“Energy, oil, gas, power delivery, power generation, telecomm and water management.”
Uncle Pete meditates eating his pie. “Kind of like what they’re doing over at Black International?”
“Exactly that,” I say. I’m amazed Uncle Pete would even know.
Uncle Pete’s eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean?”
Oliver hesitates and I don’t know why he’s being so humble all of a sudden. Silence springs around the table as we all look at each other. It’s as if we are all waiting for a sudden break in the clouds.
I’m surprised they don’t realize it yet. “Oliver owns the company,” I say very nonchalantly, going about my pie.
“Sophie.” Oliver’s tone is more of disappointment than of reprimand.
“Yes,” says Uncle Pete. “I’m sure a lot of people do. Nobody owns the company except the people who invest in it. It’s a corporation with fifteen thousand employees. We’re talking about shareholders, the management team...all of them hold a specific stake in the company. Black International went downhill sometime after Warren Black passed away. The company is very much public now.”
Apparently, Uncle Pete is well versed in this matter. Oliver holds his tongue. A sudden uneasiness crosses his features after his father’s name is thrown about.
My forehead cramps. “How do you know all that?”
“Well, Black International was in all sorts of political strife,” he explains. “It was all you could hear about on the news. A few years back, Black International acquired Ansley Global, the largest producer of nitrogen fertilizers. Black International was involved in the excess use of nitrogen in their fertilizer plants. Yes, they sold like hotcakes, improved their volume and energy efficiency, but this had consequences. An excess of anything is bad.”
“Peter works for Ansley Global,” Aunt Peg explains to Oliver, plunking a large lump of pie on Gracie’s plate. In the grand scope of things, it also means that my uncle works for Oliver. “It was a tragic scandal. Unfortunately, the nitrogen was not only polluting the soil, but ending up in our rivers and our oceans, affecting marine life. With Black International being an environmentally responsible company, you can imagine the outrage.”
“You know that’s not the only thing that happened, Peg,” Uncle Pete continues. “Remember that big explosion in the news? The one that wiped out nearly half of a small town in Iowa? That was them. That was Black International’s fertilizer plant. It was so powerful it felt like an earthquake. People were killed. It was terrible.”
“Why did the plant explode?” I ask away even though something tells me I shouldn’t.
“Two words. Anhydrous Ammonia,” Uncle Pete answers. “It is the source found in nitrogen. It’s toxic and highly flammable when not stored appropriately.”
“So, if what you’re saying is true, who stepped forward? Who was the one to blame?”
“The founder. Warren Black.”
“Who would step forward now? You said a lot of people own the company.”
“Well, the person with controlling percentage of the stock of course. I actually don’t know who that is, or if he or she is the acting CEO, at least not since Black Corp became Black International. These days, I imagine a man in that position has gray hair, or maybe he’s bald.”
Oliver can practically retire before he’s grown his first gray hair. It occurs to me that I shouldn’t be asking questions. I’m way out of my league. I have nothing more to say than can further benefit this conversation. I give Oliver a look of apology.
***
“YOUR AUNT HASN’T been feeling well,” Uncle Pete says very quietly as I’m scrubbing the dishes.
“What do you mean?” I ask a little too naively. “Was it a bad week? Has she been sleeping okay?”
“She’s been having headaches and she gets tired easily,” he says it low—almost afraid to admit it—even though Aunt Peg and Oliver are out on the patio talking about her vegetable garden. “I don’t want to worry your aunt any more than she’s already worried with you living away from home.”
“Yes, of course. I wouldn’t want her to worry. Has she been to a doctor?”
He lets out a small sigh. “Sophie, I don’t want to tell your aunt someone tried to kidnap you. She wouldn’t bear it.”
Anguish unfolds itself within me. I leave the dishes alone for a moment. I lean back against the kitchen island and cross my arms over my chest.
“You’re on the news. What’s going on? They’re saying you were almost kidnapped!” His voice is a loud whisper. “Why didn’t you come to me with this?”
It breaks my heart to realize I’ve put my uncle in a position to worry about me.
“It was...,” I pause to think of a way to phrase it delicately, “just some guy...a thug or something. He was trying to take away my bag. That’s all. The media is overreacting to the story. You know how those things operate.”
“Do the police know about it?”
“Well...yes...I don’t know.” My heart is pounding in my chest. “Oliver is taking care of it. And I have someone to drive and look over me. Please, don’t worry, Uncle Pete. I’m fine.”
“I had to tell your aunt the TV broke so she wouldn’t watch the news. If she knew, she’d be devastated!”
“I know,” I say morose.
“I’m devastated.”
“I know,” I say in the same tone again. “I’m okay.”
Uncle Pete holds open his arms and comes in for a hug. I hesitate for a second, and then I squeeze him tight, the smell of laundry softener comes to my nose. After a moment it hits me. I really needed a hug.
***
“BYE, TOFFEE!” THE girls shout as they hurry up the stairs.
“Toffee?” Oliver raises a taunting brow. He takes my hand in his.
“It’s just a pet name,” I say.
Aunt Peg hides her smile behind tight lips and I have the feeling things are headed right into an unwanted conversation.
“Do you want to know the story, son?” Uncle Pete’s arm squeezes Aunt Peg, and her hand rests affectionately on his chest.
“Absolutely.”
My grip on his hand tightens.
“A couple of years back, Sophie went with us on a nice city cruise for Peter’s birthday. She hadn’t told us anything about it, but she was terrified of boats.”
“You have a problem with boats?”
“I don’t have a problem with boats.” I tell him. “I have a problem with them sinking. Have you seen Titanic? I don’t know how to swim. I think we can go now.”
His arm finds its way around my waist with great speed, almost as if it has a mind of its own. “I want to know.”
Aunt Peg smiles at the memory. “Some nice gentlemen from the cruise gave Sophie Valium to calm her anxiety. Her anxiety did leave, but the Valium affected her speech somehow. She could only manage a sort of stutter. She couldn’t say the ‘S’ so she would say her name was ‘Toffee’, and the girls, being so little, picked it up. They’ve called her that ever since.”
“Sounds like you developed an allergic reaction to Diazepam,” Oliver says. “Although this is the less common, or rare Valium side effect.”
Aunt Peg nods her head. “We were guaranteed that the likelihood of having an allergic reaction to Valium was slim to none.”
I definitely do not want to be caught up in a likelihood-of-this-occurrence-happening conversation with Oliver being right in the focal point of controversy.
“Yes, so that happened. Funny story. Let’s go!” I try to pull Oliver outside, but it’s useless. It is like trying to move a parked semi-truck.
“It was so wonderful meeting you, sweetheart!” Before Aunt Peg is able to finish her typical farewell lecture, I urge Oliver out of the house, clinging to his wrist as if he’s a big, undisciplined child.
“Now, dear, you best be coming back here for some of my infamous vegetarian lasagna!”
We both smile courteously and wave goodbye.
“Look a
t your grin, stretching from ear to ear,” I complain as the door shuts behind us.
“I can’t look at my grin, Sophie. I’m behind it.” I blush as he replies with a wink, kissing my knuckles. “What can I say?” he asks. “I’m very pleased.”
“Pleased at what? The image of a weird, little Sophie being high on Valium?” He laughs heartily. “Yeah. You go ahead, laugh. See if you find it funny when you’re the one in the frying pan.”
“I’m very pleased with your family. They’re what you call ‘real’. Real house. Real food. Real company. Thank you for inviting me.”
A wide smile slips from my lips. When we get inside his car, I tell him how sorry I am about asking so many questions.
“I don’t blame you,” he says. “In your place I would’ve done the same. When I go looking for answers, I get them.”
NINE
ON THE DRIVE back to Manhattan, thunderous rumbles start echoing through the cold, shadowy air like the clichéd lion. The moon bathes the city with a silvery-tinted glow. I look out the window and see a forest of car headlights and colored advertisement signs featured on buildings. The city seems to be bracing itself against tough weather; although, happily fitted inside Oliver’s arms, I hardly feel a breeze. Farther down the road, a weird energy invades me, forcing me to ask an extremely blunt question.
“Would you leave me at my apartment?” I glance up at Oliver hoping, wishing he would ask me to stay with him a little longer. He asks me if this is what I want, and I put forth my best effort to pull off this charade. “Yes. I’m tired. I just want to go home.”
He tells his driver we are headed toward my apartment. It seems as if I just asked him what color I should paint my fingernails as he sits disinterested and unresponsive. I wonder if I’m the reason behind his apathy.
“Is everything all right, Sophie?”
“Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I have to fly to Edinburgh tomorrow,” he then says.
“As in Scotland? As in the UK?”
“Did you ace geography?”
I want to tell him that I don’t want him to go. If his immediate reaction shows anything other than pleasure, I can rapidly say, “I’m kidding! Leave for as long as you need!” Instead, I say, “What do you have to do over there?”
He hesitates to answer.
“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”
“I want you to know, Sophie. Black International is not what it used to be. Not under my command. My father had bad business practices, but it’s all different now.”
“Oliver...” I nod. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to explain anything to me.”
He grabs my hand as I step out of the car. “I will just be gone for a couple of days. The company is handling the construction of the largest water-supply development ever to be built. Thousands of residents will be provided with clean, safe water. I have to be present.” He gets closer to me until we are nose to nose. “Will you miss me?”
“Not a single bit.” I pull on his collar, neatly brushing away imaginary dust.
“I wish to have you in one piece when I return, Miss Cavall. No trickeries or reckless endeavors of any sort. Be safe and please don’t leave your apartment alone. Reed gets paid to protect you, so let him do his job.”
“Well, maybe he should stop getting paid.”
He chuckles briefly.
“What’s so funny?”
“See, I don’t get it. You pay for serial killers in prison to have food, health care, education, and recreation. Some prisons even have HBO. But, you would rather bite the hand of someone that gets paid to protect you?”
My head dips down just slightly. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Go save the world, Mr. Black,” I say dramatically. “The world needs you.”
“What if I need you?”
“Oh please,” I scoff. “You don’t need me.” Inside I’m shaky, uncomfortable, and not exactly sure if I want to believe that. “I’m a replaceable situation. If I happen to die tomorrow, you’ll move on and find someone new, someone better.”
This seems to set him off. “Why do you have to say that?”
“Take emotion out of the equation and you know it’s the truth.”
“What a pessimistic outlook upon life.”
“Facing reality is not pessimism, Oliver.”
“Don’t say something like that again.”
His features grow dark, so I forfeit my rebuttal. “Have a safe trip. I’ll see you later.”
“Later is an upsetting word.” He makes a face of aversion. “I prefer you use the more encouraging adverb—soon.”
I look into his eyes and smile for however brief his hold on my waist lasts. “Fine. I’ll see you soon.”
Oliver steps next to his car, watching me as I make my way toward my apartment building. I vow not to glance back and soon, a heavy weight starts pressing down on my chest. In a tiny fraction of a second, I get to thinking about pessimism. Am I really predisposed to negative thinking? Do I always paint a gloomy picture?
Inside my apartment building, I slow down my walk to a lazy stroll as I’m flooded with a sense of uncertainty, discomfort, and tension—a wonderful exhibit of my emotional zoo. An odd sensation grips me like a vice over my chest. Something just feels wrong. As I muddle through this new sensation, the thought, don’t let him go, rushes through my consciousness.
Half walking, half stumbling, I muddle my way back on what appears to be a sidewalk paved with moving rocks. The air is stiff, unwilling to give, but Oliver remains rooted firmly next to his car.
“Hey, Oliver.” My voice is thin against the chilly weather. “Wait a second.”
The clouds refuse to swing across the stern gray of the sky. In an instant, the city is saturated with heavy rain.
“Get inside, Sophie. It’s cold and you’re getting wet.” He looks down at me, his jaw tight, his teeth clenched as my drenched black maxi outlines my body in explicit detail.
“I can handle the cold and the rain just fine. I’m trying to say something to you.”
“All right, you can tell me inside.”
He takes my hand and we take quick strides into the building.
Minutes later, we are standing outside my apartment and I don’t know what I have gotten myself into. A silence brews, thickens. My brows wrinkle as thoughts cascade over me. This is it, I say to myself. I have to tell him. My five minutes of courage are almost gone, so I must get to the point.
“Stay...,” I say slowly, not sure what he’ll think.
Silence again, awful silence. He stands there, like I didn’t just open my mouth.
“You want me to stay?” he inquires smoothly. Apparently, my confession is of no surprise to him.
“Yes.”
Neither of us moves, smiles, or speaks, and I barely breathe.
“Okay.” Slowly he starts walking to where I’m standing, and I play along, taking a step back. We go at this a couple of times, until he quickly grabs my arms and pulls me to him. With enough warning—at this point permission—he lunges into me without saying a word, claims my lips, and puts a stop to such tremendous vulnerability.
He lifts me, sets my legs to wrap around his waist, and carries me to my room. Gullible cackles gush out of our mouths as we tumble into bed. My hands make their way over his arms—the dips and curves of each muscle. My skin almost melts against his, as I lie here basking in the overwhelming feeling of satisfaction.
***
AT THE SOUND of someone banging on the door, I jerk my head up. Still damp from yesterday’s soaking, my hair startles my senses with a cold smack against my neck and back. I stretch my arms above my head, and expose myself to the radiant sun’s warmth beaming through the windows.
My fingers touch the soft sheets heaped in silhouette on the side of the bed where Oliver had lain. I rub my eyes in mid-morning bliss. I think of last night. Everywhere...everything Oliver had touched, kissed, and rocked—sets my senses flaming, my memories reeling towar
d blue skies. I shut my eyes and will my memories to dance and meander over every remembered caress. I can still hear the soft pounding of his heartbeat.
Or maybe it’s that thudding on the door.
“What? What is it?” I throw my hands in the air, as if whoever is behind the door can see the ruckus he or she has devised.
“Cavall, you get out here this second or I will rip the door off its hinges!”
Kim. I jump out of bed—like a firefighter heads for a five-alarm fire—and flash a glance at the alarm clock set on my bedside table: 7:00 A.M. I scramble around, trying to dig out something to wear while Kim keeps banging on the door.
Sliding into a shirt, I open the door and Kim is standing right outside with a look like she’s just bitten a sour lemon. “Do you do this on purpose? Do you want to make my life miserable?”
“No! Of course not. I’m sorry. Look I—”
“Five minutes, outside.”
“I know, I know! I’ll be right out.”
After a couple of minutes, I throw myself inside the SUV. The whole beauty crew is already in combat position, ready to salvage my career.
Tina protests in the car, orders me to sit still as she lays some color on my face and the stylist fixes my hair. She sounds like my mother. I tell her I can’t do anything about the bouncy roads and pop a Snickers bar into my mouth. Reed makes a sharp turn and like a stick of butter on a hot pan, I slide across my seat.
“Sophie!” Tina’s Jamaican voice rings out. “I cannot wuk on yuh’re face ef yuh kip movin’.”
“I’m sorry,” I say with my mouth full of chocolaty goodness, not even trying to figure out what she just said.
My mother used to duct tape me to a chair when I was a little girl because I wouldn’t sit still. I would spend hours like that, until she got me all dolled up for the pageants. She would also do this to correct my posture, or so she used to say. I never came to understand my mother’s ways. If I understood her I would be free of her, I used to think. There would be no fear. But that day never came.
I take a little nap on the way to wherever we’re going. I’m careful not to let my face touch anything or rest my head on the seat, heaven forbid my beauty boost is compromised and Tina has to start all over again.
A Diamond in the Rough Page 12
