by Lee Savino
To her surprise, he almost laughed, “Marcus Ubeli? No. Quite the opposite, in fact.” He still seemed to think what she said was funny.
Cora’s face was a mask.
“No, ma’am, I’m not with your boyfriend. But I’m acquainted with him, you might say. My people have been watching him for some time.”
Now she felt a little kick of fear. The man was not laughing now, as he held out his ID and badge. “We’re very interested in asking you some questions.”
“What sort of questions?” she whispered.
“We can get to that later,” he said now with in a lighter tone. “For now, enjoy the photo op. There will be information waiting for you afterwards. Once you get it, we’ll expect you to rendez-vous with us soon.” He showed her a small white square. “My card.”
“I don’t have any pockets,” she said.
“Don’t worry, Ms. Cora,” a flash of his white smile and the card had disappeared. “We’ll be discreet. The last thing we want to do is put you in any danger.”
Cora felt like she had turned to wood. Now a statue, she couldn’t breathe.
“Oh, and Cora,” the man said, just before ducking out between the large bolts of fabric, “Your aunt says hi. We have her, too. She’s safe.”
For a moment after he left, Cora stood still, facing a sheath of gauzy maroon. Then, followed by a train of whispering silk, she floated from the closet room and back out into the chaos.
“Babe, there you are—” a photographer waved at her, “You’re next.”
Cora nodded without really hearing. Another model, being unpinned from her clothes, turned her head. “Wow,” she remarked on Cora’s get up, “you look really cool. Who are you supposed to be?”
“Uh…I don’t know.” Cora stood a side as two men pushing a huge mirror came through. The things stood six feet tall, and was still higher on its wheeled mount and gilt frame. They stopped in front of her, cutting off the other model’s conversation. Into the reflected surface, Cora stared at the striking woman in robes. Coal-darkened eyes stared back. Her hair was pulled up and back simply, so that nothing distracted from the sheen of her skin—luminous violet.
“Well, well, if it isn’t a goddess.”
She turned around and saw a familiar grin. The room around them, chaos only a second ago, seemed to clear of everyone. Stepping back to see beyond the mirror, she could see the model’s bare back, the assistant helping her with the bottom half of her costume as they both hurried away. Cora looked back into the mirror at the man who approached with the smile of a hunter. “Marcus,” she said.
He was looking her up and down. With his handsome face and sculpted cheekbones, he looked like a model himself. She took a deep breath when she realized he fit in better here than she did.
Marcus smiled deeper at her when he realized she was checking him out.
She realized then how see-through her garment was. Caught between Marcus and his gaze in the mirror, she crossed her arms in front of her. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”
“Do I make you nervous?” his lazy smile told her he wouldn’t mind if that were true. A few steps and he had crossed the distance between them. She gazed at him in the mirror. The woman there looked almost frightened, swallowed by his dark eyes.
Cora was thinking about the agent who had approached her—what if Marcus had seen him?
“I’m here to get you into the part, give you confidence,” From the mirror, she watched as Marcus took hold of the woman. Cora twisted her head back to him as he leaned in to her lips.
She startled out of her spell just in time, “No, you’ll smudge my makeup.”
Accepting this, he detoured downward, pressing feather kisses along the line of her collar, blowing lightly up her shoulder and neck. Cora watched him in the mirror, then closed her eyes.
“You are a goddess,” he said breathed.
“You shouldn’t call me that…” she sighed.
Marcus turned her to him, “Look at me.”
She couldn’t bear to obey, so she stared at his shirt. It was grey, a color he often wore. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, and the shirt’s smoothness could not hide his musculature.
When he raised her chin to look at him, she was able to follow the sculpted line of his neck up to the jaw, and then to the strong features of his face. He said, “Perfect body, pale skin…How could you not be a goddess?”
“You’re just saying that—” she started.
“No, beautiful one. In a second, you’re going to walk out there, and everyone will know how lovely you are.”
Her eyes darted away.
“Look at me,” he took her in his arms, not letting her get away. After a long pause, “Beautiful,” he pronounced.
She laughed nervously. Marcus smiled, tightened his hold around her, “My friend Armand called in a favor for this, but I’m telling him that owes me big. Not just one—three or four favors. I’m the luckiest guy around, because when it’s all over, you’re coming back to me.”
Cora looked at the couple in the mirror, unsure what to think. The woman there had her lips parted slightly too, while the man let his eyes browse along her bare shoulders and neck. When he raised his head, his look was cool, but his eyes smoldered. They consumed her.
They were a beautiful couple, she realized. The mirror’s portrait showed Marcus drawing her closer, arms framing her. The cool glow of her skin was set off perfectly by his grey shirt—the color he always wore.
“Goddess,” the man whispered to the woman. “My own.”
“Queen of the Dead, we’re ready for you—” a woman with a clip board came out, saw the two of them and took a step back. “Oh, Mr. Ubeli, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“No, no,” Marcus called back, “She’s ready.”
Cora flowed away from him, accompanied only by a silent train. “Queen of the Dead?” she paused to ask the woman with the clipboard. “Do you mean me?”
The woman nodded.
“Come find me at the after party,” Marcus called. “After the show. I’ll be waiting.”
Without looking back, Cora crossed through the door, into the lights.
Afterwards, her eyes remained dazzled by cameras. She went from one end of the after party to the other, on the arm of the designer, Armand, who looked a little like Marcus, only younger and less refined. The kid designer spoke excitedly to everyone, and introduced her as “Marcus’ girl.” More than one man heard this and immediately stopped looking at her directly.
Cora wanted to fuss, but she was so tired and Armand so animated she just let him work the room. When at last he abandoned her, Marcus was ready to pull her to a private corner.
“I told you,” he said, wrapping her in his gaze. She relaxed a little in his arms, only to hear him murmur, “Now everyone will know the most beautiful woman in the world is my girl.”
“Marcus,” she drew back, her mouth working. But she only said, “I’m tired.”
“Go change,” he said. “I’ll wait for you out back.”
When she approached him next, in jeans and a plain white t, he did a double take, “I almost didn’t recognize you. That was a lot of makeup.”
She nodded, feeling drained.
Marcus noticed her drooping and frowned. “You’re exhausted. He owes me big for this.” He turned his glare up the street, “the car should be here.”
While Marcus called someone on his phone, Cora leaned on him. But once the car slipped up the curb, seconds after Marcus had phoned in his a few curt orders, Cora paused.
“Ready?” Marcus waited with the door open.
Cora stood there, waiting for her heart to start beating again. She had just slipped her hand into her pocket, felt the little square card there.
“I’m ready,” she said. “Please take me home.”
*
The next day, Cora went early to the animal shelter to volunteer. Since leaving her job, she spent more and more time at the charity, filling her days with a
nimals. They helped her forget. When Cora asked herself what she needed to forget, her brain’s answer was vague as a grey sky, until even the question floated away and was forgotten.
This morning, Cora arrived to the animal rescue before the front doors were unlocked. She shivered as she waited, wearing only a t-shirt and jeans she had been wearing the night before. When she slipped her hands into her pockets to warm them, Cora felt the card the agent had given her the day before. Its corners were sharp, unforgettable. Last night, Marcus had lulled her to sleep on red wine and a few light kisses. Cora had forgotten all about the card, and the man who had given it to her.
“Cora!” came the sound, muffled through glass. Cora looked up guiltily, about to draw the card out. But it was only Maeve, the volunteer coordinator, surprised to see her so early.
As Maeve worked on unlocking the door, Cora caught, in the glass reflection of the door, a white van parked just outside an alley way close by. Then the door flashed open and Cora went in.
“I didn’t know we’d see you today,” Maeve trilled. The woman had a newspaper behind her back, and she brought it out with a flourish, “I didn’t think such a fashion queen would be so eager to descend from her throne.”
The older woman was smiling, but Cora’s face was sober as she took the paper and stared down at the media coverage of the fashion line’s debut. Sure enough, there on the style page was her picture, with the caption Queen of the Dead under the frozen image floating in ephemeral dress.
Heat touched Cora’s cheeks. “Oh,” she said, embarrassed, “I didn’t know it get publicized this quickly.”
Maeve pooh-poohed Cora’s humility, “Of course it would. You look beautiful, dear.”
Standing with the newspaper in hand, looking askance at her other self, Cora still did look beautiful, if a frightened.
“What’s wrong?” The older woman asked Cora, when the newly minted model sighed.
Cora shook her head. “It’s nothing.”
But, not thirty minutes later, Maeve came to the kennel were Cora was. “A visitor for you,” Maeve said with a frowning face.
“ I’ll be back,” Cora told the old black lab that was due a bath. The dog looked relieved when Cora stripped off the rubber gloves, though it whined as the young woman left. “Who is it, Maeve?”
From the tight-lipped look on Maeve’s face, Cora could guess. “Muscle Man,” said Maeve, using her code for Sharo. “He’s in my office. I’ll let you show him out.” The older woman bustled off, leaving Cora with the warm feeling that Maeve was a friend.
Maeve had never altogether approved of Marcus Ubeli, but, being too reserved to say anything of this to Cora, took out her prejudice on Sharo instead. The older woman had a touch of motherly concern for all the shelter’s volunteers.
Tall, bald, impeccable in his dark suit, Sharo was rooted just outside Maeve’s office door. Muscle man he was. Cora wondered, not for the first time, why Marcus would need such a strong, imposing man as a personal assistant. She took a deep breath and approached.
“Is everything okay, Sharo?”
“Mr. Ubeli asked me to check on you.”
“What?” Flame touched Cora’s cheeks again; the jerk of anger was unfamiliar, but unmistakable. “Why?”
“Have you seen this?” the man held a newspaper out, folded to the Style section.
“The publicity should be good for designer, right?” Cora looked up from the picture of her other self and met Sharo’s impassive look.
“Mr. Ubeli is concerned. He doesn’t like having pictures of you all over town,” Sharo said.
“But…why not?”
Shrugging, Sharo didn’t say any more.
“Why did Marcus want me to do the photo shoot if he didn’t want my picture publicized? I’m mean, that’s sort of the point of the debut. Not that my face is anything special,” Cora felt a little heat in her cheeks, talking about herself and modeling in the same sentence, “But there was always the chance it might happen.” Even as she studied Sharo’s face, waiting for the poker face to crack, Cora heard the echo of Marcus’ voice, For this, my friend’s gonna owe me favors.
Even after a minute of Cora staring at him over the picture of Queen of the Dead, Sharo didn’t answer any more questions. Cora wondered if he had held up under sterner questioning than she could give. If the game required players keep secrets, Sharo, as Marcus’ right hand man, was in league with the best.
“Is this the only place you’re going to be today?” Sharo asked.
“Yes,” Cora said. “Why do you want to know?”
Sharo ignored the question. “How late are you volunteering here?”
Cora shrugged. “Until the work is done, or until I’m tired and ready to go home.”
“Mr. Ubeli asked me to drive you around today. Anywhere you go, I’m to be there.”
Cora gave a slight gasp, “But why?”
“Protection.”
“Protection? Why? Just because my face is suddenly splashed around town doesn’t mean I need…” Cora could see Sharo’s face darkening a little, so she went on wondering for herself, “I’m not anyone special. Even after this photo shoot. I can’t understand who would want to hurt me.”
Sharo did clear his throat. “Not just you. Him. Mr. Ubeli.”
Cora stared. If anything happened to you, she could almost hear Marcus saying, ending the sentence with a dark shake of his head. “Hurting me would hurt Mr. Ubeli,” Cora said.
Sharo didn’t respond to this. Cora stared at him, but her mind was whirring with other thoughts. In her jean pocket, the card the agent had given her was smoothly outlined. Cora found her hand was stroking it, and stopped. Her guilty look must have signaled acquiescence to Sharo, for he said, “I’ll pick you up at seven tonight.”
“The rescue closes at nine.”
“Mr. Ubeli doesn’t want you out late too long after dark.” Sharo moved closer, looming over her. His chiseled features would make him a good candidate for a photo shoot, too. The dark circles under his eyes reminded Cora of Marcus. “He wants to make sure you’re safe.”
Feeling like a child, Cora wilted into obedience, “Seven thirty, then. I’ll come out to you.”
When he was gone, Maeve found her young volunteer still outside the office, staring at nothing.
“Cora? Is something wrong?”
“Maeve,” Cora croaked. “I—” Her sentence ended with her courage.
The older woman was quick, “Sweetheart, you look like you need a break. Come on in.”
Cora let the older woman draw her into the office. The room was cluttered, papers and files sharing space with cheerful frames filled with pictures of dogs—past “guests”, as Maeve liked to call them. A tea pot on a heating pad sat on one stack. Maeve pushed the on button and bustled to get two mugs. Then she sat down across from Cora.
“Nothing tea and a talk won’t solve. Well?”
“I think I’m in trouble,” Cora said haltingly.
“Mmmm?” Maeve’s expectant look made Cora shake her head.
“No, it’s not that I’m pregnant or anything. And I’m not in any danger, at least…” Cora thought of Sharo’s troubling words. “I don’t think I am.”
“Is this about your boyfriend?” Maeve got up when the kettle dinged done, and returned with two mugs.
“Yes,” Cora hesitated, then, fortified with the warmth of her mug, explained.
“Marcus is great—really he is. He proposed—” Cora blushed as Maeve examined the giant ring solemnly.
“Red, very unique. I like it.” The woman raised her grey head. “You said yes?”
“Not quite,” Cora admitted. “I’m wearing the ring but I need some time to think about marriage. About life with…” A man like Marcus. Dark. Secretive. Who might have enemies. “..a husband. In the meantime, something hasn’t been quite right.” This time, Cora’s pause was so long, Maeve had time to finish her drink.
“Dear, if you can’t give me details, don’t bother. Ju
st keep it vague and we’ll see how much that helps. More tea?”
“Okay,” Cora said, and when she got her mug back she continued, “Okay. Marcus doesn’t tell me a lot of things. I know he works a lot, but I don’t know exactly what he does. He has properties and restaurants around town. And a lot of people working for him. And I’m pretty sure he invested in different places, like a club and…” She thought for a second about the young Armand and how everyone on the designer’s staff seemed to know Marcus. Maybe he supported Armand somehow? “Anyway. Yesterday a man came to see me about Marcus…an official looking somebody. This agent wants to meet with me and ask questions about Marcus’ business.”
“Ah,” said Maeve, “that sort of trouble. Go on.”
“Well. There’s not much more to say,” Cora stared at her tea.
“Did you meet with the agent?”
Cora shook her head.
“But you’re concerned.”
“I want to meet with him. He said that he can put me in touch with my aunt; she came to him looking for me.”
“So meet with him.”
“I would,” Cora said, “but I don’t know…Marcus…”
“Are you afraid Marcus will find out and be mad?”
Cora shrugged, “Maybe. It’s not only that, though.”
“Do you feel safe?” Maeve looked at her sharply.
“From Marcus? Yes, absolutely, no question.” Cora defended him vehemently. And she did feel safe, she realized. Maybe too safe. Followed, scrutinized.
Maeve peered at Cora’s face, looking for signs of feelings in the marble cheeks and mouth. “Are you afraid this agent will tell you things about Marcus you’d rather not know? The truth, perhaps?”
Miserable, Cora nodded.
“Do you want to know the truth about a man who may become your husband?”
“Yes,” Cora said.
Satisfied, Maeve sat back, only to watch Cora’s face grow more shadowed. “But?” Maeve prompted for Cora’s thoughts.
The young woman did not answer for a time. Then Cora whispered “But I love him.”
*
Two hours later, Cora sat in a diner near the animal rescue. Her heart thumped every time the door opened, but she gripped the edge of the table. Hang on. When the agent did arrive, she did not notice until he was at her elbow. Business attire and a bland face made him fade into a crowd. Cora chided herself for expecting a tuxedo and dark glasses as the agent slid into a seat and smoothed his tie. A pause, and then Cora put the agent’s card—now worn—on the table top. The agent opened his badge for her to study. When she was done, she gave a nod and he flipped the badge quickly shut.