Black Diamond

Chapter 1

John

         "Marcus!" I call into the open air of the morning.

         It's pointless. The ocean breeze whisks away my voice, and I'm left looking out at the gray ocean mirroring the overcast sky.

         "Marcuuuus!"

         My assistant Marcus is somewhere inside the glass and concrete mansion behind me.

         It's become my favorite residence and workspace. The vast, streamlined building is totally modern yet somehow belongs in the beautiful, wooded coastline. It’s exactly what I’d expect from hiring an internationally-known architect.

         "Exquisite structural harmony," I believe the man said in his Danish accent. He was right.

         There's a state-of-the-art office downstairs, but this morning I've set my laptop up on the patio overlooking the ocean because out here in the redwoods and the sea air, I feel the most relaxed, the most myself. 

         "Marcus!" I call again, standing up to stretch.

         I'm yelling just for the hell of it at this point. I swear it's therapeutic. Thank goodness I have enough fenced-in acreage to eliminate close neighbors and visitors dropping in to hear me shout.

         The problem with returning to the place where one grew up, after having earned a ton of money – and I have made a vast amount of money – is that most people want a piece.

         Marcus, bless his soul, has fielded solicitations from every non-profit, alumni association, and needy-persons society in the entire county. They'd be knocking at the door if we didn't have the gate.

         We try to give to everyone who's legit but not because I'm a saint. If it comes up, I usually blow it off and say that California's tax laws reward charitable donations, and the optics aren't bad for the company. The truth is that I have some karma to repay and a past to reconcile.

         I grew up with a single mother struggling to make ends meet. The trouble was real enough that the electricity was occasionally turned off and a single can of Spaghetti-O's sometimes needed to be stretched out for many meals. That either makes one a miser out of fear, or it makes one do their best to make sure other kids don't have to watch their moms pretend that living by candlelight is a fun game.

         I can still remember her crying in the bathroom when the heat went out. I still remember hoping the kids at my prep school wouldn't see how short my blazer sleeves had gotten over the last year. Or the time I spent lying and saying my father was on a business trip until the teachers finally stopped asking. Or working every moment to get through school and land scholarships for college.

         All the memories of this place and my life before, they made me who I am. And they've made me grateful to be here now in the situation I'm in, where I can easily give back.

         I open my mouth to yell and shut it again, deciding to do the sane thing. I pick up my phone.

         Where are you? I text Marcus.

         The dots come up for a moment and then a response. Making us cappuccinos.

         Perfect. I'm on the patio.

         I know. I could hear you bellowing like a bull all the way in the kitchen.

         I frown at my phone, then smile. Very few people can get away with talking to me like this, and Marcus is one of them.

         And you didn't come running? I could have been dangling off the patio about to fall into the ocean! You're fired.

         I assumed you were communing with the gulls.

         I smirk and put down the phone.

         Walking along the patio, I watch one of those gulls hover over the water. Despite the memories, I never get tired of Essex Bay. There's always something beautiful, and I'm glad my mother got to see all this, that I got to take care of her.

         Now I need to take care of myself. Working hard has helped me get where I am, but it has come with penalties.

         My phone pings and I read a text from Marcus.

         If I'm truly fired, I'm putting both these cappuccinos in a to-go cup, stealing the Porsche, and fleeing to San Francisco. If not, do you want biscotti?

         Biscotti, please, I text, defeated. Mostly because I know Marcus has made the Italian cookies himself and he is an excellent amateur baker.

         Heading your way.  

         I walk to the glass doors, wondering what Marcus will think about my plan.

         Marcus is already making a name for himself in the financial world, but there's a healthy, wise aspect of him that I appreciate, especially in someone so young. He believes in having a quality life and can be sweetly romantic. It's that which makes me think I can trust him not to scoff at my idea.

         I can see through the windows into the house and watch him approach –– tall, thin, with a mop of wild red hair and a deceptively youthful face. I think it's the freckles. His glasses and clothing, however, are intimidatingly chic. And despite looking like Ron Weasley's posh cousin, he can make the best coffees in the 707 area code.

         "Thank you, boss," he says as I hold open the door for him. He puts the tray down on a table a local artist has constructed out of driftwood and glass and hands me a linen napkin with a warm biscotti.

         "Thank you, personal baker," I say.

         "Barista, baker, PA, sometimes security, fashion consultant, occasional therapist... I'm glad you gave me that raise."

         I look over the rim of my cappuccino and raise an eyebrow. I take a sip and think that I'm glad I did, too. But my response is less sentimental. "You'd work for free if I threw in driving the Porsche up and down Highway 1."

         He pauses, then opens his laptop. "Yep. True. You got me. So, what have we got today?"

         He begins to answer his own question, filling me in on projects we have going.

         I open my laptop as well. Instead of pulling up a spreadsheet, however, I maximize a photo I've been looking at off and on all morning.

         I'm in college, and my arms are around the most beautiful person, inside and out, that I've ever known. If you didn’t know her, the first thing you’d notice is that she’s a petite Black woman with delicate, dainty features. In fact, she's so small that she’s dwarfed in my embrace. We're both laughing as some of her dark, curly hair has managed to sneak into my mouth, and she's pulling away, her rich brown eyes glowing, her deep brown skin radiant.

         Simone.

         "Hello?" Marcus's voice cut through my thoughts. "Are you with me, boss? What about the Anderson account?"

         "Oh. Right." I wave my hand. "Offer them ten percent under and we'll see how they respond. Word is their supposed ‘ace’ is in trouble with the Feds."

         Marcus nods and types. Then he looks at me expectantly. "And?"

         "And..." I take a breath. "I have something... different that I want to work on. Maybe. I haven't decided yet."

         "Oh?"

         I nod, drumming my fingers on the table. I take a bite of the biscotti and speak through the cookie. "These are delicious, by the way."

         Marcus raises an eyebrow.

         "Almond, right?" I ask.

         The eyebrow goes higher.

         "Fine." I take a deep breath and turn the laptop around. 

Marcus looks, adjusts in his seat, and looks closer. Then he smiles. "Who is this lovely lady?"

         It seems impossible that he doesn't know Simone, she's been so important to me.

         "Simone," I say. "She's the one that got away. Because I was an idiot."

         "I won't comment on that, though it's begging for it," Marcus says, taking a sip of his drink. "And what is Simone up to nowadays?"

         "I don't know," I admit. "She may be married with kids. She may be living in Antarctica for all I know. Last we talked, she was going to med school. It doesn't really matter. What matters is I'm considering finding her. To apologize."

         Marcus is quiet for a moment, gazing at the screen.

         "You did something that bad? To be thinking about it after all this time?" he asks.

         "I insisted she stay with me instead of following her dreams of med school. I left her alone a lot so I could work and she supported me, but instead of supporting her back I got possessive and controlling."

         I shake my head.

        "All she wanted to do was help people, and she did the smart thing. She left me to pursue her dream, but only after I forced her." What I don't say is that it's been over a decade, and I still regret almost daily the way I acted.

  I understand now that I was scared. I didn't have the life experience to see that a long-distance relationship wasn't abandonment, and I had lived without for so long that I had trouble understanding Simone's deeply good, altruistic desire to help people. From the way I'd seen the world up until then, making money for ourselves alone was the ultimate goal.

         I’m better now. I'm not perfect, but I see where I got things badly wrong.

         Marcus nodded. "That's too bad. You two look really happy here."

         "We were."

         Marcus leans back in his chair and studies me. "What if she really is married with kids? Would it matter?"

         I shake my head. "I just want closure. I've been regretting my behavior for years, and I think it's time I make amends."

         And yet something in my heart constricts. Of course she's been snapped up. Of course she has a family.

         But what if she hasn’t?

         Marcus smiles and nods.

         "I love it. I love all of this." He makes big circular motions with his hands toward my chest. "I love that you're going to follow your heart and not your pocketbook. Let's find her."

         He slaps the table with both hands. "Operation Find Simone, commence!"

         I laugh.

"Alright," I say, happy to have someone like Marcus to help me. "Let's find Simone."