In The Whispers
Sunday, April 17
The ticking clock didn’t mean time was moving.
Angelica Whitely understood that all too well.
She was suspended in time, counting how long it would take to gather the courage to walk down the hall and face her nemesis.
But if you sit on your bed with bouncing knees and twitching pedicured toes, you won’t get very far in seventy-three minutes. Yes, she counted.
Can someone be your benefactor and still be someone you hold hostile feelings toward? Absolutely. Angelica proved that. Although she once viewed him as heartless and irredeemable, she moved a few rungs up on the “emotions ladder” and mellowed into civil dialogue after four years.
She gazed out the floor-to-ceiling windows of the guest bedroom. The fifteen-story vantage point offered a bird’s-eye view of the mountains, nestled among marshmallow clouds, and of boats at the marina bobbing like toys in a little boy’s navy on the whitecaps of the Shadowcrest River below.
Angelica’s living arrangement reminded her of a kidnapping scenario. One minute, she was regaining consciousness in a hospital bed, and in a blink—well, maybe a while longer—she was imprisoned in his penthouse. Of all the places she could have recovered, why did it have to be here?
But what woman complains about an extended stay in a penthouse? An ungrateful woman, that’s who. She had her own room, a luxurious private bathroom with a walk-in shower and a Jacuzzi tub, a dedicated personal chef and limousine with a driver, concierge service, and indoor and outdoor pools.
She wasn’t truly ungrateful; she was just antsy to move on.
Taking a deep breath, she encouraged the only person in the room. You got this. You can do this! Was she ready? Heck no!
Angelica approached the six-panel door with the solid-brass lever doorknob.
Along the way, she patted her 4-wheeled walker with a leopard print seat.
“Wish me luck,” she said to her now-abandoned friend gathering dust against the wall.
“I promise, before I leave, I’ll find you a good home where you will be useful and appreciated again. ”
Her steps were slow but deliberate as she walked down the marble floor of the long hall, lined with sought-after paintings rather than mass-produced copies.
Nicky wouldn’t have it any other way. Angelica snickered—he couldn’t tell a Marc Chagall from an Andy Warhol.
She stopped at the last doorway on her left—his home office, where you’d only find him on Sundays during the day.
Her petite hand brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek before gently tapping the doorframe. “May I come in?” Angelica asked, nibbling on an acrylic nail, making no progress.
A man sat hunched over a pile of paperwork on his executive desk. He glanced up with his dark eyes and smiled. “You never have to ask, dear. Have a seat.” He nodded toward one of the armchairs across from him.
Eager to make this quick, Angelica squeezed into the tight space between the chair and the desk and, standing, planted her palms on the highly polished surface.
“Nicky … I want to leave,” she said, only stuttering once. Thankfully.
But she wanted to leave the moment he pushed her wheelchair into the foyer.
With one eye on the papers and the other on her, he asked inattentively, “Do you want to go on vacation? I’ve been holding off on taking you somewhere exotic. Are you up for it now?”
Angelica cleared her throat. “Leave, as in move out. I appreciate all—”
“You can’t move out! You’re not well, Angel.”
Music wasn’t required for the frantic dance her fingers began to tap on his desktop. “Nothing is wrong with me. The neurologist and the orthopedist said I’m fine now.”
“Now?! You’re never going to be fine,” he groused. “That’s why you’ve been living here. You can’t even remember what happened to you.”
It’s been said that your legs can feel like rubber when you’re under stress or shock; that’s the sensation she experienced. She sank into the cushioned seat behind her, tears filling her eyes.
Angelica swallowed, sucked in a breath, and found a reserve she didn’t know she had.
“Nicholas, that’s cruel! You make it sound like I’ve done this on purpose or I’m senile.
I may have forgotten some things, but let me remind you, there are things I’ll never forget!
” A teardrop traced a thin line down her cheek as her large brown eyes locked onto him.
“Regardless, who I am today is all I’ll ever be. The doctors said this is my new normal.”
It was a toss-up whether the rolling chair hitting the wall or Nicholas jumping up was faster. He hurried around the desk, crouched beside her, and took her hands.
“I’m sorry, Angelica. I didn’t mean it that way. You’ve made a miraculous recovery and are perfect just as you are,” he reassured her. “But why do you want to leave? I’ve given you everything you need.”
She had everything, yet she possessed nothing.
Weary, the hands on the clock gave up their endless merry-go-round. The oxygen in the room also closed up shop. Angelica wasn’t sure whether she could breathe or was just too scared to try. Desperately needing air, she hesitated before giving inhaling a shot.
She stared at him sharply, and hot words escaped as she exhaled. “Isn’t wanting to leave reason enough? Or do you plan to keep me here forever, like an injured pet?! I want my own place and a career using my artistic talent.”
Nicholas snorted. He returned to his desk chair, keeping company with the striped wallpaper below the chair rail. He opened his center drawer, took out a business-size checkbook, and crossed his arms.
“I tell you what, I’ll give you seventy-five thousand dollars. Only seventy-five, not a penny more. But something tells me, you won’t be going far.”
He flipped open the monogrammed checkbook cover and wrote the check with a flourish.
Nicholas did everything with a flourish, she mused. Flourish should be his first name. When you’re the king of luxury automobile dealerships in the state, you have a high opinion of yourself.
He ran his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and slid the check with the silver high-security hologram over to Angelica. She slowly picked it up. She’d never held a piece of paper worth so much in her life.
“Thank … thank you, Nicky,” she stammered, her voice cracking.
But Angelica wasn’t born yesterday. That amount of money wouldn’t buy her anything in this area, and contrary to what Nicholas Ponte thought, she would go as far as possible to get away from him.