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Then, onto the highway, making their way east towards Nice. He put some music on, something modern but soothing, not just for her nerves but for his.
Maybe fifteen minutes later, she broke the silence. “Are you… angry with me?”
He gave her a startled look and was immediately ashamed. He knew he was shutting her out, but it was for his protection. How could he explain to her what it felt like to be sitting next to a woman, a beautiful woman, after such a long time? What would she say if she had any idea how hard she was tugging at the lonely strings of his heart, the way the moon pulled upon the water on the surface of the Earth?
He'd managed to fill his life remarkably well, considering all that had happened. With his new career, his dogs, his house. One or two friends who remained by his side. But women? There lay trouble. Heartbreak and shame.
He shook his head regretfully. “No. Of course not. I am sorry I made you feel that way. I promise, it was not intentional. I just got too deep inside my own head, you know? I won’t do it again.”
He made the mistake of allowing his hand to fall upon hers, and at once it was as if the warmth inside her was flooding into him, finding its way into the stony places he had guarded so warily. He knew he should take his hand away, but she didn’t, so he didn’t.
He began to talk, to fill the empty air inside the car with sound. Pointing out interesting sights along the way, telling stories of growing up in the region. About the clothing-optional beaches of Nice, the fancy hotels and star-studded nightclubs where international celebrities came to party. How he was such a staunch supporter of Nice’s premier soccer team that he hoarded their team jerseys and was a shameless autograph hound. He was happy when that made her laugh.
Eventually, they arrived at the address, after snaking up along La Corniche with its spectacular view of the city. There was a long line of cars waiting to be parked, and a uniformed valet arrived at his door, his hands clasped respectfully behind his back.
Corbin exited and handed over the keys, then helped Melanie out. Despite the warm summer, the air was cool, thanks to the mountain breezes, and the sounds of laughter and music wafted out from the mansion before them.
He paused for a moment before passing through the wide flowered arch and felt her slide her hand into the crook of his arm, as she whispered, “You’ll be fine, Corbin.”
There. She could sense his unease. She knew he didn’t want to be here, and probably understood that he was here only because of her. He nodded, both for his reassurance and for hers.
“Don’t let them intimidate you.” She gently took both his hands in hers and stood so they were face to face, her eyes shining up at him like stars. “I don’t care who they are, or if they are rich and famous and powerful or whatever. They aren’t better than you. You’re as good as they are. Don’t give them the satisfaction of making you feel small.”
His smile broadened, and he felt a rush of tenderness towards her. Sweet Melanie, thinking that his hesitation was because as a simple “handyman” he was intimidated by the sheer volume of amassed power beyond those walls. He already knew who would be on the guest list: judges and entrepreneurs, fashionistas and celebrities, board members, a mayor or two. This new breed of human they called “influencers”. The combined wealth within could make a huge dent in world hunger, if properly applied.
And she thought he was afraid of them because he felt less than them. She didn’t know that he was afraid because he was once more.
He leaned forward and pressed a kiss upon her cheek, surprising himself and her. She flinched and looked nervously around, and immediately he wanted to kick himself as he remembered Queenie’s bounty. A thousand dollars for a single photo of them kissing. Did a light kiss upon the cheek count?
“Come,” he said firmly. “Let’s go in.”
At the entrance they were scanned by security officers, and the QR code that Queenie had sent to their phones was deemed to pass muster. Then, having made it beyond the dragons at the gate, they were swarmed by waiters offering flutes of bubbling champagne.
They each took a glass and sipped. Corbin watched as Melanie closed her eyes with pleasure and swallowed.
“Been a long time since you had champagne?” he asked, and she responded with an amused giggle that left him mystified.
They began to pierce the swaying crowd, and almost immediately he recognized several faces. A few former colleagues and acquaintances approached, shaking his hand and commenting on how good it was to see him again. From others, there were dark, contemptuous glances and a few snickers, whispers, and averted gazes. A couple he once knew well, with whom he had dined many times, turned their backs and pretended they hadn’t noticed him come in.
Oui.He had been expecting that. How easy it was to become a pariah when you were no longer useful.
Loathing the thought of getting into any conversation, but mindful of his purpose here, he deftly steered encounters with those who dared to approach him into an opportunity to introduce Melanie. For most of them, the recognition was immediate; Queenie Abara had many fans here tonight. Many asked politely how work was proceeding on the cottage, even though several confessed to having followed along online.
Melanie was relaxing, sipping her second glass of the evening and enthusiastically relating her plans for the cottage. She looked happy, enjoying herself, and that alone made his presence worth it.
“Corbin! Mio amico!” The Italian accent grabbed his attention and he spun around to face the owner of the mellifluous voice. It was Graziella Giordano, their hostess, and Melanie’s patron. Slender to the point of willowy with platinum hair that flowed freely down her shoulders. Several trips under a surgeon’s blade made her 60-plus years look like 40, and the gemstones that encircled her throat, clung to her earlobes, fingers and wrists would, he knew, have to be returned to the bank at the end of the party under armed guard.
He fixed a smile upon his face; this was the most piercing of the trials he would face tonight. This woman, he had known professionally for more than a dozen years, and had always had her ear and her trust. She’d known that a call from him in the middle of the night was worth responding to, because literally millions of euros would hang in the balance.
He and Fabienne had enjoyed her hospitality many times, both here at the mansion and on her private island off the coast of Crete. He was on a first name basis with all three of her former husbands; the forth and current one, he guessed, was milling about somewhere in the background, where Graziella preferred her men to remain.
He kissed her on both cheeks, and looked around for Melanie, summoning her to his side with his eyes. “May I present signora Graziella Giordano.” He added with significance, “She is your patron.”
Melanie gasped, her eyes widening. “Oh, the cottage is yours?”
Graziella grabbed Melanie and planted kisses on both her cheeks, then beamed at her. “Ah, yes, just a little weekend cottage. For those days when all of this,” she indicated her luxurious surroundings with a sweep of her graceful hand, “seems too much. You know?”
Melanie nodded, hesitantly, as if trying to figure out whether the woman was pleased with what she had done so far. She didn’t need to wait long. Graziella held both her hands tightly and said with great enthusiasm, “You are doing a wonderful job, my dear. You are so creative and imaginative. I cannot wait to see what you will do next.” Then she added with a mischievous twinkle. “And my precious satyr—I think you call him Mr. Happy?—he will have himself a grand home.”
