The Tolling of Mercedes Bell: A Novel (49 page)

Watching her made him laugh, too. But once she was quiet again, he said, “It’s food for thought—perhaps something to consider . . . later.”

She wondered how he knew so much about her predicament. “It wasn’t too hard to figure out,” he said, as if reading her mind. “But don’t worry, this is just between you and me.”

Mercedes pondered the situation for a moment. A multimillion-dollar award for damages would certainly be welcome, but the prospect of spending the end of her life embroiled in litigation would just be piling on more misery. Anyway, she had more pressing business.

“I brought you something as well,” she said, “some business, perhaps.” She pulled out a few pages from a file and handed them to him. “The people whose names and contact information you can see there were clients of Jack’s, all very wealthy and very old. Jack drew up their estate plans. Now that he can no longer practice, they need new attorneys.”

He looked at her curiously.

“I know you don’t do probate. That’s not why I’ve brought you this. I have reason to think that Jack ‘has done some things in business’ he’s ‘not exactly proud of’—that’s how he puts it. I don’t know the extent or nature of those things, but I
know
these people are victims. I think they will need not just new probate attorneys but an attorney like you to help them recover what may be owed to them.”

His interest perked up.

“If you’re interested in pursuing it, you could call a forensic
accountant named Matthew Spencer. Another attorney is taking over Jack’s practice, and Matthew knows his name. I daresay that by now Matthew is acquainted with some of Jack’s Machiavellian accounting methods, which probably included embezzling from his clients. Perhaps Matthew would have a conflict of interest in talking to you. I don’t know how that works. But I believe Matthew is an honorable man.”

John’s wheels were turning.

“I wasn’t involved in any of this mess and I’m getting as far away from it as I can. I want to try to help these people on my way out, though. They’ve been hustled by my husband, and they aren’t the only ones.” She paused. “Emerson was also involved in this somehow.”

“In what way?”

“I’m not sure. But when I let him in on the nature of Jack’s illness, he promptly took off. I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”

“Probably not. I bet Tony can find him.”

“Another thing—in the basement of our house, which I plan to vacate shortly, there are sixty-seven boxes of Jack’s business records. I haven’t been through them, but they could be a gold mine for future lawsuits. Jack has no idea how much I know.”

Slayne was perusing the papers she’d handed him. One of his eyebrows shot up.

“What do you think of those documents?” she asked.

“They’re probably explosive,” he answered.

“Good—because you’re the munitions expert.”

“Mercedes, take care of yourself. And thank you.”

Caroline, already drafting the divorce petition, was keenly interested in the documents Mercedes had to show her. She said the separate property agreement “was worth its weight in gold.” It went a long way toward shielding Mercedes and Germaine from possible fallout from any claims against Jack. What was hers was hers, separate.
It also meant that what was his was his; but his assets, which on paper looked to be vastly greater, were entangled in a web of deceit.

How ironic, she thought bitterly, that Jack had bothered to protect her with a prenuptial agreement, at the very time they were having as much unprotected sex as their two bodies could bear. But then she realized the prenuptial agreement also protected him in case she left. He would have everything and she would have nothing.

The coldness and brutality of his actions hit her afresh. What did any of the money matter? What had he been thinking?
Germaine’ll be fine. My mother died when I was young, and I turned out okay. Besides, she’ll be rich.

L
ATER IN THE MORNING SHE
picked up the phone to hear a cheerful voice telling her she’d passed the credit check with flying colors. The landlord had accepted her application, and she was the new tenant of the blue house. She could have the keys as soon as the rent was paid and could move in any time.

That afternoon Mercedes called the summer camp to reach Germaine. The girls had just returned from a long horseback ride in the Sierra foothills. While waiting for Germaine to come to the phone, Mercedes pictured her daughter climbing off her horse, her hair in pigtails, a straw cowgirl’s hat pushed back on her head, freckles popping out on her tanned face. They’d been sending each other picture postcards daily, with no mention of Jack.

After hearing about Germaine’s adventures, Mercedes asked what she would think about coming home to a new house.

“Like what kind of a new house, Mom?”

“A new house for just you and me with no Jack in it.”

Germaine let out a whoop of delight. “Just you and me? Really? That would be so cool, Mom!”

“Yes, really. I found a great house with a nice yard in a good spot. It’s time we were happier, don’t you think?”

“Wow! That’s so rad. Have you told Jack?”

“No. I wanted to be sure how you felt about it.”

“When are we moving?”

“When I come get you from camp, we’ll drive home to our new house.”

“I can’t wait! Oh, thank you, Mom.”

When they got off the phone, Mercedes was filled with Germaine’s exuberance and, for the first time, the feeling that things might be okay. At least until she got sick.

Until she got sick.
It was the tornado on the horizon. Until she could no longer function. Until she could no longer care for Germaine, keep a job, drive, keep food on the table, or think properly. Would that be next year? This time next year, would her eyes be sunk into a sallow face, with her hair falling out? Would she have Kaposi’s sarcoma with its blotchy discolorations covering her body, or would the virus be eating away at her brain and laying her reason to waste? Would Eleanor go on another cruise, or would she swoop down to assess the damage and take Germaine away from her?

The thought of Eleanor bringing up Germaine was like a plunge into ice water. She shook her head to expel the notion. Next year would be next year. Right now she had a happy daughter, a new house waiting for both of them, and plenty of work to do.

I
N A MATTER OF HOURS,
she met with the realtor, signed the lease, wrote the first rent check, and shook hands on the deal. As in a waking dream, she walked across the threshold, closed the door, and stepped out of her shoes. Afternoon light bathed the house in gold. She walked through each room slowly, feeling its serenity, noting the
placement of cabinets, windows, closets, and shelves, mentally placing furniture and imagining how it would all look.

She walked into the master bedroom and sat down in the center of the carpet. Waves of sorrow, loss, and fear crashed inside her. She was afraid of what people would say when she left her sick husband. And yet here she was, in the room she had dreamed, in the house that had been waiting for her.

How could she despair? With so little time left, there was no time to waste on despair—or on self-pity either. There never had been, but she’d failed to realize it. She’d been asleep, sound asleep, in the illusion that life would go on and on without ever being stymied by illness and death. Now she faced it: she would never see gray hair or wrinkled skin or the natural decline of age, and death was a certainty.

Losing the illusion of permanence, she felt lighter, as though she had shed the ultimate armor. She sat quietly in her new room and felt great relief and the first moments of peace in many, many months.

T
HE HOUSE WHERE
J
ACK LIVED
had reverted to a state of chaos when she returned that evening. It had ceased to be her home. It was where her possessions were temporarily stored, in the company of a madman. She found him wandering around in the backyard, barefoot, unshaven, wearing stained sweatpants and his bathrobe, untied and open, with his bare chest exposed. He was searching for something in the ankle-high grass.

He jumped with a start when he saw her standing on the deck. He squinted at her, neither waved nor spoke, then returned to his task. He must have lost something, or imagined he had. She wondered if he’d taken all his medications—then reminded herself that his medications were no longer her problem. If he was not back in
the house before sunset, still nearly two hours away, she would do something about it then.

She had lost all sympathy for his plight. Twenty hours had relieved her of that. She missed what she’d
thought
they had; she missed the illusion.
And what was the point of it? Just what the hell was the point?

She got to work. Many of her belongings had been relegated to the basement storage area when they moved in, since they were not up to His Majesty’s standards. The old couch from the pink palace was still there, along with a small dresser, her desk, and other items. She would get those things to the new place, along with most of the contents of the kitchen and the few antiques she’d inherited. She could pack it all up in a few hours. What they did not have, they could live without, as they had done before.

She got on the phone and dialed Gabe. She could hear his surprise that she was calling, and the clinking of ice in his glass. Though Jack had told Gabe he had AIDS and was closing down his practice, Gabe had no grasp of his old friend’s deterioration. No one did, except for the medical staff and perhaps Melanie.

Mercedes asked their best man if he could come by on Saturday, and maybe take Jack out for a day in Belvedere. She explained that she had some work to do that day and a break from caring for Jack would be most helpful.

Gabe was delighted she’d thought of calling him, he said, and would be happy to take Jack off her hands for a day. He knew she’d had a “rough time of it,” that she had “a lot on her plate” and it was time Jack got out of the house, now that he was “better.”

She peeked out the French doors into the backyard. Jack appeared to be mesmerized by the grass and was only a few feet from where she’d last seen him. She wondered if he even remembered what he was trying to find, but put it out of her mind. She got to
work packing Germaine’s room. As she filled each box, she carried it downstairs to the basement.

Jack headed for the house when the fading daylight made it too difficult to see. He stopped twice to catch his breath and slowly ascended the stairs. By the time he reached the top, he was panting. Mercedes was in the kitchen and had just closed the door to the basement when he walked into the dining room from the deck. He caught sight of her in the kitchen and brightened. He hadn’t eaten all day, and seeing her made him suddenly eager for food.

“Jack, what were you looking for?”

He was confounded.

“Out in the yard just now.”

“I wasn’t out in the yard. I’ve been here.”

“Look at your feet. See the grass on them?”

He looked down and inspected his feet.

“You seemed to be searching for something.”

He shook his head. She noticed the ring was gone from his right hand.