Three and a Half Weeks

by Lulu Astor

  “Good. My NYC studio is in Chelsea. Daniel can give you my number and we’ll discuss it further tomorrow. Is that suitable?”

  “Very much so. Thank you. It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Mr. Girardi. I’ve been an admirer of your work for some time now.”

  “I appreciate it. And, please, call me Derek.” He gifts us with another pretty smile and continues on his way, after blowing a kiss to his daughter.

  The next day we spend doing touristy things in NYC, going to Central Park, dining at a little dive in the East Village, browsing the South Street Seaport. Monday, we visit museums, both MOMA and the Met. We were planning to hit the Natural History museum or the planetarium on Tuesday. Instead, we go to Derek’s studio where Ian attempts to purchase one of the smaller sculptures but Derek insists on gifting it to him. The Girardis are such nice people and I’m thrilled that Daniel and Olivia will be coming to Portland in June to attend our wedding. I feel as if we’ve made lifelong friends.

  Chapter 51

  Walking down a densely populous Broadway at midday on Thursday, Ian kicks an empty soda can in his path, watching the satisfying arc it makes as it takes flight and lands with a tinny plop in the gutter, with nary a casualty. A few feet away are two men wearing bright orange vests; they’re picking up litter from the curb, so his can-kicking has done them a small favor. Walking in New York City is akin to highway driving: there are multiple lanes of pedestrians, and some walk fast and some painfully leisurely. It’s always the tourists who do the ambling, savoring each bite of the Big Apple (and sometimes it bites back), while New Yorkers do everything just short of shoving them viciously into the gutter to get around them faster. Everything would work just fine if the slow-movers would just get out of the fast lane… just as on the highway. Individuals who clog up the fast lane with slow-moving objects, whether cars or bodies, cause traffic jams. Period. Why don’t some people understand the simplest things?

  Right now what is taxing Ian’s brain is not a simple thing. Decisions as pointy as rapiers poke at his peace as his mind muddles through the past few weeks. He hasn’t yet told Ella what has become of Natasha: only to himself will he admit that he’s afraid of her reaction. Granted, the fate Natasha is suffering is better than being hunted down and killed by a professional sniper… but from a woman’s perspective, probably not all that much better. Since four is the maximum number of wives a man may take under Islamic law, Haddad couldn’t legally marry Natasha so she’s more of a concubine to him. For him. Not that Haddad is a devout Muslim, anyway, not in the least, but he puts on a façade of being pious in order to prosper in his world.

  Essentially, he wants Natasha for dirty sex and that’s about all. He surely has enough children running around, considering he has four wives already. In a way, it’s the perfect payback for the conniving bitch who’s been out for his blood for God knows how long. Besides, knowing Natasha and her devious ways, Ian figures she’ll probably manage to turn the situation around to her advantage before too long.

  What is gnawing at him the most is the text he received shortly after the operation went down: it originated from a Saudi telephone number. He hadn’t recognized the telephone number or caller name and when he looked up the country code prefix, he’d seen it was from Saudi Arabia and his blood streamed cold.

  The person who’d sent the message had apparently been interrupted during the transmission. The entire message read, “Please h.”

  Please help me? Was that it? It had to be from Natasha and it bothered the hell out of him. She sent it to him because she must have figured he was the only one who knew where she was, other than the people who took her. It made him feel horrible.

  What he truly worried about was what Ella would think of him after he tells her. Will she see him in a different light? Will she think that a man who can consign a woman to such a miserable fate is one who cannot be redeemed?

  Since then, he’s been trying to banish it from his mind with varying success. Daniel’s wedding helped enormously: he and Ella truly enjoyed themselves. Moreover, it was incredibly relaxing to see his friend not only at ease, but also happy. Since he and Daniel met, they’d been in one tense situation after another. Watching Daniel with his Olivia was a wonderful respite from all that darkness. He could plainly see—as could everyone with eyes—how much Daniel adored his new wife and how his devotion was fully reciprocated. That caliber of love is highly infectious, making everyone around the couple feel elated or at least more optimistic about life in general.

  A few days later, Daniel’s father-in-law insisted on making a gift of the small sculpture he and Ella had selected from his studio. Ian knew the piece had to be worth, at a minimum, thirty thousand dollars. How could he possibly say thank you to the man?

  Girardi is a rare kind of guy. His wedding gift to his daughter and her new husband deserved the label of spectacular. And their father-daughter dance together that followed was so poignant, there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. It was clear that he adores his daughter, sometimes to Daniel’s detriment.

  So, the thank-you is on his mind. Scouring his brain for details about Derek Girardi, he recalls Daniel mentioning that Derek shared his son-in-law’s obsession with vintage cars and motorcycles and that’s when Ian came upon the perfect way to show his gratitude. An old friend from high school owned a shop and occasionally came across the rare vintage bikes. He’d give Lars a call, see what he had currently, and send Derek a wheeled surprise to show his appreciation.

  That out of the way, the only worrisome thing he had to do before his own wedding was to come clean with Ella about Natasha’s fate. Recognizing that he is stalling, he reluctantly heads back in the direction of the hotel. It’s time to get it over with.

  Ella is furiously tapping on her laptop when he gets back to the room. “And what are you doing so industriously?”

  She looks up as if she just this instant noticed him. “Oh, nothing. How was your outing?”

  “Very good. And your facial?”

  “Excellent. I feel refreshed. So,” she pats the seat of the sofa right next to her, “sit. Let’s talk.”

  “About?” He’s playing dumb and they both know it.

  “Ian,” she says in an exasperated tone, her hand reaching over to his. “Secrets are like cancer: they eat away at a relationship, replacing healthy tissue with rot.”

  “Yuck. Lovely turn of phrase.”

  “Exactly.”

  The week before, Ella had insisted they sit down to talk or she refused to continue with their wedding plans; however, as obstinate as she could be, he’d managed to postpone “the talk” until after Daniel’s wedding. Now, he knew there’d be no more deferments.

  “Ella, the only thing I haven’t shared with you is what happened with Natasha. You know everything else. I hold no secrets from you.”

  She closes her eyes, as if in frustration. He wants to see the blue again; he hates when her eyes are closed, depriving him of their vibrant depths and whatever emotion she’s telegraphing at the time.

  Ian carefully measures his defense, sifting through arguments that might sway her. “Ella, once the words are out, I can never retract them, never expunge them from your mind.”

  Again, she says nothing but her obstinate expression indicates her position is resolute: she wants to know.

  Sighing with the unfathomable weight of guilt, he continues, “Daniel asked me if I really wanted to know what happened to Natasha and I thought long and hard before answering. I’m still not sure if I gave him the right answer. I’d like to spare you the ambivalence.”

  “Is it really that bad?” Her voice is strangled, as if each word is a burden.

  “It’s not great but it was the lesser of two evils. She’s still very much among the living.”

  Eyes wary, she says, “So far, so good. I’m going to push my luck and continue.”

  “Allow me to say the idea originated with Lucien Phillips who contacted Daniel for assistance. Daniel gave it to him… unco
mfortably.”

  “It doesn’t sit well with Daniel either? He seems impervious to everything.”

  “Yes, well…”

  “Just blurt it out, Ian. I need to know.”

  Both of his hands rake through his hair several times before he rests them on his knees. “Natasha was taken by force to Saudi Arabia to become a concubine to a wealthy Saudi national.”

  Her mouth drops open but she quickly closes it, straightening her posture as if that would aid her in digesting the information. “Like a sex slave?” she asks, eyes wide and face paler than chalk.

  “Essentially. However, the sheik called me last week to ease my mind. He told me she would not be physically harmed and would live in luxury.”

  “Still…” She gets up and begins to pace, to and fro, one hand holding the other arm’s elbow, both arms behind her back. “Ugh, I see what you mean. There’s no doubt it’s better than being murdered—but it’s just barely better. Will she be liberated after he tires of her?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t think so, not willingly. However, I suspect Natasha will succeed in finding the best in the situation and manipulate it to her advantage. I really do, Ella.”

  Ella stares at her fiancé: his eyes are troubled and his body language suggests he’s agitated. Of course, who wouldn’t be, given his situation?

  “Ian… is there something else, something you’re not telling me?”

  “Can we do a little at a time, Ella? I’m struggling with this right now.”

  She flips her hair back and inhales deeply. “Fine. Let’s put this aside for a moment. There’s something else I’d like to ask you before I forget.”

  “Yes?” he asks, relieved to move to another topic—any other topic.

  “If you can remember back to our first night together—the second time around, when you took me home from the club and we went to your new houseboat—you had mentioned something about my spending a year in the UK. When I asked how you knew, you asked if we could discuss it at another time.” She smiles to reassure him that this isn’t—quite—an inquisition. “I’m afraid that time has arrived.”

  “Why is it important?”

  “Because I want to know. I want there to be no secrets or lies of omission hanging between us. When we marry, I want to know that I know you, and you know me, and we can join together in harmony. That’s why it’s important.”

  “I knew, Ella, because I went after you.”

  “What?” He took her by surprise with his quick capitulation. She had to think about what he’d just said.

  “You knew… because you went after me? To Britain?”

  Closing his eyes, he scrabbles to find his equilibrium. Those days were dark, dark enough to force his gaze inward, to reflect on what he saw, and ultimately to reinvent himself… yet again. This time around it was a force for positive change but change always comes at a steep price and the price is usually acute pain of one kind or another.

  The day it all happened was a Wednesday. He’d had a difficult day at work and was about to leave to go home to shower and change to meet Ella for dinner. They’d just begun to date three or four weeks before but they’d been together nearly every day or night. The word whirlwind sprang to mind.

  If he’d only left when he’d planned, things might have gone differently. But as he was exiting his office, the phone on his desk buzzed three times. His staff knew that he expected the phone to be answered by the second ring so they must have left already or were otherwise unavailable. So he answered it…

  “Ian?” The feminine voice on the other end was small and weepy.

  “Yes, this is Ian Blackmon. Who’s calling?”

  “It’s me, Ian. Kira.”

  Kira: his girlfriend—if you could call her that—from a couple of years ago. Meeting briefly at the club one night long ago, he saw right away that she fit all of his new requirements, the requirements he’d defensively created after Natasha screwed him so royally: not blond, attractive in an unobtrusive way, quiet personality, few aspirations, and very submissive sexually. Yet despite her satisfying all of his criteria, she didn’t work out well for him. They’d ended their relationship slash arrangement after the four-month mark and last he’d heard, she’d taken up with another man, and went home to Nebraska… or one of those N states. North Dakota, maybe? Nevada? He couldn’t remember for sure.

  “What can I do for you, Kira?” He kept his tone professional.

  “Um… I was wondering if you’re possibly between relationships right now. If you’re single, I mean. I’d like to see you again.”

  “No, I’m not single, Kira.”

  “Oh, okay, I figured. It was worth a try.” Her volume dropped lower with each word.

  She sounded as if she were speaking more to herself than to him. Yet, there was something in her voice: a tiny tinkling of alarm rang in his brain. “Is there some kind of help I might lend you?”

  Now he could hear her crying. “No. No, thanks. I’m just lonely and was thinking of you. Sorry to have bothered you.” She quickly disconnected.

  That phone call niggled at him the entire way home, causing him to puzzle about what exactly it was all about. What was going on with the woman that would prompt her to call him out of the blue like that? They hadn’t spoken for nearly two years.

  It was almost seven when he got home, and he’d told Ella he’d pick her up at eight so he grabbed a lightning fast shower and dressed. He made it to Ella’s place ten minutes early: driving the highway at ninety in his 400 BHP sports car didn’t hurt any.

  He and Ella had just finished dinner and were on their way to his place when his phone rang, cutting off the stereo in his car.

  “Yes?

  “Ian? This is Jackson. Are you alone?”

  “No. I’m on speaker in my car. Can I call you back in a few minutes?”

  “Yes, please call ASAP.”

  Ian didn’t like the tone of his friend and attorney’s voice. As soon as he parked in the garage, he pulled out his phone. “Ella, please go ahead into the house. Mason will let you in. I’ll be behind you in a minute.”

  As soon as the front door slid shut, he punched in Delacroix’s cell number on speed dial. “It’s me. What is it?”

  “Do you remember Kira Firestone?”

  “Of course I do. Why?”

  “I just got word from a mutual friend. She took a dive off a bridge an hour ago.”

  “What? Is she…?”

  “Dead. Yes. Sorry to be the one to tell you, Ian.”

  “Oh, God. Jackson, she called me earlier this evening, asking if we could see each other again. I told her I was involved with someone. She said she was sorry to bother me and hung up. God, I feel terrible.”

  “Yes, well, not your fault. How could you possibly know she was in such despair? Anyway, I wanted to let you know in case anyone else contacts you. Your answer is no comment. There aren’t too many people who know of your connection with her, right?”

  “No, but…”

  “Shit! The cops will find your number on her phone undoubtedly. I’ll try to keep it under wraps to the extent possible. You hadn’t seen her recently, had you?”

  “No. I was shocked to hear her voice.”

  “Okay, I’ll do damage control. You certainly don’t need this type of publicity, Ian. You also don’t need me to tell you the obvious.”

  “No, I’ve always been ace at detecting the obvious, Jackson. But, thanks.” He disconnected.

  He rode up in the elevator in silence but his mind was screaming in despair. Kira had been important to him once upon a time, and he hated to think of her in such dire pain. Emotional pain is what frequently led people to crave the physical kind—it hurts less and distracts from the more severe psychological variety. Kira was a true sexual masochist, always wanting the worst anyone could deliver. It was ultimately what led to the dissolution of their relationship. He didn’t want to be the one to provide that level of pain anymore.

  She didn’t
take it well but she was so passive that her response was barely noticeable. Considering it one more rejection in a long line of them, she quietly moved on. It felt like a huge relief to him, though at times he did miss her tinkling laugh, the sparkle in her brown eyes when something struck her funny. Or when something struck her.

  When he got inside, Ella was waiting for him, worry etched onto her face. “Is everything okay, Ian?”

  The words came out of his mouth, unplanned: he was on autopilot. “Do you want to play?”

  She nodded her assent but her expression showed ambivalence. Ella wasn’t sure she wanted to occupy this niche in his life. She was definitely more of a girlfriend type than a submissive, without a doubt. She did, however, enjoy the sex. And without a doubt, he enjoyed her.

  “Come with me.” He led her to the locked room and once inside, instructed her to remove her clothes and kneel. He could feel something primal uncoiling inside him, stirred from a deep sleep. At the same time, strong emotion twisted his gut and the pain was becoming untenable—he needed to exorcise it somehow. He looked around, seeking a cure, an outlet, in this room devoted to rough and sensual sex.

  And there Ella knelt.

  He went to her, lifted her to her feet, and, walking her to the far wall, tethered her to the St. Andrew’s cross.

  “What’s your safe word, Ella?”

  “Crimson.”

  “Crimson.” He lowered his face to her, until his lips were next to her ear. “Remember it: you might need to use it tonight. We’re going into advanced territory this evening, Ella. You need to tell me if it becomes too much for you, the moment it becomes too much for you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was uncharacteristically shaky.

  He didn’t let that dissuade him from his course of action. Perhaps in that moment, nothing could have. Rational thought had abandoned him and he was operating on nothing but emotion-charged fuel.

  He may have even tried to justify it to himself by acknowledging that Ella was a natural at this kind of play: she took to it immediately. But his mistake was in perception. It wasn’t pain that she took to; it was sex—rough or gentle, she liked it both ways. She didn’t act like a virgin… ever.