Dark Garden

by Jennifer Fulton

  He called the police and had her arrested, but since she was only nine years old and had just lost her mother, the deputies let her go with a warning. But they made the mistake of telling the Cavenders to control her better. A week later Mason’s father brought in the surveyors and kicked off another legal battle between the families. This time the Blakes lost and had to return the land. The judge had ordered that the fruit trees be left intact. Vienna’s grandfather never stopped talking about it. If he could have staggered off his deathbed and picked up an axe, he would have cut those trees down.

  Changing the subject, Vienna said, “Are you going to Bonnieux next spring?”

  “I don’t know. The thought of rattling around in that old villa by myself doesn’t appeal.”

  Marjorie sounded cranky. She hadn’t taken to widowhood as some women did, shedding grief after a few months and enjoying pursuits disdained by their late husbands. She refused to attend social events unaccompanied and had come to depend on her brother, Wendell Farrington, the supposed bachelor uncle of the family, as an escort. In reality, Wendell lived with his gay partner in an elegant Back Bay condo. A snappy dresser with the requisite Ivy League credentials, he charmed mature women and made Marjorie feel special. She saw him as an authority in all matters and constantly spouted his opinions, especially those about the business. Vienna had been groomed since birth to take over from her father, but what was a lifelong internship and an MBA compared to a penis? Bupkis, as far as Marjorie was concerned.

  She placed her hand over Vienna’s. “Wendell thinks we should take a mother-daughter cruise. He says I need cheering up. I have a brochure from Regent with all their destinations. They’re going to have Apollo 14 astronauts on board doing talks.”

  Vienna couldn’t think of anything more appalling, except perhaps taking her mother to Cats for the sixth time. “That sounds wonderful. Why don’t you and Wendell go?”

  “He’s terribly busy with his commitments for the opera. Unlike you, he can’t just take time off whenever he pleases.”

  Vienna didn’t waste her time pointing out that she was the CEO of a half-billion-dollar company and Wendell was just dabbling in opera fundraising to impress his much younger boyfriend, a B-grade tenor. “Mom, you know I get horribly seasick,” she said gently. “What about wintering in Palm Beach? You always tell me how much you miss it.”

  “I don’t think I could bear it,” Marjorie said. “Everything’s changed. It’s virtually mobsterssans frontières now, with all those Russian oligarchs and flashy people with bad manners.”

  “You don’t have to mix with them, Mom.”

  If Vienna’s childhood memories were any indication, Marjorie and her B&T Club friends spent most of their time in each other’s homes gossiping. They never rubbed elbows with anyone outside their own rarefied circles. Marjorie and Wendell had jointly inherited the Palm Beach home of their childhood, after Grandmother Farrington had a fatal heart attack during a Dead Sea mineral cocoon treatment at the Ritz-Carlton Spa. Marjorie hadn’t been down there once during the past three years. Vienna was surprised Wendell hadn’t sold the place. He didn’t share Marjorie’s sentimental attachment to the home they’d grown up in.

  “Everyone’s selling and moving to Jupiter Island,” Marjorie said gloomily. “And who can blame them? These days you can’t ride a bicycle on Worth Avenue without being crushed by some ex-stripper in a Bentley.”

  “I’m planning to spend my next vacation in Bonnieux,” Vienna said patiently. “I hope you’ll consider coming with me.”

  Marjorie sighed. “I don’t know. France is not what it was. The place is overrun with Muslims. Before long, you won’t see people walking through the village with baguettes anymore. They’ll be out in the middle of the road bowing to Mecca.”

  Vienna didn’t know whether to laugh or groan. “Mom, I think France will be safe for Christians for a few more years.”

  “You think I’m exaggerating? I’m not a racist, you know. Perhaps we should sell the villa. All that maintenance…”

  The waiter arrived to clear their salads. Vienna had forgotten to eat hers. She dragged the conversation back on course. “We’re not selling Villa des Rêves.”

  “Wendell offered to take it off our hands. Naturally I said he could have it at a reasonable price. He’d be doing us a favor. It needs modernization.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Dad spent a fortune restoring it.” Vienna tried to sound patient, but she was hurt that her mother could even suggest palming the Luberon Valley farmhouse off on Wendell. She and her father had made Villa des Rêves their special project, overseeing the restoration during fleeting visits and longer family holidays. She couldn’t bear to think about parting with the property.

  “We could still take vacations there,” her mother said with a sniff of disapproval. “Wendell wouldn’t mind.”

  “It’s not happening.”

  Their entrées arrived and Marjorie inspected her fish as though suspecting the roasted halibut she’d ordered was really horrid bream. Vienna waited for the inevitable complaints, but Marjorie had bigger things on her mind.

  “Well, if you’re not going to be practical, perhaps we should consider renting it out when we’re not using it. Villas in Provence command quite a sum, you know. And then there’s the apartment. The taxes are crazy and it’s not as if either of us is in New York more than a few weeks every year. Wendell thinks we should let it month to month.”

  Vienna sliced into her chicken so hard, it went spinning across her plate. “I am not having our homes invaded by strangers. If we needed the income, that would be different. But we don’t.”

  Marjorie was just inches away from a pout, her usual reaction when she didn’t get her way. “Wealth is no excuse for extravagance. Blakes don’t throw money away on frivolity.”

  Reading between the lines, Vienna asked, “Do you need an income adjustment, Mom?”

  “Income adjustment” was Blake parlance for adding money to the private bank accounts of wives and dependent relatives who’d overspent.

  “It’s been one of those months,” Marjorie confessed. “With the McCain fund-raisers and Wendell’s birthday. Then, of course, I had to update my mourning wardrobe for the Cavender boy’s funeral.” Fretfully, she added, “I can’t believe you made me go to that wretched service all alone. Imagine it. Surrounded by Cavenders. Anything could have happened.”

  “I didn’t make you do anything of the kind. You’re the one who insisted.”

  “Someone had to represent the family.”

  Vienna keyed a cash transfer into her BlackBerry. “Fifty thousand okay?”

  Marjorie tapped her beige nails. “Round it up, sweetheart. We’re going to New York soon, remember.”

  “Fifty is pretty round.” Vienna felt bad quibbling with her mother over money. Still, if Marjorie saw fit to lecture her for extravagance, two could play at that game.

  “I still have to find a dress for the Whitney Gala,” Marjorie griped.

  “You have plenty of time to torture the sales clerks at Barney’s.” The gala was over a month away, in October. “If you need more cash, that’s what your Amex card is for. You know I’ll take care of it.”

  Marjorie huffily sipped her Riesling. “You sound just like your father.”

  “Perhaps you could remember that similarity when you’re telling me how incompetent I am and how I should be getting my business advice from your brother.”

  “I wish you didn’t resent Wendell so much. He could be such a support to you. Especially now, with your cousins chomping at the bit.”

  “Mom, I’m not afraid of my cousins. They’re employees, just like anyone else, and if they get in my face I can always sack them.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Your aunts are on the board.”

  “Not indefinitely,” Vienna said. “Anyway, all I’m saying is that I don’t need a man to prop me up.”

  “Don’t start on that topic. I don’t want to hear about it.”


  “What topic?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. I don’t mind your lifestyle. I’m not a bigot. But you don’t have to prove yourself by emasculating the men around you.”

  “I’m not even going to respond to that ridiculous statement.”

  “I blame your father.” Marjorie tried to twist her black pearl necklace, but she was wearing one of her Tahitian strands and the pearls were too big. She reverted to cleaning her eyeglasses. “Norris never related to you as a daughter, only a substitute son.”

  “Please, can we just drop it?” Vienna gave up on her meal. The sooner she got the check, the sooner the homily would end. “I need to get going. I have a lot to do before I leave for Penwraithe this weekend.”

  The last thing she felt like doing was driving to the Berkshires, but she made the trip at least once a month to ensure the estate was being managed appropriately. She would have been tempted to spend more time there but driving past the gates of Laudes Absalom always unsettled her. Her father’s memory was fresh enough without another reminder of the legacy he’d left behind, the task of finishing what her predecessors had started.

  “Why do you take everything so personally?” her mother complained.

  “Oh, God.” To bring their lunch date to an immediate close, Vienna asked the question that invariably made Marjorie run for the hills. “Mom, have you thought about dating again?”

  “Dating?” Her mother’s small, expertly freshened face went rigid with distaste. She fanned herself with the hand that sported her newest ring, a large canary diamond. The hot flashes had stopped five years ago, but she’d retained the fanning mannerism as a means of showing off her jewelry. “Your father left some very big shoes to fill. And I don’t have the slightest desire for a replacement. As if that were possible.”

  “You’re only fifty-seven and you could pass for fortysomething. It’s not infra dig to look for a companion.”

  “Norris was the love of my life,” Marjorie replied with an air of injured dignity. “I can’t expect you to understand what that means, given the parade of so-called girlfriends you waste your time on.”

  Vienna choked on a sip of water. “Are you talking about the zero dates I’ve had in the past year? That’s one of the great things about running the business, you know. I have no life.”

  “Just wait. One day you’ll meet someone you can’t bear to live without. Then you’ll understand what I endure on a daily basis having lost your father.”

  “I miss him, too, Mom,” Vienna said stiffly.

  Marjorie conceded their shared sorrow with a tight-lipped nod, then rose and smoothed her dress. It was a charcoal shade that hinted at elegant mourning in its high neckline and modest three-quarter sleeves. Black, she was fond of telling everyone, was strictly graveside and no elegant woman wore it as day attire, even one recently widowed. The sober mood of her outfit was lifted by a Hermès scarf in the Axis Mundi design. The blue and gold silk accessory had been a gift from Norris Blake not long before he died.

  Hoisting her handbag from the spare chair next to her, Marjorie said, “I must run, sweetheart. They won’t stop the auction to wait for me.”

  Vienna got to her feet. “Good luck. I hope you raise lots of money. What’s it for today?”

  “Lupus. Such an underrated cause.”

  They exchanged the usual arm’s-length embrace and air kisses.

  “Remember,” Marjorie could never leave without the last word, “your father’s watching from heaven. Don’t let him down.”

  Chapter Four

  “The sale of the Kirchner painting has brought us some breathing room.” Josh Soifer indicated a seven-figure entry on the complex financial report spread out on the desk in his office.

  He was his father’s son, Mason thought, glancing up at him, a man with an affinity for numbers. Three generations of Soifers had been Cavender accountants, but Josh eschewed the dull conservatism of his forbears in both dress and attitude. Today he wore a sleekly tailored three-piece suit that flattered his sartorial, male-model good looks. His wavy brown hair was cut in a casual style that seemed at odds with his serious expression, but Josh was a man who excelled as naturally at tennis as he did in the boardroom.

  Mason had agreed to this meeting, more or less expecting him to tell her they had to accept Vienna Blake’s insulting offer. But instead, Josh was talking about a three-year redevelopment plan as if it were feasible.

  “If the economy wasn’t heading into recession we could probably reduce our debt and trade our way back into the black over the next two years,” he summarized after dragging her through various charts and projections. “We’re very well positioned because of the way we’ve diversified. With the Internet companies Lynden set up, we finally have vertical integration for the electronics brands and the auto accessories. Income almost tripled last quarter.”

  “It’s not enough to save us,” Mason said. “Although I can see it expands our liquidation options. But it’s just too late.”

  “You’re right. Even if we keep trading, all we’d be doing is servicing debt. Which is why,” he flipped pages to the balance sheet of a company she’d never heard of, “your brother took a gamble on this.”

  Mason propped a hand beneath her chin and tried to make sense of what she was seeing. “We own a company called Azaria Technology?”

  Josh looked faintly apologetic. “I wanted Lynden to tell you, but he had this fantasy about presenting you with a fait accompli…the family fortunes restored. Azaria is the key.”

  “Named for our mother?”

  “He thought it was appropriate.”

  Mason stared down at the bottom line and the growth projections. “Are these numbers for real?”

  “Actually, they’re conservative.” Josh’s excitement added a higher note to his voice.

  “What does Azaria produce? Please tell me we haven’t gone into weapons of mass destruction or something.”

  “Don’t think we didn’t consider it,” Josh said with bland irony. “But you know Lynden. He couldn’t handle the ethical vacuum, or the bad press. We’re not the Blakes.”

  Mason laughed and they shared a few seconds of silent grief. Then Josh took a small plastic container from his pocket. He tipped the contents onto a leather binder in front of them.

  Mason picked up one of the glittering stones. “Diamonds?” She had a horrible flash of Lynden setting his scruples aside to deal with criminals and terrorists, buying conflict stones as a fast moneymaker.

  “Yes and no.” Josh handed her a loupe. “They’re cultured diamonds.”

  “Fakes?”

  “No, they’re as real as a mined diamond. Identical tetrahedral carbon crystal structure. Same optical qualities. Just as hard and brilliant. But the raw crystals are grown in a lab instead of forming naturally underground.”

  Mason wasn’t sure how to react. She didn’t know much about diamonds except that big, flawless ones were very rare and mining them was often a shameful enterprise that would make her think twice about buying one to impress a woman. She’d never regretted the sale of most of the heirloom jewelry she should have inherited. Her father had needed the money.

  She examined one of the stones under the loupe, not sure what she was looking for. “I think I see a flaw.”

  “Exactly,” Josh said. “There a tiny inclusion in that stone, proof that it’s natural, not some artificial compound engineered to look like a diamond.”

  “And we made these stones?”

  “Yes, you could say we’re diamond farmers. We send most of the rough to Mumbai to be cut, but the premium stones go to Antwerp.” Josh picked up a squarish diamond and held it to the light. “That’s a two carat Radiant Cut. A mined diamond like that one would normally fetch around eighteen thousand dollars. Our price is less than five thousand.”

  “Why would anyone want these instead of the real thing?”

  “Azarias are the real thing,” Josh repeated. “And even though fancy colored diamonds are
popular, most women still want white. With an Azaria, they get more bling for their buck and a guilt-free diamond. It’s the way of the future.”

  Mason replaced the gem on the binder and studied its companions. “This could be huge.”

  “De Beers is nervous. They’ve only had to fight cubic zirconias, Moissanite, and so on. No one has been able to produce cultured white diamonds in quantities that make commercial sense.”

  Bewildered by the whole idea that her brother had a secret business venture, let alone the process itself, Mason asked, “How do we farm them?”

  “Your batshit-crazy cousin Pansy made it happen.”

  “We hired Pansy?”

  Mason’s head was spinning. What else didn’t she know about her brother’s dealings? After their father died, Lynden had taken over as head of the family business in the oldest son tradition followed by the Cavenders. Mason thought the responsibilities would do him good and they’d made a bargain. She would deal with cleaning up after the past and he would work on building a future. So, while he developed new business opportunities and courted a rich future-wife, she ran Laudes Absalom and handled the nightmare of reorganizing and downsizing various Cavender Corporation enterprises and assets.

  She’d purposely kept her distance, trying not to tread on Lynden’s toes, but she hadn’t anticipated he would cut her out of the loop entirely. The decision to hire their ex-convict cousin should have been made jointly. Pansy wasn’t a close relative; the Cavenders applied the term “cousin” loosely to anyone descended from Thomas Blake Cavender. Pansy had been born under a cloud, the only daughter of an illegitimate Cavender. Her mother had fallen into a deep depression after the birth and hanged herself, and the orphaned Pansy was duly cared for by relatives. Brilliantly clever, she’d ended up at MIT, where she fell in love with another science nerd who broke her heart. When he came to a sticky end in suspicious circumstances, Pansy was arrested for his murder. The state only had circumstantial evidence and had cut a deal after the family pulled some strings on her behalf. Pansy had served six years for involuntary manslaughter.