Chapter One - Part One

Darlings, I hope you understand.

This was never meant to be a love story.

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CHAPTER ONE

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At a tragically young age, I learned that nothing about life was ever designed to be permanent. Environments, feelings, people – they could abandon you in an instant, without hesitation. But I had gotten used to that. In fact, I had even reached a stage where it no longer frightened me, like it did others. No. Instead, I welcomed it every time, because with that change, I knew there would also come fresh possibilities and endless second chances to go along with it. And anyway, it was the only thing that kept me going at times, if I were to be honest.

But nevertheless, as the taxi man pulled up in front of the house, and I looked upon it for the first time, I actually started to feel uneasy about this new adjustment. Because in seeing my new home, I also realized that I had finally encountered something that intimidated me. Not to mention, this was completely different from every other change that I had ever made in my life.

This, I was not prepared for.

“Can you take me to La Maison, please?” I asked the driver, from my position in the back seat. He was a short, portly man who smelled of cigarettes and cold salami, and though he didn’t answer, he put the car back in gear and made a U-turn in the cul-de-sac.

For a while, we drove along in silence throughout the town’s winding streets, and I could see the driver sneaking quick glances at me every so often from the rearview mirror. But I ignored this, and chose instead to focus my thoughts on what had occurred over the past few months.

For one, I was no longer a foster kid. I was eighteen now, legally an adult, and on my own. And while thoughts of college and busting my ass working two jobs just to survive on Ramen and Hot Cheetos looked good on paper, somehow, it just wasn’t enough. But then again, neither was a life of conning johns out of their wallets either. So for a while I was… lost – drifting along in a sea of my own despair as the future loomed forbiddingly on the horizon.

But then, one day, a strange letter arrived in the mail, with claims that were at the very least, absurd. But the author of the letter, a Mr. Edward James Talbot, wrote in a convincing enough manner that I had no choice but be intrigued. He explained that I was now the sole owner of property in a town called Harbor Village, and that I was also the recipient of an inheritance worth a sum that was deliriously unbelievable (it was true, the zeroes had literally dripped from the page). And that was really all the extra convincing that I had needed.

As the taxi rolled onward, I also wondered what kind of disruptions or revelations I could bring. And maybe it was wrong to feel that sense of destructive entitlement that I did, but in my defense, we all know that those with the most power usually suffer from some degree of malevolence anyway.

But there wasn’t much time for considering these thoughts. The driver reached our destination earlier than I anticipated, pulling up directly before the building’s tall double doors. “La Maison de Champagne” read its title in fancy script across the front. It doubled as the most expensive restaurant and luxurious hotel within a hundred mile radius, and had the look to match.

The Maison was a stately structure made of wine-colored brick, and holding several balconied windows on each of its three floors. Two smartly dressed, but rather generic doormen framed the entrance on either side. They were waiting, motionless, beneath a tall awning when we arrived, but in seconds one of them had opened my door and was extending his arm.

“Thank you.” I said politely, accepting his arm.

“Sir, here’s a hundred now for you to keep my bags in the trunk.” I told the driver, handing him a bright, crisp note. “You’ll get another two hundred – plus fare – if you come back in an hour with all my stuff.”

Without hesitation, he nodded fervently in agreement, leaving the doormen to escort me into the threshold. And as the door was opened, I was immediately enveloped me in a thick fragrance of countless perfumes and tobaccos, all dispersed by perfectly regulated air conditioning. There was no doubt indeed that this was a ritzy place.

Before approaching the front desk, I took the time to notice a door directly to my left. From it wafted the lulling hum of conversation and polite laughter. There were light clinking noises coming from the shiny silverware at the tables, and the glitter of women’s jewelry and men’s watches was undeniably eye-catching. Just being in such an opulently beautiful setting, you couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t all a lie that the rich are unhappy.

But as the guests all dined and made bubbly conversation, smiling all the while from seemingly unconcerned faces, meanwhile the stony, concentrated looks on the faces of their servers served as excellent contrast. Unlike their patrons, these men and women sported expensive black suits or sophisticated black frocks with shiny shoes and all-white gloves. And it was all of these details combined that gave the restaurant its allure. It let you know that money-spinning business and gossip of the sophisticated kind was held here. This was a place of either work or private debauchery, but no matter what, the Maison would always remain tasteful.

“Hello,” I said, approaching the long neat-looking counter that served as the check-in point for the hotel. A sharply dressed employee stood behind the counter, waiting with forced-looking patience to take my information. The first thing I observed was that she was standing directly in front of a heavy wooden door, as if to guard it from view of the public. And then I noticed that she was tall, and thin too, with a long, broad face that immediately reminded me of a horse. And her eyes were a disdainful, brown color, set above a sharp nose and thin lips that were now pinched at the sight of me.

She returned the greeting, stiffly, but only after having given me an extremely noticeable once-over. And I could tell from her scowl that she disapproved of my outfit. While travel-worn jeans and a sweat-shirt might have cut it at Applebee’s, it was made quite clear that here, attire was everything.

“Hi. Welcome to The Maison. I’m afraid we aren’t currently accepting applications at the moment…”

Had I not experienced this type of reaction from others who had also thought that they were my superiors, I might have faltered, or perhaps even had my feelings hurt. But fortunately, I was wiser than I looked.

“Ma’am, actually I’m here to eat and –”

“Name?” she asked stiffly, after cutting me off with a sigh.

“Naomi,”

“Well, that name isn’t on my list. And I would know – I’ve been staring at it all day,”

“I’m here to see a Mr. Edward Talbot,” was my reply, full of dogged civility. “And my full name is Naomi Elizabeth Noble. But it might just be listed as Noble.”

I waited with the kind of patient grace achieved from a successful coup d’état, watching good-naturedly as her face turned a peculiar shade of green. All signs of her former severe dignity had vanished now, and she stood before me – still quite tall – but somehow much smaller in demeanor than she had been initially.

I grinned in victory.

“Noble…Noble…”

She skimmed a page in her large appointment book, came to a stop, and then looked up with a fearful sort of regret.

“I do apologize, Miss Noble. I hope you don’t mind my asking, but would you happen to be of any relation to Paris Noble?”

“As a matter of fact…”

I leaned toward her with a sarcasm that could only come naturally.

“That happens to be my mother, but strictly on the biological sense.”

“Uh, right this way…”

And the hostess gave me one, final, harassed look before leading me to a secluded section of the restaurant. She pulled out a seat at a small, but comfortable table full of sparkling silverware and golden dishes, and then handed me the menu, which I gratefully accepted.

“Miss Noble, can I get you anything to drink?” she inquired in a much more pleasant tone than earlier.

“Um, just water, please.”

“Or a bottle of champagne, perhaps? We’ve just received the best year on hand.”

“That’s ok, but I’m only eighteen so –”

“On the house.”

She gave me a last, sickly smile, and then made a quick retreat. And I didn’t have long to wait after that before a server came gliding up to my table. He was holding a round, golden platter that supported a sweating bottle of Dom, a pitcher of ice water with lemon, and four champagne flutes. And within another ten minutes of that, I was already partaking in an extremely rare steak, with potatoes, roasted vegetables, and a Caesar salad.

While munching quietly and waiting for Mr. Talbot, I wondered at all of the new royalties this “Noble” name was suddenly affording me. Because for the first time in a while, I was actually being treated with respect – and by complete strangers no less. And I realized with quiet exhilaration, that my name had suddenly become a whip that gave the satisfying crack of a person who was in total authority. Gingerly I sipped the champagne, which allowed warm thoughts of contentment and gratification to enter my mind. In fact, I had become so intrigued by my own observations, that Mr. Talbot went completely unnoticed until he was standing right above me and clearing his throat.

With a slight jump, and coughing a little on my drink, I wiped my chin with a napkin, and rose to shake the hand that was offered. Mr. Talbot was only a few inches taller than myself, but his small, thin frame somehow still managed to command respect and authority. He was probably just entering his fifties, with balding grey hair and dark brown eyes that held a sharp and cunning wisdom to them. And this sat atop a large, square nose and a thin, but not unkind mouth.

Immediately, I liked him.

“Miss Noble. Although we meet under rather unfortunate circumstances, it remains a pleasure to meet you.”

He had a dignified English accent, which I enjoyed very much. And his hand in mine was rough across the palm, as if he had been working hard and for a very long time before making his home at Harbor.

“Thank you, Mr. Talbot. Uh, please, have a seat.”

He took the chair that was offered, and hastily I pushed aside my dishes, clearing the space in between us.

“Miss Noble, my name – as you already know – is Mr. Edward Talbot. I was your father’s financial advisor as well as his lawyer. Before his untimely passing, he purchased my financial services for a sum of ten more years. And due to his wishes, I am obligated to ensure that my services are continued under a new contract, with you. Er, may I?” he said, indicating the bottle. After an eager nod of encouragement from me, I watched him re-pop the cork and pour the liquid into an empty glass.

“I trust that the initial ten thousand I wired has kept you comfortable until now?”

“Oh extremely, thank you.”

“Excellent,” he replied, shaking his head, briefly, at a waiter who was trying to offer him a menu.

I watched as Mr. Talbot now lifted a large black briefcase from its home on the floor to a position on the table between us. He opened it, lifted out a plain manila folder, and from the inner depths of his pocket, produced a fountain pen.

“The first item of importance, Miss Naomi, is signing the deed to your new home. A date is also required at the bottom…”

Mr. Talbot passed me the first set of stapled papers, and without sparing the document so much as an once-over, I signed and dated what was required. Then, dreamily, I handed the papers back to him, and he responded by passing me another. It was the acknowledgment and acceptance for receiving my father’s inheritance.

With feverish receipt, I signed the bottom of this one too, formally accepting what had already been promised as mine. An estate, assets, and even the ownership rights to an actual fucking forest, were now completely in my name.

“And here, your father’s keys.”

Mr. Talbot withdrew from his pocket a ring of several keys, and placed them in my hand. I looked down at them, feeling their heavy weight in my palm. And with a hollow sadness, I realized that I was inheriting something much more than just money and an estate. I was acceding to the name and the past responsibilities of a man who had died and left his legacy in my hands. And what I hadn’t managed to comprehend earlier during a four hour flight and a long taxi ride, I was finally understanding through a handful of cold metal.

Slowly, I placed the keys into my pocket. But Mr. Talbot, seeming to sense my distress, offered a few kind words.

“Jack – Mr. Noble – was a very good man, Naomi – a man worth his name I, like to say. I had a great deal of respect for him, as did this town. I think he was a man you would have been proud of.”

“Thank you.” I replied, feeling a little appeased. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Well, I shall have copies of the papers mailed to your home, presently. You have my card. Please don’t hesitate to ring.”

Mr. Talbot pushed back from the table, stooped to lift his briefcase, and then paused again before he left.

“I should say, Miss Noble, that out of the many talents I provided your father over the years, information – and its disposal – were of the most put to use. And in