by Jianne Carlo
Loud creaking heralded the opening of the swing doors on the far side of the room. A crowd of men and women stomped into the room. Some carried cameras, all held either iPods, or BlackBerrys, or some other handheld device. A team of men dragged standing lights across the room and arranged them in place. Flashes, curses, and a murmured mixture of conversations reigned for the following ten minutes.
Dressed in a sable pinstriped formal suit with a snow-white tailored shirt and a burgundy tie, Suresh strode onto the stage. He wore the same satisfied smile which had decorated his face on the cover of TIME Magazine. One long forefinger tapped the microphone and the sound echoed.
“Ladies, gentlemen, before we begin this news conference, let’s set the ground rules. Mr. Paxton will read a statement on the…” Suresh paused, his fingers mimicked quotation marks, and he continued, “…the videotape. He will not respond to any queries regarding the tape, but will answer any other questions you may have. Right. I’ll turn the mike over to Mr. Paxton now.”
As Rolan strode onto the stage, she stepped forward, one arm draped over Tony’s shoulder. Her ankle bracelet tinkled. Sarita adjusted the swath of fuchsia silk swathing one shoulder. She heard an indrawn breath, looked up, and drowned in Rolan’s emerald eyes.
He stumbled, adjusted his stride, and straightened, his gaze manacled to hers.
Cameras flashed. The two powerful lights on either side of the stage spotlighted her and Tony, and she hugged him closer. An excited babble broke out from their audience. Rolan’s eyes flickered in that direction and then back to her.
When they met him in the middle of the platform, Tony shrugged out of her embrace. An anticipatory quiet held sway over the small crowd. Sarita realized every individual in the room had pinpointed them. The swish of her sari sounded like waves crashing on rocks in the eerie silence.
“Hey, Dad,” Tony said, back straight, head tilted. “I caught a marlin as tall as Mom two days ago. Can we go fishing in the Keys for Labor Day?”
Rolan masked his surprise, and though he tried to stifle it, his lips curved into a wide grin. “Sure son, but there’s one rule. If you hunt or fish, you eat what you kill.”
“Aw, who made up that rule? You know I hate fish.”
“Is this your son, Rolan?” This from a bearded man wearing jeans and a polo shirt.
“What’s your name?”
“How old are you?”
The shouted questions penetrated Sarita’s mind and she glided over the wooden floor, her bare toes finding every crack in the wood. When she stood not two inches away from Rolan, she rose on tiptoe, spread her palms on his chest for balance, and kissed him full on the mouth, lapping at the closed seam of his lips. For a long moment, he did nothing, then groaned, slid his arms around her waist and took control, eating her mouth hungrily.
“Aw. Mom, Dad, will ya stop that?” Tony’s plaintive complaint resonated through the gym.
As one, the assembled reporters broke out laughing.
Sarita broke away, cheeks flaming.
“Look it you guys, I have to go to a new school in a couple of weeks. Do you know the kind of ribbing I’ll get if they keep doing that?”
Stunned, Sarita could only watch as her son sidled up to the edge of the stage, a hand shading his eyes from the light.
“What’s your name?” Someone called out.
“Anthony Rolan Paxton,” Tony replied, shoulders squaring. He hooked a hand in the front pocket of his khakis. “That’s my Mom, Sarita Kathleen Paxton, but we both used to be Khans.”
“He’s a ham,” Rolan muttered and shook his head, but the glazed expression didn’t leave his eyes. He cupped her chin. “This is going to be splashed all across the news tomorrow, maybe even tonight.”
“I know, but families stick together, especially in a crisis.”
“Jesus. I know this isn’t the time or place, but I love you, Sarita. And I do have an explanation, although I now realize I made a stupid decision.”
And all at once, a joyful tranquility settled her jumpy stomach. She memorized the words, the rasp of his husky voice, so she could replay the moment later, over and over.
“Now you tell me,” she whispered and held a finger on his mouth, halting his words. “After, all right?”
He nodded.
An arm around her waist, they walked to the microphone where she disengaged his arms and tiptoed. The microphone still hung a good four inches above her mouth. “Before Rolan reads his statement, Tony and I have a statement of our own.”
“Mom, they can’t hear you. Here.” Tony fiddled with the old-fashioned standing mike, the mouthpiece slipped down, and the sound rumbled around the hall.
Rolan reached across her and adjusted the equipment to her height.
“Thanks darling,” she said and kissed his cheek before he straightened. She inhaled and faced her audience. “Rolan and I grew up together in Orangeville, a small Midwestern town. We dated briefly during his senior year and the Patriots drafted him during his last semester. I didn’t realize I was pregnant until after he had left for Boston. My mother died suddenly and I had no other relatives. I was sixteen and very proud, and I decided not to tell Rolan about my condition. I had the baby on my own.”
“Me. But I’m not a baby.” Tony pointed a finger at his chest. “I’m going to be eleven next month. Go on, Mom.”
“Rolan and I met again a couple of months ago ‑‑”
“Can I take over from here, Sarita honey?”
Jade orbs pleaded with her and she nodded.
“I took one look at Sarita and realized there was no other woman in the world for me. Shannon Cartwright, the woman who leaked this tape…” He held up a videotape and continued, “…and I had dated before I met Sarita. And I have to admit I dumped Shannon for Sarita.”
A loud murmur broke out and a woman shouted, “Didn’t the two of you date for over a year?”
“Yeah. She was the head cheerleader. What can I say? At any rate, the tape you are about to see was taken on Homecoming night way before Sarita and I hooked up. I’ll ask you to wait until my son’s out of the room and then I’ll play it. Son, go with Geoff.”
“All right,” Tony grumbled and followed Geoff out of the gym.
As soon as the swinging doors shut them out, Rolan popped the video into its slot and pressed play.
Sarita had never expected this, and her insides clenched so hard she nearly retched right there and then. The poor quality of the tape made it difficult to identify anyone clearly. It showed about twelve high school seniors and college-age couples passing a joint around, swilling from a magnum of champagne while engaged in a game of five-card stud poker. Rolan and Shannon occupied a shadowed corner, the two of them engaging in some serious lip locking.
One pretty brunette dropped her cards, stood, and took off her shirt exposing plump pearled breasts. She edged over to the winner who had scooped the round’s chips in front of his bare feet, sat on his lap, wound her arms around his head, and tongue kissed him.
A game of strip poker and cross coupling, Sarita realized. Her clenched fists relaxed, for she’d expected much worse. Before the tape ended, a virtual orgy had been had by one and all, including Rolan. By her count, he’d partnered every female in the room.
Rolan stepped up to the mike. “Which one of you went through high school without a major regret? Without doing something you’d rather your kids didn’t know about?” He shrugged. “Will any part of this tape sell more papers?”
Sarita edged between him and the mike. “We thought you’d prefer to report on our Hindu wedding ceremony instead. It takes place over a three-day period.”
Pandemonium reigned as the reporters shouted a barrage of questions at her.
“Are you a practicing Hindu?”
“When’s the ceremony?”
“Can I get a copy of the invite list?”
“Is your father from India?”
“What’s the meaning of your head band?”
�
�Did you meet Rolan while working as a cook on a yacht?”
“Wasn’t Cindy, his Playmate girlfriend, on the boat too?”
It went on and on and on. She answered every question with quiet politeness, whether it was crudely worded or not, and managed to avoid the more intimate dicey queries. Rolan never left her side, kept one arm around her waist, and signaled with tightening fingers if she went into too much detail.
At the beginning of the three-hour session, all of Rolan’s teammates had filed into the room, forming a wide-legged, arms-folded barrier at the back of the gym. Suresh stood to Sarita’s right, silent most of the time, but bringing down the house with an occasional snide comment.
When the last reporter left, Sarita’s knees gave out and she would have fallen had not Rolan supported her.
“Congratulations Sarita. That was the best piece of publicity I’ve ever seen. Not one journalist had that tape on his mind by the time you’d finished with them. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. You are one lucky SOB, Paxton.”
Tony thumped the gym’s swinging doors open, raced into the room, and skidded to a stop right in front of Sarita.
“We’re going to Dad’s house in a helicopter. An actual real-life helicopter. You have to wear a helmet. You can only speak to everyone else with a mike, and it’s open on all sides. There’s a helipad on the roof and we have one at the house, too.”
Eyes widening she glanced at Rolan. “A helicopter?”
“The helipad is one of the reasons I wanted this property,” said Suresh.
“Don’t ask me. I know nothing about this,” Rolan replied.
“I ordered it,” Geoff volunteered. “It’s rush hour. Today is Friday and I don’t feel like coping with that commute. Balls, Paxton, what’s the use of having money if you can’t splurge once in a while?”
“Come on, Mom.” Tony grabbed her hand and dragged her to the doorway. “Da-ah-ahd, you too. We’re going in the first one.”
“Two helicopters?” Sarita asked and knuckled one temple hoping the massage would resolve her confusion. “Why do we need two of them?”
“That one’s for you three, “ Geoff said, jerking his head to the right. “Suresh and I are heading down to the Hamptons for the weekend. We’re taking the other one.”
Tony didn’t stop talking the whole helicopter ride to Salem. They landed on Rolan’s helipad, which was located about fifty yards from the house.
She fell in love with the old-fashioned Colonial home. A wraparound porch with long majestic columns framed both levels of the two-storied building. Instead of manicured lawns, a collage of greenery, flowers, and shrubs lined one side of the driveway. A large oak brushed verdant leaves against the right side of the building.
Set on a plateau, the land behind the house dropped off in the far distance. Sarita smelled the tang of the ocean and a cool breeze washed over her shoulders.
Home. Rolan. Tony.
Life, living, a giddy happiness fluttered and teased at her brain, her veins, the throbbing pulse at her throat. This felt like home, like sanctuary, a tranquil pool of serenity.
She found Rolan staring at her as if he was trying to read her mind.
“It’s your house. You can change anything you want. Or we can buy something else. “He stuck his hands in the front pockets of his khakis, a gesture reminiscent of Tony’s nervous habit. Averting his eyes, he studied a brown patch of dirt. “Why’d you come back? Why were you at the press conference? Not that I didn’t want you there. Not that you were nothing short of a dream, but after what you saw…”
“Is this the time to start this?” She asked, not quite ready to bare her soul. “Where’s Tony?”
“Harry was waiting for him in back of the house. He’s on his way to a football camp run by one of Geoff’s pals. Harry’s a coach. He’ll be okay. It’s just the two of us for the next ten days, unless you want to move to a hotel…” His voice trailed off.
“I’ve been in love with you forever, Rolan,” she said and stood up straighter, but couldn’t quite meet his eyes.
“Jesus,” he replied and his deep baritone wavered on just that one word. “The tape at the conference was doctored. Turns out Rizzo’s a wiz with all things electronic. I gave him my signed letter of resignation dated for halfway through this season in exchange for his erasing certain events from the tape. You need to see the real thing before we go any further. But I meant what I said earlier. I love you Sarita. There is no other woman for me.”
They entered the house. He guided her to the media room, a mini version of a cinema with amphitheater seating and a huge centered screen replete with red drapes on either side. Sarita watched him pop the tape into an old-fashioned beta player.
Did she want to see this? Did she need to? It would be hard enough to erase the vision of him with Shannon. Could she stand to have whatever this was tattooed into her pupils?
“I don’t want to see it,” she said.
“I don’t want any secrets between us,” he countered.
“No, you don’t understand. I want to forget what I saw on the Glory. And I don’t want new images in my mind. Whatever you did, it was ten years ago and it’s not you now. I don’t want to live with those pictures in my head.”
“You’re letting me off the hook? I feel even guiltier now. Sarita, about Shannon, it was a stupid, stupid idea. I didn’t want you to see the tape.”
He tunneled both hands through his hair. She wanted to hurl herself into his arms, feel him inside of her, and taste his mouth. But she clenched her fists and stood still, too scared of the powerful emotions rioting inside to do anything else.
“I don’t know how to make this better. I had to force myself to touch her. I only want you. I couldn’t even get it up. That’s why I was dressed ‑‑”
“Stop,” she said and pressed her hand against his mouth. “Stop. One day maybe, I’ll be able to talk about this, but not now. All right?”
He nodded and said, his voice a husky croak, “I love you, Sarita honey. I don’t deserve you, but I sure as hell love you.”
Some little leprechaun, some remnant of her mother’s heritage captured her spirit and Sarita surrendered to the moment.
“I love you and you love me. I think that’s all we need for now, ’cept of course for fuel. Take me out to the swankiest Salem restaurant, Mr. ‘Ice’ Paxton.”
“Why do I feel like I’m being set up? Sarita, you’re not going to take any of this back, are you?”
“No, I’m not. But, Rolan Anthony Paxton, I think you need to court me.”
His mouth curved. “I can do that. Hell, I’ll enjoy doing that. So, Mrs. Sarita Paxton, can I tempt you into dining with me tonight?”
“You bet. Half an hour?” Heady excitement coursed through her veins. She’d planned this whole evening yesterday in the Keys.
Sarita, showered, changed, and was downstairs with her coat on before Rolan even started on the first step. They didn’t speak, not a word was exchanged all the way to the restaurant. A sleek structure, all white and stainless steel with hints of blue, she sighed, disappointed by his choice. The receptionist offered to check their coats and Sarita let Rolan assist her.
“Jesus,” he said and stood there crushing the trench coat in his large palms. “That blasted red dress.” His eyes raked her over and over. “Sarita?”
“I love the way you take over in the bedroom Rolan, but I’m not your slave outside of it.” She shot him an “I am woman” grin and twirled, doing a little sashay as she followed the receptionist. Their table for two centered a slate fireplace in which gas flames licked and danced. Sarita sat in the chair Rolan held out for her. She tugged the scarlet material riding up her thighs down a tad. Glancing up, she buttonholed Rolan’s gaze which focused on her fingers, the scarlet sheath, and her thighs.
“Is this a test?” he growled and slumped into the chair opposite.
“No, it’s a photo op, as the reporters called it. I promised two of them a shot of us havin
g a romantic dinner.”
“Damn it, Sarita, I will not have a picture of you in that dress all over the newspapers. I told you before that dress belongs only in our bedroom.”
“Smile, Rolan, they’re here and they’ll be photographing us for the next few minutes.”
“Smile? Smile? Jesus woman. I can see your nipples. Smiling is the last thing I want to do.”
“What do you want to do?”
“What? You damn well know what I want to do. It’s been almost twenty-five days.”
She slid a gift-wrapped package across the table.
Rolan’s eyebrows met his wheat-colored hairline and his lips curved. “I’ve one for you, too. I had it made before you got the chicken pox.” One hand slipped inside his coat pocket and came out with a pair of blue boxes with sparkling silver bows. He pushed them across the table. “You first.”
The only gifts she’d ever received in her entire lifetime were the pink diamond heart and handmade wooden treasures from Tony’s shop class. Moisture pooled in her eyes as she studied the boxes. One finger trailed a path around the perfect curve of the sterling multipetaled bow. Tiffany’s. She’d never even entered the store, too intimidated by the slick-suited salesmen to traverse the entranceway.
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
Their gazes met and she fell in love all over again.
“Sarita honey, are you okay?” His hand covered hers and he gave her a little squeeze. “You aren’t going to cry, are you?” Fine lines bracketed his eyes.
It took a few moments before she could get around the huge lump in her throat and her voice came out all wavery and raspy. “It’s my second gift. I’m savoring the moment.”
“Jesus.” He threw his napkin on the table. “Let’s go home, honey. I know you want to be courted and I will court you. I need to touch you, be inside you.”
She melted, her bones ceased to exist, her temperature leaping above the flames burning in the fireplace and she croaked, “Yes.”
The broad answering grin dominating his features was his only reply. “Let’s give them a real photo op, honey.”