This Life: A Novel
Page 3
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Seven hundred million dollars.
At about three o’clock in the afternoon, the Wishman family quoted that amount as their selling price. By half past four Charles still hadn’t been able to haggle them down any more. With her post-divorce assets Blake couldn’t buy the Wishman Spears building single-handedly, but she felt optimistic that she could probably put up enough collateral to obtain a bank loan for the rest. Or she could recruit one or more investors to put up the remainder.
“Tell them it’s a deal. Give them my real estate attorney’s name and telephone number, and tell them I can meet with them anytime they choose to close on this.” Blake’s hand trembled after she ended the BlackBerry’s connection with Charles.
Seven hundred million dollars…was one hell of a lot of money, even for Blake. However, for more than a decade she’d dreamed of everything she could do with a building like the Wishman Spears. This was an opportunity she simply couldn’t let pass her by.
Only one aspect of seizing this opportunity troubled Blake: she’d be forced to spend a few days away from her mother.
Jacinta Bertrand was a fiercely independent woman. Some mothers of daughters who become wealthy would gladly take up a life of luxury at their offspring’s expense. Not Jacinta. Until July 4 of the previous year, she kept her job as a nurse at South Miami Hospital, leased a modest apartment, and did all her own cooking and laundry and shopping. Her only benefit from Blake’s success, which she accepted only after the most impassioned argument mother and daughter ever had, was that Blake hired a maid to clean Jacinta’s apartment three times per week.
Everything changed when a drunk driver collided head-on with Jacinta’s car on her way home from work. Jacinta barely survived, and more than half a year later she still had months of physical therapy ahead of her.
“I wonder if the Wishmans would consider coming to Miami to close the deal. That way I wouldn’t have to leave Mom.” As the Fisher Island ferry pulled away from its Miami harbor dock, Blake tied on a silk kerchief to keep the wind from slapping her long hair all over her face.
She’d been thinking aloud when she spoke. Matt, the bodyguard assigned to protect her tonight, answered anyway. “Looks to me like your mother has the best medical care money can buy. I think she’d be all right if you go to New York for a few days.”
“I know her nurses are the best. I hired them myself. But she’s my mother, not theirs.”
Matt slanted a sly grin at Blake. “They’re getting paid a lot better to take care of your mother than they’d be to take care of theirs.”
Blake rolled her eyes at him, but couldn’t help smiling afterward. “Probably true, but I’ll feel better if Mom says she doesn’t mind.”
When the ferry docked at Fisher Island, Blake strolled past two of the Olympic-standard tennis courts, a five-star restaurant, and part of the nine-hole golf course designed by P.B. Dye. Peacocks wandered the island freely, and one of them gave voice to a call as Blake and Matt walked by it.
A peacock’s call sounds like a woman screaming, and this was only Matt’s second time guarding Blake. Matt nearly jumped out of his skin, and trailed after Blake grumbling inventive profanity the rest of the way to the condo Blake rented for her mother.
“Hola, Señora Bertrand,” the housekeeper greeted them after Blake rang the doorbell. The housekeeper, Riza, was second-generation Cuban-American, like Jacinta Bertrand. “Your mami has just had her dinner, so the nurses must be bathing her now. Have a seat in the parlor and I’ll call you when they’re done.”
“Gracias,” said Blake. She led Matt into the parlor, and they sat looking out the large window at the sunset over the Atlantic, until Riza called Blake’s name.
“I should only be a few minutes, Matt.”
“Take your time.” Matt flashed his smartphone at her. “I’ll just browse news and sports until you’re ready to go home.”
Blake nodded and left the bodyguard to entertain himself. She climbed the stairs to the second floor and paused at her mother’s open bedroom door. Though it was February, the air conditioning whispered from the ceiling vent. Jacinta liked to sleep in a cold room, burrowed under a thick pile of blankets. A lamp on the bedside table glowed its dimmest setting, which meant the room was dark except for a circle of thin shadows that revealed Jacinta’s head resting on her pillow.
“Come on in, mija,” Jacinta called to Blake. “I promise not to die of a surprise visit from my daughter.”
Sitting in one of the bedside chairs, wrapped in a heavy quilt, the night nurse gave Blake an encouraging smile. “It’s true, the old dear is tougher than you think she is.”
Blake settled into the other bedside chair and took her mother’s hand with practiced gentleness. “How was your day, Mami?”
“Like any other day of physical therapy, I suppose.” Jacinta shrugged her right shoulder, which was further along in healing than the left. “Brutal. They make me beg for death and then don’t give it to me. But then, good physical therapists do that.”
They shared a little laugh, and Blake decided her mother was beginning to sound like her old self again. Looking like her old self was still somewhere in the future.
“What about you, girl? How did the divorce hearing go?” Jacinta opened her eyes wider than before and fixed a don’t-hold-back stare on Blake.
“There’s good news and bad news.”
“Let’s hear it, good news first.”
“I got a restraining order against Lang. Only for one year.”
“Mierda!” Jacinta rolled her eyes. “You should be given a restraining order for life.”
“A year is better than nothing, Mami.” Blake patted her mother’s hand. “Ready for the bad news?”
“Is anyone ever ready for bad news?”
“My mami the philosopher,” Blake observed to the night nurse, and they exchanged smiles. Jacinta’s spirits were undeniably improving as time went by.
“Well, tell me.”
“Lang got to keep Bertrand as his last name.”
Jacinta Bertrand exhausted her supply of Spanish curses and had to supplement with a few choice words of English, ending with “Scum-sucking son of an unwashed whore.” She rested for a minute, while Blake fought to keep herself from laughing, then Jacinta added, “I only pray your father doesn’t know.”
“I hope he doesn’t know, too.” Blake’s gaze wandered to the framed photograph of Theo Bertrand next to the bedside lamp. He sat at a candlelit piano, a faraway dreamy expression mellowing his deep-set eyes and angular features. That photograph had been taken during his first public performance of “Nothing But You,” a soulful jazz love song he’d composed for Jacinta when they’d still been teenagers. She sighed, then said, “Mami, something else happened today.”
Her mother gave Blake’s face a searching look. “Something you’ve wanted, but the timing could be better?”
The night nurse winked across Jacinta’s bed at Blake. Jacinta was notorious for making guesses that seemed almost psychic in their inexplicable accuracy.
“Don’t look so surprised. You’re my only child. I’ve been reading your thoughts in your face all your life.” Jacinta closed her eyes. “Out with it, mija. I’m worn out and can’t stay awake much longer.”
“I’ve been invited to buy a building in New York City that I’ve wanted for years and years. I’ll ask the owners to come here to sign all the paperwork. But if they aren’t willing to do that, will you mind if I go to New York for a few days?”
Cracking one eye open, Jacinta leveled an astonished gaze at Blake. “Sweetie, all day long I’m taking physical therapy. By the end of the day I’m ready to fall asleep the second I get into bed. I’m not able to talk to you for more than a few minutes a day, anyway. You go on to New York and enjoy being free of that donkey’s ass you called a husband. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure, Mami?”
“In fact…” Jacinta opened both eyes wide again. “Why stay only a few days? You
used to love New York, didn’t you? Just not the modeling scene?”
“Yes, Mami, but—”
“But nothing! You’re lucky enough to afford to travel, and stay weeks or even months anywhere you please. Go enjoy New York for a while. Maybe by the time you come back to Miami, I’ll be ready to go out dancing with my girlfriends.” Jacinta Bertrand smiled, and a serenity softened her face as she closed her eyes again. “One thing is sure, when I’m recovered I’m going to celebrate the fact I’m still alive. I lived to see my daughter get away from a vicious, brutal bastard who never loved anything but controlling her and spending her money. I thank God for sparing me, Blake, and for sparing you, too. Now kiss me good night and go pack your bags for New York.”
Blake stood and leaned down, brushing her lips against her mother’s cheek. “Good night, Mami. I love you so much.”
“Will you do me one favor before you go?” From the sound of her voice, Jacinta was already half-asleep.
“Anything. You just name it, Mami.”
“Put your father’s record in the CD player for me, then. Good night, sweetie.”
Blake went to the entertainment center lining the wall across from Jacinta’s bed. She could have found the CD of the only record her father’s jazz band ever made by touch alone—the plastic case had concave spots worn into it where thumb and forefinger had held it so many times over the years. For a moment she studied her father’s face again, in the band portrait that comprised the cover art. Theo Bertrand wore a guitar-shaped keyboard strapped over his shoulder, his band mates surrounding him. Raven Glory, the band’s name had been.
“In Old French, Bertrand means ‘glorious raven,’” Theo had told four-year-old Blake, when she’d asked why he gave his band such a weird name.
She plugged the CD into the player and descended the stairs as the first sensuous notes of “Nothing But You” began to play.
Chapter Three
February 23
Miami, Florida to New York, New York
No matter how many times Blake got on an airplane, she always loved the whole experience. Her favorite part was takeoff: the acceleration pushing her back in her seat, the nose of the plane tipping up as the aircraft flirted with peeling away from the ground, the roller-coaster thrill in her gut as the Earth appeared to fall away from her. She always requested a window seat for the best possible view and, until the plane reached an altitude at which scenery details were no longer visible, she sat with her nose pressed against the glass.
“The glorious raven flies again,” she murmured.
“Say again?” Matt, one of the three bodyguards assigned to accompany Blake to New York, lifted one earpiece of the headset he’d plugged into his smartphone.
“I just love flying.” Blake glanced at him and bent her head, realizing she was as excited as a small child and feeling a bit embarrassed about it.
“Buy a private plane and earn a pilot’s license,” suggested Suki, another bodyguard newly assigned to Blake, from the seat behind her.
With a shock, Blake realized she’d never considered that idea before, and for a moment she wondered why. Then the obvious answer occurred to her: Oh, right, Lang never would have let me have that much freedom of movement while we were married. But—she grinned at the thought—that’s not an obstacle anymore!
“You know, I think I’ll do that.” Blake turned half around in her seat and gave Suki a thumbs-up. “Thanks for the suggestion!”
“Eh, you would have thought of it yourself, sooner or later.” Suki shrugged. Half a second later she appeared to be deep in meditation.
Blake shivered, a little unnerved by the suddenness of Suki’s altered mental state. She turned her gaze to Antonio, her other bodyguard for her stay in New York. The manager of Blitz Security told her he’d chosen to send Matt, Suki, and Antonio to New York with Blake because the three frequently worked together and had such a good rapport that they seemed to communicate without speaking. Antonio glanced from Blake to Suki and back again. He mouthed the words, “She does that.”
Antonio then waved one hand in front of Suki’s closed eyes. “Don’t make me break your hand off your wrist,” Suki said sweetly, blank-faced and eyes still closed.
“She could really do that,” Matt told Blake. “Suki is a third-degree black belt in combat jujitsu.” He paused, then added, “That’s what American and British special ops soldiers use.”
“If Lang gets close enough to touch you, I’ll touch him instead,” said Suki, still without facial expression. “He won’t enjoy it.”
Blake hesitated. What the hell should I say to that? “Uh…thank you.”
“All in a day’s work.” Suki raised her hands, palms up, then let them fall to her lap. No other part of her body moved in the slightest.
I can’t even see her breathing, Blake realized. She shivered again, and busied herself with her BlackBerry on one knee and her iPad on the other. The flight stewards can’t take drink orders soon enough for me…
She forgot the spooky introduction to Suki, however, as she discovered a new email from Charles.
As she waited for Charles to answer, her BlackBerry alerted her that she had a new text message. From Suki’s smartphone, and also sent to Matt and Antonio.
That woman makes my skin crawl. I’m glad she’s on my side. Blake turned her attention back to her email.
New message from Charles: <330k, 180k, and 117k.>
Blake gazed out the window at the clouds beneath the plane, considering the situation. Her latest bids were 120 percent of the FMVs for the properties. She expected her plans for the three Little Haiti properties to double their value immediately, with their worth increasing as she gradually revitalized the entire community. I can outbid the anonymous person by a small amount and still turn a profit soon after renovations are completed, she decided.
She plugged the BlackBerry into the nearest of the Delta’s first-class power outlets, recharging it while she browsed news using the iPad. Business news websites were rife with gossip that Blake Bertrand was about to buy the Wishman Spears building. Her photograph, as she’d looked the day of her final divorce hearing, was splashed all over the Internet.
“Good morning.” A smiling stewardess stopped the drinks cart next to Blake and Matt. “Can I get you a complimentary beverage?”
“I’d love a Grand Marnier Sidecar,” Blake answered, returning the smile.
“Nice try.” The stewardess laughed. “We’ve flown together before, Ms. Bertrand. Don’t you remember? And we’re still not equipped to mix cocktails; but I did tell Delta you asked about it.”
Blake faked a heavy sigh. “Well, I had to ask, you know. So…just beer, wine, and spirits still?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“A nice Cab would go down well, I think.” Blake nudged Matt, who tugged his headset off and arched his eyebrows. “Want something to drink, Matt?”
Matt shook his head. “I’m not supposed to when I’m on duty.”
“You’re not on duty until the night shift.” Blake winked at him.
“Go ahead,” Suki intoned. “She’s the boss. Antonio and I can keep watch on Big Eyes up there.”
“I’d love a Sam Adams.”
“Coming right up.” The
stewardess rummaged inside the cart for a few seconds, then handed Matt a chilled Sam Adams before pouring a glass of red wine for Blake. “If you need refills, just let a member of the steward team know.” She smiled and half-saluted, then pushed the cart along to the next row of customers.
Another stewardess handed Blake a second glass of wine, this one from the menu of drinks that cost extra. It was a Merlot with a heady aroma that made Blake’s mouth water. “This comes to you with compliments from the gentleman over there.” She gestured to the old man who’d been watching Blake ever since they’d been seated.
This time Blake’s sigh was genuine. “Please tell him I said thank you.”
“Want me to have a talk with him?” asked Suki.
“Not yet.” Blake sipped the Merlot. It was superb, so much so that she wondered what brand it was. “I’ll go speak to him. You can intervene if he tries anything, right?”
“Of course.”
Blake stood, slid past Matt, and stepped up to the old fellow who’d bought her a glass of expensive red wine. She raised the glass and murmured, “This was very kind of you.”
He paused to appreciate how she looked in her form-fitting Chanel suit before he said anything. Then he put out a hand and said, “Glad to do it, Ms. Bertrand, and glad to finally meet you. I’m Stan Walker. Maybe you’ve heard of me?”
She hadn’t, and he obviously didn’t know much about her either. Except that I’m rich and considered beautiful. “I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Walker, but I never shake hands.” Noticing that people in other seats were listening to the conversation, Blake added, “I always caught every bug going around, until my mother advised me to quit shaking hands. She’s a nurse. I haven’t been sick much since I started following her advice.”
“I’ll have to remember that. At my age, the old immune system isn’t as feisty as it used to be.” Walker chuckled. “Anyway, I’m a business journalist. It’s been a while since you’ve agreed to an interview with anyone.”