Deeper Illusions

by Jocoby, Annie

  The house was gorgeous. It was behind a gate, and we had to travel up a long drive to get to it. It was situated on the shore of the lake, and it was an enormous Mediterranean-style home. The façade was a salmon-colored stucco, and the house was all porticos, turrets, arches and huge windows. The living room was impeccable – 20-foot ceilings, walls of windows, and a marble fireplace on one end of the room. The floor was marble as well. There was a large tree in a pot that looked like some kind of palm tree. The furniture was Italian leather, and the coffee table in front of the sofa was glass-topped with a marble pedestal.

  I walked around the home, marveling at everything I saw. Above the fireplace was a Warhol original, and in the dining room were several Ansel Adams originals.

  The entire house was like this. Cool, modern, impeccably appointed. There was an Olympic-sized swimming pool out back, framed by palm trees and African violets. A hot tub was attached to the pool, and the pool had a bar in the middle of it that one could swim to. There were waterfalls out back, as well.

  I felt like I was in an episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous with Robin Leach. This was especially true as I knew that Lake Como was the haven for wealthy celebrities. I went out on the balcony and looked at the stars in the sky, and smelled the night air. It was a beautiful early fall evening, and I was with the most mesmerizing and magnetic man on the planet.

  Life was at its pinnacle.

  Ryan soon joined me out on the balcony, two glasses of wine in his hands. He gave me a glass, and we clinked it. “To a long and healthy life together,” he said, then kissed me. “Mmmm, you taste like wine,” he said playfully.

  “I wonder why?”

  He kissed me again, longer and more passionate this time. “You ready to go again?”

  “Always,” I said.

  “Get naked with me, and let’s get in the pool.”

  At that, we both stripped off our clothes and ran into the heated pool. I was glad that the pool was heated, because the night air was just a bit chilly. I certainly didn’t want to be a baby about it, though.

  Ryan picked me up and carried me around the pool, humming sweetly to me. “La, la, la, la, you’re my beautiful wife,” he sang. “God, that sounds amazing. Wife. You’re my wife. You’re no longer my girlfriend, but my wife.”

  I giggled, then he kissed me. “God, I want you,” he said. “But I can’t take you here in the pool. No lubrication.” At that, he pulled me up and carried me over to the lounge chair that was by the pool, and entered me right there. Waves of orgasms floated through me. I felt like I was in heaven, like nothing could ever touch us. Nothing bad had ever happened to us, and nothing bad could ever happen to us. We were invincible, laying here on the chaise, under the stars, entertwined.

  We were like this for the rest of the night, going into the house and making love in the enormous four poster bed. Nick’s bedroom was just as gorgeous as the rest of the house, and it had a balcony attached. The arched windows opened up into the balcony, and the curtains billowed in the breeze. The zephyr felt amazing on my skin, because I was getting so warm with every single touch.

  We couldn’t get enough of each other for the rest of the night, so we slept in the next day, exhausted and happy.

  We woke up the next day around noon, rented some bikes, and headed to Ryan’s winery. The bikes wouldn’t fit on the Lamborghini, of course, so we drove Nick’s Jeep.

  Ryan’s winery was in the Lombardy region, which was close to Nick’s home. We traveled some twenty miles to get there, through dusty streets. The building that housed the actual winery was built upon arches and porticos, and it had a more stylish look to it than many of the other wineries I encountered in the region. I walked in and saw enormous barrels lining the walls, and people milling about tasting the wine.

  Ryan was greeted by the workers there, bantering back and forth with them in Italian. They were slapping his back, obviously thrilled to see him.

  He brought me over to meet the manager of the place, Giuseppe. “Giuseppe, this is my new wife, Iris. Iris, Giuseppe.”

  “Ciao, bella,” he said. Then, in broken English, he said “Congratulations to you both. Welcome to Italy.” Then he laughed as he gave me an enormous bear hug.

  Then Ryan turned to me and said “Let me take you on a tour, then you can get a glass of whatever wine you choose. I hope you don’t mind sipping some wine while I talk to the people here. It’s been a long time since I’ve been here, so we need to catch up.”

  “No, no, of course not,” I said. “Here, just pour me a glass, and I’ll sit right over there,” I said, motioning to a small table and chairs that was just over to the side of the bar. “We’ll take our tour later.”

  I sipped my wine and watched them interestedly. Ryan fit right in, speaking rapid-fire Italian, and gesturing with his hands. The conversation seemed to be light and non-serious – there was plenty of laughter and back-slapping. A few times, I saw Ryan look at me with an enormous smile on his face, gesturing while he spoke Italian, and I wished I had some kind of clue as to what they were saying.

  It seemed that Ryan’s Italian was perfect, accent and all. It was if he was a native speaker.

  He came over to me with a wide grin on his face. “Everything’s great, beautiful. It seems that the people running my place have it all under control. Let’s take our tour.”

  He held my hand as we walked through the production room, then to the warehouse, and outside in the actual vineyard. It was beautiful and peaceful here, and remarkably busy. There were people everywhere, touring the vineyards, drinking the wine, chatting in a multitude of different languages. I hadn’t heard so many different tongues spoken since I vacationed in San Francisco several years ago.

  “You’ve done well here,” I said. “Your place certainly seems to be a hot spot.”

  “Yeah. All the credit for that has to go to Giuseppe and his team. I own the place, but I really am not active in the day-to-day operations anymore. So, the success of the place is directly attributable to them.”

  After we toured Ryan’s place, we got the bikes off the back of the Jeep, and pedaled through the Lombardy region. We stopped along the way at various wineries, sipping different varietals. Ryan explained to me the differences in the grapes, how they were grown, and how the different varietals were made. It was all very interesting to me, and he was a wealth of knowledge on the subject. I was starting to feel slightly drunk, and was a little nervous about pedaling while impaired, but went along, anyhow.

  We got back to the Jeep around dusk, after biking around fifty miles through some of the most beautiful country I had ever seen. “I’m proud of you,” Ryan said. “I don’t think that we have biked this far together before.”

  I just smiled, feeling exhausted and a little drunk. “Let’s head home, huh?”

  We got home, and made love, but only once. After we made love, we were both zonked. We didn’t even eat dinner.

  That entire week was like that one day. Every day was an adventure. One day we took the rented Lamborghini to Milan to see The Last Supper in the Santa Maria delle Grazie, which is a church and Dominican convent. Ryan had booked this particular tour a month in advance, knowing that this was a popular site. After we saw this most important painting, we drove to Venice to take a gondola tour through some of the Venetian canals. I laughed, telling Ryan that the closest I had come to such a tour was when I went to the Venetian hotel in Las Vegas. Now, I was doing the real thing.

  Another day we traveled in our rental to Genoa, where Ryan’s yacht, The Maggie, was moored. It was fifty feet in length, and had luxury appointments inside. The main area, down below, was like a living room – spacious, with white couches, a large dining area, and a full kitchen with granite countertops and new appliances. The bedroom had a luxurious king-size bed and walk-in closet. We both got into our suits and sailed out into the clear blue waters of the Mediterranean. We anchored in the water, and jumped in from the deck. We also took out two jet skis and buz
zed around in the water for a couple of hours, chasing each other around playfully.

  Another day trip we took in our Lamborghini, slightly longer, was to Rome. I wanted to see Vatican City, so we did. I marveled at the Sistine Chapel. I had only seen the mural on television and in pictures before, and it was so much more magnificent in person. I couldn’t believe the opulence and the wealth of the city, and was amused at the multitudes of cardinals and bishops who were walking around the grounds. We also rented scooters and visited the Trevi Fountain and the ruins of the Roman Coliseum.

  And the food and wine! There were no words. I was glad that we did so much walking, because we were eating such rich food all the way through the country. Pastas, pizzas, cannolis, white sauce, red sauce. It was all so delicious. The seafood dish I got in Genoa was divine, as the fish was freshly caught. The pizzas were different than what I was used to in America, for they were smaller and didn’t have red sauce. The cheese was also very light, compared to American pizzas. My favorite pizzas were the Marguerita pizza, with the tomato and basil, and anything with a lot of vegetables.

  I was feeling, during that week, that I had never been happier in my life. Each day I thought that nothing could ever top it, then the next day would come along and be even better.

  Of course, I could never dream that anything would come along and shatter our perfect bliss.

  I should’ve known better.

  Chapter Five

  It was on the seventh day of our honeymoon when it happened. I casually flicked on the television, looking for something to watch. Stretching and yawning, feeling sated after another night of love-making with my gorgeous husband, I flipped around the television.

  “Beautiful! Come back up here!” Ryan was calling me. “I’m not done with you yet!”

  Smiling, I tossed the remote aside, and started to head upstairs.

  However, hearing my name on the television set stopped me cold. I spun around, turning the set up. A world famous attorney was talking to a generic blonde anchorwoman on one of the 24-hour news channels.

  My blood turned to ice when I heard what he was saying.

  Blonde anchorwoman was asking him “But wasn't Ms. Anderson caught in the act?”

  “By her now-husband. He’s clearly lying. Besides, he’s a drug addict. He just got out of rehab, for the third time.”

  I was shaking. “Ryan! Ryan!” I screamed.

  Ryan heard my tone, and came running out of the bedroom, completely naked. “What's going on?” he asked.

  I said nothing. I could just point at the television. The attorney continued on. “He’s a drug addict, he got her involved in drugs. He couldn't tell her parents that, so he cooked up this absurd story about her being kidnapped by Ms. Anderson.”

  Both of us watched, horrified.

  “But she had all those marks on her body. Cigarette burns, whiplashes, deep gashes where she was slashed with a knife.”

  “The woman is a self-mutilator from way back. She was hospitalized three times for that. She obviously did those things to herself.”

  I could feel Ryan’s eyes now on me, boring into me. I was shaking. I couldn’t look at him. I could feel my face burning, red hot.

  Ryan didn’t say a word.

  Blondie continued. “But why would they accuse Ms. Anderson of this? She is a very well-known socialite, with a lot of connections. Why not just get some random person involved in this, instead of somebody like Ms. Anderson?”

  “Mr. Gallagher and Ms. Anderson had an affair when Mr. Gallagher was very young. It didn’t end well. Mr. Gallagher apparently saw an opportunity for revenge, and he took it. She is nothing but a scapegoat for Mrs. Gallagher’s self-mutilation and accidental overdose. Or, who knows, maybe it was an intentional overdose. Wouldn’t be the first time with her.”

  Again, I felt my face flush hot. I felt nauseated. Ryan was still staring at me, I could feel it. But I refused to look at him.

  “I understand that he was only 14 when he got involved with her.”

  “Right.”

  “Isn’t that a crime that she can be charged with?”

  “Statute of limitations has long since run on that one. There is no crime there to charge her with at this point.”

  “So let me get this straight. The theory is, as you understand it, that Ms. Gallagher mutilated herself, and overdosed on heroin. When Ms. Gallagher ended up in the hospital with an overdose, Mr. Gallagher cooked up this story to cover up the fact that she overdosed, because he got her involved with drugs. He implicated Ms. Anderson because he wanted revenge on her for seducing him when he was only 14?”

  “That’s exactly what I understand happened.”

  Blondie shook her head. “What a wild story.” Then, looking at the camera, blondie said “We will have further updates for you as the story progresses. Now, for the top story….”

  Ryan and I sat in silence, staring at the television. Neither of us said a word. My mind was surprisingly blank, and I had a preternatural calm, like when I was first kidnapped by Rochelle, and I thought that I would die. The enormity of what was about to happen didn’t yet enter my mind.

  Finally, after what seemed like days, Ryan spoke. “Iris, is all that true?”

  I nodded.

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  I shrugged. Words couldn’t come out of my mouth. However, I could feel hot tears coming out of my eyes. The thing that I sought to bury, that I tried so hard to forget, was now on the international news, and god knows where else. If that station has it, then the possibility exists that this story is going to blow up. Then, I would never be able to get away from it. Ever.

  I comforted myself a little bit, though, thinking that nobody died. Therefore, the story couldn’t possibly blow up too big. Maybe it will be just a little story.

  No, this story is going to be big. A socialite being accused of heinous things – torture, kidnapping, attempted murder. This was just too juicy.

  My suspicions were confirmed when I switched the channel to another 24-hour news channel, and they, too, were talking about it. This time it was a dark-haired woman, and a different attorney who was discussing the “facts” of the case. A new detail this time. “Mr. Gallagher was obsessed with Ms. Anderson. He was stalking her for years. When he couldn’t have her, he decided to get back at her.”

  I looked over, and Ryan was on the phone, talking to Sheldon. “You need to do something about this. Slap them all with a cease and desist letter. They can’t get away with these lies.”

  He paused. “What? She’s an involuntary public figure? What does that mean?...That’s ridiculous...I know, that will be the argument. But what the hell? What about the lies?” He shook his head furiously. “Rochelle hired who? Why did she do that?...Get on it. Do what you can. This is getting ridiculous.” At that, he got off the phone.

  “Sit down,” he commanded, motioning me to a chair. I dutifully obeyed.

  “There's trouble,” he said, stating the brutally obvious. “Rochelle was none too happy when O’Donnell withdrew from her case. So, she hired Greg Schultz as her attorney.”

  “Greg Schultz? The Greg Schultz?” I asked. Greg Schultz was, to my mind, the most famous attorney in America. Well, next to Gerry Spence and possibly Alan Dershowitz. He was right up there with Geoffrey Feiger.

  “Yes, the Greg Schultz. So, now Schultz has his minions out there fanning the stories on all the 24-hour news stations. They’re wanting the public opinion to be on Rochelle’s side, for the purposes of tainting the jury, and the only way to do that is to spread absolute lies on these stations.”

  “But we can sue them for libel and slander, right? Right?”

  “Of course. But how do we prove it? It's her word against ours.”

  “I don’t understand. You were there. You know what happened.”

  “Yes, but who else knew that I was there except Rochelle herself?”

  “You called the cops, they came and picked me up at her house. They arrested h
er at her house, too.”

  “Yeah, but the lawyer is saying it was all a setup. I dragged you over to Rochelle’s house after you overdosed yourself, then had her arrested, because I wanted revenge on her for leaving me. Or some such ridiculous story.” He sighed and put his head in his hands. “The problem is that I was in rehab just recently. Rochelle doesn’t have a spot on her record. She also owns the Kansas City social scene. I look like the derelict with a bone to pick. She's involved with every charity in the world, too. This is going to be tough.”

  “But Ryan, the story of your relationship with her when you were 14 is also out. Doesn’t that tarnish her?”

  “Of course. She’s going to spin that, too, though. You just wait.”

  “How can she spin that? That's child molestation, plain and simple.” I was dumbfounded by all of it. Just when I thought that I was safe, and my ordeal was behind me….

  I continued “what’s this about my being an involuntary public figure?” I knew something about invasion of privacy laws, and knew that facts may be disclosed if they are a matter of legitimate public concern. Therefore, most people in the public eye can have their private lives exposed. I didn’t feel that I was a public figure, so I wasn’t sure how my hospitalizations could be a matter of legitimate public concern.

  “Sheldon just told me that, because you were a part of a crime that is a matter of public significance, your participation makes you an involuntary public figure. Because of this, the details of your life is considered to be legitimately newsworthy. That’s why the stations can broadcast that information about you.”

  “But what about the lies? They can’t just go on repeating falsehoods like they are.”

  “Let me talk to Sheldon again,” he said. “I’ll see what can be done.”

  He came back. “Sheldon is already on it. He is threatening them all with slander suits. He is also pressing an invasion of privacy issue with them, on the chance that a court won’t find that you and I are public figures because of our involuntary participation in Rochelle’s crime.”