Sidney Sheldon's After the Darkness (3 page)

Of course, this year there would be some belt tightening. Everyone was talking about the economy and how dire it was. People in Detroit were rioting, apparently. In California, thousands of homeless had pitched tents along the banks of the American River. The headlines were dreadful. But for Grace Brookstein and her friends, nothing compared to the shock they'd felt the day they heard that Lehman Brothers had gone bankrupt. Lehman's collapse was a tragedy far closer to home. Grace's own brother-in-law Michael Gray had seen his net worth decimated overnight. Poor Connie. It really was too awful.

Lenny told Grace, “We have to strike a different tone this year, Gracie. The Quorum Ball must go ahead. People need the money that charities like ours provide now more than ever.”

“Of course they do, darling.”

“But it's important we aren't too ostentatious. Compassion. Compassion and restraint. Those must be our watchwords.”

With Honor's help, Grace had picked out a
very
restrained black silk shift from Valentino, with almost no beading whatsoever. As for her Louboutin pumps?
Simplicity itself.
She couldn't wait for Lenny to see her in them.

Slipping into bed beside him, Grace turned off her bedside lamp.

“Just a second, sweetie.” Lenny reached over and turned it on again. “I need you to sign something for me. Where is it now?” He fumbled through the sheets of paper littering his side of the bed. “Ah. Here we are.”

He handed Grace the document. She took Lenny's pen and was about to sign it.

“Whoa there!” Lenny laughed. “Aren't you going to read it first?”

“No. Why would I?”

“Because you don't know what you're signing, Gracie. That's why. Didn't your father ever tell you not to sign anything you haven't read?”

Grace leaned over and kissed him. “Yes, my darling. But
you've
read it, haven't you? I trust you with my life, Lenny, you know that.”

Lenny Brookstein smiled. Grace was right. He did know it. And he thanked God for it every day.

 

O
N THE CORNER OF
F
IFTH
A
VENUE
and Central Park South, a battalion of media had gathered in front of The Plaza's iconic Beaux Arts façade. Lenny Brookstein was having a party—
the
party—and as always, the stars were out in force. Billionaires and princes, supermodels and politicians, actors, rock stars, philanthropists; everyone attending tonight's Quorum Ball had one crucial thing in common, and it wasn't a burning desire to help the needy. They were all
winners.

Senator Jack Warner and his wife, Honor, were among the first to arrive.

“Go around the block,” Senator Warner barked at his driver. “Why the hell did you get us here so early?”

The driver thought,
Ten minutes ago you were on my case for driving too slow. Make your goddamn mind up
,
asshole.

“Yes, Senator Warner. Sorry, Senator Warner.”

Honor Warner studied her husband's angry features as they turned onto West Fifty-seventh Street.
He's been like this all day, ever since he got back from his meeting with Lenny. I hope he isn't going to ruin this evening for us.

Honor Warner tried to be an understanding wife. She knew that poli
tics was a stressful profession. It had been bad enough when Jack was a congressman, but since his elevation to the Senate (at the remarkably young age of thirty-six), it had gotten worse. The world knew Jack Warner as the Republican's messiah—a conservative Jack Kennedy for the new millennium. Tall, blond and chiseled, with a strong jaw and a steady, blue-eyed gaze, Senator Warner was adored by voters, especially women. He stood for decency, for old-fashioned family values, for a strong, proud America that many people feared was crumbling daily beneath their feet. Just watching Senator Warner on the news, hand in hand with his beautiful wife, their two towheaded daughters skipping along beside them, was enough to restore people's faith in the American Dream.

Honor Warner thought,
If only they knew.

But how could they? Nobody knew.

Tentatively, she turned to her husband. “Do you like my dress, Jack?”

Senator Jack Warner looked at his wife and tried to remember the last time he had found her sexually attractive.
It's not that there's anything wrong with her. She's pretty enough, I guess. She's not fat.

Honor Warner, in fact, was much more than pretty. With her wide-set green eyes, blond curls and high cheekbones, she was widely considered a striking beauty. Not as striking as her sister Grace, perhaps, but gorgeous nonetheless. Tonight Honor was poured into a skintight, strapless Valentino gown the same sea green as her eyes. It was a pull-all-the-stops-out dress. To any impartial observer, Honor Warner looked sexy as hell.

Jack said brusquely, “It's fine. How much did it cost?”

Honor bit her lower lip hard.
I mustn't cry. My mascara'll run.

“It's on loan. Like the emeralds. Grace pulled some strings.”

Senator Jack Warner laughed bitterly. “How generous of her.”

“Please, Jack.”

Honor touched his leg in a conciliatory gesture, but he shrugged away her hand. Knocking on the glass partition, he said to the driver: “You can turn the car around now. Let's get this evening over with.”

 

B
Y NINE P.M
., T
HE
P
LAZA'S CREAM-AND-GOLD
Grand Ballroom was packed to bursting. On either side of the room, beneath the splendidly restored
arches, tables gleamed with brilliantly polished silverware. Light from the candelabras glinted off the women's diamonds as the ladies mingled in the center of the room, admiring one another's priceless couture dresses and swapping horror stories about their husbands' latest financial woes.

“There's no way we can afford Saint-Tropez this year. Ain't happening.”

“Harry's going to sell the yacht. Can you believe it? He
loved
that thing. He'd sell the children first if he thought anyone would buy them.”

“Did you hear about the Jonases? They just listed their town house. Lucy wants twenty-three million for it, but in this market? Carl thinks they'll be lucky to get half that.”

At nine thirty exactly, dinner was served. All eyes were on the top table. Surrounded by their inner circle of Quorum courtiers, Lenny and Grace Brookstein sat in regal splendor, with eyes only for each other. Other, lesser hosts might have chosen to seat the most glamorous, famous guests at their table. Prince Albert of Monaco was there. So were Brad and Angelina, and Bono and his wife, Ali. But the Brooksteins pointedly kept close to their family and close friends: John and Caroline Merrivale, the vice president and second lady of Quorum; Andrew Preston, another senior Quorum exec, and his voluptuous wife, Maria; Senator Warner and
his
wife, Grace Brookstein's sister Honor; and the eldest of the Knowles sisters, Constance, with her husband, Michael.

Lenny Brookstein proposed a toast.

“To Quorum! And all who sail in her!”

“To Quorum!”

Andrew Preston, a handsome, well-built man in his midforties with kind eyes and a gentle, self-deprecating smile, watched his wife stand up, champagne glass in hand, and thought:
Another new dress. How am I supposed to pay for that?

Not that she didn't look wonderful in it. Maria always looked wonderful. A former actress and opera star, Maria Preston was a force of nature. Her mane of chestnut hair and gravity-defying, creamy white breasts made her beautiful. But it was her manner, the sparkle in her eye, the deep, throaty vibration of her laugh, the flirtatious swing of her hips, that made men fall at her feet. No one could understand what had possessed a live wire like Maria Carmine to marry an ordinary, standard-
issue businessman like Andrew Preston. Andrew himself understood it least of all.

She could have had anyone. A movie star. Or a billionaire like Lenny. Perhaps it would have been better if she had.

Andrew Preston loved his wife unreservedly. It was because of his love, and his deep sense of unworthiness, that he forgave her so much. The affairs. The lies. The uncontrollable spending. Andrew earned good money at Quorum. A small fortune by most people's standards. But the more he earned, the more Maria spent. It was a disease with her, an addiction. Month after month, she charged hundreds of thousands of dollars to their Amex card. Clothes, cars, flowers, diamonds, eight-thousand-dollar-a night hotel suites where she spent the night with God knows who…it didn't matter. Maria spent for the thrill of spending.

“You want me to look like a pauper, Andy? You want me to sit next to that smug little bitch Grace Brookstein in some off-the-rack monstrosity?”

Maria was jealous of Grace. Then again, she was jealous of every woman. It was part of her fiery Italian nature, part of what Andrew Preston loved about her. He tried to reassure her.

“Darling, you're twice the woman Grace is. You could wear a sack and you would still outshine her.”

“You want me to wear a sack now?”

“No, no, of course not. But, Maria, our mortgage payments…Perhaps one of your other dresses, darling? Just this year. You have so many…”

It was the wrong thing to say, of course. Now Maria had punished him by not only buying a new dress, but buying the most expensive dress she could find, a jewel-encrusted riot of feathers and lace. Looking at it, Andrew felt his heart tighten. Their debts were getting serious.

I'll have to talk to Lenny again. But the old man has already been so generous. How much further can I push him before he snaps?

Andrew Preston reached into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket. When no one was looking, he slipped three Xanax into his mouth, washing them down with a slug of champagne.

You always knew Maria would be hard to hold on to. Find a way, Andrew. Find a way.

“Are you all right, Andrew?” Caroline Merrivale, John Merrivale's wife, noticed Andrew Preston's ashen face. “You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

“Ha ha! Not at all.” Andrew forced a smile. “You look ravishing tonight, Caro, as always.”

“Thank you. John and I both made an effort to be low-key. You know, given the current economic circumstances.”

It was a deliberate dig at Maria. Andrew let it pass, but thought again how much he loathed Caroline Merrivale. Poor John, being pussy-whipped through life by that harridan. No wonder he always looked so downtrodden.

It was obvious to anyone with eyes in their head that the Merrivale marriage was an unhappy one. Anyone, that is, other than Lenny and Grace Brookstein. Those two were so nauseatingly in love, they seemed to assume that everybody else had what they had.
Easy to keep the love alive when you have billions of dollars to throw at it.
But perhaps Andrew was being unfair? The young Mrs. Brookstein was no gold digger. She was naive, that was all, and clearly believed that Caroline Merrivale was her friend. Grace never saw the envy that blazed in the older woman's eyes whenever her back was turned. But Andrew Preston saw it. Caroline Merrivale was a bitch.

Caroline had always bitterly resented Grace's position as first lady of Quorum. She, Caroline Merrivale, would have been
so
much better suited to the role. Handsome rather than beautiful, with strong, intelligent features and a sharply cut bob of black hair, Caroline had once had a flourishing career as a trial lawyer. Of course, that was years ago now. Thanks to Lenny Brookstein, her husband, John, had become an immensely wealthy and successful man. Caroline's working days were over. But her ambition was far from extinguished.

John Merrivale, by contrast, had never been ambitious. He worked hard at Quorum, accepted whatever Lenny chose to give him, and was grateful. Caroline would taunt him: “You're like a puppy, John. Curled up at your master's feet, loyally wagging your tail. No wonder Lenny doesn't respect you.”

“Lenny d-d-does respect me. It's you who d-d-doesn't.”

“No, and why would I? I want a man, John, not a lapdog. You should demand more equity. Stand up and be counted.”

Andrew Preston glanced across the table at John Merrivale now. Lenny was in the middle of an anecdote, with John hanging on his every word. Andrew thought:
He's brilliant. But he's weak.
There was only room for one king at Quorum. Caroline Merrivale might wish it weren't so, but she could keep on wishing. They were all hanging off of Lenny Brookstein's coattails. And they were the lucky ones. Poor old Michael Gray was sitting on Maria's right, also listening to Lenny's story. The Grays were like a walking cautionary tale. One minute they were partying up a storm all over Manhattan, living it up in their Greenwich Village brownstone, summering in the South of France and wintering at their newly remodeled chalet in Aspen. The next minute—
poof—
it was all gone. Word was that every cent Mike Gray had had been leveraged against Lehman stock. Their kids, Cade and Cooper, were still in their private schools only because Grace Brookstein, Connie Gray's sister, had insisted on covering the tuition.

Maria whispered in Andrew's ear: “The auction starts in a few minutes, Andy. I've got my eye on the vintage Cartier watch. Will you bid for it, or shall I?”

 

G
RACE
B
ROOKSTEIN SMILED AND CLAPPED THROUGHOUT
the bidding, but she was secretly relieved when the auction ended and it was time for dancing.

“I hate these things,” she whispered in Lenny's ear as he whisked her around the floor. “All those fragile male egos trying to outspend each other. It's chest beating.”

“I know.” Lenny's hand caressed her lower back. “But those chest beaters just raised fifteen million for our foundation. In this economy, that's pretty good going.”