Warm Like Melting Ice Day 9

Written by Charli Mills

Charli Mills, a born buckaroo, makes literary art accessible at CarrotRanch.com. She writes about the veteran spouse experience and women forgotten to history.

November 10, 2013

NaNoWrimo Word Count: 1,513


Dabbing her lips with cotton candy gloss, Vina snapped shut her Dior compact and tightened the lid of her gloss before tossing them into her black leather Prada bag. She mastered the look of pink gloss and blush in high school. With her classic California tan and long layered blond hair, the touches of pink perfected the look of a barbie-doll. She was the real deal; long legs, sculpted breasts and light blue eyes lined with liquid black liner. And she wasn’t some beach blond, either. Vina’s colorist called her hair, “rose gold,” a warm mix of golden, honey and apricot tones. She just had ivory highlights touched to strands framing her face. Dagen would see the visage of a goddess when he stepped off his chartered flight.

Practicing her most provocative pout, Vina would let him know that his departure from California had displeased her greatly. Who was he to think that she didn’t suit him anymore as an agent. She found him, and she would negotiate any departures. Running off to play scientist in the arctic was not going to work. She found out that he contracted with Green Global Petroleum and under her contracts with Dagen, she—and only she—could permit any public appearances. Of course, Green Global was now aware and soon so would Dagen.

Vina plumped her artfully wound pink scarf that was the color of a kitten’s nose, the only splash of color to her Burberry London travel jacket and straight-legged pants of gray wool. Standing as if on a model shoot for a high-end catalog, she tapped the right toe of her black heels, mindful that she was the only woman at the Ottawa Airport in stilettos. She also noted with a nose-thrust of pride that her snugly clad thighs did not touch as other women’s inner thighs seem wont to do. After all, she ran three miles every day and steamed away any remaining fat from her sleek body with regular hot-yoga classes. Looking at the others around her, hot-yoga was probably unheard of in this backwoods Canada town.

Never mind. They would not be here long.

Then she saw the plane, white underbelly, emerald green body with a yellow tail fin. The GGP logo in red confirmed that this was the plane. From her vantage, Vina watched the plane taxi to a stop. Men in bulky dark blue jackets and matching knit hats pushed a set of stairs on rollers toward the side hatch door. Other men began unloading boxes and bags from underneath the plane. Several men in trench coats stepped down the stairs, holding brief cases. No, Dagen would be in some abominable snowman jacket. More trench coats and brief cases, but none seemed to be Dagen. Then the pilots, at least they looked like pilots, stepped off and someone went up the stairs and shut the hatch.

When the first of the business men walked through the airport doors, Vina approached a dark-haired man with a clean-shaven face. He looked away from his companion, a heavy-set man with slicked-back silver hair, and slowed his pace as Vina neared. His eyes wandered up and down the captivating figure Vina knew she possessed. “Excuse me,” she said, looking him directly in the eyes, but not too intensely as to make him think he was the man in charge of the situation. Terms that Vina could twist to her will at any moment with the slight tip of her chin or downcast eyes.

He had stopped in his tracks like a rabbit caught in a beam of headlight, trusting, not understanding that he’d soon be whacked by treading tires. Vina only moved in the direction of her intentions. And all she wanted at the moment was a single answer. “Where is Dr. Dagen Starkka,” she asked.

“Uh, who?” The man looked disappointed, realizing that she was not present for him. The rabbit skipped to the side of the road, unharmed.

The other man knew who she was asking about and told her, “We had a delay in Chicago and caught up with one of our planes in Minneapolis. It’s loaded with Dr. Starkka’s gear and all, but we didn’t have room for him. I believe he was catching a flight on Air Canada tomorrow.”

“Yes, that fellow,” said the dark-haired man. “He was amiable about it. Said something about extending another date night.”

“Oh,” Vina breathed the word as if it could set charcoal to flames.

The other man offered, “We’d love your company, Ms…”

“Winslow, Vina Winslow, celebrity agent,” she said, smoothing over her momentary surprise. He had a date? An extended date? Dagen never dated. She made certain of that. Was it some hometown hussy he was meeting up with? She’d find out. Oh, yes, she’d find out and send the distraction another direction, properly tarred and feathered.

“Who are you exactly,” asked Vina.

The silver slick-haired man corrected his posture and Vina swore he tried, unsuccessfully, to draw in his thick mid-waist. “If I told you that, we’d have to take you to our arctic dungeon,” he said, nodding at his own poor jest. He added, “We’re just boring old board directors, not celebrities, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, well, perhaps just not celebrities, yet,” said Vina.

“How about steak and wine with us at Le Cordon Bleu this evening,” asked the other man, regaining some confidence that they might draw her in yet. Let them think that, thought Vina.

“Vodka and salad will do,” she said. “But I’ll need to get out of my travel clothes.” Both men looked as if they’d eagerly volunteer to help her with that chore.

“Where are you staying, Ms. Winslow, agent to the stars in my sky,” said the silver-haired board director. This would be a long night if alcohol did not improve the man’s jokes. The more people from Green Global that she could stack in her deck would leave fewer cards for Dagen. Not that she intended for him to play against her. Who was this date? No, she would not let it prematurely wrinkle her taunt skin.

“Fairmont Chateau Laurier,” she said, crafting a well-articulated French accent. Thank you daddy for sending me to Paris after high school, she thought to herself.

“Ah, nice place, yes a fine hotel,” said the dark-haired board director. “Green Global has stashed us away at the Hilton, I’m afraid.”

Indeed, the French gothic hotel was fine even in a remote outpost as northern Canada. The Rideau Canal was just outside the hotel’s front door and offered the world’s longest ice skating rink. She could skate, after years of lessons in Beverly Hills and even winning some figure-skating awards. Dagen, you are skating on thin ice, but I’ll glide circles around you.

“Well, Green Global board directors, what time shall we meet? Say 7 p.m.” Both men nodded and offered to walk Vina to a cab, but she called a limo service instead. You didn’t represent celebrities riding around like a hack in a yellow cab.

The next day, confident that Green Global was more than delighted to have Vina accompany the board directors to Iqualuit, some capitol of Nunavut which sounded like no-man’s-land, she met Dagen’s Air Canada flight at the Ottawa airport. This time she was in a fitted black suit, skirt and jacket that snugged her breasts so closely together they looked ready to pop buttons, and perhaps a few male eyes. Blond hair tousled, lips glossed pink, she was ready.

As the plane taxied, Dagen stretched as much as he could in the cramped space. He had fallen asleep, lulled by thoughts of Miriam. It was a pleasant nap. He let the mother and her toddler go past first. The boy dawdled as they entered the tunnel-like ramp to the airport. His stomach did a momentary flip-flop. My God, he thought, it smells like Angel.

“Are you wearing Angel,” has asked the mother, certain he had not smelled it on the plane.

Grabbing at her son’s hand to pull him away from the wall he was tracing with his finger, she said, “Angel? I don’t think so. Is that a familiar scent to you?”

Too familiar he thought. Only one woman he knew wore the devilish scent. It couldn’t be possible. He told her he was taking a break, considering other options. What on earth would she be doing in Ottawa? He almost laughed to himself at the absurdity. But the closer he drew to the airport lobby, the more distinct the scent became. It was a Thierry Mugler scent that had some fearsome tagline like, “Beware of Angels.”

Dagen walked out of the ramp and immediately saw her, bottle-blond, tan-fried and pungently-scented. He almost turned around to scramble back onto the plane.

“Hello Dagen,” she smiled with that smear of shiny goo she was always applying to her lips. “I’m afraid you’ve been a very bad boy. But Vina will correct you.”


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