A Family Affair

by Fern Michaels

  Trish tipped outrageously, smiled, and thanked the men standing in the foyer. The moment she closed the door and shot the dead bolt, she started to cry. She counted the trunks and bags. Eleven in all. She had no idea she had so many belongings. She looked down at the small gold-lacquered chest with the impressive lock that Malik had given her for her birthday in the second year of their marriage. The chest was where she kept her jewelry, her banking records, the statements, and the endearing cards Malik had given her during their marriage. The key to the ornate chest was on her key ring.

  It was almost dark outside when Trish meandered into the kitchen, the tears still trickling down her cheeks. She’d been so right. A bright red Crock-Pot, its ON light glowing brightly on the WARM setting, awaited her. She didn’t have to lift the lid to know it was chili. On the counter, alongside the Crock-Pot, was a freshly made apple pie. She could smell the cinnamon. She knew there would be raisins and chopped nuts in the pie. Connie again. Connie loved to bake. The hard rolls were from the bakery, the seal still on the box. What more could a girl want, unless it was someone to share it with?

  At that moment, Trish realized she was ravenously hungry. She quickly fixed a bowl of food, got out a tray, and carried it all into the living room, where she turned on the television for the early news. A fire, the news, food, and a flood of tears. What more could a girl ask for?

  Sometimes, like then, life was definitely not a bowl of cherries, but a bowl of chili made for her by the loving hands of a dear friend.

  Chapter 13

  TRISH SLEPT AWAY THE BETTER PART OF THREE DAYS AFTER HER return to her town house. She woke, showered, ate, and went back to sleep. At sundown on the third day, she woke, finally feeling like her old self. She showered, washed her hair, and dressed in a comfortable old set of sweats that felt like an old friend. She made a fire, scrambled some eggs, and settled down in her living room, the television on low. Outside, it was snowing. She’d been stunned to see the accumulation since her arrival. She’d been equally stunned to see the three notes her friend Connie had left for her during the three days. They were bright and witty, so like Connie, she thought as she read one of them.

  You really are a sleepyhead. I know, jet lag. I brought more food. I will continue to check on you until you’re up and moving with a purpose. I hope your dreams are good ones.

  Trish smiled. Tomorrow she would get back into the swing of things. She’d rent a car, go to the grocery store, and get down to business. She stared at her cell phone in the charger on the little table next to where she was sitting. She’d checked it once during her three-day sleeping binge. There were forty-two text messages from Malik and four voice-mail messages. Seven text messages from Soraya and nineteen voice-mail messages. All sounded urgent from brother and sister. On the second day, between bouts of sleep, she’d sent one simple text to each: I arrived safely. Will be in touch soon.

  The word soon, she told herself, meant different things to different people. She allowed herself a small snort of laughter. Where had this shitty blasé attitude come from all of a sudden? From her sleep, from her dreams? She shrugged it off.

  Trish finished the last of her eggs and carried her dishes out to the kitchen, where she made more coffee, then turned on the dishwasher. While she waited for the coffee to drip, she downed two glasses of orange juice. She sniffed and wondered if she had a cold coming on. Damn, this is no time to get sick.

  Thinking preventively, she looked in the cabinet, and sure enough, there was a half bottle of cognac. She would lace her coffee with that, down some aspirin, and hope for the best. She moved over to her kitchen door, turned on the outside light, and saw the accumulation of snow on her little deck. She shrugged that off, too. Sooner or later, it would melt. By tomorrow morning, she knew, it would all look like a winter wonderland. Being warm, dry, and well fed was all that was important to her at the moment.

  When Trish carried her coffee, which was more cognac than coffee, back to the living room, she stopped in her foyer to stare down at the trunks, suitcases, and the little chest. What was in all of them? Tomorrow was another day. She knew in her gut she needed to be clicking on all cylinders when she opened them. So much stuff for just a short visit. The words short visit were her words. The amount of baggage signaled a different phrase, permanent stay.

  Coffee in hand, back in front of the fire, Trish curled her legs under her to settle down for another endless rerun of her favorite television show, NCIS. The phone in the charger rang. She craned her neck to see the caller ID. Zack Molton. Aha, Malik was calling in his big gun. Trish let the call go to voice mail. Five minutes later she heard the signal that a text message was coming through. Same caller ID, Zack Molton. She ignored it, too, and before she knew it, she was following the program playing out on the screen. She did love Leroy Jethro Gibbs and his fellow agents and the way they solved everything in sixty minutes. Life should only be that perfect, she thought.

  The cell in the charger continued to ring throughout the evening. Trish sat engrossed in the continuing episodes she’d missed. At eleven o’clock, without another look at her cell, she got ready for bed. The two cups of coffee and all the cognac had made her sleepy all over again. She drank another glass of orange juice and popped some more aspirin.

  Trish was asleep before her head hit the pillow. When she woke at seven the next morning, she lay there for a few minutes, trying to decide how she felt. She yawned elaborately and decided she felt full of spit and vinegar. Time to start the new day.

  Trish brushed her teeth and headed for the kitchen, where she brewed coffee. As it dripped, she sent off a text message to Malik and one to Soraya. Both messages were the same. It’s snowing. Looks beautiful. She typed in her name and returned the phone to the charger. She eyed her belongings in the foyer as she made her way back to the kitchen.

  Mid-morning, Trish was dressed and ready to head out. Her new rental car was due any moment. She stood in the foyer, watching out the window for the people who had promised to deliver the car no later than ten thirty. She looked down at her watch. Five minutes to go. The building association had done a good job of plowing out the road and the parking spaces. She’d insisted on a vehicle with four-wheel drive, just to be on the safe side.

  The car arrived at ten forty. Trish signed the papers, handed over her credit card so the courier could run it, and she was good to go.

  At the last second, Trish ran back to the kitchen for another glass of orange juice and more aspirin. Finally, she was ready to face her old world again. She headed straight for the nearest mall, where she went to the Verizon store and bought a new phone. She signed a one-year contract for it, paid it in full, and was assured that if she returned in two hours, she would have full service. She killed time by walking around the stores. There wasn’t one thing she needed or wanted. Maybe she should get something for Emma, but what? It had been years since she’d set eyes on her sister. She had no idea what size she was these days. She scratched that idea. She stopped at Nordstrom, had a bite of lunch, then headed back to the Verizon store, where she pocketed her new cell phone and headed for home.

  Back inside her cozy town house, Trish got down to work at the kitchen table. She opened up her laptop and put her plan into motion. An hour later, she called Connie and asked her if she’d stop by, because she needed to talk to her about something important. Connie agreed and said she’d be by no later than two o’clock. It would be so good to see her old friend in the flesh again.

  When the doorbell rang at ten minutes of two, Trish almost killed herself running to the door. She opened it and squealed her pleasure at seeing her old friend. “Come in. Come in. It’s so cold out there!”

  They hugged each other, kissed each other, then hugged some more before Trish burst into tears.

  “It can’t be that bad, or are you crying with happiness at seeing me?” Connie teased lightly as she eyed the trunks and cases lining the foyer.

  “Both, Connie. Come on out to the kitchen. I
have coffee on. You look great. You haven’t aged a day since I saw you last.”

  “I wish I could return the compliment, Trish. You look terrible. I have this great new makeup that will hide those dark circles under your eyes. And you lost weight. Well, I’m going to fatten you right up. Pour me coffee. Then let’s talk.”

  And talk they did until well after five.

  “Trish, playing devil’s advocate here, what is it you’re doing here? Are you trying to teach Malik a lesson? Did you try to talk to him, or did you hide in your shell and pretend everything was all right? Think back to when you say his indifference started. Can you pinpoint anything in particular that happened?”

  “Just the business of me not getting pregnant. It weighed on my mind. It would on yours, too, if you were in my position. That’s the only thing I can think of. As far as I know, palace business and the other emirates are okay. Malik really doesn’t discuss any of that with me, except maybe in passing. He’s not a worrier by nature. He . . . Something is . . . was on his mind, and he couldn’t hide that fact from me. He tried, but it just didn’t work. The big telling point was that we didn’t go to the cave. We used to do that a lot.

  “You know what else, Connie? I don’t even know whose idea it was for me to come home, mine or Soraya’s. All I know was that within hours, the plans had been made, and here I am. As well as all those trunks and bags and boxes. I can’t bear to open them. I guess this is my swan song. But then, another part of me wants to know why all the voice mails and texts from both Malik and Soraya. Maybe it’s one of those things, you know, where you don’t know what you have until you lose it. That kind of thinking. Maybe they’re both sorry about whatever it is they are sorry about. Does that make sense?

  “I feel so . . . I don’t know what the word is, Connie. Betrayed, maybe. Ignored? Did Malik fall out of love with me? Did he find a replacement for me, one who will give him an heir? I just don’t know. What I do know is that I am not going to discuss my life, my future, over the telephone or by sending texts. Another thing is I have all this money. On day one I was told it would be mine forever, no matter what happened. And it’s true. With all the successful investments the Swiss bankers have made for me, I have over one hundred million dollars in my name. And guess what? I have no will. I’m going to see to that while I’m here. Is this unbelievable or what? Paid for services rendered. That sucks, Connie.”

  “Oh, Trish, you don’t know that for sure. For some reason, it’s not computing for me. There’s something here that isn’t adding up for me. With everything you’ve told me over the years about Malik and your relationship, I just don’t see him kicking you to the curb as you say. I grant you something isn’t right, and I’m starting to think it’s with your husband, not you, and he doesn’t know how to handle it.”

  “Like what?” Trish snapped. “We’ve always shared everything from the day we got married.”

  Connie threw her hands in the air. “I don’t know, Trish. My best advice, my only advice, is to go back to Dubai and talk it out with Malik. Hog-tie him if you have to and get to the bottom of it. Find out exactly where you stand regarding the childbirth issue. The man is the head of his country. He should be able to change a stupid ruling like that.”

  “You’re right. I am going to go back, but I’ll go back only when I’m ready and not one minute sooner. I’m going to stay a while, try to get my head on straight, and only then will I make my decisions. In the meantime I plan to pretty much ignore both Malik and Soraya. I will send off a text from time to time. It’s Malik’s turn to sweat a little.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me. So you haven’t looked into the trunks is what you’re telling me. Plus, you didn’t read or listen to any of the messages that have been left for you. You assume—I want to stress the word assume here—that you have been kicked to the curb because you can’t bear a child for your husband. Is that correct?”

  “Pretty much, yes.”

  “Well, let’s just check it out, because I have to leave shortly. We have an eight o’clock show during January and February, as you know. Are they locked?”

  “No.”

  Trish and Connie walked from the kitchen to the foyer where Connie dropped to her haunches and opened the first trunk and gasped. “Wow! Would you look at this! I have never in my life seen such gorgeous silk. There are bolts and bolts of it, every color of the rainbow.” After opening two more trunks, Connie exclaimed, “This one has sets of gold-plated dinnerware. And this one is full of gold silverware. Are you planning on opening a store, and you didn’t tell me? How did you get this stuff into this country without going through customs, or whatever it is you have to do?”

  Trish threw her hands in the air. “I had no idea what was in the trunks. I thought it was my stuff. I guess it’s gifts for my friends. This must be Soraya’s doing. She oversaw the packing of my things. It was kind of a last-minute decision on my part to come home.”

  Connie opened several other trunks and described the contents to Trish. “This one has exquisite wall hangings and brocades. This one has gold figurines. I didn’t know there was that much gold in the world. This has to represent a fortune, Trish. Okay, okay, this case has your winter clothes in it. And there’s a lock on that beautiful little chest. Me thinks, Trish, you misinterpreted things. Perhaps you should spend the evening listening to those messages on your phone.”

  Trish chewed on her lower lip. She waved her arms about and said, “This doesn’t mean I haven’t been kicked to the curb. How do you explain Malik’s strange behavior?”

  Connie was already on her way back to the kitchen to gather up her notes. “Let’s go through this one more time before I leave. You want me to find a computer hacker who can be trusted to ferret out your sister’s ex-husband’s financials. You know he’s doing something dirty, and your sister got screwed by him.

  “Ernie will be a big help on this. His day job is writing software for huge firms, and he knows just about everyone in the field. He is so good at that, but it’s not what he wants to do. He wants to be a choreographer. I’ll do my best. Are you going to wait for me to get back to you, or are you going to go to see your sister first?”

  “I was thinking about leaving tomorrow and surprising her. You can reach me on my new cell phone.” Trish ripped off a sticky note from a pad stuck to the fridge and handed it to Connie.

  The two women hugged one another again as Trish walked Connie to the door. “Say hi to everyone for me and give Ernie a big hug. Soraya said to give him a kiss.”

  Connie laughed all the way out to her car.

  Trish’s heart felt lighter as she made her way back to the living room. She picked up the phone and started to scroll through the text messages. Several times she smiled and several times she frowned at her husband’s messages. Soraya’s just made her laugh out loud. The text and voice mail from Zack Molton was a puzzle, with Zack just saying that he wanted to check in to see how things were and that he had not been able to reach Malik in over a month. He went on to say he hoped everything was right as rain, and if she had a chance, to flip him off a text to reassure him that all was right in her corner of the world.

  Trish puzzled over the text and voice mail. Malik hadn’t been in touch with Zack, either. Normally, they were in touch several times a week. More puzzled than annoyed, Trish shelved her thoughts about Zack Molton and set about booking an airline ticket to Newark, New Jersey, where she would rent a car and drive on to Princeton. She crossed her fingers that her sister would welcome her with open arms.

  Dinner was a ham sandwich and a glass of milk. Then she was back on her laptop, taking virtual tours of Princeton. She did a Google Earth search to see exactly where her sister was living. She winced as she hit one link after another to gain more information. Then she did the Google Earth search again to see Jeff Davis’s new house, which he lived in with his trophy wife and her sister’s daughter, her niece. She whistled to herself at what she was seeing. Compared to where Jeff lived, her sister w
as living in the ghetto.

  “Well, we’ll just see about that,” Trish murmured under her breath.

  She wished she was more computer savvy. She knew she was wasting time, but she kept at it, and finally she actually hit on a public record site that told her who held Jeff Davis’s mortgage. She whistled again. A five-million-dollar house with yearly taxes that could feed a family of six, according to the Realtor he’d purchased the house from. He had a sky-high mortgage. He’d bought the house at the high-tide mark in real-estate prices, and the house’s value was now depressed by 47 percent. The house was in a gated community called Bar Haven. It was precisely 8.6 miles from the ghetto where Emma lived.

  Trish kept clicking and clicking, going from one site to the other until she found what she thought she wanted. Once again, she took a virtual tour of a gated community, Bar Haven’s competitor, called the Enclave. The houses in the tour were McMansions, gorgeous, with four models that were fully furnished with top-of-the-line everything. The Enclave builders had been wise and had stopped building just as the economy took a nosedive. Not so Bar Haven’s, who had finally had to stop their phase two section thanks to a lack of bank funding. The pictures she was viewing looked like a war zone.

  Trish went to another site and clicked again as the virtual scene moved up one street and down another. Huge, bright red FOR SALE signs could be seen on just about every other house. On Jeff Davis’s street alone, there were seven FOR SALE signs. Rich on paper only. All the more reason to get Jeff’s financials.

  Trish looked at the clock on the range and sighed. Twelve thirty! She shut down her laptop, warmed a glass of milk, shot the dead bolt on the front door, and went upstairs. Before she put on her nightclothes, she packed a small bag and carried it out to the foyer. All she had to do in the morning was roll out of bed, shower, grab a cup of coffee, and head for the airport.