One of the reasons I pay her so damn much is that I know that she sends almost her whole paycheck to her sisters and mother back home. Her father died when she was young and her mother supported her and her sisters on a seamstress salary. She grew up in a one room apartment in the slums of San Salvador and came to America when she was 18.
Marilyn’s face turns almost green at my question. Her eyes drop down and her lips curl out of disgust. I know what’s going on there. I’m not that uninformed. A month ago, Augusto Sanchez overthrew the democratically-elected President Salvador Cesar. Sanchez was previously in charge of the military, and he took power through a military coup. The attack culminated in the surrounding of the presidential palace and President Cesar’s exile. Now, Sanchez has a new military government, which is ruled by the heads of the three armed forces. As the head of the army, Sanchez appointed himself head of the state and started banning all opposition and rounding people up.
“Everything has gone to hell since Sanchez took power,” Marilyn says. “Three of my mother’s neighbors, our oldest friends, have been taken away in the middle of the night. No one heard of them since. They were probably killed.”
“That’s terrible,” I say.
“I’m so scared for my nieces and nephews. Some of them are very opinionated. They don’t know enough to keep their mouths shut. They argue when they need to be quiet. They think all their friends will be their friends. But in that atmosphere of fear, that’s not always the case.”
Marilyn looks terrified. Her eyes grow large. I can hear her heart starting to beat faster and faster. I wish there was something I could do to calm her down.
“It’s going to be okay, Marilyn,” I say. It’s the only thing I can say. Not because I don’t know what else to say, but because I can’t say anything. I’m not allowed.
“I don’t think so,” she says, shaking her head.
“I need to get them out of there somehow. But I don’t know how,” she says. Her eyes start to tear up.
“Is there anything I can do?” I ask.
“Not unless you know someone in immigration,” she says. I don’t, but perhaps that can change. Lots of things change with money. I make a mental note to look into this matter in the near future.
“I’m also worried that someone will find out that I work here. For you.”
“Why?”
“Because then my whole family will definitely be in trouble. Sanchez is rounding everyone up who is the opposition. And I work here, in America, for a very wealthy man. He might think that it will give my family members resources to oppose him. Even though we won’t. Ah, I’m so worried about my stupid nephews. They’re so full of pride for their country. They’ll do anything. You know how men are. At 20, you think you’re invincible. Or worse yet, you believe that there’s sense in dying for your country.”
She shakes her head and walks away. I know she wants to be alone now. I let her.
Again, I wish that I could ease her fears and anxieties. I can. All I have to tell her is who I really am. What I really do in my spare time. But I can’t. It might jeopardize the whole mission. So, instead, I just stand there quietly, trying to offer my sympathies from afar.
Chapter 3 - Logan
I’m dreading this lunch. We’ve had it planned for some time. Apparently, Sadie has something very important to tell me. Why we couldn’t do this on the phone is beyond me. Or better yet, text message. I don’t see why text messages get such a bad rep nowadays. They are efficient and to the point. And if you want emotions, just add an emoji.
Sadie and I make plans to meet at Salvatori’s. A ridiculously overpriced Italian restaurant on Rodeo Drive with excellent wine and so-so pasta. Though I have my suspicions that I might be the only one who has ever noticed, because I might be the only one who still eats carbs out in the open in this city. Salvatori’s isn’t my favorite place, it’s not even in my top ten, but Sadie likes the atmosphere, and it is her choice. Even though I’m the one who’s going to pay for it.
I walk into the restaurant and tell the hostess my name. She takes me to my table where I order a scotch. Sadie is late, as always. I don’t think I have been out with her for one meal when she wasn’t at least fifteen minutes late. Sadie adores Coco Chanel and believes in the importance of making a grand entrance. I agree, of course. Except that this is a dinner. Something of a business engagement.
I drink my scotch, scroll mindlessly through the Google News feed and occasionally look up at the door. Finally, I see her. I glance down at my watch. Burberry with a nice cloth strap. I can afford much more, but I have a weakness for this British company. Something about its quiet understated style turns me on. Sadie is only five minutes late. Wow, she wasn’t kidding. This must be important.
We give each other a brief hug and an air kiss. There’s no kissing on the cheek in this town – only pretend air kisses. Real kisses, even those on the cheek, might mess up the makeup and definitely don’t mesh well with the contouring.
Sadie’s legs are so long that they hit the top of the table as she sits down. She’s a Victoria’s Secret model, which means she’s 5’10” tall. Add to that her obligatory 5 inch Louboutin heels.
“Traffic was horrid,” Sadie says. She grew up in South Africa and went to boarding school in England. Her accent is all over the place, but it’s beautiful and soothing. I smile and nod. I don’t mention the fact that she only lives 15 minutes away.
“I ordered you a watermelon martini,” I say.
“Awe, thank you,” she smiles. “I wish I could.”
I furrow my brow. I don’t know what this means. Sadie is not the woman to miss a drink. Ever. When we dated – however, briefly – she didn’t go one night without a glass of wine or three.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”
The waiter arrives and asks us our order. I order the lobster bisque and she orders the spicy tuna. Not really Italian, but they carry it and it’s delicious. Sadie doesn’t even bother to open the menu. It’s what she always gets here.
After the waiter leaves, I don’t ask her my question again. Instead, I just wait for her response. Her eyes have a hard time meeting mine. They are all over the place. As if she has something to apologize for. I try to think of what this can all be about.
Sadie is my longest relationship ever. We dated, exclusively mind you, for three whole months. That’s three months during which I didn’t sleep with anyone else. It may not sound like a lot, but I don’t make that kind of commitment lightly. Our breakup was a mutual decision. I know that everyone says that, but it’s true. I was thinking of calling it off for about a week, before she brought it up at dinner one night. Why did we break up? I don’t know. Just wasn’t feeling us anymore. I wouldn’t say that it got boring. Just a little bit predicable. We ran out of things to talk about after a few dates, and the sex was only really good for the first two months. After that, it required a lot of work. Work that neither of us were willing to put up.
“Okay, I have to tell you something,” Sadie says.
“I know, I’m waiting.”
“You don’t have to be a dick.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I am. I’m just getting a little impatient. And I still don’t know why all of this couldn’t be done on the phone.
Sadie takes a deep breath. She leans forward and looks straight at me. Her long, straight hair falls over her shoulders, cradling her gorgeous breasts. She’s wearing a strapless dress, which perfectly accentuates her small waist and curvy body. She’s not curvy by normal standards, but she is by Victoria’s Secret standards. Sadie’s has beautiful olive skin and the coral necklace around her long, delicate neck perfectly complements her skin tone.
“I’m pregnant,” she says.
“What?”
“I’m pregnant.”
I shake my head. “What? How?”
“You know how,” she shrugs.
“Is it…” I’m about to ask if it’s mine, but I w
isely stop myself before finishing that sentence. Of course, it’s mine if she’s telling me about this. Why else would she be informing me, and not the real father?
“Yes, it’s yours!” she hisses, just as our plates arrive. We don’t speak again until the bus boys carefully place our food in front of us, grind the pepper and sprinkle the plates with the right amount of parmesan cheese.
“How did this happen?” I ask. “We were careful.”
I’m always careful. I know lots of rich guys who don’t care, but I’m too smart for that. If I have kids, and that’s a big if, I want to be there for them. I’m not going out there and getting a bunch of women pregnant and paying for thousands of dollars in child support for nothing.
“I guess not careful enough,” she shrugs.
“But I thought you were on the pill. And I wore a condom.”
“I am on the pill. But you didn’t wear a condom every time. Don’t bullshit me,” she says.
Shit. She’s right. There were a couple of times at the end of our relationship when we were just caught up in the moment.
“So what happens now?” I ask. I’m trying to be as tactful as possible. I have my doubts that this baby is mine, but getting Sadie pissed off right now isn’t the solution. I’m not even sure that I can do a paternity test right now, so there’s no need to even get into that.
“I’m going to keep it,” she says. Definitely. This isn’t up for debate. She isn’t giving the baby up or getting rid of it. She’s only telling me now because the decision has been made.
“Okay,” I say as definitely as possible. I match her decisiveness, even though that’s the last thing I’m feeling at this moment.
Suddenly, Sadie breaks down. The façade of determination and strength crumbles before me. Her face gets flushed and her eyes tear up.
“What am I going to do, Logan?” she whispers, stuffing large amounts of her spicy tuna salad into her mouth. She’s gulping them down so quickly, for a second, I worry that she’s going to choke.
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t have this baby. I’m only 25. I wasn’t one of those models who got on the catwalk at 14. This has been a struggle for me. So if I have this baby now…my whole life is over.”
I take a deep breath. She needs a rock right now. She needs someone to tell her that it’s all going to be okay. I can be that person.
“It’s going to be fine,” I force myself to say. “But are you sure you’re pregnant?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I took like a million tests!” she explodes. Wrong move. Mascara is running down her face along with the tears. She rubs her eyes and makes the mess even worse.
“Oh shit, it’s getting into my eyes.” Sadie takes out her compact and wipes it away. Then she takes a deep breath and returns to me.
“What are you going to do about this?” she asks.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Are you planning on being a father?” Sadie’s no longer sad. Somehow, her disappointment and fear morphed into anger at me.
“Well, frankly, I don’t know,” I say as honestly as possible. “I hadn’t really considered a baby until this very moment. Not sure how it’s going to fit into my schedule.”
Bad move. Awful. The worst part is that I knew that it was the wrong thing to say as I was saying it, but I couldn’t stop myself.
“Not fit into your schedule! Are you insane? You don’t do anything. You just live off your billions. And you’re unemployed,” Sadie yells. Couples at tables near us turn to look at us.
“Keep your voice down,” I say quietly. “I’m not unemployed. I just sold my business.”
“And what do you do now?” she asks.
“I’m in between things,” I say. That’s the best way I can explain it. She doesn’t know the truth, no one does. So to her, I don’t do anything. That’s the way it’s going to have to be.
The rest of the dinner proceeds as expected. Sadie vacillates between being upset with herself, me, and at being pregnant, and yelling at me for not wanting to be a father. She’s not wrong about that. I don’t want to be a father. I definitely don’t want to be a father to my ex-girlfriend’s baby, an ex who I wasn’t very keen on seeing again at all, but there’s something else to all this. What Sadie doesn’t want to admit is that she doesn’t really want to be a mother either. Finally, after close to an hour, dinner finally ends. I get the check and we say our brief goodbyes while waiting for the valet.
Chapter 4 - Avery
Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!
I’m not going to get these done in time! I look at my phone. I have an hour left before Roberto, the driver, has to pack the centerpieces up and drive them to the wedding venue in Malibu. I’m working as fast as I can, but the flowers are still not cooperating. The design is simple enough: opaque ivory white vases with a band of thick yellow ribbon around the bottom. The splash of yellow is the perfect complement to the yellow and white flowers inside the vase and acts to extend the crisp color scheme of the wedding decor.
When I went over this design with the bride and groom three weeks ago, I thought that it would be a walk in the park, since the vases aren’t see-through. That means there’s no need to worry about the arrangement of stems. Those can be such a hassle! The bride wanted something simple and yellow and this was supposed to be a breeze.
I like to have my centerpieces done completely the night before, but unfortunately there was some sort of tulip emergency, and they didn’t get here until this morning! We’re lucky they came at all.
“Don’t worry, it’s going to be okay,” Cynthia mutters under her breath. Cynthia is my assistant and oldest friend. She’s usually the one that’s freaking out all the time, but this time she’s the one staying calm. Not a good sign.
I cut the stems in the sink and carefully arrange the jonquils, sweet peas, ranunculus and finally the tulips in the second to last centerpiece. Cynthia has already laid them out for me and made the first ten centerpieces. I look at my phone again. We only have five more minutes before Roberto shows up. We need at least ten minutes to look over each centerpiece and make sure that it’s perfect.
My mind and hands have never worked so well together. I’m cutting, arranging, coiffing, and adjusting at record speed. Even though Cynthia is the type to talk endlessly when she’s nervous or anxious, she knows better than to disturb me now. A few minutes later, Roberto arrives and everything is almost ready. There’s only one more centerpiece left to check.
“Wow, I can’t believe you got it all done,” Cynthia says.
I take a step back from the table. My light turquoise long sleeve shirt is drenched in sweat. The apron I’m wearing is barely covering it and, even though I’ve known Cynthia for many years, I hope she doesn’t notice.
Cynthia and I help Roberto load up the van.
“Why don’t I just go to the venue myself?” she asks. “You can stay here and relax.”
I’ve never not gone and set up the centerpieces myself, but this has been a very stressful job and I’m leaning toward letting go of some control.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Yes, of course!” She has a surprised look on her face, like she can’t believe that I’m actually going to let her do this.
“I’m going to make it perfect,” she adds.
I know she will. She’s even more of a perfectionist than I am.
Cynthia and I have known each other since we were 13. Her parents are like my second parents, and I practically lived with them after the accident. My parents died in a car accident, the summer after we graduated from University of Southern California. I had a job lined up at a boutique investment bank in downtown LA, but after the accident, I couldn’t take it. I didn’t do anything for a whole year, and Cynthia and her family took me in and cared for me. I was 22, way beyond the legal age, but after their death, I became a lost teenager again. It took me close to two years to finally feel normal again. Or as normal as I could.
Aft
er Cynthia and Roberto leave, I decide to make myself sangria. I don’t drink often, but I’m in the mood right now. I cut up apples and oranges into squares and toss them into a pitcher and add three tablespoons of organic brown sugar. After muddling everything with a wood spoon, I add a cup of orange juice and a third of a cup of brandy for taste and muddle it again. Then I dump a bottle of Albero Spanish Red, a dry Spanish red wine, and taste it. It needs something else. I add a splash more of brandy and a little more brown sugar to sweeten the mixture. After adding ice and garnishing the rim of the pitcher with orange segments, I pour myself a glass and go out onto the porch.
This account is the biggest one I’ve had to date. The bride’s parents are spending more than $500,000 on the wedding. When I showed them around my shop and showed them my proposal for the centerpiece designs, I was certain that there was no way that they were going to go with me. I have excellent designs, don’t get me wrong, but I also have a little shop in Topanga Canyon, not some fancy storefront in Malibu or Beverly Hills.
Topanga Canyon is a rural canyon nestled between the northern suburbs of Calabasas and Woodland Hills and the lavish ocean front homes of Malibu. It’s not a cheap area by any stretch of the imagination – you can hardly buy a house here for less than $800,000. The reason people live here and love it is because of its unique culture. Rural chic, Cynthia likes to call it. There are no developments, and there are a lot of old ranch homes. The new houses that pop up are architecturally interesting and unique. Lots of people have horses and chickens and shop for all of their food in organic farmer’s markets.
After my parents’ untimely death, I got $200,000 from their life insurance and decided to do what I always dreamed of doing: open my own floral shop. I found a small space on South Topanga Canyon Boulevard, in a little shopping center with its own unique flair. My floral shop, The Flower Patch, is sandwiched between Hidden Treasures, a vintage clothing store, and Quilts!, a quilt supply store. I got a great deal (for this area) when I signed a five-year lease for both the commercial space downstairs for The Flower Patch and the small studio apartment above. The studio apartment is technically not zoned for residential living, but the 88-year-old owner of the shopping center was kind enough to rent it to me for only $1000 a month, which is a steal. And this way, I don’t have to commute or pay much more in rent somewhere in Calabasas or Malibu.
Auctioned to Him 4: His Addiction Page 41
