Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 04

Chapter Four

Florence Confronts the Colonel

Florence Henderson sped up the long winding luxuriant drive to the Colonel's house. Out of the car and up the long set of expansive marble steps she marched. She hammered on the door with all her might. The butler opened the door, "Yes?"

Florence stood on tip toes to get in his face, "I need to see the colonel."

With droll indifference the butler responded, "I'll see if the Colonel is available."

Florence waited outside angry as hell. It had been their idea, the brothers, to brutalize the girl. They'd given her the job to terrorize her into a sense of confusion and fear. She'd tried to get out of it; resented their refusal to take responsibility for frightening the girl. Then, out of nowhere, while she's just trying to do what she was told, Mr. Fletcher, know it all, starts playing Galahad. Shit, shit, shit! Fletcher had made her look like some hate filled crazy bitch. Sure she'd had problems with Sorrel, but it had always been about the business. It had never been personal!

The butler almost nonchalantly sidled back to the front door, "The Colonel has been on the phone with his brother. He understands your problem. He said to go home and relax. He'll call you later."

Florence looked at the butler. She tried to peer around him, but he blocked her vision, "Thank the Colonel for me, and tell him I'll be home all weekend." She walked back to her car, got in, and sped away.

Sorrel's Room:

The morning had started poorly, but seemed to be ending a little better. Ms. Henderson kept talking about cutting up her body parts, but Fletcher had pretty much deflected that. Then Fletcher put some jewelry on her; a ring and a necklace, but he nearly burned her finger off in the process. Other than that at least no one had tried to shoot her, and no one had called the police.

If she could just get to her computer, or any company computer, she might be able to figure out what had happened, but that looked like it would have to wait. Mary wanted to take her back to her pink cell.

Mary walked Sorrel back through the living room to the stairs. They climbed only two flights of stairs this time when Mary stopped, pointed, and said, "Your rooms are down there."

Sorrel was surprised. She thought she was being returned to her little penitentiary.

Mary showed her a door about three feet away, "It's unlocked. Go ahead in and get settled."

Sorrel gave Mary a quizzical look. Then she turned, walked to the indicated door, opened it, and went in.

What a shock for Sorrel. It wasn't just a room. It was as though it was her room. Like really hers! Someone had brought all her things here to Fletcher's. It was her bed, her bedspread, her bureau, her night stand, her chairs, her hope chest, her stuff, her everything. She ran to the closet. It was a big one. Everything in the closet was clothing she'd bought. It was all hanging so neatly, just like she'd left it yesterday morning, only then it was in her apartment, now it was in Fletcher's house. It was wonderful to look at her things and see them, knowing they were the things she owned; not some wardrobe picked out by someone who hated her. What a wonderful moment. It felt good.

Then it felt bad. She realized they'd emptied her real apartment. Her home was gone! Her stuff was now in other person's house. In a very real, sobering, sense one could even say her things no longer belonged to her; they were Fletcher's! On first glimpse it might look like they'd done her a service, but in reality they'd coopted another part of her life; rendered another part of her personhood irrelevant.

From the hallway Sorrel heard Mary call in. "Don't forget Fletcher is waiting downstairs. Take a good shower, get dressed and made up. He has something he thinks he has to do."

Still, Sorrel was pleased to be able to wear something of her own. After yesterday's mini blouse and skirt set and this morning's pink horror the chance to wear some real womanly clothing would be good. She took a nice hot shower, she shampooed her hair, and she used the opportunity to carefully re-shave her under arms, legs, and trim herself down below.

Going back to the closet she selected an outfit she'd bought but had never worn. She'd been saving it for some special occasion; nothing formal; something nice, something to impress.

She pulled it out of the closet. It had a bright white cotton blouse with a Midshipman's collar, like those the sailors wore. It was a simple white piece, but with dark blue piping around the collar's edges and around the cape that lay gently on her back. She tied the collar off in a simple knot; she'd had enough bows for a while. The whole thing was sculpted to fit her frame. There were no buttons; it slipped easily over her head as a pull over.

Underneath she put on a relaxed fit white bra and a lightly laced white chemise. Down below she slipped on a pair of comfortable cotton panties. She slipped on a modest dark blue pleated skirt that came to just above her knees. She donned a pair of skin toned panty hose, and for shoes she selected a pair of dark blue two-inch heels. She looked in the mirror. She looked and felt more like herself.

Searching the closet she found one of her dark blue cashmere sweaters. She would carry this over her arm as a kind of added accouterment. Then on a whim she grabbed a broad brimmed navy blue hat, and placed it on her head.

After picking out the sweater and hat she went to her vanity and selected the make up she wanted. She lightly brushed a little pale pink blush around her cheeks. She applied a smidgen of black eye liner, and a tad of very pale blue eye shadow. After applying some pale pink lipstick, ugh, she was still trying to get over the pink room upstairs; she overlaid it with a clear lip-gloss. Pressing her lips together and puckering up she thought she looked pretty good.

Last she addressed her hair. Brushing it out again she went to work and pulled and twisted into a tight French braid that hung gently down her back.

Peering into a full-length mirror she thought she looked pretty good for a woman her age. She wondered if what she'd done with herself would impress Fletcher. She didn't know why, but she sort of hoped so. With one last look and a kick of her heels she left the room and went downstairs.

Fletcher had been waiting impatiently. He had two things, actually three things, in mind to do. Neither Sorrel nor Mary knew, though he thought Mary suspected something; inside both the pinkie ring and the necklace were tiny transmitters. Each worked off a different frequency, and each had its own capacity.

He'd put those pieces of jewelry on Sorrel, not to humiliate her or reaffirm his authority, but to make them serve as protective beacons. If Sorrel were out somewhere, say in Mildred's or Florence's care, and they were up to something, he'd be able to intercede before they could do any damage.

He knew he was an asshole for going through all this. He was starting to behave like she was innocent when he knew she wasn't, well probably wasn't. But he was acting like her safety was his responsibility when it wasn't, well probably wasn't. What he was doing was stupid. It would be fun to see if the shit worked though.

Like he told himself, and to the others earlier, he had no opinion about Sorrel. She was a caught thief who was destined to make up for her crimes, but that didn't mean brutality or cruelty. She was a shitty little swindler, but she still shouldn't be abused or mistreated. Humiliation and embarrassment notwithstanding, pain, torture, or mutilation was out of the question. Then again, what did it matter to him?

His new little transmitters would enable him to watch out for her, but he had to make sure they worked. That was his first order of business. His second order of business was a lot different. Sorrel's situation fascinated him. She was a crook, a thief, and a scoundrel if there ever was one, but what had led her to do it. Their company was a good one. He and his brother had always made sure they were loyal to their good employees, and up to the day Sorrel's criminality was exposed she was considered, if a little single minded and stand offish, always an excellent person. Fletcher just couldn't figure out why she did she do what she did.

Then again, if she was everything they thought she was; why would she give a shit about two kids she admittedly had abandoned. If she'd really had ditched them, then why did it bother her if they found out. That was puzzling. What was she; a thief who blew off making millions to steal, a runaway mom who was afraid to hurt kids she'd dumped? He wanted to find out what was made her tick.

Third, the last thing was maybe a little perverse. She was pretty. He liked pretty things, being around pretty girls. If he was going to keep a watch over her, why not enjoy it. Why not take her to lunch? Hell, he might even find something out?

First Day:

As Sorrel reached the bottom of the steps Fletcher whistled, "Wow." You're much prettier than I remember you when I'd come in and out of the office. Sorrel you're a very attractive young woman."

Sorrel blanched. Getting a compliment from Fletcher was one of the last things she expected, and until today certainly the last thing she'd ever want. Fletcher, she saw, was dressed in a dark blue Tee shirt and somewhat scruffy dungarees. He had on a simple pair of black tennis shoes. They bore no emblem or indicator of being associated with any of the big manufacturers. He was wearing Wal-Mart Specials!

He looked a little ridiculous in black shoes, dark blue jeans, and white socks, but she had to admit, ridiculous in a good way.

She wondered if anyone ever bothered to try to dress him. For a man whose reputation was that of a braggart and bully he certainly didn't look the part. Sorrel smiled, "Thank you. I think that's the first time either at the office or since that you've ever said anything to me."

Fletcher answered as politely as he could, "You have a reputation as something of a man killer. You know something of an emasculating machine."

Sorrel bridled, but held her thoughts back, "You know your reputation isn't exactly pristine either."

Fletcher didn't like that comment. Using a deeper voice he answered, "I don't have a reputation. Nobody talks about me. Nobody knows anything about me."

Sorrel looked at him, scowling slightly, "Are you kidding. Ask around. You're considered the biggest blow hard and braggart in the company."

Fletcher didn't get mad, but he didn't like what he heard, "Tell me Sorrel. Have you ever heard me brag or act like some kind of blowhard?"

Sorrel reflected, "Well no, I haven't seen you myself, but that's what everyone says."

Fletcher looked at her a little differently, "Come to think of it, I've never heard any of the men say anything about you. I've heard a lot from the women."

Sorrel spoke with some gravity, "Fletcher, since I came to work for the company I haven't been on a single date. There isn't a single man who can say anything about me personally. They may not like the way I've done my job, but no one has anything on me personally."

Fletcher blurted out without thinking, "Well there's a lot of men who have something to complain about now don't they."

Sorrel turned away, but then turned back. There was a firmness and sincerity in her look that disarmed him. She said with a renewed vehemence, "I didn't do anything wrong or illegal. I know you don't believe me. You'll never believe me, but it's true. This is all wrong. If you'll just let me at a computer I'll prove it"

They'd inched their way closer and closer till they were standing almost toe to toe.

Fletcher looked down into her eyes. "I'd like to believe you. Right now I think believing you're innocent would be a wonderful thing for me, but you and I know both know the truth. Those documents and tapes aren't lying."

Sorrel diffidently rebutted, "Yes they are."

Fletcher backed down, and it surprised him a little, "Look I don't want to make things worse for you than they already are. You have no idea what could be in store for you. But right now, today, I have some other things we need to take care of. Here's your cell phone. It's fully charged. Do you know how to drive a manual transmission?"

Sorrel answered, "I was weaned on one."

"Good." Said Fletcher, "I want you to take me into town and drop me off at, let's say the corner of Maple Street and Graveyard Avenue. Then I want you to drive away. Keep your cell phone on so we can talk. At some point I'm going to tell you to stop. OK?"

Sorrel answered, "How do you know I won't just try to drive off?"

Fletcher smugly rebuffed her, "You won't try to drive off if you're innocent."

Sorrel didn't retaliate. Fletcher got in the passenger's side of the vehicle, and Sorrel put the thing in first gear and pulled off. They drove into town in silence, neither looking at the other. When they reached the corner of Maple and Graveyard Sorrel stopped the car and Fletcher got out.

Fletcher said, "OK, now drive off."

Before pulling away Sorrel asked, "Any particular direction?"

Fletcher responded, "No, just make sure you drive away from me."

She gave him a look, "This isn't a trick?"

Pointing up the road, he said, "Go."

She pulled off. He stayed on the corner. He started talking on his cell. She understood he was up to something, she just didn't know what; so she kept up the dialogue. What she didn't know was that Fletcher was listening to her through an entirely different device. He'd laid his cell phone aside. After about five or six minutes he told her to stop the car. He asked, "Where are you now?"

She told him.

He added, "Stay there till I tell you to continue." After he changed receivers he told her to go on. She drove on for another twelve minutes or so. He picked up the cell phone and told her to stop.

She did.

He asked her where she was. Then he said, "OK. Come back and pick me up."

Fletcher looked at the locations. One transmitter was good for about five miles, and the other good for close to twenty. Not very far he thought, but the best he'd be able to do. He thought he'd probably never need to use this stuff anyway, but just in case he had something.

About twenty minutes later Sorrel pulled up to the curb, rolled down the passenger side window, and asked, "Did I pass?"

Fletcher looked at her as he climbed into the car, "No, but I'm going to give you another chance. What do you like to eat?"

She answered, "Anything."

"Good," he said, "there's a seafood place down the street. The lunch crowd has probably dissipated. Let's go get something."

They drove on to the eatery in silence. When they got there Sorrel pulled into the parking lot, and started to get out of the car.

Fletcher yelled at her. It was a mock yell, just for effect, "What are you doing?"

It may have been a joke to him, but it still scared her. She stopped and sat back, "Oh, I forgot."

Fletcher went around and opened her door, "Let's go." They started for the front door. As they got closer to the front door he put his arm around her.

She froze.

Fletcher stopped. He realized he'd slipped up, "Oh. I'm sorry. It's just a bad habit I had from when I was married. It won't happen again." Sorrel looked away quizzically, then she answered, "It's OK."

They went in the restaurant where a waitress was able to quickly seat them. Leaving them some water and menus she asked if they wanted anything to drink.

Fletcher answered, "Coors Light for me." Turning to Sorrel he asked, "What would you like dear?"

Sorrel caught the word but didn't let on. She wondered of he was making fun of her, or if he was really trying to be nice. She answered, "A Coors Light sounds good." Then she one-upped him. She reached across the table and touched his hand. To her surprise he didn't move his hand, but lightly grasped hers in his. He looked at the waitress, "Two Coors Lights please."

The waitress walked away, and Sorrel pulled her hand back. Fletcher didn't stop her, but he preferred she hadn't. Her hand felt warm and dry. He liked it.

As she looked at the menu he asked her if she saw anything she liked. It was a cop out. That wasn't one of things he wanted to ask. He wanted to ask her about her childhood, her marriage, her children, why she thought she could steal all that money, or what she thought might become of her now. He had a hundred questions he wanted to ask, but the only thing that came out was, "I really like their broiled Salmon here. They have a great Hollandaise sauce."

Sorrel didn't look up. She was feeling funny, not happy funny, not uncomfortable funny, but sort adolescent funny. She was feeling like she was fifteen again. It frightened her, "The Salmon looks good."

She was afraid of him, but he wasn't frightening her. It was an odd situation.

Fletcher said, "You sure?"

Sorrel answered, "Is that what you're getting?"

Fletcher answered, "Yes, I think so."

Sorrel offered, "Then me too."

The waitress came back with their beer. Have you two decided?

Fletcher answered, "Yes, we'll have the Salmon."

The waitress volunteered, "You get two sides with that."

Fletcher looked at Sorrel, "What do you think, salad with the house dressing, and perhaps a baked potato?"

Sorrel didn't look up, "Yes, I'd like that." Sorrel didn't like salads as a rule. They were rabbit food, and she seldom ate potatoes. When she said she liked that, she really meant the way he was ordering for her, and the gentle way he was talking to her. She was feeling, well, somehow, silly. It was a special kind of silly. She couldn't explain it. He was being a gentleman, and yet not twenty-four hours earlier he had peed on her; yesterday a brute, but today a gentleman. Yesterday she was a felon. He still thought that. She'd love to prove him wrong. She'd love to show them they were all wrong, especially him; not just to show him up, but certainly to show him.

She was going to cry again. She looked across the table at Fletcher, "I have to be excused for a moment."

He smiled at her, "Don't be gone long. They're quick here, and this fish is best eaten while it's still warm."

She stood up, "I won't be long." She made a dash for the bathroom.

In the bathroom she went to the mirror and looked at herself. She started to cry. What was wrong with her? She should be angry. She should be frightened, terrified. She wasn't any of those things. She didn't know what she was. Things just didn't make sense. She wiped her face a little, blew her nose, and tried to re-fix her make up. It didn't look quite as good, but she doubted if he'd notice.

When she got back to the table the food still hadn't arrived.

Fletcher looked at her, "I see you've been crying. What is it now?"

Sorrel didn't quite know what to say, "I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong. You're being nice to me."

Fletcher looked at her, "Oh great. I'm nice you cry. I guess if I get real mean you'll feel better."

Sorrel answered, "No that's not what I meant. I mean. Well. You peed on me yesterday, and today you're taking me out to lunch. We're out on a date."

Fletcher smiled, "Why you're right. We are out on a date. Hey, I have an idea. You want to go to a movie? There's a multiplex down the street."

Sorrel looked at him querulously. Then, pensively, she smiled, "Let's pretend we just met. I'm Sorrel and you're Fletcher, two new people. I'd love to go to the movies with you." Her tears were welling back up, but it was because of feeling silly. She knew she wouldn't cry now, no matter what his answer was.

Fletcher watched her face. She had dimples, and when she smiled the corners of her eyes crinkled all up. She had sparkly blue eyes, and long lashes that fluttered up and down. He guessed she was OK now. She'd stopped crying. He reached across the table and grabbed her hands, "Great. Let's eat and see a flick. We'll get popcorn. I'll even put my arm around your chair."