Page 3 of Peppermint Bark

After class one night, while I was mopping the sweat-covered floor, Mallory — probably avoiding boring paperwork — asked about my weekend plans. I asked her to pass me a towel, and she said, “As you wish.” When she saw my confused expression, her mouth fell open. “Haven’t you seen The Princess Bride?”

I shook my head, not wanting to explain that my father was an Evangelical minister who forbade us from watching secular movies.

“Inconceivable. Nobody who works with me can be ignorant of The Princess Bride.” At the time, before I understood Mallory’s sense of humor, I worried that I’d committed an egregious offense and might lose my job over this royal wedding thing.

She locked up the studio and threaded her arm through mine. “Let’s go to my parents’ house. I know they have the DVD because when I was in fourth grade, my brothers and I got the flu. The three of us watched it on a loop for four days.”

She led me into a posh neighborhood and up a wraparound porch into a giant Colonial, where she tossed her coat on a chaise and abandoned her shoes. I straightened her clothes and hung mine up as she lounged on the sectional and pressed play.

I was hooked as soon as the little boy and grandfather appeared, reminded of my Nanna watching me and my three older brothers. Mallory talked over the whole movie: about her dad quoting Miracle Max, about her brother Nick’s nerdy comparisons to Hamlet, and about annoying both her brothers by rhyming nonstop like Fezzik.

“Tyrone,” Prince Humperdinck said on-screen, “I’ve got my country’s 500th anniversary to plan, my wedding to arrange, my wife to murder and Guilder to frame for it. I’m swamped.”

“You’ll never believe this, Grace,” Mallory said around a mouth full of popcorn. “Alex spent hours arguing that Humperdinck was the true hero, a strategic diplomat and strong leader, consolidating power through war with Guilder and delegating to Vizzini and —”

“Any chance he was kidding?” My twin brother Elijah would have joked like that just to rile me up. “What does he do now?”

“He’s a bougie Silicon Valley lawyer, negotiating all sorts of fancy …” she tilted her head, a laugh bubbling on her lips. “Oh shit, was he was trolling me?”

Back in my office, I realized that’s who I was about to call: a Humperdinck apologist.

Maybe he had a dry wit and had been trying to annoy his gullible little sister.

But maybe, just maybe, he believed it was okay to murder your fiancée for political gain.

With that story in mind, I pressed the button to call him.

It rang and rang, then went to voicemail.

I tried again: ring, ring, voicemail.

I tried again: straight to voicemail. He declined the call.

Well, this wouldn’t work.

I opened my computer, minimized my color-coded to-do list, and googled, 'alexander clarke lawyer california.' The eighth result showed a man with broad shoulders in a navy suit and crisply knotted tie. His inky dark hair was swept back, not a lock out of place, and his cocky mouth rose into a crooked grin similar to Bruce’s. Blue eyes the same shape as Mallory’s pierced the screen with a sharp gaze.

Bingo! Alexander J. Clarke, Esq., Senior Associate in Mergers & Acquisitions. You can’t avoid my calls forever.

I dialed from my desk phone, hoping the hospital number might help my case.

“Good morning, Mr. Clarke’s office, this is Connor.”

“I’m calling from Saratoga Hospital with an urgent matter about Alexander’s father.”

“He’s locked in negotiations, but let me send a quick message.” Frantic typing. A pause. Frantic typing. Another pause. “Hold please.”

I imagined the man from the photo rushing out of a conference room, frantic with worry for his beloved father, breathless when he says —

“This had better be good.” The coarse voice interrupted my daydream. “This is Alexander Clarke. I’m balls-deep in a multi-million dollar deal, so this had better be worth it.”

“This is Grace Alvarez calling from Saratoga Hospital —”

“I know, get to the point.”

I sputtered before I spit out: “Your dad collapsed. It might be a heart attack.”

An intake of breath. “When?”

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