Christopher Reich - The First Billion

“I like optimists,” she said, dropping her hand from her dress and running it along his chest. “Tell you what: Think positive and I’ll let you buy me dinner tomorrow, too. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Then, kicking off a zori, she dipped a toe into the pond. “Not too bad at all. Enjoy yourself.”

And before he could ask what she meant, she pushed him into the pond, shorts, T-shirt, Top-Siders, and all.

Gavallan stared down at her sleeping form, remembering the moment. Three years.

Just then, Cate opened her eyes. “Hello,” she said sleepily.

“You never told me why you said no.”

“Sorry?”

“You never gave me a reason.”

She sat up stiffly. “I didn’t know I had to.”

“You don’t,” he said. “But I’m asking you to. It’s time we were honest with each other.”

Cate threw him a suspicious look. Pulling off the sheets, she rose and walked past him to the bulkhead counter where the first officer had set up an urn of coffee and laid out some cellophane-wrapped sandwiches. “Tuna… chicken salad—what do you feel like?”

Gavallan padded across the cabin, taking up position at her shoulder. “Cate.”

She turned to face him. “It just wasn’t right.”

“What wasn’t right? We didn’t get along? We weren’t okay in bed? We didn’t like the same movies? You liked Chinese, I liked Indian? What exactly?”

Cate started to say something, but caught herself. Frowning, she shook her head as if to say, “No, no, I’m not playing this game,” then brushed past him.

“Cate, I’m talking to you.”

“Excuse me?” she asked, snapping her head. “I don’t recall being one of your employees. You can’t order me to talk back. Just leave it, okay?”

And shooting him a dismissive glance, she continued to her seat, making a derisive noise on the way, a frustrated exhalation that sounded like a tire bleeding air.

It was the look that did it—the condescending way she had of averting her eyes, of showing him the back of her hand as if warding off an autograph seeker. Until then, he had kept his cool. It had been a difficult day—the hardest he’d known since the war. Neither of them needed another spate of accusations, rebukes, or recriminations. Then she gave him that look, and his calm was a thing of the past. Lost like a candy wrapper out the window of a speeding car. His heart pounded. Blood raged in his ears. Grabbing Cate by the shoulder, he spun her around and looked her straight in the face.

“Stop ducking the question. It’s been three months. You think a day goes by without my wondering what happened? What I might have done wrong? I mean, one night you’re lying in my arms talking about what’s-his-name at the Journal, your editor, and what you’re going to write for your next column, the next you’re gone. The house is empty. Closets bare. Bathroom deserted. Not a sign you’d ever been there. You even took that chunk of wheatgrass out of the refrigerator. We’re not talking a civilized separation here. We’re talking a ‘scorched earth’ retreat. You’re damned right I want to know. It’s the least I deserve. What happened, Cate? Did you meet someone? Is that it? Just tell me. At least then I’d understand.”

“No,” she replied coolly. “I didn’t meet anyone. It’s not that, Jett.”

“Then what?”

“It just wasn’t going to work. Maybe I could see something you couldn’t. It was too painful for me to hang around, so I left.”

“That’s no answer.”

“Oh, Jett, grow up. Stop thinking you’re so goddamned special that a girl wouldn’t ever dare walk away from you. It didn’t work and I left. That’s it. Just leave it, okay?”

“No, I won’t. I’m sick of leaving things. I’m past closing my eyes and pretending it didn’t happen. I need an answer. Do you understand that? I need it.” He touched a hand to his chest. “In here. For me.”

Cate stared at him for several seconds without answering. He’d surprised her. He could see it. Maybe she didn’t want to see how much she’d torn him up, but that was all part of it. He was through hiding his feelings. Abandoning her hostile stance, she leaned forward and put a firm, unemotional hand on his arm. “Jett, we had three good years. Three great years. But they’re over. We both have to go on. It’s as simple as that.”

Gavallan covered her hand with his. “But they’re not supposed to be over. We were supposed to be with each other for the rest of our lives.”

Her composure left her in stages, like ice slowly melting. She lowered her eyes, and he could see her lip trembling. She began to shake her head. She looked up once, trying to say something. She got out one word—“damn”—and that was it. The tears broke, and after a second she put her head on Gavallan’s chest and let them come.

“Just leave it, Jett,” she whispered throatily, catching her breath. “Please, just leave it. For me.”

Gavallan put his arms around her and hugged her. Okay. He would leave it. For now. For her. He hoped that someday she would tell him. But with sadness, he realized it would have to be on her own time, and of her own will.

He helped Cate to her seat, then kneeled and looked out the window. An orange scythe slit the horizon. He checked his watch. It was midnight Eastern Standard Time, or 6 A.M. in Geneva. Their flight plan had taken them northeast from Boca Raton over the Atlantic, past Bermuda, then east toward the European continent where the sun was already rising. In an hour they’d cross the southernmost tip of Ireland, then continue over England and France, entering Swiss airspace from the northwest.

“You think he’ll be there?” she asked, eyes glued to the wondrous sight of dawn’s approach.

“Pillonel? Yeah, I think so. He’s got a place outside of town where he grows his own grapes. Each year he sends over a case of his wine as a Christmas present. Not bad stuff. Anyway, he’s always going on about coming out to visit his winery. I figure if it’s decent weather, odds are he’ll be playing the grand vintner.”

“What makes you think he’ll talk to us?”

“I can be persuasive when I have to be. Besides, we’ve got plenty of help. Luca’s last letter and that fax to the FBI won’t hurt. A guy like Pillonel’s got a heck of a lot to lose if he gets caught. He’s got to be feeling a little nervous already.”

“And you’ll play on his guilty conscience?”

“Yeah. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll beat the living tar out of him.”

“Ah, a diplomat.”

Gavallan bridled at her dismissive tone. In case she’d forgotten, they’d passed diplomacy a ways back, somewhere after Graf Byrnes had been kidnapped and before Ray Luca had taken a bullet in the head. “Whatever works.”

“You sound like Alexei.”

“Ah, the mysterious Alexei.”

“You’re mad I never told you?”

“Shouldn’t I be?”

Cate glanced up, her eyes red and swollen. “You can be mad, but don’t be unkind. I don’t want to cry again for a month.”

“I’m sorry.”

Cate dropped her eyes to the floor, hiding her hands in the ends of her sweater. “I had to identify his body. Seeing him like that, so damaged, I wanted to die myself. I had urged him to go to the police. I’d hugged him and told him he would be a hero for exposing Kirov. It was my fault. Alexei wasn’t a fighter. When he heard me talk about Kirov stealing from his country, breaking the laws that men like him had just made, he adopted my anger as if it were his. He joined my armchair rebellion. It was his way of showing that he loved me.”

Still on his knees, Gavallan reached out a hand and touched her cheek. “You can’t hold yourself responsible for someone else’s actions. Maybe you asked him to go to the police, but he made that decision himself.”