Page 11 of Bidding For Her Curves

“I’m looking for the manager,” I tell her, “and some information about Jules McPherson.”

I’ve put on my friendly face. Be nice to me and Mason Thorne is your new best friend. Be an asshole and… well. This lady seems nice.

“I’m kinda busy right now,” she says. Then looking around, she motions to someone to take over for her.

“Let’s talk in my office,” she says, and I follow her to what looks like a broom closet next to a row of bench tables which must be the ‘kitchen’.

I barely fit in the tiny room, but the woman introduces herself as Florence and takes a seat on a crate behind another crate which looks like it serves as a desk.

“Are you with the police? Is Jules alright?” she asks, making me feel protective of Jules all over again.

“Why would you think that?” I ask, trying not to clench my jaw.

“She helps out here sometimes, but we haven’t seen her for a while. I just thought…” she says, looking past me to see the line’s still moving, and then smiles back at me.

A friendly face, for sure, doing god’s work no doubt.

“I’m just interested to know more about her and her work here. About the charity,” I tell her truthfully.

Florence gives me the run down, about how they run on empty most months. How they have maybe two weeks before she’ll have to close up. The city used to help out but lately, they’ve made moves to close down kitchens like this one.

“Public health risk,” Florence says, looking down. “But we all know it’s because of the developers wanting to move in, wanting all the poor people out of the area,” she adds, almost in a whisper.

“Developers?” I ask, frowning, looking around the room again, and remembering the neighborhood.

“Yeah,” Florence says, sighing. “That Thorne fella. One of his groups of companies anyway, they came in a few months back, pretty much told everyone to get ready to move out. I’ve heard they bought up most of the Southside years ago too, did the same thing. Turned it all into high rise condo’s on the waterfront.

I feel my frown deepen. My eyes narrow and I take in a sharp breath.

“Who owns this building?” I ask her.

“The city, they own most of this neighborhood. Made some deal and sold it all off now. Cheap too I hear,” she sighs.

I don’t oversee every detail of my organization. But from this moment on, I decide to get out and about more often, talk to people, talk to my companies so-called leaders.

“Tell me about Jules,” I ask again, changing the subject. Trying to get rid of the bad taste that’s suddenly appeared in my mouth.

“You sure you’re not a cop?” she asks, and I shake my head. “Just a friend,” I tell her, “I just want to help her if I can.”

Florence side eyes me and sighs a little thoughtful sigh again. “Jules is a saint, never hurt a fly, and used to come down and help out two or three times a week. She lives a few blocks that way.”

Thorne country.

“A few weeks back, someone got all up in her face, scared her. But it happens when you work with folks off the street. Not everyone’s always well behaved, some can’t help it though,” she reflects.

I feel my back up again, if the old woman was a man I’d be grabbing her by the throat.

“What happened?” I demand fiercely. “Who hurt her!”

Florence recoils, and once she sees the look in my eyes, she nods to herself.

“Just someone who needed more help than we could give ‘em. He didn’t hurt her like I said. She just had a scare is all, but she hasn’t come back since.”

I try to relax, telling myself this was weeks ago. Nothing I can do about it now.

But coming here has only made me more anxious.

It’s done nothing to help me get closer to Jules, it’s just made me want to take her away from all this. To take her home. Our home.

“Did she… does she like it here, the neighborhood?” I ask, ready to leave now. I’ve seen and heard enough.

Florence looks thoughtful again. “I think Jules is happy wherever she can make a difference,” she says finally.

I thank Florence for her time and turn to go.

“Goodbye, Mr. Thorne,” she calls softly behind me.

I feel a knot in my stomach, rising up into my throat.

I can’t bring myself to turn around, I just leave.

My car is still there, and not a scratch on it. I pass a woman bent over who looks up and past me at the no parking sign.

I scan the street, the soup kitchen, and the buildings around me one more time.

Everyone’s just going about their business, nobody’s causing any trouble.

Just trying to find somewhere to stay and something to eat.

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