Entangled

Chapter One

Tricia Nichols

I think it’s time for m’meds, sugar. I’m feeling a mite poorly, came Mrs. Benson’s wobbly voice.

Looking up from the kitchen sink, newly hired home health aide Tricia Nichols glanced at the overhead clock. She had only worked at this job four days, but as usual, Mrs. Benson was right on time. It was five minutes until twelve o’clock sharp.

You’re amazing, Mrs. B. I can set my watch by you! Tricia finished washing the last dish and then dried her hands. You just sit and I’ll bring your pills over to you.

From her recliner in the next room, Mrs. B. called out, Thank you, sugar. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.

What a sweetie! The truth of it was, Tricia didn’t know what she’d do without Mrs. B. and her other patients, too. Recovering from a traumatic divorce, Tricia had been nervous to start a new job, a new life, but these past four days had been wonderful. So rewarding. As a home health aide, she got to visit with terrific folks in their homes, hopefully bring a little sunshine into their days, monitor their health, and help them out wherever she could.

And sometimes she could use her physiology training from college. Hopefully soon she would earn her bachelor’s degree, and that meant this was a win-win situation.

Tricia poured a big glass of purified water and then sorted out the medications for lunchtime, dinner, bedtime, and tomorrow morning. Mrs. B was now all set for the rest of the day. She’d suffered a fall in her bathroom, and was on her way to recovering from that.

Carrying a tray, Tricia walked into the tiny living room... or parlour, as this pleasant woman liked to label it.

Here you go, Mrs. B. Don’t take them all at once, she joked.

Now don’t go sassin’ your elders, sugar. Mrs. B. bent over and concentrated on her vast array of colorful pills.

The pills were the only colorful things visible in Mrs. B.’s parlour. Everything seemed to be in black or shades of grey. Even her housecoat was as inky dark as a moonless night.

While her patient downed her medications, Tricia glanced around the room to see if everything was in its proper spot, just as Mrs. B. liked. Nope, her aluminum walker was out of place. She set the walker next to Mrs. B.’s recliner.

That done, Tricia brushed off some lint from her royal blue scrubs. Her one and a half hour at-home visit with Mrs. Benson was almost over.

Mrs. B. finished the last pill, and then dotted her mouth with an embroidered hanky. Tell me, sugar, a good-lookin’ girl like you, why aren’t you married?

Ooh. That certainly was not Tricia’s favorite question, but she couldn’t get away from natural curiosity, could she?

Steeling herself from her discomfort, she patted her patient on the shoulder. I told you, Mrs. B., I got divorced and then I moved back here because my mother needs a bit of help getting around her apartment, just like you do.

A little white lie there. Miriam Presson was a dynamo who couldn’t be held down. She didn’t need her daughter’s help, but maybe she did like her company.

Where’d you live before, sugar?

Sighing, Tricia smoothed a lock of hair back into her low-hanging ponytail. She was as low maintenance as could be: nothing fancy about her hair, her face, or her clothes, and that was the way she liked it.

Chicago, Mrs. B. It was very nice there, but as Dorothy likes to say, ‘There’s no place like home.’

And home was here. Her now ex husband had booted her out of their apartment. Well, that wasn’t technically accurate; the luxury apartment was in Terrence’s name. Three months ago, things had come to a head when he invited his personal party girl to live with him. He’d issued Tricia an ultimatum: unless she wanted to be a part of a ménage à trois, she had to go.

So she did. Yep, three months ago, she’d said goodbye to the Windy City, and started her life over again here in the Big Apple.

It’s his loss, sugar. You are as pretty as a picture, don’t you know? Absolutely enchantin’. Your ex is, what’s the word? Oh, a coxcomb.

Tricia had to laugh. Yep, Terrence was a coxcomb and plenty of other nasty adjectives, too. But that phase of her life was done and over with. Thankfully, she didn’t have to deal with that man any longer.

Thanks for the support, Mrs. B. Tricia checked the clock. Do you need anything else? It’s time for me to head out for lunch before my next appointment.

Raising a shaky hand to scratch at her russet blonde hair in serious need of a dye job, Mrs. B. blinked her watery eyes. Nah, I’m fine. Who you seein’ next, sugar?

Mrs. Larkin, three apartment buildings over on Perry Avenue.

Oh, I know Mrs. Larkin. That woman can talk, I tell you! Iffen you’re not careful, she’ll keep you ‘til the cows come home.

Tricia leaned over and sandwiched Mrs. B.’s age-freckled hand between hers. Not to worry. I’ll be there for only ninety minutes, just like here. Plus, I’ve got Mr. Augustus at 2:30, my last appointment for the day.

You’ll be hoppin’ for sure. The woman softly squeezed Tricia’s hand. So, you’d better get. See you same time tomorrow, Friday?

Sure thing. I’ll call to remind you. Smiling, Tricia grabbed today’s paperwork, stuffed it into her professional leather bag, and headed for the apartment door.

Mrs. B.’s voice carried down the hallway. Sugar, can you be a dear and mail that letter on the entry table? It’s to m’son; he’s stationed in Belgium, you know. Brussels. He sends me the most delicious chocolates.

A shiver ran down Tricia’s spine. She stared at the stamped envelope positioned on the small table. Next to it sat a box of premium Godiva chocolates. Her supervisor, Coretta, had briefed her about Mrs. B.’s now-deceased son. Lieutenant Benson lost his life many years ago in a deadly skirmish in a faraway land. Every so often Mrs. B resurrected him by writing letters to an address in Brussels, Belgium. And, every now and then, some kind soul sent her chocolates.

A chill wiggled down Tricia’s spine. Actually, that was kind of spooky.

She cleared her throat. Of course. Then she picked up the envelope. Have a great rest of your day, Mrs. B.

And then she let herself out. The door self-locked behind her.

Once again she sighed. As she walked down three floors to the main level, she collected her thoughts. She liked Mrs. Benson; she really did. The only thing the woman was irrational about was that her son was still alive.

But who knew? Maybe Mrs. B. had a kindred spirit at that Belgium address?

Coretta had instructed Tricia not to mail any of Mrs. B.’s letters to Brussels. However, that would be tampering with U.S. mail, wouldn’t it? The letter deserved to be sent. Besides, perhaps whoever resided at that address looked forward to Mrs. B.’s correspondence.

Tricia would definitely mail the letter. But what she didn’t like were reminders of her failed marriage. Truthfully though, she could understand her patients’ interest in her private life. Oftentimes, the only daily human contact they received was through their home health aides.

She hoped—no, she prayed—that none of her clients would go the extra mile and play Cupid in some kind of matchmaking scheme.

No. A thousand times no. Tricia had tried the marriage route. She’d stayed married seven years, but then the seven-year-itch hit Terrance.

Or truthfully, he’d been hit many years before only she hadn’t been aware of his philandering.

Opening up the exit door to the street, Tricia then took a deep inhale of fresh April air. She’d wasted seven years on Mr. Ménage à Trois. She was happy as is; happy on her path. She wasn’t going to waste anymore time on men, or frankly, on doing things that weren’t in her best interest.

WALKING UP THE ONE flight of stairs to her mom’s second floor apartment, Tricia couldn’t help but be glad this workday was over. Her 12:45 appointment, Mrs. Larkin, had indeed talked until the cows came home. Tricia’d had to flat-out say see you tomorrow, and then dash out the door into the dark hallway beyond.

Phew! That lady sure knew how to flap her gums. Then again, talking seemed to help Mrs. Larkin’s chronic high blood pressure. Another thing she excelled at was making demands. She’d tasked Tricia to arrange for the mobile library service to bring a selection of books up to the apartment; call her dentist for an annual check up; and also return a next door neighbor’s cake baking pan.

Tricia didn’t mind the extra duties. Plus, starting tomorrow, every two weeks, Mrs. Larkin could yak to her heart’s content with the volunteer librarian.

The last appointment of the day, Mr. Augustus, unfortunately wasn’t a pleasant one. He hadn’t been in good spirits on the previous days, either. Honestly, he reminded Tricia of Ebenezer Scrooge. Sunken cheeks, mean grey eyes, more wrinkles than a dried-up prune, Mr. Augustus always waved an imperious pointed finger while he spoke, and everything he said was a complaint or a grumble. He addressed her as Girl, and the words please and thank you weren’t in his vocabulary.

He had a lovely ground floor apartment, though. The living room had sliding glass doors opening up into a beautifully landscaped atrium featuring dwarf Japanese maple trees, oversized schefflera plants, and hardy arborvitae hedges, along with a garden assortment of flowers. As far as she could tell, twelve apartments opened up onto the same square atrium. Situated in the center of the apartment building, the atrium’s view could be enjoyed by all the tenants, but only the ground floor renters had access to roam about this open central court.

Mr. Augustus didn’t seem to appreciate the beauty right outside his apartment. 

Before she left for the day, he had even ordered her to pick up his clothes from the dry cleaners around the corner. To keep the peace, she did... and then quickly hightailed it out of his apartment.

Sometimes getting entangled in other people’s lives wasn’t such a good experience.

Next had been checking in with her supervisor at the nearby homecare services center. She hadn’t mentioned Mrs. B.’s Belgian letter, but of course she’d let Coretta know about Mr. Augustus’ curmudgeonly behavior. Tricia downplayed it a bit, but honestly, it was difficult spreading the joy and being compassionate when he was such a thundercloud.

Ah well.

As she unlocked the door to her mom’s apartment, she thought about her newest client that Coretta had just assigned to her. A Mr. Smith, who’d been injured in a car accident, needed help managing his ADL—activities of daily living. He was young—twenty-nine, Coretta had said—so he wouldn’t need homecare very long. Since he lived close by, only two apartment buildings down from Tricia, she was selected for the job. Now added to her schedule were two visits a day to Mr. Smith, first thing in the morning and at the end of her work shift.

Two extra hours meant two hours of overtime. Bonus!

Overtime was good. Real good. Soon she’d be able to afford to rent her own place, and that would be heaven. As a divorcee at the ripe age of twenty-seven, Tricia felt uneasy living with her mother. It was kind of... well, awkward.

Speaking of awkward, her mother’s voice bellowed out from the living room like a clarion call to awaken the dead.

Patricia! Patricia! You’re finally home. Come say hi to the girls.

Tricia sighed. Thursday was Mahjong Day. Since mahjong was a tile game for four, that meant the folding card table was set up in the living room with Miriam’s longtime acquaintances seated around it. True, Marjorie Beeks, Annie Arturo, Inez Daly, and Miriam were friends, but in this instance, they were also cutthroat competitors.

Tricia knew these ladies from childhood; she’d gone to school with their sons.

Setting her leather bag down on the kitchen table, she smoothed any loose hair back into the ponytail and then walked into the living room to greet the girls.

Mom naturally demanded a kiss. She always did when Tricia got home.

It was then that the cacophony of voices sounded. At first it was an uproar declaring how pretty, how extraordinarily thin, and how grown up she looked.

Tricia took these compliments with a grain of salt. She was twenty-seven and divorced; she definitely qualified as being grown up.

Mrs. Beeks, Mrs. Arturo, Mrs. Daly, it’s good to see you all again.

Nonsense! Marjorie Beeks exclaimed. She was a lively widow, always on the go. Her pink lips clashed with her dramatic red hair. Call me Margie, Patricia. Why, I’ve known you since you and Bobby started kindergarten together. Then there was the time the principal had to call me and Miriam because you and Bobby—

Good to see you again, Margie. Tricia had to interrupt. Her son, Bob Beeks, had always been prematurely randy. Imagine second graders going at it behind one of the stairwells in elementary school.

Tricia shivered. It was a memory best forgotten, however Margie was a determined gossip.

Anne Arturo set down her empty glass and nodded vigorously. Oh, we know the story. Patricia was one of the most popular girls in school, right? She broke my poor Brody’s heart. How many times did he ask you out? Thirty?

Mrs. Art—

Goodness, call me, Annie, child. Everyone does, well, except for Brody. With her blue eyes twinkling, she made a mischievous smile. She was a very attractive lady, probably in her fifties.

Annie continued, I don’t know you as long as Margie, but, what, you and Brody met up in tenth grade, I think. She sighed. "Oh how my boy used to wax lyrical about Pretty Patricia Presson."

Oh jeez. Tricia ground her teeth. Here was her despised old nickname biting her in the butt, and that was another very good reason to never go home again. In the old neighborhood, her childhood past tended to smack her in the face. Brody Arturo had been nice, thoughtful, but very intense. They’d shared a few cups of hot chocolate and conversation in the cafeteria, but that was all. She just hadn’t seen him as boyfriend material.

Now, now. Don’t tease the girl. Inez Daly’s calm demeanor seemed to settle down the other players. Growing up can be a difficult business.

Kent Daly’s mom lifted her hand to touch the forelock of pure white contrasting with the dark of her hair. See this? I credit that to Kent. It’s a wonder he didn’t turn all my hair prematurely white.

Kent Daly had been a piece of boy eye candy for Tricia in junior high school. Not that she’d done anything about it. Secretly crushing on him probably accurately described how she’d felt. By ninth grade, she’d learned her lesson about showing interest in boys.

But she couldn’t help coming to Kent’s defense. You look lovely, Mrs. Daly. The white streak is very distinguished.

Tut! Go on with you. And it’s Inez, yes? Inez straightened the gold chain around her neck. My Kent has turned himself around. He’s extremely successful, you know. He’s the information technology officer for Salanti Industries. A very prestigious position. However, he’s still single.

It’s odd all our boys are employed by Salanti Industries, Annie drawled. Remember Darin Freed, Matt Ovalton, and Steve McPherson? They have jobs with Salanti, too. In upper management, yet. Such important work. All the young people work there, well, except, of course, for Patricia.

Tricia knew the boys that Annie mentioned: Bob Beeks from Elementary; Darin Freed, Matt Ovalton, Steven McPherson, and Kent Daly from junior high; and Brody Arturo from high school. Even Mr. Salanti had been one of her principals in junior high, and now he had some kind of business that focused on music or vibrations or frequencies. Whatever.

Over the course of her school career, she had a history with each and every one of those boys—some good and some, well, sorry to say, not so good. Especially bad was with Steven. Steven McPherson. How could she ever forget what had happened with him in ninth grade?

On that disturbing note, Tricia knew she had to go. I’ll let you ladies get back to your game.

No. No. You just got here. Margie almost jumped out of her chair.

Tricia took a step back. I need to get out of these scrubs and plan for tomorrow. My day will be starting earlier than usual.

Mom spoke up. Well, since you’re going into the kitchen, why don’t you bring us refills on our drinks? And some chips and dip while you’re at it?

Sure. As fast as she could, Tricia made tracks into the kitchen. Yep, she couldn’t escape fast enough.

Hearing about her childhood friends... and follies almost turned her stomach. Back then she sometimes hadn’t made the right decisions. Then again, who made the right decisions one hundred percent of the time? But no wonder she had glommed onto Terrance with his offer of marriage and relocating to Chicago. Leaving home at age twenty had seemed the right thing to do even though she’d had to drop out of college.

Sadly, back then she’d been too young and inexperienced.

But now she wasn’t so young and she was definitely not inexperienced. And she also knew one important thing... as soon as she had the finances, she would be moving out of this neighborhood.

Steve McPherson

THE LONGER STEVE MCPHERSON stayed in his bed, the more he was tempted to hurl himself off the damn balcony and put himself out of his misery. Being inactive was like acid eating up his soul. Hell, he had businesses to run, investments to manage, new inventions to patent. He hated, he absolutely hated doing nothing, as he was doing now.

Well, truthfully, the work phone calls never stopped. But being drugged up most of the time didn’t facilitate making good business decisions.

The so-called accident had happened Monday; today was Thursday. All this time he had hopelessly writhed in pain at the hospital, but thankfully now he was back in his apartment where he could do something about the discomfort.

Because of his latest invention, he could heal at his own pace—fast. But that would have to wait for right now. Just the thought of getting out of bed to bring in the revolutionary healing device tired him out further. Getting around on a bum leg was near impossible... at least for right now it was.

Yeah, he had to work his way through this latest misfortune before he would be able to shuffle one foot in front of the other.

Sometimes being the boss wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be.

Glancing around his bedroom, Steve