"She then joins my father and it is now me who is to protect and cherish and honor. But, no, Silvestro and his bride Caugina, they decide to sell the oil to the Russians and the ships to the Iranians, the grocery stores to the Persians and the cell phones to a man in Mexico. The concrete to a family in Argentina.
"He is like a whore, my brother. They show him money and he does not care who it is. He dances. For the money, he dances.
"He does not ask me, he does not ask the family, he does not ask anyone but his Caugina, a woman whose only happiness in life is spending money. And then she is unhappy until she spends more.
"But no, I will not allow this. To destroy my father's dreams for more money? We have enough. Too much. And there are families to think of. Those who worked with my father for many years, and then my mother. People who they loved and are like family. People who have families of their own who need protection, security. People with grandbabies.
"Do you just throw them away for more money? No, you do not. I will not. Silvestro, Caugina, they will. They will not think about it twice. They sign the paper and many -- many who already suffer in my country, who already struggle --, many lose so much and are hurt."
"There must be contracts, business deals, red tape," I said, interrupting. "Something as complicated as this can't be thrown away easily."
"This is Greece," he reminded me. "You find a hungry lawyer with no sense of good, of right, who is like a dog with the bone, and it can be done. Unless I am there to stop it."
He leaned back in his chair, his cheeks flushed red.
"This talk, it angers me. I share too much, I think."
Looking at me, he continued.
"And you, why do you ask? To find the truth you say? What truth? It is sad, my family. And the money, I do not spend it. I do not live like a king."
"Mikalo, we've discussed this. What you have is yours. I have --"
"Yes, it is mine. My family's. Those I love. It is too complicated, this money. Always brings its nose into my life, my love. I wish ..."
He stopped.
"My Mikalo," I began.
His hand raised, stopping me in midsentence.
"My mind, there is much right now."
"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "I didn't mean to upset you."
He shook his head and looked at me.
"I do not think this will be for me," he then said.
And like that, whatever relationship we had was finished.
I felt the room grow warm, the table spinning before me, my skin feeling flushed, my breath growing ragged.
"This job ..." he was saying, "it will not be mine. I know this and --"
"Wait, what?" I asked.
"What?"
"You're talking about work, not us, right?"
"Of course, work," he answered, growing impatient. "You think I speak of you and of me?"
"I didn't know --"
"You think I would throw you away like that?" he asked, snapping his fingers. "Because of a brief argument? I grew hot. It was not you. It was them. This Silvestro and his whore Caugina."
"I'm sorry. I just --"
"You do not trust, Ronan."
Ah, I was no longer "my Grace".
"No, I do."
"You do not. I kiss a friend, and you believe the worst. I show my impatience, you worry it will end everything. I say it is over, you believe it is you and me and not some stupid job.
"Is that trust?" he continued.
I waited, silent.
"Is it?" he asked again.
"No, you're right. It's not."
"Why? What have I done for this?"
He watched me, waiting for an answer, his eyes unbelievably sad.
How to explain a childhood of betrayal and sadness? A father who constantly threatened to leave and a mother who poured her hopes and dreams into you, a girl who could never achieve what she dreamed.
Or a bitter marriage started too soon and built on delusion and lies? Buffeted by drink and buried in tears, freedom only coming with the screeching of tires on a wet road and the sickening crunch of metal at the bottom of a cliff hundreds of feet below.
And then the years of guilt as you fought to protect the reputation of a man who wore your wedding ring yet hated being with you.
Mikalo waited, the pain in his eyes growing.
How to tell him that it wasn't him, but the past? The same past you thought you had washed away in an ocean of post-coital tears.
How to tell him he was the best thing about your life?
"Tell me," he then whispered.
So I did.
The wine kept coming as I told him of my father and his lies, my mother and her hopes. My marriage and the constant hurt, the shame, the loneliness.
And then I told him of the death and the years spent building and rebuilding a man who never existed.
The restaurant emptied, chairs going up on tables, the two of us eventually wandering into the night, hand in hand.
He walked me to my door, insisting on returning to the hotel.
"Thank you," he said as he drew close and kissed me. "It took courage to share and I love you, yes, love you even more for it."
I smiled, returning his kiss and holding him, squeezing him tight.
He pulled away.
"But my Grace, there is a question of trust. It is important you trust. Without this, it will be difficult to keep you in my heart. It must be learned. Please."
And then with a smile and a slight nod, he turned to go, walking into the dark.
Chapter Seventeen
"You're serious, aren't you?"
I nodded.
Deni leaned back with a sigh.
We sat in the breakfast nook, the large, rambling kitchen with its blood-red Italian tile and shiny stainless steel and rich, buttery slabs of butcher's block to the left, the vast green of Central Park a couple of blocks away spied through the large windows to the right.
And somewhere nearby, the sounds of her maids, one carefully unwrapping yet another delivery of new clothes -- Chanel this time, I believe --, the second just as carefully hanging the stratospherically expensive garments on racks and cataloging them before wheeling them into one of Deni's many walk-in closets.
My omelet sat on the plate in front of me, ignored.
I did drink the mimosa, though.
My second.
"Jacob's traveling?" I asked, well aware her husband of fifteen years was rarely, if ever, in New York. I wasn't sure how this marriage worked. But somehow it did. Or at least seemed to.
Although we were close, Deni and I, it wasn't something we discussed.
"LA," she said, spooning homemade ketchup onto her plate. "We've decided to sell the house in Malibu. Having the ocean outside your door is nice, he says, but it's too damn far from everything. And when it rains, the highway ... oh, what's it called --"
"PCH," I offered, my time at UCLA making me more than familiar with Pacific Coast Highway.
"Yes, right," she said. "PCH turns into one, gigantic, pain in the ass mudslide. Living by the beach is overrated. Or so he says.
"Any-hoo, he's found a house in Bel-Air. On Bellagio. With a pool, a view of LA, a tennis court. You know, same ol', same ol'."
"Sounds nice. You haven't seen it?"
"Oh, I loathe LA. You know that. Just can't conceive living my life in a t-shirt and jeans. Besides, do I look like the yoga-going, smoothie drinking, pull my hair back into a bouncy ponytail-type? No. No, I do not.
"I never even saw the house in Malibu, so I doubt I'll see this one," she then said, stabbing some eggs and stuffing them into her mouth.
"I had no idea his business would take him to the Coast so much," I said.
"Nor did I," came the reply between bites.
"So," she said, changing the subject as she dunked another forkful of eggs into ketchup and then happily popped it in her mouth, her Brooklyn roots as evident as always, "What's the plan? Go in there, fall to your knees, and beg?"
&n
bsp; "No, of course not."
"Then what?"
"Calmly explain my position, calmly point out Mikalo's strengths and why they should reconsider, and calmly --"
"Leave as the all your colleagues, all these Partners, laugh at you and your career goes down the crapper," she interrupted.
"Ronan, stop and think," she continued. "Please."
"I am thinking --"
"Heart or head?" she asked, putting her fork down and lacing her fingers under her chin as she leaned forward and waited for my answer.
I paused.
"Heart or head?"
"Head," I finally said.
"You're such a damn liar," she said as she picked up her fork and dug into her eggs again. "It's heart and you know it. And you know as well as I do that when you think with your heart, especially when it comes to business, things get screwed up and complicated real quick."
She looked at me now.
"Ronan, my dear, dear Ronan, if you think with your head, for just one second, you know the best thing to do is let it be what it's going to be. Blazen and Jeffords and everyone else over there will decide what they decide. And if it means your Mikalo has to haul his ass back to Greece, well, so be it.
"You've just met him. Are you sure he's worth hurting your career over? And would he do the same for you?"
I put my head in my hands, the beginning of a major headache starting somewhere near the base of my neck.
"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know," I said, my voice muffled by my palms.
"Well, before you do anything monumentally stupid, you better know."
Standing to go, I finished the mimosa.
"Thank you, Deni," I said, putting the delicate flute back on the table.
"Leaving already?"
"Yeah, I need to walk. Clear my head."
"I'm sorry if I --"
"No, no, no, no. It's fine. You're right. I know that. I just need to convince my heart, that's all. And walking --"
"Got it. I completely understand," she interrupted.
"Personally, I always find a stroll down Madison helps," she then said with a wink before popping another forkful of light, fluffy, ketchup drenched eggs in her mouth.
Chapter Eighteen
The orderly chaos of that wide stretch of 72nd Street had been oddly comforting. The noise, the traffic, the rush of anonymous passersby as they weaved and bobbed, angled and pushed.
But this, this is what I'd waited for. What my soul was needing. Where I knew I would end up all along, my saunter turning to a brisk walk as I turned left at Madison and strode past one expensive store after another, my goal in sight.
Barney's.
Once through those revolving glass doors at 60th Street, the brightly lit cosmetics counters in full view, handbags straight ahead, designer clothes waiting up the escalators discreetly tucked in around to the left, the associates at once recognizing me as a guaranteed commission and as solicitous as ever, my headache disappeared and all seemed right with the world.
Of course shopping wouldn't solve anything. The growing complication of Mikalo would still be there. As would my even quicker growing adoration of him.
And Deni was right. Blazen and Jeffords would make their decision regardless of what I or anyone else said or did.
But the thought of him leaving filled me with dread.
I needed to shop. Work could wait. For once. Janey could juggle calls, the Byzan file could languish for the morning, and if there were any emergencies, I had my cell.
This was for me.
Stepping away from the doors, I turned left, the small room before me dedicated exclusively to my long-standing passion.
Goyard.
Not having the patience to wait who knew how many years for a Birkin from Hermès, I had fallen in love with these little known, chevroned beauties when, one misty afternoon, the concrete shining and wet, the clouds low and me with the collar of my coat up against the chill of the Paris air, I had wandered away from the Place Vendôme, sauntered down the short rue de Castigilione, and, turning left onto rue Saint-Honorè, stumbled across their little store just a block away.
Hours -- and thousands of euros -- later, I was the ecstatic owner of several handbags that were distinctive, deliciously luxe, available in almost all the colors of the rainbow, and not as prevalent as Gucci or, God forbid, Louis Vuitton.
And as the years passed, my closets soon overflowed with bags and purses, shoulder bags and briefcases. Small wallets and larger passport holders. Even larger suitcases shoved on the top shelves. My initials emblazoned on everything in bright, durable paint.
"Good morning, Miss Grace," the familiar voice of Shanelle, the manager, was saying.
"Good morning," I replied with a small smile. "I'm just looking."
"Of course," she said, both of us familiar with the lie. "If you need anything ..."
I nodded, stepping away as I eyed the shelves.
Had it, had it, had it, didn't need it, had it, didn't want it, had it.
This was getting ridiculous, everything familiar, almost all of it already mine.
"There may be more coming in from Paris next week," Shanelle offered politely.
Next week was not now. And I needed now.
I turned, glanced at the counters, peered in at the smaller, no less expensive items waiting beneath sheets of glass, locked tight.
Wait a minute.
I paused, my newly beloved waiting below, the craziest thought running through my mind. An impossibility now capturing my imagination, the reality that buying this would be a step too far quickly being smothered into submission by the sudden knowing that, although way too much way too soon, it was absolutely the right thing to do.
And, reason and logic be damned, I was doing it.
He's going to love it.
"If I could ...?" I asked.
Shanelle approached, key in hand.
"Oh yes," she said as she unlocked the case and brought the slender item out. "I love this. It's so gorgeous, isn't it? And so useful.
"Now, we do have it in this dark blue, of course, which is very nice. But it also comes in red, in dark green, our usual --"
"No, no, dark blue is fine," I said as I dug for my wallet.
"I'll take it."
Chapter Nineteen
"Oh my god," she mouthed to me as I approached.
"What?"
I hadn't been that long.
Okay, maybe I had. The second floor of Barney's really was my own little Bermuda Triangle, the hours just disappearing.
And then a girl had to eat, right? Ergo, lunch at Daniel. A leisurely lunch.
I deserved it, didn't I?
Yes.
I refused to apologize.
But, yeah, I was pretty late. I'd make up for it by burning some midnight oil.
Someday.
Janey pointed into my office.
"In there," she mouthed again.
I entered.
Mikalo sat in a guest chair, a small bag from Henri Bendel at his feet.
Janey was at my heels.
"Again, can I, uh, get you anything?" she asked. "Coffee, water, tea. A neck rub."
"Janey."
"No?"
Mikalo looked at her.
She melted.
"I would like a coffee now, if you please. But from the coffee shop, if that is good."
He looked at me.
"You know the one, my Grace?"
"My Grace?" she mouthed to me, positively swooning.
"Our usual place," I said to her, trying to keep calm. "Make that two."
She lingered.
"Thank you. You can go."
She didn't.
"Now."
Reluctantly, she left.
Mikalo rose and closed the door.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, trying not to sound angry. Or worried. Or frightened. Or guilty for being late. Still.
"My meeting is at three, no? I am here early. I am saying hello."
Shit! It was almost three?
Whoops.
He approached.
I slipped behind the desk, the large plate of heavy glass sitting on thick, black, rough wood, the legs crossed in an x between us, the wall of glass behind me spilling to Manhattan below.
"You can't be here."
"But I am," he said.
Damn his logic.
"No, you can be here, of course. I mean, ... what I mean to say is it might hurt my work for you to be here. Right now, I mean. And, trust me, Mikalo, I have a lot of work to do. A lot."
He turned from me to wander around the office.
Paused to gaze at the Rothko anchoring one wall and then moved to admire the smaller modernist x-table sitting between the art deco leather chairs, a mirrored mercury credenza to the side, a second paining, a cubist period Picasso hanging above.
Coming across a closed door,
"Oh, a secret," he said. "May I?"
He opened the door.
"It's a restroom, Mikalo. It's no big deal. Now, please, can you just please go."
He turned again, coming toward me.
I backed away.
Skirting the desk, he caught me, bringing me close.
"A kiss."
Relenting, I kissed him.
Suddenly, he spun me, catching me off-guard, his arms lifting me as he carried me into the restroom.
We stopped as he closed the door, his back against it, blocking it.
"My Grace," he said, his lips on mine as his hands lifted my skirt.
"No, no, no," I said, resisting him, my hand now dueling his as I struggled to get the fabric out of his fist.
"I need you. And there is not much time." he said. "Please."
I kissed him again. I couldn't help it.
His hand was on my skirt again.
And then under my skirt, the warmth of his palm, his fingers, tracing the fabric beneath.
"I rip this, yes?"
"No, don't."
"But if I hurt something of yours, I get a new one, no?"
"Mikalo, please don't --"
Suddenly, he ripped my panties from me, the torn fabric clenched in his fist.
Mikalo's Grace Page 6