Chapter 3 #4
“You don’t know that. He was feeding you someone else’s words.”
“His publicist should have known better than to prompt him.”
“Will you go back tomorrow?” Henry pressed her.
She groaned again. “I guess I have to. You paid me for two days’ work.”
“Just do tomorrow like it’s the first time. I’ll talk to him. Maybe you can get it in one day.”
Henry called Ben back after that, and told him Charlotte would give the interview another chance.
“Just give it to her straight from the heart. Be honest with her, be yourself.”
“Myself doesn’t do well in interviews,” Ben admitted. “I don’t like them, and being the focus of attention.”
“You’d better tomorrow, or she’ll be out the door in five minutes. She’s allergic to bullshit and lies. Go honest all the way. I know you can do it.”
“I wish I did. Thank you, Henry, for fixing this.”
“I haven’t yet,” Henry reminded him. But they had one last shot at Charlotte doing the article. Once she gave up, she didn’t go back. And he couldn’t force her. He had tried in the past and it never worked if her heart wasn’t in it or she didn’t like the subject.
Ben sat thinking about it for an hour, after he spoke to Henry, and then called Charlotte at the hotel.
She was lying on her bed, thinking about her son and missing him on Christmas, thinking about how strange life was, and how she had ended up in a life that other people envied and thought was exciting and glamorous, interviewing important people and celebrities, when in fact she led a solitary life, her son lived thousands of miles away, and she was in a hotel room alone, far from home on Christmas.
It wasn’t the life she had hoped for when it all started.
She had loved two men in her life, and both relationships had failed abysmally.
She was having a soul-searching look at her life when the phone rang.
She thought it was Henry calling her again about the failed Sharpe interview.
But it was Ben. He sounded cautious and hesitant when she answered.
“Ms. Ramsay?…Charlotte?”
She didn’t recognize his voice for an instant.
Her mind was a million miles away, with Hugh in Dubai.
She was sorry now that she wasn’t with him there, instead of on a wild-goose chase for a bad interview in St. Barth.
It seemed like such a pointless way to spend the holiday, instead of being with the only person on earth she loved, and who loved her.
But Hugh had his own life now. He was a grown-up and had a job he loved far away.
It wasn’t his fault that she had made a mess of the relationships in her life with poor choices.
Hugh’s father had been too young and so had she, and they barely knew each other when she got pregnant in college.
And her married lover had been a liar and a bad guy, a manipulator who had strung her along for six years and had kept her from ever trying again.
It had been ten years since she had a serious man in her life, if she ever had.
“I’m sorry I blew the interview today,” Ben said humbly.
“And I know we’re scheduled for a rematch tomorrow, if I can do it right this time.
But it’s Christmas Eve, and you were a good sport to come down here and give up whatever plans you had with your friends and family in New York.
” For a minute she was tempted to level with him and tell him she had none of either, and it was her own fault.
She had encouraged her son to be independent, which had served him well, but left her without family nearby, and she had blown it with the only two men she’d fallen in love with and had done nothing but work for the last ten years and isolate herself.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said gently, actually feeling sorry for him. “You’ll get it right tomorrow. I’ll help you. And I only have a son. He’s working in Dubai and he couldn’t get free for Christmas. There are worse places than here to be on Christmas.”
“We’re both alone. Why don’t you come over and have dinner with me?
Just homestyle, nothing fancy. Just down-home cooking.
I have a pretty good chef on the boat. He trained in France, but he’s from Kentucky,” Ben said, and she smiled.
“You don’t need to spend Christmas Eve at a hotel. That’s depressing.”
“I was actually feeling sorry for myself,” she admitted. “I don’t think I’d be good company,” she said.
“You look like good company to me. Better than just my own.” She thought about it and realized that an off-the-record dinner with him might help get the interview on the right track the next day, and felt like she should go for work.
She was here for an assignment after all.
She wasn’t officially off until the day after Christmas.
And duty came first. It always did. She was the job.
“This isn’t Ben Sharpe, famous billionaire, that you’re going to interview tomorrow.
It’s just me, Ben, and you. Maybe we’ll get through the holiday better together.
” She hoped he wasn’t hitting on her, she wasn’t in the mood to play games or fend him off.
And then she smiled. One of the richest men in the world was inviting her to his four-hundred-and-fifty-foot yacht to spend Christmas Eve with him, and she wasn’t in the mood.
She knew that anyone on the planet would think she was crazy and difficult.
“Tonight is totally off the record. This isn’t a good night to spend alone, even on a fabulous yacht with a sixty-four-person crew.
If I said I’m lonely no one would believe me.
It sounds crazy even to me, but I am.” It sounded like a come-on, or a trap, but she decided to believe him.
“Can I come in a sweatshirt and torn jeans?” she asked, and he laughed.
“Yeah, if I can wear sweatpants and my favorite moth-eaten sweater. And wait till you see what’s for dinner. My favorite.”
“Caviar and champagne?” she asked. She liked him. A lot better than she had in the interview. He seemed like a decent guy.
“No, way better than that. You’ll see. I’ll send a car for you. Is ten minutes too soon?”
“Not in my torn jeans. I’ll be out front.” She hesitated and added in a soft voice, “And Ben…thank you. You just saved me from a miserable night in my hotel room, feeling sorry for myself.”
“It’s mutual. See you soon,” he said, and hung up.
She brushed her long red hair, washed her face, and was in front of the hotel when he drove up in a van. She didn’t realize Ben was driving himself until he stopped right next to her, and looked at her with a grin.
“Need a ride?” he said, and she laughed as she got in and they took off to the port. She barely knew him and the interview was a disaster, and now he felt like a friend.
He stopped the van in front of his yacht, and one of the deckhands sprang forward to take the keys from him.
Ben let Charlotte go up the gangway ahead of him.
They took their shoes off at the basket.
She was wearing sneakers, and he was wearing flip-flops.
They went up the stairs to the deck with the outdoor seating area, where the table was set for them.
“Welcome to my humble home,” he said, with a dozen crew members standing by to serve them, and they both laughed.
It was the most incongruous setting she’d ever been in.
He poured himself a Scotch on the rocks at the bar and handed her the glass of white wine she’d requested, and they sat down under a starry sky, as he raised his glass to her.
“Merry Christmas, Charlotte. We’re having my favorite dinner,” he said, looking happier than he had that morning. He looked comfortable and relaxed.
“Hot dogs would be fine,” she said, and sipped her wine.
For that one moment, it felt like the perfect Christmas Eve.
Other than with Hugh, there was nowhere else she’d rather be.
They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes until the steward told them dinner was ready, and Charlotte followed him to the table.
He held her chair as though he was wearing a dinner jacket, and she sat down as though she was wearing an evening gown, as two young stewards brought the tray with their dinner, and Ben looked at her.
“You’re in for a treat,” he promised, as the stewards took the silver domes off a tray holding meat loaf, a bowl of mashed potatoes, southern fried chicken, biscuits, gravy, corn on the cob—all the things Ben loved.
“Comfort food. When I was a kid on the streets, I used to hang around the door of a diner and just smell the food. There was a nice old waitress who would bring me a plate of leftovers sometimes, and one Christmas she took me inside and gave me a whole meal. It’s still my favorite Christmas meal.
” It smelled delicious, and he wasn’t lying to her now.
Whoever he was and wherever he had been in his fifty-two years, she knew at that moment that Ben Sharpe was real, and being with him on Christmas Eve eating southern fried chicken and meat loaf felt real too.
She couldn’t think of a better meal, or a better night.