Continuing southwest on 8th Avenue toward W. 48th Street, Charlotte quickened her pace, paying no heed to the tightening of her muscles and the discomfort in her chest. She needed to be free of those menacing thoughts and the only time she felt a miniscule of peace was when her body hurt more than her heart. Charlotte’s strides were unceasing as she ran mile after mile, stopping only when she reached her apartment building at the top of W. 26th Street. It was pure torture, the strain she was putting on her body, but what else could she do when her entire world had fallen apart?
Taking the stairs one at a time, she fought back the tears that were always just beneath the surface. Day after day, she fought back those tears refusing to let them fall. Letting out a labored sigh, she unlocked her apartment door and made her way inside the small unkept space. Stepping over the piles of laundry in the hallway, Charlotte took small steps into the living room where she dropped onto the couch, her body a deadweight. It was so quiet, too quiet. There had been so many times that she had wanted to dial Nicholas’ number, to ask him to come home. Too many times she stood outside of her apartment door with her hand on the knob and her ear against the cold steel, hoping to hear him inside . . . waiting for her, to beg for her forgiveness, just one more time. Perhaps, if he apologized just once more . . .
But that wasn’t the case, Nicholas wasn’t at her door waiting for her to come home and he hadn’t called to beg for her forgiveness, instead, he obeyed her request, giving her all the space she could ask for− more even. In the suffocating silence Charlotte wondered if she had acted too abruptly. Undoubtably, she knew that his actions were deplorable and that he had wronged her terribly. And while her mind was insistent on making her feel weak for wanting him back, her heart was determined to not make their separation an easy feat.
Charlotte allowed herself to wallow in self-pity until the sound of distant ringing captured her attention before quickly fading away. The house phone, she thought. Refusing to move from the spot that had welcomed her so entirely, she allowed the answering machine to pick up the call.
“Charli! It’s mom. I’ve been calling you for weeks now. Thank God no one has died or has fallen ill. Every time I call your cell phone it rings once and then goes to your voicemail.”
“That’s because she’s ignoring your calls. She’s been ignoring my calls, too,” her youngest sister, Adeline, said in the background.
“Oh! Is that what she’s doing?” Babet cooed. “Charli! Are you ignoring my calls?”
“Ask her about the reception woman before you forget,” her father, Manuel, demanded.
“Oh, yes, that’s right. The reception. Charlotte Azil Toutant why are we finding out that you’re MARRIED by the groom’s parents. Not only were we not invited to your wedding, but you couldn’t even tell us that you had gotten married? Do you hate your family that much that you couldn’t even pick up the phone and tell us the news? Do you have any idea how humiliating it was to hear that our oldest daughter had gotten married in Florida with a stranger as her witness nearly two months ago? C’est humiliant.” It’s humiliating.
“Tell her we will be there to celebrate her marriage,” Manuel said. “We want her to know that we’re coming.”
“Charli, we will be attending the reception . . . even though I’m sure it wasn’t you that invited us.” Click. Charlotte rolled her eyes at her mother’s dramatics. The reception, she inwardly sighed. A matter she had been trying to avoid from the instant she first heard about it. Without so much as a warning, Muffy bombarded her inbox with text message after text message of images for the big event, and when Charlotte called to ask about the sudden overflow of pictures, the presuming woman simply giggled and said, “Dear, they are for your wedding reception, of course. Do not fret darling, I have everything taken care of. All that is required of you is your appearance.”
Before Charlotte could protest Muffy had made a lame excuse about being busy and hung up the phone. How were she and Nicholas supposed to get through a night of pretending to be the happily married couple when there was so much turmoil and hurt between them? Wouldn’t everyone notice that their smiles were fake? That they weren’t touching? Putting on the air that they were engaged months earlier had been a simple exploit because deep down they had feelings for one another, even if at the time they weren’t ready to admit them aloud. Feelings that desperately wanted to be embraced. Now, things were different, so entirely different. And what’s worse she didn’t have a dress worthy enough for the event. To be around Nicholas’ family without being clothed in the proper attire was unacceptable. Not that she cared about expensive clothing, or brands, but knowing that his parents were snobbish in that regard made her want to prove that she too, could look the part. It didn’t matter though, attending the reception that she took no part in planning, that she didn’t even ask for was not going to happen. One way or another Charlotte was determined to have the event canceled, even if that meant calling Nicholas to guilt him into doing it for her. In this she would not falter.
***
Quite a few hours had passed before Charlotte could bring herself to move from the sofa to her bed, and even then, sleep did not welcome her. The sun had already begun to set behind the clouds as dusk was quickly approaching. Laying in the darkness of the room, Charlotte stared at the black ceiling as she contemplated her next move. Blindly reaching for her Blackberry that lay amongst the clutter of crumpled soda cans and empty Ben & Jerry’s ice cream cartons on her nightstand, she took a deep calming breath. Scrolling through her messages, Charlotte paused when she reached the thread between her and Nicholas. Contemplatively, she considered the alternative, not reaching out to him meant suffering through the reception and that was not an option. Allowing her index finger to hover over his name for a second longer, Charlotte opened their messages.
Charlotte: Hello.
Seconds turned to minutes as she impatiently waited his response. When nothing came, Charlotte stole a quick glance at the alarm clock, 8:36 p.m. There’s no way he’s asleep, she mused. Sighing, she deliberated whether or not to send another message, but quickly decided against it. Is he ignoring me? Is he with someone? She wondered, paranoia getting the better of her as she stared at the bright screen with weary eyes.
Nicholas: Hello. How are you?
Unable to control the bright smile that softened her exhausted features she typed her response with quick fingers.
Charlotte: Good and you?
Nicholas: I’m well.
Should I ask what he’s doing? No! I shouldn’t care what he’s doing, she sighed.
Charlotte: Your mom reached out to me a few days ago . . . She said something about a wedding reception . . . I think it would be best if you told her to cancel the event.
Nicholas: No.
Charlotte: ??? No?
Nicholas: No. I’m not going to do that.
Charlotte: Nicholas, do you really want to be forced to pretend to we’re this happily married couple? It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.
Nicholas: I wouldn’t be pretending . . . I was happily married to you.
Charlotte: Please tell your mother to cancel. Put the blame on me if you have to . . .
Nicholas: No. If you don’t want to come, don’t.
I’m not telling her to cancel.
Charlotte: Nicholas! It’s the least you could do!
Nicholas: I thought the least I could do was “give you space.” Making me feel guilty is getting old . . . if you don’t want to come, don’t. Just blow it off like you blew off our marriage. Goodnight, Charlotte.
Charlotte frowned, caught off guard by his harsh words. Biting down on her bottom lip, she contemplated a response, but then decided against it. He made his feelings quite clear− there was nothing more to be said. Tossing her phone to the edge of her mattress in pure exasperation, Charlotte closed her eyes to the darkness of the room. “Goodnight, Nicholas,” she whispered, truly feeling alone.
Chapter Nineteen
Several
days had passed and Charlotte still could not forget Nicholas’ harsh words, nor his insensitive demeanor. Why had he been infuriated? What gave him the right? These two questions were uppermost on her mind as she attempted to read through the thick folder of articles Dean had left on her desk earlier that week. Though, for the life of her, Charlotte could not bring herself to care about what was written on those pages. Flower arrangements, types of lighting, how to properly make a seating chart, color schemes . . . none of it mattered to her. Less than a month of marital bliss and she already knew the pain of separation. A tidal wave of hurt and betrayal had abruptly crashed into her, leaving her exhausted and bruised.
Placing her head in her hands, Charlotte sighed at her ordeal. Nicholas had refused to speak to his mother about canceling the event, and the multiple attempts she’d made at reaching Muffy throughout the week had been in vain. She wondered if Nicholas had instructed his overzealous mother to not answer her calls. The reception was only two days away and she still had nothing to wear and no desire to attend. Charli, none of it matters. Focus on what you’re doing, she chastised herself for being so utterly distracted.
“We just have to get a few measurements, but I’m sure everything will fit comfortably,” Dean said from outside her office. “It’s a pretty decent space.”
Jumping at the sound of his voice, Charlotte straightened her torso against the back of the chair and pretended to be interested in the work in front of her. Dean was looking for any excuse to reprimand her and so until she figured out a way to get rid of him, Charlotte had no choice but to walk on eggshells in his presence.
Opening the door without knocking, Dean walked into Charlotte’s office with Penelope Lawson, Gizzelle Bridal’s columnist and Brett Hamilton, the building’s custodian. “What do you think?” Dean asked Penelope, ignoring Charlotte’s presence. “A decent space, right?”
“Overall, it’s an adequate space . . . the windows offer generous lighting which is a plus. However, there are a few changes that need to be made. The paint choice for one, and the carpet−”
“Excuse me,” Charlotte said, heaving a sigh of frustration, agitated by their refusal to knock before entering her personal space. “Can I help you?”
“Hardly,” Dean answered Charlotte, though his attention was fixed on the short, well- endowed woman standing beside him. “I agree,” he said, continuing his conversation with Penelope. “The windows do compliment the room with good lighting, and as for the color of the walls, well, it takes less than a thought to fix that.”
“Yes,” Penelope returned. “The room could use a fresh coat of paint. This color is absolutely horrid. What is it? Mint? I want to change it altogether,” Penelope explained. “It’s just not− me. Rose would be more appealing to the eye, especially during the early hours when the sun is at its peak. Yes, rose suits my taste.”
“Rose it is,” Dean agreed. Turning to Brett he asked, “Are you taking notes?”
“Enough!” Charlotte shouted, the sound loud and shrill in the intimate space− immensely brasher than what she had intended. The absolute authority of her pitch caused Brett to straighten his bent pose, and triggered Penelope to turn on her heels and face her for the first time since she and the others had impolitely burst into her office.
Charlotte was totally at her wits’ end. To say she was upset would be an understatement, she was outraged and quickly being pushed beyond her emotional and mental limitations. Between her screwed up personal life and the torment she endured at work daily, Charlotte didn’t know how much more she could take before really losing it. “Get out of my office! Now! Right now, get out!” she yelled, pointing to the closed wooden door for emphasis. The sudden forcefulness of her demeanor caught Dean by surprise.
Penelope looked to Dean for confirmation, her bright blue eyes wide with uncertainty. Dean shook his head at her, easily dismissing her sudden thought to retreat. Turning to face Charlotte, he took several steps in her direction, stopping only when she raised her small hands out in front of her.
“Do not come near me,” she said to him in a hushed voice. “Just get out.”
Dean stared at her coldly, his haunted blue eyes alive with hatred. “You are getting above yourself. Have you forgotten who runs this establishment? Who has the authority to make decisions within this building?”
“I’m above myself?” she laughed harshly, her voice cracking. Rising to her feet, Charlotte rounded her cherry oak desk. “First you walk into my office without so much as a knock, and then you persist in ignoring me as you put on the pretense of making changes to my work-space. This entire display of falsified power is growing more and more pathetic with each passing day that you hold the delusion of being in control.”
“Pretense?” he sneered, shaking his head to deny her words. “No, Charlotte. I can assure you that there is no pretense to why we are here. Penelope will be utilizing this office as her own from now on,” he said, his tone smug.
Charlotte’s dark brown gaze searched his pale face for the deception in his words, but he stood there straight- faced, unblinking, a malevolent statue. “If she has my office, where am I to go?”
Dean smiled then. “Brett, if you wouldn’t mind helping Ms. Toutant with the task of packing her things,” he said, his tone an obnoxious one.
“Excuse me?”
“Effective today Penelope will be taking over as editor. From the looks of things, you are too overwhelmed with the workload and staying on top of deadlines is very important in this line of work. Perhaps if the old management had upheld the importance of deadlines and required that you learned time management you would be better equipped to maintain this position . . . oh well,” he sighed. “There’s no need to point fingers, what’s done is done.”
“Your audacity is appalling, and you are quite presumptuous if you think you hold the authority to fire me. Hayward Fissicle owns this magazine, not you.”
“Who said anything about firing you?” he frowned. “No. No. There is still a place for you here at Gizzelle. A place where I know you’ll feel right at home. I had Brett make room for you at the front desk in the lobby outside of my office. I am in need of a good secretary and from what I’ve heard you were quite capable in that position. Though, I must make it clear from the very beginning . . . I have no interest in sleeping with my subordinates,” he chuckled sarcastically. “You have to earn your promotions this time around.”
Ignoring his obvious attempt to get under her skin by cruelly bringing up the rumors he had spread throughout the office many months earlier, Charlotte took a deep, calming breath before addressing him. “Dean. You cannot do this,” she protested, dismayed.
“I just did.”
Chapter Twenty
“I didn’t expect to see you today,” Spencer Elliot said as he rounded his mahogany Scarborough House Lion desk to meet Nicholas. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the reception?”
Nicholas greeted his father with a handshake and a gentleman’s embrace. “I have a few hours to spare.”
Extending his hand to the brown leather chair adjacent to his desk Spencer said, “Have a seat.” Leaning on the edge of his desk, he watched his son intently. “Your mother has overdone herself this time. She is excited for tonight.”
“I’m sure,” Nicholas answered him. Relaxing into the thickly cushioned chair he met his father’s dark blue gaze. “I didn’t come to talk about the reception.”
“No?” Spencer asked, his poker face intact.
Nicholas stared at the older man thoughtfully. “I’ve resigned from Gizzelle Bridal, but I’m sure you know that already.
“I may have heard something to that effect,” his father agreed, but said nothing more for several seconds. As if contemplating his next words before he spoke them, Spencer began to speak, paused, and then began again. “Fissicle mentioned that you had an interest in returning to Plotus. Surely, he was mistaken. You’ve made yourself very clear about not returning to the family business.”
Spencer’s clear blue eyes held many questions. “Why the change of heart?” he asked.
“The whole point of buying Leisure Me Ready was to have freedom. I enjoyed being my own boss. When Fissicle bought out my magazine everything changed. I have no interest in being Editor-in- Chief for someone else.”
“Fissicle is a good man,” Spencer said unconvincingly. “I’m sure he harbors no ill- will against you.”
Nicholas frowned at his father. “His ill-will isn’t something that concerns me. I have no interest in his approval of my decisions.”
“What do you have an interest in?” the older man asked, straightening his posture. “If you were to come back . . . what department would be of interest to you?”
“I have no interest in running a department. I want to run the company. You said you were ready to retire− was that the truth?”
“It was . . . I am ready to retire. Though, simply handing over my company to you isn’t what I had in mind. You’d have to re-learn the business. You’ve been gone for some time now. It wouldn’t be feasible to just simply let you take over.”
Indeed, it wouldn’t be that easy, Nicholas mused. “COO then. I’ll work directly under you until I get my bearings in order.”
Spencer was thoughtful for a time. “You want to come on as my Vice President? That’s a rather presumptuous notion.”
“Hardly,” Nicholas challenged. “You’ve been pestering me to come back to the family company for years now. If I am to come back it will be for your position, or the position directly under you. I refuse to be a floor manager . . . lead . . . supervisor, or any other heedless title you intend to assign me for the premise of proving a point.”
A Winter's Secret (A Winter's Tale Book 4) Page 10