Nat’s “job,” as it were, was to look after her younger siblings. Her legal battle had been costly for both her parents. While her dad had paid Matthew Hawley’s bills, her mom had spent money on flights, on groceries in New York, had missed months of work. Free childcare was a way for Natalie to attempt to repay her mom and Derek for their steadfast support. Besides, it would be virtually impossible for Nat to find regular employment in a town that knew who she was and what she had done.
She was enjoying bonding with Astrid and Oliver. Nat no longer resented their blond perfection; she loved their purity, their innocence. They adored their big sister unconditionally; even if they had known what she had done, it would not have impacted their affections. Each morning, Nat got up and made them breakfast. (Astrid favored cereal, while Ollie was partial to cheese toast.) After she dropped them off at school, Nat spent her days cleaning, grocery shopping, or meeting with her parole officer or psychiatrist. She would collect her charges after school and shuttle them to their various activities. When she got home, she’d start dinner so that her mom and Derek could return from work to a cooked meal. After the first tense weeks, even Derek seemed to appreciate Nat’s contribution to the running of their household.
Natalie had not sketched or painted since she’d returned to Blaine. Her dreams of an art career now seemed foolish, pie in the sky. After what she’d endured, she wanted simpler things from her life . . . peace, serenity, security. One day, she hoped to get a job, something low-stress, even monotonous. With a criminal record, the most she could hope for would be some sort of manual labor, factory work, or cleaning perhaps. She might pick up a brush again at some point, but her creativity had been squelched by the ugliness, hatred, and violence she’d experienced.
Other than her court-appointed visits, Nat’s days were largely solitary. Her dad had made two visits to see her in the nine months since her release. Their relationship was solid now, resentment of his past abandonment nullified by gratitude for his recent support. But the friends she’d so readily ditched after high school weren’t about to welcome her with open arms upon her disgraced return. Abbey had come to visit her a couple of times, but their reunions had been awkward. Her old pal couldn’t relate to the things Nat had done, the person she’d become. Even Cole Doberinsky, once so obsessed, would not come near her now.
But today would not be another day spent on her own. Today, she was having a visitor. An important one. Gabe’s widow, Celeste, had contacted Nat through e-mail. The woman had been spending a few days at a meditation retreat on Galiano Island, would be flying home via Sea-Tac. Celeste wanted to stop in to see Natalie en route to the airport. Nat was nervous, unsure what the encounter would bring about. But she couldn’t deny the woman’s request. Nat had already taken so much from her. And Celeste had secured Nat’s freedom.
“Should I stay home from work?” her mom asked, when Nat told her about the rendezvous.
“No,” Nat assured her. “It’ll be fine.” But her confidence was forced. She had no idea why Celeste wanted to see her, what she would say. All Nat knew was that she’d have to take it.
The woman was arriving at 9:30 A.M., allowing Natalie time to drop her younger brother and sister at school and come home to get ready. She changed out of her uniform of sweats into a pair of dark jeans and a striped blouse. It was as formal as she got these days. Boiling the kettle, she made tea in her maternal grandmother’s pot, set out the matching milk jug and sugar bowl. As the tea steeped, she sat down to await Celeste’s arrival.
A rental car pulled into the driveway at precisely 9:33. Nat watched from the window as Celeste emerged from the silver Toyota Camry. She was wearing a short trench with a belted waist to protect her from the April drizzle, yoga pants and running shoes. Her presence was calm, even Zen, in contrast to Nat’s own tense affect. The older woman must have come directly from her meditation retreat.
Natalie opened the door before her visitor could knock.
“Hi,” Nat said. Should they shake hands? Hug? Nat had slept with this woman’s husband, had admitted to killing him. But Celeste had kept Nat out of prison. What was the etiquette?
“Thanks for seeing me.” Gabe’s widow was cool, composed.
“Of course.” Nat ushered her inside. “Can I take your coat?”
“I can’t stay,” Celeste said, eyeing the tea set on the table. “I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine. Everything’s . . . fine.”
“Are you seeing your psychiatrist?”
“Every week. I think it’s helping. I’m on a low-dose antidepressant, too. Just to take the edge off.”
“I’m glad.” But she didn’t smile. “Are you working?”
“I’m babysitting my little brother and sister. It’s a way to repay my family. I’ve put them through a lot.”
Celeste nodded in agreement, her eyes darting around the house once more. Nat could sense that the woman had gotten what she came for, was eager to leave. But Nat had more to say.
“Thank you for what you said in court,” she said quickly. “It kept me out of jail.”
“I meant what I said,” the older woman responded. “Gabe used you. He lied to you, and he hurt you. Like he did to so many of us.”
Nat had to ask. “How’s Violet?”
Celeste’s expression hardened. “This has been hard on her, but she’s starting to heal. She’s been spending a lot of time in Europe. She’s trying to move forward.”
“I-I’m sorry,” Nat said, unable to articulate what she’d done with Violet: befriending her, flirting with her, kissing her.
“I can forgive you for your relationship with my husband,” Celeste retorted, “but I’ll never forgive you for going after my daughter.”
Tears clouded Nat’s vision. “I hate myself for everything I’ve done to you and to Violet.” Shame and self-loathing clogged her throat, making her voice hoarse and froggy. “I lost my way. I did horrible things, things I never thought I could do.”
Celeste said nothing, just watched as Nat groveled and sniveled. Her dark eyes were blank, unreadable. Did she hate Nat? Pity her? Both?
“I—I don’t remember pulling the trigger.” A sob shuddered through Nat’s chest. “I knew I wasn’t a good person, but I didn’t think I was a murderer.”
She was falling apart now, blubbering like a toddler. Nat was ashamed of her lack of composure but was powerless to contain her emotions. And still, Celeste stood, cool and impassive, observing Nat’s emotional breakdown.
And then, the woman’s hand shot out and grabbed Natalie’s. It felt smooth and cool and strong.
“You’re not a murderer.”
She squeezed Nat’s fingers hard and then she left.
Nat couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. All she could do was stand in the doorway and watch Gabe’s widow walk calmly through the cool spring rain to her car. Nat stood mute and still as Violet’s mother backed out of the driveway and sped off. Back to New York. Or Europe. Back to her daughter. When the car was out of sight, Nat finally, gently, closed the door.
She moved to the kitchen table on legs rubbery with shock and disbelief. Spots swam before her eyes, making her grope blindly for a chair. Lowering herself into it, she reached for the teapot, but her hands were trembling, rattling the delicate china so hard she feared it would break. She set the pot back down, pressed her hands to her sides.
You’re not a murderer.
But Nat remembered Gabe’s bloodless face pleading for his life. She recalled the loud bang of the gun. And she had hated him. God, how she’d hated him. Enough to kill him. But . . . what if she hadn’t? What if the images in her mind weren’t memories, but simply . . . fantasies?
And yet, Gabe was dead. Someone had killed him. If not Nat, then who? Who else had hated him enough to take his life? And who had hated Nat enough to send her down for his murder? Celeste was a lawyer. She would know how to frame someone. But was the striking matriarch capable of killi
ng her husband? Of planting evidence at the scene? How would Celeste have gotten Nat’s gun? Her T-shirt? Her necklace? And why, if Celeste wanted Nat to pay for Gabe’s murder, had she stood up for Nat in court?
You’re not a murderer.
The shock was wearing off now, realization seeping into Nat’s consciousness. She hadn’t done it. At the center of her being, she’d known that she wasn’t capable of murder. And now, Celeste had verified it. Nat should have been angry, outraged even. She should have called Matthew Hawley and professed her innocence. But Nat had given up her right to an appeal when she’d accepted the plea deal. She could have phoned her mom at work, her dad in Vegas. She could have taken out an ad in the local paper, rented a billboard, screamed it from the rooftops. She was innocent! And yet, Nat sat, strangely, eerily still. Because who would believe her? And who would care? She was still a sugar baby with a dead sugar daddy.
Nat may have been disgraced, humiliated, labeled a killer, but she was not in jail. She was free. And Gabe was dead. Nat had not killed him, but she’d wanted to. Just because she hadn’t pulled the trigger herself, didn’t mean she hadn’t yearned for the bastard’s demise with every fiber of her being. Gabe had hurt, manipulated, and betrayed one too many people. And that person had killed him. It didn’t matter who it was.
With a steadier hand, she was able to pour herself a cup of tea, add milk and sugar. She took a sip of the sweet, creamy concoction, felt it warm her throat, her chest, her belly. But it was not just the liquid that was heating her from within. It was the knowledge of her innocence. Despite her horrible choices and moral foibles, she had not committed murder. Nat was not a killer. Even if she and Gabe’s wife were the only two people who knew it.
A giddy bubble of mirth tickled her chest. It was not quite joy but a jubilant sort of relief. Nat could forgive herself now. She could go on to rebuild her life; she could allow herself to be happy. One day, she would draw and paint again; her creativity had permission to return. Celeste Bernier had come to Blaine, and she had given Nat that gift.
She sipped more tea and listened to the soft spring rain tap against the windowpanes.
57
* * *
The Truth
When Celeste landed at JFK it was after 9:00 P.M., her evening evaporating due to the three-hour time change. Oleg was waiting for her in the town car. He gave her a quick hug of greeting, put her bags in the trunk, then navigated the big vehicle away from the frenetic airport. After they exchanged small talk about her trip, the traffic, the weather, Celeste lay her head back against the leather seat, tired from her cross-country journey. The meditation retreat, led by a guru she’d been following for some time, had been calming and centering. But all her Zen had flown out the window as soon as she’d arrived in Blaine, Washington. The meeting with Natalie Murphy had been edifying, but it had not gone as planned.
Celeste hadn’t expected to tell the girl the truth about Gabe’s murder. And she hadn’t, not really. But she’d had to say something to assuage Natalie’s guilt. The young woman had looked so shattered, so pathetic. Remorse over what she’d done was gnawing away at the girl’s confidence and vitality. Her tearful outburst had twisted Celeste’s innards, provoking a distinctly maternal response. The words were out before she could censor them.
You’re not a murderer.
What did Natalie Murphy think? It didn’t matter. Celeste knew the young woman had no legal recourse. She’d forfeited her right to appeal when she’d taken the plea deal. Natalie would logically suppose that it was Celeste who had shot Gabe. He’d lied to and betrayed his wife—just like he had Natalie. And he’d been doing it to Celeste for years. She had an abundance of reasons to want him dead.
The first inkling Celeste had had that her husband was a lying, cheating, duplicitous bastard was about seven years ago. A pretty blond paralegal had brought a brief to their Hamptons house. Gabe had tried to brush it off as an overzealous colleague eager to please, but Celeste knew there was more to it. She read it in her husband’s panic, in the woman’s desperate expression, in their tense but familiar body language.
She’d planned to confront Gabe when Violet was away at her summer wilderness camp. (Her daughter couldn’t know about her father’s indiscretions, her parents’ marital discord. She’d already shown signs of rebellious behavior.) Celeste would give Gabe an ultimatum: fidelity or divorce. She wanted the marriage to work—they shared a history, they had a child together—but she would not be a cuckold. Gabe would deny the affair; her husband’s significant ego would prevent him falling on his sword. But she’d suggest counseling, where they could discuss the distance between them, get their relationship back on track.
And then Celeste had gotten sick, and all her energy and focus had gone into surviving. She had assumed that her husband would stop his philandering in the face of his wife’s diagnosis. And Gabe had, for a time. But when Celeste went into remission, his affairs had resumed. It was Suze Weintraub who’d elucidated Celeste’s fears when she invited her for coffee.
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Suze said, after pleasantries and chit chat, “but Michael and I were at a show the other night. We saw Gabe there.”
Celeste nodded. She knew what was coming.
“He was sitting with a young woman—a pretty brunette, barely out of her teens. They were together . . . whispering in each other’s ears, holding hands, I saw them kiss.”
The coffee turned to acid in Celeste’s stomach, burning her chest and her throat.
“Michael and I bumped into him in the lobby at intermission. He played it cool, but I know what I saw. I even took a photo.”
The svelte woman passed her phone to Celeste for perusal. In profile, Celeste saw a dark-haired girl, barely older than Violet, with fair skin and delicate features. She was staring adoringly at Gabe, who looked handsome, confident, and happy basking in the girl’s obvious veneration. She could see the sparkle in his blue eyes.
Thanking Suze for her frankness, Celeste had handed the device back, hurried to the restroom, and vomited.
Oleg’s deep voice floated through the darkened car, disrupting her reverie. “There’s an accident on the parkway,” he said. “I’ll take Sunrise Highway.”
“Whatever you think is best,” Celeste said. “You know I trust you.”
His eyes in the rearview mirror smiled back at her.
Oleg and Celeste had become friends about four years ago, when he’d shuttled her home from a charity dinner. She’d been in remission by then but hadn’t quite regained her previous stamina. Gabe had wanted to stay late, drinking Scotch and schmoozing, so he’d summoned his driver to take Celeste back to the apartment. Oleg was from Moldova, a country Celeste had studied in an Eastern European history class during college. They’d had a lively discourse about his homeland’s complicated past. When they reached the Upper East Side apartment, she found she wanted to continue their conversation.
She was afforded the opportunity less than a month later, when Celeste needed a ride back to the Hamptons after a luncheon. Gabe had agreed to spare his driver for the five-hour round trip. Their Moldova discussion had segued into Oleg’s recently immigrated cousin’s legal dilemma. The man had been arrested after a fight outside a nightclub (where he’d been defending a female patron’s honor, according to Oleg) and was at risk of being deported. Celeste had offered her expert advice, had even called an old colleague who was still practicing to represent Oleg’s relative. The cousin, a man with a stocky build and startling green eyes, had had the charges dropped, in the end.
Oleg owed her. And he was her friend. She could count on him to verify Suze Weintraub’s claims. They met in Battery Park and walked the Hudson River Greenway. It pained the big European to tell Celeste about the women her husband had been seeing. The dark-haired Natalie was the latest of many. Gabe had provided his most recent paramour with a Chelsea apartment, a trip to Vermont, and monthly envelopes stuffed with cash.
The money, the apartmen
t, the gifts were more upsetting than the infidelity. Sugar daddy. People could dress it up in flowery language, but Gabe was a john. And he had turned this girl, this Natalie, into a prostitute.
The marriage was over; it had to be. But Celeste was smart enough to know that she was in a vulnerable position. When she left Gabe, she would damage his enormous ego and he would strike back. Her husband could be cruel, ruthless . . . a shark. Celeste no longer had her own income, and she had a daughter to protect. She would consult an attorney, would get her financial ducks in a row first. In the meantime, she needed Gabe to stop seeing that girl, to stop paying Natalie for sex and companionship. She needed him to stop making a fool of Celeste, and their marriage, and their life.
Using Violet’s self-harm had felt exploitive, but she could think of no other way to have Gabe cease his affair. (She had kept the cutting from him, knowing he’d blow up, knowing he’d seize control, knowing he would make it worse.) But Violet was his kryptonite. While his narcissism prevented true parental love, he viewed his child as a reflection of himself. If she was depressed, unstable, hurting herself, it made Gabe look bad.
And it had worked. Oleg had confirmed that he’d driven the sniveling Natalie home after she’d been unceremoniously dumped over a pasta lunch in the financial district. Gabe had come home then, had tried to connect with his daughter, but Violet was skeptical after his years of emotional abandonment. She wasn’t about to jump into her daddy’s welcoming arms.
And then, Natalie Murphy had turned up at Violet’s graduation party.
Celeste had recognized her instantly, but it had taken her longer to work out the reason for the girl’s presence in their home. But Violet’s flirtatious giggles and smitten expression soon made it clear. Natalie had fostered a relationship with Violet to get to Gabe. The girl was sick, obsessed, a stalker. She was a problem, and Celeste did not know how to handle her.
The Arrangement Page 24