After Her (20 page)

I nod, trying to be supportive, but this is the most morbid favor anyone ever ask me to do.

“Of course, yes.”

She inhales. Stray tears streak down her face, bringing her mascara down with it.

“We’ll go into the funeral home and look around. I'm thinking of something elegant and classy, you know? Maybe um, gardenias for the flowers and uh…mahogany wood for the casket. What do you think?”

“You’re asking
me
?” I ask, my voice a nervous squeak. “I’ve never had to do this before. I don’t know how much I can even help.”

“Cassandra until now, I’ve so much time sorting out the posthumous finances that I haven’t paid a single dime toward the actual funeral. I can’t put it off any longer. Carrick has given my final expiration date. January is the target month. I need your input, not just as an employee, but also as a friend.”

“Not just Gardenias,” I say after a contemplative pause. “Dahlias too. To maintain some sophistication, you should wear white. It’s an innocent color. You’d look beautiful.”

She offers up a small smile and takes my hand to give it a gentle squeeze. With a deep breath, she exits the car. I follow, remaining behind her like a wagging tail, ready to take notes during the most morbid chore I’ve ever had to do.

Sliding doors open for us. Inside, a massive showroom floor of caskets sit as models all over the room. Reminds me of a furniture store or a used car lot. Walk in, look around, pick out your deathbed and try it on for size like a new blouse. Sounds more than morbid. Sounds almost masochistic.

Overall, the whole place has an oddly jovial feel to it, which is weird considering that it a business that specializes in death. A few other customers circle the room, whispering about the merchandise. A salesman wanders the showroom, searching for someone to sale something to.

Vivian saunters to the front desk and greets the young cashier who gives her a look of sudden adulation.

“Oh my god,” the cashier says. “You’re…are you Vivian Lynch?”

Vivian reacts with a broad smile, polite and sociable. I almost expect her to curtsey. It’s odd how she can turn her emotions on and off the way she does. Less than five minutes earlier, she’d been blubbering over her inevitable demise. Now, she’s chatting up fans and practically signing autographs.
What the hell?

“My mother spoke nothing, but good about you,” the cashier adds. “Thank you so much for visiting her at the hospital. You made her last few months…her best.”

“It was my pleasure,” says Vivian. “I felt better just being around her. Really put my condition into perspective.”

The cashier shifts a brief, but forlorn glance between Vivian and me. “So I guess you not in remission?” she asks.

Vivian looks over at me, grabs my hand and shakes her head at the cashier.

“No, I’ve decided against chemotherapy so…it looks like I’ll be passing soon. I want you to know that your mother gave me so much hope, taught me so much. She helped make it easier.”

The cashier nods, her face straining to retaining some composure. “You hang in there, Mrs. Lynch. You have my prayers.”

One collective nod later, Vivian leads me away from the desk. She grabs a pamphlet from one of the magazine racks sitting in the aisle before hiding into the jungle of caskets decorating the showroom.

“You know that cashier?” I ask her.

She nods while perusing the pamphlet. “Yeah, her mother was a dear friend of mine. The poor thing passed from ovarian cancer a few months ago. Truly broke my heart, believe it or not.”

“Why wouldn’t I believe it?” I ask. She doesn’t answer my question, though it’s a valid one. Why would she assume I’d dispute her on something like that? It’s as if she’s just given herself a disclaimer.

“We’ll start in the back,” she announces. “I see the better quality caskets.”

We move toward the back of the room, bouncing ideas back and forth. I jot down notes. Vivian insists on a big extravagant event for the day of her passing. I'm not surprised. A woman like her with so many fans, must need a venue big enough to seat thousands. I suspect she’ll need a fucking stadium.

“Streamers and fireworks,” she mentions at one point. “And a hollow ice sculpture filled with wine. Did you write that down?”

I nod. “Of course Vivian.” I write, collecting all of her fanciful funeral whims on paper. I’d like to say I don’t believe she’s serious about having streamers and fireworks, but I swear she is. Vivian seems like a
go-big-or-go-home
kind of woman. Nothing she plans as an event is ever going to be quiet or modest. In her head, I'm sure she’s queen of her own world.
Thus, she should be celebrated like one!

“Good girl,” she tells me, falling just short of patting me atop like head for being a good dog. Before she can, her cell phone rings. She scowls at the sound until she looks at the screen to see who’s calling. Her face lights up
then
.   

“I have to take this call. It’s business. Apparently, none of my other employees can do without me,” she says, but her urgency to take this particular call leaves me to wonder if she’s as begrudgingly obligated to tend to this as she makes it seem.

I watch her sashay away, answering, “
hello”
before disappearing somewhere as far away from me as possible. Strike two. Why is she being so secretive about her phone calls now? At Carrick’s office, she blabbed for an hour muttering obscenities with me in the room. Now, she protects that phone like it’s her lifeline. She returns twenty minutes later after finishing the call. Returns with a giddy smile.

“Did you handle the business?” I ask, trying not to sound suspicious.

Vivian shrugs. “It was just my publicist, Judy, calling to get a rundown for tomorrow’s chore run.”

“You have a publicist?”

“Someone has to keep my social affairs in order.”

“Then what’s my job?” I ask and I can’t believe I'm actually almost offended. “Seriously why do you need me when you have
her
?”

“Judy was a suggestion made by Adrian,” she says. “Several years ago, many of our personal disputes and martial altercations became a little too public. Judy kept the media at bay when the situation became a feeding frenzy.”

“You mean she does damage control anytime you or Adrian fuck up?” I correct her.

Vivian almost glares at me, but it’s like she readjusts her expression to adopt something more passive. I get the feeling she’s debating whether to punch me. I step to one side, bracing for something I'm convinced is inevitable.

“Cassandra, do you have something you want to say to me?” she asks in a forcibly polite voice. I debate now. Inciting a fight with her could lead to more than I can handle. I’ve already seen too many instances of Vivian’s temper when shit hits the fan. The woman can be a hellcat if you piss her off, but I’ve held my tongue about this for too long.

“You spent so much time telling me about Adrian’s indiscretions and all the sins he’s committed during your marriage, but you never mentioned any of yours,” I say. “That’s called a lie by omission, Vivian.”

“I have never lied to you or made you think I'm something that I'm not,” she retorts. “I accept the consequence of my mistakes. God delivered it to me in a big box with a red ribbon and called it cancer.”

“You weren’t gonna tell me about the assaults on your rap sheet?”

Her brow furrows, lips pinched into tight scrunch.

“Where did you hear this?”

“I
Googled
you,” I say. “You know what’s funny? The internet has an amazing memory.”

Her eyes narrow. She’s not fighting that infamous temper anymore.

“Did the internet mention that those charges were dropped?” she remarks. “Or that two of those cases were false accusations? Cassandra, I thought you were smarter than that. Adrian and I are two of the most influential and affluent people in this country. Everyday we’re targets for the money hungry con artists of the world. People deliberately seek us out to pick fights so they have a reason to sue. If I’ve attacked anyone, assaulted anyone, it’s because they deserved it. I will
not
be browbeaten by anyone, certainly not you. So, are you done being accusatory toward me? I’d like to finish planning my funeral.”

I stare abashedly at her, feeling a familiar heat permeate my face, luring sweat from my hairline. It drips down the nape of my neck. Then I nod, feeling like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m done.”

Vivian puts on her phoniest Barbie doll smile. “Good.”

Her phone rings again. This time, she doesn’t even look at the screen before answering, “Sorry dear, I'm afraid I’ll have to call you back.”

22

When Vivian drops me off back at my apartment, she hasn’t said a word.

She doesn’t even acknowledge at me as I exit the car. I saunter up the walkway toward the building and Vivian pulls off in a cloud of smog, driving so fast that the stench of rubber from her tires loiters in the air in its absence.

I'm not sure what confines me where I stand. All I'm aware of in this exact moment of uncertainty is that I don’t like the way she left. I have had my share of the silent treatment. The alienation doesn’t alarm me, but from Vivian, this kind of silence could mean anything.

My next thought is a forbidden one. I considered it twice during lunch, but swore it off, wanting to convince myself that it would do more harm than good. If I’ve learnt anything at all from this fiasco, it’d be that trying to deal with Vivian Lynch on my own has never yielded many great results.

I reach into my purse fishing for my cell phone, instead finding Adrian’s business card.

His so-called
private
line, reserved solely for me. I’ve resisted this phone call, often found myself in the middle of the night debating whether to dial the number.

“No,” I tell myself after tucking the card away. I have my hands full enough with Vivian.

I can’t control them both at once. I amble further up the walkway, between Sasha’s mini-coop and some random red Pinto occupying the space beside my car. The closer I approach, the clearer I see the sheet of paper tucked beneath my windshield wiper. I don’t find it odd…at first.

Most of the students around here belong to organizations that require they type up some cheap flyers promoting whatever fraternity or sorority they belong to. I suspect nothing but solicitation. I usually discard these things. Sasha and I get so many a month that the eighty percent of our trash intake is packed with promotional leaflets.

I walk past my car, swiping the flyer without a second thought, not bothering to read it until I'm halfway up the second flight of stairs en route to my apartment. My hand grips the metal stairway banister. It’s not a conscious reaction and not something I think to do until I realize that I'm nauseous after reading the flyer.

“Sleep with one eye open around
them
,” it says. “Signed Anonymous.”

Nowhere on the flyer does it reveal its author. I buckle at the knees, fearing I might collapse down the stairs as my thoughts run rampant, fueled with nothing but accusations.

My suspicion lands on yesterday’s encounter, something that I thought was a fluke I could forget. That man and his camera. The one I’d seen looming behind my car. He wasn’t just snapping pictures. He was warning me.

* * *

I'm in my car before I know it. Autopilot is the mode I'm in because I don’t remember the next few minutes. I remember traffic and red lights. I remember stop signs and bumpy roads. Nothing else comes to mind even after I’ve reached my destination.

I'm sure I’d read the address correctly from Adrian’s business card. Even so, I don’t think a place like this could exist anywhere, but downtown. At night, I'm sure it’s lit up, top to bottom like a Christmas tree glistening in the heart of the city.

I spend several minutes adjusting my eyes to the sight, using my hand to block the glint of sun reflecting light from the glass windows. According to Forbes, it’s seventy floors of glass and steel. A phallic-shaped skyscraper clearly drafted by an architect with some disturbing fascination with the male anatomy.

I wonder if that part is intentional. However, I may be exaggerating. There just aren’t any buildings this tall in Hamilton, Montana. The tallest structure there is the midtown clock tower, a mere ten stories high, certainly no rival for the Big Ben of London. I marvel the sight of the glass skyscraper for several seconds before gathering the nerve to exit my car.

Upon nearing the front entrance and spotting my reflection in the polished double glass doors, I realize I'm dressed nothing like the people entering. Most are clad in nice suits and pressed slacks or khakis. The women especially look regal, refined like airbrushed photos from a magazine photo shoot.

I’ve arrived fresh from lunch with Vivian wearing my worst jeans and a loose T-shirt that hangs off my shoulder like extra skin. My hair is windswept, not even remotely tame enough to fit in with this corporate herd. Any other day, I’d be self-conscious. Today, under the current circumstances, I don’t give a damn about my appearance.

I stagger into the lobby, momentarily in awe of the crème marble floors. Every inch of the interior is made of glass. The walls, the floors, even the elevators are translucent glass.

The only area spared of this strange architectural
quirk are the ceilings, which are for some reason made from mirrored marble. I glance around and see myself in every wall, staring back as if it’s a different person watching me.

The lobby isn’t without company. Several people converse in huddles, some carrying briefcases, others with stacks of files tucked beneath their arms. Most of them ignore me. Some shoot me curious stares. A few even glare, their probing eyes scolding me for being here. It’s obvious that I'm not welcomed.

I’ve told myself the very same thing several times since I step through those glass doors. I ignore that nagging feeling despite every urge in me to run while I still can, but I'm sure that
he
already knows I'm here. Those big brother security cameras probably zeroed in on me the moment I entered the building.

“Excuse me, miss?” someone says when I realize that I've been idle for too long. I turn toward the receptionist desk in the center of the room where a pretty brunette stares daggers at me. “Miss?” she says again. “Can I help you?”

I shuffle through the crowd, swallowing my anxiety like a gulp of water, bypassing the spectators. The pretty brunette moves from behind the rotunda desk to meet me, never once allowing her eyes to veer too far from me almost like she’s afraid I’ll make a run for it. She’s probably deciding whether to call security. 

“Can I help you?” she repeats.

“If you could point me to Mr. Lynch’s office, I’d greatly appreciate it,” I say.

Something about my request sends her on the defense. That phony smile melts away, replaced by something trying to be polite instead of being genuine. This must be protocol. I recognize that smile anywhere. It’s an exact replica of the “customer friendly” façade that I'm forced to put on every day at work.

“Can I get your name please?” she asks, blatantly attempting to maintain some sense of professionalism.

“Inform him that Cassandra Tate is here to see him,” I say. “He’ll know what that means, I promise.”

The pretty brunette lightens two shades paler. Her face, a plethora of several emotions at once. Hidden beneath that mask is a look of disappointment, like a kid told that her father won’t be attending Christmas dinner.

“I'm sorry, but Mr. Lynch doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.”

“How do you know if I don’t have an appointment when you haven’t even called to tell him that I'm here?” I ask.

“Because
I
make all of his appointments,” she retorts. “I don’t remember him adding your name to his list of personal contacts so if you could please just show your way out, I won’t have to call security.”

“Listen,” I say, hoping to maintain my composure. “Whatever is going on between you and Mr. Lynch is none of my business. Anything going on between Mr. Lynch and me is none of
your
business, but I assure you that it’s not what you think it is.”

“I don’t think I can help you, Miss Tate,” she says with nothing, but apathy in her voice. “Not unless you can confirm an appointment.”

“I don’t have an appointment, but I need to see him,” I say. “Either you tell me what floor his office is on or I’ll find it myself. If you and he are as…close as I think you are, then you already know that he doesn’t like anyone making decisions for him. How do you think he’ll react to you choosing whom he can and can’t see?”

It takes only a minute for her to deliberate before staggering back to her desk. I watch her trembling hands grasp the phone, fingers hardly able to steady long enough to press the appropriate buttons on the keypad.

“Um, yes Mr. Lynch you have Cassandra Tate here to see you,” she murmurs into the phone. “I told her that you weren’t available, but she—” She pauses, indicating an interruption from him. After a few affirming nods, she finally acquiesces. “Yes sir. I understand. I’ll send her right up. I’m so sorry.”

I hear the answering dial tone of Adrian’s reply. It’s obvious that she tried to argue with him about seeing me, but in true fashion, Adrian got the last word.

“His office is on the top floor,” she reluctantly replies. I can’t helping feeling a little smug, watching her choke on the words.

“Thank you,” I say with a victorious smile. As I head toward the elevator, I'm sure she’s glaring at the back of skull. Once inside the elevator, I press the button marke
d
7
0
then hold my breath as it ascends.

It doesn’t occur to how high up I am until I stare out the translucent elevator doors and notice every person in the lobby fade to tiny dots the higher I ascend. I close my eyes, counting to ten before the doors open with a dinging sound.

Atop the seventieth floor, I'm met by the massive archangel sculpture in the center of the room. It’s so ostentatious that it draws the eye away from everything else. This is Adrian’s doing, I'm sure.

The rest of the floor seems vacant with only a row of empty leather chairs dotting the outskirts of the front room and a rotunda desk with no receptionist. White carpet covers the floor from wall-to-wall, so thick that it fleeces my shoes.

What catches my focus next is the window to my left, a massive ceiling-to-floor portal overlooking the entire city. I move without thinking toward the view, pressing my hands to the glass. The sun lingers on the horizon, hiding between the clouds probably mere minutes away from setting.

The tips of neighboring skyscrapers and buildings sit shrouded by fog coasting down from the sky. The glass muffles the sound of traffic, voices and all of the usual city noise even when I press my ear against it.

“It’s soundproof in case you’re wondering,” announces a disembodied voice. I whirl around, startled by the sound, but unable to pinpoint its source. I spot cameras eyeing me from corners of the ceiling and wonder how long he’s been watching me.

“My apologies for frightening you,” he says. I notice the speakers overhead, amplifying his voice from every corner of the room.

“I wasn’t expecting an intercom system,” I say.

“Sometimes I'm too lazy to leave my office.”

“Apparently,” I reply while glancing at the security cameras staring down at me. “I feel stupid talking to your security cameras and intercom. Why don’t you tell me where your office is located?”

“Down the hall, first door on your right,” he says. “I’ll buzz you in.”

I have an immediate urge to smooth my tousled chignon, but I'm sure he’d see me in those cameras. This urge is a shameful offense makes me feel so silly. I have never been the type of girl to primp for the sake of a man, especially not when that man is Adrian Lynch.

The corridor walls resemble the same translucent glass material as the ones on the ground floor. As I saunter down the corridor, I note my reflection in them, also able to see into Adrian’s office through the walls.

He stands with his back to me, browsing the mini-bar sitting atop a mobile cart near his desk. I allow myself a voyeuristic moment to watch him for a minute. After pouring himself a drink, he ambles toward his ceiling-to-wall office windows and lingers there, gazing out at the skyline of the city like a king from atop his throne, admiring an empire below.

My focus lingers on him much longer than I’m willing to admit. It doesn’t occur to me how much I enjoy leering until I notice a pocket of moisture between my thighs that wasn’t there before. He turns, finally, to wave me in. I hesitantly enter, feeling the pit of my stomach weigh like a dumbbell in my abdomen.

“Cassandra,” he greets with a familiar smile. “I presumed you’d call before arriving, but I'm glad you didn’t.”

I wring my hands to stop them from trembling when he moves toward me.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Anything
non
-alcoholic?” I say. “I’ve learned my lesson about getting drunk with you.”

Adrian smirks.

“I have juice. Grape or Orange?”

“Grape will do.”

He saunters to the mini-bar and pours me juice. My hand shudders around the glass, unable to calm from the nerves inside.

“You’re anxious,” Adrian notes with a grin. “I hope that’s a good thing.”

“That remains to be seen,” I reply after swallowing a mouthful of juice. Adrian watches intently while nursing his own drink, too concerned with me to sip it. I consume every drop of juice and crave seconds, but this isn’t a leisurely visit between two old friends. I'm not here to toast drinks with Adrian Lynch.

“I'm not foolish enough to believe that you came here with the intent to spend time with me, so why
are
you here?” he asks while returning to his desk to take a seat and put his feet up along the edge of the top.