One Way or Another: A Novel (24 page)

Then, behind her, a door slammed and a voice said, “Well, well, there you are, my little Lucy. Thought I’d never get back in time. Marco’s promised to be here too.”

It was Ahmet. He checked his watch. “In ten minutes. We’re going to pick out a location for my portrait.” He stopped and took in Lucy, frozen into immobility at the table, at Mehitabel, halted mid-stride on her way from the sink. Knowing in an instant what must have happened, he took control immediately.

He said, “Mehitabel, please see that the drawing room is arranged, that drinks are available, whatever. Go do your job.”

Without a word Mehitabel turned and left the room, though not before Lucy caught the hot red flush that rose to her cheeks, the flash of anger in her usually blank eyes.

“Oh, thank God it’s you, Ahmet,” Lucy said, her voice trembling just a little. “It was getting so late and kind of dark and no one else is here and I thought I heard noises and … well, well … I’m glad you are here.”

“And I am glad too. No need to be afraid at Marshmallows, Lucy, my little one. This is my home, or at least it will be when you and your sister make it that way. Now, you look to me like a girl in need of a glass of champagne. Am I correct?” He turned as he heard the door open and Mehitabel came back in carrying a tray with a bottle in an ice bucket and two very tall, very slender, very fragile glasses. She put the tray on a side table and left immediately.

“Well, then, Lucy, my dear,” Ahmet said, “why don’t you and I have some of this and talk about progress on my interior design.”

“I have to get back to London,” Lucy said, still desperate.

“Of course, of course.” Ahmet patted her knee as he handed her a glass, then lifted his own in a toast.

“To us. To Lucy, my lovely girl. To Marshmallows and the grand ball I shall give where you will be a star.”

Ahmet saying she’d be “a star” reminded Lucy of why she had come here in the first place. “You mean in the film? The one you were going to show me the script of. Remember?”

Ahmet walked over to the wall of shelves immediately behind her, took a bound sheaf of papers from there, came back and handed them to her.

“The title is
Only the Best,
” he said. “And it’s all yours, Lucy.

“Listen, sweetheart.” He spoke softly, as though worried someone might overhear, though in fact Lucy saw no one about. “I have to fly to France in a few days, to check my yacht. I thought you might come with me, enjoy a quick trip. We can discuss all your plans on the plane,” he added, catching her hesitation. “It will save time in the end.”

Lucy said okay; after all, she was getting nowhere with the pizza delivery guy and there was nobody else on the horizon, and all in all she was pretty fed up with life at the moment. Nothing seemed to have gone right since she left drama school; no jobs, no career, no men. She knew she wasn’t great-looking but, hey, she wasn’t bad either, and she was sparky and people said she was fun, so what the hell was wrong? She decided she must have lost all her sex appeal since her “almost” foray into real sex, and now nobody wanted to know her anymore. Except Ahmet, who was old and boring but he was inviting her to his yacht, flying her in his private plane, talking about the script and about the ball he wanted to give and that she and Martha would plan. How bad could it be?

*   *   *

Later, she called Martha to tell her. Predictably, Martha went crazy.

“Don’t you dare go with that man, Lucy Patron.” She actually yelled, putting Lucy’s back up.

“And why not?” she demanded, sounding, she thought, coolly dignified.

“I don’t trust him,” Martha said, quieter now but definitely worried.

“I thought you said he’d invited
you
to his yacht too? And Marco as well.” Lucy seemed to remember Martha mentioning it.

“Yes, but we never confirmed anything.”

“I guess he’ll get round to it now.” Lucy was suddenly tired of it all. “Can I come and stay with you tonight, Marthie? My place is such a mess.”

“Oh, God, all right, of course you can. In fact it would be better if you came here, that way I can keep my eye on you.”

Lucy had to laugh. “You can’t suspect Ahmet of evil intentions. I mean, Marthie, he’s too old for all that.”

“And
you,
Lucy, are too young. Come on over, and bring Morrie with you, we can discuss the plans for the ball.”

Lucy perked up immediately. “How wonderful. I can just imagine it now, all gilt and roses and … and a bunch of older people in long frocks twirling sedately to a waltz, or worse, doing a rhumba in a long line the way they do in old movies.…”

“Don’t be ridiculous, and what you don’t know is that Morrie is very well known as a party planner. He’ll tell us exactly what to do, and how much it will cost.”

“Do you really think Ahmet will care about that?”

“You’d be surprised the things Ahmet cares about, one of which is most certainly his money. How do you think billionaires get to be billionaires? Still, this is going to cost him a bomb.”

“It will be wonderful,” Lucy said, knowing that it would.

40

Marco was in bed with Martha when his phone rang. He groaned and put a hand over his eyes, not wanting to look, not wanting to admit anyone into the private place he and his lover, his woman, his lovely Martha were at. Her back was toward him, his body wrapped around hers, his leg across hers; a moment ago, the hand he now flung over his eyes in order not to check who the caller was had been cupping her breast: small, perfect, rounded, it fit as though it was made for him. Which he believed it was.

“Our Maker was good when he invented you,” he whispered in Martha’s ear. “But not when he invented the phone.” Groaning, he tried to ignore it and thankfully, after a few more rings, it stopped. Then it started again.

“Someone is persistent,” Martha murmured, taking his hand and moving it down her body. “But I’ll bet no one’s as persistent as I am when I know what I want.”

He knew what she wanted, it was exactly what he wanted; they had both wanted it already for more than a couple of hours now. “I will always love you,” he murmured, licking her ear.

“Oh, God.” Martha sat up with a sudden jolt, sending Marco flying backward. “I forgot. Lucy will be on her way over here. I told her she could stay the night. Ahmet’s invited her onto his yacht, of course I’ll have to tell her she can’t go alone.…”

“Then why don’t we go with her? I have to talk to him about his portrait, I could use that as an excuse.”

Martha smiled. “Perfect, Marco Mahoney. You are absolutely so freakin’ perfect sometimes I can’t believe you are that clever. You’ve just saved the whole situation.”

“And I get to take care of my commission at the same time. I’m not looking forward to capturing our Mr. Ghulbian on canvas, but a promise is a promise, and he is interesting, in a strange sort of way.”

*   *   *

Ahmet was not exactly thrilled with the news that Marco and Martha would accompany Lucy but he understood it was that, or no Lucy at all, and anyway, he was eager to get his portrait done.

He’d thought about it and decided on doing it on his yacht after all. He would be sitting in the captain’s chair at the head of the table in the yacht’s wood-paneled dining room that seated thirty. The paneling was ash, a color he was fond of—he hated the yellowness of traditional oak—and the captain’s chair was an antique, rescued from a Boston whaler that had plied the Atlantic in the 1800s, and came complete with scars and rum stains and the aroma of old-time sailboats that really gave Ahmet a kick.

Sometimes he wondered about his conflicted personality, thinking about the good things he did: the young people he’d rescued from the streets; his support of them afterward; his generous gifts to charities; the true charity in his heart for the young and disenfranchised. Yet there was his other side, the one he hid from the world, from everyone, in fact, except Mehitabel. She knew his “other” soul, or lack of it; she knew how to protect him, act as his “beard” so no one would ever suspect the great man, the billionaire who had everything, of any wrongdoings. Certainly never of torture and murder.

“Murder” was a word Ahmet did not usually allow to penetrate the forefront of his mind. He was not a murderer. He was a fair man, a just man. His girls were chosen because basically they did not have real lives, they were hanging on to the threads of existence, prostituting themselves to buy drugs, living in squalor, or on the street, though there was also what he called his “higher-class” girl, like Angie, for instance. Now there was a young woman who could have been improved upon, had he had the wish. Which he had not. That other, darker side of his had taken over where Angie was concerned. Just thinking about her now, remembering how she refused even to wail, to cry, to scream when he beat her, excited him. Angie was too precious to set free, to lose into the darkness of “forever.” He needed her as he had never needed another woman, and certainly never needed young Lucy, who was to be, he would make certain of it, his future.

Mehitabel had taken care of Angie for him. She’d moved her under cover of darkness, to the attic suite, way after anyone was around, though no servant ever slept at Marshmallows. Angie was safe with Mehitabel, who’d told him Angie was recovering, that she was eating a little soup, a crust of bread. Ahmet had smiled at the way Mehitabel had described it as a “crust of bread.” She was nothing if not dramatic, but she was efficient. And loyal. But then how could she not be loyal. He owned her. She would never find employment anywhere else, he would make sure of that, should she ever make any attempt to leave, though he knew she would not; she was in too deep, and she was too dark in her own soul for any other life. Mehitabel needed what he had to offer, and she could consider herself very lucky they had met.

Meanwhile, Angie was here, in that room upstairs under the roof where the herons nested. Perhaps the tweeting of the young, the harsh cry of the birds, gave Angie some comfort in her pain and her sorrow, though he guessed by now sorrow had cut too deep. Angie knew her fate as surely as he himself. It would not be easy.

41

Martha was not surprised when, the day before they were to leave for France, Lucy called to say she couldn’t make it, though she
was
stunned by the sheer outrageousness of it.

She gripped the phone hard; she even stamped her foot, she remembered later when she wondered why it hurt. “Don’t be ridiculous, Lucy. You accepted.
We
accepted. We are all going and that’s that. Even Morrie is coming along to help with the plans. Remember, this is a working trip, Lucy Patron, not simply a joy ride.”

“A joy ride with an old man,” Lucy grumbled, mid-bite, Martha could tell. It was breakfast time and she knew Lucy would be in the local Starbucks crunching down a toasted bagel with cream cheese and a double lowfat cappuccino with whipped cream. Lucy never got her calorific priorities straight. “Besides, I’ve got nothing to wear on a yacht,” Lucy added.

“Then wear what you always wear. We can always go shopping in Nice, or Monte Carlo.” Martha could tell by Lucy’s silence that she was impressed with that idea.

“So, okay then. What time?” Lucy asked.

“Noon. And remember, Lucy Patron, this is a working trip. Bring your brains with you, please. If, in fact, you remember you have any.”

Martha put down the phone, turned and met Marco’s gaze.

“You think she’s ever gonna grow up?” he said, shaking his head. Lucy was irresponsible and he thought she took advantage of Martha’s sisterly concern.

“She’s worried about Ahmet. And to tell you the truth, so am I, a little bit anyway. He’s really coming on strong; you haven’t seen the way he looks at her, practically eating her up with his eyes, when he thinks no one is looking.”

Marco went over and took her in his arms again, naked body against naked body, cool now, fresh from loving, memories still entwining them as their bodies had earlier, holding them together, content.

“Don’t underestimate your kid sister, Martha,” he said. “She’s a savvy seventeen-year-old, she knows where Ahmet is at and what he’s after, and believe me, she’s not going to give it to him.”

“But what if he asks her to marry him?” Martha was frowning.

He said, “Well, that of course, would be a whole different ball game.”

42

ANGIE

I should have known Mehitabel was not simply being kind, cleaning me up, bandaging my wounds, lotioning my bruises, rubbing oil so gently into my shorn head. I already knew Mehitabel was not a gentle woman, I was perfectly well aware that she was cruel, violent, sadistic, and very probably insane, and yet somehow I believed she was helping me, merely because I wanted it so badly to be the truth. I understand now that
wanting
to believe is halfway in the battle of
actually
believing; that, like anything, if you want it badly enough, you might actually imagine it to be so. Suddenly I believed Mehitabel cared, that she was here to help me. I didn’t even stop to think there might be another reason. That’s the way it is when you are desperate.

I tried to fill my head with reminders of how courage had gotten many people, ordinary people like myself, through tragic situations, through dangerous times, moments of terror and shame. Why then, could I not be like them, those brave members of the wartime French Resistance, the survivors of holocausts, of terror camps? I was in my own personal terror camp. There was no one here to help, only myself, my own reminders of my mother, of what she would expect, of people out there, free people walking the streets, heading to work, out on the town for a night like the ones who came into my restaurant, of how my life was then and might be again, if only I could find the courage to overcome my fear, my imprisonment, my sadistic treatment. If only I could keep my sanity.

Being locked up is a frightening thing in itself; being alone and locked up is a form of hell; not knowing who is going to unlock that door and what will happen next … was unthinkable. I simply could not go there, I must live for the moment, whatever moments might remain to me.