by Marti Green
He smiled back at her. “I’m Ben. What’s your name?”
Back at work after the gym, Ben had just gotten off the phone with a client when Manning popped into his office.
“I heard from Rick’s estate lawyer. He told me Rick’s given me ten percent of the company.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I spoke to Charly and let her know how much I appreciated it. I also asked her how involved she wanted to be herself, going forward. She told me you were going to represent her interests.”
“That’s right.”
“Look, I know we haven’t always gotten along. I admit, I saw you as a freeloader, taking advantage of being the boss’s son-in-law. But I also saw you really stepped up your effort when Rick took sick. We both want this company to do well. How about we bury the hatchet?”
Ben wanted to tell him he was an insufferable prig, that he’d rather bury him than bury the hatchet. Instead, he smiled and held out his hand. “Absolutely, Ted. Clean slate.”
After Manning left, Ben turned back to his client list, but he couldn’t concentrate. Ever since the meeting with Goldfarb, he’d kept thinking about his payday, his reward for putting up with Charly as long as he had. He’d been irritated, at first, when he’d learned Rick was giving Manning 10 percent of the business. Now, he realized that could work for him. With a piece of the pie, Manning was more likely to stay on even after he watched Ben take control of the business. Somehow, though, he couldn’t square Mallory getting as much as he did. He’d suffered for years. She’d just come on board four months ago.
The business was supposed to be his share of the marital assets when he and Charly split. Maybe he should take some of the cash and stocks, too. After all, it would be imprudent to have everything tied up in just one place. What if the business tanked? He could convince Mallory of anything, he figured. She’d grown up with nothing, so even half of what he’d promised would be a windfall to her. Well, really, that amount of money would be extraordinary to anyone.
Although he’d have no claim to the townhouse in a divorce, since it was a gift from Rick in Charly’s name only, Mallory would have no use for it. She needed to stay away from New York, preferably far away. Otherwise, she’d risk running into people who knew Charly. She’d said she wanted to travel, to perhaps study art in Paris. That’s where she should go. He should keep the townhouse. He’d need a place to live in New York while he ran Jensen Capital. And the beach house, too. The summer crowd knew Charly and Rick. Too chancy for Mallory to stay there and maybe run into someone she was supposed to know. Mallory should be grateful for any of the money. Two hundred million. That seemed like the right amount for her. She wouldn’t know what to do with more. If she balked, he could tell her she’d get nothing. After all, what could she do? Go to the police? Hardly.
He’d explain to Mallory that he wanted to start a charitable foundation, give money away to deserving groups. Maybe more programs to feed the hungry. He believed in charity, in doing good deeds. She couldn’t object to that. And he really would start a foundation. It would be another thing he could point to that would make others want to do business with him. Of course, he wouldn’t put the whole $300 million that he was holding back from her into the foundation. She didn’t need to know that. Ten million seemed like a good sum. That could feed a lot of men and women. Children, too. Especially children. In fact, by giving so much money, he could cut out his volunteer work and still look good to clients.
Maybe Mallory didn’t need to stay on for the estate to be settled. After a month, she could say she was traveling, relieving some of the stress from the past few months. Or scouting out new talent. He’d call her back whenever something needed to be signed. Or just FedEx documents to her. That would be good. One month together, and then just he and Lisa—or someone new—would have it all to themselves.
One hundred million. A nice round number. That’s what he’d give Mallory. Really, she didn’t deserve more.
Two days later, Ben had just stepped outside his office to grab a cup of coffee when his secretary stopped him.
“Your wife is on line two.”
If you only knew, Ben thought as he stepped back inside and picked up the phone. Mallory had seamlessly moved into his life as Charly Gordon. No one suspected she was anyone else. No one had any thought that Charly was dead, her body disposed of someplace far away. “What’s up?” he asked.
“Danny Clark stopped by. He said he needs to see you.”
“What the hell! I made the final installment, left it in a postal box at Mail Connections, just as he instructed me. What’s the guy trying to do now? Shake me down for more?”
“I have no idea, but he’s coming back, at eight o’clock. He said you’d better be home.”
“Dammit, not tonight,” he muttered to himself.
“So, are you coming home?”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Look, you’re the one who hired him, not me. Whatever he wants, you need to straighten it out.”
“Shit!”
“You’ll come home?”
“I’ll be there,” he answered reluctantly.
He hung up, then sat back in his seat. This wasn’t good news. Maybe when Clark saw their house, their furnishings, he figured he’d settled too easily for the amount Ben offered. Maybe he thought Ben might be a perpetual payday. It didn’t matter. If Clark wanted more money, even if he claimed it was just once more, Ben knew it wouldn’t stop. He had to put an end to it right away. He’d been willing to kill Mullin, if it came to that, and Mullin had once been a friend. He’d have no remorse getting rid of Clark. He’d already done what Ben needed. Now he was excess baggage.
He picked up the phone again and called Lisa. He’d planned a big evening with her tonight, their first time going out to a restaurant together. Not just any restaurant, but the Gotham Bar and Grill, in Greenwich Village.
Before he even said a word, Lisa answered the phone, saying, “I hope you’re not calling to cancel.”
“Sorry, babe. Something came up at work, and I’m stuck here well into the night.” He heard a deep sigh on the other end. “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow night.”
“You better.”
“That’s a promise.” He intended to keep Lisa happy, at least until someone better came along.
As soon as he walked into the townhouse that night, Ben could smell something savory coming from the kitchen. “What’s cooking?” he asked Mallory as he stepped inside. She looked like a fifties housewife with her hair pulled back and an apron around her waist.
“Lamb stew,” she answered.
He glanced at his watch, saw it was ten to seven. “Will we be finished before Clark gets here?”
“It’s almost ready.”
He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, then headed into the den and plopped down on his favorite chair. He picked up the remote to turn on the TV, then slipped off his shoes and loosened his tie. It was too early for a Knicks game, but MSG Network was showing a rerun of an old game back in the late sixties between the Knicks and their fiercest rivals, the Boston Celtics, when the home team could actually win games.
Fifteen minutes later, Mallory popped her head into the den and asked if Ben wanted another beer. “Sure.”
Two minutes later, she was back, handed him the bottle, then sat down in the seat opposite him. He gave her a fleeting look, then turned back to the game. When Mallory didn’t move, he paused the game. “What?”
“I’ve been wondering. What made you think I would go along with your plan to kill Charly? I mean, when you first met me. You didn’t really know me then.”
“Sure I did. You’re Charly’s identical twin. She was greedy as hell, so you had to be, too.”
“But that could have been because of the way she was raised, not from genetics.”
“Well, you did go along, so what’s the point of the questions?”
“I was just curious. You were taking a big risk. I could have gone to the
police. Or to Charly.”
“Your word against mine. I was already rich. You had nothing. I was pretty sure they’d believe me over you.”
“Well, speaking of nothing, how about fronting me some more money while we’re waiting for the payoff?”
Ben picked up the remote and turned off the TV. He cleared his throat. “I’m glad you brought that up. I’ve been thinking . . .”
He saw Mallory’s eyes narrow.
“I think the split needs to be something different from what we discussed.”
“Why?”
“Well, the business should really be out of the equation. Maybe it makes money, maybe it doesn’t. Either way, you wouldn’t have any expertise to bring to it, so you couldn’t run it. And I just don’t think there’s a market for selling a hedge fund.”
Mallory’s eyes bored into Ben. “Okay, so I’ll take the real estate in exchange for the business, and we’ll split the cash. That gives each of us over five hundred million.”
“You’re not going to stay in New York after we’re divorced. You won’t need the real estate. I’m going to keep the townhouse and the beach house. We’ll sell Rick’s apartment.”
“And split that?”
“I think you should get one hundred million as your share. Total.”
“What!” Mallory stood up and began pacing around the room. “That’s not our deal!”
“I want to start a charitable foundation, and donate the bulk of the money to it. When you think about it, a hundred million is an extraordinary amount of money. You’ll still be able to do anything you want for the rest of your life.”
“Maybe I want to start a charitable foundation myself.” Mallory whipped her head around and stared at the dark TV. After a few moments, she turned back and, with her lips drawn in a tight grimace, said, “We split the money, fifty-fifty.”
Ben shook his head. “Sorry, Mallory, that’s not going to happen.”
“You still need me. There are documents I have to sign.”
“And you’ll sign them if you want to see any money at all.”
She stormed out of the room in a fury. Ben had expected that response, but it didn’t change anything. In the end, she’d have to accept what he offered. He turned the game back on, satisfied that he’d played it just right with Mallory.
A few minutes later, Ben heard his name but didn’t look up. Mallory called it again, louder. He held up his hand to shush her, without turning his head. “A minute. Key play here.” The Celtics were ahead, but the Knicks had a chance to take the lead. It didn’t matter that the game had been played almost fifty years ago; it was still exciting to watch.
Now, she said his name sharply. He paused the TV and swiveled around. His eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open, while his heart felt like it would explode in his chest. He rubbed his eyes and prayed that it was just an apparition he was seeing.
“Hello, Ben,” Charly said, a smiling Mallory by her side.
PART TWO
CHARLOTTE
CHAPTER 30
October 2016
My husband is having an affair. I don’t think Ben knows that I’m onto him. I wanted to scream, to let out the fury inside me, but of course, I couldn’t. Not while in the gallery.
Our relationship has been strained for a while, yet every time I tried to talk to Ben about it, he retreated. Finally, I hired a private investigator. I know—how clichéd. But there it was. I didn’t trust Ben and paid someone to follow him. I needed to understand what had happened to us. Her name’s Lisa. A social worker. I’ll bet he’s told her terrible things about me, that I’m spoiled and cold and don’t care about him, only about my business and . . . and, maybe some of that was true. Not that I didn’t care about him. I did, a great deal. Even loved him, I thought, before receiving the envelope that lay on my desk. But my business has taken a lot of time and effort to get established. There’s a great deal of competition in the art world. My mother’s connections helped a little, but it was a long time ago that she was on the board of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She died almost sixteen years ago. Still, Dad has a lot of friends with money to burn, and he’s steered many of them to my gallery.
I looked at the pictures that accompanied the report and wondered what he thought was so special about her. Plain brown hair that hung straight to her shoulders, an upturned nose, eyebrows that needed tweezing. Pretty, in an ordinary sort of way. Her clothes looked like they’d come from someone’s castaways. They just didn’t seem to suit her body—her much-larger-than-mine body. Every time I retained water, Ben asked me if I’d gained a few pounds, yet this woman who was kissing my husband had at least fifteen pounds on me.
I couldn’t stop staring at the pictures. Should I confront him? Tell him I know? What if he wanted to end our marriage? Do I want to end our marriage? I thought about that and realized I couldn’t handle Ben cheating on me. Marriage counseling was an option, I supposed, assuming he agreed to immediately stop seeing Lisa. But is that what I wanted? He’d betrayed me, after all I’d done for him. No. I didn’t want him back. He was tarnished goods now.
I was supposed to be working on the gallery’s books, but instead I was wound up with thoughts about Ben and that woman—Lisa. My reverie was interrupted when Sandy, my assistant, called out to me that my father was on the phone. I put the investigator’s report and his pictures back in the envelope and placed them in my bottom desk drawer, then picked up the phone.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Sweetie, I have some bad news.”
My father never had bad news. He put a positive spin on everything. Everything except Ben. “What is it?”
“There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to come out with it. I have liver cancer.”
Suddenly, nothing about Ben mattered anymore. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I couldn’t find any words.
“It’s terminal.”
I began to sob. “No, don’t say that. There has to be something. A liver transplant. I can be tested. Maybe I’m a match.”
“It’s too late for that. It’s spread too far.”
My sobbing intensified. Sandy peeked her head into the back room and, upon seeing me, came over and put her arms around me.
“It’s okay, Charlotte. I’ve accepted it. I’ve suspected for a while something was seriously wrong. That’s why I had testing done.”
“B-b-but you never told me.”
“I didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily.”
“I can’t lose you, too.”
“You were always going to lose me. It’s just come earlier than we expected.”
“Where are you now?”
“At home.”
“I’m coming over. Right now.”
“I’d like that.”
I was shaking when I hung up. My hands kept shaking all the way to my father’s apartment. I let myself in with my own key, then called out to him.
“I’m in the den,” he called back.
I hadn’t seen my father in a few weeks—rare for us, but he’d begged off the last two Sundays—and I was shocked by how he looked. His skin was sallow, and he’d already lost some weight. I walked up to him, and he wrapped his arms around me.
“Oh, Daddy,” I said, and then began crying again.
He held me tight to his chest and stroked my hair, like he used to when I was a little girl and had injured myself. We were already close before my mother died, but after her death, we’d become inseparable. The only time I ever went against him was in marrying Ben, and now I knew he’d been right about that.
When I’d recovered some composure, I pulled away. “Tell me everything the doctor said.”
He motioned for me to sit down, and I took a chair opposite his desk. “I’ve pretty much told you everything. The cancer is advanced; it’s already metastasized.”
“What about surgery?”
“It’s not an option.”
“Then chemo, or radiation?”
He shook his head. “I
could try it, but it’s not likely to help survival, and it’s not pleasant to go through.”
I felt myself get angry and tried to tamp it down. My whole body felt like one knot of tension. “There must be something. What about a trial? Aren’t there any?”
“My doctor has prescribed medication to help with my nausea and bloating. And he’s trying to get me into a trial at Sloan Kettering.”
I felt my first sense of hopefulness. There were new medications coming onto the market all the time. There had to be one being tested for liver cancer. “Haven’t you donated to Sloan Kettering?”
“I know what you’re thinking, sweetie. But this is the one thing that my money can’t buy. Whether I’m selected for the trial or not won’t depend on how much I’ve donated. It will be based purely on my medical records. I should know by the end of next week, but my doctor wasn’t hopeful.”
My tears started again. Confronting Ben would have to wait. I couldn’t lose both Ben and my father at the same time. I just couldn’t.
By the time I walked into my house, I was drained. It was a mild night, and I’d walked through the park, bypassing the taxi that Carlos, the doorman at Dad’s condo, had offered to hail. I needed to clear my head before I saw Ben, but the walk hadn’t done that.
My townhouse had been a gift from Dad when I got married. He didn’t call it a wedding present, since he put it in my name only, a fact that continually irritated Ben. Our official wedding gift was a honeymoon in France. A week in Paris at the Four Seasons Hotel George V, and a week on the French Riviera at the Château Eza. It was the first time Ben had ever been surrounded by such opulence. We were deliriously happy then. We’d stroll along the Champs-Élysées and stop at outdoor cafés for coffee or wine and hold hands while we watched other lovers walk by. During the day, we spent hours at the museums—the Louvre, of course, which couldn’t possibly be appreciated in one day, so we went back the next; the Musée d’Orsay, its origins as a train station almost as interesting as the masters hung within: Delacroix and Renoir, Monet, Manet, Cezanne, and Van Gogh, and so many others; the Centre Pompidou, surely the most interesting building housing art, with its primary colors and exposed pipes and air ducts; the Musée Picasso, which, during our visit, had a Giacometti exhibition alongside Picasso’s masterpieces. It felt dizzying to be surrounded by such a cornucopia of paintings. If Ben had shared my love of art, I would have moved to Paris in a heartbeat. I loved New York City—I loved its crowds and messiness and hodgepodge of cultures—but Paris filled my soul.
