by Shelly Ellis
“Brian, I want you to schedule another appointment on my calendar with Diego next week,” Victor said. “He’ll tell you what time works best for him.”
“Yes, Mr. Aston,” Brian answered tightly.
“Courtney,” Victor said, finally acknowledging his sister. His saccharine smile disappeared.
“Victor,” she replied just as flatly before strolling across the reception area and into his office. She then took one of the armchairs facing his desk, adjusting her knee-length skirt as she sat.
“We missed you in church this morning,” he said.
“I had something to do back in Chesterton. I couldn’t make it back here in time for the service.”
“Is that right?” he murmured as he shut his office door. “I noticed that you and Brian were talking just now.”
“Spying, are we?”
“Not spying. Just observing what goes on in my office. What were you two talking about?”
“Oh, nothing! He mentioned that he had thought about going to art school and getting a job as an artist—and that you told him it was a bad idea. I said I disagreed and that he should follow his heart.”
“And why should he listen to you?” Victor gave a cold chuckle. “You followed your heart. How well did that turn out?”
She tensed in her chair. “I happen to like my life, Victor.”
“I bet you do.” He sneered as he walked behind his desk. “Look, I’m going to ask you to refrain from giving employment advice to my staff. He’s my office assistant and I’d like it to stay that way.”
“Why? Judging from who just walked out of your office, it looks like you’ve already lined up a new assistant,” she taunted. “A fresh, young, pretty face to type your memos and give you coffee and . . . well . . . do whatever else Mr. Aston needs done around the office.”
Victor paused halfway from pulling out his desk swivel chair and glared at her. “Watch it, Courtney.”
“What?” she asked, feigning innocence. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Cut the shit!” he snarled. “I know what you’re insinuating. I’m not up to dealing with your bullshit today. That,” he said, pointing to his office door, “was a business meeting. That’s all it was!”
“Oh, really?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Then why is your fly still open?”
He glanced down at his crotch and saw that the zipper of his slacks was, indeed, open and a bit of his shirttail was hanging out. His gritted his teeth and raised his zipper. He sat down behind his desk as she bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to laugh.
She suspected if she peeked behind her brother’s desk, she’d probably see two indentations in the carpet where Diego had been kneeling minutes earlier—and not in prayer.
Victor shook his head. “You just can’t help yourself, can you, Court?” he asked, reclining in his chair. “You’ve always gotta poke and prod . . . you’ve gotta be that squeaky wheel making all the noise. I have no damn clue why Dad wanted you back here so badly. He thinks having you here will help him, but I knew you’d never toe the line.”
“Oh, but I can! I can pretend just as well as you, Victor. Except I’m willing to admit that it’s an illusion, and you insist on pretending that it isn’t, like I don’t know who and what you really are.”
“And what am I?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.
She pursed her lips. “Something that I’m too polite to say in a church.”
At that, he did let out a genuine chuckle. He grabbed a file folder on his desk and tossed it toward her. “Here’s the dossier on the women’s group you’ll be meeting tomorrow on Dad’s behalf. It gives a background on the chairwoman and its members, and what you should focus on during the meeting so that they’ll endorse Dad for his congressional run.”
“You called me in here for this?” She reached for the yellow folder and flipped it open, shuffling through pages before staring at him. “You could’ve just emailed this to me.”
“Not really.” He adjusted one of his gold cufflinks. “Now that Dad’s running for office, we’re getting a little more selective about what we discuss by email. Wouldn’t want any sensitive exchanges to accidentally or intentionally get in the hands of your little reporter friends if they decided to start sniffing around here.” He pointed at the folder. “That’ll have to be shredded and bagged tomorrow, by the way. No paper trails.”
C. J. let out a deep breath in frustration. Did her brother have a devious reason for doing everything?
“Got it. It will be shredded. Is that it?”
He nodded and she rose from her chair.
“Oh, and Court,” he called out as she walked across the room to his door, making her pause again.
“What?”
“Don’t fuck up and disappoint Dad tomorrow. He has enough on his plate with the congressional run and that bitch filing her bullshit fake paternity suit against him. Do what you’re here for. Stay on message.”
She didn’t respond. Instead she walked out of Victor’s office, slamming the door behind her.
* * *
Five minutes later, C. J. slumped back into the chair at her desk, kicked off her high heels, and flexed her painted toes. She had been given an office toward the end of the long corridor, one of the forgotten rooms that was usually used by interns and teleworkers, but it had become a refuge for her. It was a little oasis in the battleground that was now Aston Ministries with her brother at the helm, doing all his dastardly plans.
She’d had the facilities staff move out the battered boxes and empty file cabinets, the old fax machine and the discarded phones, and set up the room the way she wanted it. It was decorated in simple tones of cream, beige, and pale blue, with one desk, a bookshelf, and a love seat. Silver vases filled with fresh roses, hydrangeas, and dahlias were on the coffee table and windowsill, filling the room with their fragrance. There weren’t many photos on her desk or shelves with the exception of one she had taken of Terrence not too long ago when he wasn’t aware she was snapping the photo.
She now picked up the picture frame and ran her hand over the cool glass, tracing her fingers along his jaw line and brow, thinking again about him and wondering if she should call him to find out what was really going on between them.
She hesitated before she reached for her cell phone perched on her desk, but then she heard a knock at her office door. C. J. reluctantly set down the picture frame. She sat upright in her chair, forcing herself to put thoughts of Terrence aside for the time being.
“Come in!” she said.
Her door eased open with a loud creak and she stared in surprise when she saw Pastor Shaun Clancy standing in her doorway with his knuckle raised. He was wearing one of his impeccably tailored suits with the Aston Ministries pin prominently displayed on the lapel.
“Hey, Court,” he said.
“H-hi, Shaun! How . . . how are you?” she asked nervously.
C. J. still didn’t quite know how to behave around Shaun. How exactly was a woman supposed to talk to a man whom she’d left standing at the altar in front of three hundred–plus people?
At least things weren’t as on edge between them anymore. A month ago, Shaun would have looked at her like he was trying to murder her with his eyes. Now he seemed a lot less hostile, though all conversations between them were still stilted. It was hard to believe they had once sat in movie theaters holding hands and sharing popcorn between them, that they had once planned to spend their lives together.
“Are you busy?” he asked, taking a step into her office. He scratched the back of his clean-shaven head, a gesture she knew from the past meant that he was also nervous. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No. No, I’m not busy! It’s . . . uh . . . a-a great time! H-how can I help you?”
He shoved his hand into his pockets. “I was just wondering if you’ve eaten yet. Would you like to grab some lunch?”
Her mouth fell open in shock. When she realized it had, she clamped it shut. “Lu
nch? You want to eat lunch with . . . with me?”
He nodded and gave a small smile. “Sure. Why not? There’s this new place that opened up downtown that I’ve wanted to try. I heard they sell a mean chicken and waffles. I know that used to be your favorite.”
“It still is,” she answered softly, still stunned that he wanted to sit at a table and have a meal—with her.
“All right. I’ll meet you in the lobby in . . . say, ten minutes then?”
Part of her wanted to say no. If having a conversation with him standing in her office doorway was awkward, she could only imagine how awkward it would be if she had to sit at a table for an hour or two. But then she reminded herself that she had walked out on him, that she had broken his heart. The very least he deserved was for her to agree to have lunch with him.
After some time, C. J. numbly nodded. “O-okay. Sure.”
C. J. still felt a little numb thirty minutes later as they walked into a small restaurant in trendy Glenwood South. The restaurant, which was already crowded with lunchtime patrons, was designed to look like a packrat’s dining room. It was filled with mismatched chairs, distressed wooden tables, hanging potted plants, and the walls were covered with kitschy collectable plates like you might find in a cat-owning grandma’s curio cabinet. The hostess smiled as she showed C. J. and Shaun to their table, a small two-seater toward the back. Shaun pulled a chair out for C. J. and she thanked him before sitting down. He took the chair facing her.
“Your server will be with you shortly,” the hostess said after handing them their menus.
The young woman turned to leave and head back to the front of the restaurant; C. J. had the irrational urge to ask the hostess—a total stranger—to stay. With the hostess around, C. J. and Shaun would have more to do than just glance clumsily at each other over the tops of their menus, which was exactly what they were doing right now.
C. J. studied Shaun as he read. He was an attractive man, though not like Brian, whose face was so flawlessly crafted it was almost beautiful, and he didn’t have the rugged good looks, like Terrence, that made women do double takes.
No, Shaun had a noble face, one that projected authority and respect. It was the face that looked like it belonged on the back of a coin with some Latin phrase beneath it.
“Everything looks good,” she said, scanning the list of entrees.
“It does,” he murmured politely. “A lot of people at Aston Ministries have eaten here. It came highly recommended.”
“Oh?”
He nodded.
The table then fell silent again.
“So how does it feel to be back home?” Shaun asked, mercifully ending the awkward silence between them. “How are you settling in?”
“Fine, but I’m not really back home. I mean . . . I stay at my parents’ house during the week now, but I still live in Virginia. My apartment is there.”
He frowned as he squeezed his lemon wedge into his water glass and took a sip. “That seems like an awfully long commute to have to make every week. Why not just move back here to Raleigh?”
“Well, this is only temporary. I still have a life back there. I have my job and . . . and friends,” she said cryptically, staring at her menu again.
“Friends of the male variety, I’m guessin’,” he said, making her eyes jump up to look at him again. She gazed at him quizzically.
“I noticed the picture on your desk when I stopped by earlier,” he explained as he opened the linen napkin at his place setting and tossed it onto his lap. “The guy with the eye patch . . . Is he the friend you’re talking about?”
C. J. could be mistaken, but she could have sworn she’d detected a note of jealousy in Shaun’s question, maybe even a little hostility. But she had heard he had a girlfriend now. Word was that he had been dating her for almost three years—a nice Christian girl with a pretty smile and a warm demeanor who was a suitable fit for him, a much better fit than C. J. ever would have been.
Why would Shaun care about her being with Terrence?
“Yes, he’s one of my friends. He’s my . . . my boyfriend, actually.”
“Oh, really? What church does he go to?”
She cleared her throat and lowered her menu. “He and his family are members of a Baptist church in Chesterton, but . . . he doesn’t really go regularly. It’s not his . . . his thing.”
“It’s not ‘his thing’?” he repeated back, his voice oozing with sarcasm. “Is he a Christian?”
“Yes, he believes in God.”
I think, she wanted to say but didn’t add that part.
“You know what they say, Court. Be careful of the company you keep. If you want to stay on the righteous path, you have to associate with like-minded people.”
At that, she wanted to laugh. Considering that she had spent so many years in close proximity to her brother and her father, who were top-level sinners, if what Shaun was saying were true, then she was already damned to hell.
“Terry is a good man, Shaun. I have no worries about him. When I’m around him, I’m in good hands.”
He leaned back in his chair and fixed her with his dark eyes. “You sound like you’re in love with him.”
“I guess because . . . because I am,” she admitted.
The look on Shaun’s face at those words told her the truth better than if he had said the words aloud: He hadn’t moved on and gotten over her like she’d thought. The emotions that flashed across his features were a mix of anger and a sad, wounded look that made her want to turn away. He allowed it to pass briefly before getting his features back under control.
“Well, I’m happy for you.” He sipped from his glass again. “Hope this one works out for you better than your last boyfriend did.”
She winced. That was a low blow.
“I’m just kidding, Court,” he said with a laugh.
She wasn’t sure she believed that.
“Good afternoon, folks,” a chipper voice suddenly called out. C. J. looked up to find their waitress striding to the table. “What can I get for you today?”
They gave their orders and the waitress disappeared soon after. Another uncomfortable silence swept over their table while a family of four talked loudly beside them and a table of women giggled and squawked about some movie. C. J. began to fiddle with her glass, her fork, and her table mat. Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore.
Look, Shaun,” she began, leaning forward in her chair, “I’ve gotta be honest with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I know you’re still angry at me for running out of our wedding.”
He opened his mouth to respond, and she held up her hand to stop him.
“Which I can perfectly understand,” she continued. “I would’ve been angry, too. No . . . I would have been furious if someone had the audacity to do that to me, especially someone I thought loved me. I hadn’t planned to do that to you, Shaun. Of all the people I disappointed that day, you were the one I felt the worst about. I still do!”
“So why did you do it?” he asked. He didn’t sound angry now but genuinely curious. “Why did you walk out on me?”
“Because I was a coward. Because I couldn’t stand up to my father, and, rather than refuse to get married and say it to his face, I ran away.”
He lowered his eyes to the tabletop and swallowed. “Being married to me would have been so horrible that you had to run away?”
“No! No, of course not!” she said, reaching across the table and grabbing his hand.
He stared down at her hand, and she instantly drew it back, like she had touched a live wire. She placed her hands in her lap to keep from accidentally touching him again.
“Being married to you is what most women would dream about! But the woman you would’ve been marrying didn’t exist. I wasn’t really that girl you thought I was, and . . . and it would’ve been unfair to you and me to walk down that aisle knowing that I was pretending. That’s not a foundation to build a marriage on.”
>
“So who’s the real you? What is there about you I don’t know?”
“Well . . .” She took a deep breath, wondering where she should begin. “I go by C. J. now, not Courtney. I’ve always hated the name Courtney. Oh, and I cuss—a lot. I like a glass of red wine every now and then, and I got really, really drunk on Long Island iced teas two years ago.” She chuckled. “I’ll never do that again! I don’t go to church that much. Maybe four times a year.”
He raised his brows. “Does your daddy know that?”
She shook her head.
“All right,” Shaun said, beckoning her with a wave of his dark hand, “keep going. What else?”
She took another deep breath, bracing herself for the hardest revelation. “I’m . . . I’m not a virgin anymore.”
His eyes widened. His shoulders fell.
“So you see, I’m not Snow White. I’m not perfect. I’m just”—she shrugged helplessly—“. . . me. I’m just me, Shaun.”
“Well,” he said in one slow exhalation, “thank you for telling me all that.”
“No, thank you for letting me finally get it off my chest.”
“Now can I tell you something?”
“Of course!”
“I never thought you were perfect, Court, I mean, C. J. I had no illusions that you were some Snow White. I realized you had flaws—just like we all do, but I loved you anyway.”
She stilled.
“I wanted to marry you, flaws and all. I just wish you would have trusted me enough, that you would have known me better to understand that. I loved you, C. J.” He pursed his full lips. “And I think in some way . . . I still do, even after all this time . . . even after you running out on me. I can’t get you out of my head—or my heart.”
Oh, God, C. J. thought with alarm. Had he just professed his love for her?
“Okay! That’s chicken and waffles for the lady,” their waitress said with a smile as she sat a steaming hot plate in front of C. J. “And fried catfish, slaw, and a side of cornbread for the gentleman!”