by Joy Fielding
The elevator doors open to reveal a picture straight out of a design magazine: floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a magnificent vista of palm trees and purple bougainvillea, slate-gray marble floors, exposed steel girders, and a stunning, giant knotted-pine staircase suspended from the floor above. Six legless armchairs in a variety of DayGlo colors are grouped haphazardly around a large wooden coffee table in the middle of a royal blue area rug across from a reception desk made from the same huge wooden planks as the staircase behind it. “This is spectacular,” Olivia says to the young male receptionist, whose chin-length blue-black hair is cut on the diagonal.
“Isn’t it fabulous? We just love it,” he enthuses. “How can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Sean Grant.”
“Sean Grant,” the young man repeats, turning the name over on his tongue. “Don’t recognize the name. Do you happen to know what department he’s in?”
“He’s in Strategy.”
The receptionist scrolls through his computer. “I’m not seeing him.”
“He’s new. Just started last week.”
“You’re sure he’s in Strategy?”
“I thought so, but I could be mistaken. Maybe they call it something else.”
“No, they call it Strategy.” The receptionist smiles. “And he’s with this office?”
“You have other offices?” Olivia asks hopefully.
“Oh, yes. One in New York and one in Miami.”
“Oh, no. It was definitely in Palm Beach.”
“Well, then you’ve come to the right place. But I’m not seeing his name anywhere, which is very strange. You have an appointment?”
“Actually, no. I was hoping to surprise him.”
“And you’re sure he’s with Advert-X? Not another company in the building?”
“I…I…” Olivia begins, panic building in her chest as she absorbs the now undeniable fact that Sean has been lying to her for weeks, possibly even months, that he doesn’t work here, and that he has been getting up early every morning for the past week and a half to shower, shave, and dress before heading off to a job that doesn’t exist. She stumbles back toward the seating area, her heel catching on the area rug, sending her tumbling into a bright orange chair.
The receptionist is instantly on his feet. “Oh my God. Are you all right? Can somebody please get this lady some water?”
A small bottle of water suddenly materializes at Olivia’s lips.
“Take small sips,” the receptionist advises.
“I’m so sorry,” Olivia says, fighting the urge to throw up. “There’s obviously been a misunderstanding….”
“Is there a problem?” a voice asks from somewhere beside her.
Olivia lifts her head, absorbing the young woman now standing before her from the floor up, first the open-toed espadrilles, followed by the bare legs, the hot pink sundress, and finally, the bright red lips and high blond ponytail.
“Exactly the person who can help us,” the receptionist says.
No one can help, Olivia thinks.
“This is Carrie Pierce. She’s with HR. If there’s a Sean Grant anywhere at Advert-X, she’ll find him for you.” The young man returns to his desk.
“Sean Grant?” Carrie Pierce repeats, as Olivia pushes herself to her feet. “You’re looking for Sean Grant?”
“He’s here?” Olivia asks hopefully.
“The name is very familiar.”
“I believe you interviewed him for a position…?”
The young woman’s blue eyes look toward the partially exposed floor above, then back at Olivia. “Yes. That’s right. Now I remember.”
“So, he does work here,” Olivia states.
“No,” Carrie says, apologetically. “He didn’t get the job. No reflection on his ability. He just wasn’t a good fit. I’m sorry. You are…?”
“Not important,” Olivia says. “We obviously got our wires crossed.” She lowers the bottle of water to the table. “Sorry to have bothered you.”
“No problem.”
Olivia walks quickly toward the elevator.
“I hope you find him,” Carrie calls after her.
Oh, I’ll find him, Olivia thinks as she steps inside the elevator. Don’t worry about that.
Chapter Forty-seven
Julia Fisher leans forward in the straight-backed, but surprisingly comfortable, wooden chair and crosses her hands in her lap. She glances at the plaque on the far wall—You are not a guest in our facility; we are guests in your home—and then at the pleasant-faced middle-aged woman on the other side of the large paper-strewn desk. The woman had said much the same thing to her the last time she was here. “It was very nice of you to agree to see me again on such short notice,” Julia says, “especially after I was so rude the last time we met.”
“I don’t remember you being rude,” Carole Reid says, and seems to mean it.
“She was definitely rude,” Norman interjects from the chair beside his mother.
Julia smiles. “My son is right. I was angry at being blindsided, and I took it out on you.”
Carole shrugs. “Don’t give it another thought. Your son tells me you’ve reconsidered.”
“Let’s just say I’m…reconsidering,” Julia corrects.
“I thought we decided,” Norman says.
“We decided to reconsider.”
“Well, what can I do to help you make up your mind?” Carole asks. “Would you like another tour of the premises?”
“No,” Julia says. “That won’t be necessary. As I recall, everything was first-rate.”
“Well, then, do you have any questions?”
“I can come and go as I please?” Julia asks.
“Absolutely. You’re not a prisoner.”
“I’m allowed as many visitors as I want?”
“Of course.” Carole smiles. “We would ask that you refrain from any wild parties….”
“Yes, well, that could be a sticking point,” Julia says, accompanied by a smile of her own. “What if I don’t like it here?”
“I can’t imagine that being the case.”
“But if it is?”
“Then you’re free to leave. Although, of course, you would be responsible for the remaining months on your contract.”
“Of course.”
“Anything else?”
“Is the apartment furnished?”
“No. You can either choose to bring in your own furniture, or we can put you in touch with the company we used for our model suite. Would you like to have another look at it?”
“Yes, I think I would.”
Carole Reid pushes off her chair and comes around to the front of her desk. She’s casually dressed in black slacks and a loose-fitting turquoise blouse that accentuates the green in her eyes. “After you.” She motions toward the open door of her office. “Your lovely wife couldn’t join us today?” she asks Norman as they proceed through the spacious lobby.
“No old people smell,” Julia hears Poppy say.
“I came right from work.”
“I didn’t give him a lot of notice,” Julia says. In fact, her exact words to her son this morning had been, “If you still want me to move to Manor Born, you’d better get your ass over here as quickly as possible.”
“What’s Mark done this time?” came Norman’s immediate response.
“This isn’t about Mark,” Julia told him, choosing not to elaborate. “I repeat, do you still want me to move to Manor Born?”
Her son hadn’t asked any more questions. “I’ll call Carole Reid and set up an appointment for this afternoon.”
And so, here they are, in the elevator on their way to view the model suite. Is she seriously considering moving?
Why now?
Is Mark the reaso
n for her sudden change of heart?
The truth is that it’s not so sudden. She’s been thinking about the move ever since her last visit. She’d been far more impressed with Manor Born than she’d let on. It had everything: a gym, multiple pools, a small theater, a drama club, regular guest speakers.
And, of course, there’s Mark.
The fact that her grandson took off during the night without so much as a word of goodbye, that he made off with a handful of her jewelry and most of the cash in her wallet, that he hasn’t so much as phoned in the four days since he left, that he betrayed the trust she had in him, caused her to doubt every instinct she’s ever had, and made her feel every one of her eighty-four years, yes, that’s certainly part of it.
But the larger part, the main reason that Julia is considering the move, is that having her grandson around all the time has reminded her how lonely she’d been without him. The fact that he’s run off has only served to underline how lonely she’d be again.
And, much as she hates to admit it, her son is right about the house being too much for her to care for on her own. All those damn stairs. Her knees are always aching; her hips constantly sore. What if she were to fall? Or faint? She’s already spent two days in the hospital. She has no desire to spend any more.
“Would I have this view?” Julia asks, as they enter the one-bedroom suite.
“Identical,” Carole Reid says. “Just one floor down. But not all the apartments overlook this part of the grounds, so it would be a question of whether that particular unit is still available when you come to a decision.”
“We’ll take it,” Julia says.
“Well, that’s wonderful,” Carole says. “I’m delighted.”
“You’re sure?” Norman asks his mother.
“Absolutely.”
“Well, then. If you’ll just come back to my office, we can get started on the paperwork.”
“Wow,” Norman says, clearly relieved. “You’re just full of surprises today.”
“I do have some conditions,” Julia says.
“Conditions?”
Julia pats his hand. “We’ll talk about it on the drive home.”
* * *
—
She sees him even before they turn onto the small cul-de-sac.
He’s sitting on her front stoop, his straggly hair pulled into a neat ponytail, his long legs stretched out in front of him, a white plastic bag at his side.
“Well, what do you know,” Norman says, pulling his Tesla into the driveway as Mark jumps to his feet. “Looks like you were right.”
Julia is smiling too hard to reply.
“You still have to keep your end of the bargain,” Norman says. “We signed a lease….”
Julia nods. “If you could just open the goddamn doors…”
Norman presses a button and the doors lift up and out.
“Nana!” Mark says, rushing to her side and sweeping her into an almost suffocating embrace.
Julia reaches up to stroke her grandson’s cheek. “How are you, sweetheart? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I’m just so sorry.”
“Sorry about what exactly?” his father asks, joining them.
“There’s no need to get into that now,” Julia says. “Let’s just go inside….”
“For taking off in the middle of the night,” Mark tells his father. “For stealing a bunch of Nana’s gold chains and about a hundred dollars from her purse.”
“You stole from your grandmother,” Norman repeats, as if he’s known all along.
Mark retrieves the white plastic bag from the front stoop. He reaches inside it and pulls out several smaller clear baggies, each containing a single gold chain.
“You separated them?” Julia asks.
“Took about three hours!” Mark returns the baggies to the larger white one, then hands the bag to Julia. “Don’t get me wrong. When I left, I had every intention of pawning the damn things. But I kept seeing your face and…I just couldn’t let you down. I couldn’t let me down.”
“And the hundred dollars?” Norman asks, not about to be so easily mollified.
“Gone,” Mark admits. “But I’ll pay it back. I promise. I’ll get a job, do whatever I have to….”
“I have a better idea,” Julia says. “Come inside. There are some things we have to tell you.”
* * *
—
“I don’t understand,” Mark is saying, his face awash in confusion. “Why would you do something like this?”
“Because your grandmother is either a very foolish woman or a very wise one,” Norman says, smiling across the table at his mother. “She wouldn’t tell me why you left, but she kept insisting you’d be back.”
“But how could you know that?” Mark asks.
“Because I know you,” Julia tells him. “And I knew that, sooner or later, you’d find the change room.”
“What change room?” Norman asks. “What are you talking about?”
Mark smiles. “Long story.”
Norman sighs, accepting there are some things about both his mother and his son that he’ll never understand. “As to why your grandmother is doing this, it appears I’m not the only speculator in the family. Turns out your grandmother is an even bigger gambler than her son. I gamble on stocks. She’s gambling on you. And apparently, she’s done a significant amount of research these last few days, and this is the solution she feels works best for everyone.”
“Look. I get why Nana is selling the house and moving to Manor Born,” Mark says, repeating what has been explained to him, tears filling his eyes.
“But?”
Mark shakes his head in continuing disbelief. “But sending me to the Florida College of Culinary Arts in Miami, covering my tuition and living expenses…”
“As long as you stay in school and get your degree,” Norman stresses. “You drop out, you’re on your own.”
“I would never drop out.”
“Well, then, I guess it’s settled.” Norman pushes away from the table and stands up. “I’ll call Rainbow, get the ball rolling.”
“Rainbow?” Julia asks.
“Poppy’s sister. She’s a real estate agent.”
“Rainbow the Realtor?”
“Don’t start,” Norman says, trying—and failing—to hide a smile. “I’ll phone you tomorrow.”
“I’ll look forward to your call,” Julia says, realizing she means it.
“Are you sure about this, Nana?” Mark asks, after his father has gone.
“About as sure as I’ve ever been about anything.” Julia hugs her grandson to her side.
“Wow. I can’t believe it.”
“Are you happy, sweetheart?”
Mark smiles. “As a butterfly,” he says.
Chapter Forty-eight
Sean sits on a long leather bench at the rear of the narrow, dimly lit bar, his back against the cheap wood paneling of the wall behind him, a tiny round table in front of him, nursing a glass of vodka and trying to decide if it’s time to go home. He’s been here for the better part of an hour, holding this same drink, and the bartender has been throwing suspicious glances his way for the last twenty minutes. Any second, the guy is going to walk over to ask if he wants another drink. And then what? Twenty dollars is all the cash he has left, and he can’t very well charge it to his card. Not with Olivia going over their every expense with a fine-tooth comb. But he knows he can’t keep sitting here if he doesn’t keep buying drinks. He knows the rules. You sit; you drink. This isn’t a park bench, fella, he can almost hear the bartender sneer.
Except even park benches are off-limits to him now. Nowhere is safe. Not the beaches, not the parks, not the malls. There’s simply no telling who could show up where, who he might run into. He thought he was safe at the MacArthur Stat
e Park, and who should show up but one of his goddamn neighbors! A neighbor, for shit’s sake!
So, dimly lit, verging-on-seedy bars are about the only places left to him. His safe houses, he thinks, and almost laughs.
He checks his watch. Closing in on five o’clock. Another ten minutes and he should be good to go. Olivia has a meeting this afternoon in Fort Lauderdale, and with any luck, she’ll be late getting home. She’s picking up dinner again, which is great. Now that he’s supposedly working again, he’s no longer expected to prepare meals. One of the perks of the job!
But what will happen when his expected paycheck fails to materialize at the end of the week? What excuse will he give to Olivia then? He’s fresh out of options. He’s running out of time.
Maybe he should disappear, he thinks, swallowing what’s left of the vodka in his glass. Get in his car and just drive away. Where? And with what? The clothes on his back? Twenty dollars in his pocket? No, not even that, not once he pays his tab.
So running away isn’t the answer. And at almost fifty years of age, it’s a little late to turn to a life of crime. Not that he’d have any idea which way to turn. Some criminal he’d be! What’s he going to do? Hold up a 7-Eleven? A gas station? A grocery store? With what? His finger?
So, it appears he’s screwed, whichever way you look at it.
“Hey, there,” a voice—soft, husky, inviting—says from somewhere beside him.
He looks up to see a woman with long dark hair and a crooked smile staring down at him. She’s wearing a white T-shirt that’s at least two sizes too small and a tight black skirt that’s a good six inches too short. He marvels that he didn’t hear her approach.
“Penny for your thoughts?” she says.
He almost laughs. “Make that a twenty and you have yourself a deal.”
“Those thoughts must be pretty deep.”
“They aren’t.”
She smiles and wiggles in beside him. “Tough day?”
“Aren’t they all?”
She shrugs. “Some days are diamonds…”