Page 55 of Mangled Memory
I open my mouth to reply. I have no clue what I’d say but am cut off by a knock on our bedroom door. That’s something I’ve never experienced. Christian turns, grabbing his phone as he moves to pull the door open, finding Fitz on the other side.
“Mr. Barone, Seamus Murphy is here to see you.”
Fitz looks over Christian’s head as he steps aside to let my husband pass. “Mrs. Barone.” He nods to me in acknowledgment and pulls the door closed behind himself.
My dad is gone by the time I make my way to the foyer to begin greeting guests. It’s a good thing so many of these shindigs are so fake, because my persona tonight is full of pretense. The idea that I know everyone, remember everything, care about the stories of the über wealthy and powerful in this city having a minor inconvenience—or even a major one that can be solved by writing a check—annoys me.
I look around my home and have to wonder if I became like them. I feel so much like myself that I have to think I didn’t. Same Ayla, bigger bank account. At least I hope so.
My saving grace is that Ren Gallo, a man I’ve come to trust who worked for us in the past, but who now runs security for Christian’s business enterprises, stands with me at the door. He leans in and whispers the names of every person who walks in the door, his or her business, and some random factoid that gives me an icebreaker to chat with them about.
Hostess with the mostest is really a door greeter with trivia, but it means I’m not mingling and making small talk. Yet.
When all the guests have arrived, I follow Ren into the great room and watch him melt into the shadows. Somehow, I know that if anything were to go down, I’d be safe. That man takes his job very seriously. But like a shadow when the sun moves, he’s gone, and I’m left to socialite chatter.
As it turns out, I don’t need to seek anyone out. A thin man, about my height when I’m not in heels, finds me as I enter the room.
“Mrs. Barone.” He extends a hand. “I’m Alistair Speet. I work forFront Rangemagazine.”
“Pleased to meet you.” I accept his hand and shake. “Call me Ayla.”
“Okay, thanks.” He smiles awkwardly. “Well, I’ve been following your career, and I’d love to talk to you about your work and your rise to success. Could I get some time to interview you?”
We’re interrupted by a waiter passing champagne and some kind of cocktail. I decline this round. There will be plenty, but Alistair accepts.
“What do you do at the magazine?” I ask, neither agreeing to nor declining his interview request.
“I’m the environmental reporter.” He looks a little sheepish.
“What does that mean?”
“I’m the green guy, basically. I look at the impact of industry, banking, tech and the like in Denver and along the Front Range from an environmental standpoint.”
“That must be incredibly interesting, and, if you don’t mind me saying so, daunting.”
“It is.” Alistair Speet is definitely eager, but I don’t know what photography has to do with his reporting and I’m not interested in any additional scrutiny on my husband’s businesses.
“Will you follow me?” I lead the way to a man Ren introduced me to with an inflated ego and a bloated wallet.
“Mr. Zimmerman, may I introduce you to Alistair Speet ofFront Rangemagazine.” I turn to the man in question. “Alistair, meet Frank Zimmerman of GVC Industries. I believe the two of you have much in common.”
I slide out of the conversation before accepting or rejecting Alistair’s request for an interview. It could go two ways so far as I can tell. I could be bait to larger fish, namely my husband or others in this room, or it could be used for me to have to declare allegiance to his cause or be revealed as anti.
I’m certainly pro-conservation. You can’t wander these mountains, meander through her trees, and listen to her brooks without knowing that industry makes an impact. There’s no waynot to acknowledge trash on her hiking paths and the change in the air from all that happens around the globe. This week’s bear cub sighting is evidence that nature is not exactly in balance.He was born in the wrong season which is highly unusual, and his mama should’ve been deep in hibernation.I want my mountain home pristine and its wilderness wild. I don’t want signs everywhere to remind people to care for her waters when failure means death to our ecosystem.
I also don’t want to be the face of a movement. I want to shoot the beauty of my home state, not the failures of people. I want to share what can be—what should be, not where we fall short.
And I don’t want to be a political pawn for a young man seeking to make a name for himself in his field. Zimmerman would be happy to take press any way he can get it and will say what he needs to make that happen. Win-Win.
I slide to the other side of the room, putting guests between us to avoid a replay, when a palm slides down my spine, a lone finger trailing it, leaving fire in its wake.
“Hello, wife. You look delicious.” Christian places a kiss on my velvet covered shoulder. “Have you been networking?”
“Avoiding it, actually.” I stop a passing waiter and ask for a rocks glass of water with a lime. “How do you do this?”
“It’s been less than an hour.” His soft chuckle is only for me. “And it’s an occupational hazard. Needing people means speaking to them.”
“Cameras don’t ask for favors.”
