I’m frozen in place, my eyes drifting to grime-covered windows where I can barely make out a parking lot filled with cars.
“What happened back there?” Jackson asks.
My body still feels stiff and unyielding, but I manage to turn to look at him, my brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”
“Something happened back there,” he says with a worried expression. “I was watching you. You went pale. You look like you’re going to vomit right now. Are you sick?”
I shake my head, lifting my hand to my mouth and subconsciously nibbling at my fingernail. It was a nasty habit I broke back in college, and now I only do it when I’m distressed.
“Camille,” Jackson says a little harshly, and my hand falls away from my mouth. “What’s wrong? Don’t make me ask again.”
That demanding tone, expecting subservience from me. It actually reaches past the numbness and shakes me out of my shock.
My eyes slide to the door and then back to him. “That little girl … her dad is in jail. She sees him once a week and tells him all about the sports she plays here at the rec center.”
While I see a measure of understanding cross Jackson’s features, he doesn’t seem to understand why this upsets me so much. “That might be common for you. I know it’s common in your country, and so you’ve probably seen it quite a bit.”
He nods, his eyes grave and somber. “One of our employees spent some time in prison. She has a son.”
He doesn’t elucidate but then again, he doesn’t need to explain what such a situation means to that parent and child.
“It’s just… upsetting,” I say sadly. “I know about these things. I studied humanities in college, and I’ve learned on paper all the horrors associated with poverty. Yet, I live in a palace high atop a hill overlooking a blue sea, and I don’t have a worry in the world. That little girl … it’s never been real to me. Do you know what I mean?”
“I can imagine,” Jackson says in a low voice.
“It’s not enough.”
“What’s not enough?”
I shrug with uncertainty and hold out my hands. “This. Giving away presents, making charitable donations. It’s nothing but putting Band-Aids on the wound and doing nothing to solve the problem of how this came to be in the first place.”
Jackson moves toward me, puts his hands on my shoulders, and dips his head closer. “Trying to solve all the world’s problems is like trying to drink an entire ocean, Camille. No one can. You can’t solve this country’s problems or even fix a small country’s problems. Poverty and crime and drugs… it’s pervasive. There’s no workable solution. The only thing that helps are the people who put Band-Aids on. People like you who give things that are desperately needed, or social workers who look out for the unprotected, teachers who work in horrible conditions just to try to reach one kid. Everybody comes together and does a little bit of something to make it better. So you do make it better. Without you, it would be worse.”
Just five minutes ago, I felt so dejected and worthless I really didn’t understand what the point was of anything I tried to do. But Jackson was able in just a few words to turn my perspective around. He made me understand that I’m doing all that I can, that I am not the solution to that little girl’s father being in jail.
Nor can I be.
But maybe I can help. I’m going to have my secretary look into the family’s circumstances and figure out what I can do.
How I can at least put a Band-Aid on a gaping wound.
Without thought, I put my hands on his neck and go up on tiptoes, placing a soft kiss on his mouth. He blinks in surprise but doesn’t pull away. “Thank you,” I whisper.
Jackson looks baffled.
I feel a little baffled.
The air around us seems heavy. He just provided me with a service that has nothing to do with the job for which he was hired—to protect my personage.
Instead, he helped protect my soul.
CHAPTER 15
Jackson
I pace my hotel room from one end to the other… door to window, past, and in between the bed and dresser with a large TV on it. This is the only hotel on our trip where we weren’t able to secure an actual suite, and that’s only because the hotel ended up undergoing last-minute renovations due to a water leak that damaged our accommodations. Not a big deal as we were able to get adjoining rooms, which is sufficient. The only one missing out is Camille, who doesn’t have the luxury that comes with a suite—the additional room, a couch, dining area, private master bedroom, and bath—although honestly, she couldn’t care less. I’ve come to learn that about her. Camille is never about the trappings. I also learned during our early planning meetings that her accommodations were booked by the palace secretary, and Camille had no input. Not that she wanted it… she just didn’t care.