“It’s not really Garrett’s sordid secret,” I pointed out. “It’s yours.” Nor was I convinced that Etienne’s wife would be so open-minded about her husband’s extramarital romance. “Do you think Renata knows?”
Thalia shrugged. “Perhaps. She did insist on coming along on this trip. She told Etienne that she wanted their son to see San Francisco, but maybe she just wants to keep an eye on him.” She thought about that for a few seconds, then shook her head. “No, I doubt she knows. She works in her father’s diamond importing business, and she’s always on some business trip or another.”
“Maybe she’s having an affair too.”
“It’s certainly possible.”
“So how old is Candelabra Man?” I asked.
“Three years older than us. He’s thirty-nine. He runs an import-export company in Paris.”
I sat in silence, my anger rising at Thalia’s laissez-faire attitude. Did her marriage mean nothing to her? Fleetingly, I wondered if Peter shared this breezy view of adultery. The thought of him being unfaithful made me queasy. I ate the other half of my macaron. “How come you never told me about this affair?” I demanded.
“I thought you’d disapprove.”
“Thalia, I’m no prude,” I said, offended.
She smiled. “Well you do disapprove, don’t you?”
Her logic was irrefutable. “I . . . I was just shocked. Momentarily.” I reached for another macaron.
CHAPTER 2
“We don’t have to stay long at this thing, do we?” Peter asked as we drove down Sir Francis Drake Boulevard on our way to Ross. Tonight was the party Thalia was throwing in honor of Garrett’s fortieth birthday and his promotion to partner at the law firm. And, as promised, she’d invited Etienne and his family, who were in town. Well, I reflected, she certainly liked to live on the edge. I was probably more worried than she was about Garrett noticing what was up.
“Come on, you always have a good time at their parties,” I said.
“I’m not in a partying mood, I guess.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Is it Arizona again?” Peter had been buying rental property in Phoenix, having decided it was the key to a prosperous retirement. But it seemed like every day there was some new headache with a problem tenant or a building repair. Tonight he’d been on the phone for nearly an hour before we got in the car, and the conversation didn’t sound cordial.
“Don’t start with me about Arizona,” he said sharply. “You think I want to end up broke like my father? He left my mother with nothing when he died. I will not do that to my family.” He scowled at me.
“Relax. Nobody’s dying anytime soon.” I knew that the difficult finances during his childhood had left their mark on Peter. Even though we were comfortably off thanks to his thriving design-build contracting business, he never stopped worrying about money. And, I had to admit, I wasn’t helping much. The shop was thriving, but running a store was an expensive proposition, especially with all our buying trips abroad. Thalia and I each drew a meager salary.
“Well, we have to at least stay until they sing ‘Happy Birthday.’ Besides,” I added, “you might find tonight more interesting than you were expecting.”
“Oh?”
“Peter, Thalia has a lover.”
“Seriously?”
“And he’s going to be there tonight.”
“Are you telling me that one of Garrett’s friends is sleeping with Thalia? My God.”
We turned off the main road onto the wooded lanes of Ross, with their impressive mansions set well back from the street. “No, nothing like that. This is a man she met in France. He’s in town with his family, so they’re coming tonight too. And guess what else,” I said excitedly. “She got a blackmail note!” As soon as I said it, I felt a twinge of guilt for sharing Thalia’s secret. But Peter’s look of surprise was so gratifying that I went on to recount the whole story, ending with Thalia’s suspicion of someone named Marcel.
Peter was silent for a moment, then said, “That’s not really blackmail, you know. It’s just an anonymous note. Still . . .”
“I know!” I said. “It’s creepy, isn’t it?”
Their house came into view. Peter steered the car up the long, circular drive and handed the keys to one of the two young parking valets who had been hired for the night. Thalia and Garrett certainly didn’t skimp when they threw a party.
We made our way up the grand front stairs and entered the high-ceilinged foyer, where a marble table bore a huge arrangement of fragrant peonies. Swept up in their heady scent, with the strains of classical music drifting in from the living room and the crush of elegantly clad guests propelling us forward, I half expected to be welcomed by Jay Gatsby himself, cigar in hand.
Instead, it was Garrett who greeted us as we stepped into the living room. He clapped Peter on the back and shook his hand vigorously, then squeezed me in a too-tight bear hug. Garrett was a large man, over six feet tall, and beefy. Not fat—at least not yet—but substantial, his face already showing a hint of jowls and his pale blond hair streaked with gray. Tonight his normally ruddy face was even redder than usual. It was evident that he’d already had a few drinks. “Rae, you look great. Are you feeling better?” I nodded, puzzled. “Come, I have a friend I want you to meet,” Garrett said to Peter. “He’s in the market for a brilliant architect. Rae, go find yourself a drink.”
I worked my way over to the bar, where I requested a glass of red wine. Uniformed servers moved smoothly through the crowd bearing trays of hors d’oeuvres. I made small talk with various guests as I scanned the scene for Thalia. “Such a marvelous room,” a stiffly coiffed elderly woman was saying. “I must find out who her decorator is.” I murmured something neutral. Thalia, of course, had done the decor herself, but I wasn’t sure how well that information would be received by this snobby guest. The setting really was lovely. The chandelier cast its soft light on the golden yellow walls and silk draperies, setting the room aglow. Many of the furnishings were family heirlooms—the Oriental carpets that graced the gleaming hardwood floors, the oil paintings of various relatives, the ornately carved walnut credenza. But Thalia had kept it from being predictable or stodgy by deftly mixing in modern pieces, as well as artwork from some of her favorite painters. The overall effect was comfortable and luxurious.
Just then Thalia appeared at my side, looking luminous in a shimmery copper-colored dress that left her shoulders bare. Her normally pale face was flushed with excitement. She steered me toward a small group standing by the piano and made introductions. “Rae, this is Etienne Duchamp, his wife Renata, and their son, Julien. My business partner, Rae Sullivan.” Renata smiled and nodded. Etienne shook my hand. “Delighted to meet you,” he said with a thick accent.
Everything about Etienne suggested restraint, from his lean physique to his closely cropped dark hair to his impeccably tailored suit. He and Renata made an odd couple. She was a good six inches shorter than her husband and blonde—bleached as far as I could tell. She could have been quite pretty, but her heavy makeup was horribly unflattering, giving her face a mask-like appearance. A large diamond graced her ring finger, with more diamonds encircling her throat.
We chatted about Etienne’s company and the business meetings he had scheduled in the Bay Area. “I’m going to bring him by to visit the store,” Thalia said, touching his arm lightly. A palpable undercurrent of electricity passed between them. Surely his wife must have sensed that something was afoot. But no. She seemed unconcerned.
“Is this your first visit to San Francisco, Renata?” I asked as Thalia drifted off to another cluster of guests.
“Oh, no. I have been coming here for years. But this is Julien’s first trip”—she put a hand on her son’s shoulder—“and my first visit to Marin County.” She pronounced it “marine.” “It is very beautiful.”
Julien looked like a younger version of his dad. I guessed him to be sixteen or seventeen. We struck up a conversation—he spoke English quite
well—and he confided that he was writing a screenplay. He lowered his voice. “I’m basing the villain on my father’s assistant, Marcel.”
“Really? Why is that?”
“Because he snoops in the office when my father isn’t watching him. And he pretends to be so nice to Thalia—I mean, Mrs. Holcombe—but I hear what he calls her when she’s not in the room.”
Before I could pursue this intriguing line of conversation, two more guests joined our little circle. A pleasant man with sandy hair and steel-rimmed glasses was introduced as Etienne’s office manager, Jerome. “And this is Marcel, my assistant,” Etienne said.
“Enchanté,” said Marcel with a slight bow. With his bulbous eyes and sallow skin, he reminded me of a frog. His homeliness was even more pronounced in its contrast with his stocky, well-muscled build that was evident beneath his suit jacket.
“So you are the partner of Madame Holcombe,” Marcel remarked. “I have heard a great deal about you.” His stare made me uncomfortable. We struggled through several minutes of stilted conversation, until I spotted Sonia across the room and waved to her.
“You’re looking rather fabulous,” I said as she approached. Jerome and Marcel seemed to agree by the way their eyes were riveted on Sonia. Her skin-tight emerald-green dress showed every curve, and her forties hairdo was a perfect match. Plus she’d dyed her tresses a flaming orange for the occasion. I made the introductions. Renata was clearly uncomfortable in Sonia’s presence, barely acknowledging her. Then, claiming to be hot, she insisted her son and husband accompany her out to the garden.
As they left Sonia said, “I’m dying for a drink. Where’s the bar?”
“Allow me,” Jerome said gallantly. “What would you like?”
“I’ll come with you,” Sonia said, linking her arm through his. They made their way toward the dining room, leaving me with Marcel. More small talk followed, until I finally excused myself and turned to leave, bumping into the man behind me.
“Why, it’s little Rae,” he said with delight.
“Luc!” I embraced him. Thalia’s half brother bore a resemblance to her, with the same gray eyes and angular jaw. But he had none of Thalia’s frailty. His shoulders were broad, and where she was fair, his hair was dark. We had met in France years ago when Thalia and I were spending our junior year of college abroad. Funny how Luc had seemed so much older than us then—a man of the world, who took us to bohemian parties and taught me to eat snails without flinching. Looking at him now, though, in his tweed jacket and starched black shirt, I realized with surprise that he was only a few years older than me, probably about the same age as Peter.
“How are you?” I asked, squeezing his hand.
“I’m well.” When he smiled, his eyes crinkled in his tan face. “And you! You look wonderful.” The last time he’d seen me, I’d been a chubby nineteen-year-old with frizzy hair.
“So do you,” I said. “You haven’t changed a bit. Are you still living in Paris?”
“No, I’m in the countryside now,” he said. “I have a little farm.”
“Farm!” I exclaimed. The notion of a life spent working the land was my idea of nirvana. Of course, not the getting up early part. Or the backbreaking labor part. “What do you grow?”
“Oh, a little bit of everything. I have some chickens, too, for the eggs. And there are my girls, Jolie, Belle, and Madeleine.”
I stole a glance at his left hand. No ring. “Your daughters?” I asked.
He laughed heartily as Thalia came up behind us. “They’re his potbellied pigs,” she said. “He spoils them rotten.”
Luc and I were reminiscing about the old days when I looked up to find Peter frowning at us from across the room. Well, let him be jealous of this charming foreigner. We could kiss and make up when we got home tonight.
Garrett wandered over and put his arm around me. “Nice party,” I told him.
“It was all Thalia’s doing,” he said, beaming. “Sorry to hear you’ve been under the weather.” I was about to protest when I caught Thalia’s warning look.
“Darling,” prompted Thalia, “why don’t you say a few words to your guests.” Garrett needed no encouragement. After getting everyone’s attention, he thanked the crowd for celebrating with him. “And now let’s raise a glass to our beautiful hostess who organized all this single-handedly.” There was much clapping and cheering as Garrett embraced Thalia and gave her a long kiss on the lips. I looked over at Etienne. He had an amused smile on his face.
A few minutes later, Thalia made her way into the kitchen and I followed. “Did you tell Garrett I was sick?” I asked accusingly.
“Yes, he wanted to know why I was off to France again. I said you had bronchitis.”
“You could have warned me that I was supposed to be recovering. I wouldn’t have worn blush,” I said facetiously.
Thalia gave me a quick hug. “Don’t you love him?”
It took me a second to realize the topic had switched to Etienne. “He seems very nice. And he’s clearly crazy about you.”
“I know.” Thalia gave a giddy laugh.
“You didn’t tell me Luc was going to be here,” I said.
“It was a surprise. He wanted to get together in Paris, but I didn’t have time.”
I bet, I said to myself.
“So he decided to pay me a surprise visit. He arranged it all with Garrett.” We rejoined the gathering in the living room, and Thalia floated away to mingle. Pastries were passed around. I was on my second petit four when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Luc. “Come outside. It’s a full moon.”
We stepped through the French doors and strolled out into the moonlit garden, making our way to a bench under a broad magnolia. “Tell me about that magnificent mountain,” he said, gesturing toward the double peaks that rose behind us.
“Mount Tamalpais,” I said. “The Sleeping Lady. That’s what some people say the Native Americans called it. It does look like a reclining woman, doesn’t it?”
“Hmm. Not really.”
I laughed. “You have to see it from the right perspective. If you look at it from the south in Mill Valley, it’s much more apparent. Maybe I can take you on a walk there. It’s really spectacular. To be just a few miles from San Francisco and have a place that’s left undeveloped like that—it’s . . . it’s a gift. I’ve hiked it in the moonlight—with the dog, of course. It’s unbelievably gorgeous.”
“I’d like that.” He smiled. “So how is it working with my sister? Is she as bossy as ever?”
“No, no, it’s a good match. She handles the finances, and I’m more the, um, arty one. It works well. So tell me more about your farm,” I prompted.
“It’s really nothing. Just two hectares—about five acres. Thalia tells me you’re quite a gardener yourself.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” We spent the next half hour talking about soil amendments, gophers, and the smell of wet earth after a spring rain.
“There you are,” said Peter, appearing at the back door. I made the introductions, and the three of us chatted for a bit. Then, stifling a yawn, Peter said, “Sorry to spoil the fun, but I’ve been up since six. I need to get to bed. We should get going.”
“All right. Au revoir,” I said to Luc, reiterating my offer to take him on a hike.
As Peter and I were getting our coats, I saw Marcel coming down the stairs from the second floor. “Exploring the house?” I asked.
“I was looking for the loo.” He gave me a curt nod and walked back into the crowd.
Sunlight streamed through the filmy curtains as I lay submerged in a mildly erotic dream: I was at a Parisian sidewalk café with Peter. Jasper was there, too, but he was smaller and looked like a potbellied pig. Peter was stroking my bare breasts as I sipped a cappuccino. Befitting the topsy-turvy logic of dreams, none of the other patrons noticed anything amiss as they munched their croissants. I was jolted awake by the reality of Jasper bounding off the bed with a sharp cry of delight. I opened my eyes
just in time to see the back end of him disappearing down the stairs.
“Peter?” I called. “Peter?”
“I’m going for a run,” he shouted from downstairs. “I’m taking the dog with me.”
The clock said eight thirty. I turned over contentedly, burrowing deeper under the covers. This meant I could skip Jasper’s customary weekend hike. It was rare that Peter took the dog out. Maybe he was feeling magnanimous thanks to the superb sex we’d had last night following the party. I hoped for a repeat performance when he returned from his run.
I slipped back into a deep sleep, not waking until the phone rang. It was Thalia. “Rae, can you meet me at the farmers market in half an hour?”
Peter still wasn’t back. “Um. OK. Sure.” So much for my lascivious plans. We arranged to meet at the market’s south entrance. I took a five-minute shower, threw on some jeans and a sweater, and left.
I was sampling cherry tomatoes when Thalia showed up. “Here,” I said, handing her a stalk of brussels sprouts. “I bought you a present. Since you insist on smoking, you should at least eat more cruciferous—”
“I can’t take those home,” Thalia interrupted. “I don’t want Garrett to know I was here. He thinks I’m at the shop. He’ll suspect something.”
“Honey, you’ve been screwing Etienne for a year and a half, and Garrett has been oblivious. Do you really think he’s going to open the vegetable bin and figure the whole thing out?”
“Oh, fine,” said Thalia sharply, snatching the stalk. With her other hand, she took hold of my elbow and purposefully steered me out of the stream of shoppers. “He left another anonymous note.”
“What!”
“Yes, it was on the windshield of my car this morning.” Thalia fished around in her Bottega Veneta shoulder bag. “Here.”
I looked at the words printed in a shaky hand on plain white paper. I want $20,000 in cash. Monday evening. 6:30. Enter Golden Gate Park at the corner of 6th Avenue and Fulton Street and take the path to the left. Put the money under the first bench. Leave the park and walk across Fulton Street to the bus stop. Get on the next bus. I will be watching.
The Sleeping Lady Page 2