Planned Coincidence: A Thrilling Suspense Novel (International Mystery & Crime)

by Dana Arama

  “What do my parents have to do with all this?” I replied in a rebellious tone.

  “You’re really asking me that? Had I not intervened in time, you’d have had to sell the gallery to pay all the debts they left you. Even when your head’s in the clouds, your feet need to be on the ground. You should remember what I’m saying tomorrow, when you have your meeting.” He gave me a warning look through those reading glasses of his.

  I wasn’t sure if he was talking about the business part of the meeting or the fact that I was about to meet up with the man I lived with during most of my years in Paris, the man who made me the woman Dan ended up marrying - the only man in this world that Dan could consider a worthy opponent, and then some.

  The fact that he did not raise any issue beyond business made it even more apparent how much he was interested in the alleged income I was about to bring home. Amazing how fear of poverty makes men pimp their wives. I banished this thought quickly. Dan wasn’t pimping me; he trusted me. I wanted his attention so badly, I yearned to see envy upon his face; but I wasn’t as lucky as those stock market figures he was looking at.

  A surprising breeze and thoughts of tomorrow lifted me up on my feet. Before leaving him, I rested my hands on his shoulders and leaned toward his cheek to kiss him. As always, I felt a need to make him happy, grant him one more moment of grace, and peel off some of the worries that filled him. “I’ll do my best. I promise.”

  He placed his cheek on my arm in a yearning motion that brought back the boy I once loved. I wrapped him in a motherly, protective embrace. My prince was lost in the realization that his kingdom was crumbling before his eyes. Me, and my plans, were a missing factor from this equation. I was hoping for all of us that the final sum would not be zero. I knew very well that he could never live that way.

  “Where is our young hare?” he asked, as if he was reading my mind.

  “In his natural habitat: taking care of Hurricane.”

  “I don’t know how much longer we’ll be able to keep that horse.”

  “Don’t tell him anything yet, there’s no point in worrying him, is there? Especially not now, so close to his last tournament. Now that that he knows he won’t be able to compete anymore, caring for his horse gives him some comfort and makes that pill easier to swallow.” My heart cried out to my son. His heart defect was considered minor, but it still shattered his childhood dreams: serving in a combat unit and professional horse racing.

  “You’re right. Now isn’t the right time. I tried to get the insurance company to cover him despite his heart defect. They promised they’ll get back to me. We went through all this twenty years ago with Nathaniel. As for the spending, let's see where the deal I landed today takes us.”

  “And the deal I’ll close tomorrow,” I added with a smile.

  I’d managed to cheer him up. I saw it in his eyes. This momentary success took me back almost twenty years. Same place, same porch, but prior to the renovations. Dan’s parents were relaxing and his mom told his dad, “The slim Moroccan girl looks more like a French lady now. It looks like she is what Dan needs.” There I stood, in the darkness of the garden, a mere twenty steps from them. I couldn’t have been more proud.

  Now I know that the only reason she agreed to our marriage was my fitness to be her son’s caretaker. I had the right combination of forbearance and beauty: I was subdued enough to take his mood swings, and pretty enough to be seen at his side. It wasn’t long before, in her eyes, I failed at both jobs.

  I went upstairs to the upper floor. As always, I paused at the end of the staircase, fully absorbing the smell of fresh cut grass lingering from a nearby backyard. Dan used to argue that there wasn’t even a wisp of a particular smell at this spot, but I knew better. It may have been the upper windows that let in the scents I was able to smell. Sometimes it was the citrus smell from the almost extinct groves, and sometimes the sweet aroma of roses from neighboring gardens. The scents tickled those memories of living in Mille. I could smell the vast acres of green grass surrounding Pierre’s estate and feel as if I was in a Paris suburb, contemplating getting out of my lover’s bed and fitting in some study time at the university. I glanced at my watch. In less than twenty-four hours, I would be meeting this lover again.

  I continued down the corridor and entered my son’s empty room. The fact that it was tidy proved I was right. He had not come back home after his riding practice. He had stayed with Hurricane today. I had often watched Robbie groom his horse at the ranch. The mud on his boots never bothered him nor the buzzing flies or his sweaty forehead. As the years passed, he grew taller and stopped needing a stool to reach Hurricane’s back. From a chubby boy, he grew into a tall, slim young man, with his dad’s athletic build and my tanned skin. Carrying himself around the stable with more confidence, his movements became more determined. Only the love he showed that horse remained the same - absolute and admirable.

  I wanted to believe that his big heart and desire to do good were his reasons for choosing a new path - politics. That, and not a power trip, as he had learned from the Korman family. “No art and no business!” he had announced on his fifteenth birthday. “I wanna make a difference. I want to go into politics…”

  “Aren’t you a little young to make a decision like that?” I had asked, careful not to laugh.

  “I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” he replied with a serious glint in his eye, “and I think I have a lot to give to the public.”

  I remembered Dan looking at him and then at me, back and forth. “It must be your influence,” he blurted out at me and added, “This won’t prevent you from working for me during the summer break, you know. You can learn how to earn so you have something to give.”

  I pulled out a piece of paper from the printer and left him a love letter: Robbie, honey, I’m leaving early tomorrow and will be busy with meetings all day. I wish you luck in your tournament, although I know “it’s no big deal”. Dad will pick you up when you’re done. Kisses, Mom. I left the letter on the pillow, on the side of the bed where he usually sleeps. I felt uneasy about missing his tournament, but since Dan and Robbie were the ones that were into horses, riding and all that, it was something of a ‘men's club,’ so I assumed they wouldn’t feel my absence. I used their excitement as a way to generate some excitement of my own.

  In the bathroom, I commenced a ritual I had recently started. In front of the mirror, I took my clothes off, turned on all of the lights, and examined my body thoroughly. The years had added some subtle curves, but I still had that graceful elasticity. It pointed to the former dancer, who could have been a professional if I had not lacked the discipline, which was so against my character. Everything else fit like a glove: my natural flexibility, strong muscles and long bones nestled in a body that was always too thin and unfeminine.

  “There’ll come a day when all your round and juicy friends will fight their weight and you’ll be looking great,” my mom used to say to make me feel better. That day was here. Gently, I took off the little bit of makeup I’d had on during the day. While doing so, I took a close look at my face. It showed signs of my age. I did not look like a teen anymore, but nor did I look like a woman. That matched how I felt today. A woman feeling the fluttering butterflies of teenage excitement.

  Chapter 2

  Tomorrow was here. I woke up to a perfect winter’s morning. I felt it with the first rays of sunshine peeking through the blinds. They weren’t glowing like they do in the fall, not as harsh as in the summer, and not as promising as the light of spring. This morning had a nostalgic sweetness to it, the perfect background for meeting Pierre again, after all those years. I kissed my husband lying calmly asleep beside me… a routine kiss that had no lust attached to it anymore, just a gentle touch of lips on the side of his eye, where signs of age were visible.

  I got out of bed, mainly concerned with finding a suitable look for today. I didn’t want to look too provocative, so the red dress was out of the question, even though it suited
me well. Jeans were out of the question too. A deal like this required a great sense of style from everyone involved, and therefore required suitable attire. Ah yes, my black viscose suit. Perfect for a morning like this. It showed restrained elegance yet accentuated my long legs beautifully. I didn’t feel guilty for wanting to look my best. This meeting was making me feel like a desirable woman again.

  I took another quick look in the big standing mirror, inspecting every angle. I knew I looked as good under the suit as I did on the outside. I disposed of the black Victoria’s Secret box, my last splurge before we started tightening our belts.

  As I made my way down for my morning coffee, memories from the past couple of months raced in my mind. Like a badly edited movie, fantasy and reality, far and near past, what was said and what should have been said, all were meshed together. What I was left with was only sensations - I wanted to feel a man’s body tightly squeezing mine, absorb his smell, feel the full thrust of his touch on every inch of my arms through my back and on to my legs. I longed to lose myself in a passionate kiss. Did the lack of intimacy at home make me feel this way? Was it due to Sergey’s visits becoming frequent? It seemed that both gave rise to this hunger to be touched.

  I let myself bask in those tiny pleasures: The smell of freshly ground coffee beans, the hiss of the percolator getting ready to boil them and the bubbling water fully immersing them. I reached to pull out a cup from the cabinet. I resolved to have an easygoing morning. Tension and thrills would be a part of my day later on. With the steaming coffee cup in my hand, I stepped outside to sit on the patio. The front page of yesterday’s newspaper told the story of the Hanukkah lighting ceremony at the president’s house. I remembered that I also had the task of organizing a Hanukkah party. Going through the ‘to do’ list in my head marked the beginning of my work day.

  I checked the time and knew that Mikayeal was already pacing restlessly in front of the locked gallery door, probably with that tormented painter’s look upon his face. I took one last sip of coffee and got up, grabbed my handbag with one hand and my keys with the other, got in the car and waited as the garage door slowly opened, as if it was a beast opening its jaws, only instead of going toward darkness, I stepped out into the light. Mikayeal was also experiencing a sunny period. Selling his series of paintings was like a Hanukkah miracle for him. I knew this for a fact. What I didn’t know was how much it was going to affect my life.

  The drive to Tel Aviv was smoother than ever, probably because it was a holiday. Twenty thousand fewer people on the road. Mikayeal would be pleased if I arrived earlier, no doubt about it. In my head, I went over my ‘to do’ list, considering what day would be good for the Hanukkah party. If Robbie brought back a trophy today, it could double as his victory party and a way to divert attention from me. I called Dan's office manager. She was talking with her usual fake ‘here to please you' tone, which I detested.

  “Yes, sure. Of course,” she said as she promised to pass along the invitation to all the office staff and fax me a list of people who require a personal invitation. I also needed to take care of ordering a whole lot of holiday doughnuts for the evening after tomorrow, and book catering services. The most unpleasant part of my morning was when I called Avner and Lily, Dan’s parents. I was glad that his brother, Nathaniel, was far away in New York. I always viewed hosting as part of the role of being Dan’s wife - creating the image of a perfect little family. This task has always demanded maneuvering skills, elegantly dodging the predictably poisonous remarks of his mother and brother.

  I drove carefully between the two rows of cars tightly parked at the sides of the narrow street. Avoiding bumping into them demanded my full attention. I was hoping no one had taken my reserved parking spot. The figure that popped up out of nowhere scared me to death. I was so preoccupied with my thoughts and driving that I didn’t recognize Mikayeal. With his droopy beard and skinny body, he looked like a homeless person off Tel Aviv’s streets. Few people knew how gifted a painter he was. I so hoped he’d use the money he got from the paintings I sold to buy supplies and food rather than vodka. I had to remind myself over and over that I could never be his mother. Our relationship was strictly business. My dealings with him had to be clearly confined, or he would flee again, running away from this convenient arrangement he had with the gallery.

  Mikayeal was examining me closely as I stepped out of the car. It seemed he could see right through everything going on in my mind. Was I that transparent? And if Mikayeal could see right through me, did it mean that Dan could, too? For a moment, I considered postponing this adventure until after business hours, but it was no use. I was not able to let it go.

  I went into my office and began my day’s work. I paid bills, answered emails, and called some artists about a group show I was planning for January. The fax with the list of businessmen I was supposed to call was already waiting for me. I folded the list and placed it inside my purse. I was trying to convince myself that I had time to deal with it, but I didn’t really believe it. Two hours later, I headed out to pick Pierre up from the airport. I’ll see him soon, I thought. It filled me with happiness; I turned on the radio and started drumming on the steering wheel to the beat of a familiar, jazzy tune.

  Midway to the airport, it started to drizzle. Autumn drops. I prayed it would stop by the afternoon so Robbie’s tournament would not be cancelled, but the drizzle matured into rain and began to pour harder. A cloudburst shot raindrops on my windshield. They felt, to me, like they were descendants of the raindrops that fell on my car on another journey to meet Pierre. I was only a young student then, totally consumed by a wild affair with her professor. What started as a physical attraction soon became a love story. We were celebrating our first month’s anniversary, and Pierre sent his limo for me and my one and only suitcase, so I would be able to wake up every morning in the warmth of his room, by his side. It was a cold and stormy day. Moving from my tiny, fifth floor, no-elevator-and-a-finicky-heater Paris flat to his luxurious mansion on the outskirts of Paris, was extremely alluring. Still, I could not shake off an unsettling feeling. It is not easy earning total freedom, just to give it away to avoid waking up with chattering teeth, or because you are in love with the most wonderful man in the world. I continued paying the rent for another year. It was hard for me to be fully confident with Pierre’s motives. It took him two more years to disarm the doubting girl from Or-Ye’Hudah lurking within me.

  ***

  I reached the airport. You could feel the holiday atmosphere in the arrivals hall. The terminal was busier than usual. With my eyes shut, the sound of tiny suitcase wheels spinning across the floor sounded like rolling thunder on the horizon. Locating Pierre was useless. I looked up his flight number on the big screen. Surprisingly, the plane had landed on time, so I walked straight toward the incoming passengers' entrance. I felt as smitten as a schoolgirl. No matter how many men wander across my path, Pierre will always have his place in my heart.

  He did not look like he had just landed from a long flight. His suit, probably haute couture, was crease free. He looked as if he had just stepped out of his dressing room, spotlessly clean, ironed, and smelling of expensive cologne. He put his bag down by his legs and opened his arms to embrace me. I glided in as if it was my natural habitat. It did not feel like twenty years had passed since these hands last embraced me, making me feel like it was only us in this big world. We had only one shot at an embrace like this before others entered our world, I sank deep into the nook under his chin, one of his arms surrounding my neck and the other wrapping my back. I inadvertently kissed his neck and took a deep whiff of his scent.

  He sat next to me in my little cozy Lexus, which undoubtedly was no match for his fleet of automobiles. He probably wasn’t impressed, given that he employs two mechanics whose only responsibility was keeping his cars immaculate, but for me it added a sense of security.

  “Tell me a bit about the client.”

  “Well, his name is Sergey Vlotzky. He im
migrated to Israel not long ago. He has offices that he remodeled recently, and according to him, he’s missing that last touch of luxury.”

  “Ah, a Russian oligarch who needs to show off his wealth. I was acquainted with a few of them in Paris. They never were my cup of tea… to say the least.”

  “He knows quite a bit about art and genuinely enjoys it.” I was relieved my eyes had to be on the road; otherwise he would have seen right through me and detected what I was trying to conceal.

  “I knew a man who fell so madly in love with a painting, he went on and killed the painter… Of course, nothing was proven. Though, he did bother to say ‘Now I know I have the most precious art piece, and I won’t have to sit and watch this artist deteriorate…’” Pierre interjected.

  “Sergey is completely different,” I persuasively announced, “He purchased many of Mikayeal’s paintings because something in them spoke to him!”

  “Are you pitching this to me?” His voice held a subtle tone of amusement.

  “No... no, I really do think he likes the subject.” You’re making a mistake, I said to myself. You’re trying to sell Sergey to the wrong person.

  “I’ll keep my mind open.” I knew him well enough to recognize his reserved tone.

  “He won’t just pick the most expensive piece you show him. He’ll try to connect with it.” I continued to stare at the road. Pierre could read between my lines. I knew that, with these words, I had already revealed more than I should.

  “Gabrielle, mon chérie,” he said, almost whispering, “I really hope you know who you’re dealing with.” Then he was silent. I knew it meant he was disappointed. Was he on to me? Had he figured out my interest in Sergey was not just professional anymore? I felt an urgent need to deny it. “When you were teaching me how to be a professional art dealer, you used to say that recognizing the buyer’s type is as important as choosing the art for him.” I gave him a quick look. “I’m only doing what you taught me to do...”