A New Threshold

A short story in the Blackwell Ops world, derived and excerpted from the Blackwell Ops 33: Temple's Way.

1

I’d just finished a phone call to my former mother-in-law.

While I was on the phone, my partner and great friend Zoe Matisse had brought my half-cup of rapidly cooling coffee in from the living room, set it on the counter, then pointed at it. She started to leave, but I pulled her back. The phone call wasn’t all that personal, and I like her being around.

Like me, Zoe is an operative for Blackwell Ops. She was also my partner on the assassination I’d carried out last night. Prior to that, she also served as the amateur psychologist and good friend who had guided me through some severe emotional issues. Specifically, she’d enabled me to separate the emotion a recent tragedy in my personal life from my professional performance as an assassin. She had given me back the ability to do my job.

After I hung up the phone, Zoe returned to the living room to get her own cup and pour herself a refill.

I picked up my cup, sipped a little of the cold brew, then carried it to the coffee pot and refilled it.

Then I opened the door, pushed open the screen door, and stepped out onto the porch. As Zoe crossed into the kitchen behind me, I eased the screen door shut, then walked to the edge of the porch and sat down, my sock feet on the bottom step.

In the distance to the south and east, Paris spread out before me. Farther east, the sun was only maybe the full width of a finger above the horizon. The air was a little chilly, probably in the upper 50s or low 60s. Cool enough that I wish I’ll pulled on my jacket.

A moment after I sat down, the spring on the screen door complained quietly and Zoe came out. “You need a refill yet, Jack?”

I glanced back. She’d slipped into her white sandals again. “No, I refilled it before I came out. I’m good, but thanks.”

“Okay.” She hesitated. “Do you need some time alone?”

I glanced around. “What? No, not at all. Please, come sit.” I gestured with my cup. “That’s a really nice view.”

As she moved up beside me, she said, “I like it. This used to be my grandmother’s place.” She sat down and rested her right forearm on my leg. “It feels really good having you here.”

I smiled at her. “I’m glad we came out here. To your house, I mean. It—it sort of gives us room to breathe. Room to just be who we are.” I paused. “Everything before, in the suite—it was all work. Or about work.”

She nodded. “You’re right. Funny we didn’t notice.”

I smiled. “We were both too involved with fixing me. And thanks for all of that, by the way.” I offered her my cup.

She smiled and nodded and clacked her cup against mine gently. Then she took a sip of her coffee and held the cup up. “These were my grandmother’s.”

“They’re pretty. The roses are nice.”

“I don’t use them very often.” She shrugged. “Next time I’ll serve in mugs.”

“Either way’s good. Thanks for the coffee too, by the way. It’s good.” I took a sip.

“You’re welcome.” She leaned over and put her head on my shoulder. “And thank you for taking such good care of me last night. Sorry I was such a mess.”

“Oh. My pleasure, Zoe.”

The night before, under the influence of too much wine, she had tried to entice me into her bed.

Of course, I gently declined and we both got some sleep, her in her bed and me on her couch. We always treated each other with that kind of deference. As I said, we’re good friends.

She straightened and sipped her coffee, and for a long moment, we just looked out over Paris.

“Jack?”

“Mmm?”

“Last night— Later, I mean— I really didn’t mean to push.” She paused. “If you ever need me to back off a little or—”

I grinned, rocked a little to the side, and bumped her lightly with my left shoulder. “The one thing I probably don’t need is for you to back off, okay?”

She nodded, then glanced at me and flashed a quick smile.

Again we just looked out over Paris for a long moment.

2

I finally tipped up my coffee cup and drained it, then set the cup behind me. I put my elbows on my knees, leaned forward a little, and interlaced my fingers. Still looking away to the southeast, I said, “So what’re we gonna do about TJ’s proposal?”

The night before we’d both also talked on the phone with our boss, TJ Blackwell. He had suggested it would be all right with him if we chose to work together on my new endeavor. It had begun as a personal vendetta against The Betelmann Group, an organization similar to, but much smaller than, Blackwell Ops. They were also different in that they worked only for the criminal element.

“Ooh right, about me going along on the Betelmann things.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you’ve told me many times you’ve never worked with another operative before, so—”

I grinned at her. “Until last night.”

“Right.” She shrugged. “But we both work a lot on instinct. So what does your instinct tell you?”

I grinned at her. “Sitting on the porch of a remote country house with a pretty woman next to me? You really want me to answer that?”

She laughed and shoulder bumped me back. “Don’t even try it, moron. You had your chance to be a jerk last night and you didn’t take it.” She paused and looked down. “Thanks, by the way.”

“That’s okay.” I shrugged. “But with regard to what TJ said, to be honest my instincts are confused.”

“Oh?”

I nodded and looked out to the southeast again. “Part of me wants you to be right there beside me. I mean, you’re my partner, right? And you’re a really good operative. Even TJ said so. And plus I saw it for myself too.”

“Okay.” She sighed melodramatically. “I have a feeling we’re heading back into the buts again.”

I nodded. “But part of me doesn’t want to put you at risk.”

She hesitated. “Oh. So your instincts aren’t confused so much as clouded a little. And they’re clouded by emotion again. Does that about sum it up?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe.” She nodded, then shook her head. “Exactly what I expected you to say.” She was quiet for a long moment as she looked out over the city.

I waited.

Then she snapped her fingers and looked at me. “That’s it, Jack!”

“What’s it? What’s what?”

“Maybe. That’s the whole problem.”

“What’s the problem? You and I have a problem?”

“Yes, we do, and it’s huge! Why didn’t I think of this before?” She put her hand on my arm. “Listen, remember when we were prepping for Delacroix, and at one point I said you have to decide what you want to achieve?”

“Yeah?”

“And once you decided that, you did a lot of work and learned to separate the personal from the professional, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay, I think this is kind of the same thing. I mean, it isn’t nearly as intense, but—” She slid away a little, then twisted to face me. “Here’s the thing: You won’t be able to decide whether you can include me in the Betelmann thing until we get some things out in the open.”

“Okay. Like what?” I spread my hands apart. “We both know we’re great together as professionals, right? We’ve both said so, and even TJ agrees. So how well we work together is already a given, right?”

“Right.”

“So why can’t I just say ‘Yes, I want you in on Betelmann?”

She pointed at me. “Because we still have to sort our personal relationship. We’ve agreed we’re friends, right?”

I nodded. “Good friends.”

“Right. The problem is, we’re too tentative with each other.”

“Tentative?”

She nodded. “We exchange little glances or touches or even an occasional kiss on the head or the cheek. But all of that’s still well within the realm of being friends. With me so far?”

“I’m with you.”

“Okay, and we’re tentative because neither of us knows for sure what the other wants our personal relationship to be.” She shrugged. “We both know why you’re being tentative, or at least a big part of the reason: You recently had your whole world ripped apart, and you don’t want to risk that happening again, am I right?”

“Sure. Well, partly.”

She nodded. “And I’m being tentative—well, for my own reasons. And they don’t really matter. The point is, neither of us knows for sure where the other stands.” She paused. “So I’m going to come clean and tell you what I want. And if that’s what you want too—even if it takes some time—that’s fine.”

She set her cup on the porch and put up one index finger. “But—and this is of the utmost importance— If what I want isn’t what you want too, you have to be honest and tell me that. Okay? Without complete honesty, this won’t work. But if we’re honest, then we can still be good friends either way. Plus at least we’ll know.

“And one way or the other, our personal relationship will no longer interfere with our professional relationship and you’ll be able to decide whether I can come along on Betelmann. You good with that?”

3

“Sure, okay. But if we’re being completely honest, first I’d like to hear why you’re tentative.”

She frowned and canted her head. “Seriously?”

I nodded. “I’m interested okay?”

“Okay.” She shrugged, obviously nervous. “Just a sec.” She stood up, walked down the steps of the porch, then turned around. She took a deep breath. “Frankly, Jack, I feel guilty that your beautiful Camille’s gone and I’m here with you.” She paused. “I know how much you must love her because—it’s evident in how you treat me.”

Quietly, I said, “And what does that tell you, Zoe?”

“Thanks, but no more guessing games. That’s the whole point: There’s what I want it to tell me and then there’s what it actually conveys.” She tried to smile, but the attempt failed. “I hope those are the same, but I have to be sure so I’m just going to tell you.” She took another deep breath. “I like you very much, Jack Temple. Far beyond only friendship. I’m not interested in anyone else, and I’m very glad I’m your partner professionally, but— I want more.” She paused and took another deep breath.

“Zoe, I—”

She put up one hand. “So what I’m asking is this: Are all those little looks and smiles and touches just because I’m a female and I’m your friend and Camille isn’t here, or are they because you’re really interested? In our relationship going further, I mean?”

4

Zoe Matisse. A month ago—hell, even a week ago—who would ever have guessed I’d be where I am now, mentally and emotionally? And especially physically?

I’m sitting on the front porch of Zoe Matisse’s house. It’s the morning after a particularly vicious but professionally precise triple hit that harmed Zoe, my partner, almost as harshly as it harmed the targets.

But she took her medicine, worked through the harm, and came out whole on the other side in a matter of only a few hours.

And now that same remarkable woman’s standing in the yard just past the bottom step, looking at me and waiting for my response after she tried to guide me—well, us—through yet another of my stupid emotional crises.

So there’s yet one more parallel between Zoe and Cammy. As Camille did in her mother’s front yard, and as this woman did in my suite, Zoe risked harming herself—sacrificing herself—to pull me through.

Incredible.

5

As I looked at her, absolutely lovely in nothing more than simple, white leather thong sandals, jeans, a white peasant blouse and a goofy pageboy haircut, I asked myself again, Who is this woman? And how am I so fortunate that I was able to have had both the incredible Camille Cignón and now Zoe Matisse in my life?

There’s so much I wanted to say to Zoe. I wanted so much to explain the backstory to my response. Not the reasons for it, but why I felt free to say it.

But that could wait. She deserved the honesty she’d asked for. I spread my hands. “Zoe, I don’t want anybody else either. And I do want you as my partner and my friend and most of all as my girl.”

As a grin burst across her face she practically exploded up the steps and landed in my lap. She slung her arms around my neck, put one hand on the back of my head, and kissed me long and hard and hungrily. She broke the kiss, slipped her cheek next to mine, and said, “Oh my god, Jack, I’ve waited so long to hear you say that!”

I held her close. “And I’ve wanted so long to say it.”

She shivered a little.

“Are you cold?”

“No.” She kissed me again as thoroughly as the previous time, then hugged me again. “I’m just incredibly happy. Could we go inside? Please?”

“You don’t want to finish our talk about Betelmann?”

“No. I don’t care about anything else right now.” She kissed me again. “Whatever you decide is fine. Like TJ said, it’s your baby.”

“He was wrong. You’re my baby.”

She sighed. “Jesus, Jack, are you gonna argue or can we go inside now?”

I slipped my left arm under her legs and cradled her back with my right, I stood up and turned around, stepped carefully past the two cups on the porch, then curled her up and kissed her. As we approached the screen, she tugged it open with her left hand.

As Zoe had said before, it isn’t all about me. Now, at long last, it’s about us.

*******