“Okay, okay.” Kissing Maddie one more time, he sets her down and looks at me. A mixture of frustration and worry flickers in his eyes.
I give him a reassuring smile. “Finn, don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on her. We’re just going to low-key it and stay inside.”
“Thanks,” he murmurs as Kayla hooks her arm in his and smirks at me.
“Have fun.” The obnoxious bitch leads him to the front door after he and Maddie exchange a final affectionate goodbye.
My heart sinks to my stomach as they disappear and I hear Finn’s Range Rover drive off.
“Scarlet, are you okay?” asks Maddie, taking my hand. “You look sad.”
I must be wearing my gloom on my face. My precocious child is so perceptive.
I nod and squeeze her hand. “I’m okay, sweetie.” The warmth of her little hand in mine radiates through me. My spirits lift. My daughter is indeed a ray of sunshine.
Her face brightens with a hint of mischief. “Scarlet, let’s play hide-and-seek!”
I mull over her suggestion. The thought of her having another asthma attack while hiding, unable to be found, makes me pass on that idea.
I have a better one. Arts and crafts. “How ’bout we do some coloring? We can make pictures to give to your daddy when he comes back.”
“Okie dokie! I’ll go upstairs and get my crayons.”
She scampers off. I’m grateful she’s amenable to the sedentary idea. A few minutes later, we’re seated side by side at the kitchen island. Set out on the granite counter is her big box of Crayolas, and two sheets of paper, which I tore out from her sketchpad.
“What are you making?” I ask as she starts to outline an oval shape with a black crayon.
“A face.”
“Oh. Who are you drawing?”
“My daddy!”
As she adds in sapphire blue eyes, a pensive smile, some unruly black hair, and dotted specks of stubble, my eyes stay on her picture.
“Wow! That’s so good!” I really mean that; she’s inherited her father’s artistic talent. “It looks just like him.”
She smiles proudly as she starts outlining a body, complete with brawny, tattooed arms that look a little like Popeye’s. Adding a T-shirt and jeans, she starts to color the latter in with the denim blue crayon.
“My daddy is very handsome.”
My heart flutters at her words. “He is.” Oh, is he!
“Do you like him?”
I love him! “I do.”
A Cheshire cat grin lifts her sweet lips. Her dark eyes twinkle. “My daddy likes you a lot.”
My heart hammers. “How do you know that?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because I can tell. He’s always happy when he’s around you.”
Taking advantage of Maddie’s chattiness, the investigative journalist in me asks, “Isn’t he happy around Kayla?”
At the mention of Kayla’s name, Maddie makes a face. “Never! She’s always so mean and bossy!” Before I can probe further, she changes the subject.
“What are you going to make, Scarlet?”
Looking down at my blank sheet of paper, I contemplate her question. While I can paint a picture with words, my artistic talent is limited. Forcing myself to shove Kayla and Finn to the back of my mind, it suddenly comes to me. The one thing I can draw well. I search the box for a silver-gray crayon. Slipping it out, I begin to, like Maddie, outline a head. Except it’s not human.
Watching me, Maddie’s eyes flash with recognition.
“Are you making a horsey?”
“Sort of.”
I continue to work on my picture . . . adding its mane and tail before lightly shading the body, leaving most of it white. Picking out more crayons, I make the flowy mane and tail a pretty shade of pink. Maddie continues to watch as I add a cone jutting out of the creature’s head. I color the spiral in, making bold stripes with assorted bright colors. I’m getting creative!
Maddie giggles. “Horses don’t have rainbow cones!”
“Sweetie, this is a special horse. A unicorn.”
“A unicorn?”
“Yes, it’s mythical.”
“What does mythical mean?”
A tough question. My inquisitive daughter is worse than me. Twisting my lips, I ponder a definition that’ll make sense in her almost five going on fifteen brain. My mind works overtime. And then badda bing! “It means that it’s a little bit make-believe though some people think it may have existed.”
She accepts my definition, but the questions aren’t over.
“Why does it have a horn?”
“The horn is magical.”
Maddie cocks her head. “How is it magic?”
“The horn gives the unicorn powers.”
“You mean like super powers?”
“Yes. They are said to have healing powers. Like the unicorn’s tears which can be an antidote for poison.”
“An-tee-dote?”
“It’s a big word for ‘cure.’”
She repeats the word back to me, more smoothly. Now comfortable with it, she asks, “So, can unicorns make my asthma go away?”
I’m a little taken aback by her question, but reply quickly. “Yes, but unfortunately, they’re very hard to find. They live in hidden lands.”
Maddie frowns. “Do they have other powers?”
“Yes. Some people believe they can make wishes come true.”
Maddie’s eyes light up like bulbs. “Later, can we look for one?”
“Maybe tomorrow.” I smile, remembering with fondness how my mother used to search for them with me all over the world.
We silently go back to coloring, me focusing on creating the perfect unicorn. Several minutes in, I glance at Maddie’s picture. It’s no longer just a portrait of Finn. She’s added a little girl with long braids who without a doubt is a self-depiction. She’s holding her father’s hand. My eyes travel across the paper and widen. Standing next to her on the right, holding her other hand, is a woman who looks just like me! She’s wearing jeans and a mint green T-shirt identical to the one I’m wearing.
“Do you like my picture?” asks Maddie, unaware of my startled reaction.
“It’s awesome,” I stammer.
She grins proudly. “I made a family. Daddy, me and . . . ”
I hear a vehicle pull up on the intercom and my breath catches in my throat. I cut her off. “I think your daddy may be home.”
I glance at the security monitor. My heart sinks. It’s only the mailman. He stuffs a bunch of envelopes into the drop-off box and drives off.
Our pictures all done, Maddie trots off to the adjacent media room to watch some television while I clean up, collecting the crayons scattered on the counter. My mind wanders as I put them back in the big yellow box in a systematic order. Lining up the colors, I think about Finn . . . about Kayla . . . about them. Gripping the green crayon, I feel the color of envy seep into my veins.
Then, they turn blue with sadness.
CHAPTER 31
There must be over one hundred boats of varying sizes moored at the Marina Del Rey Yacht Club. But one dwarfs them all. It’s a monstrous yacht as long as a city block—close to three hundred feet—with five levels. Kayla, her arm tucked in the crook of mine, leads me toward the dock. Holding one of her oversized handbags, she’s dressed in her usual all-white—tight, high-waisted capris, a creamy leather jacket, and strappy stilettos. Her cropped platinum hair blows in the cool ocean breeze.
“That’s Sheldon’s yacht,” she says, pointing at the massive boat.
“Holy shit!” My eyes widen. I’ve never seen anything like it. The monstrosity looks more like a cruise ship. As we get closer, I can make out a name—Marilyn—scrawled in a bold red font across the bow.
“He calls it Marilyn. It’s named after his late, beloved mother.”
“Wow.”
“It cost two hundred million dollars. Sheldon got it in a fire sale—some Silicon Va
lley venture capitalist went bust and had to sell it in a hurry. He invested another fifty million dollars into retrofitting it, transforming it into the ultimate party boat. It can accommodate fifty overnight guests plus the one hundred-man crew, but the disco is big enough for five hundred people. There’s also a gym, spa, heated pool, full-service salon, 3-D theater, and even a helicopter landing on one of the outdoor decks. The one thing it’s still missing is artwork—I’m sure Sheldon would love to put some of your choice pieces on the walls.”
“Maybe, he’ll give me a tour,” I deadpan, still in awe of the jaw-dropping vehicle.
“I doubt it,” huffs Kayla. “Sheldon’s so not a show off.”
Yeah, right, I muse, climbing up a ramp to the million-dollar boy toy and thinking about how he can easily afford my paintings. Fifty thousand dollars is a mere drop in the hat. At least for him.
A few minutes later we’re on board. A white-uniformed steward wearing an admiral’s cap with an “M” emblazed in gold greets us.
“Ah, Ms. Phillips, so good to see you again.” He smiles mechanically, his stance stiff and formal. His eyes drift to me. “And you must be Mr. Jackson.”
“Yes.” Though I’ve never gotten used to my new name, we share a firm handshake as Kayla introduces us. His name is Hans.
“Phineas is my fiancé,” adds Kayla, pecking my cheek. “Where is Sheldon?”
“I believe he’s just finishing up a game of Baccarat.”
“Oh, I forgot to mention,” chimes in my companion. “Sheldon installed a full Vegas-style casino, with slot machines and game tables. His game night parties are to die for. Complete with fireworks!”
What doesn’t this mega yacht have? Sheldon is definitely a man who says: I see it, I want it, it’s mine. His wealth and power are formidable, though unrivaled by his ruthless don’t-fuck-with-me reputation. I still remember how intimidated I felt when I met him for the first time with Kayla . . . that fateful day.
The steward stops me from venturing to that dark place. “Would you like to join Mr. Greenberg in the casino?”
“I don’t gamble,” I reply, wondering whom he’s playing against. Having once been a dirt-poor struggling artist, it’s always been hard for me to foolishly risk my hard-earned money. Plus, I’m only carrying a hundred dollars in my billfold, definitely not enough to plunk down in a high stakes game.
“Very well,” says Hans. “I’ll let Mr. Greenberg know you’re both here and have him meet you in the executive dining room.” He plucks out a phone from his pristine, perfectly pressed white pants and relays the information.
A few minutes later, we descend a swirling grand staircase that looks like it’s straight out of an old movie star mansion with its gilded ebony bannister. Along the way we pass several opulently decorated rooms, including the cinema with its burgundy velvet seats and matching gold-fringed curtains. The dining room is on the third deck, two levels down.
Just like the other quarters I’ve glimpsed, it’s lavishly decorated in 1920’s art deco, a style I studied while at art school. A stately dining room suite dominates the paneled room—a veneered table that can sit twelve plus a mirrored bar stocked with fine crystal and every expensive bottle of liquor possible. Sheldon is at the bar, his back to me, pouring himself a drink. When Hans announces us, he flips around, holding an amber-filled tumbler. Dismissing the steward, he lumbers toward us.
“Kayla, baby. Great to see you!”
Kayla meets him halfway and gives him one of those pretentious double cheek kisses. “Sheldon, thank you for having us. You look wonderful! Have you lost weight?”
I soak him in. He doesn’t look any slimmer since the last time I saw him. Nautically clad in shorts that bag over his thick, hairy calves and a striped T-shirt that hugs his fat rolls, he gulps his drink and chortles.
“Yeah, thanks. My personal trainer put me on a low carb macrobiotic diet. I’ve lost three pounds. I hate this shit. I want a fucking steak.”
Kayla throws her head back and laughs. “Oh, darling, it’ll be so worth it. You already look so amazing.”
Give me a break. He looks fat as fuck. She’s such an in-your-face kiss up. Knowing exactly what to say at the right time. It’s all part of her skill set. The penultimate promoter.
“Don’t tell anyone I’m having a couple of bourbons. And I may cheat today.”
Kayla winks. “Don’t worry, darling. It’ll be our little secret. Girl Scout’s honor.” She gives him the three-finger salute.
Sheldon’s expression grows salacious. His beady eyes travel down her endowed body. “Sweetheart, you wore one of those cute little green dresses?”
Unfazed by his roving eyes, she laughs. “Yes, darling. And I was also a Brownie leader with fifty badges. It all helped me get into Yale.”
Maybe that’s how she got her brown-noser skills. I can’t imagine sexy, long-legged Kayla in one of those goody two-shoes uniforms.
Cutting into my thoughts, Sheldon asks if we want anything to drink. Kayla goes for her usual—a Bellini, which he expertly prepares—and I settle on a beer. A Heineken, which he retrieves from a built-in icebox. Our host then refills his tumbler with an expensive bourbon.
He proposes a toast. “To your marriage. May it last longer than any of mine.”
Kayla laughs on cue. “Oh, Sheldon, you’re way too cute. There’s no doubt in my mind I’ve found my Prince Charming.” She turns to me, a cloying smile plastered on her face. “Let’s toast again. To us! The power couple of the art world.”
Reluctantly, I clink my bottle against their glasses. The crystal-clear pings sing in my ears.
Taking a sip of her drink, Kayla sets her eyes on me. “Darling, Sheldon has offered us both his house and yacht for our wedding. What do you think?”
Before I can respond, footsteps sound in the room. I spin around to find a tall, handsome, silver-haired man striding toward us. He’s dressed casually but elegantly in a gray cashmere turtleneck that complements his shimmering hair and tailored charcoal slacks. I recognize him instantly.
“Jim, get your big dick over here and let me introduce you to my guests,” our host calls out.
I don’t need an introduction from Sheldon. I know who he is.
Jim Hartley. My late wife’s former boss.
“So nice to finally meet you,” coos Kayla, running her manicured fingers through her hair. “Sheldon didn’t tell me how handsome you are.”
Jim’s steel-gray eyes stay on her. Making their way down her body, he seems smitten by her icy beauty. “Nor did he tell me how beautiful you are. Why haven’t we met before?”
Sheldon intervenes. “Sorry, Jimbo. She’s taken. Phineas here is her fiancé.”
Helping himself to a shot of Jack Daniels, Jim’s attention diverts to me. Recognition flickers in his eyes. “Hey, don’t I know you?”
“My late wife worked for you. We met briefly at a Conquest Broadcasting Christmas party.”
Taking a sip of his whisky, the Southerner digests my words, furrowing his brows as if he’s trying to remember our encounter. Truthfully, it wasn’t memorable—a quick, perfunctory “nice to meet you” and he moved on to more important people in the crowd. The movers and shakers. The beautiful women, many of them models and starlets.
He takes another gulp of his drink. Time to jar his memory.
“Perhaps this will help you. You gave a speech at her memorial service.”
He swallows hard. “Are you talking about Skye Collins?”
“Yeah.”
“What?” mutters Sheldon, choking on his drink. He regurgitates the liquid, spraying it all over the floor as he staggers back against the bar.
“Sheldon darling, are you okay?” asks Kayla.
A snarl curls his lips as he nods his head and gestures with his hand: Stay away!
Jim, on the other hand, maintains his composure.
“I’m sorry about your loss. Your late wife was one of our finest investigative reporters. It’s a real shame her life was cut
short. Such an unfortunate accident.”
“Yes, such an unfortunate accident,” parrots Kayla, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Anger surges inside me. While I’ve never discussed the circumstances of Skye’s untimely death with anyone, the need to get it off my chest consumes me. Maybe Hartley knows something. I take a fortifying breath.
“Actually, it may have been more than an accident. The police believe she was murdered.”
Sheldon blanches while Jim flinches. Artists, like writers, are observers. Their skittish reactions disturb me. Something’s off. A tense silence fills the air until I break it. Curiosity pulses through me.
“I hear you were interrogated.”
Hartley sips his drink before answering. “Yeah, the police came snooping around her office. Some shlumpy cop who was a dead ringer for Columbo.”
Detective Billings.
“He went through her desk and asked a lot of annoying questions.”
“Like what?” I spit out the words, hoping that Skye’s former boss can shed some light on her murder, which is now considered a cold case.
“Like if she was working on anything unusual.”
“What did you tell the fucker?” asks Sheldon, the anxious tone of his voice mirroring his vexed expression.
“Nothing. There was nothing to tell.” As Sheldon drains his drink, Hartley turns to me. “Your wife was more consumed with getting home early to spend time with your baby.”
The hairs on the back of my neck bristle. He’s bullshitting me. Skye always put her career first. Nothing was more important to her than chasing down a story; a nine-to-five job didn’t exist for her. While I brood, unable to probe further, Kayla interjects.
“Puh-lease, let’s get off this morose subject. Bygones are bygones. Let’s celebrate the future.” Setting her flute on the bar, she dips her hand into her enormous bag. “I’ve brought along a special treat.” She holds up a small Ziploc plastic bag filled with white powder and smiles seductively. “Anyone?”
What the fuck? Cocaine. No fucking way. My blow days are long over. I haven’t touched the stuff since I was in art school. My one-time near overdose put the kibosh on ever snorting up the shit again. And now as a single-father, I can’t risk it. Maddie means too much to me.
Remember Me Page 14