Three and a Half Weeks (49 page)

I don’t think I can move ever again.

The building is a beautiful example of Art Deco architecture. Daniel told Ian it was constructed shortly after the famed Woolworth building, both in Lower Manhattan, and the design borrowed heavily from it. This one was not a skyscraper, however: it was a five-story limestone building, a former warehouse, now turned into giant lofts. The wedding is being held on the top floor, and includes the roof deck. At 62 degrees, it’s chilly for an outdoor event but Ian says it’s sure to have heaters, plus I’m wearing a silk wrap.

The cocktail hour is almost at a close when we arrive late due to our delayed flight, so we order drinks first and then look around. Daniel is nowhere to be seen but Ian spots a few people he knows and we gravitate toward them. One of them is Jackson Delacroix, the man who introduced Ian and Daniel.

“Mr. Blackmon, fancy meeting you here,” Jackson grins as he walks toward us to close the distance. “And, of course, the lovely Mrs. Blackmon-to-be. Hello, Ella.”

“Jackson,” I greet him, forcing a smile. Despite everything that’s ensued since that first fateful phone call he made to me, I still can’t seem to entirely shake the feeling that he’s an adversary.

“Glad you two made it in time for the ceremony. It’s slated to begin in,” he glances at the elegant timepiece on his wrist, “eight minutes. Think Daniel is nervous?”

With a mischievous smile on his face, Ian says nothing in response. I jump in. “I’m sure everyone is nervous when he or she marries. It’s the nature of the beast.”

“Aha, so you admit marriage is beastly.”

I smile sweetly. “It’s a revered institution… if you like living in an institution.”

“Ha! Ian, you’ve got a live one here. Yes, Ella, I think you’ve nailed it. Marriage is an institution. Glad I’m divorced.”

Tastefully suited ushers come to guide and escort the guests into the room where the ceremony is to be held. As it is nondenominational, a chapel isn’t required. The padded antique pews are arranged in a semi-circle so everyone will be afforded a view of the bride and groom and there are white candles and flowers all around the room. While the reverend stands waiting, his back to the gathered guests, everyone is swiftly seated. I watch the rear, anxious for a glimpse of the bride. I’ve never met Olivia, even when I was staying at her home, but Ian has, and he told me she is exceptionally beautiful—but I expected no less from looking at Daniel.

Speaking of Daniel, he now enters the room and every female eye is on him instantly. He looks so tall, his carriage perfectly erect, and his face devoid of any emotion. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen any emotion on Daniel’s face. He is wearing a tuxedo that I wouldn’t mind seeing on Ian at our wedding: it’s silk, cut with narrow lapels, and fitted to accent his long legs and broad shoulders. In a word, or maybe two, Daniel looks
spectacular.

Just behind Daniel is a tall, bearded redheaded guy who is likely his best man, followed by an elegant, middle-aged couple—I think they’re Daniel’s parents. A moment or two behind them come yet another pair: I almost can’t unglue my eyes from them to look for the bride. The man is tall and darkly gorgeous—black hair, tanned complexion, and light eyes—and the woman shines in contrast, blond and athletically beautiful. Ian leans over to whisper in my ear.

“That’s Derek Girardi, the sculptor and Olivia’s father. The woman next to him must be Olivia’s mother.”

I tear my eyes away to look at Ian. “Isn’t she his wife?”

He shakes his head. “They’re divorced. His current wife is an Ethiopian model…” he gestures with his chin, “that’s her over there, seated in the first row. Daniel tells me Girardi’s splitting with her and going back to Olivia’s mother. Interesting, eh?”

“Like a soap opera.” I look again. The man guides his companion to her seat in the front row and exits. Now everyone is seated, the room is hushed, and the strains of music waft through the room, floating on the air currents. I feel as if I’m in a dream. Everyone is beautiful here: the parents, the guests, the room itself… I want my wedding to have a similar feel.

The music picks up volume and tempo as the bride appears. She’s holding onto her father’s arm, almost leaning into him and her nervousness is palpable. Olivia is so young, but Ian didn’t lie: she is simply stunning. Against the white dress, her complexion is golden and her light blue eyes emerge prominently in contrast. My eyes are drawn immediately to her gown. Is it nicer than mine? I think it’s a Vera Wang and the design suits her age, figure, and coloring perfectly—sexy yet demure.

As they pass by us, I get a closer look. Damn, her father is hot. What must it be like to have a father who is as young and good-looking as your boyfriend or husband? Must be beyond bizarre.

Now I realize what’s different: the reverend has his back to us and Daniel is facing the guests. Brilliant. We can watch the bride and groom instead of the officiating reverend. Why don’t all weddings do that?

Derek Girardi escorts his daughter up the aisle and then around the reverend, placing her at Daniel’s side. He takes Olivia’s hand in one of his and reaches for Daniel’s hand with the other. About to place her hand in her new husband’s, her father first kisses Olivia’s fingers, and then kisses them again. At the fourth or fifth kiss, he says in a voice loud enough for many to hear, “I don’t want to give you away,” and a titter of laughter snakes through the front rows. Then he finally does, putting the couple’s hands together and saying something inaudible to Daniel. Daniel merely nods solemnly in response.

Ten minutes later, the ceremony is over. It was a beautiful wedding, short and sweet, and I adored it. Now, finally, I can see emotion in Daniel’s visage: he is beaming the most radiant smile I’ve ever seen—it could electrify the city of Manhattan. I suppose he truly loves his new wife.

We have a total blast, helped along by copious amounts of top-shelf alcohol. Jackson and his date prove to be more than entertaining and Ian chats with another man he knows through business dealings. Daniel and Olivia come over to greet us when we separate from the others. Seeing them up close and personal doesn’t at all diminish their beauty.

“Ian,” Daniel says, then signals a waiter holding a tray with glasses of champagne and the man rushes to accommodate him.

“Daniel, congratulations. Beautiful wedding, by the way.”

“Thank you. Hello, Ella. I’d like you to meet my wife, Olivia. Olivia, this is Ella, Ian’s fiancée.”

“Oh, hello. It’s so nice to meet you finally, Ella. I’m sorry I kept missing you when you were in New York. Thank you for coming so far to share the day with us. We very much appreciate it.”

I give her my biggest and best smile. “”Hopefully, you’ll be able to attend ours, too. And I’m so glad we were able to make it here because this wedding is magnificent and I wouldn’t want to have missed it.

One by one, Daniel takes the crystal flutes of champagne from the tray, handing a glass to each of us and thanking the waiter.

“Ian, I believe we agreed to toast a glass of champagne to yet another coupling?”

There’s the Ian smirk as he lifts his glass. “Yes, I recall. To happy endings.”

The four of us tilt our glasses to the center and sip the champagne. It is an excellent vintage.

“What kind of champagne are we drinking?” I ask, after swallowing that first silken sip.

Daniel and Ian look at each other, smile, and say in perfect unison, “
Dom Perignon
.”

I’m confused as to how Ian knew it was DP with one sip, but
it seems to be an inside joke between the men.

Daniel cranes his neck to catch a glance at someone passing by. “Oh, lest I forget. Ian, I promised to introduce you to Derek. Hang on.” He signals his father-in-law as he’s passing by. “Derek? May I introduce you to a friend?”

The man smiles and joins us. Damn, I’m surrounded by startlingly handsome men. I must have done something to please the gods recently. The past year or so I’ve been lucky beyond measure in that regard.

“Derek, this is Ian Blackmon. Ian, Derek Girardi. The lovely young lady next to him is Ella Strong, his fiancée.”

Derek bestows upon us a smile that would make most women drop their panties at his first request, and everyone exchanges handshakes and pleasantries.

“Derek, Ian has been diligently trying to acquire one of your smaller pieces to no avail.”

“Oh? Thank you for supporting my work, Ian.”

Ian nods, smiling while Daniel continues, “I was hoping you might help him procure one of the pieces that you hold back, Derek.”

The older man nods his head. “I happen to have some earlier, more diminutive works in my studio. If you and Ella have time during your stay in New York, you’re more than welcome to drop by and see if there’s anything to your liking.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Girardi. I will certainly do so.”

“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. I
t’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.

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… uncomfortably.”

“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?”