Eternity Skye

by Liz Newman

  “Tomorrow,” Skye said to his retreating back.

  “Yes, Signorina?”

  “Take me to the most romantic place in the city of Rome.” she said.

  He pondered her request. “After the work day, I will.” He strode toward her and looked into her eyes, gently kissing her on the forehead. “Good night, Signorina.”

  She grabbed his tie and pulled him closer. “I had a wonderful time. Please. Can this night end like a fairy tale?”

  He held her gaze, drinking in the nearness of her. In the darkened hall, he took her in his arms and kissed her. She ran her fingers through his hair, bringing him closer, melding his body to hers. He gently pulled away from her.

  “No,” she whispered. “Don’t stop.”

  She brought his hand to her hip and remembered what she wore underneath. Granny panties. She pulled his hand back up to her waist, drawing her face back. “Perhaps we should say good night.”

  “We must remember as well, this is quite improper, Signorina.” He squeezed her to him one last time before turning away.

  “Call me Skye,” she smiled.

  “At your insistence,” he replied. “Good night, Skye.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The line of IV dripped into his father’s arm in sync with the ticking clock on the wall. Charlie stared at Bartholomew Meyer’s sunken face, as if his tortured thoughts slowly sucked out what little life the old man held. Charlie’s stepmother, Joanne, breezed in through the heavy wooden door. “Thanks for coming, Charlie. He really wanted to talk to you before…” she trailed off. Her lips pursed together, and she reached for a tissue on the nightstand. “I’ll be outside in the waiting room, with your brothers. Please let us know when he wakes up.”

  “Sure,” Charlie said. After Joanne shut the door behind her, Charlie fiddled around in his pocket for a miniature video game system.

  His father woke up, groaning and retching so loudly Charlie jumped in his seat. His father’s left forefinger pressed down on a handheld device resembling a joystick. He groaned louder and pressed the button repeatedly.

  “Charles,” he growled. “Call the nurse. I need my pain medication.”

  Charlie got up and headed for the door. “Press the goddamn button on the side of the bed!” Bartholomew commanded. “Five hours of surgery and I still have to tell you what to do. What century do you think this is? Press the goddamn button!”

  Charlie searched the console and found a green button with a picture of a circle wearing a cap with a plus sign on it. He pressed it. A voice answered. He cleared his throat, his voice quivering slightly.

  “My father needs more medication,” he said.

  His father lifted himself up in bed an inch. “I need to speak to Violet,” he demanded.

  “Violet’s on her lunch break,” the voice answered. “I’ll send someone in right away, sir.”

  “I want Violet!” Bartholomew demanded.

  “Violet is not here right now. I will be happy to send in a very qualified nurse to administer your meds.”

  Bartholomew lowered his voice to barely above a whisper. “Do you have a hearing problem?”

  “Excuse me, sir?” The voice became aggravated.

  “Exactly my point,” Bartholomew said loudly. “You got a goddamn hearing problem. Take that earpiece off your ear and ask the fat bitch at the desk that watches you press buttons all day like a chimpanzee who I am.”

  The person on the other line remained silent. “Take it off,” he growled.

  “Just a moment.” The voice came back on the phone. “I apologize, Mr. Meyer.”

  “That’s better. Now you find Violet, or I’ll have someone look around for her myself. You’ve got five minutes to get her in here.”

  He pressed the button again to hang up. “Five million dollars donated to this hospital over my lifetime I can at least get the right goddamn nurse.”

  “Dad, I—” Charlie said.

  “Be quiet,” Bartholomew said. “We’ll talk once I get my pain medication.”

  Violet breezed in four minutes later and refilled Bartholomew’s IV. His eyes went from stark cold ice to a watery blue and he relaxed in a matter of seconds. Charlie sighed, his tension from being in the presence of his father now at ease. Violet used the automatic controls on the bed to prop Bartholomew up slightly and arranged pillows around his head and shoulders.

  “Are you comfortable, Mr. Meyer?” she asked.

  He patted her brown hand. “Thanks, Vi. You are a miracle worker. That’s why I only ask for you.”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Meyer. Anything else I can get for you?”

  Bartholomew looked pointedly at Charlie. “I do have one last question, Violet. How many years of schooling did it take to become a nurse?”

  She mummified his lower legs in a warm blanket. “Four years of undergrad, Mr. Meyer, followed by two and half years of intensive study in the medical field.”

  “Six and a half years. You’ve done quite well for yourself.” He smiled at her kindly. “You should be proud. My son here, Charles, went to school for seven years.”

  “Really,” Violet said as she busied herself misting the buds of the numerous flower arrangements placed around the room. “What do you do for a living?” she asked Charlie.

  “Nothing,” Bartholomew answered on Charlie’s behalf. “Nothing of any importance whatsoever.” Violet left the room with her eyes averted. The door closed behind her, slowing down with a whoosh before it clicked softly shut.

  “My son Charles…” Bartholomew said. He repeated the name over and over as he leaned his head onto the fluffed pillows. “Seven years of college. Not a degree to show for it. After two years you dropped out. You bilked me out of another five, telling me you couldn’t get into classes you needed because they were full. Or you dropped a course here, a course there. Couldn’t handle the workload. Changed your major. Look at you now. You operate a dive bar. And the woman you married, who you swindled for money. The one who sued you. All the while I’ve picked up the tab.”

  “College was tough for me, Dad. You know I didn’t want to go.”

  “No, I didn’t know that. Just like I didn’t know about your cocaine problem, your gambling addiction, your drinking.” Charlie stared at him in disbelief.

  “Albert told me everything. You’ve made a fool out of me, haven’t you? When you were born I told your mother, this one’s going to be smart. This one’s going to be our family’s ticket to the White House. I coddled you, doted on you. You were my favorite son!” His face turned from a blue pallor to pink. “The day your mother died, she tried to tell me about you. That there was something wrong with you. That you always would and always will be nothing. Not because you weren’t smart enough. Because you never even tried. You think everyone owes you something. You know who I blame for that? I blame myself.”

  “I’m not going to sit here and listen to this,” Charlie said.

  “You’ll listen!” Bartholomew shouted, his voice croaking. “You’ll listen, only because this next part concerns you. You’re done for, as my son. I’m leaving you nothing. Not a dime. I’ve got three weeks left to live.” He nodded his head, grinning, his teeth dark yellow, his face already a skull. “Makes you happy, doesn’t it? You thought you’d be laughing all the way to the bank. You’ll be skipping there without a penny in your pocket. No wife. No children. No ambition. Nothing. Just breathing in air better off left for others. People who work hard, sacrifice their lives for their families and kids. People like me. People like Violet.”

  Charlie shuffled his feet with his hands in his pockets, an overgrown boy. The edges of his mouth turned down in self-pity.

  “Daddy,” he sobbed. “Why do you hate me this much?”

  He wiped away tears from his eyes.

  “Crocodile tears, boy,” his father said. “You’re the thief who never gave one thought to the good, hard working people he ripped off. The con artist who never stops conning, even when caught.”

&
nbsp; “Why would you care about the money when you had so much of it?” Charlie said in frustration.

  “When I filed for bankruptcy, I was humiliated. Decades of my life working hard, building up a company torn to the ground by those goddamned terrorists. I accounted for every penny wasted, every penny that could have gone toward bailing the company out. Millions wasted, because of you. I turned my head away and let you spend my money, let you live like a spoiled playboy. You don’t deserve any of what I have left. You have a brother who’s a doctor; another, an attorney. They have families, respectable wives, and children. I’m not going to let you take one cent away from them, when they’ve lived their lives with integrity.”

  “I’ll change, Dad,” Charlie sobbed. “I promise. Please don’t cut me off. Please.”

  Joanne opened the door. She walked to Bartholomew’s side and clutched his hand in hers. “Violet said you were awake.” She smiled through glazed eyes. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’ll feel much better dying at home,” Bartholomew grunted. “Tell Violet to take leave today. When I check out, I’ll need her Around The Clock at home. She’ll make more money in these next three weeks than she does in year.”

  “I’ll tell her right now,” Joanne said. She disregarded Charlie, his head hung low beneath his shoulders, on her way to the door.

  Charlie wiped his eyes and nose on the back of his sleeve. “All this time, you never told me how you felt. It’s not fair, Dad. You need to give me a chance to change.” He sat there in silence for a few minutes, watching the IV drip. His father’s eyes became heavy with sleep. “There’s a woman I’m dating. Who I’m going to marry. Her name is Skye Evans.”

  “The news anchor?” Bartholomew made a sound of disbelief.

  “I wanted you to meet her, but you became sick so suddenly. I didn’t want to rush things.”

  “Son,” Bartholomew laughed in way that sounded more like a sob, “now is the perfect time to rush things.”

  “I’ll bring her to you, and you will see. She loves me, and I love her too. I’ll be a good husband to her, and…I will be a better person. Promise me you’ll meet her before you cut me out.”

  “You’re already cut out. If what you say is true, maybe you’ll have a chance to work your way back into the will. But you know what I think? I think this is all bullshit.” His father waved his hand away, dismissing him.

  Charlie exited the hospital room and wandered into the hallway. His brothers, their wives and children rushed past him into the hospital room, saying a brief hello. Charlie pulled on his eldest brother’s elbow. “You sold me out, Al? What the hell!”

  Al herded the rest of his children into the room before turning back to Charlie. “I tried to get help for you, bro. I really did. By the time I told Dad everything, he was so pissed off at you he didn’t want to help. You’ve burned all your bridges with him, man. What can I say? Kelly and I will help you out the best we can.”

  “You can start today. I’ve got fifty dollars in my pocket and some credit cards that may or may not work. Although I certainly don’t have enough money for what I need to do. There’s this girl I’m dating. I need to ask her to marry me,” Charlie said.

  “What good is that going to do?”

  “Dad said if I made a life that was respectable he’d write me back in the will. I’m a single guy. I don’t need much to live on.”

  “You’re living in a dream world. Once you get married, you’ll need a house. Stuff for the kids.”

  “Look, it’s highly doubtful this girl’s even going to last. There’s always divorce. If he writes me out, are you going to turn me away for the rest of my life? Let me rot out on the streets? You’ve got to help me. You’re my brother.”

  “Jesus Christ. How much do you need?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars. I’ll pay you back. I swear it.”

  ***

  Armed with a pear-cut diamond solitaire, Charlie rode the elevator up to the thirty-eighth floor at TNBC. The elevator doors parted slowly. He slithered through the narrow space and bowed to a pretty brunette with her arms full of stacks of documents. He stuck his head into cubicles, asking where he could find Skye. As he turned the doorknob to Skye Evans’s office, Clarissa approached him with a plastic cup of iced tea in her hand.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  He scratched his head as she sat down at her desk. He leaned his elbows on the counter above her cubby. She stared at his elbows. “Please don’t lean on that,” she said.

  “I need to speak with Skye Evans,” he mumbled, looking past her at her computer monitor. “Where is she?”

  “I’m sorry. I cannot divulge that information.” Clarissa typed on her computer.

  “There’s an emergency,” Charlie persisted. “I need to know where she is.”

  Clarissa grabbed a notepad and a pen and placed it on the counter. “Write the situation down here, and I will relay it to her as soon as possible.” She cocked her head, her green eyes prepared for battle.

  “Oh, you service people are so-o-o haughty,” Charlie muttered. “A little power and you think you control the world. No problemo. Don’t trouble yourself. You’re only keeping Skye from the best thing that’ll ever happen to her.”

  “I highly doubt that,” said Clarissa.

  “You’ll be seeing a lot of me later, you evil cow. There will be repercussions for this.” Charlie spun around and stalked away.

  “I look forward to them,” Clarissa called out.

  A staff writer stopped at Clarissa’s desk as she watched Charlie exit through glass doors. “Who was that?”

  “Skye’s ex-boy toy. Son of some Big Apple big cheese. I should’ve asked for his name. Do you think I should send Skye an email?”

  “Kleinstiver said no contact. She’ll be back the day after tomorrow. Diane’s on her way in to see you.”

  “The new Op Manager?”

  The writer nodded. “Something went wrong with the presentation.”

  The black phone on Clarissa’s desk buzzed insistently. Diane’s voice, harried and thin, sounded over the speaker. “Clarissa, I’m in conference with the production team and we’re missing the ratings forecast. I can’t pull up the page. Can you come down here please?”

  “Right away, Diane.” Clarissa put the phone back in its cradle, gathering pages from a file and a yellow stenographer notepad. “Try using the tutorial, Diane. It works wonders.” The writer chuckled as Clarissa exited through the glass door, taking a corner quickly. An intern flew toward her, carrying a Styrofoam holder with four cups of coffee.

  “Oh, balls!” he said as he collided into her.

  “My new silk shirt! You moron!” Clarissa watched the hot coffee flood her blouse. She jumped up and down as the coffee soaked through her shirt, burning her skin. The staff writer leaped toward her and dragged her back into the office, pulling the shades as Clarissa wiggled frantically out of the blouse.

  Charlie punched the first floor button of the elevator. The doors began to close. Denny rushed toward it, pushing her newborn baby in a Bugaboo Frog stroller and car seat. “Hold it!” she squeaked. Charlie shot out his hand and forced the doors back open. His eyes roved to Denny’s low-cut top as the elevator traveled down.

  She smiled at him. “Hi.”

  “Hi. Congratulations on your new baby. Are you a reporter?”

  “I used to be the anchor of Around The Clock. Before it got cancelled. Out with the old. I’m Mrs. Alfred Millingham.”

  “This must be Junior.”

  “He’s so sweet when he’s sleeping. I checked in on my husband and made sure his secretary is still fat and ugly. Like I said, out with the old, in with the new. He insisted on going back to work so soon after the baby was born.” Her jaw stiffened. “Aren’t you Skye’s boyfriend? I read that page in the gossip column. Saw your picture.”

  “Yes,” he answered. He adjusted the collar of the polo shirt layered under his sweater vest.

  “Maybe you could help me
. You look like a woman who appreciates fine jewelry. I’m going to surprise Skye with this.”

  He removed the engagement ring from his pocket, flipping open the box. Denny’s eyes widened. She looked down at her own enormous ring and her lips curled into a smug smile. “Perhaps you can give me the address as to where she’s staying?”

  “Sure. Keep her there for a few more weeks; would you?” One short call placed by Denny to Alfred’s assistant, and in hours Charlie boarded a plane, on the late afternoon flight to Rome.

  ***

  “This is romantic?” Skye asked as she surveyed the craggy, dusty terrain. Sal rested on a stone seat wall; his arms folded across his lap as if he brought her out on a date to the movies, rather than the decrepit ruins of the Colosseum. A few tourists buzzed around in a group, led on a tour by an Italian college kid. They passed by Skye and Sal. A middle-aged member of the group looked at Skye quizzically.

  “Skye Evans?” the woman asked. “From the news show?”

  “Yes,” Skye responded.

  She placed her meaty hand in Skye’s. “I loved your show. My name is Agnes Richards. Such a pleasure to meet you.”

  “And you.”

  “Would you be so kind as to sign this for me? Henry!” Agnes waved over at her husband, a hefty man in brown fleece shirt. “Take a picture of us. Do you mind if we take your picture, Skye?” Agnes’ voice sounded hoarse with a possible former cigarette habit.

  “Not at all.”

  The woman clapped her hands together like a delighted child. She smiled, her rouged upper lip curling over barracuda teeth, and put her arm around Skye. “When will we see you on television again?” Skye smiled at the camera, scrawling her signature on a tourist brochure for the Colosseum.

  “I’m sorry?” Skye said.

  “On television. We stopped watching a few weeks after 9/11. We tired of hearing only bad news. When we started up again, a blonde woman on the show made it just…terrible. Are you on anything new?