Читать книгу The Arrangement - Suzanne Forster, Suzanne Forster - Страница 8

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Alison paced her bedroom, the cell phone pressed to her ear as she listened to the incessant drone at the other end of the line. No one was answering. She’d been trying at various times of the day and night for the last two weeks, but no one had picked up, and that worried her terribly. She didn’t know what she would do if something had happened to the one person in Mirage Bay she actually cared about.

She couldn’t tell whether the phone was out of service, accidentally unplugged or no one was home, but she couldn’t wait any longer for the answer. None of Andrew’s arguments had been as powerful as this one, unanswered phone call.

For her, Mirage Bay was hell on earth, a watery graveyard where all her ghosts’ demons lay in wait. But like dream monsters, ghosts and demons had to be confronted or they would give you no peace. When you ran from them, they howled at your heels for eternity.

Like about ninety percent of the men in America under thirty with computers and Internet connections, Bret Fairmont had a special affinity for cyber porn. He preferred the video streaming sites, but unlike most other aficionados, he made no attempt to hide his dirty little habit. He liked to leave it on the screen for the whole world to see, and his mother in particular.

He had fantasies of her going as white as the diet pills she popped, and nearly choking on her own revulsion. Not that it was ever going to happen. She was a beady-eyed barracuda beneath the facade of perfect manners and designer clothing. But just once he wanted to see his mother fall to pieces. He could hardly imagine anything better.

Sad, Bret, sad. How old are you now? Twenty-five going on two?

He yawned and stretched, deeply encased in the belly of the backyard hammock. As he gazed up at the boughs of the giant sycamore overhead, boredom burned through him. Lethargy had its own special kind of ache. He’d been lying around all morning in a T-shirt and swim trunks, sipping iced lattes, and he had no plans to do anything else.

He knew how she hated sloth.

And speaking of Julia Fairmont, where was the prize bitch?

You’re a sick man, Bret. A sad, sick man. Why the hell do you hate her so much? She’s never done anything to you….

But when he closed his eyes he could see the disdain that hardened her beautiful face when she looked at him. It never left him, that look.

Except wish you didn’t exist. That’s all she’s ever done.

His laughter tasted like an old ashtray. It didn’t hurt anymore when she blew him off. He felt nothing. Maybe deep down there was a vestigial flicker of outrage, but on the surface, he was as cold and bitter as she was. He didn’t give a fuck what she thought. Why should he?

“Bret! Where are you?”

That was her, probably calling him from one of the balconies. Her shrill voice made him flinch. He hadn’t done that since he was a kid. Her tone told him she was pissed, but he’d expected that. He’d missed the job interview she’d arranged for him this morning, blown it off totally.

“Bret? Why don’t you answer me?”

He saw her coming, striding across the rolling green lawn in her crisp capris, sleeveless blouse and bejeweled sandals. He threw an arm over his eyes, pretending to be asleep, though he still could see her.

Apparently his silence got to her, because when she reached him, she did something totally unexpected. She grabbed the edge of the hammock with both hands and upended it, dumping him onto the ground.

He hit with a thud. “Hey! What the fuck? I’m never going to get these grass stains out of my trunks, Mom.”

She held up the letter in her hand. “I have important news, and it concerns you.”

“You’re dying, and I’m going to inherit everything?” He stood up and brushed himself off.

“Don’t be an ass,” she said. “Your sister’s coming to visit, and I need you to help me get ready.”

Her voice was shrill. It was shaking, but she wasn’t angry. She was nervous, he realized. Shit, this was a dream come true. Julia Fairmont was cracking.

As he stood there, taking in his mother’s agitation, it dawned on him what she’d said. “Alison? She’s coming here?”

“Yes, and I want to do something really special. I didn’t think she’d accept my invitation, or that he’d let her come. This is my chance to win her back, Bret.”

Bret’s legs went weak. He felt sick to his stomach, but somehow he managed to speak. “She’s married, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“He stole her. You know that as well as I do.”

“Stole her? She walked away from a damn fortune to be with him. What don’t you get about that? She chose Andrew.”

Julia’s expression was glacial. “He’s coming with her, and if you won’t help me get ready for their visit, you will at least be here. I just spoke with Andrew on the phone, and he assured me that she’s anxious to see you.”

It could not possibly be true that Alison was anxious to see him, but Julia had reverted to her polite mode, and Bret played along, even though inside he was still queasy enough to vomit.

“So, I assume she’s recovered?” he said.

Unconsciously, Julia used her thumb to center the large emerald-and-diamond wedding ring set she never took off, even though her husband had been dead for years. The ring wasn’t about marital devotion, however. She wanted the exquisite stones to show because they represented everything she wanted her life to be and wasn’t. Anyway, that was Bret’s theory.

“He said she’s shaky,” Julia said, “but that’s to be expected. She’s been through hell, and who knows what’s happened to her in the last six months. He’s never let me speak to her, the bastard.”

Bret didn’t doubt that his mother wanted Alison back in the family fold, but he questioned how deep her concern actually ran. She’d always favored his sister, even to the point of seeming obsessed, a stage mother’s fixation with her impossibly beautiful child. Sometimes Bret wondered if Alison was Julia’s second chance—but at what, he didn’t know.

But he was only guessing. This could also have something to do with the trust fund that was supposed to have gone to Alison. Julia never told her black sheep son anything, so he had no idea what her real motivation was.

“I’ll be here,” he said, more to get rid of her than for any other reason. “Now, can I get back to my nap?”

Bret had nothing more to say about his long-lost sister. This felt way too much like watching the sci-fi channel. His mother was coming unglued. He’d been waiting years for this moment, and it had nothing to do with him. It was all about his sister. That was fucked up.

Julia glanced at her watch. “Didn’t you have an interview this morning?”

His smile was quick and bitter. She never failed him. “It was a marketing job, Mother. I don’t do marketing.”

“You don’t do anything.” She was madly rubbing the ring with her thumb. “It’s embarrassing, Bret.”

“For who? I’m not embarrassed.” He had actually held down jobs, modeling mostly. Nothing that met her standards.

“No, obviously not,” she said.

Her face had already turned into a mask of indifference. Apparently she didn’t even care enough to hold him in contempt. He wanted to laugh, but the pain in his chest had the fiery heat of a twisting knife.

She stormed off, taking the letter with her, and he fished in the pocket of his trunks for his cigarettes.

He lit one, took a deep drag and held the smoke in his lungs. If he went through enough cigs, got black lung and started coughing up blood, would she notice?

He knew the answer to that. He could disembowel himself in the living room in front of her, and she wouldn’t flinch unless he dirtied the carpet. And he was probably as much to blame for that as she was. He’d been taunting her for so long she refused to take the bait anymore. He was the disease, and after years of exposure, she’d developed an immunity.

He sank down, sitting on the tipsy edge of the hammock with his bare feet on the ground. He gave his head a good shake, thinking it might make his curly blond hair look messy rather than adorable. He tried hard to look scruffy and unkempt, but sadly, he was as perfect as she was. Their family was a Ralph Lauren ad, and only he seemed to know how ugly the reality could be.

The hammock creaked under his weight. This really was absurd. He was a quarter of a century old. He needed to get some balls, pack his bags and get out of this place for good. He was rotting here. The flies were circling his head.

“Fuck.” He let out a moan as helpless as it was savage, and flopped back into the netting, staring through the tree branches at the cloudless blue sky. Yes, he ought to leave, but how could he now that his sister was making an appearance? He was as deeply suspicious of her motives as he was his mother’s. He and his sister shared some things in common besides their looks. There was always something they wanted, always an agenda. And then there was her husband. Bret had only defended Andrew Villard to annoy his mother.

He reached down for his iced latte glass and saw that it had tipped over. Either the grass would enjoy a growth spurt from all the caffeine, or it would be dead by tomorrow. As he picked the glass up and rolled it in his hand, he let his mind roll along with it. Yes, his mother could count on him to be here. The opportunities Alison’s visit presented were just too good to pass up.

“Alison, the car is here. Are you ready?”

Andrew’s voice came to her from the foyer down the hall. She was standing in front of her dressing room mirror in her underwear—a white lace camisole and panties that seemed strangely alien on her lean, boyish body.

She studied her reflection, trying to imagine how her family would receive her when it was such an ordeal for her to look at herself. The surgeons had performed a miracle. All the scars were cleverly hidden, and her features looked remarkably natural, even though some areas of her face were still numb and dead to the touch. Her smile wasn’t quite right, but she so rarely smiled.

She ran a finger down the bridge of her nose and over her glistening lips, trying to make a connection to the image she saw. It was uncanny how much she looked like the woman in the snapshots Andrew had given the surgeons. Except it was an illusion. She’d been stitched together from so many disparate parts, she didn’t feel like a whole person.

The world might see loveliness, but the net effect for her was Frankensteinesque. Often, in the dark of the night, she felt vaguely monstrous, and at times her husband looked at her as if that’s exactly what she was.

“Alison?” he called again. “Can I send the driver up for the bags?”

She wasn’t dressed and her bags were lying open on the floor, empty. She’d given up on packing an hour ago, thinking that if she took a break to get herself dressed and ready, she might be able to finish. Everything about this trip was overwhelming. She wasn’t even sure what clothes to take.

The driver was coming down the hall, and she couldn’t seem to move. She touched the charm bracelet, the penny ring. Get some clothes on. Cover yourself with something.

Her walk-in closet had racks of beautiful clothes, but they were all baggy on her reed-thin frame. Even the shoes didn’t fit. She tried to concentrate on the vast array of clothing. It was coordinated by color, type and season, but her mind wouldn’t focus. The dressing room seemed to be growing darker, though she knew it was her eyes. She was shutting down, not the lights.

“This is too much for you, isn’t it?”

She looked up, surprised to see Andrew behind her. He was a shadow in the mirror, more spectral than human. What struck her was his tone. She’d picked up an unexpected hint of concern. She had to admit that he’d done everything he could to make this trip easier for her, including arrange for a private charter so they didn’t have to deal with airport lines and security.

Still, she avoided his direct gaze, not knowing what she might see there. She couldn’t bear disdain, and pity would be worse. They’d never had a perfect marriage, and had been on the brink of a divorce when the accident happened. People might assume this was a new start for them, but nothing could be further from the truth. It was an arrangement, and a fairly cold-blooded one.

“I don’t…I can’t seem to pack.” She almost laughed, it was such a ridiculous understatement. She couldn’t seem to breathe, either.

“I’ll help,” he said. “Can you finish dressing?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good. You do that, and I’ll get your bags packed.”

“You know what I need to take?”

Irony darkened his smile. “I have a pretty good idea. It’s the middle of summer in Mirage Bay, too.”

When she didn’t move, he laid his hands on her shoulders and squeezed, apparently intending to reassure her. But she was too exposed, and he so rarely touched her that a chill settled in the pit of her stomach. Fear. It was an emotion she’d learned to heed the way an animal heeds a dangerous scent. But she wasn’t going to let it—or him—control her.

She looked up at him. “Cheating death was hard. This is harder.”

“Family reunions? You’ll be fine.”

“I don’t know what they’re expecting.” Frustration rang in her voice. He was patronizing her again, managing her like one of his clients. He’d coached her so thoroughly that she’d memorized his pep talks. You have transient amnesia and can’t be expected to remember anything but bits and pieces of the past. There won’t be spotlights and interrogations, so don’t make it hard on yourself. I’ve already told your mother how difficult this is for you.

He bent to pick up her white silk kimono, which was lying on the floor where she’d dropped it. “You’re not the same person,” he said. “How could you be? They’ll see that immediately.”

She took the robe from him before he could help her with it. Once she had it on, she turned away and tied the belt. He didn’t care about her, not really. He was fixated on finding out who’d tried to frame him for murder. That was the reason he’d given her for returning to Mirage Bay, but she had a gut feeling there was more to it. He wasn’t telling her everything.

His voice came to her, low and restrained. “We need to behave like we’re married, Alison.”

She glanced up at his reflection. He used the mirror to make eye contact with her, and she found it hard to look away. There wasn’t a hint of revulsion or pity in his eyes. He was razor-focused, curious and very aware of her, much like any man interested in a woman. But it was all part of the illusion, the arrangement.

“And in love,” he said. “People will expect that much.”

She knew it was true. Everyone would be insatiably curious, her family most of all. But she didn’t know how they were going to do it, or whether anyone would be convinced. It would require acting skills beyond either of their ability. Would anyone believe they were the same passionate, overheated couple who couldn’t keep their hands off each other?

Tears rolled down Julia Driscoll Fairmont’s cheeks as she plucked the downy hairs from above her upper lip. One by one, she extracted the barely visible offenders, leaving an occasional spot of blood. But the sharpest sting came from the errant nose hairs that dared to protrude from her aristocratic nostrils.

Her esthetician would have been happy to do the honors, with much greater speed and far less pain. But that would have defeated the purpose. It wouldn’t have calmed Julia’s nerves the way plucking did.

For the last half hour, she’d been sitting at her vanity, balancing a hand mirror and her surgical tweezers—and wincing with every extraction. She was probably adding a wrinkle for every hair. She had heard physical pain caused the brain to produce endorphins that could become addictive, but that wasn’t her problem. She wasn’t a pain junkie. If anything, her obsession with plucking was in large part thanks to her dear departed mother.

Eleanor Driscoll had been named for Eleanor Roosevelt, and she took that responsibility very much to heart. From her teens, Eleanor Dee, as everyone called her, had been an activist. She’d thought of herself as a modern-day crusader, which included defending society’s downtrodden wherever she found them.

Eleanor Dee believed in volunteerism and self-sacrifice. She was against self-indulgence in all its forms, including drinking, smoking and, of course, indiscriminate sexual behavior. Sadly, her daughter and only child, Julia, had failed her on nearly all counts, and in the most disgraceful and embarrassing ways.

“Mea culpa,” Julia muttered. At forty-nine, she was still riddled with guilt and would be until the day she died. Only her mother and devoted husband knew what she’d done all those years ago in her twenties, and they’d taken her secrets to their graves. Julia had tried to atone. She’d lived an exemplary life…well, until very recently. But she had raised her two children and become a pillar of the community, as all the Driscolls and Fairmonts had before her. Still, none of that was sufficient penance for the damage she’d done. Nothing would ever be.

So, yes, she was guilty. But she was angry, too, and not just at herself. She was still seething at the way she’d been failed back then. That was the reason Julia plucked and winced. There were times when she wanted to yank out every hair on her body. She was ridding herself of the infidels who’d broken her heart when she’d had a heart to break, the ones who’d betrayed her.

She went after her eyebrows next. This wasn’t plucking. It was cleansing, and if the pain was some kind of penance for her sins, at least she was inflicting it on herself.

With a sigh, she put down the tweezers and studied her pensive reflection in the hand mirror. Was that spidery thing on her cheek a broken capillary?

Another wince. Another wrinkle.

The mirror landed on the granite countertop with a clink. Even her scalp hurt from sitting so long in an unnatural position. She had no time for this. Her daughter and son-in-law were arriving tonight, in a matter of hours, and she wasn’t prepared. Her house was perfect, and her assistant would help serve drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Even Bret was mysteriously cooperative. Everything was as ready as it could possibly be. But she, Julia, wasn’t prepared.

Her black silk halter dress was displayed on a molded hanger in her dressing room. As she entered the room, she took in the dress’s simple, elegant lines, aware of how it would set off her stunning diamond brooch and drop earrings.

She should have been looking forward to this evening, but what she felt was foreboding. She knew it wasn’t possible, given what Alison had been through, but that hadn’t stopped Julia from imagining her daughter exactly as she’d looked when she left: lithe and carefree, luminous as summer itself. Alison had a quality greater than mere beauty. She had magic. And if Julia could have put her in a time capsule and kept her the golden debutante forever, she would have.

It was a mother’s fantasy, and probably a selfish one, but she only wanted to keep her daughter safe—and protected from predators like Andrew Villard. Just because Alison wasn’t dead didn’t mean the man hadn’t tried to kill her. Julia’s suspicions were so strong she’d hired a detective to investigate him—and learned several disturbing things.

She’d never understood why someone with Alison’s advantages had thrown herself at a man like Villard. She’d had some crazy dream of being a pop idol, but Villard had never intended to help her with that. Julia probably knew more about him than Alison ever would.

As Julia dressed, she couldn’t help but wonder what her own mother would have thought of this strange homecoming party. It had taken a massive heart attack to bring Eleanor down, but she’d lived to see her granddaughter publicly defy her mother’s wishes and run off with a sideshow impresario.

Yes, Eleanor had seen it all—and blamed it on Julia’s lack of parenting skills. She’d also threatened to invoke the morals clause on the fifty-million-dollar trust that would have gone to Alison on her twenty-eighth birthday. But Eleanor had never made her wishes known to the family’s estate attorneys, and technically, the money might have gone to Alison, if she hadn’t turned her back on it.

Julia hadn’t been so lucky. Eleanor had also imposed the morals clause on her, two decades ago, making it impossible for Julia to collect a dime of that same fund when it was supposed to have come to her on her twenty-eighth birthday. And now the money was sitting in a trust account, controlled by lawyers.

“You were a heartless bitch in so many ways, Mother,” Julia muttered. “And I’m becoming just like you. You must be so proud.”

Fortunately, Julia had never needed the trust money. Her husband, Grant Fairmont, had made his fortune in the yachting industry and left everything to her when he died. Still, Julia wasn’t content to leave that much family money in the hands of attorneys who were extracting hefty fees for doing what amounted to nothing. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t even American, and Julia had already started taking steps to correct the error of her mother’s ways.

Eleanor was probably sitting up in her grave and howling.

Julia snorted and cupped a hand to her ear. “Louder, Mother, I can’t quite hear you.”