Brooklyn Gothic, page 13
“Fiiiine.” Astrid sounded like a child being ordered to clean up her mess. “I’ll support you then. I just wish you weren’t going so far.”
“As soon as things are sorted out, I’ll visit. We’ll visit together. When you meet him, you’ll understand everything. He’s the best man I’ve ever met.”
She knew the hyperbole sounded guileless and slightly unhinged, but she didn’t care.
“Be careful, Case.”
A brisk laugh burst from inside Casey’s cheeks. She had no other idea how to react to that and was annoyed with the bizarre suggestion she was in some sort of danger. Not wanting to continue the conversation, she wrapped things up and stood staring into an empty, wiped down cabinet.
Be careful, Case.
She was not happy with Astrid at the moment.
27
Casey watched the movers lumber down the steps of the mansion towards their truck and she closed the door. The movers hadn’t been gentle with her boxes and she was eager to go upstairs to the spare bedroom, where they had unceremoniously dropped them, to search for damage.
During the time it had taken to reschedule the move, she’d made herself at home in the mansion, and with him. They got along better than she could have hoped, and he was much more willing to venture outside.
They went to a play; they walked in Prospect Park and along the East River. They enjoyed sitting on the mansion’s main balcony, having coffee or wine at the iron table, sometimes calling down to engage people on the sidewalk who’d stopped to take a photo of the mansion and had questions about it. They nestled into each other on the couch in the sitting room, watching movies or reading. They made a trip to the grocery store, and she was pleased with how they navigated the food aisles in harmony.
She had read a long list of varying things—coffee, alcohol, exercise, sex, even nose blowing—could potentially trigger an aneurysm rupturing, and was constantly worried about this, but he only said his neurologist in Geneva had given him the all clear to live a sensibly normal life, and he wasn’t going to move into a plastic bubble.
At night, she couldn’t wait to get into bed with him and make love. But they often didn’t wait until nightfall, and the sitting room and library, even the kitchen, had borne witness to their daylight passion. Just looking at him doing nothing was enough to send a shock of desire through her body.
She simply enjoyed being with him, and her love for him was gluey and absorbent, thickening with each moment of whimsy and laughter, or a reveal of opinions and discovering they aligned.
Everything was warm and dreamlike, and she imagined this dream stretching luxuriously into infinity.
Turning from the door, she bumped straight into Mr. Foster’s chest. Laughing, she pushed her palm in his sternum. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“All finished with the move?” he asked, smiling down on her. “I can help you unpack.”
“No, it’s fine. But they were tossing things around. I should go check on everything.”
“All right, but afterwards, find a nice dress. We’re going out to dinner. River Café.”
She felt herself beaming. River Café, perched right on the East River, with a stirring, unobstructed view of the Manhattan skyline, was known for being the most romantic restaurant in Brooklyn, if not all of New York City.
“I haven’t bought a nice dress in long time. I’ll see what I have left.”
“Then I’ll buy you one.”
“No, no, I’ll find something. You and your money!” She curled her arms around his neck, drew his face down, and pressed her nose against his. “Remember something for me? It’s you I want, Samuel Foster, not your money, and if you lived in a Hell’s Kitchen studio, I’d feel the same.” She nipped his nose with her teeth.
“I only offered to buy you a dress. It wasn’t a bribe for your integrity,” he said, kissing her on her forehead and then her lips. “But forget the dress. And dinner is on you.”
Holding hands, they walked out of the floating barge restaurant, down its cobblestone driveway, and past a wall of pink and white petunias secluding a garden paradise with flowers of bright orange and deep magenta, and trees drooping long branches and flinging dusky shadows.
She had found a nice dress, a sundress, white and blue with a vaguely Far East feel, and he looked more handsome than she’d ever seen him in tan dress pants, black t-shirt, and light tan summer jacket. Now that his hair was short and neat, she couldn’t get enough of looking at his face, thought it was the most beautiful one she’d ever seen, the left-sided slope of his mouth only adding to his unique allure.
Mr. Foster directed her to the wood-slatted bench, put his arm around her, and tipped his head to look at the wedge of moon and the sparse sprinkle of stars around the light-strung ribs of the Brooklyn Bridge.
He entwined his fingers with hers as a river breeze lapped their faces, and said, “Looking at this sky makes me happy because you’re looking at the same one.”
Giddiness fanned out in her chest at this romantic, though melodramatic, declaration. “How you talk,” she said, nuzzling his cheek. “You didn’t let me pay like you promised.”
“No, not tonight.” They took in the velvet sky, each moment shuttering down with a deepening darkness. “I feel so different; so fresh and new. This was the right decision, though it was a very difficult one.”
“It shouldn’t have been,” she said, hugging him tight.
“Well, it was. To try and reverse course, risking failure. Getting my hopes up, getting yours up. It’s easier to accept the inevitable. But I can’t do it now.”
“You can do it now because the inevitable is you’ll live happily ever after.”
“What is this thing that grabs hold of people?” he asked himself lowly, not looking at her. “I still don’t understand it.”
He untangled his body from hers and was down on one knee. She froze, like a gazelle caught in the direct line of vision of a lion.
“I know this is crazy given how long we’ve known each other,” he said. “But being aware of how fragile and short life can be, I don’t want to waste any of it. A happily ever after for me means you’re in it. So I guess what I’m saying… or asking is…”
There was a small, white, satin box in his hands, and he flipped it open.
“Would you do me the honor of marrying me, Casey Matos?”
She was as stunned as if she’d been hit upside with a brick to the head. All thoughts came to a stupefying halt, all words fled from her mind, as if she had never learned any at all. Her palms were contorting her cheeks and her head was bouncing up and down like ball on a string.
“Yes,” she managed to say. “I will, Samuel.”
“You will and so it is, all new, from the beginning.”
Even in her soaring moment of happiness, with her heart beating so fast and light it was as if she could propel up into the inky, star-dotted sky, what he’d said seemed a little strange.
28
Mr. Foster slid a glossy folder in front of Casey where she sat browsing online at her office desk. On the front was a stock photo of a blandly handsome couple in wedding garb. They smiled on the banks of a lake, magnolia and cherry trees bursting in lime and pink before the jutting skyline of midtown Manhattan.
“Look,” he said. “We can get this arranged in a few days.”
Casey took the folder and thumbed through the pages—a company that quickly arranged weddings in Central Park.
“They’ll arrange for the license, we need to pick it up in person. They’ll handle the wedding rings and the flowers. There are a few different places in the park we can choose from. The castle looks nice. Oh, there’s a woman who can come over with bridal dresses. I’m told they’re from the top designers. And so you don’t think I’m all about money, Sharon arranged it with her friend at no expense to me. The dress will be on loan. That is, unless you want it. Then we’ll buy it. Whatever makes you happy.”
Casey’s mind reeled. He was squirting a stream of gobbledygook at her. She sat, unable to speak.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I—a few days? What’s the rush?”
“What’s the rush?” He furrowed his brows at her. “Why would you ask such a question? You know very well the rush.”
“No, I don’t know. Are you saying something will happen to you within a few days? I don’t understand.”
“I’m not saying that, Casey, I’m only saying that I want to be your husband, and soon. You don’t feel the same?”
“Of course I do. But I didn’t think it would be tomorrow. Besides, I want my parents to come up. They haven’t even met you. I haven’t told them I’m engaged.”
“Naturally they’ll come up. I’ll arrange for a car for them. How about a plane?”
“Samuel…” She took a deep breath. “I didn’t realize we were doing this right this minute. I imagined some engagement time. A few months or maybe even a year.”
“A year?” he asked, looking hurt. “Haven’t you been following the plot of this sudsy melodrama? We have to be back in Geneva soon for the next radiosurgery.”
Casey sighed, tapping her fingers on her desk. The reality of getting married hadn’t been absorbed during the surreally romantic and unexpected proposal, and certainly not the idea of getting married within days. Did this mean his health situation hadn’t improved as much as he’d told her?
“What about friends of yours?” she asked. “You never talk about anyone. Isn’t there anyone you want to invite?”
“Friends?” he scoffed. “I don’t know that I’ve ever had friends. I had people who used me and I used them.”
Casey was a little shocked at this confession. “That’s sad,” she said.
She herself hadn’t made many close friends since she’d moved to New York five years ago. After quitting the News, she’d lost touch with most of the people she’d occasionally hung out with. But she was glad she had Astrid and Kate, at least. Though now she was essentially without Astrid.
“It wasn’t so sad,” he said. “After I learned what was going to happen to me, I didn’t want attachments. And definitely not the attachments I used to have. Want to know what kinds of friends I had? While I was hooked up to tubes in the hospital, someone, maybe more than one person, cleaned me out. Wallet, cell phone, laptop, watches, valuable antiques.” He smiled ruefully. “At least they left my passport.”
Casey was even more shocked. Not just at what they’d done to him, but the types of people he used to hang out with. Then again, she’d never had anything anyone would want to steal from her. Perhaps this sort of thing happened when you did. Suddenly, his hundred-dollar bill test made a lot more sense.
“I’m sorry they did that to you,” she said.
“None of it matters now.” He grinned indulgently at her. “Why don’t we do this? After the ceremony, we can have a reception. Rent a nice place in the city, or even have it here. I’d like to meet your friends.”
“That’s fine, but that’s not what I’m…” She fell into silence. Everything was moving so fast she was disoriented, slightly out of body.
He lifted her hand, swabbing his thumb along her fingers. “The truth is, I want to know we’re married in case I check out. Who is to say it can’t still happen? Max says being married is the best way to make sure you get everything. I’m an only child, but there’s relatives. An aunt and two cousins. I rarely speak with them. They’ve got their own damn money, but who knows what they’ll try. Family estate battles are legendary. If you’re my wife, they wouldn’t stand much of a chance in court.”
She gaped at him. “That’s why you want to marry me? Your money?”
“That’s not what it’s all about.” He came around the desk, bent down, and clung to her waist, like a child. “But something could happen to me at any time and you’re the only one I trust with it.” He scrutinized her face, his expression pleading. “I need to feel comfortable.”
“Samuel,” she said, pushing him slightly away from her. “Are you marrying me because you know I’ll help you give away money to people?”
“That’s part of it.”
Her heart felt as if it sunk to the bottom of her feet. Before her was a man she’d thought she knew, and now he was saying something that made him into someone she didn’t quite know.
“So you want to marry me to make me some kind of permanent money disperser.” Her voice sounded harder and colder than she’d intended.
He stared at her and jumped back from her lap. “You obviously don’t understand how important this is to me!” he cried in a desperate tone she had never heard from him before. “It’s not about money, it’s about people. People who need help!”
She sat with her mouth open, unable to respond. Then he wiped his face and hair as if frustrated with himself, and said, quietly, “I need to be at the office in a couple of hours for the closing. I might as well call my driver now.”
And then he was gone.
Casey felt gutted. Looking at the silvery lights of her engagement ring, with the barest twinkle of yellow and pink in the center, she impulsively twisted it off her finger.
Once her anger simmered down, Casey was almost nauseous. Their first real argument, and she was wrenched. Why couldn’t she be more understanding? She didn’t know what it was like to feel that life could be stolen from her at any moment. Of course he’d want to protect his estate.
She was being too impractical. What was marriage except practicality entwined with infatuation? He should be able to discuss these realities with her without triggering a meltdown. The reality was she was going to marry a man who had a very large estate, and who had health issues, and he wanted to feel comfortable. Why couldn’t she do that for him? If the situation were reversed, she would want him to do that for her.
Being rich wasn’t a walk in the park, it seemed. His friends had stolen from him as he lay in critical condition; and his family might come after his estate. No wonder he was nervous about everything. Having been lower middle class her entire life, these were fears she couldn’t comprehend. What difference did it make if she married him tomorrow or weeks or months from now? Why not give him peace of mind?
He was a good man who wanted to do good works. Yes, she would always be uncomfortable with the imbalance in their fortunes, but look what he was doing with his. And frankly, what she could do with him. She had never in a million years imagined she’d be in this position, where she could make a real difference in people’s lives.
And he had warned her. He’d told her before he’d left for Geneva that he would always be concerned about perfect strangers, and she’d agreed this was fine with her. She had no right to suddenly act like it shouldn’t matter.
Leafing through the packet he’d given her, she gave herself permission to relish the photos and options for venue. The Belvedere Castle did look nice. Built in 1869, the castle, with its puckered schist and granite slabs, turrets, and terraces, promised to provide the most sweeping views of the park, including the Great Lawn, Ramble woodlands, and Turtle Pond. Given the fairytale quality of their courtship, she thought this venue would be appropriate.
Then she searched online and found the site to register for marriage certificates in New York. She clicked into a link and scanned the questions for both parties—name, address, social security number, and date of birth.
It dawned on her she didn’t know his date of birth. Didn’t even know how old her fiancé was! Thirties, yes, she’d always assumed that. But maybe not! Maybe he was fifty-something with highly impressive genes. Why had she never asked him this?
How much did she know about him really? He’d mentioned relatives, but no specifics. Where did they live? Why didn’t he speak to them anymore? He appeared to have no friends, other than maybe Miss Brock.
Come to think of it, she knew nothing of his medical condition other than what he’d told her, and an image he’d shown her of a brain aneurysm she had no proof belonged to him, and a shaved patch on his head that he could have shaved himself.
Her imagination churned ferociously. She’d read of people who faked illnesses. There seemed no reason he would do it with her, she had nothing he could want. But sometimes people did it for no real reason other than they were mentally unbalanced.
What was she doing, agreeing to marry a man she hardly knew anything about? What was she thinking?
She got up, a burst of steely determination driving her. She went into his bedroom, feeling she was violating some sacrosanct pact, but unable to stop. She was looking for something with his birth date. She had a right to know how old he was. She had a right to know more about him. She dismissed the idea she could just ask him, as the hunt for substantiation was on.
His gray tweed blazer, the one he usually wore inside, was draped over a chair by the door. It drew her like a magnet, and a shivering, pinpricking sensation enveloped her, as if she’d stepped into a storage freezer.
Probing its inside breast pocket, there was nothing but the silky lining. She tried the bottom pockets and her fingers brushed the buttery smooth leather of his billfold.
She drew it out, flipped it open, and saw cards of all types. His license was on the left, the top peeking out of a fold. But her eye was fish-hooked by what was on the right, tucked down behind a small plastic window. Two wedding bands—at least they were two gold bands—side by side.
Digging them out with her finger, she stared at them, willing them to explain themselves. The enigma of them tightened her chest.
They’ll handle the wedding rings.
Obviously, these weren’t ones he’d bought for them. Could he have been married before and never told her? Would he have kept that from her? But the rings were thin and slightly coppery, the luster worn out of them, not the kind she imagined he would be drawn to. She scanned their insides for engravings, but there weren’t any.
Then it occurred to her: His parents were dead. The rings might have belonged to them. The theory made sense, though they still didn’t seem like the kind of rings rich people would buy. They could be heirlooms, bought back in a day when wedding rings were more utilitarian. There was probably a time—the Depression, either World War—when gold was scarce.
