by Liza Bennett
“Lucinda begged me to help….” Meg began, but Abe stopped her by bringing his gloved hand to her lips.
“I’m not talking about Lucinda. I’m talking about Ethan. I think you want to get back at him for everything he did to Lark—I think you’re feeling guilty about Lucinda. That’s what driving you, Meg. Can’t you see that?”
“Yes, that’s part of it,” Meg said. She looked over his shoulder. On one of those benches running along the length of the lawn Ethan had told her that he’d been in love with her for fourteen years. She remembered the tears in his eyes. How thoroughly he’d convinced her that he was being sincere—and that she was putting him through hell because of it. When, for years, that was what he’d been doing to countless women: Francine, Hannah, Becca—manipulating them, using them, and then discarding each one in turn. Throwing them onto the annealing table of his outsize passions like pieces of his sculptures that didn’t work—to be melted down and reformed for his next work of seduction. “I feel angry. I feel ashamed. And guilty. I can’t begin to explain it to you.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“What are you asking?” But she felt it before he said anything. She saw it in his eyes.
“Let this thing with Lucinda go,” he said. He stepped toward her. She’d been missing him from the moment she woke up Monday morning and realized that he had slipped out of her bed earlier and left, letting her go on sleeping. In the chill air, his body felt so warm and comforting. His arms around her made her feel secure and strong. His kisses held the answer to all her worries.
“This isn’t your problem, Meg,” he told her. “And if you make it yours—believe me—you’re going to end up losing a lot of people you care about.”
In the hard early winter light she could see every detail of his face, the deep grooves around his mouth, the laugh lines radiating out from the corners of his eyes, the cleft in his right cheek from an early childhood fall that looked like a dimple and often lent his face a deceptively affable appearance. His dark, wiry hair had receded a little at the temples and his full, expressive brows were tempered with gray—but he would look boyish until the day he died. She was falling in love with this face, Meg realized—with this body, this mind, this man. She wanted nothing more than to make him happy and proud of her. She longed to kiss the frown line away between his brows. But it stayed there, as she knew it would, when she replied, “I’ve already promised Lucinda that I would help.”
As usual, Oliver wrote down what he considered the important messages for Meg on pink “while you were out” slips and put the less pressing calls in her voice mail.
“How did it go?” Oliver asked, passing her a half dozen messages. “You look a little dazed. Is that a good sign, or bad?” Though Meg hadn’t given Oliver any of the particulars of her problems with Frieda Jarvis or the agency’s need for a loan, he was somehow able to pick up enough through phone calls and keen observation to put the pieces together for himself.
“We’re not out of the woods,” Meg replied, sorting through the slips—P. Boardman, re: court hearing. V. Goldman, re: package sent. H. Judson, re: gallery opening. Your sister, re: call as soon as possible—“But, to mix metaphors, the wolf is no longer at the door.”
“I’ll take that as good news. How, I wonder, should I interpret the fact,” Oliver was scrutinizing her with a prim smile, “that you have lipstick on your chin? It’s certainly a different look for you, Meg. Some sort of fashion statement?”
“You’re an insolent, impossible person,” Meg said jokingly, rubbing her hands over the bottom half of her face as she started down the hall to her office. “Mind your own business.”
“I’m too busy minding yours!” Oliver called after her and then, in a gentler tone, added, “Somebody has to.”
Meg found it a little disconcerting that P. Boardman answered his own phone—and on the first ring.
“Hey, Meg, thanks for calling back.” He had a warm, reassuring voice that reminded Meg of Walter Cronkite. “You talk with your sister yet?”
“Lark? No,” Meg replied, looking down at the messages Oliver had given her. The one from Lark had followed Boardman’s by a few minutes.
“Well, I’m afraid I might have put my foot in it. I called Lark with some follow-up questions—I assumed the rest of the family shared your concerns about the murder investigation. I mentioned that you were going to be at the hearing. Supporting Lucinda.”
“And she was upset?”
“That would be putting it mildly.”
Lark, too, seemed to be waiting by the phone, and Meg could tell by the hoarseness in her voice that she had been crying.
“It’s me,” Meg said.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Meg! You’re suddenly siding with Lucinda? Why? Because of what I said about Ethan and you? Are you that angry at me?”
“This has nothing to do with that, baby, I promise. It’s about—”
“I’m not your baby, Meg. I’m you’re sister. Your equal. Don’t you dare condescend to me. I used to really look up to you. Think you were so much smarter than me. Hipper. More together. But you’re not. You’re being had, Meg. Lucinda lied to me from the moment she walked into this house. She stole from us. She came home stinking drunk—to a household full of young kids. She was manipulating, totally amoral. And she killed Ethan. Those are the facts. Plus this: now she’s using you—your latent feelings of guilt, your suppressed desire to be a mother—to get her off. She’s the smart one, Meg. Not you.”
“Latent guilt? Who’s feeding you this psychobabble? Francine?”
“Francine cares about me. She supports me. She would never go behind my back. She would never betray me. The way my own sister is doing.”
“How am I betraying you? Why is everyone so eager to see this thing in extremes? Is there absolutely no question in your mind that someone might have murdered Ethan besides Lucinda?”
“None. And if you believed in me at all, if you accepted me as a thinking, mature adult—you wouldn’t doubt my side of the story. You wouldn’t go around digging up dirt about Ethan and me. What are you and this Boardman planning to do? Have every woman that Ethan ever looked at hauled into court to testify against his character? Don’t you see how sick that is?”
“What makes you think that’s going to happen? Who’s planting these fears in your head?”
“Luckily, I’m surrounded by real friends here, Meg. People who love me and the girls.”
“Lark—listen. Doesn’t it seem at all odd to you that everyone is so willing to pin the murder on Lucinda? Doesn’t it seem odd that no one, not one single person, wants to give her the benefit of the doubt?”
“No. What’s odd to me is that you are the only one who’s giving her that. I don’t know what’s driving you. I can only imagine that you must be more hurt than I ever realized about Ethan. And this is your way of striking back at me.”
“You can’t seriously think that—”
“It may surprise you, Meg, but I can seriously think. All on my own, without my big sister’s help. And what I’m thinking now is that I don’t want to see you, or talk to you, have anything to do with you so long as you take Lucinda’s side in this. You deal with Boardman and that little slut. I wash my hands of the whole thing.”
For the rest of the afternoon, Meg immersed herself in her work, though a part of her kept replaying the conversation with Lark—again and again and again. What a relief it was to be able to make simple decisions—and deal with problems that could be solved. She signed off on a pay increase for one of the account executives who she knew had recently been printing out her resume. After reading through a glossy sales brochure, she decided against upgrading the art department’s computers until the new operating system went into effect. She was going over papers from the bottom of her in-box when Oliver knocked on her door around six-thirty.
“I’m off. All the ads closing today are o
ut. You need anything?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Actually, I don’t think you are. But I’ve a feeling there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Can you strip me of my scruples?”
“You’re asking the wrong man,” Oliver replied. “Next to the little black dress, I don’t think there’s anything more flattering than a nice set of scruples on a woman.”
If only it could be as simple as that, Meg thought, after Oliver had gone. You just stood up for what you believed in. Did what you knew was best. And the whole world admired your integrity. But now, though her every instinct told her she was doing the right thing, just about everyone she loved was trying to convince her that she wasn’t.
She thought about what Abe had said. Just let it go. She still could. She could find some excuse not to make it to the hearing. She could call Lark back and tell her what she longed to say, that she loved her and would do anything to help her. She could let Abe know that she would heed his advice. She could feel his arms around her. The way his hand pressed against the small of her back. The quick intake of his breath when she pulled him closer. She also could see the way he looked at her when he stepped away—the question in his eyes. Can I trust you? Wasn’t that always what two people needed to know most? Will you help me or hurt me? Love or hate?
She was still thinking about him ten minutes later when Boardman returned the call she made to him after her conversation with Lark. She was alone in the office and she picked up the night line.
“Would have called you earlier,” he told her, “but I was consulting a doctor—an expert witness I often use—on the effects of toxic levels of alcohol and Percodan.”
“And?”
“Blitzo. She easily could have blacked out.”
“So she could be telling the truth.”
“Yes, but it’s a story that involves not remembering a damn thing. A tricky scenario. The hearing’s next Friday in Montville at two-thirty to review the case and set bond for Lucinda. Did you talk to you sister? Can someone from the family come?”
“That’s why I called you before,” Meg replied. This was the moment to explain that she’d changed her mind, that Lucinda was on her own.
The moment passed.
“I’ll be there,” she said.
“Great. You know, I might very well be able to get her out on bail if I can convince the judge that there’s a responsible member of the family willing to take her in.”
“I see.”
“And?”
Meg had never intended to have things go this far. She’d just wanted to make sure Lucinda was treated fairly. The last thing she really wanted was to be saddled with the difficult teenager, to have her already pressure-filled life complicated even further by someone else’s problems and needs. She hadn’t asked for this. It had been the same thing with Ethan; she had never asked for that. He had pushed himself on her, demanded her attention, turned her world upside down. Her mistake, though, was that she hadn’t had the courage to stop him. And so he had come between the two sisters—tearing to shreds their love for and trust in each other. It crossed her mind that if she did the right thing by Lucinda she could somehow make up for the wrong she’d allowed Ethan to do.
“Let’s see what happens,” Meg said finally, but she sensed that even Boardman understood that she had chosen her side. And there was no going back.
29
Though small, Hardwick and Associates had an excellent reputation within the fashion industry. Meg was known to be fair, a straight-shooter, someone to be trusted. Hardwick was viewed as up-and-coming. And it was essential to her business, she knew, that her agency continue to be perceived in this light. So she had made certain that no one knew the extent of her problems with Jarvis, while she’d helped spread the word—and gossip was like catnip in the fashion world—that Hardwick might land the big SportsTech account. That meant Meg was diversifying, moving beyond the smaller, chic labels and into the mass-market big time. Her billings would increase, her staff would need to be enlarged. Despite the usual backbiting and petty jealousies rampant in that tight-knit, insular business community, almost everyone agreed that Meg deserved her success.
Meg was loyal to the suppliers she worked with—the modeling agencies, photographers, printers, and post-production houses through whom Hardwick’s layouts and storyboards were transformed into four-color print ads and television commercials. She’d made it a policy to work only with those she considered the best, even if it meant that her production costs were a bit higher than those of her competitors. Over the years, Meg’s electronic rolodex had grown into a coveted “who’s who” to the creative end of the fashion world—and when Meg made a call these days it was always taken.
“How have you been, Hilda?” Meg asked the head of one the modeling agencies she favored and a woman she’d been friendly with for nearly a decade. It was Monday morning, and Meg had spent a good part of the weekend wrestling with her conscience about making this call. Abe had flown out to LA the previous Friday for a week-long business conference, so she had plenty of time on her hands to wonder why he had kept Ethan and Becca’s affair a secret from her. Meg was cut off from her sister, her nieces, the whole town of Red River, so she had two full days to mull over the fact that she was losing her family and several friends. Lucinda was giddy with the news that Meg was coming to the hearing, so Meg had far too many leisure hours to consider how in adequately equipped she was emotionally to handle Lucinda’s needs and problems. All in all, she felt as though her personal life was devolving into a morass of worries and questions—and any hope she might have for happiness depended on her somehow solving them.
“Fine, Meg. What do you need?” Hilda said, all business as usual. “I hear you’re pitching a youth line for SportsTech. I’ve three fabulous new girls—total unknowns and absolutely gorgeous.”
“Actually, Hilda, I’m trying to track someone down. A model who left the business for a while, but who I understand is working again.”
“Sure, hon,” Hilda said. “I could get her for you freelance if she’s not represented. And if you think she’s that good, we’d give her a look ourselves.”
“Becca Sabin?” Meg asked. “Name ring a bell?”
“I’m afraid so,” Hilda sniffed. “Burnt-out case, Meg. And attitude that you wouldn’t believe. Unreliable, is the word, I hear. And worse. I have a hundred girls you should see before—”
“It’s not about a job, Hilda,” Meg explained. “I just need to talk to her.”
“Oh, well… Last I heard she was freelancing with that sleaze bag Randolph Perrolo.”
“Wasn’t he busted for—?”
“Of course, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. He deals in dope as much as girls. Watch yourself, Meg. Perrolo’s a real pig.”
It wasn’t hard to track Becca down from there. Though most modeling agencies carefully guarded their clients whereabouts and schedules, the talkative receptionist at Perrolo Girls seemed delighted to tell Meg where Becca was working.
“She landed the Sexy and Silky catalog,” the breathy-voiced girl told Meg. “A week solid. What a great deal, huh?”
A hint at a possible job for an ad agency that Meg didn’t even have to identity brought forth the details of the shoot in a happily confiding gush: “Danny Hallovan’s studio down on Twenty-fourth and Eighth. You know the place?”
Yes, Meg did. But then everybody knew Danny. Talk about a burnt-out case, Meg thought, as she grabbed a cab downtown. Danny’s problems had never been about drugs or alcohol—instead he managed to sabotage a very promising career as a fashion photographer with his uncontrollable moodiness. Danny didn’t like to take orders. He bridled when art directors made suggestions about lighting or camera angles. He screamed if anyone—even an important client—dared to ask him to reshoot anything. Over the years, Danny’s talent had been overshadowed by his temper, his reputation slipped, and agencies tiptoed away from him. He still worked, but now it was mostly
for direct mail catalogs—the pay wasn’t great but Danny could demand almost complete autonomy. Meg had heard that Danny made up some of his profits by hiring has-been models or girls just trying to break into the business—and taking a percentage of their pay.
Though she’d long ago stopped trying to work with him, Meg had managed to keep on friendly terms with Hallovan; the past summer, she even sent some work his way. Danny seemed as pleased as he ever got to see Meg that morning.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he cried good-humoredly as Meg made her way toward him through the cables and reflecting stands that cluttered the echoing studio. Models in various stages of silk-clad undress lounged around a set that was composed of pillow-strewn couches.
“Hey, Danny.” Meg let herself be embraced by the big bear of a man who insisted on wearing the little hair he had left pulled back into a tiny ponytail. “A friend of mine’s working this. Thought I’d stop by and maybe take her to lunch.”
“It’s great to see your face, Hardwick,” Danny said, as he fiddled with a filter. “You’re one of the few decent people in this whole goddamned business. Hate this work, Hardwick. Look at these fucking clothes—I swear, I feel like I’m shooting pornography.”
Meg looked around the room, searching for Becca’s distinctive dark haircut. There were seven models on the set, but Meg didn’t see her among them.
“Isn’t Becca Sabin working on this shoot?” Meg asked.
“When she isn’t in the ladies room doing you-know-what,” Danny said, leaning over to peer into the camera lens. “I guess you could say she’s working. Hey, Freddie, where the fuck is Becca? We’re about ready to roll here.”
Becca, when she finally appeared, looked ravishing. Perhaps a bit thinner than Meg recalled, but then that was only a plus for a model. Her dark helmet of hair shone. Her perfect, heart-shaped face looked as cool as alabaster. Her smile was disdainful and provocative at the same time. Meg didn’t know what Danny was seeing, but Meg guessed that the camera adored Becca Sabin. They shot for a little over an hour, then Danny called a lunch break.
