Die Again Tomorrow (7 page)

CHAPTER 8

 

T
o Joan, the matter was simple. Adam and his family were moving far away because they couldn't afford to raise two kids in New York City. Greg had so much money that he flung it everywhere—at his charity, at her Bergdorf habit, at the mortgage for their penthouse, at vacations to Bora Bora. The solution was obvious.

But Greg hadn't volunteered it, and the fragile state of their relationship made her resist bringing it up right away. It was his money after all, but didn't she have just as much a say over how he spent it? Wasn't that a perk of marriage? Her difficulty in confronting him made her realize just how far apart they had grown in a few months' time. She found her courage during their evening stroll around the neighborhood, two weeks after Adam's announcement. They were holding hands as usual, but the wall between them seemed like solid brick.

“I can't stop thinking about this whole thing,” she said. “I mean, we're both devastated, right?” She heard the nervousness in her voice.

His quizzical glance told her he did, too. “Of course.”

“Babysitting Sophia is what I most look forward to,” she went on, talking quickly. “I wish you could see how much fun we have. The park swings, catching potato bugs in the grass, reading
Goodnight Moon
. . . and then the weekends with Adam and Emily . . . and now the new baby we're never going to know. How can we just stand by and watch them
leave
?”

Greg kept his eyes ahead, on the stop-and-go traffic crawling down Broadway. She wasn't the only one stuck trying to get somewhere.

“Adam's an adult, Joan,” he said. “We need to respect his decisions.”

She winced at his use of her name, which he invoked only when he was annoyed. Otherwise, she was
darling
or
sweetheart.

“But that's not what you told him! You wanted him to stay, go back into law—”

“Well, he's not going to, is he? He's as stubborn as a rock, you know that.”

I wonder where he gets it
, she almost retorted.

“There's still a way he could stay here and do music and raise the kids close by . . .” She took a deep breath. “We could help them out.”

“I can't do that,” he said.

The pronoun change from
we
to
I
enraged her—as if she had no say in it, just because she was the partner who didn't work! Just because she had given up her career to raise
their
child.

“Why not?” she demanded. “You have no trouble being generous in a million other ways.”

“It would be bad for Adam's character.”

She laughed out loud. “You're joking.”

He withdrew his hand from hers and folded his arms, walking faster. “I'm serious. He's grown up with everything, and now he needs to learn what it means to be a man. A man has to sink or swim by the choices he makes, not come crawling to his father when it's time to face the consequences.”

She pulled herself up straight, almost jogging to keep up with him. “Don't make this about you. Just because you grew up poor doesn't mean you should punish him.”

It was acid on his sore spot.

He stopped dead his tracks, glaring at her. “This conversation is over.”

There was nothing more she could say.

For the rest of the walk, they silently stewed. Why was Greg suddenly worried about their son's integrity, when Adam was as hardworking and independent as they had raised him to be? All she could think was something wasn't adding up. There were given reasons, and then there were real reasons.

Once she had a lead, nothing could stop her from tracking down the truth.

CHAPTER 9

 

I
t had taken four months, but Isabel was finally feeling good again. Going to Richard Barnett and selling her life insurance policy had proved to be the best decision she'd ever made. The stress of her mother's illness and her own dire genetic forecast—all that was behind her now.

The balmy October sun caressed her bare skin as she walked toward the beach, her surfboard under her arm. Half naked in a red string bikini, she dared the world to look. She didn't care. She was proud. She was a survivor.

It was her first day in a bathing suit since her double mastectomy.

Her mother—who was in remission thanks to the miracle drug Braxa—insisted that Isabel take the money left over from the settlement to invest in her own health. Her ensuing preventive surgery and months-long recovery was an agony she wouldn't wish on anyone, but in losing her breasts, she'd restored her future.

Her cancer risk had shrunk from 87 percent to just 4 percent. And the fake breasts the doctors reconstructed weren't half bad. They were a tad bigger than her natural B cup, so she could fill out her bikini without puffing up her chest.

As for the permanent gash across it? Her father used to say that a battle scar was a story with a happy ending. A scar was courage made visible. His most prominent one, from combat in Vietnam, had been right smack on his face—a raised white mark that stretched from his left ear to his lip. Far from considering himself disfigured, he wore it as proudly as his Purple Heart.

Isabel traced her finger along her own fresh scar under her breasts. Its smooth contour was a welcome reminder of him, despite the guilt that still bubbled to the surface every time she thought of his final day on earth. During his heroic life, he'd shown her that staying alive was not a given, but a prize that required a fight to win. And winning demanded celebration.

So today she was taking her first surfing trip in months. There was much to be grateful for: her mother was healthy, she was safe, her brother was happy, and
Wild Woman
, her reality TV show, was a hit. The eight episodes had aired over the summer to much enthusiasm. As soon as she was ready, the show runners wanted her back for season two. Her doctors wanted her to wait another few months, but she was feeling better than ever: in fact, she'd written to the executive producer and told him she wanted to return next month—plus a raise. Despite the horrible economy and the financial stress of pretty much everyone she knew, her family was going to make it through okay.

Palm trees fanned out overhead and cast lazy diagonal shadows across the street. On the main drag, Duval, patrons were sitting at sidewalk cafés drinking coffee and reading. She smiled at them on her way to the beach. When they smiled back, she wondered if anyone recognized her.

The glittering blue expanse of the ocean lay five blocks ahead. She walked fast, eager to let the waves wash away the disturbing thought intruding on her good mood: A man named Robbie Merriman was counting on her cancer diagnosis.

Every quarter, he requested an update of her medical records, just like he did for every other “life” he owned. According to Richard Barnett, that was standard practice. Merriman kept tabs so he could update his death forecasts. Business as usual.

But how would he react when he learned about her surgery? The report with the news had gone out to him a week ago—and she hadn't slept well since.

By circumventing her genetic fate, was she ripping him off?

It wasn't like she had signed a contract promising not to seek medical treatment. No one could blame her. Yet he was no longer going to get what he paid handsomely for—and she wasn't about to offer a refund.

Maybe it was all in her mind, but in the last few days, she'd gotten the creepy sense that someone was watching her. A strange tingling crept over her at random moments, when she was sitting in her mother's backyard hammock, or ringing up a customer at the bookstore, or picking out apples at the grocery store. But when she looked over her shoulder, no one was there.

She hadn't told anyone because there was nothing to tell. She just needed to shake it off, hit the waves. She quickened her step and turned off Duval Street, down a narrow alley that was a popular shortcut to the sea. The walls of adjacent buildings towered on either side of her, leaving a footpath about eighteen inches wide. Her sandals slapped the dusty asphalt as her arms began to wilt from the heavy board. She paused to let it drop for a second—and that was when the light dimmed.

A shadow behind her blocked the entrance to the alley.

Her heart lurched. She turned around to see an imposing man in his forties standing four feet away, smiling at her. He was wearing khaki shorts and a wifebeater that did little to conceal his hairy chest. His gaze lowered from her face to her ample cleavage. He kept one hand in his pocket.

She lifted her surfboard to block her chest. “Can I help you?”

His smile widened. He stepped toward her. “You're the girl.”

She backed away, her sandals scraping the ground. “No, I don't think so.”

“Yes, you are,” he said, rummaging in his pocket. “I'd recognize you anywhere.”

When he pulled his hand out, something silver glinted, and in a split second she found herself running, sprinting as fast as possible with her surfboard toward the other end of the alley. The bright sunshine and open road beckoned.

“Hey!” he called, approaching fast behind her. “Wait! Isabel!”

Her name coming out of his mouth sent a shock through her, but she kept running. When she reached the public street near the ocean's crowded boardwalk, she was surprised to hear his footsteps still closing in on her.

“What do you want?” she screamed, whirling around to face him. Several people nearby turned to stare. She raised her surfboard like a shield.

A flustered look crossed his face as he stopped short. He held up his palms as though he didn't mean any harm, and she got a better look at the threatening silver thing in his hand. It was a pen. He held it out like a peace offering.

“Sorry, I just wanted an autograph.”

“Oh.” She slowly lowered her board, feeling her cheeks flush. The realization solidified into a relief that left her shaky and drained. Around them, the gawkers lost interest and resumed their conversations.

“Is that cool?” he said, after a pause.

“Uh, sure.”

He produced a napkin from his pocket and handed her the pen. She signed her name a little unsteadily and added the logo of interlocking
W
's that stood for
Wild Woman.

“Awesome. My kids will love it. Your show was the best thing on all summer.”

She managed a smile. “Thanks.”

Life was fine. All she had was a slight case of fame. No reason to be paranoid.

CHAPTER 10

 

A
fter four months of spying on her husband, Joan was no closer to answers. Greg from afar seemed no different than Greg at home. He remained tense, distracted, edgy.
It's work,
he would tell her.
Work is killing me.

When he wasn't in the ER, he was at his charity office putting in fourteen-hour days. Through the gym's windows, she might watch him pacing on the phone, or talking to his sexy assistant, but nothing damning enough to constitute betrayal. Mostly he sat and stared at his computer. She never saw him cry again. That mysterious episode disturbed her, but she couldn't confront him without admitting her own duplicity.

One thing she
could
do was help out their struggling son, whether or not Greg approved. Time was running out. In the last few months, the economy had full-on crashed—just as the doomsayers predicted. In August, a major bank collapsed. In September, Adam's investment account—his future down payment—went up in smoke in the stock market, just as he was trying to close on a house in Kansas.

Now it was an unseasonably hot October, and her poor son was confined to a six-hundred-square-foot apartment with his very pregnant wife and their rambunctious toddler.

But that wasn't even the worst of it.

Just this week, she'd been babysitting at Adam's place, half distracted by an entertaining new reality show called
Wild Woman,
when Sophia tripped over a doll house cluttering the small living room and broke her ankle. She would be fine when the cast came off, but all Joan could think was:
that place has got to go.

She didn't care anymore about Greg's rigid stance. They still lived like kings, and their son's family was hurting. Nothing else mattered.

Greg didn't know what she was planning. She was going to surprise him after it was too late to back out.

If you can have secrets,
she thought,
then so can I.

 

 

A gust of cool air-conditioning welcomed her as she stepped inside the office of Corcoran, a real estate agency on 80th and Broadway. The sleepy receptionist perked up, taking in Joan's three-carat diamond ring, her silk chiffon white dress, and her red-soled Louboutin heels. Her blond hair was curled in loose waves around her face.

The receptionist smiled at her. “Hi, how can I help you?”

“I'd like to speak with an agent,” Joan said. “About buying an apartment.”

“Of course, right this way.”

Joan followed her down a hall lined with pictures of extravagant apartments—floor-to-ceiling windows, magnificent city views, marble Jacuzzi tubs. They turned into a corner office where a woman about her own age was at a computer, clicking the keys with long manicured fingernails. When she smiled, her thick foundation broke into tiny cracks around her lips.

After introducing herself, Joan sat across from her and explained what she was looking for—a two- or three-bedroom apartment in the neighborhood for her son's growing family, preferably in a doorman building with an elevator, very bright, and kid-friendly.

“Oh,” she added, “and not more than fifteen blocks from Eighty-sixth Street. I don't want to have to take a cab to get there.”

The agent's first question rolled off her lips. “And your budget?”

Joan ran a quick calculation in her head: If she could put one hundred fifty thousand dollars toward a ten percent down payment, then . . .

“Not more than one point five,” she said. What was one and a half million when Adam's inheritance was bound to be at least double that? Greg had been storing it in a private trust account for years. It didn't make sense not to touch it now, when he needed it most.

“That sounds reasonable.” The agent looked pleased. “As you probably know, it's a buyer's market. We have amazing apartments that have been sitting for months, so it's a good time to look. Why don't I pull up some listings for you right now?”

Joan felt a little thrill zip through her. There was no question she was doing the right thing. “Please do.”

The agent brought up a website, then tiled the screen toward her. A long list of available apartments showed up, ranging from the most expensive—$48 million—to the least.

“I have a darling place in mind,” the agent said as she clicked through the pages, getting to the lower-end apartments. “It's a two-bed on Eighty-second and Columbus, newly renovated with a cook's kitchen, oak hardwood—”

“Stop!” Joan suddenly cried.

The agent's hands froze over her keyboard. “What?”

Before she knew it, Joan had sprung to her feet and was leaning over the agent's chair to stare at the screen.

“Show me that,” she demanded, pointing to a listing of an apartment for sale in the $5 million range. The picture on the screen showed a spacious living room refinished in dark cherrywood, with a vast window overlooking the Hudson.

“Oh, that's a bit out of your range,” the agent said delicately. “I was thinking more of—”

“No, please,” Joan said, her voice bordering on desperation. “Click that.”

The woman obeyed.

Up popped more pictures: a kitchen with rare blue-black Italian granite; a master bathroom with a steam room and six showerheads; a dining room sun-drenched from a wall of windows, outfitted with a crystal chandelier and seating for six.

“That's the dream, right?” The agent cocked her head. “The perfect apartment.”

Joan's voice came out strangled. “How long has it been on the market?”

“About two months.”

“You're joking.”

“It's not really that long. As I said, inventory's just been sitting.”

Joan stared at the pictures, unable to speak or move.

“Ma'am . . . are you okay?”

“No,” was all she could manage. Her mind was blank. A sense of surreal devastation penetrated the edges of her being.

Her hand flew to her throat, where a sob was fighting to escape.

The agent touched her arm. “What's wrong?”

“That apartment—” she broke off.

“Yes?”

“That apartment is mine.”