The Beginning of Always

by Sophia Mae Todd

  The girl before me. The one who clenched my heart in hers. My soul in hers.

  “I’ll remember everything,” I breathed.

  Her wetness enveloped me and I buried myself into her. She gasped. A sharp sound of pain. I groaned and closed my eyes, craving the need to prolong the moment, for this to linger.

  Her soul, her body, her heart.

  I fell into the dark abyss of my love for her.

  There was no bottom. There was no escape from it. She had me, for always and always.

  “Everything.”

  Her nails dug deeper into my skin, underscoring my words.

  “I promise.”

  And I meant it.

  I would never mean anything more in my entire life.

  Chapter 19

  Florence Reynolds, twenty-nine years old

  After I got home from that disastrous day, I feverishly cleaned. The kitchen, the living room, the hallway floor, my room, Nicolas’s room.

  I just needed something to take my mind off Alistair and his lips.

  And his body.

  And his fingers.

  And …

  I needed something else to clean.

  So I tore into scrubbing the bathroom tile down.

  I was still attacking the grout when the front door slammed. I leaned back on my haunches, sweat beading my hairline and my wrist aching from all the vigorous force.

  “Florence? Where are you?” Nicolas’s voice rang out from the entrance.

  “Hall bath!” I called back.

  Nicolas’s boots thudded and I gingerly fought to stand up. I braced myself with my knuckles and slowly straightened, hissing when my knees popped in protest from their hour-long contact with the hard tile.

  “What the hell?” Nicolas’s voice was incredulous and right in my ear. “What is going on?”

  “Just cleaning,” I grunted, my hand on the small of my back as I stretched backwards. A slight crack sounded from my spine and I groaned in relief.

  “Cleaning,” Nicolas said. “You. Cleaning.” He was leaning against the doorway, wearing his scrubs with a jacket over them. He took in the scene—the buckets of water, cleaning solution bottles, sponges, and towels strewn about the floor. Me, in shorts and a tank top, soaked with sweat and water.

  “Yes, Sherlock, I’m cleaning. Very astute observation.”

  “You. Cleaning,” he repeated.

  “A thank-you would be nice. I mopped your bathroom, too.”

  “You. Mopp—” he started but I interrupted swiftly.

  “Don’t you have things to do? Doctor things? Important, life-or-death things?”

  “Oh yeah, I have a ton of paperwork to get to, but let me enjoy this for now.”

  I collapsed against the sink, resting my elbows on the stone countertop. I shot Nicolas a glare from across the room. “Enjoy silently, please.”

  He popped a grin and began shedding his jacket. “Hey, never going to protest a freshly scrubbed apartment. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said in a surly tone as I inched out the bathroom. I was going to feel this tomorrow; my muscles contracted and protested as I pushed past Nicolas.

  “Where you going?”

  “Getting ice from the kitchen.”

  Nicolas tagged behind me like a puppy dog, pestering me as well as one. “So, any reason for the big spring cleaning?”

  “Nope.” I grabbed a plastic sandwich bag and began filling it with ice from the freezer. The ice cubes clattered and scratched against each other, the noise filling the air around us.

  Nicolas yanked open the fridge and took out a bottle of water. “So … just suddenly you were afflicted with the urge to douse our place with bleach?”

  “What can I say? Huffing cleaning chemicals after work is just my idea of happy hour.” I cradled the bag of ice in my arms and limped to the living room, crashing against the wide pillows of the couch.

  Nicolas sipped his water, watching as I awkwardly positioned the ice bag against my kneecaps. I was exhausted and woozy from the cleaning solutions, not to mention the emotional stress tornado still raging inside me. But if I was tired enough, I would forget today. Hell, I might even be able to sleep tonight.

  “By the way, your phone was ringing, like, nonstop when I got home.” He casually tossed my phone to the seat next to me.

  “What?” I answered, the ice slipping from my grasp and crashing wetly against the carpet. A touch of panic escaped into my voice.

  Nicolas’s eyebrows raised slightly. “Your phone was ringing? What, expecting a mob hit or something tonight?”

  “No, not at all. Nothing like that.” My fingers gripped the edge of the sofa tightly. Was Alistair calling me?

  The thought sickened me. With excitement, with fear, with worry, with all of the above.

  “You going to check it?” Nicolas asked.

  I picked up my phone cautiously as if it was going to explode. “Uh … I’ll listen to the voice mail later.”

  “Whatever you say.” Nicolas yawned and disappeared into the entrance hallway. Sounds emerged from the corridor as he unpacked his backpack, followed by the clattering of his bicycle being stowed away in the hallway closet.

  I stared out of the dark windows while slowly rotating the phone between my icy fingers. To my embarrassment, my hands quivered slightly.

  I still had two weeks left with Alistair. Today was only Monday, exactly a week since we had started this precarious dance along the edge of sanity. Despite every lie I told myself, he was affecting me. He was affecting me in ways I couldn’t even understand, dredging up old hurt and current pain. They always said ignorance was bliss, and only now did I appreciate the true meaning of the phrase.

  Things had been simpler even twenty-four hours ago. The ignorance of Alistair, not knowing what he or I was capable of. Now the possibilities were strewn about in front of me, in equal parts terrifying in their joy as well as their grief.

  I flicked on my phone screen. Notifications of two missed calls and one voice mail flashed back at me.

  The calls weren’t from Alistair.

  They were from Gertrude, which wasn’t as bad, but they definitely were about Alistair, so I wasn’t about to do a jig on the living room carpet.

  I pulled up my voice mail and put the phone next to my ear. Gertrude’s clipped voice spoke back. “Ms. Reynolds, Mr. Blair is requesting your presence at a property inspection tomorrow at eleven a.m. The location is on the Upper East Side, and the address—are you writing this down? Make sure you write this address down—the address is …” And she rattled off the address and ended with her compulsory “don’t be late” and a harsh click.

  It was short, bereft of details, with the barest of justifications.

  “Making Gertrude do your dirty work for you, Alistair?” I muttered to my phone’s screen, tossing it angrily to the couch pillows besides me.

  The thought of facing Alistair, tomorrow no less, was nothing less than frightening. What would I say? How would he act? What would we do? How much did this change things? Could we go forward? Would I still be able to finish the article? What would happen if someone found out? I’d have to disclose it if I ever even dreamed of publishing the piece.

  I hated Alistair. I hated him for putting me in this position and doing this to me, for being so cavalier and reckless with his actions, with my emotions. What did he think he was doing, who did he think he was, just kissing me like that? It was so irresponsible of him, so inconsidera—

  “Did you say something?” Nicolas popped his head around the corner from the kitchen.

  I whipped my head to Nicolas, my eyes wide, my train of thought derailing and exploding in a fit of anxiety. Had I been speaking aloud? How much had he heard? “What? Huh? No? Fine. Fine.”

  “Monosyllabic panic noises? Yeah, everything is fine. You want to talk about it?”

  “Nope. Nothing to talk about. Fine. Everything is fine. No.” I shook my head, to reinforce the nothingness to talk about.r />
  Nicolas shrugged and tossed the bottle of water he was holding in his hands in the air. “Fine, whatever you say.” He caught the bottle and pointed it at me. “I’m going to bed, feel free to ramble in solitude.”

  I gestured with a weak wrist towards the back of the apartment. “I did laundry too. Your sheets are in the dryer.”

  Nicolas chuckled as he rounded the corner to the hallway. “Thanks.”

  * * *

  My arms were crossed and I considered the building before me. It was massive, with white walls and gold accents that dominated the architectural designs, down to the peaked golden gables looming over the street. The building took up the entire city block, with nothing but white brick walls betraying an entrance to speak of. I had to walk around two corners before I approached the tall wrought-iron gates, harsh black in stark contrast to the wide French-style arch that stretched over it. Carved medallion accents were stamped down the thick stone columns that flanked the black gates. The gates were tipped with golden arrows that didn’t do much to calm the severity of the barrier.

  That was not a welcoming gate. That was a gate to keep people out. Two security booths were situated behind the columns, the rent-a-cops wearing suits.

  So I stood, across from the golden palace with its black gates of doom, my arms crossed and a scowl on my face.

  I hadn’t woken up in the best mood and I couldn’t say I’d improved through the morning.

  “Deciding whether to run the other way?”

  Almost by instinct, my gaze whipped to the sound of the masculine voice coming from my right. Alistair, walking down the street towards me. In a suit, natch, perfectly tailored, of course, looking tall and put together and completely at ease.

  I wanted to throw him a rude hand gesture. I narrowed my eyes at him as he approached.

  “No,” I answered sarcastically. “Just … admiring the architecture.” I gestured towards the building facade. “You think they added enough gold? I’m not sure. Maybe I should write to the board—I don’t think it’s understated enough.”

  “Too much?”

  “El Dorado sends their respects.”

  Alistair gestured towards the black gates across the street. “Shall we?”

  I looked up the street and back down, praying for a car to come and whack me into a two-week-long coma. But it was the Upper East Side, in a secluded residential neighborhood, and the only people about were nannies and kids.

  I crossed the empty street, Alistair following at my side.

  We didn’t speak to each other as we passed the security booth, Alistair giving a curt nod to the guard, who buzzed us in with no question. We entered through a small iron door to the side of the larger gate. The cobblestone path from the entrance arch led to a large courtyard with low hedges and meandering green paths lined with flowers. An enormous fountain marked the middle of the yard. Various wooden benches were scattered about with middle-aged women in St. John’s casuals huddled together in pairs. The occasional nanny and baby carriage completed the scene.

  Several brick-lined paths extended off from the courtyard, winding away and turning around corners. These led to smaller stone-arched open-air hallways, which hid small private lobbies.

  Alistair opened an ornate wooden-and-glass door at the end of one path and gestured with his open palm.

  “After you.”

  The door led to a medium-size elevator lobby with a mirror and several expensive-looking sofas. Alistair waved a key fob in front of a blank metal panel with a single flush button, and the elevator dinged perfectly on time.

  We stepped in, the doors closing and taking all the breathable air with them.

  We ascended to the unknown, the entire scenario assailing my sanity.

  Alistair broke it first. “So, will you be coming to California with us?” He was leaning casually against the carved wooden wall, a glistening brass rail at waist height.

  “Yep,” I answered, my eyes straight ahead, concentrating on the elevator doors.

  “We leave tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Florence—” Alistair started to say, but I turned on my heel to face him and he clamped his mouth shut.

  I smiled, tightly, awkwardly, but still I smiled.

  “Alistair,” I said, interlacing my fingers together before me. “I’m here at your behest, because I’m assuming what you have to show me has something to do with the profile I’m writing of you. I’d kindly ask you to refrain from discussing anything beyond the scope of my professional responsibilities. After the trip to California, I’ll come back, write up the article, submit it, and that’ll be the end of this. Our fourth week will be reserved for any lingering issues, although I’m sure we won’t have any. Then you’ll never have to see me again. So let’s just try to keep it together until next Friday, because that’ll be the end to this slow-motion torture we’re both going through. Okay? You move on with your life and I’ll move on with mine.”

  Alistair canted his head to the side slightly but didn’t respond.

  I crossed my arms and turned my attention back to the elevator doors. I was sick of doors.

  * * *

  The elevator opened to an apartment. Not just any apartment. The first thought I had once I stepped into this apartment was that it wasn’t an apartment at all, it was a goddamn palace. Or a museum. As I stood in what I could only assume was the foyer, everything around me just screamed palatial. The high ceilings, the floors of deep hardwood, the vast windows that stood proudly at the end of what could possibly be the world’s longest and widest hallway. Windows offered views that could only be described, even from my faraway vantage point, as “million-dollar views.”

  The ceiling was replete with historical carved French-style detailing; the wallpaper just to my immediate right was a pale white with golden-pink flowers. The chandelier that hung from the ornate ceiling was tiered, crystal, and probably cost more than what I had made in my entire career as a journalist.

  The apartment was staged with expensive furniture, plush rugs, vases of all sizes and colors filled to the breaking point with fresh flowers, and oil paintings of scenic visions hung on the walls.

  And this was all visible from where I stood, just outside the elevator doors. I didn’t even want to think about what the rest of the place was like.

  As I was pondering all this, I barely registered the fact that there was someone else in the room.

  “Welcome!” the voice cried. I jumped slightly, then focused on the woman entering from around the corner. She had pin-straight dyed-red hair and a friendly face, touched with just the slightest of wrinkles. Her eyes were framed with wire glasses and her lips were tinted crimson red, which exaggerated the broad white teeth of her open-mouthed smile.

  “Welcome!” she announced again.

  The woman clutched my hands with both palms and shook them vigorously.

  “My name is Stella. It is an absolute pleasure to meet you, Ms. Reynolds. Absolute, absolute pleasure.”

  My arm jolted up and down with her handshake. “Uh … call me Florence. It’s nice to meet you too.”

  “Well, Florence, what a beautiful name! Please, please, come in, come in! Wonderful to see you again, Mr. Blair.” Stella stretched out her arms and seized Alistair towards her a tight hug and an air kiss.

  “Well, then, what did you think of the building? Gorgeous, right? They just finished a twenty-million-dollar renovation on the exterior!”

  “Could use more gold,” I muttered.

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing.” I smiled. “It’s gorgeous, for sure.”

  “Yes, for sure! Well, then, should we start on our tour of the place? I bet you’re dying to see it.” And Stella winked at me, which thoroughly confused me.

  But before my confusion could set in, Stella bustled us down the hallway, gesturing wildly with her arms. The arms were as expressive as her voice, the wrists reflecting each syllable, each wild expression and tonal change in he
r voice. Her fingers splayed out and curved in, tightening into fists to punch the air or spreading to waggle in exaggeration. She was practically skipping over the glossy hardwood floors.

  “As you’ve seen, you’ll have your own private elevator, a grand foyer and gallery which connects to both living rooms and the kitchen with dining room that retains its old original French architectural molding and details.” She swirled a finger in the air, mouthing to me the word “breathtaking.”

  “There are eight rooms which are separated into five bedrooms, two living rooms and a library. Altogether you have exactly four thousand, six hundred and thirty-one square feet of interior space, with over one thousand square feet of additional wraparound balconies attached to the entire unit.”

  We were pushed into what had to be the library, with rich wooden built-in bookcases that lined the entire room. The wallpaper on the exposed non-book-crammed walls was deep blue with subtle stripes. Stella led us down another short stout hallway into a vast room which had to be one of the living rooms.

  “The high ceilings with the floor-to-ceiling windows give you unobstructed views of the New York City skyline, and on the west side of the property you can just soak in the sights of Central Park, which extend all the way across the park and into the Upper West Side.”

  Her ruby lips mouthed another word to me—“decadent.” At least I thought that was what she mouthed.

  So commenced our very peppy, borderline aggressive tour of the apartment. We entered a room, she espoused its virtues, winked at me, mouthed some adjective, and we moved on.

  Truth be told, it was breathtaking and decadent and all other luxury descriptives. Old-world details like carved wooden ceilings mingled with contemporary furniture read both tasteful and fresh.

  We did a lap around the apartment, did a triple take in the master bedroom (“Glooooorious,” Stella sang) with its claw-footed tub and walk-in closet that rivaled the size of most average apartments. Finally, we ended where we’d started, in the foyer leading to the elevator.

  “Alright!” Stella clasped her hands together and grinned broadly at the pair of us. “So, as anticlimactic as it sounds to say this, that is it!” She reached into her purse and withdrew something clutched in her manicured grip. “I must say, I am thoroughly envious. This is the best unit in the entire building. Nothing finer in a six-block radius!”