Scarlett Love (The Scarletts Book 4)

Chapter One

Dear Delivery Guy,
Your letter was indecipherable and jumbled. This leads me to believe that either your penmanship is just naturally frightful, or you cannot read. If you cannot read, you have no business trying to write. I would strongly suggest a literacy class where you can get some help.
Yours sincerely,
Amoy Gardener, Attorney-at-Law

Edwin read through the letter and laughed until the hacking cough that he had been battling for the past few weeks gripped his chest again.
"Slater, what possessed you?"
Slater grimaced. "I don't know. I thought it was time to make my feelings known. I sometimes see her watching me when she thinks I am not looking, so I thought maybe...that she liked me back...just a bit."
"And you wrote her? Why not just approach her?" Edwin shook his head and held up the thick cream paper with the official company logo. "Your penmanship is frightful, as she said."
"She thinks I can't read." Slater cupped his head in his hand.
"It's true, you can't." Edwin pulled the heavy scarf that he was wearing closer around his throat. His gnarled hands were trembling. "Maybe you should follow her advice and go to a class. I keep on telling you that you can't survive in this world without being able to read. It's only your street smarts that have carried you through so far."
"I can read," Slater drawled. "Just not that well."
Edwin made a dismissive sound. "There is no shame in admitting that you can't, son."
Edwin coughed for a long time after that, his thin body rocking so hard that Slater was fearful that his body would shatter from the jolts it was receiving.
"You need medicine, Edwin." His voice was laced with concern. The once sprightly Edwin, who was just in his early seventies, looked frailer after each cough.
Slater stood up and stretched. He was still in his delivery uniform—white polo shirt with the King Express logo emblazoned on it and standard-issue black pants.
He had not even gone home yet. He had stopped by Edwin to do his regular check on his old friend and found out that his bronchial pneumonia had gotten worse. He headed for the kitchen and got one of the bottled waters that Edwin bought in bulk and handed it to him.
Edwin could barely open the thing; his hand trembled on the bottle as he made a heaving wheeze. Slater's heart squeezed in sympathy. He owed a debt of gratitude to Edwin.
Edwin had rescued him from the streets years ago when he had no one but a gang of thieves as family and was heading for a life of crime.
He had been trying his hand at windshield wiping at the busy intersection of Waterloo Road when Edwin had driven up in his battered pickup truck. Slater was about twelve years old then. He had been living on the streets for exactly one year and had thought himself wise in all things. With an arrogant swagger from the lack of parental guidance and the confidence of youth, he had sauntered over to Edwin's truck, throwing water over the windshield before Edwin could protest.
Edwin had wound down his window and growled, "Don't touch my windshield, you ingrate!"
Slater had stared him down. "I need money for school."
That had been his regular line. He had not been inside a classroom since he was nine years old.
Edwin had looked at him doubtfully but relented and gave him a bag of silver coins in a plastic bag that was issued by his bank.
He had whooped with joy. "Thank you, sir."
"You know where Good Samaritan Inn is?" The light had changed color and the car had begun moving.
"Yes." Slater walked alongside the car. He had gotten a couple of meals there when he was desperate. Every street boy knew where the free food could be found.
"Come by and ask for Edwin," the old man had growled, less fiercely this time.
Slater had gone there the same evening because after counting the silver he had realized that it had added up to quite a bit. He had to go and see this Edwin guy.
Edwin worked at the inn as a volunteer. He had gotten Slater's history out of him in a few sentences.
No mother. Died in a shootout.
No father. He didn't know who he was.
No family. He had no idea who his mother was related to.
His name was Slater. Just Slater. That's what his mother called him before she died. Edwin had not allowed him to go back to the tenement yard where he and his gang of friends lived. Instead, he had gotten a social worker from church who knew a family who could take him in.
It had been a hard adjustment living with the Wilsons. They were the epitome of middle-class values, and they considered him a little savage.
He had overheard Mrs. Wilson telling her husband just that, after a night of finding him sleeping on the floor.
Back then the floor had been much more to his liking than the bed. The Wilsons migrated when he was seventeen. Instead of going back into the system he had gone back to the streets—not being able to read had not granted him any favors. He could not even get a job at a fast food restaurant.
And so, he had gone back to the Good Samaritan Inn. It was either that or a life of crime. He had found Edwin again. His wife had just died. His side of the house that he shared with his brother was empty.
"Come and stay with me," Edwin had urged, "until I can find you a proper job."
That had not been a light offer on Edwin's part; he was a charitable man but to take in a homeless teenage boy was a huge decision.
He had not been an easy man to live with. Slater smiled at the memory. They had butted heads more than once, usually over his education and Slater's lack thereof. He was gung-ho to get a job to start earning and Edwin had insisted that he go to training school.
Eventually, he had won. He had gotten a job as a live-in gardener to one of Edwin's church sisters. She was a sweet old lady named Mrs. Perry who had a huge yard and an empty pool house. The tradeoff for him staying there rent free was to take care of the yard, making it immaculate.
She had also recommended him to her nephew for a job at King Express a few weeks later, and here he was, all because of Edwin. He wouldn't call his life as fulfilled as it could be, but it was a far cry from where he had been headed.
He watched as Edwin half dozed off, his breathing sounding like one of those children's rattles that Mrs. Perry's granddaughter left at the poolside when she came to visit.
He leaned closer to Edwin. "You have a prescription? I can go and get it filled for you. I hate how your chest sounds."
Edwin raised his eyes slowly as if they had heavy weights on them. Then he pointed to his ancient dresser that looked battered and dusty and worse for wear, like everything else in the half of the house that he had inherited and was forced to share with his brother, Edmond.
Slater went over and pocketed the prescription. "How long have you been off your meds?"
"A week," Edwin wheezed. "Had nobody to go and get it for me, no money either. My pension is late."
Slater sighed.
He was broke too after scrimping and saving to buy and tune Mrs. Perry's piano, which she wasn't using. He was completely cash-strapped, which meant that he would have to fill the prescription at the public hospital's pharmacy, where he could get free medication.
At the best of times it was a madhouse. He would have to get there early to get a place at the front of the line, sitting in the drafty waiting room so that he could be served first when the pharmacy opened at eight.
If there was anybody in the world, he would do something like that for, it would be Edwin. He looked at his watch; he had promised Tony Perry that he would help him with his live band at some wedding party. His keyboardist had the flu.
He called Tony and waited for the phone to ring while he checked that Edwin had food. The old man had quite a lot. Some of his ripe bananas had turned black from being overripe, and his potatoes had started to sprout. He could bet that Edwin had no energy to prepare food for himself.
He made a mental note to plead with Edmond's housekeeper to come and have a look in on him. He would have to pay her extra, but he couldn't allow the old man to go without food.
"Hey man," Tony came on the phone. "What's up? Why aren't you here?"
"My friend is sick," Slater said. "I can't make it. Have to go and get him some meds."
Tony hissed his teeth. "Man, that sucks, but if you can make it tomorrow night that would be even better. I have an even bigger wedding then. Zachary Lee Chang is getting married. You know the Lee Changs? They are huge."
Slater paused. Of course, he knew that. The Lee Changs were Amoy's family. He delivered packages to their firm almost every day.
He winced when he thought how foolish he was for writing to her, for even thinking of her in any romantic way. They were opposites in every way that counted. He was poor; she was rich; he was uneducated; he didn't even have a high school diploma; she was a hotshot lawyer; she came from a well-established family whose name was synonymous with wealth and privilege and good breeding. He couldn't even read.
"Are you there, man?" Tony intruded on his pity fest.
"Yes." Slater cleared his throat.
"So, you coming tomorrow night?"
"Yeah, sure. I can come tomorrow night," he answered Tony. "What time and where?"
"The reception is in the evening at the Lee Chang estate in St. Catherine. I need your tux measurements. I am renting tuxes for the five of us. You and George are about the same size, right?"
"Yeah, I guess," Slater muttered, glancing at his watch. "I have to go, Tony."
"We'll come pick you up at five at Grandma's house," Tony said. "Be there."
Slater heaved a sigh. He'd be there all right. Any reason to see Amoy Gardener was always welcome.