by Xavier Mayne
Brandt chuckled. “Well, I would never have called anyone ‘Proustian’ before Gabriel told me what it meant.”
“What does it mean?” she asked, hiking herself up onto the lounger next to his.
“I don’t remember. The way he said it was so sexy that I kind of got distracted. Then by the time we were in the shower, I was too embarrassed to ask.”
She laughed, but there was a sharper gleam in her eye. “It means a lot to you, doesn’t it, what he thinks of you?”
It was not the sort of question one expects first thing in the morning, on a balcony in Paris.
He sipped and considered. “Of course it does,” he replied, a little lamely. “Everything he thinks means a lot to me.”
“But you’re most concerned about what he thinks of you,” she said, driving the point home with a poke of her finger.
He looked down at her finger pressed against his chest with no idea what to say.
“It’s because you’re straight, isn’t it?”
He closed his eyes and sighed. It never got easier, explaining how he occupied the empty space at the middle of the Venn diagram of sexual identities.
“Don’t give me that dramatic closed-eye sigh, mister. I get it.”
“Please, then,” he replied ironically, “enlighten me as to the nature of my struggle.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” she said brightly. “Okay, here’s how I see it. First, you are in love with Gabriel, who happens to be gay. Second, you yourself are straight. Now, if I were to put myself in Gabriel’s place—just as a thought experiment, not because I’ve been sleeping with you every night tortured by the presence of that perfect body next to me—about to be married to a man who, though he assures me he loves me, nonetheless describes himself as straight, what would I be feeling?”
He looked expectantly at her. Even if this wasn’t a rhetorical question, there was no way he was going to go anywhere near it.
Luckily, she picked up without waiting for a response. “Would I be wondering whether he really loved me? Would I be concerned that he was in denial about his true sexuality, and I would someday soon find myself alone?”
This time she waited for a response.
“I think that’s exactly what you’d be feeling,” he answered, unable to keep a note of despair out of his voice.
She leaned over toward him. “You’d be wrong,” she whispered.
“How do you figure that?”
“I figure that because Gabriel’s a grown-up.” She sat back and regarded him over her cup of coffee. “Look, I just got out of a marriage that will always rank as one of the worst mistakes I’ve ever made. The recently departed Mr. Stansfield—may Satan take him—entered into our nuptial commitment with every assurance that he would be, always and forever, the man he claimed to be—the man I took him to be. And do you know the worst part?”
He shook his head, suspecting there was no good way to answer this question.
“I should have seen it coming.”
“That’s easy to say now, but—”
“No, don’t,” she interrupted, her expression momentarily dulled by what looked like regret. “I don’t mean that I should have believed what Greg warned me about. I mean that I should have listened to what my fiancé said to me. When he talked about what we were to each other, about what it meant to him to be married, it was never really about him and me. He waxed poetic about the institution of marriage, about the life we would be building together, about the importance of buying real estate in good school districts. But he never—not once, ever—talked about the personal commitment he was making. To me. To our marriage.”
She sighed and looked into the distance for a moment.
“I know no one’s perfect. I’m a big girl, and I can accept that everyone’s got their faults. But what I didn’t do was insist that he acknowledge his failings so we could build a marriage on a mutual understanding. What I got from him was platitudes—Hallmark-card sentiments about marriage. He never once told me how he was going to love me—for me—even though he had his own demons to face down. I will never again—” Her voice broke, and she closed her eyes for a moment before continuing. “I will never again enter into a commitment with someone who won’t talk openly, honestly, about the foundation of that commitment, its challenges as well as its rewards.”
“I’m so sorry, Kerry,” Brandt said.
She shook her head. “I’m not telling you all of this to give you a big sob story. I’m telling you this so you know the emotional calculus Gabriel is running in his head. He knows you’re straight, but he also knows you’re committed to him. He knows he’s the only man for you. He knows how much he means to you. And he’s a big boy, going into marriage with his eyes open. Now,” she said, taking his hand in hers, “this is the important bit. You are both going into this with eyes open. You’ve been honest with him, and he knows you’re not hiding anything. And if at some point in the future you struggle with your sexuality, you can talk to him about it. You can work through it together. That’s the commitment you’ll be making next week when you stand at the altar with him. You’re not committing to a perfect marriage; you’re committing to working together to make your marriage work. That’s the best foundation on which anyone can build a relationship, Ethan. Honesty, and commitment, and love. You are putting the best of yourself into your marriage. Never doubt that.”
Brandt tried to take in all that Kerry had told him. It ran—as advice that derives from lived experience often does—contrary to what one was accustomed to hearing on the topic of marriage. But it did make him feel better.
“Thank you,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I can’t tell you how much you’ve helped me.”
“All part of the deluxe Paris package,” she replied with a laugh. “Baguettes and psychotherapy provided daily.”
“So, this ex of yours….”
“What did he do to make me drop him like a hot rock?” she asked.
“I’d understand if you don’t want to—”
“Would it surprise you to hear it had to do with sex?”
“Not really.”
“Well, hold on to your croissant, because you’re not going to believe this,” Kerry began.
Chapter Eleven
Friday
Morning, at sea
“GABRIEL? GABRIEL, wake up.”
Donnelly rolled onto his back and tried to open his eyes. Not much luck.
“Gabriel, the pouch is gone.”
Donnelly was bolt upright in a split second. “What? Was there someone in the room? Was the safe pried open? Are you okay?”
Sandler dashed back out of the bedroom. “The safe was locked,” he called, “but when I opened it this morning, it was empty.”
“When did you last check it?” Donnelly was tying his robe as he ran into the room.
“Last night before I went to sleep. The pouch was still there.”
Donnelly scanned the room, instinctively looking for signs of forced entry, but saw nothing out of place. He knew he should be delicate about asking this next question, but there was no time. “Was Ankur still here?”
Sandler’s face was instantly clouded with anger. “Yes, he was still here. He just left, in fact.”
“When was that?”
“About ten minutes ago.”
“Was he carrying anything?”
“Are you serious?” Sandler’s voice was getting louder. “The pouch has been stolen and the only thing you can do is accuse Ankur of taking it?”
“I’m not accusing anyone of anything,” Donnelly replied, his voice conspicuously calm. “I’m just trying to get a sense of what happened. That’s all.”
“Fine,” Sandler spat. He was clearly rattled by the theft, and Donnelly took no offense at his tone. “Ankur and I got sleepy around four. He got up to go to the bathroom, and that’s when I checked the safe.”
“Did he see you open it?”
“Ankur didn’t steal the pouch, Gabriel.”
>
“I’m not saying he did. I’m just trying to get a complete picture.”
“Sorry, right,” Sandler said with a despairing sigh. He rubbed his brow for a moment. “No, he wasn’t with me any of the times I opened it.”
“Okay. So he came back to bed, and then what?”
“I went to the bathroom, and then we fell asleep.”
“And this morning?”
“He must have woken up before I did. He sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked the side of my face. He kissed me and said he’d see me tonight. Then he left.”
“Did you watch him go?”
“Of course I watched him go. You know how he leaves a room.”
“I’m going to ask this again. Please don’t get upset, because it’s important. Was he carrying anything when he left?”
Sandler bit his lip and squinted. Then a slow realization seemed to break across his face.
“What?” Donnelly asked. “What is it?”
“Oh, fuck.”
Donnelly waited, his instincts telling him that questions wouldn’t help at the moment.
“No. No, it—” Sandler stammered, his face growing red. “No. No, no, no. No!” He shook his head violently, then staggered back and fell onto the sofa. “Fuck.”
Donnelly sat down next to him and waited.
Sandler took a deep breath. It didn’t seem to be helping to calm him. “Ankur said…,” he began, but then lost the thread and fell silent, shaking his head and mouthing “no,” over and over again.
“What did Ankur say?”
Sandler grunted out a frustrated breath, then finally found his voice. “He said he noticed yesterday on the balcony that the cover on one of the seat cushions was splitting. So this morning he went out and got it so he could take it to the upholstery shop. He left with it.”
Donnelly nodded. “Was the cushion large enough to hide the pouch in?”
Sandler nodded. “It was from one of the big chaise lounges.” He cast a woeful look out through the balcony windows. “I can’t believe he would do this.”
“We don’t know he did anything,” Donnelly said, getting to his feet. “All we know is that he left here with a lounge cushion. We can’t assume that he’s guilty just because of that.”
Sandler looked at him in surprise. “I figured you of all people would assume exactly that.”
“Me of all people?” Donnelly repeated, bristling a little at the insinuation.
“You know, being a police officer and all.”
“It may surprise you to know that police officers are the people who make ‘innocent until proven guilty’ happen. We take this stuff pretty seriously.”
Sandler seemed to realize he was being kind of an asshole. “Sorry, Gabriel. I know you’re not going to jump to conclusions. I’ve just never lost a pouch before. Sorry.”
“Well, you may console yourself with the fact that whoever stole the pouch is not going to get far. We have three more days before we dock in Southampton, and until then, our thief isn’t going anywhere.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Sandler said, finally seeming able to get his breathing under control. “So, what do we do first?”
“Call Rutherford, and tell him the safe’s been broken into, and ask him to send security to the suite. You can leave Ankur out of it for now—no sense involving him unless we need to. I’m going to grab a quick shower.”
“Okay.” Sandler picked up the phone receiver, his finger poised over Rutherford’s call button. “Thank you for being here to help me.”
“Happy to return the favor.” Donnelly stepped into the bedroom, then leaned his head back out the doorway. “Oh, and one more crucial aspect of police work—can you ask Rutherford for some coffee?”
Sandler smiled for the first time this morning as he waited for Rutherford to pick up. “You got it, Officer.”
Donnelly was thankful that Brandt’s constant hectoring about the length of his showers had accustomed him to racing from lather to towel in under three minutes. He was shaved and dressed before Rutherford had even shown up with the coffee. The doorbell rang as he walked into the living room to find Sandler standing exactly where he’d left him: directly in front of the safe, looking ruefully at its empty interior.
“Ready?” Donnelly asked as he went to the door. When he saw Sandler nod, he pulled the door open.
It was Rutherford with a tray of coffee and a look of shocked concern on his face. “Sir, I most humbly apologize on behalf of the entire ship’s crew. Such an occurrence is quite simply unheard of.”
“We of course do not hold you or any member of the crew responsible,” Donnelly replied, standing aside to allow the butler entrance to the room. “And a cup of coffee will do wonders to overcome the unpleasant surprise we’ve had this morning.” To his delight, Rutherford set the tray down and in seconds had placed a steaming cup of strong black coffee in his hand. “Sandler, you should have some. Nothing like it to clear the mind.”
“I just cannot believe it,” Sandler replied, still staring into the safe. He turned to take the cup of coffee Rutherford offered. “Thank you,” he said distractedly, then took a sip and resumed his vigil.
Rutherford looked positively pained to not have delighted Sandler with his coffee. Donnelly shrugged consolingly and took one of the small pastries Rutherford had brought along. It was, as usual, delicious.
The door chime rang just as Donnelly finished chewing his second pastry, and Rutherford opened it immediately.
“Sir,” he said deferentially, and stood aside to admit a tall man with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and three gold bars on his epaulets.
“Rutherford, good to see you,” the man said as he strode into the room.
“And you, sir.”
“Misters Donnelly and Birkin, I presume?” He extended a hand to Donnelly and smiled warmly.
“I’m Gabriel Donnelly.” They shook hands.
“Chief Security Officer Robert Lyndon. Pleased to meet you, and I’m sorry it’s not under better circumstances.”
Sandler stepped forward and extended his hand. “Sandler Birkin.” His voice was stronger than it had been all morning, perhaps resonating with Lyndon’s military bearing.
“I understand the article that is missing belonged to you?” Lyndon asked, stepping over to the safe. He squatted down to look inside.
“Not exactly,” Sandler replied. “I am serving in the capacity of a diplomatic courier, and what is missing is a diplomatic pouch.”
Lyndon rose quickly, his brow furrowed. “I see.” He pursed his lips and looked down at the carpet for a long moment. When he looked up, his face had regained its composure. “Rutherford, two things. First, may I have a cup of your wonderful coffee?”
Rutherford poured, the seriousness of the situation competing with the compliment on his coffee for dominance in his facial expression. He handed Lyndon a cup on a saucer.
“Thank you. Second, could you ask Ankur Ramavastava to join us, please? He’s waitstaff, forward.”
Rutherford blinked twice, but then nodded, turned on his heel, and left the room.
The thump of Sandler’s coffee cup hitting the side table startled Donnelly, who turned to see Sandler sink to the sofa, his face pale. He tried to speak, but though his mouth moved, no sound emerged.
“I would not presume to impose upon your privacy,” Lyndon began gently. “But when Rutherford called me about a possible theft, I reviewed the security camera footage from the hallways outside your suite. It’s standard procedure when a theft occurs. I noted Mr. Ramavastava’s departure from the suite this morning and then pulled the recordings from last night. He appears to have accompanied you, Mr. Birkin, to this suite last night, as he had the two preceding nights. Is that true?”
Sandler, still ashen, nodded.
“I see. Is Mr. Ramavastava aware of your job as a diplomatic courier?”
Sandler shook his head.
“Had you at any point mentioned the contents of
the safe?”
Sandler shook his head again.
“Did you leave Mr. Ramavastava alone in the suite at any point, even for a brief time?”
“Only for a minute or two at a time, when I was in the bathroom. But he was up before I was this morning—I don’t know how long.”
Lyndon nodded. “When Mr. Ramavastava left the suite this morning, he was carrying something rather bulky. Do you know what that was?”
“A cushion from one of the lounges on the balcony. It was splitting open, and he took it to the upholstery shop to be resewn.”
“I see.” Lyndon’s expression was utterly unchanged. “Has anyone else been in the suite that you are aware of?”
“Just Rutherford, Ankur, and us,” Donnelly replied.
Lyndon nodded. He took a deep breath, and when he turned back to Sandler his tone was light and conversational. “As you may be aware, Mr. Birkin, the diplomatic service makes up a far larger portion of our passengers on this voyage than is customary. We have diplomats from twenty-three countries on board, including some from countries who, one might say, are not on the best of terms. There have been some tense moments, particularly when a football match is underway, but this theft is unprecedented.”
“Do you suspect this is a diplomatic incident rather than a simple theft?” Donnelly asked.
“I don’t think we have enough information to make a judgment on that at this time,” Lyndon said, using what was clearly a stock phrase for meetings such as this. “But I will say, given the incidents we’ve already seen, that it is a theory I’ll be investigating.”
“And will you also be investigating Ankur?” Sandler asked. “I can’t believe he had anything to do with this.”
“Mr. Birkin, one thing you must understand about discipline aboard a ship—”
Lyndon was interrupted by the doorbell announcing the arrival of Rutherford, followed closely by Ankur, who was clearly terrified.
“Mr. Ramavastava, please, come in.” Lyndon’s manner was warm, and he smiled politely.
Ankur stepped forward timidly, looking furtively around the room until he caught Sandler’s eye. Tears welled immediately, and he shook his head as if to plead his innocence.