Page 50 of The Love Thief

“Stay in the car,” Jackson commanded. I noticed a slight shiver of pleasure run down my spine at his take-charge demeanor.

Something stirred inside me as I watched him get out of the car.

As he approached the front door, Jackson grabbed the card sticking out of the arrangement.

Without asking, he opened the sealed envelope and began reading.

I could see the concern on his face as he walked back toward the car. He handed me the card. “Given what I know about him,” Jackson commented, “I’m not surprised.”

My darling Holly ,

The best part of my life began a year ago today when we met underneath the firework-filled sky. While the fireworks of the past six months have torn us apart, I know that we can move past it all and begin again. We are perfect for each other.

Let’s forgive and forget and create a love-filled life together with our future children.

Please call me.

I love you with all my heart, Barry

As I read the note and took in his obviously manipulative words, I tasted bile creeping up in the back of my throat.

The familiar feelings of betrayal and despair tried to fight their way back into my internal dialogue.

I pushed them away as hard as I could, remembering that I could choose not to suffer and struggle.

Handing the card back to Jackson, I spoke with a sudden surge of confidence.

“Would you mind disposing of these flowers for me, please?”

“Yes, happy to. And Holly, you should know that recently Susan and I had a meeting with Barry to review the evidence and witnesses lined up against him. That includes you. And there are other details I can’t share with you right now.

It’s likely he is going to do his best to dissuade you from testifying, which in our book is witness tampering.

So you need to be vigilant and steer clear of him,” Jackson stated.

“No need to worry about me. I’ve got my high school softball bat next to the front door,” I joked.

“Very cute. Listen, I’m not kidding. Keep your doors locked, install a Ring camera if you don’t already have one, and when you go out, be cognizant of your surroundings, okay?

” Jackson took out his business card and underlined his cell phone number.

As I slid off the passenger seat and onto solid ground, Jackson gave me a caring smile.

“You can call me anytime, for any reason, whether you hear from Barry or not.” He walked back to the front door, grabbed the roses, put them on the floor of the back seat, and drove away.

Seeing that ostentatious bouquet permanently ended my love affair with the color red.

They would forever remind me of Barry and the heart blood I’d shed to get over him.

Looking down at my red power heels, I considered tossing them as well.

Who needs red ruby slippers when you have a real live FBI agent to take a bullet for you?

At that moment, I was extremely grateful that the anguish and betrayal I had once felt had been replaced with a newfound serenity, with the occasional resurfacing of disgust and disbelief that someone like Barry really existed.

The contrast between the two men was so stark.

There was no part of me that was even remotely interested in connecting with Barry ever again.

But Agent Jackson was certainly a person who restored my belief in men.

Thanks to my experience in the Ganges River and all of Deepak’s sage advice, I had full clarity now that what happened with Barry was not love.

I had been played by a master manipulator and just as the gash on my head and my broken jaw and wrist had healed, so had my heart.

Waves of santosha rocked me into my now familiar calm as my soul filled with gratitude for all I had learned from the experience.

It felt reassuring to have someone like Jackson so obviously concerned for me, even if it was technically his job.

So far, my “Queen for a Day” was going really well: no indictment and now my own Kevin Costner–like bodyguard.

He certainly didn’t look like the knight in shining armor I ever imagined, dressed instead in his own uniform: a blue button-down oxford shirt and khaki pants.

That was just fine with me, I mused as I walked into the house.

After changing into my daytime outfit—black yoga pants, my favorite pink T-shirt featuring caricatures of RBG and the ladies of the Supreme Court emblazoned across my chest, along with a baseball cap—I collapsed on the sofa and pulled out my phone.

It had been an entire day without checking texts or emails, and my inbox was exploding with messages.

Three texts were from Mom, each more urgent, wanting to know why I wasn’t responding.

I got back to Mom and told her all was well.

I promised I would give her a complete download when she got home.

I listened to a lengthy voice message on WhatsApp from Maya.

She was positively giddy with an array of great news, including a big and positive review in The Times of India with a picture of long lines of chic-looking, hungry millennials queuing up, wanting to be seen eating at Moondoggie’s.

She shared a bunch of statistics about social media impressions, new followers, and stats that didn’t make much sense to me, but they were clearly a home run in her mind!

In simple terms, Moondoggie’s was a smash hit.

I sent her a quick note to connect with me when she was awake, knowing she was currently in deep REM sleep since it was the middle of the night for her.

“Hey, sleepyhead, wake up.”

I rolled over, trying to pretend that Mom wasn’t trying to wake me out of the deep sleep I had fallen into. Jetlag was wreaking havoc on my internal clock, and the last thing I wanted to do was open my eyes.

“C’mon, Holly. Get up! If you don’t get up now, you’ll be wide awake at 1 A.M. Come on, uppy, uppy,” Mom implored while she massaged my hands as if I were eight years old, not thirty-eight.

“Oh, all right. What time is it?” I asked with my eyes still tightly closed.

“A little after 5:30 P.M. Let’s go grab a Frappuccino and go for a walk before it gets any darker,” Mom suggested.

We walked over to Starbucks for our drinks and then headed south on Fifth Avenue to the main entrance to Balboa Park.

We walked across the iconic multi-arched cantilever Cabrillo Bridge toward the Plaza de Panama.

The inky twilight framed my mom’s face as she gave me the news that Auntie’s dad had fallen this morning and had been taken to the ER.

Fortunately, he hadn’t broken anything, but it was a big scare for all of them.

Auntie Geeta was finally solidifying plans to move them both into her guesthouse, which likely meant I would soon have a part-time job cooking Indian comfort food for them.

I sleepily smiled at the thought of finally being able to work in a kitchen again, even if it was at home.

I gave Mom a short version of my “Queen for a Day” ordeal and about finding the roses by the front door when the special chime tone for my WhatsApp began ringing.

A notice informing me that this was from a number not in my contact list sent chills down my spine because I could clearly see that the number was Barry’s cell.

Having previously blocked him, this was the only way he could now reach me since I only added WhatsApp after arriving in India.

“Oh, shit, it’s him,” I cursed to myself as I hit the ignore button.

“Barry?”

“Yep. I guess I’d better let Jackson know Barry tried to call,” I said with a sly smile, putting the phone down for a moment to collect my thoughts.

“This is so like Barry to try to find a way to win me back before I become his worst nightmare,” I laughed and said to Mom, who didn’t seem to find the humor in this at all.

“Holly, we’re putting in a Ring security system tomorrow.”