Mikalo's Grace (2 page)

"They are too skinny," he suddenly said.

"What?"

"And they have no tits," he continued.

"Oh, stop -- "

"No," he interrupted, "it is true. The skinny
girls, they are difficult. Unhappy and hungry. Just bones and ...
"

He stopped and stretched, his hand rubbing
his rib cage.

God, even beneath the crisp white of his
shirt, I could see his abs. His tight stomach. Not an ounce of fat
on him. The shadow of his dark nipples through the fabric as he
moved his jacket out of the way.

Shit.

I crossed my legs again. And squeezed them
tight.

"Ribs," I said.

He snapped his fingers.

"Yes! Ribs," he said quickly as he leaned
forward, his elbows back on the table. "They are just bones and
ribs. And who wants to make the love to bones and ribs?"

"You like them fat?" I asked, even though I
wasn't. But no one would ever mistake me for being bones and
ribs.

"I like them healthy and happy. I like them
to not bruise when I lay my body on top of them. Perhaps this is
too bold for you? For me to talk of this?"

I shook my head.

"Ah, good," he said, continuing, "I like to
not feel they will be hurt if I give myself to them. To not hear
their bones pop when I lay on them. You know, like the cereal. The
one that's crispy and makes the pop when you pour the milk --"

"Rice Crispies."

"Rice Crispies. I don't want to make love to
Rice Crispies. And I like them to not complain when I wrap my arms
around them and squeeze and hold tight."

Holy Christ, what stupid bitch would complain
about him wrapping his arms around her? Or squeezing? Or laying on
top of her?

"I like them strong, Ronan."

He reached across the table, both his hands
now holding mine.

"And it is important that they have lived and
have loved, truly loved, with all of their heart. And hurt. Without
hurt, they never know how lucky they are to have love, no?"

I nodded. He was right.

"Please stay. Talk. And drink another coffee.
Or juice?"

He readied himself to stand.

"I'll get you juice, yes?"

The papers back on the table, I reached for
his hand, drawing him back, drawing him close, making him sit.

"No, no, no. I'm fine. Thank you. And I'm
sorry. I just -- "

"No apologies, no. You showed me you cared.
That even if I am a stranger, you have an interest in me and that
you, like me, wear your heart. You have courage to be honest. And
to hurt. And you care."

I did. This Greek God in grey wool had
captured my heart. Or at least poked it awake and grabbed its
interest.

"I do."

He smiled a small smile of great relief.

"When is your interview?" I asked.

"In ten minutes."

"Then you should go."

He waited, his mind searching.

"Will you eat with me?" he then asked, his
voice suddenly quiet. "Tonight? Or tomorrow? Or the day after?"

I hesitated. Not because the answer was No,
but because answering the question could open the door to more
complications than I cared to admit.

"If it is tonight, then we will have a quiet
celebration over a good interview," he said.

He waited.

"Or I could eat a greasy hamburger all alone
in my hotel. Alone. On a happy night."

He then pouted, teasing me.

"I would love to have dinner with you," I
finally said. "Thank you."

And then I smiled.

"Tonight?"

"Tonight."

"Yes!" he said, his fist playfully punching
the air.

He stood, reaching his hand to help me
rise.

"And now we go. I will walk you, yes?"

I nodded.

And, his strong arm around me, his hand
guiding me by the small of the back, we passed the bitchy cabal of
college girls, the envy in their eyes more satisfying than anything
I could imagine.

Chapter Three

"He'd be number two on the list, or even
number one, if he didn't have that whole MacFarlane, Schaal thing a
few years ago," he was saying.

Ignoring the mountain of papers on my own
desk two floors up, I sat in the office of Bill Blazen, head of
Mergers & Acquisitions, sticking my nose where it really didn't
belong.

Not my department, not my decision, but the
suspense was killing me.

Besides, Bill, although most certainly not an
old man, had quite easily joined the ranks of those men I
considered father figures. Protective, sweet, knows me like the
back of his hand.

Difficult to hide anything from him.

Still, I needed to know: What are the chances
of Mikalo staying in New York?

"What MacFarlane, Schaal deal?" I asked
instead.

"The boy graduated Harvard Law with a job
offer in hand. Generous starting salary. Very generous, in fact. He
accepted, worked for eight, nine, maybe ten months, and then bolted
back to Greece, or something."

Bolted back to Greece. Not good.

Steady, Ronan. Stay focused.

"He graduated Harvard with a job in
hand?"

Bill nodded.

Not many could claim that. Impressive.

"We touched on it earlier," Bill was saying,
"during the interview, but he just doesn't seem to understand how
or why leaving MacFarlane the way he did would worry a potential
employer. I'm not sure if it's an English thing or --"

"No, his English is fine. He's dusting it
off."

He shrugged.

I paused.

"Will this affect your decision?"

"Oh, I don't know," he said, his chair
turning this way and that.

He turned to me, the late-afternoon sun
glinting off his thick silver hair.

"Regardless, it's not like he needs the
money, what with his father's shipping and oil and his mother's
family having their own fingers in every business pie
imaginable."

"Really."

Whoa. Gorgeous, intelligent, charming, and
now rich.

"Absolutely. Olive oil, grocery stores,
telecommunications, concrete, construction. Name it, that family's
into it."

Make that very rich.

His eyes now watched me as he leaned back in
his chair.

"And you know Mr. Delis how again?" he
asked.

I smiled, the cordial yet brief answer I'd
practiced again and again rolling off my tongue.

"We met earlier. Spoke briefly. Intriguing
man."

Don't lie. Don't elaborate. And then change
the subject.

"Yes, he is," he responded, suppressing a
grin. "Charming. Handsome even, wouldn't you say?"

Oh yeah, he knew.

Damn.

I stood to go.

"Thank you, Bill. I should get back."

"Leaving so soon?" he asked with a teasing
smile.

Hell yes!

"No comment."

"Was it something I said?" he called after me
as I left his office.

"Yes!" I called back, laughing.

His booming laughter followed me down the
hall, his status as one of the few who felt comfortable enough with
me to get away with something like this as secure as ever.

I walked, my mind churning.

Father's in shipping. Mother's family is in
concrete, construction, olive oil.

Yeah, Mikalo was most definitely loaded.
Hundreds of millions if not billions of dollars.

And I'd had no clue.

I mean, he had a gorgeous suit, of course.
Herm
è
s tie. And he was
very polite. Well-spoken. He just seemed so sweet, so normal. The
exact opposite of a bratty, party hungry rich kid racing through
dad's money.

But why should I think that?, I realized as I
stepped into the elevator. Just because he had money, and who knew
how much, exactly, he had -- he could be the black sheep who pissed
off grandpa and got booted out of the Will for all I know --, it
didn't mean he couldn't be the nice, sincere man she met
earlier.

Not that she had much experience with nice,
sincere men. Hers had been the exact opposite. For almost seven
years.

Stop, Ronan. Let it go. Just let it go and
leave it alone. No sense in ripping off that scab, so stop picking
at it.

The elevator doors opened and I stepped into
the hall.

Janey, my petite, twenty-something secretary,
waited.

"There you are," she said, brandishing a
message in her hand.

"Mikalo's confirming dinner tonight," she
quickly said as we walked.

I took the message, his name, his
long-distance cell number, a restaurant on the Upper West Side I
was familiar with, and a suggested time to meet all jotted down in
Janey's clear, capable hand.

"Not to pry, Boss," she said, teasing me,
"but is this Mikalo as hot as he sounds? Because, oh my goodness,
that deep voice, that accent? Wow."

"You have no idea," I said, trying not to
smile.

Chapter Four

He had grown quiet, his eyes clouding with a
quiet, polite anger as he searched for the right words to
respond.

We sat, Mikalo and I, at a small table, a
generous basket of delicious rolls and softened butter between
us.

The restaurant around us was plush. Wood
paneled walls, a thick carpet, lighting that was low and
flattering. Gleaming wood tables dotting the space interrupted
occasionally by a large vase of flowers or a waiter in a suit and
tie standing silent, ready to move your chair back or refill your
drink.

He cleared his throat.

"The necklace, it is very nice," he said.

My fingers touched the yellow diamonds at my
throat. Harry Winston. Not large, certainly. But the stones, set in
platinum, still caught the light beautifully.

A gift from my best friend Deni when I made
Partner.

"For those times when you need a bit of
armor," she had said as she placed it around my neck.

And tonight, I needed it, the diamonds a coat
of armor at my throat and the yellow Graff diamond on my finger my
sword.

That, I bought myself. Just because.

I figured, hell, I was going to feed my
sadness with either a very large ring or more Ben &
Jerry's.

So I chose the ring.

"Thank you," I finally said. "It was a gift
from a friend."

"This friend, he loves you very much."

"Yes," I said, smiling. "She does."

He nodded.

"Ah, like a sister."

He took a sip from his wine.

"To have a sister with that love is lucky,
no?"

I smiled. I was lucky. Despite it all, that I
most certainly was.

He grew quiet, his long fingers resting
against the stem of the glass.

"You have a thing to say, I think," he
finally said.

I took a breath.

"Yes. I spoke with Bill, Bill Blazen, who you
--"

"I know," he said, a touch of impatience in
his voice.

"I just wanted to see how thing were going,
that's all. See how the interview was and what they thought. Get a
sense of, I don't know, how things might --"

His hand raised, silencing me as he took a
bite of a roll.

"I shouldn't have done that, I know," I
quickly said. "I'm sorry."

"No, it is I who is sorry. Sometimes, I
forget. Do not make myself clear. So, you listen to me now,
yes?"

"Okay."

"You can ask me anything your heart wants to
know" he said, his eyes watching me. "Can come and say 'Mikalo, why
this' or 'Mikalo, why that' or 'Mikalo, what do you think' or, I do
not know, 'why did you do that thing'. Or, yes, even 'Mikalo, that
meeting, was it good'."

"Alright. Thank you."

"So?" he said.

I waited, confused.

"Ask."

"Oh, now?"

He shrugged.

"Why not?"

I glanced around the room. Briefly watched an
older couple, their heads low as, their hands clasped on the table,
his thumb gently stroking her skin, they spoke quietly.

Taking a breath,

"Why did you leave MacFarlane, Schaal?"

"Ah, so that you know," he said, surprised by
the question.

I nodded.

"Why did I leave? My mother. She was sick.
And a son, a son who loves his mother, he needs to be by her side,
I think. That is why."

"I'm sorry."

He sat quietly for a moment.

"I told them this, the men at MacFarlane.
They were angry.

"But my mother was, and she still is, more
important than their anger. My family, they are stronger than their
anger.

"Besides, it is life," he said gently. "Next
question."

"And the meeting? How do you feel it
went?"

He shrugged.

"I sit, they ask questions, many questions,
and I answer those I think are the ones to answer. Sometimes they
want to know more, but it is not important they know more. I tell
them the truth, but not the whole thing."

Sitting back, he watched me, waiting for the
next question.

I was tempted to explain how this decision
was complicating this opportunity. How his refusal to share the
reason why he left MacFarlane was causing doubt and hurting his
chances.

But it seemed too pushy, perhaps. Or too
meddlesome. And it was definitely too complicated.

"How come you don't have a girlfriend?" I
quickly asked instead, surprising myself and then immediately
regretting the question.

My hand went to my necklace, the stones cool
under my fingers, comforting me, my heart suddenly aware the answer
could easily be one I didn't want to hear.

"There have been girls, of course," he began.
"And there was one I loved. That I love still. Claudia. An actress
in Italy. Successful. Beautiful. Very beautiful."

Oh shit.

"Strong woman. Very strong. Determined. Too
determined, I think.

"She refused to eat, my Claudia. Always had
to be skinny, skinny, skinny. Her agent, her managers, the
directors and studios, always wanting her skinny. So she refused to
eat, would not take even one bite, only drink water with lemon,
and, one day, her body said 'enough' and she died. Bones and ribs.
Nothing but bones and ribs and she died."