A Hidden Affair: A Novel

by Pam Jenoff

  “You have a child.” I am unable to keep the surprise from my voice. I had not pictured Aaron as a husband, much less a father.

  “Had.” His jaw tightens. “My wife and daughter were killed.”

  I gasp involuntarily. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It was a freak accident. They drove over stray unexploded ordnance just outside an army base. Yael died instantly, thank God. But my Avi . . . ” He pauses, catching his breath. “She lingered for days before I had to let her go.”

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat, fumbling over the inadequacy of my words. I remember the pain when I thought I had lost Jared years ago. But the death of a child seems unfathomable.

  He clears his throat. “Anyway, after they were gone, I began working as a private investigator. I’ve been doing this ever since, traveling on assignment.”

  And moving as far and as fast as you can, I think, trying to outrun your own pain. It’s a familiar behavior, one I engaged in myself until returning to London just weeks ago. “And now you’re trying to find Nicole . . . ?” I prompt.

  He looks up, eyes clearing. Even lost in his memories, he will not fall into the trap of discussing more than he should. “Yes.”

  “Aaron . . . ” I say.

  “Ari,” he corrects.

  “Ari,” I repeat, my exasperation growing. “I respect your privacy. But I just got on a plane with you. The least you can do is give me some indication as to what you’re doing here.”

  He leans back once more, exhaling through his teeth. “Do you know anything about the wine industry?”

  “Wine?” I don’t know what I expected him to say, but it wasn’t that. What can that possibly have to do with Nicole? “No, nothing really.”

  “Let me back up.” He leans across the aisle, lowering his voice. “You’ve met Nicole, right?”

  “Briefly.”

  “How much do you know about her?”

  “Not much.” I’m not about to share the profile I obtained from Lincoln, which is the only advantage I have on Aaron at the moment.

  The plane bounces slightly with some turbulence and I reach out to steady the drink on the tray in front of me. Grimacing, Ari continues. “Nicole Martine is not just beautiful but brilliant. She studied finance at the Sorbonne and in another life she could have held a teaching fellowship at Oxford or Harvard. But she wasn’t raised with a silver spoon, as they say. She grew up on the streets of Beirut before fleeing to Paris. She funded her way through school by working as a black marketeer, selling everything from cigarettes to firearms. In her twenties, she turned to items with a higher profit margin: jewelry, antiques, art.”

  I nod, remembering Lincoln’s email. “Stolen?”

  “Some items have what you might call a dubious origin. Other times the sales are just attempts to avoid taxes. The idea is to be able to buy or sell a high-end item without having to answer too many questions.” His voice drops to just above a whisper. “But recently she became involved in a wine fraud operation.”

  “Wine fraud?”

  “Yes, it’s become big business in the past decade, people passing off bottles as valuable vintages that aren’t authentic.”

  “I remember reading something about it in the paper. A man claimed that he had bottles from Thomas Jefferson’s collection, or some such thing.”

  He stretches. “That was one case, yes. It’s much more common than you think. Beyond the high-profile stories, there’s a whole market where expensive wines are being faked in large quantities. Let’s say, for example, that you have a good Burgundy that retails for two hundred fifty dollars a bottle. If you can substitute a much cheaper wine and replicate the label—”

  “You can ship out thousands of bottles at a huge profit,” I finish for him.

  “Exactly. And it can be virtually impossible to tell the difference between a good fake and the real thing. Anyway, that’s the kind of thing that Nicole is involved with, though how deeply I’m not sure.”

  I look out the window at the unbroken blue sky, processing what he has told me, unable to reconcile the beautiful blonde I had met in Monaco with the picture of the black-market operative Aaron had just painted. And how is she connected to Jared? He was always so upright in his principles; it’s hard to imagine him associating with someone like that.

  I turn back to Aaron. “And your client is interested in this because . . . ?”

  I watch him struggle with my question, trying to decide if he can avoid answering it. While I am annoyed by his reticence, at the same time, I understand. He doesn’t want to reveal his client’s identity or purpose any more than I would be willing to disclose one of my intelligence assets. Then his face droops with resignation. “Industry professionals are very concerned with counterfeiting. It’s a huge problem for the wine business—if someone is out there imitating their labels with subpar quality wine, it is going to dilute the brand, and the business can lose millions. There have even been cases of poisoning and other contamination in the fake wines, and the manufacturers worry about liability. They hired me to find Nicole to see what she knows. Hopefully she can direct me to whoever provided her with the counterfeits so we can try to stop it.”

  “That’s it?” I ask skeptically.

  “Yes. Only it isn’t that simple. Nicole is constantly on the move between countries, with no known permanent address or residence, at least none that we’ve been able to identify, other than her brief stay in Monaco.”

  My heart sinks. Without knowing where she lives, how can I ever find Jared?

  “One of my sources learned of a planned meeting in Vienna,” he adds.

  “So why didn’t you leave last night, as soon as you knew where she was headed?”

  “She can’t take care of business and leave that quickly. And I was waiting on some additional intelligence regarding her specific whereabouts.”

  “That makes sense.” I sit back, relaxing slightly. Aaron seems to have a good reason to be searching for Nicole, and it has nothing to do with Jared. Perhaps this partnership will work well after all. “I appreciate your telling me about this.”

  He bites his lip and a strange look crosses his face. “Jordan . . . ” He pauses. “There’s one other thing you should know.” He averts his eyes. “After we spoke last night I made some inquiries regarding the man you are looking for, this Jared. Jared Short, no?”

  “Yes,” I manage, surprised. I had only given him a first name.

  “Like I told you last night, I didn’t know anything about him, but after you gave me his name I thought it would be prudent to do some checking.” He hesitates. “And by looking into Nicole’s known associates, I was able to learn his full identity and some information about him.”

  I cannot breathe. I brace myself, waiting for him to tell me that there was a mistake and Jared really is dead. “What is it?” I press.

  He looks down, fiddling with the armrest. “He’s definitely connected to Nicole, and I’m afraid it’s more than just professional. Jordan, Nicole is the wife of the man you are looking for. She and Jared Short are married.”

  chapter SEVEN

  I’M SORRY,” AARON says again as our taxi moves through the thick traffic on the autobahn outside Vienna. Rain falls sideways in sheets against the windshield.

  I shake my head, still unable to speak over the freight train of questions roaring through my mind. Since Aaron first told me on the plane, the phrase has been playing over and over again like a bad commercial jingle: Jared is married. I sat numbly in my seat as Aaron waved over the flight attendant and requested two scotch on the rocks, both of which I promptly downed, ignoring the fact that it was not yet ten in the morning.

  I don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me before, I thought, as the liquor burned my throat, scorching the truth into my psyche. I fleetingly considered, of course, after meeting Nicole, that she might have feelings for him, even that Nicole and Jared might be somehow involved. But I never guessed, despite the photographic evidence that they had been
connected for years, that they were married. Perhaps because until a few days ago, I still thought that Jared was dead. And in the thousands of scenarios that had played out in my head since then as to where he had been, what he had been doing all these years, I imagined him alone on the run, not establishing ties. Because even after learning he was alive, I stubbornly believed that if he could have come back, he would have. Because I always pictured him waiting for me. I am an idiot.

  I draw my coat closer to ward off the damp chill that permeates through the closed cab windows. Beneath my shirt, the engagement ring presses icy against my skin. I picture Nicole at the door of the apartment, try to remember if there had been a ring on her finger. Surely I would have noticed.

  “It appears they met in Central America,” Aaron offers now, as the cab turns onto the wide expanse of the Ringstrasse. Belize, I think, remembering Lincoln’s report. “They wed about four years ago,” he adds.

  Four years ago. My mind reels back. I was in San Salvador then, pushing away a DEA agent who wanted to date me, realizing yet again that I couldn’t make it work because of my unhealed wounds, the fact that I was still not over Jared. Where was I the day he put aside his feelings for me and married Nicole? Presuming that he had not gotten over me years ago, that there hadn’t been others in between. Immediately I am aware of the brevity of our time together. I hardly knew him at all.

  “This Jared,” Aaron asks, as we pass the imperial Opera House. “I take it he was more than a friend?”

  “Yes,” I admit.

  “And he gave you that?”

  I notice for the first time that I have been fingering the engagement ring around my neck. “A long time ago.” But Aaron is still watching me and I realize that at least a brief explanation is owed. “Jared was my college boyfriend. More than that, actually,” I hasten to add, as a dismissive expression flickers across his face.

  He gazes out the window silently for several minutes. “Have you been to Vienna before?” he asks, changing the subject.

  “Yes. I first visited when I was backpacking as a student. It always seemed a bit, um . . . ” I look out at the columned museums, searching for the right adjective, “ . . . antiseptic.”

  “And unapologetic,” he adds. “From the war, I mean. To me, Austrians are just Germans who never apologized for what happened.”

  Caught off guard by the bluntness of his words, I glance quickly to the front of the cab, but the driver seems not to have heard. I have always eschewed the notion of collective guilt with respect to the Holocaust, but at the same time, there is a certain undeniable truth to what Aaron has said. “I also passed through Vienna a few times when stationed in Warsaw,” I say, ignoring his comment. He wrinkles his nose. “What?”

  “That’s right; you lived in Poland.”

  “You have a problem with the Poles, too?” He does not answer. “You know, Poland didn’t start the war,” I continue, feeling myself grow defensive. “It was an occupied country. Three million Poles died.”

  “And the rest helped the Nazis put the Jews on the trains. Not to mention the centuries of anti-Semitism before the war, the pogroms after.”

  I hesitate, trying to decide whether to respond, how far down this path I want to go right now. It is a conversation I’ve had with Jewish friends and relatives many times over the years, and for those like Aaron whose families suffered through the Holocaust, the views are particularly entrenched. I went to Warsaw with those same preconceived notions, but the reality I found was so much more complex and nuanced. “Have you been to Poland?” I ask finally.

  “No. My father never wanted to go back and I’ve honored that. I’d skip Austria and Germany, too, if the job didn’t require it. Look.” He points out the window of the car to an elderly man crossing the street. “You know he was probably a war criminal, or at least a Nazi supporter.”

  “That’s not fair. Anyway, he’s about a hundred. Do you really want to punish old people for what they did so long ago?”

  “Every last one of them,” he says, his expression grim, voice infuriatingly stubborn.

  I try to reconcile his black-and-white view of history, find a way to argue. Then I decide against it, realizing it is useless. I don’t have the strength for a political debate.

  The cab weaves through the old city center, skirts the edge of a square. In the distance I can see the dome of St. Stephen’s Cathedral muted against the gloomy gray sky. We turn onto a narrow side street, slowing before a small, nondescript hotel.

  “Is this where Nicole is staying?” I ask as Aaron pays the driver.

  But he ignores my question. “Come on.” Thick drops pelt down, soaking through my hair and clothes on the few short steps to the front door.

  Inside the lobby, Aaron leads me to a chair. “Wait here.” Too weary to argue, I drop down, watching as he walks to the front desk and confers with the clerk, then produces a credit card. My heart sinks. I had hoped that we would be able to find Nicole immediately. I hadn’t planned on an overnight stay.

  A minute later, Aaron returns. “Our rooms aren’t ready yet.”

  Inwardly I groan. If we do have to stay here, I desperately want to curl up in a fetal position and disappear into the oblivion of sleep, or at least a hot bath. I notice a restaurant on the other side of the lobby. “Drink,” I say, pointing to the only escape available.

  “I don’t know if . . . ” he begins, but I am already making my way toward it.

  At the far end of the deserted restaurant, which smells of stale cigarette smoke and beer, a mustached man dries glasses behind the bar. “Scotch,” I say. He stares at me, not moving. Climbing onto one of the bar stools, I point to the bottle on the wall of liquor behind him. “Bitte,” I add, but he is still looking at me strangely. It is not my English, but rather the fact that I am asking for hard alcohol for breakfast that seems to be giving him pause.

  The bartender peers quizzically over my shoulder as Aaron comes up behind me, as though seeking permission from my husband. “Zwei, bitte,” Aaron says.

  He slides onto the stool next to mine as the bartender pours the drinks and sets them before us. Then he lifts his glass, clinking it to mine before taking a sip and grimacing. “So this Jared . . . you’ve gone to great lengths to find him. Does the fact that he is married change that?”

  “No,” I reply, indignant at the implication that I’m traveling the world on a schoolgirl’s crush, trying to find an old flame. If anything, I need answers now more than ever about what happened ten years ago, why Jared faked his death and left without telling me.

  But Aaron doesn’t know any of this—or shouldn’t, anyway. I study his face, wondering how much to say. “This is about more than finding an old boyfriend. Jared drowned in the river ten years ago when we were in college at Cambridge, or at least that’s what we were led to believe.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  I take a large gulp of scotch, the burning more muted than it had been on the plane. “Last month I came back to England and found out that the whole thing was a lie. Jared faked his death because people were after him.”

  Aaron’s eyes widen, his surprise seemingly sincere. “And you never knew all those years?”

  “No.” I watch as he processes the notion. He’s thinking of his wife, I realize. Everyone who has ever lost someone close has imagined waking up one day and finding out that the whole thing was a mistake, that his or her loved one is really alive. To Aaron, it must sound like a dream. Of course in the fantasy, that person hasn’t moved on to marry someone else.

  I finish off the scotch. The bartender, noticing, raises the bottle, asking if I want another, and I nod. I should keep my wits about me, but for the moment I do not care. “What else do you know about them?” He bites his lip, reluctant. “Tell me,” I press. I want, need to know.

  “They’ve traveled together as a couple for the past four years,” he says.

  Maybe it’s a front, and they’re pretending to be married for appearance’
s sake, I think. “It’s a legal marriage,” he adds gently, reading my thoughts. “And it appears to be real, not just for show.”

  Of course it’s real. Nicole is a beautiful woman and Jared is, well, Jared. Why wouldn’t they love each other? Nausea rises in my throat, brought on by the idea as much as the alcohol. “Excuse me,” I mumble, leaping from the stool and starting across the empty restaurant.

  At the lobby, I break into a run, finding the bathroom on the far side. I slam into one of the stalls, just making it before I vomit, bringing up scotch and bile tinged with the coffee and orange juice I drank earlier. I retch again, but my otherwise empty stomach has nothing left to give. Shaking, I straighten, then flush and walk to the sink, splashing water on my face and the back of my neck.

  Aaron’s earlier question reverberates through my mind: Do I still want to find Jared? I could give up. I know now that he is alive and well. And he’s clearly moved on, started a life with Nicole. But somehow none of that matters, or if it does, it serves to make me even more driven to find him. I need to find out what happened. Why didn’t he come back for me? At what point did he decide to move on?

  I study my reflection in the mirror. My face is ashen gray, any trace of the light makeup I hastily applied this morning long gone. Dark circles ring my eyes and my hair is still damp and frizzy from the rain. I picture Nicole, elegant and well coiffed. Jared could hardly be blamed for choosing her over me.

  Assuming that’s what happened, another voice in my head, calmer and more rational than my own, seems to say. I’m speculating; what I really need are facts. I pull the phone from my pocket, checking for new email and finding none. Then I open Lincoln’s earlier message and hit reply, then type, Pls. check Nicole Short too. I hate the idea that she might be using Jared’s name. But the information contained in Lincoln’s email ended four years ago—right around the time Nicole and Jared were married.