Pure Abandon

by Jeannine Colette

  “Who do you think pays your salary?” Gabriel puts the iPad on his lap and looks over at me. “I bet ten cents to every dollar goes to charity and your company pockets the rest. No one does anything for free,” he says matter-of-fact.

  “Gabriel.” My voice is stern. He knows I don’t want to hear anything negative about my job.

  “Kat…” He is patronizing me. “I’m a lawyer. Trust me. Your company is making bank on this.”

  I know he’s right, but it bothers me he’s such a realist. Gabriel is a tax fraud defense attorney. And I’m not talking about people who forgot to pay their taxes last year and are being hit up by the IRS. Gabriel represents high-profile clients who hide more money from the United States Government than you and I will probably make in a lifetime… combined.

  Gabriel continues. “What else did you expect working for a company run by Alexander Asher?”

  How does he know who Alexander Asher is?

  “You know who my new boss is?”

  “Uh, yeah. Did you expect me not to?”

  “Well, kind of.” I’m too embarrassed to say I don’t know who he is.

  “The Asher family is synonymous with grandiosity, consumption, and gluttony. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m doing some tax litigation for them down the road.”

  Just what I need, to be out of a job as soon as I found a new one. “Doesn’t matter. I have a meeting with the man on Friday, but other than that, he doesn’t bother with the company.” I turn my attention back to the TV. Why can’t all men be as debonair as Cary Grant?

  “It sounds very exciting.” Gabriel rubs his hands over his eyes. “More so than what I have going on. I have miles of paperwork to go over. Tax fraud. Why would anyone commit it? I’ll never understand.” When his eyes are thoroughly rubbed, he lifts the iPad off his lap and goes back to reading.

  The frustration in his voice, mixed with despair, causes me to look over at him. The poor guy works too hard. “You don’t sound too sure about this one.”

  “This guy is paying a lot of money to stay out of prison. I’ll get a good deal, but it’s going to take a lot of work.” Gabriel looks up at me with his cobalt eyes. “Kat, you have to see what this guy wrote off. He owes the government three million dollars in back taxes.”

  I nearly choke on my words. “Three million!”

  “This case is going to be the death of me. And he recently bought into some lucrative businesses, so if he goes down, a lot of people will lose their jobs.” Gabriel runs his fingers through his dark hair. “I’ll be working some late hours in the weeks ahead. I hope Jack won’t suffer because if it.” He looks concerned, his eyes tired.

  “Are you okay?” Placing my hand over his, I rub my thumb over his knuckles.

  Lifting my hand to his lips, he brushes a kiss over my knuckles. “Yes. Thank you.” Gabriel puts the iPad back on the nightstand. He lets out a quiet laugh and shakes his head lightly. “Do you remember when all we wanted was to move to the Caribbean and sail for the rest of our lives?”

  “It seemed like a brilliant idea.” My voice is slightly low pitched with a tone of sarcasm.

  The sight of Gabriel with a dark tan, no shirt, and a carefree smile made me weak in the knees when we first met. He still looks great underneath his business suits, but that life we dreamt of wasn’t practical.

  Gabriel opens his mouth to say something but retracts and nods his head in agreement. “We may have been young and dumb, but we certainly had it all figured out,” he says, turning off the lamp on his side of the bed and rolling away from me. “Good night.”

  “Good night.” I sigh as I relax into our comfortable bed. Tonight, it’s just me and An Affair to Remember.

  I spend my first few days getting settled into my new position and working with Heather to plan an event at David Geffen Hall. Every year, as a kid, I would go to Lincoln Center with my mom. It was our only common interest. I love the arts and so does she. She would get us both dressed to the nines and we’d see the ballet or a concert. I know the venue fairly well. Back then it was called Avery Fisher Hall. After a sizeable donation from the famed entertainment mogul, David Geffen, the building was renamed. I like to think of it as injecting Hollywood glamour into the New York classical scene. That is my inspiration for the event. Once Erik said we were having an event there, I knew exactly what I wanted to do.

  I walk my files into Heather’s office. Since we’re both producers on the project, we have to collaborate on everything. While my office is stark white, void of a personality, Heather’s is decorated in plum and aqua accents. It’s an interesting combination that looks pretty cool, although I’d never tell her that. Her office is the same size as mine, but her walls are painted a deep mauve with white shelving behind her desk displaying pictures of herself with what seems to be every celebrity she’s ever met.

  On the wall to the right is her glass desk and black Herman Miller chair, the same as mine, but her accent chair opposite her desk is aqua blue with a white-and-purple pillow. Her desk is cluttered with a purple vase of blue faux flowers, a penholder in the shape of a zebra, date planners, files, purple Post-Its, and a very impressive Emmy positioned so you have no choice but to see it as soon as you walk into the door.

  Her windows are covered with floor-to-ceiling curtains of coordinating colors, and the left wall upon entering is filled with mirrors in ornate frames of various sizes and shapes.

  Aside from telling me to enter, Heather doesn’t acknowledge my presence when I take a seat, lay my files on my lap, and open them, ready to start our meeting.

  She’s wearing a pale-pink tube dress with a navy bolero. Her hair is in a high ponytail, showcasing giant gold hoop earrings. She takes her time typing out an email as I sit patiently and wait.

  “Okay, let’s hear it,” she spits out, her eyes still on the computer screen as she types.

  I blink a few times. Is she talking to me? “Hear what?”

  “Your ideas. Go.” Her voice is clipped.

  I take a deep breath and remind myself what Malory told me. She thinks I’m here to take her job. I’ll just be friendly and let her know I’m not a threat.

  Opening my file, I look down at my notes and start. My voice is slightly unsteady, as it’s difficult to talk to someone who is looking in another direction. “Since we don’t know who the performers are, I thought we could get started on the aesthetics of the event. The red carpet will be filmed for web distribution. And we’ll have reporters there to photograph the arrivals, so we should set the tone right there.”

  I look up and see Heather is still focused on her computer screen. She is no longer writing an email, but is now looking at shoes on the Bergdorf Goodman website.

  I continue. “I want to go glam. This is a charity event, but it’s a premiere charity event. Let’s have a black carpet. A red carpet is very Hollywood movie premier. A black carpet will—”

  “Look disgusting,” Heather quips, finally turning to face me. “It’s a children’s charity telethon, not a Goth horror show.” She turns her attention back to her computer. “Next.”

  I look back at my notes. “I was thinking of lining the walkways with dahlias for—”

  “Next.” The word stretches out in mock annoyance.

  Okay, I am not going to win today on anything that has to do with the arrival area. I skim through my notes and come to a particularly great idea. “The event is to benefit children’s music programs. Why don’t we invite a musical prodigy to perform with each musical act? We’ll pick the kids based on the genre of music. Like an awesome pianist playing with Coldplay or a clarinet aficionado alongside Chris Bode.”

  Heather’s eyebrows ride up. She doesn’t give me any clue to her thoughts on the idea, but she hasn’t easily dismissed it either. She plays with one gold hoop before she finally spits out, “I’ll consider it.”

  Thank God. I was beginning to think we weren’t going to agree on anything.

  “It’s a half-assed idea, though.” She t
urns to me and tilts her head to the side like she’s talking to a baby. “Do you really think A-list performers are going to want to be upstaged by some child prodigy?”

  My mouth drops. Man, she is such a bitch.

  Heather takes out her Kate Spade handbag from beneath the desk and places her date planner in it. “You can leave now.” She waves at me in a shooing motion. “I have somewhere else I have to be.”

  I blink back at her a few times, trying to decide if I should say something or just leave.

  When I was in grammar school, I had to constantly hear people talk trash about my dad. He was a pitcher for a major league baseball team, and when your parent has a famous profession, people think they can tell you their personal feelings about them. I get it. I do. If my dad pitched a crappy game, they called him a bum, followed by a few expletives. What they didn’t recognize was my dad was a part of a team and the entire team has to work together to win. They also failed to realize it was exactly that, a game. Someone had to win and someone had to lose. It’s the risk you take.

  But what irked me the most was how people would take their aggression out on me just because I was his daughter. I mean, my hairdresser’s kid went to my school and I didn’t talk trash to him because his mom gave me a bad haircut.

  I spoke to my dad about it. He was an amazing soundboard. I felt bad telling him things the kids at school were saying about him. But you know what he did? He laughed. He laughed so hard he almost fell off my bed. I couldn’t believe how little he cared.

  And it was in that moment he gave me the best advice. He told me to do what he does when he’s on the mound.

  Breathe, Kat. Just breathe.

  So that’s what I do.

  I take a few deep breaths and let Heather’s dismissal roll off my shoulders and head back to my office.

  I can’t go to Erik and complain. Who wants to be known as the whiney new girl? Next week, after everyone gets to know me better, I’ll start to voice my opinion professionally. This week, I’ll just lie low.

  Throwing my files in the garbage, I say to myself, “I’ll start fresh tomorrow.” A calendar reminder pops up on my computer reminding me I have a meeting with Alexander Asher tomorrow. After my meeting I’ll be able to come back and drum up some new ideas.

  As for today, I don’t have a lot to do, as most of my work is contingent on other people getting their parts of the concert moving and then I pick up from there. And what I can get started on is being hijacked by Heather. So, lucky for me, I can head home well before the sun is down.

  As expected, Gabriel has worked late every day this week. He is dead set on making partner. If he does, he’ll work even longer hours and then he’ll be trapped for the rest of his life in a job he doesn’t like.

  Each night, after Carmen leaves, I take Jackson for a walk in the park. The early summer weather makes for warm evening strolls. As we wander, I point out everything I see… trees, cars, kids, people. Jackson sits up in his stroller, facing me, taking it all in.

  And each night, it’s the same routine: bath, bottle, and bed. While I can sit and talk to this little man for hours, it melts my heart to watch him sleep. He is so peaceful and full of hope, my hope for a beautiful future for this little boy.

  As I lie in bed, about to close my eyes, the downstairs door opens. Gabriel is home. I hear him walk up and, like every night, he heads straight for Jackson’s room. I roll over and look at the baby monitor. I see Gabriel lean over the crib and caress Jackson’s face with his hand, gentle and soothing, not to wake him. He heads over the rail and gives Jackson a soft kiss on the forehead before exiting the room, silently closing the door.

  Gabriel opens our bedroom door and heads straight into the walk-in closet. I hear him changing, kicking off his shoes and hanging his suit up. He finishes, closing the closet door, wearing only basketball shorts and sneakers.

  Glancing at the clock, I see it’s after ten. Gabriel grabs his iPod off the dresser and places earbuds in his ears before walking out the bedroom door. I lay my head back down on the pillow and wait in the darkness.

  The train glides along the tracks as my first week at my new job comes to a close. I put my headphones on and listen to the sweet sounds of Ed Sheeran. His soft English accent plays in my ears, singing about a girl who messed with his heart. I look down at the paper and read the day’s gossip. I’m a Page Six junky. I never read the society pages since I don’t know who anyone is. It’s the celebrity dish I’m into. Looks like another Hollywood actor is sleeping with another Hollywood costar.

  I planned on getting to the office early to prepare for my meeting with the new boss, but my train was delayed. Not a surprise for the Long Island Railroad. It can turn a standard forty-minute commute into a two-hour expedition. If Gabriel and I had more than one car, I’d have taken it. Instead, he drove to Connecticut for a meeting and I’m running late.

  And to round it all out, after days of blue skies and sunshine, dark, nimbus clouds have rolled in and as soon as I step foot on to the train, the heavens decide to open up. This isn’t just rain; it’s a torrential downpour. Raindrops pound on the roof of the train car. I can hear it through my headphones regardless of the music streaming in my ears. Hopefully it will let up by the time I get off, because I have forgotten my umbrella.

  When the train reaches Penn Station, I exit and walk up the concrete steps that lead to the central arena where thousands of people exit and enter every day, traveling in and out of the city.

  Working my way past a sea of people walking in various directions, I finally navigate over to the underground maze that is the New York City subway. I transfer to the crosstown E train, hoping to avoid having to walk outside as much as possible. The subway’s doors are about to close as I approach, so I rush and squeeze my body into the sardine-packed car, hoping all limbs and belongings made it through.

  There is a man singing gospel music on the other end of the car, panhandling for a cup of coffee. If I were closer, I’d give him a dollar.

  The subway ride is the fastest part of my commute. Almost the entire car gets off at my stop, and I struggle not to get trampled. I reach the turnstile and pray the rain has finally subdued. Instead, I am staring at a rush of water pouring down the stairwell.

  Most of the people have started walking toward another exit, but I’m running late. If I wasn’t meeting with my boss’ boss, then I’d turn around and head out the other exit. Today, I have somewhere to be. I take off my shoes and dash up the stairs two at a time. Disgusting, I know, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Once at the top, I slide my shoes back on, heading north and trying desperately to shield myself with the hood of my raincoat. Every other rainy day in New York, there is a vendor selling cheap umbrellas on the sidewalk, but not today.

  UGH! Of all days!

  Better anyway since they always fall apart as soon as you use them.

  I stand at the corner of Lexington Avenue and wait for the light to change. The rain is coming down and despite the warm air, my toes are getting cold from being wet.

  I stand and wait, counting the seconds until the little hand of the DO NOT WALK sign tells me to cross. The skies open up even more and the rain falls so loud you can’t even hear yourself think. People take cover, and I prepare to run across the street.

  That’s when it hits me like a tidal wave filled with soot. I am covered from head to toe. A car has slammed into a pothole filled with water, creating my own private waterfall.

  “Ahhh!” My arms fly up as I scream in surprise. Pedestrians on the corner look at me in shock, thankful it wasn‘t them.

  The car quickly pulls over and comes to a stop. A man jumps out of the backseat; another man follows him, carrying an umbrella. The first man takes the umbrella and signals for the other to wait in the car.

  “Are you okay?”

  Do I look okay?

  “My driver didn‘t mean to get you. I couldn‘t believe it. It was like it was happening in slow motion.”

&n
bsp; My body curves in at the feel of water soaking through my coat. “You couldn‘t believe it was happening? I can’t even…” I try to compose myself as the urge to cry takes over me. “I have a really important meeting this morning and…” I don’t even know what to say.

  The rain is relentless. My hair is soaked, I’m covered in backstreet muck, and this stranger is kindly trying to cover me with his umbrella.

  “Let me take you to where you have to go,” he shouts over the rain. “You can dry off on the way.”

  I look at him, weary. Get in the car with him? Is he kidding?

  He can sense my resistance.

  “I’m not a psycho. I promise.” He holds out his hand, the umbrella temporarily covering neither of us. He pulls it back in place and gestures to himself with his free hand. “Look, I have a nice suit, a personal driver. I’ll even give you my cell phone to hold in case you feel the urge to call the cops.” His lip curls up to the side like he’s sneering at me, mocking me.

  “I’m not usually this nice of a guy, so either get in now or stand here in the rain.”

  I weigh my options. I can try to run the few blocks in the rain or get in the car. He looks harmless, and there is a driver to act as a buffer.

  The rain continues to pour down on me and I can’t even see the other side of the street. I must be out of my mind. I shuffle my feet and head into the car.

  Inside the black SUV and out of the rain, I realize just how wet I am. I pull out my compact and glance at myself in the mirror. I look like a wet dog.

  Mystery man has climbed in beside me. I am immediately overcome with the most delicious smell of tobacco and vanilla. It’s intoxicating and divine.

  “Where are we going?” He asks. For the first time, I get a good look at him. He’s… gorgeous. Beyond gorgeous. At least he doesn’t look like an ax murderer.

  “Forty-eighth and Third. The Asher Building,” I reply.

  He looks at me, puzzled, and motions toward the driver. His eyes never leave mine. “Devon, I believe we can honor this woman’s request.”