The entire apartment—so recently a source of pride—seemed shabby and small. The furniture, which Cassie had lovingly collected from antique stores and tag sales, now appeared scuffed and mismatched. And what in the world had enticed her to paint the walls light blue? Stains showed up so quickly, and especially on a rainy evening, the blue just seemed so blue, so depressing.
Then there was Kenneth. He’d been upset with her that she hadn’t called ahead to tell him what flight she’d be taking back from New York so that he could meet her, and it seemed they’d fought about everything since. Not full-fledged fights, just dull little bickering quarrels that never seemed to reach a climax.
“Why don’t you come by the hospital when you’re done at the office and we’ll have dinner together?” he’d asked her nicely enough in the middle of the afternoon a week after her return.
“It’s Thursday.”
“So?”
“Kenneth. It’s Thursday.” She hated the put-upon sound of her voice, but was unable to change it. “Thursday night, remember? It’s when Miranda’s on.”
“Oh, the show, of course. Well, I’ll come by your apartment, then. We’ll have take-out. What do you want? Chinese or Mexican?”
And that’s what it seemed her life had boiled down to: dispiriting choices, dull evenings in front of the television, the accommodating affection of a man she no longer loved. That was the real crux of everything that had gone wrong since her return: she didn’t love Kenneth and she realized now that she probably never had. She no longer felt attracted to his tall, lean body or his hands that were a little too big for his long wiry arms. His face, like hers, was lightly freckled. His lips were wide and pale. She no longer wished to touch his face or kiss his lips. He suddenly seemed altogether too rawboned, too tall, too fair-skinned. No, Cassie had to admit as she woke up the following Friday morning, the real problem with Kenneth was not what he was, but who he wasn’t. He wasn’t Jason.
How awful, she told herself as she leaned over the basin to brush her teeth, how awful and trite. She’d fallen in love with her sister’s husband. She found herself dreaming nightly of the one man in the world she could never have. Jason Darin. She adored the very sound of his name! Oh, how awful, how wrong! As she rinsed her mouth out with water she flicked on the little transistor radio on the shelf beside the sink to hear the early morning news. At first it was just another tragic story.
“Found this morning. On Montauk Highway. Car apparently overturned and destroyed by fire. Local police officials put the time of Miranda Darin’s death at about…”
She stared at herself in the mirror, seeing nothing.
“… Miranda Darin, host of the widely acclaimed Breaking News television show, one of the most beloved and respected newscasters of her generation, dead today at the age of thirty-eight. Beautiful, poised, Ms. Darin got her start in television news at…”
Somewhere Cassie heard a phone ringing. She walked out of the bathroom, leaving the water running, and into her bedroom where she picked up the receiver. She listened for a second or two without comprehension.
“… and Jason asked me to help with the arrangements,” the deep, somehow familiar voice was saying. “We’ve booked a flight for you at eleven. Should get you into La Guardia a bit past noon. One of the network limos will be waiting. Does that give you enough time? Cassie? Did you hear me? Are you okay?”
“Magnus … Vance,” she said. “Yes, I heard you. You know, I just now realized what she meant. Just now … when I heard. I didn’t understand before. I was so wrong.”
“Didn’t understand what, Cassie?” the voice said. The tone was both patronizing and concerned. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“When Miranda said I’d gotten it all backward. It wasn’t that she was trying to help me. I just this minute figured it out.”
“I’m sorry, you’re upset.” He was trying hard to be sympathetic, but his impatience was beginning to wear through. “I’ve got a lot to do here, I’m afraid…”
“Don’t you see? She was hoping that I would help her.”
Six
Everything looked the same. But Cassie felt the difference as soon as she arrived. It wasn’t Jason, but a maid Cassie vaguely remembered from her first trip, who opened the elegant wrought-iron front door.
“They’re in the library,” the uniformed woman told her. The late March wind swept in behind Cassie and swirled around the circular front hall. The Murano crystal chandelier tinkled overhead as the maid pushed the door shut.
“You go on in. I’ll take your things upstairs.” There was a reverence in the maid’s voice that Cassie had not heard before. Or was it just sympathy? From the moment she stepped aboard the plane that morning and discovered that she had been booked into first class, she had felt that she was being treated with particular kindness and concern. She wasn’t used to being pampered and felt silly sitting in the sleek leather-covered backseat of the stretch limo Magnus Media had provided for her trip in from the airport. The car had been equipped with a full bar, telephone, and miniature television set tuned to the Magnus network. The News at Noon was on, but they were still carrying only the sketchiest details about Miranda’s death.
“A terrible accident,” was how the anchor described it as a close-up of a mangled husk of a car was shown. When the newscaster went on to say that “Miranda Darin apparently burned to death,” Cassie had quickly turned the television off. She had spent the remainder of the drive sitting silently in the huge backseat of the limo, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She felt nothing: no sorrow, no anger. She realized vaguely that she must be in a state of emotional shock. She kept forcing herself to remember that this was real, not a dream. Miranda was dead. And though everything looked the same, there was one major difference: Miranda was gone.
“What you’re describing is a media circus.” Cassie could hear Jason’s deep rough voice as she made her way down the front hall toward the library.
“Come on, you’re being unfair, Jason.” Magnus’s tone was smooth, reasonable.
“That’s my right as her husband. I don’t want a million curious spectators waiting outside during my wife’s funeral. I want it small. And private. Is that so hard to understand, Magnus?”
“Cassie.” Magnus turned to greet her as she walked into room. There was a fire going in the marble-topped fireplace. The crimson-walled library was warm and filled with the nostalgic aroma of burning logs. A vase of freshly cut pussy willows sat on a low, ornate side table. The careful arrangement was so obviously the work of her sister that Cassie felt tears running down her cheeks before she realized she was crying.
“Cassie.” Suddenly Jason was beside her, and his arms were around her. “Cassie, I’m so sorry.” And then he let her go and made his way back to the couch where he had been sitting.
“I had every intention of being strong and resilient,” Cassie said, shakily taking a seat on one of the chintz-covered ottomans. She rooted around in her shoulder bag for a tissue. “Sorry.”
“I’m relieved someone around here is showing a little emotion,” Magnus said dryly.
“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” Jason shot back, standing to face the tall, silver-haired man who leaned against the mantelpiece.
“Just that it seems to me you’re not thinking about what Miranda would have wanted in all this.” Magnus turned to Cassie and said, “We’re trying to make plans for your sister’s funeral, and I’m afraid that Jason and I are at loggerheads. Perhaps you can help us sort things out.” He seemed so much in control, so elegantly powerful, Cassie was beginning to see why Miranda and he had hit it off so well. They were alike in many ways, smooth and self-aware and yet undeniably charismatic. They both had the kind of elusive appeal that used to be called “star quality.” It was hard for anyone to resist. Cassie, who was beginning to feel the first real waves of emotional pain flood through her, felt grateful for the strength he was projecting so effort
lessly.
“Of course,” she said. “Whatever I can do…”
“Your sister had millions of admirers, Cassie,” Magnus said. “Her death is a shock to everyone—not just her family. I know that doesn’t mean a great deal to you, Jason. I’ve long been aware that you wished Miranda did something else—perhaps anything else—for a living.”
“I thought we were going to keep my wishes out of this,” Jason replied coldly. “Just make your case, Magnus. I want Cassie to hear it and help me decide. Go on.”
“Magnus Media believes that Miranda Darin’s many, many loyal fans—like her family—need the ritual of a funeral to start them down the road to mourning and acceptance.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” Jason interrupted. “In two weeks they’ll have forgotten her name. But you’ll have racked up some impressive Nielsen points by putting what should be a deeply private moment on public display. I say no.”
“And I say I thought you agreed to at least hear me out.”
“Wait a second,” Cassie said. “Are you saying you want to televise Miranda’s funeral?”
“Not the actual live service, my dear, of course not. But, yes, some footage before and after. Perhaps an edited taped version of the address spliced into later coverage. We’re also working on a tribute to her, putting together spots from Breaking News and other places, reminiscences from people she worked with, people who loved her.”
“Didn’t you manage to exploit her enough while she was alive?” Jason demanded.
“Please,” Magnus said, at last showing some anger of his own. “I’m only trying to do what I feel she would want, Jason. She was a public figure and she loved being one. She thrived in front of a camera. She lived for the excitement. The lights. The avid attention of her viewers. Did you ever watch her open her fan mail? Did you ever see her face a moment or two before broadcast? That’s when she was most alive, Jason, glowing, happy. Perhaps you don’t want to face it, perhaps you can’t. But what I’m proposing—an afternoon-long tribute to one of America’s most beloved media stars—is precisely what she would have wanted for herself. She loved being adored. I’m giving her fans one last chance to do so.”
Jason sighed, leaned back, and ran his hands through his dark hair. “What do you think, Cassie?”
“I hate to say it,” Cassie replied slowly, “but I think Mr. Magnus is right. I do think she would have wanted something. But can’t we compromise? Have a private ceremony somewhere that’s kept very secret, then maybe do a more public thing elsewhere later?”
Magnus seized on her suggestion. “That’s a terrific idea, Cassie. I was planning a reception anyway after the service, at my place. We can arrange to have the media and the fans congregate there. Perfect. Thank you. Jason … how does that sound to you?”
“Just the way it sounded before. But then, perhaps I’m not the right person to ask. I always did know a different Miranda than anyone else.” He rose wearily from the couch and added, “I’ll let you two sort out the details. I think I’d better get some sleep.”
It was a chilly afternoon with a hint of rain riding beneath a chaotic wind. Bitter, seemingly without direction, the breeze rattled through the branches of the leafless trees along Madison Avenue, whipped at awnings, and wreaked havoc on the expensively saloned hairstyles of the mourners as they moved slowly up the steps of the church. The line of people waiting to get in stretched around the corner. It wasn’t until Jason helped her and Heather out of the backseat of the limousine, until they were hurrying to the side entrance of the church, that Cassie noticed several people in the crowd had cameras.
“Mr. Darin!” a man cried out. “Jason Darin … there he is … quick … tell us how you feel, sir…”
“Get out of our way.” Jason pushed brutally through the crowd, herding Cassie and Heather in front of him. As the heavy oak door closed behind them, Cassie heard Jason swear under his breath. “Goddamn vultures.”
“How did they know?” Cassie demanded. “I thought we’d all agreed the service would be private.”
Jason stared at her a moment before saying, “As far as the media is concerned, Cassie, nothing is private. I would have thought you knew that by now.”
His tone was cold, dismissive. Cassie felt tears sting along her lids. She squeezed her eyes shut quickly, determined not to cry again. He could be so cruel without knowing it. Or was he treating her like this on purpose? For the last few days, since the moment she had agreed to let Magnus televise his tribute to Miranda, Jason’s mood had progressively darkened. He had simply withdrawn himself from her … and the household. When he wasn’t working alone in the large private office next to his bedroom upstairs, he retreated to the even more carefully guarded inner sanctum at his business complex in the World Trade Center. Jason had handed over the funeral arrangements to Magnus and the running of the town house to Cassie. The only person he spoke to, or seemed to care about, was Heather.
“But she didn’t want to leave us, sweetheart.” The previous night Cassie had overheard Jason’s hoarse, distinctive voice in Heather’s room. Even if he left her alone most of the day, Jason was there to wake his daughter up in the morning … and tuck her into bed at night.
“I did something wrong, didn’t I?” Heather asked.
“Oh, no, Heath, you didn’t. Don’t ever think that.”
“But I’m sure it was me, Daddy,” Heather told him sadly. “The afternoon before Momma went away she got mad at me because I left my room a mess. She said she was sick and tired of me not being neater. I think … I think … she just got sick of me. I made her leave.”
“Listen to me, Heather, and listen hard,” Jason told her. “Your momma loved you very, very much. What happened to her had nothing to do with you. You’ve got to believe that. She loved you … and I love you. And believe me, sweetheart, nothing you could ever do would change that.”
But for all the affection and concern he showed Heather, Jason barely seemed to register the fact that Cassie was there: dealing with the house staff, keeping a distraught Heather active and entertained during the day, coping with the endless flow of flowers, telegrams, and letters from Miranda Darin’s countless friends and fans around the world. And, not least, helping Magnus coordinate Miranda’s funeral and the enormous reception he was hosting after the church service.
“I’m sorry to keep bothering you, Cassie,” he told her on the phone the morning after she had flown back. “But Jason is not returning my calls, and I feel that someone in the family should have a say in what happens. Do you know offhand if there were any hymns—or any pieces of music—that Miranda particularly liked?” And then, fifteen minutes later, he’d call back saying: “Me again. What about flowers? Miranda loved roses, but we won’t be able to find anything fresh this time of year. And I know Miranda hated those almost fake, refrigerated ones.”
“She loved the smell of flowers almost more than how they looked,” Cassie said. “Perhaps hyacinths? I remember she had some here the night of the party.”
“Marvelous, yes. I’ll always associate Miranda with some sweet scent or other … that perfume she wore. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to smell it again without…”
That was the first moment that Cassie registered the fact that Magnus, too, was suffering. How deeply he had loved Miranda and in what ways, Cassie doubted she would ever know. And yet, despite his polished control, behind his take-charge manner, Cassie could feel the powerful man’s anguish. In the end, Cassie began to realize that half his calls—and questions—were unnecessary. Magnus needed to talk to someone about Miranda. He managed to work her name into the conversation as often as he could. Cassie sensed it was his way of holding on to Miranda.
Miranda … Miranda … As Cassie followed Jason and Heather into the first pew of the church, she realized how little time she had had to herself during the past few days to think about her older sister. To mourn her. To accept the fact that she would never again hear her voice or
her laugh. She was gone. The last of her family. The final link Cassie had to the past, to her childhood.
As the minister began his eulogy, Cassie found she had a hard time concentrating on his glowing, yet somehow empty, words. His praise was for the Miranda everyone saw behind the camera: the dazzling blond media goddess, the carefully packaged television personality, the gracious, smiling society hostess that Miranda had done everything in her power to become.
And yet Cassie knew that that image of Miranda was as thin and insubstantial as the videotape used to project it. In truth, Miranda had been ruthlessly ambitious. She had been hard, selfish, driven. She had had very few real friends. She had kept her own family at a distance. Her marriage, at least what Cassie had seen of it, had been rocky at best. She had allowed her daughter to become sadly spoiled. As far as Cassie could see, Miranda had sacrificed every human relationship she ever made on the altar of success.
Cassie had always accepted the fact that she idolized Miranda. She had envied her deeply. But she had lived so much of her life in Miranda’s shadow, so overwhelmed by her sister’s brilliance that she had never really seen clearly just how much Miranda mattered to her. The truth was, Cassie realized as she felt tears slide down her cheeks, she had loved Miranda. She had loved her in spite of all her faults. She had loved her as only one sister can love another, with feelings that went beyond words, with roots that probed deeply into the subconscious and the past. It was a tie heavy with responsibility, weighted with guilt. And as the congregation rose for the closing hymn, Cassie realized that it was a bond too strong ever to be broken. Even by death.
Seven
What Vance Magnus’s co-op lacked in warmth and charm it made up for with a conspicuous display of extreme wealth. His duplex was on the upper floors of one of the new sleek marble-and-plate-glass monoliths on West Fifty-seventh Street, a building that had many commercial as well as residential owners. From the elaborately wrought Miro wall hangings and Noguchi-like sculpture in the two-story, pink-marbled lobby, to the Olympic-sized pool and fully equipped gym that comprised the two top floors, the building had an aura of hidden power, of secret deals being conducted behind polished teak doors.
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