~ One Year Past Perfect ~

by

Kay Layton Sisk

One

Kathryn Kathleen Thompson leaned her cheek against the airliner bulkhead and tapped one no-longer-well-manicured nail against the window. She glanced at the chipped polish in disgust and added "manicure" to her list of things-to-do while in Honolulu this week. Between tomorrow and next Saturday night, she’d sandwich it in. Perhaps right after "sign the papers for the house" which, while it should have been of the utmost importance, was not. She eyed the notebook on her lap, the list a seemingly endless progression of thoughts. But it was only the top one that she’d written in capital letters and underlined twice: FIND DIARY!

Katti, the nickname a gift from her great-aunt Kathy, felt the plane’s landing gear descend and glanced down on the Pacific Ocean as it changed colors and the Islands came into view. Late on a July evening, and she should have been here hours ago. Of course the first delay was of her own making: answering the phone on the way out the door was a physician’s no-no that she just couldn’t break. Twenty minutes spent working with generations two and three of the five-generation Simmons family allayed the fears brought on by the necessity of putting generation number one into assisted living. But she’d made sure they had her on-call partner’s phone numbers and locked her front door quickly. Then the other delays just mounted on top: the weather, a cancelled flight on the other side of the country, a mechanical problem while on the ground in Los Angeles. Well, now she could relax; now she was finally safe. Now she was almost--figuratively at least--back in Aunt Kathy’s arms.

Just the thought of being enfolded into the loving embrace of her great-aunt brought a smile to Katti’s lips. Her grandfather’s sister had led the family a merry, scandalous chase for years--husbands, lovers, land deals, jewelry--but it had all come down to one final quick trip to the hospital emergency room with a fatal stroke. Aunt Kathy, dying alone, because in her stubbornness she wouldn’t move back to Texas. Aunt Kathy, dead at eighty-two, her cremated remains awaiting her favorite niece and heir’s arrival.

We didn’t even say goodbye, Katti thought. She shut her eyes and placed the palm of her ringless left hand over the notebook. Now please, please, please lead me to your diary.

~ * ~

"Thompson?" The hotel clerk furrowed his dark brows and tapped rapidly on the keyboard. "I’m sorry, I don’t see a reservation for Thompson. When was it made?" He smiled pleasantly, but there was a blank look in his eyes, very similar to that of the car-rental agency clerk’s an hour beforehand, one that said "you are late, your reservation’s gone." A taxi solved that problem. She looked around the bustling hotel lobby; she didn’t have a clue how this one might work out if there were no room at the inn.

"Kathryn Thompson. Dr. Kathryn Thompson." Katti shifted her weight and pulled her wallet from her shoulder bag, dropped it to the marble floor. "It was made weeks ago by my law firm, Han and Li. Try that name." She tapped on the cool counter top, controlling her impatience.

He scrolled some more. "Ah, yes, Han and Li." Now that she was legitimate, he could add warmth to that smile.

She sorted through her wallet for her credit card.

He waved her off. "No need. Han and Li have taken care of it."

Katti quirked an eyebrow. Granted, Kathryn Kathleen Thompson McGill would be one important client, but if Katti knew law firms, she’d bet that somewhere in the fine print, this heir was paying for her own hotel room.

A few more keystrokes and the clerk handed her the room key, bar key, pamphlet extolling the hotel’s many pleasures, and an envelope from the lawyers.

"What’s this?" Katti eyed the envelope suspiciously. A free room, then what as a kicker? Envelopes from lawyers, even ones she perceived as friendly and on-her-side, were eyed suspiciously since her divorce and one very unfriendly and definitely not on-her-side attorney.

"Ticket to tonight’s Tower show." The clerk craned his neck to see the clock behind him that provided local time. "You have plenty of time. Ten o’clock show."

"I hardly feel like partying."

"But it’s Cesar." He paused, smiled the friendly, flirty smile of a man in his early twenties when dealing with an older woman. "I thought all women loved Cesar." He nodded toward the marquee standing by the elevator. "My mother would kill for that ticket. We’ve been sold out for three weeks and he’s just here till Thursday."

"I just feel as old as your mother," she looked at his nameplate, "Andrew. Trust me, I’m only old enough to be your," she paused, "aunt."

"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean..."

Katti waved him off with a smile as she glanced at the poster. Cesar, international Latin heartthrob for a generation, smiled the perfect smile of a man in love with every woman he met. Or so you would be led to believe as you bought the latest album, cassette, CD. He’d made them all, that was for sure. Well, Katti mentally shrugged, what could she say? She owned a few herself and as for Aunt Kathy...

"Drawing ’em in, huh?"

"Like flies to honey. I never have seen so many middle-aged..." he quickly changed tactics as she widened her eyes. "I thought he’d gone downhill, hadn’t been able to keep up with the younger, hotter competition. Shows you what I know."

Katti picked up the too-heavy, too-big bag by its shoulder strap. "So what do I wear to this club level and do they serve food?"

"Wonderful steaks. Fantastic broiled fish." Andrew waxed enthusiastic. "As to what to wear, jackets are required for gentlemen."

She cast him a sardonic smile. "First, I’m old enough to be your mother, then I’m a man? Andrew, you’re batting zero for two right now."

"Well, I meant..."

"I know what you meant," she sighed. "I don’t think I brought anything appropriate."

"Try the shop." He pointed to the store that opened off the lobby. A large red SALE sign was prominently displayed just above an orange and red strapless sundress that immediately intrigued her.

"I just might do that."

~ * ~

"Cesar, five!" The door to the dressing room snapped shut as quickly as it had opened. Orchestral noise filtered in, a hodgepodge of dance notes that never quite made good on their promise of cohesion. Cesar Hernandez Osorio pulled on one end of his red silk bowtie and undid it, filed away in his mind the fact that five minutes really meant ten or even twenty.

Why had he never given himself over to the ease of ready-made bowties? Was it the feel of the silk as he curled the fabric around his fingers, the way it slipped into perfection and sat at his throat, a bit of protection between his talent and the rest of the world? Was it his father sitting in some mental corner explaining the way of the gentleman, the way of the valet, the way of the world? Why, when it had taken three attempts to tie it tonight and it still wasn’t right, had he never given himself over to the ease of ready-made? Was it because Micaela always used to rescue him?

The satisfaction that should have come with the final crisp twist of the red slip of silk was interrupted as the door flew open and Vicente Diaz strode in, followed quickly by his son, Armando. Cesar shut his eyes as he mentally shut his mind to the argument he knew they were bringing with them.

"Cesar, I told you no--not again!"