“Love to,” Monica said.
Wealth was one thing, Welton thought, but did this lady have so much that she’d renounced the Parnell money? “Ashley and I are engaged,” he said as they walked toward the buffet. “So you and I have something in common, and I’m new to the family myself.”
“Patrick, good meeting you.” Ashley had stopped staring. “I’m not a sports fanatic, but I did read an article about your new show in People magazine. I wanted to watch it, but since I’m on-call most of the time—How’s it going?”
“Super. Keeps me hopping.” Patrick said, with an easy television smile.
“So super that I don’t see much of him,” Monica said. “But today worked out great. We were staying at Patrick’s mom’s place in the Hamptons. Just a short plane ride away.”
“Pat,” a male voice called.
Welton turned and couldn’t suppress a groan.
Dan’s kid, Terry, was lifting up a can of beer. “Rematch after the eats?”
“You’re on,” Patrick flashed his television smile again.
“Only if you make it doubles,” Monica said. “Get Carrie. Or Ashley, do you play?”
“Yes, but not that well,” Ashley said. “Plus I was on call last night—”
“Some other time,” Welton said. “Now let’s get something to eat.”
“Maybe I should wait for Carla,” Ashley said, glancing around. “She should be here by now.”
Waiting for Carla—how long would that take?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Carla had been looking forward to today’s family gathering. She was proud of her progress in rehab, and had tried hard to shake the shame of what had sent her there. She was anxious to see Ashley and Rory. Would she confide in them about having HIV? She didn’t know, but she would ask Ashley’s advice about signing up to be a volunteer at an AIDS clinic for kids.
Toying with the idea of competing for a share of her dad’s inheritance, Carla had decided that with all that money, she could do a lot of good. She’d even thought about nursing school. Unless they didn’t take HIV-positive students. But would they have to know? HIV was supposed to be confidential. Or maybe she could do more good as a social worker? Her immediate plan: get Ashley’s advice and then talk to Bunky about it. He’d always been after her to try for the money, and now that she was clean, maybe she’d have a chance.
That morning she’d been up early to attend an NA meeting. The nice thing about Manhattan was that meetings went on almost around the clock and so far she hadn’t missed a day. When she got home, she’d made a pot of coffee and toasted a bagel. Then she changed into a flowered sundress with a matching shawl. With her new hairstyle and yesterday’s manicure and pedicure, she knew she looked good. She smiled, confident that the family would be pleasantly surprised.
Then she picked up where she’d left off in a biography of Eleanor Roosevelt. She’d started on biographies of powerful women when she was in the Roberts Clinic. So far she’d read about Queen Elizabeth I, Katherine Graham, and Florence Nightingale. Learning about all of these women, she’d come away awed and inspired. She now felt that she, too, could make a difference. And wouldn’t Ashley be impressed. Other than her medical texts, Ashley read only thrillers. Rather superficial, Carla thought. She smiled, anticipating the look of surprise on Ashley’s face later that night when she pulled out her Eleanor Roosevelt tome.
When the doorman rang up to announce Bunky, Carla checked her watch. Nine fifteen. He was early. The car to take them to Pennsylvania wasn’t due until ten. She had promised Sara that she would not let Bunky into the apartment, but she couldn’t leave him in the lobby for forty-five minutes. Since she’d been released from Roberts Clinic, Sara had not left her side, but today Carla had convinced the maid to go home to her husband since she was going home to Pennsylvania.
Not that her family would be happy to see Bunky, but Bunky was a part of her life. She’d walked away from everything and everybody else, but she could not walk away from Bunky. When it came right down to it, Bunky was the one human on the face of the earth who really cared about her because he wanted to, not because he was paid to or because they were related. But to honor her family’s wishes, she hadn’t let Bunky move back into the apartment.
She knew that he needed to get clean before she could live with him. She realized how vulnerable she was, how easy it would be to slip. She’d heard so many horror stories in those meetings. As for Bunky, he still used—too heavily—but not in her apartment. Her plan was to save enough money to get him into the Roberts Clinic. Amazing as it seemed, Carla was now a huge fan of the Roberts Clinic. She’d be eternally grateful that her family cared enough to send her there, and she would tell them so today. And she’d also tell Ashley that she thought her boyfriend was a real prick. Ashley and Welton had visited her in rehab, and he hadn’t shown her one iota of empathy. After weeks in group therapy, Carla felt pretty damn sure that she could pick up on personality disorders. Welton’s was narcissistic and manipulative. The type of guy who’s into control and domination. The type who hides behind charm and social niceties.
Carla had learned a lot. During that awful ride up to the clinic, she’d warmed up to Dr. Adair and now she saw him every week in his Manhattan office. He’d hooked her up with a doctor who specialized in HIV. She now knew that her virus level was quite low and her CD4 count fairly high, which was good news. In general, the CD4 count goes down as HIV progresses. And the best news of all: Bunky had been tested. He was HIV negative, and he now used a condom.
“You look great, babe,” Bunky said, as she did a twirl when he stepped off the elevator. He had shaved, but his reddish curls flopped over his eyes and hung over his ears almost onto his shoulders. Meredith and Frank would not be pleased. According to them, worthiness was related to the clean-shaven, short haired, preppy look.
“Where’s your watchdog?” Bunky glanced nervously about as they stepped into the living room.
“Sara’s not here right now,” Ashley said. She felt a pang of guilt, but they’d be leaving soon. Carla had promised herself no more lies, but this seemed so minor, so temporary.
She saw Bunky glance down the hall leading to her bedroom, but she shook her head, so he headed for the door again. “I gotta meet a guy,” he said, “before we go. He’s downstairs. Just be a second, babe.”
“Okay, but we’re supposed to leave at ten.”
“You nervous?”
“A little, but mostly I’m anxious to see everybody, to show them that I’m okay.” Carla brushed her lips against his cheek as he stepped into the elevator. “And, you know what? I really am okay.”
“That’s cool, babe.”
Bunky was gone for five minutes. She waited for him in the living room, leafing through Self magazine. Yesterday, at a meeting, a girl she’d seen on some soap asked her if she was going back to modeling. She’d told her no. That lifestyle was just too high-risk.
“Got a little something for us, babe. This you’re gonna love.” Bunky was back and lifting the glossy magazine from her hands, replacing it with a white plastic bag. “This is some special shit.”
“You got me drugs?” Carla gasped, and yanked her hands behind her back. The bag fell to the floor. She pulled her legs up into her abdomen and pushed back into the plush padding of the sofa. She needed to disappear into some kind of safety zone. She needed the image of that bag to evaporate. But it didn’t. Bunky picked it up and swung it in front of her face, taunting her, tantalizing her.
“Just for us. Just for today,” he was saying.
Carla straightened out, and struggled to sit up. Finally, words formed in her mind and she spat them out as vehemently as she could. “After the hell I went through getting clean! You’re bringing me shit! Get rid of it! Get rid of it now!”
Bunky, still holding the bag, gently settled her back on the cushions, taking care the pillows in back of her were aligned. Carla felt her heart heaving, pounding so loud that Bunky must hear it too. She saw a
bright white flash and instantaneously she knew that she wanted what was in that bag. Really wanted it. No, she had to have what was in that bag. Every nerve, every muscle in her body demanded it. She started to writhe.
“Bunky. Give it to me.” Her voice sounded like the growl of a dog.
“Hey, hold on, this isn’t ordinary shit.” Bunky pulled the package just out of her reach. “This is ex—quisite.”
From somewhere in Carla’s head came a contrary order. “You gotta flush it down the toilet.” After she’d uttered those words, her body started to shake. “Or you get the fuck out of here.”
Still dangling the bag out of her reach, Bunky drew Carla up against his chest and kissed her. Stroking her hair, he pressed her body close to him, murmuring into her ear. “Come on, babe. It’s the Fourth of July, Independence Day, and we’re gonna celebrate by getting fucked. Just this one time. Just to get through family day.”
Carla began to moan as she fell into the circle of Bunky’s arms. He rocked her like a baby, reassuring her, “Without the shit, babe, we’re gonna be too shaky. Face it, you want it, don’t you, babe?”
Did she want it? Yes. Yes. Yes. Every pore in her body craved the cocaine high. When Bunky loosened his grasp on her, she felt she was having a convulsion. She wanted it so fucking bad. She had to have it.
He set the bag down momentarily to make her comfortable among the array of pillows. Her teeth chattered when he took the pipe from the bag. She went to reach for it, then pulled back her hand. And as Bunky took out the rocks, Carla fought to remember the Serenity Prayer. She tried to call up the moment in time, the breakthrough moment with her counselor, the exact moment she knew she had to stop. Stop or die, he’d said.
Bunky brought out the cigarette lighter. “Guy I got this from said this is the best, babe, a gift.”
Carla shrank back, leaned forward to grasp the pipe, then pushed back again. She needed to get the fuck out of here. She needed to take a hit. She couldn’t move.
“No, Bunky, I can’t. I promised . . . to . . . help . . . the children . . . I need to.”
“Trust me, babe, this is what you need.”
He offered her the pipe. Carla locked onto his eyes. “Trust me, babe,” he repeated.
She felt herself slipping away into a place so fragile that a whisper could knock her over. Even her heart beat seemed to falter as the last vestige of her resolve evaporated. She reached for the pipe and Bunky guided it toward her quivering mouth. She inhaled, deeply, greedily. The rush was immediate. She felt her heart flutter in that intense, immensely pleasurable way. Oh yes, she could get through this day. Face her family, Bunky by her side. She would be just fine.
Carla sank back into the comfort of the pillows, closed her eyes and floated. She felt a certain pounding sensation in her chest, but it dissipated as her mother appeared and started walking toward her. Mom’s beautiful smile, warm, so inviting. And Daddy followed, looking proud, as he had that day when he had the front-row runway seat at her St. John’s show.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Frank and Matt wore Uncle Sam costumes as they flipped burgers and roasted corn on the huge brick grill at poolside.
Matt grinned. “Must be doin’ something right. Kids’re all coming back for seconds. When do we get our chance to eat? I know you can’t have the corn, but those cheeseburgers, no bun, are on that crazy low-carb diet.”
“Today we’re here to serve, buddy.” Frank nudged Matt as Dan’s pretty, dark-haired daughter headed toward them. “Carrie, give this young man some help while I get more corn.”
How strange, Frank thought. For twenty-two years, Carrie and Terry were off the family radar screen. Now here they were at the Fourth of July barbecue as competitors for Dad’s money. But for today, he and Meredith had made a pact. No politics. No strategizing. Just the family patriarch putting on the perfect picnic. Scoring points.
Frank was surprised that he was having such a good time as master of the grill. There were moments when he even thought that maybe he didn’t hate kids so much, until one of the Stevens twins plowed into him and the platter he was carrying crashed to the ground. Luckily, it was plastic and empty.
“Slow down, you guys,” he yelled.
“Sorry, Uncle Frank.” The guilty kid braked momentarily. At least the Stevens’ kids were having a good time. Odd, after all those years resenting Rory, Frank’s feelings were now mixed. Rory had been just a child when Dad married her mother, and he realized now that he had been a jealous teen with an attitude. He’d always blamed Dad for defiling the memory of his mother by marrying Vivian. But now, after hearing the story of Monica, Frank was beginning to appreciate how lonely his father must have been. Frank knew how much he depended on Meredith. If anything happened to her, Frank concluded he wouldn’t be able to go on.
“Elise,” he yelled at his daughter, “get your cousins and tell them to sit down.”
“Okay, Daddy,” she shouted. “Chip! Charlie! Misty!”
Elise was a good kid and Frank knew that he should start doing more with her. He’d promised Meredith that he would be a better father as soon as he got appropriations for Justice and Commerce though Congress. There was always something. Too many speeches. Too many fund-raisers. Too many political favors. As he headed for the house, Mr. M. met him with a cart of steaming, yellow ears of corn. “You wanta roll these in, Senator? I’m boiling more, so just send someone in if you run out again. I hope you know how wonderful it is to have all of you out here. Just wish Mrs. Stevens weren’t so ill.”
“Senator!” Mrs. M.’s voice intruded, shrill and urgent. “Telephone, Senator Frank.”
“No business today,” Frank called back. “The Fourth of July. Government’s not in session.”
But the ashen look on Mrs. M.’s face made Frank blink as she shoved the phone into his hand. “A detective. New York City. ‘Urgent,’ she said.”
“For crying out loud,” Frank responded. “Okay, okay, if you take this corn over to Matt.”
“Frank Parnell here.” Not caring if he sounded annoyed.
“Senator Parnell?”
“Yes, what is it?” Some political disaster? Tomorrow was a big day. Mueller’s nomination as Director of the FBI. Intelligence and Armed Services had Frank so steeped in terrorism that he feared the worst. But from a detective?
“This is Detective Francine Harris from the NYPD, sir. I’m at the Parnell apartment on Park Ave. I’m afraid I have some tragic news. It’s your sister. Carla Parnell. She’s dead, sir.”
The words hit like a blow to the stomach. Frank found that he couldn’t breathe.
“Are you there, sir?” A sweet voice for an NYPD detective.
“No! I mean, yes. Carla? Dead?” Frank started to reached for the corn cart next to him, but Mrs. M. had taken it away. He lurched, righted himself, and dropped the phone.
In slow motion he bent and picked up the instrument, amazed that it hadn’t shattered on the brick path. “Senator, are you okay?”
“What happened?”
“Here’s all we know. The housekeeper, Mrs. Waring, came back to check on your sister. Said she had a funny feeling. When she let herself in, she found Miss Parnell sprawled out on the sofa in the living room. She tried to shake her. Got no response. Called nine-one-one. When the paramedics arrived, they estimated that based on body temperature, Miss Parnell had been dead for at least an hour.”
Had Carla overdosed? If so, it’d be imperative to keep it quiet. “Does anyone else know?”
“We called you first. We’re still here at the scene. Does your sister have any illness which might explain—?”
“I don’t know. How did she die? I mean, can you tell?”
“No evidence of foul play. Earlier in the day she’d had a visitor. A young man. Building security says he goes by the name Bunky. Real name, Rodney Lester.”
Oh, yes, the junkie who screwed her out of all her money. That ridiculous name. She’d wanted to bring him with her today.
; “Bunky?” Frank was at a loss. The last thing he wanted was to raise any suspicions about drugs.
“We’re trying to find him. Strange, his driver’s license lists this address. Does he live here, Senator?”
“No. He most certainly does not live there. Detective Harris, this is all such a shock. We were expecting Carla here in Pennsylvania today. I was starting to get worried, but with holiday traffic—My God, I can’t believe this. Of course, my wife and I will come to the city directly.”
“We won’t know the cause of death until the autopsy. We’d like access to medical records.”
Frank did not respond. He couldn’t let the police trace Carla to the Roberts Clinic.
“We’ll take her to the city morgue. It’s protocol.”
“Detective, I can’t have my sister’s body taken there.” Carla’s modeling portfolio flashed through his mind—long blonde hair, incredible violet eyes, a perfect, if too thin, body. “I want her taken to Cornell Medical. If that’s a problem, have the commissioner call me.” Frank gave her his cell phone number. “I’ll be there as soon as possible.”
What had happened? Frank needed Meredith to think this through. Shock and bitter anger intertwined in his heart. Carla had been such a cute little girl, but Dad and Vivian had spoiled her shamelessly. Now he was left to deal with the cover-up of her drug abuse. The political spin would be critical. The wrong spin could ruin his chances for the presidency, forever. Paul Parnell’s daughter, sister of Senator Frank Parnell, dies of a drug overdose the headlines would scream. Frank remembered the Jeb Bush fiasco with his daughter. Together, he and Meredith needed to finesse their way out of this mess, create sympathy for the Parnell family.
Frank thought of the inheritance; now there would be one less contender. He put the shameful idea away and threaded his way across the pool deck where Meredith had been. Kids were all over the place. He had to swerve to avoid Monica and Patrick as they headed purposely toward him, hand in hand.
The Test Page 12
