Page 23 of That Weekend in Paris
?Roy A. Ngansop
SHE KNOWS IT is a gamble, but then, what does she have to lose?
She’s already lost Klein. There are only a couple of keys with the potential to unlock the door to his wanting her again. One, guilt. And two, rejection.
She’s learned enough about Klein’s past to know they are his Achilles heel. She sees no point in wasting energy on any efforts that will not get her what she wants. And what she wants is Klein.
She turns the leased G-Wagon onto the rural road that leads to some of Nashville’s biggest mansions, the area where every home is occupied by some recognizable country music star name. She intends to live here one day herself. Klein has so far avoided buying in this section, and she knows the reason why. It’s not that he can’t afford it yet. He can. And then some. It’s more about the fact that he doesn’t see himself as one of these people.
But she considers it her personal mission to change that, to help him see himself as she sees him, as the rest of the world sees him, really.
It hasn’t proven as easy as she had first imagined. And no, she hadn’t anticipated the breakup. That stint in rehab had opened Klein’s eyes to things he had once seen very differently.
Sometimes, she wishes he had never stopped drinking. Not for his health, of course, but she had liked the Klein who drank. He’d been fun and a little reckless, a combination that worked for her. She had fit in his life then. Sober, he saw her as a connection to all of that and a temptation he couldn’t handle.
It wasn’t like she’d been trying to pull him down into the dregs of alcoholism, but what was wrong with having a little fun now and then?They’d had great times together. All those nights on the road, not going to bed until the sun was about ready to come up.
The truth is she misses those days. She’d known that Klein. Known how to handle him. How to make him want the same things she wanted.
He’d been an easy sell, really. Klein had a lot of holes in his soul. Most of them came from his early beginnings. She had gotten enough out of him at times to see that he didn’t remember a lot of the bad things that landed him in foster care. The scars were there nonetheless, and he had learned at some point along the way to use his songwriting and alcohol as mutual friends in his quest to permanently erase those scars.
Only, they never went away. And she supposes they never will. One thing she does know for sure. They are a lot more bearable for Klein under the haze of alcohol than they are under the stark reality of sobriety.
She glances at the GPS on her phone. Notes that she’s only a couple of miles from the Ashford house.She’s been invited to an industry party being held at the home of Holden Ashford and CeCe MacKenzie. The country music stars who have long been Klein’s idols.
Because she works for one of the biggest labels in town, Klein’s label, in fact, Riley was invited to tonight’s party. She wonders if she would have been invited had Klein been in town. Knows in fact that the higher-ups would have made sure she wasn’t. First and foremost, they care about keeping Klein happy. Once word of their breakup had gotten around, she’d been called into the label head’s office for a not-so-covert grilling on whether she and Klein would be able to operate in the same orbit. The real question had been whether Klein would want them to fire her.
But Klein would never have asked for such a thing. If they thought so, they didn’t know him very well.
Even so, Riley has no desire to push buttons that don’t need to be pushed. She had assured Sam Parker, the label head,that she was a big girl, and there would be no reason for Klein to worry about her making him uncomfortable.
Apparently, she’d turned out to be a pretty good actress because Mr. Parker had bought her version of things. She recalls now the aggravating smirk on the label head’s face, as if he had known all along that a girl like Riley would never keep a catch like Klein.
She can’t wait for the day she can personally hand him an invitation to her wedding to Klein. And it will happen. There is no doubt in her mind.
She presses a hand to her belly. And wonders why so many women in this world allow themselves to be told what their destiny will be by people who have decided they no longer want them.
It’s really just a matter of finding the weak spot of the person you need to see things differently. And everyone has a weak spot. She knows Klein’s, for sure. Knows the thing that had defined him, despite all of his success.
And that is the fact that he had not been wanted by his parents. Some might consider it cruel to let him suffer the way she knows he is suffering now.
But on some level, it seems appropriate to her. Klein has caused her suffering without a doubt. By the time she gives him what he wants, he will be so grateful to be relieved of his pain that he will have no problem forgiving her.
She’s reached the driveway to the Ashford estate. A security guard stands at the gate, ducks his head to her lowered window, and says, “Good evening. May I have your name, ma’am?”
“Riley. Riley Haverson.”
He scans the list on his iPad, finds her name, taps the screen, and says, “Yes, ma’am. Go ahead. Enjoy your evening.”
“Thank you so much,” she says, noticing the guard’s envy for her vehicle and then driving forward. She is spending nearly her last penny each month to keep up the lease on the G-Wagon, but appearances are everything. If you don’t look like you can afford the world, no one is ever going to consider you worthy of having it.
In a quarter mile or so, she reaches the circular entrance to the front of the enormous house. It is lit up floor to floor, light streaming from every window. Two more security guards stand at the front door, double-checking guest names on their own lists before letting them in.
A valet walks up to her vehicle, opens the door, and greets her. “I’ll park this for you, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” she says, unfolding her long legs and getting out. She notices the way his gaze drops to the hem of her short dress. She could mind his impertinence, but Riley never discounts evidence of her beauty in the face of men, regardless of their age or occupation. She flips her blonde hair over her shoulder and walks with complete certainty on her four-inch Prada heels to the front door. She presses a hand to her belly, uncertain for a moment of the flowy dress she’d chosen to hide her condition. But then, she’d practically been starving herself to delay the visible evidence, and so far, it has worked. She’d read enough about pregnancy to know the baby will pull the nutrients it needs at her expense. A flash of resentment scorches through her, but then she blinks it away. This baby is her ticket, after all. Hardly makes sense to resent it.
She waits for her name to be rechecked before stepping inside the house. It’s even more incredible than she had imagined, and it is all she can do to contain an audible sigh of envy. This is the life she wants.Thisis the life she’s determined to have.
