The Trust (21 page)
Authors: Tom Dolby
T
he Chilton party was exactly as Nick had expected: bad food and even worse company. Letty Chilton, in her attempt to save a penny, had hired a third-rate caterer, and it was evident in the dried-out hors d’oeuvres that were coming from the kitchen. The rock music was obnoxious and too loud. It wasn’t even that Nick didn’t like the selections; it was more that it seemed out of place in this environment. Nick ordered a martini at the bar and drank half of it in one gulp.
He was still upset about the fight in Southampton with Phoebe. The entire drive back, everyone had been silent in the car, save for the occasional comment or attempt at conversation from Genie. Phoebe had decided to go home and change, and would be arriving at the party separately. Nick looked out for Patch at the party, but couldn’t find him.
A few minutes later, Claire walked by and greeted Nick with a kiss on the cheek, which was unusual.
“Hello, Nick,” Claire said, and he nodded in return. “Come have a cigarette with me?”
This was odd. Nick didn’t even know that Claire smoked.
“Uh, sure,” he said.
She motioned for him to follow her down the hallway. “Let’s go to the library. My dad smokes cigars in there.”
Nick nodded and followed her into the library. He didn’t smoke himself anymore, but he wondered what she had to tell him. There wasn’t any reason for her to pull him aside. Maybe she knew something about what they had discovered in Southampton.
She shut the door behind them. The room was decorated in classic dark oak bookshelves and hunter green, though everything looked a bit shabby. Nick had heard that Lauren’s mom had been hired to give the apartment a facelift, but clearly it hadn’t happened yet.
Claire cracked open one of the windows and sat down on a leather sofa, placing a large crystal ashtray on the seat next to her.
“My parents don’t know that I smoke,” she said. “Obviously.”
She lit up and then exhaled in the general direction of the window. Nick sat down in a leather club chair and she handed him her pack of cigarettes.
“I quit last year,” he said, declining it. “So, what’s up?”
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” she said. “Nick, you know the Society is very important to me. Of all the people in our class, I would say I take it more seriously than anyone. But I haven’t gotten a single advantage or privilege because of it. You have everything—you’re Nick Bell. Lauren has a jewelry line. Phoebe gets a gallery show. Patch can do whatever he damn well pleases. Of all of you, all fourteen of you, I’m the only one who really cares about the group.”
“Claire, I’m not really sure why you’re telling me this.”
“I know you’re going to be offered a leadership position in our class very soon,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re the obvious choice. Your father is the Chairman. Your grandfather was Chairman Emeritus. You’re the next in line.”
“That’s not technically true. What about Henry and Benjamin?”
“I think that your father is more interested in grooming you,” she said. “Henry and Benjamin are easy. They’ve already fallen in with the group’s rules, and besides, they’re not Conscripts anymore. Your father wants to give you a leadership position so that you’ll stay loyal, so you’ll stop being the leader of the Infidels.”
Nick looked at her incredulously. “You think I’m the leader? And that name—someone else came up with that name, not us! Besides, how do you know any of this?”
She exhaled another stream of smoke. “My parents tell me everything. I’m not like the rest of you—I don’t see my parents as enemies. I trust them, and they trust me.”
“I don’t think they’d be too happy about you talking to me this way.”
“Hear me out. I think you’ll find that what I want makes sense. It’s pretty simple: I want your position in the Society. I want you to cede it to me.”
“Claire, I don’t have any
position
. Honestly, you’ve taken more of a leadership role than I have, by heading up the Junior Committee for the ball.”
Claire waved her hand at the suggestion, dispersing the smoke into the air. “That’s such typical sexism. Women get to run things like party committees while men get to head up task forces, get to make decisions that affect the world? I want more than the Junior Committee. Stuffing envelopes won’t exactly give me lessons in leadership.”
“Okay,” Nick said, “so what am I supposed to do?”
Claire looked surprised. “Wait, you’re going to do it?”
“Claire, clearly there’s so little that you understand about me and my friends.”
“What do you mean? All I know is that your friends don’t like me.”
“Come on, that’s not true.” He wasn’t really sure what to say to such an awkward statement.
She looked at him askance.
“Okay, so it’s a little bit true. But you’re not very nice to them.”
“I don’t really care. I’m not out to make friends.”
“Claire, just tell me what you want me to do.”
“Tell your father that I should be the next leader of the Conscripts. Charles has been fulfilling that role since the fall, and I know your father wants it to be you after him.”
“Fine.”
“Well, that was easy,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette. “I thought it was going to be ugly.”
“How would it be ugly?” He knew he probably shouldn’t ask this question, but he was curious.
Claire paused for a moment before speaking slowly. “I know things about you, about your family, that I don’t think you would want to be revealed. I know about Patch being your half brother. And I know that your father told you on New Year’s Eve. And that you never told Patch. Your father told my mother, and my mother told me.”
Claire was right. On the morning of New Year’s Eve, after that horrible, dreadful series of days on Isis Island, his father had drawn him aside. Parker had relayed the story of how he had an affair with Patch’s mother, Esmé, and that he was Patch’s biological father. Nick had only started to heal his friendship with Patch the previous evening, and so he hadn’t wanted to tell him. He had wanted to say something ever since that morning in the library of the Great Cottage, but it never seemed to be the right time. After that day, he had blocked it out. It had been easier not to deal with it, to pretend the information didn’t exist. It was easier to believe it would become evident in due course, and he wasn’t responsible for it.
More than anything, Nick wanted his friendship with Patch to go back to how it used to be, when Nick was a Bell and Patch was an Evans and the two of them were best friends.
Instead, he had done the worst thing, something that Patch might never forgive him for: he had kept the truth from his friend. But this time, he wasn’t going to be afraid.
“So what about it?” Nick said.
“I thought I was going to have to tell Patch that you already knew,” she said. “I don’t exactly think you’d want him to find out, would you?”
Nick sighed. “Claire, has it ever occurred to you that it’s a bit tiresome living under all these secrets? I’m going to tell Patch soon. And he’ll take it for what it’s worth. But I’m not going to let you pretend to blackmail me over some stupid position in the Society. What you don’t realize is that you’re doing me a favor.”
“What do you mean?” She looked deflated for a moment.
“The last thing I would ever want is to head up the Conscripts. So you’re not really taking anything from me at all.”
“I really don’t think—” She stood up, seemingly flustered.
“Good night, Claire. I’ll tell my father about your wishes in the next few days. Please thank your parents for the
lovely
party.”
Nick turned around and left the library, walking down the hall to get his coat. He would have looked for Phoebe, but he sensed that he should give her some time to cool off. As he rode down in the elevator, he hoped he would never have to set foot in the Chilton apartment again.
S
ix days later, starting after midnight, three enormous trucks arrived at Eaton House in Southampton. Eight workers dressed in black who billed themselves as a “white-glove delivery service” loaded the artworks out a back entrance of the estate’s main house. The company was known for its discretion and didn’t question why it was taking sixteen historically significant paintings to a warehouse near Islip Airport on Long Island, where the pieces would be repackaged, addressed to their respective museums and owners, and sent via private air courier.
Two days later Nick saw that the story was on the front page of every major newspaper in the world. Because all the museums had issued amnesties on the return of each piece, no investigations would be started. Some of the museums wanted to identify the party who returned the artwork so that they could issue a reward, which, in at least one case amounted to five million dollars.
Not surprisingly, and much to the relief of the institutions, in the days that followed, no one came forward.
The day the story broke, Nick asked his father to meet him at the Society’s town house on East 66th Street. He remembered when he and Phoebe and Lauren had asked to meet his father at the town house in December, and how their request had been rejected. Charles Lawrence, the leader of the Conscripts, had met with them instead, which had given them no answers.
This time, Nick had written his father a note, leaving it on the desk in his study. Taped to the bottom of the note was a clipping from the
New York Times
about the return of the paintings.
That would, he thought, make the message clear.
When Nick arrived at the town house at three o’clock, Parker was waiting for him. His father was sitting in the parlor on the first floor, drinking a cup of tea. The building was quiet, and Nick wondered if anyone ever used it during the day, apart from the Administrator. Perhaps the occasional member took advantage of it, but it seemed like the house was used mostly for parties.
“Nick.”
Nick nodded at his father. “There’s something you need to see.” Nick pulled out his laptop, put it on the coffee table, and slid in a DVD.
“What is this? Nick, I have a very busy day. I don’t have time to watch some little home movie of yours.”
On the screen, an image flickered. Nick heard his father gasp.
First, there was an exterior shot of Eaton House, complete with its address in the frame. The camera led the viewer into the house, through the main entryway, down the hallway, into the kitchen, and down to the basement. A time code appeared on the footage, from two days ago.
“How on earth did you—”
“It gets better,” Nick said. “Just watch.”
The shot continued down into the basement. A team of men from the white-glove service were unpacking each of the artworks in order to inspect and record its condition. There were close-ups of each of the pieces: the Degas, the Rembrandt, the Vermeer, the Pollock, even the forged Leonardo da Vinci.
“You need to destroy this recording!” Parker said. “What were you thinking? How did you get access to this? Horatio was supposed to manage it all with the utmost discretion.”
Horatio had been told by Nick and Patch, two days earlier, that the artworks needed to be filmed for insurance purposes, in case anything happened to them in transit. The butler, whose only desire was to do right by his late employer, accepted the explanation, and had allowed Nick and Patch to film the proceedings. Nick had barely believed that they had gotten away with it. But he still needed this next part of the plan to work.
The film continued, with a shot of the paintings being loaded onto the trucks, and the trucks pulling out of the front gate of the estate.
“Nick, this is absurd. I don’t know why you would make such a film. What do you want?”
Nick leaned forward to stop the clip. His heart was pounding. “We have copies of this DVD, ready to be sent to every major news organization. The
Times
, CNN, Reuters, the Associated Press.” What he didn’t mention was that Patch had also sent a copy to Eliot Walker in Maine, who would put it in Patch’s safe-deposit box. Patch had also already uploaded the footage to several remote servers. Among all of them, the footage was sure to stay intact.
Parker groaned. “Nick, I cannot believe that you did this! You need to destroy all those DVDs. This is absolutely absurd. Do you realize what damage you are potentially causing? I need you not to send those DVDs.”
“We won’t send them,” Nick said, “if you grant us one thing.”
“What’s that? Do you want access to your trust fund early? I’d be happy to—”
“No, Dad. I think you know what we want. We want out of the Society. I want you to release me, Patch, Phoebe, Lauren, and Thad. You have to do it—you have no choice.”
“This is not what your grandfather would have wanted.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Nick said. “I don’t think he was as enamored with the Society as you think.”
“Well, you’ve certainly become very plucky lately,” Parker said. “I would be impressed, if it didn’t make me so angry. You do realize this will affect your inheritance, don’t you? And as the guardian of the trusts that Palmer set up for you and Patch, I can make it very difficult for you to access them.”
“Dad, we don’t care. Money isn’t important to us. The trusts aren’t important to us. Not Palmer’s trusts, nor the Bradford Trust. What’s more important to us is our freedom.”
“You are determined to be an Infidel to the end, aren’t you?”
Nick shrugged off the comment. “You have to release us. How are you going to do it?”
Parker seemed stymied. “I don’t know—we hardly ever . . . I suppose I’ll have to consult the Council. There must be some kind of procedure for this.” He looked at Nick. “Do you realize what a disappointment this is, Nick?”
“Only for you, Dad. It’s only a disappointment for you.”
Nick got up, taking his laptop with him.
“We want it to happen in the next twenty-four hours,” Nick said. “If it doesn’t, we will send out the film. Electronically as well as via courier. It will be in the news by this time tomorrow if you don’t give us an answer.”
“Will you leave a copy of the DVD?” Parker said. “How will I prove to them that this needs to be done?”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way,” Nick said.
He exited the town house, leaving his father behind. The first thing he wanted to do was to call Phoebe, to tell her that they had finally won, that they would be released. It was everything he knew she wanted.
He had left her a few messages over the past several days, but none of them were returned. He figured she was probably still angry with him over their fight, but he hoped that his actions today would make things right.
He called her, but it went to voice mail. He left her a short message to call him, and texted her as well with a simple note:
T
HINGS HAVE CHANGED
.
