“Thank you,” he said to her, grateful for her silent understanding and kindness.
Shaking his head, Nicholas sighed inwardly, making another effort to push thoughts of his childhood into a hidden place. When he opened his eyes, he was greeted by Catherine Fissicle’s warm smile. Her dancing topaz blue eyes were still the same, though now they were clouded with wrinkles. “Hello, Nicholas,” she said, laughter in her voice.
“Hello Catherine,” he smiled kindly at the older woman. “It’s been a long time.”
“That it has. That it has, please come in.”
Walking into the house Nicholas grimaced at how little it had changed over the years. It was if he had entered a time capsule, going back to days of long ago. “Not much has changed,” he said, turning to face Catherine. “Sorry that I didn’t recognize you over the phone.”
“Oh, it’s all right. I was just having a bit of fun at your expense,” she giggled, the sound light in his ears. “Come sit, and have tea with me.”
Nicholas kept pace with Catherine as she walked through the large foyer, his gaze drifting from one room to the next as they made their way to a small den right off the kitchen.
“Please have a seat,” she said, extending her hand toward one of the two chairs that sat across from the maple wood coffee table. “Have some,” she smiled, inching an old porcelain teacup toward him. “I’m rather the presumptuous type of woman, I know.”
Picking up the cup, Nicholas regarded her curiously, “How did you know that I’d come?” he asked.
Catherine shrugged her thin shoulders. “I’m also the observant type.”
Arching an amused brow, he said, “Observant . . . of me? It’s been well over fifteen years since we last met.”
“And even back then you appeared to be the curious type,” she chuckled. “But in all honesty, it was neither my presumptuousness, nor my perceptive nature that ushered you into my home, but my prayer that went answered.”
“Your prayer?”
“Yes, my prayer that you’d come if I decided to call.”
“Why did you call me? Earlier you’d said that you have something for me . . . forgive me if I come off rude, but I don’t want to take anything from you.”
Catherine smiled then, her expression soft . . . understanding, just as it was all those years ago. “For months, Nicholas, I’ve prayed on whether I should take certain secrets with me to my grave, if in fact I am obligated more to my husband than I am to the truth.” Raising her cup to her mouth Catherine paused as if in deep contemplation. Letting out a labored breath she said, “You see, the affliction with keeping secrets is that it allows the morally sound to harbor guilt . . . deep- rooted guilt that can make one question the type of person they truly are.”
“Earlier on the phone . . . when you said that there was something that you could do for me . . . you meant telling me a secret?” Nicholas asked, perplexed.
“I would like to offer you the truth.”
Nicholas’ brows furrowed together causing small wrinkles to form around his eyes. “Truth? What truth?”
“I’m sorry to hear about your company. It’s never easy losing something you’re passionate about.”
Nicholas shrugged. “Everything in life has an expiration date. It was my time to lose.”
“Loss− I read somewhere that you can measure a man’s strength by his ability to recover from loss. Hayward has never done well with losing. His life’s plight steers from his obsession with being a man of greatness. It’s all that he yearns for, it’s the only thing that keeps him going, and mark my words it will be his downfall.”
“What’s wrong with wanting greatness?”
“The extent to which one will go to acquire it. Is simply being good, not enough? Being a good husband, a good father, a good friend, a good neighbor? When greatness is desired for selfish reasons it will never last. Self- obsession leads to self-worship, and both are powerful enough to lead you down a road of destruction.”
“I never thought of it like that,” Nicholas said, placing his teacup back onto the coffee table. “You’re a very wise woman.”
Catherine laughed. “Or a very foolish one.” Reaching to her left she grabbed a tan leather portfolio off the glass side table, and with little reservation handed it to him.
Nicholas gazed at Catherine steadily. “Are you sure you want me to see what’s inside?” he asked, not wanting to give the kind woman more to feel guilty about.
“Inside is your truth, Nicholas, and you have the right to it,” Catherine said matter-of-factly.
Opening the folder Nicholas frowned. “Bank statements of transfers from my father’s business account to Fissicle’s . . . what does this have to do with me? They’ve been making business deals since I was a kid.”
“Keep reading,” she advised him.
Nicholas flipped from one page to the next, carefully reading through the figures until one page caught his attention, giving him reason to pause. Glancing up at Catherine, Nicholas knew that the words on the paper were what she had to offer him. Two million dollars transferred from his father’s business account into Hayward Fissicle’s personal checking account for the purchase of Leisure Me Ready magazine. His truth was written out in front of him in black and white.
“So, my father−”
“Gave Hayward the funds to buy shares in your company, thus, making him majority shareholder, and with that power he was instructed to take over Leisure Me Ready in its entirety, and then shut it down.”
“I wish I was surprised,” Nicholas laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I should have known that it wasn’t a coincidence that your husband found interest in my company the second it had started to flounder.”
“I’m afraid there’s more,” Catherine sighed. “Spencer told Hayward to keep you on board until 4th quarter of next year, after which he has been given orders to fire you as Editor-in- Chief,” she explained. “I’m sorry, Nicholas. I truly am. Sorry for your ordeal, and sorry for my husband’s need to win at all things.”
Nicholas shook his head slightly not knowing what to say to the woman who had just betrayed her husband for his benefit. After a moments’ silence, he asked, “Why are you telling me this? Aren’t you concerned that I’ll go after Fissicle to get my company back?”
“What you do, or don’t do is none of my concern. It’s between you, Hayward, and God. My conscious is clear,” she said, her tone was gentle, her smile soft.
“And Fissicle told all of this to you? Are these the original documents?”
“Heavens no. Hayward doesn’t tell me anything of significance. Unfortunately, in addition to his unhealthy desire for greatness, he also enjoys the taste of adultery, and so needing proof to what I knew already knew to be true I hired a private investigator. He confirmed the affair, and several other things . . . the transaction for Leisure Me Ready just being one of many.”
“Have you confronted him about any of this?” Nicholas asked.
“Haven’t spoken a word on any of it. There is a time, and place for everything. Don’t you agree?”
Nicholas nodded his head in agreement. “And if I used this information to my advantage would you think less of me?” Nicholas didn’t know why, but oddly enough he cared what Catherine had thought of him. He didn’t want to fall into the category of men selfishly seeking greatness.
“A mess will remain a mess until someone decides to clean it up,” she answered him, her ocean blues regarding him intently.
“Thank you,” Nicholas said to her. “For your decency now, and for your kindness back then.”
Catherine nodded her head knowingly. “You’re welcome, Nicholas.”
Chapter Nine
Nicholas stood outside Charlotte’s bedroom for God knows how long in deep contemplation. In silence, he watched her sleep, his eyes focused on the rise and fall of her chest under the thin sheet that covered her small frame, she looked peaceful. Glancing down at his watch, Nicholas frowned. 11:43p.m. It ha
d been hours since he’d left Fissicle’s house and though he wasn’t shocked to hear about his father’s betrayal, his mind still hadn’t fully processed how dire the situation truly was. In less than ten months he would be completely pushed out of the magazine, and all at his father’s expense. Exhaling, Nicholas roughly combed his fingers through his beard in frustration. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out his Blackberry. His fingers caressed the buttons as he pondered his next move in quiet deliberation. The last thing he wanted to do was bring other people into his mess; over the years Nicholas had prided himself on his ability to take care of himself, never asking for help . . . never seeking reinforcement that he couldn’t provide with his own capabilities. Though in this moment he felt torn, his thoughts were all over the place, his mind fragmented. “Don’t let your pride take reign over your emotions,” he whispered to himself. With quick fingers, he scrolled through his contacts pausing when he saw his brother’s name.
Nicholas: I need your help. Text me in the morning.
Careful not to make any noise, he made his way into the dim lit room, stripping off his black slacks and striped blue button-up along the way. Taking his time, Nicholas eased into bed, moving his body closer to Charlotte’s one inch at a time.
“I was worried about you,” Charlotte whined, causing him to jump. “I called you like a hundred times, but your phone kept going to voicemail.”
“A hundred times?” Nicholas laughed, wrapping his arms around her, and pulling her closer. “That’s a little excessive,” he said, smiling against her hair.
“I was worried about you,” she repeated. “Why was your phone off?”
“I needed a few hours to clear my head. I’m sorry.”
“Is everything okay?”
Nicholas suddenly became silent, still even, as he contemplated how much he wanted to divulge to her in that moment. “It’s just been a long day,” he said after a while, not wanting to worry her.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she mumbled, exhaustion overtaking her once more.
“Not tonight, Dimple, go to sleep,” Nicholas whispered, kissing her head. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Chapter Ten
Charlotte ran in place on the corner of 9th avenue, impatiently waiting for the traffic light to change. Stretching her arms to the Heavens she captured the sweet essence of morning dew. Inhaling deeply, Charlotte drew the fragrance into her lungs as cars sped past her, her dark brown eyes scanning her surroundings, taking in the faces of strangers as she fought to catch her breath. Red, her subconscious enlightened her. Crossing the street, Charlotte picked up pace, her long thick legs hitting the pavement with a force. It had been weeks since she’d last ran, and the thought was bothersome. Running had become a form of therapy, a natural remedy to take away built up stress and clear her mind. She found peace in the feeling of fresh air filtering through her lungs, and gratification in the ache that spread through her body. Though much to her disappointment, the leisurely act that she had enjoyed so much had been replaced with paperwork and meetings, all of which left her feeling exhausted.
“Left,” a masculine voice called from behind her, interrupting her thoughts.
Instinctively, Charlotte moved to her right, her vision focused on the path ahead. Tilting her shoulders backward she inhaled deeply, slowly exhaling every few seconds to give her lungs instant vigor.
“Left,” the stranger said a second time, his tone harsher than before.
I moved over as much as I could! What do you want me to do fall into the street? She thought, becoming agitated. Wanting to get away from the nuisance on her tail Charlotte quickened her pace as she turned right onto 10th avenue.
“Left,” he called a third time, turning onto 10th avenue right behind her.
Charlotte furrowed her brows, frustrated. “Go, around!” she yelled, keeping straight on her pathway.
“You’re not entitled to everything− you stupid bitch.”
The familiarity in the stranger’s voice gave her reason to pause. Guided by her impulse to turn around Charlotte came to an abrupt stop, spinning on her heels to face the man who was insistent in his attempt to disrupt her few moments of tranquility. “Excuse me! What’s your prob−,” she began, but words were lost on her. Coming to a complete stop as well, the man stood a few feet away from her. He was tall, and dressed in dark clothing that looked too big for his body frame. A black windbreaker facemask fit tightly around his bony face concealing his facial features, all but the exception of his eyes. Menacing blue eyes that Charlotte would never be able to erase from her memory. Charlotte’s stomach dropped as instant panic set into her blood stream causing her heart to pound violently in her chest. “Dean,” she mumbled half to herself. “Is that you?” she demanded.
Narrowing her dark brown eyes, she observed the man standing in front of her intently. He was thin, too thin, much thinner than what her old co-worker had been, and the part of his face that she could see looked pale, paler than what she’d remembered Dean to be, still, Charlotte couldn’t relinquish the thought that she had known the man behind the mask. It was his stare, his icy blue eyes seemed to bore into her, sending instant chills down her spine. “Dean, is that you?” she pressed. “Why are you following me?”
Just then the man took off, darting past her, and almost knocking her off her feet. Charlotte gasped, shocked by his sudden movement. Frightened, she took in her surroundings hoping that someone had witnessed her ordeal, but she was alone apart from passer-byers speeding by in their cars. Exhaling deeply, an agonizing groan poured from her as she disregarded her fear, her need to find out the identity of the stranger uppermost on her mind. Ignoring her subconscious’ screams to turn around she took off after the masked man, pushing past her body’s limitations, her powerful legs ramming out in front of her. Jolts of pain shot through her torso like a wildfire, hot and quick. He was fast, but she was faster. Her energy had begun to wane, but her impulse to confront the unknown man gave her strength, and so she pressed on, her stance strong, her compulsion stronger. Rounding 11th avenue she closed the distance between them, now only a few feet behind him. Looking past him, she let out a sigh of relief at the changing of the traffic light, red. Slowing her pace Charlotte had every intention on pulling off his windbreaker, wanting nothing more than to see the face hidden behind the thick sheer fabric. “You have nowhere else to run,” Charlotte said, her voice heavy. “Now, tell me why you were following me.”
Standing on the edge of the sidewalk the man turned to face her. Tilting his head sideways, he regarded her in silence for a moment, and then he laughed. The sound was venomous to her ears, unsettling to her senses. “You are nothing. He will become nothing,” the man sniggered loudly, and then without warning he ran into traffic, evading oncoming cars by mere millimeters.
“You’re a lunatic,” Charlotte screamed, but her voice was lost in the deafening vibrations of horns blaring, and tires screeching against the stained asphalt.
***
Nicholas scrolled through prospective images for the Spring catalog for the third time that morning, his hopes of quickly dividing the prints between Gizzelle’s blog and magazine had not gone as planned. He realized that the task was not by any means a difficult feat, still, his lack of interest on the topic had begun to turn simple assignments into day long projects. Portraits of happy couples tying the knot during early Spring lay across his desk alongside photoshopped snapshots of pansy’s and daffodils by the dozens. Both futile to him, neither capturing his attention.
“Mr. Elliot,” Rachel said, knocking faintly on his office door before opening it slightly. “Excuse me, Mr. Elliot, there is someone here to see you.”
Glancing down at his watch, Nicholas furrowed his brow, confused. “I don’t have any appointments scheduled until this afternoon. Did you get their name?”
Rachel blushed. “Uh, no sir. Sorry, he was um . . . he was distracting . . . and I, well, I forgot,” she stammered.
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Nicholas blinked at her rapidly. “Distracting?” he asked, rounding his desk. “What do you mean?”
Dropping her eyes to the carpeted floor, Rachel grabbed nervously at her thick loose braid that hung half way down her back. “Um,” she began, but then paused. Looking up at Nicholas with innocent eyes she said, “He has your face.”
Nicholas nodded his head knowingly. “Caleb,” he said to the woman, his tone apologetic. “His name is Caleb.”
“Oh,” Rachel said, her voice low. “Caleb.” His brother’s name was spoken hypnotically. Still staring at the floor, Rachel repeated his name a second time, her focus no longer present.
“Rachel,” Nicholas called her name, the act bringing her subconscious back from which ever dreamlike place it had drifted off to.
“Yes?” she said, meeting his gaze once more.
Nicholas smiled at her. “Could you tell Caleb to come in, please.”
“Oh! Right!” Rachel screeched. “Sorry!” Leaving the door ajar, she briskly made her way back to the floor’s lobby area. “Mr. Elliot is ready to see you.” Nicholas heard her say, her voice shaky.
Tapping lightly on the large wooden door with his index finger, Caleb waited for his brother’s permission before walking into his office.
“Are you serious right now?” Nicholas yelled at him. “Get your ass in here.”
Caleb laughed. “It’s called being respectful, little brother. Now get your ass over here and give me a hug.”
Nicholas smiled brightly at his brother. “What are you doing here?” he asked, making his way over to the man whose image reflected his own.
A Winter's Vow (A Winter's Tale Series Book 3) Page 5