All the others watch as if a tennis tournament is playing out from one end of the table to the other, their words hit back and forth like the ball.
Aunt Peg says, “Our food is getting cold. Why don’t we start eating?”
Everyone starts on the nutty Brussels sprout salad, leaving the turkey for last.
“Harold and I told each other everything before his passing,” Countess Wilshire blows her own horn. “Married couples don’t keep secrets from each other. They have too much love and respect.”
“Have you met my brother, Countess?” Cassie gives her a raised eyebrow. “He’s not exactly the marrying type.”
Just as casually, Marcus drops the next bomb. “The world is changing. Marriage is being left behind. We don’t all want a white picket fence.”
Victoria, about to take a bite of a crispy sprout, stops in midair at the revelation.
Aunt Peg steps in, exuding joy. “If you ask me, marriage is the best thing possible next to having a child. And it does take two very special people to make it work. It’s been thirteen glorious years for us so far.”
“Thirteen years, huh?” Marcus says with a little chuckle. “You’re going to tell me after all that sagging and dropping you don’t ever feel the spark fading?”
“Hey, watch what you say to my wife, pal,” Uncle Pete retorts.
“Take it easy, Peter. I’m sure you still get in the mood.”
“You’re mean and your face looks weird.” Gracie sticks out her tongue.
“Gracie,” Aunt Peg admonishes.
“Well, it is. It’s orange.”
Uncle Pete. “Gracie.”
“Parents, you need to keep your unruly children at bay. Teach them some manners while you’re at it. That goes for you too, Victoria,” says Countess Wilshire.
“Stop fighting,” Sarah pleads.
Uncle Pete shouts, “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m sorry,” Aunt Peg says. “She didn’t mean it.”
“Yes, I did,” Gracie argues.
“Stop fighting,” again Sarah.
Sophie and Oliver exchange huffy looks. This isn’t going the way anyone planned and now everyone is in a sour mood.
Sarah puts her hands on her ears and shouts, “Stop it!” Her shrill scream pierces across the dining table.
Jingle Bells the dog climbs up Lily’s legs, jumps on the table, runs straight for the middle, mounts the turkey, and begins to humps it.
Everyone at the table gasps in horror, the tags on Jingle’s collar jangling as he goes.
OLIVER FINDS SOPHIE in the entertainment area on the sixth floor stretched out on a cozy chaise lounge, looking up at the fiber optics ceiling that simulates a cosmic glowing night sky. It’s Oliver’s man cave…complete with a home theater system, a bar, a pool table, and his much beloved wine cellar.
“I knew I’d find you here,” he says calmly.
“It’s my favorite place in the house.”
“I know.”
“I’m in love with the stars. How they shine and seem to wink at you. I’m in love with the sky, the clouds, the moon.”
She can spend hours here looking at the twinkling ceiling. It’s so peaceful, so calming amidst the surrounding chaos. A private sanctuary. You can’t get stars in New York. Light pollution.
Oliver explains the galaxy effect is astronomically correct—the Milky Way, constellations, everything. “What about that one?” she asks, pointing. “Shooting star. Artistic exaggeration.”
“Is everyone gone?” she asks.
Oliver sighs and lies down next to her. “Yes. It’s just us.”
“Thank God.”
“You checked on Sarah?”
Sophie nods. “She’s gone to sleep. She said she doesn’t like new people. It freaks her out. Guess that’s why she broke down at the table.”
“It makes sense.”
She wants a little longer before she comes clean to him about Bridges. “We really screwed up Thanksgiving, didn’t we?”
“After this, I don’t think I can ever eat turkey again.”
“It’s a good thing I cooked that second bird.”
“Sure is.”
“I can’t believe the dog humped the turkey.”
“I can’t believe Countess Wilshire didn’t have a stroke.”
They laugh.
Sophie sits up.
“What’s on your mind?” Oliver asks.
She has a worried look on her face and starts wheezing out of control. There’s just so much to be said. “I did something bad.”
He rises. “What did you do?”
“I don’t want to tell you. You’ll be mad at me. I know it.”
“You tell me you did something bad, but you don’t want to say what? This is absurd.”
“See? You’re mad.”
“I’m not mad, Soph. Just tell me what it is.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Are you going to tell me or not?”
“You’re supposed to soften the blow, not make it harder!”
“Christ. Okay. Let’s start again,” he says with a sigh.
“No, don’t be nice to me. I don’t deserve it.”
“I mean this in the best possible way, do you know how crazy you sound right now?”
“It’s about Bridges,” she chokes out.
“What about him?”
“I, uh…I went—”
Before she can finish, the security system alarm activates, assaulting their ears. Its emergency siren booms unceasing, like an air raid warning. Oliver is quick to act. He hustles Sophie into the main bedroom, toward the panic room behind the clothes in their closet. “Seal it. Wait for me to come get you!” he shouts over the ear-splitting blast of the alarm, but terror is burning up every cell in Sophie’s body. Half her brain is hindered by the fear. Shit! What else can go wrong today?
Sophie can only scream, “No, no, no! What about you?”
He doesn’t think twice. He pushes her inside and smashes his hand on the red button, locking her in.
Oliver dashes to get his .45 from the safe and cocks it. The penthouse is a blur of flashing red lights. With hardly any visibility, he searches the house room by room for Sarah, gun drawn. Finally, he finds her behind a gun of her own, fearlessly pointing it at him. Oliver is shocked by the unexpected standoff. He hesitates for a second to see if she will try anything. When she doesn’t, he snatches her gun away in one swift motion, only to realize it’s plastic.
He snaps it in half.
“You broke it!” Sarah cries.
Police barge in and run through the penthouse floors in full battle gear.
One of them says, “NYPD. Identify yourself.”
“Black, Oliver Black. This is my house.”
“Mr. Black, please come with us.”
E I G H T E E N
* * *
Safe and (Un)Sound
“WE FOUND THE culprit.”
Oliver, Sophie, Sarah, and even Thea, in her flannel nightgown, are gathered in the living room and pacing around nervously when one of the officers sets down a black, spider-like robot on the coffee table.
“A toy?” Sophie says unimpressed, her arms crossed over her chest.
“This is no toy. It’s a drone. A sophisticated flying device with a video camera, controlled with a simple smartphone app. We found it caught in between the trees on the library terrace. My guess is the pilot must have come back for it, activated the motion sensors, and fled when the alarm sounded.”
Oliver plants his hands on his hips, a riled expression on his face. “Who was piloting it?”
“It’s registered to an Elliott King,” says the officer. “Name ring a bell?”
Sophie and Oliver shake their heads. Sarah sits still, trying to look inoffensive.
“He was a photographer for magazines like OK!, Us Weekly, Star, Life & Style. But he was arrested for his illegal methods of taking pictures of celebrities. Trespassing, aggressive chasing, that sort of thing.
”
“That’s what this is about?” Sophie grumbles.
“He’s been working freelance for some time, selling pictures to any media group who will compensate.”
“Oliver.” Sophie grabs his bicep, meeting his gaze. “This must be the guy who’s been following me. Remember the photographs on the yacht?”
He looks at the officer. “What footage is on this thing?”
“We’ll look through it.”
“Let us know everything you can find on this guy.”
The officer nods. “Sorry for the disturbance, folks. You have a good night.” He disappears into the elevator with the rest of his men.
Thea stifles a yawn and scuttles off to her room.
“Wait a minute. That’s it? Show’s over? We go back to sleep? We don’t figure out how someone managed to climb up all the way to the library terrace?”
“Sophie, I know you’re worried, but there’s nothing we can do right now. Morning will be here in a couple of hours and we have a busy day ahead of us.”
She folds her arms again. “I can’t just go to sleep like nothing happened.”
“Hey, hey, come here.” He pulls her hand softly and draws her into him. “We’re okay.”
“I didn’t even know you had a panic room. How dare you throw me in there like that? And didn’t I tell you we needed curtains?”
“Given the choice of you or me, it’s always going to be you.”
He wraps both arms around her, holding her tight against his strong body. Because she needs him. Because she needs a hug. Because they need each other.
On the sofa, Sarah is in a daze, heart still pounding. To see such love, such a sense of unity—she is overcome with something. How can she love him? How can he love her? How does it work? How does it all feel?
IN THE MORNING, Oliver brings strong feelings to the podium outside police headquarters and addresses the media.
“Last night, Sophie and I were forced into lockdown after a drone was caught peering into our home. The photographer piloting it lost track of his device and came onto my property in an attempt to retrieve it. He didn’t succeed. Everyday there is a whole range of issues that you want to know about concerning the John Henry Bridges case, Sophie, and myself. We understand that you are doing your job. You’re trying to follow the story. There are conspiracy theories, information leaks, and even photo-shopped pictures playing out across the web. We’re resilient, but we’re not complacent—there is a world of difference. Concerning yesterday’s incident, I have one thing to say: Back off. If you want to discuss the dome, oil production, globalization, membrane technology, the importance of cleaner air and reliable power, go right ahead. I’ll gladly have a word with you. But you interfere with my personal life again, and I won’t be so understanding next time.”
In the kitchen, Sophie glances away from watching him on the TV and unhappiness washes over her. He’s handsome as ever—face that can stop you in your tracks, hair impeccable—but if you look close enough, you’ll see dark circles beneath his eyes. He needs about a hundred naps. He speaks calmly, but is mired in problems. His suit is crisp and tailored well, hugging every part of his gorgeous body, but he wears a bulletproof vest under it. Who knew? That’s the thing about appearances, they truly can be deceiving.
Thea pours hot cocoa into a Christmas mug for her and adds fresh whipped cream, honeycomb crumbs, and a candy cane.
“This looks delicious. Thank you,” Sophie says, then just stands in the middle of the kitchen, staring straight ahead.
“Are you looking for something, Miss Sophie?”
“I don’t know.”
It isn’t material, that’s for sure. It isn’t a spoon, a grater, or a can opener. She is looking for clues; she is looking for answers. Looking for a twinkle of hope to cling to. Looking for something. Looking for anything.
How scary the time is. How exhausted, physically, mentally, and emotionally she is.
OVER THE COURSE of the following weeks, Sophie’s face is photographed in high-fashion close-ups for the covers of People, Bazaar, and W. Kim reminds her this is an opportunity to score political points with the public before the trial starts. The tension is high, but she is well prepared and holds herself like a refreshingly frank woman. With every interview, the tone and scope escalates, and Sophie grows bolder, polishing her performance.
The rumor: the kidnapping of Sophie Cavall was a publicity stunt. Sophie Cavall and John Henry Bridges are nothing more than performers in a stunt designed to make her famous.
The truth: It really doesn’t seem to matter.
The Bottom line: Perception is reality. Especially when the perception is widely held.
Her act is impeccable, but the story grows fast and develops more and more furious comments.
“Sophie Cavall seems to add more charges with each interview she gives. It’s obvious she’s quite the storyteller.”
“Sophie Cavall keeps embellishing her tales with more and more details making it difficult to stay on board.”
“I think Sophie Cavall is full of shit. She only wants media attention.”
Sophie fires back by tweeting, “Before you judge others, make sure you’re perfect.”
In the end, she opens up to TIME Magazine. She brings light to violence and abuse issues by posing with victims—actually models in disguise—for the cover. Confidence translates into her shoots. The group photographs like a dream, evoking a powerful image of courage, strength, and most of all—hope. For the inside exclusive, Sophie talks about wanting to leave the past behind, what she plans on doing next, even what her fans call themselves.
“Caphies,” she replies with a wide grin.
“What does that mean?”
“It’s Cavall and Sophie merged.”
“Interesting. What about ‘Caphinated’? I’ve heard that going around. What is that?”
She laughs. “A verb, I think.”
The interviewer asks, “Who is Sophie Cavall?”
She chuckles and says, “I ask myself that same question every day. I’m a whole bunch of crazy. I grew up in front of the camera, which means I grew up being fake. I don’t think I’ve ever said that in public, but it’s true. Modeling is acting. I don’t remember my first job because I was probably sucking on a pacifier at the time. And, I mean, I don’t blame anyone. That’s just what happened. I’ve heard it all. You’re too fat. You’re too pale. You’re too old. You’re too posey. On and on. It never ends. They’re never happy. You know what? I don’t owe anyone perfection. I owe myself love and apologies and kindness. It’s really time. No longer will I bow to the criticism. No longer.”
After a very long dramatic pause, the interviewer asks about rumors of leaving modeling.
Sophie wraps it up by saying, “Not fully. I have ongoing projects. But for the most part, I want to spend more time with my family and focus on other goals.”
N I N E T E E N
* * *
Black Island
AWHILE BACK, SOPHIE joined forces with the STOP Foundation (Short Time Of Prayer) to bring exposure to a good cause, whether that be judgment, bullying, abuse, violence, suicide. Sophie creates her own social campaign and uploads a 15-sec clip of herself. “Hello, my name is Sophie Cavall. Some of you might know me. Some of you might think you know me. It doesn’t matter. This isn’t about me. This is about you and what you can do to help make the world a better place. What do you want to put a STOP to? Let me and everyone else know using the hashtag #PutASTOPTo.”
With New York having less and less green areas, Oliver, in cooperation with Black International and the city, will introduce the first indoor, sustainable, public park ever to be built on a waterfront: The Warren Black Dome.
Sophie and Oliver team up like the perfect power couple. He will cut the ribbon on the park grand opening and Sophie will make use of the green space to shine a light on the Put-a-STOP-to campaign. The people of New York will come together. That certainly is the idea.
; That morning, the couple relaxes in the main bathroom sauna. He is lying on the lower bench and she on the top one, both wrapped in towels. It’s a big day for them. Overwhelmed with anxiety, her first instinct is to panic. No one will come. I will look stupid. It will have been for nothing. His first instinct is to let the fuss roll off his back like water on a duck. You’ve been waiting a long time for this. Trust your game. Everything will work out as planned.
Sophie closes her eyes, trying to relax herself and send away her disquieting thoughts, but she can’t. “Oliver…” From the top bench, she stretches out her arm and lightly runs her finger along his perspiring chest. “What if no one shows up today?”
“People will show.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t think you realize your power, Amelia Sophia.”
“What power?”
“Upload an image of you eating pudding right now and in seconds millions of people will be talking about pudding.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I don’t exaggerate. You matter.”
“I just hope someone cares enough to show up. I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“Don’t second guess yourself, sweetheart.”
“This feels like the fifth grade all over again. I’ll never forget the first time I threw a party. I invited Josh Jensen. He was my first crush. I was going to marry him.”
“Should I be jealous?”
She smiles at the memory. “I was so excited when he said that he was coming. Aunt Peg and I made a bunch of snacks and Uncle Pete grilled burgers.”
“So what happened?”
“He didn’t come.”
“Guess it wasn’t meant to be, then.”
“You believe in that? Meant to be?”
“Well, I believe sometimes it works out. Sometimes it doesn’t.”
A buzzer sounds indicating their thirty minutes of steam and heat are up. They duck their heads under the water in the shower. Oliver pushes her back against the cold marble on the wall and pulls her leg up, pressing himself against her. They say nothing, just let their bodies do all the talking.
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