The Protégé Page 21

  “I’m fine,” the old man answered wearily, his voice like sandpaper on plywood. “I’m glad you came.”

  “Of course, Pop.”

  “I don’t know how much time I have.”

  Mary Desmond bustled in from the kitchen carrying a tray of sandwiches and drinks. “Oh, you’ll probably outlive me and Christian,” she said, setting the tray on the coffee table in front of the couch and giving Christian a warm smile. “Pop thinks every day’s his last,” she blustered in a loud voice that belied her tiny frame. Mary was in her late fifties and lived next door. She often helped around the house with chores the old man couldn’t handle anymore. “But it’s probably good you came when you did,” she admitted, her voice drifting lower as she sat in the chair next to the couch.

  Christian was on his way back to the West Coast after graduating from Princeton, planning to put five thousand miles on his Ducati as he zigzagged from New Jersey to California, seeing the great expanse between the country’s mountain chains. He knew the big cities on both coasts pretty well, thanks to traveling with his father, but he didn’t know much about the small towns in between. So he was spending the summer on his bike until the highways and September finally forced him back to the real world. His first stop was this little house on Elmore Lane.

  His father had told him it was important to do so quickly. Now he could see why.

  “What are your plans?” Pop asked, taking a glass of iced tea off the tray and easing back on the couch with a low moan. “What will you do with yourself now?”

  “I’m going to Stanford in the fall to get my MBA. Then I’ll go to Wall Street, be an investment banker.”

  “Just like your daddy.”

  “Yeah, hopefully at Goldman Sachs.”

  “Why ‘hopefully’?”

  “Goldman’s the best investment bank in the world, so it’s tough to get a job there. Everybody wants to work for them.”

  Pop took a labored breath. “I don’t know much about Wall Street, but I know your father can get you a job anywhere you want.” The old man shook his head proudly. “He’s a good boy, your father. He loves you very much.”

  Christian felt a lump rising in his throat, the same way it had two weeks ago when his father had hugged him after graduation. Under a beautiful azure sky with the smells of freshly cut grass and blooming lilac filling his nostrils and that diploma clutched in his hand. “I know he does,” he murmured.

  “How’s that mother of yours?” Pop spoke up, contempt surfacing in his voice.

  Christian wondered if Pop knew, if that was the reason for the icy tone. Probably not. It wouldn’t be like his father to share a piece of information like that with anyone—even Pop. “She’s fine.”

  “Never did like her,” the old man grumbled.

  “Now, Pop,” Mary piped up, “Lana’s nice.”

  “She never calls or writes.”

  “She used to try,” Mary argued, “but you wouldn’t say more than two words to her.”

  “Didn’t have anything to say.”

  Christian caught his grandfather’s sidelong glance as the phone in the kitchen began to ring.

  Mary was out of her chair quickly. “Don’t forget, Christian,” she said over her shoulder, “you promised to call bingo down at the lodge tonight.” She laughed. “You’ll drive all the old biddies crazy.”

  Christian smiled. He was looking forward to it. He and Pop were heading down there together. Team Gillette. Mary disappeared around the corner, and he heard her answer the phone. “Well, Pop, what are we going to do today?” he asked, settling back on the couch. “How about we wet a line in that pond down the lane? See if we can fool some bass?”

  “Well, maybe in a—”

  “Christian,” Mary interrupted. She was standing in the kitchen doorway, a troubled expression creasing her small face. “Nikki is calling from California.”

  Christian moved quickly to the kitchen and took the old black receiver from Mary, who returned to the living room. “Hello.”

  “Chris, it’s me.”

  Something was terribly wrong; he could tell by her tone. “What is it?”

  “It’s Daddy,” she whispered. “It’s Daddy.”

  A blast of blue flame seared Christian’s chest. “What about him?” He turned toward the corner so Pop and Mary couldn’t hear. But somehow he already knew.

  “His plane went down a few minutes ago. On takeoff from Orange County.” Nikki could barely get the words out. “He’s gone.”

  Christian’s forehead slowly came to rest against the wall. Gone. An awful word. He felt tears welling in his eyes, and he shut them tightly and ground his teeth together, trying to stem the tide. But the tears cascaded down his cheeks anyway, over his lip and into his mouth. They were warm and sweet, and the taste only invited more. “Oh, God,” he whispered.

  “I gotta go,” Nikki said suddenly. “Come home, Chris. Come home.”

  He hung up the receiver and brought his hands to his face. The phone rang again, almost right away, and he picked it up, wondering what Nikki had forgotten to say. “Hello?”

  “Christian.”

  It was Lana.

  “I know you just talked to Nikki.”

  Lana’s voice was so calm, Christian thought. But that was how she handled everything, good or bad. “Yes, I did.”

  “Then you know.”

  “Yes.” He bit his lower lip. The last person in the world he wanted to show weakness to was Lana. “Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

  “I’ll be all right.” Lana hesitated. “Christian, listen. You and I . . . we’re not . . .” She took a breath. “Christian, things are going to be very hard for us around here, and I’m not sure . . . I don’t think you should be here.”

  Christian pressed the phone to his ear, uncertain he’d heard her right. Certain no one could be that cold. “What? I don’t think I—”

  “Listen,” she said, now with full force, “I need to be alone with my children.”

  He heard it plain and clear this time: my children. Troy and Nikki. Not you.

  “I know what your father always wanted,” she kept going, “but you and I don’t belong to each other.” She paused. “Good-bye, Christian.”

  LANA WAS sitting on one of the plush couches near the receptionist’s desk. The last time he’d seen her was at his father’s funeral sixteen years ago. They hadn’t spoken there or since.

  Lana had been a striking woman in her youth, statuesque with long brunette hair. But she had a tough look about her, too, manifested by an intense, almost cruel flavor to her eyes, the way her jaw jutted out, the ramrod-stiff posture.

  The first thing Gillette noticed about her was how the years had worn down that toughness. Her eyes seemed sad, the corners of her mouth were puffy, and she slumped slightly. Deep creases coursed out from the corners of her eyes into the loose skin of her cheeks, and her hands seemed old, as if they belonged to a woman in her late seventies, not her late fifties.

  “Hello, Christian,” she said as he moved into the lobby.

  Gillette was aware that Debbie and both receptionists were watching carefully. They knew he had no relationship with his family. That had been well documented in the articles in both The Wall Street Journal and People. “Let’s go to my office,” he suggested.

  “This is so nice, Christian,” Lana said, looking around the large space as they sat on one of the couches in a corner of his office. “I love the artwork and the antiques. I can see why you make people go through that search.” She’d been searched at the lobby door by a QS agent, just like everyone else who came to Everest.

  “Everyone has to do that before they come in.”

  “I see. Well, I’ve been keeping up with you in the press, and friends of mine tell me what they hear about you, too. You’re so successful. I knew you would be. Your father would have been so proud.”

  “It’s been a long time, Lana,” he said quietly.

  “Too long.” A tear trickled down her c
heek, and she reached into her purse for a tissue. “I’m sorry,” she said, sniffling. “For everything. I was just so . . . hurt. No excuse, I know. What I did to you was awful, so I want to thank you for seeing me.” She gestured toward the door. “That’s why I showed up out there without calling ahead. I figured if I tried to make an appointment, you’d ignore me. I wouldn’t have blamed you, either.”

  “How have you been?”

  “Fine.”

  “What about Troy and Nikki?” Troy was a half-sibling as well, a good-for-nothing older brother. “They okay?”

  “Okay. We’re all surviving.”

  “Are you still living in the Bel Air house?”

  “Trying to.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Lana dabbed her eyes with the tissue, then let out a tiny sob. “It’s just hard.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s expensive, and, well . . . Oh, Christian. Nikki isn’t okay.” Lana sobbed again. “She has cancer. Lung cancer.”

  Lung cancer. The words twisted Gillette’s stomach. He and Nikki had been so close right up to the day of their father’s death. He’d called to borrow a few dollars to get back to the West Coast after Lana cut him off, but for some reason she’d never answered or returned his messages. He hadn’t let himself think about her in a long time. But it still hurt deeply to hear this. “I’m sorry.”

  “What makes it even worse is that she doesn’t have any health insurance. She can’t pay for the treatment she needs.”

  “What happened?”

  “That idiot she married. Peter. He kept telling her he had it, but he didn’t.”

  Gillette hadn’t been invited to Nikki’s wedding. He’d heard about it from friends. “Are you going to help her?”

  Lana shrugged. “What can I do? I don’t have much money left.”

  “Dad was worth a hundred million dollars when he died.”

  “Taxes took more than half, he gave a lot to charity, and then there was your mother. Several other women, too. I only ended up with about ten million. You’d be surprised how fast that goes.”

  “Several other women?” Gillette asked.

  “You weren’t the only child he had out of wedlock, just the only one I agreed to take in.”

  He could tell this was still hard for her. Any shred of toughness she’d had about her when she’d come in was gone. “How many other children were there?”

  The tears were flowing freely now. “One each with three other women.”

  Gillette’s head suddenly ached. Secrets, always secrets. “Jesus.”

  Lana cleared her throat, trying to regain control. “Yes, your father had a problem.” She shook her head quickly several times. “But I’m not here to rehash all that, I’m here to ask you to help your sister. She needs money, Christian.”

  “Have her call me.”

  “She won’t, she’s too proud.”

  “Then give me her number. I’ll call her.”

  Lana hesitated, then reached into her pocketbook and removed a small black address book.

  Gillette handed her a pen and one of his cards. “Write it on the back.”

  She scribbled the number, then handed the card and pen back to him. “I need money, too,” she said firmly.

  “Ten million is a lot, Lana. It isn’t a hundred, but it’s a lot. And you got the house, too. That’s probably worth another ten. I don’t believe you really need money. You can’t.”

  “Well, I do.”

  She had always been a survivor. Whatever it took. She wasn’t his real mother, but some of that had rubbed off on him. Maybe he owed her something. “I gotta give you credit, Lana. You cut me off completely the day Dad is killed, you don’t speak to me for sixteen years, and you walk in here today with your hands out, looking for donations. One thing I’m sure we can agree on, you aren’t proud.”

  “I don’t have anywhere else to go,” she said matter-of-factly, “and I did agree to take you in all those years ago. There is that.”

  “You’re incredible.”

  “Will you help me?”

  Gillette said nothing for a few moments. “I’ll think about it. I’ll be on the West Coast next week, we’ll get together then. I’ll call you.”

  She nodded slowly. “Okay,” she whispered.

  She seemed so much older, he realized. “Now I have a question for you. Who’s my real mother?”

  Lana looked him straight in the eyes. “I don’t know.”

  She was always such a good liar, he remembered.

  FARADAY SAT in Gillette’s office, staring at the phone. It was almost five o’clock. “What’s your bet?” he asked.

  “She won’t call,” Gillette answered.

  “I think she will. Chatham’s too poor. She’ll take what she can get.”

  “She’s got too much pride.”

  “I thought you said she was smart.”

  “I did.”

  “So she’ll do the right thing.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Faraday dug a huge spoonful of rocky road ice cream out of a bowl in his lap. “How’s Faith? She must be pissed about those pictures of you and Allison in the newspapers. She looked like she was going to kill someone when she stalked out of here the other night. I tried to say good-bye to her, but she blew past me without a word.”

  Gillette smiled, glad his girlfriend was once more a topic he was happy to discuss. “She’s over it.”

  “Oh? So you finally spoke to her?”

  “Yeah.” Gillette jotted down a note to himself to call Russell Hughes to see if he’d arranged the CIA meeting.

  “Is Faith coming out on the boat tomorrow?” Faraday asked.

  “No. She’s in London doing some promo stuff for the next album. It’s coming out soon.”

  “Who else is coming?”

  “You, Stiles, Wright, and me,” Gillette answered.

  “You still inviting David even after the way he acted at the Apex meeting?”

  “He’s just young, Nigel.”

  “Uh-huh.” Faraday hesitated. “You want me to bring my significant other?”

  “Sure. Who is it?”

  “You’ve never met her. Are you going to be stag since Faith is in London?” Faraday asked, his mouth full of ice cream.

  Gillette didn’t answer.

  Faraday stopped eating. “Oh no.”

  Gillette glanced up. “What?”

  “You’re bringing Allison.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I can tell.”

  “You can’t tell anything. And, if I asked her to come, it would be just as a colleague.”

  The intercom buzzed. It was Debbie. “Chris, Becky Rouse is on the line.”

  Faraday smiled triumphantly from behind the bowl.

  “Thanks.” Gillette picked up. “Hello.”

  “Mr. Gillette, this is Becky Rouse from Chatham.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m calling to tell you what you can do with your offer.”

  Gillette felt his cheeks flush. Becky was one feisty character. “And what’s that?”

  “I’m a lady, so I can’t say what I’m thinking. You’ll just have to use your imagination. Good-bye, Mr. Gillette.”

  Gillette hung up the phone calmly after a loud click at the other end.

  “So?” Faraday asked.

  “We’re going to war in Maryland.”

  Faraday groaned. “What a waste of time.”

  “For everyone,” Gillette agreed.

  David Wright stuck his head in the door. “Sorry to interrupt. Could I talk to you, Chris?” He glanced at Faraday. “Alone.”

  Faraday downed another spoonful of ice cream, then rose. “See you tomorrow, Christian. I’m going home. It’s been a long week.”

  Wright stepped aside to let Faraday pass, then closed the door.

  “What is it, David?”

  Wright hesitated, looking sheepish. “I came in to apologize. I’m sorry for the way I acted
in the limousine, it was stupid.”

  Good, Gillette thought. The right thing for him to do. “I appreciate that, David.” He’d be sure to tell Faraday about this. “You still coming tomorrow?”

  “You sure you still want me?”

  “We can’t go without you. It’s a celebration cruise for your promotion.”

  12

  FROM THE WEST SIDE PIER, the Everest cruised down the Hudson, around the southern tip of Manhattan, then north up the East River. This course took it under the Brooklyn, Manhattan, Williamsburg, and Fifty-ninth Street bridges—massive suspension structures that were even more impressive from below than from street level. By noon, they’d made it to the Long Island Sound and were headed east beneath a hot Indian summer sun. At one o’clock, the temperature reached ninety-five degrees and the humidity was thick.

  Stiles stood beside Gillette on the bridge, watching the captain navigate. “Tell me about this thing, Chris,” he said over the hum of the two diesel engines.

  “It’s a hundred feet long,” Gillette answered, glancing starboard toward Long Island. They were a mile offshore. “It’s twenty-three feet at the beam, has two inboard engines with two thousand horses each, carries five thousand gallons of fuel, and has four staterooms. We’ve got a crew of three, including the captain, the cook, and a mate, and sailing on it is one of my favorite things in the world to do. It’s a lot of money, Quentin, but it’s worth it to me. I love it out here.”

  “You entertain a lot on it, too. That probably pays dividends.”

  “It does. Last Fourth of July, I took a hundred people into New York Harbor for the fireworks, big investors we were lining up for Everest Eight. Let them bring their wives, husbands, kids. It was a great time, and most of the people who came committed to the new fund. Maybe they would have committed anyway, but I still hear about how much fun they had.”

  Allison appeared on the bridge in a red bikini. “Here you go,” she said, handing Gillette a big cup of soda. “Having fun, Quentin?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You like the boat?” she asked.

  “It’s incredible. Chris was just telling me about it.”