Until then, speak the truth, choose your own path, and seek love.
Your star in the sky,
Da
Tossing the letter in my bag, I pull out my phone and send a quick text to Nicholas.
Me – Call the airport. First flight into NYC. I’m ready to be picked up.
Nicholas – Give me twenty.
Looking around the house, I decide I’m not going to do any cleaning, yet. I’ll do it another time, but right now, I need to get to Briar. I need her to know that I was fucked up for so many reasons that I thought were true. It all makes sense now that I’m older and can look back on the subtle hints.
My mother was sick. She never had an affair with the pub owner. It was a rumor that ran through the mill. I should have never been told that, but I was. I can’t change it now, or even be upset about it, because the truth is out. I was loved. My parents did the only thing they could think of. It wasn’t the right choice, but it was theirs and wasn’t decided on lightly.
I’m going to take my father’s advice and chase love. Even if she doesn’t want to love me back, I’m going to try my hardest, because that’s the kind of man my father wanted me to be.
On the flight back to New York, I sent an email to my cousin, detailing the account he could access to get the funds for the distillery. I’m determined, more now than ever, to help my family name stay alive. Finding out so much crucial information has given me a new lease on life and a reason to want to be better. My larger reason for living should be waking up in her New York apartment right about now.
I also spent a little bit of time researching my parents’ deaths. I know that the local newspaper did an article on their passing, based on what the police told them, but I want to see if they ever found anything different. Praying I can still find the archived file, I find an article dated a week after their funeral titled Murder Suicide in Small Town.
Opening the webpage, I start reading through the material. Most of it is exactly what I thought at the time as well; the information I received from my uncle. It’s toward the bottom of the page, a blurry, black and white pixilated image appears; it’s my parents before the coroner removed their bodies.
I move closer to the screen and study the image in great detail. The room looks the same way as it did the next day and a few hours ago when I was in the house. My mother is lying on her back, one hand placed strategically across her chest. But it’s his placement that drives the point home about his letter and that he wasn’t lying in the slightest bit. He’s also on his back, side by side with my mother, his right hand hanging off the bed, most likely the one he used to shoot himself with, but his left is tightly wrapped in my mothers. It’s not an easy image to look at, but seeing how they went, nearly at the same time, gives me hope that they’re together in the afterlife.
I send an email to my assistant after snapping a picture of the letter my father left me with my phone, requesting she send this to the newspaper. It makes no difference eighteen years later to anyone else, but I want the story retracted and updated. It was not a murder suicide. It was just the suicide of two people who felt backed into a corner with nowhere else to go. Their love for one another saw them through the most difficult time in their lives and helped them find their final resting places together.
It’s morbid and extremely selfish, but at the same time, it’s the most beautiful love story I’ve ever heard in my life. I’m proud to be their son and know what that kind of love looks like. I’m honored to have lived with them for ten years of my life and carry that kind of passion in my veins. For the first time in almost two decades, I’m proud to say that I’m the child of Emily and Murphy MacFadden and I’ll carry this name proudly and give it to the woman that will give me the same kind of life as my parents had.
Landing in New York, Nicholas and I hop into the back of a cab, since we didn’t have time to arrange a car service. Shit, I’m lucky that you can now access wifi on an airplane. Money can buy you almost anything these days. Except a reliable car service in New York, apparently.
The Indian man behind the wheel expertly weaves his way through traffic and into the Upper East Side. Within an hour, we’re parked at the curb of Briar’s building. I’m ready for this. My heart races and I can’t wipe the disgustingly happy smile off my face as I rush into the building and past the concierge that’s calling my name. She’s calling for me?
“Mr. MacFadden. Please. Wait a moment,” she hollers, her heels clacking across the marble entrance way as I close in on the elevator bank.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I have to get up to Ms. Kennedy’s apartment right away. It’s extremely important. This will have to wait.”
“That’s what I need to speak with you about. Ms. Kennedy turned in her keys yesterday evening and informed us that she’d found another residence.” All the happiness I had been feeling crashes into the pit of my empty belly. My mind races with the possibilities and frustration boils over.
“Did she leave a forwarding address?” I ask too sternly, making the young woman jump.
“No, I’m sorry. She requested that we hold her mail and she’d call us in a few weeks with a new address.”
With a tight-lipped smile, I excuse myself and apologize for scaring her. Walking back outside, Nicholas is still with the cab, unloading our bags. When he sees me, he cocks his head to the side and studies my body language. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
“She left. The concierge said she turned in her keys and moved out. I don’t even know where to look for her.”
Nicholas, the one who’s always thinking clearly, offers up the best possible idea. “Would she go back to her parents’ house? It seems like that’s the only family she has.”
Patting him on the shoulder, a part of me agrees while the other part knows if she was trying to hide, that’s the last place on earth she’d go. But, it’s the only shot I have. I consider calling ahead, but if she is in fact there, she’d give strict instructions to not let anyone know.
“Back to La Guardia, please,” I say, pushing my bag into the trunk and getting into the backseat.
The driver takes off, headed for the airport, and I rest back in the seat, wondering why Briar would just take off. Even if she’s pissed at me, she could have given me a heads up, some kind of notice that she wouldn’t be living here anymore. There’s nothing that she could have done about what happened in London. This is completely out of character for her.
As the driver makes his way back toward the airport, I space out a little, until Nicholas taps me on the arm. “I wonder if this is why she left the city?” he says, pointing to the small TV inside the cab.
Out of the corner of my eye, an image of myself and Briar in London, during the lingerie shoot, is plastered all over this TV. Pressing the key to increase the volume, I stare dumbfounded at the television. There’s no possible way. I haven’t even sent the proof off yet. Someone must have used a camera phone and leaked the images. Fuck. This makes perfect sense.
… Notorious playboy and photographer, Dexter MacFadden was seen in London this past weekend while conducting a photo shoot for a lingerie campaign. What’s even more surprising is that former model, Briar Kennedy seems to be the designer’s leading lady and she was being photographed with Dexter MacFadden. Womanizing photog turned model? We’ll let you decide …
It seems there’s a ticker scrolling across the bottom of the page, urging the station’s viewers to go to their website and vote on why I was modeling. Entering the URL into my phone, I search for the tally, and it’s apparent that the majority of voters believe that I’m trying to find a new job, since I’ve ruined my chances of being a photographer.
Well, isn’t this just fucking awesome? No wonder Briar took off. This stupid photo of us at a shoot has plastered her face all over the TV and probably internet as well. I don’t have the stomach to Google her name, but I’m almost positive that she’s being hounded. Fuck, what did I get her into?
*****
&nb
sp; The first place I go when arriving in Indiana is to Briar’s parents’ home. It took me a minute to remember what house was theirs, but eventually I found it. Walking up the steps and onto the porch, I ring the doorbell and impatiently wait for a response. When nobody answers, I take to knocking repeatedly, which still garners nothing from the inside. Making my way around back, I find Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy sitting out in the yard around a picnic table, with no Briar in sight.
“Dexter?” Mrs. Kennedy asks, noticing me approaching before her husband.
“Yes, ma’am. I was wondering if Briar was here.”
“No, she’s not, son. From what I heard, she doesn’t want to speak with you, either,” Mr. Kennedy responds aggressively, rising from his chair and stepping in front of his wife. She pushes him aside and moves toward me.
“Don’t pay him any mind, Dexter. Briar called a few days ago and said she was having some problems in the city. I know she left, but she didn’t tell us where. I assume because she knew you’d come askin’ and she didn’t want us in the middle of whatever’s going on with you two.”
“I understand. I’m sorry for the intrusion. I’ll try giving her a call. Thank you, ma’am.”
Mrs. Kennedy goes back to her husband at the table, assumedly resuming her dinner and I head back to the waiting car. Thinking hard about where else Briar would go, I’m out of ideas. She doesn’t have any other family and not many friends.
Getting into the passenger seat, I pull out my phone and send her a text, which goes unanswered by the time we reach the hotel where I live. Not having enough patience to play this game, I dial her number, which goes straight to voicemail. Even if I wanted to be a stalker, I wouldn’t be able to track her cell, since it’s turned off.
I walk through the doors of the lobby and straight into my room. Nicholas wants to follow, but I wave him off and he takes the cue to go to his place. Sitting at the desk, I pull my laptop from my bag and work on some things that I’ve let fall to the side since this entire fiasco began. Not just the stuff with Briar and my parents, but the entire scandal; I’ve been absent from my work and that’s not like me.
Logging into my email account, I find that I don’t have many unanswered messages. Starting at the oldest first, I skim my way through. I have two from my PR company, one that explains that they’ve placed a gag on the exposé and requested they show tangible proof as to what they reported. The second is the retraction from the magazine, apologizing, begging for us to not file suit against them. I’m not sure what my game plan with them is, yet, but they will pay for all the harm they’ve caused my business.
I come across a detailed message from the British magazine I shot for the other day, requesting the proof images so they can get their spread done by their deadline. Plugging the external hard drive into the laptop, I download all the photographs and sift through the ones that should make the cut. When I have about twenty-five prepped, I respond to their email and send off those photos.
The rest seem to be junk mail, and I don’t bother reading them. The very last one received is from another company who’d like me to photograph their version of Fashion Week. I go to respond yes, but something pulls me away.
My father’s words echo in my head. Even though it was a letter that I read, it’s his voice that I hear telling me what I should do, and I think it’s the clarity I’ve been searching for all along.
Speak the truth, choose your own path, and seek love.
This type of photography was never what I intended for myself. I’ve always wanted to take pictures, but something a little less commercial. If I never make another dime doing this, that’ll be fine. It’s my passion. A job that makes me want to get out of bed and go to work.
Quickly sending a response, declining their job offer, my next message is to my PR company, as well as my scheduling office. I basically explain that I’m not accepting any further jobs in the near future and to auto decline everything. I’m not available for interviews, either. It’s time for me to get back to what my mother intended for me all along; a simple life. I don’t care if Vera Wang herself called and requested that I shoot her Spring line of wedding dresses, I’m not doing it. I miss doing this for the pure love of it. I have more than enough money to last me a few years, I don’t need fashion anymore.
I deposit a year’s salary into Nicholas and Briar’s bank accounts and log off the computer. Grabbing my portable camera from my bag, I quickly change clothes and head out into the evening. It’s still light enough out that I’ll be able to capture some stunning images and the thought of doing this for enjoyment has me smiling so hard, I might pull a muscle in my face.
Walking a few blocks over, the bridge that I’ve crossed so many times is right in front of me and the sun just behind it. Adjusting the focus on the lens, I take a few shots in rapid succession. Out in the distance, a deer trots across an open field, and again, I align my camera and take a few images of her as well.
The only way life could get better at this point, is if Briar was waiting at home for me. That’s another problem for another day; right now, I just want to focus on the simple things that make me happy, and this is one of them.
The last two months of my life have been the most exciting and rewarding of my entire adult life. Since I stopped accepting jobs, I decided to open a small studio again in my hometown in Indiana. Business has been really good, actually. I’ve gone back to my roots; shooting newborns, graduation pictures and weddings, with a lot of downtime to do what I love to do best.
I also went ahead and moved back to my grandparents’ home. After they had passed, everything was left to me, but since I never claimed anything, it was all tied up in probate. The county had been so busy after a freak tornado a few years back, this little gem got lost in the process. I like to think it was my parents and grandparents looking out for me.
I sent Briar a few emails, which went unanswered, but I didn’t expect her to respond. She was never one for electronic communication, said it cheapened it, so she rarely, if ever, checked her email. There were a few reports right when I got back to town about her being in Jersey, and I assumed she had gone to stay with Erik’s family.
Nicholas met a girl and has been rather busy getting to know her, and I don’t blame him; they’re perfect together and I can already see love blossoming. I haven’t even tried dating, with my heart being all wrapped up with Briar and all. Yeah, I miss women, each and every day I miss the act of sex, but that’s all it was; a carefully calculated act, where no emotion was exchanged.
Today is my day off and I plan on going out to the lake to relax. No computer, no phone, just me and my camera, but only if the mood strikes. I’m looking forward to not doing much of anything. Maybe catch a fish or two, but that’s about it.
Flicking off the lights in the back of the studio and shutting down the computer, I’m putting away all of the blankets from the newborn shoot I did yesterday when the bell above my door chimes. Getting goose bumps all over my body, I turn quickly and it’s like déjà vu.
“Excuse me, I was wondering if you did headshots?” Briar asks, walking through the door with Katelynn in tow. As soon as Katelynn sees me, she pulls out of Briar’s hold and rushes toward me. I open my arms and hug her so tightly, I start to worry if I’m going to break her tiny, delicate body.
“As a matter of fact, I do. See, more than a decade ago, I photographed the world’s most beautiful girl and she became a very successful model,” I joke, setting Katelynn down and patting her head.
“I’ve missed you,” I say, extending my hand for Briar’s, which she accepts. I wrap my arms around her and she curls hers around my middle.
“I’ve missed you, too,” she whispers. “I wanted to talk, is that okay? Explain a few things.”
“Yeah. Follow me to my house.”
“You have a house?” she asks, pulling back to look at me.
“I sure do. Come on,” I say, dragging her out of the studio with Katelynn right behind us. Locking the
doors, I hop in my car and Briar in hers, and we drive the few miles to my house.
Showing the girls inside, Katelynn asks to go outside and play in the tree fort out back. Briar gives her permission then sits at the dining room table. Brewing a pot of coffee, I give Briar some time to acclimate to this new version of me before we start our conversation. Setting two mugs and the full pot on the table, I pour each of us a cup, adding cream and sugar to hers, while leaving mine black.
“So, how have you been? I was worried for quite a while.”
“I’m good. I just needed some time to think before I spoke to you again. I needed out of the city and Erik’s sister told us we could stay at her house on the beach. I wanted to reach out and talk to you so badly, but I didn’t know what to say. I was in a really bad place, Dex.”
“What happened? We were fine in London and then I woke up to a cold bed and a note saying to stay away from you.”
“I couldn’t deal with the guilt. It was too much,” she says, staring down into the caramel colored cup of coffee.
Not saying anything in response, I reach out and gently run my thumb across her knuckles.
“Katelynn could be your daughter,” she blurts out, catching me off guard. Pushing my seat back from the table, I stare at her in disbelief.
“How is that possible? You were already with Erik when you found out you were pregnant. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I love Katelynn. I always treated her like she was mine. Briar, answer me,” I say sternly, standing and pacing the kitchen, pulling at my overly shaggy hair.
“It’s the dates. I didn’t remember my last period and Katelynn always measured a little small for the due date they calculated for me. When I sat down and looked at the calendar, it all kind of clicked. If I went with the date they gave me, then yes, she’s Erik’s daughter. If you go by the way she measured in ultrasounds and the date I actually delivered, she’s yours. I didn’t want to rock the boat. Erik was such a great father—he loved her so much. And you, not that you’re not amazing, I knew what you were and I accepted you anyway. You weren’t the guy to have babies with, you were the best friend.”
Calling Card Page 12
