by C. L. Donley
“…Guilty conscience?”
“Why would she have a guilty conscience if she was the evil, vindictive person dad made her out to be? Since when did dad care about keeping evil vindictive people away from us, anyway?” Ben asks for her benefit as well as his. He chews a thumbnail. It seems as though today will be the day that he gets to the bottom of this, and he’s not sure that he wants to.
“Cynth was different, Ben. She and her mom. They were outsiders. And not the right kind of people. The family always came first.”
“She was family to me. She was about to— become family…” Ben’s voice trails off, his blood running cold. “Did you tell him?”
“That you wanted to marry Cynth? No. Why would I care, I was knee deep in campaign managing, remember? He figured it out eventually, I’m sure. Especially if his cronies were keeping him in the loop.”
“No,” Ben shakes his head, perusing his memory, “he just thought I was being sloppy, letting some strange chick get so close, he basically said. Dad doesn’t know shit about human relationships. And he didn’t get to where he was by letting 20-year-olds get the kind of leverage to extort him. It’s much more likely that he was extorting her, not the other way around.”
“Extortion…” Val wonders aloud. “What could Cynthia possibly have that dad didn’t?”
The answer is obvious.
Him. The one thing she had, that dad didn’t, was him.
So maybe he did know about human relationships. Pity he couldn’t have demonstrated it himself.
“Okay, so… let’s say this check is the original amount he paid her, plus the interest. The going rate of interest ten years ago… probably around 7%,” Ben filled in.
Ben opened the calculator on her laptop, plugging in the average rate of a business loan to a first time owner with decent credit. He guessed at 100,000 being the sum. It was large enough to be tempting to a young girl with nothing, small and generic enough that his father could withdraw it without causing a stir.
That left a lot of interest. It had to be a full ten years worth. The exact amount of time since she’d left his life for good and refused to re-enter it, nearly to the day.
The amount came out to $39,310.18
“Fuck. Fuck!” Ben exclaimed. He got up and began to pace the room, gasping for breath.
“Ben, calm down.”
“What the fuck is going on!”
“Ten years ago she started working at Dvorak Group.”
“No, ten years ago she got fired, Val. She was just a kid. Fucking 20 years old. Not a mastermind!”
“Ten years interest on $100,000…” Val began, trying to piece together the puzzle. “I don’t know, maybe she was a plant?”
“A cafeteria worker? No, if anyone screamed ‘I’m a plant’ it was Melanie, not Cynthia.”
“Maybe… he bribed her to quit? Paid her to leave you alone?”
“Bring him in here. I want to talk to him. Right now.”
“Ben, you know very well that won’t do us a bit of good.”
“He fucked me,” Ben sneers. “Didn’t I tell you? It was 100% him the entire time. I can’t believe I ever listened to a word out of his mouth.”
“If she left you for six figures, then he did you a favor. That’s kind of worse than what we thought, isn’t it?”
Ben thinks for a moment, the blind rage rising again. But it’s snuffed out again, like before.
He shakes his head, a healthy trust growing for this feeling of his. “There’s gotta be more to it.”
“Ben. Don’t go digging up skeletons, making them out to be romance.”
“What the hell did you show this to me for, if not to dig up skeletons?”
“To show you that Cynthia was bad news. Is still bad news. They were obviously in some kind of cahoots. I thought after ten years, you wouldn’t still have stars in your eyes.”
“Maybe I liked the stars, Val. I was a kid too, I was allowed to have them. Maybe I just don’t appreciate that my fucking father paid to have those stars forcibly removed.”
“Does it have to be this Romeo and Juliet scenario? Although, I have to say it’s rather touching. I didn’t know there was still a romantic in there.”
“I certainly don’t believe that dogshit story Dad told me anymore.”
“Yeah, but comic book villain isn’t dad’s style. It was always a slight omission of the truth that did the most damage.”
“She never betrayed me. Or, I don’t know. Maybe she did but… she never forgot.”
Extortion + interest, the memo read. Ben smiled, a warmth coming over him for the first time in a long time.
Cynthia. She’s probably made it her life’s mission to pay that money back. He was never angry, but for the first time in ten years, it was starting to make sense.
But now he has a frightening possibility in front of him— contacting her for the first time in ten years.
He’s never felt so pukey about the prospect, and that was saying something. But he suddenly has more courage than he ever had to do it. If he couldn’t find absolution, he could at least find answers.
“Well, I know I’m not going to be able to stop you from doing whatever you’re about to do, but just be careful, Ben. You’re the de facto CEO of the company now. You can’t afford to be naive about saboteurs.”
“The only saboteur is upstairs shitting himself right now. And I don’t have to worry about him. Not anymore.”
2
Present Day
“So, I finally wrote that ba-jon deh check, mom.”
Cynthia Gordon finally speaks after sitting wordlessly at her mother’s grave for a few minutes, her sleek dark hair whipping about her face in the wind. She tames it with her smooth fingers, her rich light brown skin like a pleasant, permanent tan.
She changes the old roses out for the fresh flowers she brought, this time orange lilies, brilliant and stark against the cold gray of her mother’s burial stone.
“$139, 310. And 18 fool cent. How yuh like ‘dat, eh?” she smiles. “I know I could’ve done it earlier, but. I wasn’t about to put the business in jeopardy just to give some old white man the finger. He makes that in an hour. But me, mama. Would you have ever imagined?”
She chuckles a bit, her blue-gray eyes shiny with memories.
“Of course you did. I always imagined doing it in person though, y’enuh? Go right up to the top floor of that building an’ give ‘em deh lengt’ ah mih tongue. I even had a little speech ready: ‘Hey, asshole, thanks for the loan. I know yuh meant it for evil, I know yuh took me fuh dotish, enuh?’” Cynthia speaks in her mother’s Grenadian patois, Cynthia’s last familial link to it now buried.
“'So here’s every cent of it back, plus interest.’ But then the day came and I couldn’t do it. Every time I go in the city, it makes me sick to even go past there. I even saw Benji once or twice,” she said, distracted for a moment. “First time it was like lookin’ a jumbie. Saw that kilketay walk a’ his, and fuh true, I almost did a catspraddle right smack in deh street, enuh. Started stalkin’ him online a likkle bit, enuh. He looks good. Engaged. Again. He was in the news the other day. I guess the boss man is getting ready to retire.”
Cynthia feels a now familiar ache when she thinks of the criminally attractive, well-to-do, not-quite-boyfriend of her youth. It was pure puppy love. What her classmates lived for on the Jersey Shore in the summers. But it was much more than any of her classmates would’ve dreamed up for themselves.
At the time, she considered it compensation for missing out on the class trip, on freshman year at college, all the milestones she’d childishly looked forward to, back then. Maybe that’s why she threw caution to the wind like she never had, and likely never will again. She was making up for the time she thought she lost. A lot of good it did her.
No, she shouldn’t say that. Not like that. Take it back, she thought to herself.
“Anyway, it’s done. ‘Dead up,’ daddy would say. I don’t owe that family a damn thin
g anymore. That sure was a beautiful house we bought though, wasn’t it? Even when it was a piece of shit. Seems like a million years ago.”
The wind blows her tears sideways before they can fall.
“Well. I should go, I’m up to my eyeballs in deadlines, mama. I know I haven’t been able to visit like I used to. I’m sorry about that. I’ll try to be back next week, okay?”
Cynthia leaves her mother’s side, reluctantly to leave her where she lay in the cold ground. She always hated being outside in the cold.
Thankfully her current project is close by. When she pulls up, just looking at it causes her to groan, though it is beautiful. But like any bad headache, the pain starts to make you wonder why you value anything.
She looks at the muddy front yard in dismay. From the looks of it, the big reveal is officially going to be delayed by at least 30 days. She rubs her worried forehead.
She gets out of her car and her project manager Gabe is already anticipating her mood.
“It’s further along than it looks, I promise.”
“I hate being behind schedule, Gabe. That’s why I hired you, Gabe.”
“I know.”
“It’s why I became a realtor, so I wouldn’t have to wait on a fucking realtor. It’s why I let you talk me into completely cancelling out that decision by then hiring my own realtors. Gabe. So I could just focus on design, get selective with our projects. And then we could catch up. Isn’t that what you said? Gabe?”
“Okay, first of all, thank you for giving me the credit for single-handedly turning you into a prominent, in-demand, full-time designer. Secondly, watching you work your fingers to the bone when you could be handing those things off to someone else is my personal pet peeve, and you know that.”
“But ah get it done, Dan. Dat’s why ah like t’be doin’ it, enuh. Lef tuh me, dis one set ‘ah lazy man wuk ends now fuh now,” Cynthia remarks in a rare island creole that Gabe was starting to understand more and more. It doesn’t matter what she’s saying. Its presence means she’s in the mood to fire someone.
She follows him inside, where the cabinets that are primed for paint and trim soothe her panic.
“How? Hooowww, Gabe. Today was supposed to be open house, did you know that?”
“It all started with the countertops.”
“The damn countertops,” she laments, “I mean, it was a week delay. It was harmless.”
“Well, then it rained.”
“The fuckin’ rain. The rain is to blame.”
“If we’d have just gotten the Carerra marble, we’d be on time. Early even.”
Cynthia lays herself on top of the gold Calacatta countertop with her hands outstretched, as if it’s a dinosaur at Jurassic Park. Gabe just laughs.
“Gabe, what am I doing wrong that I can’t seem to catch up? We left plenty of room for contingencies.”
“Perhaps we should stop doing that,” her project manager suggests.
“I like the way you think, Gabriel. Next time, we make these fuckers deliver our shit on time, or else they don’t get paid and I’m sending you to IKEA.”
“Sound like a plan to me, boss.”
“Did we close on the Moss property?” she asks as she surveys the dining room.
“Still waiting on the final inspection to come back.”
Cynthia gives a slow turn towards Gabe as though in disbelief.
“They should’ve just used our guy.”
“They should’ve used our guy.”
“This is going to be a shit show. I’m gonna see if Shelly can call the engineer, start pulling permits as soon as they call us back and tell us it’s a no-go. Which they will do. I can’t afford more than a two-week delay on this as it is.”
“I told you anything other than a cash buy was going to be a nightmare.”
“I don’t care, I want this house.”
“Since when do you get emotional about a buy?”
“Since I can afford to. It’s not every day you find your dream house.”
“I think you mean ‘soon-to-be-someone-else’s’ dream house.”
“Semantics.”
“I honestly don’t see what’s so dreamy about it. The thing is sinking, and it has the tiniest, most unfunctional kitchen I’ve ever seen. We’re probably going to lose money it.”
“We won’t. It has a carport.”
“You’re lucky it’s just outside the historical district. It’s a municipal nightmare as it is. And it’s ugly.”
“Gabe, it has a goddamned carport. Honestly, it’s like you don’t even hear me when I talk.”
“You got it for next to nothing, and you still paid too much. Did I mention it’s ugly?”
“Gabe, you are a practical realist, and a champion with planning and punctuality. I think we should continue speaking two separate languages with each other. It builds character.
“I’ve never seen someone get so wrapped up in a property when designing them. Honestly, I don’t think it’s good for you. I’d tell you to get formal training again, but I doubt you’ll listen to me.”
“Lots of people with formal training never get to where I am.”
Suddenly she notices her assistant calling.
“Caira, what’s up?”
“You just got a call from a potential client.”
“Caira, you know we’re not taking private design jobs right now.”
“Well… that’s why I called. He’s not taking no for an answer.”
Cynthia’s heart skips a beat.
There aren’t a lot of men left these days who aren’t taking no for an answer. And she only knows one.
Sol Dvorak kept tabs on Cynthia in the first few years. He sent a gift when Indigo Properties opened, a thinly veiled threat of a gesture. A large bouquet of flowers when her mother died signaled to her that there was nothing that happened that he didn’t know about.
He’s obviously received her check.
“Is it the Dvorak Group?”
“How’d you know?”
“Was it him or his office?”
“It was Mr. Dvorak. He says it’s for his personal residence.”
Oh no.
“Solomon Dvorak wants me to design for him?”
“No, it’s the son.”
Oh no. Oh hell no.
Maybe it’s not Benji, maybe it’s… Grant.
“The perpetually engaged one?”
“Yes.”
“Shit,” Cynthia closes her eyes.
Benji?? Since when is he privy to his father’s private correspondence?!
“Tell him we politely decline.”
“Tell him what?!” her project manager furrows his brow, looking at her with dismay. Cynthia makes a habit of running all her jobs by Gabe, but this one she simply isn’t willing to take. He’s already heard the name. He isn’t going to be happy.
“You want me to tell Benjamin Dvorak that we decline his business?” Caira confirms, politely implying that her boss might be insane.
“Yes, Caira, I do. No means no. We’re not taking private design jobs right now.”
“Hold on… you know more than one Dvorak? Personally??” Gabe marvels.
Cynthia put Caira on speakerphone so that she wouldn’t have to repeat herself.
“Caira, you there?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Is he waiting for your response?”
“I told him I would contact you personally and then get back to him.”
“Did he tell you any of the specs?”
“It’s in Scarsdale. 3,100 square feet, he wants the kitchen and all the bathrooms done.”
“What year was it built?”
“Dunno, but the subdivision is less than 5 years old.”
“Okay. Tell him, that it will be at least a year before we can fit him in.”
“Cynth,” Gabe looks at her in disbelief.
“What if he doesn’t accept that?”
“He has no choice.”
“Okay… but what if h
e doesn’t?”
Caira’s demeanor is bringing back all the disgusting feelings she felt being at the Dvorak Group. They’re the type of family that gets whatever they want. They were ruthlessly privileged.
She doesn’t know how closely Ben is following in his father’s footsteps, but she does know that he would eventually find a way to get what he wanted. Wouldn’t have to sweat, threaten, or even raise his voice. All he’d have to do was pay some money. If that didn’t work, then he’d find whatever it is you cared about— buy him, her or it— and hold that over your head to get it.
Cynthia knows she risked a run-in by someone, paying that money back. She doesn’t know what to make of Ben contacting her instead of Sol. He seems to have figured out something about the deal.
And, of course, he would take his sudden discovery to instantly mean that she wanted him to start contacting her out of the blue and bothering her. Because, of course, that’s what everyone wanted, right?
He’s flaunted his international women of color in her face for the past five-ish years. Cynthia tries to take it in stride— considers it a form of flattery even— but part of her is pretty sure he’s trying to ingratiate her with his life decisions.
And now, the first time he reaches out to her in a decade, he wants her to design for him and his fiancee’s love nest?? The notion is slowly eroding her afternoon.
“If he still doesn’t take no for an answer, tell him I require a half million dollar inconvenience fee.”
“Holy shit, Cynth what is your deal??”
“My deal is that I meant what I said about no new clients. These rich types aren’t used to hearing the word ‘no’ and they think they can buy the world. So that’s my price.”
“Okey-doke,” Caira says apprehensively before hanging up.
“They sure put a bee in your bonnet,” Gabe says, referring to her previous work history.
“I wasn’t there long enough for all that, but let’s just say I saw enough.”
* * *
Benjamin Dvorak stares at Cynthia Gordon’s business card, the one he received from his senior VP after she rehabbed their home.
“Hold all my calls,” he tells his assistant. He flips the thick ply in his hands and thumbs the name across the top for twenty minutes.
