At Mr. Cartwright's Command (18 page)

MR. CARTWRIGHT

“
I
'
m afraid Mr. Cartwright is out of the office right now, sir. Would you like me to take a message for him?”

I scoff.  “When will he return?”

“I'm not sure.  He said he had an errand to run and didn't give us any further information.  Would you like me to jot down a message for him?”

As soon as my father is dead and I inherit this business, this useless secretary of his will be the first thing to go.

I lean down towards her, hovering over her desk. She looks slightly intimidated, as she should.  “Do you know who I am?” I hiss.

“Yes.”

“I'm not quite sure you do. I'm his son.”

“Yes, I'm aware.  He told us not to let you into his office under any circumstances.”Why am I not surprised?  I put on a fake smile and reply, “Wonderful. I'll wait for my father in his office.”

I move away from the desk and I see the secretary stand up from the side of my eye.  “I can't let you do that!” she calls out to me as I carelessly push through the heavy metal doors.  I'd love to see her try and stop me.

This particular office of his I haven't been in since he remodeled it almost a decade ago. I have to admit, it looks good.  One wall sports his logo, the other a portrait of himself.  In between sits a wide, floor-to-ceiling window with a panoramic view of the city, situated right behind his desk. 

It's no surprise that his desk is devoid of any photos of his family, yet there's a giant one of himself hanging on the wall.  That pretty much sums up my father.

I hear the door creak behind me and I fully expect it to be that meddling secretary.  I'm quite surprised when I hear my father's voice instead.

“Who let you in here?” he asks as he enters.

“It sure as hell wasn't Stacey, she tried her hardest to keep me out.”

“Well, good on her,” he says as he walks around me. He looks me up and down and says, “You look like shit.”

“I suppose I am my father's son.”

He moves behind the desk.  “What do you want? Some of us have to work for a living, you know.”

My voice grows darker.  “I want to know why you fucking leaked those photos of Tamara to the press.”

His face lights up. He's grinning from ear to ear as he kicks back in his chair, placing his heels on the edge of his desk.

“I heard your little mistress is out of a job right now.  I guess she has you to thank for that.”

“You're lying.”

“Try me. Go ahead and call the flower shop. Ask for her and see what happens.”

My eyes narrow.  “This is your fault!” I shout, slamming my fists against his desk.

“Awe, don't worry her. She'll be well taken care of. In fact, I just got back from a little business meeting with her.”

“What?”

“Did I stutter, son?”

“If you hurt Tamara I'll fucking kill you.”

He waves a hand at me.  “Hurt? No, you do enough of that on your own,” he says. I feel my face burn with anger.  “Like I said, I took care of her.  I presented her with an offer she couldn't refuse.  And she didn't.”

My whole face contorts.  “What did you do to her?”

“I didn’t do anything
to
her, I did something
for
her.  I offered her money and, let's just say, everyone has a price.”

“Money for what?” I asked curiously.

“Money to stay away from you, my dear son. So depending on how you look at it, this could really be seen as a present to both of you.”

I start to chuckle.  “You foolish old man,” I say.

“I beg your pardon?” he asks.

“You’re foolish because you wasted your money.  She and I were done.  She ended it,” I explain bitterly.

“And that's the sad part about this whole situation. But let's be real here, that wouldn't have stopped you from trying to get her back.  But now she has an incentive to stay far, far away from you.”

I shake my head.  “Tamara wouldn't take your money.”

“Oh, but she did. She took yours, didn't she? I guess technically that means she's always been taking my money, but you get the point.”  He ends his sentence with an arrogant smile. I'd love to smack the smile right off his smug face.  “I guess she really is done with you for good,” he adds with a snicker.

My eyes narrow and I sneer at him, but he only seems to get a kick out of my anger.  The sick bastard.  I stand up straight and smooth my blazer out with my hands.  “You can consider your invitation to the wedding revoked.”

He cocks his head and says, “Awe, and here I was hoping to walk my only daughter down the aisle.”

“You're going to die alone, you know that right?”

His eyes flutter. “You should be thanking me, but as usual you're nothing but an ungrateful twat.  I saved your marriage and your inheritance after your little fiance tried to sabotage both.”

My eyes grow wide as I stare him down.

“It wasn't hard to figure out who planted that photo.  Wake up!  Your fiance is keeping tabs on you.  She was waiting for you to screw up so she could hold it over your head.”

Veronica.  Fucking Veronica.  I suppose that does make even more sense than Walt.

“Goodbye, Father,” I say to him as I turn and head for the door.

“Goodbye, Son.  And don't set foot in this office again.”

TAMARA

I
stare down at my cellphone, as I've been doing for the past two hours.  It's opened to an app I downloaded back when I started working that lets me manage my bank account remotely.  I almost deleted it after I quit and now I'm wishing I had, because staring at my six digit balance isn't particularly productive.

Walt might be a snake but he's a man of his word.  He promised me $200,000, and there it is, sitting in my bank account.  I can barely believe it –in fact, In not sure if I do.  I've never had more than a few hundred dollars to my name at any time. And even then, it always evaporated quickly and dwindle down to zero in no time.  So maybe that's why I keep staring at the numbers—I'm expecting them to disappear, but for some reason they don't.

My short-term instincts scream at me to spend it and spend it quick before it magically disappears like money always seems to do, but I can't bring myself to do so.  For one thing, if he changed his mind and took the money back after a wild spending spree I'd end up in an even bigger rut than I am now. I could end up owing thousands or hell, I could even end up in jail and that would be worse than being on the street.

But it's the guilt of spending it that weighs the heaviest on me.  Even though I have more money than I ever imagined, keeping it and spending it would be like telling Walt he won. It would validate all of his nastiness.  I've always despised people like him—the ones who use their money to control and to keep the little man down so they can keep feeding their fat pockets.  So how am I any better if I'm part of that?

So for the next few days I lay low.  As wrong as it is for me to keep the money, the last thing I want is for Walt to know that I'm still in town and take it all back.   So technically, I do what he says, packing up my bare necessities and hauling myself out of town, to a tiny motel in a not so safe Jersey location.  Could I afford better? Easily.  But I don't have the luxury of being frivolous when I know the money won't last for long.

My life for the last handful of days has been anything but thrilling. Most people dream of not having to work, but for me, working was a privilege.  I enjoyed doing something productive with my time, especially since I was investing in my own well being.  Besides, it wasn't like I had anything or anyone to go home to.

Now, I wake up, I eat breakfast, I go for a run, I eat lunch, I do a few chores or wash clothing, I eat  dinner,  I watch some mindless television, and I go to bed. Lather, rinse, repeat.  I consider buying a laptop or at least a tablet, they're only a couple hundred dollars anyway, but I can't bring myself to do so.

I start going to the library frequently and using their computers to research.  Walt told me to take a trip and leave the country, which is something I never considered. I was always so worried about finding a roof to live under that I never considered what life was like outside of the US, and the idea of taking some sort of luxury vacation was just ludicrous.  Against my better judgment I look up a few travel blogs by female solo travelers and even do a few searches on travel websites to see what the prices would be.  Plenty of locations, especially islands, would be considered affordable for the average middle-classer.  And it's not like a couple thousand would put a real dent on my bank account right now.  But the thought of throwing that kind of money around nearly gives me the
hives.

I sit back and sigh. My eyes travel across the screen to the red and blue banner for some for-profit school with the words .edu scrawled over it.  Looking into schools is the one thing I've been putting off, for whatever reason. How do you decide what you want to do with your life when you have no idea what you're good at?  I'm so far from knowing where to start.

*

The next day I awake to the sound of my cellphone buzzing against the wooden nightstand next to the bed.  I become tangled up in sheets as I twist my body to reach out for it.  Who is texting me anyway? The only ones who ever text me were Melissa and Connor, and I know it's not either of them.

There's just a number that shows up on my screen—no name, so it isn't someone in my contacts. I click it curiously and read the message.

JERSEY ISNT FAR ENOUGH

LEAVE THE COAST

OR THE COUNTRY.

My heart nearly stops.  How the hell did he get my phone number, and even worse, how does he know here I am? 

I soon realize there's more.  Below the message is a series of photos. They look similar to the paparazzi photos taken of me and Mr. Cartwright, except it's him and Veronica.  Walking arm and arm, down the street and without a care in the world.

Now I know my heart is working, because it hurts.

I look at that picture for way too long before trying to find some way to delete it or block him from ever messaging me again, but I can't. Then I read his text message again and start to freak out.
Shit.
  I start to panic as I flip through my phone and open up that bank app. Waiting for it to load is even more nerve wrecking.

$198,032

A long sigh of relief escapes my lips.  But, it's dwindling. Just like I knew it would.

It's time to get out.

But there's something important I have to do first.

*

The Statewall Women's Shelter is some place I swore I'd never return to.  Even standing outside it right now is difficult, intimidating even, despite the fact that I know I have a home of my own to go back to.  There's already a line forming—I remember waiting at the end of that line day in and day out.  Despite the violent flashbacks it causes, I soften when I see those women there, just waiting for a bed, and I know it's all worth it.

I march through the big double doors, getting looks from more than one woman as they assume I'm bypassing the line.  The lady at the front desk barely looks up at me as I whisk past her and straight to the treasury department.   And as I do, my mind flashbacks yet again to my time staying here. I remember the much older white lady who used to show up at the end of the month, every month, on the dot.  She was impeccably dressed and always had giant sunglasses on that covered her face.  She would arrive and leave in the same black sedan every time.  For so long I wondered who she was so I hid out in the hall one day when she came to visit.  I overheard her conversation and, as it turned out, she made monthly donations to keep the shelter afloat. I never found out how much, but I always had a hunch it was a lofty amount—she was obviously loaded. The fact that people like her existed was bizarre to me at the time; I always wondered what it was like to be her.

After a few years she stopped coming and I never saw her again.

Walking down the hall with a check in my purse is a rush.  I rap lightly at the slightly cracked door and wait for someone to respond.

“Come in, please,” says  a soft voice on the other side.

I ease the door open to find a woman bent over a desk, writing something furiously, amidst what seems to be an organized mess of files and papers. She looks up at me over her glasses with a kind smile.  She looks to be in her mid 40s, with skin the same shade as mine and caring eyes.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

“Hi, yes, I'd like to make a donation,” I say. “Is this the right place.”

Her eyes light up in a way that makes me think she doesn’t hear those words too often.  “Yes, of course, it's much appreciated.”

I smile back at her, and reach into my purse, pushing aside the one-way plane ticket and grabbing the folded up check instead.  I hand it to her, automatically feeling a pang of guilt as I do so.  I could have given back even more.  And one day, I plan to.

“Thank you, any little bit hel—” her voice trails off and her eyes widen as she looks down at the amount and then back up at me again. “Are you sure this number is right?” she asks.

“I'm positive.”  I flash her a tight smile.  “I hope it helps.”

She crashes back against her chair, seemingly speechless and eying the check like she doesn't believe it. Surely she sees larger donations on a regular basis?  “I... of course it will.  If only we had more angels like you.”

Her words warm my heart.

“For something like this we need to make you a plaque or dedicate a wing to you or something!” she says.

What? “No, please don't.”

“It's a tradition.”

“I'd really rather not.  It's just extra money that could go towards the shelter.  And I'd like to keep the donation anonymous.”

She sighs and shakes her head.  “Alright, if that's your wish.”

“It is.  Thank you,” I say.  My eyes drop to the floor and I acknowledge her with a nod before slipping out of the door.

“Ms. Pierce, one more thing,” I hear her say.

I turn back towards her.  “Yes?”

Her brows lower as she stares at the check.  “I don't like to question our donors motives but...by chance do you, or did you, have a relative here?”

I shake my head.  “No, this place helped me when I needed it.”

Now she looks like she wants to cry.  “God bless you. And congratulations on your good fortune.”

“Thank you,” I say, closing the door behind me as I leave.

Leaving that place for the final time is like a weight off my shoulders.  I've come full circle, I've closed a loop.  That chapter of my life is over and I'll never go back, I swear it.  Unless there's a check in my hand, of course.

I head down the street, passing the line of women that's grown even longer by now.  At the end of the line there's an older woman who's hunched over in a wheelchair—she looks familiar and her eyes are locked on me.

“Well look at you,” she says as I attempt to pass by.  “You're just a pretty as your mother, you know?”

I stare at her incredulously, trying to place her face.  How would she know my mother and I?  It's been over a decade since I lived with her. 

“Thank you,” I reply. I reach into my purse and pull out a few dollars and hand them too her. 

She waves her had at it dismissively.  “Oh no, sweetheart, that's your hard earned money. I'll be taken care of just fine in here,” she says, nodding at the building.

My heart feels heavy, just thinking about someone her age struggling to get by and having to live out their last days in a place like this.

“How about I get you a room for the night. Or a hot meal?” I ask her.

She grins.  “I don't need anything fancy, dear.  You see, you're sweet just like your mother too.”

I realize that she probably has dementia or something, which only makes the situation even more sad.  “Are you sure you're alright there?” I ask her once again.

“Well why wouldn't I be? I'll have a warm bed and a roof over my head.  I've been through plenty worse.”

“Alright,” I say, resigned.  I pause for a moment thinking about her words earlier.  “Why do you think you know my mother?” I ask.

“I do know your mother!  She used to come in to my old nursing home.  And then she stopped.  Last I heard she was at Stepping Stones.”

Stepping Stones?  That doesn't make sense at all. For one thing, it was a rehab center and I don't believe for a second that anyone could ever convince my mother to go one of those.  And if she did, there's no way she could afford any place as ritzy as Stepping Stones.

“You know, you should visit her sometime. I'm sure she'd love to see you,” she adds.

Well that's worth a laugh, although I can't bring myself to do so.  “Of course, I will,” I say, lying to her for her own benefit. “Have a nice night.”

“You too, dear.”

*

I look down at my watch and up at the building in the distance several times.  I know I have plenty of time before my plane leaves, but I try to come up with an excuse—
any
excuse—not to go inside.  But curiosity gets the better of me, and I have to know if the old lady was right. Had she really found my mother?  Do I even want to see my mother again after everything she did to me?  I'm sure this is a wild goose chase, but even thinking about it makes me apprehensive.

There's a long cobblestone walkway that cuts through a well-manicured lawn, leading up to the front door of Stepping Stones. It looks more like a house than a rehab center—albeit a very large house.  It's serene and peaceful, warm and inviting; I can understand why addicts and their families would pay the high price tag to come here.

After a moment of hesitation I follow the path and step inside the building. The interior is just as nice and calming as the outside, although it looks less like a home, what with the front desk and all. 

“Hello. May I help you?” a young woman sitting behind the desks asks as I approach.

“Yes, um,” I stumble all over my words and then pause, lacing my fingers nervously together on the marble counter.  A little voice in my head reminds me that it's not too late to turn and walk away.  I don't
have
to do this.  I could be opening up a can of worms that I just don't need right now. But ultimately my curiosity won't be satiated until I know for sure.  “Is...there a Michelle Pierce here?” I ask.