Satisfying the CEO’s Desire
Chapter One –
“Cleo Walsh?”
I rose from my seat, the plastic chair squeaking underneath me as I crossed the room to the receptionist's station. Fiona, the middle-aged nurse behind the counter with the old-fashioned, bleached blonde bouffant, raised her eyebrows as I approached her, the crinkled corners of her lips stretching in a genial smile. She lifted her hawk-like nose, sniffing theatrically, her wandering eyes landing on the wicker basket rung around my arm.
“Cleo, sweetie,” Fiona chirped, the large, golden hoops on her ears swinging, “You just look more radiant every week, don't you?”
“As do you,” I replied, beaming. I detected a tinge of summer-kissed bronze on her skin, winking, “You look positively glowing with your new tan – very Real Housewives of you.”
“Oh, stop,” Fiona gushed, giggling, “I was finally able to use up a couple of vacation days – Joshua took me down to Daytona Beach for the weekend. Now, what's in that basket, Mrs. Fields?”
“Snicker-doodles,” I answered, managing a smile, “They're Dad's favorite.”
Fiona's laughter faded, her compassion projecting in her eyes, “Of course, sweetheart.”
I retrieved a large, chilled tupperware from the bottom of the basket, filled with layers of custard, sliced bananas, and crumbled cookies. Fiona's eyes lit up as I laid it upon the counter.
“Not like I'd forget how much you all love my famous banana pudding. Should be enough for all the nurses.”
“You're an angel, Cleo,” Fiona raved, storing the pudding in the nurse's mini-fridge, “Would you like me to come with you –”
“No,” I declined, turning on my heel, “I'm here every week. I know this place like the back of my hand.”
The stringent aroma of isopropyl alcohol stung my nostrils as I strode down the corridor, mechanically veering left towards the common room of the Golden Sunrise Retirement. I greeted the nurses with a few quick hellos. Frowning, I looked around searchingly at the lifeless, stoic expressions etched across the lined faces of the gloomy-faced inhabitants. They were scattered amongst the round tables of the rooms, silently reading and playing muted games of cards and chess. My heart pattered in my chest, finally spotting my father in the far nook of the room.
He was seated alone, the vivid rays of the sunlight irradiating his gnarled, weatherbeaten features. The right side of his face sagged slightly, never completely recovering from the stroke he suffered three years ago. I sighed as I studied the patches of wispy hair from afar, the glow of the sun shining them completely white. I felt a sharp yank on my heartstrings, recalling the dusty, childhood photographs I had gathered whilst cleaning up the family attic.
Dixon Walsh was once a strapping, burly-chested man with a full head of bright, coppery hair, an established realtor with a successful career, and one of the friendliest faces at Sunday church gatherings. Mom used to call me her little bundle of miracles, as my parents were nearing their fifties when I was unanticipatedly conceived. When I was seven, Mom tragically passed in a head-on collision with a drunk driver in a pick-up truck, robbing my irreparable father of his wife of almost three decades, leaving him burdened with the solitary task of raising a child as he neared his golden years. His own health continued to deteriorate over the years, and now, at seventy-five, he was reduced to a scrawny, pitiful pile of skin and bones, cloaked in a ratty cardigan, the product of three strokes and a slow descent to dementia.
I took a deep breath, plastering a cheerful, light-hearted smile on my face as I skirted past the other tenants towards my father. He pulled away when I leaned in to peck him on the cheek, my heart wrenching. I kept my smile on as I pulled up a chair next to him, setting my basket on the table. His eyes brightened, deeply inhaling the treacly, buttery aroma of fresh-baked cookies. The corners of his lips twitched, his heightened eyebrows relaxing as I produced a carefully wrapped tinfoil of a dozen, flat, cinnamon-crusted treats.
“Lila – you came.”
My bottom lip quivered at the sound of my mother's name, blinking away the tears springing to my eyes as I offered him a snicker-doodle.
“Snicker-doodles,” my father rasped, smacking his lips, “My favorite – not that your other treats aren't just as delicious, but this has always deserved a pedestal of its own.” He reached for my hand, his cold, rumpled fingers grasping mine firmly, “You've always known how to brighten up my day, my sweet.”
“Dad,” I gently whispered, smiling tenderly, “Dad, it's me –”
He persisted, his lips coated with crumbs, clamping his other hand over mine as he gazed lovingly into my eyes, “Oh, Lila. I've missed you so much. Why haven't you come to see me in so long? It gets so goddamned lonely here, I'll tell ya – but it don't matter no more. You're here now.”
I cocked my head to the side, soundlessly blinking at my father's glowing, buoyant expression. He devoured another cookie from the foil, licking the buttery morsels off his fingertips. I removed a green, glass bottle of sparkling water, my father's eyes widening as he recognized the fancy script writing on the label.
“Here's a little something for you to wash it down with.”
“Befreien!” my father exclaimed, his broad, toothy smile infectious, “What an exquisite treat – it's not my birthday, is it?”
“No, Dad, it's –” I started, my words trailing off at the abrupt change in my father's expression.
He took a long swig from the bottle, his forehead crumpling as he set his beverage on the table. My shoulders stiffened as his eyes bulged, shooting me a crazed, deathly glare. His eyes darted around wildly, glistening with his blatant confusion, his cracked lips contorting. A storm of panic began brewing within me. I reached over cautiously, yelping in surprise as he shot up from his chair, knocking over his drink, the spilling carbonated water bleeding into the navy-blue carpet.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Dad, please, it's me, Cleo –”
A pair of nurses shuffled towards us, nodding at me apologetically as they guarded my father, attempting to appease his outbursts with their soothing voices. His brows knitted, staring at the three of us unblinkingly. I picked up the fallen bottle and placed it delicately on the table, my palms raised.
“Dad, please, calm down, it's gonna be okay –”
“Who're you calling Dad? Where's my mother? I demand to see her immediately –”
The nurse on his left flashed me a sympathetic look, stating dolefully, “Sorry, Cleo, honey, he doesn't seem to be feeling well today –”
“That's alright,” I sighed, rising from my chair, dusting crumbs off my lap. I turned towards my father, smiling wistfully, “I'll see you soon, Dad.”
An icy blast shivered down my spine, my father's psychotic pleas ringing in my ears as I hustled out of the establishment. I crossed the street to a maroon station wagon, slipping into the passenger's seat.
“What took you so long? Thought you were just dropping something off – you've kept me waiting for twenty minutes –”
I ignored his harping, turning towards Mathias, who was rubbing his palms against the short buzz of his close-shaved cut in exasperation.
A fat tear rolled down my cheek, “Dad's slowly losing it – he's getting worse every week. He loved the snicker-doodles, but he doesn't remember me anymore, he thought I was Mom–”
“So the old man's officially lost his marbles,” Mathias cut me off gruffly, twisting his key in the ignition, “You knew this was coming – big deal. Buckle up, I'ma try to make the movies.”
I stared out the window, sighing as the car sputtered to life.