Fixer

If it had been anyone else who had called at this hour more explanations would have been needed. What, when, why, who? A million answers were out there that had only one source to come from into the world. He had hoped when he first saw who was calling that this was a long awaited social call but reason told him that was too much to hope for. The pain in her voice told him this wasn’t going to be a heart warming reunion and the fog pressing in around the car wasn’t helping to ease his mind any. If it could just start to rain it might do. Something, anything to break the silence of the night would help.
The last time he’d heard that tone they had been six years ago in upstate New York at a little lake he’d found out about through some friends. His last summer at NYU gave him the luxury of one last vacation in youth. Like clockwork in the morning he would rise up, make coffee, and jump back into bed just to steal a few more minutes huddled up to her warm body. Lying in bed until 11a.m. wasn’t his usual style but he found himself cherishing these moments years later. It brought calm to an inner hurricane of thoughts and emotions that never seemed to crest the surface. It was when she wasn’t there that the storm broke through.
Finally a light drizzle broke the memory as the black Beemer hugged the road. It had been to many years to go back to that now. It was different, they were different. They had lives now, far apart from what they had planned. Kaitlyn had wanted him back then, him and the relaxing life of a screenplay writer. She was a film major with an undeniable talent for bringing poetry to the screen. He wished she had stopped there. Now it was a ranch, a child, a peaceful life in seclusion from the world that only a small town could provide. Just in the foothills beyond the bright city she settled down. Rolling grass fields encamped by hickories, maples, and oaks. New York’s part of the Appalachians was by far one of the most serene. An area only the wealthy could afford. When he’d heard his heart almost stopped.
That was his life. Work was something he always wanted to do on the side. His life was supposed to be kicking back by the lake, working when needed, lounging when not. Instead he was knee deep in rush. Rush, rush, rush. He knew that majoring in art history was a broad choice that would open up some unforeseen opportunities but he had no idea just how many would be handed to him. He started with a government job that awarded some unusual skills and opportunities but four years of the day to day, worrying about this and that had run its toll. In that type of work you were never at home much and always looking over your shoulder. No, he’d moved on to other pursuits. 2 years at Morgan Hart as a corporate liaison was much less risky but much faster paced. As a liaison you catered to the whims of CEO’s and the wealthy who all wanted to know where there millions were at all times, oh and the tiny request that you have whatever they want at a moments notice. “Not his job,” wasn’t in the cards. What they wanted he needed to get for them. Clients were sometimes literally just looking for someone to hang out with, share their suite at the Mets game. Saturday night wasn’t for friends or family, it was for clients. He was there to make sure they were comfortable.
It made sense really, he was always a fixer.