Her Name Will Be Faith

by Christopher Nicole

  Liar, Belle thought, as she closed the bedroom door. Who the hell wants to hear from a client at 11.40 at night? Goddamn it, some people have no consideration… shit, what an evening! Why the hell did Lawson find it necessary to entertain so much? The people tonight had been gross. Fat, moronic slobs. How the hell did crumbs like that come to have money enough for a $400,000 holiday home, anyway?

  She put her dress on a hanger and threw her undies into the clothes hamper before smoothing cleansing milk over her face; the weather was unnaturally warm for the time of year and she was a mess of sweat — but she was too tired even to shower. Lawson was ages, and she was nearly asleep when he came in, but one look at his face brought her bolt upright in bed. “Sweetheart? What is it? You look as if you’ve just fallen off the Empire State.”

  “I think I just did!” He sat beside her. “That was McKinley.”

  “I heard,” Belle said. Fabian McKinley was one of the wealthiest men in the Bahamas. He owned land everywhere, and in particular, from her point of view, he owned most of Dolphin Point, the headland on Eleuthera — the most north-easterly of the Bahamian islands — where the elder Donnellys had a holiday home; he was not the ideal neighbor. “What’s on his mind now? Josh been pinching his limes again?”

  Josh was the Donnelly caretaker.

  Lawson might not have heard her. “He wants to sell,” he said. Belle sat up. “Not Dolphin Point?”

  “Every goddamned acre. Forty-two.”

  “But why?”

  “Search me. It’s not my business to ask.”

  “But he wants you to handle the sale?”

  “Exclusive for three months. Because I know the area, he says. The asking price is one million US dollars.”

  “Oh, boy,” Belle said. “Maybe he’s not such a crumb after all. A million… you’ll get twenty thousand, Lawson. Oh, boy. We’ll be able to keep the boat.” Suddenly she was anxious. “Do you think you can find a buyer? A million is a lot of loot.”

  “Listen, doll,” Lawson said. “McKinley may only want a million, and that is in line with current prices, sure — for undeveloped land. But I am damned sure that I could triple that, by splitting it up into lots, laying water and electricity, having plans drawn up, maybe even starting building.”

  “You mean…” Belle frowned at him. “Develop it yourself?”

  “Why not?”

  “Two reasons. One, as you’ve been appointed sole agent, it wouldn’t be ethical. Two, we don’t have a million dollars; last time I checked the account we didn’t even have a million cents.”

  “Granted. But your old man does. Or could raise it.”

  Belle’s frown deepened. “Big Mike?”

  “Why not? Don’t he and your brother claim to be the biggest stockbrokers on Wall Street?”

  “Not the biggest. Only the best. And that’s open to opinion. Anyway, stockbrokers handle a lot of money. They don’t necessarily keep it.”

  “Are you going to tell me that your dad couldn’t lay hands on a million dollars if he had to?”

  “Maybe. But he doesn’t have to.”

  “Even if it means a quick million profit. One for him, one for us. Fifty-fifty. A million dollars, Belle. God, think what we could do with that! Pay off the mortgage, get those bills off our back, keep the boat… hell, we could buy a new boat. You know what I’ve always wanted? A Hatteras. Goddamn, a 42-foot Hatteras… they’re the tops.”

  Belle allowed herself to dream for a moment. Then she said, “But would it be legal?”

  “What can possibly be illegal about it? McKinley wants to sell, I find him a buyer. That’s what I’m paid to do.”

  “Yes, but you know you can get more out of the land than he does. And you’re going to take that profit. I mean, it sounds a bit like insider dealing to me. Shouldn’t you be telling McKinley all of this?”

  Lawson leaned forward and kissed her on the nose. “McKinley isn’t a good listener. And who’s to know? The land goes on the market, and some rich Connecticut stockbroker snaps it up.”

  “Who just happens to be your father-in-law.”

  “So I told him it’s worth it. There’s nothing illegal in that. It’s my business, for God’s sake. And a million dollars, Belle. Just think of it. A million dollars!”

  Belle thought of it. “But what about Neal Robson? Now he’s actually bought down here.”

  “Forget it,” Lawson said. “This has to be kept strictly in the family. Anyway, Robson wants his set-up kept a secret until he can tell your folks in the grand manner. Silly twit.”

  Belle nodded her agreement. “Think Dad’ll go for it?” she asked.

  “I’ll be on the phone to him first thing tomorrow morning,” Lawson promised.

  “This morning, you mean,” Belle yawned.

  SATURDAY 27 MAY

  Newport, Rhode Island

  The sky was clear blue, just a little hazy with afternoon heat, and the water flat calm; the bridge was perfectly mirrored as the Mercedes sedan crossed the river to Newport after the four-hour drive up from New York.

  Josephine Donnelly hadn’t even paused to drop off the bags at the country cottage she and her husband maintained in Bognor, Connecticut; she’d do that on her way back to Pinewoods, her parents-in-law’s house: she was in a hurry to welcome Michael home from the first race of the season — and try not to think about the rest of the summer, when she would hardly see him at all.

  A short, slender English girl in her early thirties, Jo Donnelly wore her wavy dark-brown hair cut very short, leaving her crisp, handsome features exposed and compelling.

  Her children sat together in the back, where they would distract her least by their constant wrangling; Owen Michael was ten, and Tamsin eight. Now they bubbled with excitement as they rolled into the yacht owners’ car park near Esmeralda’s usual berth; she had no sooner braked than they were tumbling out to race along the pontoons.

  Jo followed more slowly, running her fingers through her windswept hair, her grey-brown eyes searching the close-packed yachts. She wore slacks and a loose shirt and sandals, and still attracted glances from the various crews. She had a slim waist and breasts that filled her B-cup bras well, but her stomach muscles were flabby — and little wonder; it was years since she had played any serious tennis or squash, and in fact she had found little time for any sort of exercise since returning to full-time journalism.

  And now her own heart was beating pleasantly; Michael might only have been away a few days, but it was the first race of the season, and even if she dreaded and resented the next twenty weeks, he was a compellingly attractive man. And not only because he was her husband. All the Donnellys were compellingly attractive, from Big Mike and Babs, through their so beautiful daughters, Belle and Marcia, to their so macho sons, Michael junior and Dale. The family bubbled, in a way her own had never done–her father had been an officer in the British army and had believed it weakness to reveal emotion of any kind. Which was probably why she had been instantly attracted to the handsome American boy doing a year at Cambridge when she was up reading English Literature.

  She sighed, as she spotted the 40-foot yawl; it had all been so different, then.

  Owen Michael had seen the yawl too. “There’s Dad!” he shouted.

  Michael Donnelly, junior, tall and powerfully built, waved to them, and hurried across the intervening decks. He jumped on to the pontoon and swept the kids up into his arms… then turned to Jo. She slid her hands round his back, feeling the warmth through his shirt. His arms hugged her, as his mouth found hers: whenever they kissed she felt dizzy with happiness.

  “How did it go?” she asked, pulling her head back.

  “Fucking awful,” he replied. “We had a failure.”

  “Oh, no! In this weather? What happened?”

  “A rigging screw went. Must have been faulty from the start. And it wasn’t flat calm all the way. There was a squall night before last. Quite a heavy one. Hell, Esmeralda can take it, so we weren’t bothered, then
there was this sudden twang and the whole shitting boat shook, with wire flying all over the place. We damned near lost the mast.”

  “So you retired?”

  “Yeah. What a way to start the season.”

  “You’ll get it right. Where’s your car? Can you leave now? Your folks are expecting us for dinner.”

  “It’s at Sam’s place. But there’s no way I can come now.”

  “Oh, but…”

  “Listen, Angelface. We only just got in. There’s one hell of a lot of work to be done. And Sam of course had to go hustling off because Sally has a party tonight. So I have to put the ship to bed. And replace that screw and harden up the rigging; we sound like a banjo out of control in any breeze at all.” He was helping them across the other yachts as he spoke, and Owen Michael was hurrying ahead to gain the deck. “Mark Godwin is giving me a hand. You remember Mark, Jo?”

  The boy emerged from the companion hatch. “Hi, Mrs Donnelly.”

  “Is there so much to be done?” Jo asked. “I mean, you don’t race again for a fortnight.”

  “Now, Angelface, you know the drill; the ship comes first.” Michael saw her disappointment, and kissed her nose. “Listen, I will try to get down tonight, but tell Babs not to wait dinner for me.”

  “Oh, Daddy, we want to have you with us tonight,” Tamsin begged.

  “Yeah, Dad. Say, why don’t you come with us now, and we’ll all come and help you fix her up tomorrow,” Owen Michael offered. “I thought we could have a little catching practice before dinner.”

  “No way,” Michael said. “Work first, play after.” He bent and kissed the top of Tamsin’s head. “You hustle along now, and look after your Mommy.”

  The dismal trio walked back along the pontoon in single file, and Owen Michael kicked viciously at a pebble as they neared the car, sending it skipping across another pontoon on to a boat’s deck.

  “Owen Michael! Stop that.” Jo shook his arm.

  “Leave me alone, can’t you!”

  His mother said no more; she could understand his resenting being rated second to a piece of plastic. But then her pleasure at seeing Michael had also quickly dissipated into resentment. Even after ten years of marriage and living in New England she had not been able fully to accustom herself to the way Americans used obscenities as part of their everyday speech. But it was his attitude which was so shattering. Work before play, she thought bitterly. The fact was that he loved Esmeralda more than any of his family. And this was only the beginning of the season; for the next twenty weeks she was going to be the ultimate grass widow — even golfers at least came home for dinner. And it happened every year. What right did Michael have to abandon her and the children every summer for his yacht racing? Why should she always have to play the dual parent role? He never did. She felt like kicking a stone or two herself.

  Bognor, Connecticut

  The square, white-painted, wooden-faced house stood tall and imposing, fifty feet behind a white rail fence bordering the sidewalk in the small rural Connecticut town. By New England standards it was very old, having been built in 1832, and from the moment that Big Mike and Barbara Donnelly bought it in 1971 they had taken endless pains to furnish it in its authentic period style. There were stained-glass panels on the inner door of the lobby, and beautifully laid tiles on the lobby and hall floors. Moldings on the door and window frames were faithfully copied throughout and Babs had spent months poring over books and magazines and haunting retail outlets before selecting the correct wallpapers for each room. The owners of every used-furniture saleroom knew her face well, and Big Mike had laughed repeatedly when, on returning home from his New York office, he was proudly shown some decrepit chair or worm-eaten table, the result of Babs’ — his wife’s nickname to all the family — latest successful expedition. The little town boasted an expert upholsterer and restorer, who gladly joined in Babs’ enthusiasm for ancient furniture, not least due to its profitability. The dining-room and sitting-room at Pinewoods were charming and immaculate from the gilt mirrors over the carved wood fire-surrounds and mantelpieces, fire baskets and brass-knobbed irons, and the paneled, interior folding window shutters, to the wood-framed settee, prim armchairs, dainty round coffee tables, and polished dining-table with its English silver candelabra, overlooked by oil paintings of sea scenes.

  Big Mike genuinely admired the finished results, and was happy to show off the house to visiting friends, but his favorite room nevertheless was the big family kitchen in which they now sat watching the News. Authenticity was all very well in the other rooms, but it had been partially abandoned here. The tile-topped units, the cupboards, dishwasher, icebox and freezer were whitewood fronted, and the matching wall cupboards had leaded glass doors to display china and crystal. The bowed window ledges behind the kitchen sink and fitted dining area were filled with potted plants and flowers. Pictures and hand-painted plates hung on the walls beneath a collection of polished copper pans, and every size and shape of wicker shopping basket imaginable. Freestanding in one corner was an antique but highly efficient wood-burning stove, prettily painted enamel panels set in the dull grey metal sides. Next to it were two very comfortable armchairs. Big Mike was sitting in one now, shoulders hunched, greying black hair scattered thinly across his head, while Babs, tall and still blondely attractive, prepared vegetables.

  Dale Donnelly breezed in, wearing shorts, throwing his tennis racket on to a chair. “Hi! Anything I can do to help, Babs? What’s for dinner?”

  “Sure. Empty the trash can. The Robsons and roast rib-eye.” Babs tilted her face to receive her son’s kiss of greeting.

  “Who else?”

  “Michael and Jo. James and Suzanne will probably come too, but Jason is away.”

  “Ugh!” Dale groaned; he was a languid young man who drifted from job to job, resolutely refusing to join his elder brother in the Wall Street firm. This lack of drive bothered his parents as much as the hash he enjoyed so much. “I suppose I’ll have to entertain them.”

  “What’s the problem? They’re nice kids.” Big Mike lit a cigarette and fiddled with the remote control panel.

  “James is a wimp. He agrees with everything I say.”

  His father looked at him through a cloud of smoke. “Yeah? Well, in that case he’s gotta be a wimp.”

  Dale grinned. “Okay. Okay.”

  “Suzanne’s sweet,” Babs said.

  “Are you putting me on?”

  “No, I’m serious.” His mother turned away from the sink. “She’s very shy and nervous, but she does try…”

  “Too hard. And I think she has something going for me. She follows me around like a tame dog, rolling her contact lenses and saying, ‘Yes, Dale,’ and ‘No, Dale,’ and ‘Can I fix you a cup of coffee, Dale?’ ”

  “You’ve made your point; the girl’s obviously a nut. Now shut up and listen to the news.” Mike commanded more volume and concentrated on the Washington reporter’s latest political scandal.

  The door opened and Jo hurried in, following by Owen Michael and Tamsin. “Hi, Babs. Hi Dad. Dale.” She kissed each in turn and laid a big bunch of mixed flowers on the counter.

  “Hey, aren’t those beautiful! Where did you get them?” Babs asked.

  “I just picked them from your garden,” Jo admitted.

  Babs laughed. “I’ll get you a vase and you can arrange them for me. Hi, Owen Michael. Have you got a kiss for your grandmother? And you, Tamsin? Where’s Michael?’

  “Oh… er… he sends his apologies. He’s had to stay in Newport a while longer because he’s got problems with the boat, but he hopes to join us later.” Jo smiled brightly, but her mother-in-law detected the shadow in her eyes, and her heart sank. She was very aware of Jo’s disappointment — and her own.

  “They nearly lost the mast,” Owen Michael announced.

  “Holy shit!” Big Mike remarked, ignoring his wife’s frown of disapproval. “How the hell did they manage that?”

  “I’m sure Michael will tell you
all about it when he gets here.” Jo finished her flower arranging and Babs removed her frilled apron to join the men, immediately switching off the set.

  “Hey,” Big Mike protested. “What did you do that for?”

  “Neal and Meg are due here in half an hour. You haven’t opened the wine yet. And those pants are filthy. Anyway, you don’t usually watch NABS.”

  “Yeah? Well I wanted to see this new whizz-kid weatherman they’ve got.

  “Oh, Richard Connors,” Jo said.

  “That’s the guy. You remember watching him last year when we were in Eleuthera, Babs. He was with WJQT in Miami then. Big, good-looking guy.”

  “I remember,” Babs said. “He seemed to know what he was talking about. What’s he doing in New York?”

  “Working for NABS,” Mike told her, with heavy patience.

  “I’m to interview him next week,” Jo said.

  “Is that a fact?” Big Mike switched on the set again. “Shit! We’ve missed him. I didn’t know he was that famous.”

  “NABS is working on it. Seems their manager, Kiley, called Ed and suggested it.”

  “Well, you can watch him tomorrow,” Babs said. “He can’t tell us anything about the weather tonight we can’t find out for ourselves by looking out of the window. Come on, Mike, be a doll.” She blew him a kiss as she passed his chair and he grabbed her and sat her on his knee.

  “Say, will you old folks cut this horsing around and attend to your visitors?”

  “Marcia!” Babs jumped up and ran to the door to greet her younger daughter. “How are you, sweetheart?”

  “To what do we owe this honor?” Big Mike held out a hand and pulled her down for a kiss.

  “New York is hot and sticky, so we thought we’d drive up and beg dinner and a bed for the night.”

  “We?”

  “There’s someone I want you to meet. He’s parking the car.”

  Big Mike and Babs exchanged glances; Marcia went through young men like a dose of salts — but every one was the man, for as long as he lasted.