The Beginning of Always

by Sophia Mae Todd

  Another round of applause rang, and I did my duty and joined in.

  “My name is Dr. Fred Chandler, and I am the director of the NYC Community Children’s Hospital. I have to say, I am so happy you could join us tonight, and above all else, I am just utterly pleased to be able to introduce you to our brand-new family house!”

  More applause.

  Dr. Fred Chandler leaned into the microphone and grinned. “But I will not keep you, nor will I take credit for this wonderful home’s inception. I am about to introduce you to the amazing man and soul who was instrumental in getting this project off the ground. Everything you see here, every nail, board, and brick, was personally overseen by him to his exacting standards, all for the generous donation of giving back to the community of families who require this service so very much. This individual has been the catalyst in changing New York City real estate and shifting its streets and skyline. He has crafted entire neighborhoods with his savvy, and I cannot be prouder to add the CCH’s family house to this portfolio. Please, everyone, join me in welcoming the esteemed Mr. Alistair Blair!”

  Dr. Chandler clapped furiously and backed up, slipping away from the podium as exuberantly as he had come in. The room broke into raucous cheers and applause as Alistair Blair entered from the left and took the stage. He strolled across the stage with a confident air about him, a lowball glass of amber liquid in his hand.

  He sauntered casually to the center of the stage to stand behind the podium, placing his glass down next to the microphone and running his palms down the sides of the lectern, utterly at ease. He surveyed the crowd and gave a small smile.

  And it was at that moment that I forgot how to breathe.

  It had been ten years since I’d seen him last, and Alistair had changed yet remained exactly the same. His hair was still the same shade of soft black, but instead of long unruly strands that covered his face, it was now cropped, tended, trimmed with obvious skill. In lieu of old worn t-shirts that always managed to retain the scent of summers in the fields, Alistair wore a dark navy suit, tailored to his wide shoulders and tapered at his narrow waist and hips, designer and oozing sophistication.

  But his face. That maddeningly beautiful face, it burned with a familiarity that gutted me, with the same anger and hostility that veiled a vulnerable and pained child. Now, that veil was thicker than ever and I wondered if the same boy still existed underneath, if time and society had scalded and destroyed any semblance of innocence. Alistair’s skin was a burnished light tan, and his narrow, smoldering light hazel eyes swept back and forth across the room. He held a tight smile on his face and gave off an intense, almost angry air. Not the greatest response to five hundred people cheering and clapping.

  “Good evening, everyone.” His voice rang through the room, deep and husky with an almost hypnotic tone to it. The edge of an accent long forgotten was present in every word.

  Alistair paused as he waited for the audience noise to die down. The clapping crescendoed to a climax, then tapered off until the room grew silent enough for a dropped pin to ring. More than a few chairs squeaked as their patrons shifted, listening in rapt attention.

  “Thank you, Director Chandler, for those more than generous words.” Alistair turned and raised an upturned palm in the direction of the director, who was now standing behind him and to his right. A smattering of applause came, and the director gave a shallow bow. Then, Alistair slowly ran his large hands up and down the lectern’s wooden sides before he continued in a low, even voice.

  “Today we’re here to raise funds to restructure and build out this building on Fifty-Seventh Street in order to prepare it for conversion to a family home. I can stand here and talk to you about the costs and challenges facing this project, tell you how your generous contribution tonight will help make a difference in lives for years to come. I can tell you how Blair Properties has pledged to match dollar for dollar every single donation given today, because I could tell you our hopes in allowing this building to become something of great worth and value.

  “But I’m not going to do that. Instead, I’m going to spend this time explaining to you the difference a family home can make. The impact you’ll have and the real good you will do if you decide to help this cause.

  “As some of you may know, I grew up in a small rural town in Michigan. The town always had limited resources, but a lot of love amongst the residents. The Main Street was a traditional Main Street with a drugstore and a post office, but it also held the office of the town doctor. The town doctor was a great man who could have worked in any hospital in any zip code in America, but decided to stay in our little corner of the world to serve the residents. And serve he did. He treated everyone, from my own bout of chickenpox to elders’ heart attacks and diabetes.

  “Everyone in town saw our doctor as invincible, thought that he could do no wrong and no wrong would come by him. That’s what happens in life when you grow up in a small town: time moves slower, and the evils and stresses of the outside world seem fewer and further in between. So when our good doctor’s wife was diagnosed with stage-III breast cancer, it seemed to be the worst kind of irony. The doctor who could cure everyone suddenly found himself outmatched, underfunded, and devoid of resources. He charged modest fees and, while comfortable, didn’t have the means to tackle this incomprehensible monster of a disease.

  “Our town pulled together and raised enough money to send the doctor’s wife to Chicago for treatment. It took a while and it was a struggle since we were but a small farming community. But eventually enough was gathered to pay for flights and hotel also, but only for the wife and the doctor. They had two children who weren’t able to go with them. There was no family house at the hospital, and there was little anyone could do. The children didn’t even receive a choice; they simply knew they would not be with their mother during the first round of treatments, nor the ones after that. In fact, neither had the opportunity to consistently travel to Chicago to be with their mother over the years that a cancer fight can take.

  “Last I checked, we weren’t in Michigan, and Manhattan is anything but a small farming town. But in the same spirit of collaboration and community, I hope that you can understand that we have a responsibility as residents of this great city to help the families around us, and to help the families who travel the world over for the help they are desperately looking for.

  “We live in New York City, the greatest city on earth. There’s no reason why any child should not receive world-quality treatment, and there is no reason why any family should struggle to spend time together during a stressful time of recovery. The New York City Community Children’s Hospital Family House will provide just that, and there’s great hope that tonight we can make this dream into a reality.

  “Family is the most important part of life, and community binds and serves to build those bonds. Tonight we celebrate that union, and I invite you to toast the brave sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, and to all those in between and beyond, who will make use of this family house. Because a house is just a house, but a home is truly where love is. Where people are.

  “Cheers.”

  Alistair picked up his drink and toasted the crowd before tossing the glass back and taking the whole cup in one shot.

  The last word Alistair spoke reverberated in the great hall for the gentle side of a second. There was a pause from the audience, and then one person began applauding vigorously. Others joined in, some guests stood up, others whooped. Soon the entire room was bursting with the sounds of cheering and clapping, demonstrating their approval of Alistair’s speech. He just stood there behind the podium while his eyes swept the room from left to right. His mouth held the sliver of a grin, and finally he raised his hand in a single wave and said into the microphone, “Thank you. Now please enjoy your dinner.”

  The cheering increased and Alistair took two steps backwards to wait by the side as the director hustled back to the podium.

  “Wow!” the
harried director exclaimed. “Wow! Mr. Blair, we at the hospital cannot be more thankful for …”

  The loud buzzing in my ear rose to a feverish pitch, and I tuned out the director’s words until I could hear nothing but the whining of a thousand bees. I kept my eyes locked on Alistair while the director prattled on. Alistair had his hands shoved in his suit pockets and his posture was completely relaxed, utterly confident. His eyes were on the director and, while not unkind, they were not warm. He nodded vaguely at the director’s words.

  I couldn’t help but stare at Alistair, so starved had I been for the mere glimpse of him.

  He had changed.

  I had changed.

  Yet old memories stirred, every feeling possible twisting my insides.

  I blinked back tears.

  And then, all of a sudden, Alistair turned very slightly to his right and his attentions homed in on table 32. My table. Our eyes locked and every nerve in my body gave a jolt. The buzzing ceased, everything dissolved away, and all I could process was the manic racing of my heart and my body breaking out into a cold sweat. Alistair continued to stare at me and I back at him. No one seemed to notice.

  Alistair’s expression didn’t change, his body language remaining stoic. I couldn’t blink for fear of breaking the connection, and I couldn’t breathe in case this was all a dream. The director gestured in the air with his hands, waving them in Alistair’s line of vision, but Alistair didn’t even flinch. He continued to stare at me, then raised his chin up in an arrogant pose as if saying, “Yes, I did just do that.”

  Yes, he had just talked about St. Haven, a town he’d openly scorned since the first day he’d landed on our dirt roads.

  Yes, he had just shared something utterly personal about his past.

  Our past.

  Mine.

  He’d told my story.

  He’d spoken of my mother, how neither Nicholas nor I had been there to see her when she went in for chemotherapy, the first time or the subsequent times.

  As she went in, over and over again.

  Or when she passed away in a Chicago hospital.

  Tears threatened and I couldn’t believe that my lip was quivering slightly. My back was rigid and my skin was flushed and stung all over. Heat climbed up my neck and spread back down. I hadn’t felt this wound up in years … since the last time I saw Alistair.

  This assignment was a mistake, and this had just confirmed my worst fears.

  Alistair’s brow furrowed slightly, probably taking in my subtle but panicked state. And then he did something very strange. He shook his head very lightly. Still maintaining eye contact with me, his own gaze softened, spreading to his entire expression.

  My heart stuttered.

  I was enraptured.

  “Oh my God!” A furious squeal pitched into my left ear and I whipped my head in its direction. The young wife was fanning herself with her long nails and panting indecently.

  “He is so hot!” she whispered desperately in my ear.

  With all I was feeling, I couldn’t process what was going on.

  “Who?” I answered stupidly.

  “Blair!” she hissed. “Do you see this guy? What I wouldn’t do to him.” Her eyes gleamed wickedly with intention, and she cocked one eyebrow up to me as her scarlet-red mouth broke into a suggestive pout.

  “Um.” I hesitated. “What about your husband?”

  The woman rolled her eyes. “Blair could buy Harold fifty times over and still have cash to outfit the Yankees in Dior. If I could just get with someone like him, got it all, you know? Hot as hell, richer than the pope.” She leaned into me, continuing this insane conversation that I wanted nothing to do with. “I hear he’s quite the lover too, got an anaconda in his pants.” She snapped her head in the direction of the stage and winked. “Check out that bulge.”

  A sickening sinking feeling descended into my stomach. I slowly turned around just to break the chain of this conversation, trying really hard not to focus on Alistair’s crotch. But by the time I glanced back, Alistair was gone from me, shaking the director’s hand while looking grimly out towards the crowd, posing in the light of a million camera flashes. And then he left, walking away off stage.

  And at my side, Harold’s wife gave an audible whine.

  Chapter 5

  I sat awkwardly at the table as people milled about. Dinner had started and everyone was tucking into their salad course while I concentrated on my breathing patterns, working to process the reality of the situation. I scattered my choices out in front of me and forced my brain to focus.

  Could I flee? Should I? Alright, I had seen Alistair, good enough. My curiosity had been satisfied.

  I expelled a heavy breath and shook my head. I should just go. Just go. Nothing good would come of this month and I should jump out of the fire before the games started. I’d talk to Gordon and he’d be pissed, but he’d get another person on the job by tomorrow and I’d go back to my paper pushing.

  Back to my peaceful, sanitary bubble of a life.

  My mind made up, I rose up slightly to push my chair back. I surveyed the crowd. People were mingling and talking in loud whispers behind the glasses of wine clutched in their manicured paws. European Robot Barbie wasn’t around and I didn’t spot Alistair in the crowd. With luck, I could slip out amidst the crowd and graciously (albeit cowardly) run away.

  Which sounded like a most excellent idea.

  I dodged waiters bussing empty plates and wound my way around the tables and chairs. Sounds of merriment surrounded me, everyone was elated, happy, with no troubles in their life or on their mind. My dark cloud of anxiety trailed me like a bad cold.

  I had just made it through two-thirds of the tables when I heard: “Excuse me, Ms. Reynolds!”

  I walked faster, running away from the sound of someone’s voice calling my name, a voice that, although unfamiliar, promised nothing but trouble and was coming ever closer.

  “Ms. Reynolds?”

  No. No.

  I pumped my arms, slipping into a narrow pathway that opened between the backs of chairs.

  The elevator was in sight. I was almost there.

  A wide man, oblivious of his surroundings, suddenly stood up in front of me, blocking my path.

  I shifted right to dodge the barrier, but he leaned to the side, laughing at what his companion was saying.

  “Ms. Reynolds?”

  The voice again, this time accompanied with a light tap on my shoulder.

  Caught, I let out a silent sigh and turned slowly around.

  The man was slightly taller than me as I stood now with heels, and was thin as a rail. He had a boyish quality to him, with curly reddish-brown hair that was slicked to the side. His face was sweetly handsome, with pale peach skin, freckles, and glasses that lent him an academic air.

  “Um. Yes?” My expression twisted to politely puzzled.

  Willful ignorance, how I know thy name.

  “New York Journal.” He said it as a statement instead of a question.

  I returned him a reluctant nod.

  The man furrowed his brow, and his eyes quickly snapped up and down the length of me. He wasn’t checking me out; it was as sterile a glance as a doctor’s. And I wasn’t sure how he processed the information, because a hint of panic flashed on his face before it was wiped clean, then he coughed lightly in his fist and said, “Mr. Blair is waiting for you.”

  Oh no.

  “Who are you?” I asked, keeping my feet firmly planted on the carpet.

  “I am Thomas Marshall, the COO at Blair Properties.” Thomas Marshall pushed his eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose importantly and gave me a short nod, as if his assertion quelled all questions and concerns.

  Hardly.

  “Uhh, I thought we were being introduced after dinner.” I hooked a thumb in the direction of the massive doors leading to my salvation of escape. “That’s what Gertrude said. Anyway, I have to use the powder room … yeah.” The last syllable hung lamely in betwee
n us.

  Good one, Reynolds.

  Thomas Marshall, COO, flicked his gaze between my face, my thumb, and the doors.

  “The restrooms are back here, just beyond where Mr. Blair is waiting for you.”

  Fabulous.

  Thomas gestured in the opposite direction. “Here. Follow me.”

  Thomas pivoted on his heel and began walking away as if on a mission. I hesitated. I could still make a run for it, technically. It’d look highly odd, but I still had an out before Alistair and I met each other face-to-face without an entire ballroom in between our gazes. My hand tightened around my clutch, and scenarios whirled around my mind.

  Then, my feet began moving. For an insane reason, I found myself following Thomas, retracing the path I had just come from, undoing all my previous work toward escape. Emotions swirled, but the closer we got to our final destination, the more a strange sense of numbness came over me. I walked dumbly to my doom, not understanding how I couldn’t stop myself and just sprint in the opposite direction.

  I hope I don’t regret this.

  I hope I don’t regret this.

  I hope—

  And as we came closer to the front of the room, near the stage and a sparsely populated dance floor area, he came into view.

  Alistair was talking to a pair of men, one sitting in a dining chair by a near-empty table and the other standing. The conversation didn’t seem vexing, but Alistair had, like always, that intense expression on his face. As if nothing was more important than what he was talking about and he was invested in nothing else. He leaned one hand on the back of a chair and nodded occasionally at whatever the sitting man was saying.

  Thomas and I got closer. My heartbeat drummed into a solid whirl. Alistair’s back grew larger and larger and I could just make out the subtle pinstripe pattern on his dark navy suit. My hands grew sweaty with nerves.

  Thomas went a bit beyond me, coming up behind Alistair and tapping him on the shoulder. Alistair paused, then canted his head slightly towards Thomas. Thomas whispered low in his ear and Alistair nodded, then turned to his conversation partners, said a few words, and shook both of the men’s hands. The man on his feet walked away and Alistair lifted his gaze in my direction.