by July Hall
Then they nearly doubled over laughing.
Charles pursed his lips. Rosalie looked at him, and wheezed, “I was joking!”
Charles opened his mouth to protest. Stephen held up a hand. “God, Charles, that’s decent of you. Seriously. I do appreciate it.” He rubbed his hands over his face and groaned. “I wouldn’t even have to get married after that. There would be no point. Watching you host a gay stag party would be the highlight of my entire life.”
“Of course I could do it,” Charles said stiffly. By now, Rosalie was actually in tears. “You’re my brother.”
Stephen shook his head, still chuckling. “Thanks all the same. Craig and I have friends in the Village who want to throw a party for us. No offense, but it’s going to be a gay-only crowd. We want to have fun, not worry about whether or not we’re making anybody uncomfortable.” He sighed. “There will be enough of that at the actual wedding.”
“Oh.” How strange, to feel both relieved and a little crestfallen. “Well, of course you should have a good time.”
“I intend to. Charles, it’s fine. I don’t remember that you even had that much fun at your own stag party.”
No, he hadn’t. It wasn’t because he objected to the custom or anything. It was because just before the party, Eleanor had whispered into his ear about how savage she wanted him to be on the wedding night, and every minute afterward had crawled like a year. No doubt he’d looked very distracted.
Though neither of them were virgins, they’d waited for each other until they were married. Peculiar, maybe, but it had seemed right to them—and on their honeymoon, they didn’t get out of bed for three days straight, so it had all worked out.
“I had plenty of fun,” Charles said.
Rosalie wiped away the last of her tears and giggled again. “If this is going to turn into boys’ talk, I’d better be on my way.” She put her tablet back in her bag and rose to her feet. “I’ll finalize the guest list tomorrow morning and send it to you for approval.”
Charles grumbled his agreement. Rosalie’s smile turned fond. She bent down and kissed his forehead and then Stephen’s. “I love both my silly brothers. Goodnight,” she said.
Then she left, her high heels clacking across the floor. Stephen shook his head, still smiling. “I knew she’d make it work. It’ll be fine. What did you want to talk to me about?”
Charles had meant to say, The prenup. He heard himself say, “Nothing much, just an issue.”
And for a moment, he felt himself dangling one foot into the abyss. If anybody would understand, surely Stephen would. They were brothers. Friends. Stephen knew what it was like to love someone you weren’t supposed to and to stay in the shadows because of it.
“What issue?” Stephen asked.
Now Charles could say, The prenup. Or he could say, I have fallen in love with someone who wants nothing from me, who will walk away from me whenever she pleases, and if that happens then you won’t have a brother anymore. You’ll have someone you won’t recognize and won’t like very much. I’d do anything to keep her and I don’t care who it hurts. I thought you should know.
He said, “The prenup.”
Stephen’s face fell. Then he sighed. “Of course. Shouldn’t Craig be here for this? Let me guess.” He held up a hand. “Not without the lawyers.”
“Not without the lawyers,” Charles agreed. “Stephen, it’s got to be done. Eleanor and I did it too.” Best not to mention Rosalie and Robert.
“True.” To his relief, Stephen shrugged. “Let’s talk it out, then.”
Yes, they’d talk it out. And…after the wedding, maybe they’d talk more. Perhaps. But this was not a prudent time to drop the bomb. It would essentially be asking Stephen to take sides between his two siblings, to keep a toxic secret, just a few weeks before his marriage.
“Relax,” Stephen said with a forced laugh. “You look like you swallowed a lemon. Craig’s not going to demand Rosalie hand over Mother’s rubies.”
“But what if he did?” Charles heard himself ask.
Stephen rolled his eyes. “Be serious.” Then he blinked. “Wait. You are serious.”
“What if he did want them?” Charles persisted. “What if—” He paused. “That would certainly be a gesture, wouldn’t it. What if he did?”
Stephen crossed his arms. “Then I’d buy him his own,” he said flatly. “We both want to create our own memories. That’s the damned point. I know family legacy means everything to you, but it hasn’t always been kind to us, you know?”
“I see,” Charles said, his thoughts racing at a mile a minute. He couldn’t…he shouldn’t…
“If you want something done right, do it yourself,” Stephen continued. “Father always talked about that, but I learned it from you.”
For a moment, Charles imagined their father as a ghost in the room, looming over both of his sons—scowling at the gay one before retreating in terror from the other.
Stephen seemed to imagine it too. He sighed. “If Father were here, and you weren’t, none of this would be happening. I know that, Charles. So let’s do the prenup.”
“Yes,” Charles said, “let’s just sketch out some basic details. Very basic.”
And then he’d have to make a phone call. He checked his watch, but there was no need to worry about calling too late. George was undoubtedly available around the clock.
Maybe he shouldn’t do this. But he was absolutely going to.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sandra had had a bad feeling about this from the moment she’d received the note from the courier.
He’d been waiting at the corner of the sidewalk when she arrived at work, not within sight of the office, but definitely in the path of anyone coming from the nearest subway stop. She recognized him. He’d been the same one who delivered the box with the Cartier barrette. That one had come right to her desk. Today, it looked like he’d been ordered to be a little more discreet.
“I’m glad I caught you, Miss Dane,” he’d said. “I was under orders to go to your office if I had to, but this is just as well.” Then he’d given her an envelope. She’d waited until she was at her desk to open it, and then blinked. It contained the address of a bank and the number and key to a safety deposit box.
That was when the bad feeling started. She tried calling Charles, but he didn’t pick up. She sent him a text of What’s the deal with the box? But as of eleven thirty, she had received no reply.
Eleven thirty, and now Kristen was here to take her out to lunch.
They’d never done this before. But things were friendlier between them lately, and everything else around Sandra seemed to be getting less and less sure. When Kristen had said, “It’s supposed to be gorgeous today, wanna grab lunch?” this morning, she couldn’t think why not.
“Is it okay if she comes in?” she asked Arnaud. “I said I could meet her there, but she wants to see my office.”
“Of course it’s fine. I don’t have a client consultation for another hour.” Arnaud adjusted his tie. “Has she started work on that capstone project yet? I suppose she must have.”
“How did you know about her capstone project?” Sandra asked in astonishment.
Arnaud shrugged. “She told me about it when we met. About studying the psychological effects of ultra left-wing subculture on the disenfranchised, right? It sounded fascinating.”
Sandra gaped at him.
Before she could say anything, the door opened, and Kristen poked her head in. “Hey,” she said. “Can I come in?”
Arnaud smiled at her. “Well, hello there.”
Kristen went red as a beet. No wonder. Arnaud did that to women. Sandra couldn’t help a swift surge of satisfaction that even her deliberately grubby sister wasn’t immune.
Though Kristen seemed a little less grubby today. She was wearing the clean pair of Chucks, a jacket instead of a hoodie, and her shirt had actual buttons.
She still slouched, though, as she walked into the waiting area. “Uh, good t
o see you again,” she said to Arnaud.
“And you as well.” Arnaud leaned against the live edge reception desk. Indira was coming in late today. “I was just asking your sister about your capstone.”
Kristen’s eyes widened. “You were?”
“Yes. I remember how interesting it was. Are you still doing it, the thing you told me about at Pattern Drift?”
“Oh, yeah.” Kristen dragged a hand through her brown hair. “It’s really cool. Takes up a lot of time, though. I’ve had to cut down on my hours at the skate shop.”
“What have you done so far?” Arnaud said. “When do you have to be finished?”
“Well…the rough draft is due to my adviser in March…” Kristen gave Sandra a slightly hunted look.
“I’ll get my bag,” Sandra said, and hurried to her office. She’d better rescue her sister fast. Kristen had never been comfortable in Sandra’s world. She thought Sandra’s classmates and coworkers were snobs and posers, and Bradley worse than all of them.
Sandra bit her lip and made sure that the envelope was securely tucked into her purse.
When she returned to the waiting area, she caught bits of a surprisingly spirited conversation. “Duh,” Kristen was saying. “A big percentage of that population is illiterate. You can’t swoop in and start talking about Marxist theory. You need to lead in with the ideas. Everybody gets those.”
“Everybody?” Arnaud said. He looked amused as he leaned against the desk with his arms crossed. “I bet about ninety percent of this neighborhood would disagree.”
“Ninety percent of your neighbors suck,” Kristen said. Arnaud—who would have given Sandra a lecture about respecting their clientele—laughed.
“Um, I’m ready,” Sandra said. They both looked at her and seemed sort of surprised to find her standing there. “We’d better get going.”
“What’s the rush?” Arnaud asked.
“I was kind of hoping to run an errand,” Sandra said. She glanced at Kristen. “It’ll take ten minutes, tops.” She just needed to see what was in that safety deposit box. There was no way she could wait until tomorrow, and the bank would be closed by the time she left the office tonight.
“Too bad,” Arnaud said. “Kristen, it was a pleasure to see you again.” He held out his hand.
Kristen took it, shook it, turned red again, and muttered, “You too, bye,” before slouching out the door after Sandra.
“So what’s your errand?” she asked as they left the building.
“A, um, client left me the details of his safety deposit box, and I need to check up on it,” she said. “He said it was something he wants to put in his house. I’m not sure what it is.”
Kristen shrugged. “Fine by me. Where’s the bank? Is it in Midtown? That’s a hike in your shoes.”
“Nope. It’s just a couple of blocks away.” Charles probably would have done that on purpose. “Come on.”
“Cool.” Kristen looked up at the sky and added, “God, it really is a beautiful day, isn’t it? November’s usually so blah. Oh, hey, Mom wants to know when we’re getting home for Thanksgiving next week…”
They worked out the details as they walked, but Sandra couldn’t still the butterflies in her stomach. They started fluttering more and more when she and Kristen entered the bank doors.
They headed for the customer service desk. “Excuse me,” Sandra said when they arrived, looking at the envelope. “I have a key for safety deposit box #465?”
“Of course, ma’am,” said the suited man behind the desk. He turned to his computer. “Just one moment, while I check up on…” Then his eyebrows rose. “Ah. Well, yes, of course. Do you have a photo ID?”
Sandra showed him her driver’s license. She expected that to be it. But then he continued, “Thank you. And what about some secondary identification? Perhaps a passport or a birth certificate?”
Sandra stared at him. “Um, no, I didn’t bring either one of those. I didn’t know I’d need them. I just wanted to stop by and see what’s in the box.”
“We…ah…will need more than one form of ID, ma’am,” the man said. She wished he had on a name-tag. “In this particular case. More substantive than a credit card,” he added, forestalling her next question.
The hairs on Sandra’s arms raised up. Kristen said, “Maybe it’s because it’s your client’s stuff, not yours. What about a utility bill or something?” she asked the man. “Most of those are in her name. People use them to prove residency and stuff.”
“Well, yes, that would work,” the man said, appearing surprised. “So long as the address on the statement matches what’s on your driver’s license.”
Sandra was already opening her e-mail on her phone. She paid all the bills online. By the time she finally found the electric bill, her heart was racing. In this particular case, the man had said. What the hell was in that box?
She showed him her phone. “Here,” she said. “That’s the power bill. And just in case…” She swiped to the other window. “The cable bill, too.”
“Thank you. May we make a photocopy of your driver’s license for our records?” he asked. It didn’t seem to be an actual question. Sandra sighed and nodded. This quick little errand was turning out to be not so quick. “I’ll take care of it personally. Be right back.”
“Sorry about this,” Sandra told Kristen. “I didn’t know it would be so involved.”
“That’s capitalism for you,” Kristen said, but thankfully didn’t seem inclined to continue with her usual diatribe. She added, “There’s no way he’s just copying your license. I bet he’s checking you against some national database or something.”
“Is that legal?”
Kristen rolled her eyes. “Because banks care so much about that. I’m telling you, our current system is broken. Corruption is everywhere.”
Sandra groaned and looked at the ceiling. Kristen took a hint, and they waited in silence until the man returned about ten minutes later. He returned her license to her and then might actually have given her a little bow. “Right this way, ma’am.” He glanced at Kristen. “Is this your assistant?”
Kristen’s jaw dropped. So did Sandra’s, before she managed, “Uh, no. She’s my sister.”
“I see. I’m sorry. Will she be accompanying you into the room?”
“The room?”
“We take you to a secure room and then bring the box to you,” the man explained. “We have no idea what’s in it. You’re the one with the key. It’s totally confidential.”
Thank God for that. Sandra glanced at Kristen. “Would you mind waiting outside? I really just need a quick look. Five minutes?”
Kristen shrugged sullenly, her earlier good humor already evaporated. “Hurry up,” she said. “I’m hungry.”
“Just right down this hallway,” the man said, giving Kristen an apologetic glance before leading Sandra away.
He left her in a small room that contained a table, two chairs, and very little else. No windows. Sandra clenched her fingers, jiggled her foot, and wondered what the hell Charles was playing at this time.
It could be a fun little game. A sweet gesture. But after Hong Kong, somehow the fun and games felt off-kilter, like a spinning top that was heading toward the edge of a table. She hadn’t spoken to him since their return four days ago. And this morning, when she’d really needed to hear his voice, to ask him questions, he hadn’t picked up.
Their affair was dangerous. It always had been. She knew that. But it had started off as a thrill, at least. And when they were together, somehow the danger didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. When Charles was inside her, the world made sense, as if everything was just as it should be. She’d never felt anything more right than when they were in each other’s arms.
But he wasn’t here now. She was alone. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, wondering when the room had gotten so cold.
The man returned with a plain black box. “You have the key, miss?” he asked. Wordlessly, Sandra held i
t up. “Then I’ll leave you to it. Take as long as you like.”
“Five minutes, that’s all,” Sandra repeated, trying not to let her hand shake. He’d see the key wobble. “Please tell my sister.”
“Of course, ma’am. The security guard will be waiting right outside.” He set the box on the table in front of her. “When you’re done, just lock the box. Then knock on the door, and he’ll let you out. We’ll return the box to its place. Feel free to take anything in it with you or leave it behind. Your choice.”
“Thanks,” she said. The man nodded, left, and closed the door behind him. Sandra looked at the box, then at the key resting in the palm of her hand, and then at the box again.
If it was the key to an Upper East Side apartment, she’d kill him. But no, he knew that. He knew she didn’t want to be kept. She’d told him a thousand times. He’d respect that. Right?
Dammit. There was just no telling with Charles. It could be Richard Zhou’s little finger, for all she knew. Growling in the back of her throat, she jammed the key into the lock and popped open the box.
Inside the box lay a black leather case with the name GRAFF embossed on the top. The case was about the size of a hardback book. Sandra’s mouth went dry. Okay. Not an apartment key. Probably not a finger, either. She gulped and popped open the clasp on the case, raising the lid.
Then she stared. And stared some more. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to stop staring, or if she’d ever get her breath back.
Emeralds.
Ropes of emeralds. Not cabochon ones, like in her barrette. These were faceted, perfectly cut and equal in size, linked in between diamonds on twin platinum chains. The chains led down to a pendant made of a far bigger, cushion-cut emerald, one surrounded by still more diamonds. From the pendant dangled a tassel of tiny emeralds and diamonds, all about the shape and size of seed pearls.
Oh. And there were matching tassel earrings, too.
A card was tucked into a groove in the box’s black velvet lining. It read:
Necklace: diamonds 59.95 carats, emeralds 158.84 carats