by Lisa Eugene
I almost snapped the stem of my wine glass. I shook my head. “I—I’m not really following the story.”
“The whole situation is tragic. I think he’s a saint for hanging in there for so long,” Brenda offered with a solemn shake of her head. “That poor woman. He’ll definitely get my vote. I can’t imagine what he’s been going through. Can you imagine? Your spouse in a coma for years, not knowing if she’d ever wake up?”
Gladys snickered, taking a sip from her glass. “If it were my husband, he would’ve pulled the plug years ago!”
Roslyn laughed cynically. “Don’t make the man out to be a saint. I’m sure Rutherford has lovers. He’s a man—a young, gorgeous man. And it has been five years.”
I swallowed hard, trying to think of a way to extricate myself from this dreadful discussion that only served to sharpen my stinging pain and guilt.
“But he’s still married,” Gladys countered. “He took an oath.”
Roslyn turned on Gladys. “According to what I read, she was pronounced brain dead five years ago and has been in a vegetative state. I don’t know if that still constitutes a marriage.”
“Marriage is ‘for better or for worse, until death do us part,’” Brenda said firmly.
“It depends on what you consider death.” Roslyn shook her head sadly. “With modern medicine we can keep someone’s body going, but that doesn’t mean they’re alive.”
“Who are we to judge?” Brenda said. “Some people do wake up from comas. I give Rutherford a lot of respect for not giving up on his wife.”
“I’m talking about quality of life,” Roslyn argued, growing militant. “Whether it’s extending life by artificial means, or withdrawing life support, who gives us the right to play God? Naturally, she would’ve died five years ago from her accident.”
Seeing that the conversation was rapidly heating, Gladys raised her palms. “Okay, ladies. Don’t get your panties in a bunch. Obviously these are very controversial issues. We all have a right to our opinions, but instead of listening to you ladies bicker, I’d rather hear Emmy play.”
She turned to me and grinned hopefully. I issued an internal sigh of relief, knowing my face must’ve been as white as a sheet. I blanched further when Gladys commented on the beautiful, black piano. With a bland smile, I stepped away to find my daughter.
Later that night, I sat alone in bed, listening to the quiet of my apartment and the clamor in my heart. I had a hard time sorting through my nebulous emotions.
There was the guilt of having a secret affair with a married man, the fury of being deceived, the anger at my own naiveté, the abysmal sadness for Chase’s wife’s circumstances, and then there was love—the most punishing and tormenting of emotions because of its influence over all the others.
A week later, the headlines announced Amy Rutherford had passed away, detailing the all too short life of a wonderful woman. She’d been a philanthropist, a beautiful socialite who’d been loved by many. Chase was painted as a devoted husband, a man who’d sacrificed, whose enduring love never allowed him to lose hope for his wife’s recovery. The story could’ve been a Lifetime movie. The public rallied behind Chase, grieved with him, and his popularity in the polls skyrocketed.
I sat on my couch reading the lengthy obituary, my heart filled to the edges with sadness and endless guilt.
Folding the newspaper, I placed it on the coffee table, then lowered my head and whispered a prayer for the woman I didn’t know. My thoughts instantly turned to Chase, and I grieved for his sorrow and loss.
Just thinking of him released the emotions I struggled with, emotions that awakened me in the empty hours of the morning to stare vacantly at the ceiling, emotions so strangling they could squeeze the breath from my lungs and ridicule common sense. I closed my eyes, trying to battle the painful onslaught.
A small noise made my lids spring open. Emmy stood in front of me, her head tilted in curious regard. I opened my mouth to speak, but she moved forward, curled her small body in my lap, and laid her head on my bosom. I dropped my chin on my daughter’s head, welcoming the unexpected comfort.
***
“It’s hotter than an ass crack out there!” Jolene snickered, entering through the back door of Le Coquille.
I looked up from the table where I was sorting menus and gave my coworker a huge grin.
“July is always brutal, but since I don’t have extensive knowledge of ass cracks, I fail to make the comparison.”
Jolene chuckled, placing her purse on the table. “Unfortunately, I do,” she returned without explanation, and I figured I was better off not knowing.
“You on break?” Jolene asked, pulling her uniform from a garment bag.
“Yeah, we had a lull so I decided to break now before the dinner crowd comes in.”
“Who’s hosting?”
“Philippe.”
A look of horror crossed Jolene’s face that was almost comical. Philippe was a gregarious man with a thick French accent and an undiscriminating tongue. Although abundant in smiles and business savvy, he lacked a certain finesse. He’d once offered a rather large woman a bigger chair, explaining logically that it would better accommodate her ample girth and well-rounded ass. The woman had been a German diplomat visiting with her Italian husband. Philippe had prattled on in French, puzzled why the woman had taken offense. The comment had almost incited an international incident. Feeling like the UN, I’d had to quickly diffuse the situation.
I usually worked as hostess on weekends, the restaurant’s busiest time. When I wasn’t hosting, I arranged the schedule for the wait staff, ordered supplies, and had most recently taken on the duties of the event planner for the restaurant’s exclusive private parties.
Waving away Jolene’s concern, I said, “He should be okay. It’s just for a few minutes. What harm can he do in such a short time?”
Just as the words jumped off my tongue, Philippe poked his head through the kitchen door, red-cheeked and frazzled. “Hurry, Danielle! It’s getting busy. Madness! It is like porcs fous at the gate!”
As quickly as he appeared, he disappeared. I turned to Jolene, confused. “Porcs fous?”
“Mad pigs,” Jolene translated with a worried look.
I frowned, fearing the answer to my next question. “He wouldn’t say that to the patrons, would he?”
“With a loud speaker. In several different languages in case they didn’t understand. Then he would oink to illustrate his point.”
Jumping to my feet, I mirrored Jolene’s look of horror and headed toward the dining room. This was yet another reminder why Philippe was not the front man.
I loved my job, and had to admit that my life was a little easier, a little brighter. Although, the constant ache in my heart hadn’t eased.
Chase still kept residence in my head, especially in the quiet of the night when the world receded, unveiling the honesty of my still brittle emotions. I didn’t understand how I could both despise and yearn for him—a dichotomy that sang empty echoes in my heart. But I tried to approach this as I approached life.
Shit happens. Deal with it.
My phone signaled a text and I quickly glanced at the number. Annoyed, I rolled my eyes and silenced it. Steven again. He’d been badgering me for money, now calling it a loan. I suspected his stool pigeon, Stanley, had told him about my new job because Steven was relentless. Anxious to be out of my apartment, I’d started looking for a new residence, but found nothing decent I could afford.
Entering the cavernous space of the main room with its opulent French decor, I quickly glanced around to gauge the crowd and the madness that had my boss frazzled. Apart from a few tables that had filled, and the party at the door waiting to be seated, things seemed relatively calm. Leave it to Philippe to exaggerate.
Searching for him, I found him by the front door engaged in conversation with Senator Kensington and a tall man whose precise height and breadth of shoulder was etched into my subconscious. Chase’s back was to me, but
my brain scrambled, forgetting to send signals to the rest of my body, and helplessly, I froze in place.
As if sensing my presence behind him, he slowly turned, and bombs exploded in my head when our gazes met and held. He looked gorgeous, was still impossibly compelling, still capable of deconstructing me with a single look. His tan slacks and light blue shirt set off his remarkable eyes, while drawing a handsome contrast to his thick, inky, black hair. I hadn’t seen him in weeks. I’d stopped watching the news and no longer followed his mayoral campaign. Although, I knew there were only a few months until the election.
Why is he here?
Could he not find another restaurant in all of New York City?
Chase’s gaze swept up and down my body like a blowtorch, scattering a riot of fiery embers. My gut burned with renewed pain. My jaw slackened, and all I could do was stare dumbly. There was a slight crinkling of his forehead, and his eyes darkened angrily before he turned away.
I blinked from my stupor, and found myself staring into Senator Kensington’s keen eyes. The expression on his face made my stomach quake. He looked away, but not before I saw his lips firm into a hard, pale slash. I remembered almost bumping into the man outside Chase’s office, the words he’d said to me. God, he was Chase’s father-in-law! He’d been Amy Rutherford’s father.
Had he known about Chase and me?
“So where are the mad pigs?” Jolene joked, coming up behind me, now smartly outfitted in black and white.
I forced a smile and laced my trembling hands together. I needed to get away before Philippe spotted me and called me over. He would remember that my glowing recommendation had come from Chase Rutherford.
“Can you take care of the party at the door? I just got an important call I have to return,” I lied quickly. “You can seat them in a private room, that way they won’t be disturbed.”
“Holy Hotness, isn’t that Chase Rutherford?” Jolene’s eyes bulged.
“I-I think so.”
She eagerly agreed, and I hurried away. I didn’t think I could endure being in the same room with him for one more second. The private room had been for my benefit. Seeing him had shaken me. Just when I thought I was moving forward with my life, one look at Chase Rutherford had me hurling backwards into an emotional free fall.
No, life was not any easier, and didn’t seem like it would get brighter any time soon.
***
CHASE
I’m not sure how I got through the last several weeks. I think I only existed in the violent throes of two emotions: Anger and grief. And their grip was so suffocating that I could barely surface to breathe. Oh, there was the condemning guilt. How could I forget? Guilt because no matter how much I grieved for my wife, I grieved more for my woman. I lost a part of myself when Amy drowned five years ago, and more when I put her in the ground just a few weeks ago, but so help me God, I think I lost my very soul when Dani walked out of my life. Or perhaps I’d lost it the moment I fell in love with her.
For sure I’ve lost my mind.
I plodded through the painful funeral, feeling as though I was reliving the nightmare I faced five years ago. I functioned automatically, but when I should’ve been accepting condolences and spending time with mine and Amy’s family, I found myself parked across the street from Le Coquille, trying to catch a glimpse of Dani as she arrived to work, or left for the night. Instead of settling Amy’s estate and finally selling the brownstone on the Upper East Side we’d owned together, I spent hours plotting how to get Dani back.
My pain was visceral, my grief insurmountable, and my guilt wretched. The only way to numb them was to replace them with rage. Had our time together been a game to Dani? Had she felt anything at all for me?
Work was a salvation and as I’d done five years ago, I buried myself in it. I focused new efforts on Flex-Steel and building a campaign that was quickly gaining momentum.
Maybe, just maybe if I were lucky, I’d find that blissful numbness again that allowed me to get through the last five years.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“How about this one?” Wanda asked from behind the newspaper. “Charming, two bedroom. Needs a little love. Partial views of a park.”
I twisted my lips wryly. My hands paused from sorting through the mail. “Translation: It’s a dump that I’ll have to fix up. Probably needs to be decorated with a wrecking ball.”
“How about a cozy, rustic, one bedroom. It’s a few hundred less than the other one?”
I tucked back my hair, now longer and lighter with the summer sun. “That means it’s an old dump, and it’s still too expensive.”
Wanda sighed and lowered the paper. “I’m afraid there’s not much in your price range.”
“You mean there’s nothing free,” I answered dryly. Tearing open another envelope, I stared at my credit card statement. “Unless I can pay down more of these bills, my price range isn’t going to change anytime soon.”
The next envelope bore the Rutherford Academy’s lion crest. I ripped open the bill from the academy, feeling like I’d just paid it. My new job was great, but it seemed my money was spent as quickly as I earned it. Emmy’s pediatrician had just started her on new allergy medication that wasn’t all covered by insurance, and the last time the sink in my kitchen leaked, Stanley did a piss poor job of fixing it. I knew he’d botched it on purpose because I refused to pay him, but I’d ended up spending money on a real plumber to do the job.
Of course when Steven found out, he’d been livid. Apparently having a working kitchen sink was yet another extravagance I was spending money on instead of giving him the “loan” he needed.
Why are men such assholes?
Wanda started reading another ad, but I tuned out as my gaze quickly skimmed the letter from the Academy.
“Oh my God!” I exclaimed. “That bastard!”
Wanda peeked over the top of the paper, one brow raised. “That could be either one of two bastards. The bastard who torments you, or the bastard who . . . well . . . torments you. I guess both men share that honor. Is it the sexy, lying bastard, or the delinquent, drug-addicted bastard?”
I rolled my eyes at her commentary and pursed my lips. “Rutherfucker.”
“Ah.” Wanda nodded. “The sexy, lying bastard.”
“Wanda!” I yelled, not sharing her levity. “This is a bill for ten thousand dollars.”
“What? From the academy?” she asked incredulously.
“No,” I shook my head, my cheeks stinging with anger. “For fixing the dent in the door of his damn Bentley.”
“That’s crazy!”
I jumped off the couch, waving the letter in the air. “This is more than crazy. This is absurd. If he thinks he can get away with this, he’s got another thing coming!”
Wanda’s dark eyes followed me silently as I paced back and forth, my anger so consuming it radiated off me in waves. I stopped suddenly and pivoted to face my friend.
“Can you pick up Emmy from school for me?”
“What are you going to do?” Wanda asked slowly, her voice heavy with caution.
I grabbed my purse and stuffed in my keys. “I think I might have to make a few more dents!”
***
I crossed the gleaming lobby and sailed right past Miss Prissy’s desk, not slowing my steps even as the sour-faced receptionist jumped to her feet and scrambled behind me. I rolled my eyes.
Homegirl better not mess with me today . . .
I’d have to wipe that sourpuss right off her face—ghetto style. Soon I was through the mahogany doors and barging into Chase’s sun-lit office.
He sat behind his desk, his cell to his ear.
“I—I’m sorry, Mr. Rutherford,” Miss Prissy stammered from behind me.
Chase raised a palm, staying her words, then ended the conversation he was having. I approached his desk, the offensive letter half crumpled in my fist.
“What the hell is this?” I demanded.
He leaned back in his leather chair. If h
e was surprised to see me, he didn’t show it.
“Shall I call security, sir?” His receptionist asked smoothly.
I rolled my eyes and turned on the woman. “Why the fuck don’t you go back to your desk and call 911 because it’ll take more than security to drag my ass outta here!”
When I turned back to Chase, I thought I saw a smirk turn up the corner of his lips. He tethered our gazes while addressing his secretary. “That will be all, Julia. I think I can handle Ms. Carmichael.”
So we are back to Ms. Carmichael, now . . .
I didn’t wait to hear the door close before I geared up again. The familiarity of this office, his presence behind that desk, and the shock of his penetrating gaze provoked internal pandemonium. I let anger roll through me, stoked it, and used it to burn away all other emotions.
“What the hell is this?” I waved the paper in my hand.
He cocked his head. “Looks like a bill to me.”
“This is absurd! You know I don’t have the money to pay this!”
His jaw squared and his gaze flitted callously over my face. “Maybe you can have your new sugar daddy take care of it.”
Narrowing my eyes to a scowl, I leaned in. “I see what this is about. You’re being vindictive. You’re angry.”
He shot to his feet so fast that I drew back, sucking in a shocked breath. Quick as lightning, he was around his desk, bearing down on me with his impressive stature. “Damn right, I’m angry! I’m fucking livid!”
“What right do you have to be angry? I’m the one you deceived!”
“You gave up, Dani. You quit! You broke our contract.”
“Oh, so I was supposed to just keep fucking you? Keep hopping up on your desk? Keep performing for you like some circus show?”
“Don’t you dare cheapen what we had,” he growled.
