Lost Distinction

by Rachel Sharpe

  I decided to check with Rick before letting Jon in on the case although it bothered me when I realized that my only other option was to lie. In a pathetic attempt to avoid that, I decided to give Jon the most ambiguous response I could.

  “Rick might have a case for us but I need to meet with his friend first. The guy lives out of town and Rick thought it would be a good idea if I got more information on the case before committing to it.”

  Jon sat there, nodding as he stared at my maple wood, six-shelf bookcase that held the remnants of my beloved psychology textbooks from when I went to Brown. The majority of the books were ruined during last year’s breakin and I had spent the past few months going to local bookstores in the hope of finding the same or similar books to complete my dwindling collection.

  “If it’s work related, then I’ll go, too.”

  I cringed inside, realizing he was not going to drop the matter.

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Rick seemed to want it to be just us.”

  Jon stood up so suddenly that he knocked his chair over. I could tell that he was angry because his face was red and muscles pulsated in his temples. He grabbed his keys and hurried to the door. He flung it open violently and turned. “If you two want a weekend together somewhere, whatever. Just don’t lie to me, Jordan.”

  “Jon, I’m not lying—”

  He shut his green eyes dramatically and held up his left hand. “Please. Don’t patronize me. I just don’t like thinking about you two. Never mind. Give me a call when you want to settle this crazy cat-woman case.”

  With that, he stormed out of the office, slamming the door in the process. I stared after him in shocked silence. As if dealing with an enigmatic, emotionally tormented boyfriend wasn’t bad enough, I had a certified prima-donna as an associate. Sometimes I felt like a glutton for punishment. I glanced up at the black-and-white wall clock, which hung above the large window. Almost five o’clock. Sighing, I picked up the swivel chair Jon knocked over during his tantrum.

  Now that my plans with Rick were cancelled and Jon was in one of his infamous bad moods, there wasn’t anyone else I could think of to hang out with. Despite living in New England for nearly eight years, most of my college friends were in Rhode Island or had moved to New York after graduation. Jon’s mood swings were usually short-lived, but with an uncertain weekend on the horizon, I didn’t have time to wait it out.

  I found myself actually wishing that my sister, Alicia, and her husband, Charlie, were still visiting from New Orleans despite how cramped it was having them stay with me for two weeks in my one-bedroom apartment. After locking up, I enjoyed a leisurely walk by Fenway Park as I made my way to the subway.

  A sudden roar of approval from the stadium suggested the Sox were having another fantastic game. I smiled as I saw a little boy with white-blond hair and a Red Sox jersey two sizes too big dragging his dad toward the stadium.

  “Come on, Dad! Come on! We’re missing it! Hurry!”

  His father, a man in his late thirties with dark blond hair and blue eyes, beamed as his son pulled him down the sidewalk with fervor. The subway was fairly empty for a Friday afternoon. I enjoyed the relative silence as I contemplated how to spend my evening. At Newton Centre, I decided to pick up some Chinese take-out and spend a quiet evening at home, watching television and packing for the weekend. The thought occurred to me that I didn’t know what to pack since I didn’t know where I was going. At a loss, I sent Rick a text message, asking if he had any suggestions.

  His response was ambiguous at best: “Just bring semi-formal clothes and maybe a couple nice dresses for evenings and church.”

  So no jeans and flip flops, I thought glumly. There goes half my wardrobe. I ordered my food and headed home. By the time I got there it was half past six. I ate sweet and sour pork while watching a little television and raiding my closet for outfits that would fit Rick’s vague suggestion.

  The more times I re-read his text, the more convinced I was that we were going to be staying at Arthur Cross’s parents’ house. I grabbed clothes that I believed were suitable and thought about the type of people with whom I was going to spend the weekend.

  As the daughter of a very successful lawyer, I was no stranger to formal gatherings or influential people. However, charity auctions did not prepare you to spend the weekend at an ambassador’s home. As I reflected on these matters, I found myself contemplating the case I might be handling. If Arthur Cross was indeed missing and had not disappeared of his own volition, then I was going to be tackling a case that had national and possibly international ramifications. I knew nothing about the subject of this case. Curiosity got the best of me. I decided to look up Arthur Cross on-line. Most of what appeared in connection with his name were links to the school that employed him, Crowell Academy.

  There was a faculty page for him, which listed the English courses he taught to upperclassmen, offered some background information such as where he went to school and what he majored in, and it proudly proclaimed that he was the son of an ambassador. Lastly, it provided an email address to contact him beneath a small headshot.

  Although he was not handsome by most standards, there was something curious about him that was very appealing. He had wavy-blond hair and bright green eyes. His skin was tan and his teeth were perfectly aligned. His smile was unassuming and the headshot suggested he was humble. At seven, my cell phone rang. I was happy to see Rick was calling.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Jordan?” He paused. “Are you busy?”

  Chapter 2

  Less than an hour later, Rick and I were on the road and halfway to Cape Cod. His phone call was to ask another favor. He apparently called the ambassador after we spoke and Mr. Cross was so thrilled that I had agreed to help the family (which I hadn’t) that he wanted us to get there as soon as possible.

  The entire family, who would be there with their spouses and children, had planned to spend a relaxing weekend sailing, catching up, and addressing the issue of Arthur’s mysterious disappearance. During the ninety minute drive, I attempted to extract more information about Arthur and the Cross family to no avail. I had the distinct impression that Rick was nervous about returning to the home of his close friend.

  Cape Cod is a favorite summer vacation destination for New Englanders. The beaches are fantastic and there are many outdoor activities available—from whale watching and sailing, to shopping and sightseeing. One can even hop on a ferry and take a forty-five minute boat ride to Martha’s Vineyard, the east coast’s own private island.

  Although one of the most famous towns along the Cape is unquestionably Hyannis Port, there are many other equally nice places. The Cross family chose New Seabury, Massachusetts, as their homestead. Their residence was located inside a gated community known as Rolling Hills. By the time we pulled up to the Cross Estate, it was nearly nine o’clock.

  I found it interesting that despite being located in a secure and affluent neighborhood, the Crosses’ property was protected by an eight-foot tall, red-brick fence. A small, Victorian-style guard shack was located to the left of two, fourteen-foot tall, black wrought-iron gates. Rick rolled down the window and leaned out.

  The guard, a white man in his late fifties with patches of salt and pepper hair that had been smoothed down crudely in an attempt to hide the fact that he was going bald, squinted at Rick.

  “Hi, Charlie.” Rick grinned. “It’s Richard Michaels.”

  The man’s eyes widened and a pleasant grin appeared. “Richard! Hello! My goodness, I don’t remember the last time you were here.”

  “It has been a while,” Rick admitted, his arm resting on the car door. “Mr. Cross is expecting us. This is my girlfriend, Jordan James.”

  “Oh yes, please go in, Richard. The family has been waiting for you.” He stared through the darkness and into my eyes. “And they’ve especially been waiting for you.”

  His comment sent a shiver down my spine that had nothi
ng to do with the cool, summer-night air washing in with the tide. He pressed a button and silently, the large gates began to open inwards. It was too dark to see past the sparsely placed black, gas-lit lamps that lined the cobblestone drive but I could tell it was a large piece of property since the drive from the gate took nearly a minute.

  Despite the darkness, Rick found his way to the house without any difficulty. He pulled up to the side of a large Victorian-style mansion and parked between a Bentley and a Maserati. I climbed out of Rick’s 1986 Mercedes Benz 190E, a car that once belonged to his late father. I shivered when a frigid breeze accosted me.

  I had been surprised by Rick’s last minute decision to come to the Cross residence this evening. It was spontaneous. It was unlike him. I’d used the twenty minutes it took for him to reach my apartment from his to finish packing. I grabbed what was left of my best clothes, a celadon agora sweater and form-fitting tan pants, and decided they would have to make do for my first encounter with the ambassador. Rick, on the other hand, was dressed impeccably, sporting a sky-blue dress shirt, navy-blue sports coat and khaki pants. His brown hair was combed back and even in the darkness, the hues in his outfit accentuated his piercing blue eyes. Rick grabbed our bags from the trunk before leading the way up the large, limestone front steps.

  Before he even reached the bell, the door opened and a frail man of seventy with beady eyes and a prominent Adam’s apple greeted us. He wore a gray tuxedo with tails and white gloves covered his thin hands.

  “Master Richard, how wonderful to see you!” the man exclaimed with a thick English accent. “You have been dearly missed, sir.”

  “Thank you, Walter. It’s great to see you, too.” He placed our luggage on the ground and put his strong right arm around my waist. “This is my girlfriend, Jordan James.”

  “How do you do?”

  “I’m quite well, thank you. It’s very nice to meet you.”

  “And you, Miss.” Before we had a chance to move, he had both our bags beneath his small arms and carried them inside. He turned. “I’ll bring these to your rooms. Please follow me. Everyone is in the drawing room.”

  He placed our bags on a small, black-onyx bench. It sat between two marble, Corinthian columns located to the right of a large, marble staircase that curved around, offering two routes to the second floor. A crushed, red-velvet rug covered the imposing stairs. My first thought upon viewing such an entryway rivaled those I had when my college roommate, Katie, and I took a tour of the mansions on Bellevue Avenue in Newport, Rhode Island—I was literally overwhelmed to be inside such a house.

  Our walk through the rest of the house did nothing to diminish that feeling. We followed Walter through a great, ornately-decorated room with nearly twenty Corinthian columns and three large, Renaissance-style chandeliers. Rick informed me that this was the ballroom. We passed an open room with rich mahogany walls and bookcases that soared to the twenty-foot ceiling.

  Finally, Walter stopped in front of one of the thick, wooden doors that was only partially closed. Behind it, the sound of hearty laughter echoed. The sound struck me as odd considering Arthur’s disappearance, but my curiosity was soon replaced by another emotion, fear. I suddenly realized how intimidated I felt and how unprepared I was for such an important meeting. Rick sensed my worry and took my left hand in his right, smiling down at me reassuringly. Walter knocked and the laughter abruptly ended.

  “Come in,” a deep voice bellowed. Walter pushed the door open and ushered us into the room.

  Like the others, it was a large, imposing room. This room was truly Neoclassical in design with tall, off-white walls separated by a flamboyant chair-rail. A ten-foot-tall white marble fireplace, boasting intricate gold-leafed cherubs, was the focal point of the room and three floral couches and two armchairs surrounded it.

  Rick squeezed my hand as we walked into the room and nine pairs of eyes studied me. The oldest person in the room, a large, burly man with ruddy cheeks and thinning blond hair, approached us, arms outstretched. Rick stood there and eyed him with reserve. The elder man was either oblivious to Rick’s uneasiness or chose to ignore it as he embraced Rick.

  “Richard, it is wonderful to see you again, son. Just like old times.” Squeezing his shoulder, he added, “You’ve been missed.” He turned his gaze on me and nodded. “And this is the young lady who has won your heart. My name is Gatlin Cross and it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  I shook his hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, too. You have a lovely home.”

  “Thank you. I wish I was around more to enjoy it.” He chuckled. Everyone else in the room laughed knowingly at this joke. He turned back and noted my polite smile. “I spend most of the year at my flat in London so I don’t get to enjoy time here too often. This is the first time I’ve been home since last Christmas, actually, and I only came back because Arthur …”

  He trailed off and a pained expression crossed his face. After a few moments, he shook it off and produced another award-winning smile. “Well, let’s not get into that tonight. And where are my manners? Please let me introduce you to my family.”

  Mr. Cross put his arms around our shoulders and led us into the center of the room. I counted eight others in the room besides him: four men and four women. By looking at their facial features, it was clear who was a Cross, as they all resembled the ambassador. He pointed to a man in his late thirties with short blond hair and bright green eyes. Like Rick and every other man in the room, he was wearing a casual suit.

  “This is my eldest son, Stuart. He’s a representative in our district who’s running for the senate,” Mr. Cross proclaimed proudly. Stuart shook Rick’s hand with both of his, grinning widely, before offering me his hand.

  “It’s very nice to meet you, Miss James.” I nodded and he stepped back, motioning for a gorgeous, strawberry-blonde woman in a fashionable maroon cocktail dress to join him. “This is my wife, Nadia. We have three sons, but they’re all asleep.”

  Nadia shook my hand politely, clearly used to politicking, and viewed this exchange as nothing more. The ambassador then moved on to another man in his mid-thirties with equally-blond hair but light blue eyes. He stood up when his father addressed him as his next son, Edward. Although he never mentioned it, I felt certain Edward must have served in the military at one time, based on how he held himself and addressed others.

  “Edward was appointed to the bench just last year,” Mr. Cross boasted. “At thirty-four, he’s the youngest judge in this district in the past eighty years.”

  Edward introduced his wife, an attractive, raven-haired woman with gray eyes named Michelle. Her willowy frame was accentuated by the tight white-and-brown sundress she wore. It was clear from her appearance that she was younger than Edward. As soon as she was introduced, she rushed up and embraced me. Startled, I just stood there and stared at her.

  “It’s so nice to meet you!” she exclaimed as her husband grasped her arm and pulled her back a few feet. She shook him off and returned to my side, holding both my hands in hers. “This weekend is gonna be so much fun! Would you like to go shopping with me?”

  I glanced back at Rick. I hadn’t expected such a warm reception. When Rick offered no response, I turned back to her and smiled. “Uh, sure. That would be nice.”

  She squeezed my hands. “Wonderful!”

  Edward, more forcefully, took her hand and pulled her back again. Mr. Cross coughed and gave Edward a disapproving look he didn’t think we saw. Edward took the cue and ushered Michelle out of the room, offering a flimsy excuse about how they needed to get some rest.

  Next, I met George, a partner in a prestigious New York law firm and his wife, Ann. Like most of his brothers, George had blond hair and green eyes. The one distinction between George and his brothers was that George was a large man like their father, whereas the others were tall and thin. Ann didn’t prove any more loquacious than Nadia, barely offering me a smile when introduced. Mr. Cross informed us that George had twin d
aughters in the fourth grade.

  Next I was introduced to William, who was a junior partner at his brother’s New York firm. Unlike his older brothers who all kept their hair short, William had longer hair that he brushed to the left. William sauntered over to where I was standing, took my hand in his and kissed it. He looked at me with a curious smile.

  After his gesture, I noticed Rick moved closer and put his arm around me. William seemed amused by this reaction and winked at me before releasing my hand. The ambassador ignored the moment and introduced me to the only Cross daughter, Jane.

  Jane was about my age and a novelist who, according to her proud father, had already published two bestselling political thrillers. When introduced, she glanced at me with a disgusted look on her face. Mr. Cross cleared his throat loudly. She stood up and walked over to us. She hugged Rick so fast I don’t think they even made contact, and she nodded at me before walking back to the couch and sitting down, staring into the unlit fireplace with a frown plastered on her face. Mr. Cross clapped his hands together and laughed as if the frosty encounter hadn’t occurred.

  “So Miss James, now you’ve met my family. Well, except for my dear wife, Kathryn. She never stays up past nine.”

  “That’s not the entire family, Father,” Jane chimed in. Mr. Cross glanced over at her warily. She smiled. It was a fake smile meant to hide her hostility, but her true feelings were evident. “What about dear Arthur?”

  The ambassador let out a sigh. “Yes, of course. He’s the true reason for this family gathering. Arthur.”

  William pulled a thick cigar from inside his coat pocket. “Don’t forget old Henry,” he snickered. Mr. Cross charged at him from across the room and snatched the cigar from his fingers moments before he lit it. Startled, William cowered, wide-eyed.

  “You know better than to smoke in here,” he hissed. “Do you want to give your poor mother a heart attack?” He shoved the unlit cigar into his own coat pocket before smoothing the pocket down and exhaling slowly. He glanced over at me. Jane was now facing the show and grinning widely behind her father’s back.