Fall from Grace (19 page)

Slowly turning, Glazer stared at him. “Be careful where you go with this, Adam.”

“Meaning?”

“You’ve drawn a target on Ms. Pacelli’s forehead. But if your father was afraid, so was your mother—of Ben, and his new lover. Clarice survives by compartmentalizing. That stopped working with Carla Pacelli.” Glazer drew a breath, speaking gently but succinctly. “Imagine how much she frightened your mother. All the property was Ben’s. What if he decided to spend his golden years seeking youth in the bed of this new woman? Not some anonymous arm piece, but a celebrity in her own right who, despite her public downfall, seems to have considerable resilience. Clarice couldn’t just wish her away.”

With willful calm, Adam asked, “And so?”

Glazer fell quiet, and then answered with palpable reluctance. “Your mother may not be quite as hard as Ben was. But she may be tougher than you think, and her instinct for self-preservation much keener. She’d invested a lifetime in preserving her identity as Mrs. Benjamin Blaine. Imagine the void she saw opening up before her. The most unlikely people, if desperate enough, can muster an astonishing resourcefulness and force of will, and a depth of hatred few who know them can imagine. Even your mother.”

Or brother, Adam thought. But he could not speak of Teddy. With an edge in his voice, he said, “What are you saying, precisely?”

“Just that. Your father had a gift for creating hatred within any family he was part of—first in his brother, then in his wife and sons. As a matter of literal fact, you’re the only one who couldn’t have pushed him off that cliff.” Glazer held up his hand, willing Adam to listen. “Instead, you’re still competing with him, just like you did that final summer. No matter where it leads.”

“That’s a little deep for me, Charlie. No one in my family killed him. And all I’m trying to do is get their money back.”

Glazer shook his head. “Too deep for you?” he repeated. “I doubt it. So tell me this—why did you sail against him all those summers ago, knowing he cherished the Herreshoff Cup as much as any woman. And what price did you end up paying?”

Ten years later, Adam knew, the fateful skein of cause and effect still tormented him. With feigned carelessness, he answered, “Sometimes a cigar is only a cigar, and a trophy only a trophy. There’s less to it than you think. But for whatever it’s worth, our final test of wills started with a game of golf.”

As with anything involving nerves and sinews, Ben Blaine was a natural at the sport. Born without privilege, he had picked up the game late. But within a year, and without lessons, he had mastered the subtle nuances of swinging a golf club that most men found counterintuitive. And as in all else physical save firing a gun, he had passed those skills on to Adam.

Beginning in the summer of Adam’s sixth year, Ben had gotten him up before dawn, spending hours on the practice tee at Farm Neck. No golf pro gave him lessons; in Ben’s eyes, no tutor but he would do. No detail of Adam’s swing was too minute; no choice of strategy on the course beyond challenge. By the time Adam was fifteen, he, like Ben, shot close to par. The lead in any given round went back and forth between them; if victory lay in the balance, they played the eighteenth hole in taut near silence. Ben had created his own rival.

This was true on the final hole they ever played. It was just before the summer solstice. Adam was twenty-three, and they had not resumed their running battle in several months. Ben’s drives were a few yards shorter, Adam noticed, his swing a bit less fluid. But on the eighteenth hole, with the two men tied, Ben uncorked an epic drive that propelled the ball ten yards past his son’s.

Smiling to himself, Ben said nothing as they strode down the fairway.

They had started the round at six; it was not yet ten. The morning sun left a sheen on the pond guarding the green, still two hundred yards distant. Or, for Adam, a little farther.

Hands on hips, Adam considered his choices, then the man he planned to defeat. The tactics were simple enough—Adam could hit the ball safely short, hoping to follow with a chip shot near the hole. Or, far more risky, he could try to attack the pin with the 3-wood shot of his life and, should he carry the water, dare his father to follow. That was where his bone-deep knowledge of Ben led him. In golf, as in writing, his father took risks; perhaps he had yet to face the fact that in six months’ time his son’s strength had surpassed his own.

Without glancing at his father, Adam took the 3 wood from his bag.

Addressing the ball, he felt Ben watch intently, grasping the choice his son had made. Then Adam cleared his mind of any thought but the mechanics of a flawless swing, any image but the red flag that flapped above his target. As he raised his club in one fluid motion, twisting sideways as his father had taught him, Adam’s eyes remained fixed on the white ball.

His downward swing was vicious yet smooth. The club head as it struck the ball produced the hollow sound of a perfect shot, and the follow-through raised Adam to the tips of his toes without throwing him off-balance. Only then did he watch the ball in flight.

It rose like a laser, becoming a dot against the horizon of grass and sky as it strained to cross the pond. Taut, Adam watched it descend, drawing slightly, unsure of whether it could reach the other side. A matter of feet or inches.

No splash. The ball bounced just clear of the water, kicking in the air, then dribbled onto the green. Adam watched it die ten feet from the pin.

Neither man said anything.

After a moment, Ben took out a 3 wood. Closely, Adam watched him, like a cat eyeing its quarry. His father’s first practice swing was too savage for total accuracy; his second, smoother and more confident, bespoke his self-control, the mental toughness of a born competitor. As Ben stood over the ball, Adam watched him marshal his strength of mind and body. His downward swing was much like Adam imagined his own, a smooth but strong uncoiling.

But not quite.

The ball rose a little higher, and its downward arc began a hair sooner. The fateful splash, perhaps a foot from the bank, marked Ben Blaine’s defeat.

He stood there, motionless, his face without expression.

After a moment, Adam approached him, then placed a consoling hand on Ben’s shoulder. “You’re fifty-five,” he said in a solicitous tone. “You’re supposed to lose strength, and gain wisdom. A wise man would have played it safe.”

Ben barely smiled. In his eyes Adam read the awareness of time, the first faint shadow of mortality. “A wise man,” he answered coolly, “knows the grace of silence. Too bad you don’t have your own boat. We could see how you’d do on the water.”

Glazer listened intently. Without smiling, he said, “Beware of what you wish for. He forgot buying Jack that Herreshoff.”

Lost in memory, Adam stared out at the windy sweep of Menemsha Pond, saying nothing.

“Why don’t you stick around,” Glazer suggested after a moment. “Rose and I have enough salmon for three.”

Adam glanced at his watch. “Thanks,” he said. “But I’ve already got dinner plans, with someone I’ve been avoiding. Seems like it’s time.”

Eleven

When Adam entered Atria restaurant, pausing on the screened porch surrounding the main dining room, Carla Pacelli was already there. At first she did not notice him; seated by a window, she looked out at the side garden with a reflective smile, watching a small boy and girl play on a swinging chair suspended from a willow tree. She wore little makeup, Adam noticed, and a loose, flowing dress that concealed, rather than accented, what he knew to be a remarkable figure. He paused, hands in his pockets, until she noticed him. The instant of wariness in her eyes was succeeded by another smile, this one suggesting curiosity and a hint of welcome. Then she stood, extending a warm, dry hand.

“You surprised me,” she said.

“By being early?”

“By inviting me here at all,” she said as he sat across from her. “Being early is ingrained in me. I went to UCLA on a scholarship, with no money or margin for error. So I never missed a class. When I entered the business, I was determined to make every audition on time, or be on the set at whatever ungodly hour they wanted.” She gave a fleeting ironic smile. “I was the most reliable, least temperamental actress in Los Angeles. Until I wasn’t.”

As before, her voice, familiar from television, underscored for Adam the strangeness of encountering her. But she seemed bent on reducing their awkwardness; from what he understood of celebrities, including his father, one technique was offering up small pieces of themselves, self-flattering but not deeply revealing. Then their waitress, a young woman in her twenties, reminded Adam of the detriments of being, as Ben had put it, “face famous.” “I just have to tell you,” she told Carla, “how much I loved your show.”

Carla smiled. “I’m glad you did.”

The young woman hesitated, encouraged. “You’re so much more beautiful in person. Do people tell you that?”

A hint of amusement danced in Carla’s brown eyes. “That’s nice of you,” she said pleasantly, and then ordered a mineral water before Adam requested scotch. When the waitress left, Carla remarked, “I’ve never known how to take that particular compliment. On the one hand, she could be saying I look surprisingly good for a drugged-out has-been. On the other hand, she could mean that every Monday night I looked like hell—which, by the end, was true. I guess I can take my pick.”

“What would my father have said? I wonder.”

The light in Carla’s eyes dimmed. “I’m not brain-dead,” she said bluntly. “I understand that you’re her son. But you’re also the son of a man I cared for deeply. Whatever your motives, and however you must feel about me, I’d never have refused to see you. So let’s make the best of this.”

“You weren’t afraid to come?”

Carla shook her head. “I’m not afraid of you, if that’s what you’re asking. And the truth about Ben and me won’t change, whether I’m in court or we’re having dinner.” Carla hesitated, looking directly into his eyes. “Besides, you’re the only member of your family I can be certain didn’t murder him. That gives us more in common.”

This remarkable statement left Adam without words: if this woman knew how Ben had died, she was not simply a gifted actress, but utterly without nerves. “My other reason,” she continued in the same level tone, “concerns your mother. As I already told you, Ben’s bequest was a complete surprise to me. But just this morning I found out about the postnuptial agreement, and that she has no money of her own. All along, I thought she was born into wealth. I never dreamed Ben would leave her with nothing.”

Adam gave her a sharp, skeptical look. “No? Then that’s something else we have in common. Though I feel much more strongly about it than you do.”

“I’m sure you do,” Carla said calmly. “But this morning I felt sick to my stomach. I don’t like being in this position, and didn’t need for Ben to put me here.”

“So give up the money,” Adam rejoined.

Carla met his eyes. “That’s for the lawyers, and it’s not as simple as you think. For now, let’s leave it there, all right?”

He could not shake her self-possession, Adam saw. But beneath this he sensed a watchfulness. Part of her agenda, he felt sure, involved assessing the man who might stand between her and ten million dollars. Abruptly, she asked, “So what is it you want from me? Other than to renounce Ben’s gift and vanish from this island forever.”

It was best to keep her talking, Adam judged. “Maybe you can satisfy my curiosity. Beyond money, what did you see in him?”

Carla sipped her mineral water. “A different man than you saw, I’d imagine.”

“Maybe we just have different standards. Or different needs.”

A corner of her mouth upturned in a puzzled smile that did not change the coolness in her eyes. “You really did hate him, didn’t you? Would you mind telling me why?”

“I would, actually.”

Carla seemed to inhale. “Then I’ll tell you why I was so drawn to him and what, by the end, Ben meant to me. Assuming you can stand to listen.”

Adam took a swallow of scotch. “Try me.”

Carla hesitated. “At the risk of sounding self-absorbed, the story starts with me. Or, more accurately, the person I was before I met him—or wasn’t. Stop me if you’re bored.”

“I doubt I will be,” Adam said crisply. “Go ahead.”

“All right. I got out of UCLA at twenty-two, with a major in drama, a minor in psychology, and not much life experience beyond working pretty damned hard to get there. For the next four years I kept on like the Energizer Bunny—failed auditions, failed relationships, aborted movie projects, pilots no one wanted. All I could think to do, like your father told me he did, is keep striving to become the person I imagined—an actress people cared about.” Her voice became rueful. “And then, before I could absorb what had happened, I became the lead in Deep Cover.”

“More than the lead. As I recall it, you were in every scene.”

Carla laughed in surprise. “You actually watched it?”

“A few times. Not for you, of course. I consider myself a scholar of espionage.”

Her eyes glinted with amusement. “Then I guess it escaped you that we were all about cleavage.”

All at once, imagining himself as Ben, Adam grasped what his father must have found appealing—not just her appearance but a keen intelligence accented by humor and vitality. “True enough,” he said. “I’m one of those guys who reads Playboy for the articles.”

“Don’t they all? Anyhow, despite the fact that I was the centerpiece of a male fantasy, I found myself nominated for an Emmy, then another. People kept on watching; I kept filming season after season, shooting thirty shows a year while transitioning into movies during the summer hiatus. First, a gross-out film where I played the unattainable love object, then an okay romantic comedy—”

“As the Romans Do. I remember it.”

She gave him a mock-incredulous look. “You saw that, too.”

“On an airplane to Karachi. It was a very long flight.”

“It must have been. But at least you could get off in Karachi.” Her smile faded. “I was working all the time, trying to become the great actress of my generation. But I was living life in the third person. The real Carla was like a gerbil on a wheel, becoming even more lonely and anxious, yet going faster all the time. And so the gerbil started needing stimulants.”