It's All Relative 35-B
It’s All Relative 35-B
Author: hawkbehere (hawkbehere@yahoo.com)
Rated: PG
A/N: If you’ve forgotten who Peter Sagong is, he’s Miranda and Andy’s FBI friend.
***
When Andy emerged from the bathroom after preparing for bed, Miranda was reading in bed and only glanced long enough to see that Andy was wearing plaid sleeping shorts and a Northwestern t-shirt.
She turned back to her book as she said, “I’ve told you time and time again, if you want to wear lust-killer pajamas, you’re going to have to work much harder than that.”
Andy pulled back the covers and got into bed, “You just like thinking you’re sleeping with a coed.”
“A coed grown slightly long in the tooth.”
“Hey! I’m only 26.”
“Thank you for reminding me of our age difference.”
“You deserve it, smart-ass.”
“Undoubtedly.” Miranda took off her reading glasses, put them and her book on her bedside table and turned to Andy. “I was only teasing you. I’m glad coeds didn’t look like you when I was in college because I wouldn’t have my children now.”
“Better.”
“Are you ready to talk?”
“About?”
“About…” Miranda ground out the words, “sous chef man.”
“You said it! You didn’t call him fry cook boy!”
“Yes, well, one of us has to be the adult.”
“God help us if that’s you.” She ignored Miranda’s raised eyebrow. “What do you want to know?”
“Nothing particular, I assure you. Tell me what you want to tell me about it. All I’d like to know so that I may discontinue stabbing him in my mind is whether he apologized to you in a manner that suggested he understood the gravity of his offense.”
“He did.”
Miranda waited but Andy didn’t continue so she said, “I gather that’s all you want to say about the matter. Very well. Next subject.”
Andy huffed out a huge breath and her tone was slightly petulant. “That’s not all I want to say but I know you’ll think it’s dumb.”
Miranda looked into Andy’s big brown eyes, her almost pouting face. Her lover could go from younger woman to much younger woman in seconds. She pushed a lock of Andy’s hair behind her ear.
“I doubt that, Andrea. Your political and economic ideas? Yes, I consider them dumb. Your feelings? Never. I may not share your feelings or your manner of expressing them, but they couldn’t be more important to me. Let me take a wild guess and imagine that you felt a sense of closure after meeting with Nate.”
Andy nodded but said mournfully, “I know you hate the word closure.”
“I do not hate the word closure. I understand the concept but I’ve never felt it or the need for it. That’s a matter of my personality and I understand I’m the oddity, not everyone else. Tell me what meeting with him meant for you.”
“I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“Andrea, you see the father of my children every week of your life-the person I created life with, a completely unique relationship I will never share with you. I loved him; I married him and made children with him. Although I make petty jealousy something of a fetish, I think I can handle the fact you were once in love with another person.”
“Well, if you put it like that-“
“I just did.”
Andy narrowed her eyes at Miranda. “Fine. It was good to see him and to hear an apology and to extend my apology because I wasn’t perfect, either. The latter was overdue, as well.”
Miranda nodded as Andy looked down at the duvet, “Hearing an apology and hearing that the time we spent together meant something to him gave me…I guess…a sense of validation I needed.”
“Validation of what?”
Andy shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’d hate to think I’d spent years loving someone and thinking he loved me only to realize he hadn’t or not as much. I suppose I wanted to know that I hadn’t just been kidding myself or that I wasn’t a completely hopeless judge of people or of reality, even.”
She looked up at Miranda and asked, “Does that make sense?”
“After talking to Nate, do you feel more peaceful about your time together and about the past?”
“Yes. Very much.”
“Then it makes sense.”
“But you don’t really think it does, do you?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth, Andrea. I understand your motivation and if remembering your relationship with Nate gave you even a moment’s burden of sadness, I’m happy you’ve resolved those feelings or are on your way to doing so.”
“Me, too. That’s closure, Miranda.”
The corners of the woman’s mouth lifted slightly and there was amusement in her eyes, “So I’ve heard.”
“What do you have against closure?”
“Nothing. Literally. I just can’t imagine having a need for it in this lifetime.”
Andy scrubbed her face with one hand, then turned more fully toward Miranda, “Can you explain that to me?”
“What is there to explain? People are in my life or they’re not. Why on Earth would I care about them or my time with them if it were over? I suppose you’ll remember that my parents kicked me out when I was seventeen and that I only saw my father in the last months before he died? I believe I’ve told you it was nice to see him and talk to him?”
“Yes.”
“By that, I meant it was nice. Nice but wholly unnecessary. If he’d died without making some sort of verbal amends to me, I wouldn’t have cared. I would have been sorry he was dead because he was a human being and my father but not because I had anything particular to say to him or wanted to hear him say. Exactly the same goes for my mother. I don’t mind speaking to her occasionally but I have no interest or need for anything emotional from her.”
She ran one hand through her hair and shrugged. “Of course, if she needed to say something to me, if she needed closure, I’d listen and make the appropriate noises because it would be kind for me to do so. Plus, frankly, I don’t even care enough to gin up the energy to be unpleasant to her. I don’t suffer the ‘why didn’t mommy and daddy love me’ blues. I don’t care that they didn’t and I don’t care why. I came to terms with them the minute I walked out of our home. I come to terms with everyone-and even if they leave me or spurn me or hurt me first, they’re always my terms. I don’t require validation because I really don’t care what people think of or want or expect from me. If people are gone-they’re non-entities. Unremembered and not just dead to me-gone as if they’d never existed.”
“Jesus, Miranda.”
“Yes, isn’t this romantic? But you did ask. It’s how I’ve lived my entire life but of course that changed with the children. That was a blow, believe me-to realize if anything ever happened to them or if they decided to leave me or wouldn’t talk to me, I would never come to terms with it. And then came you and the same thing applies. What kind of closure could I find faced with a world without you three in it? What kind would I even want? None. Ever. So you see, I’ll never need closure in my life.”
Andy leaned forward and kissed Miranda’s forehead, “I think I understand but that all sounds sort of bleak, sweetie.”
“You know what’s even more bleak, from my point of view?” A look of consternation filled Miranda’s eyes and she lightly bit her lower lip, something Andy had never seen her do.
“What is it, sweetheart?”
Miranda opened her mouth, then closed it, then tilted her head as if looking at something improbable. She finally took a deep breath, “I can’t come to terms with any of the people who are coming to our wedding. By that I mean I can’t make my own terms with them. I blame you.”
Andy’s eyes widened but she saw, although Miranda was discomfited, she wasn’t angry.
“Why am I to blame and for what?”
“I wasn’t like this before I picked you up from the pound.”
Andy smiled, “Like how?”
“I didn’t care and now I do. Example. Roy. He likes his coffee with two creams and three sugars. I’ve talked to him at exhausting length about his ridiculous model trains while we’re sitting in traffic jams. I wonder if you know he uses the G scale train because it’s optimal for creating scenery around his railway. I do. He’s sent me pictures of his rail tableaux, Andrea. And I’ve looked at them!”
This was said with such outrage that Andy had to laugh. “What’s wrong with that?”
“May I remind you he’s my driver?”
“He’s our friend.”
“Immaterial. Because of you, I now have what seems like scores of people who can do whatever they will around me.”
Andy took the woman’s hand. “I think, because I’m your fiancée and I may be able to get away with this with my scalp intact, I’ll take the liberty of editing that statement. You feel surrounded by people who could, if they wished, do what they want to you or with you and that’s leaving you unsettled.”
“I just said that.”
“No, no. You brought up Roy’s employee status, which was a skilful bit of subterfuge for your actual meaning, if you don’t know that and I bet you do. Because of that, what you just said connoted something of the nature of having servants suddenly being able to act unruly around you. What you meant is that you now have many people who can be themselves around you and against whom you have little of your usual emotional self-defense.”
Miranda’s expression and tone were ice, “Again? I see rumors of your death have been greatly exaggerated, Dr. Freud.”
Although Andy immediately feared for her scalp, she kept her face carefully neutral. The glacier grew in front of her and she felt the flutter of that old-time Runway thrill of horror. Still, she steeled herself to look unconcerned.
After a few moments of standoff, Miranda’s posture abruptly relaxed, “This completely proves my point. Honestly, Andrea, if I can’t even intimidate you anymore, I’ve gone to the dogs.”
Andy rolled her eyes and gently smacked the woman’s arm. “You’re not supposed to intimidate me, you numbskull. Intimidation might have been part of your other marriages but not this one, sister. And you’re still plenty scary. I promise you still scare the hell out of everyone who’s going to our wedding, if that gives you any comfort.”
“It does.”
“Good. Just a word to the wisest of wise old owls? It might be salutary to remember that the reason people feel able to be themselves around you is because they love you and they can feel that you love them. They’re not going to hurt you, sweetie, and it’s not the worst thing in the world to love and be loved.”
“Yes, yes. That’s all very nice but I did hear that ‘old’ owl part, Andrea.”
“That’s your take-away from all this?”
“Oh good Lord, of course not. Your comments have been noted and logged. Now turn out the light. I’m tired.”
“Let me understand this. You have a hot coed in your bed and you want to go to sleep?”
“Actually, the coed analogy is more apt than you think. I remember suffering through similarly deadly emotional conversations among the denizens of my dormitory in college. It was like listening to multiple Oprahs talking to each other without even a modicum of common sense or maturity and without the benefit of a 43-minute time limit.”
Andy glared at her. “Did you just call me Oprah?” She turned the light off and announced to the darkness, “You are SO not getting any tonight.”
“I assure you I will. I’ll intimidate you into it.”
“Please. As if.”
“We’ll role play. Call me Gayle.”
Despite herself, Andy snickered, then said, “Shut up.”
“You just took the words out of my mouth. Now kiss me, Andy. You know how difficult emotional conversations are for me.”
There was a long silence. “You are so fucking manipulative it stuns me sometimes, Miranda.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I’m going to kiss you but only because it will shut you up and keep you off the couch tonight.”
“To quote a orator of undeniable, if trenchant, genius? ‘Please. As if’”
As Andy kissed Miranda, the older woman pulled her on top of her and hugged her tightly. Andy broke the kiss, then kissed the woman’s cheek before whispering in Miranda’s ear, “God knows why but I do adore you, Miranda Priestly.”
Miranda’s only answer was a sigh, “Andy.”
***
Two Weeks Later
***
After leading Peter Sagong into Miranda’s office and bringing coffee for them both, Emily closed the door to the woman’s office behind her.
“Thank you, Peter, for looking into this for me. It’s beyond the call of duty, I know.”
“Not at all, Miranda. My pleasure.”
“You look very handsome today. Hugo Boss suits you…and yes, that was a pun I didn’t intend. I’m sorry.”
Peter grinned sheepishly as he blushed to the tips of his ears. “I know it’s a waste of time but I’m man enough to admit I change clothes many times before I decide on what to wear to meet with you.”
“I’m flattered. It’s much appreciated and not a waste of time. A waste of time is trying to pry Birkenstocks from Andrea’s closet.”
Peter pulled his chair closer and Miranda offered him a coaster for his coffee. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a file.
“As requested, I’ve done the research and created a Isabelle Malara file for your perusal.”
Miranda took a sip of coffee and relaxed into her chair.
“Naturally, Miranda, because Alicia’s case is pending, I have nothing regarding her and I couldn’t discuss what I’d heard about her possible defense even if I had heard, which I haven’t.”
“I understand.”
He stared into her eyes, “I can say that the most likely possibility for her defense would be unlikely to come to successful fruition.”
“Hmmm. The most likely…may I offer my highly inexpert conjecture, Peter?”
“Of course.”
“Alicia’s clearly not criminally insane so her lawyers will have to argue diminished capacity. I believe they will be unsuccessful because there had to be a way Alicia knew we were in that restaurant at that time. Given her demonstrated hacking skills, I can easily imagine her hacking into the restaurant’s reservation service. I’ve checked into it and it’s linked to an Internet service for high-end reservation booking. She also brought a gun with her and announced her intention so I can scarcely imagine any jury would believe it wasn’t a premeditated act.”
He beamed at her and nodded vigorously even as he said, “That’s a very interesting theory, Miranda. I suppose we’ll see but I can tell you one thing, having met the young lady. No one enjoys incarceration but her temperament is ideally unsuited for it. I would be profoundly surprised if she doesn’t attack a fellow inmate before her trial. I’d be even more surprised if she’s not attacked herself.”
“Oh, well. Isn’t that a pity. Next.”
“Before I begin and although Andy told me that one of the cardinal rules of dealing with you is not to ask questions, I feel I must ask one.”
Miranda drummed her fingers on the desk, “Andrea’s telling tales out of school, Peter. As a matter of fact, she peppers me with questions at home but yes; people question my judgement at Runway at their peril. As you are here in a professional capacity completely divorced from fashion, you may ask me anything you like.”
“Thank you. I suppose I’d like to know why this sudden interest in Isabelle Malara? You’ve had a long time to inquire into her if you’d been interested.”
“Being shot once seems like a fluke; being shot twice seems like a habit. I wanted to know whether there was any similarity between the women involved or if there’s anything I need to look out for.”
He nodded, “Makes sense. I can say to cut to the chase they could not be more different. What do you know about Isabelle?”
“She worked for me as second assistant for four months. Terribly attractive and very well dressed. Clearly followed fashion and had true taste, which is far more rare than you’d imagine, even at Runway. Quite intelligent but a little too over-awed by me to be very good at her job. Of course, she might have gotten better but she felt the need to shoot me instead. She pled guilty without fanfare and received 12 years for attempted murder.”
“Okay. Let me dispense with Alicia first, as a comparison. Alicia is not psychotic but she has raging borderline personality disorder and I use the word raging advisedly. There is very little that can be done for her therapeutically and, as I said, should she remain in prison, she will re-offend inside. Should she be released, she will re-offend. I need not remind you that Andy was her target, not you. You got in her way and that is how Alicia treats all people or circumstances that get in her way. She’s been escalating for some time but now that she’s reached life-threatening violence, I see no future for her but a violent and criminal one. I’ve spoken to two profilers about this and they’ve agreed.”
He sighed as he looked at his file, “I don’t think you’ll like hearing what I found out about Isabelle so I’ll let you read it and form your own opinion.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see. Read the file and you’ll understand this is a tale of two very different prisoners.” He stood, “Thank you for the coffee, Miranda. It’s good to see you and give my regards to Andy.”
“I will.”
Before he reached the door, he turned back to her and said, “There’s no excuse for what Isabelle did to you, Miranda. But the explanation is in the file. Call me if you have any questions.”
“Thank you, Peter.”
***
Three Weeks Later
***
Miranda sat alone in a viciously ugly and barren room that was a little too much like the television version of an interrogation room for her taste, albeit without the long mirror on one side. As she decided the specific paint color on the walls would be forever branded in her mind as women’s prison grey, she felt something she was unaccustomed to-a true case of nervous anxiety. She’d given up wondering what quixotic impulse had landed her here in a maximum-security prison. Admittedly less quixotic to visit than to land without a choice, she amended in her mind.
After normal channels of visitation had availed her nothing, there’d been a call to the governor who’d called the commissioner of corrections, who’d called the superintendent of the prison, who was none too happy with the end-run around his authority. She couldn’t blame him because it would have galled her as well. Although she acknowledged this to herself, she didn’t feel badly enough not to do it.
Evidently, it was wildly irregular if not unheard of, to request an entirely private visit with an unrestrained prisoner in a maximum-security prison. Miranda sniffed at the idea. Given the glowing reports of Isabelle’s conduct while in prison, it was beyond the realm of possibility the girl would try to hurt her again. And were such an attempt made, the heels she’d verbally fought with the guard to keep on her feet would make formidable weapons-a point, literally, that hadn’t been lost on said guard.
When the door opened, Miranda stood. Isabelle shuffled in led in by a female guard. She was wearing a blue jumpsuit and was shuffling because she was shackled, ankles and wrists. Miranda took one look from the woman to the shackles to the guard and said in a voice laced with scorn, “Really?”
“Superintendent’s orders, ma’am.”
“I’m sure-just as I’m sure you have orders to take them off now that his rather small point has been made.”
“Ms. Priestly?”
“No, no. Miranda, Isabelle.”
“Miranda, then. Your attitude can get me in trouble. You’ll leave at the end of this but I won’t.”
Miranda was mortified to feel herself blushing. “Just so. Officer, I apologize. I’m unaccustomed to seeing young people I know shackled but I can appreciate it’s a necessary precaution for your safety. Please forgive my outburst.”
The guard grinned as she unlocked Isabelle’s restraints. “No worries. You’re right. Isabelle here wouldn’t hurt a fly and everyone knows it, even the supe. I’ll be outside the door the entire time. If either of you need anything, just knock on the door or shout. I’m trusting you to play nice, Ms. Priestly. I know Isabelle will.”
“I always play nicely.” Miranda replied, ignoring the look on Isabelle’s face at this pronouncement.
The guard chuckled, “Uh, no ya don’t. I’ve seen that YouTube video. Play nice.”
“Of course. I promise.”
“I’ll send someone else for coffee for you two, if you’d like.”
“It won’t be piping hot, Miranda.”
This was so unexpected that Miranda laughed, a sound Isabelle had never heard. “God, I’m obnoxious, aren’t I? What would you like, Isabelle?”
“I always get Diet Coke. I’ll warn you it’ll be in Styrofoam-they won’t let us have cans. We could split one.”
“Diet Coke, officer?”
“You got it.”
When the guard left the room, the two looked each other over.
“So…” Isabelle said.
“Here we are,” Miranda finished. She looked the girl over. Very tall, very slender and despite the blue jumpsuit, exactly the same girl who’d worked for her. It made her eyes sting to see how exactly the same. Having learned what she had from Peter’s file, she could now identify what she’d only glanced at and disregarded before-the same look of defeat and crushing sadness framed in a truly beautiful face. The same light blue eyes, milky white skin, and fiery red hair that fell in tight ringlets to her shoulders.
“I must say, Isabelle, you look remarkably undiminished by prison.”
“It’s all in the clothing, as you know, Miranda. Prison blue’s good for my coloring.”
The guard brought in two cups of Coke and left the room.
Isabelle lifted her cup and held it forward, “Santé.”
Miranda tapped the cup with her own, “Santé.”
They took one sip of Coke, placed their cups on the table, then stared at each other for a few moments before Isabelle lifted her hands then lightly dropped them on her thighs. “You called this meeting. I’m sure you must have an agenda for it.” She lifted one eyebrow, “So to speak.”
Miranda was astonished to feel herself blushing yet again.
***
Isabelle saw this and felt the air being sucked out of her lungs and the room. She gripped the pant legs of her prison jumpsuit to stop their trembling.
When she’d been told Miranda had requested a visit, she’d also been told she could refuse the request, which had scarcely seemed possible. The irony had not been lost on her that one had to go to prison to refuse Miranda Priestly. The last thing on Earth she’d wanted to do was to come face to face with Miranda again but if the meeting constituted further penance she needed to pay, she considered it fair. Beside that, it was hardly good manners to shoot someone and then not meet with her if she wanted. So she’d agreed and so here she was sitting across from the woman she thought about at least a few times every hour of every day of her waking life.
***
“You’re right, of course. I’ll start. I’ll admit, Isabelle, that after the shooting and your non-trial, I didn’t think about you much at all. Occasionally, perhaps, when I happened to notice my surgical scar-and believe me, I’m not saying that to make you feel badly. You shot me. I have scars. It’s merely factual for me, not emotional.”
At this, Isabelle laughed without sound or mirth-just breath.
Miranda paid no attention. “However, after the second time, I thought I should look into what made people keep shooting me. Beside the glaringly obvious you’re all too familiar with, of course.”
Isabelle nodded. “Of course. What did you find, Miranda?”
“Alicia’s not psychotic but she is a lunatic.”
“Yes, she is. I saw that video, too.”
“Of course you did. I believe it’s garnered just over 76 million views so far. I’ve worked tirelessly at Runway for over 25 years and it’s rather dispiriting to realize that all I ever really needed to do to get attention for the magazine was to be shot on camera.”
Isabelle smiled at her Styrofoam cup, then looked up at the woman across from her, “That may be true but for even the most dedicated of editors, there has to be a limit to ‘give ‘em what they want,’ doesn’t there? And oh-speaking of being shot on camera, Miranda, I loved that picture of you and Serena and I saw the video of One Times Square. It was fantastic.”
Miranda returned the smile because Isabelle suddenly looked and sounded animated. “I really wanted to put that cover on a wall in my cell but…considering the circumstances? I thought it might give my keepers pause.”
“Ah.” Miranda touched her nose with her forefinger and pointed to Isabelle. “Good thinking. So sending you a subscription to Runway would…”
“Right. Undoubtedly push my parole hearing back a year or so. If you’re feeling vengeful, and I don’t see why you wouldn’t be, feel free.”
Miranda had been uncertain what to expect from Isabelle and immediately realized meeting her again did not give her the certainty she’d thought it would. “But we digress.”
“We do-and I know you hate that, Miranda.”
The older woman gave the slightest of shrugs, “I say that but truthfully? It entirely depends on the situation…and the company. Alicia’s going to fight tooth and nail in court, you know, even though she’s on camera, too, dead to rights.”
“Look at her. Of course she is. Diminished capacity?”
“Probably.”
“I’d say she’ll definitely try it. She’ll lose.”
“I agree. She will. But you might not have, would you?”
And just like that, the animation left Isabelle’s face and her voice. “That’s neither here nor there, Miranda. Or rather, there was my past and here I am. I pled guilty because I was guilty.”
“There were mitig-“
“I shot you, Miranda. I could have killed you. I could have left your children motherless. I’m guilty of the offense I was charged with.”
“And yet your lawyers wanted you to plea diminished capacity, didn’t they?”
“You clearly already know the answer to that. In fact, just looking into your eyes, I’m sure you already know why they suggested that. Do you have any questions to ask me you don’t know the answers to? If not, we’re wasting your time.”
“My time is my own to waste and you have nothing but time, do you?”
Isabelle lightly bowed her head as if acknowledging a queen.
“I do have questions.”
“Very well. Shoot.”
Miranda lowered her voice, “Don’t be impertinent, Isabelle.”
The younger woman placed both hands on the table, interlaced her fingers and Miranda could see her knuckles whiten. “I apologize but this situation suddenly feels very confrontational. I know I deserve whatever you want to say to me, no matter how harsh and I want to take it without defending myself…but it’s difficult to hear how guilty I am when I already feel it more than anyone can imagine.”
Miranda reached forward and Isabelle flinched as the woman touched her hands. “This is not a confrontation.”
Isabelle sat transfixed. Miranda Priestly didn’t touch people. Except now, apparently. The woman tapped her joined hands gently and said, “Relax.”
Isabelle placed her hands flat on the table but said, “You do know, don’t you, that you can’t really command people to relax?”
“Yes, actually. I’ve noticed there is an inverse relationship between my commanding that someone relax and his or her visible level of anxiety.”
“Then are you trying to elevate my anxiety?”
“No-merely a habit. In fact, I demand that you don’t relax-let’s see if that works.”
Isabelle nodded, then took a sip of Coke, “Ah, yes. That’s better already. What’s your first question?”
“What did you originally want to do with your degree from Barnard? Before events made it impossible to go to Italy for your Masters.”
Isabelle winced at this, “Events? Please tell me you didn’t have Emily draw up a file on me-or my events.”
“Of course I didn’t. Emily would scarcely be the person to ask for unbiased information about you. I have a lovely friend who’s an FBI agent.”
“Of course you do. As for your question and as you know, a double major in Medieval/Renaissance History and Art blows the doors of lucrative and sustained employment wide open. Of course, it’s far behind just learning how to, let’s say, plumb. Not that I’m knocking plumbing. It has an actual career path.”
Miranda nodded her agreement.
“If I’d pursued my PhD, I could have taught, but those jobs are few and far between. I had some vague ideas about a job in design. My father’s an industrial designer and my mother was an art teacher so it was within the realm of my understanding of possibility. I don’t suppose I really knew what I wanted but I was only 22 and I thought I had time. I find young people usually imagine time serves them, when human beings are always serving time. That’s usually figurative, obviously, but I went whole hog for the literal experience.”
“Yes. A lesson for life. Even metaphors have tipping points.”
The younger woman grinned at this as Miranda asked, “Were your parents supportive of your choice of majors?”
“Of course they were. I was an adored only child and all they wanted was for me to be happy.”
“Never say ‘of course,’ about parent and child, Isabelle. It implies a given that doesn’t exist. I’m an only child and my parents threw me out of the house when I was 17 because of my interest in fashion. You had loving parents and were evidently a lovable child. But not all parents are loving and not all children are lovable. The tragedy is when there’s a mismatch between the loving and unlovable or unloving and lovable. It’s best when like meets like, as in your case and in mine.”
Isabelle had absolutely no response to that, so she asked, “What do Caroline and Cassidy want to do? Any signs yet? I know Cassidy likes science and Caroline likes artsy stuff.”
Miranda felt a chill run through her body and her voice cooled, “And you’d know this about my children because…”
Isabelle saw and heard the ice, “Because of nothing nefarious, I promise you. I did your children’s homework for four months, Miranda. It tells a lot about a person-what she chooses to keep for herself and what she fobs off on the help. Cassidy never asked me to do science and math; Caroline never asked me to do book reports or art projects.”
“I see. Well. Right.”
“Wow. That sounded just like Emily.”
Miranda sighed, “I know it did. But fair’s fair-Emily’s beginning to sound like me. I apologize for jumping to conclusions about the children.”
“Don’t. I shot you. You have a free ‘jump to conclusion’ card on me for life.”
“They do their own now.”
“What?”
“Homework. The girls do their own homework now.”
“That’s…great actually.”
“Yes. Andrea invoked the Hilton sisters and I saw her point. Believe it or not, they even have chores now and painfully mundane ones.”
“That’s even better. Regime changes can be good for kids. Speaking of La Belle Époque? Congratulations on your engagement.”
“Thank you. Is that within your wheelhouse, religiously, to be happy about two women marrying?”
Off Isabelle’s quizzical expression, Miranda continued, “It says in my file that you’re a devout Episcopalian.”
“I have been all my life but I don’t sit in devout judgement of others’ relationship with God or their worthiness to have one. And yes, I felt that way even before I discovered how profoundly unworthy I was to judge anyone at all.”
Miranda smirked. “You know what I’ve always said? If you won’t judge someone, bring him or her to me.”
The younger woman smiled, “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me one iota.”
“Would it surprise you to know that I was raised Catholic?”
Isabelle looked her over. “Not in the least.”
“It didn’t work out for me and not just for the reasons you might imagine. I have a Protestant world-view. Why limit yourself to talking to God’s first assistants when you can talk to God Himself?”
“You’re a born editor, Miranda. To think it took Martin Luther Ninety-Five Theses just to say that.”
Miranda sniffed, “Concision is a gift, Isabelle.”
“It is.”
“Since we agree on that subject, let me be more concise. I wanted you to know that I’ve contacted your uncle Frederico anonymously through a lawyer and they’ve arranged for your father to be moved to a better nursing facility. As you know, he’s in the end stages of his illness and my lawyer found his facility not up to the standards a family member would wish.”
“We can’t afford a better place.”
“I know that. I can.”
Isabelle shook her head violently and pushed away from the table although she didn’t stand. “No! What are you trying to do to me?”
“I’m not trying to do anything. I’m giving your father better medical and nursing attention in the last months of his life.”
“Why? Exactly why?”
“Because I can and because he needs it and I was hoping it would give you some measure of peace about a situation that can’t be helped. You can’t be there but you can know he’s being well taken care of.”
Isabelle shook her head again, “No, no, no, no. You can’t just walk in here and make me feel this way. I’ll take anything but not this.”
“What’s ‘this’?”
“You can make me feel like crap all day long but I can’t feel any guiltier, Miranda. It’s not possible. If that’s what you want, you’ll have to go begging somewhere else.”
Miranda stared at her and when she spoke, her voice was cool again. “Very well. Let me get down to brass tacks if that’s how you wish to play this. You’re too self-deprecating by half. You’ve been a pillar of your community and church since you’ve been a child. You’ve been almost tiresomely perfect all of your life. Volunteer work, church work, wild academic over-achievement. You gave up a prestigious fellowship in Rome and, therefore, what promised to be a sure path to a very bright academic career, to come home to help your mother take care of your father, who was suffering from the late stages of early-onset Alzeheimer’s. At that point you started working for me. One month into your employ, your mother was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer. Three months into your employ, it was determined the cancer had metastasised to her lymph nodes and liver and that her life expectancy was perhaps four to six months. Your father, even then, was forgetting both of you and had long since been a danger to himself. Have I got all of that correct?”
Isabelle, whose head was lowered, nodded.
“I thought so. I’m going to ask you three questions. You will answer them. You owe me answers. Do you understand that?”
Another nod.
“Why were you carrying a gun in your bag?”
Isabelle looked up at Miranda and there were unshed tears in her eyes. Miranda had never seen someone so utterly bereft.
“My father never even spanked me once but I…was afraid of my father. I was afraid of him for my mother, too. He had a gun for home protection and I didn’t want it in the house.”
“Quite right, too. When did you decide to shoot me?”
“I don’t…I didn’t.”
“What do you remember about the day you shot me?”
Tears spilled down Isabelle’s cheeks but she made no motion to acknowledge them. Her voice was quiet and monotone, as if she were retrieving a shadowy history it was difficult to believe she was part of.
“I think about that day all the time. I remember Dad being angry about breakfast for some reason. I know I helped him that morning because Mom had started throwing up every time she ate. He wouldn’t put food in and she couldn’t keep food down. I vaguely remember dressing and looking at my face in the mirror as I put on my make-up. Knowing the day would only get worse once I got to work. I knew after I’d failed at work, I’d go home and fail to help my mother enough with dad and fail to keep her alive. I remember knowing every new day would be worse than the last.”
Isabelle wiped her cheeks and met Miranda’s eyes. “Very honestly, the next thing I remember is Emily and Nigel holding me down.” She smiled ruefully, “That and Emily punching me and my not knowing why. I guess you know the rest.”
“I know my ‘rest.’ Not yours.”
“What is there to say? I was horrified-completely stupefied. If there were an award for ‘Person Least Likely to Shoot Someone’ in high school, I would have won it hands down. I hate to be hyperbolic, Miranda, but imagine how you’d feel if you came to, so to speak, and people told you that you’d cut someone’s head off.”
“Figuratively or literally?”
Despite herself, Isabelle choked back a laugh and Miranda pursed her lips to keep from smiling.
“I take your point and I believe you, Isabelle. Not to put too fine a point on it, you’d abandoned your personal dreams to assist your family during a horrifically stressful time. Faced with the tragedy of losing both parents to rapidly progressing and painful illness, you came to work in perhaps one of the most stressful positions it would be possible to find for yourself. Am I right?”
Isabelle nodded.
“You came to work for an employer who did not care that you were living a tragedy because she did not care about you in the slightest. In fact, she took no notice of your humanity whatsoever, this relentless and mercurial perfectionist who made you feel like an abject failure every moment of your working life. Do I read the situation correctly?”
Isabelle shifted in her chair, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t know that I would put it that way.”
“Oh, but I would. If your employer, who denigrated, belittled and humiliated you on a hourly basis, had been able to see beyond the nose on her own face, she would have seen what I can see very clearly now.”
Miranda ran one hand through her hair and Isabelle was fascinated not only by the strangeness of that nervous gesture but by the fact the hand was trembling.
“You see…in a sense, I was operating in a diminished capacity as well. I didn’t know it at the time but I happen to agree with you-it’s no excuse. What I did, I did and I can’t change it. That said, I’ve come today…”
Miranda placed her hands on the table and met Isabelle’s eyes, “I’ve come to apologize for those things I did and said that not only contributed to your anguish but to the actions that led to the place you find yourself now. Understand I’m not taking responsibility for your actions, only my own. I’m truly very sorry to see you here. I know I bear some responsibility for your state of mind when you assaulted me and I beg your forgiveness.”
Isabelle was shocked speechless for a few moments. “You know that saying ‘you could knock me over with a feather?’”
”Yes.”
“I’m living it.”
She reached across the table and placed a hand on Miranda’s. “I firmly believe you are the only wronged party in our equation. But I respect your feelings and I know that the need for grace is sufficiently mysterious that I never question it. I forgive you. Of course I do and without reservation.”
“Thank you.”
They sat and looked at each other for a few moments before Miranda said, “I should inform you that I’m going to be irritated if you feel like you don’t deserve forgiveness as well. Forgive me again for judging you but you seem like the type.”
“What type is that?”
“The type who would worry God to death praying over your sins. Theology question. Can God and does God offer forgiveness for sins when the sinner asks for it in a spirit of true contrition?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve asked God’s forgiveness thousands of times for shooting me, haven’t you? And be honest.”
Isabelle paused before saying, “Yes.”
“Another question. If you came to me at Runway and asked what color I wanted a specific background to be and I said amethyst, would you come and ask me the same question the next day?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you’d made a decision and I wouldn’t question it.”
“Correct. And having made my decision, would you expect me to change my mind day after day from Tyrian purple to Han purple to fuchsia to aubergine ad nauseum?
“Never.”
“Why?”
“Again-because you’d made a decision.”
“Correct again. According to your stated beliefs, since you’ve asked God to forgive you, He undoubtedly extended His grace to you the first time you did it. I would bet every penny I have, however, that you weary God every day of your life with the very same question. If you know better than doing that with me, why not with God? Do you honestly think I’m more decisive than God?”
Isabelle tilted her head as she considered this and then her face was a mask of sheepishness, “Well…sort of?”
Miranda huffed, “Oh, honestly. Ask me to forgive you right this minute.”
This time, Isabelle did bark out a short laugh. “You can’t-you can’t do that.”
“I beg to differ.”
Isabelle glared at her, the first unfriendly look she’d given Miranda.
“You need to work on your intimidation skills, Isabelle, if that’s even what that look is supposed to connote.”
Isabelle’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-I mean I wouldn’t want to…okay. Here goes. I’m so very, very sorry that I hurt you. I know I can never make amends for what I did but I would give anything for it not to have happened. It’s not hard to say because I think of you every hour of the day and every time I’m grief-stricken. What’s hard is believing my guilt and sorrow could ever be enough.”
“Just ask me.”
“Could you please forgive me, Miranda?”
“Yes. I can and am doing so now. Completely. That makes the slate clean between us, Isabelle. Don’t question this after I leave. It’s over and my decision is final. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. One more theological question. Do you believe in the communion of saints?”
“Of course I do.”
“I do, too.” Miranda leaned forward and spoke very quietly. “This is the most important thing I have to tell you so please listen carefully.”
“Okay,” the younger woman whispered.
“I know you regret shooting me but, having sat with you only this short time, I’d imagine you’d feel a more crippling guilt that your mother died knowing you were in prison and that your father’s last lucid understanding of you included that sad fact.”
Isabelle immediately began to cry but, again, it was silent.
“If you believe, Isabelle, your mother knows everything she needs to now about what happened then. I personally believe that she sees you and loves you and what sadness she feels for you isn’t condemnation but a desire for you to move past this. I’m a mother myself and I can’t imagine anything my children could do that would separate them from my love. Even I feel deep sadness seeing you here, much less your mother. She loved you and still loves you. Just as your father did and does. Put your guilt to rest for their sake. It’s the least you can do and the greatest gift you could give them.”
Miranda sat silently for a few minutes as the woman cried, then said softly, “It’s time to wipe your tears now, Isabelle.”
Isabelle scrubbed her face with both hands as Miranda reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out two cards. She handed the first to Isabelle, “This is the name of your new lawyer. You’ll find it amazing how much harder people work for you when you pay them. She’ll be working on what can be done to get you a parole hearing sooner rather than later. She’s a very squeaky wheel and tremendously irritating. When the time comes, I’ll naturally speak on your behalf and don’t worry about employment and your living situation. We’ll handle all of that.”
Miranda handed her the second card, “Martha Fonseca is my second assistant and this is her cell and a P.O. Box we’ve set up for your correspondence. If you have any questions or need anything, call or write her. Your uncle is visiting soon with more information about your father’s new facility. Is all of this understood?”
“Yes, Miranda.”
“Don’t do that ‘yes, Miranda’ thing. Andrea does that to irritate me. I’ll visit again soon but it’ll be after my wedding and through regular channels. I’d hate for the superintendent to take his irritation with me out on you.”
She stood and extended her hand, “Thank you for meeting with me.”
Isabelle shook it firmly but didn’t let go. She held it and covered it with her other hand, “Thank you, Miranda. I know I’ve done nothing to deserve it, but thank you.”
Miranda tilted her head as she looked at their linked hands and then up into Isabelle’s eyes. “I feel curiously better now than when I walked in.”
Isabelle smiled at her, genuinely and radiantly, “I do, too.” She moved one hand to Miranda’s shoulder, “But please let’s not call it closure, okay? I couldn’t stand that word even before I was an inmate.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Very well. Closure it isn’t then.”
“Closure it isn’t.”
NEXT CHAPTER
Author: hawkbehere (hawkbehere@yahoo.com)
Rated: PG
A/N: If you’ve forgotten who Peter Sagong is, he’s Miranda and Andy’s FBI friend.
***
When Andy emerged from the bathroom after preparing for bed, Miranda was reading in bed and only glanced long enough to see that Andy was wearing plaid sleeping shorts and a Northwestern t-shirt.
She turned back to her book as she said, “I’ve told you time and time again, if you want to wear lust-killer pajamas, you’re going to have to work much harder than that.”
Andy pulled back the covers and got into bed, “You just like thinking you’re sleeping with a coed.”
“A coed grown slightly long in the tooth.”
“Hey! I’m only 26.”
“Thank you for reminding me of our age difference.”
“You deserve it, smart-ass.”
“Undoubtedly.” Miranda took off her reading glasses, put them and her book on her bedside table and turned to Andy. “I was only teasing you. I’m glad coeds didn’t look like you when I was in college because I wouldn’t have my children now.”
“Better.”
“Are you ready to talk?”
“About?”
“About…” Miranda ground out the words, “sous chef man.”
“You said it! You didn’t call him fry cook boy!”
“Yes, well, one of us has to be the adult.”
“God help us if that’s you.” She ignored Miranda’s raised eyebrow. “What do you want to know?”
“Nothing particular, I assure you. Tell me what you want to tell me about it. All I’d like to know so that I may discontinue stabbing him in my mind is whether he apologized to you in a manner that suggested he understood the gravity of his offense.”
“He did.”
Miranda waited but Andy didn’t continue so she said, “I gather that’s all you want to say about the matter. Very well. Next subject.”
Andy huffed out a huge breath and her tone was slightly petulant. “That’s not all I want to say but I know you’ll think it’s dumb.”
Miranda looked into Andy’s big brown eyes, her almost pouting face. Her lover could go from younger woman to much younger woman in seconds. She pushed a lock of Andy’s hair behind her ear.
“I doubt that, Andrea. Your political and economic ideas? Yes, I consider them dumb. Your feelings? Never. I may not share your feelings or your manner of expressing them, but they couldn’t be more important to me. Let me take a wild guess and imagine that you felt a sense of closure after meeting with Nate.”
Andy nodded but said mournfully, “I know you hate the word closure.”
“I do not hate the word closure. I understand the concept but I’ve never felt it or the need for it. That’s a matter of my personality and I understand I’m the oddity, not everyone else. Tell me what meeting with him meant for you.”
“I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“Andrea, you see the father of my children every week of your life-the person I created life with, a completely unique relationship I will never share with you. I loved him; I married him and made children with him. Although I make petty jealousy something of a fetish, I think I can handle the fact you were once in love with another person.”
“Well, if you put it like that-“
“I just did.”
Andy narrowed her eyes at Miranda. “Fine. It was good to see him and to hear an apology and to extend my apology because I wasn’t perfect, either. The latter was overdue, as well.”
Miranda nodded as Andy looked down at the duvet, “Hearing an apology and hearing that the time we spent together meant something to him gave me…I guess…a sense of validation I needed.”
“Validation of what?”
Andy shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’d hate to think I’d spent years loving someone and thinking he loved me only to realize he hadn’t or not as much. I suppose I wanted to know that I hadn’t just been kidding myself or that I wasn’t a completely hopeless judge of people or of reality, even.”
She looked up at Miranda and asked, “Does that make sense?”
“After talking to Nate, do you feel more peaceful about your time together and about the past?”
“Yes. Very much.”
“Then it makes sense.”
“But you don’t really think it does, do you?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth, Andrea. I understand your motivation and if remembering your relationship with Nate gave you even a moment’s burden of sadness, I’m happy you’ve resolved those feelings or are on your way to doing so.”
“Me, too. That’s closure, Miranda.”
The corners of the woman’s mouth lifted slightly and there was amusement in her eyes, “So I’ve heard.”
“What do you have against closure?”
“Nothing. Literally. I just can’t imagine having a need for it in this lifetime.”
Andy scrubbed her face with one hand, then turned more fully toward Miranda, “Can you explain that to me?”
“What is there to explain? People are in my life or they’re not. Why on Earth would I care about them or my time with them if it were over? I suppose you’ll remember that my parents kicked me out when I was seventeen and that I only saw my father in the last months before he died? I believe I’ve told you it was nice to see him and talk to him?”
“Yes.”
“By that, I meant it was nice. Nice but wholly unnecessary. If he’d died without making some sort of verbal amends to me, I wouldn’t have cared. I would have been sorry he was dead because he was a human being and my father but not because I had anything particular to say to him or wanted to hear him say. Exactly the same goes for my mother. I don’t mind speaking to her occasionally but I have no interest or need for anything emotional from her.”
She ran one hand through her hair and shrugged. “Of course, if she needed to say something to me, if she needed closure, I’d listen and make the appropriate noises because it would be kind for me to do so. Plus, frankly, I don’t even care enough to gin up the energy to be unpleasant to her. I don’t suffer the ‘why didn’t mommy and daddy love me’ blues. I don’t care that they didn’t and I don’t care why. I came to terms with them the minute I walked out of our home. I come to terms with everyone-and even if they leave me or spurn me or hurt me first, they’re always my terms. I don’t require validation because I really don’t care what people think of or want or expect from me. If people are gone-they’re non-entities. Unremembered and not just dead to me-gone as if they’d never existed.”
“Jesus, Miranda.”
“Yes, isn’t this romantic? But you did ask. It’s how I’ve lived my entire life but of course that changed with the children. That was a blow, believe me-to realize if anything ever happened to them or if they decided to leave me or wouldn’t talk to me, I would never come to terms with it. And then came you and the same thing applies. What kind of closure could I find faced with a world without you three in it? What kind would I even want? None. Ever. So you see, I’ll never need closure in my life.”
Andy leaned forward and kissed Miranda’s forehead, “I think I understand but that all sounds sort of bleak, sweetie.”
“You know what’s even more bleak, from my point of view?” A look of consternation filled Miranda’s eyes and she lightly bit her lower lip, something Andy had never seen her do.
“What is it, sweetheart?”
Miranda opened her mouth, then closed it, then tilted her head as if looking at something improbable. She finally took a deep breath, “I can’t come to terms with any of the people who are coming to our wedding. By that I mean I can’t make my own terms with them. I blame you.”
Andy’s eyes widened but she saw, although Miranda was discomfited, she wasn’t angry.
“Why am I to blame and for what?”
“I wasn’t like this before I picked you up from the pound.”
Andy smiled, “Like how?”
“I didn’t care and now I do. Example. Roy. He likes his coffee with two creams and three sugars. I’ve talked to him at exhausting length about his ridiculous model trains while we’re sitting in traffic jams. I wonder if you know he uses the G scale train because it’s optimal for creating scenery around his railway. I do. He’s sent me pictures of his rail tableaux, Andrea. And I’ve looked at them!”
This was said with such outrage that Andy had to laugh. “What’s wrong with that?”
“May I remind you he’s my driver?”
“He’s our friend.”
“Immaterial. Because of you, I now have what seems like scores of people who can do whatever they will around me.”
Andy took the woman’s hand. “I think, because I’m your fiancée and I may be able to get away with this with my scalp intact, I’ll take the liberty of editing that statement. You feel surrounded by people who could, if they wished, do what they want to you or with you and that’s leaving you unsettled.”
“I just said that.”
“No, no. You brought up Roy’s employee status, which was a skilful bit of subterfuge for your actual meaning, if you don’t know that and I bet you do. Because of that, what you just said connoted something of the nature of having servants suddenly being able to act unruly around you. What you meant is that you now have many people who can be themselves around you and against whom you have little of your usual emotional self-defense.”
Miranda’s expression and tone were ice, “Again? I see rumors of your death have been greatly exaggerated, Dr. Freud.”
Although Andy immediately feared for her scalp, she kept her face carefully neutral. The glacier grew in front of her and she felt the flutter of that old-time Runway thrill of horror. Still, she steeled herself to look unconcerned.
After a few moments of standoff, Miranda’s posture abruptly relaxed, “This completely proves my point. Honestly, Andrea, if I can’t even intimidate you anymore, I’ve gone to the dogs.”
Andy rolled her eyes and gently smacked the woman’s arm. “You’re not supposed to intimidate me, you numbskull. Intimidation might have been part of your other marriages but not this one, sister. And you’re still plenty scary. I promise you still scare the hell out of everyone who’s going to our wedding, if that gives you any comfort.”
“It does.”
“Good. Just a word to the wisest of wise old owls? It might be salutary to remember that the reason people feel able to be themselves around you is because they love you and they can feel that you love them. They’re not going to hurt you, sweetie, and it’s not the worst thing in the world to love and be loved.”
“Yes, yes. That’s all very nice but I did hear that ‘old’ owl part, Andrea.”
“That’s your take-away from all this?”
“Oh good Lord, of course not. Your comments have been noted and logged. Now turn out the light. I’m tired.”
“Let me understand this. You have a hot coed in your bed and you want to go to sleep?”
“Actually, the coed analogy is more apt than you think. I remember suffering through similarly deadly emotional conversations among the denizens of my dormitory in college. It was like listening to multiple Oprahs talking to each other without even a modicum of common sense or maturity and without the benefit of a 43-minute time limit.”
Andy glared at her. “Did you just call me Oprah?” She turned the light off and announced to the darkness, “You are SO not getting any tonight.”
“I assure you I will. I’ll intimidate you into it.”
“Please. As if.”
“We’ll role play. Call me Gayle.”
Despite herself, Andy snickered, then said, “Shut up.”
“You just took the words out of my mouth. Now kiss me, Andy. You know how difficult emotional conversations are for me.”
There was a long silence. “You are so fucking manipulative it stuns me sometimes, Miranda.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I’m going to kiss you but only because it will shut you up and keep you off the couch tonight.”
“To quote a orator of undeniable, if trenchant, genius? ‘Please. As if’”
As Andy kissed Miranda, the older woman pulled her on top of her and hugged her tightly. Andy broke the kiss, then kissed the woman’s cheek before whispering in Miranda’s ear, “God knows why but I do adore you, Miranda Priestly.”
Miranda’s only answer was a sigh, “Andy.”
***
Two Weeks Later
***
After leading Peter Sagong into Miranda’s office and bringing coffee for them both, Emily closed the door to the woman’s office behind her.
“Thank you, Peter, for looking into this for me. It’s beyond the call of duty, I know.”
“Not at all, Miranda. My pleasure.”
“You look very handsome today. Hugo Boss suits you…and yes, that was a pun I didn’t intend. I’m sorry.”
Peter grinned sheepishly as he blushed to the tips of his ears. “I know it’s a waste of time but I’m man enough to admit I change clothes many times before I decide on what to wear to meet with you.”
“I’m flattered. It’s much appreciated and not a waste of time. A waste of time is trying to pry Birkenstocks from Andrea’s closet.”
Peter pulled his chair closer and Miranda offered him a coaster for his coffee. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a file.
“As requested, I’ve done the research and created a Isabelle Malara file for your perusal.”
Miranda took a sip of coffee and relaxed into her chair.
“Naturally, Miranda, because Alicia’s case is pending, I have nothing regarding her and I couldn’t discuss what I’d heard about her possible defense even if I had heard, which I haven’t.”
“I understand.”
He stared into her eyes, “I can say that the most likely possibility for her defense would be unlikely to come to successful fruition.”
“Hmmm. The most likely…may I offer my highly inexpert conjecture, Peter?”
“Of course.”
“Alicia’s clearly not criminally insane so her lawyers will have to argue diminished capacity. I believe they will be unsuccessful because there had to be a way Alicia knew we were in that restaurant at that time. Given her demonstrated hacking skills, I can easily imagine her hacking into the restaurant’s reservation service. I’ve checked into it and it’s linked to an Internet service for high-end reservation booking. She also brought a gun with her and announced her intention so I can scarcely imagine any jury would believe it wasn’t a premeditated act.”
He beamed at her and nodded vigorously even as he said, “That’s a very interesting theory, Miranda. I suppose we’ll see but I can tell you one thing, having met the young lady. No one enjoys incarceration but her temperament is ideally unsuited for it. I would be profoundly surprised if she doesn’t attack a fellow inmate before her trial. I’d be even more surprised if she’s not attacked herself.”
“Oh, well. Isn’t that a pity. Next.”
“Before I begin and although Andy told me that one of the cardinal rules of dealing with you is not to ask questions, I feel I must ask one.”
Miranda drummed her fingers on the desk, “Andrea’s telling tales out of school, Peter. As a matter of fact, she peppers me with questions at home but yes; people question my judgement at Runway at their peril. As you are here in a professional capacity completely divorced from fashion, you may ask me anything you like.”
“Thank you. I suppose I’d like to know why this sudden interest in Isabelle Malara? You’ve had a long time to inquire into her if you’d been interested.”
“Being shot once seems like a fluke; being shot twice seems like a habit. I wanted to know whether there was any similarity between the women involved or if there’s anything I need to look out for.”
He nodded, “Makes sense. I can say to cut to the chase they could not be more different. What do you know about Isabelle?”
“She worked for me as second assistant for four months. Terribly attractive and very well dressed. Clearly followed fashion and had true taste, which is far more rare than you’d imagine, even at Runway. Quite intelligent but a little too over-awed by me to be very good at her job. Of course, she might have gotten better but she felt the need to shoot me instead. She pled guilty without fanfare and received 12 years for attempted murder.”
“Okay. Let me dispense with Alicia first, as a comparison. Alicia is not psychotic but she has raging borderline personality disorder and I use the word raging advisedly. There is very little that can be done for her therapeutically and, as I said, should she remain in prison, she will re-offend inside. Should she be released, she will re-offend. I need not remind you that Andy was her target, not you. You got in her way and that is how Alicia treats all people or circumstances that get in her way. She’s been escalating for some time but now that she’s reached life-threatening violence, I see no future for her but a violent and criminal one. I’ve spoken to two profilers about this and they’ve agreed.”
He sighed as he looked at his file, “I don’t think you’ll like hearing what I found out about Isabelle so I’ll let you read it and form your own opinion.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see. Read the file and you’ll understand this is a tale of two very different prisoners.” He stood, “Thank you for the coffee, Miranda. It’s good to see you and give my regards to Andy.”
“I will.”
Before he reached the door, he turned back to her and said, “There’s no excuse for what Isabelle did to you, Miranda. But the explanation is in the file. Call me if you have any questions.”
“Thank you, Peter.”
***
Three Weeks Later
***
Miranda sat alone in a viciously ugly and barren room that was a little too much like the television version of an interrogation room for her taste, albeit without the long mirror on one side. As she decided the specific paint color on the walls would be forever branded in her mind as women’s prison grey, she felt something she was unaccustomed to-a true case of nervous anxiety. She’d given up wondering what quixotic impulse had landed her here in a maximum-security prison. Admittedly less quixotic to visit than to land without a choice, she amended in her mind.
After normal channels of visitation had availed her nothing, there’d been a call to the governor who’d called the commissioner of corrections, who’d called the superintendent of the prison, who was none too happy with the end-run around his authority. She couldn’t blame him because it would have galled her as well. Although she acknowledged this to herself, she didn’t feel badly enough not to do it.
Evidently, it was wildly irregular if not unheard of, to request an entirely private visit with an unrestrained prisoner in a maximum-security prison. Miranda sniffed at the idea. Given the glowing reports of Isabelle’s conduct while in prison, it was beyond the realm of possibility the girl would try to hurt her again. And were such an attempt made, the heels she’d verbally fought with the guard to keep on her feet would make formidable weapons-a point, literally, that hadn’t been lost on said guard.
When the door opened, Miranda stood. Isabelle shuffled in led in by a female guard. She was wearing a blue jumpsuit and was shuffling because she was shackled, ankles and wrists. Miranda took one look from the woman to the shackles to the guard and said in a voice laced with scorn, “Really?”
“Superintendent’s orders, ma’am.”
“I’m sure-just as I’m sure you have orders to take them off now that his rather small point has been made.”
“Ms. Priestly?”
“No, no. Miranda, Isabelle.”
“Miranda, then. Your attitude can get me in trouble. You’ll leave at the end of this but I won’t.”
Miranda was mortified to feel herself blushing. “Just so. Officer, I apologize. I’m unaccustomed to seeing young people I know shackled but I can appreciate it’s a necessary precaution for your safety. Please forgive my outburst.”
The guard grinned as she unlocked Isabelle’s restraints. “No worries. You’re right. Isabelle here wouldn’t hurt a fly and everyone knows it, even the supe. I’ll be outside the door the entire time. If either of you need anything, just knock on the door or shout. I’m trusting you to play nice, Ms. Priestly. I know Isabelle will.”
“I always play nicely.” Miranda replied, ignoring the look on Isabelle’s face at this pronouncement.
The guard chuckled, “Uh, no ya don’t. I’ve seen that YouTube video. Play nice.”
“Of course. I promise.”
“I’ll send someone else for coffee for you two, if you’d like.”
“It won’t be piping hot, Miranda.”
This was so unexpected that Miranda laughed, a sound Isabelle had never heard. “God, I’m obnoxious, aren’t I? What would you like, Isabelle?”
“I always get Diet Coke. I’ll warn you it’ll be in Styrofoam-they won’t let us have cans. We could split one.”
“Diet Coke, officer?”
“You got it.”
When the guard left the room, the two looked each other over.
“So…” Isabelle said.
“Here we are,” Miranda finished. She looked the girl over. Very tall, very slender and despite the blue jumpsuit, exactly the same girl who’d worked for her. It made her eyes sting to see how exactly the same. Having learned what she had from Peter’s file, she could now identify what she’d only glanced at and disregarded before-the same look of defeat and crushing sadness framed in a truly beautiful face. The same light blue eyes, milky white skin, and fiery red hair that fell in tight ringlets to her shoulders.
“I must say, Isabelle, you look remarkably undiminished by prison.”
“It’s all in the clothing, as you know, Miranda. Prison blue’s good for my coloring.”
The guard brought in two cups of Coke and left the room.
Isabelle lifted her cup and held it forward, “Santé.”
Miranda tapped the cup with her own, “Santé.”
They took one sip of Coke, placed their cups on the table, then stared at each other for a few moments before Isabelle lifted her hands then lightly dropped them on her thighs. “You called this meeting. I’m sure you must have an agenda for it.” She lifted one eyebrow, “So to speak.”
Miranda was astonished to feel herself blushing yet again.
***
Isabelle saw this and felt the air being sucked out of her lungs and the room. She gripped the pant legs of her prison jumpsuit to stop their trembling.
When she’d been told Miranda had requested a visit, she’d also been told she could refuse the request, which had scarcely seemed possible. The irony had not been lost on her that one had to go to prison to refuse Miranda Priestly. The last thing on Earth she’d wanted to do was to come face to face with Miranda again but if the meeting constituted further penance she needed to pay, she considered it fair. Beside that, it was hardly good manners to shoot someone and then not meet with her if she wanted. So she’d agreed and so here she was sitting across from the woman she thought about at least a few times every hour of every day of her waking life.
***
“You’re right, of course. I’ll start. I’ll admit, Isabelle, that after the shooting and your non-trial, I didn’t think about you much at all. Occasionally, perhaps, when I happened to notice my surgical scar-and believe me, I’m not saying that to make you feel badly. You shot me. I have scars. It’s merely factual for me, not emotional.”
At this, Isabelle laughed without sound or mirth-just breath.
Miranda paid no attention. “However, after the second time, I thought I should look into what made people keep shooting me. Beside the glaringly obvious you’re all too familiar with, of course.”
Isabelle nodded. “Of course. What did you find, Miranda?”
“Alicia’s not psychotic but she is a lunatic.”
“Yes, she is. I saw that video, too.”
“Of course you did. I believe it’s garnered just over 76 million views so far. I’ve worked tirelessly at Runway for over 25 years and it’s rather dispiriting to realize that all I ever really needed to do to get attention for the magazine was to be shot on camera.”
Isabelle smiled at her Styrofoam cup, then looked up at the woman across from her, “That may be true but for even the most dedicated of editors, there has to be a limit to ‘give ‘em what they want,’ doesn’t there? And oh-speaking of being shot on camera, Miranda, I loved that picture of you and Serena and I saw the video of One Times Square. It was fantastic.”
Miranda returned the smile because Isabelle suddenly looked and sounded animated. “I really wanted to put that cover on a wall in my cell but…considering the circumstances? I thought it might give my keepers pause.”
“Ah.” Miranda touched her nose with her forefinger and pointed to Isabelle. “Good thinking. So sending you a subscription to Runway would…”
“Right. Undoubtedly push my parole hearing back a year or so. If you’re feeling vengeful, and I don’t see why you wouldn’t be, feel free.”
Miranda had been uncertain what to expect from Isabelle and immediately realized meeting her again did not give her the certainty she’d thought it would. “But we digress.”
“We do-and I know you hate that, Miranda.”
The older woman gave the slightest of shrugs, “I say that but truthfully? It entirely depends on the situation…and the company. Alicia’s going to fight tooth and nail in court, you know, even though she’s on camera, too, dead to rights.”
“Look at her. Of course she is. Diminished capacity?”
“Probably.”
“I’d say she’ll definitely try it. She’ll lose.”
“I agree. She will. But you might not have, would you?”
And just like that, the animation left Isabelle’s face and her voice. “That’s neither here nor there, Miranda. Or rather, there was my past and here I am. I pled guilty because I was guilty.”
“There were mitig-“
“I shot you, Miranda. I could have killed you. I could have left your children motherless. I’m guilty of the offense I was charged with.”
“And yet your lawyers wanted you to plea diminished capacity, didn’t they?”
“You clearly already know the answer to that. In fact, just looking into your eyes, I’m sure you already know why they suggested that. Do you have any questions to ask me you don’t know the answers to? If not, we’re wasting your time.”
“My time is my own to waste and you have nothing but time, do you?”
Isabelle lightly bowed her head as if acknowledging a queen.
“I do have questions.”
“Very well. Shoot.”
Miranda lowered her voice, “Don’t be impertinent, Isabelle.”
The younger woman placed both hands on the table, interlaced her fingers and Miranda could see her knuckles whiten. “I apologize but this situation suddenly feels very confrontational. I know I deserve whatever you want to say to me, no matter how harsh and I want to take it without defending myself…but it’s difficult to hear how guilty I am when I already feel it more than anyone can imagine.”
Miranda reached forward and Isabelle flinched as the woman touched her hands. “This is not a confrontation.”
Isabelle sat transfixed. Miranda Priestly didn’t touch people. Except now, apparently. The woman tapped her joined hands gently and said, “Relax.”
Isabelle placed her hands flat on the table but said, “You do know, don’t you, that you can’t really command people to relax?”
“Yes, actually. I’ve noticed there is an inverse relationship between my commanding that someone relax and his or her visible level of anxiety.”
“Then are you trying to elevate my anxiety?”
“No-merely a habit. In fact, I demand that you don’t relax-let’s see if that works.”
Isabelle nodded, then took a sip of Coke, “Ah, yes. That’s better already. What’s your first question?”
“What did you originally want to do with your degree from Barnard? Before events made it impossible to go to Italy for your Masters.”
Isabelle winced at this, “Events? Please tell me you didn’t have Emily draw up a file on me-or my events.”
“Of course I didn’t. Emily would scarcely be the person to ask for unbiased information about you. I have a lovely friend who’s an FBI agent.”
“Of course you do. As for your question and as you know, a double major in Medieval/Renaissance History and Art blows the doors of lucrative and sustained employment wide open. Of course, it’s far behind just learning how to, let’s say, plumb. Not that I’m knocking plumbing. It has an actual career path.”
Miranda nodded her agreement.
“If I’d pursued my PhD, I could have taught, but those jobs are few and far between. I had some vague ideas about a job in design. My father’s an industrial designer and my mother was an art teacher so it was within the realm of my understanding of possibility. I don’t suppose I really knew what I wanted but I was only 22 and I thought I had time. I find young people usually imagine time serves them, when human beings are always serving time. That’s usually figurative, obviously, but I went whole hog for the literal experience.”
“Yes. A lesson for life. Even metaphors have tipping points.”
The younger woman grinned at this as Miranda asked, “Were your parents supportive of your choice of majors?”
“Of course they were. I was an adored only child and all they wanted was for me to be happy.”
“Never say ‘of course,’ about parent and child, Isabelle. It implies a given that doesn’t exist. I’m an only child and my parents threw me out of the house when I was 17 because of my interest in fashion. You had loving parents and were evidently a lovable child. But not all parents are loving and not all children are lovable. The tragedy is when there’s a mismatch between the loving and unlovable or unloving and lovable. It’s best when like meets like, as in your case and in mine.”
Isabelle had absolutely no response to that, so she asked, “What do Caroline and Cassidy want to do? Any signs yet? I know Cassidy likes science and Caroline likes artsy stuff.”
Miranda felt a chill run through her body and her voice cooled, “And you’d know this about my children because…”
Isabelle saw and heard the ice, “Because of nothing nefarious, I promise you. I did your children’s homework for four months, Miranda. It tells a lot about a person-what she chooses to keep for herself and what she fobs off on the help. Cassidy never asked me to do science and math; Caroline never asked me to do book reports or art projects.”
“I see. Well. Right.”
“Wow. That sounded just like Emily.”
Miranda sighed, “I know it did. But fair’s fair-Emily’s beginning to sound like me. I apologize for jumping to conclusions about the children.”
“Don’t. I shot you. You have a free ‘jump to conclusion’ card on me for life.”
“They do their own now.”
“What?”
“Homework. The girls do their own homework now.”
“That’s…great actually.”
“Yes. Andrea invoked the Hilton sisters and I saw her point. Believe it or not, they even have chores now and painfully mundane ones.”
“That’s even better. Regime changes can be good for kids. Speaking of La Belle Époque? Congratulations on your engagement.”
“Thank you. Is that within your wheelhouse, religiously, to be happy about two women marrying?”
Off Isabelle’s quizzical expression, Miranda continued, “It says in my file that you’re a devout Episcopalian.”
“I have been all my life but I don’t sit in devout judgement of others’ relationship with God or their worthiness to have one. And yes, I felt that way even before I discovered how profoundly unworthy I was to judge anyone at all.”
Miranda smirked. “You know what I’ve always said? If you won’t judge someone, bring him or her to me.”
The younger woman smiled, “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me one iota.”
“Would it surprise you to know that I was raised Catholic?”
Isabelle looked her over. “Not in the least.”
“It didn’t work out for me and not just for the reasons you might imagine. I have a Protestant world-view. Why limit yourself to talking to God’s first assistants when you can talk to God Himself?”
“You’re a born editor, Miranda. To think it took Martin Luther Ninety-Five Theses just to say that.”
Miranda sniffed, “Concision is a gift, Isabelle.”
“It is.”
“Since we agree on that subject, let me be more concise. I wanted you to know that I’ve contacted your uncle Frederico anonymously through a lawyer and they’ve arranged for your father to be moved to a better nursing facility. As you know, he’s in the end stages of his illness and my lawyer found his facility not up to the standards a family member would wish.”
“We can’t afford a better place.”
“I know that. I can.”
Isabelle shook her head violently and pushed away from the table although she didn’t stand. “No! What are you trying to do to me?”
“I’m not trying to do anything. I’m giving your father better medical and nursing attention in the last months of his life.”
“Why? Exactly why?”
“Because I can and because he needs it and I was hoping it would give you some measure of peace about a situation that can’t be helped. You can’t be there but you can know he’s being well taken care of.”
Isabelle shook her head again, “No, no, no, no. You can’t just walk in here and make me feel this way. I’ll take anything but not this.”
“What’s ‘this’?”
“You can make me feel like crap all day long but I can’t feel any guiltier, Miranda. It’s not possible. If that’s what you want, you’ll have to go begging somewhere else.”
Miranda stared at her and when she spoke, her voice was cool again. “Very well. Let me get down to brass tacks if that’s how you wish to play this. You’re too self-deprecating by half. You’ve been a pillar of your community and church since you’ve been a child. You’ve been almost tiresomely perfect all of your life. Volunteer work, church work, wild academic over-achievement. You gave up a prestigious fellowship in Rome and, therefore, what promised to be a sure path to a very bright academic career, to come home to help your mother take care of your father, who was suffering from the late stages of early-onset Alzeheimer’s. At that point you started working for me. One month into your employ, your mother was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer. Three months into your employ, it was determined the cancer had metastasised to her lymph nodes and liver and that her life expectancy was perhaps four to six months. Your father, even then, was forgetting both of you and had long since been a danger to himself. Have I got all of that correct?”
Isabelle, whose head was lowered, nodded.
“I thought so. I’m going to ask you three questions. You will answer them. You owe me answers. Do you understand that?”
Another nod.
“Why were you carrying a gun in your bag?”
Isabelle looked up at Miranda and there were unshed tears in her eyes. Miranda had never seen someone so utterly bereft.
“My father never even spanked me once but I…was afraid of my father. I was afraid of him for my mother, too. He had a gun for home protection and I didn’t want it in the house.”
“Quite right, too. When did you decide to shoot me?”
“I don’t…I didn’t.”
“What do you remember about the day you shot me?”
Tears spilled down Isabelle’s cheeks but she made no motion to acknowledge them. Her voice was quiet and monotone, as if she were retrieving a shadowy history it was difficult to believe she was part of.
“I think about that day all the time. I remember Dad being angry about breakfast for some reason. I know I helped him that morning because Mom had started throwing up every time she ate. He wouldn’t put food in and she couldn’t keep food down. I vaguely remember dressing and looking at my face in the mirror as I put on my make-up. Knowing the day would only get worse once I got to work. I knew after I’d failed at work, I’d go home and fail to help my mother enough with dad and fail to keep her alive. I remember knowing every new day would be worse than the last.”
Isabelle wiped her cheeks and met Miranda’s eyes. “Very honestly, the next thing I remember is Emily and Nigel holding me down.” She smiled ruefully, “That and Emily punching me and my not knowing why. I guess you know the rest.”
“I know my ‘rest.’ Not yours.”
“What is there to say? I was horrified-completely stupefied. If there were an award for ‘Person Least Likely to Shoot Someone’ in high school, I would have won it hands down. I hate to be hyperbolic, Miranda, but imagine how you’d feel if you came to, so to speak, and people told you that you’d cut someone’s head off.”
“Figuratively or literally?”
Despite herself, Isabelle choked back a laugh and Miranda pursed her lips to keep from smiling.
“I take your point and I believe you, Isabelle. Not to put too fine a point on it, you’d abandoned your personal dreams to assist your family during a horrifically stressful time. Faced with the tragedy of losing both parents to rapidly progressing and painful illness, you came to work in perhaps one of the most stressful positions it would be possible to find for yourself. Am I right?”
Isabelle nodded.
“You came to work for an employer who did not care that you were living a tragedy because she did not care about you in the slightest. In fact, she took no notice of your humanity whatsoever, this relentless and mercurial perfectionist who made you feel like an abject failure every moment of your working life. Do I read the situation correctly?”
Isabelle shifted in her chair, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t know that I would put it that way.”
“Oh, but I would. If your employer, who denigrated, belittled and humiliated you on a hourly basis, had been able to see beyond the nose on her own face, she would have seen what I can see very clearly now.”
Miranda ran one hand through her hair and Isabelle was fascinated not only by the strangeness of that nervous gesture but by the fact the hand was trembling.
“You see…in a sense, I was operating in a diminished capacity as well. I didn’t know it at the time but I happen to agree with you-it’s no excuse. What I did, I did and I can’t change it. That said, I’ve come today…”
Miranda placed her hands on the table and met Isabelle’s eyes, “I’ve come to apologize for those things I did and said that not only contributed to your anguish but to the actions that led to the place you find yourself now. Understand I’m not taking responsibility for your actions, only my own. I’m truly very sorry to see you here. I know I bear some responsibility for your state of mind when you assaulted me and I beg your forgiveness.”
Isabelle was shocked speechless for a few moments. “You know that saying ‘you could knock me over with a feather?’”
”Yes.”
“I’m living it.”
She reached across the table and placed a hand on Miranda’s. “I firmly believe you are the only wronged party in our equation. But I respect your feelings and I know that the need for grace is sufficiently mysterious that I never question it. I forgive you. Of course I do and without reservation.”
“Thank you.”
They sat and looked at each other for a few moments before Miranda said, “I should inform you that I’m going to be irritated if you feel like you don’t deserve forgiveness as well. Forgive me again for judging you but you seem like the type.”
“What type is that?”
“The type who would worry God to death praying over your sins. Theology question. Can God and does God offer forgiveness for sins when the sinner asks for it in a spirit of true contrition?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve asked God’s forgiveness thousands of times for shooting me, haven’t you? And be honest.”
Isabelle paused before saying, “Yes.”
“Another question. If you came to me at Runway and asked what color I wanted a specific background to be and I said amethyst, would you come and ask me the same question the next day?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you’d made a decision and I wouldn’t question it.”
“Correct. And having made my decision, would you expect me to change my mind day after day from Tyrian purple to Han purple to fuchsia to aubergine ad nauseum?
“Never.”
“Why?”
“Again-because you’d made a decision.”
“Correct again. According to your stated beliefs, since you’ve asked God to forgive you, He undoubtedly extended His grace to you the first time you did it. I would bet every penny I have, however, that you weary God every day of your life with the very same question. If you know better than doing that with me, why not with God? Do you honestly think I’m more decisive than God?”
Isabelle tilted her head as she considered this and then her face was a mask of sheepishness, “Well…sort of?”
Miranda huffed, “Oh, honestly. Ask me to forgive you right this minute.”
This time, Isabelle did bark out a short laugh. “You can’t-you can’t do that.”
“I beg to differ.”
Isabelle glared at her, the first unfriendly look she’d given Miranda.
“You need to work on your intimidation skills, Isabelle, if that’s even what that look is supposed to connote.”
Isabelle’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-I mean I wouldn’t want to…okay. Here goes. I’m so very, very sorry that I hurt you. I know I can never make amends for what I did but I would give anything for it not to have happened. It’s not hard to say because I think of you every hour of the day and every time I’m grief-stricken. What’s hard is believing my guilt and sorrow could ever be enough.”
“Just ask me.”
“Could you please forgive me, Miranda?”
“Yes. I can and am doing so now. Completely. That makes the slate clean between us, Isabelle. Don’t question this after I leave. It’s over and my decision is final. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. One more theological question. Do you believe in the communion of saints?”
“Of course I do.”
“I do, too.” Miranda leaned forward and spoke very quietly. “This is the most important thing I have to tell you so please listen carefully.”
“Okay,” the younger woman whispered.
“I know you regret shooting me but, having sat with you only this short time, I’d imagine you’d feel a more crippling guilt that your mother died knowing you were in prison and that your father’s last lucid understanding of you included that sad fact.”
Isabelle immediately began to cry but, again, it was silent.
“If you believe, Isabelle, your mother knows everything she needs to now about what happened then. I personally believe that she sees you and loves you and what sadness she feels for you isn’t condemnation but a desire for you to move past this. I’m a mother myself and I can’t imagine anything my children could do that would separate them from my love. Even I feel deep sadness seeing you here, much less your mother. She loved you and still loves you. Just as your father did and does. Put your guilt to rest for their sake. It’s the least you can do and the greatest gift you could give them.”
Miranda sat silently for a few minutes as the woman cried, then said softly, “It’s time to wipe your tears now, Isabelle.”
Isabelle scrubbed her face with both hands as Miranda reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out two cards. She handed the first to Isabelle, “This is the name of your new lawyer. You’ll find it amazing how much harder people work for you when you pay them. She’ll be working on what can be done to get you a parole hearing sooner rather than later. She’s a very squeaky wheel and tremendously irritating. When the time comes, I’ll naturally speak on your behalf and don’t worry about employment and your living situation. We’ll handle all of that.”
Miranda handed her the second card, “Martha Fonseca is my second assistant and this is her cell and a P.O. Box we’ve set up for your correspondence. If you have any questions or need anything, call or write her. Your uncle is visiting soon with more information about your father’s new facility. Is all of this understood?”
“Yes, Miranda.”
“Don’t do that ‘yes, Miranda’ thing. Andrea does that to irritate me. I’ll visit again soon but it’ll be after my wedding and through regular channels. I’d hate for the superintendent to take his irritation with me out on you.”
She stood and extended her hand, “Thank you for meeting with me.”
Isabelle shook it firmly but didn’t let go. She held it and covered it with her other hand, “Thank you, Miranda. I know I’ve done nothing to deserve it, but thank you.”
Miranda tilted her head as she looked at their linked hands and then up into Isabelle’s eyes. “I feel curiously better now than when I walked in.”
Isabelle smiled at her, genuinely and radiantly, “I do, too.” She moved one hand to Miranda’s shoulder, “But please let’s not call it closure, okay? I couldn’t stand that word even before I was an inmate.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Very well. Closure it isn’t then.”
“Closure it isn’t.”
NEXT CHAPTER