“Well, I can’t be absolutely certain, as I haven’t contacted anyone yet—and wouldn’t dream of doing so without your consent, of course. But I’m sure that if you agreed—within, let’s say in the next forty-eight hours?—I could get it organized.”
“Must I decide so soon?”
“It’ll be on a countdown as it is.”
“True,” she acknowledged, the idea growing on her by the minute.
“I’ll do everything I can to help put this together, Charlotte.”
It was incredibly decent of Sylvia to want to do this for her, she realized. “Let me think it over. In principle I like the idea. I think you’re right. The Met is probably the ideal venue for sharing the collection with the public.”
“Look, I know you’re going through a tough time right now,” Sylvia said, sounding suddenly sensitive to the doubt in Charlotte’s voice. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Thanks. But the only person who can clean up the mess I’ve managed to create for myself is me.”
“I understand.”
“I’ll get back to you tomorrow or the day after, then.” She hesitated. “Are you sure there would be enough time to organize this properly? Goodness, they must have been planning their prewar exhibition for months.”
“Years, but believe me, honey, if they could get their hands on something like this, they won’t let it pass, even if they have to work double teams twenty-four seven.”
Charlotte laughed. “You’re an amazing woman, Sylvia. I’ll talk to Oncle Eugène tonight. He’s been so closely involved in all this that I couldn’t really make a decision without asking his opinion.”
“Of course.”
“And Sylvia?” Charlotte watched the waitress approach. “I’m sorry about everything that happened.”
“Forget it. Believe me, you send this collection my way and it’ll more than make up for any damage. We’ll have the society biddies gnashing their teeth with envy.” Her contagious laugh rippled down the line and Charlotte grinned before laying down the phone. Turning to Heidi, the smiling blond waitress whom she’d come to know from the time she spent sitting here in the past couple of weeks, she ordered a cup of thick hot chocolate. Sylvia’s idea might just prove to be the answer. As for Brad, knowing she’d decided to face the situation with John tonight left her feeling better than she had in days.
Would the old Cardinal agree? Sylvia almost pulled a nail ragged with worry, but then remembered she was due at Dolores Rawlinson’s penthouse for dinner and stopped herself. Laying down the receiver, she prowled her office excitedly. If Charlotte agreed to the exhibition, it was a major piece of good fortune and the unique opportunity she’d been seeking.
Amazing that it had taken Brad’s abandonment for everything to suddenly fall into place for her. And to think that Charlotte, of all people, might help engineer her social triumph. She walked to the window, flexed her fingers and bit her lip impatiently.
It was so close it hurt.
Anyone who was anyone would know that she, Sylvia Hansen, future CEO of Harcourts, was the one who had pulled this together and brought the legendary Lost Collection to the people of New York. Eat your heart out, Blaine Trump! She felt like dancing with glee.
Returning to her desk, she sat down again and forced herself to relax. A few weeks ago she’d been in the depths of despair because of losing Brad. And now look at her! She was on the fast track to a damn fine future.
Life sure had a funny way of fixing itself.
Outside, the wind howled, but here in the sitting room a fire crackled, casting a warm glow on two gilt mirrors that reflected the muted pattern of the new silk drapes. On the rug before the grate, Genny sat curled, playing Pick Up Sticks. Brad lounged thoughtfully next to her in the armchair, ankle thrown over one leg and Rufus’s massive head snoring lazily atop the other.
Penelope glimpsed at her watch. “Time for bed, pumpkin,” she announced.
“Oh, Granny,” Genny moaned.
Brad and Penelope shared an understanding grin. Penelope had blossomed over the past months, he reflected, admiring the way her blue eyes matched the soft hue of her cashmere twinset.
“You need to be up early for the expedition tomorrow,” Penelope insisted. But Genny tossed her head in a huff and her shoulders slumped.
He frowned. There was something different about the child, a sort of melancholy. “Don’t you want to go tomorrow?” he asked.
“I don’t care.” Genny gave an indifferent shrug before picking the sticks up one by one and slipping them into their box.
“Why not, darling? I thought you were looking forward to it. You love going to Inverness.” Penelope stroked the child’s hair, concerned. When Genny pulled crossly away, she exchanged a worried look with Brad. “Perhaps you should stay at home if you don’t want to go.”
“I never said I didn’t want to go,” Genny answered impatiently, heaving her leg up and placing the game in the middle drawer of the mahogany Queen Anne high-boy.
She was limping more than she had during the summer, he realized, frowning, and seemed paler than usual. In fact, her whole being spelled unhappiness.
“Why don’t we see how you feel in the morning?” Penelope said, slipping soothing arms around her granddaughter. For a moment the child stood stiffly, then gave way and leaned against her grandmother, eyes tightly closed.
Something was obviously very wrong.
The misgivings prompted by his meeting at the pub loomed once more. Could the child have been carrying a load of pain and guilt all these years? As soon as Genny was tucked up in bed, he decided to confront Penelope.
“Good night, Uncle Brad.” She came limping over to him and he held her close.
“Take care, baby.” Tell me if something’s torturing you, he wanted to add. But instead he gave her a warm hug and a pat on the cheek. “Sweet dreams, princess.”
Her eyes flickered and she blinked nervously before giving him a quick smile and leaving the room.
“What’s wrong with Genny?” Brad asked, accepting Penelope’s offer of brandy. “She wasn’t nervous like this when I left.”
“I don’t know.” Penelope shook her head and let out a long, worried sigh before handing him the snifter. “I’ve tried to pry it out of her but she’s as closed as a clam. Frankly, this has been going on ever since John regained consciousness.”
Brad swirled the snifter pensively, wondering how much he should interfere. “Do you think something might have occurred?” he said at last. “Something she remembers from the past that could have sparked this change in her?”
“Perhaps. It’s difficult to say. She’s never mentioned anything specific, never complained, but God only knows what she may or may not have witnessed.” Penelope stared into the fire, a bitter edge to her voice.
“Right.” Brad cleared his throat. The mere thought of Charlotte suffering physical harm at the hands of the man she’d married made him see red. Curbing his frustration, he took a sip of brandy. “You know, something happened as I was driving up here.”
“Oh?”
“It’s rather unlikely, but you never know.”
“What do you mean?” Penelope’s eyebrows knit. He hesitated. “I stopped at the Highland Arms when I got off the bridge.”
“Yes?” She looked at him expectantly, hands folded in her lap, face anxious. “And?”
“Well, the owner, Frankie, and a couple of other guys began chatting.”
“Of course.” Penelope’s eyes rolled and she smiled despite her tension.
“They started talking about the night of Charlotte’s accident.”
“Oh?” She frowned. “Why was that? I mean, apart from the fact that they stopped there just before it happened, I really don’t see what…” Her voice trailed off.
“The mechanic who checked the vehicle afterward said he was surprised the driver’s seat was pushed so far back. ‘Too far back even for a tall lass like Charlotte,”’ he paraphrased in a fair imitation of t
he man’s Gaelic brogue. “Another guy commented that John was the one carrying the car keys when they left the pub and that Charlotte had been heard telling him she was too tired to drive.”
Penelope sat up like a bolt. “Oh God! You don’t think he might have—”
“Switched places with her?” He shrugged and gazed at the pattern of the ancient Uzbekistan rug at his feet. “I can’t confirm anything.”
“Knowing his vanity and how obsessed he was about his image, I should think it more than likely,” she cried, clasping her hands together nervously. “Why didn’t any of us think of this ourselves?”
“Because it’s so goddamn outrageous.”
“But possible.”
“Very possible. Say, wasn’t Genny conscious after the crash?”
“Yes. We were so grateful she hadn’t—” She frowned, then stared at him in horror, clapping a hand over her mouth. “Oh, Brad. You don’t think…?”
“If Genny wasn’t unconscious, she may have seen something.”
“Oh, goodness, how simply dreadful. But if she had, why wouldn’t she have mentioned it in all this time?”
“Maybe because there wasn’t anything to see and I’m wrong. Who knows?” He took another sip of the smooth brandy. “But it strikes me as damn odd that Genny should be acting so strangely, when you’d think she’d be thrilled to have her dad back. Remember how she used to constantly watch that movie where John plays a loving father, rewinding it over and over?”
“Yes, she did.” Penelope nodded. “For a while it was almost obsessive. Unfortunately, that role couldn’t have been further from the truth,” she said thoughtfully. “He was not a…caring father. I’ll have to talk to her, Brad, and see what I can find out.” She stopped, then looked at him in dismay. “You don’t think he could have blackmailed her?”
“I’ve no idea, but I think it’s time to find out,” he responded grimly, finishing the rest of the brandy in one gulp. He needed to be alone. Being back at Strathaird had brought up too many memories and he had his own hurdles to face.
“Thanks so much for telling me.” Penelope rose and they kissed one another good-night. “And, Brad—” she reached up and touched his cheek gently “—I do hope everything will work out in the end for you and Charlotte.” She looked up into his eyes, her blue ones swimming with unshed tears. He gave her a grateful hug.
“Don’t worry, Aunt Penn. Give it some time. Charlie needs to make up her own mind. And if she’s decided to stay with him, that may be right too.”
She heaved a deep sigh. “I honestly don’t see how it could be. I just hope and pray that this time she doesn’t make another mistake. I don’t know if I could bear it.”
“I must know this menu by heart,” Charlotte remarked lightly as she and John dallied over a last glass of Barolo. “But I love the agnollotti. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of them.”
Vincenzo, the efficient Italian waiter whom they now knew well, stood attentively nearby.
“Anything else, Mr. Drummond?”
“Just the bill, thanks.” John smiled and slipped a hand across the crisp tablecloth.
Charlotte stiffened, forcing herself to stay calm and not pull away. She should be grateful. For once they weren’t surrounded by the usual entourage of Berkowitz and Co.
This was her chance.
Taking a deep breath, she glanced up at the equestrian paintings on the wall, marshaling her courage. Only two other tables in the inner section of the restaurant were occupied. An older couple munched in somber silence, while the other table held a merry group of young people chattering in a language she didn’t recognize.
John leaned closer and began reviewing the afternoon’s activities. “I read this new script today, but I’m not sure,” he said, frowning. “My comeback role needs to be something very special that the whole world will identify with, that they’ll relate to my personality and aura. Something totally out of the ordinary.”
“I thought you liked Wonder’s Work,” she remarked, forcing herself not to twitch. She noticed how much better he looked, eyes matching the new aqua sweater he’d bought for a small fortune at Hermès. His skin had lost the grayish cast of weeks earlier and he was slowly acquiring a rugged look, thanks to the mountain hikes up the Santesch, bicycle rides and regular workouts prescribed by his trainer.
He was well enough to handle the truth, she reflected, withdrawing her hand.
Folding her napkin carefully, she laid it next to her half-empty glass and took a deep breath. “John, you and I need to talk.”
“I thought that’s what we were doing.” He grinned, teeth flashing.
It occurred to her that he was lucky he’d had them capped shortly before the accident, or his teeth might have deteriorated during his illness. Stop thinking about nonsense, she ordered, and get on with it. Screwing up her nerve, she looked across at him. “I mean really talk,” she said in a firm voice.
“What about? We talk all the time. Don’t you care about my career? We need to go over this stuff.”
“This is about us, John.”
“Well, that’s all settled, isn’t it? You called that lawyer chap and canceled the divorce proceedings, right?” he asked casually.
“No. I haven’t.”
“Why not?” His voice turned suddenly icy.
“Because we’re going ahead with it,” she blurted out.
“Pardon me,” he drawled, “but I don’t think I understand.”
“I think you do.” She watched his eyes turn hard and flinched despite her newfound courage.
“Berkowitz has made it clear to you that a divorce is out of the question right now. My whole comeback has been structured around our, quote, wonderful marriage. God knows how much is being spent on the campaign.” He took a long sip of wine, then, irritated, signaled the waiter for more.
“That’s all you think about, isn’t it?” she replied, hotly. “Your whole universe consists of your damn career and your bloody ego. Well, guess what, I’ve had it.” Her voice rose and he took an anxious look at the other tables.
“Let’s get out of here. I can’t afford a scene. I probably shouldn’t be dining in such a well-known place anyway.” He waved to the waiter and handed him his credit card.
“Stop worrying about what you look like, and listen,” she hissed, goaded by his attitude. “If you think for one minute that you can stop this discussion from taking place, you’re wrong. I refuse to go on like this.”
“Rubbish. You did it for long enough, you’ll get used to it again.” All the seeming affection that had infused his voice over the past few weeks was gone. In its place was the harsh arrogance she knew all too well.
“This is not rubbish. It’s the truth. I want to do this in the quietest, most civilized manner possible. Don’t make it more difficult than it need be.”
“It’s out of the question. I won’t discuss it.”
She held back her answer while the waiter returned with the bill and John signed.
Smiling perfunctorily, she rose.
They walked in stiff silence past polished wooden tables and windows facing the terrace and the promenade. The waiter took out their jackets from a large antique Bauern cupboard near the entrance. As they slipped them on and said good-night, Charlotte braced herself for the next round. The familiar nausea that for years had accompanied her day in, day out, rose once again in the pit of her stomach.
Once they were out in the promenade and they’d begun the ten-minute walk back to the hotel, she let out a long breath, determined to get it over with.
“John, please be reasonable,” she insisted, trying desperately to regain control. “We have Genny to think about as well as ourselves. If you and I are unhappy, then she will be too. If we’re sensible about this and work something out, then she won’t suffer.” It was silly to get angry and only served to make matters worse.
He stopped abruptly in front of Grima, the renowned jeweler’s. “You don’t think I’d give Genny up, d
o you?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, swallowing a rush of fear. “You could see her whenever it was convenient for you—we can arrange that with no problem.”
A slow, cruel smile curved his lips. “You think I’ll simply let you walk out on me, as cool as you please,” he said, his mocking tone as brutal as a slap. “That I’ll let you muck up my career because of some half-assed accessory line that you’ve convinced yourself is a success.” He let out a low, harsh laugh and took a step closer.
It took all her willpower not to raise her arm to shield herself from the blow she was sure would follow.
He stared at her scornfully. “Just look at you. You think you’re a hotshot because a few Parisian critics said your stuff’s okay. Well, I’ve got news for you, baby. Your jewelry sucks. The only reason you got any notice at all is because of my name. Without me, you’re a seven-day wonder, and the sooner you realize it, the better.” The refined accent he’d cultivated over the years gave way to a guttural East-End twang. “Stop thinking you’re anything but what you are—a society bimbo who was lucky somebody looked at her when there was still something worth seeing. You should be damn glad I’m willing to put up with you. I mean, look at you, for Christ’s sake. You’re in your mid-thirties, you dress like shit and you can’t carry on a normal conversation without looking bored. What man would want what you’re selling?”
“This is not about me, or what I look like,” she returned icily, “and frankly, your opinions are of no interest to me. We have an issue to settle. The sooner we do it, the better for both of us.”
“Oh my, aren’t we being hoity-toity?” His face took on an ugly twist and he loomed over her menacingly. “Don’t you play Lady of the Manor with me, Charlotte MacLeod,” he snarled, grabbing her hair and yanking her head back. “Maybe you need to be reminded of just who and what you are.”
Pain seared and her eyes stung. She clenched her fists so tight her fingers ached. But she would not give him the pleasure of seeing her cry. Stay calm, she repeated, forcing her eyes to meet his blazing ones. He was a bully, she reminded herself, and therefore a coward.
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