Penny and Andy handed Tim their passports. As soon as they had been stamped, Tim led the way out of the airport. A black limousine with darkened windows was parked outside the ‘arrivals’ gate. Tim opened the back door and the trunk for the porter. Penny and Andy climbed into the back.
‘There are refreshments, drinks and champagne in the fridge. Please, help yourself. If you need to talk to me, use the intercom. Enjoy the ride.’ Tim closed the inside window.
Andy was gazing intently out the window, straining his neck to catch his first glimpse of America. Penny was reminded of how she had done the self-same thing when she’d landed in New York in 1968.
‘Don’t try to take it all in at once,’ she advised. ‘It’s impossible, especially around the airport.’
‘It’s not what I expected.’
‘I remember saying the same thing to Kate. Your Great-Uncle Haydn once told me that New York is best seen from the air at a distance. His words certainly rang true for me nineteen years ago.’
‘You tired?’ Andy asked.
‘I can barely keep my eyes open. I’d forgotten how exhausting a long flight can be.’
‘It was more tiring than flying to Spain, or Italy,’ Andy agreed.
‘It took me days to get over jet lag the last time I was here. Right now I feel as though I should be going to bed, not thinking about afternoon tea.’ She recalled the meal Bobby had bought her in the coffee shop just after she’d arrived at the hotel and realised she’d landed at practically the same time.
‘Part of our exhaustion could be down to travelling to the airport the day before we flew, the night noise in the airport hotel and having to get up at some ghastly hour this morning so we could sit around for hours before we flew out.’ Andy opened the fridge and inspected the contents.
‘I hope I stay awake until we get to the hotel. I fell asleep on the bus last time.’
‘How about a glass of champagne?’ Andy removed the bottle.
‘Forget the champagne. I could murder a glass of water.’
Andy took a bottle of water, opened it and filled two glasses. He handed her one, then continued to look out of the window as they drove into the city.
Penny opened her eyes what seemed like only minutes later to discover Tim had pulled up outside the canopied entrance to a hotel. He opened the panel that separated driver from passengers.
‘Mr Brosna’s arranged for you and Andy to have one of the penthouses here, Penny.’
‘Won’t that be expensive?’
‘Mr Brosna told me to inform you that this hotel is a Brosna business enterprise. The suite and all your expenses during your stay will be met by the company.’ Tim reached into his inside pocket and withdrew a letter. ‘He also asked me to give you this.’
‘Thank you.’ She took the letter and slipped it into her handbag. ‘Have you known Mr Brosna long?’
‘I’ve been working for Mr Brosna since August 1969.’
‘Then you know him well.’
‘I have reason to be grateful to Mr Brosna. It wasn’t easy for Vietnam veterans to find work when they returned to the States, particularly those disabled as a result of their service.’
‘How long were you in Vietnam?’ She wondered if he had known Sandy and acquired the job through personal recommendation.
‘Too long, Penny.’ Tim left the car and opened the trunk.
A top-hatted, uniformed doorman stepped out from beneath the canopy and opened the car door. Penny climbed out of the limousine and looked around. The sidewalks were more crowded than she remembered, but the streets were cleaner and the people appeared more prosperous.
‘I’ll arrange to have your luggage delivered to your suite,’ Tim assured her.
‘Thank you and thank you for the ride. I’ll see you again?’
‘Almost certainly, Penny.’
Penny shook hands with Tim again before entering the foyer.
The receptionist excused herself from the people she was dealing with and walked over to Penny and Andy.
‘Ms John, Mr John, welcome. This is your welcome pack and the keys to your suite.’ She handed them to a bellboy. ‘Gary will accompany you. I hope you enjoy your stay with us, ma’am, sir.’
‘Thank you.’ Penny and Andy followed Gary to a discreet corner of the foyer.
‘This private elevator takes you directly to the penthouse floor, ma’am,’ Gary explained. He opened the door and when they entered she saw there was only one button. He waited until Penny and Andy stood alongside him, pressed it and the elevator slid effortlessly upwards.
The doors opened in a wood-panelled hall floored with ceramic tiles. There were only two doors.
‘You and Mr John are in the Emperor Suite, ma’am.’ Gary opened the door and stood aside to allow them to enter ahead of him.
Penny noted the other door was labelled ‘Royal Suite’.
She walked into an enormous, light, spacious living area. One wall was glass.
‘This is the door to the terrace, ma’am.’ Gary pressed a button and part of the glass wall slid back. Penny stepped into a conservatory furnished with wooden-framed chairs and a matching table. Gary opened a second door that allowed access on to an outside balcony. She stepped outside and breathed in a lungful of warm humid air.
‘Fresh air is rare in New York,’ she said to Gary.
‘It certainly is, ma’am.’
She returned to the living area. The sofas and chairs were cream leather, the carpet cream, the furniture good-quality reproduction antique French.
Gary opened two doors that led out of the rooms. ‘There are two bedrooms, ma’am, with en suite bathrooms. The room service menu and house telephone numbers are in the desk.’ He rolled back the top. ‘If you should need anything, room service and reception are manned 24–7.’
‘Thank you, Gary.’ Penny opened her handbag and removed a five-dollar bill. She handed it to the boy.
‘Thank you, ma’am. Your keys are on the desk.’ He left the suite, closing the door quietly behind him.
‘You have to see the bathrooms, they’re fantastic. Both have walk-in multi-jet showers and there are separate whirlpool tubs, double sinks …’
Andy was so excited that Penny followed him into one of the bedrooms. Before she reached the bathroom she was transfixed by the size of the bed. It was the largest she’d seen. Opposite it was an enormous television and a glass-fronted fridge filled with soft drinks, beer, wine and liquor.
‘I thought we lived well and our house was luxurious. I had no idea people lived like this.’ Andy’s voice echoed from the bathroom.
She followed him. ‘We do live well, Andy.’ She suppressed her irritation and tried to modify her lecturing tone. ‘Our house is fine. The only people who can afford to live like this are extremely wealthy.’
‘Which I suppose I will be, if I accept the Brosna inheritance.’
‘Yes, I suppose you will,’ she conceded as the implications of Charlotte Brosna’s will hit her anew.
‘I can’t wait to try the shower and whirlpool bath.’
‘Why don’t you?’
‘Water would wake me up and make me feel more human.’
‘Don’t fall asleep in the bath,’ she warned.
‘I’m not likely to do that.’
‘You wouldn’t be the first jet-lagged traveller to do just that,’ she smiled, thinking of her and Kate’s room-mate. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘I prefer to have a shower first. If I’m peckish afterwards I might raid the fruit basket I saw in the living room.’
‘I’ll unpack and shower as well. Get together in an hour or so?’
‘Sounds good to me. Which bedroom do you want?’
‘As you’re here, you can keep this one.’
She left him and went into the conservatory. The air was warm. Too warm. Something else she’d forgotten about – the heat and humidity of a New York summer. She closed the door to the outside terrace, turned up the air conditioning, retrieved the letter from her handba
g and opened it.
Dear Penny,
I find it difficult to believe that you will be reading this letter a few hours from now in the suite next to mine. I have given you and Andy the two-bedroomed Emperor Suite because I thought you would like Andy close to you. Mine – the Royal – only has one bedroom.
My direct-dial telephone number is at the foot of the page. Telephone or visit me any time. It might be best if you telephone first. I would appreciate a few moments to prepare myself.
May I invite you and Andy to an early dinner – early because I assume you’ll be jet-lagged. I agree; it would be better if we met one another without Andy before we eat.
I know the years have been kind to you because I have seen recent photographs of you. I also know that you are aware of my disfigurement. So there shouldn’t be any unwelcome surprises on either side.
In my dreams the four of us haven’t changed since that magical summer of 1968. I relive those days and take strength and comfort from them constantly. Possibly because it feels as though my life ended when that season changed.
See you soon, Penny.
R
Penny folded the letter and returned it to her handbag. She checked that the bundle of letters she had taken from her desk at home were still there.
Only then did she open her suitcase and remove the simply cut, short-sleeved, crinkle silk dress that was one of her favourites. She’d packed it because it was impossible to crease. She went into the bathroom, showered and washed her hair and applied body lotion, perfume, deodorant and cosmetics with more care than she’d taken in years.
She dried her long hair and twisted it into a simple knot at the nape of her neck. Her underclothes were silk, as were her stockings. She slipped on the dress and cinched it in at the waist with a leather belt.
She checked her reflection in the cheval mirror and added simple black-pearl earrings, a plain silver watch and the final touch: a black and white silk striped scarf.
Her court shoes were plain with two-inch heels. Did she look too severe? Like an applicant for a job interview?
Deciding she’d spent enough time on her appearance, she picked up the telephone receiver in her bedroom with a shaking hand and dialled the number at the foot of the page of Bobby’s letter.
It was answered immediately and she visualised Bobby sitting in a chair next to the phone, waiting for it to ring.
‘Hello?’
Whatever else had changed during the last nineteen years, his voice certainly hadn’t.
‘It’s Penny.’
‘I’ll open the door and wait for you. Do you still drink beer?’
‘I prefer dry white wine.’
‘I’ll open a bottle and pour you a glass.’
She picked up her handbag, left her bedroom and knocked on the door of the adjoining bedroom.
‘I’m not asleep.’ Andy’s voice sounded distant as it echoed from behind the closed door of the bathroom through the empty bedroom.
‘I’m going out for half an hour or so.’
‘Wait.’ There was the sound of water splashing. ‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No, we’ve been invited out to dinner. I’ll be back in good time. Enjoy the suite and order anything you want from room service.’
She didn’t wait for him to reply. Picking up one of the sets of keys she left the suite, closed the door behind her and walked to the second door off the hall. It was ajar.
She knocked and entered. The luxury and layout of the suite were similar to the one she and Andy occupied.
He was sitting waiting for her in the conservatory. He left his chair and turned towards her. He was wearing a silk hood over his face, with slits at eye and mouth level. The slits were large enough for her to see his painfully familiar blue eyes. He wore a Panama on his head; his suit was lightweight beige linen, his white cotton shirt fastened at the neck by a beige silk tie.
He lifted a glass of wine and held it out to her.
She walked across the room, opened the door and joined him in the conservatory.
‘Penny, before we go any further, there is something you should know—’
She interrupted him. ‘I already know. I’ve known for years, Sandy.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Penny took the glass of wine Sandy handed her and sat facing him in the conservatory.
He sipped his own wine before setting his glass on the table. ‘How did you find out?’
Her answer was brief. ‘Bobby.’
‘You saw him after the accident?’
‘I never saw him again after that night. Charlotte made sure I couldn’t go near the room that Bobby – you – were taken to in the hospital. She hired security guards to keep everyone, especially his friends and the press, away. The doctors endorsed her decision because you weren’t expected to live. At the time I assumed she gave the order because she wanted to regain control of Bobby’s life. Now it’s obvious. She didn’t want to risk anyone discovering that you weren’t Bobby.’
‘Charlotte believed I was Bobby after the accident and for weeks afterwards. It was an understandable mistake. I was burnt and bandaged beyond recognition. Bobby and I were the same height and build. Both of us had blue eyes.’
‘But your hair was different. Yours was blue-black, Bobby’s a brown-black.’
‘My hair had burnt off.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’ She looked into his eyes. Imagined the scars he was concealing beneath the silk hood. ‘I’m so sorry, Sandy. You must have been in excruciating pain.’
‘You didn’t see me at all after the accident?’ He reached for his wine glass and cradled it.
‘No. I was unconscious for hours. When I came round and asked to see you, the doctors – and Charlotte – said you were too weak to receive visitors.’
‘The doctors kept me on morphine for months. My first memory – and it’s a hazy one after the accident – is Charlotte informing me that Sandy had been killed in Vietnam. That was in late November or early December. I told Charlotte I was Sandy and she was furious. She ordered me not to talk to the medical staff. On her next visit she said if she couldn’t have one grandson she’d have another. I needed the best care money could buy. She promised if I impersonated Bobby she’d buy it for me – and take care of my mother. If I didn’t go along with her plan she’d throw us both out on the street. I was past caring what happened to me but my mother …’
‘Charlotte always was good at blackmail. Your love for your mother made you vulnerable. And, she was an expert at picking people’s weak spots. But what possible reason could she have for asking you to pretend to be Bobby?’
‘The first was money, the only thing that ever mattered to Charlotte. But I’ll come back to that later. The second was the accident. A change of identity would have led to a reopening of the police enquiry and more newspaper reports and scandal. It was months before I remembered some of the things that happened that night and over a year before I discovered Charlotte had managed to keep your statement that Bobby was responsible for the accident out of the press. I’ve had nearly twenty years to piece together the events. But there are still a few things I don’t understand.’
She took two letters from her handbag. ‘Perhaps I can help you.’
He looked at the airmail stamp on the envelope and recognised the handwriting. ‘Bobby wrote to you?’
‘Twice, once from the States and once from Vietnam. The second letter was sent on to me after he’d been killed.’
Sandy made no attempt to take them from her. ‘I can tell you how the mix-up happened. The police officer who asked me to drive Bobby back to the Brosna Estate that night in Marion and Joe’s yard went to their house the following morning to inform them about the accident. Marion told him that I’d woken her in the night collecting my things. My bag was missing; your bag and Kate’s were still there. Bobby’s bags were at the Beach House. The officer accepted Marion’s story. He had no reason not to. He’d told me to drive Bobby’s car t
he night before and I was seen driving it away. A driver who causes an accident will often panic and run from the scene, particularly if people are killed or injured. For the first day or so the police believed the accident was down to my bad driving. They didn’t change their opinion until you gave your statement. But even then they believed that Sandy had collected his belongings from the house and disappeared and the survivor dragged from the wreck was Bobby.’
She thought about what he’d said. ‘Now I can see why Charlotte didn’t realise who you were at first.’
‘And now we come to the money. Charlotte had set up a tax avoidance trust fund in Bobby’s name. I have no idea how much was in it, but Charlotte had attached all sorts of conditions. Bobby wouldn’t have been able to access any of the money or property until he was thirty-five. She contacted her lawyers to find out if Bobby had made a will. She was fairly certain he hadn’t and she was right. As Bobby had no wife or known children at the time of his death, under Massachusetts law, his estate would have been divided between his parents. His mother was dead, so that left his father and Bobby’s vast brood of half-brothers and -sisters. Charlotte was determined her stepson and his offspring wouldn’t get a penny more than she’d already given him. So the moment the doctors cut the bandages from my hands in February 1969, she brought lawyers to my hospital bedside, pushed a pen between my fingers and made me sign document after document. The trust must have been difficult to dismantle. I was still signing papers two years later.’
‘But your signature …’
‘My right hand had been burnt to the bone. I was undergoing skin graft operations. But most significant of all, I was simply too damned weak to fight Charlotte. It was easier to go along with what she demanded of me, especially when she reminded me that although my mother had been resident in the States for years, she’d entered as an illegal immigrant. I didn’t know if my mother had ever taken citizenship but I had more sense, even in my confused state than to ask Charlotte if Harriet had or hadn’t. And, Charlotte gave me a letter from my mother – you met Harriet?’
‘I did,’ she confirmed.
‘Charlotte allowed me to read it once before burning it in front of me. In it, my mother said she was pleased that I was getting the expensive medical care I needed, and being unable to acknowledge me as her son was a small price to pay for the treatment Charlotte was arranging.’
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