Mikalo's Grace (8 page)

"Tell me," he then whispered.

So I did.

The wine kept coming as I told him of my
father and his lies, my mother and her hopes. My marriage and the
constant hurt, the shame, the loneliness.

And then I told him of the death and the
years spent building and rebuilding a man who never existed.

The restaurant emptied, chairs going up on
tables, the two of us eventually wandering into the night, hand in
hand.

He walked me to my door, insisting on
returning to the hotel.

"Thank you," he said as he drew close and
kissed me. "It took courage to share and I love you, yes, love you
even more for it."

I smiled, returning his kiss and holding him,
squeezing him tight.

He pulled away.

"But my Grace, there is a question of trust.
It is important you trust. Without this, it will be difficult to
keep you in my heart. It must be learned. Please."

And then with a smile and a slight nod, he
turned to go, walking into the dark.

Chapter
Seventeen

"You're serious, aren't you?"

I nodded.

Deni leaned back with a sigh.

We sat in the breakfast nook, the large,
rambling kitchen with its blood-red Italian tile and shiny
stainless steel and rich, buttery slabs of butcher's block to the
left, the vast green of Central Park a couple of blocks away spied
through the large windows to the right.

And somewhere nearby, the sounds of her
maids, one carefully unwrapping yet another delivery of new clothes
-- Chanel this time, I believe --, the second just as carefully
hanging the stratospherically expensive garments on racks and
cataloging them before wheeling them into one of Deni's many
walk-in closets.

My omelet sat on the plate in front of me,
ignored.

I did drink the mimosa, though.

My second.

"Jacob's traveling?" I asked, well aware her
husband of fifteen years was rarely, if ever, in New York. I wasn't
sure how this marriage worked. But somehow it did. Or at least
seemed to.

Although we were close, Deni and I, it wasn't
something we discussed.

"LA," she said, spooning homemade ketchup
onto her plate. "We've decided to sell the house in Malibu. Having
the ocean outside your door is nice, he says, but it's too damn far
from everything. And when it rains, the highway ... oh, what's it
called --"

"PCH," I offered, my time at UCLA making me
more than familiar with Pacific Coast Highway.

"Yes, right," she said. "PCH turns into one,
gigantic, pain in the ass mudslide. Living by the beach is
overrated. Or so he says.

"Any-hoo, he's found a house in Bel-Air. On
Bellagio. With a pool, a view of LA, a tennis court. You know, same
ol', same ol'."

"Sounds nice. You haven't seen it?"

"Oh, I loathe LA. You know that. Just can't
conceive living my life in a t-shirt and jeans. Besides, do I look
like the yoga-going, smoothie drinking, pull my hair back into a
bouncy ponytail-type? No. No, I do not.

"I never even saw the house in Malibu, so I
doubt I'll see this one," she then said, stabbing some eggs and
stuffing them into her mouth.

"I had no idea his business would take him to
the Coast so much," I said.

"Nor did I," came the reply between
bites.

"So," she said, changing the subject as she
dunked another forkful of eggs into ketchup and then happily popped
it in her mouth, her Brooklyn roots as evident as always, "What's
the plan? Go in there, fall to your knees, and beg?"

"No, of course not."

"Then what?"

"Calmly explain my position, calmly point out
Mikalo's strengths and why they should reconsider, and calmly
--"

"Leave as the all your colleagues, all these
Partners, laugh at you and your career goes down the crapper," she
interrupted.

"Ronan, stop and think," she continued.
"Please."

"I am thinking --"

"Heart or head?" she asked, putting her fork
down and lacing her fingers under her chin as she leaned forward
and waited for my answer.

I paused.

"Heart or head?"

"Head," I finally said.

"You're such a damn liar," she said as she
picked up her fork and dug into her eggs again. "It's heart and you
know it. And you know as well as I do that when you think with your
heart, especially when it comes to business, things get screwed up
and complicated real quick."

She looked at me now.

"Ronan, my dear, dear Ronan, if you think
with your head, for just one second, you know the best thing to do
is let it be what it's going to be. Blazen and Jeffords and
everyone else over there will decide what they decide. And if it
means your Mikalo has to haul his ass back to Greece, well, so be
it.

"You've just met him. Are you sure he's worth
hurting your career over? And would he do the same for you?"

I put my head in my hands, the beginning of a
major headache starting somewhere near the base of my neck.

"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know," I
said, my voice muffled by my palms.

"Well, before you do anything monumentally
stupid, you better know."

Standing to go, I finished the mimosa.

"Thank you, Deni," I said, putting the
delicate flute back on the table.

"Leaving already?"

"Yeah, I need to walk. Clear my head."

"I'm sorry if I --"

"No, no, no, no. It's fine. You're right. I
know that. I just need to convince my heart, that's all. And
walking --"

"Got it. I completely understand," she
interrupted.

"Personally, I always find a stroll down
Madison helps," she then said with a wink before popping another
forkful of light, fluffy, ketchup drenched eggs in her mouth.

Chapter
Eighteen

The orderly chaos of that wide stretch of
72nd Street had been oddly comforting. The noise, the traffic, the
rush of anonymous passersby as they weaved and bobbed, angled and
pushed.

But this, this is what I'd waited for. What
my soul was needing. Where I knew I would end up all along, my
saunter turning to a brisk walk as I turned left at Madison and
strode past one expensive store after another, my goal in
sight.

Barney's.

Once through those revolving glass doors at
60th Street, the brightly lit cosmetics counters in full view,
handbags straight ahead, designer clothes waiting up the escalators
discreetly tucked in around to the left, the associates at once
recognizing me as a guaranteed commission and as solicitous as
ever, my headache disappeared and all seemed right with the
world.

Of course shopping wouldn't solve anything.
The growing complication of Mikalo would still be there. As would
my even quicker growing adoration of him.

And Deni was right. Blazen and Jeffords would
make their decision regardless of what I or anyone else said or
did.

But the thought of him leaving filled me with
dread.

I needed to shop. Work could wait. For once.
Janey could juggle calls, the Byzan file could languish for the
morning, and if there were any emergencies, I had my cell.

This was for me.

Stepping away from the doors, I turned left,
the small room before me dedicated exclusively to my long-standing
passion.

Goyard.

Not having the patience to wait who knew how
many years for a Birkin from Herm
ès
, I had fallen in love with these little known,
chevroned beauties when, one misty afternoon, the concrete shining
and wet, the clouds low and me with the collar of my coat up
against the chill of the Paris air, I had wandered away from the
Place Vend
ôme,
sauntered
down the short rue de Castigilione, and, turning left onto rue
Saint-Honor
è, s
tumbled
across their little store just a block away.

Hours -- and thousands of euros -- later, I
was the ecstatic owner of several handbags that were distinctive,
deliciously luxe, available in almost all the colors of the
rainbow, and not as prevalent as Gucci or, God forbid, Louis
Vuitton.

And as the years passed, my closets soon
overflowed with bags and purses, shoulder bags and briefcases.
Small wallets and larger passport holders. Even larger suitcases
shoved on the top shelves. My initials emblazoned on everything in
bright, durable paint.

"Good morning, Miss Grace," the familiar
voice of Shanelle, the manager, was saying.

"Good morning," I replied with a small smile.
"I'm just looking."

"Of course," she said, both of us familiar
with the lie. "If you need anything ..."

I nodded, stepping away as I eyed the
shelves.

Had it, had it, had it, didn't need it, had
it, didn't want it, had it.

This was getting ridiculous, everything
familiar, almost all of it already mine.

"There may be more coming in from Paris next
week," Shanelle offered politely.

Next week was not now. And I needed now.

I turned, glanced at the counters, peered in
at the smaller, no less expensive items waiting beneath sheets of
glass, locked tight.

Wait a minute.

I paused, my newly beloved waiting below, the
craziest thought running through my mind. An impossibility now
capturing my imagination, the reality that buying this would be a
step too far quickly being smothered into submission by the sudden
knowing that, although way too much way too soon, it was absolutely
the right thing to do.

And, reason and logic be damned, I was doing
it.

He's going to love it.

"If I could ...?" I asked.

Shanelle approached, key in hand.

"Oh yes," she said as she unlocked the case
and brought the slender item out. "I love this. It's so gorgeous,
isn't it? And so useful.

"Now, we do have it in this dark blue, of
course, which is very nice. But it also comes in red, in dark
green, our usual --"

"No, no, dark blue is fine," I said as I dug
for my wallet.

"I'll take it."

Chapter
Nineteen

"Oh my god," she mouthed to me as I
approached.

"What?"

I hadn't been that long.

Okay, maybe I had. The second floor of
Barney's really was my own little Bermuda Triangle, the hours just
disappearing.

And then a girl had to eat, right? Ergo,
lunch at Daniel. A leisurely lunch.

I deserved it, didn't I?

Yes.

I refused to apologize.

But, yeah, I was pretty late. I'd make up for
it by burning some midnight oil.

Someday.

Janey pointed into my office.

"In there," she mouthed again.

I entered.

Mikalo sat in a guest chair, a small bag from
Henri Bendel at his feet.

Janey was at my heels.

"Again, can I, uh, get you anything?" she
asked. "Coffee, water, tea. A neck rub."

"Janey."

"No?"

Mikalo looked at her.

She melted.

"I would like a coffee now, if you please.
But from the coffee shop, if that is good."

He looked at me.

"You know the one, my Grace?"

"My Grace?" she mouthed to me, positively
swooning.

"Our usual place," I said to her, trying to
keep calm. "Make that two."

She lingered.

"Thank you. You can go."

She didn't.

"Now."

Reluctantly, she left.

Mikalo rose and closed the door.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, trying
not to sound angry. Or worried. Or frightened. Or guilty for being
late. Still.

"My meeting is at three, no? I am here early.
I am saying hello."

Shit! It was almost three?

Whoops.

He approached.

I slipped behind the desk, the large plate of
heavy glass sitting on thick, black, rough wood, the legs crossed
in an x between us, the wall of glass behind me spilling to
Manhattan below.

"You can't be here."

"But I am," he said.

Damn his logic.

"No, you can be here, of course. I mean, ...
what I mean to say is it might hurt my work for you to be here.
Right now, I mean. And, trust me, Mikalo, I have a lot of work to
do. A lot."

He turned from me to wander around the
office.

Paused to gaze at the Rothko anchoring one
wall and then moved to admire the smaller modernist x-table sitting
between the art deco leather chairs, a mirrored mercury credenza to
the side, a second paining, a cubist period Picasso hanging
above.

Coming across a closed door,

"Oh, a secret," he said. "May I?"

He opened the door.

"It's a restroom, Mikalo. It's no big deal.
Now, please, can you just please go."

He turned again, coming toward me.

I backed away.

Skirting the desk, he caught me, bringing me
close.

"A kiss."

Relenting, I kissed him.

Suddenly, he spun me, catching me off-guard,
his arms lifting me as he carried me into the restroom.

We stopped as he closed the door, his back
against it, blocking it.

"My Grace," he said, his lips on mine as his
hands lifted my skirt.

"No, no, no," I said, resisting him, my hand
now dueling his as I struggled to get the fabric out of his
fist.

"I need you. And there is not much time." he
said. "Please."

I kissed him again. I couldn't help it.

His hand was on my skirt again.

And then under my skirt, the warmth of his
palm, his fingers, tracing the fabric beneath.

"I rip this, yes?"

"No, don't."

"But if I hurt something of yours, I get a
new one, no?"

"Mikalo, please don't --"

Suddenly, he ripped my panties from me, the
torn fabric clenched in his fist.

I was wet.