Chapter Eleven: Mona
I was nervous.
I didn’t like that I was nervous but I was. So, before I went down to the formal event to meet Jack, I went out to the deck, facing that beautiful turquoise sky and sea and sat cross legged and meditated. Positioning my fingers in a calming mudra, I felt the universe fill me.
“I have power over how I feel,” I chanted, “and I choose to feel peace.” When I had my center again, I rose to my feet, full of light peace, put on my new stiletto wrap sandals, and swept my hands over my dress.
I loved my dress.
Loved it beyond reason, no matter that I never would have chosen such an expensive designer gown, made of silk that looked like molten gold poured down my body. The heavy skirts flowed around my legs as I walked to the console and picked up my new handbag, a deeper bronze color that picked up the shades of my hair. While I was out, I’d gotten my hair and makeup done, something I never would have done on my own, but the driver Jack had hired drove me all over town to all the best places, saying that Jack insisted. So I did.
And now, I was glad, as I swept into the dining hall and stopped at the top of the stairs, my skirts swirling heavily around my legs. All eyes were on me.
But I had centered myself and was confident in my body and my mind, so I just smiled, pausing there to get my bearings.
Then, he was there. Jack. Elegant, but not at all conservative, in a black-on-black three piece tuxedo and slim black tie. His warm eyes focused on me. He quite took my breath away.
“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life,” he resonated with authenticity and truth. “I am so glad you’re here with me.”
I smiled, feeling shy. “Thank you for the dress, the hair, the shoes, and everything. Do you like it?”
“I love you in it. The dress on its own is nothing but a scrap of fabric.”
My stomach was fluttering, like butterflies. I felt the need to joke to get back on even ground. “A rather flimsy lack of fabric,” I said and turned slightly to show him the back. The dress was completely bare all the way down to the very top of my ass. They’d shown me how to use double sided tape there, and at the top, too, to make sure I didn’t flash anyone.
He choked. “Mona.”
“You said you liked the bare back on my other dress. Did I get it right?”
“Perfect,” he whispered and kissed my shoulder.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” I whispered back, which was such an understatement it almost felt like a bald-faced lie, but I let him lead me to our table. We sat, ate, and drank, and it all seemed to fly by in a whirl. I had a hard time focusing on anything but Jack and my awareness of him sitting next to me. I wanted to touch him, but there were so many people around. Instead, I made casual conversation with our tablemates and listened to the—I had to be honest—mostly boring speeches and awards at the front of the room. Valencia sat at the next table and glared at me whenever Jack couldn’t see her. I didn’t care. No matter what happened when we got back to Brooklyn, or at any other industry events Jack might go to in the future, Valencia could hunt him down. Right now, for tonight, he was mine.
Jack held my hand and kissed it whenever he had the opportunity. I was overwhelmed by his very nearness. This was not something I was used to. Where was my calm, centered breathing? Gone, all gone. Everything was Jack.
Then, Valencia got up from her seat and, sending me a dirty look as she passed, went up to the podium, smiling broadly, with eyes for no one but Jack. Really, this woman had to get over herself. I was offended. Jack was not some prize to be won, and if he was, he was mine. I felt my hackles rise at the way she looked at him, and it took me a while for her words to penetrate my brain.
“. . . it is because of Jack Hamilton’s graciousness, generosity, and concern for the state of the world, along with his extreme genius and brilliant talent behind the camera, that we are all here tonight to award him with The International Photographers’ Man of the Year award. Before I call him up here, where we can all ogle him to our hearts delight, let’s see a presentation of what makes him such a worthy winner of this award.”
I leaned over to Jack. “Man of the Year Award?” I whispered. He looked down before meeting my eyes. “This was never a business event. This is an awards ceremony.”
He nodded.
“Honoring you, Jack.”
He shrugged.
“Jack. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”
“It’s not important. I don’t take photographs for the glory. I take photographs to show people the heart of my subjects, their lives, their world. So we can understand them, and . . .connect.”
I stared at him in awe. But then, the presentation started, and I turned to the front to watch because I had the sudden realization that, even though I had thought I knew Jack, there was so much more to him than what appeared on the surface, although it was so easy to not look below it.
The short film started with his family, his heritage, as the scion of two wealthy and powerful old families that had their roots in European nobility. I could have guessed that but I didn’t know. Then, it talked about his idyllic upbringing, which I definitely knew because April had told me all about it when she complained about her family. Because it only looked idyllic. That was their job, to show the world a mask of perfection. And that was why, when she became pregnant, she ran away with me because she couldn’t deal with not living up to her family’s expectation of perfection. And Jack had been included, what with his perfect fiance and hopes of a perfect future.
But they skipped over Marissa in the presentation—just skipped over her entirely. Suddenly, he went from being a corporate lawyer to being a world traveling photographer, and they missed her death, which I knew had been the impetus for his life change. “Jack,” I asked, my voice low. “Why didn’t they mention Marissa? Are you ashamed of her? Of what happened to her?”
A moment of confusion passed over his face. “No, never. But her life and death is not their business. I never protected her when we were together. This is how I can protect her now.”
He kissed my fingers again, and I sat back in my chair. The film was moving on. It was no longer about his young life but about how, when he went to photograph a community, he would live with a group of people, whether in the mountains, or the plains, or in the cities, or in so remote an area a helicopter was needed to get there. He would learn them from the inside out and ask how they wanted to be remembered, what they thought they had to give to the world, and then, he would let them guide his documentation. And when he was done with his visits he would repay the community by setting up a foundation for their people, providing them with whatever they needed to improve their lives. What he did depended upon the people. He founded a women’s center to care for unwed mothers. He created a mental health foundation for youth in the inner cities, and he bought up thousands of acres of land from corporations and gave it back to the indigenous tribes.
“Jack!” I gasped. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
His face was unperturbed, but I could see his discomfort, feel it in how he clung to my fingers. “It wasn’t for me. I didn’t do it for praise or glory. It was for them. I found out what they needed, and I gave it to them. It was my responsibility. Because I could.” He was uncomfortable with the praise.