Black Diamond

by Elisa Marie Hopkins

  Her stomach knots. She’s keeping secrets from him about Bridges, her visit, the kiss. “I can’t explain it,” she confesses, her voice more distressed. “I just have a bad feeling about this.”

  “I honestly don’t get you, Sophie. When we first met, there was no conceivable way I could make you understand that you were in danger. Now, even with Bridges in prison, all you do is worry and think about the worst.”

  “You’re right. But you can’t talk to me about when we first met. I’m not the same person anymore. I can’t afford to be anything but fully alert.”

  He sighs, ruffles his hair. “Let’s just try to enjoy tonight, huh? It’s Thanksgiving.”

  “You hate Thanksgiving.”

  “I don’t hate Thanksgiving. I just don’t care for it. You, on the other hand, I’m quite fond of.”

  The first time she laid eyes on him, his most extraordinary sea-blue eyes entranced her. Sometimes, when the sun soaks his tired gaze, Sophie starts up a conversation about exactly what shade of blue they are. “Neptune blue?” or “Robin Egg blue?”

  “I’ll leave you to your brooding. I’m going to check on the turkey now.” She stands up and backs away from him.

  “Hey, babe?”

  “Yeah?”

  “A FedEx box from Net-A-Porter arrived for you this morning.”

  She sighs. “Well, whoop-de-doo. What am I wearing?”

  “Ronnie picked it out. You should ask him. He has a better understanding of fashion than I do.”

  Sophie rolls her eyes and says, “Ronnie has a better understanding of fashion than all of us.”

  A FEW HOURS later, Sophie is talking to Reed in the study. She sits in Oliver’s chair, feeling omnipotent.

  “I need you to ask questions without drawing attention to yourself,” she says. “It’s a puzzle, and I don’t have all the pieces.”

  Reed stands stiffly in his pressed suit. “What kind of questions?”

  “The right ones.” She stands resolute, rounds the desk, and leans against it. “Bridges…he’s…too cocky. He thinks he’s in the stronger position, and I don’t like it. I want to see fear in his eyes. I want to see him suffer.”

  Reed studies her. “I don’t think you want to get mud on yourself digging up a pig’s business, boss. You’re not the villain here.”

  She crosses her arms. “Maybe you don’t know me well,” she replies in a grim croak. “Something is going on in that prison, Reed. I want to know what. I need to know what.”

  “What about Mr. Black?”

  The door pops open and Oliver walks in, jerks his gaze at her. Silence descends.

  “By all means, answer the question,” he says.

  Sophie gives him a wary glance, trying to coax herself into some façade of calm. But her face screams tension. Simple. Keep it simple. “Reed and I were just going over my schedule for next week.”

  “In that case,” he walks to her, and her heart picks up speed, “don’t stop on my account. Finish your business. I just came in for my checkbook.” He rounds the desk and fishes in a drawer.

  “I have nothing for Tuesday yet,” Reed says with an unreadable look on his face.

  “What?” asks Sophie.

  “The agenda for Tuesday. I need to plan the drive routes, check out venues beforehand.”

  “Oh, right. Well, you know, I have that interview with—”

  There’s a brief pause as Oliver noisily pulls out another drawer.

  “—People Magazine at—”

  He slams it shut.

  “—the St. Regis.”

  He stuffs the checkbook inside his suit breast pocket and directs his attention to Sophie. “Did you know there are hidden microphones recording everything that goes on in my office?”

  Sophie bites her lip, rubbing the back of her neck.

  I guess you didn’t, he thinks.

  “Reed, you’re dismissed.” Oliver nods toward the door.

  Reed doesn’t seem surprised. He turns on one heel and exits the office, then the penthouse to be with his own family on Thanksgiving.

  “You think I don’t know when you’re lying, Sophie?” The question comes out soft and open, but full of impending thunder. “You can either tell me now or later. But I strongly recommend now.”

  She hates this. Hates herself. She did something bad. John. The kiss. The going around his back. And Oliver can see the panic creeping out of her.

  “Guests are arriving.” She lowers her head a little. “We should go greet them.”

  “Hey, hey. Look at me.” He steps in front of her and raises her chin with his finger. “What is it?”

  “Please, Oliver. There’s nothing to say. Not now.” She’s suffocating, lies whirling all around her. “We don’t want to keep anyone waiting.”

  He releases a breath and shakes his head, disappointed, then, marches away without another word.

  SARAH TAKES IT upon herself to say hello as she lets guests in the front door. When the Sullivan party of four arrives in dressy clothes, Aunt Peg throws her arms out to hug her. Sarah pulls back and shakes her head.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, darling. I forget about the touching.”

  Uncle Pete sniffs the air. “It smells great in here. Hello there, my little chickadee.” He attempts to lighten the mood. “Tell me, how are they treating you here so far?”

  Sarah frowns. “Why do you say it like I’m a prisoner?”

  “No, honey. I just meant if you’re feeling well is all.”

  “But I’m not sick,” she mutters.

  Aunt Peg elbows him. “Pete, stop it. You’re making her uncomfortable. It’s good to see you, Sarah. You look beautiful.”

  “Do you like my dress?” she asks, twirling. “Oliver bought it for me.”

  Aunt Peg blinks with surprise. “Yes. It’s very nice. I love it.” Her lips curl into a smile. “So, where’s your sister?”

  Fighting emotions, Sophie appears from the study in a knee-length dress with sheer organza at her chest and waist. Very few jewels. The family turns toward the click-clack of her heels. The sisters are wearing almost matching dresses; Sophie’s is pure black and Sarah’s is more of a dark charcoal, but the similarity is there.

  Sophie puts her woes on hold to greet her aunt and uncle with a hug. “You’re right on time. I hope you’re hungry.”

  “And thirsty.” Uncle Pete brushes a thin layer of snow from his shoulders and bestows a nice bottle of wine upon her.

  “Oh, thank you,” Sophie says, gloom creeping in her voice. “Oliver will love this.”

  “Where is he anyway?” asks Uncle Pete, looking around.

  She gives a twitch of a smile. “Not sure.”

  “Everything all right?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Everything all right with Oliver?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Absolutely. Nothing to worry about.” Sophie registers her cousins’ unexcited behavior. Unusual for the vibrant and energetic little tots. “I don’t think I can say the same about you two. Why the long faces? Aren’t you glad to see me?”

  Lily and Gracie look over to their mother.

  “We left the dog at home,” Aunt Peg answers flatly.

  “His name is Jingle Bells, mom,” Lily says, one hand on the handle of her lilac rolling backpack.

  Gracie says, “Mommy says we have to get him nurtured.”

  “Neutered, honey.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  Sophie stops herself from laughing. “This should be good.”

  “I told you. They’re going to operate on him so he can’t have babies,” Lily tells her sister.

  “I thought you were kidding,” cries Gracie, hugging her pink-striped sock monkey.

  “And because he likes to hump my pillow. Yuck!”

  “Girls, enough. Settle down. Peter?” The look she gives him says, a little help here.

  Uncle Pete is too distracted by the elegant, spacious penthouse. “What your mother said.”

  Aunt Peg si
ghs and explains why it’s the responsible thing to do because of all the puppies being born without enough people to adopt them.

  “Is he going to die?” Gracie asks, eyes wide.

  “No, sweetheart. It’s a small surgery. Jingle will be fine. Maybe a sore tummy.”

  “Hey, how about some ice cream? How does that sound?” Sophie is stroking Gracie’s blonde hair, smoothing loose tendrils back into her braid. “Come on in. You can leave your coats in the closet. Straight ahead. Sarah can take you.” The family heads to the closet, then toward the living room where they mingle with Oliver.

  Sophie hangs at the elevator as a Cruella de Vil type character rises to their floor. She walks out of the lift with the help of a bedazzled cane. Her white bob creates bold contrast over her red lips, and a full chinchilla fur coat drags behind her.

  Victoria, Oliver’s stepmother, happens to walk by after exiting the powder room.

  “Oh, Countess Wilshire!” She grabs the woman’s shriveled hands in a formal greeting. “So good you could join us. Let me take your coat.”

  “Thank you, dear. And which one are you?”

  “Hello, I’m Sophie.”

  “Sophie who?”

  “Sophia Cavall,” Victoria says.

  “Who?”

  It’s like Victoria doesn’t want to say it. “The woman of the house.”

  “Oh? I didn’t realize Oliver got married. I never received an invitation.”

  “We’re not—”

  “Countess, why don’t we—”

  “—married,” Sophie finishes with a courteous smile.

  She is shocked by the news. “Then why do you live together?”

  An uncomfortable silence lasts until Victoria changes the subject. “Well, dinner is almost ready to be served. We’re just waiting on my stepdaughter, Cassie. Shall we move into the dining room?”

  The Countess says, “Wait a second. I think I understand. You’re engaged.”

  Sophie feels her face heat. “No.”

  “Planning to get married?”

  She cringes. “No.”

  “At least tell me the subject of marriage has come up.”

  Why does she even care? “No.”

  Countess Wilshire looks at Sophie with an accusing stare. “And your parents approve?” she asks in disbelief.

  The question strikes her like a blow. Nobody speaks of her parents. “I wouldn’t know. My mother is dead and my father could very well be,” she says, her face grave. Sophie walks away.

  S E V E N T E E N

  * * *

  What Else Can Go Wrong Today?

  SOFT, HEAVENLY MUSIC swirls through the air. Guests find their seats by the gold leaf place cards on every plate. “Ohs” and “ahs” resound as the group looks over the table. A row of tall lit candles runs down the middle of too many serving dishes to count. Outlined by natural branches sprinkled with jasmine buds, the landscape that is their feast is lush and fragrant.

  Victoria and her boyfriend, Marcus—a slimy-looking guy with dark, greased-back hair and skin the color of a carrot due to frequent visits to the tanning salon—take seats closest to Oliver at the head of the table. The rest of their guests convene and the distinct ting of silverware on china fills the room just as Cassie arrives, last to show up for the gathering. Oliver nearly has a heart attack at the sight of her plunging red dress. Her hair is shorter; her body tattooed with a Chinese symbol on her forearm and a string of words down the back of her neck, and her freckled nose has a stud.

  “What? It’s my body,” Cassie says with a shrug as she sits at the table.

  In his head, Oliver is trying to muster a level of calm that hasn’t been invented yet. He stands and proposes a toast. Sophie picks up her cranberry cocktail and looks to him from her seat at the opposite head of the table. He is grinning in that sinful way he does when about to say something inappropriate.

  “Sophie and I would like to thank you all for your presence here this Thanksgiving.” Wait for it. “It’s our first time having people over for entertaining and we hope it isn’t our last.” Wait for it. “After all, what better way to celebrate the pilgrims stealing the native’s land and killing them, all while pretending to be peaceful friends, than gathering around the table with a traditional turkey menu.” And there it is. “So, thank you, again, and cheers to the absurdity of the world.”

  Heavy silence falls. Uneasy glances bounce from person to person. Some shift awkwardly in their seats while several others go through a sudden epidemic of coughing and throat clearing.

  “For God’s sake.” Countess Wilshire lifts her empty wine glass. “Can someone get me a bloody drink?”

  “Make that two.” Sophie points a finger in the air. It’s going to be a long night.

  If you listen very carefully, you can hear high-pitched yelps coming from underneath the table. Lily covertly slips a sugar-glazed carrot below the tablecloth.

  Uncle Pete unleashes a kind smile in Oliver’s direction. “As our host tonight, why don’t you do the honors and say grace for us?”

  “I couldn’t possibly, Peter. You go ahead.”

  This receives a snort from Cassie. “If it wasn’t obvious already, my brother hates Thanksgiving.”

  “Let’s just say I’m grateful that Thanksgiving comes once a year,” Oliver says.

  “Good idea, Oliver,” Aunt Peg praises. “Why don’t we go around the table and each say one thing we’re grateful for? I’ll start. I’m grateful my daughters still ask me to read them bedtime stories despite how big they’re getting. Your turn Gracie.”

  Reading into her youngest’s little frown, Aunt Peg says, “It’s okay, baby. Say one thing you like.”

  Gracie hugs her sock monkey. “The tooth fairy.

  “The tooth fairy? Well, okay, that’s nice. What about you, Lily?”

  The tooth fairy is Mom, dumdum! Lily thinks. “Mac and Cheese!”

  Next is Uncle Pete. “All right then, I’m grateful for the wonderful women in my life. Though I have to admit, we do need a boy in this family full of estrogen! Sophie?”

  Wait, what? Sophie nearly chokes on her cocktail. So many people congregated together in one place at one time always makes for awkward conversation.

  “Jesus, Uncle Pete. Why does everything have to be such a rush? A rush to find someone, a rush to get married, a rush to have babies.”

  “I meant it’s your turn to say something you’re grateful for.”

  “Oh.” She dares not look anyone in the face, afraid she won’t be able to recover from whatever reaction they may have had. “Well, I guess I’m just grateful that I haven’t wanted to keep hurting myself.”

  There is so much movement, pouring of the Merlot, placing of napkins on laps, and then suddenly total silence.

  “That came out wrong. Uh, what I should’ve said is, I haven’t had a cigarette in about a month.”

  Uncle Pete—seated next to Sophie—places his hand on hers. “I’m so proud of you!”

  Sarah is up next, but she’s counting the forks and spoons set in front of her, trying to figure out how to navigate aristocratic life. Gracie pokes her arm. Sarah looks at Sophie, who flashes her a smile of encouragement.

  Sarah says, “I’m grateful for Sophie because she’s taking care of me even though she has a lot to deal with right now.”

  The Countess clears her throat, ensuring all eyes shift to her. “Well, I’m certainly grateful that I get compliments on my skin all the time, and I am seventy five years old.”

  “Very nice, Countess. I agree.” Victoria smiles sweetly. “I’ll add that I’m grateful for my body and health…that I can not only complete a yoga class, but nail a scorpion pose like it’s nothing. I’m grateful for Marcus, for my family, for my—”

  “Mom, it’s just one thing,” Cassie says, annoyed.

  When it’s Cassie’s turn, she looks at Oliver and says, “You go.”

  He points his Pinot Noir at her. “You first.”

  “No, you,” s
he says. Then, cheerily, “Okay me. Today, I’m grateful that my Instagram wasn’t flagged and deleted for eternity after I posted an inappropriate photo of our turkey.”

  “Cassidy!” Victoria whispers in a clipped tone.

  She looks at her. “What?”

  “This behavior. Tattoos. Nose piercing. What is next? Drugs?”

  “Well, you know what they say, it runs in the family.”

  Oliver takes the punch without protest, but it’s taking everything he has not to push his chair away and storm off.

  “Cassie, what has gotten into you?” Victoria asks with more of a tone of hostility than concern.

  Cassie scoffs, thinking it’s a question of who, not what.

  Marcus says, “Ignore her, she’s on her period or something.”

  “I can’t believe this. Are you one of those emo people now?” asks Victoria.

  “I don’t know, Mom. Is Marcus my dad now? Are you getting married now? Do I move out now?”

  “Don’t be absurd, where will you go?”

  “Oh, gee, I don’t know. Oliver and Sophie are just welcoming everyone to come and live here.”

  No longer willing to hold his anger, Oliver slams his fist on the table so hard dishes and glasses clink and clatter.

  Everyone turns toward him, white with panic.

  When he has their undivided attention, he calmly says, “It’s my turn.”

  “Let’s see.” He sighs. “What should I be grateful for? Should I be grateful that my sister, who is acting like a rebellious teenager right now, has decided to go against good manners and break every etiquette rule in the book? Should I be grateful that my company is in a downward spiral with no likelihood of improvement in sight? Or should I be grateful that this woman sitting across from me, this woman I love, can’t seem to be upfront and truly honest with me?”

  His words are met with stunned silence.

  “What?” Sophie looks up from her plate so fast her vision goes a little fuzzy for a second.

  “You heard me.”

  She snips at him. “Oliver.”

  “I asked you one simple question.”

  “And I gave you an answer.”

  “Not a real one.”

  “You seriously want to do this now?”