“You haven’t opened the present,” Gideon said. “I hope you like it.”
“You don’t have to give me anything. I believe you. I believe you’re not trying to use me to get your story.”
“Thank you,” Gideon said with obvious relief. “But I’d feel even better if you accepted it.” Gideon reached for the box, being careful to not disturb Parker, and handed it to Danny. “Please take it. It’s really nothing.”
Danny reached across the space between them and took the box. “What is it?”
“The best way to find out is to open it.”
Danny pulled the ribbon on the small black box and lifted the hinged lid to reveal a Slate Serti Rolex watch. It was two toned, with a circle of cobalt blue around a champagne-gold face. The shiny metal band was silver with a gold strip running down the center. The second hand ticked proudly, as if it knew exactly how much the little time machine cost.
Danny immediately shut the box lid. “I can’t accept this,” he said, handing the extravagant gift back to Gideon. “Gideon, you don’t give expensive gifts like this to someone you just met,” he added in a firm but sympathetic voice.
He had read the rumors about Gideon like everyone else in the country. TMZ had speculated endlessly about his sexual orientation. The tabloids contained weekly pictures of the handsome Gideon Truman in restaurants or walking to his car, with titillating headlines such as IS HE OR ISN’T HE? and GAY’DEON TRUMAN?
Danny could sense the handsome man’s dejection and embarrassment.
“I’ve done it again. Danny. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just . . .”
Danny laughed softly and said, “You didn’t offend me. It’s just, well, a little inappropriate, don’t you think?”
“I’ve never been any good at this. I inevitably say or do the wrong thing,” Gideon said, resting his head on the back of the couch.
“Good at what?”
Without lifting his head, Gideon turned toward Danny at the opposite end of the couch and said shyly, “Letting someone very special know that I care about them.”
“So, it’s true,” Danny said softly.
“Yes. Most of what you’ve read or heard is true.”
“So, I’m assuming you don’t get much practice at this,” Danny said with a gentle smile.
“Nope,” he replied, rolling his head from side to side on the back of the couch. “Actually, I get none at all.”
“That is very sad. I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be. I was actually fine until I met you,” Gideon said, looking at the circa 1970 light fixture dangling from the ceiling. “I understand why Hezekiah loved you. You are the gentlest, most centered person I’ve ever met. I feel grounded when I’m around you, and I would give anything for you to feel safe with me.”
Danny sat back on the couch, his position matching Gideon’s. The two men gazed up at the light fixture, and Parker continued to purr on Gideon’s lap. Gideon continued to rub Parker’s soft head with his right hand. Without looking in Danny’s direction, Gideon laid his left hand, palm up, halfway between them on the center cushion. Except for Parker’s little revving motor, the room was silent.
Danny longed to feel safe with someone again. His world had become so dark and lonely. A stark and devastating contrast to the two years he had spent with Hezekiah. There was never a lonely moment when they were in the world together. Even during the times when they weren’t in each other’s presence, they each knew the other was very near. They called each other two, sometimes three, times a day and e-mailed or texted even more frequently. They each seemed to instinctively know when the other needed to hear their voice. In moments of impending despair, fear, or fatigue, the telephone would ring at just the right time.
“I was thinking of you,” either of them would say, “and wanted to tell you how much I love you.” The looming despair, fear, or fatigue would dissipate. Or, Are u all right? the text would read. Just got a funny feeling that u needed 2 hear from me. The reply would inevitably be, I did need 2 hear from u. much better now. Will call ASAP. XOXO.
Then one day the telephone calls suddenly stopped. The e-mails didn’t come. The text alert that had provided two years of sweet music to his ears didn’t chime. That was the hardest part for Danny. His world had gone silent in the time it took the bullet to leave the gun, cross the expanse of the sanctuary and enter Hezekiah. Now the quiet seemed to taunt him. Danny had instinctively checked his iPhone for messages from Hezekiah for weeks after his death, even when he knew there would be none. Somehow the act of sliding the screen awake and tapping the messages icon provided him a bit of comfort, and he welcomed the comfort, no matter how small, wherever he could find it.
Gideon’s hand remained extended between them on the sofa cushion. He hadn’t realized how empty his life had become until he met Danny St. John. Parties in Manhattan with six-foot Nubian goddesses on his arm; holding court at the finest restaurants in Los Angeles, San Francisco, London, and Paris, with A-list celebrities, politicians, and corporate moguls competing for the pearls that fell from his lips, all felt empty. Each evening, when the parties were over and all the autographs had been signed and the models had been sent home in cabs, Gideon was alone. The void had never been apparent, because there was always another party the next night. The frantic motion of his life served as the lush green camouflage that covered the pit that ambition, fame, and wealth had dug.
Somehow Danny had removed the brush and exposed the gaping hole in his soul. It was so dark and deep that he couldn’t see the bottom. When he spoke, his words echoed against the walls of loneliness. When he cried, his tears fell and never touched the floor of the bottomless pit. Today, sitting on the couch with the cat purring in his lap, he needed someone to catch his tears. He needed someone to hear his words in the pit to make them real. He needed to love someone other than himself and nourish something other than his career.
Just as Gideon was preparing to accept rejection and pull his hand away, he felt the warmth of Danny’s gentle touch on his palm. The touch sent a vibration through his entire body. He felt like a tuning fork that had been tapped with a delicate silver mallet. The two men remained hand in hand at opposite ends of the couch, still and silent, for the next half hour.
Chapter 12
“I’m leaving you, Scarlett. I want a divorce.”
“David, why are you doing this?”
“Our entire marriage has been a lie. It’s over.”
David stood firmly in the doorway to the kitchen. The house smelled of freshly brewed coffee. He was fully dressed for the day in a chocolate-brown suit that molded perfectly to his frame, a banana-yellow silk necktie, and a powder-blue shirt. He clutched a briefcase in one hand and car keys in the other.
The two had not spoken in days. Neither of them had made an attempt to reach out to the other. They each had their own reasons. In between shedding tears for Hezekiah, Scarlett had only enough energy left to care for Natalie. Combing her hair in the morning and preparing her lunch for school left her exhausted. She didn’t have the strength to worry about David and hated herself for not caring.
David was still reeling from the passionate love he and Samantha Cleaveland had made on her living room floor. He could still smell the sweetness of her perfume. The thought of her touch only made him long for more. She had possessed him and now owned his soul, which he willingly gave.
“Can’t we talk about this? I’ve told you I wasn’t in love with Hezekiah. I love you. Why can’t you just accept that and allow us to move on?”
“This isn’t about you for once, Scarlett.”
“I told you I lied to you for Natalie, not for myself.”
“I don’t believe that, and on some level, I don’t think you believe it, either,” David said coldly. “You lied because you wanted to cover your tracks and preserve the ridiculous victim routine that you’ve used your entire life. You slept with Hezekiah because you wanted to. He didn’t rape you. You were an adul
t. I don’t buy for a minute your ‘young and naive’ excuse. You knew exactly what you were doing. You wanted him, and Samantha called your bluff and put you back in your place.”
“How dare you? I was the victim. I walked away on my own because I didn’t want anything from them,” Scarlett replied indignantly.
“Correction, darling, you walked away because you knew you couldn’t get the one thing you wanted—Hezekiah. Then the wounded little girl nonsense was the perfect cover for your being slapped back into reality by Samantha. It didn’t matter that I or anyone else didn’t know about Natalie. The important thing was that you knew and you could feel like the victim back in your safe little cocoon of self-pity, and since then you’ve been alone.”
Scarlett raised her hand and slapped David hard on the cheek. His head turned from the blow, but his body remained firmly planted.
“I suppose now I’m supposed to slap you back. Is this a page from your battered wife script?” he said, rubbing his stinging cheek. “I’m afraid you’ll have to remind me what my next line is. I don’t seem to remember this scene.”
Scarlett was unprepared for his lack of emotion and his painfully pointed words. His cold demeanor was completely unexpected and left her at a loss. His words swirled in her head, almost making her dizzy. Was she the perfect victim? Did the world, in fact, revolve around her and not Natalie? Was there some twisted desire to be abandoned and left alone with her scars and wounds? Was this the monster she’d created?
She slapped him again and waited for a response. But she was greeted only with a questioning stare.
“I hate you,” she finally said in almost a whisper.
“You don’t hate me. Scarlett. You hate the truth about yourself.”
Scarlett looked puzzled. The words stung. Her entire life she felt she had sacrificed her happiness for others. But in the face of such a damning statement, she slowly began to realize that in fact she had made all the sacrifices for herself. She needed to be the victim. It was all she knew. It was familiar and was where she felt safe and, ironically, in control.
“You’re a coward to leave me for this,” she said, turning her back to him and walking to the sink. “I thought you were a better man than that.”
“That’s where you’re wrong again,” he said with a hint of irony. “I’m not leaving you because you’re a liar. I’m not even leaving you because you’re delusional.”
Scarlett turned from the sink to face David. He had not moved from the threshold. Now the span of the room divided them. Steam from the coffeemaker on the marble island formed a mist between them. “Then why?” she asked, her question tinged with a dare.
“I’m leaving you for Samantha Cleaveland.”
“Pastor Cleaveland,” came the voice from the intercom in Samantha’s office. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but you have a call from someone who says he’s a business acquaintance. He’s very insistent on speaking with you.”
“Who is it?” Samantha asked, placing her reading glasses on the desk.
“He refused to give his name. He said it is urgent that he speak with you now. He said to tell you it’s about Danny boy.”
Samantha immediately snatched the telephone from its cradle and snapped, “Put him through.”
“Good morning, Samantha,” the calm voice said. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”
Samantha cringed when she heard her name in the receiver. She resisted the urge to insist she be called Pastor Cleaveland and said, “Why are you calling me here? You have my cell number.”
“It was a little test. I wanted to see if you would take my call at church. And look at this. You did. You must really like me,” the voice said sarcastically.
“No, I don’t like you,” she said without emotion. “I pity you.”
“And why is that, Samantha?”
“I pity any man who would blackmail a widow. Your mother must have fucked you up pretty bad.”
“Holy shit,” came the amused reply. “Do you pray for your flock with that filthy mouth?”
“Look, asshole, I have the money. Where do you want me to leave it?”
“Now, that’s a good girl. Who else have you told about this?”
“Who am I going to tell? You asked for the money. I got it. Now, stop wasting my time and let’s get this over with. Where do you want to meet me?”
“Griffith Park. Tomorrow, Saturday night. At midnight. At the entrance on Western Avenue drive up the road to the first parking lot. Park, turn your lights off, and wait for me.”
“How will I know you?”
“I’ll be the man you hand the money to. And remember, come alone. No driver and no police. If I see anything or anyone that looks suspicious, I’ll leave and go straight to Gideon Truman. You know Gideon, don’t you, Samantha?”
“Yes, I know him.”
“I think he’d be very interested in who your late husband was sleeping with, don’t you?”
“I’ll be alone, but let me warn you, my friend. I’m holding up my end of this, and I expect you to hold up yours. I don’t want to hear from you ever again, and you’ll forget about Danny St. John. If you don’t you will be very sorry you ever fucked with me,” she whispered. “I won’t mind losing everything I have to hunt you down like the animal you are and kill you myself.”
“Don’t worry. After this is over, you’ll never hear from me again, Until tomorrow, then, Pastor.”
Samantha heard the dial tone. The office was still. Sun poured through the windows, offering a bright and cheery contrast to the blackness she felt in her soul. A leather-bound Bible on her desk was opened to 1 Chronicles 16:22.
Saying, Touch not mine anointed, and do my prophets no harm.
It was the text she had chosen for the Sunday morning sermon. Samantha reached under her desk and retrieved a black leather duffel bag. She walked across the room to a glass console that held a crystal decanter filled with water, a set of six etched Waterford glasses on a silver tray, and a spray of exotic purple, pink, and red flowers. The 450-year-old painting of Madonna and child, A Sacra Conversazione, hung above the table. Samantha had bought the painting at Sotheby’s only months before Hezekiah was killed.
The three darkly clothed figures in the massive oil masterpiece fawned over a squirming cherubic infant as Samantha reached behind the gold-leaf frame and released a latch. The painting slowly glided up the wall toward the twenty-foot-high glass and steel-beamed ceiling, exposing a small, cold gray vault embedded in the wall.
Samantha unzipped the duffel bag and placed it on the console, rattling the delicate glass arrangement and causing the flowers to shudder. With perfectly manicured fingers she gently manipulated the tumbler. At forty-three the dial emitted a gentle click. The second click came at thirty-nine. When she spun the dial to fifty-four, the heavy metal door gave a double click and obediently succumbed to the expert touch of the only person on earth who knew the sequence to its heart. It was simple for those who knew. The numbers were the first two digits of her, Hezekiah’s, and Jasmine’s cell phone numbers.
The metal box was filled with only a fraction of the Cleaveland fortune, one of several fractions that Hezekiah had known nothing of. A single-strand pearl necklace once owned by Marie Antoinette was nestled in a purple velvet box. A flawless 6.04-carat black diamond from South Africa sat uncased on a stack of stocks, bonds, and deeds to commercial properties in Milan, Santa Monica, and New York, to a villa in Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, a Brazilian horse ranch, and a penthouse in Hong Kong. Her prize possession, however, sat in the front of the metal cave. It was a simple silver cross and chain that she had removed from her husband’s neck as she cradled his dead body in her arms in the pulpit on the day he was murdered.
Samantha picked up the cross and ran the smooth, cold chain between her fingers. It served as evidence that she alone was the master of her fate.
In the rear of the vault were stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Each stack contained fifty thousand dollars, held together by a sin
gle white paper strip. Samantha retrieved forty of the stacks and tossed them indiscriminately into the duffel bag. The cross swung from the chain in her hand each time she threw another bundle into the bag. Their absence left only a small dent in the remaining piles of money.
The final item she pulled from the vault was a small matte black Smith & Wesson Centennial 442 snub-nosed revolver. She held the gun in the same hand as the cross and looked at it as one would an old friend or trusted ally. She expertly spun the cylinder to ensure all five cartridge chambers were filled and ready. Samantha gently placed the gun on top of the disheveled bundles of money and zipped the bag.
Samantha returned the cross to the front of the vault and closed the door. With a click of the switch on the wall, Madonna and child descended from the heavens and covered the evidence of Samantha’s true heart. The cash, jewels, stocks, deeds, and bonds no longer existed. There was only the most virtuous of mothers cradling the squirming infant in her loving arms.
Samantha walked to her desk with the duffel bag swinging at her side. The extra weight caused her heels to dig deep into the plush white carpet. The door to her office flung open, and David Shackelford stormed in with a frantic assistant at his heels as Samantha returned the bag to its place under her desk and sat down.
“Pastor Cleaveland, I’m so sorry, but he just barged past me. I couldn’t stop him,” the nervous woman said.
“I told you it’s all right,” David said, blocking the woman. He moved quickly toward Samantha. “She will want to see me. Samantha, I need to talk to you now.”
“Pastor Cleaveland, would you like for me to call security?” the woman called out over David’s shoulders.
Samantha stood from her desk and said, “No, Amber. This is Brother Shackelford. He’s a friend of the church. You can leave us alone. Thank you.”
“Are you sure, ma’am? I can—”
“I said leave us alone,” Samantha snapped.
The young woman walked backward with the two in her sights until the door was closed.
When Sunday Comes Again Page 18
