by Simmons, NC
“Whatever you wish, Señor! We will do whatever we must to ensure that you are fully satisfied with our care of your daughter. We promise! The House of Shalamar will treat Lenore as if she were our own daughter.”
Armand groaned. The battle had already been lost. “Very well, then. I will speak with my wife and we will call you back tomorrow with our answer. Goodbye, Señorita Machado.”
Lenore screamed with delight and crushed her father with a hug. “Thank you, Papa! Thank you! I will not disappoint you!”
Armand embraced his daughter, willingly accepting a cloudburst of kisses to his cheeks. “Let us see if you thank me years from now, mi linda. This will be long, hard work. You may think you are almost a woman, but you have a very long journey ahead.”
Armand kissed Lenore’s forehead. He drowned in her bewitching, dark-amber eyes, perfect copies of Alessandra’s eyes, eyes he fell in love with 16 years earlier during a trade summit at the U.N.
“I will do everything I can to protect you, Lenore. But if you do this, the De La Fuente family name will be on your shoulders more so than my own. You must never bring shame to this family. Are you truly prepared for such an adult responsibility?”
Armand knew the answer before asking the question. Of course Lenore would bring honor to the family name. She always did.
“Papa… I will do everything you ask and more! I will make you proud! I promise! I will make you and mother proud! I will be perfect!”
With significant additional effort, including more pouting, some crying, and abundant pledging, Alessandra approved the deal later that night. A lengthy, detailed document arrived via courier at Raquel Shalamar’s offices the next morning. It outlined the full scope of Lenore’s availability (no more than 4 days a week), firm vacation requirements, requirements for a full-time tutor and body guard, and strict limits to the amount of flesh Armand would permit his precious daughter to expose. Armand knew European designers worked on canvases of flesh. Lenore’s flesh was to be respected. She would also be in bed by 9pm without fail and home in Madrid at least two consecutive days each week to spend time with her family and her horses.
With Raquel’s signature, the deal was sealed. Fourteen year old Lenore De La Fuente became the official, “Face of Shalamar.”
Within three months, Lenore’s schedule was booked a year in advance.
On the occasion of her fifteenth birthday, teen supermodel Lenore Consuela Maria De La Fuente had already banked her one millionth dollar.
Part 1
One Fine, Spring Day
One
The traveler glanced to the east, toward the Hoboken ridge. Miles in the distance, the Twin Towers played hide-and-seek, appearing and disappearing between the high-rises on the Jersey side of the Hudson. Brilliant flashes of the mid-day sun darted off the silvery exoskeletons of One and Two World Trade Center.
For a late-spring Thursday morning, the pace on the Garden State Parkway seemed unusually brisk. The traveler journeyed northward in a plush, hushed cocoon, the lone passenger in the rear seat of a jet black, 1979, Cadillac Fleetwood limousine. He rode in punishing silence, regrettably unhindered by the usual post-rush bottlenecks and breakdowns.
“When I can’t afford gridlock, I get gridlock. When I want gridlock, I get smooth sailing. Would a breakdown today be too much to ask?”
The traveler pulled a monogrammed white handkerchief from his jacket pocket, embroidered in blue with the initials “RLSC.” He gently mopped beads of nervous sweat from his forehead and lips. The putrid aftertaste of pre-dawn vomit tainted his palate. Two spritzes of spearmint-flavored spray freshened his pungent breath.
Two days shy of his 25th birthday, the executive in the charcoal bespoke suit drowned in conflict as he scanned the passing scenery. “What the hell are you doing this for? What possible good can come out of this visit? Are you really such a heartless prick that you’d use Allie just to lock up the old man’s goddamned fortune…? Just to lock up the old man’s goddamned power seat with his goddamned ‘Society’?”
A blinding flash of sunlight shot through the untinted side window. The traveler squinted, lifting his forearm as a shield. The momentary distraction provided no relief from his struggle. “And why do you even give a damn about the legacy anyway? You don’t even like the old man anymore! You hate him! Everybody hates him! Why are you trying so hard to impress that perverted prick? Why do you care more about making the old man happy than protecting Allie?”
Glancing at his watch, the traveler fidgeted with the diamond and gold cuff links of his crisply starched, custom-tailored shirt. He looked down and to his left, to the center of the black leather bench seat, to an open copy of the previous day’s paper. A black and white photo of a beaming 20-something in a hospital bed caught his attention.
June 11, 1980.
Wedding Bells Fill Hospital Halls in Long Distance Nuptials.
Sarah Tilden of Danbury, Conn. seen here in her Denver, Colo. Hospital bed saying, ‘I do!’ via shortwave radio link with her fiancé, Lt. Jack Dooley, currently stationed aboard the U.S.S. Dwight D. Eisenhower in the South Pacific.
Ms. Tilden was one of 32 who survived the Sunday morning crash of Foothills Air Flight #873, in which 23 passengers and 2 crew perished. Ms. Tilden lost her right leg below the knee after being pinned in the wreckage for more than an hour.
The couple was to wed in December upon the Eisenhower’s scheduled return to port, but accelerated their plans after Tilden’s accident. According to Tilden, Dooley insisted on the change of date. Said Dooley of their tearful long-distance ‘I dos’, ‘Sarah has a long rehab ahead of her. Even if I can’t be there with her in person, I want her to know I’ll never leave her side.”
The traveler laughed, shaking his head at the irony. “That poor bastard just moved heaven and earth… For damaged goods… For a woman without a goddamned leg. Must be love…” He refolded the paper and tucked it into the center console.
“Maybe I should abandon the family and live off the firm? I could do it. I already have more clients than I can handle. The Journal has been kind to me. The apartment isn’t so bad. It’s in a great location. Halfway to the Met. The old man probably wouldn’t even notice I’m gone. Mother might miss me, but not that psychotic prick…”
A staccato trill intruded upon the rider’s silent struggle. In the front seat, the chauffeur lifted the radiophone receiver.
“Good morning, this is Jarrod. Hello, sir. Yes sir. He’s here with me. Yes. We are on our way now to pick up Miss Drummond.” The chauffeur glanced at his charge in the rear view mirror. “No, sir. I do not know. Yes, Master.”
The chauffeur removed the phone from his ear and pressed a button on the center console, dropping the electric window between the seats. “Mr. St. Cloud, your father would like to speak with you.”
“Thank you, Jarrod. Scrambler, please.”
The chauffeur resumed his conversation with the caller. “I’m transferring you now, sir. He’s requested the scrambler. Yes, sir. Scrambling now.”
Jarrod pressed two switches on the radiophone console, replaced the receiver, and closed the window into the passenger compartment.
The passenger exhaled with resignation, grudgingly lifting the rear seat receiver. Every motion suggested a lineage steeped in wealth and education, every action precise, every accent-free word wisely selected, his rugby-tested body uncomfortably erect.
“Good morning, father.”
“Good morning, Rory. I trust you slept well last evening?”
“No father. To be candid, I did not. I slept quite fitfully. But you already know I am not at all in favor of this depraved… ‘Activity’.”
“Rory, we have already discussed this matter. I understand your discomfort. I have indulged your concerns. Now you must move beyond your trivialities. It is well past time for you to fulfill your responsibility to our family.”
“I would hardly call my concerns ‘trivialities’ father. I genuinely like this girl. What yo
u expect me to do to Alicia is barbarous.”
The elder St. Cloud bristled at the son’s choice of words. “The word ‘barbarous,’ my boy, would apply only if you forced her to join our family. You are not coercing Alicia to do anything against her will. You are affording her a choice. If this girl is the one, you will know it by her choice. She may surprise you with her readiness for the role. Most women find The Society’s protocols… ‘Liberating’.”
“Yes, father, most do. But to bring Alicia to her point of liberation, you have made it exceedingly clear I may not divulge the true nature of our trip until it is too late for her to protest discreetly. I am not even certain of this lifestyle for myself, father, let alone for a woman I once loved.”
“Once loved? Rory, you do not have the luxury of once loving anyone! Love is a fruitless sentimentality at moments such as this. The clock is ticking and time is against us. You must fulfill your obligations to this family and you must do so within the next 48 hours. The Society elders are growing impatient and our leadership seat is at risk. I have indulged your procrastination too long!
“Remember, son… Your mother and I barely knew each other when I first took her to the estate. Although it was uncomfortable for her at first, she ultimately settled into to her role and we have never looked back. Now that you know of your mother’s true responsibilities, do you think she ever seemed unhappy? Did your mother ever seem the least bit dissatisfied with her obligations?”
“No, father, but…”
“NO, Rory! No more delays! This hesitation is a weakness Mistress Adele and I will no longer tolerate! You do not have the luxury of wallowing in uncertainties about ‘love,’ or about whether Alicia is ‘ready.’ You will only know if Alicia is the one we seek by leading her through the protocols. Gauge her readiness after the visit, not before.”
“Father, what if she learns about the requirements of her office…”
Rory hesitated, agonizing as he put himself in the place of his joyously unsuspecting girlfriend. Shackled. Disciplined. Terrorized.
“…What if she wants nothing to do with me after this visit?”
“Then have the checkbook ready, Rory. Be prepared to pay her handsomely for her trouble. If she does not consent to the union, have Jarrod take her home and move quickly to the next one in line. I know Alicia’s father well. He is discrete and will respect a healthy stipend.”
Rory dropped the receiver to his lap, touching his free hand to his forehead as he sickened over his father’s callous indifference. H. Stanton’s emotionless ease with ‘writing checks” scalded the son’s idealistic heart.
“Rory? Are you still there? RORY!”
The sole heir to the St. Cloud fortune returned the receiver to his ear. “Yes, father. I am still here.”
“Well? What do you have to say? Do you have a checkbook with you or not? Do you have another woman in mind should this one fail?”
“Father… This is wrong! The woman I choose to marry must love me! I must love her. You may find nothing wrong with the notion of ‘writing a check’ to resolve Alicia’s concerns or buy her loyalty, but I find it reprehensible!”
The patriarch of the St. Cloud family bellowed. “Rory! You are no longer a boy! Time is slipping away from all of us! This is your responsibility! This is your obligation to our family! To The Society! You will take Alicia to the estate, you will offer her discipline, and you will present her with her calling! Your 25th birthday is days away. Be a man, Rory! Sometimes real men must do distasteful things in order to serve a greater good.”
“’Be a real man?’ Greater ‘good?’ My God, father! Are you listening to yourself? You have the audacity to call this demented ritual ‘good’?”
“You know what I meant, Rory! For better or worse, our family’s legacy and our leadership of The Society is on your shoulders now! I will not see that status revoked! If your brother were still alive…”
Rory exploded. “DO NOT bring Thad into this, father! If Thad were still alive, he would have the same concerns! Thad did not curse me with this burden, father. You did!”
“Thad understood the importance of this calling to our family’s wellbeing, Rory! He would not be wallowing in…”
Rory let the receiver slip from his ear, holding it to his cheek as H. Stanton monologued. He stared out the window, taking transient solace in the purple wildflowers passing alongside the parkway. In moments he would arrive at the home of Alicia Drummond, oldest daughter of Jackson Drummond, founder and CEO of Drummond Industries, munitions and armaments-maker extraordinaire to a pantheon of despotic stars. It would soon be too late to evade his mission.
A swift, serendipitous union between the two college sweethearts was most agreeable to the elders of The Society, salivating over another wealthy family’s multi-million-dollar initiation fee. The union was agreeable to Rory’s parents, who sought continued domination of The Society’s leadership by the House of St. Cloud. The union was agreeable to Alicia’s father and mother who, having sampled The Society’s clandestine, exotic playgrounds, yearned for mid-life entry onto its selective membership rolls. The union was agreeable most of all to Allie, who deeply loved her long-time boyfriend and dreamed of a fairytale life at the castle called “Staffordshire.”
The union was agreeable to everyone except Rory.
A foretaste of fresh vomit hurtled into his mouth as Rory considered his orders. He swallowed away its eruption. In his cheek, he felt the barking voice of his father on the radiophone ear piece.
“Rory! Are you there?”
Rory permitted himself a moment of reminiscence, of happier, earlier days with Allie. They met in college, on a playing field, as “Rugby Rory” raced to retrieve a wayward pass and trampled “Cheerleader Allie.” They instantly fell in love and soon became inseparable. She adored his charm, rugged appearance, and old world elegance. He adored her kind, innocent spirit and her athletic, blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty. Their marriage seemed a foregone conclusion.
Now, though…
“RORY! ANSWER ME! Are you still there?”
“YES, father! I am still here!”
“Rory, I do not understand your hesitation! We are not asking you to rape this girl! All you must do is…”
“I know what I must do, father! You have made my responsibility abundantly clear! All I must do is ‘bed the girl’ and ‘bind the girl’.” Rory gagged.
“Then what is your problem? Just do it and get it over with! Other men of your wealth and physical appearance have had dozens of women by your age. What is your reluctance with this one? You have the goddamned equipment, man! USE IT!”
H. Stanton St. Cloud’s credo came home to roost. “Use or be used.” To H. Stanton, Alicia Drummond represented a capital asset, a means to an end. No more, no less. His obsession with securing and expanding the St. Cloud family fortune and global influence trumped all concern for the emotional health of a disposable young woman.
“Father! What if I use Alicia to meet the requirements of our sick, ‘St. Cloud legacy’ and I hurt her?”
“Our legacy, Rory, is not ‘sick’! It is our choice, damn it! I am not ashamed of our lifestyle and neither should you be! Now, can I count on you to fulfill your obligation to this family or should I arrange a visit with the attorney to draw up the dissolution documents?”
“Please, father… Please give me a moment. Just give me a moment to think. We are almost there. I just need a little time…”
“Take your ‘moment,’ Rory, but do not take long! You have already tested my patience!”
Rory dropped the phone back to his lap and looked out the window, wondering what life would have been like if he had been born into any other family. Was inheriting a billion dollar fortune worth testing the sanity of a young woman he once believed he would marry?
Alicia did not feel like the right fit for Staffordshire’s new matriarch. She lacked fire, fierceness of spirit. She had a sweet, giving personality not nearly up to managing Staffordshire’s g
luttonous appetite for profligate pleasures.
Jarrod opened the window between the seats. “We are almost there, Master.”
The heir looked up into the rear view mirror and caught the chauffeur’s guarded eyes. He sensed Jarrod’s disgust with the Master-elect’s weakness and hesitation. Jarrod knew every family secret, ferrying St. Clouds here and there between duties and dalliances for nearly 20 years. Rory suspected what Jarrod thought, though the servant would never express his opinion unless explicitly asked.
“Did you hear the essence of our conversation, Jarrod?”
“Yes, sir. Regrettably, the partition is not soundproof.”
“You would do this without a moment’s hesitation, wouldn’t you?”
“May I speak plainly, sir?”
“I count on it, Jarrod.”
In the front seat, the chauffeur pressed a mute button on the radiophone console. His eyes danced nervously. An overstep was imminent.
“Sir, you are hours away from inheriting unimaginable wealth. All you must do to seal your inheritance is this one thing.”
“…And then other ‘one things,’ Jarrod! My God, man! You of all people should know it does not end here! You’ve seen it for yourself! You’re one of them, for Christ’s sake!”
“Yes, sir, that is true. And I am not proud of my role in this matter. But you are thinking too far ahead. Focus on just this moment. Do not hesitate.”
The chauffeur’s eyes glanced off to the highway and then rejoined the tormented young man in the rear mirror. “Master Rory, in my 20 years with your family I have indeed witnessed moments of both tenderness and terror. I have always held my tongue.” A faint smile met the traveler’s eyes. “You are not the ‘terror’ type, sir, of that I am certain. You are a different man than your father. I beg your forgiveness for speaking so candidly, sir, but you are not a callous or harsh man. You are not him.”
The chauffeur’s acknowledgment of the son’s meager moral compass gave Rory a small measure of comfort. “Thank you for saying that Jarrod. I will never repeat it. But Jarrod… This girl… Miss Drummond… She is so… So vulnerable…”