by Shenda Paul
“It’s small,” I say, apologetically, as he looks around my living room.
“It’s a nice place. Cozy; just what you need.”
“You’re in the bedroom; I’m sleeping on the sofa,” I tell him, leading the way.
“I can’t take your room. I told you I’d find a hotel.”
“Samuel, it’s the least I can do; please don’t fight me on this. I used the sofa before I got my bed; it’s pretty comfortable—well, for me, it is,” I say, letting my eyes pointedly roam over his impressive height.
“Okay, okay. Let’s see this balcony you’ve been boasting about.” He walks through the kitchen and opens the door to the outside.
“It’s great!” he calls out.
“Come on, it’ll take all of three minutes to see the rest of the place,” I joke from the kitchen, “and then we’ll have dinner. I cooked.”
“You what, Bain?”
“I can cook, Beauvais.” I glare at him.
“We’ll see, little girl,” he challenges, playfully tweaking my nose.
Dinner’s relaxed and pleasant. Samuel says the lasagne’s good, but I’m not satisfied. I badger him until he laughingly admits that I can, indeed, cook. I give up only when I’ve made him repeat himself several times, and then I question him about Nic and Flynn. I listen, enthralled, to his anecdotes about the little boy I’ve yet to meet. “We should fix that soon,” he tells me when I lament the fact.
I swallow the lump that’s suddenly lodged itself in my throat. “Thank goodness he’s too young to realize what a mess his Aunty’s made of her life,” I say, knowing I’ve just cleared the way for the dreaded conversation.
“Why? I mean, I know you needed the money, but there must have been another way?” Samuel looks so distressed, and I feel so ashamed, I wish the floor would open and swallow me.
“I tried; I really did. I was working three jobs and still only managing to survive and then Mom needed a wheelchair, and there’ll always be extra things she’ll need—”
“We could have sorted out something,” he protests.
“You have your own responsibilities, Samuel. I can’t ask my friends for money, and the kind we need for Mom is hardly insignificant. There was just no way I could keep dipping into our savings for Mom’s future; a bank wouldn’t grant me a loan—we had nothing more that I could sell, and I couldn’t find a job that paid enough.”
“Tell me how you got from looking for a job to doing that?” he asks, frustration and disbelief coloring his voice.
I explain how Sarah and Amy told me about the possibility of dancing at Liaison, how I auditioned and got a job as a dancer. When I talk about being sacked for refusing to escort, he draws his lips into a straight, angry line.
“Well, that, at least, was a smart move on your part. Why the hell did you go back?” he demands.
“Mom needed that wheelchair. She had sores,” I say, dashing away a tear. “It cost as much as a car. I had no other way of getting her what she needed.”
“Angelique, for God’s sake, Grace would happily have waited!” he snaps.
“I know,” I take a shuddering breath. “But she would have waited for years, maybe forever. She was getting sores, Samuel, didn’t you hear me? You know how dangerous that can be—what if she’d caught an infection? And without a wheelchair, she’d have to spend most of her life in bed; I couldn’t let her live like that. If you could see how much difference that chair’s made to her—” I’m openly crying now. He gets up to fold me into an embrace.
“I’m sorry I yelled. I’m not mad at you; I’m mad at the situation you found yourself in.”
“You are angry with me, and I don’t blame you. I must disgust you.”
“Okay, maybe I’m a little angry at you for not coming to me first, but you could never disgust me. I know what made you to it. You’re good, Angelique, and selfless. Tell me the rest; I promise not to get mad.”
True to his word, he doesn’t interrupt, and he tries his best to remain impassive, but his fists clench as he listens to the details of the employment contract I signed. The muscle in his jaw tics when I explain, without going into detail, about the lead-up to the exclusive agreement with Justin and his arrest. Finally, I tell him about being named as a person of interest and my interview with Adam Thorne.
Samuel wants me to get legal advice, but I share Sarah’s discovery and my feelings on the matter, and he seems to understand my reasons for not wanting a lawyer. Then, when I reveal Tom’s instructions not to speak to anyone, he gets angry again. He paces. It takes him about four strides to walk from one end of the room to the other, I note.
“I want to kill them—every fucking man at that club who’s ever touched you!” He spins to look at me. “They used you. I don’t see how you can say this Justin cares for you; he fucking doesn’t!”
I’m shocked. Samuel almost never uses bad language in front of Nic or me, well, in company generally; although, I have little doubt that, as a Marine, he must have indulged liberally.
“Sorry,” he apologizes when noticing my expression.
“You must see that he used you as much as this Joseph or the others. Having you at his beck and call exclusively was for his benefit, not yours, Angelique. He entered into that agreement because he didn’t want to share you, not because he cared about you. Don’t you see that? He kept you like a whore!”
I flinch at his blunt description. “He couldn’t be seen with me in public, Samuel; he’s a state senator,” I try to explain.
“He met you before you were that…. you just said so. He should have felt privileged to go out with you—even now. You need to listen to this prosecutor! Why the hell are you worried about protecting Justin Wade? He’s a rich, selfish prick—and no, I’m not going to apologize for cussing!” He huffs out a frustrated breath.
“I promised I wouldn’t, and, besides, I don’t want to do something that will make things worse for Justin. He’s in enough trouble as it is. I understand what you’re saying, but I can’t accept that you’re completely right. If it weren’t for Justin, I’d have slept with a lot more men…I’m sorry…” I whisper apologetically at his grim expression.
“Angelique, you and I will never agree on that point, so let’s not keep arguing, but I am asking you to think about it. Has he called to see if you’re okay? Has he shown concern for your reputation?” he demands. Try as I may, I can’t hide my discomfort.
“I thought not,” he says. “If he cared about you, he’d have found a way to contact you. You have to think about yourself. I know it’s in your nature to put others first, but you have to think of yourself now,” he says more calmly.
I don’t respond; I know this discussion isn’t over, but we’ve both had enough for tonight. We clean the last of the dishes in silence and then move to the living room to drink our coffee, well, in my case, tea. To lift our mood, I ask more about his job in the outpatient physiotherapy unit at Stamford Hospital, and then about the modest home he and Nic have bought and are struggling to renovate on their own. He visibly relaxes as he talks about their plan. I’m so happy for him; he sounds content and settled, and I tell him so.
“I am,” he says smiling brightly. He asks about my plans for the future and seems appeased when hearing that I’m considering college. He pushes about my financial status, and I tell him with what I’ve managed to save and that, with careful planning and my current jobs, I should have enough. I don’t say how tight things are or how dire it would be if we have another unexpected expense. I don’t know what I’ll do if that happens, but I’m determined not to travel the same path again. I can only hope and pray that, for once, good fortune prevails.
We discuss our plans for the next day, and Samuel’s delighted when I suggest we walk the two and a half mile Freedom Trail. We finally call it a night, and, after another argument about who should sleep on the sofa, he uses the bathroom before retiring to the bedroom.
I wake to the smell of bacon and coffee and race to the bathr
oom to brush my teeth and slip into yoga pants and a t-shirt before making my way to the kitchen. Samuel’s flipping pancakes. I can’t help smiling at the sight of the rugged-looking man with a tea towel tucked into the front of his jeans like an apron.
“I didn’t know you were so domesticated, Beauvais!” I say, startling him.
“Don’t sneak up on someone; you’re liable to get hurt.” He turns and mock-glares at me.
“Not everyone stomps around like they’re on a battlefield, you know.”
“And most people don’t go around on their tippy toes like a fairy.” He emulates tiptoeing with his fingers. I childishly poke my tongue out at him.
“I don’t usually indulge in such decadent breakfasts,” I say at his wide grin.
“It’s just pancakes and bacon. Sit; it’s just about ready,” he tells me, already starting to plate up. “Water’s boiled, but you’ll have to make your tea; I don’t know how you like it.”
“I’ll eat first. Can I put on some coffee for you?”
“There’s still enough in the pot. Eat,” he orders and joins me with an enormous plate of food.
Later that morning, we walk the Freedom Trail, which starts at Boston Common and ends at The Bunker Hill Monument in Charlestown. We stop at monuments like Paul Revere’s home, the Old South Meetinghouse. Samuel, being an ex-military man, knows most of the history and keeps me interested by adding little snippets of his own to the tour guide’s comments.
We stop for lunch, during which we discuss my predicament some more. I confess my after-dinner experience with Tom, and Samuel, predictably, wants to pay him a visit. He refrains from angry outbursts this time, which I’m thankful for. I know it’s not directed at me and that he’d never hurt me, but he can be incredibly intimidating when he’s mad.
We have takeout for dinner and end up watching two movies; first, an action-packed sci-fi he chooses, and when that’s finished, I insist on Pride and Prejudice with Matthew Mcfadyen, which I argue is necessary to balance the overload of testosterone I’ve just endured. He groans loudly, but I swear, he enjoys the movie as much, well, almost as much, as I do. We go to bed soon after.
On Sunday, I wake feeling somewhat forlorn. Samuel’s returning home this evening, and I’m going to miss him. The reason for his visit isn’t one either of us would have chosen, but I’m grateful, nevertheless, that he ignored my protests and came to see me. Last night, he promised that if I have to testify, he’d return for the duration of the trial. He also convinced me that I have to tell Mom and my other friends about the trouble I’m in.
He reminded me that they love me, that nothing would change that, and that Mom, particularly, would be even more devastated if I continued to withhold the truth from her. I reluctantly agreed and promised to tell her as soon as it becomes certain that I’ll be dragged into the trial.
Samuel also suggested that I move to Connecticut to be closer to both him and Mom. I told him I’d consider it, but that I couldn’t leave until after the trial. Adam Thorne made that point very clear. The truth is; I’m not eager to move. I love Boston; it makes me feel connected to Dad, and if, because of Dieter Quandt, I can’t live in New York, then I’d prefer to remain where I can feel some link to my father.
Samuel offers to take me to lunch. We have an argument about him spending even more money, but he calls in reinforcements by phoning Nic. She says she’s the one who insisted that he treat me. I spend some time talking to her and, of course, crying when we discuss the reasons that brought her husband here.
“So, where should we go?” he asks after we’ve both said goodbye to Nic and Flynn.
“I’m not a social butterfly you know. Let me get my laptop and see what we can find.”
“How about this?” I ask as he peers over my shoulder. “It looks nice and it says their menu’s seasonal and features the best produce from around the area. And look,” I point at a line of copy, “it’s modern American with a French influence, a perfect homage to your ancestry.”
“That takes care of one side of my gene pool, I guess,” he says, returning my grin. “But you’re right; it does look great. I’ll call while you get ready. I know how long it takes you women to get dress.”
“Hey, I don’t take forever!”
“Whatever, Bain. Just jeté or plié, whatever you lot in tutus do, and get ready, woman.”
I execute an elaborate pirouette. “You know it’s thanks to you, I can still do this, don’t you?”
“All I did was ride your ass, Bain. You did the work.”
“We did it together,” I remind him.
At the restaurant, a hostess shows us to a patio table. Samuel waits for me to sit, then slides into the seat across from me. A waiter arrives to take our drink orders before handing us a menu each, promising to return with our drinks and to take our orders then.
Samuel leans across the table to take my hand. “It’s so good to so you. I’ve missed you,” he says, being uncharacteristically sentimental.
“I’ve missed you too,” I confess and, squeezing his hand, give him an affectionate smile. “I’m so grateful that you made this trip.”
“Why wouldn’t I come when my baby sister needs me? Like I said, I’ve missed you—both Nic and I have, and even if you don’t move to Connecticut, you should visit. Flynn can’t wait to meet you.”
“I’m dying to meet him too; he’s so adorable…” I say, but something, no, someone, catches my attention. Stormy green eyes stare back at me from behind Samuel. I can’t quite decipher his expression—it could be anger, distaste, or a combination of both.
I manage to tear my gaze from his to look at his companion. She’s the woman photographed with him at the charity gala, the one the media called ‘the other half of Boston’s new power couple’. Wearing a red dress with lips painted to match, she oozes confidence. With her red hair, grey eyes, and striking beauty, she’s the perfect complement to his good looks. He’s still watching me, and, remembering his last comment, I raise a brow, daring him to think whatever he wants.
Samuel notices my distraction and turns around. His body stiffens the moment his eyes land on Adam Thorne. He turns to me with an angry scowl.
“Who is he? Is he bothering you?” he demands, and I know, instantly, that he thinks Thorne’s one of the men I’ve slept with. Afraid he’ll cause a scene, with a district attorney no less, I smile reassuringly. “No one to be worried about,” I say with a dismissive glance at the other table before giving Samuel my full attention.
As silly as it sounds, I swear I can tell the exact moment Adam Thorne looks away. It’s as if the invisible, live current that wrapped itself around me the moment I became aware of his gaze has suddenly been turned off. I sigh, relieved when the unsettling feeling drains away.
“Who is that guy? And don’t tell me he’s no one. I could feel the tension between you.”
“His name’s Adam Thorne. He’s the prosecutor, who interviewed me.” Samuel’s anger turns to curiosity.
“What aren’t you telling me?” he asks, watching me keenly.
“We met before the interview. I’ll tell you about it later.”
“What do you mean, you met before? Is he a member of that club?”
I can’t help my incredulous giggle. “There’s absolutely no chance of that, believe me. Later,” I say firmly, and he reluctantly drops the subject. I studiously avoid looking in Adam Thorne’s direction until my body, once again, alerts me to his movement. I glance up surreptitiously to see him lead his companion away. She hangs onto his arm and his every word.
As soon as we leave the restaurant, Samuel turns on me. “All right: spill!” he demands, and I tell him about literally running into Adam Thorne, and how I gave him a false name. He laughs uproariously.
“What’s happened to you since coming to Boston? The Angelique I met would never have done something like that.”
“Well, he was obnoxious and acted like I’d deliberately driven into his stupid car. I wanted to teach h
im a lesson,” I announce primly.
He raises both brows. “By committing a crime? You do know it’s illegal to drive away from the scene of an accident, don’t you?” he asks.
“He made me mad. And he said exactly that when he found out who I was.”
Samuel’s practically bent over with mirth as I relate the exchange between the prickly prosecutor and myself when he discovered my identity. He turns serious as he listens to me tell him about what happened next, particularly, his threat to declare me a hostile witness.
“What the hell does that mean?” Samuel demands, and I tell him.
“Angelique, this is serious. You need to listen to him—you don’t want this guy to be cross-examining you? Not if he’s as formidable as you say. You just said he’s called ‘the bastard’!”
“I made a promise, Samuel, and I’ve been taught to keep my word. I’ll think about it, but I can’t promise more than that. I can’t give up everything my parents taught me.”
He purses his lips, clearly unhappy with my response. “You have to leave soon, let’s just enjoy our last hours together. How about a walk along the Waterfront?” I suggest, linking my arm with his.
It’s a day since Samuel left, and my apartment feels empty without his larger-than-life presence. I’ve wandered around aimlessly when home, tidying things that aren’t out of place, feeling at a loss. Before he left, Samuel, again, tried to convince me to co-operate with the prosecution, and I have, as I promised, thought about it. Even at work, in the short breaks I’ve had between teaching and serving customers, I considered it.
Samuel’s right about Justin—if he cared at all, he would, at the very least, have sent a message through Tom. But feeling slighted is no reason to go back on my word, so I’ve decided that I won’t willingly testify. Should Adam Thorne force me to testify like he threatened, I’ll have to take the stand. I’ll answer his questions because I have no other choice, but I won’t willingly cooperate to help him bring Justin down.
