Chapter 7
Who does this girl think she is, talking to me like that, telling me what to do and how to act? She has no idea what I've been through, the pain I feel. Insolent—that's what she is. I had no idea she had such a sharp tongue. If she keeps this up, I'll have to fire her.
But thinking it over, she has a point. I've been a very absent father to my daughter, always leaving her in the hands of nannies, the girls who work for me, and sometimes even Marcus.
Mattia calls me out on this too, but ever since I lost my wife, my focus has always been on the wretch who killed her.
Sometimes I think I might be going too far, but I dismiss the thought just as quickly.
I'm sitting at my desk, going over some papers the lawyer gave me, doing everything I can to delay that James guy's release from prison.
Even though he has good behavior, we always find a way to stir up trouble for him in there.
This keeps delaying the trials and the habeas corpus petitions from his lawyer, and as long as I can keep delaying, I will. I talked to the judge handling the case, and he told me there won't be a hearing for now because James got into a fight in his cell.
That's a relief, because it means I'll have a break from this case for now.
So I turn my attention back to my other work—besides being a judge, I handle paperwork for friends' businesses and their legal matters too.
It's not that I can't practice law; in some cases I can, and these days I only do it for friends.
I have people who work with me in my office as well.
I put all the paperwork in the drawer and lock it.
It's late and I need to rest. I leave the office and hear laughter in the distance.
Up ahead, the door leading to the backyard lawn is open, and I realize the sound is coming from there.
I decide to take a peek and see Marcus and Amélie talking and laughing.
It makes me a little angry—I don't know why, but it bothers me. I clear my throat.
“Ahem.” They both look at me. I don't think they expected to find me there. “It's late, and Ellie wakes up early tomorrow.”
“I'm going now, sir. Good night, Marcus—we'll talk more tomorrow.”
“Good night, Amy.”
So she even has a nickname now. She walks past me without a word, and I watch her head up the stairs. Marcus comes toward me and starts in.
“What is it now? Can't employees talk to each other anymore?”
“It's late, and you know perfectly well my daughter wakes up early. The nanny needs to be well rested.”
“Is that the only reason, or is there something else?”
“You've worked with me for years, Marcus. We're comfortable with each other because we're friends too, but I handle my own employees. I don't need you telling me what to do or asking what's going on.”
“Okay.” He raises his hands in surrender. “I won't say another word. But if you want, I'll back off.”
“I don't know what you mean by that—or rather, I'm going to pretend I didn't hear it.”
“Don't tell me you're into the girl. You think I didn't notice that sour face you made at the kitchen door? And what just happened now? You've never been like this with any of the other nannies.”
“Shut up, Marcus. The only reason I don't fire you is because you're my best security guard.”
I turn my back on him and walk into the house, hearing him laugh behind me. Really, none of this makes any sense. The girl has only been here for two weeks, and yes, I'm happy with the way she's been treating my daughter—it makes me feel good—but nothing more than that.
I head inside shaking my head and go straight to my room.
I take a quick shower, dry off, and put on just shorts.
I lie down in bed, and memories of my marriage flood back.
I was so happy during our time together.
Luma was a wonderful woman, and we loved each other deeply.
There's no reason for me to get emotionally involved with anyone else.
I have my flings, of course—I'm a man with needs. I even avoid kisses because I find them too intimate. It's just sex and nothing more, a carnal desire that passes the moment I finish. I toss some extra cash on the bed and leave. That's my life now.
I wake up early the next day and head down to the gym to work out, like I do every day. I've been there for a few minutes when Amélie walks in wearing her workout clothes.
“Oh, sir, I'm sorry—I didn't know you were here.”
“You can stay. No problem.”
“Oh, okay. Thank you.”
She starts her workout with cardio, running for half an hour on the treadmill before moving to the machines while I watch her. She's petite with a nice, toned body. I figure at only twenty years old, she must have started early, so I decide to strike up a conversation.
“How old were you when you started?”
“When I changed schools after my mother passed away, I was getting bullied, so I decided to start muay thai. To get stronger, I needed to build muscle, so I combined the two workouts. So to answer your question—since I was fifteen.”
“Isn't that too young to be lifting weights?”
“I consulted a specialist first, and he gave me the okay with some restrictions. It was either that or keep getting beaten up at school.”
She says with a smile, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“And why were you bullied?”
“First of all, I wore glasses, braces, and was covered in pimples—I’ll admit, I really was the ugliest girl in school.
” We laugh together. “Not to mention my clothes. I wasn’t feminine at all.
I liked wearing pants, baggy t-shirts, and caps.
That’s where my love for fighting came from.
I even tried ballet and jazz, but none of it was for me.
I got labeled ‘the clumsy one’—my movements weren’t graceful at all. ” She smiles again.
“You talk like it didn’t bother you.”
“It really doesn’t bother me. Young people are like that until they figure out who they are. When I turned eighteen, I was much more feminine, though I’ll admit I still prefer baggy clothes.” Laughter. “But after my grandmother kept nagging me about it, I changed my style.”
“I don’t know what Ellie will be like when she grows up. I try to give her the best of everything. She goes shopping with the nannies and picks out her own clothes, shoes, toys—but she’s only four.”
“Why don’t you go with her one day? Pick out something you like, something you’d want her to wear. I’m sure she’ll love it.”
“I work—” She doesn’t even let me finish.
“We all work a lot, but taking an hour out of your day to spend with your daughter isn’t going to hurt anything.
You could go at night, for example, when you get back from court.
Instead of locking yourself in your office, take a shower and take her out somewhere.
I guarantee it’ll do you both a world of good. ”
She says this while walking out the door, and I stand there frozen, thinking about what I just heard. She’s right—once again. I haven’t been the best father in the world, and I need to change that. Urgently.