Our Wicked Lies by Gledé Kabongo (story read aloud TXT) 📗

“Any time, Detective.”

CHAPTER 44

KATALINA TORRES

March 19, 2004

DIARY ENTRY

I’m not one for fawning all over a man, but today I made an exception. I’m flying higher than a kite as I write this. I snuck out of the closing keynote presentation of the CreativeMax Conference at Boston’s Fairmont Copley Plaza Hotel. There was nothing new there. Same old information wrapped up in the latest buzz words to make it sound fresh and exciting. Anyway, in my haste to hit the bar before everyone else did, I forgot I was wearing five-inch-high Manolo Blahniks. It was literally the cliché from every romantic comedy ever (insert dramatic eye roll). Who would have thought I’d have a ‘meet-cute’?

I bumped into him and would have had an embarrassing fall to the ground had he not grabbed me. He had strong biceps. The scent of his Clive Christian 1872 cologne tickled my nose. All this happened before we made eye contact.

And when we did, I was smitten. Gob smacked, eyes popped, mouth hanging open, smitten. Couldn’t get a word out. If Mamma could have seen me, she would have laughed her butt off. Hablas demasiado, meja. She was always telling me I talk too much.

“Easy there,” he said. “Don’t hurt yourself. I can’t drive you to the hospital if you do.” Then he winked at me. I mean the kind of wink that would make even the most cynical girl go weak in the knees. Seriously, I wanted to marry him, and I didn’t even know his name. A nurturer and protector. He was willing to drive a total stranger to the hospital. He scored major points for that. And by his finely tailored Italian suit that cost at least two thousand dollars, I guessed he was some high-powered lawyer or investment banker.

When blood returned to my brain, I told him he shouldn’t say nice things if he couldn’t deliver. I thanked him for saving me from an embarrassing fall, and that the least I could do was buy him a drink. He hesitated and then agreed only after I assured him I wasn’t recruiting victims for some top-secret pharmaceutical drug experiment.

I ended up at the bar with Eliot Gray, the corporate lawyer. I gave myself points for guessing correctly. I’ve heard of his firm, Tillerson Brenner. They have an excellent reputation. He said he wasn’t much of a drinker but didn’t want to be impolite since I went out of my way to thank him. He was charming without even trying, confident, coolness personified.

“Why were you in a hurry to ditch that conference?” he asked, with a big, I feel you, I’ve ditched a few boring meetings myself kind of grin.

I explained that I worked as a junior art director for a B2B creative agency in New York and wanted to learn the latest innovation in visual communication. I took off because I was bored. The speakers presented nothing new that sparked my creative muse. I looked away from him for a moment to chastise myself.

I couldn’t believe what happened next. He leaned in and asked me to tell him more. He actually wanted to know more about my work, about me. He saw me. Not a pretty face or hot body like most idiots I encountered. Just me. It was so refreshing I almost cried.

“What kind of clients does your agency represent?” he asked. Then he wanted to know about my day-to-day job, what I loved about it and what I hated about it. He asked about my goals and ambition, what was next for me.

He even wanted to know if he’d seen my work anywhere. I promised to send him the portfolio link to our agency’s website. I’m as guarded and cynical as they come, two of my superpowers, but something about Eliot compelled me to open up. I should have had myself checked out to make sure I wasn’t coming down with something.

Anyway, drinks turned to dinner, and we didn’t even notice the bar had filled up around us as we talked about literature, politics, and world travel, the places we’ve been and still wanted to visit. He didn’t want to talk much about his job except to say he was good at it and liked his firm. He was thirty-two and wanted to make partner in ten years or less. Then he turned the spotlight back on me.

Two kids, I thought, as I tried not to stare into his hypnotic face. A boy and a girl. No More. I had my career to think about.

Then all my careful planning came crashing down, rather rudely I might add, when he walked me to my room. The polite thing to do was invite him in, which I did. He stood at the door looking all apologetic and sheepish.

“I’m married, Katalina,” he said.

I just stood there, like a mute idiot. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. I gaped at his empty hand. I called foul. Double foul. He caught me staring and then held up his left palm.

“Allergic reaction to a bite from a not-so-friendly spider. The finger got so swollen I had to remove the ring,” he explained.

Then he pulled out his phone, scrolled, and showed me a photo of the most adorable toddlers I had ever seen. He explained that they were his daughters, Marston and Lily, almost two years apart.

Now came the headache. Mrs. Gray. Who the heck was she, and how did she land him? He was only thirty-two, so I’m guessing they married young. Was she a lawyer like him? Perhaps they met at his firm or were they in law school together? A high school sweetheart? A girlfriend who trapped him by getting pregnant? It still happens. He seems like the kind of guy who would step up, do the right thing.

I had to play it cool so I told him how cute they were and I could tell he was a great father. He seemed