by Karen Quinn
Galit finally stopped pontificating. Instead of introducing her, Fran took Christy by the arm and led her to the side of the room. “Listen,” he said, “last night was fun, but I’m a married man with a reputation to protect. I think it would be better if we weren’t seen together this evening. But if you want to come to my room later…”
“Wait,” Christy whispered. “You said you were separated.”
“No, the Post reported I was separated, but it wasn’t true. Don’t believe everything you read in the paper.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were still with your wife?” Christy could barely breathe, she was so angry. “Is it because…”
“I wanted to fuck you?” he said with an amused smile. “What do you think? Admit it. You came here looking to get it on…”
“What? In your dreams, buddy.” Jesus frickin’ Christ, Christy thought. I came to Davos and did this! She wanted to kill Fran. But all she had was her glass. She flung the rest of her red wine in his face.
Since this was a public event, shots of Fran covered in red wine, and Christy turning on her heel, were captured on tape and replayed repeatedly back in the States on CNN and CNBC. Even the Post got in on the action, running a front-page photo of Fran, looking wet, shocked, and confused. The headline read: BABY, GET LOST!
Hoping to avoid everyone, Christy fled to the empty hotel bar. She grabbed a seat and ordered a gin and tonic in a tall glass with extra lime. Give it up, Christy, just give it up, she thought. You did exactly what you said you’d never do again. You’re the CEO of a public company. Love just isn’t in the cards for you, sister. Get over it. Move on.
“Bartender, I’ll have another,” she said. She pulled a pen out of her evening bag and started sketching out a new PR campaign on a cocktail napkin. She had had enough of the world’s movers and shakers. It was time to get back to work.
Hiding Out Is Hard to Do
As Christy diagrammed her ideas, the BlackBerry in her borrowed Judith Leiber bag went off. She pulled it out and checked the message. I’D LIKE TO BUY YOU A DRINK IF YOU WON’T THROW IT IN MY FACE. MICHAEL DRUMMOND.
Christy glanced at Michael, who was standing at the other end of the bar. He was a fit-looking man with a solid build that suggested strength. His eyes were dark, his hair was black with gray speckles, and the smile he was giving her was irresistibly lopsided. She’d read articles about him in Forbes and the Wall Street Journal. Michael was the contrarian who, after graduating from Harvard Business School, didn’t want one of those investment-banking jobs his peers coveted. Instead, he took over the movie his roommate shot but couldn’t afford to edit. Relying on his Visa-card line of credit for capital, he turned his friend’s film into a critical failure but a box-office success. With the proceeds from that project, he bought and revived a flailing magazine venture. This led to the purchase of a book-publishing company, then a production operation, then cable stations. Twenty-five years later, Michael owned the largest privately held multimedia group in the country. And he’d accomplished all this without ever having to get a job. The man had a reputation for being clever, frank, and startlingly outspoken. Some found his directness refreshing; others called him rude. Attractive guy. Tough. Cute butt, too, she thought, sneaking another peek his way. Speaking of asses, don’t make one of yourself again. Be polite, but no more.
“Is it safe to join you?” Michael asked as he took the bar stool next to Christy.
“Yeah, sure. My aggressions have been sated for the moment.”
“I won’t even ask why you did it. Knowing him, he deserved it.”
She decided not to go there. “Why aren’t you at the party?”
“I followed you out. I’ve wanted to meet you since that session on Teleportation.”
“…And Other Ways Quantum Physics Can Improve Your Life, right,” Christy said, flattered in spite of herself to know that she’d made an impression on such an impressive guy. “That was mind-boggling.”
“Not as mind-boggling as you winning the indoor 3k title while training for the marathon.”
Christy almost spilled her drink. “Are you a big track fan?”
“Huge,” Michael said. “I was the fastest quarter-miler at Andover. There were no black kids in the prep schools then, so I was unstoppable.”
“No way.”
“Way,” he laughed. “Of course, when I got to college, I didn’t even make the team. Now I’m one of those track groupies who goes to all the meets.”
“So do I. Will you be at the Millrose Games next weekend?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Do you still run?” Christy asked. He seemed awfully normal for a Master of the Universe.
“Yeah. I’m competing in the Empire State Building Run-Up when we get back.”
Christy and Michael talked about their passion for running and soon abandoned the hotel bar in favor of the Jacuzzi on Michael’s terrace. Christy was grateful to have a place to hide.
To avoid any misunderstanding, Christy made her intentions clear. “You probably have women falling all over you, but I’ve sworn off romance for the second time this decade, so you don’t have to worry about me…”
“Or me. I’m a harmless middle-aged workaholic,” he said with a grin.
Since Christy didn’t have a swimsuit, she kicked off her shoes, hiked up her gown, and dangled her legs in the bubbling hot water.
Michael changed into his trunks and got in. “This feels so good in the cold air. Let me give you one of my bathing suits,” he offered.
“Kind of a half solution, don’t you think?”
“I can lend you a shirt. They’re in the closet.”
“I’ll be right back.” Christy went into Michael’s bathroom and took off her clothes. She put on one of his T-shirts, which came down to her thighs. Feeling safely unprovocative, she returned to the Jacuzzi and slipped into the water, sitting carefully on the bottom of his shirt.
The two spent the night drinking champagne and talking about everything. The pecking order at Davos. Their favorite cities. Foods they couldn’t stand. Theater. Books. People they knew in common. Their worst fears. Their first loves. It was a relief to have romance off the table. Christy hadn’t realized how much of a strain she’d been under, representing Baby G eighteen hours a day.
Michael talked about his childhood. “It was dull. We lived in Paris.”
“Paris? Dull?” Christy said.
“Paris, Texas. Dad was a fireman and Mom a housewife. In high school, I was the only Texan at Andover, on scholarship of course. Summers, I earned my college tuition cooking Mexican food at La Fonda’s in Frog Hop.”
“Frog Hop?” Christy asked.
“The next town over. Couldn’t get a girlfriend to save my life. I always smelled like enchiladas, no matter how often I bathed.”
Christy laughed. She liked Michael’s energy. He was warm and open. “I love Mexican food, especially Tex-Mex,” she said.
“I can’t even stand the smell of it anymore.” Michael went on to tell Christy how he started his business after college. She knew the story, but wanted to hear every word again from him. Listening gave her a chance to take him in, his droopy eyelids, the laugh lines around his eyes, his messy hair. He was sitting with a kind of formidable grace, unaware of his own magnetism. Christy thought he was the kind of guy you’d instinctively want by your side if anyone tried to give you trouble. She liked that.
When he talked about his daughter, who was in junior high school, and his divorce, his tone changed. His body tensed up, his hands were clenched, and he sounded older, almost bitter. It was a different Michael. He was a little scary.
“Suzanna was a college girlfriend. Things were good. Then we had Ali, and everything changed.”
Michael paused, looking away. “Suzanna became so possessive of her, never let Ali spend time with me. She seemed to be worried that I would somehow compete with her. Ali came to think of me as someone just to get money from. Suzanna threw herself into
motherhood and society events.”
“You don’t strike me as a society-ball kind of guy.”
“Yeah, it used to make Suzanna crazy. Whenever she’d drag me to a benefit, my hair would be a mess and my tuxedo shirt would look slept-in five minutes after I put it on. Couldn’t help it. It just happens. Suzanna used to yell at me that she didn’t spend thousands on gowns, jewels, hair, and makeup to be escorted by a guy who looks like the Unabomber in a tuxedo.”
“I like your tousled look. It reminds me of Al Pacino,” Christy said.
“Oh no, come on, really?”
Christy smiled. “Can I pour you another glass of champagne?”
“Absolutely,” Michael said, holding out his glass. “So, do I remind you of Al in The Godfather?”
“Mmm, noooo…I’d have to say Scarface.”
He laughed, reached over, and touched her cheek. “You’re funny, you know that? Anyway, the year Suzanna became PTA president, I was in a ski accident—almost died.”
“I think I read about that.”
“She used to visit me in the hospital, when it wasn’t clear whether or not I’d make it. But once I was on the mend, she and Ali didn’t stop by anymore. They were busy again with their own lives.”
“Who took care of you?”
“She hired staff for that. As devoted as they were, a nurse, a chef, a maid, an assistant, and a massage therapist couldn’t replace a wife. In fairness, I realized I had left them alone at times the same way when I was building my company. I wanted to start over, to make amends. But it was too late. They’d moved on. Suzanna served me with papers while I was still in the hospital.”
“Ouch,” Christy said.
“I’ll say. After that, all I wanted was to build a relationship with my daughter. But things got worse. Suzanna turned Ali against me, even accused me of molesting her. She had me thrown in jail overnight, thinking I’d settle faster if it all hit the press.”
Christy’s eyes widened, and she gave Michael a studied look. Surely he couldn’t have done anything like that. Could he? Maybe men this high-powered were all deranged. She moved away imperceptibly. All she said was “I can’t imagine giving someone the ability to hurt me that much.”
“Of course it wasn’t true,” Michael said, as though he was reading her mind. “That’s a classic tactic in big-ticket divorces. It was awful.” Michael looked embarrassed, like he regretted getting into all this.
“I love Ali so much. And to be accused of something so…” Michael drifted off. “Suzanna’s publicist made sure the story hit the papers. I had to defend myself to my own board.”
“Hearing stories like that makes me glad I decided to go it alone,” Christy said, finishing her glass of champagne. Michael’s experience freaked her out. The red-wine incident was just the tip of the iceberg of what could happen to her if she tried to take on a relationship.
“The judge threw the whole thing out. Anyway, we had a prenup. Before she pulled the child-molestation stunt, I’d offered her a lot more than we’d agreed to, but she wanted to keep Ali away from me. After she got my ass thrown in jail, I wouldn’t give her a penny more than the prenup unless she’d let me share custody.”
“And she wouldn’t?”
“Nope. She finally settled for the contract amount, but grudgingly.”
“And that wasn’t enough?”
“That’s what she said. But if a person can’t make ends meet on twelve million dollars in cash plus eighteen thousand a month in alimony, that’s just sad, don’t you think?”
Christy’s eyes widened. She couldn’t imagine having that kind of money, let alone thinking it wasn’t enough. She still counted every dollar.
“By the time the divorce came through, Ali wasn’t speaking to me. We were supposed to have weekends together, but she wouldn’t come. After the breakup, I focused on work; then my appearance really went to hell.” He smiled innocently at Christy in an obvious play for sympathy.
She chuckled. To her, he was gorgeous, but she wasn’t going to tell him that.
“I didn’t care. The funny thing was, women threw themselves at me. For a former geek, it was nirvana. I dated beautiful girls who were half my age. Predictable, huh?” He laughed. There was that cute, lopsided grin again. As his tone lightened, his whole body uncoiled and he leaned back to extend his legs, looking like a jungle cat stretching after a fight.
“You’re just a walking cliché,” Christy agreed, shaking her head. She had never felt quite so much in the presence of a king of the hill, dominant even when he seemed vulnerable. Tough exterior. Soft inside. She felt safe. She realized that Fran had made her feel fumbling and inadequate.
“What about you? Tell me the real deal on the freshman who’s rocking Davos,” Michael said, his dark eyes fixed on Christy’s.
She smiled, but the eye contact was making her feel shy. “Well, I, uh…I grew up about a hundred miles south of Chicago. Middle of nowhere, really. Public school with four thousand kids. There was nothing much special about my life except my mom died when I was ten, and then my dad figured out I could run. He was the track coach at Glenbrook High.”
“That was convenient,” Michael said.
“Dad had never been an involved parent. When it became just him and me, I’d meet him after school and train with his team. I stayed with it when I got to high school.”
“Did you love it?” Michael asked. He reached over her and turned the Jacuzzi switch. “The bubbles went off,” he explained.
“Well, I loved Dad. Running track was a way to get him to love me back.”
“There must have been more to your relationship than that,” Michael said softly.
Christy shook her head. “No, there really wasn’t. All we ever did together was train. Then we’d eat. Wyatt’s Cafeteria every night, seven days a week. Dad’s signature meal was chopped steak, green beans, fruit salad, and coconut pie. School. Train. Eat. Sleep. That was my life after Mom died.”
“Jesus, how’d you come out of that in one piece?”
“Well, I’m not sure I did,” Christy laughed, but Michael looked at her like he really wanted to know.
“Dad used to say that running was the thing that would save me,” Christy said. She stopped, noticing how smooth the water felt against her skin. Michael moved closer. His shoulder was almost touching hers. She hoped he’d forgotten what she said about just wanting to be friends. You are so weak, she thought. Who cares? He’s adorable. You swore off men, remember? That was an hour ago.
“Did it work?” Michael asked. He turned so that his shoulder rested against Christy’s.
“Did what work?” Christy asked. She was flustered by his touch.
“Did running save you?”
“Oh, right.” Pay attention, she thought.
Michael smiled. He seemed well aware of what was distracting her.
Christy acted like nothing was happening. “It taught me I would be fine as long as I won. Dad always told me that the world hates losers. He’d tell me that after every race I lost, even when I came in second. Especially when I came in second. And I missed a lot growing up that way. My strongest high school memory is running laps around that red tartan track.”
“I’ll bet you were popular.”
“Noooo. My only friends were teammates, and we were pretty competitive.”
“Are you and your dad close now?” Michael asked.
Christy looked away. “He died right after the ninety-two Olympics. Heart attack.”
“I’m sorry,” Michael said.
“Me, too,” Christy said. “At least his dream came true, through me.”
“You know, I’d heard a lot of your story, but I always wondered how you felt about track, whether you loved it or were pushed.”
“I still lie awake a lot at night and feel scared I won’t win, whatever that means.”
“You know, I’ve followed you for years. But I was too shy to meet you.”
“You, shy?”
“Yea
h. I was a nerd in high school. It took years of therapy and financial success beyond my wildest dreams to get over it,” Michael said with his lazy smile. He was making her crazy sitting this close. She sat on her hands to keep herself from reaching out to touch him.
“I was a misfit, too,” Christy said. “In seventh grade, I was already five-eight, skinny, like a baby giraffe. In fact, that became my nickname in high school, and it stuck, do you remember?”
“Of course,” Michael said. “I was in the Montjuic Stadium in ninety-two. We were all yelling ‘B-G, B-G, B-G.’”
Christy chuckled. “Right. Baby Giraffe. That’s why I named the company Baby G. But trust me, it was no fun being such a gangly kid. I would have liked to disappear, but that’s hard when you tower over everyone.” As Christy spoke, she watched Michael listen. His face betrayed a mixture of amusement and sympathy.
“Well, I’m gonna call you Beegee from now on,” Michael declared. “I like to think of you in the glory days.”
“That was a long time ago,” Christy said as she started to get out of the water.
Michael watched Christy emerge in the wet T-shirt that clung to her body. She realized this might not have been the best idea.
A few minutes later, she came back onto the terrace wearing one of the hotel’s plush robes. Her wet hair was brushed back, and she was carrying a bottle of lotion. Christy filled her champagne flute and his before settling into the chaise longue. She watched Michael drink the bubbly with obvious pleasure.
“I was at the Olympic marathon trials. I saw you qualify,” he said.
Christy was startled. “You were? I guess you really are a serious fan. Do you remember how sick I was?”
“No, what was wrong?”
“I thought you might remember because there were all these rumors that I might drop out.”
“Wait. You had diarrhea while you were running but you still won.”
“Right.” Christy was embarrassed. It was her moment of glory but humiliating as well. It was the day she realized how important winning was to her, not just her dad.
“Gutsy of you to run.”