decided my future with the housecleaner, and I had no choice but to accept it.

Then again, how many housecleaning businesses could there be in the city? There were probably no more than 10 or so. What if I checked? But how would I know I had the right one? What would I say? Hi. I know this will sound stupid, but were you eating breakfast this morning around 10:30? That should get me pretty far! Not knowing her name, I could be talking to her and never even know it. Yes, I told myself. I would know. Her voice was branded in my mind.

I got to the tennis field and noticed Tom’s car in the lot. I found a spot close to his and jumped out, not caring about the distance between my car and the one next to it. I was just in time and had to rush to change.

I hit the trunk button on my key, reached inside for the gym bag and racket, and started toward the gym, pressing the alarm button for my car as I walked to the door. It was a large building in the middle of nowhere. Two peaked rooftops separated the courts. The roof had TENNIS written on both sides. I got to the sliding double doors, and the electric eye automatically opened them. I was always thankful for that, since my hands were always full of gear. I walked past the receptionist’s desk and headed to the locker area.

Good to see you, Mr. Perry. Mr. Wilson is already inside waiting for you, the guy with the sandy blond hair said as I rushed by. His name was Robert, but he liked to go by Bobby; it made him sound friendlier, I suppose. No matter what the season, he always had a tank top and jogging pants on: his required uniform, I guessed. It was a gym, after all. Bobby was in good shape and had a tan year round. That healthy, golden, bronzed look was something the bored housewives must have loved and what their husbands most feared. Bobby and I never were what you would call friends, but he was always polite and professional, to the point of being annoying. He was always drinking some kind of health shake and carried the container everywhere he went.

Thanks, Bobby. I’ll catch up to him inside.

Good luck. Hope you give him a hell of a workout today! Bobby said with a bright smile. He had perfect teeth, of course.

I bolted through the double swinging doors that led to the locker area. Tom was sitting on the bench, tying the laces of his tennis shoes. He looked up when I entered. He smiled and then looked down at his watch, as if to let me know I was late.

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