by Jean Stone
He looked like a bum. He had not shaved in days, perhaps, and did not look at all like the man in her clippings: He looked old and dissipated and no longer handsome. There was some consolation in that.
He did not have to ask Carla how she found him. Lester wasn’t stupid, and he must have known she could track him through the Swiss bank account and that the Baroness von Friedberg’s estate would then be the first place she’d look. There had been too many news clippings over too many years of them “seen” together at too many fetes. Too many times Carla had cut out the baroness’s face and replaced it with her own.
Instead of wondering how she found him, Lester asked, “Are you here because of Sotheby’s?”
She had no idea what he meant, but replied, “Yes.” She stepped into the room and looked around. He was alone, except for his glass of dark, golden liquid that he quickly drank. She thought of the champagne and the time that he had kissed her, then she pushed it quickly from her mind.
“Nice place,” she said, because she realized that Lester seemed nervous and that she might be the one holding the cards. But hadn’t it been that way the twenty-six years they’d been together? Hadn’t she kept his life together while he had only used her?
He laughed. “I knew you’d figure out I gave them the paintings. Did they sell yet? How much did I get?”
The Manet. The Chagall. So that was it. Lester had given the paintings to Sotheby’s. She was glad she’d told Sam about them, not that it mattered now. Her legs felt suddenly tired. She would have sat on a sofa, but they were made of stiff brocade and did not look inviting. “How much do you think?”
He buttoned his shirt over the white T-shirt that was pulled out from his pants. His once–Robert Redford hair was now gray and unkempt. Could he have changed so much in only a few weeks? Or had he been changing, aging slowly, and Carla hadn’t noticed? “The Manet must go for eight hundred thousand. More for the Chagall.”
She supposed she should not be surprised that he thought she was somehow connected to the sale of his paintings. God knew she’d kept tabs on everything else in his life. Carla sighed.
“What will you do with all that money, Lester?” He walked to a small table that stood against the wall. He leaned against it. “First I’m going to get my own place. There’s a beautiful chateau I’ve had my eye on at Lake Geneva.”
She nodded. “I guess I hoped you’d give something back to the cousins,” she said. “You cost them quite a lot.”
He stood up straighter and poured another drink. “That wasn’t my fault. Those goddamn tech stocks. How was I to know the bottom would fall out?”
“It was more than tech stocks, Lester. You never really knew what you were doing, did you?”
A sharp sound of voices came from out in the foyer, a staccato-quick exchange of high-pitched, angry words. In the instant it took for Carla to snap her head toward the noise, Lester darted behind the bar and pulled out a shiny black gun.
Jesus, Mary, Mother of God, it really was a gun.
“Drop it, Markham” a loud shout split the air. Sam’s shout, Sam’s voice. “Move back,” he commanded Carla, and so she did. Sam, she thought. Thank God, Sam.
Then, in an outburst, Lester laughed. He pointed the gun into the air, not aimed at either of his intruders, just pointed outward and shaking.
“Whoever you are, you’ve got me,” he said. “It took you long enough.” Then his laughter faded and his eyes glazed with bewilderment as if he did not know what to say or what to do.
“Lester,” Carla pleaded, because she needed to know. “What happened? What happened to the trust funds?”
He kept the gun pointed at nothing, but now he began to cry. It was pathetic, seeing him cry. Carla put her hand to her heart so it wouldn’t dare to hurt. “I didn’t mean to do it,” Lester said. “I tried my best. Then the market went down and down. I tried to cover up the losses with the money that I had. The money from Margaret.”
“Nikki’s mother,” Carla said to Sam, then asked, “But you had your own money, Lester. Your family’s money.”
He laughed again and wiped his tears with the back of the hand that did not hold the gun. “I never had ‘family’ money. I wasn’t like them, Carla. I was like you, a poor slob like you.”
Carla frowned. “But you knew the family …”
“I knew shit,” he said, “except for her. Margaret Atkinson. She was my mistress for fifteen years. That’s how I got my job as trust fund manager. That’s how I landed my rightful place in society.” He laughed again. “She was my ticket to the big time for the small admission price of my high-performance dick.”
Carla winced. Margaret Atkinson was his mistress? Margaret Atkinson? And … Lester? Her stomach turned. Lester had been married … and Lester had those women, none of whom were her … but that awful woman …?
She looked at Sam and wondered if they were thinking the same thing: Could they prove it?
“You killed Rose Atkinson,” Carla said abruptly.
Sam didn’t say a word, though surely he must be shocked.
Then Lester laughed again. “Killed her? It was self-defense. The woman was hysterical.”
Carla kept her eyes fixed on Lester while Sam slowly took one step, then another, off to one side.
“She caught us in the lighthouse,” Lester continued, “Margaret and me. It was the night of the fireworks. We took the padlock off the door. Rose must have seen it was missing, so she came inside. We were naked on the floor, having sex like dogs.”
Carla tried to stop herself from feeling sick.
Lester half-smiled. “Rose started screaming, and she ran up the stairs. I chased her to the top. She thought I was going to rape her. Ha! She should have been so lucky!”
Carla winced. “So you pushed her off the balcony.”
“I had to shut her up. All those people were out there …” And Lester laughed again, wobbling the gun in Carla’s direction. “As for you,” he said, “you were disgusting, the way you hangdogged after me all those years.”
“The paintings,” Sam said quickly, and Lester jerked his head—and the gun—back toward him. “The Manet and the Chagall. Sotheby’s won’t sell them, Lester. They don’t belong to you.”
“Yes!” he cried. “They’re mine!”
“No,” Sam said. “They traced them to the estate. Actually, they’re Mary Beth’s. They once hung in the house on the Vineyard. The house was left to her with all its contents.”
Spit flew from Lester’s mouth. “No! They’re mine! That old bitch gave them to me!”
Sam shook his head. “There’s no record of that. But there are photographs of the library at the house on the Vineyard, in which both paintings are visible on the walls. Dorothy Atkinson has the pictures at the nursing home.”
Carla was glad of that: Mary Beth sure could use the money they would bring.
Lester looked confused. And then his body trembled. He flicked his bulging eyes from Sam to Carla, then back to Sam. He moved in front of the bar again. “No!” he cried. “They’re mine!”
Sam lunged toward him and they struggled. Carla started to tremble, her fist now in her mouth, her throat making funny little noises she knew were from trying not to panic. Then the two men fell onto the floor, Lester on top of Sam. And then the gun went off.
She held her breath and waited longer than she’d ever waited in her life. And finally Lester moved off Sam and rolled onto his back. And Sam stood up and he and Carla looked down at Lester and at the bright red liquid that erupted like Mount Vesuvius from Lester’s chest.
EPILOGUE
The day before the wedding, Dee showed up at Camp4Kids. Sand dusted her white canvas shoes and stretch capris as she crossed the makeshift parking lot to the registration cottage. Nikki spotted her from the window, and wondered why she was there, on her mother’s turf, the Kids’ turf.
Since their altercation at the big house, she’d had glimpses of Dee amid the comings and goings of people and cars an
d vans and delivery trucks that had shuttled up and down the driveway at the estate, but Nikki had decided to stay out of the way. Mack had agreed; he’d stayed at the tavern, where Nikki joined him every night.
Dee walked onto the porch. She raised her hand, then put it down, as if unsure whether or not she should knock, not knowing if this were a proper business or not. Nikki watched a moment longer, then opened the door.
“Dee,” Nikki said.
“Mother. I wasn’t sure if you’d be here.” Her blue eyes traversed the doorway and went into the room beyond.
“May through August,” Nikki replied, commanding herself to not be defensive or antagonistic. “Next year I hope we can extend it to September. The kids are great. They love it here.”
Dee nodded.
“Come in,” Nikki said. “Have a seat. Would you like tea?”
Dee sat on the edge of the cushion tied to an old wicker sofa. She did not answer Nikki’s question, but said, “I came to say I’m sorry, Mom. I’ve been more than my usual rat-self lately.”
Nikki sat, because it was apparent that this conversation would warrant a chair. “There’s nothing to be sorry about, honey. We don’t always see eye to eye; sometimes that’s how mothers and daughters are.” She did not mention the differences she’d had with one Margaret Atkinson.
A tiny frown line appeared between Dee’s eyebrows. “I wasn’t talking about us. I meant about Dad. I should have told you he was here with a woman.”
Nikki said, “Oh.” She crossed her feet and studied her toes. “Well, it was a bit of a shock. Something told me, however, you might enjoy that.”
Dee stood up. “Maybe this was a bad idea.” She headed for the door.
“Please, Dee. Don’t leave.”
For once, Dee didn’t.
“Your father certainly has a right to see whomever he wishes,” Nikki said. “I certainly don’t check in with him when I date anyone.”
Dee returned to the wicker without comment. “I came to ask you something else,” she said, as if this talk of mothers and fathers dating and mating had grown uncomfortable. “Dad told me about your plans to expand the foundation.”
That wasn’t surprising, it was, after all, business.
“I’d like to help,” Dee said. “I know stuff now; I’ll know even more after Harvard. The truth is, Dad suggested I forget going to China and work my way around the world with The Rose Foundation. I’d like that, Mom.” Then she lowered her eyes. “I want to be part of your life. I don’t want to fight anymore.” Then the biggest tears Nikki had ever seen splashed from her daughter’s eyes.
Nikki jumped from her chair and stooped beside Dee. “Honey,” she said, putting her arm around her daughter, who did not withdraw from her touch. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Aunt Dorothy,” Dee said. “Mary Beth brought her to the big house. Oh, Mom, what if something like that happened to you and we never had a chance to be friends?”
Siena was a village bathed in sepia. The famed Il Campo piazza was the center of it all—a shell-shaped sprawl of a redbrick yard, shaded only by a massive tower and rimmed by outdoor cafés and umbrella tables.
Carla sat at one of those umbrella tables sipping lemonade, wondering if her ancestors had ever ventured there in June and August for Il Palio, when the horses race and the people laugh and drink and feast.
Her guidebook said those things, the small guidebook printed in Italian and French, Spanish and English. It cited the Tuscan festa (celebration), bellezza (beauty), and pici (the delectable local pasta). It showed photos of old men and young women and olive trees and vineyards and pecorino cheese. They were pretty pictures but did not show the way things really looked; they could not add the sounds and smells and senses of driving through the countryside as she’d done that morning, or sitting in the piazza, where she now sat that afternoon.
God, she was a long way from the Bronx. She smiled, then touched her bag where her mother’s silver-framed photo was safely nestled for the trip.
Italy! Their homeland—twice in just weeks! She thanked her lucky stars that she’d kept up the payments on Theresa’s life insurance and that it had paid out much more than the funeral had cost.
A group of pigeons flew over her; she felt as if this were a movie, a black-and-white film like they showed at the Majestic when she’d sat up in the balcony with her Good & Plenty and her dreams. If she looked to the next table, Carla felt certain that Cary Grant or Audrey Hepburn would be seated there.
And it was then—with the sounds and the smells and the senses around her—that Carla knew she would not go back to New York. Not to live. Not ever. Her mother was gone; her sons were no longer children. She’d seen them through their early years, she’d given them all she had; she had given too much to a man who had deserved nothing, nothing at all. And now it was time for Carla to have that real life of her own.
She had returned to Tuscany after Lester died; she went to Gabrielle; she told her what had happened. And when Stefano invited Carla to stay, she said, no, thank you, but that she would appreciate a good Sunday dinner from time to time.
Then she went into Siena and crafted her plan. The rest of her mother’s insurance money would help her get settled, maybe in an apartment right there near the piazza, in the sun and the bricks and the sepia world, where Carla Marie Isabella DiRoma finally, thank you God and sweet Jesus, would have it all.
Mary Beth was going to pull it off. Nikki stood outside the lighthouse and surveyed the sweeping lawn and marveled that her cousin was going to host the wedding as if nothing were amiss, as if she’d not sold nearly everything but her soul within the past few weeks, as if her husband had not dumped her for her best friend and her best friend’s money, as if at least four dozen cancellations had not come in at the last minute from “insiders” apparently privy to the Atkinson demise.
“Screw them,” Mary Beth had said. “That will give us more room for the kids from camp. They’ll love the bubble wands, don’t you think?”
Mary Beth had even turned down Connor’s generous offer to fund his niece’s wedding, even though he was no longer married to the aunt. She seemed determined to do this on her own, to shake off her addiction to money and to things. She said she would not even apologize for the lack of truffles in the soup.
The gods seemed happy with her choices, for this morning dawned pristine, the sky the softest powder blue. Across the lawn, the white tents shaded long tables adorned with yards of festive organdy and gleaming silver servers.
Nikki smiled and breathed in the scent of ten thousand flowers, maybe more, that wafted from an exotic garden transplanted just for Shauna and her handsome, happy bridegroom.
Looking up to the big house, Nikki wondered if Mary Beth had ever known how often she had wished she could have been more like her, a woman who commanded and demanded and who always got things done. Nikki wished she could have been more like that, but that was too close to her own mother, and Nikki never could have been that; it wouldn’t have been right.
“You can’t fix my damn cummerbund if you’re standing on the lawn,” Mack shouted from the doorway of the caretaker’s cottage, and Nikki turned with a smile. Last night at the rehearsal dinner, they announced to the family that their marriage would be next, but that they would do it without the tents and bubble wands.
Mary Beth had stood up and applauded. She claimed she’d been suspicious of a “dalliance” for many years.
Nikki had looked around and seen everyone smiling: No one seemed bothered that the niece and the uncle-by-marriage would soon be united. She had hugged him right there and felt ridiculous that she’d let her fears rule her actions all this time.
But now, as she began to cross the lawn toward the cottage, Nikki noticed that someone else had arrived ahead of her. She stopped and watched as Mack let his new guest into the cottage.
“I used to call you Daddy,” Gabrielle said to her father as she stood inside the room, the Countess Bonelli blue-lace agate
brooch pinned upon her collar, her gaze set on her father, who looked so handsome in his suit.
“And I called you Princess,” he replied.
She felt the tears begin, the tears that she’d held back since she’d left Tuscany again yesterday, since Stefano insisted that they go as a family and that she finally make up with Mack. She looked up to the portrait that hung over the mantel. Her eyes stayed there a moment, her heart filled with love. Then she looked back to her father and smiled a gentle smile.
“I had a message I wanted to get to you before I left,” she said.
“And that was …”
“I wanted to say I’m sorry, and that I’ve always loved you, Daddy.”
He stepped forward and wrapped his big arms around her, and together their tears belonged to one another. “Princess,” he repeated, “I’m so sorry, too. And I’m so glad you’ve come home.”
“It’s a photo album,” Mary Beth said to Dorothy upstairs in the big house, as she handed the woman in the sky-blue ensemble a large, leather-bound album. “I put it together to help you remember where you are today, and maybe some of the people who are here.”
Dorothy smiled a tentative smile and turned back the pages, ever so slowly, tasting each morsel of distant recognition.
Mary Beth wanted to cry, but could not risk her makeup. Instead, she patted her mother on the shoulder, walked to the window, and looked out to the driveway. Then Shauna came into the bedroom on a cloud of strapless white peau de soie and crystals, flanked by the maid of honor in delicate, dusty pink.
The sight of them took a bit of air from the room. Mary Beth put her fingers to her throat and simply said, “Lovely, so lovely.” Then she took as deep a breath as she could manage and gestured out to the driveway. “Your father’s here.”
They had not, until this moment, known if he’d have the courage to show up.
They had not, until this moment, known that if he did, would he be stupid enough to bring Roxanne? Thankfully, he was not.