C8 Chapter 8

Steve leans back raising both hands in surrender. “I know, I know,” he cuts in again, “You have Jullian! But you know, you could have given some of us a chance back then! I had my eye on you, you know, but that guy…you never looked away from him from day one, you know that? Even before you two became ‘official’,” Steve says, a big smile on his face.

Marcia looks at Steve with a blank expression, blinks, and says in her characteristically soft tone, “Jullian and I haven’t been together for five years Steve.” She replies with a dry smile, her expression somber, looking away, picking at the edge of a napkin she had been holding.

“As a matter of fact, he is the reason I called you up today,” her voice even, empty of any emotion. Steve jerks backward as if he had just been hit with a bucket of cold water.

“What?! Why?!” He exclaims loudly, then looks around and drops his voice, taking one of Marcia’s hands, “Why? What happened? How could that be?”

“Didn’t you hear it through the grapevine?”

“What grapevine? I had left college already and everyone was getting on with their lives. I mean, I may have had a crush on you back then, who didn’t, but I was no longer in school.”

Marcia stares at Steven for a moment and bursts out laughing. “Ha ha ha ha ha!! You had a what on who?!” She beats the tabletop with her free hand, rocking back and forth.

“Seriously Marcia,” Steve says meekly, squeezing her hand, “you were really something back then, still are, but…let’s stay on topic. What happened, why did you break up?”

“That’s what you want to know and not what he is doing that made me reach out to my number one past President?”

Steve scoffs, “I was the only ‘past’ President you knew! I was the one who handed over my position to you!” He gives a short laugh, “Come on, one thing at a time. First, what happened, and then, what’s he been doing to make you call someone you haven’t spoken to in seven years.”

Marcia talks and Steve listens attentively.

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Later that night, Marcia is sitting at her floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city in an ornate antique lounge chair, dressed in a cream-colored satin negligee and matching robe.

She is sitting sideways, her knees pulled up to her chin, eyes looking out at the night sky, phone cradled against her right cheek, speaking softly to someone; eyes glazed over, small smile playing on her lips, twirling a lock of her hair in her left hand.

“You called at just the right time,” Marcia says, her voice low and husky.

A strong, smooth, male voice responds and she gives a low, deep chuckle “Don’t say that! Someone might come in…” she says, still smiling softly.

The voice says something again and her face becomes serious.

“You’re right, something is definitely going on. Clients and suppliers have canceled one after the other. The only ones still working with us are those who have no past or long ties with the city, or those who make it a point to work with newcomers.”

The voice was speaking but stopped abruptly, then came back on after a few moments. Marcia burst out laughing, she laughs uncontrollably, then hears the voice saying something. She wipes tears from her eyes and says “I told you so! Ha ha ha ha!”

After her big laugh, she says in a low, husky tone “Really Luc, thank you so much for calling me today, I was really feeling so lost.”

There is a pause as she listens to Luc’s reply, then, looking up at the night sky she replies “This is my home, I won’t leave for anyone...yes, I know I left before but…Luc…I know that but….”

She sighs, “As usual, tu as raison” You are right she responds in French, “Mais…” But Luc interrupts, his voice deep and persuasive, fills her ear.

Marcia, ear glued to the phone, listens attentively, twirling her hair, her brow furrowed.

As she continues to listen, her brow relaxes and her eyes start to shine with renewed light.

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Preparing her mid-morning espresso, her third for the day, the conversation Marcia had last night with Luc, replays in her mind.

She sighs, feeling the toll of being in Miami and facing off against Jullian and his machinations.

It weighs heavily on her, causing her to remember moments from her past that she has worked so hard to forget.

Today, the memory of her parent’s fight looms prominently in her mind.

It’s always like this – when things feel tense, her mind drifts back to that time, years ago, when she had first truly felt like a burden, a curse even.

She can clearly hear her mother’s voice, sharp and angry.

“I can’t believe you, Raymond! Why do we have to stay over at the hospital again?! They’ve given us the prescription! Why do you insist that she stay overnight for a fifth day?” Tracy’s voice floats up to Marcia’s bedroom.

“’She’?” Her father responds incredulously, “That’s your daughter you're talking about Tracy!”

“I know she’s my daughter, do you?” Tracy yells back, the accusation so thick in her voice that even the seven-year-old Marcia could tell that something was very wrong.

“Someone would think she were your wife or your mistress even!” Her mother continues, her voice rising, agitated and frustrated.

“Have you gone mad? Lower your voice! Marcia’s upstairs!” Raymond growls at his furious wife.

“You see! You see? You don’t even deny it!” Tracy says, lowering her voice to a hiss.

Raymond rolls his eyes. This stupid, crazy talk again! What’s with this woman these days? It’s her daughter who is sick!

One would think a mother would be more caring toward her own child; he thinks irritably while turning back to watch the coffee pot come to a boil.

The young Marcia, not old enough to understand the talk about wife and mistress, but old enough to know that tension had something to do with her being sick, pulls her sheets up to her chin.