Mikalo's Flame (9 page)

“Isn’t that right, darling?” she finished,
looking up at him, her nose only inches from his face.

Mikalo laughed uncomfortably.

“No, no,” he finally said, his eyes begging
me to get her away from him. “That is not a truth, Mara.”

“It’s been decided,” she said again, her arm
clinging tighter to his.

“By you, yes,” Mikalo said. “Not by me or our
fathers or anyone. Only you.”

“But that is enough. I am The Byzan. That
should be enough, no?”

“No,” he said, his voice firm as he tried
unsuccessfully to pull himself out of her grip.

She pouted, playfully punching him before
shoving the wine glass to his lips.

“Here,” she said as he pulled away.
“Drink.”

He raised his hand and pushed it away.

“C’mon,” she insisted, the expensive liquid
sloshing over the sides and into his lap. “It’ll make you less of
an asshole.”

And then she laughed.

Loud.

Taking the glass from her, Mikalo placed it
safely out of reach.

Her father closed his eyes and sighed.

“Oops,” she said, seeing the spilled wine,
not yet noticing the glass was no longer in her hand.

She reached down and, zeroing in immediately
on Mikalo’s crotch, she started rubbing, clumsily trying to clean
it up.

She paused, her eyes finding Mikalo’s
face.

“Fuck,” she whispered.

His hand immediately grabbed hers, gently
lifting it and putting it on the table, his large palm patting hers
impatiently.

“Mara!” her father barked.

Slowly, she looked at him, her brow knitting
in confusion.

“What?” she asked.

“Stop.”

“His prick, it’s fucking --” she began

“Stop!” her father interrupted, his eyes
closing as if he was fighting off a major headache.

She sighed, pouting, the new glass quickly in
hand, the wine disappearing in a series of heaving gulps.

The table lapsed into an uncomfortable
silence.

Like a kabuki cougar, Abby pounced.

She leaned forward across the table, her eyes
zeroing in on Mara.

“Of course Ronan knows Mikalo,” she said, an
insincere smile plastered on her painted lips. “They’re to be
married.”

Mara’s head lifted. She blinked, taking in
this new bit of information, the words worming their way through
her befuddled brain.

Then she turned to me, moving from Mikalo to
press herself close.

Her face inches from mine, her teeth almost
bared, she spoke.

“Who are you?”

“I’m one of your attorneys,” I offered, a
small smile on my lips, my tone one would use with a small child or
an incredibly drunk heiress.

“Pffft,” she said, spittle flying from her
lips.

She pulled back like I was a leper and took a
long swallow of her wine. “We have hundreds, thousands, millions of
attorneys. We own attorneys. Cities of attorneys,” she then
snorted.

“You say ‘I’m your attorney’ like it is a
thing that means something. Like it is some important thing.”

She turned to me again.

“But what it says is that you are no one. I
pay for you. I buy your house, your food, the clothes on your back.
They are mine. It is all mine. You are nothing, nothing, without me
or my money. More money than your dreams can dream.”

She turned away.

“You are no one and ... and ...” she said,
nodding toward Mikalo.

She stopped, unable to remember his name.

“This man, here, my guy, my husband, he will
not marry a no one. It is unheard of. It is something
impossible.

“Besides, who cares about the help?” she then
asked to no one in particular. “I mean, really. Who cares?

“And why in the hell would someone like him
--”

She indicated Mikalo with the glass holding
the wine, the liquid sloshing and spilling over the sides.

“Ever have an interest in someone like, well,
hell, like this?” she continued, the wine spilling my way.

“I mean, for Christ’s sake, papa,” she then
said, turning to her father. “She’s the help. The help!”

She turned to Mikalo.

“You don’t marry the help,” she explained, on
the verge of tears. “You kick ‘em, you fuck ‘em, or you fire
‘em.

“But you don’t marry them.

“I mean, are you fucking insane or
something?” she then asked him.

I was keeping my temper in check. Unwilling
to let Abby see me angry or give Marcus the pleasure of watching me
crack. And I certainly wasn’t going to lose my cool with a big
client -- and big and very drunk client -- in front of Rainier
Richardson.

I was going to let this pass, knowing it to
be the drunken ravings of a spoiled child.

Mikalo had other ideas.

“I am not insane,” he began. “I’m in love. I
love her. Everything about her.

“She is someone you will never be,” he
continued, finally pulling his arm from hers and all but pushing
her away. “She is magnificent and kind and loving and she makes me
happy and I do not know if there will be marriage --”

He looked now at Abby who was doing her best
to suppress a satisfied smile.

“But there will be no other woman for me. I
can not see a life without Ronan. Without my Grace.

“So attack her if you must,” he then said,
his eyes back on Mara. “But it will mean nothing to her because
you, even if you are a big client for the Firm and think you are
some important thing, you are nothing to her.”

He stood to go, his hand reaching for
mine.

I rose apologetically, a brief nod to
Richardson, a small smile to Mara’s father.

They both nodded in return, my early
departure immediately forgiven.

Mara looked up, her eyes blinking as the
reality of Mikalo leaving suddenly dawned on her.

“Wait, what?” she asked, turning to him and
then to me.

“Papa,” she called out over the table. “Do
something!”

Her father caught the eye of the waiter,
signaling he was to take Mara’s glass.

She barely noticed, focused as she was on not
tripping in her spindle-thin stiletto heels as she struggled to
stand.

“You can’t go,” she said to Mikalo as he
turned to do just that, his hand in mine.

“Let go of her,” she then hissed, pulling my
hand from his. “Don’t touch him. Just don’t, don’t touch him.”

Mikalo pulled close to Mara, his hands
gripping her shoulders.

“Stop it,” he said, his nose to hers, his
voice low and ominous. “Stop it. Relax. And please be more
sober.”

He gently but firmly pushed her back into her
chair.

“Come, my Grace,” he said as he grabbed my
hand and pulled me from the table.

We walked.

At the door as my coat was slipped over my
shoulders, I glanced back at the table.

Rainier and Papa Byzan sat as before, deep in
conversation. Marcus looking glumly into space, a glass of wine
still clutched in his sweaty palm.

And Abby and Mara sat close, leaning into
each other, Mara spitting and spewing, Abby nodding her head in
agreement and patting her shoulder.

As I turned to go, Mikalo’s hand on the small
of my back, I looked back.

Abby and Mara were watching us, Mara’s face
stained with drunken tears, Abby’s lips lifted in a small red, evil
grin.

There was nothing better than holding
Mikalo’s hand.

We angled our way through the crowds choking
Columbus Circle and, escaping to the relative calm of Central Park
West, started our way home.

“I did not speak,” he continued, “Because
Mara, she was humiliated already. To take my arm from her or push
her away or, I do not know, be unkind would hurt her even more.

“There was no harm. I knew she had much to
drink and I knew that the others knew, so I did not worry.”

I nodded.

“What made me worry, my Grace, was when you
did not arrive,” he then said.

“I had no idea it was even happening,” I
said.

“You were not told?”

I shook my head.

“No.”

“Ah,” he said, sighing. “Then there was a
lie.”

“Abby? Marcus?”

He laughed.

“They said you were very busy and that I was
to enjoy myself and not worry. And then they seat me next to Mara.
I try to sit next to Mr. Byzan, who I know and have not seen for
some time, but, no. This Abby, this wrinkled woman with the white
face, she says I am to sit next to Mara.

“This I did not understand until there is
talk of how she and I, Mara and I, of how we look so wonderful
together and so happy together and how it is some great surprise
that we are not together.

“I knew she knew about us and it was at this
time when I knew that this woman, this Abby, she is no friend of
yours and should not be trusted.”

“Oh, I know,” I quickly said. “And she’s
really pissed I’m with you.”

“And why would this be?” he asked as we
walked.

“Your looks, your money, how wonderful you
are. She doesn’t believe, oh, I don’t know ... She just doesn’t
think I should have it, or something.”

“But is this a thing for her to decide?” he
asked, truly confused.

“No, of course not. But it won’t stop her
from trying to destroy it or weaken it.”

He stopped, turning to me.

“It is a thing that is impossible,” he said,
his eyes on mine. “To destroy my heart, to weaken my feeling, this
thing, it cannot be done.

“You are the woman I love and that is not
because of what someone thinks or someone decides. It is because of
my heart. And I have very little to say about what my heart feels.
I only follow it and it says that you are the woman that I want to
be with for my life. For many, many years.

“So this Abby or her boy Marcus or, I do not
know, whoever else there may be, they cannot change what we have
because they cannot change my heart.

“Unless ...”

He stopped.

“What?” I asked, my eyes shining with happy
tears. “Unless what?”

“Unless it is your heart that has the change
and there is a day when you decide that, no, this man, this Mikalo,
he is not for me.”

“Never,” I said. “Never, never, never, never,
never, Mikalo. Never.

“I, too, have a heart and I’m listening to it
and I just can’t imagine finding someone or loving someone more
perfect for me than you. It’s just impossible.”

He drew me into him, wrapping his arms around
me and holding me close.

“Then the problem with this Abby and Marcus,
it is not a problem for me or for you, I think,” he said, the words
warm against my forehead.

“It is,” I said, snuggling into the lapel of
his coat, comforted by the masculine scent of his skin and the
expensive feel of the fabric against my skin. “It’s work. It’s my
reputation. My ability to do my best for those who hire me.

“It affects everything, Mikalo. And that’s
why it’s important to fix it. Somehow.”

“How?” he asked.

I shrugged.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Speak up, correct
the lies, work even harder to prove them wrong. That’s all I can
think of.”

He pulled away, his eyes watching me.

“That will not work,” he said. “You will give
more to that than to the work you need to do and then there will be
no energy for anything else.

“Protecting what you have will be all you do.
And the rest, it will not do so well.

“Is this a way to live a life, my Grace?” he
then asked. “Is this a way to spend weeks or months or years? Is
this what you want to do?”

“It’s what I have to do,” I said. “I love my
work --”

“Ah,” he interrupted. “But do you love where
you work? Must it be a necessary thing to do your work only there
with those horrible people?”

I stopped, stunned by what he said. Not
because he said it, but because it was an honest, valid, stunningly
simple question.

Why put up with Abby and her machinations at
all? Why not look for greener pastures elsewhere? Why not just put
the word out, quietly, that I was open to having discussions with
other law firms?

Why not?

God knows I was good. God knows I would
easily find work elsewhere. Similar firm, similar reputation,
similar strength and standing. Similar paycheck.

Why not?

He watched me.

“Sometimes it is best to ‘lose’ this thing
than to ‘win’, especially against those who do not speak the
truth,” he said.

“Maybe you’re right,” I said. “Are you giving
up the fight with Silvestro and Caugina?”

A brief moment as he thought, rolling the
words in his mind, aware he’d set himself a trap he probably
couldn’t get out of.

“No,” he finally said. “This is a fight for
my father and my mother and what they worked to build. It is not a
fight I can easily escape from. It must be fought and it must be
won.”

“I agree,” I said. “The fight I’m now
fighting is a lot like yours. A fight for what I’ve worked so hard
to build. The years of school, the debt, paying back all those
student loans, the hours spent doing nothing but work when others
were getting married, having children --”

“You would like children?” he suddenly
asked.

“I ... uh ... um ... You know, I don’t, I
don’t really know,” I finally said. “In all honesty, it isn’t
something I’ve really thought about.”

We walked again, my arm in his.

“As I was saying, I believe this fight is a
--” I began.

“I would like a baby someday,” he then
interrupted.

My heart leapt, my mind suddenly empty of any
response I could give.

“To be called ‘father’,” he continued. “Well,
it is a wonderful gift, no? And to be a ‘mother’, to hear that
little voice call for ‘mama’, that is the best feeling in the
world, I would think.”

I needed to say something to fill this sudden
silence. Of course I had thought of kids, my biological clock
ticking its way into eventual oblivion. And I have no doubt I’d
make a great mother. Certainly better than my own.