Your Song Read online

  “I’m seeing someone now, Eric, “Lara looks over to gauge my reaction. I’m thrilled to hear.

  “That’s great news. How long has it been?” I ask.

  “About 4 or 5 months now. I didn’t mention anything to you last time we spoke . . . early stages and all. Things are going . . . really well.” She says cautiously but with a toothy grin appearing all over her face.

  “Where did you meet him?” I ask looking out the passenger-side window as we drive into Bloor West Village. I glance out the front glass and then the driver’s side window to get a look at the north side of the Bloor street sidewalk. It’s Sunday afternoon, could Caroline be out and about in the Village?

  “Online,” she says, interrupting my thoughts. And another one bites the dust. Does anyone meet anyone else in person anymore? Nevertheless, I really am thrilled to hear Lara’s news.

  “Tell me about him,” I have a way with making women feel comfortable enough to talk and spill their guts. Call it a well-honed skill.

  “Rob’s a contractor . . . he lives in Markham, he’s my age . . . we have a good time together. I really like him,” she says. I can tell she is hesitating a bit. I don’t say a word. Usually when I remain silent, women start talking again.

  “Rob has a five year old daughter . . . he’s a widower . . . .” Lara’s voice travels off a bit, recalling her own pain, no doubt. I remain silent.

  “I actually met him through one of those online grief support groups,” she adds, not offering more. I can fill in the blanks. We drive a half block in silence. It’s been a rough day for all of us.

  “So, when can I meet him?” I look over at her and smile, giving her my full support, as always.

  “Anytime you’re around, world traveler. Call me to set up a date when we can all go out,” Lara says excitedly.

  “Did you tell the Callahans about Rob?” I ask, wondering how they would take Lara’s news. It couldn’t be easy for them to hear.

  “I told them a few weeks back . . . before he got the latest prognosis,” she said, referring to Mr. Callahan going into palliative care. We drive on for a couple of more blocks, neither of us speaking.

  “What about you, Eric? Are you seeing anyone?” Lara asks as we are stopped at a red light at Bloor and Spadina, right in the heart of the Annex. I watch the pedestrians strolling, enjoying the warm afternoon. Everyone seems to have someone.

  “Well, the fact that you are stalling tells me something . . . .” Lara is fishing for some information but as much as I want to fall for the bait, I don’t.

  “No, not really. That girl Amy and I broke up a few months ago,” I say.

  “Yeah, I remember you telling me about her. But hasn’t there been anyone else since? Look at you, Eric; women must be crawling all over you. You’re a magnet,” Lara says. We’re approaching Bay Street when Lara prepares to make a left hand turn. I don’t respond to her last comment. What could I say? If Lara only knew . . . .

  “Why are you heading back to the spa on a Sunday? You don’t work on Sundays, do you?” I change the subject as skillfully as I can.

  “No, I don’t usually work on Sundays but we have this rich, snotty client in from Chicago for the weekend demanding all kinds of services while she’s in town. Not the kind of woman who would take ‘we’re closed’ too well. So, tonight I’m going in to personally treat her with our oxygen facial.” I know the type of woman Lara is describing. Probably too well.

  “Does she need the facial?” I ask. “You know, like one of those sixty year olds wanting to look twenty-three again?”

  “Actually, she doesn’t. This one’s quite young, married to some dirt rich older guy, shops and lunches every day, bored to tears. But very beautiful and a great tipper.” Lara stops in front of my building. We get out of the truck at the same time and she comes around to open the trunk for me. Carefully I pull my bike out of the trunk and plant it on the sidewalk. I turn and give Lara a hug.

  “I’m really happy for you and Rob. You deserve it. Keep in touch, stranger,” I say as I start walking towards the front door of my building.

  “You bet. I’m calling you soon to set up a dinner date with us,” Lara calls back, beaming from ear to ear.

  As I make my way inside my building on route to the storage locker downstairs, our concierge, Steve, stops me.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Martin,” Steve approaches with a package in his hand.

  “Steve, please, call me Eric,” I say as he hands me a bag.

  “This was dropped off for you a few hours ago,” Steve smiles. I take the gold colored gift bag and notice how light it is. I peer in and see that whatever it is, it’s wrapped in gold colored tissue paper. I hook the bag around one of my handlebars and walk my bike to the service elevator.

  Racking my brain trying to think of someone who’d send me a package on a Sunday . . . could it be my old buddy Henry from our university days . . . we used to play pranks on each other all the time? But then I quickly dismiss Henry as an option because all the fun was zapped out of him once he got married.

  Perhaps a neighbor in my building? I doubt it. I’ve lived here for over two years now and the only neighbors I know are the American couple who own the condo to the left of mine and are rarely there and the older woman in her seventies, Mrs. Wilkins, who lives on the right side of me, and I only see her the odd time in the elevator. Downtown city life, especially condo living, is definitely different. Lots of anonymity and privacy but no real connections and relationships. Not like the neighbors in my old west Toronto neighborhood. Who am I to criticize though, I’m rarely home or in town. No one can call me nosey Mr. Jefferson. There I go again, stuck in the 70s.

  Once upstairs in my condo, I remove my biking shoes and pour myself a tall glass of cold water. Maybe I should be reaching for a beer or glass of wine instead? Surprises make me nervous. I sit myself on my tan leather couch resting my back along the back of the couch and stare ahead. Directly in front of me sits my desk where I see the note Caroline and I exchanged on the plane still perched inside the computer monitor frame.

  Slowly, I reach into the gift bag and pull out the tissue wrapped gift and hold it in one hand. I look inside the bag for an attached note or card but don’t find one. I turn the bag upside down and look for any clues there. Nothing. I unfold the tissue on the gift carefully. A folded up hand towel. It’s a brand new white plush hand towel. I open up the towel and spread it out across my couch cushion. What the fuck is this? And who the hell sent it? I don’t like surprises and I despise these kinds of games even more. Someone is playing secret admirer with me and I don’t like the feeling . . . like I’m being stalked or something. The irony on that last statement is not lost on me.

  As I’ve been trying to (and not succeeding at) stalking Caroline, someone’s been watching me. The Private Caller identifications on my landline and iPhone, this gift delivered to my home addresses . . . what else? That email. The one with the Hotmail address. Quickly, I shoot up from the couch, boot up my Mac to login into my work email. I remember deleting that email from my inbox a few days ago. I do a search for ‘hotmail.com’ and find no results. Our server at work did a clean up on Friday night so the email is gone. Shit.

  But, how did this person find me? There are no pictures identifying me anywhere on the web either by name or location. Then the thought occurs to me. Someone must be following me. I think of my recent transgressions and of anyone wishing to do me wrong. Sending me a hand towel? How is that vengeful? Why in the world would someone send me a towel, for god’s sake? I try to calm myself down a bit. Maybe this is something innocent. Or an innocent mistake? Steve could have taken down the wrong suite number when he accepted the bag. I have to make a point of asking him who dropped off the bag the next time I see him.

  Maybe this is a joke Henry is playing on me after all? I try to think of the ways we used to get each other with our pranks. There is no way of knowing at this point who this stalker is. I decide to sit back a bit and pay more attention
to what’s going on around me.

  As I make my way into the shower, I think of Caroline. Is this how she’d feel if she found me in her neighborhood, lurking in an aisle of the drug store, for example? Isn’t this the guy from the airport that day, she might be thinking, what is he doing here? Didn’t he say he lived in Yorkville? Why would he be in a drugstore in Bloor West Village? Too much of a coincidence, wouldn’t she wonder. Or maybe she’d think, this guy’s creeping me out. Which leads me to wonder if we even realize the effect we have on other people, intentionally or unintentionally? Shit, if I’m feeling uncomfortable with the stalker in my midst, Caroline might too. Time to submit to Plan B. That starts tomorrow.

  The clock reads 11:04 P.M. I’m ready to call it a night. Before I do, I pull out my iPad and do what I do every Sunday night before falling asleep. I tap on the familiar icon, Postsecret.com. I discovered this blog about a year ago and strangely, find myself drawn to it. The guy who started this blog was on TED TALKS and explained how in 2004 he stood on a Washington corner and randomly handed out thousands of postcards to people asking them to anonymously post a secret that they’ve been harboring on homemade postcards. The postcards were all stamped and addressed to his address. Within no time he received thousands of these cards back and read and saved each and every one of them. Eventually he set up this blog where, every Sunday, he posts a dozen or so of people’s handwritten secrets.

  I‘m enthralled reading all of them. The secrets range from innocent ones to seemingly more dark ones. I devour them all and secretly wonder whether the postcard I mailed in a while ago will ever get posted. The postcard that features on one side of it, Toronto’s CN Tower, and on the other side, the secret I’ve been hiding for three years.

  6 “Piano Man”

  From: Eric Martin

  Subject: Business

  Date: Monday, June 4, 2012 10:43 AM

  To: Rajiv Mistry

  Hey Raj:

  I was wondering if we could set up a time to meet one day this week (not tomorrow—I’ll be in Ottawa). I could use your help with something. Personal business.

  Thanks,

  Eric

  Yes, I have just sent an email to a man with the last name Mistry. The irony is not lost on me that the one and only private investigator I know is a Mistry. A fitting name for someone whose job it is to solve other peoples’ mysteries. Rajiv has been working for our company for a few years now as our in house investigator. Away from here, he takes on side jobs such as the one I have in mind. Although Raj spends a lot of his time peeking into clients’ back stories, he’s also covered more than his share of investigating suspicious insurance claims, or collecting evidence of adultery by bad behaved spouses. The work I have in mind will likely be relatively easy for Raj and his team. Simply put, I need him to find Caroline for me. With my unrewarded stalking efforts in Bloor West Village and my Internet search turning up bust, I’ve decided to pay a professional to get the job done.

  From: Rajiv Mistry

  Subject: Out of Office Reply

  Date: Monday, June 4, 2012 10:45 AM

  To: Eric Martin

  I am on vacation and will be out of the office from Monday, June 4th, 2012 until Monday, June 11, 2012 returning on Tuesday, June 12th . I will not be checking my email while I’m away.

  Shit. That’s another week of waiting. I suppose I could always hire someone else to do the work since Raj is away. Raj’s excellent reputation for professionalism and discretion come to mind. Could I trust someone else around here not to share my secrets? The last thing I’d need is for everyone at Wells and Fraser to be whispering about my search for a woman. You can never count on diplomacy in an office setting. People just love to spill the beans. I’ll wait for Raj to return.

  ________________

  It’s Tuesday and I find myself in Ottawa checking into the Hotel Indigo Boutique, steps away from key downtown businesses and Parliament Hill. This is my first time staying here at this hotel located on the corner of Metcalfe and Laurier. I consider popping out at lunch for a walk along the Rideau Canal since it’s that close. My business meetings have been set up in the hotel conference room so sensible Cate booked me a room here knowing full well that these meetings often go well into early evening.

  I’ve been to Ottawa at least a dozen times and each time I’ve come, I have done the touristy thing and taken in one of the landmarks. Since our nation’s capital, Parliament Hill in downtown Ottawa sits majestically at the center of the city, walking by the Parliament buildings whenever I’m in Ottawa has become a ritual of mine. I remember learning about the Canadian government in school and walking by it brings fond memories of my younger days and easier times. When I’m here, I also always go to the Byward Market for my morning illy espresso at La Bottega Nicastro, a gourmet Italian food market. Wherever my travels take me, I always manage to find my illy espresso.

  All day meetings exhaust me. And at 6:30 P.M. like caged birds, we’re set free. Instead of joining the other guys for a dinner out, I choose to go for a run by the Rideau Canal instead. Unable get out at lunch today as I had hoped, a jog in the early evening light would do me some good. Once upstairs in my room, I change into my running gear and shoes. On my way out, I grab my iPhone and check for any messages or missed calls, particularly from the stalker in my midst. I find one missed call from Lara. The next missed call is from Dr. Leung’s office. That’s weird. Dr. Leung’s office usually calls my house line and leaves a message. I was just at Dr. Leung’s last Wednesday for my yearly physical and everything seemed fine. My blood work. Shit. I forgot I had the blood work done. Last, I have a text from Amy:

  Hey u- check ur email tonight. Tx.

  I breathe a sigh of relief that no blocked calls came through today. With that, I make my way down the hotel stairs and out the door in a flash. A thirty-minute evening run in Ottawa is just what I need to unwind. With the Canal on one side of me and these imposing trees bordering me on the other side as I jog along the pathway, once again, one with nature. No iPod in my ears to distract me from the sounds of birds chirping, water lapping, people walking and talking. Alone with my thoughts.

  I think about Amy’s text and wonder what she emailed me about. What is she anxiously waiting for me to read? I think about Raj and my plan to forward him the pictures of Caroline on my iPad. I think about David and Lara and Mr. Callahan. But then these thoughts are interrupted when I see a beautiful baby girl in a stroller a few feet ahead of me. The father is seated on a bench along the Canal while the baby is looking out at all of the people passing by. With only two bottom teeth and a curl of hair tied in a miniature ribbon on top of her head, my heart melts watching her. She’s giggling and babbling away at all of the people who pass by her. The innocence and joy I see in her face are pure and real. Ì just can’t help it. I love kids.

  I’m showered and changed into a white linen shirt and my Hudson jeans. It’s 8:30 P.M. and I’m beyond starving. I take a seat by myself at the far end of the bar. My first time in the Hotel Indigo bar, I scan my surroundings. Sleek shiny blue tiles along the back of the bar coupled with the somber lighting overhead contribute to an intimate ambiance. Small tables with plush seats help create an inviting setting. The dim lighting darkening the room is just the way I like it. I order my dinner of salmon and vegetables from the waitress and ask the bartender for a rye and ginger while I wait. I face the entrance doors to the bar and watch guests enter and exit. Typical business people, single women in pairs out for a drink, a few couples, the usual. I sip my drink slowly thinking about today’s meetings. My dinner arrives and because I’m as famished as I am, I finish it in what feels like three bites, not looking up once.

  Just as the waitress takes my empty plate away, I glance up and notice a woman seated alone at the bar directly across from me. With a mass of long and extremely curly red hair she reminds me of that actress Glenn Close and her wild nest of hair in that Fatal Attraction movie from years ago. She’s wearing a low cut navy blue dress that
crosses at her breasts revealing ample cleavage. I watch her for a few minutes. She is sipping a martini. Green eyes, light complexion, full lips lined in bright red lipstick. Looks to be in her late thirties or early forties. Not bad. Next, I look at her hands. Right hand is holding her martini glass up to her lips. A gold bangle hugs her upper wrist. Her nails are polished a bright shade of pink. I search for her left hand but it is hidden underneath the bar ledge. Until now, she hasn’t noticed me staring, I don’t think, since she’s been looking downward at the inside of her glass the entire time.

  I take the time to gaze at her cleavage, full and likely supported by a gorgeous La Perla bra. I’ve seen and enjoyed enough lingerie in my time to know when a woman is wearing one. I adore women in fine under things. The image of this fiery redhead unclothed in front of me, straddling me, in tiny navy blue lace panties and a matching see through bra comes to mind. I love the female form and objectifying it is one of my favorite pastimes. Show me a guy who doesn’t. I turn my gaze away from the redhead and towards the piano player in the center of the bar. He’s playing the classic Billy Joel song Piano Man. Those ever so familiar lyrics come to me as I sip my favorite drink, nostalgia.

  I turn back to Glenn Close at the bar who’s on her second martini, still not looking up, deep in thought it seems. I order myself another rye and ginger and ask the bartender to bring it to me on the other side of the bar. Time to move in on my target.