Beyond the Storm (9780758276995) (16 page)

“And what's the reason?”

“The truth. The past. Us. What happened. Things you know, things you don't,” she said, not meaning to be enigmatic. He deserved better. She paused. “Things neither of us know, but maybe . . . maybe, deep down, we do.”

“Sounds like a long night,” he said. “Where do we start?”

She didn't even hesitate. “With New York.”

“New York.”

“Eleven years ago.”

“Oh,” he remarked. “That. Okay. Let's go. Let's get that memory out of the way.”

He was right, this one they had to face, sooner rather than later, before other secrets could reveal themselves on this endless night. So she allowed his strong, secure arms to encircle her, lead her down the darkened road and back toward the farmhouse. She steeled herself for the journey, each step bringing them closer to what some people called the past. What she might call a mistake. Of course none of it would have occurred had not Adam been there to begin with.

Destiny teasing them again.

T
he meeting place was sophisticated, super trendy, and so not like any place he'd envisioned an older-generation Wall Street executive to choose for a meeting. That's why a skeptical Adam Blackburn wondered if he'd been told the right place. Plus, it was a Saturday, early evening, just near seven, the oddest time for a job interview he'd ever heard of, but then again, in the cutthroat world of investment banking, secrets had a way of getting out to the wrong people. Every precaution was taken in keeping the gossip to a minimum.

The meatpacking district of Manhattan was just awakening for the coming night. It was that nebulous time of day when the regular city folk secured tables at fashionable restaurants for “early seating,” just after the hour when visiting Euro trash had finished shopping in nearby SoHo and the chic, stylish set hadn't yet ventured outside for their nocturnal pursuits. The sun was drifting down from the sky, an orange orb in the west that preceded nightfall. In his fashionable dark suit by Hugo Boss and wearing a brand-new gold striped tie he'd purchased only today from Brooks Brothers, Adam entered Le Bain, one of several places to imbibe inside the exclusive Standard Hotel, High Line, and informed the hostess at the bar whom he was meeting.

“You are the first to arrive, sir, follow me.”

Adam did so, liking how promptly he was taken care of. Service that money bought. As he settled into a back booth far away from the growing, glowering crowd at the bar, he surveyed his surroundings and decided there was much to this lifestyle he could get used to. Outside the window he saw panoramic views of Manhattan, folks below walking amidst the lush greenery of the High Line park. He imagined his new office would have similar, stunning views. Assuming, of course, he scored the job, but the fact he'd secured an interview not only with Koch, Franklin, and Cohn but with the middle partner of the three was considered a major coup. Having been at his most recent job nearly four years, it was time for a change, time to take that big leap into the big-time. So he'd brushed up his résumé, sent it to a headhunter, and a few weeks later here he was, ordering top-shelf scotch in anticipation of a meeting between two good old boys.

A harried Carpenter Franklin arrived the moment Adam's drink did, and lo and behold, there were two glasses positioned on the tray. Adam said nothing but he had the sense this scene was orchestrated, prearranged—no small talk to endure while waiting on that first drink. Franklin was probably fifty, balding, florid-faced and paunchy from either too much red meat or too much stress. Didn't bode well for a future at KFC. No chickens need apply.

“At last, the famed Adam Blackburn,” Carpenter Franklin said as he sat down.

“Sir? Famed?”

“You think I haven't had my research done on you, kid?” Kid. Not a good start, but probably meant to intimidate. So Adam waited, and he listened. “We could have just gone the regular interview route, had you meet with those clueless imbeciles in HR and you would have waited what, three, four weeks for an answer, and it would have been thanks but no thanks, no openings, you're not right for the job, too green, not sharp enough, etc. Every once in a while I look through the résumés we've received, and when I see something—or rather, someone—who stands out, I pull it, find out about the individual, then pretend I had nothing to do with setting up the interview. Standard Hotel, nice, isn't it? People can see you peeing from the High Line.”

“Yes sir. So I've read.”

“You like the good life?”

“I don't fancy living in a cardboard box.”

“There is a happy medium.”

“Medium, yes, happy I'm not so certain about.”

Carpenter Franklin raised his glass of scotch, the two ice cubes tinkling against the crystal glass, and the two men cheered. After he drank, he said, “Adam Blackburn, you need to come work for me.”

“I'm grateful to hear that, but aren't I supposed to be selling you?”

“Kid, if I hadn't already been sold on your coming to work with me, we wouldn't be here. Isn't that the secret to a successful investment? Scouting it out before jumping in with blinders on? What do they tell those pain-in-the-ass pissant lawyers when they enter a courtroom? Never ask a question you don't already know the answer to. Well, I'm going to ask one anyway, and I don't want to hear you hesitate. I'm not a fan of those who hesitate.”

“I'm listening.”

“Adam Blackburn, when can you start?”

“Sir, I don't even know what the job entails.”

“It's what you already do, but on a higher level and answering to me when it all goes ka-flooey.” He drank a healthy gulp of scotch, closed his eyes to savor its smoky flavor. “Oh, and by the way, business should never go all ka-flooey, because chances are I'll already know about the fuckup a week before your dumb brain has discovered it, and your ass will have been kicked to the curb long before your head stops spinning.”

“Wow, sir, that's a lot of body parts,” Adam said.

The man guffawed loud enough to catch the attention of other drinkers, then drank down the remainder of his scotch. “Retain your sense of humor and you'll do well. Welcome aboard, Blackburn.”

“Call me Adam.”

“Ha ha, not anymore, Burnie,” the man said, rising from the table with surprising alacrity. “Enjoy yourself tonight for as long as you want, the bill has been taken care of by KFC—oh, and if you ever use those initials in such a way, I'll have you banned from all company picnics. I always bring fried chicken, just a little private joke between partners. Ha ha!” He slid a thick manila envelope Adam's way. “These papers include the terms of employment, including what I'm sure you'll agree is generous compensation. Read them over, don't question because I already know your present salary, just sign and fax to me by tomorrow morning. I'll see you two weeks from this Monday, my office, seven
A.M.
Sharp. And by sharp I mean six fifty-five. A real pleasure, Blackburn, I'm sure I'll make a lot of money.”

“Don't you mean we'll make a lot of money?”

“Oh Burnie. You've got so much to learn.”

The portly but nimble Carpenter Franklin laughed again, shaking his head as he left the bar, the lobby, the hotel, leaving Adam Blackburn, apparently now christened “Burnie,” all alone with a half-finished drink and his head seemingly swirling like a weather vane during a storm. Had this interview really only lasted seven minutes and forty-two seconds? Adam had timed it. Had he really secured himself a major new job with major new money and major benefits? Adam had done his research. He knew this guy Patch Grimes who already worked there and the car he drove and the high-rise apartment he lived in and the hot women he slept with, all top of the line. Adam Blackburn had been in New York City for five years at this point, and at last he felt like he'd hit the big-time. Time now to celebrate.

“Another scotch,” Adam said, but before the waiter scurried away, he asked just what brand he was drinking.

“Some fancy label,” the waitress said. “It's like . . . I don't know, a hundred years old. Certainly older than the guy you were seated with.”

As Adam savored the perfect smooth flavor of the scotch, he noticed the bar had begun to fill up. Beautiful people in stylish clothing hugged the shimmering glass bar, whispering into the ears of friends and grinning and pointing and then laughing, as though this was sport to them, picking out the losers who didn't belong. Maybe when he'd walked in, but not now. He belonged. Adam wondered about himself and whether he was already emitting that glow of money, the looks from the barflies tinged with envy, as he sat in an exclusive booth, drinking the most expensive thing on the beverage menu . . . but doing it all by himself. So okay, that last part wasn't so cool.

Turned out, life had additional plans for him, and it revealed its hand not long after. Two young, sleek-looking women hovering near the bar, holding thin-stemmed martini glasses in delicate grips, had taken notice of him. They waved, he nodded, and that was the signal for them to make their way over to his spacious booth. In addition to designer labels adoring their slim frames, they wore a predatory look on their faces that stated they were in search of “fresh meat,” and wasn't this the part of town to find it? Dressed to the nines in silky material that clung to their bodies like a second layer of skin, they approached with the confident appearance of ladies not accustomed to paying for their own drinks.

“Hi,” said the curly blonde. “I'm Reva.”

“Hi back, Reva. I'm Adam,” a smiling, appreciative Adam replied, the taste of newfound assurance on his lips, transferring its addictive feel as he kissed the hand that had been extended his way. He turned to the other woman and said, “And how about you . . .”

Words failed him and he was glad not to have been holding his glass, otherwise he'd have been sporting a fancy suit that smelled of fancy scotch and sparkled with thin shards of fancy crystal. He closed his brown eyes and then they reopened, rebooted, but the image was still the same. A woman his own age with long dark hair curving against her heart-shaped face, pretty in a petulant way that looked all too familiar, even years later. He had a feeling when she smiled, the whole effect would transform her look. He should know, he'd seen it before.

“Vanessa Massey,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

The woman named Reva turned to her friend, tossing her a curious look. “You know this guy, chicky?”

“Uh, no . . . I don't think so,” the woman said, her voice not as certain as her words.

That's when Adam stood from the booth, buttoning the jacket of his suit, and with the same gentlemanly wave of his hand that he'd used to entice the ladies over, he invited them to join him. His mind was spinning and his eyes remained focused on Vanessa, who still failed to recognize him. “I beg to differ, but please, have a seat and we can restart our Forever Yours reunion. I mean, it's the least I can do for the girl who let me take her to the senior prom . . .”

Vanessa's eyes widened, but she said nothing, sliding into the booth with a nervous push back of her hair.

“You're shitting me, you're that Adam Blackburn? God, I am so taking a front-row seat for this one,” Reva said, quickly settling her sexy self in the comfy booth while Adam remained standing, waiting for Vanessa to acknowledge him. An already tipsy Reva insisted he sit in between them, so quickly she got up and practically pushed him down, his body nearly scraping against the exposed skin of Vanessa's arm. Still no comment, all she did was stare at him, which kind of pleased Adam because she seemed to be searching for the little schoolboy she knew and not the grown man before her. He'd been what they called a late bloomer, and little trace of the once-upon-a-Danton-Hill meek Adam Blackburn remained inside his sturdy six-foot frame. When at last all three were cozily settled and fresh drinks had been ordered—Grey Goose martinis for the ladies, he sticking with the KFC-bought scotch—Vanessa spoke her first words.

“Holy shit.”

Reva nudged her. “Took you that long to come up with that?”

Reva went ignored, by both of them.

“Small word,” Adam said, “for such a big city.”

“Smaller than Danton Hill,” Vanessa managed.

What followed for the next two hours were conversation, drinks, flirting on the part of Reva, and a whole lot of pouting on the part of a still-shocked Vanessa Massey. Sure, she managed to get some words in, oftentimes trying to steal the spotlight by highlighting one of her achievements in high school, experiences only she remembered, and as such leaving both Reva and Adam left out. Like she was experiencing her own reunion, sometimes her eyes wandering into some far-off place where neither could reach her. Adam was forced to explain to Reva that the two of them hadn't exactly traveled in the same social circles back at Danton High. He admitted to not being a cool kid, not quite a geek.

“Just one of those students, assigned to anonymity by others.”

“You know, Adam, from where I'm sitting, you look more than a bit yummy,” Reva said, touching his arm, and not for the first time, “and yummy happens to be one of my specialties. But poor you, you've been sitting here in between us this entire time and still you look positively and dreadfully dressed for that interview. Let's get that jacket off you, and while we're at it, that awful corporate tie as well. It's Saturday. Aren't you suffocating? God, ties bore me, they look like they'll strangle you. And I would hate to see that happen to you, to see life hold you back. Though I have to say, ties and suits like yours, mean big bucks in the corporate scheme. I'll forgive it, for the salaries—those I adore! Adam, wherever did you get that stuffy tie anyway, Brooks Brothers?”

When Adam admitted that he had purchased it just that day, Reva squealed with delight at her knowledge and immediately began to unknot the silky cloth. Adam initially protested a bit, but then with the scotch swirling in his mind and the fact that his new company was footing the bill tonight and two attractive women were nearly fighting over him, one with subtlety, the other with animal-like aggression, he resigned himself to going with the flow. With her tongue stuck between pursed lips, Reva grabbed the undone tie and pulled it out from under his collar, wrapping it around her neck instead like a scarf, a lascivious look plastered upon her made-up face. She leaned over, her lips close to his, as she undid the top button of his shirt, then a second.

“Ooh, what kind of luscious surprise do we have here,” Reva said, sliding her hand through the newly exposed triangle of dark chest hair. “You see this, Vanessa? I don't remember you telling me about this part of Adam, or for that matter . . . this part.” He turned to her with utter shock on his face, because she'd just grabbed at his crotch. “Oh, don't worry, Adam, my girl Vanessa here told me lots of other things about you, about what a sweet date you were that prom night, and how you helped her show up that idiot Danny Stoker . . . owww.Ow, ow, ow, chicky.”