You Only Live Nine Times, page 25
"I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye." Rachel's pulse was still racing from her encounter with Julian, and Keith's sudden appearance had made her heart skip another beat. She forced herself to breathe normally. "I couldn't find you," she lied. "I was just headed home."
Keith briskly tapped the roof of the cab, indicating that it should drive on. “No, you’re not.” He took her arm firmly. “Let’s go back inside. I’ll send you another bottle of champagne.”
Rachel’s head was spinning as she found herself deposited back at Tommy’s table, where he was deep in conference with Manny. He looked up in surprise at her return, then caught a glimpse of Keith—who was already signaling to the waitress to bring them another bottle of champagne—and his brow cleared. "Keith came by and asked where you were, but I didn’t think he’d actually go looking for you.”
Rachel sank into the banquette, accepting the champagne flute that had appeared before her. “I’m the only person I know,” she said, “who gets kicked into clubs.”
Tommy’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “I told you, darling. People know you now.”
The champagne tasted expensive yet somehow bitter; the adrenaline that had flooded through her system when Keith accosted her still hadn’t receded entirely.
It was flattering, Rachel realized, that her absence had been noticed. Six months ago, she'd been nobody. But as the music pounded and the beautiful people swirled around her, all she could think about was Julian.
She was trapped in this velvet box. Rachel remembered the envy she’d seen on the faces of those still waiting outside as Keith Cranford had personally escorted her past the velvet rope. He’d brought her back to rejoin her with the rest of the scenesters and personalities he’d collected—the entire cabal of gorgeous and odd-looking and eclectic and slightly outrageous Coacoochee “celebrities” who’d given this party its blinding luster.
Like she was one of them now.
Whether she wanted to be or not.
Moonlight filtered through the plantation shutters of Julian Singer-Adams's study. He reached for the antacids again—his third dose tonight—and dry-swallowed them with practiced elegance. Even this small discomfort couldn't disturb the careful composure he'd worn like armor for more than twenty-five years.
His stomach had been in knots ever since Friday's meeting with Dahlia. Three days of churning anxiety that had grown markedly worse since dinner tonight. Perhaps he should speak with his chef about the menu, which apparently still wasn’t simple enough for his increasingly sensitive digestion. Age and its laments, Julian thought wryly. Turning fifty a few years earlier had taken a toll that all his money couldn't buy him out of.
He settled back into his leather chair, the buttery soft material sighing beneath him. Through the windows, his estate stretched down to a private beach Julian hadn’t set foot on in at least a decade. Once he’d imagined the wife and children who would enjoy the fruits of his labor—and when it had become clear that the schedule he kept and the time he spent traveling back and forth between Miami and Los Angeles weren’t conducive to family life, the beach had become the perfect backdrop for entertaining. The silence now was almost oppressive—no preparations for weekend festivities, no caterers' trucks rumbling up the drive. His neighbors certainly didn't miss those days, nor did his accountant miss writing checks for damaged landscaping and noise complaints.
Just when he'd thought the situation with Daisy and Marc was settling—that life might return to its careful, controlled rhythms—Rachel Baum had emerged as an unexpected problem. Julian didn’t miss much, but he had to admit he hadn’t seen her coming. Dahlia's cheerful chatter about Rachel researching Coacoochee's “social history,” tracking down people who'd worked the Mercury Island “party scene” in December 1993, had nearly knocked him off his axis.
It had taken every ounce of Julian's practiced composure not to react.
He found himself thinking about Rachel now as he sipped a glass of the cold ginger ale his housekeeper, Sofia, had arranged on his desk before retiring for the night. He’d been itching to get his hands on Dorothea Wilson’s building. Although he’d bought, renovated, and sold dozens of buildings on Hibiscus Road, none had quite the appeal of the one that housed Title Wave Books, with its one-of-a-kind original terrazzo floor and that upstairs terrace dripping with potential.
The bookstore had struggled as much as one would expect in a town like Coacoochee, especially back when it had been managed by…Julian’s stomach clenched again, and he found he couldn't remember the name of the unimpressive fellow who’d run it before Rachel. (Brad, maybe, or Brick.) Julian had known it was only a matter of time before he’d be able to take it off Dorothea’s hands for a song—some absurdly small sum that would be a pittance for him, but nonetheless a small fortune for a retiree who didn’t want the burden of running a shop fulltime and couldn’t find good help to do it for her.
He remembered seeing Rachel in passing, in those early days after she’d first moved to town. All gritted teeth and grim determination to start over following some personal catastrophe, with her wild curls and three cats—one of them blind. Rachel had a kind heart, Julian supposed. He’d expected her to be even worse for the shop than the previous manager, but it hadn’t worked out that way. Dahlia was right that people came to Title Wave just to see the cats, but it was more than that. Rachel had been good for the store in a way that nobody, except maybe Dorothea herself, could have foreseen. The shop was now a genuine asset to a community that its new manager hadn’t even set foot in only a few months earlier.
Rachel didn’t belong, yet somehow she fit. The same could be said of Coacoochee’s glittering nightlife scene—hardly a hospitable environment for a bookish woman with cats. Yet people seemed to like her. Even Julian couldn’t help but feel a grudging respect for her. There was something refreshing about a person who knew exactly who she was, who didn't perform for anyone.
The thought brought his father to mind, and Julian's stomach gave another painful twist. Julio Santos Sr. had been the same way—authentically himself whether he was speaking to his construction crew or the wealthy homeowners whose driveways they poured. Never modulating his voice, never hiding his Honduran accent, never understanding why his son spent money on elocution lessons.
It shamed Julian how little he’d thought about his father in the years since he’d died. There had been an empire to build and little time for sentimental reflection. But the older Julian got, the more he saw his father’s face looking back at him from the mirror. Como dos gotas de agua, people always said. Like two drops of water. That’s how alike Julian and his father had once been.
His father would have liked Rachel, Julian thought now. Would have appreciated her straightforward manner, the way she seemed comfortable in her own skin. He would have been deeply ashamed of the way his son had spoken to her at Red Room on Saturday night. Not just because his father had possessed a certain old-world chivalry that could never have countenanced threatening a woman. His father would also have been shrewd enough to see through those threats and recognize them for what they were—desperate moves by a desperate man.
Julian rose from his desk, moving to the window with the measured grace that had become second nature. Twenty-five years of practice had made the performance seamless.
The parties had been part of that performance. Back in his Gatsby phase, when he'd thought lavish entertaining would show the world how successful he’d become. He hadn't particularly enjoyed them—all those people treating his home like their personal playground, the forced conversations with politicians and models and trust fund babies, whose observations he had to pretend were clever.
But having a private chef—now that had felt like true arrival. Not just catering staff for parties, but his own personal chef, traveling between his L.A. and Coacoochee properties. Danny Elliott had been perfect for the role. At twenty-five he was young, talented, and possessed a preternatural golden-boy charm that made everything seem effortless. More than just cooking, Danny had understood the theater of it all. He could work a room like a politician, always knowing who needed attention, who was holding the best drugs—and which beautiful girls he’d ask to join him in the pool house for private festivities.
December 4th, 1993. Alicia Rodrigue arriving in her department store dress, clutching her invitation nervously. Lord knew which of the college bars or model casting calls—the ones Danny regularly trawled for “fresh talent,” as he put it—he’d found her in. She'd arrived early, before all but the least fashionable of his guests.
"Your house is unbelievable," she'd said, dark eyes wide as she took in the soaring ceilings and museum-quality art.
He'd given her a tour, finding himself charmed by the sincerity of her enthusiasm. When Danny appeared with that Polaroid camera he was always carrying around—hoping to capture something titillating or compromising (or both)—Julian had posed naturally, his arm around Alicia’s shoulders.
He’d left soon after for dinner downtown with the bankers who were financing the most ambitious project he’d undertaken to date—the demolition of the old Bakery Centre down in South Miami and its replacement with an extravagant new outdoor mall that, if all went to plan, would make Julian wealthier than even he had ever imagined. He’d already committed to using a portion of the funds to sponsor next year’s Make-A-Wish gala, the black-tie fundraiser that was the premier annual event on Miami’s social calendar. And that was just the beginning. By this time next year, Julian had reflected, he’d be one of Miami’s biggest and best-known builders and philanthropists.
"Keep an eye on her," he'd told Danny, nodding in Alicia’s direction as he was leaving. Danny had been nearly as comfortable playing host in Julian’s home by then as Julian was himself. "She seems overwhelmed."
When he’d returned shortly after midnight, the party had shifted somehow. Julian’s stomach heaved again as he remembered it now—the way Danny had met him in the garage before he could even enter the house, his ruddy California tan ashen beneath the fluorescent lights.
"We have a problem."
In the pool house, Alicia lay unconscious on a white leather sofa. Her pretty coral dress was rumpled, her breathing shallow and labored.
"What did she take?"
"Pills from my stash.” Danny ran a hand through his carefully tousled hair. “She was trying to keep up with girls who party every weekend."
Julian was acutely aware of the guests whose cars were still parked outside—Commissioner Carpenter. The Mayor. A couple of state representatives and even one of Florida’s two U.S. senators, back from D. C. for the holidays. Not one of them would want to be associated with something like this. And not one of them would hesitate to throw Julian under the bus, if that’s what it took to preserve themselves from being tainted by scandal.
Julian was suddenly enraged by the whole thing—by the careless way this pretty young girl had been treated in his home, by the way his supposed “guests” trashed it weekend after weekend, by the unfairness of this happening now when he was on the brink of achieving everything.
Mostly, he was enraged by the fear that underlay all of it.
“Well?!” he'd snapped at Danny. “Why are you staring at me like an idiot? Call an ambulance, for God’s sake!”
"Julian, we can't call 911 here,” Danny had said. “Think about it—paramedics, police, investigations. Your name in the papers. Everything you've built. Everything you’re about to build..."
Julio Santos Aguilar from Hialeah would have called for help without hesitation. But Julian Singer-Adams had spent too many years burying that man to give him any oxygen now.
"I'll take her," Danny had said. "Drive her over to Jackson Memorial myself. Tell them I found her outside a club."
Julian had taken a deep breath, trying to remain calm and logical. "Bring her to Coacoochee General. Jackson’s all the way over the causeway."
"Exactly. Far enough that they won't connect her to Mercury Island." Danny was already lifting Alicia, her body limp as a doll. "I'll handle it. You just get everyone out of here."
Julian had let him go. He’d spent the next fifteen minutes dispersing guests with practiced calm. A gas leak, he’d said. Nothing to worry about, but naturally everyone had to evacuate the grounds while it was sorted out.
By dawn, it was as if the party had never happened.
Except Alicia Rodrigue was dead. Found abandoned outside Jackson Memorial's emergency room. Left there by someone who'd driven away without getting help.
When Tommy Duvall's blind item had appeared a week later—with its vague, salacious tale of a Mercury Island party and a girl who'd partied too hard—Julian had been certain his world would collapse. Somehow, somebody had discovered the truth and sold him out. Christmas decorations had begun to appear around town; to this day, Julian still associated the holiday season with the agony, the crushing guilt, of those final weeks of 1993.
But nothing had happened. Somehow—a miracle, that was the only way to describe it—the whole thing had blown over. Most likely, it hadn't occurred to anyone to connect the chichi parties Julian Singer-Adams hosted with the tawdry "models and bottles" gathering the blind item had alluded to. The gossip faded, and life had continued.
Later, after cautious questioning, Julian learned that Daisy Locarro had been Tommy's source. His assistant, who spent her weekdays filing his papers and scheduling his meetings, who was never invited to his weekend gatherings. But she’d lived her own wild life outside of Julian’s office. She’d been to enough parties in other Mercury Island homes—and had more than enough imagination, apparently—to craft a colorful “fiction” and sell it to Tommy Duvall and Palm magazine in exchange for some much-needed rent money.
The cosmic joke of it—her made-up story accidentally matching reality—might have been funny if Alicia hadn't died.
Five years ago, when that blind item first appeared, Danny had come to him in a rage. "Someone knows," he'd insisted. Julian had let him believe it, had even paid him to go away—startup money for Sabrosa, enough to get Danny out of his life. Danny had thought he was blackmailing Julian, but the truth was Julian had never felt better about a single dollar he’d ever spent than he did now, in using his vast fortune to buy Danny Elliott out of his life.
And, anyway, it was better to have Danny think that some anonymous person out there really did know the truth. It kept him careful. It kept him in line.
Julian had fired Daisy, of course. Generous severance, glowing references, but he couldn't have her around anymore—despite how much he’d come to genuinely like her, with her tall tales and extravagant humor, and the way she instantly enlivened any room she walked into. Not when her "harmless" gossip had come so dangerously close to the truth.
Not when she was another pretty, vulnerable young woman who might get dragged down by the undertow of his life.
But Julian had watched over her. He’d driven out to more clubs and late-night parties to give her a ride home than he could count, not wanting her dependent on the largesse of her fellow partiers, who might or might not be prepared to look out for her safety. He’d "loaned" her money countless times when she couldn’t afford this or that much-coveted bauble, or when she was having trouble making rent. Isabella didn't like it, and he understood why a publicist would think it was a bad idea. But somebody had to look out for Daisy.
It had been his penance for Alicia, in a way—keeping Daisy safe when he'd failed the other girl so completely.
Had his father lived to see what had happened to Alicia, and Julian’s role in it, his disappointment in his son would have crushed him beyond repair. On some level, Julian was always hoping he’d be able to meet his father’s eyes in the mirror again.
But then had come that morning back in late September—only a day or two before Palm magazine’s big party at Sabrosa, celebrating their five-year anniversary—when Julian had given Daisy a ride home from some after-hours over the causeway. He’d dropped her near Title Wave, whose café was now Daisy’s favorite spot for coffee, and found her unusually downbeat.
It hadn’t taken much prying for her to tell him what was troubling her: some late-night confession she’d made to Marc Gottsegen—who notoriously loathed Tommy Duvall—that she’d “invented” the entire blind item that had made Tommy’s career. Marc had been bothering her ever since, demanding more details, determined to expose the whole thing and show Tommy up for the fraud that Marc had convinced himself Tommy was.
Now, Julian’s stomach flipped again. The light from the lamp on his desk blurred and became as haloed as the moon outside, and Julian barely made it to the bathroom before the entire contents of his stomach came up.
Daisy’s words had hit him like ice water, cutting through twenty years of carefully maintained control. Marc Gottsegen was digging into December 1993. If he was thorough—and reporters looking to destroy rivals usually were—he'd track down everyone who'd worked for Julian back then. The drivers, the housekeepers, the security.
The personal chef.
A few quick calls confirmed that Marc had already started poking around, tracking down former employees and groundskeeping staff. Eventually, someone would remember the golden boy from California. Who knew what Danny would say if cornered? His planned expansion of Sabrosa into Los Angeles and Las Vegas was at stake. He had investors of his own now. There were whispered rumors that those investors were becoming concerned; that Danny occasionally treated Sabrosa's bank account as if it were his own personal fund. If that was true, then Danny couldn't have anyone looking too closely into his affairs. He'd sell Julian out in a heartbeat.
