Heart of the Country (4 page)

5

I
STOOD LOOKING
at it for a long time, hardly able to tear my gaze away, though all the excitement of the New York social scene was behind me. Music thumped in my ears and conversations tickled them, but all was drowned out by this single, simple painting.

A bump against my shoulder caused me to turn. My friend Maria grinned wildly at me, the thrill of people and power evident in her soft-brown eyes. Her hair, spectacularly elegant with shiny curls bouncing lightly around her face, was outdone only by her magnetic, gleaming smile.

“This is amazing!” she said, managing her typically high-pitched voice. “Did you see? Graham Deveroe is here!” Her
excitement faded as she looked at me. “Of course you didn’t see. You’ve been staring at this dumb painting, haven’t you?”

“Dumb? It’s brilliant. It’s impressionistic,” I said, ignoring her skeptical eyebrows. “It’s layer upon layer of every kind of yellow under the sun.”

“The sun? Every kid paints a sun. How hard is that? But it’s lopsided. And that’s one thing the sun is not. Lopsided.”

“It’s not
the
sun. Maybe it’s the interpretation of our spirits.”

“My spirit isn’t yellow.” She gestured toward the painting. “It’s a smiley face without the smile. My vote is actually for mustard gone wild.”

I studied it for a moment. “It’s pure delight, imagined by the genius painter Ramsey Selles.”

“Oh, brother. It’s
a
sun, reimagined by a guy who has probably also done disservices to the ocean and possibly the moon.”

“I really wish you got art.”

“I do. In the form of men. See that one over there? Dark haired, brooding, perfectly proportioned? I’ve had my eye on him since I walked in the door.” She wrapped her arm through mine. “Too bad you’re already married to the very rich and highly independent prince of popularity and prosperity.”

I turned her to face the painting. “I like it. It’s striking. You wouldn’t miss it in a room, that’s for sure.”

“You cannot buy that and put it on your wall.”

“I think my living room would never be the same.”

“Yes, because no one would ever visit you again.”

“Think bold.”

“I’ll just think taste. How’s that?”

I wanted to admire the painting more, but I felt him in the room. I always did. He was like a magnet. I turned and he was breezing toward us. The suit jacket parted as he walked. He was wearing the tie that I bought him. I loved to watch him walk. He had a confidence that I always wished I had.

Luke touched my arm as he flashed the smile that had probably brought him as much success as his mind for business. I still liked his touch, and I liked that he was mine.

“Ladies.” He pecked me on the cheek and looked at Maria. “How much of my money has she spent?”

Maria, always with a drink in one hand and an agenda in the other, as Luke put it, rolled her eyes as she sipped her martini. “It’s not your money. It’s your dignity she’s destroying.”

“I didn’t know I had any of that left,” he said, grinning at me.

I wrapped my arms around him. “It’s important to cherish what you have, not crave what you don’t.”

“See that?” He pointed at me with a large gesture. “Love of my life, mother of my future babies right here.” I noticed him notice someone in the crowd. His eyes grew intense and focused. He patted Maria on the shoulder as he started to walk off. “Watch my wallet?”

Her finger traced her glass. “Don’t look at me. Graham Deveroe is here. I’ve got better things to do.”

“Happy hunting!” I said to Luke, then returned my
attention to the painting. “He’s tracking down a two-billion-dollar pension fund for a big buy-in. The CFO is here.”

“Nice. Close that and you’ll have a place big enough to hide that hideous painting.”

Before long, a man with elegant movements and theatrical eyes approached us, slipping up beside me almost unnoticed. “Brilliant, isn’t it?”

“I love it. I have to have it.”

“Allow me to help you. Give me a moment to check on the price
 
—”

“No need. I’ll take it.”

“Yes, Mrs. Carraday. Thank you.”

“Wow, must be nice,” Maria sighed. “I must find my own Luke.”

I glanced sideways at her. “Marriage isn’t all bliss, you know.”

“Oh, really?”

I grinned. “Okay, 99 percent of the time it is.”

“I knew it. You guys are the fairy tale, aren’t you?”

I grabbed a drink off a passing tray. “I love that man. All the perks are worth nothing unless you have trust and love.”

“You’re coming up on the four-year itch.”

“It’s the seven-year itch.”

“Not by New York socialite standards.”

“I’m not a socialite.”

“I know, and it drives me crazy. Embrace your role, woman!”

I laughed. “Maria, we really must find you a rich man to cater to your every need.”

“Believe me, I’ve tried. Your method doesn’t work for me.”

“My method?”

“You know, sitting at a bar looking lonely and miserable. It’s like you were catnip to his inner feline. How does that attract a guy?”

I smiled, remembering the day I first laid eyes on him. I was at a party that Maria had dragged me to, wishing I were anywhere else, when he sat next to me at the bar. I figured I’d get the usual “Can I buy you a drink?” line, but instead he bemoaned having to be there. “You look like I feel” was his pickup line. Soon after, he managed to get me to the outdoor patio on the roof. Two hours went by in five minutes, it seemed.

We left tonight’s party early, much to Maria’s dismay. When we got home, he poured us wine and I observed him. I couldn’t imagine we’d ever have that seven-year itch Maria talked about.

We sat on our lavish couch, staring at the yellow painting leaning against the wall above our mantel. I could tell Luke loathed it. His face clouded over as he saw it. His mood hadn’t been good since we returned home.

I was still engrossed in the painting when I heard the pop of a wine bottle. “Another one?” I asked as he returned to the couch.

“This could be a three-bottle night.”

“Did something go wrong at the party?”

“This is good,” he said, leaning forward, pretending to engage the painting as he quickly sipped his wine.

“Is that the California cab we bought yesterday? Luke, that was supposed to be for the party tomorrow night.”

“Why waste it on our friends?” He grinned, and I felt a little relief. At least he still had his sense of humor.

“You’re bad,” I said, toasting him.

“Am I?”

“Very.”

I raised my glass to the painting, then sighed and put it down. “It’s too much for the living room, isn’t it?”

“It’s horrible.”

“Come on, let’s move it.”

“To the trash?”

“No,” I said, elbowing him in the ribs. “Let’s try the bedroom.”

“Now?”

“I can’t let you sit around and pout all night about this painting.”

“I like pouting.”

“I know you do,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “Come on.”

We lifted the painting off the wall. “This is soooo heavy!” he said.

“I told you that you should be going to the Pilates class with me.”

“Very funny.”

We managed it into the bedroom. Luke took down the
picture that hung over the fireplace and I got the stepladder. Together we lifted it and got it hung. I adjusted it so it was perfectly straight.

Luke kicked his shoes off and fell onto the bed. “Maybe the bathroom?”

“Maybe your office?”

“Okay, okay . . . I surrender.”

I hopped onto the bed with him. “I really like this painting.”

“I know you do. And it’s a good thing I really like you. I can live with the painting, but not without you.”

“That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“This is the biggest sacrifice I’ve ever made for you.”

I laughed. That man always made me laugh. We sat there on the bed for a while, both looking at it.

“You know,” I finally said, “I think it goes better in the living room.”

I expected a slap on the arm, but instead there was silence. I looked at him. He was staring into space.

“Hello?”

“What?”

“I just made an outrageously irritating statement and you’re not returning it with an outrageously insulting comment.”

“Sorry,” he said with a small smile. “I hate when I miss a chance to outrageously insult you.”

I sipped carefully, trying to choose my words. “Is everything okay?” I finally asked.

“Yeah.”

I set my wineglass down on the bedside table and turned to him, giving him my full attention.

He glanced at me. “What? You’ve got that serious look.”

I gathered my courage. I’d been hearing rumors. For months now. I had ignored them. But tonight, I couldn’t do that anymore. I had been in the bathroom at the party when I’d first arrived and overheard two women talking. They never mentioned Luke, and maybe it was a stretch for me to think they were talking about him or anything to do with him. But my gut had filled with an unusual dread. “Luke, what’s a Ponzi scheme?”

There are many great things that happen when two people get married, one of them being that they learn to read each other like a book. And I saw it flash across his face, so fast that had I blinked, I would have missed it. His eye twitched and his lips quivered and then he maintained his expression with such force that I held my breath.

“Why do you ask?” He poured more wine even though his glass was nearly full.

I let out a breath. “I was having lunch with Rachel Cohen, and she started
 
—”

“What does Rachel Cohen know about a Ponzi scheme?”

What did Faith Carraday know about one either?

I kept my voice even-toned. “It’s just that Howard said something to her about the Michov Brothers being
Ponzi
.”

“Howard said that?” Luke’s face flushed. He set down his wineglass. “Howard is an idiot! He sells one tech venture, and
suddenly he’s Warren Buffett.” He got off the bed, loosened his tie. “Tell Rachel to keep her mouth shut. Tell her that talk like that can kill a stock on the Street.”

“I was just asking,” I said, watching him walk to the bathroom. He shut the door. “What is wrong with you?” I yelled.

It was quiet, and a few moments later, Luke opened the door and sat next to me on the bed.

“I was just asking.” My voice quivered and I hated it. I looked away.

“I’m sorry.” He patted my hand. “Look, a Ponzi scheme is when a fund like ours takes the money from new investors and uses it to pay off existing investors’ returns on investments. It gives the illusion of profit when there isn’t any.”

“Like musical chairs.”

“Yeah. And it works great until the music stops.”

“It’s illegal, right?”

“Very.”

“Luke,” I said, touching his arm. Tears rushed to my eyes just talking about it.

“Baby, listen to me. Michov is not a Ponzi scheme.”

“Swear?”

“I promise.”

I laid my head against his chest and felt his breathing. His heart was racing, but even so, I knew he was telling the truth.

6

T
HE AIRY, OPEN CAFÉ
typically caused me to lose focus on work, which was good. Faith and I met here, often just the two of us, to get away from it all, even though the vastness of the city loomed everywhere we looked. But today, Maria wanted us to meet her new and slightly older boyfriend, Walter, who seemed to thoroughly unimpress her, so I wasn’t sure why we were here.

“So . . . are you gonna take it?” Maria twirled her fork over a pasta and shrimp lunch, batting her false eyelashes at everyone but Walter.

“I don’t know,” Faith sighed, glancing at me for my reaction. I just smiled, tried to seem engaged. “It’s a way bigger mortgage. But it is amazing!”

“You have to take it!” She jabbed her fork in my direction. “You hear that, moneybags? Buy this place for your wife.”

“And her best friend,” Faith laughed.

“Oh yeah, you know I’d be hanging out there all the time.”

“You hang out at our current home all the time anyway,” I chided.

“It’s her
dream
home,” Maria said.

“Hey, don’t look at me. I say we do it.” I looked at my food, losing my appetite by the second. My mind was engrossed with a run-in I’d had with Jake, a run-in that was haunting me more and more.

Walter chimed in, “Not like prices are dropping in the Village, you know?” He threw his napkin on the table. “I’ll be back.” He pecked Maria on the cheek.

Faith whispered, “I like him.”

“Walter? Oh, please. He’s gone as soon as he picks up this lunch.”

The conversation continued about Maria’s inability to keep a boyfriend for more than one season, but my thoughts disappeared into a noisy benefit party where I’d run into Jake a few weeks before.

I’d just left Faith standing before that hideous yellow painting that she’d somehow found the beauty in, and was squeezing and slipping my way through a crowd toward Mitchell Wellington. He was tall, so easy to track in the packed room. Paunchy but well dressed, except his hair shone with oil like it was on a beach trying to get a tan.

“Hey there, little brother.” His deep voice held so much
that the everyday ear would not pick up on. Arrogance. Piousness. Self-righteousness. I turned around, smiling politely, extending my hand. He shook it with a firm grip. It had been months since I’d seen him.

“Jake, what’re you doing here?”

He returned my smile cautiously, eyeing me pretty heavily. I remembered exactly how he looked that night, with a dark fitted suit pressed perfectly against his tall frame. He was at least four inches taller than I was, but often it felt like a foot because he had a long-reaching presence. It was part charisma, part intelligence. It boiled down to the fact that he was a likable intellectual who could speak on many different levels to many different people. He always found a common interest with a person he wanted to get to know.

I wanted to get to know Mitchell Wellington, but Jake was standing in my way.

“Duty calls,” he replied, stuffing a hand into his pocket, jingling some loose change. “Met a corporate pension guy down here. It was painful, believe me.” He lifted his gaze like he’d whiffed something foul. “How do you do this all the time? The loud music. The obnoxious personalities.”

And then it hit me, as if he’d stood right there and punched me across the cheek. Kicked me in the gut. Thrown me to the ground.

“You cut me off!” I knew I sounded like we were young again, but the words just flew out of my mouth, louder than the music. “You got to Wellington! That was my fund, Jake. I’ve been working on that for six months.”

Jake’s voice was lower, controlled. “Six months?” He snorted. “If that doesn’t tell you something, nothing will.”

I stepped closer to him, my fists balling and heat rising on my neck. “Is this city just not big enough? Is there no way we can both make money without having to do this?”

Jake looked at me for a long moment, his eyes tracing me, then the room. His voice grew even softer. I had to strain to hear it. “The word on the Street is that you guys are three to one liability to asset at this point.”

I hurriedly replied, “That’s an overrated index and you know it. We’re the only fund on the Street to return over 9 percent last year. You and Dad were down, what? Two and a quarter?”

His face was nearly expressionless, and I knew mine was filled with every emotion I’d ever felt for this man, all the way back to childhood. I’d loved him once. Idolized him. Thought he would always protect me.

“The mortgage thing is done, Luke.”

“We’re diversified.”

“Not enough. Not enough.” Those tough brown eyes that used to have a soft spot for me looked worried. “Luke, I can talk to Dad if you want to come back
 
—”

I stepped back. “We’re fine.”

He sighed, shook his head, looked around the room, then back at me. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you . . .”

“You’re being quiet over there, Mr. Diplomat.”

Maria’s voice snapped me back to the outdoor café. I
could’ve used a breeze to blow away Jake’s words, echoing in my mind, but the day was windless.

I glanced at Faith, who smiled but also seemed concerned. Walter was returning to his seat just as my BlackBerry buzzed to life with a text.

I read it. Reread it. My temple throbbed.

“Hey. Everything okay?” Faith asked.

“I need to get downtown.” I threw my napkin on my plate. “I’m, um, sorry. I’ll . . . I’ll call you . . .”

“But wait . . . what . . . ?” Faith reached out for me.

“Jake,” I mumbled.

“Be nice,” she said, touching my arm.

I took a taxi, arriving ten minutes later. I threw some large bills over the seat and slid out, looking for him. He’d said to meet at the statue of George Washington. I found him immediately, his hands coolly in his pockets. I hated that. He knew he’d be met with my frantic fear and sometimes I swear he relished it.

I marched up to him. “You text me about an investigation? Faith was sitting right beside me.”

“You haven’t told her.”

“I’m not telling her anything right now. There’s no reason for her to worry.” I scraped my hands through my hair, remembering how she’d asked me point-blank about a Ponzi scheme. “You better have something real this time.”

“The Feds are closing in on Michov. It’s all going down. Tonight. Tomorrow at the latest.”

I didn’t say it, but I wondered how in the world Jake
could have this kind of information. I mean, yeah, we were the Carradays, but did that really mean we ruled the world?

I glared at him.

“Wake up, kid.”

“Dad sent you, didn’t he?”

“Listen to me!”

“I am not coming back!”

Jake grabbed my arm, pulled me close. His face lost the tenseness and now looked sad. And it wasn’t even pity. It actually calmed me.

He let go after a moment and then pulled out a business card, sliding it into my hand. “This guy, Tony Wright
 
—he’s SEC, but he’s a friend of mine. Call him. Call him right now, Luke. Tell him what you know.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“You don’t have much time. You understand?”

I watched Jake walk away, disappearing into the stream of people who continued on with their lives while mine crumbled, one little piece at a time.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I knew it was Faith. I had to snap out of this. I felt like the world was moving in slow motion around me. I could hear. I could smell. I could see. But I didn’t seem to be able to react.

Pull. It. Together.

I reached for the phone, a lump of regret filling my throat as I prepared my lie to her. “Hello?”

“Luke, why were the police just here?”

“What?” I breathed.

“The police! At the café. They asked me
 
—”

“What did you tell them?” I could’ve sworn a giant was walking across my chest.

“What is going on, Luke?” Her voice climbed high with panic.

“
What
did you tell them?” My tone was too stern. I would never normally use it with her, but I had to know because as I stood there, I noticed two darkly tinted, unmarked cars pulling up. Four men in suits got out.

“Faith?”

“Tell me what is going on!”

They walked swiftly toward me. One of them, with the thick mustache and the extra-dark sunglasses, flashed his badge at me. His lips were pressed tightly together. The one next to him, bald and tall, said, “Luke Carraday?”

“Yes?”

I dropped the phone to my side. I heard Faith’s voice, distantly. “Luke? Luke?”

“Tony Wright. Securities and Exchange Commission. You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit federal securities fraud.” He cuffed me and it was the most surreal moment of my life. I wanted to look around, see if anyone was noticing this. But I could only stare at my hands, cuffed, still holding the phone. Faith’s voice could be heard. Something snapped me to attention. Maybe it was the Miranda rights being read to me.

“Listen, that’s my wife on the phone. Let me at least tell her that I’m okay. She’s scared to death.”

Mustache continued with my right to remain silent, what could be held against me in a court of law, that I’d have a court-appointed attorney should I need one. And as he did, he took the phone from me and punched the Off button.

A small crowd gathered. Staring like I was some kind of freak show. I was whisked into one of the black cars, now grateful for the tinted windows. But through the window, I could see that the camera phones were out, and I wondered who ended up getting my picture. I wondered if any of them cared at all about what I was arrested for. Cared that this was the unraveling of my life, a heavy wooden spool falling to the ground, unwinding its string with blurry speed. And done within seconds.

It struck me, as we rode in silence, that all I had asked Faith on the phone was what she told them. I should have reassured her. I should have done something other than try to protect myself.

Inside that stuffy black car, I stared out the window, looking up at the skyscraping buildings, and thought of the first time I met Faith. I’d been dragged to some trendy benefit party by Jake, who indulged in a few here and there.

“Please. Come on, have some fun,” Jake said, shooting me a sideways glance. “This is a theme party. And the theme isn’t humdrum.” Jake excused himself, abandoning me to my own social devices, which weren’t many. I was kind of like my dad. He wasn’t ever that social, either, and relied a lot on Jake. He always sent us both to do his work, which was to shake hands and make contacts, as many as possible. But
somehow I always ended up at the bar, to drink and try to avoid human contact.

As I ordered a Scotch, my avoidance of anyone in the crowd was undone by a woman with shiny black hair, tousled to look awfully unkempt. She slid up next to me.

“Luke Carraday, right?”

“I’m almost afraid to say yes.”

“Maria.”

“Maria . . .” I hated these moments. They happened so often. Too many people assumed I knew them, and my family knew so many people that I couldn’t fit them into a stadium. But my mother, before her abandonment of the family, had raised me to be polite. So as my Scotch slid toward me, I chatted lightly with her as she explained she worked in one of my dad’s buildings.

Then I noticed the woman sitting next to her. Hadn’t even realized she was with a friend. She seemed to be people watching as she sipped a martini, but now all I wanted to do was watch her. She was pretty with no effort. Her hair was plainly styled but looked like it belonged on a princess. Her skin glowed through the smoky haze of the room.

Maria droned on. “. . . I work with a number of companies, developing their customer service procedures . . .” When she realized she didn’t have my full attention, she tugged at my arm and asked me to dance.

“Don’t dance. Sorry.” I snatched my arm back.

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“No, really. I don’t dance. Ever.”

“Your loss, then.” She rose, carrying her martini between her middle and forefinger, dangling it almost like it was a cigarette. She never looked back but beelined it to a tall guy in the corner.

I raised my glass to her back. “See you Thursday.”

“Don’t take it personally.”

I glanced sideways to her friend. She shot me a short, polite smile. “She gets that way when she doesn’t get what she wants. You should see her at a Barneys sale.”

That made me laugh. I settled onto my barstool and faced outward so I could watch the crowd too. “So, friend of yours.”

“Best of friends.”

“Sorry.”

She laughed, one of those deep, throaty laughs that seems to come from the soul.

“Luke,” I said, sticking out a hand.

“Faith.” She shook it, her hand retreating too quickly. But not before I felt her skin. Warm and soft.

“Faith . . . I gotta be honest. You look about as uncomfortable as I feel. . . .”

“Watch your head.” The polite caution from Mustache returned me to my harsh, unrelenting reality. I was at the jail, in the parking garage. I’d gone from standing under bright-blue skies to the entombing darkness of underground concrete.

No Carraday ever spent a night in jail, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to be living in a nightmarish prison.