25

 

 

First came the weddings.

All three of them same sex couples. The two male couples both said the same thing. After skyrocketing real estate prices and an old tween reality show had unseated Laguna Beach’s long-held status as a bohemian arts colony years before, they’d never considered Orange County to be a welcoming destination for a gay union. Sylvia Milton’s attack on Connor and Logan had changed that, and they’d since broken off conversations with possible venues in Palm Springs and San Diego.

As for the female couple, during their site visit, one of the brides-to-be took Connor aside to tell him how Sylvia’s tone and phrasing during her press conference had reminded her of the time she’d lost her temper with the senior partners at her first firm after they asked her not to bring her girlfriend to the Christmas party. It might upset the other lawyers, they’d said. “Of course, they didn’t care how upset I was,” she’d said. “In fact, they actually told me I was the one who should calm down. It wasn’t exactly blinded by my sexuality, but it was damn close.”

But those were precisely the words that had rocketed across social media, inspiring their own hashtag among those eager to call out Sylvia Milton for what they saw as her not-so-subtle attempts to paint queer relationships as marked by a feverish level of lust that obscured sound, professional judgment. Relationships she’d depicted as a danger to any child who might witness their displays of affection. #NotBlinded had even trended briefly in the United States, and someone had sent the hotel a package of T-shirts printed with the phrase in rainbow letters.

Despite the shows of support, in the end, Connor thought it was a close call. Amongst the rarely predictable twists and turns of social media wars, Sylvia’s throttling was the result of a few poorly chosen words. If she’d stuck to the question of whether or not a workplace relationship during a time of scandal was the right choice for the hotel, she might have been able to lob a weakening strike without bribing the Lighthouse Foundation in the process. Having Logan report to an outside management company could have played defense for a round or two. Or maybe not. At any rate, the feud would have continued.

Had Sylvia Milton simply been sloppy with her language and become a victim of a PC mob as a result? That’s what some of her vastly outnumbered right-wing defenders thought. Or was she actually a bigot?

Connor was sure of only one thing. Considering her word choice along with her performance that day, she’d seemed all too eager to mobilize bigotry on her behalf.

And she was paying the price for it.

When word of the vote hit the news, the Lighthouse Foundation, which had followed through with its threat to cancel, had been widely accused of participating in a baseless smear campaign against a veteran of the Marine Corps who’d saved a child’s life, and because Sylvia Milton’s money remained too good for them to pass up, they’d been forced to weather the storm. If it hadn’t been for the weddings and the social media pushback, the patent attorneys might have canceled too. Instead, they made Connor wait on pins and needles for forty-eight hours before they notified him they were hanging in. Then the Equality Defense Fund, a political action organization that dispatched some of the nation’s best lawyers to argue on behalf of LGBT rights in the courts, moved their annual conference to Sapphire Cove from a giant LA convention hotel that was unlikely to miss the business. And suddenly, the hotel could breathe again.

Brought to the brink by Rodney and his coconspirators, then brought back to it by Sylvia Milton, Sapphire Cove had survived two brushes with death. And now its staff—Connor and Logan included—walked its halls with a new skip in their step and an energy that bordered on giddy.

More importantly, the Stop Sapphire Cove Twitter feed had gone dormant.

Harris Mitchell still believed a defamation suit was required. Nothing else, in his view, would put the Sylvia Milton matter to bed once and for all. But Connor dreaded the thought of another lawsuit. Wanted a life for him, for Logan, for the staff at Sapphire Cove that was temporarily free of scandal, lawyers, and tweets that sent everyone running in all directions.

Two weeks after the vote that had saved Logan’s job, Connor was explaining these very thoughts to Logan as they stood together in the lobby, amidst a trickle of incoming guests. When Logan’s face suddenly fell at the sight of something over Connor’s shoulder, Connor turned, half expecting a Bengal tiger to nose its way through the entry doors.

He was close.

At first, he didn’t recognize the approaching woman. Her sunglasses were enormous, and she’d changed her hair since the press conference. Once a platinum cascade, it was now slicked back in a confining-looking updo held in place by a bright silver, jeweled barrette. Her black pantsuit had a subtle sheen. When the fabric shifted as she walked, the sheen seemed to pulse. She was taller than Connor expected, around six feet even, but that made sense given she’d worked as a model. But that wasn’t the detail that struck him most.

Sylvia Milton was alone.

No assistant, no lawyer, no bodyguard, and no reporters.

His feet feeling like smoke, Connor approached her. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Milton.”

A handshake seemed too pushy given their history, so he turned his nod into a subtle bow. She removed her sunglasses and sized him up with cold eyes. She was a hard woman. An injured woman. A grieving woman, he reminded himself. And, whether he wanted to admit it in this moment or not, nothing could change the fact that she and her husband had been wronged.

“Mr. Harcourt,” she said. “Mr. Murdoch.”

“Ma’am,” Logan said with a nod of the head.

“Congratulations on weathering your recent troubles.” It was an admission of defeat, Connor knew, and it cast this unexpected meeting in a suddenly strange light. “I thought perhaps we could have a drink, Mr. Harcourt.”

“Sure, if Mr. Murdoch joins us.”

Her pursed lips told Connor she didn’t like this idea one bit, but she didn’t feel like she was in a position to negotiate. Tough shit. If she was going to stage a surprise attack, she’d have to do it in the presence of the man she’d smeared.

“Of course,” she whispered.

“And perhaps we could do it someplace off site,” Connor said.

“I promise I’m not here to make a scene.”

“I was thinking mostly of your comfort,” Connor said. “You choose the place, and we’d be happy to meet you there.”

“I did. We’re here. Let’s sit, shall we?”

The hostess for Camilla’s regarded them with eyes gone saucer wide. Connor and Logan sitting down to a casual lunch with the hotel’s public adversary. It was a reaction that spread silently, and not so subtly, throughout the surrounding staff as Connor led the three of them to a table by the window. He instructed the server to get Sylvia whatever she wanted, and Sylvia ordered a glass of the most expensive Chardonnay on the wine list.

Then a tense and uncomfortable silence settled. Sylvia studied their surroundings with a suspicious squint.

“He never brought me here,” she finally said. “This was his special place, I guess. Which is surprising. No offense, but it’s a level down from where we’d usually stay when we traveled together. The Ritzes and the Mandarin Orientals.”

If letting Sylvia cast insults against Sapphire Cove was the price he’d have to pay for a meeting that would end this once and for all, Connor was willing to do it.

“I’d expected to hear from your attorneys by now,” Sylvia said.

“I understand the civil suit is proceeding accordingly,” Connor said.

“Not that. You know I don’t mean that. I’m referring to our…exchanges.”

“On Twitter, you mean.”

Her eyes flashed to his. She’d never publicly connected herself to the Stop Sapphire Cove account. Would she do so now? Instead, she looked up at the server who’d brought her wine, studied the glass for a beat as if she was checking for the powdery threads of poison, then took a careful sip.

“It seems I was an old woman playing a young person’s game,” she finally said, swirling her glass. “My choice of words was intemperate. And it sent the wrong impression.”

“Some of your best friends are gay, right?” Connor asked.

For a second, he regretted the remark, but she seemed slightly amused by his sarcasm. Then she shifted her attention to Logan. “I meant to say that you are so devastatingly handsome, Mr. Murdoch, that your good looks would be capable of driving anyone to distraction, whatever their sexual identity.”

“Gee,” Logan said, “thanks.”

“The point is, I didn’t make my point, and that’s on me.”

“Your point was that Logan was a criminal and I didn’t have the good judgment to see it,” Connor said. “And with all due respect, neither was true.”

Sylvia sipped her wine.

“Should I get us lunch menus?” Connor asked.

“In all honesty, how much respect do you think I’m due, Mr. Harcourt?” she asked.

“You haven’t heard from our lawyer. That should answer your question.”

“It does. But only in part.”

“A few years ago I lost my grandfather, then shortly after that, my father. Sometimes the grief hurt so badly I couldn’t speak. I can’t imagine how bad that pain must be when it’s your husband. After your press conference, Logan and I spent three nights apart, and our future together was…not exactly sure. They were some of the worst days of my life.”

“Ah, so you pity me, then.” Sylvia sipped her wine bitterly.

“I sympathize. It’s not exactly the same thing. And I’m no stranger to my uncle’s abuse. And neither was your husband.”

She looked studious and wary now, and not quite so rigid.

“And apparently you played a pivotal role in getting him to publicly admit his guilt,” she finally said. “That was not lost on me.”

Connor nodded but figured it was best not to take too much credit for anything until he had a better sense of where this unexpected meeting was headed.

“I’ll take the Twitter account down as soon as I leave here,” she said, “provided we both agree to never speak about this publicly again. If I’m called upon to make any statements about the civil suit, I’ll be sure to direct them at your uncle and his henchmen and not either of you or the hotel.”

“And in exchange?” Connor asked.

“We bury the hatchet. You won’t make any public statements about me either. And, of course, there’ll be no further legal action in this matter.”

Sylvia Milton was a shrewd negotiator. What she wanted was something she hadn’t said aloud. She wanted to avoid making a public apology to the hotel. To Connor and Logan. And for a second, he wanted to protest. But he reminded himself of how badly she’d been throttled, and of the not so simple fact that her husband had actually been blackmailed inside of these very walls.

“Is that all?” Connor asked.

“No.” She took another slow sip of wine. When she looked at him again, there was something unguarded in her eyes. “I want to see it. Six E, right? I’m told that was his villa of choice.”

Connor looked to Logan for confirmation of this, and he nodded.

Did she really want to visit the scene of her husband’s blackmail as if there were a headstone there? Or was she after something else?

He had to find out. After checking with registration to make sure it was vacant, the three of them started for the villa. There were only nine in all, terraced in three rows on the south coast-facing hillside. Each had a side door that opened onto a walkway that traveled downhill between each row. They were newer than the main building. Imitation adobe with red tile accents, but the same brightly colored furnishings that matched the renovated lobby’s color scheme, the same plush carpeting and taffeta drapes as the main rooms. Each one had a cathedral ceiling and a tiny backyard with a plunge pool. Six E had gone unoccupied since the scandal broke. As they entered, Connor pulled the drapes and opened the balcony door so ocean air could drive out the vaguely musty smell.

When he turned, he saw Sylvia Milton standing in place, turning slowly to take in her surroundings. The bright blue chaise lounge in the corner had captured her attention. It was positioned so its occupant could take in the sparkling ocean view. Her eyes filled. Was she imagining her husband sitting in it, attached to the IV drip of whatever punishing treatment had been intended to drive his cancer into submission?

As Logan took up a position next to him, as they both watched Sylvia’s silent tears, Connor did the math in his head. She had never been here before. Her husband had kept this place a secret from her. And that meant there was another secret he might have kept from her as well.

The silence between them stretched to what felt like a breaking point. “Mrs. Milton, may I ask you a question?”

It seemed to take effort, but she roused herself, nodded, and dug a tissue from her purse.

“We were told your husband was keeping his diagnosis secret from his company,” Connor said.

“That’s correct,” she whispered.

“Did he also keep it a secret from you?”

When he looked into her eyes, he saw the pain there, saw it in the sudden sag in the corners of her mouth, the fresh sheen of tears in her radiant eyes. The single sharp exhale she took through her nose, as if she’d planned to take several but couldn’t manage the next few.

“First, he had me travel all over. Told me he’d be closing some big deals and would be less around than usual. Then he started to travel. Or, at least, that’s what he told me. But he was coming here. When he couldn’t hide it anymore, he told me it was an infection he’d picked up on one of his trips. By the time the doctors told me what it really was, he was slipping away. It was terminal, and there was very little hope. Apparently he didn’t want me to know. And then came the letter.”

Connor was tempted to tell her he had his own experience with letters left by the departed, but this was her moment.

She walked to the chaise lounge and ran her fingers gently along the head. “I used to think it was a good thing that he always saw me as that young party girl he practically picked up off the runway and turned into his wife. I never stopped being young in his eyes. Who doesn’t want to be young forever? But the flip side was he never saw me as very competent either. It might be why he never tried to trade me out for a younger model. And it feels cruel now, but I always thought the fact that he was old would be my best hope in that regard. Because eventually I would get to care for him and show him there was more to me than my…beautiful smile. But he didn’t let me. In the end, he said he wanted to spare me the pain. But what he really did was spare me the chance to be his wife.”

After a while, she returned to the center of the room and gave it one last survey, her expression turning flinty again.

“So,” she said, “do we have a deal?”

Connor turned to the man next to him. “Logan?”

Logan looked surprised to be consulted, then pleased.

“Of course,” he said.

She turned to Logan and extended her hand. “With my apologies, Mr. Murdoch.”

Logan accepted her handshake. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Would you like us to show you out?” Connor asked.

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

Sylvia went for the door, but as soon as her hand closed on the knob, she turned to them. “Do you love each other?” she asked.

“More than words can say,” Connor said.

“What he said,” Logan added. “And then some.”

She nodded. “Good. But it won’t be enough just to feel it. You’ll also have to receive it. Trust me. Sometimes that’s the hardest part.”

And then her footfalls were clacking up the walkway back toward the main building, and Logan took Connor’s hand in his. A few minutes later, they left the villa, left its ghosts and grief, and stepped out into the sun. Downhill a few steps was a paved walking path that sat right below the lowest row of villas, skirting the top of the cliffs. It was one of the hotel’s little secrets, and right now they had it all to themselves. Drained by Sylvia Milton’s unexpected display of emotion, Connor wilted into Logan, letting himself be supported by his powerful embrace.

“It meant the world to me that you asked me before you accepted her offer,” Logan said.

“She made more of a target out of you than she did of me.”

“We were both targets.”

“True. So did you mean it?” Connor asked.

“What, the more than words can say thing?” Logan asked.

“That was my part. You said the and then some part.”

“Yeah, ’cause it was true.”

“Good. Just checking. I mean, now that you know I can bake I figured it’s a lock, but maybe you don’t appreciate muffins.”

Logan tightened his embrace. “They were really good muffins.”

“Muffins are only the beginning. The banana bread’s going to make you mine forever.”

“What if I don’t like bananas?” Logan asked.

“You will when you have my banana bread.” Connor smiled up at him and waggled his eyebrows.

“I do love your determination.”

“And my baking.”

“And your powers of perception,” Logan said.

“How so?”

“How could you tell her husband didn’t tell her he was sick?” Logan asked.

“It was the way she looked at the room. There was this longing in her expression. I’d expected her to be angry, you know. But instead it was like she was staring at doors that had been closed in her face.”

Logan crooked his finger under Connor’s chin and lifted it until their eyes met. “She’s right. Sometimes it’s harder to receive the love than it is to give it. But after a while, maybe it becomes second nature. So what do you say? Let’s do it every day, so it becomes a habit.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Connor whispered, then graced him with a quick and tender kiss.

Then it was time to get back to work. Together.