Darkside Love Affair

by Michelle Rosigliani

  Like a mantra, I kept telling myself all of those things, but the more I said them, the more they felt like a lie.

  I MUST HAVE FALLEN asleep at some point because the next thing I knew was the loud banging that came from across the living room. Groggily, I opened and shielded my eyes from the bright sunlight invading the room. This day, radiant, loud, and warm, was a mockery of the murky shadows clouding my heart.

  I knew my appearance reflected the desolation in my heart when my mother hugged me so hard that my bones protested. She didn’t ask what happened the previous night. She knew if I were ready I would tell her myself, so she simply led me into the kitchen and fed me breakfast, one spoonful at a time.

  It was pleasant to be coddled, and a couple of times she actually wrenched a few shy smiles from me, but her pampering couldn’t entirely pull the plug on my rampant thoughts or cure the throbbing in my breast.

  Where was Marcus? What was he doing? Why had he been so furious?

  “The nerve your father has,” Mom was saying in an attempt to lift my spirits. “He told me to quit the hysterics, and if I had come all the way to New York, that I should very well attend the festivities tonight.”

  It sounded just like James Burton to catalog reproaches as hysterics or dramatics and then put the matter out of his thoughts and never ask himself what he had done so wrong as to earn those reproaches.

  “What festivities?”

  “Some lawyerly fundraising gala. I don’t know, sweetie,” Mom waved the subject off, fed me another spoonful of rice pudding, then her expression changed completely.

  Flashing a huge grin full of mischief, she bumped my shoulder with hers and winked.

  “You know what? I think we should go, have a girl’s night out, drink some mojitos, and catch up.”

  “Mom, I’m not in the mood. I think I’ve just screwed everything up.”

  The tears came rolling then, just as fiercely as before. I’d had the best of intentions. I’d only wanted to protect Marcus, just like he wanted to protect me, but they didn’t say that the road to hell was paved with good intentions for nothing. At the moment, I felt like I was being scalded in my own form of hell.

  “Stop it,” she ordered, but unlike my father, her manner was warm, and her voice was honey sweet. “I’ll have none of that. You deserve the respite, and staying here, crying your eyes out, will not make you or that boy feel better. Let him cool down. He’ll be back.”

  “He knew,” I said quietly and looked away before more tears filled my eyes.

  She didn’t appear pleased that someone who knew his mother was alive would take part in the sham of hiding it, but she wasn’t judging either. My mother was the type of person who never judged and never jumped to conclusions. She waited, and only after she knew all the aspects of a problem, did she assess the situation. So, since she hardly knew Marcus or his reasons for keeping his mother’s existence a secret, she shrugged and rolled her eyes, then she shooed me to my room with an apron.

  “Patience, Charlotte, patience,” she chanted behind me, although she knew full well that patience had never been my strong suit.

  UNDER DIFFERENT CIRCUMSTANCES, to witness my mother behaving like a girl getting ready for prom would have been truly a delight. She called her hair-stylist, and although she hadn’t been in touch with him for over three years, he still spoiled her rotten.

  Antoine arrived sometime before noon with his two assistants, who served my mother’s every whim, from giving her a gorgeous French manicure to rubbing her feet while Antoine cut and styled my hair. I wasn’t really interested or excited, but I managed to be polite and gave him unrestricted freedom to be as creative as he wanted.

  He gave me a layered cut with long asymmetrical bangs and styled it in such a manner that it looked rebellious, but still classy. When he suggested in that lovely French accent of his that he should give me some highlights to complement my look, I declined and excused myself.

  My mother’s watchful eyes followed me as I retired to my bedroom. I dialed Marcus’s number, but he never answered. When I tried for the fifth time, it went straight to voicemail. I gave a sob but forced myself not to cry again.

  Let him cool down, I repeated to myself then returned to the living room where Antoine was packing up his things. He air kissed us, then threatened to shave us bald if we let another three years pass before we called him, and eventually, he left with his assistants.

  Mom twirled around, showing off her new wavy bob, then produced her make-up kit from her purse and arranged us both. She gave me a Brigitte Bardot look while she ended up looking more like Liz Taylor.

  By the time she finished getting us both dressed and ready, I didn’t necessarily feel better, but I felt distracted enough to be patient and wait for Marcus to come back to me.

  THE SALONS OF THE BACCARAT Hotel had been especially redecorated to accommodate this year’s Aequitas Awards. If the cinematographic industry had the Golden Globes and the Oscars, the legal community had the Aequitas Awards, a gala that gathered the elite of law from all over the world.

  The Baccarat buzzed with people wearing the latest designer’s clothes and huge smiles that faked camaraderie when most of them could be found at each other’s throats on any other day of the year.

  Some people I knew, some I admired, and some I completely wanted to avoid. My eyes stumbled upon my father talking to Cameron Drake like they were best friends then skimmed across the crowd to find Isaac with his assistant at his arm, John Kendrix and Paul Zane, who although they were equal shareholders of Drake Kendrix Zane, had always remained in Drake’s shadow.

  I saw some of my Harvard professors, who nodded appreciatively, Leon Holden, who smiled and raised a glass in my direction, even my interns slinking among the guests. Yet, all the time I perused the scene, I felt an itch crawling beneath my skin like a thousand ants running up and down my body.

  I did a 180-degree turn and finally saw him. He was hiding in plain sight, standing somewhere in the middle of the salon, dressed in an expensive black suit with a purple silk handkerchief in his breast pocket and his eyes trained on me. When our eyes met, Vincent Cole graced me with his peculiar smirk that had my blood cooling and my muscles tightening.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” my mother said and looked around.

  “Don’t,” I said, my voice coming out shrill and alien. “Let’s get drinks.”

  Thankfully, she was easily distracted and led the way to the open bar across the room. I followed stiffly, struggling to control my breathing and the somersaults in my stomach, but out of sheer will, I managed. I wasn’t going to show Cole that I feared or suspected him.

  “Brandy, please,” my mother ordered, her newly acquired English accent embracing her words.

  “I thought we were drinking mojitos?”

  “Not strong enough. I forgot how much patience these functions require.”

  I released a laugh and was surprised by how liberating it felt. Mom winked and ordered me the same, then we settled on some barstools in a corner and talked about everything except lawyers, murder mysteries, or family secrets. When the lights dimmed, and I felt a hand on my waist, I flinched.

  “You look ravishing,” Cameron Drake told me, grinning hugely and giving me a once-over.

  He was well-dressed and reasonably attractive himself, but he was not the man I wanted to see.

  My father appeared at his side and regaled me with an approving glance. He was oddly happy. Offering my mother his arm in a rare display of affection, he led her away from the bar. His cheerful disposition was certainly due to his wife’s presence, which although he was never going to admit it, he often missed.

  Five years ago, after things between them had gone from bad to worse, and their marriage had turned into a landmine, Mom decided to accept an offer from a redoubtable plastic surgery institute in London. She never filed for divorce or made a scandal, but she withdrew both physically and emotionally. She only spoke with her husband during h
olidays when she visited.

  My father, on the other hand, in his authoritative, selfish manner still loved her, but he was never going to beg or apologize. At first, he had tried to goad her, welcoming the fights instead of the cruel silence, but when goading her ceased to work, he had grown colder and crabbier than ever.

  “Let’s find our seats,” James said. “The gala is about to begin.”

  My mother walked at his side, a vision of elegance. If you hadn’t known the story behind their smiles, you would have never suspected they had stopped being a couple years ago. They sat at a grand table to the right side of the stage, joining a few of my father’s close friends and engaging naturally in the conversation.

  “Shall we?” Drake asked, all very thoughtful and gentlemanly.

  He escorted me quietly, watching me like I was his treasured possession. He held the chair for me and complimented me again, then right before he took the seat to my left, he swiped the name card and stuffed it in his pocket.

  I raised a questioning eyebrow, but he gave me a charming smile and winked. Although he clearly occupied somebody else’s seat, nobody came to claim it.

  The gala started as usual with the fundraising and dragged late into the night.

  “We strongly believe that we must give back to the community and help those whose unfavorable circumstances prevent them from exerting their most basic human rights,” the host was saying. She was beautiful and dressed in a silver dress that flowed around her like water. “We do that first by vigilantly upholding the justice system and basing our work on its principles. Tonight, however, in addition to awarding our best members, we have gathered here to help those less fortunate and make sure that every man, woman, and child can employ their right to healthcare.”

  About halfway through her speech, I tuned her out and turned to my mother. She was deep in discussion with some judge from Norway who happened to have a fixation with his big, flattened nose and was happy to find, in his late fifties, that the monstrosity, as he called it, could be remodeled.

  The host invited on stage the CEO of the Aequitas Foundation, their sponsors, and last year’s most generous donor to present the cause they advocated for this year.

  And so, the donations commenced. I wrote my own check and slipped it into the bowl held by one of the staff girls, who walked from table to table. I was not fooled by appearances, though. Tonight, it was not about some great cause, about people in need, or about generosity. It wasn’t even about being awarded for our exceptional performances. It was about bragging.

  “Can you see Rolf Krauss’s outraged face?” Cameron leaned in to whisper in my ear.

  He pointed to a half-bald man sitting three tables from us, pulling at his grizzled mustache and ogling from the check he was holding to the pixie girl collecting the donations. More than outraged, he looked horrified.

  “Every year the girl tells him the minimum donation is five thousand bucks, and every year he makes a scene. The stingy idiot.”

  “Perhaps he can’t afford it,” I suggested.

  “Oh, don’t let his avarice fool you. He’s filthy rich. He inherited his grandfather’s estate, moved from Germany to the States, and multiplied everything since then.”

  “Perhaps because he doesn’t make donations.”

  Drake laughed and watched me with curiosity and something that looked uncomfortably close to longing.

  “And Miss Ingrid du Royer over there,” he added after finally regaining his composure. Cameron cupped my shoulders and rotated me slowly to the left. His fingers lingered on my skin longer than was considered sociable. “She donated one hundred thousand dollars last year. When she realized it was not for show, she asked to pay the amount in installments.”

  “How do you know these things?”

  “You’d be surprised the things a good assistant knows.”

  I smiled but refrained from expressing my opinion. His notion of a good assistant defined a nosy one in my book.

  “You know, I never got the chance to tell you that we miss you in D.C.,” he said and stroked my hand with a finger.

  I pulled my hand into my lap and took a sip from the champagne the waiter had just brought. Drake’s change of attitude was not only odd but worrying. He acted friendlier, more attentive, even courteous.

  “I’m certain you can manage very well in my absence.”

  “There is a good part about your leave, though. I’ve been meaning to invest in a few fields in New York, and I hoped you’d help me. Actually, I’m staying here at the Baccarat until next Sunday.”

  Drake flashed his white teeth and bent until he invaded my space. His cologne was sweet and cloying, and his warmth unwelcome next to my side.

  “Join me tomorrow for dinner,” he whispered. His nose grazed my cheek, and I inhaled sharply. Drake smiled. “I’d like to have a talk with you in private. You are a magnificent conversational partner. You know, not many people dare to argue with me the way you did.”

  His low voice, the smoldering riveted look in his eyes, even the way he licked his lips alluded to another kind of partnership.

  “Let’s discuss this later,” I proposed and moved uncomfortably in my seat. Or never.

  I straightened in a fruitless attempt to put some distance between Drake and me when my eyes accidentally met my father’s. He was studying me keenly, and when our eyes locked, he nodded, displaying the earlier approval, a gesture so rare and bizarre that I could not even decode it.

  I was thankful when the host announced that the donations would continue throughout the night and proceeded to present the nominees for Best Corporate Lawyer of the year.

  The widescreen above the stage showed the pictures of every lawyer and every team nominated for the various categories of the Aequitas Awards before the winner took the stage for a short acceptance speech then left with a Lady Justice statue made of crystal and gold.

  “Charlotte, we’d love to have you in D.C. more often,” John Kendrix said at some point, startling me with his raucous voice.

  His black hair was cut short which made him look like a chunky bear that lost its fur. He always sounded stern when he spoke, but his eyes were kind and playful. John pulled at the knot of his tie and eventually discarded it altogether.

  “Actually, we would love to steal you completely,” he went on.

  “I don’t think James would allow us to poach his daughter,” Drake said, sharing a private smile with my father. Then he turned to me and murmured in a tone that was meant to be seductive, “You’d be a wonderful addition to our team, though, and a sight for sore eyes.”

  “I’m exactly where I should be,” I said both to Kendrix and Drake, but softened the firmness of my words with a good-mannered smile.

  I had never considered practicing law someplace other than at Burton & Associates, but if I had, it would have never been under Cameron Drake’s tutelage. Despite his charming and gallant attitude, I could not forget the questionable manner with which he liked to handle his cases.

  At the end of the night, when Drake won Best Litigation Lawyer, and Burton & Associates won Best Finance Team I was not surprised. I was surprised, however, when out of nowhere, the host called my name.

  “The award for Pro Bono Initiative of the year goes to Charlotte Burton of Burton & Associates from New York City, United States.”

  My mother wiggled and clapped excitedly in her seat like she had done every time I had ever won a diploma, medal, or award, and somewhere from the crowd, Philip Foster whistled and punched at the air with his fists like he had just won the award himself. As I stood and walked to the stage, I finally understood my father’s unexpected disposition.

  I delivered a succinct speech that regarded the importance of pro bono work and fighting for the right cause even when financial remuneration was out of the question. I received my Lady Justice statue and was astonished by the gratifying feeling that took over me once I had it in my hands. More than any other award, this meant the most to me, and while
I walked off the stage and back to my table, I wished Marcus had been there with me.

  “Sweetheart, this is wonderful,” Mom cheered, her eyes big and bright. She kissed my cheek and clapped again under the table, too happy to help herself.

  It was Drake who surprised me again. He placed his hand on my knee and massaged it softly over the satin folds of my dress.

  I had never known how to decline the advances of a man. I did it brusquely, and given tonight’s setting and company, it was not suitable, or I didn’t do it at all and I waited until he got the hint that I was not interested and just stopped trying.

  “I’m proud of you Charlotte,” he said and grinned so widely that crinkles appeared at the corner of his eyes.

  I was so stunned that I had almost missed the host introducing on stage the man behind a variety of causes that ranged from supporting patients with rare conditions to funding medical innovations, a man as noble as he was just—Mayor Mitch Stewart.

  I nearly dropped the champagne flute in my lap. The way Mitch Stewart was acclaimed and the way he humbly spoke about the causes the foundation supported, nobody would have suspected that he had a son accused of murder or that he had probably destroyed more lives than Jack ever would.

  “I need to use the restroom,” I excused myself, queasy and not really interested in the mayor’s speech.

  Mom made to join me, but the judge with his monstrous nose started a new barrage of questions, and she dropped back in her seat, taking another gulp of brandy. What had begun as an interesting conversation was getting on her nerves now, but she was too much of a lady to let it show.

  Thankfully, the restroom was empty save for the attendant who made sure the area was clean and in perfect order. I dipped a napkin in cold water and dabbed at the nape of my neck.

  Perhaps because I hadn’t eaten much all day, or the emotional stress was getting to me, but all of a sudden, I didn’t feel quite well. I pulled out my phone to call Marcus, to beg if that was what it took to call a truce tonight and adjourn the anger and the hurt for another day.