Black Diamond

by Elisa Marie Hopkins

  “No one has heard from me in two weeks and all of a sudden I’m going to a party?”

  “It doesn’t matter what they say about you right now as long as they talk about you. I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?”

  “Am I the crazy one here? Yes, yes that must be it. I’m losing my mind.” A nervous chuckle escapes her slightly parted lips. “God, I’m laughing at my insanity.”

  “No one is losing their mind,” Oliver says. “The fact that you’re stressing about it means you’re pretty lucid.”

  Sophie glares at him. “Please, save the world-according-to-Oliver speech.”

  His mind is in a category five storm, flooded by obligations, urgencies, troubles, needs, and wants, so her comment doesn’t really come off as bad.

  “All right. I’ll leave you three to carry on.”

  He scuttles off toward the elevator.

  “What? Where are you going?” Sophie asks with increasing trepidation. “You’re not done with breakfast.”

  His phone rings. Looking at it, he absently replies, “Something came up.”

  “Something?”

  “I’ll call you when I’m done.”

  “What about the party?” She sounds anxious, but Oliver is already walking into the elevator car.

  Before the doors shut, he say to her, “You’re free to choose. Let me know what you decide.”

  Sophie stands in the foyer between Kim and Ronnie with her arms crossed over her chest. She went from confused to exasperated to having outbursts of anger in the split second it took for the words “party,” “Alana Edelman,” and “Wolfe” to be speckled around like pixie dust.

  “I can’t believe Oliver’s being so easygoing about this. There’s no reason for me to go to this party.”

  Kim slaps her on the forehead to bring her back into focus.

  “Ow, what is the matter with you?”

  “I’ll give you one good reason. You are Sophie Cavall.” Kim says it deadpan, giving her a solemn glance. “Listen to me carefully. I’m going to say it again. You are Sophie Cavall. No one else is Sophie Cavall. That is your power. The Sophie I know doesn’t hide away in her room and pull the blanket up over her head because she’s scared. The Sophie I know only looks down to admire her shoes.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I get it. You’re life’s been one sad, dreary story. So what?” She looks at her straight in the eyes. “You were kidnapped. Well, tough luck. You’re alive. You’re here. And you’re strong. I can’t say the same for all the other women John Henry Bridges killed. Life’s not fair or equal, Cavall. Try prison. Try cancer. Try not being able to walk. Try living in Iran under a terrorist regime. How do you stack up?”

  “Wow, what a great point. Is that supposed to make me feel better? Because it doesn’t. It’s presumptuous. It angers me.”

  “The Sophie I know thrives on anger. It’s her best motivator. When anger checks in, she’s in it, full force. And she actually enjoys herself. She says what she wants. She’s not worrying, or thinking…her courage is fueled…her focus is strengthened. Nothing and no one else is important, there is only her.” That is what Kim is doing, trying to rile her up. Anger makes Sophie come alive. When she’s angry, she’s unstoppable. And that is Kim’s only hope. “You can’t coop yourself up in here all your life. That’s not freedom, that’s slavery.”

  “Let’s establish some basic notions. You are no one to tell me how I should deal with pain. I have a right to my feelings. And you have no right to judge me.”

  “Sophie, everyone has shit happen to them. You want to cry? Cry. Cry it all out. Hell, make it rain. You want to rest? Rest. Pull down the shades. Fall asleep. Take the day off. You want to trek around the world? Pack up. But New York isn’t stopping because you are. Things carry on. That’s just the way it is.”

  “So, it’s like that, huh?”

  “Yeah, it’s like that.” Kim goes for the real bomb trigger. “You probably don’t want to hear it, but a man like Oliver Black…,” she holds off on her sentence for emphasis, “a man like him needs a vigorous woman, a real fighter by his side. An alpha, not a beta.”

  “Get out,” Sophie snarls.

  “He’s serving Christmas dinner and you’re serving beans on toast.”

  “I said get out!”

  “Girls,” squeaks Ronnie.

  “You’re so ungrateful. The man does everything for you.” The pitch of her voice rises. She calls for the elevator with a bang of her fist. “He’s at your beck and call twenty-four-seven. The least you could do for him is get back in the saddle.”

  “Girls.”

  “He lost his job and you don’t see him whining like a little baby bitch. In fact, you don’t see him, because he’s out there doing what you’re supposed to be doing. Moving that thing in your head. Moving your legs. Just…moving.”

  “Girls!”

  Both Sophie and Kim turn their heads and yell in unison. “What?”

  “Look,” Ronnie says, taking a few steps toward the window to watch the tiny, white flakes dancing and prancing in the cold air. “It’s snowing.”

  All three crowd to the window and stare out. It’s quiet for a while, too quiet.

  Sophie sighs, her gaze pinned to the view of naked trees decked with frost.

  “Fine,” she says.

  That isn’t the response Kim was expecting. Hoping for? Yes. But it was a long shot. “What?”

  “I’ll go to the party. You’re right. I can’t hide. Have Reed pick me up.”

  “Reed?”

  “Yes, Reed. Tall dark goon? Looks like a hit man?”

  “Reed isn’t your bodyguard anymore.”

  S I X

  * * *

  Lights! Camera! Dog Eat Dog!

  “SIR, WE’VE ARRIVED.”

  No answer.

  The driver peers into the rear view mirror and sees how fixated Oliver is on his tablet. He looks bothered and drawn, a scowl plastered on his face.

  “Sir?”

  Oliver glances up. “What?”

  “We’re here.”

  Out the window, he studies the seedy hangout. It’s a flea box of drug dealers, hookers, two-timing lovers, and scummy dealings. Oliver is aghast with horror. “Are you sure this is it?”

  “Yes, sir. GPS calculated the route.”

  Oliver tugs at his suit jacket and takes a deep breath before getting out of the car. The day is cold and smells of challenge and sewage more than usual. He walks across the parking lot, looks around, makes sure nobody sees his face. When he reaches the door marked 201, he knocks.

  Nothing.

  He raps harder.

  Nada.

  This time, he doesn’t bother with good manners. He pounds on the door with his fist until it swings open from the inside.

  “Oliver? Oh, my God! What…what are you doing here?”

  Oliver has a lion’s share to do, but he holds the responsibility of caring for his baby sister’s life. “What are you doing here, Cassidy?”

  She’s too stunned. “I, uh, I didn’t know you were back from Canada.”

  “I’m back. Answer the question.”

  She steps back from the door, leaving Oliver to close it and follow her.

  The room is uncomfortably stuffy, like a cave. Already, Oliver is moving furniture around in his head—where the TV should be, where the single, unmade bed would face away from the door. Both sit on the bed, side by side.

  “Victoria says you haven’t been home in three days,” he begins softly.

  “I’m surprised she even cares. I told her I was at Kate’s.”

  “Are you at Kate’s?”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Credit card.”

  “I didn’t pay with my credit card. I’m not that stupid.”

  “You didn’t. But you’ve been withdrawing cash from the same ATM. You know, the one across the street?” As he turns to her, he sees his father’s face for an instant. She looks so much like him. “Why
are you staying at a motel, Cassie?”

  “Why not?” she defies. “I have room here. The pool is clean. They have good coffee. And it was the only place I could check in without a credit card. I told the guy at the desk I didn’t have one. He let me pay cash without asking questions.”

  Oliver isn’t particularly pleased. “I’m going to ask you again. What are you doing here?”

  She looks at the ground. The serious expression on his face does nothing to ease her dread. “I don’t like mom’s new boyfriend,” she confesses with anger filled words. “He’s super gross and he has no manners.”

  “You know you can’t stay here.”

  “Why not? I’m not bothering anyone.” She fidgets with her fingers, puts her hair behind her ear. “Ollie, please. I want to move out.”

  Oliver sighs, hearing the desperation in her voice. “What about a dormitory when you start school in January?”

  “At Columbia?”

  He nods.

  She gives him a sad smile. “I guess.”

  His phone buzzes with an incoming call. “It’s Sophie,” he says.

  “Please, don’t tell her.”

  “WHY DIDN’T YOU tell me you fired Reed?” Sophie says into the phone, pacing the main bedroom that overlooks the New York City horizon. “Why did you fire him, Oliver? He did nothing wrong.”

  “He had one simple task. Look after you. Take care of you. He failed. I won’t pay for a job not well done.”

  “But he’s loyal. Doesn’t that mean something to you?”

  It does. Reed had faultless references and Oliver ran an extensive background check. Hiring new staff is time-consuming, costly, not to mention a risk. “It’s not a good time, Sophie. I’m in the middle of something.”

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  Sophie can hear the TV on his end of the line. A studio audience laughs. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m busy.”

  Watching TV? “Are you at the office?”

  “No.”

  “You can tell me.”

  “We’ll discuss it later.”

  “Fine. But you’re playing politics, Oliver. It wasn’t Reed’s fault I was kidnapped. It was mine. You shouldn’t have fired him. It’s not fair.”

  “Fair?” He laughs, one short conceited laugh. Sophie regrets saying it as soon as the words leave her mouth. She knows the comment hit home with him. Too often Sophie is impulsive and quick to temper, very emotionally driven. “Who told you life is fair? Wake up, Amelia Sophia. Wake up. Unfairness is part and parcel of life, whether you like it or not.”

  Oliver hangs up.

  The time to leave for the party rolls around at seven, only half an hour away. Cassie is the only true family he has left; he loves his sister, but more than that, he is a father figure to her, a guiding hand, protection. Oliver cares about three things: Home. Family. Loyalty. So he calls the penthouse when Sophie doesn’t pick up her phone, and tells Thea he has to stay behind to wrap up a few pressing matters and will catch up with Sophie at the party.

  Sitting in the back of Reed’s Mercedes on the way to Westchester County, Sophie talks to her aunt on the phone. Since Uncle Pete found a job at Morgan Stanley and now works from sunrise to sunset, Aunt Peg has a lot of time on her hands. They talk five, six times a day and cover a wide range of topics from Candy Crush to Downton Abbey. The other day, Aunt Peg called to tell Sophie how her soy chorizo tasted just like regular chorizo. Though their phone bills pile up, Sophie is grateful—she’s never been so close to her aunt before. Aunt Peg is the kind of aunt children wish was their mother. In her childhood, Sophie was starved of maternal affection, but Aunt Peg was a mama bear; very protective, very supportive.

  “And Sarah?” Sophie finally asks. “How is she doing?”

  Sophie has been avoiding her sister. She doesn’t want to get into upset feelings with her. Sarah is a reminder of what’s in her past, some of the worst and most terrifying days of her life.

  In the living room, Aunt Peg waters her herbs with a spray bottle. “She’s doing okay, dear.”

  “Does she ask about me?”

  “Yes, all the time.”

  It doesn’t make her feel better.

  Aunt Peg looks at Sarah nuzzled on the couch with her earphones plugged in, petting Jingle Bells the dog. “Why don’t you call her? She would love that.”

  “I’ve tried,” Sophie admits, fiddling with the detail on her dress. “I’ve had the phone in my hand. I’ve been about to call, but I never know what to say.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “She wanted me dead, Aunt Peg. That’s not something you forget.”

  “But she’s your sister…”

  “So? In the Bible, Cain killed Abel.”

  “Look, honey, there will be a time for you two, don’t worry. Promise me we’ll see each other for Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “Promise.”

  “Okay, sweetheart. I have to run. The girls are fighting over who gets to decide what to watch on TV. Be safe. I love you.”

  “Me too.”

  “Honey, one more thing. Could you have Oliver call me when he has the chance? My basil is on strike, I can’t trim my cilantro fast enough, and my jalapeños are growing out of control.”

  Aunt Peg is like a crazy cat lady, but with plants. “Oliver? As in my boyfriend, Oliver?”

  “Yes. You remember my half-dead camellias? Well, they’re thriving. Thanks to Oliver. He’s like the Plant Whisperer or something.”

  “Uh, sure…I’ll let him know then.”

  “Thanks, dear!” Click.

  Sophie gazes ahead, perches forward on the seat, and makes small talk with Reed. His interests are sports, politics, and movies. Not the most surprising discoveries. The real surprise is him displaying a more human side. “I didn’t get the chance to thank you for giving me my job back,” he says, eyes on the road. “I know Mr. Black opposed it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He said he doesn’t agree with your decision, but you have a mind of your own, and he will follow your lead.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, there’s no need to thank me, Reed. I mean, I trust you. You’re one of the few people I trust.”

  An hour later, Reed pulls up at the entrance to the estate. It’s a magnificent French-style château covered completely in limestone and perched on a hill surrounded by trees. It’s beyond comprehension. A pair of French lion busts welcome guests at the front.

  Sophie says a little mantra in her head. Cool, calm, and collected. Cool, calm, and collected. God, I hate Westchester.

  “Ready?” Reed calls out.

  Sophie answers, “Ready to knock this thing out of the park,” but actually thinks, too late to back out now.

  The back door to the Mercedes flings open from the outside. A well-dressed man holds out his hand and Sophie takes it. She steps out of the car. Tonight her hair is a long mane of side-swept waves, makeup is minimal, and fine Mikimoto chocolate pearls match her caramel mermaid gown featuring a tulle court train. Sure, she doesn’t have to worry about her looks—she has that part under control; it’s everything else that’s causing the problem.

  Showtime.

  Her hips tilt forward, her shoulders back. She ambles down the cranberry-red carpet lining the walkway, one foot in front of the other with her hands wrapped around a white shawl. Her weight shifts, left to right, and her hips sway rhythmically. Body upright. Relaxed lips. She takes treads lightly to enhance the walk as cameras flash at her. She knows what they’re thinking.

  They’re thinking, “Oh, my God, isn’t she supposed to be in hiding?”

  They’re thinking, “Oh, my God, what on earth is she doing here?”

  There are photographers and people masquerading as photographers. All she can hear is the clicking of their high-tech equipment. She smiles graciously to the cameras and socialites, who are bemused by th
e sight of her.

  Sophie leaves her shawl at the coatroom, then passes a supermodel blowing a gasket over her missing Harry Winston earring and her PR rep on her knees rummaging about for it, on the way to the ladies room. Sophie makes a quick stop at a mirror to fix herself up. In the bathroom stall, she logs on to Twitter to discover people are already posting photos of her.

  Tweet one: OMFG. I. Can’t. Even. Like literally. #CaphieLives

  Tweet two: And they wanted #Caphie fans to shut up and move on. Nope!

  Tweet three: Good Lord, haven’t seen an entrance like that in a long time. #ReturnoftheCaphie

  Tweet four: Sophie Cavall is a golden ticket of perfection. #SoCavallsy

  Next come the text messages.

  Text from Kim: I’m getting calls from everyone. Fuck!

  Text from Aunt Peg: Checked the weather in Westchester. Cover up, honey. It’s cold.

  Text from Jess: I just saw a picture of you on Instagram! What the heck?

  Text from Oliver: What’s a Caphie?

  Be cool…be cool. Sophie pants and gasps for air like a woman in labor. Despite the insects in her stomach that seem more like African killer bees than butterflies, she comes down the marble stairway to the ballroom oozing sophistication. Eyes are on her and every step she takes.

  A hostess in a black glittering dress tells her where her table is situated. Walking toward the table, she grabs a champagne flute from a server in a white colonial wig, and casually scans the hall for familiar faces. She instantly spots a hand waving at her over the top of a group of people. It’s Stacey, gliding across the ballroom in her Tony Ward pale-blue, beaded dress. Sophie is startled by how aristocratic she looks.

  “Fucking shit! You’re—”

  “Yeah, I know, fat,” Sophie interrupts, then sips on her champagne. “Thanks, Stace. I’ll alert the media.”

  “I wasn’t going to say fat, you nut. I was going to say, ‘You’re here.’ Why? Are you on a new diet or something?”

  “You of all people should know I have this disease that strictly limits me from going on a diet.”

  “A disease?”

  “Yeah. Unending Hunger. Did you do something to your face?”