I Love You to Pieces

by Lori Flynn

  Dear Olivia,

  First and foremost, let me apologize for my husband’s behavior. It was embarrassing for us all, and unfair to you. If I could explain it, I would. I’ve pleaded with him to let it go, to admit it’s a simple case of mistaken identity. I pray he will.

  I’m glad to have met you. I hope you’ll accept my donation toward the good works you do for animals in need.

  Very sincerely,

  Katie McKay

  Olivia appreciated both the sizeable offering and the heartfelt note. Would Jason choose to perpetuate a simple case of mistaken identity? I realize it’s not that simple. But why can’t he let it go? Why can’t I? But all I have is questions, so many questions. Am I losing my mind?

  He didn’t appear to harbor a festering vendetta toward Ben. This issue focused on her. She’d have to think hard about what to share with Ben regarding the note, if anything. Lily, Buckley, and Webster, cuddled peaceably in the corner of her office, made the decision to keep the donation simple.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Delila

  Settled on the back seat of the Lincoln, Delila reapplied her favorite lipstick—Miss Dior—as her driver turned from Collins Avenue down the scenic drive leading to the entrance of the lavish hotel.

  “Welcome to the Fontainebleau.” The doorman assisted her from the car.

  “Thank you.” She took a deep breath and moved forward, her head high.

  Delila turned, taking in the legendary historical Fontainebleau Hotel, pulsing with Latin flair. She combed her fingers through her short blonde hair. It was a beautiful late-April night, with a full moon and scattered stars peppering the sky. To her left, the rhythms from the band igniting the crowd around the bow-tie shaped pool had her moving her hips. She noticed and stayed clear of members of the international press as they mingled, picking up tidbits of gossip.

  Snagging a drink from a passing tray, she nodded to the Miami Beach landmark owners who’d hired her. Reveling in their triumph, they were the lucky ones, picked to host the after party kicking off the Major League Soccer season.

  I’d love to stay and dance the night away, but I have work to do.

  At the impressive front desk, the mention of Vivian’s name elicited an invitation from a flawlessly suited staff member. He escorted her to a private elevator without hesitation.

  “Right this way.” He smiled, applying the appropriate code.

  They glided to the 37th floor, eyes forward, in tandem. When the door opened, Delila stepped out onto the glossy marble surface of the penthouse.

  “Breathtaking.” She turned, taking it all in.

  “Enjoy,” the suited man said. The elevator closed and disappeared.

  The moonlit ocean view drew her, causing her to step back before she advanced through the considerable space. A cool, salty breeze blew in from the balcony, teasing her short blonde hair as well as the filmy curtains in its path. In the dim lighting, she noticed a bar, stocked with sparkling crystal glasses and top-shelf liquor.

  She squinted, seeing an envelope, with her name printed neatly in bold letters, leaning against the silver ice bucket. She picked it up and peeked inside, allowing a soft gasp to escape her lips. Not too shabby for a night’s work. She dropped it into her purse.

  The first shot of Patrón warmed her. As she sipped her second, she sensed she wasn’t alone. “I hope you don’t mind. I helped myself,” she said, turning with a smile.

  Silently, he returned her smile. He was the great Carlito, a star, a premier athlete—the Brazilian national treasure. Through his long and illustrious soccer career, he was credited with countless victories and titles. Now, although the years had been kind, he embraced more of an altruistic role, taking part in exhibitions and fundraisers. He brought the crowds; they brought the money. And according to Vivian, Delila was his bonus.

  She watched him watching her, clad only in his well-documented defense-dropping smile and a hotel-issued deluxe robe, minus the belt. His full head of dark hair fell to his forehead where curled lashes framed his hazel eyes, making way to the dark stubble covering his lower face. When the sides of the robe came open, she noticed that from his neck to his toes, he was entirely hairless.

  Jesus, Mary, and St. Christopher give me strength. She took another quick shot, then another. “I’m Delila; nice to meet you.”

  He remained silent, but his smile widened with his slow approach.

  “Do you speak English? Spanish maybe, or is it Portuguese?” she asked.

  Carlito pulled her roughly against him. “Delila, you’re lovely, and your eyes, so blue.”

  She was unsure which language he mumbled when he spoke into the nape of her neck, unclasping the blush pink beaded dress from her shoulders, having it pool at her feet. She stood before him in her lace thong and stilettos while his thick, needy lips teased her breasts. His hungry mouth traveled down the flat of her stomach before exploring her thighs. He held her with his muscular hands, moving his tongue lower, deeper, causing her to grab at his thick hair with her fists.

  Without warning, he stood, leaving her breathless, questioning.

  “For an athlete, Carlito, you have lousy timing.”

  He looked her over seductively and then, from the pocket of his robe, pulled out a pill, a little blue pill. He held it in her view with a grin before popping it into his mouth. With a hard swat to her bottom, he swallowed before opening the door to the bedroom and motioned her to follow.

  “Let’s play music for mood, yes?” he said.

  “All right, if it makes you happy; whatever keeps your ball in the air? I’ll even sing if you want, but please, no opera.” Disregarding the glass, Delila drank from the bottle. Taking it along, she shadowed behind him. “Let’s do this.”

  *

  Professional sports dictated aging athletes exhibited signs of diminished skills. Delia could attest the adage hardly applied to Carlito. Of course, she spoke of sex, not soccer. She knew nothing about soccer. He was smooth—in every sense of the word.

  Delila left him naked, sleeping, and smiling. Although she sensed smiling was pretty much a constant with Carlito. She longed for a long soak in his exquisite tub, knowing it would help ease the aches and pains the tequila only masked.

  Shit. My car is waiting, and I can’t be late again. Not with the resident busybody poking around. Why can’t that damned Maria just stay in the carriage house where she belongs?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Ben

  To Ben, the fifth of May was always like any other day in May, until now. As he approached Casa Nonna’s manicured drive, he thought of Olivia’s fundamental issues with trust. He considered her invitation a breakthrough in their relationship.

  A man dressed as a matador greeted him at the door, welcoming him with a cheerful, “Hola!” Sadly, the sentence that followed left Ben shaking his head, given his Spanish was limited to a handful of words he’d picked up on a spring break, most of which he wouldn’t dare repeat. His college had encouraged Latin. Without a miracle calling to join the priesthood, he doubted he’d ever use it. Smiling back at the festive man, Ben raised his tone and explained he was off to find Olivia. He cringed for thinking his increased volume would bridge the language barrier.

  On his trek through the house, he first met Lily, followed closely by Buckley and Webster. Lily wore a miniature sombrero with her long brown ears pushed through the openings on the sides. Buckley’s hat, similar but considerably larger, had been customized with a bite taken from the front. Webster sported a lone band that circled his head.

  Olivia swept into the room, wearing a sombrero and carrying another. His gaze riveted on her face, then moved slowly over her. The long peasant skirt and blouse, along with her hair flowing over her shoulders, drew him in.

  “Hola Ben, Como Estas? Habla Español?” Olivia asked while reaching up to place the sombrero on his head.

  He caught her in his arms as she adjusted his hat and kissed her, lifting her from the ground, making their
opened mouths level. “I have no idea what you said, but I don’t believe I can refuse you much of anything today. Just make your requests in English.”

  “Deal,” Olivia answered, wiggling to the floor. “There are some people out on the veranda I’d like you to meet. And warn me before you do that again.”

  “I have two questions first. I’m thinking Webster started the day with a sombrero. Did something happen to it? My second, and more important, question is, will there be a cerveza waiting for me out there?”

  “Webster, unfortunately, mistook his sombrero for an appetizer. Christian stopped him before he had Buckley’s as his second course. As for what’s waiting for you on the veranda, there’s Mexican beer, margaritas, and some drink I had trouble pronouncing made with tequila and lime. But be careful—I was given a heads-up, it’s not for lightweights.”

  The afternoon sun launched its descent sparking the glow of twinkle lights entwined throughout the veranda to life, while cheerful strands of jalapeno-pepper-shaped bulbs lit the perimeter. A bar stood in one corner while a mariachi band offered their enticing rhythms in another. The aroma from an inviting buffet, piled high with authentic Mexican food, filled the air. When Olivia announced his arrival, her guests chimed out their greeting.

  “Hola, Ben.”

  Ben’s hand met hers as a group of children carrying maracas darted onto the beach, tailed closely by the dogs. She led him to a table where he recognized Nanny and Catherine. Over the music, he listened as Olivia conversed with the bartender in what sounded to him as perfect Spanish.

  “Benny, how have you been?” Catherine said. “Jonathan is forever telling me how proud of you he is and what a prodigy you are. Of course, I couldn’t be happier with what you’ve done with Harding Enterprises. Isn’t that right, Olivia?”

  Eyes wide, Olivia could only nod in her grandmother’s direction.

  Ben rounded the table to properly greet Catherine, respectfully kissing her cheek before turning to Nanny to acknowledge her similarly. Once seated, he felt Olivia’s stare from under the brim of her large hat.

  “Is there something wrong?” He narrowed his eyes and lowered his tone.

  “Benny?” Olivia questioned.

  “Why are you so surprised, Olivia?” Catherine said in the comforting manner she kept for her granddaughter. “You didn’t think I would let just anyone have access to matters concerning Harding Enterprises, never mind come anywhere near you. I may be up in years, but I’m not senile. I handpicked this dear boy. His parents and I go way back. Speaking of your parents, Benny, how are Chadwick and Bunny getting on?”

  “Your mother’s name is Bunny?” Olivia grinned toward Ben. “You’re just full of surprises. It seems you know my grandmother better than you professed.”

  “Sweetheart, it’s not better,” Catherine waved a hand discounting Olivia’s concern. “I’ve just known him longer.”

  “And just how much longer would that be?”

  “I’ve known Benny since before he was born,” Catherine said, taking a long drink from the Margarita the waiter had placed in front of her.

  Ben sampled the Mexican beer, and although he’d been warned of its strength, his expression made Olivia grin. He continued the conversation with Catherine and shared with the remainder of the table that his parents were what Floridians referred to as ‘snowbirds’—enjoying their summers in Connecticut and the winters in Florida. This year they planned to arrive in early fall for a short visit to attend the wedding of a family friend’s daughter.

  “I’m sure my parents, especially Bunny, will want to meet you when they’re here to open the house. I can’t wait to tell her how much you admire her name,” Ben said softly into Olivia’s ear, sometime after his third beer.

  “I’d love to meet your parents, but right now, we should get you something to eat.” She smiled back at Ben, who’d taken to wearing his sombrero around his neck.

  Ben allowed Olivia, along with the delectable aromas, to lure him to the buffet where he found handmade tortillas, tacos, beef and chicken tamales, and enough rice and beans to feed a small city. The chef’s specialty, something he called cal do de camarones, had him coming back for more, even though he’d made Olivia translate it as Mexican shrimp soup before he’d give it a try. Ben employed exaggerated hand gestures to show the chef his appreciation.

  As darkness fell, Mexican dancers entertained, and the Mariachi band had everyone on their feet, learning new steps and showing off old ones. Ben not only learned the names of the elder women in attendance but made an effort to dance with them all. With help, he’d also increased his Spanish vocabulary, although he agreed his pronunciation needed work.

  The children were falling asleep on their parents’ shoulders while still holding tight to their maracas as the evening came to an end. Although mostly everyone was either related or worked together, they hugged and kissed goodbye as if they didn’t know when they’d meet again. The chef packaged what remained of the shrimp soup and left it with Ben’s name on it. To ensure her guests’ safe arrival home, Olivia had arranged for cars to take them there.

  “Your exit plan is under control,” Ben said as he followed behind Olivia up the stairs to assist Christian with the task of sand removal and to quiet the dogs for the night. They found Lily fighting to stay awake, curled on the oversized dog bed still wearing her sombrero. Webster stood in the center of the bathtub, allowing Christian to methodically brush his thick fur, while Buckley, sitting tall just inches behind, appeared to be supervising the process.

  “Lily hasn’t let me take her sombrero off, and I’m afraid Webster is going to use it as a midnight snack. Maybe you’ll have better luck with her,” Christian said. “Other than that, Buckley and I have this worked out.”

  Catherine’s raised voice from the lower level of the house preempted further thought or action.

  “I’ll go, Olivia,” Ben said, his voice edged with control. “You take care of Lily.”

  Before she could argue, he backed from the room and hurried down the stairs. He soon found Catherine sitting at the kitchen table with Nanny. Maria circled them like water around a drain.

  “Benny,” Catherine said with his entrance. “Have a seat.” She patted the chair beside her own.

  Ben paused to rake his fingers through his hair. “Why do I have a feeling you’re going to tell me something I’d rather not hear?”

  Catherine smiled and turned toward Nanny. “See what I mean? He’s a prodigy.”

  Minutes later, when Olivia rushed into the room, Maria spun to face her, fixing a smile mirroring that of the others. “Your guests are on their way home, and the major cleanup’s taken care of. The break-down crew will be here first thing in the morning to finish the job. I trust Christian was able to get the dogs quieted down for the night?”

  “The dogs are fine, and thanks for the update. Now maybe one of you can tell me what you’re keeping from me.” She waited as they lowered their heads in unison. “I know you’re hiding something.”

  Ben’s eyes drew hers, holding them while he stood and approached her, placing a sealed envelope in her outstretched palm.

  Nanny shook her head in disgust. “I never saw you as our weak link.”

  Olivia broke from his stare raising her hand to her mouth. “That’s my mother’s handwriting. So much for my warm festive feeling,” she said, her hand shaking too much to break the seal on the envelope.

  Maria spoke first. “I’m sorry, Olivia. This is my fault. I was shocked to see it just sitting there with the mail yesterday. You were so busy with the party and all. I didn’t want to bother you. Then I remembered Mr. Thornton was coming today, so I decided I should just give it to him.”

  Catherine pounded the table with rounded fists. “That bitch knows she’s not to mail anything directly to you. All her poison-pen letters are to go through Ben. I don’t care if it’s her death certificate. Actually, that would be the only communication that wouldn’t bother me.”

  “Ple
ase don’t let her get you upset, Grandmother.”

  With a staid calmness, Ben coaxed the women to settle around the table, relieving Olivia of the envelope. “No one here needs me to tell them how Elizabeth breached her agreement by choosing to contact her daughter in the way she has. We can begin legal proceedings against her immediately if that’s what you wish.”

  “What do you suggest we do, Ben?” Olivia said in a small tight voice, reaching for her grandmother’s hand.

  “First, I think you’re going to have to open it, and see what she wants. It’s my opinion that, as far as the breach of contract goes, Elizabeth is testing the waters. If we let this slide, she’ll soon be knocking on your front door for afternoon tea. For your sake, Olivia, I’d like to try and handle the situation without involving a courtroom. Of course, she may make it necessary.”

  “A leopard doesn’t change its spots. I say we have the bitch taken out,” Catherine contributed with a growl.

  “Oh my, Catherine, you give leopards a bad name,” Nanny added.

  With Olivia’s easy laugh at her grandmother’s suggestion and Nanny’s affirmation, the atmosphere in the room lifted. Maria stood to offer coffee while Olivia placed a plate piled high with Mexican cookies in the center of the table.

  “I think Ben’s right. Will you open it, please?” Olivia asked.

  “Of course,” Ben said, quickly completing the task so as not to prolong the suspense. He rolled his eyes before saying, “It appears Elizabeth Stewart Harding Crawford is having a birthday bash for her husband, Vernon, to which you, Olivia, are cordially invited. There’s a hand-written note enclosed informing that Vernon now uses a wheelchair since suffering a stroke and that he has experienced residual poor health. She’s also included a picture of Samuel and Shelby.”

  Olivia hadn’t seen her half-siblings since they were in cradles, almost two years before. She stared at the picture, where the perfectly posed and coiffed cherub faces were adorned with blonde curls and bright, marine-blue eyes. “God, I pray they’re safe,” she whispered aloud.