CHAPTER 37: Moonlight
The North-South Center in White Plains, New York is a think tank funded by grants and tax dollars. It churns out research papers exploring economic development between Europe and Africa, and North and South America.
In the basement of its three-story nondescript building in White Plains is a small and tidy office occupied by a Mr. Warren Jonah. How Mr. Warren Jonah ended up in the basement of the North-South Center and what he actually did there had long been forgotten, lost in the bureaucratic maze of the organization. He kept to himself and it was assumed he was a researcher like most of the people in the building. Everyone thought he reported to someone else.
His cellphone chirped. “Jonah,” said his contact whom he knew as Madame B. “The L.A. journalist has just checked into Hôtel Suisse, she said flatly. “Oddly, with a logger.”
“Vacation?” Jonah asked hopefully. “A conference?”
“Unlikely,” said Madam B’s frigid voice. “She submitted some disturbing questions to the UNEC. Jonah, ensure our western US operatives are tucked away and dismantle the White Plains office, move to the new location.”
“As you wish, Madam B,” said Jonah, feeling his blood pressure rise. Am I at risk? he thought as he safe organized items from the safe into two boxes along with flash drives and a backup drive zipped up securely in a red canvas case.
He shredded everything else and set the garbage bags outside the office door for the cleaning crew. He cleared the memory in the fax machine and removed a few parts, put a “BROKEN, TRASH” sign on it and placed it in the hall.
He slid his laptop into his briefcase and placed that on top of the two boxes, vacuumed and wiped down the entire room for prints. He was done in 20 minutes and left, pulling the door locked behind him, carrying the two boxes with his briefcase on top.
Two blocks away, he tossed the fax machine parts and his keys into a garbage can, rounded the corner to where his car was parked.
Another door closes, he thought, walking briskly.
<><><><>
Grace and Jackson walked back to Hôtel Suisse. In the lobby, she received a text. “Hell,” she said.
“What?” asked Jackson.
“Hugh Simmons at the UNEC just cancelled. Says he has to go to Berlin. Wants to schedule a Zoom call next month.”
“Run around?” he asked.
“Run around,” she said, sighing.
“Bureaucrats are good at that,” said Jackson.
“That they are,” said Grace.
“Call your Senator? State Department? FOIA? Exactly how does one hold UN bureaucrats accountable?”
“Impossible,” she said, shaking her head as they walked the hall to her room.
“Impossible by design. As if DC isn’t far enough; now the authoritarians are in Europe,” said Jackson as she opened the door to her hotel room and stopped short. A stunning bouquet of peonies and roses was set on a side table.
“Jackson?” she asked, but he looked as surprised as she was. Grace plucked an envelope from the bouquet. Inside was an invitation to a black-tie event at Le Parc Hôtel de Genève. Grace pointed out the patrons of the event. Frédéric Trinité was listed at the top.
A business card fell from the envelope. Jackson retrieved it. Hugh Simmons, Senior Programme Management Officer, United Nations Environment Council, Genève was scripted across the front. Jackson turned it over. Written on the back, in a precise hand, was:
Mademoiselle Newman:
Bienvenue à Genève and please accept my sincere apologies for having to reschedule.
Present this card and enjoy an evening for two as my guests.
Hugh Simmons
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” said Jackson, “but tomorrow I’m renting a tux?”
“Never mind the tux,” said Grace. “It’s a diversion. A little dancing. A little drinking. Meanwhile, they search my room, my computer, everything.”
“We should check out, book another hotel. Clearly this one is compromised.”
“Good idea,” she said. She grinned. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but tomorrow I’m renting a Swiss safety deposit box.”
<><><><>
What was once an 18th-century mansion is now the Grand Ballroom of Le Parc Hôtel de Genève. Tonight, the room glowed under crystal chandeliers while several dozen elegantly dressed people dined and danced.
From a balcony above the dance floor, Frédéric Trinité’s chatted with the other patrons while his wife downed another gin martini. He signaled an aide. “See Madame Trinité to her room,” he instructed. “Fais de beaux rêves,” he said, giving his wife a peck on the cheek. She did not look at him as he walked away without looking back.
He leaned against the balcony’s ornate railing and watched the couples dancing on the floor below. Marguerite Boucher, stunning in a bottle green gown, approached him and they exchanged air kisses and pleasantries, discussed the attendees.
“That woman in black,” she said, “dancing with the very trim young man, is the American environmental reporter, Grace Newman of The Los Angeles Tribune. Hugh Simmons arranged her attendance after he cancelled his appointment.”
“Ah, yes,” said Trinité. “Off to Berlin. Curious that she brought a forester all this way, but they do make a nice-looking couple.”
“I too am curious, Frédéric.” said Marguerite. “Invite them into your lair?” she asked, laughing. He smiled.
<><><><>
Grace took in her surroundings. She had rubbed elbows with enough wealthy people at L.A. fundraisers that she was perfectly at home in her slim black gown. Jackson, on the other hand, found it hard to relax and kept pulling at his bow tie.
The concierge at Hôtel Suisse had directed them to a tailor who was able to fit a tux to accommodate Jackson’s wide shoulders while taking it in around his slim waist. Grace looked at Jackson up and down. “I see an absolutely magnificent man in the prime of his life,” she said.
“Well, I feel like a fool in this tux, in this room,” he said.
She held his hands and gazed directly, lovingly, into his eyes. “Jackson,” she said, “as far as I’m concerned, you and I are the only people here.”
“Can we pretend that is true?” he asked. “You and me, nothing else? Just for tonight?”
They moved on to the dance floor and, for a wonderful hour, the music took them away and there was no one else but them. Grace recognized a melody, a surprising choice, Grace VanderWaal’s “Moonlight”, and thought about the lyrics:
You were dancing in the moonlight / And I, I, I was dancing in the moonlight
Now she lost her way / And she forgets to smile / Never gets a break / From this life in denial
A doll made out of glass / All her friends think that she's great / But I can see through it all / And she's about to break, oh!
While they danced, she looked up at the balcony and almost missed a step. There he was, Frédéric Trinité, standing next to a gorgeous woman in a bottle green gown. She said something. They laughed and walked away.
A short, slim, balding man of about 50 approached them. “Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle Newman? You are the environmental reporter from California? Hugh Simmons’ guest, oui?”
“Yes,” said Grace, moving off the dance floor with Jackson beside her, the short man following them. “This is my colleague, Jackson Armstrong,” she said.
“Enchanté, mademoiselle, monsieur. I am the manager, Roland Didier. Bienvenue à Genève.” He gave a slight bow. “Monsieur Simmons sends his apologies.”
“Please thank him for tonight and the lovely flowers,” said Grace.
“Bien sûr,” said Didier. “Tonight is for pleasure, no business but Monsieur Simmons has arranged for you to discuss your environmental questions and reporting with one of our lead patrons, if you are available? Tomorrow at three at this address in Geneva.” He handed her Marguerite Boucher’s business card. “Hopefully, this is convenient?”
Grace smiled. “We look forward to meeting Madame Boucher tomorrow at three.”
“Merci. Bonne soirée,” said Didier. He took two steps back before turning and disappearing into the crowd.
“Amazing,” said Grace, handing the card to Jackson. “It seems Geneva’s a small town, just like DC or Silvercreek.”
“And God will deliver,” he said, tucking the card into the pocket of his tux. “But no business tonight.”
“Tonight is for pleasure. No business,” she said, smiling.
“Pleasure it is then,” he said as he drew her to him.
<><><><>
Grace and Jackson danced happily for an hour and then he asked, “Go outside?” She smiled and nodded. They made their way to a stone terrace overlooking the beautifully manicured garden where orbs of light hung from the branches of trees like earrings. The crisp night air refreshed them.
In the garden, in the moonlight, Jackson’s body yearned for Grace. A waiter glided by with champagne and Jackson took two glasses. “To a beautiful, and formidable, woman,” he said.
“To you,” she murmured, taking a sip. “Jackson” she started, “I need to explain about what I said that night up in Silvercreek—”
“No,” he said, “it’s my fault. I can’t expect you to have no life, no past.” He leaned in to kiss her as a couple strolled by, glanced at them. “Let’s walk,” he said.
They set down their glasses on a table and descended a pathway into the lush gardens. A lantern glowed softly, beckoning them to follow. They meandered through a maze of plantings to a quiet, hidden place with a small fountain encircled by a tall hedge and a stone wall.
Sheltered and alone, he moved her against the ancient wall, pressing his body against hers, his manhood large and hard against her soft belly. Inside her, something quickened. She gasped softly.
He kissed her deeply and she felt herself melting. He nibbled on her nape and down, down her plunging neckline. He ran his hands over the full, soft curve of her loins.
Grace moaned, ignoring the rough wall against her bare back.
“Really. We must take this back to our room,” he whispered, his voice rough with passion.
<><><><>
They returned to the old hotel where they had rented a room after they checked out of the Hôtel Suisse.
Grace removed her heels and ran up the winding wood staircase with Jackson right behind her. In the room, he flung open the windows and the cold night air washed over them.
Music and laughter floated up from the plaza below. Celine Dion sang “Ne Me Quitte Pas”.
Moi, je t'offrirai / des perles de pluie / venues de pays / où il ne pleut pas
I will offer you / pearls of rain / brought from lands / where it never rains
Je creuserai la terre / jusqu'après ma mort / pour couvrir ton corps / d'or et de lumière
I will dig the earth / until after my death / to cover your body / with gold and light
Je ferai un domaine / où l'amour sera roi / où l'amour sera loi / où tu seras roi
I will make a realm / where love will be king / where love will be law / where you will be king
Ne me quitte pas / Ne me quitte pas / Ne me quitte pas / Ne me quitte pas
Don’t leave me / Don’t leave me / Don’t leave me / Don’t leave me
His hands reached for her, his arms enveloping her. He pulled her in tighter yet, then turned and tilted her chin upwards. His lips met hers, kissing her fully, lusciously. He held the back of her head, released her silky, dark hair so it cascaded free.
The couple said nothing as Grace helped him out of his jacket. She leaned into him and undid his cummerbund as he nuzzled and nipped her neck.
He unfastened the back of her gown. As it fell to the floor, he ran his fingers gently down her back to her waist then turned her. His breath was warm and moist as he kissed her breasts, stirring them to life.
She slowly removed his cufflinks from one wrist, then another, as he kissed her shoulders, first one, then the other. She dropped his cuff links and moved to collect them. “Leave them,” he said, brusquely, pulling off his shirt and stepping out of the rest of his tuxedo.
“Come here, come to me,” he said, pulling her into his arms and against his chest. She felt his heart beating and inhaled his scent. She ran her fingers along his shoulders and over the muscles on his biceps, around his tight waist and up his strong back.
She felt her knees go weak as he lifted her and carried her to the bed. He lowered her gently and pressed her to him as he ran his fingers down her stomach and lower still.
She smiled, pushing against him, looking deeply in his eyes trying to see a glimpse of his soul.
He leaned over her and gazed back, with love, but also something else. Admiration.
Grace had never felt this way before, so totally and completely owned, so at one with another human being.
Her heart beat faster and she felt the unmistakable moistness between her legs, the feeling of hot and cold within her, the full force of a passion that overwhelms.
His lips met hers and she felt his weight upon her, as he entered her, slowly at first, then harder and faster, moving her to heights of pleasure. His thrusts intensified and she joined him in an exquisite ecstasy.
She succumbed to desire, his wishes, and the night.
