by Linda Barlow
Actually, he’s not that handsome, Annie was thinking. Sam Brody, their boss, who was also out on the dance floor, was more conventionally good-looking with his amiable features, firm body, and perpetual California tan. Carlyle’s long arms and legs gave him a certain awkwardness, and his features were more sharply defined than Sam’s. It was like comparing Daniel Day Lewis with the young Paul Newman.
Besides, Annie couldn’t even look at Matthew Carlyle without feeling a knot of hostility form in her belly. She just couldn’t forget that if it hadn’t been for him, Fabrications might have survived.
“I think Francesca’s drunk,” Darcy said. “She’s swaying a little more than she ought to be, and her husband seems to be keeping quite a grip on her.”
“Maybe she’s depressed about turning forty,” Annie said.
“Why should she be? She looks about twenty-nine. I hate her,” Darcy added with a laugh as Carlyle and Sam Brody changed partners and Francesca moved into Sam’s arms. “I should look so good when I’m forty.”
Annie raised her eyebrows in amusement. Darcy, a luscious brunette of her own age, thirty-three, was attracting a lot more male appreciation than their hostess. “The birthday girl would trade bodies with you in a flash if she could,” Annie said. “So would most of the women here.”
“Fat lot of good it does me,” Darcy said. “My love life sucks.”
“Compared to mine, your love life is a veritable cornucopia of sensual delights.”
“Yeah, but always with the wrong guy.” She sighed. “Our Venus and Mars aspects are never compatible.”
Darcy, a senior architect at Brody Associates and Annie’s closest friend there, was a passionate believer in astrology and other New Age subjects. Before moving in next door to Annie in the North Beach district of the city, she had cast Annie’s chart. “If we’re going to be neighbors as well as coworkers, we’d better get along together.”
The stars had ruled them compatible, and it certainly seemed to be true. Darcy was a top-notch architect—a woman who had succeeded in what was still pretty much a man’s world. And Annie, who specialized in interior design, particularly for large corporate projects, loved working with her. Their talents meshed nicely.
“I’m a fire sign—Leo—full of energy and enthusiasm and lots of grand plans,” Darcy had explained. “You’re a Cancer, a water sign, and tenacious, sensitive, loyal, and attentive to details.”
“If we’re fire and water, how come we get along so well?” Annie had asked, amused.
“Well, we have several harmonious trines and conjunctions in our charts and only two squares, and I have Pisces rising, and you have several other fire signs to go with mine.…”
Whatever that meant.
People often commented that Annie and Darcy had complementary looks as well as jobs. Annie had tawny hair, blue eyes, and fair skin; Darcy’s hair was black, her eyes brown, and her skin a deep olive that held a tan year-round. Annie dressed elegantly yet conservatively, in business suits with tasteful accessories. Darcy came to work in low-cut dresses that were tight and short. She wore thick, dark mascara and heavy eyeliner that made dark rims around her eyes. Her long nails were usually painted in deep shades of brown, purple, or red. Although Darcy never dressed in a “serious, businesslike manner,” she had no trouble commanding the respect of the people she worked with, as far as Annie could tell.
“Well, I don’t know about their planets,” Annie said, scanning the crowd, “but I see some eligible types here tonight.” She noticed that Francesca Carlyle was now giddily moving from one partner to another on the dance floor, while her husband had returned to his table to sip champagne. “How about that surfer type over there in the tight pants?”
Darcy shook her head. “This is San Francisco, remember? The good-looking single guys are all gay.” Then she considered the surfer more carefully. “On the other hand,” she grinned, “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try.”
“Go get him, babe.”
As Darcy switched into her hunting mode and moved away, Annie wondered why she could not bring herself to do the same. Charlie had been dead for nearly two years now, and it was time to stop hugging the wall at social gatherings.
But it was one thing to tell herself that and another to do it. She still missed Charlie. He had been her rock, her teacher, her protector. Even though he’d been only five years older than she, he’d come from another world—a world of confidence, security, and hope. He’d convinced her that anything was possible if you worked hard and held on to your dreams. And she’d believed him because with Charlie, anything did seem possible. Until he’d been diagnosed with cancer.
He had been determined to beat the disease. When it became obvious that he couldn’t, he’d taken comfort in his belief that everything his doctors learned from his suffering would help them to cure others. Charlie had always found the silver lining in the cloud.
In tribute to everything he’d taught her, Annie had tried her best to hang on to that optimism after his death. When she lost her company as well, the world had seemed very black. But perhaps Charlie had been right after all, because here she was a few months later, a professional designer with an excellent job, partying with other professionals and socialites on Matthew Carlyle’s yacht. It was certainly not a scene she could have imagined a year ago, when Carlyle had shattered her dream of keeping Fabrications alive.
She had arrived late for the party, just as the yacht was about to begin its moonlit cruise in San Francisco Bay. The cruise had continued during the dinner served on board and for an hour or two afterward, but now they were back in the slip at the marina, allowing anybody who wanted to leave early to do so.
Annie was somewhat surprised that she hadn’t left yet, since Matthew Carlyle was the last person she’d ever wanted to see again.
But she wasn’t sure if he even knew she was there. It must have been Francesca who had put her on the guest list. The socialite and philanthropist was one of the leading lights of the building committee of the United Path Church, which had just hired Brody Associates to design and build a cathedral. Annie had gotten to know Francesca during the proposal and bidding process.
The United Path Church was Francesca’s favorite charity. It was a fast-growing, interdenominational Christian sect led by one of Annie’s dearest friends, the Reverend Barbara Rae Acker, whose work with battered women and AIDS victims was legendary in San Francisco. The UPC cathedral would be one of the largest and most magnificent building projects the city had ever known, and Annie was slated to be the project manager.
Although tonight’s party was to celebrate Francesca’s fortieth birthday, for Annie it was a celebration of her own astonishing success.
“Hi there,” said Sam Brody, her boss. “You look radiant, Annie. Are you by any chance happy about something?”
His voice was mischievous, and Annie grinned. “You know why I’m happy.”
“Might it have anything to do with a certain cathedral—for which a designer by the name of Annie Jefferson did most of the exquisite interior design?”
Annie hugged him spontaneously. She loved working for Sam. He was one of those people who seemed to bring sunshine with him wherever he went. Sam had blond hair that shone like newly minted gold coins, blazing blue eyes, and an air of distinction and old money about him. He’d gone to all the right schools and belonged to all the right clubs but he never displayed a hint of social snobbery; he was warm, charming, and very approachable.
“By the way,” he said, “I found out yesterday that the Pressman project is in the bag. Al Pressman was so impressed with your designs for the cathedral that he jumped at the chance to hire us. You deserve a lot of appreciation, and I intend to see that you get it.”
She cocked her head and grinned. “In the form of a raise, I hope?”
“I was thinking of both a raise and a promotion.”
“Now that sounds like an offer I can’t refuse!”
He smiled and in a courtly gestur
e took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I realized some time ago that hiring you was one of the best things I ever did.”
“Thank you,” she murmured.
As Sam moved away to continue mingling, Annie took a deep breath. Things were good! No more of this moping around, fretting about her work, fretting about her future. For the first time since Charlie’s death, she was beginning to feel secure.
“Would you care to dance?” someone asked her a few minutes later.
Annie turned to see Sidney Canin standing somewhat hesitantly behind her. Sid had been her architect at Fabrications. She had been surprised when, after the company’s demise, Sam had offered a job to Sidney as well. Apparently Sid’s plans to move back to New York City had fallen through, and the ever-genial Sam had hired him despite his less-than-stellar reputation.
Compared to either Sam Brody or Matthew Carlyle, Sid was the sort of man you wouldn’t look at twice. Medium height, medium build, unremarkable features, and old-fashioned horn rimmed glasses so thick that they distorted his eyes. He never had much to say for himself, and what he did say was always gloomy and petulant.
Still, not wanting to be rude, she agreed to dance with him, and was surprised when he turned out to be a good dancer with a fine sense of rhythm.
They spoke briefly about the triumph of winning the cathedral contract. Sounding negative as usual, Sid said, “We’d better not rest on our laurels until the thing is actually built.” His eyes slid away from hers and he appeared more nervous than usual. Annie noticed that he was staring at Francesca Carlyle, with whom he had recently been dancing. He hadn’t looked gloomy while dancing with Francesca—on the contrary, he’d been remarkably animated.
“With a project so big,” he added, “things are bound to go wrong.”
While this was undoubtedly true, it wasn’t something that Annie relished thinking about. As project manager, she had a lot riding on the successful completion of the cathedral.
She and Sidney danced past Sam Brody, who once again had the now very obviously drunken Francesca in his arms. She was giggling and tossing her head. As Annie caught Sam’s eye, he grimaced slightly as if to say, “get me out of here.”
Annie grinned at him. Francesca in her sober state had personally contributed heavily to the building fund of the United Path Church, and she was chairwoman of the building committee. Without her support there would be no cathedral. So, Sam had to make nice.
Sidney glared at Francesca and Sam. A tiny suspicion stirred in Annie’s head—was Sidney attracted to Francesca? In love with her? Involved with her? It seemed unlikely, but there had been rumors for years that the Carlyles’ marriage was rocky.
As the dance tune finished, Annie smiled at Sidney and said, “Thanks, that was lovely.” But as she tried to back away from him, he seized her hand.
“I’m worried about this project. Can we go somewhere and talk?” he asked.
Annie had no wish to be subjected to a long list of Sidney’s unsubstantiated fears, but neither did she want to ignore a legitimate concern.
“What, exactly, are you worried about?”
“Just some details, but they could prove important.”
But somebody was pinging a glass with a knife, calling for everybody’s attention. Annie was grateful for the interruption. When Sid got going on “details,” he never stopped.
The glass-pinger was Matthew Carlyle, who had stepped up in front of the band to make an announcement. His wife was leaning against the wall to his left, her skinny arms wrapped around her middle. She looked a bit ill. Annie hoped she wasn’t about to pass out or throw up.
“This is a special day for my wife, as you all know, and we’re delighted that you could share it with us,” Carlyle began. “Francesca, I know, is particularly happy to have so many of her friends here, and we thank you all for coming.”
Sidney, standing right next to Annie, made a low sound in his throat. Annie glanced at him and noted that he was now glowering at the Carlyles. Francesca too was behaving strangely. As her husband spoke, she fidgeted and looked bored. In her business and charitable dealings, Francesca was invariably courteous and very much in control. But Annie had heard whispers about a drinking problem, and Francesca had certainly overdone it tonight.
Francesca and Sidney? Nah, she thought.
“When I first suggested we give this party,” Carlyle went on, “my lovely wife was reluctant. The money could be spent in some more useful way, she said, and earmarked for a far worthier and less frivolous cause than, as she put it, a socialite’s meaningless birthday. But, as you’re all aware, Francesca devotes so much of her time and money to worthy causes. She does so without fanfare and, often, without taking personal credit for the many people she helps. For that, she deserves something back, and on this occasion, at least, I believe a little fanfare is appropriate.”
Francesca stepped forward, prematurely it seemed, since her husband appeared to be about to continue speaking. Pushing in front of him, she glared at him and said, “Oh, for God’s sake, cut the crap, Matt.”
The room grew even more hushed than it had been. Carlyle took his wife’s arm, as if to restrain her, but she jerked away from him. “Let’s stop kidding ourselves here. I’m sick of the masquerade, and I’m sure you are too.”
“Sit down, Francesca,” Carlyle said in a starkly different tone. “You’ve had too much to drink.”
Both his voice and his expression called up in Annie’s mind the way he had behaved on the day he’d essentially scuttled Fabrications. Despite his fine veneer of courtesy, there was something ruthless about Matthew Carlyle.
His wife ignored it. Again she brushed off his hand on her arm, then raised her half-empty glass and announced, “Indeed I have. I’m celebrating. But I would hate to have our friends get the wrong idea about why I’m having too much to drink. It’s not my birthday that I’m celebrating, but my freedom. Not the fortieth year of my wretched little life, but the final year of my marriage to you!”
Darcy sidled over to Annie and whispered, “Do you believe this?”
Before Annie could respond, Francesca went on. “Yes, my friends, this sham of a marriage is over. In the morning I’m filing for divorce from the great Matthew Carlyle. You’re all invited to stay tuned for the California Community Property Divorce Wars, which will no doubt begin shortly, since I’m advised by my lawyer that billionaire businessmen can be stingy when it comes to splitting up the marital assets.”
Matthew’s expression had frozen, and even from across the room Annie could see a pulse hammering in his throat. She knew immediately that he was supremely angry and only barely able to control it.
He did not respond to his wife’s comments, however. Instead he turned and stalked out of the room.
Francesca’s high-pitched laugh rose over the low mutterings of her guests. Nobody knew how to react. Annie did not know the Carlyles well and had no idea whether their closer friends had had any inkling of this, but her impression was that most people present were profoundly shocked.
Sam came over, his face a little pale. He and Carlyle had been friends for many years. “Maybe we’d all better leave,” he said to his coworkers. “Looks to me like this party is over.”
The same conclusion had apparently been reached by all. Whispering their gossip, the guests began to move toward the doors. A few people gathered around Francesca, Sam and Sid among them, offering comfort, Annie supposed. She tried to gauge whether Sid was surprised by Francesca’s announcement, but for once his face gave nothing away.
Annie scanned the crowd for her good friend Barbara Rae Acker, who was also Francesca’s minister. This was exactly the kind of situation that Barbara Rae was skilled at managing. She knew when to listen and when to speak. Even better, she always knew what to say to calm people down.
Although she had been present earlier, Barbara Rae appeared to have left. Probably one of her parishioners had needed her.
After getting her coat, Annie approached Fran
cesca and pressed her hand gently. “The party was lovely,” she said sincerely, for it had been—up until the last few minutes. “Thanks for inviting me. Take care.”
The woman was so drunk that Annie wondered if she would even recognize her. But Francesca looked straight at her, and for a moment her eyes seemed to clear. “You take care, Annie.” Francesca smiled knowingly. “He’s always liked you, my dear. Take my advice. Be careful.”
Annie blinked, blushed, and immediately felt a flash of guilt.
“What did that mean?” Darcy demanded as they headed down the gangway to the pier.
“I’ve no idea,” Annie murmured. “She was very drunk.”
“I always thought they were such a happy couple,” Darcy said. “Just goes to show—you never really know anyone, do you?”
The story was all over the news the following morning:
Francesca Carlyle, 40, wife of billionaire computer industry entrepreneur Matthew Carlyle, was found floating face down in San Francisco Bay this morning at dawn. An autopsy will be performed to determine the exact cause of death.
Her demise followed a party held last night on the Carlyle yacht to celebrate Francesca Carlyle’s fortieth birthday. There are reports that the deceased had been drinking heavily and that she and her husband quarreled in front of their guests. Matthew Carlyle refused to be interviewed, but he is said to be cooperating with the police investigation.
As, shocked, she read the papers and watched the news, Annie kept remembering the look of cold fury on Matthew Carlyle’s face.
Chapter Three
Eighteen Months Later
“Wow, it’s dazzling, isn’t it?” Sam Brody said as he stood next to Annie in the Mission district of the city, across the street from the newest cathedral in San Francisco.
“Yes,” Annie said simply. It was magnificent to see the new construction rising toward the heavens. Although she had worked on many construction sites over the past decade, she’d never seen one so huge.
Ground had been broken a year and a half ago, the foundation had been set deep into the ground, and the steel structural core of the building had been completed. Next had come the walls and the high vaulted roof of the modern Gothic-style building. The stonemasons had completed most of the work on the exterior, although there were still some intricate carved statues and gargoyles to be added. Meanwhile, the interior work was now proceeding—the design for which Annie was directly responsible.