She’s smiling warmly at me, but my confusion is evident. “What do you mean it’s been paid? Who paid it?” I’m incredulous, as my mind instantly floats to Derek. But he can’t possibly have this kind of money, can he?

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose the source of the funds. The only thing that concerns you is that you are free from any obligation you were previously paying on. We don’t manage any responsibility of our employees’ debts, but when a limit is listed on a payable account and that limit is met, it is my responsibility to notify you. You will, as such, need to determine if you wish to remain at Trimbles and supply a new payable account, or if this will cause you to rethink your employment with Trimbles.” My mouth is open, and I’m struggling to process what she is saying.

Liz turns to me and speaks. “Ash, you are free from them.” She’s whispering, and I catch Mr. Grayson glaring and snorting at us both.

Where is Derek, and what does he or doesn’t he have to do with this? I have to know, and since I’m no longer under any control of this place, I ask, “Shouldn’t my manager be here for this?”

Mr. Grayson snorts and throws me a hateful look from his place behind the payroll manager. It is he who speaks next as the payroll manager’s gaze flits to him. “Mr. Pennington resigned yesterday afternoon, and he left very shortly thereafter. Sorry, Ms. Monroe, but he left no message for you or forwarding address. He was just your manager, after all, and I’m sure he has better things to do with his time than worry about an ex-whore.”

He’s smiling cruelly at me, and as I watch, the payroll manager’s gaze falls to her hands. She feels bad for me, and as she looks up, she smiles gently and gives a slight shake to her head. I sit stunned into silence, but Mr. Grayson speaks again. “Normally we would give you the option of staying on and transferring your payroll checks into another payable account, but seeing as you’ve been a pain in my ass from day one, I’m firing you. You are no longer welcome at Trimbles, and I expect you gone from the premises within the hour.” As he stands and waltzes to the door casually, he stops by my side and looks down to me. “What do you say? Wanna stop by my room and suck me off one more time for old time’s sake? No? No worries. You were a lousy fucking whore, and you gave lousy fucking head.” He speaks as though these words could ever possibly hurt, and as he exits, slamming the door behind him, the entire room breathes a sigh of relief.

I look to Frederick, hoping for anything at all, but he just shrugs. It’s a genuine shrug, and I can tell by the look in his eyes, he’s as surprised as I am to hear Derek’s gone.

When I look back to the payroll manager, she looks defeated as well, but with Mr. Grayson gone from the room, she speaks quietly. “I’ll tell you what I know. Mr. Pennington paid the debt yesterday afternoon. He also paid a large surplus of five million that has been deposited into an account in your name. I have an envelope with the details of the account for you. He left no forwarding information but said that he would be leaving immediately. That’s all I can tell you. I’m sorry. I’ve known Derek for many years, and for him to do something like this… He obviously cares a great deal about you to have done this. I just wish I could tell you more.” I watch her as tears sting my eyes, and then fall down my cheeks.

In my own defeat, I mutter to the room, “He didn’t care enough.”

I stand to leave, and Liz puts her arm around my waist to help me. I’m done. He’s given me the last rejection he owes me. It hurts worse than any pain I’ve endured over the last two months. I stare at nothing at all on the walk to the elevator, with Liz supporting my catatonic body. As she packs my belongings and the day dresses hanging in my closet, I sit on the chaise, staring out the window at the city skyline. I know where he went, but there is no point following him. Had he wanted me to follow him, he’d have not funded my entire lifetime in a nice little parting gift. He wants to be away from me, and while I know I’ll eventually rage against my memories of him, right now I hurt too much not to long pitifully for him. Liz returns to my side with a number of overstuffed bags. She sits beside me, and with a hand on mine, she tells me it’s time to go.

Frederick is waiting at the curb with his car, and Liz sits in the back seat with me. I’m numb, and my brain isn’t functioning in any normal capacity, and as Frederick asks where I want to go, I shake my head. I have no idea how to even begin to answer this question. Liz suggests a nice hotel, but I want out of the city. I want to be far away from this place and the memories that seem to slam into my brain like a freight train every time my heart beats. I ask to be dropped at the bus station, and as Liz and Frederick’s eyes meet in the rearview mirror, she nods reluctantly to him.

I choose Charleston, South Carolina, more because the bus is leaving almost immediately than any other reason, and as Liz holds me, we both cry. When I offer to pay her way out of Trimbles to run away with me, I’m serious. I can’t imagine my life without her support and friendship in it—especially now. But she shakes her head, and with a smile that isn’t quite bright enough to mask her own sadness, she looks to Fredrick. “I have my own reasons for being here.” I get it. I would have walked through the fires of hell for Derek, and didn’t I? What makes me think she wouldn’t, or hasn’t, done the same for Fredrick?

She makes me promise to call every day, and she promises me that she’ll visit me soon. As I settle into my seat and look out at her, Frederick approaches her from behind and pulls her body into his. The intimacy is undeniable. I know this intimacy well, and I’m running from my memories of it. I’m happy for her. They’re beautiful together, and I pray for her that she will be happier than I am in this life. I raise a final hand to them both as the bus pulls from the curb, and new tears prick my eyes and slowly roll down my cheeks as we depart.

Chapter 27

Charleston is beautiful, and within just a couple of days, I’ve rented a vacation home on the beach for a month. The cost is quite frivolous, but given the size of my Derek-funded bank account, I can afford to be frivolous at the moment. Besides, I’m in too self-destructive of a mood not to. The house is ridiculously big for one lowly ex-hooker, and I quickly settle into a quiet daily routine here.

I wake and make strong coffee. I wash and bandage my still-healing burn. It is no longer very painful, but the skin is still raw and new. Once that daily chore is complete, I call Liz for our morning chat, and we talk for a long time. She asks me if I’m thinking of calling Derek, and I always tell her I’m not, but her questions are leading, and it is obvious she thinks I ought to seek him out. I made the mistake of telling her that I know where he has a private home of his own, and since that time, she has all but begged me to go to him. But I won’t. Once I finish my daily call to her, I watch TV and read until the sun is high in the sky.

The beaches are sandy white, and I lay for hours under a large umbrella every day, letting my body swelter in the heat. I don’t tan, and after a week of being in Charleston, I’m as pale as I always have been, but I like the warmth of the sand, and the shade of my beach umbrella all the same. The cool water is a welcome break from the humid heat of the day, and I swim long and lazily every day on my own private stretch of beach. In the afternoon, I walk into the nearby village and have dinner. I return with a bottle of wine every night, and drink until my eyelids are heavy and the alcohol whisks me gently into sleep. I’ve never drunk so much in my life, but it staves off the sadness in the quietness and loneliness of the evenings, and it helps me sleep.

I’ve not even unpacked my bags after two weeks in the house, preferring to buy shorts and bikini tops in the village rather than face the contents of my bags. Many of the clothes in that bag are dresses Derek and I bought together, and many hold memories I’d just as soon forget. I ignore them sitting in the corner of my bedroom, not yet ready to face it. But when a nice young woman from a couple of houses down asks me to dinner one night, I’m forced to.

Helena is her name, and I see her on the beach nearly every day. She is kind, and often stops to talk to me. I like her, and being so starved for human contact, I’m always happy to spend time with her. She often joins me in the evenings for a glass or two of wine as we sit on my expansive porch. When, one afternoon on the beach, she asks if I have dinner plans, I’m instantly happy to go, but then she drops the bombshell. “It’s kind of a nice place, so I would suggest a dress if you have one.”

I’m sure she doubts that I do, given my daily outfit of shorts and a bikini top. My gaze flits from her, but as I look back and see how excited she is for our girls’ night out, I nod in agreement.

I’ve been left with no time to go shopping for a dress, and not having a car, hell, never having had a license, has me at the disadvantage of not being able to get to any nice shops anyway. As I set about getting ready for the evening, I avoid my bags for as long as I can. But once my curls are restrained in a bun, my teeth are brushed, and my lip gloss is in place, I’m forced to start the depressing task of looking at my old life in fabric. I pull one after another out, looking for something less wrinkled that I can fluff in the dryer. I lay each one out on the bed, and most, if not all, spark some memory of Derek. Most memories involve him pulling the dress from my body, but some are sweeter than even that. There is the one I wore when he took me to dinner and a movie—that one is painful to see—and there are so many more just like it. I pull one out that is still covered in a garment bag, and I toss it on the bed as well. I find a cotton sundress that is just dressy enough, so I rush to the dryer and put it on fluff for fifteen minutes.

I toss it over my head as I run out of the house to Helena’s waiting car.

I sit in the passenger seat, and she comments, “You clean up nicely, Ashton. I like!” And she looks fabulous too.

Dinner is fun. Actually fun. The first real fun I’ve experienced in more time than I can remember, and as we finish one bottle of wine and start on another, we are both laughing like old friends and having more fun than we likely ought to in such a fine restaurant. We end up taking a cab home and opening another bottle on the beach as we sit in the sand. We open up to one another, as wine will typically cause a couple of ladies to do.

She is lonely. Her husband travels the better part of every week, and their time is limited to say the least. I feel her pain. She loves her husband, and when she says she misses him, she means it. I know her pain so well, and I want to share my own life as well, but what would this woman, who hardly knows me, think of my life? But another glass later, and I’m spilling every last bean there is to be spilled, and she is hanging on my every word. At moments there are tears in her eyes; at other moments, she laughs with me. When we finish talking many long hours later, the sun is rising over the ocean, and we are finally losing our battle against sleep. We say our good-byes and retreat to our respective homes.

* * *

I’m awoken at noon on the couch in the living room, more than hung over. It is Helena. She looks amazingly fabulous given our long night, and as she enters carrying two coffees with her, I grab one desperately.

She is excitably talking about my “predicament.” “Ashton, you have to go to him. This is like the most fabulous love story in the world, and you are wasting your time here in Charleston when he’s up in Vermont! It’s ridiculous!” I’m shaking my head as I walk away from her to my bedroom, carrying some dirty laundry with me as I go. She follows. She is most definitely not done with this conversation.

Once in my room, she sees the mess of dresses I’d discarded on the bed the previous evening, and as she starts to sort through them and hang them up, she appraises them thoughtfully. She’s touching some of my favorite memories, and my eyes tear at the sight of them. I’m relieved she’s there to help put them away. I’m not sure I could face them alone. As she reaches the one still in the garment bag, she starts to uncover it. As the fabric starts to show when she lifts the bag up the body of the dress, my heart stills in my chest, and I suck in a quick and shocked breath.