Torrid

by Kaya Woodward

  I’m lost in thought, but I congratulate myself on having gone to see Olivia in this ostentatious manner.

  It was a prudent move, taking the helicopter out to Long Island.

  Olivia and I built our home there, together.

  It was the perfect location to have a rational discussion about how we should go about handling this divorce.

  But, over the years of having occupied the Long Island Estate, as we called it, it became apparent I needed my own stomping grounds.

  A retreat for my more private moments.

  It was my years of previously living in Manhattan that led me to search for the perfect New York penthouse apartment to call my own.

  During that time, I had gone from living in the best hotels in the city, to seeking a place of my own.

  It took a very long time, but I finally found the perfect pre-war building.

  My builder had to renovate two penthouses, blowing out the walls separating them, and creating the modern, luxurious space which I now call my own.

  The ultimate escape.

  My home is a mixture of traditional, polished woods, marble and stainless-steel floors and appliances, and it comes complete with extensive views of Central Park; luxurious and simple.

  I hired top designers, bought the best of everything.

  I made sure that the newly build sunroom would have a wall of doors which would open into the spacious balcony.

  It was a top priority.

  The essence of me, in penthouse form.

  Designers, architects, reporters, and magazines all wanted to feature my prized space.

  I told them no.

  This is my private space.

  Away from the home Olivia and I built together.

  Now, my Penthouse is littered with the typical teenage items that would entertain a fourteen-year-old son.

  My son, Evan, has his eyes on the wide-screen TV.

  It replaces the mirror that once hung over the fireplace.

  He's sitting on a real fur rug, (a Kodiak bear, harvested in Alaska), his eyes glued to the screen as a car races across the screen.

  He is racing a yellow Lamborghini.

  A similar one sits in my private garage; it makes me laugh.

  It’s a real piece of shit.

  Worst car I’ve ever owned.

  I bought it from a rat-bastard car dealer down in Florida.

  The main reason I keep it is to remind me never to buy cars from Florida ever again.

  The Penthouse is vastly different from the Long Island place, where Olivia now resides.

  The Estate is too grandiose for my tastes, too much luxury and not modern enough.

  I let Olivia do whatever she wanted with the Estate, and in return got a place I barely recognized. As a result, I rarely was there, maybe just for a few months.

  Even during our happier times, Olivia’s personality dominated it.

  Evan looks like he’s about to crash the Lambo, and I smirk.

  Serves him right…

  “Are you winning?” I ask.

  “Yup.”

  Evan's favorite phrase comes out with a smirk of his own.

  He's much more like me than I suspected.

  Evan is not at all similar to his mother, Elizabeth.

  My sister, Athena, has her apartment one floor below me.

  When Evan was younger it was where he spent most of his time, and, at Athena’s insistence, I decided not to hide him from Olivia.

  That I had a son with another woman meant that there would also be no hiding my daughter.

  For me to do that, however, I need Ava in my life.

  And, Ava is the one thing Elizabeth has kept from me.

  Elizabeth, the mother of both my children, hell-bent on her sad revenge.

  My search for Ava has almost run me dry a few times.

  If not for Ava Darlington, Ava's grandmother, who graciously pushed me forward when I was ready to give in and stop looking, I would be lost.

  It was during those times of trials that Elizabeth reappeared, wanting to entice me back to her.

  I guess that’s how I ended up with Olivia, looking for a way to finally escape what Elizabeth had done to me.

  She had cut me deeply, by leaving without a word.

  By taking my child.

  My beloved Ava.

  A baby girl to whom I’m an unknown.

  Olivia and I have been on the verge of divorce far longer than either of us cares to admit.

  This has been our truth longer than we have admitted.

  Our occasional bouts of happiness were cut short by my business obligations, that then led to more time apart.

  We live separate lives.

  She blamed me for leaving her husband, but I truly had nothing to do with it.

  Her son Corban was less than pleased at that.

  Maybe he blames me as well.

  But, I've been attempting to get a decent relationship going between Corban and Evan.

  Boys should enjoy having siblings.

  I never did until I met my step-sister, Athena, who's turned out wonderfully if I should say so myself.

  Despite my mother's misgivings about my father's affair, Athena was a blessing.

  Other than Athena, Magda is the only other woman in my domestic life that I'm thankful for.

  Magda, is the housekeeper and manages the home.

  She came courtesy of Ava Darlington Senior, who sent her my way, to help me with Evan.

  I watch as Evan struggles to not crash the Lambo and walk into the kitchen.

  It’s all gleaming glass and chrome.

  I spy some baked treats, that Magda made earlier.

  I grab a croissant.

  It’s flaky, light texture reminds me of a little Parisian cafe Olivia and I frequented on our honeymoon, in better times.

  As I chew, I reminisce about Europe, and my time there.

  England is not something I miss; my accent has faded; I rarely visit the original family holdings.

  Athena refuses to let me sell it, but that's another story for another time.

  If I were a lesser man, I would want to escape there, because Olivia has made it her single mission to destroy me.

  However, I will face down my problems, as I always do.

  All my friends, and my contacts in Manhattan, are steering away from me because of the tornado of drama Olivia has stirred around my reputation.

  We both recognize we’ve had our fair share of affairs inside this marriage, but to her, my secret is unforgivable

  This secret is mine to keep.

  Olivia is in the wrong.

  I should escape, now, in the middle of September, for a few months, until December.

  Then this will have faded away.

  But I am no coward; I will face this like a man.

  This city is my domain, and I won’t let Olivia ruin it, despite the bad reputation she’s giving me.

  It’s unfortunate that one of the people Olivia has apparently influenced is Tinsley’s father.

  Jamesen Whittaker is a man with whom I've invested far too much.

  He comes from old money; his parents left him everything, including Whittaker Energy.

  In my view, that was a mistake.

  He's the worst CEO they've had in years.

  All their investors know it.

  He does not understand that I'm the only thing keeping his investors from bolting, at the moment.

  When I first noticed the energy company, I considered it was a sound investment.

  I bought a large stake, and as a result, some of his attention.

  At board meetings, he asked me to sit in and advise him of anything I may notice that would indicate he’d lost control.

  I gave him sound business advice.

  I was the one propping him up.

  But, he does not understand the lengths I've gone to, the dangers of calling him a friend.

  Now, of course, with the Bradford deal, he thinks himself invincible.
<
br />   He now thinks he can run away from the man who practically made him.

  To divorce himself from this scandal, so to speak.

  By him distancing himself, I wonder what my advice is now worth.

  I need to be very careful moving forward, because I sense there is major trouble brewing with the merger.

  The idea of having to navigate this mess, and the knowledge that the two CEO’s of these energy companies are considering a symbolic and actual marriage of their respective families fills me with great unease.

  Especially when Tinsley is part of their ploy.

  I am busying myself with some of my accounts, seeing if I can move some money or sell a part of a company, when the phone rings.

  My attorney confirms my appointment with Olivia, and I ring off.

  I tell Magda not to wait up, since I won’t be back until tomorrow at the earliest.

  I am hoping to catch dinner with Tinsley, after my final confrontation with Olivia.

  Evan wants to fly in the helicopter to Long Island with me, but I convince him to stay.

  The boy is fascinated by the things and can’t get enough time in them.

  Maybe, someday, he’ll get lessons.

  If I had the time, I’d teach him myself, but I am not really the greatest chopper pilot, and the newer turbojet models are a bit beyond my interest.

  I promise Evan a flight later in the week, and he seems resigned to have to wait.

  He goes back to his game, as I take the elevator to the rooftop pad.

  The S-76 is there, its rotors whirring slowly, as the pilot pre-flights it.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Stone,” he says.

  “Hello, Bruce!” I reply.

  “Evan not flying with us today, Sir?” Bruce asks.

  I feel a twinge of guilt, but this is not a day I want Evan to associate with his favorite thing.

  It would not be a good idea to have him link a helicopter flight to the day we divorced.

  “Not today, Bruce, but arrange some time tomorrow afternoon or evening to take him on a short tour of the city, ok?” I ask.

  “We can do dinner in Newark, and get him home in time to do his homework, if that suits you, Mr. Stone,” says Bruce.

  “Sounds like a good plan, Bruce,” I reply.

  I mount up, sitting next to Bruce in the co-pilot seat, and put on a headset.

  “You want to fly a bit, Mr. Stone,” Bruce asks.

  I laugh a bit.

  “No, but I will watch more carefully this time, Bruce,” I chuckle.

  We go through the rest of the checklist, and Bruce lifts off.

  The Penthouse falls away beneath us, and I think I can see Evan looking out the wall of glass doors as we depart.

  I really think he’s going to be a pilot, some day.

  I say as much to Bruce.

  He looks over at me and smiles.

  “He didn’t tell you?” he asks.

  “No, what is it?” I say.

  “Little bastard convinced me to let him try out the cyclic and stick about a month ago,” he says.

  “I had both my hands and feet on the controls, so I figured I’d let him goof off at about 3,500 feet or thereabouts. I showed him the basics – cyclic, throttle, the joystick. You know?” he continued.

  I nod at him. I can almost guess what’s coming next.

  “He flew ok, eh?” I smile.

  “Well, he did ok, for a kid,” says Bruce as we enter the traffic pattern.

  Bruce squawks at ATC for a minute or two, and has me change radio frequencies, and set two waypoints.

  We both scan the sky for anything at our flight level, but the skies are clear for miles around us.

  We point out the incoming jumbo entering Newark airspace, and say “Jinx!” at the same time.

  It’s an old game we’ve played.

  Loser buys a soda for the winner.

  It’s been a tie for about two years now.

  Maybe that sounds silly, but it keeps us both alert to anything dangerous, and it reduces the likelihood of boredom.

  The chopper banks and heads out over the city, towards Long Island.

  The Estate was never my idea of a place to call home.

  Olivia had claimed it, marked it, and made it clear it was hers.

  I expected to surrender it during our divorce, but I intended to make sure the Penthouse remained mine.

  My lawyer had the divorce papers served to her three days ago, but since then I haven't gotten a phone call from her, or her attorney.

  I figure that the best route is to face her head on.

  Bruce brings the S-76 in for a landing on the helipad out near the tennis courts, and asks if he should wait.

  I tell him that I probably will need to leave fairly quickly, so he keeps the engines running.

  I don’t figure this should take very long.

  If she won’t sign, I’ll just leave and try again some other day.

  If she does, my attorney can handle the rest, and there’s no need for me to stay.

  Honestly, I just want this over, so I can spend some quality time with Tinsley.

  Olivia is waiting by the door, her dark hair cut to her shoulders, framing her face elegantly.

  The wind from the chopper blows a bit of sand and dust towards her, making her wince slightly.

  Or, maybe it’s just how she feels about me, and it’s showing on her face.

  With her arms crossed, she looks far more uptight than usual.

  She used to be as carefree as any other rich wife, but our years of marriage have done this to her.

  “Olivia,” I say to her tight-lipped face.

  I stop a few feet short of the marble steps where she waits for me.

  “How are you?” I ask, trying to be nonchalant.

  “My sources tell me I'm being divorced? Or have you come to call the whole thing off?” her voice drips with sarcasm.

  “You can't expect I'm here to get back together,” I tell her.

  I aim to shut her down immediately.

  “It's not too much to hope, is it? That we could have a reasonable conversation about our divorce?” I ask.

  “I guess we've passed the point of reason?” she waves a hand, “But come in if you must. I'm sure there's whiskey you've hidden around the place, if it's not bled dry already.”

  She's right.

  There's always something hanging around this place, and I find myself a glass quickly.

  Part of me wonders if she's poisoned it, however.

  As a precaution, I set the glass down on the table.

  “I will take everything, you realize, right? You're having an affair!” she accuses.

  Olivia's face is beginning to redden, I see her clenched hands, and I don't want to join in her fray of madness at the moment.

  “We've both had affairs,” I point out, keeping my voice even.

  Olivia and I are equally guilty of not putting enough effort into this marriage.

  We both know it.

  Only, I guess she cares more about it than I do.

  “It's time to end the charade, Olivia,” I say, with a heavy sigh.

  I know what I am in for by trying to toss off all the years we’ve spent together, in this place.

  I look around at the expanse, and it oozes her personality.

  It’s tight, and dark and humorless, just like her.

  Olivia stands her ground, arching to her full height with her shoulders pushed back.

  “Why so much need to divorce me now?” she cries.

  Her voice is so high and shrill I almost want to cover my ears.

  “This isn't sudden. I'm surprised you didn't start the divorce proceedings yourself,” I reply.

  It's going to be hard to level with her.

  “I was going to!” she replies hotly. “You beat me to it!”

  “So that's what the anger is about. I'm sure you want to remain married to a perfect stranger,” I retort.

  My sarcasm is thick, warranting
another glare in my direction.

  We are hardly strangers.

  We appreciate each other well enough to understand that this has stopped working.

  It was time to call it long before Evan - or any of my other secrets - came out.

  This is the tip of what's been hiding underneath the surface.

  All that made up this marriage had already fallen apart.

  “I'll take you to court. You'll lose!” she hisses.

  She’s probably right.

  But, I don’t intend to let it get that far.

  “You're free to do that, but do you really want to put Corban through another intense divorce battle? Do you, Olivia?” I say.

  Olivia sags against the couch.

  It’s almost as though she forgot about Corban.

  It’s a good thing I never modeled my parenting skills after hers.

  Olivia isn’t a terrible mother, but she’s very selfish.

  “I don't want to change anything for him!” she says.

  “I'll still do whatever he needs me to do; I'll treat him however he wants me to. He's like a son to me,” I say, as a peace offering.

  “Oh? And what about your son?” she asks, still angry at the idea of Evan’s mere existence.

  “They should both have the experience of being brothers, don’t you think, Olivia?” I ask.

  “Evan and Corban being close would be ideal to me, even if we can’t go on as husband and wife,” I tell her.

  “We can at least agree to keep their lives normal, for the sake of my sanity. Though I can't imagine the damage, my first divorce did to that poor son of mine. It's a wonder Catherine still sticks around. That girlfriend of his must be a saint,” she rattles off.

  I've never had a good opinion about this girl, Catherine.

  Not once.

  She seems a bad influence on Corban.

  I don't dare say anything now however because that's precisely the way to raise Olivia's ire.

  “Is there a particular woman, Noah?” she raises an eyebrow at me, pursing her lips together tightly.

  If I admit to anything, she's probably recording.

  I scan around and play with my whiskey.

  I sniff it.

  It smells normal.

  Probably no arsenic, at least.

  Cyanide?

  Well, that’s another matter…

  I take a chance, feeling silly and slightly anxious, and sip it.

  It’s wonderfully warm, and delicious.

  At least it’s not poisoned.

  Olivia’s eyes narrow, but mostly from impatience.