One Way or Another(59)

“And I get to take care of my commission at the same time. I’m not looking forward to capturing our Mr. Ghulbian on canvas, but a promise is a promise, and he is interesting, in a strange sort of way.”

*

Ahmet was not exactly thrilled with the news that Marco and Martha would accompany Lucy but he understood it was that, or no Lucy at all, and anyway, he was eager to get his portrait done.

He’d thought about it and decided on doing it on his yacht after all. He would be sitting in the captain’s chair at the head of the table in the yacht’s wood-paneled dining room that seated thirty. The paneling was ash, a color he was fond of—he hated the yellowness of traditional oak—and the captain’s chair was an antique, rescued from a Boston whaler that had plied the Atlantic in the 1800s, and came complete with scars and rum stains and the aroma of old-time sailboats that really gave Ahmet a kick.

Sometimes he wondered about his conflicted personality, thinking about the good things he did: the young people he’d rescued from the streets; his support of them afterward; his generous gifts to charities; the true charity in his heart for the young and disenfranchised. Yet there was his other side, the one he hid from the world, from everyone, in fact, except Mehitabel. She knew his “other” soul, or lack of it; she knew how to protect him, act as his “beard” so no one would ever suspect the great man, the billionaire who had everything, of any wrongdoings. Certainly never of torture and murder.

“Murder” was a word Ahmet did not usually allow to penetrate the forefront of his mind. He was not a murderer. He was a fair man, a just man. His girls were chosen because basically they did not have real lives, they were hanging on to the threads of existence, prostituting themselves to buy drugs, living in squalor, or on the street, though there was also what he called his “higher-class” girl, like Angie, for instance. Now there was a young woman who could have been improved upon, had he had the wish. Which he had not. That other, darker side of his had taken over where Angie was concerned. Just thinking about her now, remembering how she refused even to wail, to cry, to scream when he beat her, excited him. Angie was too precious to set free, to lose into the darkness of “forever.” He needed her as he had never needed another woman, and certainly never needed young Lucy, who was to be, he would make certain of it, his future.

Mehitabel had taken care of Angie for him. She’d moved her under cover of darkness, to the attic suite, way after anyone was around, though no servant ever slept at Marshmallows. Angie was safe with Mehitabel, who’d told him Angie was recovering, that she was eating a little soup, a crust of bread. Ahmet had smiled at the way Mehitabel had described it as a “crust of bread.” She was nothing if not dramatic, but she was efficient. And loyal. But then how could she not be loyal. He owned her. She would never find employment anywhere else, he would make sure of that, should she ever make any attempt to leave, though he knew she would not; she was in too deep, and she was too dark in her own soul for any other life. Mehitabel needed what he had to offer, and she could consider herself very lucky they had met.

Meanwhile, Angie was here, in that room upstairs under the roof where the herons nested. Perhaps the tweeting of the young, the harsh cry of the birds, gave Angie some comfort in her pain and her sorrow, though he guessed by now sorrow had cut too deep. Angie knew her fate as surely as he himself. It would not be easy.





41

Martha was not surprised when, the day before they were to leave for France, Lucy called to say she couldn’t make it, though she was stunned by the sheer outrageousness of it.

She gripped the phone hard; she even stamped her foot, she remembered later when she wondered why it hurt. “Don’t be ridiculous, Lucy. You accepted. We accepted. We are all going and that’s that. Even Morrie is coming along to help with the plans. Remember, this is a working trip, Lucy Patron, not simply a joy ride.”

“A joy ride with an old man,” Lucy grumbled, mid-bite, Martha could tell. It was breakfast time and she knew Lucy would be in the local Starbucks crunching down a toasted bagel with cream cheese and a double lowfat cappuccino with whipped cream. Lucy never got her calorific priorities straight. “Besides, I’ve got nothing to wear on a yacht,” Lucy added.

“Then wear what you always wear. We can always go shopping in Nice, or Monte Carlo.” Martha could tell by Lucy’s silence that she was impressed with that idea.

“So, okay then. What time?” Lucy asked.

“Noon. And remember, Lucy Patron, this is a working trip. Bring your brains with you, please. If, in fact, you remember you have any.”

Martha put down the phone, turned and met Marco’s gaze.

“You think she’s ever gonna grow up?” he said, shaking his head. Lucy was irresponsible and he thought she took advantage of Martha’s sisterly concern.

“She’s worried about Ahmet. And to tell you the truth, so am I, a little bit anyway. He’s really coming on strong; you haven’t seen the way he looks at her, practically eating her up with his eyes, when he thinks no one is looking.”

Marco went over and took her in his arms again, naked body against naked body, cool now, fresh from loving, memories still entwining them as their bodies had earlier, holding them together, content.

“Don’t underestimate your kid sister, Martha,” he said. “She’s a savvy seventeen-year-old, she knows where Ahmet is at and what he’s after, and believe me, she’s not going to give it to him.”