by Jean Stone
“Do you have your cell phone?”
“Oh, hell, no, I don’t. I must have left it in the Lincoln. Well, call me at the apartment.”
After hanging up she tried her cell number, but if Carla was in the car headed back to the Vineyard, she didn’t answer the phone, if that was where it was.
She hung up again, then dialed information.
A “Property Associate” at Guinness and Sloan was not available until Monday afternoon. God forbid anyone should speak with her now, despite the fact that it was Sunday. God forbid they should act too eager to list a classic property in a classic building with a classic damn terrace overlooking Central Park. God forbid they should show excitement about the potential commission on the five-plus million it would bring, even in the “economic downturn” everyone was crying about. Ha! She’d show them economic downturn!
She checked the messages—three this time, only two cancellations. Perhaps her luck was turning, or perhaps the rest had decided to come watch the show of the heiress trying to pretend she still had a throne.
The third call was from Carla. “Mary Beth!” she shouted. “I’m in Boston on your cell phone. I dialed the ‘One’ in your call memory, and I have no idea if you’ll get this, but I sure hope you do because all the Atkinson numbers are unlisted.” Well, Mary Beth thought, of course they are. “Anyway,” Carla rambled, “I’m on my way to the airport and I had to call and tell you I forgot to tell Sam about Lester’s paintings. The Chagall and the Manet. Lester took them when he left.” She gave her quick details that Mary Beth jotted down. “Please make sure he knows. It might help him find Lester.” Then she hurriedly added, “I’ll be gone a few days. I know Sam has a lot on his mind, so I’m chasing down a lead of my own. Happy wedding!”
Mary Beth sighed as Carla said good-bye; finding Lester somehow no longer seemed so urgent.
Then again, she might feel different when Phillipe showed up on the Vineyard with his hand in her pocket, the one with the big hole.
She placed a call to the hospital and Sam gave her the good news that Molly was fine, better than expected, and that so far the new medication wasn’t making her sick. He again apologized for the interruption of his search. And again, Mary Beth said Molly was all that mattered, getting Molly better, getting Molly well. Then she gave him Carla’s message, only because the woman seemed to think it was important, though Mary Beth doubted it. “Chagalls and Manets are a dime a dozen these days,” she related to Sam. “We had a couple on the Vineyard. In fact, I just saw them in some old photos that I showed my mother.”
Then she laughed and said she supposed she’d now have to change her perception of the value of a “dime” and the worth of a “dozen.”
Unlike Molly, Dorothy would not be getting better, so Mary Beth visited her in the evening, pored over the pictures again, and talked of the old times and how good they had or had not been to the best of either of their recollections.
It helped that her mother was having a good day, a coherent day.
“Is this where the wedding will be?” Dorothy asked, pointing to the lawn at the Vineyard estate.
“Yes, Mother,” she said. “Won’t it be grand?”
Dorothy nodded. “There will be champagne?”
“Oh, yes. And bubbles? Remember I told you about the bubbles?”
Dorothy only smiled, so Mary Beth did not know if she remembered or not.
“The sun will shine,” her mother said. “It always shines on the Vineyard in summer.”
Mary Beth smiled back, her heart breaking a little for the mother she’d once had, for the harmless innocence that belonged only to Dorothy, then and now. She combed back the fine white hair that cupped her mother’s face. “You’re right, Mother, the sun damn well will shine.”
She had already decided that tomorrow, before the Guinness and Sloan agent showed up, she would return to the pawnshop with another bundle of silver and the rest of her jewels. Then she would take a damn bus if she had to, back to midtown. She’d get off at Saks Fifth Avenue, where surely she could find a dress, no, an ensemble, at a reasonable cost, because come hell or high fucking water, her mother was going to Shauna’s wedding. With luck, Dorothy would be with it for an hour or a moment or even just a heartbeat, long enough to know she’d been there, that she had not been cast aside.
The best part about flying coach was that no one looked at you and wondered if you were someone—a celebrity, a politician, or simply rich. No one but the flight attendants paid any attention, and at that, only when necessary.
Gabrielle picked up a magazine for the third time and wondered why she had bought Vogue, when the last thing she cared about right now was fashion. To make matters worse, the issue featured back-to-school wear for young girls, navy wool dresses and happy red sweaters and soft little tams to tilt à droite.
If she left Stefano, should she take Rosa to Paris instead of the States? Already fluent in Italian and English, Rosa also could converse quite well in French. Stefano had laughed with good humor when Gabrielle spent endless hours teaching Rosa languages that she’d “have no need for.” He laughed, but did not try to stop her, and more than once she overheard him boast of his “trilingual daughter.”
He had no way of knowing that preparing Rosa with a classic education was as much protection for Gabrielle as her secret money in the bank in Zurich. Rosa, like Gabrielle, would then be able to carry on with her life, financially, culturally, and every way that she could figure.
She turned another page and realized that the first place Stefano would look would be Paris. It was, after all, where she’d been when they had met. It was where Enzio had rooted out her background. It was where Stefano had pretended he did not know her name or about the money that was behind it. It was where his deception had been as insidious as hers.
No, it could not be Paris.
Leaning her head against the seat back, Gabrielle decided the first important thing right now was to get the money sent to Nikki.
Did it matter that Nikki, too, had deceived her? That she’d known from day one that Mack lived on the estate, yet she’d not told Gabrielle? And why did Gabrielle feel she should contribute any of her money to Nikki’s foundation, when all those years … all those years …
No, she thought, it’s not her fault. It was Aunt Margaret’s fault, but it wasn’t Nikki’s fault or even Mary Beth’s. She opened her eyes and knew she could not cheat Molly and the children just because she’d been cheated. And she’d save out plenty for Aunt Dorothy and for an income for herself and a small house maybe in the country, in the Loire Valley with its elegant gardens and graceful chateaux.
They could not—would not go to the States now, not to Martha’s Vineyard, because it was the past, and it was time to move forward, not back.
A light ding overhead summoned an attendant to a seat a few rows ahead. Its sound seemed as tired as Gabrielle felt from traveling through the night, racing toward the sun, away from the West that was stuck in yesterday.
She tried to stretch her feet, but there was not much space. Coach, she reminded herself.
Checking her watch, she realized that in less than an hour they would land in Zurich. If everything went smoothly, she’d be in Tuscany tonight, tomorrow at the latest. She would face Stefano and she would hug Rosa, and then she would tell him her last secret, that Rosa was not his. If he could not handle it, she would not stick around. She would wait for the postman, and Rosa would go with her.
“Water?” a voice asked, and Gabrielle turned from the window, where the orange light of morning greeted the silver plane.
But the woman who asked was not an attendant. Standing in the aisle, holding a small water bottle in one hand and a carry-on in the other, was Carla DiRoma.
25
My mother always said I’d be happier if I spent less time living other people’s lives and more time on my own life,” Carla said. “But here you are and here I am, and I kind of thought you’d need a friend.” She sat down in
the empty seat across the aisle.
Gabrielle was so startled she did not know what to say. “You thought I’d need a friend so you hopped a plane to Zurich?”
Carla smiled, shifting the weight of her carry-on onto her lap. “Not exactly. I thought you were going to Rome.”
She unlatched the tray table, pulled it down, and folded her hands on top of it. “Well, then I’m on the wrong plane, because this one goes to Zurich.”
“I know.”
They were quiet for a moment, their thoughts swallowed by the white noise of jet engines, of sounds muted through headphones, of occasional low talk among the other passengers.
“I know it’s none of my business, Gabrielle,” Carla said at last, “but are you going to Switzerland to get some money from the bank?”
Gabrielle tented her fingers and examined her manicure. Her nails were short and clear-polished, not long and colorful like Mary Beth’s, not stained with oil paint like Nikki’s. “You’re right,” she replied, “it’s not your business, Carla.”
“Well, I kind of thought it was, because I’m the one who always transferred the money for you. And no offense, I mean you’re very pretty and everything, but I know how much goes into that account every month and you sure don’t look like you spend anywhere near that kind of money. And on top of that, you’re flying coach. Why the heck are you flying coach?”
A tiny smile crept across her lips. “Carla …” she began, but then she shook her head.
Carla leaned across the aisle. “Like I said, I thought you’d need a friend. Plus, I have some of my own business to tend to while I’m there.”
Carla DiRoma had a Swiss bank account?
With a heavy sigh, Carla sipped from her bottled water. “The truth is,” she said, “when I saw you waiting for this plane I almost had a conniption. I hid behind the others so you wouldn’t see me. I used some of my mother’s insurance money to buy the ticket to Zurich because of Lester. I remembered that Lester has money in Switzerland. Your aunt Margaret gave it to him to make sure your father stayed away from you.”
Another piece suddenly slid into the puzzle of Gabrielle’s life. Lester had been her watchdog; Lester had always known where Gabrielle was living, not for her sake, but because he’d been paid to keep Mack from her. “That’s how you found me?” Gabrielle asked. “Because Lester always knew where I was?” She reached under her tray table and tried to rub away the queasiness growing inside her.
Carla nodded. “And I bet he’s forgotten that I know he has at least one friend in Switzerland. There’s a chance he is with them. With her.”
“Oh, Carla,” Gabrielle replied. She did not know what else to say, because she was unsure how she was feeling.
“I want him to make this right,” Carla continued. “I want him to give the money back, and clear up his good name.” A small crack came into Carla’s voice when she said “his good name.”
Gabrielle recognized the sound of tears being held back. She reached across the aisle and touched Carla’s arm. “Carla,” she asked, “is there something you’re not telling me?”
Carla closed her eyes and shook her head, then opened them and nodded. Two tears betrayed her and ran down her cheeks. “All these years,” she said. “All these years I loved that man. And now he’s gone off with everyone’s money and with my dreams, too. It just isn’t right.”
Gabrielle took Carla’s hand. Carla had been in love with Lester? How very dreadful. All those years, in love with the same man, only to have him leave.…
“He never cared about me, of course,” Carla said. “Not that way. Well, one time I thought he did.” She shrugged, then wiped her eyes and patted her carry-on. “I have some pictures. Did you see the ones I gave to Sam?”
Gabrielle shook her head. “No.”
“But you remember Lester, don’t you? How handsome he was, especially a long time ago.”
“I don’t remember him, Carla. I was very young, and I only saw him that last summer. Show me your pictures.” Poor Carla DiRoma. As if her life did not seem dreary enough. Gabrielle smiled and leaned a little closer, trying to act interested in photos of the man who had been Aunt Margaret’s accomplice, the man who’d stolen their money, hurting Nikki and the kids and stripping Mary Beth of the life she’d had and the security for Aunt Dorothy.
Carla took out a big white envelope and poked through the contents. Then she selected one large news clipping and handed it to Gabrielle. “This one’s my favorite,” she said. “A close-up of him at that Black-and-White Ball in 1978.”
Gabrielle took the clipping and snapped on the overhead light. Then she looked down at the picture in her hand.
And then it all came back.
It came back in a rush, a tidal wave like the one that had hit her in Dover when she’d been in school, the one where she remembered seeing her mother fall from the lighthouse with the blue ribbons floating up behind her.
It came back with the same force, the memory of it all.
She saw them both now: her mother and Lester Markham, at the top of the lighthouse.
What were they doing up at the top? In order to be there, they had to have been inside, but no one was allowed inside; the door was always padlocked, wasn’t it?
But there they were: Lester and her mother. And Gabrielle clearly saw his face as he raised his arms and grabbed her mother’s shoulders; she saw her mother struggle; she saw him push her over the top of the railing, and then she saw her mother fall onto the rocks.
Her mother had not committed suicide, as Gabrielle had somehow known all along. She had not killed herself. Lester Markham had murdered her.
Life was about choices, Nikki knew that: to live here or there, to marry, to have children, to paint or to prosper.
She remembered reading a comment attributed to Clint Eastwood in which the actor supposedly said, “Every decision I ever made seemed to be the right one at the time I made it.”
She understood now that life really could be that simple. Accepting the results, however, was what could be difficult.
Never, no way, could Nikki take the money from Gabrielle, when her cousin did not know that Nikki was in love with her father. It would seem like cheating, and Gabrielle had been cheated out of enough.
Early in the morning Nikki stood in her studio, inhaling the salt air that came in the open window, and surveying her work as it leaned against the walls, awaiting critique: seven portraits were complete, one to go. Twelve more yet unstarted. She’d been stuck on number eight, the portrait of Molly. Without the little girl around, Nikki could not summon her muses to get it finished.
She could wait for Molly to return, but that might not happen. Mary Beth had called last night and said Molly was much improved, but who knew, who knew.
Standing back from the portrait, Nikki could see that the hair color was wrong, too brownish-red, not enough orange, not enough playfulness for a six-year-old. She folded her arms and stared at the picture, wishing that a daub of yellow or a touch of magenta could restore the child’s spark and bring back her health.
But Nikki could not mend Molly’s health with paint, any more than Nikki could accept Gabrielle’s dollars, twenty million of them though there were. She could not take Gabrielle’s money, but she could no longer deny the rights of the children.
And if that meant not marrying Mack, not being his wife, not living a “respectable life” as he’d called it, then that was her choice, and she’d have to accept it.
With a last look at the paintings, she left her studio and went down the spiral staircase and out into the sunshine.
It wasn’t easy to get to the big house. Nikki wove between a bevy of pickup trucks and vans and SUVs stacked up in the driveway, surrounded by hedge trimmers and garden shears and lawn edgers and mowers. Perhaps there was going to be a lawn party for the Queen of England or at least Hillary and Bill. George and Laura. Whoever.
She let herself into the house, where the clutter in the foyer was worse than tha
t in the yard. From the bottom of the stairs, Nikki called out Shauna’s name. It took a minute, but there came the bride, in jeans and old T-shirt, clutching a clipboard and a pen. She was worn out and frazzled looking, although it was only eight o’clock.
Taking one look at Nikki, Shauna burst into tears. “I can’t do this, Aunt Nikki. I can’t handle everything!”
Nikki hugged her niece. “Oh, dear, it’s overwhelming, isn’t it?”
“Oh, you have no idea the details my mother coordinates. It’s no wonder she’s crazy most of the time. And now, the money! How can she pay for this?”
So Shauna now knew about Lester and the trust fund. Nikki pulled away and put her finger to her lips. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to make that public information.”
“Am I considered ‘public,’ too?”
Shauna and Nikki both turned their heads toward the direction of the voice. At the top of the stairs stood Dee, hands plunked on her narrow hips and wild anger in her eyes.
“Oh,” Nikki said. “Honey.”
“Don’t ‘honey’ me, Mother.” She marched down the stairs, nearly knocking down a woman carrying a dust mop. In this place and in this moment, Nikki was struck by how much Dee walked and talked like Margaret and like Mary Beth. “Why haven’t I been told? Don’t I have a right to know?” Oh, yes, Nikki thought. Margaret and Mary Beth. She might look like Connor and have his business smarts, but she had inherited the Atkinson attitude.
With a quick scan of the cleaning people busying themselves in the foyer, Nikki said, “Let’s go into the library, girls, and get this straightened out.”
She sat behind the desk where her mother had always sat giving orders and directions to anyone who would listen, which almost always had been everyone but Nikki.
Shauna closed the door behind them and the girls sat. Nikki thought that if Gabrielle’s daughter had been there, too, the picture would not have been unlike the day Margaret had told them of their trust funds: three daughters not quite of age, being told they had inherited a fortune.
