The Beginning of Always

by Sophia Mae Todd

  “My company may own a certain number of dollars’ worth of properties, and I do much of the business on my own, but it’s not cash. The media loves just deciding these numbers. Blair Properties has billions in its portfolio, but they’re not liquid, and therefore, not mine to use. Besides, it’s all fictional, part of a game where nothing is truly tangible. That’s all. The market and the banks hold the money, not me.”

  “But you’re rich,” I pressed.

  “I’m comfortable. I’m secure. To be rich to the level the papers claim, you’d have to have worked a lot longer than I have in this industry.”

  Now we were getting somewhere. I smiled encouragingly and waved my pen in his direction. “Explain to me how you made your money.”

  This was the point I was interested in. I had read general profiles other people had pieced together through his sales, but I wanted to hear firsthand how this meteoric rise had occurred.

  Alistair reclined in his seat and crossed an ankle over the opposite knee. The luminous sheen of his black leather loafers shimmered off the windows’ reflection. They appeared expensive. Designer. Not a billionaire, my ass.

  “I had worked at Tuck and Booth Properties for two years, right after I graduated from college,” he started in a bored tone. This I knew; right before we broke up he had told me he was interviewing for an undergraduate business internship position at Tuck and Booth in New York, but didn’t want to take it instead of staying in Detroit so he could be close to me. But once we went our separate ways, all bets were off.

  “A man I worked with told me about a Japanese luxury fashion house that was trying to break into the New York market. Tuck and Booth didn’t think they were worth their time, but something made me pause. I decided to meet them. I did my research and saw they did over six hundred million in sales in just Japan and Korea, not talking about their impending penetration into the Chinese market and the hot buzz about their products in the New York underground fashion sphere. I organized a meeting with them, picked them up from the airport, and drove the executives around Manhattan and Brooklyn for three days. They’d point out places and tell me where they wanted their store. They saw two that they liked, particularly one over at Forty-Eighth. By the time they flew back to Japan, they’d signed a lease with me since I guaranteed I could give them the space.”

  I blinked. I wasn’t quite following. “Did you already have the space?”

  Alistair shook his head. “No. I hadn’t even gone in and spoken to anyone about it. But I said I could get it, and the executives believed me. Probably foolishly, since I had nothing to go off of. I was a junior analyst. The day after they got back on a plane to Tokyo to plan their move, I went to go see the tenant at the time, this really run-down gift shop. It was located on a choice corner, but the owners were old, so after a lot of discussion, I told them I’d buy them out of their lease. They were happy to let it go.”

  “But you weren’t the landlord.”

  “Not yet. The Japanese businessmen paid me for a two-year lease, and I took that lease and secured financing to rent space from the landlord. Then, I bought the landlord out. The tenants moved out, and after three months, the boutique opened. The store ended up being a huge success, and after two years, I signed them back for five times what they initially paid me. By that time, the value of the building had doubled.”

  I twirled my pen between my fingers, tapping it against my thumb. “Wait. How were you going to buy out the landlord, who probably had no intention of selling in the first place?”

  “It’s the negotiation. Everyone has a price, and the trick is to know what’s a solid buy and what’s a number to walk away from. The rest was juggling banks and contracts for the purchase.”

  Alistair paused. “After the Japanese deal, I started Blair Properties. Now we manage our existing properties and I work to pick up new ones or build in good spaces. This industry requires a high tolerance for risk and a willingness to go into debt. Real estate is all about the purchase and the sale. Buy low, rent high. You can buy high, but you have to rent out for even higher. You create relationships with potential tenants, and then seek out properties that they want. That way you’re guaranteed the customer and you rarely, if ever, have empty space sitting there.

  “The point is, we purchase properties or land, that one unattainable deal. It’s been built over eight years. The economy has been kind with demand, and growth has outpaced expectations. In New York City, sometimes you just need one windfall and that secures your footing. I worked at Tuck and Booth Properties for two years, made good connections and took a chance. That’s basically it.”

  I gave a low whistle. “That’s impressive. But I’m sure it wasn’t that simple.”

  “It wasn’t. It was a lot of hard work, long hours, stress, and reading contract after contract. Juggling loans and banks and clients. Sitting in inane meetings with insane people. And yet, here we are.” He gestured around us.

  “Here we are. A long way from Michigan, huh?”

  Alistair chuckled. “Yeah, sure.”

  A burst of comfortable warmth bloomed in me. This felt good, nearly right. The conversation was going easily and he was cooperative.

  “How did you get potential tenants to trust you? How did you get them to sign a lease with you, a lease with no location and no teeth, to finance this move and trust you implicitly? That is what I don’t understand.”

  “That’s what makes Blair Properties so different. I can negotiate and the tenants do invest in the process. I’m tenacious and I care about my clients. At the end, it distills down to pure customer service.” He paused. “Despite my reputation, I can assure your readers my clients are very satisfied. I work for the satisfaction of the job, not because I want to be on page six or have the Wall Street Journal take jabs at guessing my net worth. Who cares?”

  “You eschew excess?”

  “It’s exhausting keeping up with the scene. I have neither the time nor the energy, much less the desire.”

  “How would you qualify yourself?”

  “I work hard. Get the job done. I’m good at what I do.”

  “Personally.”

  Alistair stretched his right arm against the top of the sofa and canted his head slightly to one side. His lips curled up slightly in private humor and I immediately went on guard.

  Apparently the conversation wasn’t going to continue on as easily any longer.

  “Well, Florence … how would you qualify me?”

  All levity evaporated from my voice. “This isn’t an interview about me.”

  “No, but it is about me, so I’m interested about what you think about me.”

  I clicked my pen repeatedly, the hollow snaps echoing in this vast chamber. “It’s been years since we’ve seen each other. How I’d explain you before is incredibly, vastly different than who you are now.”

  “Then comparisons. I’m interested, how have I changed?”

  So much for cooperative.

  He wasn’t going to back down. If he wanted to go there, let’s go there. “You’re cold. Colder than I remembered. Aloof. So much more distant to everyone.” My voice was tight.

  Alistair chuckled lightly as he ran his fingers through his hair. “Not sure if that’s possible.” He dropped that topic, but went elsewhere. “How have you been doing, Florence?”

  What was with the sudden change in direction? I crinkled my nose and furrowed my brow slightly, lowering my notepad.

  “I’ve been good,” I answered slowly.

  Alistair waved an open palm towards me. “I’m getting the third degree here, but I’ve heard nothing about you. What have you been up to for these past ten years?”

  “College. Then working at the Journal. I lived in Asia for most of that time, jumped around. That’s about it.”

  “That easy?”

  “Yep.”

  “When was the last time you were back in St. Haven?”

  “Before I got to New York.”

  “Stay long?”


  Alistair hated stupid questions that went nowhere, and this line of questioning was quickly spiraling into nowhere. I leaned back in my chair and sighed deeply. “Can I be blunt here?”

  He gave a nod of his head. “Please.”

  “There’s a strange tension I’d like to dispel. It’s weirding me out and I need to get it out of the way if I have any chance of doing my job well.” I gestured between us with an open palm, and Alistair arched an eyebrow.

  “Look, I know it’s strange. Our past … how we know each other from before …” I trailed off. ‘Knowing’ each other was putting it mildly. “We knew each other and now we’re thrust into this really surreal situation.”

  I inhaled a fortifying breath and plowed on, despite the growing intensity in the glint of a look Alistair was giving me. “But I’m different. You’re different. A lot of time has passed and we’re practically strangers now. I need us to stop dancing around our history, just put it to bed, and get on as if I was just a journalist and you were just a businessman.”

  Alistair was entirely unaffected by my speech. “Can’t I engage in small talk with my journalist?” he asked easily.

  Yes, sometimes subjects and I discussed random things. Benign topics, to break the ice between us so both of us were more comfortable with the interview and conversation. But I highly doubted Alistair was doing that. Nothing about him was benign.

  The ice here? There was no hope of breaking it. Global warming on a doomsday timeline couldn’t touch this.

  “No.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with reminiscing. Or even being friendly between strangers. You can’t let what happened between us cloud what could be a perfectly acceptable professional partnership.”

  I seethed through my teeth. “Alistair, I am nothing but professional. Everything before, as I mentioned, that’s old news. We’ve grown up, moved on. It’s nothing. I’m here to interview you, not be your friend.”

  Alistair’s face remained impassive. Bland. Devoid of emotion. He didn’t answer.

  “We were young, stupid, small-town kids, crushed together by circumstance. But that time had to end and it did. We’ve both seen and experienced things in the world. We know life is much bigger than what we thought, what we imagined in our wildest dreams. I’ve had other relationships, you’ve had other relationships, and everything we shared has faded with time. It’s inconsequential. We are strangers. We were friends. We aren’t anymore.”

  Alistair wasn’t fazed. “But even strangers can ask questions. Did you date a lot while overseas?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I know what you’re doing, and I want you to stop it. Why are you digging? You’re intentionally trying to push my buttons.”

  Alistair shrugged without remorse. “Can’t a man be curious?”

  “If we’re talking about curiosity, then how about this—what’s with this profile? What do you want? Why did you agree to it? Moreover, why did you still go through with it when you heard I was assigned?”

  Alistair then did something so very strange. He laughed. He freaking laughed. With his shoulders shaking, he leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and shaking his head incredulously as he laughed. My back stiffened in indignation, but the sound of his voice washed over me. He had that deep, masculine, almost dark sardonic laugh. It held no joy. It was weary and jaded.

  Some deep part of me twinged at that idea, the laugh I once knew so well so worn and tired.

  Alistair reached for his drink before his hazel eyes met mine. “Might I ask you why you agreed to the profile? Couldn’t resist seeing an old friend again?”

  The light reflected off his scotch, and for an insane second, it reminded me of his eyes. Dark, deep, dangerous. Endless. I licked my lips, but the tone of my voice didn’t betray my discomfort.

  “Perhaps more mercenarily, I thought about how a piece on you would give me a good foothold in the New York City social scene, start off connections.”

  Alistair’s gaze searched mine. “Is that all I am to you? A network?” His voice was soft, almost gentle.

  I gripped my pen so hard I thought it would snap. I stared at him, refusing to break eye contact even as my heart constricted at his words. There were layers upon layers of unspoken intent to that statement.

  “Yes. Just like I am just a journalist, writing an honest article about you. So you better be careful that I don’t bury you.”

  Alistair took a drink, but didn’t break his gaze away from mine. “You’ve developed bite. I appreciate it.”

  “Someone once told me not to be a doormat.”

  Alistair chuckled. “That someone was right. Doormats welcome thieves and trouble.” He paused. “You’ve done well for yourself. I’m really happy for you.” His voice took a strangely gentle turn. “I’m proud of you.”

  Silence followed his comment, and despite myself, a familiar fondness burst at those words. I was struck at how much that meant to me. I had worked hard. I had toiled. So had Alistair. This whole profile was chronicling and understanding his rise, but for Alistair to acknowledge my own success … it was nice. It was disturbingly validating, and I was grateful for it.

  I glanced down and tucked a strand of loose hair behind my ear. “Thank you for saying that,” I said quietly.

  The air around us picked up, yet tempered. We were back in the safe cocoon of our forest, just us. Just honest. Just in the now.

  I tilted my head up and my eyes softened with my heart. “You too, Alistair. You achieved your dream. I’m happy for you too.”

  He didn’t answer for a moment. His gaze searched my face. It lingered along the way. Then he said, “Yes, it would appear so.”

  We watched each other. It wasn’t the same as the furtive peeks or quick glimpses I’d sneaked in over the past two days. Nor was this an angry challenging glare, eyebrows drawn and mouth tight.

  This time, we truly watched each other, we read each other, we dove deep down, reaching into the soul. This contact was too intimate, too invasive. It flowed over my body and seized every part of me, strangling me. I didn’t want to look away. His contact was magnetic. Addicting. I loathed to have this end, and was desperate to prolong what I’d told myself I didn’t want. My breath shallowed and a flush began to bloom across my cheeks.

  A memory crashed to the forefront, taking all reality away, drenching me in the fantasy of the past.

  Alistair was looking at me the same way he used to when we’d make love. The softening of his eyes, the nakedness of his soul reaching out from beyond his depths. How even in low light, I could count every glimmer, every emotion, could feel every angle and curve of his soul in complete transparency.

  Heat concentrated and shot down between my legs, and sensations and longing violently overtook all my nostalgic tenderness.

  I sucked in a rapid breath and quickly tore my gaze away.

  The forest evaporated. I nodded in finality with what I hoped had the edge of indifference and dropped my attention down to my notepad. I wrote something across the yellow paper, something nonsensical, just so I didn’t have to engage with Alistair. I could feel his gaze continue to burn straight into me and that constant ache hurt. That inappropriate desire clawed.

  I could pretend all I wanted. I could lie through my teeth and lie to my heart. But Alistair was anything but a job. His singular memory, his entire being, shook me off my axis of apathy.

  * * *

  The rest of the interview went without incident. Alistair played nice and answered all my questions about his business dealings, his practices, the specific buildings around town, and the companies he worked with. He spoke calmly, evenly, confidently. I could understand how anyone could trust him with their accounts, be sure he would take good care of them.

  At times he’d pause before saying something, as if he wanted to add on or elaborate. Or perhaps he was tempted to take another tangent. He tried to catch my gaze a couple times, but I avoided making eye contact for longer than necessary. Thankfully, we st
ayed the course.

  Finally I noticed that more than two hours had passed by. It was 7:30. I was tired and a bit hungry, and frankly just exhausted from the heightened state of alarm of being around this man.

  “Alright,” I said while capping my pen. “That’s good enough for now. I definitely have enough to get started.”

  I stood up and he mirrored me. I extended my hand for a shake and Alistair reached over to reciprocate. The slow slide of our skin unnerved me and I quickly withdrew. I busied myself to tidy up my area and to pack up my things. I could register the potency of Alistair’s attention on my every movement.

  I dropped my phone in my bag and straightened up to face him. Our eyes connected, and for a moment, I didn’t know what to say. We had just spent a good two hours together, and the entire morning yesterday. Something significant had definitely transpired between us during that time. Whether I wanted to acknowledge and accept that or chose to ignore and bury it was another thing.

  I chose the latter and threw my mental shovel along with everything else into the hole.

  “I can take a cab home. I’m not too far.”

  Alistair nodded in agreement. “I’ll walk you down.”

  I waved a hand in protest. “You don’t need to walk me out the door.”

  “I should complete my due diligence, like a proper gentleman.”

  I scoffed. “Since when were you a gentleman?”

  “Since now.”

  “Just like dancing?”

  Alistair picked up his coat and shrugged it on. “Exactly like dancing,” came his dismissive response.

  And that’s how we ended up walking across that expansive living space and through that narrow hallway together. And that’s how Alistair ended up placing a warm hand against the small of my back while escorting me gently into elevator.

  And that’s how I descended back into reality with goose bumps along my arms and confusion raging in my head.

  * * *