Authors: Gabriella Pierce
666 Park Avenue (14 page)
“P
eople are mingling, and she looks happy!
” A
rchie trilled
into Jane’s ear that evening before rushing off to greet the latest arrival. He didn’t bother to explain who “she” was, but considering the way his eyes had been darting to Lynne every three seconds for the last hour, Jane had a pretty good guess.
Jane smiled as she glanced around the Modern, which had been transformed from an upscale restaurant into a chic lounge for the Dorans’ cocktail party, and congratulated herself on a job well done. She had gone with an all-black theme, and the only sources of light came from wall sconces and floor lights cunningly shielded under black leather sofas. The darkness of the room stood in sharp contrast to the dramatically lit sculpture garden just outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, lending an overall effect of being “in the audience” while the art took center stage.
The only
really
well-lit space, per Jane’s orders, was the ornate and well-stocked bar, which was an exception that the immaculately dressed guests clearly appreciated—especially Mr. Doran.
“I second Archie. This is awesome. And on your very first try!” Maeve played with the sterling swizzle-stick in her Manhattan. Jane eyed the amber-colored drink with suspicion after last night’s foray into the wide world of hard liquor. Eighteen hours later, her tongue still felt a little sandy.
Jane smiled a thank-you and sipped at her own, safer choice: chardonnay. Unfortunately, that was hardly much of an improvement, as associations went. An unusually large number of the bar’s wines, as the sommelier had proudly informed her, came from within an hour of Saint-Croix-sur-Amaury. “Alsatian wines are our specialty,” he declared happily just before quizzing her on the region’s average rainfall for every year of her childhood.
Jane’s party smile, already shaky at the reminder of her grandmother, fell from her lips entirely when she saw Harris Montague striding purposefully toward them. “Hey, can I try some of that?” she asked Maeve desperately, reaching for the Manhattan without waiting for an answer. It had an unexpected bitter undercurrent, but was smooth and rich and provided just enough of a kick against the back of her throat to allow her to meet Harris’s dancing green eyes without flinching.
“Hi there,” she chirped with only a tiny bit too much enthusiasm as he gave his sister a quick peck on the cheek. He hesitated for a moment, and then kissed Jane as well.
A friendly kiss,
she reassured herself.
Practically brotherly.
She sipped at her wine again to cool the sudden flush creeping up her cheeks.
At this rate I’ll be dancing on the bar by midnight,
her mind scolded, but the flush—which was beginning to creep ominously downward, too—convinced her that some things just couldn’t be helped.
She tried glancing casually around the room, but she had barely gotten a quarter of the way before she had to stop and fret. Lynne’s cousin Belinda—or was it Cora who was wearing green tonight?—was staring fixedly at her from a dark corner.
A problem already? The party’s just started.
Jane moved instinctively toward whichever twin it was, to see what she wanted, but the woman snapped her head away as soon as Jane began to walk.
Rude like Belinda, but I’m almost positive it’s Cora.
Jane frowned. Either way, Lynne’s silver-haired cousin didn’t seem to want her attention after all. She turned back to the Montagues instead, no less flustered than she had been before.
“Are you here as part of the advance guard, or has the family arrived?” Harris asked casually, appearing not to notice Jane’s momentary awkwardness.
“All three branches.” Maeve frowned into her drink.
“Except for Malcolm,” Jane pointed out, unsure of exactly how she felt about that. Malcolm hadn’t so much as called since he had explained about his secret brother the previous night. She had hoped that he would at least show up to support her in her event-planning debut, but there was a growing part of her that didn’t fully expect it. But how could she sort all of that out and condense it into cocktail-party banter—especially with Harris’s amazingly vivid eyes locked on her?
“So
this
is where you’re hiding, dear,” an all-too-familiar voice purred, and Lynne appeared out of the shadows at Jane’s elbow. Her frosty peach smile excluded the Montagues entirely.
Should’ve gone with a brighter theme,
Jane mentally kicked herself.
Or handed out belled collars at the door.
Lynne’s bony hand closed around her arm and began to tug. “Come along. You can’t just
stand
here, there are people you need to talk to.”
Jane shot a desperate look over her shoulder at the only two people at the party she
wanted
to talk to, but they shot her matching helpless shrugs. Jane could hardly blame them. So she smiled and shook hands and made small talk for what felt like hours until Lynne got distracted enough that she could slip back to her friends, whose coppery-red curls stood out like beacons even in the low light.
While Harris teased Maeve about her stockbroker from the previous night (who had a penthouse in the Financial District and, apparently, a foot fetish), Jane glanced around the room again. She smiled automatically at the mayor’s wife, who was chatting animatedly with a Kennedy-in-law. Altogether about a hundred people gossiped over cocktails. She had never met most of them in real life before, although some of them had made the news even over in France once or twice. She counted the faces she had seen in photographs, matching names to them in her head.
As she looked, Malcolm’s dark-gold waves jumped out from the crowd.
Finally.
Until she saw him, she hadn’t been able to admit just how much she’d hoped that he would show up, or just how worried she had been that he wouldn’t. But the sight of him across the room made her limbs feel numb, and she ached to be closer to him . . . preferably alone. She started almost involuntarily toward him, but a moment later realized that he was talking with his mother, and neither of them looked particularly pleased with the conversation. Lynne’s eyes flicked up and locked on Jane’s. Snagged, Jane threw what she hoped was a casual wave and turned in the opposite direction.
Good God, this is a night that calls for a cigarette.
At least the cold snap had broken, even if the reprieve was temporary. Parisian winters were much milder than New York ones, but tonight Jane could at least handle the sculpture garden for five minutes. Maybe the chill would even help to clear her head. She excused herself from Maeve and Harris, and made a break for the door.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of blue and realized that Belinda Helding was moving on a converging path with her. As her sister had earlier, the old woman turned her head firmly away, but not quickly enough to hide the fact that she’d been staring.
Watching.
Just then, Malcolm’s voice rang out over the muted hum of conversation around them.
“Don’t
tell
me what I saw!” he shouted. Every head in the room turned to stare at Malcolm, who was glaring at his mother but pointing squarely at Belinda Helding. She seemed frozen in place, and a quick glance to the other side of the room revealed a green-clad Cora McCarroll in much the same posture.
Lynne didn’t flinch before calmly removing her son’s martini glass from his clenched fist. “I think that you’ve had about enough to drink, Malcolm,” she announced in a voice low enough to sound like an attempt at privacy, but loud enough to carry in the now deathly quiet room.
Malcolm looked around, bewildered, as he seemed to finally notice that every eye was on him . . . almost all of them, anyway. Jane would have bet anything that at least one of the twins was still watching her, and she instinctively kept her face expressionless.
Lynne held the glass out at arm’s length, and a terrified-looking waiter appeared to whisk it away just a split second before she let it drop. “Yuri’s out front. He’ll come back for us later. I’ll call ahead and make sure there’s coffee on.” The words were maternal, but the tone was one of emotionless command.
Malcolm spun on his heel—quite steadily, Jane noticed—and stalked out of the party without another word. The low hum of chatter began again, and Jane felt more than just the three pairs of eyes on her now.
Who wouldn’t stare,
she wondered,
after a TMZ-worthy scene like that?
She wanted to follow Malcolm and make sure that he was all right—and, admittedly, ask some questions as well—but she worried about making his exit seem even more dramatic than it had been already. And . . . would he even
want
to see her, or would he just blow her off again? Did she really want to find out?
While Jane wavered, Maeve stepped directly in front of her, her brown eyes hard. “They were watching you,” she murmured, her voice so low that Jane could barely hear it. “They don’t trust you. And Malcolm was angry.”
Jane seriously considered snapping at her friend to go away. She really didn’t need a recap of the last thirty seconds; she needed a Perfectly Rational Explanation. She had taken about as much cryptic behavior as she could stand, and it was getting exhausting. To her horror, Jane felt herself actually beginning to sway in her strappy silver sandals, and she decided that anger at Maeve was energy she really couldn’t spare at the moment.
Tears welled up, stinging her eyes, and she grimaced. Smeared mascara would be the icing on a night like this one. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt so much like an outsider in my life,” she whispered. “I don’t know what they want from me.”
Maeve stared at her for a long moment, her eyes searching. Finally they went wide. “You really don’t have any idea,” she whispered, looking absolutely stunned. Jane shook her head and shrugged, trying harder than ever not to cry. Maeve’s lips pressed into a thin line, and her eyes blazed with sudden determination. She opened her mouth to speak, but the voice that cut the air between them wasn’t hers.
“Jane!” Maeve flinched and Jane whirled to find Lynne towering over her. Lynne was staring furiously at Maeve, but as she spoke to Jane, her voice regained its usual thrumming softness. “There are more people you need to meet, dear,” she said, her eyes never leaving Maeve’s face. Under her light dusting of freckles, Maeve looked pale and shaken.
Jane wanted to grab Maeve and yell, “What don’t I know?” But Lynne’s hand clamped down firmly on Jane’s arm, and there was nothing Jane could do but follow her mother-in-law-to-be back into the crowd.
U
nder
L
ynne’s watchful eye,
J
ane gritted her teeth and
chatted with Ben Jameson (the up-and-coming state senator), Sandy Kovanski (the new
Times
’ food critic), and his wife, Bethany (who was from one of the oldest families in New York). During Samuel Robero, Esquire’s, seemingly endless description of pending legislation to allow for prosecuting corporate whistle-blowers, Jane thought that she glimpsed Maeve outside in the sculpture garden. But the door felt impossibly far away, especially with Lynne at her side, apparently hell-bent on dragging out each conversation for as long as humanly possible before steering Jane toward the next one.
Lynne had had a point at that first lunch, Jane realized: being a Doran was downright exhausting. She could already feel that she would wake up drained and empty the next morning; an afternoon of calling caterers for April’s ASPCA-looza would be about all she could handle. However irritated she was at Lynne, Jane was forced to grudgingly admire the woman. She took her role as matriarch incredibly seriously, and watching her face round after round of inane socializing with unflagging intensity was kind of impressive.
Finally, while Kathleen Houck (heiress to a pharmaceutical fortune) was happily comparing the merits of various hybrid car models, Jane felt Lynne draw silently away from their little circle.
I guess she thinks I finally have the hang of it?
But Jane had no interest in continuing her slow circuit of the room. She counted to twenty in her head, and then excused herself: it was long past time to find Maeve.
Jane had accumulated so many questions during her three weeks in New York that she wasn’t entirely sure what she was expecting to hear. The night, the Dorans themselves, was like a strange scattering of puzzle pieces, and she had a feeling that Maeve could make sense of the larger picture.
She headed purposefully to the sculpture garden, but the fierce crop of red curls was conspicuously absent from the clusters of guests scattered around. Jane began to work her way systematically back around the room, but the closest thing she found to Maeve was Harris.
It’s a start,
she decided, and had begun to stride toward him when she spotted Maeve at last, walking smoothly out through the front door.
So I didn’t get an explanation, and now I don’t even get a good-bye?
Jane frowned, stung. Maeve’s retreating form looked frail and fragile in her emerald-green cocktail dress. Watching her elfin frame, Jane realized abruptly that Maeve hadn’t just skipped her good-byes: she had also bypassed the coat check. Unseasonably warm or not, it was still near eleven o’clock in January, and Maeve would freeze with nothing between her and the cold but a thin layer of charmeuse.
“Maeve, wait!” Jane hurried for the door, accidentally bumping into someone’s rum-and-Coke along the way. She heard an exclamation as the dark liquid spilled in her wake, but she barely registered the commotion. The short hallway that separated the door from the lobby was empty and dark, but Jane caught sight of Maeve as she drifted outside. She glowed like a torch on the sidewalk, the streetlamps reflecting off her creamy skin. Maeve didn’t seem to notice the cold at all; in fact, she was walking slowly toward the street, arms relaxed at her sides. Was she drunk?
That was when Jane noticed another woman—very tall, wearing a smart brown sheath—standing just outside the streetlamp’s circle of light.
Lynne.
She had left the party to . . . stand outside the museum in the cold? Jane hesitated in the lobby, confused. It made an odd tableau: two women in cocktail-wear in the middle of the night on a deserted street.
Not deserted, exactly.
The light at the corner winked green and a cadre of cars started toward the museum. As Jane waited for Maeve to raise her arm to hail a cab, an odd tingling stirred the fine hairs on her bare arms, as if millions of tiny electric shocks were bouncing through her veins, rooting Jane to her spot on the marble floor. She could see Lynne’s lips moving. The sound didn’t reach her, but she could see that Lynne was staring at Maeve with a malevolent intensity. In the darkness, her eyes looked like twin tar-pits, black and bottomless. Then Jane felt another surge of electricity dance through her blood as Maeve, arms still at her sides, stepped off the curb into oncoming traffic.
“Maeve, stop!” Jane shouted. Her limbs finally sprung to life and she launched herself outside. “Maeve!”
But her friend just continued out into the middle of the street, her glossy black pumps tapping distinctly over the roar of approaching traffic.
“Stop,”
Jane screamed again.
Maeve paused in the middle of the walkway, looking luminous, fragile, and, apparently, completely invisible to the driver of the taxi bearing down on her.
Screams rent the air as Maeve folded against the bumper of the car like a piece of tissue paper. Her body slid limply across the hood before striking the ground with a dull thud. It was only then that Jane heard the screeching of brakes and several loud blows of horns.
Too late.
Her thoughts felt slow, disconnected.
Way, way too late.
Women shrieked, men bellowed, and the entire cocktail party spilled outside. Harris shoved past Jane as he ran toward his sister’s collapsed form. She followed him numbly, sidestepping the driver, who was shaking and babbling beside his taxi as if those two tons of metal had driven into Maeve of their own volition.
“She’s breathing, thank God,” Harris cried, his cell phone in his hand before Jane fully registered his words. In the beat before his call connected, he looked up and saw Jane hovering over him. “Get a doctor,” he snapped coldly, and then turned away to give their location to the 911 operator.
Jane stumbled back to the crowd of dazed-looking partygoers milling around in front of the museum. Her carefully crafted guest list swam in front of her mind’s eye.
There was Dr. Headly-Kim, and Dr. Tamez, and Dr. Wilson, but I’m pretty sure his PhD was in something like politics.
“She needs a doctor,” Jane croaked as loudly as she could, and was relieved to see a stocky man, bald head shining under the streetlamp, remove his tuxedo jacket and move toward the Montagues purposefully. Maeve lay perfectly, painfully still, and that immobility brought Jane back to the moments before the accident.
Lynne.
Wind whipped around her bare shoulders and the wail of sirens zoomed closer and closer. She couldn’t see the tall woman anywhere in the crowd. She realized belatedly that she didn’t remember passing Lynne when she had run out to the curb. It was as if Lynne had vanished clear off the sidewalk. But that was impossible . . . right?
Jane’s blood hummed through her veins and her silver ring vibrated on her finger, and suddenly she knew exactly what Maeve had been ready to tell her back at the party.
And that Lynne had been prepared to kill Maeve to keep her from doing just that.