One Way or Another: A Novel (28 page)

The Cessna bounced as it touched down then glided to a smooth stop. Mehitabel got to her feet, and stood looking down at me, elegant in her green satin evening dress. The jewels around her long neck glinted so beautifully I understood why women longed for them. They were money-no-object jewels and I knew Ahmet must have bought them for her, he probably chose them too because the slender strand was in excellent taste, nothing vulgar here. How the hell, I asked myself suddenly, was I able to think this clearly, when my mind had been destroyed? But had it? Could I still think, plot, plan? I told myself I was going to get out of here, out of this place, wherever they were taking me. I was alert, becoming myself again.

Ahmet was first off the plane, down the small flight of metal steps that dropped from the door, followed by the copilot, who did not look behind him to where Mehitabel and I sat. From the window I watched the pilot stride toward a small arrivals building, leaving Ahmet standing alone at the foot of those steps, waiting for us. Or, I suppose, for me. His prey, caught now, a bird in hand.

“Get up,” Mehitabel said. They were the only words she had addressed to me on the journey of about an hour and a half. Of course, I got up. She reached into the overhead storage, took out a long knit jacket, thrust it at me, said to put it on. I put it on. She looked down at my feet in the red flip-flops, sighed and turned away. I guessed there was nothing she could do to change them. “Follow me,” she said. I followed. I had no mind of my own. I was their puppet, a pawn, a nothing.

I breathed the fuel-scented air outside, walking behind Mehitabel, who carried the jeweled collar, which I guessed must be worth almost as much as Mehitabel’s emeralds. She, so lovely in her green satin, her spiraling black curls standing out from her head as though wired with electricity, her heels clack-clacking along, and me, the scruffy woman anyone might take for a bonded servant.

A car waited, headlights dimmed. We got in, me first with Mehitabel giving me an urgent shove forward, then her, settling into the seat that smelled expensively of new leather; a short drive to the harbor. Mehitabel left, then a while later the driver brought me to a boat, a Riva manned by a man in a dark jacket, the prow of the yacht looming ahead. The name, the
Lady Marina.

I was back in bondage then, on Ahmet’s boat, lost to the world, a place where no one would ever find me. I had drowned once in the Aegean. Was I about to do it all over again?

48

Life at the beck and call of the very rich was not all bad, Martha said to Morrie while standing on the balcony of the hotel they’d relocated to while the party preparations were under way. Martha was sipping an early morning cup of very good coffee, and nibbling every now and then on a pastry picked from the basket of still-warm-from-the-oven goodies that were a calorific nightmare, but emotionally were a form of heaven.

“Why is it,” she asked, “that we don’t make croissants like this at home?”

“I heard it’s the flour,” Morrie said. “Or maybe it’s the water. Whatever, this place beats Marshmallows hands down, no contest. Don’t ever send me there again or I’ll have to quit, okay?”

Martha laughed. “So okay.” She threw him a sideways look. “Wimp.”

“I’m telling you that place is haunted, stuck out there on those bleak marshes like something out of Dickens.”

“You’ve read Dickens, then?”

Morrie gave a slight toss of his head. “Of course not. Nobody does, they just talk like they have.”

“Marco has.” Martha ventured this bit of information with another sideways look. Morrie looked sideways back.

“Well, Marco would, wouldn’t he. I mean, he’s got to talk to those sitters he paints, the well known, the well heeled, and of course the well read.”

Martha laughed. “I hope we’re not having a fight, because we have a lot of work to do. There’s a party tonight, remember?”

“How could I forget.” Morrie grabbed his iPad and began checking things off a long list. There were to be seventy guests.

“Better also check with Mehitabel,” Martha said.

“Jesus. You mean I have to talk to that witch? She’s nuts, Martha, friggin’ crazy. I thought she wanted to kill me the other night, from the look in her eyes.”

“Nobody is killing anybody, and she is Ahmet’s right-hand man, so to speak. She deals with
him
for us. She is the last bastion against mistakes. Nobody can get past Mehitabel, not even me, and I’m the one making his party happen.”

They both turned as the door opened and Lucy dragged in, her face childish with sleep, eyes half closed against the sunlight, clad only in a bath towel, her nail polish chipped, hair pillow-flat.

“Well,” Martha said, “we have some work to do on you before you get to work. Shoot, Lucy, go take a shower, get yourself together. Remember you’re working today.”

Lucy drifted toward the basket of pastries, picked out a flaky croissant, poured more coffee into Martha’s cup, added two sugars that came in paper twists, then sank into a lounge chair and took a sip. “I’m ready,” she said.

Martha called downstairs, organized appointments at the beauty salon for both of them in a half hour’s time, told Lucy what she would be wearing that evening and don’t even question it, got back on the phone checking innumerable details with the caterer and with Ahmet’s Tunisian chef, who would be in charge, then she called Ahmet.

“My dear Martha,” he said, sounding, she thought, as though he were smiling, “I know this will be wonderful, the best party ever seen in the south of France.” Recalling the many amazing charity balls and Hollywood fantasy evenings, Martha doubted that, but said it would be pretty special and that he must not worry about a thing, she would see him later.

Clicking off her phone, she thought all that was needed now was good luck. And Marco. Where was he, anyhow? Of course, now she remembered, he would be on his way to see Ahmet; the famous portrait was to be painted, the one that Marco said would reveal the true man.

She never disturbed Marco when he was painting, knew he needed to be lost in his work, in his vision, his own world of color and line and senses. That’s what made Marco’s portraits so wonderful, somehow his own self, his own sensuality came through, though she thought Ahmet would be a hard man to capture. A man like that who kept his feelings locked behind a smile, a handshake, a kind word. It would be tough.

49

That evening, Ahmet stood at the head of the companionway waiting for his guests to arrive, elegant in a white tussore silk rajah jacket, a style long out of fashion, but because he was wearing it, would soon become fashionable again. Ahmet wore it because he liked the way it looked, and the collarless jacket was cool on a summer evening. Standing next to him, well, not quite next to, but a step behind, was Martha, stunning in black silk with a low V-neck, back and front, banded in sequined leopard. It was daring for her but she’d been encouraged by Marco to live up to the “flash” occasion and had succumbed when shopping with Lucy. Who, she had to admit, looked a dream in knee-length slate-gray chiffon that Martha had thought too grown-up and too tight but now had to admit was a winner. High at the neck, shoulder-baring, it clung lovingly to Lucy’s small breasts and narrow hips, ending where a wisp of tulle peeked from under the narrow skirt, showing off her nicely browned legs. Of course her heels were too high, spindles to break her neck on, Martha had warned to no avail, ankle-strapped, showing off her newly polished toenails. Black, of course. The choice had been that or purple. Martha’s own toes were a nice turquoise, which went with her dangling earrings, a surprise gift from Marco, who’d arrived back at the hotel from the boat, where he’d again been speaking to Ahmet about the painting, allowing just enough time to get himself together for the party. Which meant a black tee instead of white, dark jeans instead of blue, and a soft-shouldered Armani jacket he’d had for years and vowed he’d never part with.

“It’s my
only
jacket,” he told Martha, inspecting himself in the mirror in their room at the hotel before they’d left. “I figure one is enough. It covers all occasions, from a presentation to the queen, to parties on grand yachts, and even weddings.”

Martha thought how attractive he was, with his rumpled hair, his almost good-looking face, his complete unself-consciousness about his appearance—Marco wasn’t even aware how cute his butt looked in those jeans. She was glad she was with him.

“We’ll be the best-looking couple at that party,” she said. “If not the most expensive.”

“You’re not a couple.” Lucy stood by the door, ready to go. “We’re
three,
remember?”

Marco quickly walked over and gave her a hug. “I’ll never forget it, Lucy, baby,” he said. “Though, in fact, we are a quartet; you forgot about Em.”

Lucy rushed to pick up the dog from her basket and gave her a hug. “Will she be okay here, all alone?”

Martha said, “Don’t worry, the babysitter will be here.” Marco rarely left his dog behind and would certainly not leave her alone now, though her pleading eyes and piteous look followed them out.

*   *   *

The yacht looked wonderful, colorful flags and pennants fluttering in the breeze, white-jacketed waiters standing ready, and champagne—Taittinger, Ahmet’s favorite—chilling in ice buckets. Martha had asked Ahmet his favorite color and been surprised when he’d told her orange; somehow she had expected it to be black. So now the tablecloths, napkins, flowers in rows of galvanized buckets were in every shade of tangerine and melon, and the scent of orange blossom, which Martha thought the true perfume of the south of France, was everywhere. The plates were hand-picked by her from Biot, a village near Vence, in a pale greenish glass typical of the area, as were the wineglasses, sturdy and outdoorish, instead of fancy and expensive. In fact, Martha bet Ahmet would be surprised when he got the bill for his party, which would be far less than he’d thought, yet the food was delicious, with spicy rice dishes, salads fashioned from leaves and herbs picked in the hills that morning, and filet mignon cooked simply in red wine. There was a bouillabaisse for the fish-eaters, made the true old-fashioned fishermen’s way, with a mix of whatever they’d plucked from the sea that day, but always with the ugly red rascasse for flavor, and never with mussels. There was home-baked bread to dunk in the broth—well, almost home-baked, it came from the bakers along the harbor—and a lavender crème brûlée for after, or else sliced fresh peaches soaked in vermouth with, if wanted, a dollop of crème fraîche.

It had taken more hours to get together than Martha liked to think about. As she stood with Ahmet accepting compliments, her feet were killing her and she was wondering whether she could risk a second glass of champagne before her work was done. Marco came to her rescue. He slipped his arm beneath hers. Leaning into her, he said, “You smell wonderful and look hungry. I’m taking you away from all this.”

“You are? Where to?”

“See that table over there?” He pointed to the far end of the deck where a table for two awaited in the shadows; a candle flickered, a bunch of roses gleamed golden, the pale tangerine cloth draped to the floor, and two chairs tied with pale orange chiffon bows awaited. “Ours,” he said.

“Can I take my shoes off?”

“Take off whatever you want.”

She put her hand in his; it was the best feeling in the world. “Now I know why I love you.”

“You mean you didn’t before?”

“I don’t know if I can just leave, I feel like I’m deserting my post, I have to keep an eye on everybody, make sure it’s all right. I mean, this is my job.”

Marco waved a hand, taking in the seventy happy guests at their tables, the champagne being poured, the quartet playing softly in the background. Lucy was dancing with a nice-looking young guy in an NYU T-shirt who Martha suspected was a gate-crasher, but her sister looked as though she was having a good time. Ahmet was presiding over a table of beautiful, expensive-looking younger women and important-looking older men. He caught her eye and lifted a hand in acknowledgment, mouthing a smiling thank-you. Morrie stood alone, propping up the boat’s rail; he’d moved on from champagne and was knocking back a bottle of beer, relaxed. She went over and thanked him.

“Thank
you,
lovely Martha,” he said. Then, “That woman is here.”

Mehitabel, glamorous and frozen faced, was standing with other guests, emeralds gleaming at her neck, her gaze seeming to look inward as though she had other things than a party on her mind.

“There’s no doubt she’s a beautiful woman,” Martha said to Marco.

“Sargent would have painted her exactly like that, the way he painted all those dead-eyed beauties,” Marco said. “He saw what lay beneath.”

Mehitabel caught their glance and walked toward them. Champagne glass in hand, she said, “Welcome aboard the
Lady Marina,
Marco, Miss Patron.” She lifted her glass toward Martha. “I assume you chose these crude glasses for tonight’s party? I should have thought you understood by now that Ahmet is used to only the best. You’ll find the Tiffany flutes in the cupboard behind the bar. I suggest you change them. Our guests prefer the better things in life,” she added, with that smile that lifted only the corners of her mouth and certainly never reached her eyes.

“Allow me to get one for you,” Marco said, unsmiling. “I believe everyone else, including Ahmet, is very happy with the ones they already have, but of course, you are different.”

Their eyes locked. “In what way am I different?”

Marco didn’t understand why, only knew she was, and that in some way she was dangerous. It might be jealousy. Could she be jealous of Ahmet? It certainly was not jealousy of another woman, somehow he knew Mehitabel would not care about that; she would simply dismiss other women as of no account, mere hurdles in the stumbling block of the life of a woman on the make. He realized Mehitabel was ambitious, recognized she was ruthless and that he badly wanted to paint her portrait, capture all that lay behind that lovely face.