As Marlena studied the photos sent by Belle, she thought she heard voices coming from downstairs. Wide-awake now and curious, Marlena took her black silk robe that was draped over her chair. She slipped it over her trim body and, as she did, caught sight of herself in the full-length framed mirror. The luxurious fabric fell softly over her still-toned breasts.
“Not bad for an old broad,” she said wistfully. To think she’d borne three children who now had children too.
Smoothing the fabric with her hand, she welcomed the touch of flesh against her body, even if it was her own. Her hand lingered for a moment, until she was distracted once again by the muffled sound of arguing.
Wrapping the robe securely around herself, she headed downstairs.
The house was dark except for the security lights that lit the path as Marlena made her way to the kitchen. She could hear only one voice and recognized it as that of John’s night nurse, Desiree.
In the dimly lit kitchen, Marlena could see the statuesque brunette on their landline. She was wearing a short robe, and her hair was tousled as though she’d just gotten out of bed.
Desiree lived in the guesthouse, and Marlena was deeply curious as to what she was doing there in her kitchen. She realized Desiree was blasting someone in her native French.
“What do you mean you have no idea? It’s my money, and I need it now,” she sputtered in French. “Papa, three of my friends are desperate too, and none of us can get our cash. I don’t care about your rich friends! It was you who suggested that investment!”
Desiree was near tears and slammed down the phone. “Merde!” she shouted. Then she nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw Marlena in the open doorway.
“Docteur Evans.” She gasped.
“I didn’t mean to intrude, Desiree,” Marlena said calmly. “Are you all right?”
Desiree stammered, “My cell phone went dead, and I had to call my papa. It was an emergency. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, it’s fine,” Marlena answered. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, and my French isn’t quite that good, so don’t worry.”
Marlena was being kind. She recognized enough to know it was a major blowup with Desiree’s father, one of Paris’s top surgeons, and that it involved money.
“I have three friends who are going to hate me,” she sputtered.
“Would you like to talk about it?” Marlena asked.
Desiree hesitated. Yes, she would like to talk about the news she’d just heard. But each of John’s employees signed a strict confidentiality agreement Marlena didn’t know about, and she was afraid where the conversation would go. With her entire savings down the tubes, not to mention her father’s, she couldn’t afford to lose this job.
“No,” Desiree answered flatly, then quickly changed the subject before she started to cry. “Would you like me to check on Monsieur Black?”
Marlena thought for a moment, then shook her head. “He’s sleeping. Would you like some tea? Or a drink?”
“Thank you, but I need to be alone,” Desiree answered quietly. “Bonne nuit, Docteur Evans.”
“Night.”
Desiree exited through the servants’ entrance.
Now Marlena was alone, and she didn’t like it. As beautiful as her environment was, she needed someone to talk to.
She checked the clock on the Viking range and computed the time difference.
“Six fifteen in Salem.”
Even though it was after midnight in Lausanne, it was late afternoon in the city where Carrie and Austin were still visiting.
Flipping through her phone contacts, she stopped before reaching Carrie’s number.
“Alice Horton,” it read.
Few would realize that Marlena had Alice’s number in her phone and that the two continued to talk fairly frequently even after she and John had left the country. Alice always had sound advice for the psychiatrist everyone else turned to.
Alice Horton. The matriarch of Salem was gone now too, and Marlena felt a twinge of guilt for not having attended the funeral. She also knew that Alice, so deeply devoted to her family, would never have wanted Marlena to leave John’s side. Carrie and Austin had gone in Marlena’s stead.
After a moment in thought, Marlena opted not to call her daughter. What would she say? That she was lonely? So very, very lonely.
John’s room was silent except for the hum of the monitors that kept track of his condition.
Marlena moved into the room as if on cat’s feet.
John, the man she loved more than life, was still. He looked as he did so many times throughout their marriage. Even in sleep he had the aura of a hero.
The bed, specially built for him, wider than a double and longer than a queen to fit his six-foot-two-inch frame, was inviting.
John was lying on his side. Marlena assumed he’d used his remote system to reposition himself.
Gently, so as to not wake him, Marlena slid into the bed behind him.
She wanted to reach out and touch the phoenix tattoo she’d brought Dr. Masters to see. Instead, she merely stared at the strong, muscular shoulder she’d leaned on for so many years.
For a few moments it felt right.
For her.
For John, it was torture.
He could feel the heat from Marlena’s lithe body, and his breathing began to quicken.
Fearing she was agitating him and he’d awaken, she quickly slipped out of the bed and glided to the door.
“Why?” she whispered and then disappeared before starting to cry.
John rolled over on his back and stared at the ceiling.
He didn’t dare let her know his condition.
Not yet.
THE SUN WAS JUST BEGINNING TO RISE WHEN CHARLEY WENT out on her terrace overlooking the entire city and boat basin to take in the day.
The view always inspired her. While the city was just coming awake, it sparkled as light gradually flitted across the deep blue water of the Mediterranean.
Sailors everywhere are traditionally early risers, opting to take in the stillness of the morning and smell the saltiness in the sea air as they bob gently in the liquid glass that surrounds them. Then there were the sailors in Monte Carlo—party central—who often came home when the sun was coming up.
Although Charley could party alongside the best of them when times called for it, that really wasn’t her scene. She wouldn’t even be going to Dalita Kasagian’s soiree, except her daddy was giving OMG solid white gold key chains as party gifts, and it would be tacky for her not to be there. Serge Kasagian knew how to ensure everyone invited would show up.
That was necessary, though; people didn’t just not like little Dalita; they basically detested her. Squat and chunky, with unruly black hair and a thick nose, she had no personality because she’d never been required to have one. Her parents showered her with everything she ever wanted, including gorgeous gigolo boyfriends in their early twenties.
Charley had a privileged life too, but the summer jobs her father made her and her brothers work had helped ground her. Clean living always had appealed to Charley, and she loved the outdoors. She was a star on both the varsity tennis and girls’ soccer teams at Choate and hiked daily, even during freezing Connecticut winters.
Charley slipped back into her room and changed into the simple workout gear that accented her classic thoroughbred body. She had long legs, a high, rounded butt, a sculpted torso, and perfectly formed round breasts, unlike her mother’s notorious gazongas.
Pulling her mane into a breezy ponytail, Charley exited to the hall, then trotted through the expansive belle epoque villa on the way out for her morning jog.
The door to Richie’s home office was slightly ajar as Charley passed by. It wasn’t unusual for her father to be up early, and she could hear him on the phone.
“Direct all inquiries to Jackson; he’s covering this,” Richie said as he hung up the phone. The tone in his voice was overly clipped, which wasn’t like him.
Cha
rley peeked in, startling him.
Richie was wearing his standard Ralph Lauren Purple Label sweats.
“You okay, Daddy?” Charley asked.
“Couldn’t be better.” He smiled.
It was obvious that was a lie.
“Want to jog with me?” she said, knowing not to probe. As warm as Richie could be, he was a private man. “It’s a brilliant, brilliant day.”
“There’ll be plenty of them,” he responded. “Come here.”
Charley trotted to her dad, and he hugged her tightly, then held on just a second too long.
“I’m going to have a busy day, lovey,” he said. “See you at Dalita’s party?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Charley groaned.
“Good girl,” he responded. “But you always are.”
He kissed her sweetly on the forehead, and she knew it was time to go.
“Ta,” she said, blowing him a kiss as she exited.
Looking back into the office, she saw her father lean back in his massive leather chair. She’d seen him distracted before, especially since the worldwide recession, but this seemed different.
Then, maybe she was imagining things. She just loved him so much.
Charley passed through the kitchen, where one of the three housekeepers was assembling the tray of freshly squeezed juice, soft-boiled egg, and toast that she brought every morning to Mr. Gaines.
Kelsey, a fresh-faced Portuguese twenty-year-old, offered a glass of bright orange liquid to Charley, who downed it.
Everyone in the villa had their morning rituals, and this was one of them.
“Obrigado, Kelsey,” Charley offered.
She’d learned long ago that addressing a foreigner with at least a few words in her own language went a long way.
“Não há de quê.” Kelsey nodded appreciatively as Charley disappeared through the back door.
Olivia was working out with her Czech trainer by the pool when Charley jogged past. Olivia did her best to stay in immaculate shape too. It wasn’t easy, as her landing gear was down on the way to fifty, but what the exercise didn’t fix, plenty of discreet surgeons could keep taut.
Surgeons like Dr. Blake Masters.
Charley blew a kiss to her mother and burst into the hills over-looking the basin.
More of the harbor was awake now.
Cutting through the water in the distance was the blue-and-green-striped mainsail of the Fancy Face IV.
BELLE STOOD ON THE BOW, CLAIRE AT HER SIDE, AS THE FANCY Face IV cut through the choppy water.
“Whee.” Claire giggled as they rode the waves as though they were on horseback, matching their rhythms to the water’s rise and fall.
“Whee!” Belle responded. “Hang on tight.”
Belle had never realized how much she could love one little girl.
The wind whipped their hair as Shawn called from the wheel. “You two okay?”
Belle was feeling a bit better this morning, but still queasy from last night’s champagne and sex that had lasted into the wee hours. No, she hadn’t really felt like making love. It seemed to be the last thing on her mind lately. Especially after what had happened when they were in Egypt.
Belle had been having bad cramps that morning in Egypt, so Shawn insisted she spend the day pampering herself. He had suggested she relax in the spa at the Four Seasons Hotel while he took Claire on a barge ride through Dr. Ragab’s Pharaonic Village.
In the hotel’s opulent lobby, she had run into Philip. Yes, that Philip, Philip Kiriakis, her ex and the thorn in Shawn’s side, was in Cairo on a quick business trip for Titan Industries.
It had been wonderful seeing an old friend from home, whatever the outcome of their last encounter. They had spent the afternoon near the bright blue stained-glass window in the Tea Lounge, eating sumptuous Turkish treats and talking. She had never told Shawn; she knew he’d have gone berserk, so she kept the brief encounter to herself. Belle also knew Philip wouldn’t mention it to anyone in Salem, especially with all the ups and downs he and his new wife, Melanie, had been through.
But the memories of that afternoon lingered. When she looked in Shawn’s eyes, the omission of that meeting made her feel guilty. Not the best emotion to feel when her husband wanted to make love.
Belle had also been extremely tired lately, especially keeping tabs on a precocious three-year-old. Plus she’d been working on her designs whenever the sea was calm enough for her sketches to convey what she had in her head.
They were sketches she hoped she’d be able to show Olivia Gaines. She still couldn’t believe she hadn’t had the nerve to go into the boutique to introduce herself yesterday. Then again, Belle wanted to approach her idol professionally, not in her white shorts and Top-Siders with her daughter and husband in tow.
“Mommy, look!” Claire squealed, breaking Belle’s concentration. “More helicopters!”
Indeed, the celebs were on their way. For Dalita Kasagian’s party on the 421-foot yacht.
The Fancy Face IV cut into a huge wake, spraying Belle and Claire with water. The two were drenched.
Belle was pleased this wasn’t the day she’d meet Olivia.
The sun was full and warm and dried off Belle and Claire quickly. The temperature would reach nearly eighty degrees today, so it indeed was brilliant weather.
They’d been en route for over an hour, when they pulled into the harbor at Cannes.
While Shawn dropped anchor, Belle got herself and Claire dressed for the day.
“You guys ready?’ Shawn called into the main cabin.
“Yup,” Claire responded.
Shawn had lowered their dinghy into the water. It was a miniature version of the boat—named the Fancy Face IV and a Half—and they took that in to the bustling seaside resort.
It cost Shawn a pretty penny to dock the tiny dinghy during high season, but the hundred-dollar tip was worth it.
“Hungry?” Shawn asked as he rubbed Claire’s tummy. “How ’bout the Carlton?”
Belle wasn’t hungry, but the thought of sitting at the beach restaurant of the famous hotel and sipping a Ramos Fizz sounded lovely. They would be rubbing shoulders with nouveau riche tourists who came to the hotel known internationally as the hub of the Cannes Film Festival. Those who were there not only to dine, but to see and be seen.
Not long after they served, the moment Belle clinked her glass with her husband’s Bloody Mary, they suddenly heard, “Shawn? Belle?”
Running up to them from La Croisette were Shawn’s half sister, Chelsea, and Abby Deveraux.
“Hey, little one,” Chelsea said as she hugged her niece tightly.
“Auntie C,” Claire answered, hugging back. “Who’re you?” she asked Abby.
“You don’t remember me?” Abby answered, feigning hurt. “I’m your Auntie’s friend Abby from Salem.”
“So-rry.” The little girl shrugged.
“What are you guys doing here?” Shawn asked.
“Nice to see you too.” Chelsea laughed, flashing her big brown eyes.
“We could ask you the same,” Abby chimed in.
“Just one—fabulous—stop on our world tour,” Belle answered.
“And—” Shawn said, looking for an explanation.
“Abby’s here covering this huge party for Spectator.com,” Chelsea answered. “It’s on Serge Kasagian’s yacht. He’s some mega-wealthy industrialist or something. It’s supposed to be a very big deal.”
“We know,” Belle said. “We’ve seen his aircraft carrier. By the way, is Max with you?”
“No,” Chelsea said, motioning her hand back and forth. “We’re kind of comme ci, comme ça at the moment.”
Although Chelsea and Abby were best friends again, Abby’s crush on Max was always a sore subject between them.
Belle let it drop. Max and Chelsea were an off-and-on kind of couple.
“Spectator.com, huh?” Shawn interrupted, changing the subject. “I didn’t realize that was you.”
It should
n’t have been too much of a surprise. Abby, the beautiful young blonde, had journalism in her blood.
“Mom and Dad.” Abby glanced at Claire. “Remember Jack and Jennifer—”
Claire shrugged again.
“Anyway, when they wanted to do an online site for the paper, I asked—no, begged—to do it,” Abby said. “We’ve done okay,” she added modestly.
“Okay?” Chelsea said incredulously. “You guys are almost as big as TMZ.”
She high-fived her best friend.
“What can I say? People like me.” Abby smiled wryly.
“We’re going to the party,” Chelsea said, indicating her Nikon. “I want a shot with Robert Pattinson.”
“We’ll be in the press area outside the party,” Abby corrected.
“But if anyone can get in, you will,” Chelsea added.
“Da’s taking me to ride go-karts at Buggy Whip,” Claire chimed in.
Buggy Whip was the most popular attraction for kids in the south of France, and to her, that was better than any lousy old birthday party on a boat.
“Then we head back and hope to make it to St. Nicholas Cathedral,” Belle said with hope in her voice.
“Princess Grace and Prince Rainier’s graves.” Chelsea nodded. “I remember you were a fan.”
“Yuck,” Claire replied.
The maître d’ approached.
“Americans, yes?” he said without the disdain he most certainly felt. “Will you be joining your friends?”
“Oh, no, we won’t, Michel,” Abby answered, making sure she read his engraved name badge. “We have to get ready for the Kasagian party. But thank you so much. Hope we weren’t a bother.”
Abby slipped him a fifty-dollar bill.
“Mais non, Mademoiselle.” He smiled. “Join us anytime.”
He glided off, and Chelsea gave a knowing look to Belle and Shawn. “What can I say?”
“We have to jam anyway,” Abby reminded her friend.
A Secret in Salem Page 3