The Arrangement Page 11

  “Ran into an old client,” he said, his upbeat tone forced. “Shall I get us that champagne?” But a musical tone rang out then, and the house lights flickered. “I guess I left it too late,” Gabe said lamely.

  “That’s okay.”

  Nat led the way down the aisle, Gabe close behind her. His hand was not on the small of her back as it had been when they arrived. He seemed tense and distracted; she could feel him looking around the theater. When they sat, he didn’t lean over to whisper in her ear.

  For the second half of the show, he didn’t hold her hand.

  22

  * * *

  Honduras

  Running into Michael and Suze Weintraub while he was at the theater with Natalie had been a close call. Luckily, Gabe’s date had gone to the restroom, allowing him to catch up with his former client and the man’s wife without raising any suspicions. Gabe’s firm had helped Weintraub’s company with a hostile takeover that had gotten messy. Spending all that time in the trenches together, crossing the lines that had to be crossed, had developed a rapport between them. They shared a bond that went beyond the professional. Michael had suggested dinner with their wives, and they’d found that the women hit it off, too. Suze Weintraub was in publishing. Celeste was well-read. They’d had four or five dinners before Celeste got sick and retreated to the country full-time.

  Gabe glanced over at his wife, standing at the gleaming Italian marble countertop in their spacious kitchen. She was in her element, surrounded by fresh produce and cookbooks. Despite some puffiness around her eyes from lack of sleep, she was lively, almost glowing, planning tonight’s dinner party. They were hosting an old cop friend of Celeste’s—Manny Dosanjh, from the crime lab, and his newish wife . . . Trudy or Judy or something like that. Gabe found Manny coarse and pedantic, but Celeste thought he was salt of the earth.

  His wife had become a homebody, but she wasn’t antisocial. She loved cooking and entertaining, welcoming friends into their six-bedroom Victorian farmhouse for gourmet feasts. Celeste was a significant asset when he had to schmooze clients or colleagues. She handled every detail with aplomb. Gabe’s only duty was to make sure the drinks and conversation kept flowing.

  He turned his attention back to his laptop, where he was reading through a brief. Or trying to . . . His mind kept wandering back to Natalie. He’d hurt her, that night at the theater. He’d seen the sting in her eyes, sensed the pain in her rigid posture. She thought he was ashamed to be seen with her, but that wasn’t the case. The girl didn’t know he was married, didn’t know why he had to hide her from the prying eyes of the Weintraubs. After the show, he’d feigned a work emergency, hustled out the door of the theater before his old friends could spot him. Oleg had come when summoned, had delivered Natalie back to Brooklyn. Gabe had kept his distance since then, rattled by the near miss. Natalie would feel abandoned, rejected, insulted. It was unfortunate, but better safe than sorry.

  Leaning back into the cream sectional sofa, he closed his eyes and massaged his temples. If Suze Weintraub had spotted him with his young mistress that night, she might have told Celeste. Then again, she might not have. The women hadn’t been close in years, and no one wanted to be the bearer of that kind of news. “I saw your husband at the theater with a sexy, younger woman.” If Suze cared for Celeste at all, she wouldn’t hurt her that way, especially given all his wife’s health struggles. If, somehow, Celeste had gotten wind of his date and confronted him, Gabe would have come up with an excuse: an extra ticket, a young associate, a client’s niece in from out of town. But he was sure the Weintraubs had not seen him with Natalie. As usual, luck was on his side.

  “I’m leaving.”

  He opened his eyes to see Violet. His tall, pretty daughter strode into the room, her hair pulled back from her face, a pouf of ponytail like a halo behind her. Her face was free of makeup and she was dressed in head-to-toe black. As usual.

  Celeste looked up from her Ottolenghi tome. “I thought you were staying for dinner.”

  “We don’t want to get stuck in traffic.”

  “But I wanted you to see Manny and Judy. He hasn’t seen you since you were little.”

  “I don’t even know them, Mom.”

  “Where are you going?” Gabe ventured.

  She didn’t look at him when she answered. “A poetry slam in Dix Hills.”

  A poetry slam? Gabe would almost have preferred she go to one of her drug-fueled parties and get shot in the foot.

  Celeste asked, “Is Fern reading?”

  “She’s performing,” Violet corrected.

  “What time is she on? You could say hi to Manny and Judy and leave after.”

  “Let her go,” Gabe chimed in. He wasn’t ashamed of his daughter, per se, but he didn’t like to invite comparison with the children of their peers. Their friends’ kids were all bound for business school, med school, or law school. They were all accomplished equestrians, swimmers, or fencers. They engaged in pleasant small talk, didn’t rant about issues, didn’t dress like grieving Italian widows. Of course, Manny Dosanjh was a newlywed at forty-eight, and this Judy might be too old to have children. But still . . . it was easier to spin Violet’s creative prowess, her altruistic nature, when she wasn’t skulking around the house.

  Violet grabbed her car keys off a hook inside one of the cupboards. Gabe had bought her a BMW for her sixteenth. She’d traded it in for a Prius. She dutifully kissed her mother’s cheek.

  “Say hi to Manny and Judy. Whoever they are.”

  “Drive safely.”

  “And don’t neglect your studies,” Gabe called after her.

  “It’s spring break,” she snapped. “But I wouldn’t expect you to know that.”

  His wife shot him a look as the door slammed behind their girl. “Don’t put so much pressure on her.”

  “What? She needs to keep her grades up if she’s going to Princeton.”

  His wife didn’t respond, busying herself with her mise en place.

  “What?” He could read her, knew when she was hiding something.

  “Violet’s considering a gap year.”

  “A gap year?” He set his laptop aside and stood. “To do what?”

  “She’d like to do some volunteer work,” Celeste said breezily, chopping fennel. “With a young people’s theater. In Honduras.”

  He moved from the seating area to the kitchen island, perching on a barstool. “What about college?”

  “It will still be there when she gets back.”

  “If she gets back. These do-gooder organizations can brainwash you into devoting your life to them.”

  “She’s volunteering to work with children, Gabe, not joining ISIS.”

  “Kids in Honduras need fucking plays?” He grabbed a piece of carrot, crunched it. “Don’t they need houses? And food? And human rights?”

  “It’s a well-rounded program. She’ll be helping on farms and building houses, too. They just happen to offer a theater program for at-risk youth. She’s excited about it.”

  “I spoke to a friend on Princeton’s board. He put a word in for her.”

  “His word will still be good next year.”

  They took him for granted, his wife and daughter, expected him to roll with their whims, pick up the pieces when it all went wrong. “If she’d stayed at Chapin like I wanted, this wouldn’t be happening.”

  “If she’d stayed in the city, she might be an alcoholic. Or a drug addict. Or dead. And she’s loved her time at Fairhaven. It’s a better fit for a girl like her.”

  “It’s turned her into an artsy-fartsy weirdo. It’s fostering useless fucking skills like acting and beat poetry and performance art!”

  “Gabe . . . ,” Celeste began, but he was already leaving the room, heading for the bathroom.

  “I’m not paying for her voluntourism!” he bellowed from the hallway. “If she wants to save the world, she can pay her own fucking way.”

  Celeste didn’t follow him. His wife didn’t like to fi
ght.

  In the first-floor powder room, he peed, trying to quell the pressure in his chest. It was rage. And panic. Gabe liked situations he could control, people he could manage. His daughter was doing this to get under his skin; he knew it. But why? How had her admiration of him turned to disgust? And was she really willing to sabotage her own future just to piss him off? Violet was a bright kid. There was no way she thought that deferring college to teach Tennessee Williams to Hondurans was a good idea.

  He flushed, washed his hands, then splashed some cold water on his face. He needed to calm down, needed a way to deal with his frustration and anxiety. Perhaps a run. Or a swim in the heated pool. He was too irritated to focus on his waiting brief. What he needed was a distraction. On cue, the girl flitted into his mind: beautiful, sexy, compliant. He pulled out his phone and texted.

  Do you have classes next week?

  She responded quickly.

  No. It’s spring break.

  He smiled, could feel himself relaxing just by connecting with her.

  Want to get away for a couple of days?

  The answer came instantly.

  Yes!!!!!!

  He tucked his phone into his pocket and went back into the kitchen. Celeste was elbows-deep in a raw chicken. “I’ll go pick up the wine,” he said, grabbing his car keys.

  All traces of his previous frustration had evaporated.

  23

  * * *

  Vermont

  Nat came from a picturesque part of the world, but nothing could have prepared her for the bucolic splendor of Vermont. It was cold, temperatures hovering near freezing, as Gabe drove them to their B and B outside the small town of South Woodstock. Nat gazed out the passenger window of the Mercedes, taking in the snow-dusted trees, the quaint farmhouses, the spired churches, and covered bridges. She felt like she was in an alternate reality, where life was simple and wholesome. Where she and Gabe were not in a sugar relationship but were a real couple . . . at least for two nights.

  That evening at the theater had upset her. It was clear Gabe did not want to be seen with her in front of his society friends, and it hurt. She’d convinced herself that what she and Gabe had was more than financial; it was genuine and beautiful. But that night forced her to face the truth. Gabe was paying her to be there when he wanted her, to go away when he didn’t.

  The driver, Oleg, had taken her home after the show. “Successful men like Mr. Turnmill can be cold and hard,” he said, in his deep, masculine voice. “That doesn’t mean he doesn’t care for you, in his way.”

  “I’m just . . . I’m not sure I’m cut out for this.”

  Oleg was the only person who knew that Gabe was her sugar daddy. There was no one else to whom she could confide. “I thought I could handle it, but . . . it feels so demeaning.”

  The big man pulled up half a block from her apartment (her drop-off spot had inched closer with each subsequent date) and turned to face her. It looked like he wanted to tell her something but was unsure, afraid even. Finally, he spoke.

  “Sometimes, we do things we don’t feel good about to survive. It doesn’t mean you’re a bad person.”

  His sympathy, his assurance had brought her perilously close to tears. But she couldn’t cry about this. She had known what she was getting into. No strings.

  “Thanks, Oleg. You’re really nice.”

  Climbing the steps to the building entrance, she had caught the movement of the front curtains out of the corner of her eye. If Mara or Toni had been looking out the window, they would have witnessed her emerging from the chauffeured town car, wearing her slinky black dress and high heels. It looked tawdry and gross. Because it was. She was.

  Her self-loathing was exacerbated by Gabe’s distance. Since that date, there had been radio silence for more than a week. She knew he was a busy man, but this felt deliberate. It felt cold. And then, three days ago, the invitation had arrived. He didn’t apologize or kowtow, he just asked if she’d like to go away with him for a couple of days. This powerful attorney was going to take time away from his cases and clients to spend some of her spring break with her. It all felt real again.

  “The B and B is just up here,” Gabe said, smiling over at her. He seemed to know his way around Vermont. Maybe he’d brought his daughter here. Or his wife. Or a girlfriend. She felt something unpleasant in her gut—jealousy. But, of course, a man Gabe’s age had had a life before her. It would have been creepy if he hadn’t. She shook it off.

  Their accommodations were in a quaint cottage on a well-groomed hobby farm. As Gabe checked them in, Nat wandered around the grounds. Horses grazed in a sunlit paddock, nibbling the tender spring shoots just beneath the skiff of snow. Chickens clucked in a henhouse, promising fresh eggs for their breakfast in bed. Fluffy sheep dotted a hillside, bleating from time to time. It was serene. It was sublime. It called for a selfie.

  Nat knew she couldn’t post any photos with Gabe, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t share solo holiday pics on social media. Her friends back home would be interested in how she spent her spring break. And curious. And jealous. She experienced that perverse sort of thrill she always got from Instagram, knowing her followers would admire, envy, and resent her.

  Gabe emerged from the main house then, jingling a key. “Our palace awaits.”

  The cottage was a perfect mix of modern amenities and old-school charm. The decor was kitschy, French country meets hippie commune. Nat wandered through the tiny home, set back from the main building, allowing the couple complete privacy. She took in the claw-foot bathtub, the flat-screen TV nestled in an antique armoire, the massive sleigh bed. One bed. Her stomach fluttered.

  Suddenly, Gabe was behind her, his hands on her waist, his breath on her neck. “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes,” she said quickly. It was after five. She’d been too excited, too busy packing to eat much lunch. She suddenly realized she was famished.

  Gabe drove them to an adorable inn with a cozy farm-to-table restaurant. Conversation flowed easily, flirty banter mixed with heavier topics—fossil fuel reliance, foreign intervention. Nat had grown up in a home where the TV was a ubiquitous dinner guest. They did not discuss politics over their meals, did not discuss anything of consequence. Her father had liked sitcoms. Derek liked sports. And her mom seemed perfectly fine with the constant electronic babble. Gabe’s daughter would have been raised on stimulating, thought-provoking dinner conversation. The girl would be informed and sophisticated; not like Nat.

  They lingered over a shared dessert (apple pie with local cheddar) and wine. Nat was drinking most of it—Gabe was driving. And she needed the alcohol to calm her nerves. As the night wound down, her anxiety about what was to come increased. Gabe had planned this getaway with certain expectations. He had picked her up, paid for the room, and bought her dinner. In return, he would want sex. Nat understood this, accepted it. But still . . . she was afraid. Making love would change their relationship, it always did. And it would change her. Once she slept with Gabe, the man who paid her monthly allowance, she would be a prostitute . . . no matter how much she cared for him.

  On the drive back to the house, she felt an odd mixture of nerves and sedation, simultaneously wound up and wiped out. The country road was dark, with no streetlights or oncoming traffic to illuminate their journey. She glanced over at Gabe, at his profile in the glow of the dashboard lights. He looked strong and handsome, younger in the dim lighting. She felt a flutter in her chest—attraction, infatuation, genuine fondness. If she focused on those feelings, and not that envelope full of cash, maybe . . . just maybe.

  When they reached the farm, Gabe parked the car and they scurried through the frigid night to their cozy cottage. Gabe turned on the gas fireplace and opened the bottle of red their hosts had left for them. Reading the label, he shrugged. “It’ll have to do.”

  “I’ll be right back,” Nat said, grabbing her purse and heading to the bathroom. She ran the faucet and peed (she didn’t want to subject Gabe to the so
und of her bodily functions). Scrounging in her bag, she found her travel toothbrush and compact floss. She cleaned her teeth, then freshened her lip gloss. She took in her reflection in the mirror—a little wan, glassy-eyed, but fine. Before she returned to her partner, she checked her phone.

  Her Instagram photo had received a decent number of likes. She scrolled through a handful of comments. Her classmate Ivan had commented:

  Vermont?!?! Why didn’t you invite me bish!

  She chuckled at his faux snark. Her roommate Toni had liked the photo, too. Nat knew that a like was sometimes just an acknowledgment. I see your photo. I see you’re on a holiday. You’d better be able to cover your rent next month. Closing the app, she checked her texts. There was one from Keltie inviting her to go see a band the next night. And three more from an unknown number.

  Got your message psycho bitch

  You can’t kill me if I get to you first

  And finally:

  I know what you are whore

  Nat’s knees went weak and she staggered backward, perching on the edge of the claw-foot tub. Cole. They had to be from him. But how had Cole gotten her cell number? She’d given it to a handful of people: her mom; Derek; her one trusted friend, Abbey, back in Blaine. None of them would have given it to Cole Doberinsky. They all knew he was unstable; they all knew he scared her. Cole was more resourceful than she’d thought.

  He must have been observing her at school for days, undetected, must have followed her home on the subway. What had Cole seen as he sat outside her apartment, waiting, watching? Had he seen her getting into that town car? Had he tailed her and spotted her with Gabe? Would he tell her mom, their former classmates, the whole town that Nat was a slut? A sugar baby? A prostitute?