All of Me

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “What are we doing, Chris?” I ask as he tugs me toward the building, while Alex quickly falls into place.

  “We’re going to talk to the press so it will run on all of the stations. Otherwise we’ll still be a story come our wedding day, and we’ll risk it being interrupted.” He eyes Alex. “You up to the task?”

  “Yes, sir,” he assures Chris, as if there was any other acceptable answer, considering Chris seems to have made up his mind. “I’ll warn the apartment security and we’ll handle the crowd. When is Jacob arriving?”

  “He was next door at the Italian joint eating pizza,” Chris replies. “He should be here now.” He stops and faces me, hands on my shoulders. “There’s no police investigation to silence us now. The plan is to walk outside, let them fire questions at us, and we answer them. We get the inevitable over with, and they lose interest.”

  “That makes sense. Yes. I’m ready to get this behind us.”

  He gives me a nod of approval and we walk hand-in-hand into the lobby, pausing as Alex talks to the new security guy, Max. Max eyes us as Alex speaks, giving a nod of acceptance.

  “Ready to do this thing?” Jacob asks, appearing in front of us from I don’t know where, because he didn’t come in the front door.

  “Let’s do it,” Chris confirms.

  Jacob leads us forward, while Alex and Max follow behind us. The instant we reach the sliding glass doors, at least ten reporters charge toward us. I blink and we step outside, but I don’t feel the winter chill as cameras are pointed at us and lights start flashing. I feel suffocated and hot and more than a little ready to be done with this.

  “How long did you know Ava Perez, Ms. McMillan?” one reporter asks.

  “Did you sleep with Ms. Perez, Mr. Merit?” another asks.

  A microphone is shoved at my face. “How do you feel about the deals that were made?”

  Chris shoves it away. “Enough,” he shouts. “One question at a time. And no, I did not sleep with Ava Perez.”

  “I met her when I went to work at the gallery,” I say, following his lead. “And I’m upset about the deals made. None of them got enough time for what they did. Rebecca is dead.”

  Answers don’t calm the beasts within these reporters. The questions start firing from everyone again and Chris grimaces, motioning to Jacob and whispering in his ear.

  Jacob grabs one of the reporters and pulls her with him, disappearing somewhere behind us. I’d ask questions but there are too many being thrown at me for me to even think straight. Chris and I answer a few of them, but people talk over us to the point that I’m not sure we are heard. One reporter, a middle-aged man wearing a Hawaiian shirt under a blazer, is particularly rude and keeps shoving that stupid microphone in my face. When I’m at my wit’s end, Alex and Max step in front of Chris and Chris takes my arm, pulling me back inside the building.

  “Are we done?” I ask, sensing there is more going on than I know.

  “Not quite,” he says, and Jacob appears from a doorway by the front desk, motioning us forward.

  “We’re going to give an exclusive interview to kill some of the curiosity. And we’ll do it now, so the reporter has no time to come up with ridiculous questions.” He stops before we enter the room. “Are you okay with this?”

  “If it ends this frenzy, then yes.”

  “It won’t end it, but it will be a step toward making that happen.”

  “If it’s not over, what comes after this?”

  “We step back outside and let them go at us one last time. Then we have Alex and Jacob sneak us out of here, and we go see Katie and Mike. We can talk through the wedding plans while the reporters are too busy with today’s footage to come hunting for us. Tomorrow morning, we return here and we don’t hide. We get out and about and we let those bloodsuckers have at us. By the time we head to Sonoma to get married, it will be over. We can come home after our wedding in peace. Or, we can do what I think is safer: You let me take you someplace amazing for our honeymoon, just to be certain no one bothers us. At this point, that’s my preference.”

  “Have you ever been to Hawaii?” I ask, the memory of the rude reporter’s tropical shirt sparking the idea.

  “Believe it or not, I haven’t.”

  “Then can we go there? I know it’s not another country, but we can experience something new together for the first time.”

  He smiles. “Yes. We can go to Hawaii. Exploring somewhere with you for the first time is perfect for our honeymoon.”

  “Then I’m ready. Let’s go do this interview.”

  • • •

  Four hours later, Chris and I have parked the 911 beside the winery owned by his godparents and, hand-in-hand once more, we start up the concrete steps leading to the magnificent ivy-covered, stone-faced chateau with square cutouts at the top. I have a moment of feeling swept back in time, and hoping that dragons and men in kilts are right around some magical corner. We’ve made it halfway to the huge oval-topped wooden door when it opens and Katie and Mike appear, both looking quite twenty-first century. Katie is her normal elegant self with her long gray hair sleek and shiny, her dark blue pantsuit conservative. And Mike is quite distinguished, but it’s more his carriage than his Dockers and button-down.

  Greetings of joy explode from the always-excitable Katie, and Chris and I are thoroughly hugged by both of them. I’m struck by how comfortable and right it feels. I’ve come to look at these two people as our family, and I realize now that I never felt such warmth with my own, not even from my mother. I adored her. I loved her, but there was always her need to please my father at all costs that made us dysfunctional.

  “I have wine and cheese and an assortment of lunch meat and bread ready. You two must be hungry.” Katie points at Chris. “Don’t say you prefer beer. I need you to sample wine for the wedding.” She laces her arm through his and mine. “Now come. I’ve missed you both.”

  Mike winks at me, opening the door, his thick gray hair fluttering in the wind. We step inside the chilled foyer with its high ceilings and concrete walls, and the same twenty-something pretty blonde we met last time greets us. “Can I take your coats?” she asks.

  “We’ll keep them,” Chris replies. “We’ll want to walk out back and look at the wedding location.”

  “Oh, good idea,” I say, and as we glance at the woman to thank her, it’s pretty obvious she’s admiring Chris, a fact that reddens her cheeks. I’m not surprised; he has that effect on women. And I know for a fact that he’s oblivious to nothing around him, her reaction included.

  He’s quick to wrap his arm around me, a silent promise that her attention means nothing to him, but I don’t need that to feel comfortable or safe. I don’t even compare myself to her—feeling like the cute brunette while she’s the pretty blonde—as I had the last time I was here. And it’s not just because Chris and I have evolved since then. I’ve become stronger and more comfortable in my own skin, and it’s a realization I make with pride.

  We follow Katie and Mike into the huge rectangular room we’d dined in my first night here, the centerpiece of which is a long wooden table spanning five feet. The table is set for four, with trays of cheese, meat, and bread in the center.

  Chris and I shrug out of our jackets and claim one side of the table, while Mike and Katie perch opposite.

  “I assume you two are staying the night?” Katie asks.

  “Yes,” Chris confirms. “I never let go of the rental house we were in before Ava escaped.”

  “But we’re headed back tomorrow to be sure the press doesn’t find us here,” I add. “We’d like to keep it peaceful for our wedding.”

  A waiter fills our glasses with a wine selection as Mike asks, “Does that mean leaving the city again?”

  I pick up my glass and smell the wine, as if I actually know what I’m doing with this tasting stuff.

  “No,�
�� Chris says. “We’re staying. We’re going to let them have at us and get it out of their system before we return here next month.”

  “What do you think?” Katie asks, giving me an eager look.

  “I think that if I drink before I eat something, I’ll end up sick,” I say, remembering the mistake the last time I was here that left me hanging over a toilet. “Perhaps I should stick to tea or water.”

  Chris squeezes my leg, and I know he’s remembering the fight we’d had that night, too. It was emotional, but in many ways, it was growth for us. “That sounds like a good plan. We’ve barely eaten today.”

  “Of course,” Katie agrees, alerting the waiter. “Should we have the chef whip up a meal?”

  “No,” Chris says. “I want to take Sara to dinner at one of the local spots later tonight.”

  “You’re welcome to join us,” I add, having talked about this with Chris in the car.

  “We won’t interrupt your romantic night.” Katie speaks to the waiter before returning her attention to me. “I was hoping you’d stay in town until the wedding. But I have samples of items I need your opinions on today. Eat a little, and I’ll bring them out and show you. Most importantly, we have the cake flavors, but you haven’t picked a design.”

  “Chris and I can’t wait to see the designs,” Mike jokes.

  Katie smirks at him. “Just for that, you can go get the sample books.”

  “I don’t have to be told twice.” Mike stands and motions to Chris. “Give them some girl time. I have some investments I want to talk to you about.”

  Katie catches his arm. “Oh no. You sit. I’ll get someone else to get the samples. Tonight isn’t about investments.”

  “This is time-sensitive,” Mike argues, sitting back down but not giving up. He eyes Chris. “A company named Maverick. Do you know them?”

  “Yes,” Chris says. “Don’t do it.”

  He launches into a conversation with Mike about why Maverick is a bad investment, and it’s a rare look into his business mind that I find intriguing. I’m spellbound, listening as they talk, asking a question here or there as I nibble on cheese and crackers.

  At one point I glance up to find Katie staring at me with tenderness in her expression, and understanding. She hasn’t interrupted because she can see how much I’m enjoying watching the exchange, and I think she is, too. She views Chris as the son they never had, and I wonder why they didn’t have kids.

  Finally the men’s stock talk wanes and we begin the wedding conversations, reviewing all of Katie’s plans and choosing the cake design. When we come to music, Chris says, “ ‘You and Me,’ by Lifehouse.”

  I turn to him, remembering “Broken” by Lifehouse playing the first night we were together. From there to this. “It’s perfect. I love it.”

  “Oh,” Katie says. “Changing the subject, before I forget. I don’t have an address for your father, Sara. I assume he’ll walk you down the aisle. I want to talk to him about the wedding plans.”

  Still facing Chris, I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting a wave of nausea. I actually feel sick.

  Chris runs his hand gently over my hair. “Sara’s father isn’t invited. And having dealt with the man, I can tell you, if I ever see him I’d probably end up in jail.”

  “Oh,” Katie repeats, this time sounding shocked. “Well, we can’t have that on your wedding day.”

  “Sara,” Mike says softly.

  I inhale, and damn it, I have tears in my eyes that Chris gently wipes away. “Yes, Mike,” I say, not ready to turn around.

  “I’d be honored to walk you down the aisle.”

  Oh, God. Now I’m really going to bawl. I grab a napkin and turn to him, tears rolling down my cheeks. “I’d be honored if you would.”

  “Oh, honey,” Katie whispers. “I’m sorry we made you cry.”

  “You didn’t. I’m sorry my father can still make me cry.”

  “He’s a bastard if he can,” she assures me.

  “Oh, he’s a bastard,” Chris assures them. “A very rich, arrogant bastard. But Sara wasn’t willing to be a slave to his money. She left, giving up everything to live a life she believes in. And she’s probably the only woman I’ve ever met who found my money to be a problem.”

  “I think I’m falling in love with Sara,” Mike jokes, and I laugh along with everyone else. “And this seems like the time to taste some wines. Make us all merry.”

  Chris and I agree, and we fall into light conversation. The first wine comes and our glasses are filled with the chardonnay.

  Katie lifts her glass. “This was your parents’ favorite wine, Chris, and the one that put us on the map after winning the Paris competition. It seems a perfect wedding choice.”

  “Chris’s father had a diverse taste in wine,” Mike tells me. “That’s what made him such a good competition judge.”

  Chris draws a deep, slow breath and sets his glass down. I know even before he stands that something is wrong. “I need to get some air,” he announces, and he grabs his jacket. In a flash, he’s out the door that leads to the back of the property and the gazebo.

  Katie and Mike look stunned. “I—” Katie begins. “What just happened? He’s never done anything like that before. I’m confused.”

  “We’ve had a lot of tragedy these past few weeks.” I grab my jacket. “We’ll be right back.”

  I rush after Chris, exiting the chateau to find him waiting for me.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi,” he returns, lacing my fingers with his. “Let’s go to the gazebo.”

  I nod. “Yes.” And I instinctively know this is when he’s going to tell me about that nightmare.

  In silence, we travel across the wooden bridge covering a pond. The early evening is cool but not cold, the wind light. Once we reach the other side, and to my dismay I realize that the roses winding around the gazebo aren’t in bloom. We’ve forgotten the season.

  We stop in the center of the gazebo and both of us look up. “They’ll bring in roses,” Chris says, as if reading my mind. “It’ll look like they are in bloom. I already talked to Katie about it.”

  “That’s a relief,” I say, and we look at each other, our fingers still laced together. “You never told me the story of the roses.”

  He smiles a bit sadly. “Ah, yes. The story of the roses. My mother truly personified the saying ‘she could sell ice to Eskimos.’ When she was seven years old, she lived in an apartment and she used to pick wildflowers and go door to door, telling them she was selling roses. She sold a lot of those fake roses. Eventually she decided she wanted to help women feel good about themselves, be it as a wildflower or a rose. And the rest was history. She became a cosmetics queen.”

  “And now I know how you sat down with a paintbrush and ended up one of the most famous painters on the planet.”

  “Every time I sit down to face that canvas, I think it’s going to be shit.”

  “And yet you turn wildflowers into roses.”

  He steps closer to me, his hands settling under my jacket, on my hips. “Triggers. We talked about triggers.”

  “Yes,” I say. “And your father is a trigger.”

  “Yes,” he confirms, releasing me and turning away, resting his hands on the gazebo railing. I move to stand beside him, and wait. “When I was growing up,” he finally says, “I convinced myself that my father started drinking excessively to forget the accident. But I kept having this nightmare about the accident.” He glances at me. “The one I had two nights ago. I’ve told myself over and over that it means nothing. I was five. How can I remember anything?”

  “But you do, Chris. You’ve told me about that day.”

  “I was five, Sara. I can’t remember.” His voice cracks, and there is a desperateness to his tone, like he doesn’t want to face something.

  “I don’t know if I should e
ncourage you to tell me right now, or urge you to put it behind you.”

  “In thirty years, if I haven’t put it behind me, I’m not going to.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “Katie said we should have my father’s favorite wine at the wedding, and honor his love of the grape.” There’s bitterness in the way he exaggerates the word love. “That statement, innocent as it was, became my trigger.” He dips his chin, lowering his head a moment, and I can hear him take several breaths. “I remember him drinking. I remember him drinking all the time. And I remember, that night in the car”—he pauses—“I remember him leaning over her body, and grabbing a bottle that he threw as far as he could out of the window.” He looks at me, his eyes pained. “I think he was drunk that night—and he knew that I saw. I think he hated that I knew. He didn’t know if I remembered, but the idea that I might made him hate me as much as he hated himself. So he made both of our lives hell. I don’t want that fucking wine at our wedding.”

  For the second time tonight, tears well in my eyes. “Then we won’t have it at our wedding.” I look up at him. “Tell Katie and Mike.”

  “No, baby. I’m not telling them.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know for sure. But my bitterness does nothing to help anyone. Just being able to finally say this to someone else I trust helps the most.”

  “I’m going to tell Katie that we had a certain champagne the night you proposed, and that if it won’t offend her, I want to have it instead.”

  He shakes his head. “They couldn’t have kids. They tried, then they adopted and lost that boy in a boating accident. I became their son. And that wine made this winery. It’s the connection that brought us together. I’m okay with the wine. It’s my father I have the problem with. And he’s gone, and they aren’t.”