Celine’s appearance with a pot of coffee and a new stack of papers and letters pulled his mind away from Dru. He thumbed through the documents absently. From the time he had taken off his jacket and sat down at his desk, Celine had been her usual officious self, reeling off matters he had to attend to, people he had to get in touch with right away. It was strange how she had greeted him—as if he had simply been away on business trip. True, her eyebrows had shot up when she saw how gaunt and drawn he was. But she had said nothing more than a brisk “Welcome back, Mr. St. Cyr.” No expression of regret. No hug of sympathy or reassurance. No sad eyes. Nothing. Nothing even slightly reminiscent of the distraught woman who had broken the news to him of Dru’s death.
But then, how could Celine know that part of him had died that day with Drucilla Durane? Only Faustin knew how he felt about Dru. He had no idea what Faustin had said to the staff, but he was sure that there had been no discussion of the nature of his relationship with the woman who was shot dead shortly after she had come to see him.
He sighed and tried again to concentrate on the papers before him. Soon, however, he found himself reading the same words over and over again. He shoved the papers aside. It was no use. His mind would not let Dru go. He needed more time.
He pushed himself up from his chair and moved about the office listlessly, touching mementos, picking up framed photographs of himself with various important people and putting them down again, straightening books on the shelves. He pulled out an original copy of The Negro as a Business Man, written by J. H. Harmon, Jr., Arnett G. Lindsay, and Carter G. Woodson and published in 1929. Edited by Woodson, who was the first black man of slave parentage to earn a doctoral degree at Harvard University, the book covered black entrepreneurship in pre–Civil War America, and the historical role of black entrepreneurs in the banking and insurance industries. One of the entrepreneurs covered in the book was Theron’s great-great-great-grandfather on his mother’s side.
Theron had read the book twice, but he never tired of its rich lessons and always drew inspiration from its pages. As he thumbed through the book, he found himself thinking of Faustin, of his loyalty, his caring. He was the only one who had shown sympathy. Maybe Celine and the rest of the staff resented his leaving so suddenly, with no instructions on how to handle his portfolios. No, that couldn’t be it. Celine was adroit enough to know what to do, how to respond to his clients. Besides, Faustin would have handled anything urgent that came up. Then what?
He looked up abruptly. Something Faustin had said. How he’d said it. No, he would not think it. He dared not think it. It would be insane. Still, he had to find out.
He replaced the book and walked across the hall to Faustin’s office. The door was ajar, but as was his custom, he knocked twice—two short, sharp raps—before he went in. Faustin was sitting at his desk. “Faustin, what did you mean when you said—” He stopped, realizing that Faustin had a visitor. A woman. She sat facing Faustin, her back to the door.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had company,” Theron said. “I’ll come back later.” He turned to leave.
“Wait, Theron. Don’t go. You should speak to my visitor. She is considering joining our firm. Maybe you can persuade her to do so,” Faustin said quickly.
He stood up and moved from behind his desk. The woman stood up, too, and turned, slowly, until she faced Theron. Seeing her, Theron felt as if his knees had turned to water. His chest constricted and he thought he would die of suffocation.
The woman spoke. “Hello, Theron.”
Theron stared at her. She looks so much like Dru, sounds so much like her, but Dru is dead.
He raised his hand and opened his mouth to say something, but the words caught in his throat. His hand fell limply to his side. He saw that the woman was staring back at him. He managed a croak. “Are you her twin?”
“No. I’m Dru.”
“But you’re…you’re dead.” His voice came out in a whisper. “I’m not. I’m here.” Her voice was filled with anguish.
Theron eyed her suspiciously. She’s lying. He was beginning to think that a game was in progress and that he was at the center of it. What was Faustin trying to do? Was this his sick idea of a way to make him feel better? Set me up with someone who looks like Dru and I’ll live happily ever after? He would play along, see how far Faustin and this Dru look-alike would go.
He whispered again, angling his head toward the woman. “What are you doing here if you’re dead?”
“But I’m not dead, Theron. Can’t you see?” Her eyes pleaded with him to believe her.
Faustin could stand it no longer. He planted himself between the two and glared at Theron. “Oh, for chrissakes, Theron. It’s Dru, you idiot. In the flesh. She didn’t die,” he snapped. He sucked his teeth loudly and stalked out of the room muttering something that sounded like “seven days of hell” and slammed the door behind him.
The noise seemed to jolt Theron out of his denial. He took a step closer to Dru. “How is it that you’re not dead? They told me at the hospital that the dead woman was Drucilla Durane,” he said, his voice was thick with emotion. His eyes remained fixed on hers as he waited for her answer. “I…I. She…the woman…”Dru gave up. Her eyes brimmed. She swallowed hard and bit her lip, trying to stanch the tears. She tried again. “Theron—” It was enough for Theron. He swallowed the space between them in two giant strides and gathered her to him. “Don’t speak. Don’t speak,” he moaned.
They remained crushed against each other for a long moment. Finally, Dru eased back and pressed her palms against Theron’s chest. “There’s a simple explanation,” she began.
“It can wait,” Theron interrupted her. He held her away from him and looked into her eyes searchingly. “Why didn’t you come to me? Why didn’t Faustin tell me?”
“I went to see you. Once. With Faustin. But you were—how did he put it?—in zombieland. And it looked as though you were going to stay there for a long time. You stared at me and started to yell that I had no right to do what I did. You were so angry. I took that to mean you didn’t want me around; that you had found out that I told Lawton everything in front of Grant. It was a foolish thing for me to do. I didn’t listen to you. I thought I could handle it myself. It wasn’t until later that I realized I had put your life in danger by letting Grant know what I knew. I went to your office to warn you. The same day of…of the shooting.”
Dru leaned against Theron and he wrapped his arms around her again. “I didn’t mean those things I said, Dru. I don’t even remember saying those things. I was angry, yes. I thought I had been cheated again. I believed you had cheated me by dying. I didn’t know about you and Lawton and Grant, though I suspected something like that had happened. When they told me you were dead, I hoped desperately they had made a mistake. I prayed it wasn’t you.”
Dru’s voice was muffled against his chest. “The woman was crazy. She grabbed my purse just before the shot was fired. I didn’t have a picture ID on me. Just credit cards, my checkbook, other stuff with my name and address on it. My driver’s license had expired and I stopped carrying it around. I haven’t yet gotten around to renewing it. So naturally they assumed she was me. I’ve renewed it since then, though.”
Her words hung in the air for a while. Abruptly, Theron held her away from him and said, “What did you say about the woman who died?”
“I said she was crazy. Insane. She had just grabbed my purse when the bullet that was meant for me hit her.”
“The bullet that was meant for you? So Bernat did try to kill you.”
“Apparently not. It turns out the man who did the shooting was Bernat’s contractor who went rogue. He died in a car accident minutes later, incidentally. The man’s driver tried to run but he was badly hurt in the crash and collapsed a few feet from the car. The police checked him out when they found guns in the limo. He had a record. He was a low-level employee of a local crime gang. The police roughed him up and he told them everything he knew.”
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“So the police eventually found you and fixed the ID mistake. They must have asked you why you were a target. What did you tell them?”
“I told them I had no idea why. I suggested it might be a case of mistaken identity and they left it at that. No way was I going to mention the name Bernat, or anything to do with drugs, Theron. For all I know, Bernat could have members of the police force on his payroll.”
“Thank God it’s over,” Theron breathed.
“Yes, thank God. The whole thing was a horrible ordeal.”
They remained silent for a while, relishing the feeling of utter relief at being together, alive and well. After a while, Theron led her to the sofa Faustin had installed in his office for his afternoon “power-regeneration naps” and they sat down, holding hands.
“So what happens now, Dru? What becomes of us? You and me?”
Dru held his gaze. “I was very mean to you, Theron. I believed the worst about you. All those years. You have no reason to want there to be an ‘us.’ No reason to forgive me.”
“Yes, I do, Dru. I have every reason to,” Theron said huskily.
Dru looked away. “What…what is your reason?” Her voice shook.
“Look at me.” Dru turned back to him and he continued. “I went to your house. I was worried sick about you. I was going to tell you how I felt about you, but you were gone.”
“So tell me now.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Theron’s face registered surprise. “What?” Dru asked.
“That’s it? ‘I love you, too?’ Just like that?”
“Yes. Just like that. Let’s not complicate things.”
Theron sighed happily. “Yes. Let’s not. It’s been one misunderstanding after another between us. From the moment we met. No more misunderstandings.”
For a long time they sat holding each other, saying nothing, savoring everything about this place they had found at the end of the tortured road each had traveled since their meeting in Marseille.
Soon, Theron eased Dru gently away from him, held her at arm’s length, and spoke into her eyes. “Let’s start over. Let’s go back to the very beginning. Our beginning,” he said.
Dru clung to his gaze and waited for him to continue. But he didn’t. He remained silent, watching her.
The silence stretched out.
Dru arched an eyebrow. She rolled her neck and crossed her eyes.
Theron broke into a slow smile. “We’ll fly to Paris and take the train to Marseille.” he said. “When can you leave?”
“Whenever you want me to, boss.” Dru said.
EPILOGUE
Grant Featherhorn sipped his beer casually and focused on the man approaching him. He didn’t recognize the man, but he took in his exquisitely tailored seersucker suit and Italian loafers. No tan, which said to Featherhorn that he had just landed from North America or Europe. A reporter? Featherhorn frowned, took off his sunglasses, and squinted at the man. He wasn’t afraid of reporters. It’s just that they sometimes disturbed the peace and peace was what he had come to this Caribbean island to find.
The man smiled at him and waved. Featherhorn nodded and continued to sip his beer.
The man drew closer, striding confidently, too confidently, Featherhorn thought.
Panic engulfed him, but only for a moment. He chided himself. What do I have to fear? Hadn’t he straightened out all that business with Pilgrim Boone and Savoy? And brilliantly, he might add.
Once again he felt very pleased with himself. He felt pleased with himself every time he thought of the way things had turned out. He had hired the best lawyer his millions could buy and had beaten jail with a couple of million in hush money. True, he had had to sign those awful documents that Bloomington and Lawton had shoved at him. Parker could have shown more gumption; could have put up more of a fight on his behalf, he thought bitterly.
He sighed. His sudden resignation from Pilgrim Boone had been enough to raise all kinds of rumors on Wall Street, none of which was flattering. He suspected that it was Bloomington’s lawyers who had hinted to the press about certain habits he had, but he couldn’t make a fuss about that. Why give life to the rumors? No, when all was said and done, things hadn’t turn out too badly. He would make a comeback, he vowed silently, as the man in the seersucker suit approached his table. I’ll make a comeback so big that every last one of them who slighted me like I was pig dung will come groveling.
He was staying at the luxurious Half Moon Resort in Montego Bay, Jamaica. He had deserved a vacation, he told himself. After all the brouhaha, he needed to get away and regroup, to come up with a plan that would put him back on top. A major publishing house had already approached him to do a book. They had offered him a ghostwriter and a juicy seven figures. Ostensibly, he was in seclusion thinking about the offer, but he had already made up his mind to take it. The book might even be made into a movie, the publishing house had hinted.
“Hello there. May I join you?”
“Please. Have a seat,” Featherhorn said with a warm smile, indicating the chair across from him. He was at Seagrape Terrace, one of the resort’s top restaurants located on Sunset Beach. Though it was outdoors, his table was shaded from the blazing Caribbean sun by the restaurant’s famed buttonwood canopy.
The stranger sat down.”I’m François Lescault,” he said, extending his hand to Featherhorn. He had that deep, rich voice that was common among European men.
“And I’m Grant Featherhorn,” Featherhorn said, glancing at the man’s hand as he grasped it. It was a not-too-soft, professionally manicured hand. It spoke of wealth and pampering, but also of work. This was not a man who idled the days away. He had an occupation, Featherhorn surmised. He appraised the stranger again: handsome, trim and fit, in his early forties. Inexplicably, he was relieved that the man’s accent was not American. “Yes, I know who you are,” the man said pleasantly as he withdrew his hand.
“You do? But I’m sorry. I’m forgetting my manners. May I offer you a drink?”
“Certainly, thank you. I’ll have whatever you are drinking.”
Featherhorn signaled a waiter, who came over at once. “A Red Stripe for my guest and one more for me,” he told the waiter.
The waiter departed and Featherhorn turned his gaze back to Lescault. He said, “From your accent I take it you’re French. And how do you know me, may I ask?”
“Yes, I am French. And you’re being modest, Mr. Featherhorn. You are a famous man. Surely you know that your face and your name have been all over the newspapers—and not just in America.” Lescault’s smile lit up his liquid gray eyes.
Featherhorn nodded deprecatingly. “And what brings you to Jamaica, may I ask? Surely you’re not here to get my autograph,” he said. He liked the Frenchman, but he wasn’t quite at ease with him. There was something unsettling about his—Featherhorn struggled to find the appropriate word—overconfidence?
Lescault laughed. “Oh, no. I’m here on much more serious business,” he said.
The waiter arrived with their beer. The two men remained silent as he opened the bottles and filled their glasses.
“What kind of business are you in, Mr. Lescault?” Featherhorn asked when the waiter had left.
Lescault didn’t answer. He picked up his glass and raised it in a toast. “Here’s to life,” he said.
Featherhorn touched his glass to Lescault’s. “Here’s to life,” he repeated. Lescault took a long swig. “Aahhh!” he uttered appreciatively when he finally lowered his glass. “This is a very good beer. It has a seductive texture. It embodies everything that is right about the Caribbean.”
“It is one of the best indeed. But you have not answered my question,” Featherhorn said.
“Ah, yes. My line of business.” Lescault looked straight into Featherhorn’s eyes. “I am a contractor, Mr. Featherhorn.”
“Construction?”
“No, Mr. Featherhorn. I am a contractor in the employ of a real e
state developer in Venezuela,” Lescault said quietly.
Featherhorn’s face collapsed. The calm in Lescault’s voice filled him with dread. His life was in danger. He looked around as if to call for help, but Lescault placed a warning hand on his, gave him a warm smile, and said, “You signed documents pertaining to certain discussions you had with my employer about a pending transaction in Georgetown, Guyana. Because of these documents that you signed, a great deal of attention is being paid to my employer and his various businesses, Mr. Featherhorn. My employer is a very discreet man. His discretion is the key to his success. It is why he has earned the trust and respect of so many around the world. So you see, Mr. Featherhorn, this new and very great attention has caused him tremendous loss of face—and therefore business—among his peers.”
Featherhorn’s bowels felt loose. He tried to pull his hand away but Lescault held fast to his wrist. His grip was like a steel vise.
Lescault continued in the same calm voice. “Your betrayal is unforgivable, Mr. Featherhorn.”
Grant Featherhorn died in his hotel room that night. The local medical examiner ruled the cause of death “an overdose of pure cocaine.”
When the news broke in the United States, no one was surprised—not after all the rumors that flooded Wall Street when he resigned from Pilgrim Boone.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rosalind Kilkenny McLymont is the executive editor of The Network Journal and CEO of AfricaStrictlyBusiness.com. A former managing editor of The Journal of Commerce, a Knight Ridder Corporation and subsequently Economist Group publication, she is the author of the groundbreaking “rebranding Africa” novel, Middle Ground, and of the nonfiction title, Africa Strictly Business: The Steady March to Prosperity. She migrated to the United States from Guyana in 1965. A graduate of The City College of New York and New York University and a European Union Fellow, she spent several years in Uganda and the Democratic Republic of Congo as a teacher; served as an entrepreneurship development expert for the United Nations Development Program’s Africa Bureau; traveled to Russia with the Alliance of Russian and American Women as a citizen ambassador to contribute to the professional development of women; and served two terms on the Sub-Saharan Africa Advisory Committee of the Export-Import Bank of the United States. She lives in New York with her husband.
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