Mikalo's Fate (The Mikalo Chronicles)

by Shaw, Syndra K.

  See?, she'd say to anyone who'd listen. She's only interested in the money. To kick me out of my apartment when I'm helping her find her wedding dress!

  No, I'd figure out something to do. Walk to a hotel, take a cab. Something.

  "Miss?"

  I turned, following the voice.

  The driver from earlier, a burly Frenchman with the beginnings of a beard -- a beard Caugina hated, giving him two hours to cut it or lose his job --, was motioning to me.

  Curious, suitcase once again in hand, I wandered over.

  "Miss," he said again, reaching for my suitcase, the door to the trunk of the sleek Mercedes open. "Please."

  My suitcase in the trunk, the door slammed shut, he maneuvered his bulk to the passenger side, opening the door for me.

  I hesitated.

  "I'm not sure where to go," I admitted, briefly ashamed at the ridiculousness my situation.

  He smiled, god bless him.

  "But there is a room waiting for you," he then said.

  I sighed, relieved, and slid into the back seat.

  Of course, I thought. She was cruel, but she'd hardly leave me hanging homeless in the City of Lights.

  Soon the car was pulling into traffic, joining the red tail lights of the avenues and quais of nighttime Paris.

  I watched the buildings along the Champs from the comfort of the car, still amazed at their ornate beauty, the inherent history in the brick and stone, the slender trees lining the curbs always mesmerizing in their perfect simplicity. Remembered once again why this was both a city I loved and a city for lovers.

  We turned onto the quai fronting the Seine, the car heading far from Caugina's neighborhood. Heading perhaps toward the Marais or even the Latin District on the Left Bank on the other side of the river.

  It'd be a pain in the ass to meet Caugina.

  I leaned forward.

  "Where is this hotel? I asked.

  "Bastille," came the response, his eyes catching mine in the rearview mirror, the look almost apologetic.

  Bastille? Not a bad neighborhood, but certainly not a neighborhood for me. A lot of tourists, a lot of chaos, action, traffic, noise. A very long metro ride to the center of the city where I'd be doing most of my shopping.

  This wasn't going to work.

  "No," I said.

  This was bullshit. I'd pay for my own room. I didn't care. There was no way I was staying in the hinterlands of the Bastille while that bitch lived it up in style.

  I was trying to keep my temper.

  And losing.

  "The Ritz," I finally said.

  "Place Vendôme," came the response. "Of course."

  His gaze met mine again. He was stifling a small smile, his eyes twinkling. Now this made sense, they seemed to be saying.

  I sat back, relieved.

  I was going to buy this damn dress, endure Caugina, gratefully reunite with my Deni, return to Greece, marry the man I love, and then never, ever deal with these horrible people ever again.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Morning came quickly. Sleep had not.

  Despite my lingering anger, my perfectly understandable frustration, and my utter confusion over what I was supposed to do when, the call from Caugina's "people" coming at some point today, I was determined to enjoy myself.

  And Paris waited.

  After a quick shower, I was out the door in search of the perfect cup of coffee.

  But first, a call to Mikalo.

  Despite being on an island in the middle of the Aegean, his cell worked. Thank god, modern technology, cell towers, and underwater cables.

  "It is good?" he asked, his voice clear as a bell despite the miles separating us.

  I paused, not sure what to say.

  He sighed.

  "You are in the apartment, yes?"

  "No," I found myself saying.

  "And why?"

  I could hear the anger growing in his voice.

  "I am staying at The Ritz," I quickly said. "It's better this way."

  A pause from him.

  "I am sorry, my Grace," he then said.

  Hearing his frustration, his voice growing quiet and weary, brought tears to my eyes.

  "Mikalo ..." I began, but then stopped.

  I was going to say it was okay and everything was fine. I was going to tell him I was having a wonderful time and, really, there was nothing to worry about.

  I was going to lie.

  But I stopped, my love for him insisting on honesty. I grew quiet as I searched for the right words.

  They came.

  "I will be back with you very soon," I said, the thought of seeing him again warming my heart.

  I could hear his smile.

  "Yes," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And we will go for a drive in the Jeep, I think, no?"

  "Yes!" I quickly said, my lips lifting in a grin.

  A grin that felt good.

  I was now standing outside, our conversation taking me down the hall of the hotel, into the elevator, through the lobby and out the door where I now stood facing the world famous obelisk centering the Place Vendôme.

  There was a slight chill in the air, the clouds still low, the light that special shade of gray and silver that one only finds in Paris. Although summer was most definitely upon us, it seems to have passed Paris by, light jackets still slung over nonchalant shoulders, the ubiquitous scarf wrapped around slender Parisian throats.

  "I love you," I then said, investing the strength of my very soul into those three simple words.

  A pause as Mikalo took it in.

  "And I love you, my beautiful Grace," came the perfect response.

  Silently I wished he could join me. Could walk these streets and wander these avenues with me. Stumble upon charming corner cafes and drink rich, dark espresso from demitasse cups. Start our day with doughy baguettes slathered with butter and jam, the crust crunching with the first bite.

  But I knew there were meetings to attend. Fires to put out. The Byzans to hold off.

  Surprising. I had asked Mikalo if the older Byzan, Radek, Mara's father, could join us for our wedding. And he had agreed, of course, the history the Delis and the Byzan families stretching back a generation or more.

  Now to think of the Byzans there celebrating our nuptial while doing all they can -- or that Mara can -- to take the company out of Mikalo's hands was bizarre.

  But this didn't seem to bother him, Mikalo easily separating business from life.

  I wasn't sure I would be as successful.

  And the thought of Mara at my wedding made me want to hurl.

  I had now left the Place, turning on the Rue de Castiglione and walking the very short walk to Rue Saint-Honoré where I was sure to find a cafe where I could grab a quick coffee and maybe a bite to eat. Go whole hog tourist and get a croissant, perhaps.

  I smiled at the thought.

  I was in Paris. A city I adored.

  Even on the relatively busy Saint-Honoré I still found happiness, the early morning crowds, the cars turning from the larger, busier Rue Royal and snaking their way on this slender slip of concrete, the clouds overhead, none of that could diminish my excitement at being here.

  And of course there was Goyard.

  The shop was closed when I walked past, the hour still too early. But I absolutely would make a trip and visit my dear Eric, a charming handsome manager who'd helped me with many an order before. To come to Paris and not do so would feel oh so wrong!

  I passed one cafe and then another. I was in no hurry to stop. In fact, I could have easily had a coffee at the hotel. But I wanted to be out and about. In truth, I wanted to walk off my anger, the stench from last night still wafting around me like putrid cigar smoke.

  The tears threatened to come again. Tears of anger. Of rage. Of humiliation. Tears hinting at a helplessness I simply abhorred.

  My phone rang.

  I stopped, stepping to the side lest I be run over by those behind me, Parisians as not
orious as New Yorkers when it came to their lack of patience as they rushed to work.

  Distracted by those rushing past, I forgot to glance at the Caller ID, barking a quick "Hello" before realizing I had no idea who was on the other end.

  I held my breath, suddenly afraid it was Caugina, a black blight of bitchy sent to kill my Paris buzz and ruin my day.

  "You're depressed."

  I stopped, waiting, the voice familiar.

  "I can always tell. Your shoes, the way you walk. The way you hold your head down and watch the sidewalk. You're depressed."

  Deni.

  "Yes," I said. "It's been rough."

  "I'm sorry, sweetie," came the response.

  "Well, ... " and then I stopped.

  "How did you know my head was down?" I asked, the answer suddenly exciting me, lifting me with hope. My heart raced as I waited for her answer.

  "Lift your head and see."

  I lifted my head.

  Deni stood near, watching me, elegant as always, her blonde hair perfect, her beauty inescapable even here in a city of beauty.

  She hung up her phone and waited, watching me. Her hand motioned me near, a small smile on her face.

  Relieved, grateful, no longer feeling alone or unloved, I slipped my phone in my pocket and crossed the street.

  The tears came.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  That nutty, slightly acrid smell of coffee tickled my nose, the clink of flatware against heavy porcelain filling the air as early morning diners hurriedly tucked into their breakfasts.

  Deni had charmed us into a semi-private table toward the back of Le Castiglione, a cafe of dark woods and deep, bright reds and a surprisingly delicious café créme so luscious I almost did a double take.

  Before long, the small square of solid wood between us was brimming with coffee, bread and butter, small pots of colorful jam, and Deni's usual truck driver breakfast, only this time à la Français.

  She watched me as I recounted the growing horror of the last few days. And then, after putting away another bite of an impossibly light and fluffy omelet, she took a sip of coffee and spoke.

  "It's horrible," she agreed.

  Thank god.

  "Thank you," I quickly said, relieved she recognized my plight and could see just how horrible it truly was.

  "What they're doing to you is just beyond decency, tact, good manners ... Just everything. Their behavior is despicable."

  I started to feel my shoulders relax.

  I hadn't even been aware they were so tense!

  Taking a stab of my omelet -- until now I had merely looked at it, my appetite nowhere to be found despite how delicious the smattering of green onions festively covering the unctuous yellow looked --, I watched Deni as my words rolled through her mind.

  "No," she then said with a small shake of her blonde curls. "I just can't wrap my head around it. It's really unbelievable."

  "You see?" I said after a quick swallow. "It's not my imagination. Thank god."

  She took a sip of coffee.

  "Such a shame," she said, placing the cup back on the table.

  I nodded, agreeing.

  "I really did have high hopes for this," I said. "Was looking forward to, oh, I don't know, being part of a family or something. Was hoping that they'd embrace me with open arms and we'd have big Christmases and birthdays and I'd be Auntie Ronan or whatever.

  "Very disappointing," I said, finishing my thought.

  "It is very disappointing," she agreed. "And it's really sad that you lost your voice and couldn't defend yourself."

  Oh shit.

  "You know, that you had to just sit there and take it because you lost the ability to speak. I mean, that's what's really breaking my heart."

  "Oh, c'mon," I said, defending myself. "You think I can just go in there and, what, argue with my future in-laws or something? You don't think that'd make me Bitch of the Year or something? Be rude?"

  "You're afraid of being seen as rude?"

  "Yes!" I snapped back.

  "Are they?" she asked calmly.

  I looked toward the restaurant, avoiding her gaze. Watched these Parisians, these regulars to the cafe as they sipped and read their papers or checked their phones. Or simply thought quietly as they finished off their breakfasts and started their days.

  Deni waited, aware she had won.

  I sighed.

  "No," I finally said.

  "And would the Ronan I know, the Ronan I love so very much, would she stand their quietly and take this kind of bullshit abuse if it came from a client or a boss or a friend?"

  This was getting annoying.

  "No," I said again.

  Deni paused.

  And then,

  "Does Mikalo know this is happening?"

  I nodded.

  Yes. Yes, he does.

  "And he allows it?" she asked.

  He did, I realized.

  I could see the blush coming to Deni's cheek, her anger rising.

  She cleared her throat.

  "Well," she snapped, "wedding or not, I am giving this Greek of yours a piece of my mind."

  Deni was right, of course. I don't know what was going through Mikalo's mind, but he could have stepped in. Could have done something to mitigate the nightmare I'd been going through. Helped to ease my sense of loneliness and isolation by suggesting, perhaps even insisting, Nona and Silvestro and Caugina at least give me a chance.

  He hadn't.

  And that now worried me.

  "How's that sister-in-law of his?" Deni was asking. "Caugina?"

  "Yeah," I said quickly. "Caugina."

  I hesitated, not sure where to begin.

  Deni sat back, recognizing when I was shifting through the shit in order to find something good to start with.

  "That good, huh?" she then said.

  I took a healthy swallow of coffee. And then another.

  Anything to keep from telling her about last night.

  But she had to know. The prospect of not telling her wasn't even in the cards. Deni knew everything. I kept very few secrets from her.

  That's why I loved her so much.

  She knew me, warts and failings and fuck ups and all.

  So I told her everything. The flight, the flipping of the magazine pages, the apartment over on the Avenue Foch, my postage stamp-sized room at The Ritz. I ate my omelet, sipped my coffee and told her everything, all while completely avoiding her gaze.

  I knew if I looked in her eyes, I'd see anger. Rage, even.

  I knew if I looked in her eyes, I'd see the beginnings of revenge.

  And I wasn't sure I wanted to see that.

  Growing quiet, my Caugina is a Horrible Bitch story now told, I waited, slightly afraid of the explosion to follow.

  The words came, quiet and calm and not at all betraying what she truly felt.

  "And this is the woman helping you with your wedding dress?"

  I finally looked up, finding her eyes.

  She was surprisingly calm. Too calm, I realized.

  I nodded.

  "Yes," I then said.

  Deni crossed her arms across her chest, it now being her turn to look to the restaurant as she plotted and planned.

  "Are you plotting and planning?" I found myself asking.

  After a moment,

  "No," she then said, turning to watch me once again. "If I do plot and plan, it'll only be after I see for myself how this woman, this Caugina, treats you. If she's a bitch, if she treats you like a piece of shit, then I'll plot and plan."

  I almost smiled.

  "How?" I asked and then immediately felt guilty.

  To take such a strong interest in this, to feel such glee over the possibility of Caugina getting a taste of her own medicine, it felt somehow wrong. Immature. Catty.

  But I didn't care.

  "How would you ...?" I asked again, stopping myself.

  "What does she treasure the most?" she asked.

  "Besides money
?"

  "Besides money," Deni said. "What's really important to her is status. Feeling important. Better than everyone. Nothing would hurt her more than taking that away, right?"

  Right.

  Oh god, that was deviously brilliant.

  "Make a few calls," Deni continued. "A few invitations to the social events of the season going missing. Taking her out of the front row at the couture shows and bumping her back to the third or fourth row. Her getting a decidedly, unmistakably, very chilly cold shoulder from the top of the top of the tippy-tippy-top her social circle. Little things like this would destroy her."

  She took the final bite of her omelet, washing it down with the last of her coffee.

  "First I want to see just how atrocious this Caugina is. If she's half as bad as I think, she'll be persona non grata within weeks."

  I suddenly felt bad for Caugina. And then I remembered last night and got over it.

  It's called karma.

  "Where's Lucas?" I asked.

  I hadn't seen her new boyfriend yet. The young, handsome secret she'd kept from me. The secret I had discovered that one day in Central Park after my encounter with Mikalo on the bench in broad daylight.

  Well, shadowy dusk, at the very least.

  "I thought he was coming with you," I said, finishing my thought.

  A long silence as the handsome waiter silently took our plates from the table.

  "L'addition, s'il vous plaît," I said, asking for the check.

  A small smile and a nod as he hurried away, the plates balancing precariously in his arms.

  "He had to go back to the States," she finally said. "A work thing."

  I wasn't convinced. But I also knew not to press. If she wanted to tell me what happened, she'd tell me. Until then, her secrets were her own.

  I respected that.

  "So," she continued. "When are you supposed to meet Caugina?"

  "No idea," I said.

  Deni glanced at me.

  "No idea?"

  "Nope. She said she'd have her people call me when she was ready to see me, or something like that."

  "Bitch."

  We laughed.

  Unbelievably, my phone rang, the slender slip of plastic vibrating against the bare wood as the number flashed on the screen.

  The familiar Greek country code. The stream of numbers following it ones I didn't recognize. Certainly wasn't Mikalo.