Ines still hadn’t said a word to him; Carter went over to her but she remained seated, her arms drawn up across her chest. He didn’t try to touch her, but simply knelt at her feet like a supplicant, his arms propped on the armrest of her chair. Her head turned slowly. Finally, her eyes met his. “I just need a rest,” he said quietly. She nodded mutely, and then looked away again.
Ines and her children sat together until he was gone and they heard the distant sound of a bedroom door closing.
“Are you going to stay?” Lily said meekly to Merrill, after a moment. She let her head slump against Adrian’s shoulder. He cast his arm protectively around her.
“No,” Merrill said firmly. “Look, I’m sorry, you guys. But I’ve been up since five. I need to get home to Paul.”
Lily nodded. “Call me later?”
“Of course.”
Ines rose to her feet.
I’m leaving, Merrill thought. Even if she wants me to stay, I’m leaving. She winced as Ines came over to her. She’s going to insist. She’s going to wheedle and plead and I just can’t give in . . .
Ines reached out her hand. “Can I walk you out?” was all she said.
“Sure,” Merrill said. She breathed a sigh of relief and extended her hand to meet her mother’s. “I love you guys,” she said to Lily and Adrian before turning to go.
“We love you!” Lily called.
When they reached the front door, Ines said, “How’s Paul?”
“He’s all right. Well, I think he is. I’ll go home and check.”
Ines nodded. “You should.”
Then Ines began to cry, tears sliding down her cheeks. The tears caused her makeup to run, and her skin grew mottled, streaked with mascara and wet bronzer. A strand of hair had slipped from her bun. Merrill reached for it, intending to tuck it back behind her ear. Instead, she ended up with her mother in her arms.
“Oh, Mom,” Merrill said, as she embraced Ines. “Oh, Mom.”
“I don’t know how I got here,” Ines whispered. She clung to her daughter. Her voice was muffled against Merrill’s sweater. “I spent my whole life with your father. I put everything I had into our life together. And now it’s just gone, like nothing at all. I know this is all his fault. I know I should probably get the hell out of here, just leave him to deal with this nightmare he’s created. But where will I go? I have nowhere to go. And I know it’s crazy but I just can’t lose him now. He’s all I have. It’s just too much, losing your father, on top of everything else . . .”
Merrill rocked her mother’s body, as though she were lulling a baby to sleep. Her chin could almost rest on the top of Ines’s head. “Shhh,” she said gently. “Shhh.” She closed her eyes and thought how upsetting Lily would be to Ines right now. She hoped to God Lily couldn’t hear them.
“Will you ever forgive him?” Ines said after a minute. “I don’t know if I can. Will you?”
Merrill’s first impulse was to soothe, to reassure, to offer an of course I will, Mom and a kind smile, but the words got stuck in her throat. “I don’t know, Mom,” she said. “I think we need to take this one day at a time.”
Ines held her daughter at arm’s length, and examined her with an appraising eye. She smiled, then she squeezed Merrill’s hands tightly before releasing them.
“All right.” She sniffed back the last of her tears. “ Thank you for coming over. It was so good to see you. I’m so proud of you, Merrill, I really am. You’re just handling everything so well.”
“I love you, Mom.”
Ines stood on tiptoe and kissed Merrill on the forehead. “I love you, too,” she breathed.
As Ines turned back toward the living room, she looked back over her shoulder and flashed Merrill the thousand-watt smile that she always offered the cameras. Her high cheekbones and straight Roman nose cut a fine profile against the fading light from the windows behind. Even now, haggard and pale, Ines was defiantly beautiful. She lifted her chin.
“You take care of Paul,” she said slowly, “and let him take care of you.” And then Ines was gone, leaving Merrill to let herself quietly out of the apartment.
At home, Paul had a fire going in the fireplace.
“Ooh,” Merrill breathed when she entered the apartment. Her eyes stung from the cold night air. “That feels delicious.”
Paul looked up from the couch where he had been reading. The gentle flicker of the flames had lulled him into a sleepy, peaceful state. On the coffee table was a glass of Merlot and a bowl of popcorn. The room felt warm and bright and welcoming.
“Hi,” he said, smiling up at her. “Glad you’re home.”
“Thank you,” she said, collapsing beside him. She didn’t bother to take off her coat. Instead, she nuzzled into him, covering his chin and then his mouth with small kisses.
“Would you like some wine?” he said once she was done. He handed her his glass.
“That would be heavenly. What a day.” She took a grateful sip, then paused to kick her shoes off onto the carpet.
Paul touched her cheek. His warm fingers felt good against her cold skin. “How did it go?”
She shrugged. “You know. Long. Awful. He’s out on bail.”
“Was there a lot of press?”
“Yeah. Neil says it will be a complete media circus by tomorrow.”
“Was your mom there?”
“No, just me at the arraignment. Honestly, the courthouse was pretty overwhelming. I’m glad Lily wasn’t there. I think it would have been really upsetting for her. I went over to the apartment afterward, with Dad. Mom’s home. Lily and Adrian were there, too.”
Paul nodded. “You should have called,” he started to say, “I would’ve have been there for you.” But instead he stayed silent, reflecting on the realization that he might never again be welcome in Carter Darling’s house, and it was possible, too, that Carter Darling might never be welcome in his.
“I just wanted to get home to you,” she offered, as though she could hear his thoughts. They sat together for a few minutes, quietly staring into the amber glow of the fire. The heat began to sink into her flesh, relaxing her muscles one by one.
“Have you spoken to David today?” she asked.
“I did. His resignation was front-page news. I saved it for you; it’s in the kitchen. There’ll be a press conference tomorrow. He sounded relieved. Tired, but relieved.” Paul was going to tell her about Jane Hewitt’s arrest, which had dominated the 5 o’clock news, but then thought better of it; Merrill looked pained whenever she heard the name Jane Hewitt.
“Did he say anything about you?”
Paul laughed. “Only that I should start looking for a new job.” He put his hand reassuringly on her thigh and squeezed. “No, he said not to worry and that I should focus on taking care of you.”
“That’s kind.” Merrill sat up on the couch and stripped off her coat. After a minute, she said, “You know who e-mailed me this morning? Eduardo. He saw the news and he wanted to make sure we were okay. He asked if there was anything he could do.”
“He’s a good guy.”
“It’ll be interesting to see who our friends are now.”
“Don’t think that way.”
She shrugged. “Remember the job he offered you with Trion?”
“What about it?”
“Would you take it now, if he offered it to you again?”
Paul raised an eyebrow in surprise. He put his wineglass down on the table. “I honestly don’t know,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. He leaned forward and kissed her, his lips lingering against her cheek. “Listen, we’re going to be okay, honey. You’ll see. I’ll find a job in New York.”
“I know you will. But maybe New York’s not the right place for us now.” She smiled. The corners of her eyes crinkled from fatigue. Her voice shook a little, but there was a certain hopeful strength to it. “It will always be home, but . . .” She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
“I don’t know,” Paul said gently
. “A lot’s going to change now, honey. You might want to be somewhere familiar.”
“I’m not so sure New York’s going to feel all that familiar from now on,” she said, and sighed.
Paul paused. She was right, of course. Tomorrow, New York would feel like a different city altogether. Doors would not swing open so easily for them anymore. The stack of invitations on their hall table would thin; the hall itself might look different, a more modest entrance to a more modest home. They would take different routes now, avoiding certain places. The courthouse, the Seagram Building, the fourth floor of MoMA. Morty’s town house, most of all. Perhaps it would be sold, its bright red door repainted and the stag’s head knocker removed. But it would always be a haunted place for them, and if they were ever to take a turn up Seventy-seventh Street, it would come upon them like a dark wind, stopping them dead in their tracks, stirring up memories that lay dormant just below the surface.
Tomorrow, they would no longer be the Darlings of New York.
“What are you thinking?” Merrill asked nervously.
“I’m thinking I love you, and that we both need some sleep.”
She nodded, her shoulders deflating slightly. “I know. I’m exhausted.” The fire had burned down to a few final embers. She poured the last of the wine into Paul’s glass and took a sip. “I just want today to be over.”
“Okay,” he said definitively. Paul rose and extended his hand, pulling her onto her feet. She smiled for the first time in what seemed like a long time. “Off we go,” he said.
When he laid her down on the bed, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The sheets were fresh, she thought. He must have changed them during the afternoon. She felt him gently pull off her suit, her underwear, even the rubber band from her hair until she was naked. Outside, she could hear the far-off hum of the traffic on Park Avenue. Her head was swimming with fatigue. It had barely touched the pillow when she felt herself drift off into a shallow sleep.
Merrill woke in the middle of the night, heart racing. Her breath caught in her throat, jolting her eyes open. She turned onto her side: Paul was there. His lips were slightly parted and his hand, now limp, rested on the pillow just above her head.
He looked so peaceful when he slept. Just the sight of him there calmed her. After a time, his eyes flickered open and he smiled. “Those were some dreams you were having,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
He pulled her close to him. “Come here,” he said gently.
She settled in against his chest. For a while, she lay awake, feeling the warm rhythm of his breath against her neck. Eventually, a trace of new light began to creep in across the windowsills. It was tomorrow. In an hour or two, the phone would begin to ring, and her e-mail in-box would fill up, and there would be reporters gathering outside her building. Neighbors would whisper in the elevator; strangers would stare; friends would ask her nervous questions when she came upon them on the street. The world would be clamoring for her. It would seep into her home through every crack, every phone line, every television screen . . . and eventually, she would have to go out and face them. But for now, she would lie in her husband’s arms, her eyes closed and her body still against his, thinking that if this was all she ever had, it would be enough.
EPILOGUE
At first, he stayed away from Litoral Norte. The north coast of the broader state of São Paulo was what had drawn him to Brazil twenty years ago. His memories of those hazy, sun-filled afternoons were still fresh; Sophie had taken him there. She had friends with a beach house in Barra do Una, a simple white structure with high ceilings and a large wooden deck that overlooked the sea. He liked to remember her the way she was then: napping on a chaise longue, a book open in her hand, its pages fluttering in the late afternoon air. The straps of her bikini unfastened, revealing her toasted-almond shoulders to the sun. Her hair was streaked gold, and it was long. She would stir from her nap and see him watching her; she would smile. They were happy.
Though the living would be easier for him on the coast—all fresh fish and emerald-green water—he felt more comfortable in São Paulo itself. The city was perfect: huge, gritty, too crime ridden for most tourists. Living in a dangerous city, he found, suited him. In São Paulo, everyone kept to himself, living behind guarded apartment walls, driving cars with tinted windows, departing from rooftop helipads. Even the elite wore nondescript clothing and cheap watches in public, so as not to attract the attention of thieves. Privacy was at a premium. There were no nosy small-town neighbors in São Paulo, no casual pedestrian traffic. It was a city where people slipped in and out of the shadows unnoticed.
São Paulo did, however, attract business travelers, and those were a very real threat. Business travelers read the Wall Street Journal. They watched CNBC. They were the ones most likely to recognize him. In the first six months, anyone could have recognized him; his picture was everywhere. He looked different, of course. Leaner nose, higher cheekbones, the distinctive jowls stripped away from his jawbone. Still, he felt a jolt through his body every time he saw himself on television or on the front page of a newspaper. More than once, it would send him into hibernation, holing up in the modest apartment he had rented for himself under the name of Pierre Lefèvre.
Some days, he would monitor his laptop for hours at a time, scouring the Internet for news about himself. He created an intricate ranking system (a front-page story that featured him and showed a photo was a 10, for example, while a small blurb about Ines Darling in a gossip rag rated only a 1 or a 2) in an attempt to gauge whether the media coverage surrounding him and the trial was rising or falling. The higher the score, the more time he would spend inside. It reminded him of New York after 9/11. Every day, the threat level had to be gauged and measured, and his behavior adjusted accordingly. If it got too high, it was time to move again, to a different apartment or to a hotel just outside town.
It was a fugitive’s life: highly mobile, survival based. The point of each day was to make it to the next. But two and a half years went by without any real scares. The Darling trial was settled out of court. The news about the whole RCM debacle faded, replaced by other schemes and scandals. Morty Reis slipped out of daily consciousness, even for Morty Reis. He began to grow restless.
He started missing the deals.
He had money, lots of it, but it was stashed away in the Caymans and Switzerland. Accessing it in anything other than small bites posed an obvious security risk. Still, he couldn’t help but to think about how to deploy it. The opportunities in Brazil were phenomenal. An investment in the Brazilian stock market over the last decade would have yielded him a return of 276 percent, versus a loss of 13 percent in the United States during the same period. If he had gone all in with this strategy ten years ago, not only could he have avoided the whole debacle with RCM entirely, but he would have been hailed the greatest investor of all time. He knew this was an illogical train of thought—after all, no one would invest in a fund that had a 100 percent investment in Brazil of all places—but it still dogged him. He couldn’t continue to sit idly by while the Brazilian economy flew past him like a freight train.
Morty began to troll the slums, thinking, evaluating, running the numbers. He was tempting fate, he knew, like an alcoholic in a bar. But he had nothing else to do, and what difference would a few small real estate deals make anyway? All local, all in cash. If the numbers were small enough, the deals could go unrecorded. There were deals to be had in the coastal towns, too; as the economy stabilized, small beach properties were increasingly in demand.
He needed a break from the city, where booming real estate possibilities called to him like a siren’s song. He decided to rent a house in Juquehy, the slightly less ritzy town just next to Barra do Una, where he would lie low and decide how to proceed. He would get a tan, at least, and keep himself away from the bigger, riskier, more tempting deals in São Paulo.
It was the end of May, the beginning of the off-season. The tourists were gon
e and the crowds on the beaches had begun to thin. He had been in Juquehy for three weeks or so. It was early morning, and it had rained the night before, a moist slickness coating the roads. The mountains loomed up behind his house, dark and beautiful and foreboding. The roads through them were terrifying, filled with hairpin turns that made him long for one of his race cars, preferably the Aston Martin.
He went for a stroll, his pant legs rolled so he could feel the ocean on his feet. As was often the case at the beginning or end of the day, his thoughts were of Sophie. In the distance he saw a couple walking, their hands linked. The woman’s hair gleamed in the morning light. The rising sun set her figure in relief, obscuring the details of her face.
The couple stopped at the end of the beach. The man put his fingers beneath her chin and drew her in for a kiss. She stood on her toes to reach his lips.
Then the man twirled her beneath his arm like a ballroom dancer and dipped her. The edges of her hair brushed the sand.
That’s when he saw her face.
She looked younger than he remembered. The morning was so bright that Morty winced and shaded his eyes with his hand; perhaps it was a trick of the light.
No. It was her. He was sure of it. Sweet Merrill Darling.
When her husband drew her back up, she stared directly at Morty. For a moment, time stood still and she froze with it, like a deer in a hunter’s sight. He knew he should turn away. But for the first time since he had reached Brazil, maybe for the first time in his life, he found himself unable to act on instinct.
Then the sun slipped behind a cloud, casting a shadow on the beach. The spell was broken. The woman looked up at her husband, lifting her face to him for another kiss. She looked different now, shorter or blonder or squarer than Morty remembered Merrill to be. He shook his head; it had lasted only a second.
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