RED SOX: It is going to be a long, hot summer.
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Sage watched Brook wince with tear stained eyes when she lowered the ice pack from her cheek. Brook immediately pushed the hand holding the cold first aid to its previous position.
"That bad?" Sage asked.
Brook shrugged, "Black and blue, swollen, it'll heal...Why?" Brook suddenly broke her medical update to question Sage. "Why would you do something so dangerous? You could've got really hurt?"
"Our girl lives for adventure, Brook. You should know that by now," Cade interrupted the pair with the observation and two very cold drinks.
Brook accepted the amber beverage gratefully. Sage sullenly declined the offer with a negative shake of her head. Cade looked disappointed but didn't push the issue. He quietly returned to his cocktail waiting on the bar while gulping down the rejected drink.
"Go ease there," Child-Hassam warned his twin from his own perch at the bar.
J. Granville exited the master bedroom mopping his brow. His cheeks were flushed a ruddy red. Sweat was dripping down from his hairline in several single streams.
"She got herself released from the hospital before Matthews could get her name," J. Granville's voice and temper were rising with each passing word. "She didn't even sign the medical waiver. Just scratched an X and walked away from the ambulance. DAMN IT!"
Sage swallowed down a distant memory.
"Then it's a very good thing you have me to depend on," the usually silent Gareth announced as he entered the Emperor's Suite located one floor below Sage's gutted penthouse.
"Did you find out anything?" Brook asked as her grip on Sage's thigh tightened.
"Hey," Sage whispered softly to get Brook's attention. Once the woman met her gaze, Sage gave a hesitant grin, "Everything is gonna be okay. Gareth will take care of this. He takes care of everything."
Gareth blushed slightly at Sage's confident statement, "Actually, take care is a bit premature. I did find out the basics and tomorrow I hope to have substantial information to bargain with. Dad, come on and sit down and, Cade, get Dad a screwdriver, would you?"
Gareth guided his father to an overstuffed chair across from Brook and Sage. Cade wasted no time in filling a glass tumbler with vodka and then coloring it with a hint of orange juice. He rushed the potent concoction to J. Granville and waited for the man to sip and nod his approval.
"The woman at the press conference," Gareth sat next to J. Granville and opened his leather binder to review his notes, "is a reporter named Tristan Ayer. She was a freelance blogger for a couple of years before the Boston Hub hired her full time."
"The Boston Hound is more like it. That rag will do anything to sell one more paper," J. Granville seethed.
"Yes, well, with Tristan Ayer working for them they've sold more than one more paper. It might be closer to one hundred thousand more papers. It seems her celebrity obituaries are as popular as they are degrading."
"Oh God, is she the one that wrote Richard Pryor: 'Dead and Rottin'?" Brook asked with a gasp.
Gareth nodded wearily.
Cade snapped to attention, "She wrote the, 'Bye Bye LadyBird' bit. And, the 'Apparently, God's sick of him too," article when Falwell died."
"What are you? Some kind of death hag?" Sage hurled her ice pack across the room to emphasize her displeasure with Cade's enthusiasm.
Child-Hassam picked up the intended missile that fell a few feet short of its mark parked, as always, at the bar. He strolled over and handed it back to Sage.
"Don't be testy with us," he quietly advised. "Cade is only trying to be helpful in a terrible situation. Besides, Ayer's article on Ernest Gallo, while tasteless as an obituary, was one of the best articles on wine I've ever read." He gave a gentle smile, "And, I should know. I own a winery."
Gareth cautioned, "It's true she's talented but she's also vicious and vindictive and…"
"She hates us," Brooke finished the sentence.
"So it would seem," Gareth agreed.
Sage shook her head, "You're both wrong. She hates me and she's willing to take down the whole family to hurt me."
J. Granville's anger was growing as the conversation dragged on and on until he could no longer contain himself, "Then why don't you just tell her what you really think of your family, Sage? Maybe she'll back down because you couldn't care less if she hurt us!"
"Dad!" Brook was about to admonish him when Sage stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.
In an emotionless voice, Sage said, "Let him say his piece. He has a right to his opinion. Let him tell me just what he really thinks about me."
J. Granville sighed heavily in the now silent room. He appeared completely exhausted from the day's events. At the moment, he looked every minute of his 81 years.
"You still don't get it. None of this is what any of us thinks about you, Sage. It's always been what you think about us." He threw his hands up in the air and turned back to Gareth, "This is pointless. I want to go home for the night. I'm tired of it all. Where's your mother?"
Gareth paled a bit as he looked around the room. "She's not here? She said she would meet me back here."
Tristan let out a weak whimper as she sized up the final flight of stairs to her attic apartment. Her head was pounding, her ribs were aching, and her lungs were screaming for a breath of fresh air in the fetid stairwell of the dilapidated triple decker. She knew there was no relief coming to find her so she had to make her own way, yet again. Forcing her exhausted body forward, she grabbed the grimy banister and pulled herself up the squeaky platform.
"Twelve more and I get to lie down," she promised herself in a hoarse voice.
Never in her life had she been so happy to be home. Even if the cramped, dirty space with filthy windows was the most depressing apartment ever rented. Tristan closed the door behind and leaned back to catch her breath.
"You know," the rich, cultured voice startled Tristan into a yelp but Simone continued her observation, "you should think about cleaning this mess up. One never knows when company will drop by unexpectedly."
Tristan recovered from her fright to hiss back at her, "I don't care how rich you are, this is breaking and entering. I'm calling the cops."
"Yes, please do that." Simone encouraged, "I'm dying to see what the police will find hidden in your home."
Tristan stopped in her tracks heading for the phone. A quick glance over her shoulder showed Mrs. Sebastian was not gathering herself up to make an escape.
"I got nothing to hide."
Simone smiled, "Let's say you didn't when you left this morning. You might want to search around to be sure nothing was added to your impressive pile of, pardon the expression, shit."
"You wouldn't…"
Simone's brow creased in restrained anger as she replied, "My dear, I most definitely would to protect my family."
Fatigue and pain got the better of her; Tristan crumbled into a nearby chair. A small cloud of dust rose from the impact and then fluttered back down. Tristan rubbed her aching forehead but immediately regretted it as her fingers came into contact with the six new stitches above her eye.
"A gift from your granddaughter," Tristan sneered.
Simone issued a warning, "Make no mistake. Sage is my daughter; legally, morally…,"
"HA HA HA!" Tristan interrupted to mock. "What would any of you know about morals?" She began to list off the litany of sins, "Forgotten, insane first wife, lunatic eldest son, alcoholic twin, faggot other twin, bad girl daughter spreading them for any joker with semen until the inevitable bastard is spawned; sorry but I don't think you have the moral turpitude to make any judgments, lady."
Simone settled back in her chair and began an even toned questioning the pompous young woman, "And, you do? Have the morale turpitude, I mean. There must be some error in my research. Let me make sure I have the right Tristan Ayer. You are the one with the thirty page rap sheet before they put you in juvie for the last time, right? You are THE Tristan Ayer whose mother had her own lengthy rap sheet before she was murdered? Didn't they investigate you for that? Was it ever solved? But, I’m getting side tracked. Back to you, aren't you the Tristan Ayer tossed out of community college for altering students' records for a fee?" Simone gave the breath of a smile, "I'm sure you're the same Tristan Ayer convicted of possession with intent to distribute. Served two years in State prison for that, didn't you?" Simone tsked as she shook her hear head, "Yes, I'm certain you're Tristan Ayer, self appointed judge and jury of the Boston Brahman's, who gave up her little boy when things got a tad to tough."
Tristan stared at Simone trying to regain focus of her pounding head. She nodded very slowly her features drained of color.
"How did you find out about my son?" She tried to sort it out even as she asked, "The rest is public record. I expected, prepared for it to come out. Turn it around into a story of escape from poverty to respectability. But, nobody knows about my son. I covered my tracks too well…"
Simone chuckled at the young woman, "You've go a lot to learn, young woman. You're trying to play in the big league now so you need to prepare for any rotten little trick to be played. Everybody with half a brain knows a little money in the right hands won't help you when a lot of money is offered to those very same hands. Sister Mary Margaret may have promised you your privacy but the Cardinal was more than happy to be helpful with my inquiry."
Tristan lurked forward. She was willing to throttle the woman across from her even if it meant another round in the criminal justice system. But, Simone waved her back in her chair.
"Don't do anything foolish. Just sit back, shut up, and listen. The feelings you have right now are the same as what I felt during your show at the press conference." Simone stood as she readied to leave, "We are both mothers desperate to protect our young. In order to achieve that aim, I have a non-negotiable offer for you."
Tristan remained silently rooted in her chair.
"You end your relentless pursuit of my family's private matters and I'll give you thirty days of unlimited access to the final phase of the restoration project. You'll have interviews with any member of Sebastian/America you want. I'll even let you rummage around in our homes."
Tristan stared mutely at the woman who'd beaten her so early in her own game. "If you refuse my generous offer and continue to plague my family, I'll make sure your son's name and location is splashed across every newspaper in the state. I won't even need to pull strings to get that particularly nasty job done. Nobody likes you, Ms. Ayer, especially your colleagues. They will be happy to crucify you. My card is stuck to your refrigerator. Call me and let me know what you're going to do next."
Simone leaned down and placed a whispering kiss on Tristan's bruised forehead, "Don't worry, I'll see myself out."
Tristan allowed herself to cry after the door slammed shut.