Shopping for an Heir (13 page)

“The good kind.” Gerald could sense a shift in his tone, a lessening of tension. Pam looked at McCormick, her hand on Spritzy’s head, her eyes evaluative.

Marie pressed a button.

The Carpenters came on. The opening chords to the song “Just Like Me” filled the room.

“EWWWWWWW,” Pam and Marie called out in unison.

Marie pushed a button.

Barry Manilow’s “Can’t Smile Without You” started.

Pam and Marie turned on the old man, both of them frowning.

“Seriously, James?” Pam asked, as if he’d personally offended her.

“What?” he asked groggily, opening his eyes slowly. “Pammy, you look good when you’re angry.” He licked his palm and reached for Spirtzy, slicking back a shock of hair that stuck up.

“Please tell me you have some kind of music other than easy listening,” Marie moaned.

Pam pressed a button on the complex stereo. It looked like the control panel for a 747. Gerald hadn’t seen a stereo set-up like that since he’d visited a Vietnam vet’s house for a BBQ and gotten a lecture on all the electronics he’d brought back from Japan in 1973.

“So help me God, if ‘Girl from Ipanema’ comes on, I’ll—”

It did.

“You’ll
what
, Pam?” Marie asked.

Pam just laughed.

Rummaging through vinyl album after vinyl album in a long, thick row that constituted James McCormick’s record collection, Marie squealed with horror until she perked up, clutching a familiar release.

Pink Floyd’s “The Wall.”

“Where did you unearth that?” James growled, opening only one eye.

“Someone has good music taste,” Marie declared. “It’s not you!”

“Andrew?” Pam wondered aloud.

“Elena,” James said.

Pam went quiet. Gerald watched her, fascinated.

“She liked classic rock?”

“Where do you think Andrew and Terry get it? She used to take Terry to concerts when he was younger.”

“I always thought Elena was an uptight blue blood,” Marie said.

“She was. And she enjoyed Led Zeppelin, Yes, and all those other crazy performers.”

“Good for her,” Pam said softly. “I wish I could have met her.”

“I wish I could have had more years with her,” James confessed.

The opening notes of “Comfortably Numb” filled James McCormick’s living room.

“This pop music crap,” McCormick said, though a smile twitched at the corner of his lips.

“James,” Marie asked slyly, “how are you feeling now?”

“Goooood.”

“Excellent.” She sidled in next to him. Gerald heard her whisper, “You know, we’re good friends. And as your friend, I’d like to talk to you about that $700,000 my husband gave back to your casino. I think it’s all just a big misunderstanding.” She patted his hand.

McCormick’s eyes flew wide open and he glowered.

“Not so comfortably numb now. You’re harshing on my groove, Marie.”

She shrugged, as if to say it couldn’t hurt to
try
.

“Gerald, would you make some Rice Krispie Treats for us?” Marie asked sweetly, eyes round like buckeyes, changing the topic masterfully.

“With Cheetos,” Pam added.

“And anchovies,” James insisted.

Gerald nodded, retreating to the kitchen, relieved to be out of sight where he could laugh and react to the absurdities.

As he checked the cupboards for supplies, the front door opened.

On high alert, he put his hand on the butt of his gun in the holster beneath his jacket.

“Hello?”

That voice was unmistakable.

Terry McCormick.

Gerald stood down.

“What happened? Is Dad okay?”

That was Andrew McCormick.

“Oh, man!” James McCormick groaned. “Who invited them?”

Declan appeared behind Andrew. Terry wore a paint-stained Rush t-shirt, while the other two brothers were in fine cashmere suits, one on either side of Terry, like Jackson Pollock and his bankers.

Terry glanced at Declan and Andrew, shrugged, and sat down on the couch, reaching for the joint.

“Terry!” Andrew bellowed. Gerald watched him carefully. The guy wasn’t horrified.

He was
jealous
.

Terry just shrugged. He took a long hit off the fattie and his eyes flew open as he hacked up half a lung.

“Amateur,” James muttered.

Terry barked out a coughing laugh. “This isn’t pot!”

“What?” Andrew and Declan snapped in unison, Declan’s emotions moving swiftly across his face, from stunned shock to suppressed amusement.

Terry bent over, his head between his knees, shoulders shaking with uncontrolled laughter. “This—” he wheezed, “isn’t pot. It’s
not
marijuana.” He looked up, eyes bloodshot from crying, not from THC, and announced to Pam, James and Marie, “You’re all high on oregano.”

“I wondered why I have a sudden craving for garlic bread,” James declared. He turned to Gerald. “I’d like you to go to the North End and get me—”

“Oregano?” Marie squeaked. “OREGANO?” She stood, mouth dropping open in outrage. “Agnes told me this was the finest weed her grandson could get his hands on.”

“I’ll bet it is,” Declan said, smothering a smile.

“I gave Agnes six free yoga classes for that dime bag!”

Never barter with Agnes,
Gerald thought.

“Maybe it’s homeopathic marijuana,” Terry choked out, which only made Marie turn red with fury.

“You mean we’re not really high?” Pam asked.

“No,” Terry said. Gerald watched Declan, who leaned against the arm of his father’s wingback chair, one hand in his suit pants pocket, the other thumbing through messages on his phone.

“That explains it, then,” Marie announced. “I’m normally horny as can be when I’m high, and I’m dead below the waist right now.”

Without a single word, as smooth as Gene Kelly in an old 1940s musical movie, Declan spun around on one shoe and left the room, the back of his head visibly shaking to and fro, a loud sigh echoing through the foyer. The click of the front door snapping shut came soon after.

Nothing like hearing your mother-in-law announce
that
.

“Me, too!” Pam announced.

Andrew made a strange retching sound and suddenly became deeply fascinated with a stray string on his shirt cuff.

Ding!
Doorbell.

“I’ll get it!” Andrew announced, practically shoving Gerald aside in his hurry to escape the room. Gerald folded his hands at the waist and waited, trying not to react to the unfolding scene before him.

And then in walked the last person he ever expected to see standing in James McCormick’s Back Bay home.

“Suzanne?” he rasped, her heels click-clacking on the marble floor. Spritzy jumped out of James’ arms and ran over to Suzanne, sniffing her ankles.

Too bad Gerald couldn’t display that kind of public enthusiasm.

Andrew walked past her, poured himself a coffee, and settled in on the couch next to Pam, crossing his legs, face filled with a combination of disruptive anger and marvel.

“Someone found Mom’s old album collection,” he said with approval.

“Well, damn!” James’ voice boomed through the room, deeper somehow, closer to Terry’s bass. The sound was loud enough to make Suzanne flinch slightly, frown, then look at the old man.

“I’m sorry, James. I had no idea it was oregano,” Marie said again, clearly flummoxed.

Oregano?
Suzanne mouthed to Gerald.

Why are you here?
he mouthed back.

James’ face screwed up in contemplation. Everyone looked at him, waiting.

“If that had been real reefer, I might have had my first threesome!” he exclaimed, looking directly at Gerald. “Does anyone in the room know how to get the real stuff?”

Suzanne’s single eyebrow arch said everything and nothing.

“Suzanne?” Terry asked, the surprise on his face evident. “What—it’s great to see you, but what are you doing here?”

“James asked for me.”

“Is this about our mother’s trust fund?”

She gave him a quizzically apologetic smile as her eyes tracked James, who now held the joint aloft and studied it, mumbling, “Are you sure this isn’t real?”

“I’m afraid,” Suzanne said, clearly not, “that I can’t talk about why I’m here. But James asked me to visit him in an official capacity.”

“I forgot. My apologies, Suzanne. I’m indisposed,” James said, waving toward her.

She stared at the joint in his hand. “I see that.”

Andrew started laughing. Gerald watched as Terry joined him.

She turned to Gerald. “We have a two o’clock at my office,” she said, in earshot of Andrew, who frowned.

“You two know each other?”

“Sort of,” said Suzanne.

“Yes,” said Gerald.

Terry stopped laughing and watched them.

“James,” Suzanne said. “This looks like a bad time for our meeting. Why don’t I have my assistant call yours for a reschedule? I can help with Elena’s family trust any time.”

“Oh,” James said, eyes closed, head against the back of the couch. Spritzy was on his chest. “This isn’t about the family trust.”

“Then what?”

“It’s about buying that secret artifact Harold Hopewell’s been hiding from the world all these years.”

S
uzanne sat
at the head of the enormous oval conference table, a relic of its own from the nineteenth century that Norm Phelps’ grandfather had imported from the Ukraine when he’d founded Phelps, Miller in 1911. Both the Phelps and the Miller families still had descendants in partner roles, all male. She was the second woman to make partner, and relished every second of being on top.

Her eyes darted to Gerald.

She would love to be on top of
him
.

The last hour had been a study in chaos. As she shuffled folders and managed the never-ending flow of documents Letitia and Margaret provided, she ran through the facts as she knew them.

James McCormick was interested in buying the relic.

He was not the same anonymous donor Harrison Kulli represented.

More people knew about the relic than previously recognized.

The relic was increasingly endangered as the circle of knowledge widened. The more people who knew about it, the more likely it was to be stolen or desecrated.

And yet, exposing its existence to official institutions wouldn’t necessarily help.

“Change of plans,” Norm said, walking into the room with that penguin-like gait he had. He introduced himself to Gerald, looked at Suzanne, and said, “Turns out the MFA archaeologist has no knowledge of the item. We had to be careful.” He reached down for a leather bag that looked like it contained a tiny bowling ball.

Lifted it like it weighed a ton.

“Here it is. Your inheritance,” he said to Gerald, who looked appropriately shocked. Glancing at the door, twisting in his seat to do a 180-degree spin, he became increasingly angry.

“No armed guard? No security of any kind? Are you crazy? That thing’s worth eight figures—” As he cut off his own words, Gerald’s face paled, eyes going wide like moons.

Suzanne felt sorry for him.

“We do not need security for an item no one’s heard of,” Phelps insisted, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And there’s a team of six guys out in the hall. Don’t worry.”

“James McCormick has heard of it. Worse—Harrison Kulli sure as
hell
has. That guy would smother his own grandmother for a scratch lottery ticket,” Gerald said with a grunt of disgust.

Suzanne nodded.

Phelps simmered.

“Take a careful look. Is this the relic you recall?” Phelps slid the bag across the table to Gerald, who unzipped it. The sound of the ancient brass zipper opening was like the gates to hell creaking on their hinges.

She held her breath.

Gerald’s face went remarkably blank.

And that’s when she realized just how serious this really was. When the man wiped all emotion from his body, it was time to set your own alert scale on high.

“Yes,” he said simply.

“You never told me,” she blurted out, the words completely unexpected.

His eyes met hers.

“There’s a lot I’ve never told you.”

“Clearly.”

Phelps cleared his throat. “I’ll leave you two to figure this all out. Discretion is paramount.”

“Of course,” Suzanne said, not looking away from Gerald.

He stared, unblinking, at the open bag.

“Harold Hopewell. Never met the guy. I’ve heard of him. Hell, everyone has. Why this? Why
me
? And why does James McCormick want the relic?” Gerald’s words came out like an assault weapon being fired.

“You told him about it,” Suzanne said, her voice low.

“No, I didn’t,” he said gruffly. “You think I went back to work and started bragging?”

The Gerald she knew would have kept his mouth shut.

Phelps stopped in the doorway, his back still to them. “I can answer that,” he said quietly, turning around and almost closing the door behind him. He held onto the doorknob like a tether.

“Why?” Suzanne asked.

“Because wealthy, self-made men like to acquire. It’s not about the money. Not even about the power. They just want to possess something no one else has.”

“That’s too simple,” Suzanne argued.

“Simple or not, it’s true. Once James McCormick learned about the relic—however he learned about it—he wanted it. Simple.” He exited, leaving Suzanne alone with Gerald.

Who was a robot.

“Say something,” she urged.

Reaching into the bag, he pulled out a velvet pouch, making a clear effort to lift the heavy object. The velvet was old, sun-stained and the color of faded rust. As he pulled gently on the drawstring, it snapped, leaving frayed ends.

And then gold. Gold and more gold, in the shape of a fertility goddess birthing a tiny human being.

Suzanne nearly laughed. It looked like a souvenir from a cheesy shop.

It was anything but.

“James McCormick can’t tell the difference between marijuana and oregano, but he wants to spend a large fortune on owning this. Why?”

“Doesn’t make sense to me either, but that’s not my job. My job is to usher you through the inheritance process. Step one’s been done. You got the papers. Step two is: do you want to keep it? Sell it? Donate it?”

“I want to hold it.”

And he did, for the next two minutes, cradling it, those damn hands of his making love to a pre-Buddhist gold statue that supposedly held the secret to the oldest known civilization in the world.

And damn if Suzanne wasn’t a little bit envious.

Of the statue.

“Dinner,” he said, eyes flashing as they met hers.

“Dinner?” The clock on the wall read 2:21 p.m.

“Early dinner. Late lunch. Call it what you want.” He stood, carefully putting the relic back in the velvet pouch, then in the leather bag, zipping it slowly, like a surgeon making sure the stitches were perfect.

“Go out with me. Talk to me. Spend time with me. Not as a client, but as a friend. I need a friend more than I need a lawyer right now.”

“Finally,” she said, her voice curt, eyes burning. “You finally make a move. Friend? We both know that’s bullshit.”

His mouth spread into a smile, but his eyes were so serious.

“I’ve missed you more than I’ve realized.”

“You should.”

“Let me make it up to you.”

“You’re going to make up ten years?”

“Let me do it in time increments measured by meals out, starting with this one.”

“That’s a lot of lunches and dinners.”

“I have a healthy appetite.”

The pull of
yes
was hard to fight. So hard. She looked at his hands, those twitching fingers that couldn’t stay still. Restless, always, they needed to make sense of the world through touch.

She knew if she agreed to dinner that they would end up in bed.

She knew that.

And she knew she should fight this. Knew she’d get hurt.

“Yes,” she replied.

Because knowing the truth and living your life came into conflict sometimes.

“I know a great place,” he said, staring at the leather bag. “A few blocks away, tucked away behind this food court.”

He named the same restaurant where she’d just spent lunch two hours ago with Chandler the Puppy.

Her stomach flipped. “I got sick there,” she protested.

Without hesitation, he named a great Mexican place in Cambridge.

“Sold,” she said with a smile.

They stood there, the sun breaking through the clouds, the view from the conference room one of the city, the streets in the Financial District like wind tunnels. Phelps, Miller was on the fourth floor of her building, so the only view was urban, cold and utilitarian.

Each second that ticked by made anticipation build in her. All these years, she’d been so hurt. Angry. Filled with unspeakable rage.

And now that he was just a man standing in front of her, asking her to be a friend in a time of need, she felt it all recede.

But more than that—she had a chance.

A chance to get answers.

Suzanne wasn’t about to put pride before that chance.

She texted Letitia, who brought all six security guards in to take the relic back to Hopewell’s place, leaving her and Gerald ready to move on to the next phase of the day.

As they walked out of the building, Gerald in his uniform of black pants, black blazer, and white business shirt open at the neck, she watched his blank emotional state peel away as if sandblasted.

“Jesus,” he said, wiping his mouth with his hand. “Fifty million. Two billionaires are offering fifty million for that.”

“You’re wealthy.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that.”

“I’d trade it all for—”

A box truck in front of them laid on the horn, hard and long, before he could say the next word.

The moment was lost.

He was about to say
you
.

She was sure.

And if he would trade it all for her, why wouldn’t he talk to her for ten years?

Walking paradox. The man was a walking paradox.

He hailed a cab with fluency and command. The ride across the river to Cambridge was quiet. Each lost in their own thoughts, both buzzed constantly by texts for various work issues, they didn’t talk.

At all.

Suzanne’s knee brushed against him as the driver took a right turn too tightly. Every bit of concentration in her body focused on the spot where they touched.

He looked at her knee. She looked at him.

They said nothing.

Deposited in front of the Mexican place, she and Gerald found their way inside. Once seated, she decided to go for the jugular.

“Ten years. Explain.”

“You could wait until they at least bring the chips and salsa, Suz. A man needs a little sustenance before being raked over the coals.”

“I could. But I’m not.”

He laughed. “You deserve the whole story.” The smile faded from his face.

“I deserve more than that.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “You do. And this time, I’ll be honorable. Ask away.”

“I just did. Why did you leave?”

The struggle played out on his face. He opened his mouth to answer.

The server appeared with tortilla chips and salsa.

“Saved,” he joked.

She gave him a hard stare. Every molecule of her body was on fire. She felt all the feelings all at once, as if time folded into every emotion across every second in this scene. Pushing her hair off her shoulders, she watched him. A sense of redemption filled her.

Did he feel a glimmer of atonement? That kiss last night said more than
I’m sorry
.

What would he actually
say
?

“Why did you leave?” she persisted.

“Because I was out of my mind.”

She picked up her purse and started to stand. He lunged, his hand gripping her wrist in a vise.

“Don’t go.”

“Then don’t lie.”

“Not lying. Starting to explain. Give me a chance here, Suz. This isn’t easy.”

“You think it is for me?” Her heart relocated to her wrist.

“No.” He let go, his eyes desperate, animal-like in the way they worked the room. Alighting on her, he stared at her with so much heat and lust she almost burst into flames. “But now that you’re here, in front of me, and that line’s been crossed, I can’t go back. That doesn’t mean I know what I’m doing.”

“The Gerald Wright I knew ten years ago always knew what he was doing.”

“I’m not that man anymore. Probably never was.”

She sat down, gravity dragging her, the shock of his words leaving her boneless.

“I don’t believe that.”

“Believe whatever you want. Maybe after I explain, you’ll see it my way.” He took a sip of water. The skin at the hollow of his neck was bright red, a telltale sign of stress in him.

“Okay.” She reached for a tortilla chip just to do something with her hands. “Explain.”

“After the suicide bomber, I couldn’t think.” No need for clarity on this topic; Suzanne knew exactly who and what he was talking about. Three months before he dumped her, Gerald’s team had come across a suicide bomber, a guy wearing a vest of explosives. The team of five American soldiers had found him standing in the market. A sharp-eyed kid from Indiana, just off the plane, spotted the guy.

Carrying his toddler son in his arms, screaming about glory.

Split second decisions come with costs.

Gerald’s team had tried to find a way to disarm the guy and separate the child from him. The vest had detonated just as another child of about five or so had flung himself in the bomber’s arms.

It had ended badly.

“You did everything—”

Gerald’s palm shot up.

“This isn’t about that. It’s about what happened after.”

“I remember.”

“You don’t, Suz. You really don’t.”

Her throat tightened, a lump poking her, making tears push against her eyelids. “Then tell me. Please.”

“I am.” He paused. “It takes time.”

“We’ve had ten years.”

“Might not be long enough.” The stark look he gave her was heartbreaking.

“I won’t push.”

He smiled halfway. “You are constitutionally incapable of not pushing.”

“Is that why you broke up with me the way you did? Because you knew I’d push.”

Slowly, achingly, he looked up from the table, meeting her eyes.

“Yes.”

“Damn it.”

“I knew if I saw you I couldn’t leave. That I’d drag you down.”

“Why? Why did you leave?”

“Because I was out of my mind, Suz. I ended up in long-term therapy back home. Took two years for the nightmares to stop.”

“I would have been there with you, through it all.”

“I know you would have. That’s why I had to let you go.”

“Don’t play this macho bullshit with me, Gerald. You’re better than this. And I damn well know I am. Don’t feed me lines like this.”

“I’m not. I’m telling the truth.”

“The whole truth?”

His face flickered with admiration and disgust, a strange combination that Suzanne found oddly titillating.

“It must suck to live life with that perfect bullshit detector. What a curse.”

He might as well have slapped her and caressed her at the same time. This was what she missed the most. A man who could slip into shorthand with her, who understood her at a fundamentally different level than the rest of the world. The rarity of that kind of connection made her watch him, breathing through a decade of scar tissue, and realize that the past didn’t matter.