“No promises,” she replies. We walk a little farther. “Are you okay with that?”
I admit, “At the time, I’d have murdered you both. In cold blood. In retrospect, I can see how you’d have been good for each other. You were so high-strung and he was so . . . high. What happened? Why’d you break up?”
“He felt like he was being too disloyal to you, so it was just a summer thing.”
Oh. Poor Bobby. “Congratulations, you just broke my heart. I remember him going back to USC in a funk at the end of the summer and it finally makes sense why.”
“Super, glad it’s straightened out,” Kitty says in a businesslike manner. “Are you finally going to tell me about Sean?”
Now it’s my turn to stop. I’m not going to deny anything. “You knew? I mean, other than the morning you jumped to a massive conclusion? I never had him over after that. And we weren’t guilty that day—you have to believe me. We were not innocent, per se, but not guilty by any stretch.”
“Jack, I know everything that happens under my roof—you think I didn’t develop those skills elsewhere first?”
“Did Sars rat me out?” I ask.
“No, probably for the same reason she didn’t mention my fling with Bobby. She didn’t want to drive a bigger wedge between us.”
“God bless Sars.”
“Amen, Betsy.”
She shoves me gently and I shove her back.
I say, “So how did you . . .”
“The Acqua di Parma Colonia is how I figured it out. Every other frat guy was dousing himself in Polo or Hugo Boss at the time, while Sean exclusively wore the cologne he first found in Italy. You smelled like him all the time. Thank you for not throwing it in my face back then, BTW.”
“And you as well with Bobby.”
“How long did you guys date?”
“Off and on until about 2003.”
“Whoa! That long?”
“Yes. He came to Chicago for his residency at Northwestern and he wanted to get married. I wasn’t ready, I freaked out, I went to Iraq. We tried the long distance thing. Didn’t work. Game over.”
“You’re an idiot, Jack Jordan. No offense. He was a catch.”
“Well aware. I’ve been beating myself up about him since Shock and Awe. He said he’d wait, and he did. Thing is, I found life covering the front line easier to manage than being at home with my thoughts, especially when my mother tried to rejoin the picture. Out in the field, I’m all about basic needs. There’s no place for navel-gazing. At home, I worried all the time I might turn into her, or have to deal with her, and that I’d somehow screw up Sean’s life, too, but I was safe from all of that in Iraq. So I kept finding reasons to stay.”
“I wish I’d hit her harder,” Kitty mumbles. “Go on.”
“When it became clear I wasn’t returning to live in Chicago, I ended it. I couldn’t keep stringing him along. Then, a few years ago I was in a convoy and the reporter in the Land Rover ahead of me was killed. If I hadn’t gone back for my canteen, I would have been the one in the lead vehicle. I’d witnessed life and death before, but never from such a vantage point. Everything I hadn’t dealt with came to the surface and I thought, ‘What the hell am I waiting for with Sean?’ But I was too late. He was marrying someone else. She’s a buyer for Saks. She shops for a living. Given the choice, Sean ultimately opted for a girl.”
Kitty grabs me by my shoulders, with a force that surprises me. “How many times do I have to tell you to sign up for Facebook? If you did, you’d know his relationship status. He must be divorced now, because I just read an article about him in Chicago Magazine. He was voted one of Chicago’s Most Eligible Bachelors. Do you understand? He’s single. Jack, he’s single.”
I am stunned into silence.
“I have to figure out everything for you, don’t I?” She takes hold of my wrist and begins to yank me down the beach.
“What are you doing?” I yelp, stumbling in the sand while I try to keep up with her.
“We’re going back to the hotel to get on the Wi-Fi so you can get in touch with him. This instant. I’m not messing around here. Your future starts now.”
“Now?” I say, overcome with equal parts trepidation and anticipation.
“Right. Flipping. Now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Little Cayman Island
Saturday
“Feel free to crown me the Queen of I Told You So,” I say to Jack, who has yet to stop grinning like a complete loon.
“Did you know he was at Trip’s funeral?” Jack says. “He didn’t want to call attention to himself, or cause any trouble between us, so he sat in the back. But he was there, in the hope of spotting me.”
“That’s so romantic I could throw up in my handbag. Thank God you had on a decent dress. P.S., stop hugging me. You’re embarrassing us both.”
I don’t actually want her to stop. I feel like I have my first real best friend back.
She says, “You wish,” then squeezes me again for good measure. And I hug her back. “I’m seeing him the second we get home.”
“Again, you’re welcome. Then you’ll really be glad you listened to me about the razors. Kitty Carricoe is never wrong about this sort of thing. Fact.”
We hear the sound of a small plane coming in for a landing. Betsy was leaving the chartered private jet on Cayman Brac, taking a little prop plane over here because the other’s too big to land on this wee runway.
Wow, is this place seriously wild and practically uninhabited. No wonder Brooke Birchbaum was able to do her laundry on the beach. I swear I just saw a goat run past us. Not kidding. The airport is basically a shed, so I’m glad we haven’t had to wait here for long.
“At least stop beaming when Betsy lands. This is serious business,” I say, even though all I want to do is grab a Big Gulp full of Diet Coke and sit on the sand with Jack, reveling in every detail, while I may or may not quietly congratulate myself for having been the catalyst. I love romance. I do. I wish I’d made it more of a priority over the past few years.
Betsy’s agitated when she lands, understandably so. She’s not her usual polished self—untucked and disheveled, tottering around on impossibly high shoes not meant for walking on a grassy runway. She has us explain everything again from the beginning. “You two are friends again? Just like that?” she asks.
“Miracle, right?” I say.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Betsy replies.
“Are you bringing in a team?” Jack asks. “Won’t we need help getting him into custody?”
“Taken care of, no worries,” Betsy replies. She gestures toward the Jeep by the “airport” entrance. “This is our ride. Sorry it’s rustic, not a lot of choices on short notice here.” She finds the keys under the mat and consults her map. “He’s staying at an address on Point o’ Sand beach on the northern tip of the island.”
Jack and I look at each other and bust out laughing, as we know this is the exact pink sand–spot Brooke Birchbaum’s been bragging about for so many years.
Jack points to a tree. “Let’s grab some mangoes—we can eat them there afterward. Naked, naturally,” and we crack up again.
“Ooh, inside jokes. Fun,” Betsy says, an edge to her voice. Yet who could blame her for being upset?
“What’s our strategy?” Jack asks. “How are we doing this?”
“Follow my lead,” Betsy replies.
The island’s less than ten miles long, so we arrive at the property in a couple of minutes, obscuring ourselves behind a big patch of Spanish cedar. I’m surprised at the simplicity of the accommodations. I expected some windswept mansion on the water, a tropical version of Steeplechase, full of plantation shutters and banana leaf ceiling fans and butlers ferrying silver trays of iced beverages, the glasses thick with condensation. Instead, we’re camped out by a spring-br
eak-type beach shack.
“This is it?” Jack asks, also bewildered.
I’m still trying to put all the pieces of this mystery together. “Let’s talk this through again. Ingrid came down with the bags to load up at the bank, right? Jack says the international regulations have changed, but surely Trip had time to convert money from his offshore account to cash-filled safety deposit boxes. So he’s picking up the money here before heading out on the boat to somewhere with no extradition laws. Does that sound right? Would he take US dollars or Cayman Island dollars?” I ask. “Or maybe he’s already converted the cash to the currency of where he’s headed next.”
“All totally plausible,” Jack agrees.
Bets doesn’t seem to be in the mood for chitchat, so we wait quietly. We hear Trip and Ingrid crunching down the crushed shell drive before we see them drive up in their own Jeep, then watch as they unload all the duffels. When they’re both weighted down with bags, Bets gives the signal. “Now.”
We leap out of the car like we’re a bunch of Navy SEALS, which is a lot easier for those of us in sensible shoes and capri pants. We all run up to the couple and surround them. This? This is so much more exciting than anything the PTO has to offer!
“Hello, Trip,” Betsy says. “You’re looking well. Death agrees with you.”
“Hey, Sabby!” Trip says, grinning. He’s since shaved his head and grown a goatee, but with the trademark pastel sweater looped around his shoulders, he’s undeniably recognizable. “What are you doing here?”
“We could ask you that as well,” Jack replies, obviously confused by his answer. Shouldn’t he be panicked? Shouldn’t Trip be aghast that his fake death’s been uncovered? Jack and I trade glances, both of us silently shrugging.
“No way! The Miami margarita girl is here!” Ingrid adds, waving at Jack. “Small world!”
“You had to be stupid,” Betsy says to Trip, pacing unsteadily on her high heels. Uh-oh. Batcrap Breakup Betsy’s about to make an appearance. Jack and I gravitate toward each other.
“You couldn’t just stick with the plan,” Betsy says. “You had to freestyle and ruin everything. I had it all set up. It was bulletproof. Do you know how many people I had to pay off for that ‘plane crash’? And having the whole Gulfstream disassembled! Millions. The operation cost millions. But, no. You couldn’t just be happy on your own, waiting for me to join you after a reasonable interim. You needed the immediate company of a woman fifteen years your junior. A bimbo. And she’s still probably your better in terms of emotional maturity.”
“Who’s the bimbo here?” Ingrid asks, looking around. “Is it me?”
Breakup Betsy’s out in full force. Someone is getting something thrown at his head, and soon. P.S. Don’t get too attached to your car’s unslashed tires. “How long did you wait to get in touch with her? Two days? You had to be a fucking cliché, didn’t you?”
“Betsy, what’s going on?” I ask. None of this is unfolding like I’d envisioned. Jack seems equally flummoxed.
“What’s going on? Oh, I’ll tell you what’s going on. Golden Boy here started making bad investments about five minutes after I was ousted from CFG. His sexist old man didn’t believe that I’d earned my seat at the table, despite his not even being a board member. So, at Daddy’s behest, Trip bounced me. Asked me to ‘please understand.’ After that, Trip began to drink the media’s Kool-Aid that I’d set in motion from Day One and started to believe he’d built CFG on his own, just like he ‘earned’ his MBA on the back of my efforts.”
“Bobby nailed it,” Jack says quietly. “Whoa.”
Betsy’s not paying attention to either of us, her entire focus on Trip and Ingrid. “I’m telling you, Peter Pan here invested in some stupid shit. Want to know how much he wasted on a company that created online gyms? Four hundred and twenty million dollars. For a gym. Online. And not for a company whose apps allow customers to download workout guides to use in the privacy of their living rooms. Or software that tracks your effort and holds clients accountable for exercising. No. The gym offered virtual exercise. With an avatar.”
“But you could make the little guys do one-handed push-ups and they’d get all sweaty!” Trip argues. “It was hilarious!”
To Jack I say, “I always suspected Betsy was the brains of the operation.”
Betsy continues. “And that’s just a drop in the bucket of the bullshit you invested in; you were ruining the company I built, while cheating on me every chance you got.” She turns to us. “Two years ago, when this mouth-breathing moron realized what a mess he’d made, he came to me for help. He was in deep and it was only a matter of time before the SEC climbed up his ass. I wasn’t going to let that happen. Because even though he didn’t steal billions he was going to be destroyed for pissing them away. So I figured out how to buy time and temporarily prop up earnings by courting new investors at my charity events, using their funds to provide returns to earlier investors. I built a house of cards. I perpetrated fraud, yes, for my husband. Our lives on US soil would be over, but we could maintain our lifestyle abroad. All this idiot had to do was keep it in his pants for once.”
“He hit on me, you know, Betsy. Frequently. He sent me an e-mail right before the crash saying things were about to change and he wanted me by his side,” I tell her, trying to validate her point.
Trip seems offended. “No way, Jose! I flirted with you because Sabby told me to. No offense, but I don’t wanna hook up with someone’s mom. Ruins you down there. Sab said Ken was cheating on you and I should give you attention to make you feel better about yourself. But I never e-mailed you. That part’s messed up.”
I’m suddenly, profoundly, consumed with rage.
“You’re such a liar, Trip,” I shriek. “Ken is not cheating on me. Stop trying to deflect here and own up to your actions.”
Betsy snorts. “Honey, he is absolutely cheating on you. I caught your precious Ken one day about three years ago. I stopped by after hours because of a loose filling and walked right in on them.”
I feel like I can’t take a breath, no matter how hard I try to inhale. I’m light-headed and I fear I’m about to pass out.
No.
NO.
This cannot be true.
But what if it is? Damn it, I knew Brandi was bad news. I knew it! Is Ken a cliché, too, going through his own midlife crisis? Although, how would Betsy have caught him with Brandi? She hasn’t been with the practice that long. Were they an item before she was hired? I can’t—
“How do I put this delicately, Kitty? Someone was caught with his hand in the Cookie jar,” Betsy says with a laugh that seems awfully unkind.
Cookie? Oh, God, oh, God, that’s so much worse. Brandi makes sense. But the Harley-riding nana? Does not compute.
“If that’s true,” I sputter, trying desperately not to scream or cry, “then why didn’t you tell me? You’re my best friend; you’re supposed to have my back.”
“Like you had my back when you bailed on moving to New York?” Betsy snaps.
“It was part of the plan, wasn’t it, Sars?” Jack says. “Kitty, do you follow? Trip didn’t e-mail you. Sars did.”
At this point, my knees go out and I collapse on the pink sand. “I don’t understand any of this.”
Jack squats down next to me. “Plausible deniability. She likely cast a wide net, contacting every woman in his orbit with news that ‘things were about to change.’ She was putting it out there that he was about to bolt, thus making him look like the guilty party. That was her extra insurance policy.”
“The ever so clever Jack Jordan strikes again,” Betsy hisses. “But if you’re so smart, how come I got into Stanford and you didn’t?”
“You could have gone to Stanford without me. No one forced you to attend Whitney,” Jack says, rising to face her. “W3 is bullshit, too, isn’t it, Sars? Did you ever build any wells?”
Betsy shrugs. “A couple, in the beginning. But then this nimrod had to fuck everything up and I needed a way to funnel cash to countries with friendly governments willing to, let’s say, extend courtesies to potential new residents.”
“Everything has been a lie with you, hasn’t it?” I say, kicking myself for not having trusted my first impression of her back in college. “Each action has been a means to an end. You didn’t want Jack and me ever making up because you couldn’t have us comparing notes. You needed us to go back to our lives and not ask any questions. So you kept telling lies to keep us away or otherwise occupied. I would have leaned on you heavily if you’d told me about Ken. And Jack would have been back to the States years ago if you didn’t spin a yarn about some fake Saks-buyer fiancé.”
“That was a lie?” Jack asks.
“Our finding Trip alive ruined your plans to collect the insurance money before taking off before the SEC caught up with you. You spent everything to get ready to flee and you needed that money. Steeplechase is mortgaged to the hilt, isn’t it? Trust? I know what it looks like when someone’s in over their head financially.”
“So smart. You’re both so fucking smart,” Betsy spits.
“Flipping,” I say automatically, the second before I realize she’s holding a rather large handgun.
Urge to puke rising.
Jack is oddly calm. “You don’t have to do this, Betsy. Just take what’s in the bags and go. We won’t stop you.”
With her gun trained on Trip, Betsy inspects the bag’s contents, pulling out flippers and masks and oxygen tanks. “Where’s the cash?”
“What cash, Sabby?” Trip asks.
“The cash you were picking up from your secret offshore safety deposit box,” Betsy says.
“I have one of those?” he asks.
“Yes! Why else would you have your whore meet you at the bank this morning?” Betsy yells.
“Because it’s next to the dive shop and there’s free parking in the bank lot. You said I was supposed to be on a budget until we got to Brunei,” he replies. “Plus, Ingrid says the scuba diving here is amazeballs. Lotta shipwrecks and stuff.”
The Best of Enemies Page 29