Our First Love Read Free

phone number to an unlisted one.
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    As far back as I could remember, Nigel had been a passive observer. He always had the ability to detach from everything around him— to become unaffected. That didn’t mean he wasn’t compassionate. Nigel was the most caring person I knew. If you needed him, he’d be there. But you had to let him know you needed him because he probably wouldn’t realize it on his own.
    Nigel could be charming too. At least he could when he wanted to be. And when he’s not trying, he could even be funny. Most of all, Nigel was thoughtful. If you asked anyone who knew him, they’d tell you that they considered him a good friend. But if you listened closely for what they didn’t say, you’d realize that none of them really knew him. It’s not their fault, though. Nigel never let anyone inside our world. We didn’t have any real friends and no one ever called or stopped by to visit.
    That’s why I didn’t get Nigel’s stressing about Barney Aman. Nigel got more than a little pissed off when I agreed with Lillian. Barney’s death was our ticket to the big-time. We had an exclusive that could’ve taken us places, and he walked away from it.
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    When we “met” Barney, I saw a reflection of two men. It was something about his restrained manner—the practiced wayhe carried himself. Nigel saw Barney’s regal demeanor as a product of his privileged upbringing, but I thought he was way too put together. The man you saw when you met Barney was the sculpted façade he wanted you to see. This sculpted façade became even more gouging as Barney the Candidate marched toward the governor’s office.
    It didn’t take very long for me to realize there was more to Barney than what we had seen when we met him at his campaign headquarters the day after he declared his candidacy. Barney had never held an elected office, so his candidacy came as a surprise to the media, the political arena, and to everyone who knew Barney. However, his impeccably furnished headquarters on Monroe Street, a few blocks from the Capitol, and his high-profile staff challenged what he described as, “…waking up a few mornings ago consumed by an urgent need to enter politics.” In my mind, Barney was so full of it.
    Waiting for us in the downstairs lobby was Eddie Johnson, a cartoonish man recognized more for his laughable efforts to hide his balding head beneath an assortment of outlandish toupees than for his political savvy. At five-five and 160 pounds, Eddie didn’t look like the kind of man who could craft the campaigns of three incumbent congressmen—two in the House, one in the Senate. Eddie laid out Barney’s political stance as he led us up the stairs to Barney’s office. The door was open, so we walked right in.
    Barney was outside on the patio, overlooking Monroe Street. As soon as Eddie walked out the office and closed the door, Barney breezed inside like the wind carried him. He closed the French doors, stepped off a cloud, and walked up to us. He served a warm, transparent smile. “Hi. I’m Barney Aman, Florida’s next governor.” Nigel and I thought Barney’s dramatic entrance was scripted, and that was the last thing we agreed on.
    Nigel never saw Barney’s reflection. At least he pretended not to see the reflection of a man Barney kept locked away, hidden from prying eyes. The public, including Nigel, was captivated by Barney and clamored to hear every carefully chosen word that rolled off his tongue. They watched his every move. I found it hard to believe that only three people saw Barney’s reflection: me, Barney, and the woman who armed a manila envelope marked, Deliver to Addressee Only, with a copy of her husband’s death certificate and a news clipping describing his suspicious death and mailed it to Nigel.
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    Nigel worried too much about things that had nothing to do with