Return to Sender (14 page)

Lin attacked the pile with a vengeance, mostly final bills from the remodeling. She wrote out a dozen checks, scribbled out a thank-you note to Jean Le Boeuf, a food critic from the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution,
and, lastly, wrote a hefty check covering another year for her father’s stay at the nursing home in Atlanta. With the hard mail, as she liked to call it, finished, she clicked on her computer to read her e-mail, checked the stock market, saw that it had taken a nosedive. Scrolling through her e-mail, she hoped there would be something from Will.

There were 226 e-mails, most of them spam. Nothing from Will, which disappointed her, but he’d only been away a little more than a month at this point. His weekly phone calls would have to suffice.

An e-mail from Jason Vinery caught her attention. She clicked on the link he’d sent, to the
Post.
Apparently, they’d issued something of a retraction, which had appeared in yesterday’s paper. Simply stated, it said the reporter who wrote the article had “misquoted his source.” Lin smiled. That was an understatement. In a personal e-mail he said as soon as his next “escapade” was safe to execute, he would call her. She clicked through a few other e-mails.

With nothing more at home needing her immediate attention, Lin grabbed a handful of grapes to eat on the drive to the diner and her purse. Thirty minutes later she was in the kitchen with Jack, going over the evening’s special.

“Jack, we just can’t have meat loaf every night of the week.”

In a gruff voice he said, “It worked for thirty years. I don’t see why it won’t work for another thirty.”

Dear Jack,
Lin thought. His meat loaf was to die for, but not every night of the week. Not wanting to hurt his feelings, she continued, “People are much more health conscious these days. We do the meat loaf on Wednesday. Customers look forward to that, but they also like a change, a surprise of sorts.”

Jack shook his balding head and threw his hands up in the air. “This younger generation amazes me! You want me to run the show, and when I try, you tell me all you want is fish and lettuce, nothing hearty that’ll stick to your bones, like my meat loaf and mashed potatoes. What do I know?”

Lin smiled, remembering her days as a waitress. Jack had pretended to be tough and mean, but he’d been such a softy. He’d always made her think of the animated Mr. Clean, with his bald head and stocky build. All these years later he was still trying to act like a hard-nosed grill cook, like the guy from the seventies sitcom
Alice.

“How about we compromise? Let’s do the meat loaf as a lunch special tomorrow.”

“Hey, you’re the boss. You do what you want. I’m just an old man.” Jack wiped his hands with a towel, then tucked it in the waist of his apron.

At seventy-five, Jack was anything but old. He could pass for a man of sixty, at most. He had stayed in shape after retiring by joining a gym and was the number one player on a senior tennis team. Irma had never looked or acted her age, either. Lin loved this about them, loved that they hadn’t withered away and died when they’d retired. The couple remained a bundle of energy.

“You’re not old, and you know it,” Lin teased. “I’m going to write the specials on the computer and print them out.” Impulsively, she gave the old guy a hug. He returned it with a hefty squeeze of his own.

Smiling, Jack propelled her out of his way. “Go on now. Do that menu thing you’re so fond of.”

Lin entered her private office, a small room off the back of the prep kitchen. The daily specials were printed out in a different font and color depending on the item. Salads, dark green, meats were different shades of brown and red. Cutesy, but it was just one of the little extras she enjoyed doing. Lin would insert them into leather menu holders, and the hostess would then place them on each table as the customers were seated.

Kelly Ann had done an excellent job when she’d booked the parties for New Year’s. Each guest’s menu was itemized right down to the color of candles they preferred. This wasn’t something that Jack’s would normally do, but Lin thought Kelly Ann smart for thinking of it and made a mental note to mention this to her. Lin made a list for the restaurant-supply specialty store: extra flatware, colored tablecloths, napkins. The food was next. After spending an hour organizing the food list in order of what could be purchased ahead of time and what would have to wait until the last minute, Lin stood up, stretching the kinks from her neck and back.

Taking the menus with the lunch and dinner specials to the hostess’s stand, Lin grinned when she saw Sally. “I knew you’d materialize sooner or later. After all, lazybones, you slept the entire day yesterday. Or, at least, you didn’t show up here.”

“Yeah, wild horses couldn’t keep me away. Actually, I would’ve been here earlier, but I stopped by Irma’s to check on Clovis. Irma swears he hasn’t journeyed out at night.” Sally laughed at the image. “I’m not sure I believe her. I think she’s just telling me that so I won’t worry about the old satyr.”

Lin stacked the menus beneath the hostess’s stand. “I’m sure he’s in good hands. You worry too much.”

“Me? Worry?” Sally rolled her eyes upward. “I don’t think so.”

“Nonsense. Here, help me wipe these down.” Lin handed her a tray of saltshakers and pepper mills, along with a clean, damp cloth. Making sure no one was around to overhear her, Lin took a step, closing the distance between them. “Jason sent me an e-mail. The
Post
printed a retraction yesterday. Something along the lines of their source being misquoted.”

“I’m surprised they did that,” Sally said. “Seems too easy.”

“I thought so, too. Remember, Nick’s a powerful man. I’m sure he has contacts all over the world. When I think of that, it scares the bejesus out of me. With his money and power, it would be easy for him to find me out. I’m not even sure I want to continue to…try to topple his tower.” Lin paused, waiting to see how her words affected Sally. “I don’t know if it’s even worth the time and effort.” She’d already invested thousands into bringing about his downfall, and she hadn’t even put a scratch on his empire, much less the man himself.

Sally took her arm, turning her so that they faced one another. “You don’t have to do this. This is a choice you made, and you can undo it. If you’re not comfortable continuing, you need to stop. No one knows about it, except for Jason. He’s certainly not going to reveal anything. Really, if you stop and think about it, you didn’t even
do
anything. Yes, he’s locked out of his personal bank accounts for a few days or weeks. Yes, his reputation might need a bit of polishing after that report in the paper. It will probably take a life-or-death experience to have an effect on him, so unless you’re willing to threaten him physically, I agree with you. It’ll take a lot more than Jason and our ‘pranks’ to hurt him.”

Lin felt as though the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. She could relax, look herself in the mirror without doubts and second thoughts. She knew what she had to do. So what if Nicholas Pemberton had skipped out on his duties as a parent? In all fairness to Will, he really hadn’t suffered because of this. She had. Though, if she admitted it, she’d become stronger, more capable, and probably the astute businesswoman she was today because of the situation. What she was about to do, she must do on her own. She had to let go and do things her own way.

She took a deep breath, smiled, and forced a feeling of light-heartedness. “I’m going to call Jason and tell him to forget it. It’s just not worth the time and the stress.”

“And don’t forget the money,” Sally added.

“How could I? You can’t stop reminding me!” Lin stacked the salts and peppers on the tray. “As I said, I could’ve spent that money on something useful. Like these chairs.” She nodded at the chairs placed throughout the main dining room. “Now Kelly Ann won’t have to work like a slave during the holidays. With the three of us here to help with the planning, the New Year’s parties and the Christmas parties will go off without a hitch. Help me put these on the tables. We’re opening in twenty minutes.”

They placed the saltshakers and pepper mills on the tables, made sure the silverware sparkled, the napkins were folded just right, and the water glasses glistened like platinum.

“I think we’re ready to unlock the doors. I’m glad we had this time to…reflect,” said Lin.

Sally laughed and hugged her. “Yeah, if you want to call what we’ve been doing ‘reflecting,’ then I think it’s the smartest ‘reflecting’ we’ve done all week.”

Lin paused, then announced, “I’m calling this off right now. Remember that old adage, ‘What goes around, comes around’? I’m sure it’ll catch up with Nick someday.”

She was positive that it would.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007
New York City

N
ick couldn’t wait to tell Chelsea his news. She wouldn’t like it, but tough.

“Herbert, I’ll be needing your services tonight. I plan to take Mrs. Pemberton out to dinner. To celebrate.” She wasn’t going to get rid of him that easily.

“That’s wonderful, sir. You haven’t been out in quite a while.”

Nick thought the old geezer would ask what it was he was going to celebrate, but he didn’t, so Nick explained. “Dr. Reeves told me I could taper back on the chemotherapy today. My red blood cells are almost back to normal. Platelets are normal. Hell, even my liver and spleen are good as new. No swelling, nothing.” Nick knew he’d whip the leukemia’s ass, just to prove he wasn’t a loser.

A smile crinkled Herbert’s already wrinkled face even more. “Congratulations, sir. That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”

“Indeed it is.”

Nick was still weak, the aftereffects of the treatment just as severe as before, but knowing he wouldn’t have to undergo another treatment for a month seemed to obliterate the nausea and the weakness he usually experienced afterward. He even felt hungry for the first time in weeks. Knowing that was most likely psychological, and he’d be as sick as ever, didn’t matter. It was simply a case of mind over matter. If he could keep going until he arrived home, he could rest before taking Chelsea out to dinner. He couldn’t wait to see the look on her face when he told her he was going to live, after all, if anything, just to spite her. The thought brought him immense pleasure.

Herbert pulled into the garage. Still very weak, Nick refused the man’s help getting to the elevator. He was a Pemberton, and Pembertons did not lose. At anything. Ever. It simply never occurred to him that there was a first time for everything.

Standing erect, he waited for the elevator doors to open. Inside the elevator, he slumped a bit, but as soon as the doors opened, he stood straight and tall. He was going to use his brain to help him conquer the disease. More mind over matter.

Entering through the kitchen, Nick nodded at Nora.

“How are you today, Mr. Pemberton?” she asked with genuine concern in her voice.

“I’m on the road to recovery, Nora, and thank you for asking.”

The short, squat woman raised her black eyebrows and smiled. “Wonderful news, sir. Just wonderful. Shall I make a pot of tea for when you’re settled in?”

“That would be wonderful. And maybe something sweet to go along with it.”

“Of course.” Nora smiled, thinking she had just the perfect dessert for him. She’d baked oatmeal raisin cookies just that morning.

Nick went to his suite of rooms. He was about to lie down when the first round of nausea hit him. Racing to the bathroom, he spent the next hour heaving. When he had regained his strength, he managed to crawl into the shower and let hot pelts of water beat against his thin, sallow skin. He managed to scrub the vomit off his face and wash his hair. Shaving took too much energy.

He slipped a pair of boxers on before climbing beneath the covers. He saw the pot of tea and cookies sitting on a tray. He drew in a deep breath. Just then the thought of putting anything in his mouth made him gag. So much for mind over matter.

After he relaxed for a while, his stomach calmed down enough for him to take small sips of tea. The cookies weren’t looking all that bad, either. He took one off the plate and bit into it.
Heaven,
he thought as he took another bite. Never having had much of a sweet tooth, he’d found since getting sick, he constantly had cravings for sweet desserts, cakes and pies. All the things he never ate. It was as though being ill had humanized him in a way he had never thought possible. Eating something that wasn’t beneficial to his health in the past had been something men much weaker than him would choose to do. His body had been strong, fit. He’d spent many hours in the gym making sure he remained in top form. And here he was now, like some schoolboy, getting excited about what was for dessert. It was the illness, he guessed. Probably the chemo made his body crave things it shouldn’t. Whatever the reason, no matter how he tried to rationalize it, if it was sweet, and he could keep it down, he would eat it.

Exhausted, but feeling much better, Nick decided to take Chelsea out, after all. He’d sip tea if he couldn’t eat. Besides, he needed to be out in the public eye. Places where he was usually seen. They’d go to the club.

He wasn’t dead yet.

Lin spent the morning and afternoon at the diner, then went home to change for the dinner crowd. While it wasn’t required, since Jack’s was casual dining, Lin believed that as the owner, she needed to stand out from the staff. In the evenings, when she saw she wasn’t being intrusive, Lin went to each table when her patrons were finished with their meal, spoke with them, and thanked them for their business. She liked the personal touch, and so did her customers. The last few hours were trying, but she managed to get through the evening without thinking about all the terrible lies she’d told.

And she was about to add a trail of lies to follow those. She remembered how her father used to tell her if you told one lie, then you had to tell another to cover that one up, and, before you knew it, you’d told so many lies, you couldn’t keep them straight. If this was his legacy to her, she was about to put it into action.

She’d worry about forgiveness later. Just like Scarlett, her idol.

It was after one when she returned home. Sally was too tired to stop in for their usual doughnuts and coffee. Lin was glad because she had plans to make. With Sally around, it would be impossible.

Lin put on a pot of coffee after changing into sweats and a T-shirt. She scrunched her hair on top of her head, using a plastic clip to secure it. She took her laptop to the kitchen and plugged it in. While she waited for the computer to boot up, she poured herself a cup of coffee. Telling herself she was being silly, she could not do what she was about to do in her home office. It seemed wrong, like a traitor had invaded her space. Why she thought the kitchen table a better place, she didn’t know. It felt more communal, less personal.

Clicking on her e-mail, she sent Jason Vinery a lengthy message. If his answer was as she expected, she would start formulating her plans immediately. If not, then she’d go to plan B. Whatever plan B was.

When she heard the familiar
ding
letting her know she had received an e-mail, Lin’s heart raced, and her palms were suddenly damp. The e-mail was from Jason. She read it, then read through it a second time. Yes! He’d agreed to her plans.

Feeling relieved, yet hyperexcited about her mission, Lin shut the computer down. Too wound up to sleep, she went outside. The night air was cool against her skin. She was glad for the warmth of her sweatshirt. She walked the length of the porch, glad that she’d spent the extra money. An extension of her home.

When she’d first imagined this house, she’d told the architects her dream and it had materialized. Her favorite area was the porch, which wrapped around the entire perimeter of the house. Lin spent as much time there as she did inside, weather permitting. She’d made the place homey and comfortable, with outdoor furniture with plump cushions, lots of colorful throw pillows. There were side tables with plants placed next to rocking chairs, and benches. Books and reading lamps sat next to her favorite chair for those wet days, when she loved nothing more than to hear the sound of rain pelting against the metal roof while reading one of her cherished mystery novels, an addiction she no longer tried to hide.

Lin had created her dream home. It hadn’t been easy, but it was hers, lock, stock, and barrel. No mortgage, no liens. She’d spent many sleepless nights wondering how she could afford such a costly investment, but she had saved and invested wisely throughout the years, and was able to swing the cost easily. Now that her dreams had come to fruition, she was about to jeopardize everything she’d worked for just to get even.

Relaxing in the old maple rocker she’d restored last summer, she tucked her feet beneath her. The old chair creaked as she teetered back and forth, its sound comforting, reassuring. Frogs, crickets, and the occasional nightingale enlivened the darkness. Their nighttime harmony complemented her mood, secretive and cunning. Lin sipped her cold coffee as she plotted. There were kinks in her plans, but between her and Jason, they’d work through them.

Hating to lie to her best friend, she justified doing so by telling herself it was for Sally’s benefit. She’d seen the look on her face on Friday, when Lin told her any future screwing around with Nick was over. The relief was Lin’s deciding factor. She cared about Sally too much to ask her to step up to the plate once again. Sally was right when she said it would take a life-or-death experience to even the score. Somehow, Lin was going to make that happen.

Lin had her work cut out for her. Knowing she’d need a clear head, she sat a while longer, rocking to the night sounds, before she finally got up and went inside to prepare for bed. Tomorrow would be here soon enough. Actually, tomorrow was already there. The sun just hadn’t risen.

“I truly don’t think you’re up for this,” Chelsea said as she climbed into the seat next to her husband. “You look awful, Nick, and I’m being kind when I say that.”

“It’s so nice to know that I can always count on you to cheer me up, I’ll give you that,” Nick snapped.

“You know what I mean. You’re as pale as a ghost, and you’ve lost so much weight, you look like a Holocaust victim. Someone has to tell you the truth,” Chelsea declared. “You really should stay home. Until you…uh…until you recover.”

“I told you I was celebrating. After all I’ve been through, I deserve this night out. It’s a reward to myself. If you’d like Herbert to take you home, that can be arranged.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to go home. You’re always trying to put words in my mouth. Of course I want to go with you to…to celebrate. I just think you look like…death warmed over.” Chelsea smiled, knowing she was raining on Nick’s parade. The bastard deserved it.

“I don’t know if I should slap you or forgive you your ignorance,” Nick commented dryly. Maybe bringing her along wasn’t such a good idea.

“I don’t think you want a repeat of the
Times
or the
Post.
Or maybe you do? Though I’m sure you wouldn’t get a retraction the second time around.” Chelsea observed her husband’s facial expression. “I guess the
Times
or the
Post
didn’t have much of a choice, since the very paper their crap is printed on was aboard one of your cargo ships. Lady Luck certainly watches over you, Nick. I have to give you that.”

“Shut up, Chelsea, or I’ll have Herbert take you home. This is supposed to be a celebration. For me. I know you’re not happy with the news, but I am. The least you can do is pretend you’re pleased.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t happy for you, Nick. You look sick. For the past six weeks you’ve been trying to convince everyone you’re not sick. If they see you now, they’ll know you’ve been lying to them. It’s that simple. Make what you want out of it.” She turned sullen and glared out the window.

Chelsea had a point, but no way in hell would he agree with her. “They can think what they want to think. They always do. When I live to be in my eighties like my father, I’ll have the last laugh.”

“Of course, you’re a Pemberton. How could I forget?”

Nick pushed the button opening the privacy window that separated the front and back of the Lincoln. “Herbert, please turn around. Mrs. Pemberton would like to go home.”

“I did not say that, Nicholas,” Chelsea retorted.

Herbert stopped for a traffic light. “Sir?”

Nick watched his wife. “Well? It’s your decision. I’m sick of listening to your stupidity.”

“Herbert, take us to the club,” Chelsea demanded.

The old man directed his gaze to Nick for confirmation. He nodded and closed the window.

Half an hour later the couple were ensconced at their private table at Manhattan’s ritzy Supper Club. Nick paid an enormous amount of money for the exclusivity. Privileged people with money only had to name their price. Nick’s father had confessed this to him once, when he was only seven years old. At least his father had been right about that. He could buy anything.

Nick smiled at the thought. Even his stupid wife. All he’d had to do to regain her loyalty, not that he needed it, was to reinstate her lines of credit and credit cards. It wouldn’t look good if one of Manhattan’s wealthiest women didn’t have the proper funding. A few weeks’ torture had been enough for both of them.

The waiter took their orders, then quickly disappeared. The staff was as discreet as the nonexistent prices on the menu. Chelsea ordered rare prime rib. Her aversion to red meat during the early days of her pregnancy had ceased soon after the night she had snared Nick. Two drinks later, the waiter returned with their food. Nick’s stomach clenched when he saw the red blood dripping from the prime rib on Chelsea’s plate. He had ordered a bowl of lobster bisque but hadn’t been able to bring himself to try it. The smell of seafood suddenly sickened him.

He stared at Chelsea as she forked a bite of the nearly raw meat. He wasn’t sure he could contain himself. Quickly excusing himself, he headed to the men’s room, where he emptied what remained in his stomach.
Son of a bitch! I should’ve stayed home. Deep breaths and mind over matter,
he told himself.

As he made his way back to the table, he spied Albert Fine, senior vice president of Chase Manhattan Bank. Nick squared his shoulders and plastered a smile on his face.

“Albert, I haven’t seen you around Wall Street lately. What gives?” Nick cajoled the moneyed man.

Albert Fine was tall and thin. His skin matched the color of Nick’s, though Nick knew his unnatural pallor wasn’t from an illness. The man spent so much of his time making billions, he probably hadn’t seen sunlight in years. Thinning gray hair barely covered the brown and purple spots that dotted his head.

“Nick, old boy. Where have you been? Word’s out that you’d died and gone straight to hell.” Albert smiled as he said this, but Nick saw the question in his gaze as he scrutinized him.