But if he says that the research has been done and the game pieces are in place, I trust him.
He's not one to lie about something so important.
As I pace around the kitchen, my mother comes downstairs to grab some lunch, and I decide to give it one last shot.
4
Dante
Mom and I haven't talked for a while, not since the last time she threatened to call the police. But I wondered if she would be more amenable to the situation if she knew more about it. Perhaps it's worth the risk of sharing why I needed the money.
"Can I talk to you?" I ask, sitting down next to her as she opens a small Yoplait yogurt.
She has been eating these for breakfast ever since I can remember, always picking at the metal lid very carefully with her long manicured nails. Today is no exception. She gives me a small knowing smile and a nod.
"I wanted to tell you why I needed the money; it has nothing to do with gambling."
She raises an eyebrow.
She knows about my past and Lincoln's past. Hell, she knows that it was our father who taught us how to lose vast amounts of money very quickly around a card game.
"I was trying to do something good. I haven't gambled in over a year and I'm not going to."
"Okay, I'm listening.” She nods.
Dressed in a cashmere pajama set, her hair falls slightly around her face. Her makeup has already been flawlessly applied. I don't remember her ever leaving a room without a full face and I actually wonder if I'd even recognize her that way now.
"I needed the money to help Jacqueline."
"Jacqueline needed $200,000?” she asks, crossing her hands in front of her. I owe a total of $350,000 but I only borrowed two hundred from my trust fund.
"You have to listen, okay?"
"Okay.” She nods, taking another small spoonful of yogurt and swirling the fruit steadily.
“She told me that her mother was sick. She didn’t ask for anything and this was before she even knew who I really was. She was very ill and she needed an experimental surgery at a clinic in Minnesota. It is really hard to get approved and you have to pay for it up front.”
"Okay, I'm listening.” Mom licks her lower lip and puts her gaze back squarely on my eyes.
"I didn't want her to know that I was paying for that. I thought she would say no and I wanted her mom to get the surgery if it was the right thing, so I just called them. I knew her last name and I paid in full, completely anonymously.
“Unfortunately, there were complications. She had to be sedated for a while and there were more medical bills. Then Jacqueline found out that it was me. She was angry and upset. She thought that I should have told her and perhaps I should have, but I didn't and what was done was done.
“I decided to pay the rest anyway, whatever the additional costs would be, because there's no way that she could have. I thought that I could put it back before you noticed."
"Put it back how? Were you going to gamble again?"
"No," I snap at her, "I was going to work really hard, put in a lot of hours at work, take a lot of cases. I was waiting for a startup that I invested in to sell. There’re only a few more pieces of paperwork but it's getting held up. I was going to put back every cent, Mom.”
She glares at me.
“I wasn't stealing money from you or from my future and I wasn't gambling. And I know that I'm a difficult person to trust based on all the lies and everything that I put you through. But this was a nice thing I was doing. I was helping her."
"What happened to her mother?" Mom asks.
There's an actual sound of concern in her voice, which throws me off a little bit. It seems so unnatural and unfitting.
"She recovered. She has to have lab work done and get checked every three months for now, but so far so good. The turnaround has been 180 degrees. This treatment really helped and she probably wouldn't be alive without it."
"Well, then you did a good thing," Mom says, tilting her head.
"I'm just asking for your help, for some lenience. If the startup is bought, then I'll have the money to pay you back. I've invested more than ten percent of my salary into it and it's going to pay off big."
"Yeah, but you don't know when that's going to happen," she says.
"Mom, I'm not trying to threaten you but this is the deal. I don't have any other way to pay you back this money, so if you say that you're going to go to the police at the end of this month, what do you expect me to do?"
"I expect you to put it back. I expect you to borrow it from some of your friends or acquaintances or your boss, but I don't expect to be on the hook for this wonderful gift you gave Jacqueline and her mother. I mean, of course it's a nice thing to do…"
“But you’re doing all this philanthropy work. You're always helping people,” I protest.
“Yes, but in this case you took money out of my account and you helped without my consent. And I really don't appreciate it. Not when you've put me through you know what sort of hell in the past, Dante."
Her lips tense up and form a thin line across her face.
I'm not getting through; she has heard my plea and she doesn't give a shit. I'm not sure what else I can do, but I try again and again.
"Why can't you just give me an extension? I'm not saying I'm not going to pay you back, but you realize that you're pushing me back into gambling."
"This is what your addiction has pushed you into. Besides, it is not my job to make things easier for you. Life is full of obstacles. And if you had taken this money from a complete stranger, you wouldn't expect them to do you any favors, would you?"
"Of course not, but you're not a complete stranger. You're my mother and I'm asking you for help. I did a good thing. I saved this woman's life."
"Listen, you and I both know that you did this to help Jacqueline. If she were a woman on the street, you wouldn't give a fuck."
"So what?" I say, "I still helped her, and not that many people could or did."
"I don't know why you're yelling at me, Dante. I listened to your story, I'm sympathetic to the plight, but I expect that money to be back in my account by the end of the month. I don't do favors for people. If I did, I wouldn't be as rich as I am. The money I give, I give freely and you didn't bother asking me.”
I shake my head, not wanting to believe her.
“And you know that that trust fund is for you when you're older. If I hadn't protected and guarded it so carefully all these years, you know what money would be left in there? Your father would have squandered it all and later on, you would have squandered it all. It's decisions like these that protect that money for your future self and someday, your children, and your wife, and your whole family will be very grateful.”
I ball up my fists wanting to punch her and force myself to take a few steps away to keep a hold of my anger.
“You have until the end of the month or I’m going to the police.”
5
Jacqueline
Richard's party is the last place I want to go, but I don't have any options. I have no interest in going back to Mom’s and having a big fight, and Dante, Lincoln, and Marguerite have made it perfectly clear that they will be attending.
I know that Lincoln feels uncomfortable about this, but once Marguerite found out who Richard really is and all of the films that he scored, and all the pop songs that he wrote, she can't be persuaded to stay home.
Maybe it'll be fine, I say to myself, as I get ready upstairs.
Dante's in the bathroom ironing his jacket. I have one other dress that would be somewhat passible for the dinner party, so the decision of what to wear isn't a big one.
It's a simple navy blue dress that's cut right above the knee. It flairs a little bit and has short cap sleeves. It would be quite modest if it didn't have a plunging front and back, but it's a beach party and everyone's letting loose a little.
I washed my hair and blow-dried it, something I haven't done in a long time. I run a straightener throu
gh it to make sure that it doesn't frizz, but it sort of does anyway. The humidity is a killer here.
The door opens just a little bit after a slight knock, taking me by surprise, and then closes.
I walk barefoot on the carpet and stick my head out to see who it is.
"Hey, sorry about that," Marguerite says. "I was on my phone and I was headed to the linen closet."
She looks beautiful. Her hair falls slightly around her face. She's tall and statuesque and wearing a chiffon light pink dress that looks stellar in comparison to her tan skin.
"You look great," she says with a smile.
"Thanks. It's the only thing I have. I didn't realize we're going to be going to this party until it was too late."
"No worries. You look beautiful. What about shoes?"
"Definitely heels," I say, pointing to the ones standing in the corner.
"Those are great pumps."
"How about you?" I ask.
"Nope. Heels are a no-no for me. My feet are super swollen, so flip-flops is all I can manage right now.”
I ask her how she’s feeling and pretend that I can’t tell she’s exhausted.
When Dante comes out of the bathroom, he looks magnificent in his well-tailored suit, his slim-cut pants and the loose-fitting shirt that's open slightly at the top. The linen grayish color looks like a suit that you wear only in the summer at the beach, and I love the way that it brings out his eyes.
Marguerite knows about the letter, and when I put on my shoes and take one last look at myself in the mirror, she asks me about it.
"I'm not sure what to do," I say. "It came out of the blue, and I have no idea how to pursue it."
"Going to the post office should give you some answers, and maybe to the police."
"Yeah. Those are the two things that I have on my list, hopefully tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Dante asks.
"Yeah. I want to do this as soon as possible."
"Well, you know, the post office isn't going to be open. It's Sunday."
"Okay, Monday then. But I can't wait much longer."
She keeps asking me questions as we head downstairs and toward the car, questions that I have no way to answer. She asks me about my brother and about our relationship and what he was doing before he died.
"We were very close. We spent a lot of time together, and we were best friends. He worked in finance, a normal type of job. Hedge fund, kind of like Lincoln. Nothing about it was unusual. He put in a bunch of hours and got a good salary in return."
"You don't think that this letter has anything to do with his work?” Marguerite asks.
"I don't think so. The police said that they interviewed a few people, but he didn't have any problems at work.”
After a little while, I have to actually ask her to stop talking about him.
I'm trying to put myself in the mindset of going to this party, and I can't do that if I'm dwelling on what happened with Michael or what I should do or shouldn't do going forward.
We take two separate cars over there, and I keep kicking myself for letting things get so heated with my mom. We rarely fight.
Of course, we have disagreements, but we talk about them. But in this case, she just sort of snapped, and though I don't think I should apologize, this feeling of where we go from here and what do I do to make things right keeps weighing on me.
The road is quite busy with a lot of lights and people heading out for Saturday night.
There's a long line of cars right ahead of us, and I cringe at the fact that all of these people are going to turn into Richard's driveway, but they don't.
They keep going.
Apparently, there's a bigger party somewhere down the way.
There’re no other cars in the driveway, and we pull in and park around the fountain. Before I can even press the doorbell, Allison swings the door open and invites us inside.
She's dressed in a vintage-style cocktail dress with curls framing just the outside of her face. In an afternoon, she has somehow turned into a 1950s housewife from Leave It to Beaver, only a little bit more glamorous.
"This is nice," I say, touching the hem of her dress.
"Yes, Richard and I went shopping earlier since I didn’t have anything to wear. It’s Chanel.”
"Yeah, of course.” I nod and give her a hug.
When I introduce Allison to Marguerite, they shake hands and Allison acts perfectly fine and sweet, and then says hello to Lincoln.
"Oh, you two have met?" Marguerite asks, surprised.
I clench my jaw, thinking that a mistake has been made, but Allison just shrugs and says that Lincoln was here with me and Dante earlier this afternoon when we came looking for her.
Yes, of course, I nod to myself.
I'm not very good at this, but everyone else seems to be completely fine.
Richard is the life of the party.
He pours everyone drinks, makes cocktails, says witty things and shows us the magnificent view of the dark ocean spreading in front of his house.
Two servers with trays of hors d'oeuvres and a few more guests show up. There's another couple from the music industry who are renting what they refer to as a cottage just down the street.
Another couple shows up a few minutes later, and when I talk to Leanne, she tells me that she's a writer. This catches my attention.
I like music, but I love to read.
"What kind of books do you write?" I ask as we hold our glasses of rosé and pick up an hors d’oeuvres.
It's a small cracker with olive oil and rosemary, along with a fancy cheese, the name of which I don't know. It's smooth and creamy, but not at all smelly. It goes perfectly with the rosé.
"I write romantic suspense novels," Leanne says, taking a bite and then making a moaning sound enjoying it. "My husband used to be an attorney, but now he’s joined me in the business."
"What business?" I ask.
"Well, we publish my books and run the advertising and marketing campaigns. He analyzes how the ads go. It's a whole business."
"Oh, wow. So you publish them yourself?" I ask.
She nods. “Yes, it’s called independent publishing."
I nod, intrigued.
"I usually write long sagas spanning many books, usually five or six following the same couple, their trials and tribulations. I put them through a lot of ups and downs, the more the better.”
"Oh, I love that.” I nod. "And you write under Leanne?"
"Yes. It’s my real name. I've always wanted to be a writer. It's something that I have done for years. Wrote short stories, young adult books, tried to get an agent for ages and well, frankly, now I'm incredibly thankful that that never worked out."
"Why is that?" I ask.
"We're doing really well. My husband was able to quit his demanding job, which he hated, and we're just growing our sales, writing more books, trying to find more readers, and I get to live this dream life. Of course, I don't have a house like this. This is major music studio money, but I make a living doing what I love, and that's all that matters."
I feel like Leanne is something of a kindred spirit. I tell her about my own interest in journalism and the difficulty I've had in finding a job and how much I've always just loved working on stories and writing as well.
"What I would say is if you're interested in writing fiction, people do quite well publishing thrillers, suspense novels, that kind of thing. I can help you get started, point you to some resources. There are quite a lot of courses and books on the matter. There are easier ways to make a living, so only pursue it if you really love to write, and you can write a lot."
"Huh." I nod my head.
I've never considered that as an option. Of course, I've read plenty of detective stories. I even love writers like Kendra Elliot and Willow Rose, who mainly publish on Amazon. I've devoured their books, so maybe this could be a good option for me, too.
“Could I email you sometime?" I ask, taking out my phone.
She
nods. "Yes, of course. Actually, on my website, I have a lot of resources for authors as well for writers and people who want to learn how to write, so I'd encourage you to check them out."
She gives me the name of her website along with her contact info, and afterward, I feel like I've made a friend.
I ask her more about her work and her daily life, and she talks to me.
She tells me about her routine, getting up before the kids wake up to get some quiet time to work.
"You have kids?" I ask.
"Yeah. Three kids, so with my husband and I both working from home, it's kind of a challenge."
"Wow, that's amazing."
"But there are lots of women making it work, and frankly, these stories and worlds, they lift me out of my everyday life.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, giving her my phone for her to type in her contact info.
“Don't get me wrong, I love my family,” Leanne says. “But there's something about being immersed in another world. I think it's the reason why my readers love to read my books and just love to read in general. You just get to escape, get to be somewhere else. It's the reason we watch Netflix, movies, etc. I'm so thankful and grateful for what I have and for what my readers give back to me, by reading my books, by writing reviews, by emailing me and telling me how much they enjoyed them and couldn’t stop binging.”
"So you write page-turners?" I ask.
She nods vigorously. "Of course. I love the slow burn parts as well, but page-turners, they kind of create a lot of drama. I like that. I like to end chapters on sort of what's going to happen next. I like to keep people reading, staying in the world for as long as possible."
I want to talk to Leanne all night, but her husband pulls her away because the babysitter has called and she excuses herself.
"Leanne is amazing." I walk over to Allison. "Have you talked to her? She's a writer, and she actually makes a living writing fiction. Can you believe that?"
Allison stares at me. She has never been much of a reader.
She likes to read a few books here and there whenever she goes on vacation or anything like that, but she's always preferred television and movies and, most of all, magazines.
Dark Sins Page 3
