*****
It was a tear to the side. She had picked off the hanging threads and hoped against hope that it wouldn't split all the way up to her armpit. She wished she had a safety pin to secure the ragged edges, but she was out of luck and even if she did have one, those security men would have probably confiscated it as a weapon of mass destruction.
Phoebe sat at the far end of the pool area and tried to ignore the curious stares she was getting from the people who were setting up tables on the other side. The place was too imposing for words. When they drove up to the parking lot, which was surrounded by colorful miniature trees, they were lead to the pool area by a security guard, who was wearing a tux.
The back of the house had steps leading down a rocky incline to the sea. Then there was an infinity pool, which started from the marble steps of a gazebo and meandered toward the edge of an area with big slabs of polished stone.
She wished she had a camera, nobody would believe her if she described to them the luxury that she was seeing.
Phoebe had never seen such a display of wealth in her life. She walked around the vast pool area and then found herself in a corner that had strategically placed sofas scattered between lanterns and cleverly placed mini-trees to ensure privacy.
The Perfect Number was not the only band that was going to be playing. She counted at least three other groups that looked as if they were in costume; they were also busy setting up. An usher gave her a program, which she didn't bother to look at.
I could get used to this, Phoebe decided. This could be all hers if she wanted. She couldn't believe how shortsighted and stupid she had been when it came to Ezekiel. She could picture herself driving up the long tree-lined driveway in a high-end car and swimming in the infinity pool on a hot afternoon, or having somebody come up to the house to do her nails, or she could get a massage by the beach side below.
If she hung over the protective rail, to the side, she could see the white sand just below the steps, in what looked like a protected cove with hulking gray rocks all around.
She was brought out of her reverie when a lady appeared to the right of her.
“Shouldn't you be practicing with your band?” she asked sharply.
“Uhm...” Phoebe looked around the lady, toward where the bands were setting up. There was another group doing mike tests, but Charles' band was nowhere to be seen. “I would, but they are not around.”
The lady, who was in an elegant green dress that matched the green baubles around her neck, sat down in the seat across from Phoebe and sighed. Her hair was a light brown which matched her eyes perfectly. She looked to be in her late thirties.
She was also assessing Phoebe and they stared at each other before the lady spoke. “You weren't invited to this party.”
Phoebe shrugged. “What’s it to you?”
“I am the hostess of the party. My name is Sonia Beaumont.”
“Oh, sorry,” Phoebe said slightly shocked. “I thought this was Ezekiel's place.”
“Ezekiel!” the lady closed her eyes as if in pain. “You are calling such a respectable man, a man way out of your league, Ezekiel?”
Phoebe shrugged, “How respectable is he?”
“Do you have any idea who I am?” the lady asked, a flash of indignant light in her eyes.
“Nope,” Phoebe said, staring at her fascinated, “should I?”
“I am the person who forced him to have this party; I am the one who organized this shindig. I said to him ‘Ezekiel you are too insular, your presence needs to be felt in this community, after all, Jamaica is your home for five months of the year.’ He finally agreed. I invited the top industry movers and shakers on the island: fellow rich people and you know what, not a reaction. Then he sees your name, sent in by the security detail at the gate, and suddenly he is happy. Maybe, I should have invited all the low-income residents of Flatbush Scheme!”
She got up. “I would have had you thrown out by the way,” she mumbled. “I know your type and let me tell you something, you are no match for me. Did you hear that?” Sonia asked her grimly before she stormed off, her dress bellowing in the breeze.
Phoebe nodded, though she wanted to smirk at Sonia. What was she getting so worked up over? She didn’t know if she should laugh or cry. So, Ezekiel knows I’m here and is happy about it? And this lady was actually warning her off Ezekiel, a man she had hardly spoken two words to— usually when he saw her at church he stared at her fixatedly while she tried to pretend that she didn't see him looking.
The delicious irony of it.
Phoebe looked at her, a new light of knowledge in her eyes, here she was feeling trodden and out-of-place and yet she was singled out for a warning from a high-class lady.
Phoebe had never been docile in her entire life and was a fighter; this lady just declared war. She didn't care much for the prize because he was ugly, but he was also wealthy and Phoebe wasn't going to lose this war for the affections of Ezekiel Hoppings. She just needed a battle plan.
Chapter Five
Ezekiel eagerly shrugged on his tuxedo. He had not wanted a party but Sonia had insisted. She had appointed herself ‘caretaker of his property’ and because her brother was his friend he had allowed her to run his household as if she was its mistress.
He had gradually come to realize, on this trip to Jamaica, that Sonia had plans to marry him. She was touching him more and sidling up to him with an eager warmth in her eyes.
He should be pleased with the turn of events. Sonia was thirty-nine, a recent divorcee with two young sons and was caring—a true mother earth type. She genuinely liked him and saw past his looks to the man beneath.
He had celebrated his fortieth birthday just a few weeks ago in an Abu Dubai boardroom with four Arab sheiks and his lawyers while he was there divesting his holdings in the Middle East. He wanted to do something else with his life and the cutthroat world of business didn’t give him the zing it once did.
He was tired of flying to and from the Middle East, living out of expensive hotels, dealing with men who would much rather see him fail than see him succeed. He wanted to live life at a slower pace. His father had been the ultimate tycoon, with holdings across the length and breadth of both hemispheres but had developed heart problems at forty-three.
The truth was, when he was younger, and more immature, he had thought that he wanted to be like his father—powerful and ruthless. He had taken some business risks in the last few years that would make ordinary men tremble. They called him the roaring lion in the Arab world, but these days he was feeling the ill effects of his fast paced lifestyle. He was now feeling his mortality— tired and worn-out, he found himself brooding and wanting a more moderately paced existence.
Ezekiel was tired of fighting. Life shouldn't be so adrenalin packed all the time. He stared at his reflection in the mirror and found himself wishing that he didn't have so much responsibility and thousands of people depending on him for their livelihood.
He sometimes wished that he was one of those ordinary men who went out in the mornings, did an honest day's work, and came home to a loving woman at nights who was attentive to his needs.
Instead, he had been born with the proverbial gold spoon in his mouth, the oldest son to an Arab father who married an affluent Jamaican woman who had been living in Italy on her gap year from university.
He ran his fingers through his short curly hair and assessed his reflection in the mirror. His body was leanly muscular, exercising was a daily habit that he had picked up from rehab when he was seventeen and involved in the plane crash that killed his parents and his siblings.
He could rectify his face. His friend Neville Tate, one of the leading cosmetic surgeons in the world, was always hounding him about it but for so long he had used his appearance to assess people that he was reluctant to do anything about it now. The people who could stick around, despite his scars, he usually kept close; those who were repulsed, he usually watched gleefully as they stayed far away from him, as
if his scars were contagious.
When he did business, men looked at him and shuddered; they usually wondered how he earned his battle scars, and women usually looked at him and ran the other way. Through the years there were a few genuine ones who didn’t seem to mind his looks, but he found that he hadn't captured that elusive feeling called love with any woman—until now.
He hadn't felt this maelstrom of feelings for any woman at any other time in his life. He felt curiously light, like he could float with the feeling of euphoria and then some days he felt down and depressed. His feelings were ping ponging all over the place like a tennis ball.
Ezekiel paced the room, anxious to go down to the poolside to see Phoebe Bridge. He was trying not to wonder about her. For months he had agonized over whether to pursue her. He had endured sleepless nights thinking about her and had to call upon his powers of self-control not to call her when she had given him her number.
There was something about that girl that was different from all the girls he had ever seen or known. It wasn't just her beauty, though one was constantly reminded of how utterly breathtaking she was. She had that indefinable quality that he felt as if he was searching for his whole life. It must be chemistry; it's as if all the pieces of his puzzle fell into place when she was near.
He even had her investigated. There was very little that he didn't know about her, at least on paper.
He was astonished when the security detail had scanned in her name for approval just now. Sonia was sitting with him in his study, running through the boring guest list with him while he sat in a comatose state, half listening to her, half thinking that he was going to divest his holdings in Australia to reduce his traveling commitments.
But when the name, Phoebe Bridge, wafted over his consciousness his whole being had become alert, as if a switch had been turned on. She was in a bus at his gate, attending his party as a replacement for a band member.
He had almost laughed out loud at that—Phoebe was not a singer. He knew that about her, and why he should still remember these things was a puzzle to him.
What was it about her?
“Let her in!” he had said to Sonia gruffly.
“But she is a crasher,” Sonia had huffed.
“A beautiful crasher.” He had sprung to his feet. “I need to get ready for this party.”
“But she is from Flatbush Scheme,” Sonia protested looking at the address on the computer screen. “That's the land settlement my father had developed for the poor farmers on the banana belt. She is a nobody…crashing my party.”
Ezekiel had grinned, the scar along his cheekbone puckered in several creases. “You just spent half an hour convincing me to be excited about this party. Well, I'm excited now. Phoebe is here.”
“Phoebe is here!” Sonia gasped. “You know this girl?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I have been going to her church for three years now. I always sit at the back. I leave quietly though. Trust me, when you see Phoebe you'll know. She is hard to miss.”
Sonia had stormed out of the study and down to the pool area. He wondered what she had said to Phoebe.
The Phoebe that he researched would not care at all. She would probably sit there looking placidly about her as Sonia tried her best to put her down. Phoebe was a hard nut to crack.
He chuckled softly. He had seen her in action several times. He had even seen her being called out at church for stalking Chris Donahue. She had sat down, her dainty hands clenched together and a blank look on her face.
She had then proceeded to make the announcements that she had been assigned to make at the start of the church service, without any outward sign that she had been humiliated. It had been like water off a duck's back.
She was going to be a challenge if he pursued her. She was a complex puzzle of strength and hardness but he could see that her strength could be masking a soft core. He wished he knew if she was as hardened by life as she appeared or if she was putting up a brave face to the world.
She was also fifteen years younger than he was and so beautiful. She was the beauty to his beast; he tried to remember how that fairytale turned out but couldn't.
He glanced at himself in the mirror again. He was not handsome. Scars crisscrossed his face and neck area and puckered skin ran across his forehead. His teeth had been yellowed by a heavy coffee diet while he was in his twenties. Though he had weaned himself from it, he still had the stains testifying to his former habit. His nose was broken in two places and looked off center; his skin was patchy with burn marks.
Normally he just accepted his looks for what they were, because he had developed a morbid fear of surgery but Phoebe's beauty highlighted his ugliness—he grimaced a little. If he succeeded in having her love him as he was, he would consider his life complete.
He was nervous. He could hear the music starting up downstairs. He glanced at his watch...quarter to seven; people were starting to mill about. It was time he went down and faced Phoebe.
Chapter Six
Phoebe watched from her cozy corner where she had partially hidden herself as the darkness descended and the lights flickered on; the fancy lantern lamps lit up in various colors.
Where she sat was semi-dark and intimate. She could make out the shapes of people who were around the pool but could not see them clearly. The place was cleverly set up to appeal to the social butterflies or others who just wanted to chat in the dimly lit alcoves.
People had started to come in at six-thirty. She could make out, from where she was, some government officials, a few industry leaders, and that lady, Sonia, flitting in and out of the little groups, her laugh tinkling on the night air.
Phoebe cradled a fruit drink close to her, and watched silently. Two waiters insisted on giving her the royal treatment and kept coming by to find out if she wanted little delicacies to eat and kept topping up her glass with juice. There was a lady sitting in the alcove next to hers, who had spent half an hour on her phone giving her babysitter instructions.
The music had started. Charles and his friends were really good, Phoebe thought. Charles played the keyboard and she could see his outline from where she sat, enthusiastically pounding the keys.
She had come all the way to a high-class party and was hiding in the background. Twice she had attempted to go into the fray but this crowd just didn’t talk to you unless they knew you. She had stood around the food area and the women had looked through her as if she didn't exist and the men had given her a discrete once over and moved along.
No one said hello! Not that she wanted them to anyway. Most of them were older and had big bellies and florid features. No young handsome upcoming man was in the crowd the last time she went out there. The only young handsome men she saw were service people but she was not going to encourage them.
“You look pensive.” He sat in the chair opposite hers; his back was blocking out the light, but she could make out that he was tall and had on a tuxedo.
“Not really pensive, just bored,” Phoebe said trying to peer into the darkness to make him out. He sounded like he had a slight English accent and smelled so good, and expensive.
The man chuckled. “Not your kind of crowd, is it?” He reclined in the chair besides hers and the leaves of the plant beside his head blotted out his facial profile.
“How would you know that?” Phoebe asked suspiciously, trying to see him. She gave up, conceding defeat, as he angled his head closer to the plant that was by his chair.
“You are sitting in the dark alone, cradling your fruit juice for dear life and you look like you feel left out.”
“Well…” Phoebe debated telling him anything but then she gave in. She was really bored. She had wanted to leave about half an hour ago but she wasn't going to attempt walking downhill to the gate and then leave herself at the mercies of the dark streets to go home.
“I don't fit in with this crowd at all. I only came because I was curious and my neighbor suggested it.”
“Ah,”
he laughed softly, “you wanted to see how the other half lives.”
“Well, I wouldn't call the rich population in Jamaica half,” Phoebe said, reclining in her chair too. “I'd call it ten percent or so. By the way, who are you?”
“My name is Abbas,” he said quietly.
“Abbas? Strange name.”
“It means Lion in the Arabian language.”
“Oh,” Phoebe perked up, interested. “Are you one of those rich Arabians who does business with Ezekiel Hoppings?”
“You could say that.” His voice turned somber. “What is your name?” he asked after a long pause.
“Phoebe Bridge. My paternal grandmother’s name was Phoebe, so I got her name. Apparently there is always a Phoebe Bridge on my Dad’s side of the family.”
“It is a great honor when one carries a name worthy to live up to,” Abbas said almost lazily. “What do you do, Phoebe Bridge?”
“Well, I work at a bank.” Phoebe smirked. “I am a bank teller. I work specifically in customer service. It would be a nice job if one felt like being pleasant all the time but for me it's hell. What do you do?”
“I own companies all over the world,” Abbas said softly. “I fly all over the world at the drop of a hat to places where people absolutely need my attention. My life is one crisis after another. Now that's hell. I am trying to scale down from my larger ventures and to stop and smell the roses.”
“But you are rich right? How can that be hell?”
Abbas chuckled. “Riches come with responsibility. My parents died when I was a teenager. I inherited oil wells, vineyards, oil production companies, and big world food brands. When my father's lawyers placed the folders before me that outlined the interests that my father had all over the world, I was literally paralyzed with fear. I was now the custodian of that legacy and it was a nightmare to sort out. He had heart problems at forty-three; I think that's where I am heading, if I don't take it easy. Unlike him, I have no offspring to leave anything to.”
Unholy Matrimony Page 3
