CHAPTER 18: We’ll Talk Tomorrow
The stunning young blonde tossed a bored look across a table laid with crisp white linen, silver, and Waterford crystal. The handsome man in the tuxedo on the other side caught it.
At 50,000 euros a table, thought Frédéric Trinité, Jessica could at least pretend to be entertained. He sighed, reconsidered. Politics is necessary for the transaction of business, but Jessica is right. This evening is tragically boring.
His mind wandered to business, to sports, to sex. Trinité imagined sneaking out with Jess, disrobing her in the backseat of the limo. He felt the unmistakable rise between his legs. Down, boy, he instructed his organ, but it would not obey.
He let his imagination play. Jessica, eyes closed, against the black leather interior of his limousine, her mink casually thrown aside, her strapless gown fallen down, her gorgeous white breasts quivering from the gentle rocking of the vehicle. He grabbed her erect pink nipples and pulled. A soft moan escaped her lips and her eyes flew open in surprise at the delicious pain. She begged for more. He raised her skirt, his fingers grazing her black stockings and satin garters, before reaching into her silk panties, ripping them as he found her. She was wet as he rhythmically played with her, her eyes locked on his. Suddenly, he thrust his fingers inside her, reaching high. She pushed down hard on his hand and came once, twice, her head thrown back with a glistening smile, her tongue caressing her upper lip. He deftly rolled her face down on the seat pulling her round ass, glowing white in the moonlight, toward him. He knew the chauffeur was watching and that heightened his excitement. He plunged his darting tongue between her legs and licked her hard until she started trembling, begging him to come inside.
“Please, Freddie, oh, Freddie, now, oh God, please.” He reached down and unsheathed his throbbing member.
Applause.
Frédéric Trinité’s mind returned reluctantly to the room. The audience was applauding the speaker.
He looked across the table at Jessica and gave her a loving smile. She raised an eyebrow, wondering why he looked so pleased. You’ll find out later, he thought.
The Ambassador made his final pitch: Our future is at stake. Fight of our lives. Need everyone to do their share.
He handed the podium to yet another speaker, the fifth so far. The man had a loud and commanding voice and was clearly enjoying the theater of it all. Come to the aid of the international community. Environmental, social, governance, ESG. Sustainable Development Goals, SDGs. Stakeholders. Commit. Now.
Several among the older generation nodded off. A wife ribbed her husband expertly as his head bobbed forward. Nice form, thought Trinité.
Jessica joked with the man to her right, a handsome lawyer from a firm Trinité used regularly. The lawyer looked at her with an intensity greater than her conversation warranted. The lawyer checked for a ring and not seeing one, whispered in her ear. Jessica giggled and looked guiltily across the table at Trinité. He caught her eye and she went silent mid-giggle.
The speakers finished and applause filled the room. The crowd rose to their feet in relief, the remains of another sumptuous meal settling heavily around their waists.
Jackie Evancho’s “Behind My Eyes” played as the room began to empty.
If you could see behind my eyes / You'd see the truth inside the lies / And if you read between the lines / You'd see I'm running from my mind
Fade in and out of a daydream / Our waking life torn at the seam / I am the match / You're the gasoline
Frédéric Trinité turned to the young woman on his right. Nancy something or other from one of our PR firms. He couldn’t remember which one. I’d give her some business for a decent blowjob, he thought.
He stood and pulled his shoulders back, his stomach in. “Ah, a chance to stretch,” he said, offering her a gentle smile. She laughed genteelly. “Nancy, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Patricia, Mr. Trinty,” she said. “Patricia Reynolds, from Baker and Hovington in Boston.”
“Tricia?” he asked hopefully.
“Patsy,” she said, handing him her card.
He looked at it briefly and placed it casually on the table. “Bonne soirée,” he said, turning his back to her. Disappointed, she watched as Trinité pumped hands and pecked cheeks as he made his way to the coat check. Jessica, across the room, timed her exit to match his.
Finally, they were outside in the cold Swiss night air, the smell of snow awakening his senses. Jessica, wrapped in pale peach mink, teetered on her high heels. Frédéric Trinité inhaled her scent, took in her lithe figure, her fabulous expensive haircut, her fabulous expensive skin. He couldn’t wait to touch her. His anxious member signaled its approval.
The chauffeur opened the door and Jessica entered first, Trinité’s hand squarely on her ass.
Oh, God, thought the driver, rolling his eyes. They’re going to make me watch. Again.
<><><><>
In the guest room at the Armstrong’s house, Grace Newman woke from a fitful sleep. Next to her bed, her phone alarm quietly chirped. She turned it off and almost fell back to sleep, but the reporter in her would not let her rest.
She dressed and made her way quietly downstairs. In the mud room, she put on her boots and coat and closed the back door softly behind her. As she stepped out into the cold, dark night, a motion light flipped on. She dropped low, moved down into the dark of the garden and, holding the flashlight app on her phone close so little light escaped, made her way carefully across the wet stone foot path to the side of the wood shop.
Voices floated by, but she couldn’t make out the words. She turned off the flashlight app and circled the building to where a small window was slightly ajar, made her way under it. She turned and stood flat against the rough wall, listening to the conversation inside.
Scout gave a gruff bark and someone shushed him, then a man’s voice said, “I say we do it and we do it soon. Look at Tom. We’re getting screwed playing by the rules.”
“You’re talking dangerous stuff, Jason,” said Jackson. “You could all go to jail or even get killed settin’ a blaze in the dark without a full crew and a water truck. If the wind comes ’round the wrong way, you’re barbecue.”
“Burn it and log it, I say.” Someone grunted in agreement.
“We can’t wait for a sunny day,” said one of the men. “They’ll know it was set. This way it looks natural, spontaneous combustion, lightnin’ maybe. No one can prove nuthin’ different, right?”
Another voice said, “What choice do we have? We’ve bankrupted everyone in town flying back and forth to DC. As if they give a damn!”
“We need the work, guys. We can’t hold on much longer,” a voice said.
“Hell, my house is in foreclosure and my wife’s ready to torch it herself! We have to do this.”
“Even if you do burn a section of the forest,” said Jackson, “as soon as you file for a salvage permit, the preservationists will take it to court, stop you logging it.”
“Not if it’s close to their vacation homes…”
There was silence, then, “He’s got a point.”
“Or near the old loggin’ camp they turned into a movie studio?”
“He’s right, ya know. Movie people get permits anytime they want ’em.”
“I vote yes. Tom? Ready to fight back?”
There was a long silence. Grace imagined Tom’s distress. “No,” said Tom softly. “I’m not ready to go that far. Not yet.”
“Shit,” said a voice. “Hell,” said another.
“If Tommy ain’t ready, then it just ain’t right. I’m out,” said another man.
“Well, you know my vote. No,” said Jackson’s voice. “Not yet, anyway.”
“Jason, let’s wait a little longer. We can make it through another winter.”
Silence. “Maybe,” said a voice.
“OK, I’m out. Let the bank take the friggin’ house.”
Silence.
“Just tell me why not, Jackson? Why the fuck not?”
“Because, it’s wrong, Jason. That’s all. Maybe one day, when all our options are gone. But not yet. We’ll find another way. We may lose the battle, Jason, but we cannot lose our immortal souls.”
Grace leaned against the wall. An owl’s wings beat above her, the sound fading into the night as she looked up to the star-filled sky. It took her breath away.
The men shuffled around inside, then Jackson said, “You fellows get on home. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Grace ran back up to the house, tiptoed inside and upstairs. She lay awake in bed a long, long time, thinking—about fire, souls and stars, her place on the planet and Jackson.
