Mikalo's Grace (11 page)

"Yes, this is good."

Chapter
Twenty-Six

There were violins, of course. A quartet
playing softly as they sat discreetly in a corner surrounded by the
buzz of conversation.

And there were maids, their uniforms crisp,
their smiles warm, the hors d'oeuvres balanced on heavy silver
platters delicate and delicious.

And there was champagne.

A lot of champagne.

"I'm throwing a party," Deni had said
yesterday. "Tomorrow night. My place, say seven-ish or so. Blazen,
Jeffords, Waxman, White, and any other Partner I can arm wrestle
into coming will be there. A few celebrities for eye candy. An
author or two for some smarts.

"And you and Mikalo, of course."

"Sounds like fun," I had responded.

"Fun?" she had said with a laugh. "This isn't
fun. It's business. The business of kicking Mikalo's ass from
number two on Blazen's list to number one.

"So be there. Look gorgeous, do your best to
make him as presentable as possible," she teased, "and walk into
that room hand-in-hand."

Oh shit, it hadn't occurred to this would be
the public unveiling of Us.

"You know, --" I had began.

"Unless you plan on not seeing him anymore,
which I don't think is the case, or you continue to see him, but
only if he's kept hidden in a box somewhere, everyone's going to
know eventually, so don't even think of backing out now.

"You're only as vulnerable as your secrets,
Ronan. Ditch the secret and you kill anyone's ability to use it
against you."

She was right.

And now here we stood in Deni's lavish
apartment.

Or at least here I stood.

Mikalo stood talking with Deni in the corner,
their bodies too close for comfort.

Snatching a bite of cheesy, doughy goodness
from a passing tray, I shoved the fifteenth or sixteenth hors
d'oeuvre in my mouth, chewed quickly, and then took a healthy
swallow of champagne.

What the hell were they talking about over
there?

Deni threw back her head and laughed, her arm
briefly on Mikalo's shoulder.

I turned away, reminding myself that I had
his heart. That I was still "my Grace".

And this was Deni. I could trust Deni. I
could trust Mikalo.

I just wish I could trust myself to stop
worrying, stop being afraid, and stop expecting the worst.

It was becoming annoying, even to me.

"You keep knocking those back, and I'll be
calling you a cab."

Blazen stood with his wife Susan.

"I'm good," I said. "Just never quite sure
what to do at these things, you know?"

"Oh, I know," Susan said. "I can't tell you
how many pounds I put on at these things. Sometimes it's just party
after party.

"They're so small, you see," she then said as
yet another tray of delicious treats passed our way, "And you think
'oh, it's only one or two or three, it can't possibly matter'. And
then --"

She blew her cheeks out, making her very thin
face look fat, and then playfully crossed her eyes.

"Suddenly you're nine hundred pounds!"

And then she laughed.

"Susan, dear," Bill quietly said, stopping
her.

She turned to me, grabbing my arm.

"Not that you are, my dear. Oh no, no, no.
You're as beautiful as ever. That's not at all what I meant or was
saying or alluding to or --"

Bill turned to her.

"Could you?" he interrupted, handing her his
glass.

She paused briefly, smiling
apologetically.

"Of course," she said. "I'll be right back.
Pardon me."

He waited a moment before speaking.

"She didn't mean anything --"

"No, of course not," I said. "It's just, I
don't know, idle hands or something. I'm full, though. I've had
enough."

He nodded, smiling, before looking across the
room at Mikalo and Denis.

"And once again that gal of yours Deni throws
a hell of a party on literally no notice. Susan spends weeks
planning these things. Carefully. Meticulously. Deni? Two, three
hours? And they're always a hit."

"It helps when you know everyone and everyone
you know owes you one thing or another."

"Yeah, I guess it would," he said,
laughing.

"And you and Mikalo are an item, I take it?"
he then asked.

I paused.

Whatever came out of my mouth next could
either make things incredibly complicated or blissfully easy.

"Yes."

"Ah," he answered. "I see. And this will
continue, I take it?"

"Is there any reason why it shouldn't?" I
asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact," the voice behind
me said, the tone cruel and condescending, lacking in both humor
and warmth.

I turned to find Abigail White. Senior
Partner. Litigation.

Her dark hair pulled painfully into its usual
tight bun, her outfit black and impeccable, her suspiciously smooth
face as welcoming as an ice cold block of granite.

"There most certainly is," she continued, a
small sneer on her red lips.

Chapter
Twenty-Seven

"Abby," Bill began --

"Abigail," she spat, correcting him, her eyes
still on mine.

"As you may not know," she continued,
ignoring him, "being as young as you are -- and yet somehow still
Partner, if you can imagine that --, Blankfein, Reynolds doesn't
look kindly on fraternization between its employees, Miss
Grace."

"I'm aware of that," I answered, my tongue
feeling thick as all those glasses of champagne started catching up
with me.

I breathed deep, steadying myself.

Rodney Jeffords, the second Partner at
M&A with Blazen, now stood near, listening.

As did Susan Waxman. Another partner. Real
estate. A woman who was too thin with hair that was too red and a
demeanor that was too masculine even for New York law.

"I'm well aware of that," I repeated,
returning Miss White's stare.

Across the room, Mikalo and Deni laughed, her
hand again on his shoulder.

I felt my cheeks growing red.

"Then it's settled, isn't it," she said,
looking to Blazen and then Jeffords. "Obviously the wise choice for
this coveted position would be Marcus."

"Your son-in-law to be," Blazen said.

Abigail's smile froze briefly, her hand
clutching her drink.

"You honestly don't think we don't know who
he is?" he continued.

"No, of course you would know who he is," she
answered through gritted teeth, her insincere smile still in place.
"And my connection to him. But it's my daughter who's fucking him.
I'm certainly not."

The champagne hit. And hit hard.

I spoke.

"No, you're just fucking your long-suffering
assistant, Richard."

Her eyes narrowed.

Everyone else froze, their hearts in their
throats.

"C'mon, Ronan," Bill then said, his hand on
the small of my back as he tried to lead me away.

"I mean, are we going to talk about that?" I
continued, resisting him, shaking him free. "Who's going to talk
about that? About the summer vacations, the two of them off to Rome
and Berlin and Zurich and god knows where else for the past, what,
five years? Six years?"

"Ten years," Blazen offered, his eyes
low.

"Ten years worth of fraternization, Abby," I
said, now looking at her. "Ten years worth of expensive fucking.
And all of it on the company dime."

"Or Jeffords," I said, my voice calm. "I'm
sorry, Rodney, but if Abby insists we talk about fraternization,
then we have to mention the secret door in your office, right? The
one that leads straight to --"

"Enough!"

Miss Waxman stepped forward, her eyes
glaring, her red hair shining like some bright cherry flavored soda
concocted in some laboratory somewhere.

"You've made your point, Ronan," Jeffords,
his voice surprisingly quiet, finally said.

"Hey, listen, I'm not trying to embarrass
anyone or air dirty laundry or something," I insisted. "Who cares
what you do and with who? I sure as hell don't.

"But when one finds happiness, true
happiness, and love -- and God knows, Abby, you are not an easy
woman to love, that's for damn sure --, should one's career suffer?
Should anyone's career suffer? Love and life and relationships are
tough enough as it is, you know?"

"We give so much of ourselves to what we do,"
I said, continuing. "We rarely see family, miss holidays,
birthdays. Even our own. But we do it, we miss all of that and
spend our lives apologizing to those we love and never see, because
we love what we do and we're committed to what we do.

"To find someone you want to spend time with,
to maybe even love, even if they work here, is that such a bad
thing?

"Look, I believe Mr. Delis has an incredible
future," I finished, glancing toward this Mr. Delis and my best
friend Deni once again deep in conversation, his head tilted toward
hers as she spoke. "And I believe he could do great things, great
things, with us at Blankfein.

"Please don't punish him for following his
heart. Or punish me for finding mine."

I grew quiet, unsure what to say next, afraid
my tongue would betray me as the champagne flooded my head, dulling
my mind.

"Miss Grace."

My eyes found Miss White, quietly
enraged.

"That was a wonderful speech," she said, her
voice low. "We do give a lot for what we do, you're right.

"But are you willing to give up what you do
for him?"

The words slapped me in the face like ice
cold water, shocking me into sobriety.

My mind raced, whatever words I had in
response disappearing as quickly as they appeared.

"Well?" she asked, a look of triumph on her
face.

"Are you?"

Across the room, Deni and Mikalo laughed.

Chapter
Twenty-Eight

It was late, it was dark, and I was
drunk.

And riding in the back of a cab would most
certainly make me sick.

So we walked, my Mikalo and I.

Sticking to the lighted paths, we made our
way through Central Park, 72nd Street slicing through its winding
trails and dark trees and offering the quickest, easiest path
between Deni's apartment on Park Avenue and my townhouse on the
other side of the park.

He held my hand tight as we walked.

After the unpleasantness that was and still
is Abigail White, I had knocked back more champagne, not caring
that my tongue would grow thick and my words slurred. I had said my
piece and now there's was nothing I could do.

"What, what would you do," I asked Mikalo, my
head spinning as we moved further into the park, "What would you do
if you, if you got the job, if they offered, they offered the job?
What would you do?"

"My Grace, she enjoyed the champagne."

I laughed, drunk.

And you enjoyed my friend.

Wait, did I say that out loud?

No, no I didn't.

Thank god.

"No, no, no," I insisted, veering into him as
I stumbled. "Tell me. What would you do? Would you take it? Would
you take it and be with me and live with me and fuck me every
morning and every night? Would you? Would you?"

I stumbled again. He caught me. I laughed.
Loud.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I said, steadying
myself. "Perhaps I should have had more hors d'oeuvres."

And then I laughed at that.

He smiled, taking my hand and urging me
along.

We walked several minutes in silence.

"My Grace, I would love to be with you, every
morning and every night."

"Oh, that is so, that is so sweet, so, so
sweet," I said, stopping and pulling him close. "That is so
sweet.

"Kiss me," I then said as I grabbed his coat,
pushing my face toward his.

We kissed, long and deep.

He pulled away.

I slipped my hand below, reaching for him,
discovering him and then feeling him, caressing him, eager to feel
him grow hard.

"My Grace," he laughed.

He stepped back.

My head spinning, my tongue too thick with
drink, all I could was laugh, too.

We walked.

"You had a good time at this party, yes?"

"Mmmm," I answered as I fought back thoughts
of him laughing in the corner with Deni. Or of blasting that bitch
Abigail White with the truth. Or of making more enemies in one
night than I had my entire time at the Firm.

But that wasn't true. I was hated. My success
at such a young age guaranteed that.

Not even a head full of champagne could
disguise that fact.

"Did you?" I asked.

He shook his head.

"No, it is not true. This party, it was not
for me."

What? But he and Deni, they had laughed. He
looked to be having a wonderful time. And he had evidently charmed
everyone he needed to charm. Or at least it looked that way from
where I was sitting with my spinning head in one hand and a
steaming cup of coffee, courtesy of our gracious hostess, in the
other.

"You looked, it looked like you were, you
were having fun," I said, discreetly swallowing a belch.

"In my home, we party. There is good food,
yes. And laughter. And drink. And tears. And children. In my home,
a party is a celebration. It is life.

"This," he continued, "it was beautiful. Your
friend, beautiful. Her home, beautiful. The food, beautiful. And
delicious.

"But there was no joy, no happiness."

He stopped, the lights of Central Park West
just up ahead, our destination in sight.

"Tomorrow you will come with me to dinner. I
have friends, from Greece, and these friends, they are having a
party. A real party. We eat, we drink, we dance, we love. You will
laugh and your heart will feel joy, yes?

"Please, you will come, my Grace."

I was drunk, I was finally tired, and I had
heard drink and eat and love. And laugh.