Chapter 9 - The Ghost of the Past
While champagne flowed inside the Mint Museum, the cold winter rain battered the streets outside.
Two blocks away, standing behind the metal barricades among a shivering group of curious onlookers, stood Derek Cross.
He was unrecognizable from the handsome, groomed account manager who had sneered at cold chicken three months ago. His hair was greasy and unkempt. He wore a stained second-hand jacket with a frayed collar, purchased from a thrift store with the meager tips he earned washing dishes at a diner on the outskirts of town.
His credit was ruined. His real estate license had been officially revoked by the state licensing commission for unethical conduct. His former professional friends had blocked his number, terrified of being blacklisted by Prescott Capital. He shared a moldy basement studio apartment with two transient kitchen workers.
Derek stared across the rainy avenue at the illuminated glass façade of the museum.
Through the massive panoramic windows, he saw her.
He saw Natalie.
She stood under the warm glow of the chandeliers, surrounded by admiring crowds. He saw the genuine, radiant smile on her face as an elegant young man in a tuxedo offered her a hand to step down from the stage. He saw Julian Prescott patting her shoulder with boundless paternal devotion.
A sudden memory struck Derek like a physical punch to the chest.
He remembered the small kitchen table. He remembered the cold chicken and mashed potatoes. He remembered her exhausted eyes looking up at him, asking, “How much did this trip cost?”
He had thought she was small. He had thought she was nothing. He had abandoned a woman of limitless loyalty, heart, and undiscovered royalty for a cheap weekend fling and a hollow promise of status.
“Natalie...” Derek choked out, his voice swallowed by the hiss of traffic tires on wet pavement.
He stepped past the metal police barricade, rushing toward the grand entrance of the museum. “Natalie! It’s me! Let me speak to her!”
Two armed private security guards instantly tackled him onto the wet sidewalk before he could even reach the marble steps.
“Get off me!” Derek screamed, thrashing wildly in the freezing puddles. “That’s my wife! She’s my wife!”
The museum doors opened briefly as guests exited. Arthur Vance walked down the steps under a large black umbrella held by a chauffeur. He stopped and looked down at Derek, whose face was pressed against the cold, wet concrete.
“Mr. Cross,” Vance said, his voice flat and devoid of anger. “You were served with a permanent restraining order six weeks ago. Any further approach within five hundred feet of Miss Prescott results in an immediate sixty-day jail sentence.”
“Arthur, please!” Derek wept, his pride completely shattered. “Tell her I’m sorry! Tell her I realized my mistake! I love her! I’ve always loved her! Just give me five minutes to apologize!”
Vance stared at him with profound pity.
“You do not love her, Mr. Cross. You love the life you threw away. When she had nothing, you despised her. Now that she has everything, you grovel at her feet. You made your choice when you stepped into that white convertible.”
Vance turned to the police officer standing nearby. “Officer, please remove this individual.”
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Derek was hauled to his feet, handcuffed, and shoved into the back of a Charlotte-Mecklenburg police cruiser. As the car pulled away, its red and blue lights flashing against the wet pavement, Derek looked out the barred rear window.
High up on the museum terrace, sheltered beneath the grand canopy, Natalie stood for a brief moment looking out over the city lights. She didn't look down at the police cruiser. She didn't look back at the past. She looked toward the horizon, bright and limitless, with a peaceful smile upon her face.
