by Mia Caldwell
Revenge? Maybe, and if it were, what did it matter? Justice or revenge, the outcome was the same. The responsible party would pay a bill that had been overdue for years.
The car’s tires crunched on unpacked snow as they pulled into the long driveway. It had snowed overnight and there’d been no time to clear it. Bruno, his driver, was also the groundskeeper, and the man did an impressive job keeping everything in order.
“We’ve arrived, sir,” Bruno announced as the car came to a stop. “Is there any other way I can be of assistance?”
“No, thank you.”
Colin stepped out into the brisk Swiss air and took a deep breath. At last he was back at his home away from home. He’d returned to his castle.
Before him were the hefty oak doors that led into the chalet. The handcrafted, elaborately carved wood had been one of the many unique characteristics that had attracted Colin to the property when he’d been looking three years ago, and he appreciated it even after all this time.
Colin couldn’t help but notice that one of the doors hung open a crack, just enough to allow a face to watch him from inside the warmth of the main hall.
The woman in charge of the household staff, Marie, peeped out at him through the crack.
The two of them stood there, staring at each other, despite the fact that it was below freezing and Colin was without a coat. Then, Marie drew back from the door briskly and flung it open.
“Mr. Morgan!” she called, smiling ear to ear. “Welcome home!”
Marie was a short, plump peach of a grandmother. Silver hair twisted fashionably atop her head, her cheeks were ever red and her eyes were always full of life. Colin had taken to her from the moment he’d met her at the chalet’s open house.
Expensive European property, he’d learned, came with its own servants. Often, those servants had served the household their whole lives, and some came from long lines of caretakers who’d always worked on the same property.
Only fifty years old, the Haberlin Chalet didn’t host generations of servants just yet, but Marie had already been there for thirty years. Colin was glad to have her run the house in his absence. Managing the cooking, cleaning, and other domestic affairs and staff were her specialty, and she executed each of them with tremendous grace and poise.
“Thank you, Marie. It’s good to be here,” he said.
Colin stepped forward and past the threshold of the chalet and returned Marie’s grin with a smile of his own.
“With all the storms lately I was worried your flight might be delayed or canceled. I’m glad you made it safe,” she said, shutting the large door behind him.
He regarded the entryway. Bright wood floors polished, heavy furniture arranged perfectly and dust free, the glass window panes so clean it looked like they weren’t there. The expensive carpets had been vacuumed and perfumed, and Marie had redecorated the area as per his instructions.
It was perfect. “The place looks neat and proper, Marie. Excellent job, as always,” he said.
Marie nodded, her expression pleased. “I’m just so delighted to have you back that I had to make sure everything was in tiptop shape, Mr. Morgan. Tell me, how long do I have the pleasure of enjoying your company?”
It was her way of asking if he had extended his stay or changed his initial itinerary without telling her. If he had, that would change her preparations for his visit. Marie ran the Haberlin Chalet like a business, and Colin appreciated that about her.
“A week, maybe more. You’ll just have to put up with me for the time being. Is everything that I requested ready?”
Marie nodded briskly. “I prepared the guest room next to yours, as you asked.”
She gave no intimation that he’d requested anything uncommon, or uncharacteristic. Since he’d bought the place, Haberlin Chalet had never had a female guest that Colin had a romantic interest in. Marie was within her right to be excited and curious, but she was a pro and kept her feelings to herself.
“Thank you, Marie,” he said, and he meant it in more ways than one.
Colin’s attention turned to the front door as it swung open. Bruno had returned from the garage. He told Colin the car was parked and safe from any inclement weather.
“Is everything ready for skiing tomorrow?” Colin asked.
“I think the storm tonight might close the passes, but the weather tomorrow looks perfect,” Bruno said. “We won’t have anything to worry about up here. Everything will be ready.”
As long as Sabela arrived before too much snow fell, everything would proceed according to plan. That was really all he wanted to know. He resisted the urge to pull out his phone and check the weather report again.
“Thank you,” he told Bruno. “You can go about your duties now.”
Marie and Bruno would see to his luggage. Unconcerned, Colin strolled from the front hall and into the first floor lounge. With huge windows from floor to ceiling, the room gave an eagle’s eye view of the mountain range sweeping off into the horizon.
These slopes, these crests, and these valleys were all his to enjoy.
Since he’d bought the property, its value had skyrocketed. Everything Colin touched turned to gold. Everything but his personal life, that was.
As he watched the slopes from the warmth of his lodging, he dug into his jacket pocket to withdraw the book of matches tucked there. He twisted the packet back and forth between his fingers, mind whirling.
The thin cardboard exterior was so well worn that its pink color had faded. The gold lettering upon it was no better off.
nkies 30th
iversar
Colin was never far without it, and the thin book had spun between his fingers more times than he could count.
Behind him, on a charming, claw-legged table, were two flutes and a bottle of champagne on ice in a hammered, silver bucket. Marie had set it out as he’d requested. Colin had reason to celebrate.
With Sabela not due to arrive for a while, he could take his time. He laid the matchbook in a crystal bowl on a side table and attended to the champagne. The top popped, and the satisfying fizz of expensive wine poured over the lip and pooled onto the silver tray which the bucket and flutes sat upon. Colin picked up one of the glasses and filled it. Then he filled the other glass.
The bottle cost thousands of dollars, making the contents of the flutes worth several thousand dollars alone. It was a small price to pay for a celebration that had been four years in the making.
He lifted one glass and lightly tapped it against the other. A single, clear note rang out, the tune of the toast.
He held the flute before himself and admired the sight of the bubbles rising behind crystal perfection. Waterford. It was from the set of flutes that he’d planned to buy for his bride to use on their wedding day. Back when the expense would still have mattered.
He tipped the glass to his lips and drank, hardly tasting the exquisite liquid.
The glass was the perfect weight in his hand. He looked at the other glass, the one that would have been hers. She would have loved them, and he would have been proud to make her happy. It was all he’d wanted back then.
What Colin wouldn’t give to go back to the man he’d once been. His biggest worry was what flutes Blanca would want for the reception.
Blanca.
Colin scowled into his drink and downed the rest of it at one go. Sometimes the anger of loss smothered the pain.
Sometimes, but not often.
Lately, he’d found a better way to manage his rage. After what would happen in the next week or so, Colin was confident his anger management issues would be eliminated.
He would finally be able to let go of Blanca’s memory. Maybe he would even be able to move forward.
After setting the empty flute back onto the table, he picked up the other glass, and returned to the wall of windows.
A bank of clouds were forming in the distance, thin dark streamers stretching out to block part of the sun. Raising his glass to the majestic mount
ains and the fluttering snowflakes that were beginning to fall, Colin spoke freely to whatever spirits might be listening.
“This is for you, Blanca,” he said. “May you finally rest in peace. Prost!”
He drank.
Chapter Six
THIS WASN’T THE AIRPORT SABELA was expecting.
The tiny strip of land was barely enough to be considered a football field, let alone an airport. A single runway ran straight down the middle of it, and on either side, off in the distance, squatted two rows of hangars.
One of the hangars was open as they pulled up. A good-sized plane rolled out of it, and came to a stop near the end of the runway.
After giving up on calling the police, Sabela had used her phone for a different purpose – she had her GPS open and was watching their progression. Willowford Airfield was little more than a blip on the radar, but here she was.
And she had a feeling that plane was for her.
No, it wasn’t a plane. She swallowed hard. It was a jet, presumably a private one.
Sabela had never imagined that she’d find herself traveling like this. Girls like her didn’t fly on private jets. What was Mr. Morgan up to?
Her mouth went dry. The stairs leading up to the cabin door lowered, and a smartly uniformed stewardess boarded. The man in the suit exited the car and yanked open the back door.
She had no choice but to get out.
Legs shaking, hands trembling, she clutched her purse tighter to her side and looked between the man and the jet.
“I changed my mind,” she said uneasily. “I want to go home.”
“Mr. Morgan will not like that,” the man replied. “We’ve already discussed the repercussions of displeasing Mr. Morgan.”
He took her by the arm and directed her to the jet. “You need to leave now in order to arrive at the correct time.”
Sabela wrenched her arm away and took her first hesitant step onto the jet’s stairs. It wasn’t because she wanted to, but rather she’d prefer the man in the suit would stop treating her like defiant luggage.
He stood on the tarmac, watching her with a steady, unreadable expression.
“Aren’t you coming?” she asked.
When he didn’t reply, Sabela set her lips and tried again. “Hello? Are you coming?”
“Please board the jet, Ms. Vaughn.”
“Where am I going?”
The man’s face remained expressionless. “To Mr. Morgan. I can tell you nothing more. He’s waiting for you. Now go.”
Traveling on a private jet should have been an exciting experience, but all Sabela could think of was what this Mr. Morgan wanted to do with her, and why he was being so mysterious and demanding about it. Stomach twisting, she climbed the last few steps and entered the jet.
It was time to face her destiny.
The stewardess greeted her kindly and seated her in one of the luxurious seats. The jet was set up with secured couches instead of the tight seats with armrests Sabela saw in the movies. Beyond that, it was fitted with a large screen television bigger than she’d ever seen before.
Sabela sank into the couch and located the seat belt hidden in its cushions. The whole thing was anchored into the floor of the plane, and wouldn’t budge during takeoff or turbulence.
What would her mother think? Would she be proud, or ashamed? Ashamed, of course. Sabela felt the same. She tried not to think about it.
Maybe she was more like her father than she thought. He’d run away from his problems and straight to the bottom of a bottle, and she’d tried to dodge her crippling debt by believing an anonymous benefactor had taken pity on her. She’d failed to take proper care.
And what about Trevor?
Sabela frowned. All her brother cared about these days was whether she had money for him to burn shopping online, or if his sports teams were winning. She’d lost her one living relative to depression and self-hatred, and she had no idea how to cure him.
All of this doubt because of money. What an evil thing it was.
Sabela remembered the turning point like it was yesterday. She had been working at the diner that day, trying to make enough to scrape by and get the rent paid. The money she made waitressing at Pinkie’s Diner wasn’t great, but it put food on the table and kept a roof over their heads.
At least it did until Trevor’s medical bills stacked up and the debt collectors began calling, and eventually came pounding on their door.
Sabela had long since sold their parents’ house to try to pay off Trevor’s hospital bills after the accident, but the house had been mortgaged to the hilt and hardly put a dent in Trevor’s debt.
The rent for the tiny apartment they’d moved into hadn’t been paid for months, and the landlord was initiating eviction proceedings.
Desperate times called for desperate measures, and Sabela was at her wit’s end. Buying a lottery ticket to the largest lottery jackpot in the country’s history was her last ditch effort. If she won, she’d be debt free forever and Trevor would get the best care in the country and be back on his feet again.
There was a feeling in her gut that told her it was the right thing to do. The drawing would be held four years to the day after Pinkie’s thirtieth anniversary, a date that would forever be burned into Sabela’s memory — the day of her brother’s terrible car accident.
For four long years she’d been fighting a losing battle. It was past time for her luck to turn. By the day the drawing was held, Sabela was certain her moment had arrived.
Gathered around the tiny television suspended from the ceiling at Pinkie’s, she’d watched with the other waitresses and a few customers as the winning numbers scrolled across the screen.
The first matched. Sabela held her ticket tighter, unable to hold back her grin.
Then the second matched, as well. That gut feeling hadn’t led her astray. Everything would be okay. Better than okay.
And then the third number wasn’t a match. Her hope collapsed. None of the other numbers matched either. All of her pretty dreams vanished.
She’d dropped the ticket and closed her eyes. If she tried hard enough, maybe she’d wake up from the nightmare.
But there was nothing to wake up from.
Tears had beaded in the closed corners of Sabela’s eyes until they grew fat and rolled down her cheeks. She’d choked out a stifled sob. Where was her happy ending? She’d worked herself to the bone to try to provide for her brother, but she always came up short.
“Hey,” a newly-hired waitress, Diana, whispered. “What’s wrong? Don’t cry.”
Sabela opened her eyes, took a few steps back, and bit down hard on her bottom lip. The tears were growing, and she was trembling all over. There was no holding it back.
Devastated, she let out a wracking sob. That was it. She was finished.
Diana had been quick to sweep her into a hug, and Sabela wept and told her how she thought the lottery would save her. She’d been so stupid, she mumbled again and again.
When Sabela was a little calmer, Diana found their manager to let him know Sabela needed to go home. She tried to tell Diana that she couldn’t afford to go home, but no words came out.
Sabela didn’t know what excuse Diana used, but it worked. Before Sabela knew it, she was in her tiny bedroom, staring at the ceiling.
She’d failed herself, but worst of all, she’d failed Trevor.
What were they going to do now? she’d wondered. It had been a very long, very miserable night.
Then happy fate stepped in, or so she thought at the time.
Chapter Seven
THE NEXT WEEK, DIANA GAVE Sabela a flyer she said she’d found posted outside the diner that morning. It was like the cosmos had heard Sabela’s sorrows and had sent something to apologize. Written on the glossy paper in thick red letters were words she could relate to well.
Are you drowning in debt?
Usually an ad like that wouldn’t have earned a second glance, but it felt too coincidental. Expecting to read anot
her pitch for a consolidation service or a pawn shop, she took a look at the ad.
It wasn’t at all what she’d assumed. It was an advertisement for an organization that provided emergency relief funds for people in need. On the spot, Sabela pulled her phone out of her pocket and called the number.
The woman who answered had a warm, friendly voice. She said everything that Sabela needed to hear.
“I’m so glad you called, dear,” the woman said. “That’s exactly what we’re here for. You’re going to feel so much better soon. Let me get your information.”
The process was strange. The woman asked Sabela about her favorite music, her favorite kinds of flowers, what colors she liked the best, and about food allergies. Sometimes, the questions were so personal that they caught Sabela off-guard.
“What do you need my dress size for?” Sabela asked. “Isn’t this about financial relief?”
“It’s all for statistical purposes, Ms. Vaughn,” the woman said. “We want to know about our applicants so we can better understand where they’re coming from, which will help us offer better service. So what size is it? Oh, and also, what shoe size do you wear?”
On and on it went. When it was over, the woman said Sabela’s relief check would arrive within the week.
And it actually did.
Sabela was floored … and ecstatic. It was a huge amount of money, enough to pay the back rent and keep her and her brother housed for at least another year.
With money like that, it was easy to forget that she’d ever struggled. At that moment, Sabela had promised that she wouldn’t take the money for granted. She’d work just as hard as if she’d never received the money in the first place.
She was sure the aid would dry up soon, and she didn’t want to be caught unprepared.
The next week another deposit appeared in her account. One by one, Sabela placed calls to the agencies she owed, only to find out her debts had already been paid in full. All of her struggles had vanished overnight.
It was a miracle, and she worked hard to never take it for granted.
Now it turned out it wasn’t a miracle after all, thanks to Sabela being desperate and not carefully reading the contracts she’d signed for each of those big checks.