I clamp my jaw to keep from telling him to stay, to call me, anything but goodbye. Just as I’m prepared to say the two words I’m suddenly dreading most, he beats me to it.
“Bye, beauty.” He releases me and steps back, giving me his dazzling smile for the last time. I give him a wide smile in return, and ache a little knowing that in a different life, I could fall hard for a guy like him.
Monday morning, I’m back at the hospital and on the phone trying to schedule a visit from the country’s hottest pop star, Carly Fierce. I saw her giving an interview an hour ago on a morning talk show while I was getting ready, and I know one patient in particular who would literally break down and cry if she got the chance to meet her.
Trinity is a sweet eight-year-old girl with a recurring brain tumor who will be staying with us for the next couple of weeks while she undergoes intensive chemotherapy. That’s why I’m currently on the phone with Carly to arrange a visit. Not her PR person, her manager, or even her mother. One of the perks of having a Harcourt working with your hospital is that I have direct contacts in every industry that matters when you’re trying to make kids happy.
I’m so excited for Trinity as I leave my office that I almost don’t hear my cellphone ring from my desk. I bounce back in to give it a quick check and instantly think I must be seeing things. That’s because at first glance, the caller ID on my phone appears to read one word … “Handsome.” I step in closer and confirm that I’m definitely not misreading things. Could it be? CJ? My hand hovers over the screen like it’s one of Grandmother’s Fabergé eggs. How in the world did he get my number? The phone continues to ring, taunting me to answer. But I don’t, instead pulling my hand back and breathing a sigh of relief that I don’t have a personalized message. Regardless, whatever moments I shared with CJ are done. Over. Now it’s on to more important things. Like my date with a VIP. And, oh yeah, a pop star, too.
Carly’s visit was everything I expected. She not only showered Trinity with love and affection, but a wagonload of gifts as well. I’m never one to tell a celebrity that gifts aren’t necessary. In fact, I consider it part of my job to get to know these kids well enough so that when an opportunity like this arises, I have no problem telling the guest what the kids like, how they like it, and what size to get it in. She even took it a step further, bringing gifts for Trinity’s siblings and gift certificates for massages at the best spa in town for her parents. She spared no expense, and it paid off in every way that mattered. Including a couple of pictures of Carly doting on a sick, young girl that may have made their way onto the hospital’s Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook pages.
As the day nears its end, I make one last call to check on a donation from the New York Knicks that will be used for the hospital gala. The owner is a friend of Father’s, so it’s not a matter of if we’ll get a donation, but how extravagant it will be. As usual, they promise something impressive and with that peace of mind, I text Max to let him know I’m on my way down. With my phone in hand, I head for the elevators and realize I never listened to CJ’s voicemail. I’m tired, and if I’m being completely honest, a little afraid to deal with it, so I decide to wait until I’m in the privacy of my car.
Max opens my door as he sees me approach. “So, Carly Fierce today, huh?”
I smile as I enter the backseat. “Surfing Facebook while you were waiting for me?”
“Nope, but my girls were. One called screaming in my ear, the same time the other left a screaming voicemail.”
As he settles in the driver’s seat, I take the two autographed photos from my tote and lean over the center console to hand them to him. He grabs and rotates them to better make out what it is he’s looking at, before turning to me with an appreciative smile. “Chrissy.”
Max has known me my entire life. He started with the family as my mom’s driver when he was only twenty, then drove the both of us when I came along. So it’s fair to say, he knows me better than anyone. And I like him. More importantly, I trust him. Because when I’m with Max, sitting within the security of the darkened glass in an enclosed car, my shoulders relax, my breathing runs a little deeper, and my guard lowers. I can tell him a story, and he will laugh. I can talk about mistakes I’ve made, and he gives advice without judgment. I can cry about the loss of a patient, and he shows me sympathy. I can talk to him about anything, and he genuinely listens to me. Those moments in this car, someone hears me. Someone values what I have to say. Someone values me.
Max is one of the few people in my life who has never betrayed me. I know he will always have my back, because he always had my mom’s. I think he still somehow blames himself for what happened that day. I’ve tried to talk to him about it, reminding him that it was completely random and that there was nothing he could have done. But I can see it in his eyes. The guilt. The regret. Even though he’s built a happy life, married to a wonderful woman with whom he shares twin teenage daughters, the pain of that day still lingers in his heart.
I wave him off and get settled in my seat, taking a deep breath before I play CJ’s message. However, the second I hear his voice, it’s like he’s sitting right next to me. “Hey Courtney, it’s CJ. So, listen, don’t be mad, but I sent your contact info to my phone while you were in the bathroom.” He lets out a nervous laugh, which leads to an obvious inhale and exhale, and to be honest, his nervousness is really kind of charming. “Anyways, Eric talked me into another visit in two weeks, and I thought maybe we could get together. Like an actual date. Don’t say no right away, okay? Just think about it. I know you work a lot so make sure you get that Saturday off. I’ll make it worth your while. I promise. Call me back.”
I listen to his message a few more times, analyzing every syllable and inflection. I finally force myself to put the phone aside. Gazing out the window, I can’t help but think that I could never date a guy like CJ. He may be kind and ridiculously handsome with his tan California skin and cerulean eyes, but it would never work. I could never bring a common, every day, average working Joe into the insanity that is my family. In fact, he’d never make it past the gates. If Grandmother ever found out that I was dating someone who hadn’t earned an Ivy League education or intended to take over a multi-billion dollar corporation, she would do something, well, like what she and Father did to Alanzo.
Alanzo was born in Mexico, a year older than I, but came to the states shortly after his first birthday when Fatima came to work for us as a nanny. Back then, my mom told Fatima, or actually encouraged her, to bring Alanzo with her every day so that the two of us could play together and keep each other occupied. Knowing what I do of my mom, I think this was not only to help Fatima with her own childcare, but to keep me grounded, as well. She wanted to inject some level of normalcy into my life.
Alanzo and I grew up together in every way, like the brother I never had. We took baths together, napped together, ate our meals together, learned to walk and ride bikes together. Mother and Fatima grew very close, as well, more like dear friends than boss and employee. Of course, Grandmother didn’t approve. She felt the relationship between my mom and Fatima crossed the line and that Fatima needed to be reminded that she was not a part of this family, rather simply another name on the payroll. My mom fought for Fatima, though, and their friendship continued. Until my mom was taken from us.
After that day, not only did Fatima step up to fill in the deep void I was feeling, but Alanzo did, as well. He protected me like a true brother would. As the years passed, we grew from loving each other like siblings, to much more. We became each other’s first loves. Our firsts in all ways possible. But just as with anything good in my life, he was taken away from me, and, just like with William, it all started with Nicole.
Nicole didn’t flirt with him or try to lure him away. Instead, she hated him with every ounce of energy she had, and she turned that hate into her weapon. She accused him when items supposedly went missing from the house, or claimed he was inappropriate with her, but nothing stuck. Not until the night at
the pool house.
Any chance we would get, Alanzo would sneak back onto the property and meet me in the loft of the pool house. I lived for those nights with him. And it wasn’t just the sex. Far from it. It was the connection I felt when we were together, like I belonged to someone. We would talk of our plans for the future, which all involved getting away from here and building a life together. A life that would someday include a handful of brown haired, brown eyed babies, just like their daddy. I was thankful I was already saving my money, and these times together only encouraged me to save more because Alanzo and this life we dreamed for ourselves was worth every penny. Sneaking around, staying up all night tangled in the sheets, and daydreaming of all the exciting things to come, was something we did often. So much so, that we both started to let our guard down when it came to being careful and inconspicuous.
That’s when it happened, right in the middle of making love. Still thinking about it now makes me nauseous. I remember the confusion when all of the lights suddenly turned on, illuminating the room and blinding our eyes. As my vision adjusted to the brightness, I saw Nicole standing a few feet from the bed, staring at us and not the least bit embarrassed or surprised by what she walked in on. My confusion instantly turned to panic when, before we realized what was happening, she took a picture of us, twisted together and uncovered.
“Say goodbye to your little fuck buddy, Christina,” she laughed as she twiddled her fingers in a sarcastically sweet goodbye. We both jumped up to dress as fast as we could and go after her, but it was too late.
I melted into a sobbing mess. Alanzo tried to comfort me as best he could, telling me he loved me and that he’d make everything okay, but I knew in that moment that we were done. He began rambling off ideas to fix it, as if that were remotely possible, but I shook my head, hiding behind my hair, telling him again and again we were over. Because I knew that once Father and Grandmother found out, they would never allow it to continue.
And I was right. They didn’t. But I wasn’t prepared for just how ruthless they could be, how much they hated me. Not until Alanzo went radio silent and Fatima neglected to show up for work. That’s because she was fighting to keep her son in the country.
She didn’t know the reason or the people responsible for her heartbreak, so she came to Father asking for his help. Could he reach out to his contacts? Could he buy Alanzo’s way back in, and she would repay him? Father was overly compassionate, saying he’d make some calls, see if there were any strings he could pull, that he’d do everything in his power to help. He even went so far as to put his arm around her, console her, show her sympathy. He gave her hope. False hope. Hope he had no intention of fulfilling. I knew this the moment she left his office in tears, fighting to put a smile on her face through shaking shoulders and a broken heart. It was when he looked me dead in the eyes, pointed toward the door Fatima just exited, and said, “You did this. Remember that.” He casually took his seat and proceeded to get back to his work. He never picked up the phone. He never called in a favor. He never made an effort to undo the damage they had done. That I had done.
It was only a matter of days after Fatima returned and I broke down and told her what had actually happened. That Alanzo and I were in love and my family was keeping us apart to punish me. That this was all my fault and that I would work every day to get him back.
But my efforts were for nothing. Alanzo was eighteen and never received proper documentation. And I had no idea what I was doing—who to contact, where or how to file a dispute. I called our lawyers, but they said they could be of no help, probably because Father instructed them not to get involved in the matter.
Alanzo went on to marry a few years later, have a child, then, shortly after, divorce. He continues to live and work in Mexico, and Fatima talks to him weekly. For a while, I tried to give her money to pass along to him, but she said he’s too proud and won’t accept it. I still have yet to forgive myself.
Knowing that we can never be anything more, I delete CJ’s voicemail.
Fortunately, CJ doesn’t call again, and I’m so busy at the hospital, courting donors and working on wishes for my kids, that I lose track of the days. The highlight this past week has definitely been bringing in the quarterback who Thomas worships like a god, Alex James from the New York Giants.
It couldn’t have been better timing. Not only have Thomas’s treatments been tough on his body, but worse than that, his spirits are at an all-time low. So, when I called Alex and gave him a heads-up as to what he’d be walking into, he took it a step further, bringing an autographed jersey for Thomas, footballs for all of the kids on the floor, and oh yeah, half of the offensive linemen. It was a madhouse. Hot NFL players were everywhere, attracting nurses and staff from every floor of the hospital. I don’t know a lot about football, I only keep up with the names of the kids’ favorite players, but I knew enough that day that this was a very big deal to Thomas. And that’s all that mattered.
That was two days ago, and I’m still riding the high from the look of sheer happiness on Thomas’s face. The nurses have to practically pry his jersey off of him to change his gown. As I thanked Alex and the other guys on their way out that day, telling them how much we all appreciated their time as well as all of the gifts, Alex told me if I really wanted to thank him, I could do it over dinner. That’s not the first time I’ve been asked out by a celebrity, and I get it, my name is synonymous with money. But I’m not interested in a famous actor or athlete who likes to flash their new money around with expensive champagne and over-the-top cars while being photographed with a different woman every night. So I always politely decline. Always.
I’m headed over to Thomas’s room with a photo book I made of his visit with the team. I’m going to send it out and have them all sign it, but I just can’t wait to show it to him first. I emailed Alex this morning to let him know how much their visit helped Thomas make a significant turnaround. His color is back, and both his red and white blood cell counts are up and better than they’ve been in a week. It’s amazing what being surrounded by your heroes can do for your body and spirit. And that’s exactly why I do what I do. No other job has a better payoff, even if I never make a cent while I do it.
I hear the elevator ping its arrival on the opposite side of the nurses’ station and notice it’s a senior volunteer pushing a cart with a particularly large flower delivery. When are people going to learn the kids would much rather have stuffed animals, candy, and iTunes gift cards? I backtrack over to the nurses’ station to grab the flowers and deliver them myself, when I notice the card is made out to me.
“Hey everybody, Christina got flowers!” Anna, one of the nurses, announces from over my shoulder. “One guess at who they’re from.”
I turn and playfully glare at her, whispering, “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not enjoying it. I’m loving it!” She reaches forward, towards the card. “C’mon, tell us who they’re from. My money’s on Alex James.” She wags her eyebrows as she says his name. “He’s delicious.”
I laugh and push the flowers toward her. “Then, here, you take them.”
I try to hand off the oversized arrangement, but she takes a step back and waves her hands in objection. “Uh-uh. No way. Those are for you. You deserve them, Christina. Go put them on the coffee table in your office. They’ll be perfect there.”
The other nurses are still crowded around, giving me a hard time and begging to find out if it is indeed Alex who sent them. So I do the mature thing, stick my tongue out at the group as I head back to my office, holding the heavy arrangement to my chest, thankful it’s hiding the equally large smile on my face.
I carefully balance the bouquet while peeking through the stems until I’m able to safely set down the heavy glass vase in the center of the table. I shake out the numbness in my arms and step back to admire the monstrosity that seems to have taken over half my office. It’s mostly made up of pale pink roses, interspersed by stems of periw
inkle blue hydrangeas, bright pink peonies, crisp, white stephanotis, and added greenery. Taking in every leaf and every petal, I know one thing for sure: this was not cheap. I open the card already knowing the name I’m going to see, because Anna is right. There’s only one person that comes to mind who would send something so extravagant. Alex James.
Dear Christina,
Thank you for introducing me to Thomas. He is a whip-smart kid with a passion for football that I love to see in our young fans. I not only promised to get him and his family to a game soon, but to keep in touch each week. And I always keep my promises.
Thank you for all you do for Thomas, because let’s be honest, it’s not just the nurses who devote themselves to these kids. You play just as big a part, not only in their recovery, but in their lives. I’d like to do more as well and I hope we can talk about that soon. My offer for dinner still stands.
Alex James
I put the note aside and consider the importance of Alex’s words. I truly hope he understands how crucial it is to follow through on a promise to a child and I plan on expressing that to him soon. Just not over dinner.
I know women across America would throw their stilettos at me for thinking this, but I have no interest, at least in that way, in Alex James. Yes, he’s built and sexy with his dark brown hair and matching eyes that any sane girl could get lost in. But he knows it, and that’s a huge turn-off for me. I don’t want to be anyone’s “one of many.” Not to mention, I’ve got a ridiculously hot factory worker that I’ve been fighting to keep off my mind for the last two weeks.
Beautiful Lies Page 5
