Cristiane Serruya - Trust: A New Beginning

“When I studied in Lausanne. I told you, remember? A Cordon Bleu teacher taught one of the extra classes. He called it Cordon Bleu pour les jeunes. Can you imagine a bunch of teenage girls in a kitchen?” She smiled, “It was one of the best classes. He had a funny way of teaching and kept us all interested in the difficult art of Cordon Bleu. But pasta is very easy. One day I’ll cook something more elaborate for you.”

“But surely, you don’t cook usually. Your nails give you away.”

“No, I don’t cook every day. But after that year in Lausanne, I improved my skills at home. When I got married I made it a habit to cook at least once a week for Gabriel,” the last word she barely whispered.

He interlaced his finger in hers. “Did you know you could make a fortune with the wines you have? There are specialized investment funds that trade on wine.”

“What would I do with more money?” She sighed in disbelief. “Money is also for spending, Alistair. I work a lot. I can afford some extravagances.”

“Do you like being in Gabriel’s shoes?” He perused her face, seriously. “As far as I know, you relinquished your career as a successful lawyer to run his company.”

“I don’t run his company. I just give the last opinion on matters that are more important. And, well, life didn’t leave me much choice. It was never a question of what I wanted to do, but what I had to do. I did what was right. But, you know,” she drank her wine and tilted her head to side, in thought. “I never thought I’d have what it takes to fully understand and manage such an enormous and complicated organization. It seems that I do. At the beginning, the employees didn’t have much faith in me, but gradually I showed them I could do it. I have to thank Edward for all I’ve achieved in the last year. More than a business partner, he has been a great friend and companion.”

“Edward. Davidoff?” As she nodded, he frowned and enquired, “He was Gabriel’s partner?”

“No. But Gabriel trusted him. He started as a trainee and rose by his own merit to the position of CEO. I gave him five percent when I inherited Leibowitz and he has been a great help to me.”

He gapped at her.

“What?”

“You gave away five percent of Leibowitz Oil?” He couldn’t believe his ears. “Beauty, if you had given any other man five percent of Leibowitz Oil, he would have laid on the floor for you to step on with your stilettos.”

“Maybe you’re right, but I didn’t need a doormat. I needed a trustworthy friend and a great CEO to support me. And before you say that I’ve done a senseless and stupid thing, hear my reasons.” She raised a hand and started to count, “First, he worked for Gabriel for more than seventeen years. Second, Gabriel trusted him. Third, I already knew him and his work, and I liked what I knew. Fourth, I was utterly alone in a strange country and needed someone by my side. And last, most importantly, my instincts said he was the man who would help me through it.” She drank more wine and handed him her empty glass for more.

Gabriel, Ashford, Davidoff. How many men are a part of your life, Sophia? “Instincts? You do business based on instincts?”

“No.”

“Thank Chr-”

“I do everything in life based on my instincts. It is the first thing that guides me. If my instincts say no, I say no. It doesn’t matter how many reasons there are for me to say yes. It drove Gabriel crazy,” she laughed. “Edward, at first, didn’t trust my opinions, either.”

“And now?”

“He’s learned that, although strange, it works well.”

“No kidding,” he frowned.

“For example, the contract I signed with your bank. I didn’t trust Wales. Turned out I was right.” She shrugged. “Haven’t you ever had a feeling you shouldn’t do something? Or that a person is worth trusting, contrary to all proof?”

“No, not really.” He finished his pasta. “Is that how you used to decide on your pro bono work?”

“Want more?”

He shook his head. She took their plates, rinsed them, and stashed them in the dishwasher. “I only accepted cases when I believed in what the person was telling me. Either guilty or innocent. And that is the way all the lawyers at my foundation are directed to do as well. Of course, if the evidence is too strong against the person, I couldn’t do magic.” She covered the bowl of pasta with plastic film and put it in the refrigerator. “Contrary to Leonard’s beliefs, I’m not a witch.”

He smiled at this. “I think you have a book of spells and a caldron hidden somewhere. What does your instinct say about me? Innocent or guilty?”

“It says I should trust you,” she answered sincerely. “Dessert? There’s a banana cake that I usually heat up, or ice cream. Or chocolate? Pierre Marcolini. The same I gave your father the weekend of Tavish’s birthday.”

“Chocolate.” He scowled at her, “Innocent or guilty?”

“Bring the wine, will you?” She didn’t answer and exited the kitchen with the pack of condoms in her hand. “Come. Or I get to choose the film,” she shouted from the stairs.

He didn’t move from his chair.

What had started as a joke unexpectedly turned into something serious.

Why isn’t she answering? He wanted, no, needed to know her opinion. He ran after her, the decanter in his hand.

“Sophia.”

“Please, choose the film.” She didn’t look up from where she hunched near the small fridge. “I have champagne truffles, marzipan, or dark chocolate-seventy percent-for grown-ups,” she pointed to a beautiful big black box by her feet with the number sixteen stamped on it, and her lips curled up, teasing, “or milk for the kids. Or,” she grabbed a different box, “macaroons. Which do you prefer?”

“Dark and macaroons.” He put the decanter and his glass next to hers. She’s beating around the bush. He approached the window, looking outside, but not seeing the park. “But I’d rather you answered my question, Sophia.

“I have answered.”

“No. You. Have. Not.” His voice was icy thin. “Innocent or guilty?”

10.55 p.m.

Sophia stiffened and rose from the floor with the boxes in her hand.

Alistair turned from the window, a stern look on his face. She didn’t face him, but she could see his unhappiness.

She took her time putting the boxes on the square ottoman and picked up her glass, refilling it. He watched as she breathed deep, her ribcage expanding.

She drank a steady gulp. “Whom shall I judge?”

He tipped his head to the side, “Me. Me, myself, and I.”

“Me, myself, and I,” she repeated, in a whisper, straightening to her full height.

Sophia turned and watched his face intently before asking in an austere voice, her forehead creased. She gazed at him in the way she sometimes did, as though she thought she could read him. “How do you plead?” Gone was the playful Sophia.

Fuck. Nobody can read me. Or can she? “You’re the lawyer.” And then he scorned, “The one with the instincts.”

“I have to hear the client first. I cannot judge before a fair hearing. State your plea and your crime, please.”

How does she change her mood so fast? “Too many sins and most of the seven capital vices,” he answered quickly without doubt.

“Too general,” she riposted in a calm way, but promptly. “Pray continue.”

I shouldn’t have started this. “Debauchery, perversion, anger, hate, selfishness, murder, indifference, and detachment. And, of the seven vices: lust, wrath, pride, and envy.” He tried to shock her. “In that order, since December 1999.”

She just raised an eyebrow in disdain. “Innocent or guilty?” I know exactly what you’re looking for, Alistair Connor. But I’m not game for condemning someone without a cause. I know quite well the rules of this game. Life has taught me well.

“Of my own sins? Guilty. Of course,” he scoffed.

“Who pressed charges?”

He stood there looking at her cold and analytic face. She’s still evading. Oh, come on, Conselor Leibowitz, stop this. Condemn me, once and for all.

“I’m waiting.” She tapped her foot on the rug, aggravated. “Who pressed charges?”

“Me, myself, and I.”

“Me, myself, and I,” she mused, frowning, evaluating his eyes, face and body language searching for something more. How can you press changes against yourself, Alistair Connor? Because of your own sins? She turned her back to him and pinched the bridge of her nose. He’s lying. There’s more to this. What is he hiding? His guilt isn’t caused by something he did. He’s probably guilty by omission. But she wouldn’t deny him the right of lying, even to himself. Nodding, she inquired further. “Any evidence? Proof?”

A fight. A destroyed car. Blood everywhere. Two dead bodies. “Photos,” he answered brusquely.

“No documents? Testimonies? Fingerprints?”

“Nothing conclusive.” He stood still as a statue and watched her pace the room.

“Photos can be forged, manipulated,” she mused. “And the jury sees what the lawyer wants them to see.”

“Sorry, no escape. The photos weren’t forged.” His deep voice sounded angry and sad at the same time. “Guilty as charged.”

A piece is missing from this puzzle. She finished the wine, placing the glass on the other side table and paced some more. “Just photos.” she voiced her thoughts.

Then she whirled around - suddenly, violently - and her dress swirled around her, the Japanese hair stick dropped to the ground and her hair tumbled down.

She left her hair down and concentrated on her actions. “Who or what was in the photos?” A dark look came over her features.

“The scene of the crime. Blood. Dead bodies.”

Dead bodies. She paled but recovered quickly. Two can play this game, Lord Me-myself-and-I. A very sinister smile started to form on her mouth, twisting her lips.

Fuck! The Avenging Angel. The same look she had at Galewick Hall. He could almost see her growing taller, sprouting wings, and yielding a fiery sword, ready to pierce his black heart guilty of Nathalie’s death.

“Please, think hard before you answer this question. Was my client there? Or had he been there at any moment?”

Was I there? “No. I don’t think so.”

“Ha! You don’t think so! So, you’re not sure!”

His head dropped a bit, his eyes glazed. The memories of his little blonde angel all battered and bruised flooded his brain. “No, but-”

She raised her hand, stopping him, demanding silence. “This was not a question. It was a conclusion.” His head came up abruptly. “The prosecution has no proof that the defendant was, or had been, at the scene of the crime.” Indeed. It’s something he didn’t do. Guilt by omission. The dark smile broadened and her eyes flashed a golden honey color as she counted her conclusions on her fingers, “Firstly, Me-myself-and-I is the one pressing charges. Secondly, Me-myself-and-I is the defendant, who had never been at the scene of the crime. Thirdly, there is no evidence, other than the photos of the crime scene. So I ask you my last question: Is there any proof that my client has ever committed these sins? These unproven sins?”

His eyes widened. She’s destroyed my case. And she’s enjoying every minute of it.

“No answer?” She pressed.

Are my sins unprovable? It seems so. He shook his head, stupefied, and incapable of answering. Her verdict pending over his head as the sword of Damocles. Are they pardonable? No. Never.

She stabbed a finger hard on his chest, like a dagger. “Therefore, this lawyer is pleading innocent in the name of Me-myself-and-I,” she glared at him, pinning him under her angry stare, “or rather in your name, Alistair Connor.”

How dare she? How dare she absolve me? The fear that her absolution could destroy the detachment he had achieved so far, erupted in him a need to destroy the woman who had so trustily absolved him. Alistair’s arms encompassed her waist swiftly, hauling her body flush with his. His hand fisted and twirled her hair tightly as his mouth crushed hers.

The unpredicted and violent assault startled Sophia. Her hands gripped his arms to steady herself as his tongue pursued and forcefully demanded an entrance. She allowed it and moaned when he invaded her mouth. He slanted her head with a rough tug on her hair to have better access to her mouth.

Sophia stiffened and gasped at the sharp pain and her hand flew up. Her slender fingers wrapped around his wrist and surprised Alistair, causing him to loosen his hold on her hair. Immediately she relaxed into his embrace.