Vulnerable

by Bonita Thompson

  Her first instinct was to call Ingrid Michaels. At the stop sign, she pressed Ingrid’s name and immediately there was a ring. “Answer, you bitch!” But Ingrid’s voicemail answered instead, and Tamara was too impatient to leave a message. Sicily? No, she liked Sicily enough not to involve her.

  It took an hour to get home because only one lane was opened on the westbound floating bridge due to a minor accident involving several cars. When Tamara made it back to Seattle, at a stoplight she prayed that D’Becca was dead.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  When he returned from North Dakota, Rawn had exactly eighteen messages on his machine. To go through them would take time, and he was not in the mood to hear anything related to the death of D’Becca. He grabbed his mail and began going through it methodically. Hirsch’s assistant had sent him a box, and inside was mail from all over the country. He chose to deal with it later. He relaxed in the sofa. Rawn took a long gulp of his beer. Perusing each piece of personal mail, he started placing them in piles of three. They included bills, junk, and letters from students at the Academy. Getting letters from students was something Rawn had not anticipated. Unconsciously, his frame lifted when he caught sight of a letter formally addressed to him, which was from the Academy. There had been half a dozen meetings, both with Hirsch and without him, in regards to Rawn being able to return to Gumble-Wesley to teach. Some part of him feared opening the letter, primarily because no matter what it entailed, it would unquestionably have Sicily’s signature.

  His heart racing, he slit it open and unfolded it in haste. Rawn’s eyes fell to the bottom of the letter to identify Sicily’s signature, but the trustee’s president’s name was typed out, which struck him immediately. The letter went on to say how pleased the board was that the charges against him were dropped. They were excited for his future. His students were steadfast on his behalf, singing his praises. He was, without question, an asset to the Academy. The final paragraph was polite, well thought out and yet quite formal. They regretted to inform Rawn that it was best that he seek a teaching position at another school. He would, however, be generously compensated.

  Rawn was not the type of person who looked, or ever prepared himself, for surprises. This revelation blindsided him. Not solely because he lost his position; in some tiny way he understood that his presence would place unsolicited interest toward the Academy. While he could fight to get his position back, Rawn knew that would only cause more problems for Sicily, and he already felt awkward that this whole thing put her in such a compromised position. Besides, Hirsch counseled him that there was the strong possibility this would be the outcome. And because Sicily failed to speak with him, he saw nothing good coming out of returning to the Academy. Rawn trusted, even when he understood that Sicily felt brutally betrayed, that the friendship they had built over the years would withstand any test. He was confident that in time they would rise above Tamara’s—and more importantly his own—duplicity. When he hugged Tera goodbye at Sea-Tac, she whispered in his ear, “Give Sicily time.”

  Rawn folded the letter and leaned back into the sofa. He gripped the bottle of beer in one hand and took the remote control with the other. He flipped through channels until he came upon CNN. A female reporter was talking, but Rawn could not hear her. He turned up the volume. “Portofino is the pearl of the Italian Riviera,” the reporter was saying. “It’s a uniquely exquisite fishing village with unspoiled charm and romantic seascapes, and one of the most picturesque inlets along the coast. Surrounded by hilltop villas and a castle hanging on its summit, the breathtaking Mediterranean ambience was the place where award-winning fashion designer Tamara had been in hiding…” And in the corner of the screen they were showing footage of Tamara being escorted to a police car, handcuffed. “…Staying here at a villa owned by Henderson Payne since the murder of D’Becca Ross and her unborn child—” Rawn switched the television off.

  Later in the day, he began listening to his messages. The very last message was from Sicily. “Hi, Rawn. First I want you to know that I championed for you to return to the Academy. But I didn’t prevail. I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am that I brought Tamara into our lives. I’m still working through what happened last year. One day we should talk. You know, when someone deceives you, whether it’s conscious or unconscious, forgiveness seems so difficult. It feels like your forgiveness in some way absolves the person of what they did to you. I won’t lie: I wanted you out of my life forever. I even had the nerve to think it was easier than forgiving you. If this had happened to you, I’d tell you that holding on to bitterness and withholding forgiveness would only make you the victim. When it’s not happening to us, we see it so impartially. Intellectually, we understand human flaws. But when there’s emotional investment, it’s like we lose sight of everything.” There was a brief silence, and Rawn was about to delete the message until he heard Sicily resume. “There’s a colleague of mine I think you should reach out to. I know you won’t see this as a great opportunity…at least not yet. But I really think this is something you should consider. And I urge you to make the call, Rawn.” After she gave him the name and number, the sound of her tender voice when she said “bientôt” made him strain to even hear it. He replayed the message twice and then saved it for reasons that were not clear to him at the time. And it was not until he needed a teaching job did Rawn revisit the message.

  • • •

  Several months later, in the midst of Rawn attempting to recreate his routine, he found that he could not go back to the things he did before. He was not that person anymore and thus had developed different interests, different desires. Not aware of what those interests and desires were yet, he had always been naturally curious. He knew, even if he was not in touch with whatever it was yet, he would welcome the challenge and be open to whatever was coming his way.

  He was at the door, keys in hand, when his telephone rang. Although he did not receive as many calls regarding interviews and book deals and hate calls, Rawn still hesitated before answering his phone.

  “Hello!”

  A familiar, long-awaited voice said, “Hello, Rawn.”

  EPILOGUE

  The intense fog, combined with steady drizzle, made it nearly impossible for Rawn to go any faster. He could hardly see a foot in front of him; and although he could chance it, was it really worth it? Especially after everything he had been through over the past year. Moving beyond all the emotional wear and tear on his spirit had not been swift. Perhaps another man would have moved through it with finesse, or pride.

  Not going quite 50 miles per hour, he was confident he would make his flight to Los Angeles. It was Khalil’s thirty-fifth, and his girlfriend Moon was going all out and throwing him an extravagant party, which was his best friend’s style. Of course Rawn would not miss it for anything; absolutely no way would he miss this celebration!

  The exit came into view; he would make it, no doubt!

  Once he parked in short-term and made it to the airport entrance, Rawn was taken aback at the crowd. Sea-Tac was swarming with airline passengers, and he had never seen such masses of people in the airport, even during the height of tourist season. With his e-ticket, he bypassed the chaos of frustrated travelers seeking assistance, amid tired and testy children. He was lucky not to be in the middle of all that stress. He headed straight for his gate.

  No sooner than Rawn arrived, he was greeted with an announce-ment that all flights were delayed due to heavy fog and there were no inbound or outbound flights until further notification. The level of anxiety within the gate went way up upon the broadcast of that message, and people were dangerously close to being out-raged by the inconvenience. Rawn contemplated whether he should go back to Crescent Island or hang out for a while. Since the party was not until the following evening, he could take an early-morning flight into LAX.

  Another announcement was made, informing the passengers to stand by for updated instructions. Rawn decided to hold off leaving. He took a seat nearest
to the window, and it was so dark he could not see anything—not the evening sky, certainly not a twinkling star, the crescent moon, and not one tiny drop of rain. His eyes met with a woman coming directly toward him; her strides were optimistic and determined. “Hi, excuse me,” she said. On the spot, her face rang a bell; Rawn, however, would not have been able to place her even if he put in the effort to try.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “You are Rawn Poussaint, right?”

  He pondered over whether he should lie, but then it was apparent she knew who he was. “Yes,” he did not hesitate.

  “My name’s Siobhan Frasier.” She extended her arm.

  Courteous, Rawn shook hands with Siobhan Frasier.

  “I’m not going to play this thing down, okay? I saw you over here and I swear I couldn’t believe my luck. First of all, I saw you this morning, at Café Neuf on the island? You probably don’t remember. Anyway, I wanted to say something this morning, but I really, really didn’t want to intrude. But here you are. It has to be fate. It has to be. I’ve contacted you at least a dozen times and your attorney at least half that. His assistant tells me you aren’t doing interviews and I get that, I swear, I do. But…”

  “I really don’t do interviews.”

  “Don’t I know,” and her mouth shaped into a delicate frown. With her palms pressed against her cheeks, she continued. “But I also know this has to be fate. I’ve tried to give you some time and I’ve tried to be compassionate and I tried to respect your wishes and…I really would like to do this interview. I’m a freelance journalist and it’s really competitive, you know? Things are changing. With the World Wide Web…journalism is on an entirely different level. Even the canons of journalism—at least in my book—need to be revised. Where’s the truth and accuracy and objectivity? The fairness, the integrity? The world, it’s changing, and so fast.”

  “Maybe you need to find another career.”

  “Don’t go there. Besides, I digressed. Look, I can do this really nice. I will do what you ask and not betray you…you can trust me. I really…”

  “I really do not do interviews.”

  “Okay, let me try it another way. I swear!” Siobhan held up her palm as if to be sworn in at a trial and to profess she would tell the truth and nothing but…“I will be fair and most assuredly accurate. Please, please, Rawn, hear me out.” The journalist could sense that he was losing his patience. “Hear me out, okay?” Siobhan assumed because Rawn did not protest he was giving her some wiggle room. “I was on Vashon Island for a wedding last weekend. I decided to go up to Vancouver to see an old friend. I drove back yesterday to make a red-eye but such is my luck the rental got a flat. I had to wait for nearly two hours for tow service and so I missed my flight. The next flight out was tonight, ten-thirty. Now I have to wait until who knows when to get back to New York. If I hadn’t had a flat tire, I would have made my flight and I’d be back in my cozy Williamsburg walk-up and eating something unhealthy to feel better about myself. Since my flight wasn’t leaving until tonight, and I had all day to search the Web and… Early this morning, when I got up and read through my e-mails, I got this clever idea to take a chance and get on the ferry and go to Crescent Island to meet you. It’s common knowledge that you stop in Café Neuf from time to time, so I went there. When I saw you—first, I didn’t realize how tall you are, and…well, I-I felt like I should leave you alone and I did. Right? I did!

  “So you see this whole thing that’s happening right now…it’s…the good spirit of the universe is at work. I don’t believe in randomness. I don’t think the world operates by chance. I could have been rude and pushy this morning at Café Neuf, but my colleagues have tried that, but you still haven’t relented and that’s highly unusual. Even Richard Jewel did an interview or two. Any-way, if I’d have approached you this morning, you would have been even more nonresponsive than you are right now. Before I even came over here and introduced myself, I attempted to talk myself down. I said, ‘Siobhan, let it go.’ But then…”

  “You don’t believe in randomness?” He was purposely sarcastic.

  “And neither do you. I know that you don’t!”

  “But I don’t do…”

  “…Interviews, fine!” The journalist took her past-the-shoulders brunette hair and clipped it with a barrette. “Okay, how about this? I go through Ezra Hirsch? We set some parameters and you—or he—can tell me what we can or can’t talk about. For example, whether you were the father of D’Becca’s baby. How’s that? I know this story will be syndicated. Every magazine…the list—Rawn, oh, gee whiz, it’s endless. Finally, I will be respected and…I’ve worked my ass off and look! Do you know I can wait for hours outside doors and through hallways to get a quote? Where is it written that that is fair?”

  “But the answer is still no!” Rawn did a fine job of suppressing his amusement.

  “Your protest—I can tell—it’s not as strong, and I feel—you and me—we’ve bonded. I don’t think you want to talk, I really trust that. But you cared for D’Becca; everyone believes that, which is why you’ve stayed silent. And I know that you’d like to clear up some of the stories that are on the Web about your relationship and about her life. I know it! You have to give me some credit, Rawn. Come on!”

  “Okay, look. Do you have a business card?”

  “Yes!” Fast on her feet, the journalist reached in her designer backpack and produced a business card that listed a cellular number, a fax number, and an e-mail address.

  Rawn looked over the information. “Okay,” he said.

  “Are we at maybe yet?”

  “We’re at let-me-think-it-over-and-I’ll-get-back-to-you-even-if-I-don’t-do-it. How’s that?”

  The corners of her slender lips elevated. “I can live with that.”

  “You have my word. I’ll call.”

  “I know you will. This bond, it’s not superficial. I can feel it.”

  He watched her walking away. She turned to wave, and Rawn stood.

  He called Khalil but received his voicemail. Rawn left him a message that his flight was delayed. He failed to bring reading material and sensed it was going to be a long night. He decided to check out the bookstore on the other end of the gate. Instinctively, he looked for Siobhan, making sure she was out of sight; he did not want her following him. Apparently a lot of people had the same idea. Upon entering the bookstore, Rawn had to squeeze his way through. He made his way to hardbacks. He picked up a title, and before opening the book, he was urged by an invisible force to look to his right. No f’in’ way!

  What about her had he not noticed over the years? It seemed every angle had been carefully scrutinized. He even knew her gentle feminine scent, which the air always welcomed. But in watching her, he saw something was different. Not her hair or the clothes she wore—it was subtle, too indescribable.

  Should he take the gamble? Was he even ready to take such a chance on something that was—as the callous complexity of D’Becca’s fate taught him—so amazingly spontaneous? If he allowed himself to think it through—to analyze it—too much, he most certainly would turn on his heels, and because two moments were never identical, he might never—never—have this moment again. Typically, Rawn was not weak-willed, but he wanted to sense that internal quiet which would lead him to know for sure he would be fine. The decision to, or not to, was of significant magnitude in his mind. Before he could turn and get lost in the crowd of stranded travelers—they all were hoping to find something to blur time while being forced to wait—she turned to him and her soft mouth, concealed by a delicate rust-red hue that highlighted the kind shape of her lips, spread sweetly. At once, Rawn noticed her holding Pricilla Miles’s much-talked-about new book.

  Trying to pretend she was not off guard, she said, “Hello.” She managed a measured monotone.

  “You’re going, right?”

  “Yeah, you too?”

  “Yep. L.A.”

  “Me, too. I thought I’d grab something to hold my
attention since I might be here a while.” Their brown eyes traveled to the controversial best seller. “I needed something juicy.” No sooner than those words left her did she wish she could snatch each one of them back. “I mean, I wanted to read it because I understand her facts can’t be disputed because her publisher’s legal team went over it with a fine-tooth comb, or so I hear.”

  Rawn was not sure what to say to her. He couldn’t care less about Miles’s book, even when he knew details about him were in it. Not that he had read it, but Hirsch’s paralegal team deciphered it cover-to-cover to verify the book’s authenticity as far as Rawn was concerned, and if it was not completely factual, whether a libel suit could be filed on his behalf.

  To make her feel at ease, Rawn said, “I’ve heard it’s a page-turner.”

  “But you haven’t read it?”

  He confirmed with a slight shake of his head.

  Her eyes rested on the cover. Pricilla’s name larger and bolder than the single title, Vulnerable, made her unconsciously back away from the idea of reading it. “I probably shouldn’t, really. I mean…it’s all so salacious and…D’Becca’s not here to defend any of this, even if every word is true. And I know what that’s like. My father had plenty of horrible things said about him over the years. Some were not true, but even when things were true, they were often taken out of context.”

  Who is your father? was at the tip of his tongue, but her contemplative “Yeah…” made Rawn lose his train of thought. She replaced the book on the shelf. No sooner than her hand left it, another customer retrieved the book like a seat at a hot slot machine in Vegas. “Whatever Tamara did, it’s unfair that someone would take things she said in confidence and then betray her and use it to take their career to another level. It’s so wrong.” She chuckled. “I’m so glad I ran into you. I was getting caught up like everyone else. Isn’t that amazing how that happens? Like a car accident. My mother used to call people like that looky-loos. Suddenly one person stops, then another, then another. Why do people choose to be an eyewitness to the pain and suffering of others? It’s so strange.”