Slightly dimmed by the onslaught of ninety-six proof liquor, Tony’s thoughts were forming slower; nevertheless, Claire’s words were coming back, Really, Tony? How many people knew about it? How many people would consider us both children of children? He knew that answer in the pit of his stomach. With each second, the truth burnt within him—Catherine knew—she knew they were both children of children. Catherine knew about Nathaniel’s money. Catherine knew how to access Nathaniel’s money. Catherine knew!
Reaching for his nearest phone, Tony almost spilled his drink. As he steadied himself, he thought about Catherine’s number—not hers—no his! The idea that he could call his house and she’d be there—fueled the rage coursing through him. Just as he considered entering the number—with the phone in the palm of his hand—it rang.
He almost dropped it!
With a slight slur to his speech, Tony answered, “Hello, Agent Jackson, how are you this fine evening?” The momentary silence made Tony laugh. “What’s the matter, Agent? Cat’s got your tongue?”
“Mr. Rawlings, we have word that you’re making yourself visible.”
“Oh, you see, that’s not true. No—no one can see me, right now”—Tony scanned the corners of the room for signs of cameras—“or, can you?”—he lifted his free hand to wave—“Can you see me?”
“No, Mr. Rawlings, I can’t see you; however, you’ve been spotted.”
“Well, is that so? I’m not using my real name.”
“Mr. Rawlings, we’d like you to meet with a field agent. He’ll instruct you on better ways to stay hidden.”
“I don’t think I’m up for more learning today. You see, I’ve already had a lesson or two, so I’m really over the entire educational system at this moment.”
“That wasn’t a request. You’re staying at the Kempinski; our agent will meet you in fifteen minutes at Mulligan’s near the train station.”
Tony looked at his watch. “I’m gonna have to pass. You see, I had room service in mind.”
“Mulligan’s—fifteen minutes.” The line went dead. On the corner of the screen, the time said 02:24, so—they were finally able to trace a call—it didn’t matter. They already knew where he was staying.
Tony made his way to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and straightened his tie. If he were expected to meet with some FBI asshole, then he’d at least do it with dignity.
Phil watched Tony leave the Kempinski. If Rawlings was supposed to be in hiding, Phil didn’t think he was doing a very good job. His demeanor, swanker, and aura all screamed Anthony Rawlings. It truly didn’t matter what name he chose to use, no one who knew him would mistake him for someone else—hell, Phil was good, but anyone could’ve found him.
From the time Phil left Claire on the island, he’d been staking out the bank. She’d told him the name of the institution where she’d secured her new fortune. It only made sense that sooner or later, Rawlings would show up at the same place. Claire never told him what she’d left for Rawlings in the safety deposit box, but whatever it was, Rawlings didn’t appear happy about it when he left the bank. He hardly looked like a man who’d just accessed his hidden millions.
Flagging down a cab, Phil instructed the driver to follow the cab up ahead. It may not have been the best detective work he’d ever done, but this wasn’t about learning. Phil didn’t want to know any more about Anthony Rawlings than he already did. In all honesty, he knew more than he wanted to know. Phil had something he wanted to tell Rawlings.
The cab with Rawlings pulled up to a small tavern, Mulligan’s, not far from the train station. Again, Phil wondered what Rawlings was thinking. This was way too public for someone who was supposedly missing. When Phil entered the tavern, it took all his self-control not to stand and gape at the scene unfolding in front of him. Even Rawlings seemed bewildered as he tried to comprehend the reality. Harrison Baldwin was meeting Rawlings mid-room. Yes, there were other patrons, sounds—talking, music, chairs moving, yet as Phil slipped into a dark corner, none of that registered. It was like a movie where the rest of the room turns to fuzz. All Phil could watch were the two men standing chest to chest. If it were a western, then their hands would be on their revolvers.
When Rawlings left the hotel, he didn’t look happy. Unhappy was an understatement to describe his current demeanor. Phil couldn’t hear their conversation, but he could feel the waves of tension radiating from their encounter. For a second, when Baldwin took out his badge, Phil was afraid Rawlings would deck him. It wasn’t true fear—actually, Phil would’ve enjoyed the show; however, for Claire’s sake, it was something that shouldn’t happen—at least, not in public.
Phil wanted to hear what they were saying; however, slipping into the neighboring booth wouldn’t add to the warmth of their reunion. If Phil were to trust his own intuition, this meeting had blindsided Rawlings. Phil wondered who Rawlings thought he was meeting. Shaking his head, he assessed—if this was set up by the FBI, it seemed pretty shitty.
Phil ordered a beer and continued to watch. Neither man in the booth across the room ordered when the waitress approached. Although they sat calmly, an aura of discontent fell like a cloud all around them. Phil didn’t think it was his imagination or the fact he knew their background. Even strangers were steering clear of that corner of the bar. Despite their too low voices, their body language suggested a heated discussion. Baldwin was talking, and Rawlings wasn’t interested; however, when Baldwin pulled out his phone and showed something to Rawlings, Phil thought he saw virtual sparks fly. Rawlings’ finger pointed at Baldwin and moved to emphasize every word of his retort. Without warning, Rawlings stood and headed toward the door.
Phil watched to see if Baldwin would go after him. When he didn’t, Phil laid a few Euros on the tabletop and slid out after Rawlings. As he watched the cab stop and Rawlings begin to enter, Phil let out a breath and told himself, this is for Claire.
The next second, Phil reached for the handle of the cab’s door. When it opened, he eased onto the seat next to Rawlings.
“Excuse me, this cab is—” Tony’s words, in French, stopped when their eyes met. It’s understandable that he didn’t recognize Phil right away; after all, they’d only met a few times in person. Most of their correspondence had been via email and text message, but when Rawlings realized who’d just entered his cab, his eyes darkened and he growled, “What the hell?”
Also in French, Phil replied, “I’d address you by name”—Phil moved his eyes to the driver—“however, I’m not sure what that is.”
“Collins,” Rawlings said, as he exhaled and laid his head against the seat.
“Monsieur Collins, I’m sure you’ll want to hear me out.”
“This fuck’n day won’t ever end, will it?”
The cab driver looked back at Tony and asked if everything was all right. Tony nodded and replied, “Oui, to my hotel.” Then under his breath, he continued the conversation, “Monsieur, I assume you’ll be joining me?”
Phil nodded. “Bien sûr.”
A little more persistence, a little more effort, and what seemed hopeless failure may turn to glorious success.
—Elbert Hubbard
Each day was a little better than the last. Claire only allowed herself to cry or acknowledge her loneliness when she was alone in her suite. It wasn’t compartmentalization—she’d accepted her fate. These weren’t the cards she’d been dealt; no, they were the ones she’d drawn.
She reasoned that Madeline and Francis didn’t need to be burdened by her sadness, and her child didn’t need to experience the anguish coming from its mother—all of the time. Claire kept the sadness defined, and the rest of the time, she bluffed her way through. Fake it until she made it—her new mantra.
The odd thing—the thing that surprised Claire—was as she bluffed and feigned happiness, the real pleasures of day-to-day activities seeped into her life. One afternoon, while in the kitchen with Madeline and without pretending, Claire heard her own laughter. The lig
ht, foreign, and whimsical sound surprised her more than anyone else. It had been so long since she’d truly laughed that she almost didn’t recognize it.
On the afternoon after she and Tony spoke, she lay on her bed, phone in hand, for what seemed like hours. Her plan was well thought out and well designed; nevertheless, he hung up. The pain from his decision and her situation was physical. She’d experienced physical pain before, and this was equally as immobilizing. Had it not been for the child inside of her, Claire might have chosen to remain forever on that big bed; however, as the life within her moved and grew, she knew that she too, must go on.
The tides still rose and the sun still set. Madeline and Francis still did what they did. Claire had a decision to make; she either centered her life on waiting for his call or moved on. It wasn’t a desire—it was a need. Claire needed closure. With strength she didn’t know she possessed, she turned off the phone Tony called, gathered the cords, and placed all of the phones associated with the safety deposit box in a container. She wouldn’t trap him, and she couldn’t persuade him—all Claire could do was move on.
When her reality finally hit, Claire realized she was facing her greatest fear—Catherine had won. It didn’t matter that Claire knew the truth, or that she told Tony. All that mattered were the consequences of her betrayal. On a warm night in June, she and Tony stood in an open field and promised to trust one another. Even at the time, Claire knew it was a difficult promise for Tony; nevertheless, they made a vow. It wasn’t said in front of family and friends, but it was an oath. Although some of Tony’s promises over the years were made for the wrong reasons, he showed Claire more than once that he was a man of his word.
On that same night, Tony asked Claire if she was afraid of him. Claire replied: Of you—personally—not anymore. There was a time, but I’ve changed, and you’ve changed. No, I’m not. If only she’d focused on that—on her promises.
All vows endure tests. These tests were rarely planned—but they happened. Catherine planned Claire’s test, deceptively using Claire’s experience, her fear, and her maternal instinct against her. By failing that test, Claire was hurt—Tony was hurt—and ultimately, their child was hurt—all the children of children. Truly, it was an impressive win on Catherine’s part. She could live on that jackpot for a long time.
It was a few days after their conversation, when Claire saw the irony. In this strange world of vengeance, Claire did what Tony said Nathaniel had done—Claire had trusted the wrong people. She couldn’t take it back. Not only had she trusted the wrong people, she’d pushed away the ones who truly cared. Whether it was Emily, John, or Phil, they were all gone, and Claire knew it was her doing.
When she sat down to eat and Francis held one of her hands and Madeline the other, Francis’ words spoke to an entity who Claire remembered from childhood. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe—she did. It was that she wasn’t sure she deserved the blessings Francis described. One day, in the gardens, Francis told Claire about his personal journey. He wasn’t only a believer, but ordained.
Each day and each meal opened Claire’s mind a little more. Before she knew it, Claire was talking to God too. No, it wasn’t audible, yet it was comforting. She didn’t ask for anything. There was nothing more she wanted. She made promises, promises to focus on her new friends, her child, and her well-being. The more she talked, the more she listened. The replies weren’t words, they were peace. Claire didn’t know how it would work, but somehow, she believed it would. In a way, it was like being with Tony; she willingly gave over control of her life.
Tony took a deep breath. Although the multi-colored sea below him reminded him of his honeymoon, the tension in his neck and shoulders was something completely different. It was no secret; Anthony Rawlings didn’t like or want to be indebted to anyone. Truly, he could count the number of people, on one hand, besides himself, who deserved credit for anything in his life. Unfortunately, that short list went all the way back to his childhood; nevertheless, someone who was no longer obligated to him in any way may have changed his life forever. The jury was still out. As the small plane continued toward some mysterious island, Tony closed his eyes and remembered the happenings of the other night.
He’d bet everything on the money in his accounts. Hovering somewhere around 200 million, the possibilities for that money were limitless. His world began to crack and cave in when he signed the ledger. Tony knew, without a doubt, Catherine hadn’t traveled to Switzerland and accessed their accounts. She hadn’t stolen Tony’s money out from under him; nevertheless, on the ledger, and on two separate occasions, he saw the signature—C. Marie Rawls.
When he first heard Claire’s voice, Tony’s world exploded—the relief was instantaneous. Claire was alive! Their child was safe! He almost experienced a giddiness he’d never known; then all at once, the sensation evaporated and crimson saturated his happiness. No longer did he think about Claire’s safety—that was apparently assured. Now, the obvious dominated his thoughts—Claire willingly left him and stole his money.
As she spoke, he heard memories of her proclamations. Over the years, Claire had repeatedly told him that his money didn’t matter, yet somehow, he was standing on the street in Geneva, Switzerland, minus almost 199 million dollars. Claire quipped something about growing his investment. The only damn investment she needed to grow was inside of her. No! He reminded himself, she’d stolen that too.
Claire’s accusation made no sense. Who would know they were both children of children? The only person was Catherine, and Tony and Catherine had been together—forever. It wasn’t like they were together; however, they’d always been there for one another. He recalled catching her when she fell down the stairs, helping her after the incident—or rather accident—with his parents, and securing her freedom with annual payments to Patrick Chester.
It hadn’t all been one-sided. Catherine had helped Tony too. After Claire’s accident, Catherine was the one who convinced him not to call the police. She contrived the story that later became their statement. She helped with Claire, especially when he first brought her to the estate. Catherine taught her lessons that Claire needed to know. Tony knew he loved Claire, but he also knew he couldn’t abandon Catherine—not after everything they’d been through.
Anthony Rawlings was a businessman. He looked objectively at information and analyzed the ledgers. When he compared the two columns—he, unfortunately, saw more cons on Claire’s side. Catherine had been his rock, and more importantly—Tony’s connection to Nathaniel for as long as he could remember.
Then, there was the arranged meeting! Agent Jackson wanted Tony at Mulligan’s. From Tony’s perspective, it was ridiculous. If the FBI knew where he was then why not come to him? No, the directive was to meet at a public place.
Even days removed, the memories fueled Tony’s rage. Agent Baldwin—Agent! Harrison Baldwin was an FBI agent?! Why? And how? And when? Was it before or after he was with Claire?
After the initial shock, Baldwin convinced Tony to sit. It was then that Baldwin began some tirade about plants. Baldwin asked about Tony’s knowledge regarding plants. Although a few smart-ass answers came to mind, Tony honestly replied, “Nothing. I don’t know shit about plants; well, other than what I’ve learned from Claire.”
It was after the mentioning of Claire’s name that Baldwin got some sick smile on his face and smirked. “So, Rawlings, how is Claire?”
“I haven’t seen her in a while. You know that. I called you when she first went missing.”
“Missing? I guess she is...depending on whom you ask.”
Tony’s patience was spent on the call with Claire—no more remained. “What the hell do you mean?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, just the other day”—Baldwin offered his phone, turning the screen toward Tony—“I was in Venice, and she was in Venice...you can see—she’s well. Oh, she’s staying in disguise”—he lowered his voice—“I believe that’s because she’s hiding from some threat, someone possib
ly, but if you look closely, I’m sure you can tell it’s her.”
Tony stared at the picture—Claire and Baldwin with their hands entwined. Tony didn’t know what else was said. The rest of their conversation vanished behind a rush of rage. In hindsight, it was a good thing Baldwin made his federal status known. If he hadn’t, Tony might have been able to add bodily harm of a federal agent to his resume. Before Tony left the pub, he turned back to Baldwin and asked, “One question, asshole, was Claire some kind of informant—an assignment?”
It was the first sign of true emotion Tony saw on Baldwin’s face as he replied, “At first, she was, but it became more.”
Walking away, Tony contemplated his question and Baldwin’s answer. Although Tony wanted to lay him out and wondered if Claire knew she started out as some FBI project, as he settled into the cab, Tony realized, he was no better than Baldwin. The relationship he started with Claire wasn’t meant to be personal either; then, in the midst of his epiphany, the door to the cab opened. Tony started to speak, to ask the man to leave, when suddenly, Tony recognized him—Phillip Roach, the private detective he’d fired; the one who failed to protect Claire.
Education had always been important to Tony. He finished his bachelor’s and master’s with honors. Whenever possible, he read, researched, and acquired knowledge; however, in the past twelve hours, he’d been told by three different people that they possessed information he needed to learn. By the time Roach entered his cab, Tony’s receptiveness to tutelage ceased to exist.
After they entered Tony’s suite, Roach told him a story. If Tony hadn’t been one of the major players, then he would’ve thought the man was crazy, yet every date—every instance—and every detail—was verifiable in Tony’s mind. Tony had an uncanny ability to remember dates, names, and conversations. Somehow, through Roach’s story, everything he knew and believed took on new meaning.