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How many different kinds of nostalgia can you collect? Every summer lends itself to its own sticky sort of memory, cementing itself in your mind as a different flavor of blur than the year before, tinged with whatever color most reflected the time spent.
How many emotions about a moment can you have and how many weights can you collect in your chest like a rock in your pocket- how many bittersweet winds can blow past, your eyes tearing up without knowing why?
This is what a lone woman is wondering as she sits on a park bench, as sweat drips down her back, as she watches the comings and goings of this hot summer day and tries to remember why it makes her so sad. The sun is high in the sky and the air is humid. It's a late June day and everyone can feel it, the children running around her splashing themselves with water in an effort to keep cool. The families grilling beside long wooden tables with scratched up benches, covered with plates and cups and napkins, a cooler nearby for drinks.
She can hear the shrieks of laughter and she smiles, and that almost hurts too, reminds her of summers spent with her sisters at the lake by their home, the cool water their only solace from the oppressive heat.
Everything reminds her of something it seems, any small moment she's fortunate (or unfortunate, depending on your point of view) enough to witness makes her sigh, thinking back to another time, another place, another summer. She's getting sentimental, maybe. Is that what growing old is? She's only 35, it feels far too early for that. But as she raises her arms over to head to stretch, her joints complain sharply, and she quickly lowers them back down. Maybe she’s just lived enough life to make up for it.
She shifts. Her thick leather boots are sticky and uncomfortable, and if it wasn't for the fact that she's attempting to seem intimidating, she would've worn sandals. Not that she needs much help in the intimidating department on her own, sitting alone in the middle of a park bench, not talking to anyone, every few minutes glancing around as if waiting. She is waiting for someone, and if a passerby were judging based on the numerous scars littering her body, most likely someone dangerous.
Honestly, she's regretting not bringing sandals anyway, the heat is intense, and her huge brown leather jacket that in any other weather would've oozed comfort is already sitting discarded next to her, and radiating heat.
Maybe her mistake was wearing leather to a park in the middle of June. The rest of her outfit isn't as unbearable at least, a dark purple graphic tee with the sleeves cut off that must have at one point said something , but was now too faded to tell. Her lipstick matched the shirt, dark purple, and her hair was also dark, tied into two braids that went down her back. It was a pain to take care of, and she'd rather cut it off, honestly, but her husband liked it.
Her husband. He was usually here with her on things like these, but something had come up and he had elected to pick her up after, promising to make it up to her. She didn't care much either way, except for her motorcycle doesn't hold that much gas and his car had air conditioning.
So it wasn't too much skin off her back to take the bus, riding the hour out to Ridland Metro Park, a large scale park with a guarantee of having many people and families around at any given time. Their biggest selling point was the small splashpark right behind the swings, and with the heat like it was, it wasn't hard to draw in crowds.
How long has she been waiting here?
An hour?
Two?
Probably only around thirty minutes, but her shirt is coated in sweat and she's never been extremely patient. Her eyes, dark brown, scan the area yet again, looking for a one Gregory Hammond, a thin, stickbug of a man who called her up and asked for her presence here, at this time, about a week ago. He didn't say why, but she could guess, and what she guessed was that the kinds of things he wanted from her shouldn't readily be said on the phone. He most likely had a job for them, her and her husband, so she came.
He doesn't know that it is just her, and if he did he’d probably be a lot more reluctant to come. Her husband tends on the softer side of things, but she doesn't like small talk. How can she afford it when she could potentially be speaking to an enemy?
But she's getting lost in thought again, and almost doesn't realize that someone is walking up to her, someone tall and gangly, with blue tipped hair and dark skin, looking extremely nervous as look around for a second person near the bench. But there is no second person on the bench, there is just her, and now there is Gregory Hammond standing a respectful couple feet away and looking just about as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, so she draws herself up with a sigh, fixing him with a glare.
The glare continues as she looks him up and down, trying to seem as unimpressed as she can. Truthfully she's more than a little anxious, looks does not a person make, and she's never met him before, but he doesn't have to know anything about how she feels.
Gregory, at least, seems ill-dressed for the summer as well, wearing a tan trenchcoat, tan slacks, and light blue button up that matches his hair. Color Coordination seems to be his jam, and so is being extremely uncomfortable, both with the heat and the vicious glare currently being fixed on him. He keeps shifting his eyes anywhere else but the woman in front of him, and shifting the black briefcase he has between either of his hands.
He clears his throat.
“Uh-uhm. You are..Clara?”
He says it like he's unsure of everything, but mostly making a mistake, and she, if you can believe it, glares harder.
“Try again.”
That's Clara, crossing her arms over her chest. He has made a mistake, and she is waiting for him to get it right.
Gregory visibly sweats, shifting the briefcase once again from hand to hand as he stares at the ground first, then her, with a concentration like he's taking a finals exam.
“.....Mrs...Waters?”
She nods.
Mrs. Clara Waters, as we now know her, leans over with an outstretched hand and a tense, but polite, grin.
“Greggory Hammond?”
He frantically wipes the sweat from his hand off on his pants and shakes hers, nodding.
“I-uh, well i’m surprised to see just you here-but i guess that isnt any of my uh- anyway, i might have something you'd be interested in?”
He starts fumbling with the briefcase in his hands, glancing around for a place to set it, and Clara moves her jacket over to make room. He smiles gratefully, something that dies on his face as soon as Clara doesn't return it, and finally manages to pop the clasps open, revealing a manila envelope with several papers inside, and a granola bar.
Greggory takes the granola bar, but leaves Clara to grab the envelope herself, opening it and skimming through its contents as he begins speaking again.
“Sorry, i uh, didn't get a chance to eat earlier...you don't mind do you?”
His mouth is already full of granola so if she did mind, it would be a little too late, but she shakes her head dismissively.
“Just get to the point, Mr.Hammond.”
He nods, swallowing, swaying slightly as he continues standing in front of her. Would it be too much to ask to sit down? With the impatience that's seeping from her currently, he doesn't want to chance it. So he nods yet again, more to assure himself that yes, this is where his life has taken him than anything, then launching into speaking.
“I uh- i was sent by my ... .employer... Lets call them? There's a...uhm, there's a resort, up on the severed peaks. It's supposed to be some kind of uh...uh,”
He takes another bite of granola and sighs. It has peanut butter on it, which has melted slightly from the heat, and is making his hands a bit gross. Is that unprofessional? Clara definitely thinks that's unprofessional.
"It' s like a spa or somethin’ for uh, rich people? There's hotel rooms, and baths, and uh…..anyway, my employer uh, wants you to…..”
and he leans over her to point at one of the papers in the manila envelope, some sort of info sheet on a person, with a picture of a man in his mid 20s at the top.
“Thats Owen morrison. He works as a...uh, a clerk or something there. He isn't like, like, very high up in the company I don't think, feel free to check up on that,”
Greggory gestures to the paper again. Clara doesn't make any acknowledgment, reading through Owen’s file intently as Greggory talks.
“But uh...my employer..requests that you..terminate him?”
His voice lowers and he continues. “I didnt exactly ask why, but if you uh, want to know, im pretty sure theres some...personal beef between him and my employer….”
Clara stops and looks up at him, almost surprised, before turning her face back into that slightly sweaty stone cold mask. “I don't actually remember asking, but..thank you.” she closes the envelope, holding it in her hands and finally meeting greggorys eyes. She's smiling now, like a lion who's making friendly conversation with a zebra, or a customer service representative that is maybe a little too tired.
“And what about payment?”
He expected this, actually, and smiles back, opening a zippered compartment on the inside of the briefcase and flashing two thick stacks of purple bills.
“There's more, of course, when you complete your uh, work. But this should be enough, right?
Clara glances around the park and quickly examines the money, checking to make sure it's enough. It seemed like it, what had he said over the phone, 7 grand each at first, then another 7 grand when the job’s complete. She nods and lets him zip the compartment back up, a show of goodwill, then latches it closed and places it on her lap.
“Was there anything else?”
“I uhm. Uh, no?” he clears his throat, finishing the granola bar, feeling a little bit like a kid standing in front of the principal. Or someone else's mother after throwing a baseball through her window. It's not a pleasant feeling, and honestly he'd like to get going but he frowns.
“Can I...have my briefcase back?”
She frowns as well, momentarily confused.
“What?”
“It's just uh...that was really expensive and-i mean if you don't mind! I'd really like to have it back?” He hadn't expected she would actually try and keep it, and is nervous to even ask.
“I uhm. Yea.” Clara's cheeks tinges the tiniest bit pink and she opens it again, taking out the contents and shoving them haphazardly into her pockets. To be honest, she had assumed he was giving it to her. Egg on her face. She hands it to him, looking at the ground, and coughs.
“So. Is that all?”
He blinks, the briefcase shoved back in his possession, and nods for the final time.
“Yea. I uhm. Well.” greggory is floundering again, but opts to forgo saying anything else so he doesn't make a bigger fool of himself than he already has, and simply smiles, tight and awkward.
“Bye, uh. Mrs. Waters."
He turns and walks off a little quicker than is necessary, Clara watching until he turns the corner behind a building and she cant see him anymore. The papers and money feel heavy in her pocket, and she doesn't want to be in the heat any longer than she has to, so she pulls herself up, grabs the jacket still on the bench, and heads to a payphone nearby.
It rings twice, then a gruff and slightly wary voice picks up.
“Uh, hello?”
“Hey. I'm done, you coming?”
“Oh!” the man exclaims in surprise, and then there's fumbling on the other side of the phone as he reaches for something. His shoes maybe. He leans away from the receiver, and Clara waits, baking in the sun.
A minute passes, and he's back, the phone crackling quietly.
“Yea! Yea-where’d you say you were-uh...Ridland? Thats, thats-”
She grins, rolling her eyes.
“By the pizza place with the bear statue? Like….” she pauses. It’s not that he doesn’t know how the city works, he just gets distracted. It's a team effort to make sure he doesn’t end up spending the whole day driving around every time they have to drive places.
“Ok, go off the highway, then you know the uh...video store? Just turn there and keep going like you’d be headin’ to the pizza place, alright?”
Silence, then scribbling noises.
“Alright, pizza place, got it. See you there!”
She sighs, because she knows that he didn't get it, but she loves him anyway, and nods, even though he can't see her.
“Yea, alright. See ya later. Love you, frank.”
The phone clicks, and she realizes she had the phone wire wrapped around her finger like some kind of school girl.
-------
A few hours later, Clara heard the rumble of a car pull up in the parking lot from behind the bench she had went back and sat on while waiting. The sun had just started to hang low in the sky, and families were tapering off to head home for the day.
The car grumbled to a stop, engine turned off, and out stepped a relatively short, extremely hairy man, grinning bigger than anything as he slams the car door shut with a bit too much enthusiasm and calls out for Clara, pulling her out of her thoughts.
“Clara! Finally! Thought I’d never find this fuckin place, do you know how many pizza places there are around here?”
His arms are wide open and going in for a hug, and she barely has the time to turn around before he's got arms around her, burying his bearded face in her chest like he's never been happier to see another person. Clara returns it, and the two stand there for a moment, just embracing, before she pulls away and fixes him with a stern look.
“There's two, Frank. And I told you about the bear-anyway, is the AC running? Im fucking hot. ”
He chuckles, nodding and starting to walk off to the car when Clara pulls him back for a kiss. He yelps, lets himself be kissed, then continues his (admittedly very short) journey to the car.
The air conditioning hits Clara like a wall of ice, and she sighs in relief as she pulls herself into the car. She's quite a bit taller than it, and has to stoop to get in, unlike Frank, who slides in easily, the car dipping to accommodate their weight. With the doors closed, the cool air feels even stronger, and Clara allows herself a few seconds with her eyes closed, sagging against the seat as she tries to savor the break from the heat as much as she can.
“Its fuckin. So hot out there. You asshole.”
He snorts, not really minding the insult, and looks around for the keys, finding them in the cupholder closest to Clara. He leans over, meaning to reach and grab them, but Clara's eyes are still closed and she doesn't notice, just feels him brushing up against her and grins.
“Not till we get home, darlin. This is still a park, after all. Kids hang out here?”
Frank grabs the keys, then tilts his head in confusion.
“Uh, what-oh! Ha-uh no i was-” he breaks off, halfways between stuttering and laughing, causing Clara to crack an eye open, confused.
“You ok?”
He holds up the keys in answer. “Just-uh! Driving home now, hah.” he shoves the keys into the ignition maybe a little more forcefully than one should, avoiding eye contact as the car sputters to life and Clara starts cracking up, thumping her hand on the door gently.
“Oh my god, just make sure you don't get us lost again, alright?”
“I don't have to worry about that if you're here, do I?”
This sends Clara into another laughing fit, and the car pulls out of the parking lot, heading back to their cramped apartment by the highway. They could honestly probably afford better, but they don't tend to live in one place for too long, and a lot of the money goes to Clara's family anyway. Besides, who needs fancy living when rice cookers and throw blankets are just about the same wherever you go?
They've been living in this particular place for close to half a year now-long enough to unpack and collect minimal detritus, not long enough to memorize the layout of the city they were bordering.
It was more than long enough for Clara to miss her family, however, and as the car pulled into the apartment complex’s parking lot, she spoke. They had been relatively quiet on the trip home- the only thing to talk about was the upcoming job, and that's not a car discussion.
“Did anyone call?”
The ignition turns off, and Frank leans back, raising an eyebrow.
“You mean, did your dad call. Uh, no. Though I did get a really interesting voicemail from Buggie, like, right after I got in the shower-’ swear she literally picks the worst times to call -she was asking about uh….” he bites his lip, thinking.
“Oh! They’re getting ready for the next family dinner?”
She groans, dragging a hand down her face, moving to pop the door open and climb out. “Noooo, Nooo, already?” she doesn't really know why she's dreading the thought of it so much, she misses her family. Except it's been so long, and they'll ask about her work, of course they will, and she won't know what to say, like always.
Frank smiles comfortingly, shoving the keys into his pocket and joining her outside, slamming the door shut behind him.
“Cmon, its not that bad. They love you, and it's-they hadn't even picked the date yet! Just wanted to call and let us know, since...we couldn't come last time?”
Clara closes her door and groans again. “Yea, I know that, thanks.” that comes out with a bit more bite than she meant, and she sighs. “Its been a while.”
“That it has.”
They lapse into silence once more, heading into the house. Once the light flicks on and the door is closed Clara heads to the kitchen counter and lays out first the file folder with all the information on their newest job, then the money that's been burning a hole in her pocket since she put it there. Frank is slower getting there, kicking off his sandals ( lucky bastard ) and stretching for a second, yawning.
By the time he makes his way over to her, eyes flicking over the things laid out in front of him, she already seems impatient.
“No no, take your time, I've got all day.”
He grins.
“Oh? If that's the case, there's a soda in the fridge tha-ah!” clara rolls her eyes and drags him closer to her, directing his attention to the papers in front of him.
The first page is just some sort of stats sheet, like you'd see at the doctors office, or if you were making a character in a video game. Height, weight, age, profession. There was a small picture of a young man with long hair who looked about as good as anyone did in an id photo, in a professional looking button up and round glasses.
“This is our guy. Some uh...i dunno, actually. Didn't ask what he did.”
Frank frowns, leaning against the counter and taking the folder.
“You didnt think that would be, I dunno, a little important?”
She shrugs. “Have to kill ‘em either way.”
The bottom of the page held a space with a few handwritten notes, the most prominent being:
Owen is a little RAT do not let him trick you he is so SLIMY
He will lie about ANYTHING
Also hes allergic to peanuts
Frank raises an eyebrow, showing Clara. “I think this one might be a little personal for someone, huh?”
Clara snorts. “Seems so.”
The next page is information about the lodge on the severed peaks mountain range, called The Highest Plains Resort and Spa. According to the paper, this spa is owned by the rival of the person who hired them-someone who at this moment does not wish to be named, at the utmost annoyance of both frank and clara.
The owner of the spa’s name is Irvine Prescott, however, and killing this Owen guy would apparently be a big blow to him. How that is, they aren't sure, but the paper assures that this is exactly the move their now employer needs to be making.
The paper holds more than that though. Contact details for setting up an appointment at the spa, directions there, the paper behind it even holds a map.
Frank hands the file folder back to Clara and instead takes the money, flicking through it.
“We’ll get more after, the same amount.” Clara says absentmindedly, already reading through the files again, this time not having to worry about looking suitably intimidating in front of a 20 something and sweating to death while doing it. Speaking of…
She steps into the living room and sits onto the couch to pry off her boots that have practically glued themselves to her at this point, setting the folder on the coffee table. “So what do you think? I already said yes, but.”
Frank looks up and shrugs. “Sounds about the same as any other. Kinda wish we knew more, but…” he sets the money back down.
“Your fault for not coming along, then!” her boots are finally off now, and she throws them to the side, off where franks are, in a haphazard mountain of shoes. He joins her on the couch, leaning against her shoulder and sighing. They haven't had dinner yet, but they also just got paid, so they can afford to just call something for takeout and not worry too much about it.
“I think our job uhhhh, hah, expires , in a couple months, so we can start work on it in a little bit. I'm thinking tomorrow?”
Clara nods in affirmation, staring a bit off into space. She's tired, mostly just wants to eat and not think about things like work.
“Also, you need to call Buggie back.”
Well shit. She doesnt want to think about that either, fuck. She groans, twisting her body so she can look at Frank, frowning.
“Do I have to? It was only a voicemail, and I mean..we could just pretend we didn't get it, or something?” It's a bad excuse, and she knows it, the shittiness made even more apparent by the way frank looks at her immediately after she says it.
“Clara.”
She sighs.
“They're your family! They love you, and you love them. You were just talking about how you missed them. What's the deal?”
He knows the deal. She knows the deal too. She doesn't have to say it, and she doesn't want to say it, because she's tired, and talking about how tired she is of making her family worry about her would only make her more so. So she concedes.
“I will….call her. Tomorrow.”
Frank smiles and pats her hip. “Attagirl.”
Later that night, they order pizza, and Clara manages to push it out of her mind because that is now officially a tomorrow problem, and tonight's problems are just how much pepperoni pizza can Frank eat before getting sick? The answer is 8, if anyone was wondering.