Sidney Sheldon's After the Darkness (4 page)

“Do you mind if I cut in? I've barely spoken to my favorite brother-in-law all night.”

Connie, Grace's eldest sister, slipped her arm around Lenny's waist. Lenny and Grace both smiled.

“Favorite brother-in-law, eh?” Grace teased. “Don't let Jack hear you say that.”

“Oh,
Jack
.” Connie waved her hand dismissively. “He's been in such
a funk all evening. I thought being a senator was supposed to be fun. Anyone would think he was the one who'd just lost his house. And job. And life savings. Come on, Lenny! Cheer a girl up, would you?”

Grace watched her husband dance with her sister, holding Connie close so he could offer words of comfort.
I love them both so much,
she thought.
And I
admire
them both so much. The way Connie can make jokes and laugh at herself when she and Mike are going through hell. And Lenny's incredible, inexhaustible compassion.
People were always talking about how “lucky” Grace was to be married to Lenny. Grace agreed. But it wasn't Lenny's money that made her blessed. It was his kindness.

Of course, there was a downside to being married to the nicest man in the world. So many people loved Lenny, and relied on him, that Grace almost never got him all to herself. Next week they were flying to Nantucket, Grace's favorite place in the world, for a two-week vacation. But of course, being the gracious host that he was, Lenny had invited everyone at the table tonight to join them.

“Promise me we'll get at least
one
night alone,” Grace begged, when they finally crawled into bed that night. The ball had been fun, but exhausting. The thought of even more socializing filled Grace with dread.

“Don't worry. They won't all come. And even if they do, we'll get more than one night alone, I promise. The house is big enough for us to sneak away.”

Grace thought,
That's true. The house is enormous. Almost as big as your heart, my darling.

I
T WAS THE MORNING AFTER THE
Quorum Ball, a Saturday. John Merrivale was in bed with his wife.

“Please, C-C-Caroline. I don't want to.”

“I don't care what you
want,
you pathetic little worm.
Do it!
”

John Merrivale closed his eyes and moved down beneath the sheets till he was eye level with his wife's neatly trimmed black bush.

Caroline taunted him. “If you weren't such a limp dick, I wouldn't
need
you to do it. But since you've failed to get it up yet again, it's the least you can do.”

John Merrivale began to do what was asked of him. He hated oral sex. It felt disgusting and wrong. But the days had long passed when he was allowed to follow his own desires. His sex life had become a series of nightly humiliations. Weekends were the worst. Caroline expected a morning performance on Saturdays, and sometimes even a Sunday matinee. It was incredible to John how a woman who so patently despised him could still have such a rampant sex drive. But Caroline seemed to get off on degrading him, bending him to her whim.

Feeling her writhe with pleasure against his tongue, John fought the urge to gag. Sometimes he fantasized about escape.
I could go to the office one day and never come home. I could drug her, then strangle her in her sleep.
But he knew he would never have the balls to do it. That was the worst
part of his miserable marriage. His wife was right about him: He
was
weak. He
was
a coward.

In the beginning, when they first met, John had hoped that he might draw strength from Caroline's dominant personality. That her confidence and ambition would compensate for his shyness. For a few blissful months, they had. But it wasn't long before his wife's true nature emerged. Caroline's ambition was not a positive force, like Lenny Brookstein's. It was a black hole, an envy-fueled vortex that sucked the life out of any human being who came near it. By the time John Merrivale realized what a monster he'd married, it was too late. If he divorced her, she would expose him to the world as a sexual cripple. That would be more humiliation than even John could bear.

Thankfully it took only a couple minutes for Caroline to reach orgasm. As soon as she had her pleasure, she got up and marched into the shower, leaving John to strip the bed and put on fresh sheets. There was no need for him to perform such a menial task. The Merrivales had a small army of maids and housekeepers on permanent call at their palatial town home. But Caroline insisted he do it. Once, when she considered his hospital corners to be less than perfect, she'd smashed a glass perfume bottle into his face. John had needed sixteen stitches, and still bore the scar on his left cheek. He told Lenny he'd been mugged, which as he saw it, was not far from the truth.

If it hadn't been for Lenny Brookstein, John Merrivale would have killed himself years ago. Lenny's friendship, his warm, easy manner, his readiness with a joke, even when business was going badly, was the most important, treasured thing in John Merrivale's life. He lived for the office and his work at Quorum, not because of the money or the power, but because he wanted to make Lenny proud. Lenny Brookstein was the one and only person who had ever
believed
in John Merrivale. Awkward and physically unattractive, with red hair and pale, gangly limbs, John had never been popular at school. He had no brothers and sisters growing up with whom to share his troubles, or toast his modest successes. Even his parents were disappointed in him. They never said anything, of course. They didn't have to. John could
feel
it just by walking into a room.

At his wedding to Caroline, he overheard his mother talking to one of his aunts. “Of course, Fred and I are absolutely delighted. We never
thought that John would marry such a bright, attractive girl. To be perfectly honest, we'd rather given up hope of his marrying at all. I mean, let's face it, he's a sweet boy but he's hardly Cary Grant!”

The fact that his own wife despised him hurt John, but it did not surprise him. People had despised him all his life. It was Lenny Brookstein's friendship, the huge trust Lenny had placed in John, that was the great surprise of John's life. He owed Lenny Brookstein everything.

Of course, Caroline didn't see it that way. Her envy of Lenny and Grace Brookstein had grown over the years to the point where she now struggled to conceal it in public. In private, John had grown used to hearing her refer to Lenny disparagingly as “the old man,” and to Grace as “that bitch.” But recently Caroline had taken to wearing her loathing on her face. For John, this made events like last night's Quorum Ball a terrifying experience. His love for Lenny Brookstein was immense. But his fear of his wife was even greater. And Caroline Merrivale knew it.

 

A
T BREAKFAST
, J
OHN TRIED TO MAKE
small talk.

“We made a r-r-respectable total last night, I thought, all things considered.”

Caroline sipped her coffee and said nothing.

“I know L-Lenny was pleased.”

“Fifteen million?” Caroline laughed scornfully. “That's nothing to the old man. He might as well just write a check himself and be done with it. But of course, that would mean missing out on all the adulation. All the great and the good telling him what a terrific, philanthropic guy he is. And we couldn't have his darling Gracie go without getting her picture taken
six thousand times,
could we? Heaven forbid!”

John spread a thin layer of butter on his toast, avoiding his wife's eye. He knew from experience that Caroline's anger could turn on a dime. One wrong move and it would be directed at him. Once again he cursed himself for his cowardice.
Why am I so afraid of her?

Hoping to get back into her good graces, he mumbled, “Lenny invited us to Nantucket next week, by the way. Don't worry. I said no.”

“What the hell did you do that for?”

“I…well, I…I assumed you…”

“You
assumed
?” Caroline's eyes bulged with rage. “How dare you assume anything!” For a moment John wondered if she was going to hit him. To his great shame, he heard his coffee cup rattle against its saucer. “Who else is invited?”

“Everybody, I th-th-think. The Prestons. Grace's s-sisters. I'm not sure.”

“And you want to let Andrew Preston spend a week sucking up to Lenny, pushing himself ahead of you at Quorum while you sit by and do nothing? Good God, John. How stupid are you?”

John opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again. The business didn't work like that. Andrew Preston could never hope to usurp John's position and he wouldn't try. He wouldn't dare. But there was no point trying to reason with Caroline.

“So you want to go, then?”

“I don't
want
to go, John. Frankly I can't think of anything worse than being cooped up with Lenny Brookstein's inane child bride on some godforsaken island for seven days. But I
will
go. And so will you.” She swept imperiously out of the room.

Once she'd gone, John Merrivale allowed himself a small smile.

I did it. We're going. We're actually going!

The reverse psychology had worked like a charm. All it took was a little courage.
Perhaps I'll try it more often?

S
ENATOR
J
ACK
W
ARNER WOKE UP ON
Saturday morning with a crushing hangover. Honor had left early for her yoga class. Downstairs, in the playroom of their idyllic Westchester County farmhouse, Jack Warner could hear his daughters, Bobby and Rose, screaming blue murder at each other.

What the fuck is Ilse doing?

The family's new Dutch au pair gave an excellent blow job, but her nannying skills left much to be desired. So far Jack had resisted Honor's requests to be allowed to fire Ilse. But this morning, he changed his mind. An uninterrupted Saturday morning in bed was worth much more than a good blow job. In Senator Jack Warner's world, good blow jobs were easy to come by. Peace and quiet, on the other hand, were priceless.

Jack Warner first knew he wanted to become president of the United States when he was three years old. It was August 1974. His parents were watching Richard Nixon's resignation on television.

“What's that man doing?” little Jack asked his mother. It was his father who answered.

“He's leaving the best job in the world, son. He's a liar and a fool.”

Jack thought about this for a minute.

“If he's a fool, how did he get the best job in the world?”

His father laughed. “That's a good question!”

“Who's going to do his job now?”

“Why d'you ask, Jacko?” Jack's father pulled him up onto his lap and ruffled his hair affectionately. “Do you want it?”

Yes,
thought Jack.
If it's the best job in the world, I rather think I do.

So far, Jack Warner's path to the White House had been straight as an arrow. First in his class at Andover? Check. Steady record of volunteer work and public service? Check. Yale undergrad, Harvard Law, partnership in a prestigious New York law firm? Check, check, check. After two brief internships working on senatorial campaigns, Jack Warner ran for Congress, winning the 20th Congressional District seat by a landslide at the astonishingly young age of twenty-nine. Jack Warner never made a friend, took a job, attended a party, or got laid without first thinking,
How will this look on my record?
On the rare occasions when he slept with a less-than-suitable girl, he made sure that the event took place well away from the prying eyes of any potential voters. But such slipups were rare. Jack made it his business to be in the right place at the right time with the right people. He knew that his appeal lay in his all-American good looks, the air of confidence and down-home
goodness
that he seemed to project so effortlessly.

Like everything else in Jack Warner's life, his marriage to Honor Knowles had been a carefully choreographed political decision.

Fred Farrell, Jack's campaign manager, sat him down. “Our data show you're still perceived as too young to run for the Senate. We need to ‘mature' your image.”

Jack was frustrated. “How? Should I grow a beard? Start wearing vests?”

“Actually the beard's not a bad idea. But what you really need to do is get married. A couple of kids wouldn't hurt either. The single women all love you, but you need to work on the family vote.”

“Fine. I'll ask Karen over the weekend.”

Karen Connelly was Jack's girlfriend of the past ten months and his first really serious love. The only daughter of a respected, political family—Karen's father, Mitch, had once been White House chief of staff—Karen was also beautiful, intelligent and kind. She adored Jack unconditionally. The two of them had spoken often about starting a family together one day, when Karen finished grad school and Jack's congressional schedule got less hectic. Evidently “one day” was now.

Fred Farrell frowned. “I'm not so sure Karen's the best choice. She's a sweet girl and all. But for your wife…”

Jack bristled. “What's wrong with her?”

“There's nothing wrong with her. Don't take it personally, Jack. I'm merely saying that ideally I'd prefer someone with a little more ‘wow' factor. Not
too
pretty, of course. That's a big turnoff for your base.”

“But prettier than Karen?”

“Higher profile than Karen. It wouldn't hurt if she were independently wealthy, too.”

“Why?”

“For the future, dear boy.” Fred Farrell shook his head despairingly. “I'm assuming your political ambitions don't end with the Senate?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Then start thinking practically. Have you any idea how much a presidential run costs these days?”

Jack had a pretty good idea. Many a wealthy man had lost everything pursuing his White House fantasies. Even so, marrying for money seemed distasteful.

“Look, I have a girl in mind. Meet her, see what you think. No pressure.”

Three months later, Congressman Jack Warner got over his distaste and married society heiress Honor Knowles in a blaze of publicity. The day they left for their honeymoon, Karen Connelly committed suicide, slitting her wrists in the bathtub. Out of respect for Karen's father, the press never ran the story.

For Honor Knowles, her whirlwind romance with the most eligible, dashing congressman in the country was easily the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her. Ever since she was a little girl, Honor had felt overlooked. Her elder sister, Constance, was the brains of the family and their mother's clear favorite. Grace, Honor's younger sister, was drop-dead beautiful and had been the apple of their father's eye when he was alive. All of which left
Honor
pretty much nowhere. The fact that she was bright and attractive in her own right didn't seem to matter to anyone.
I'm the fifth wheel. The backup singer no one ever notices. I'm only popular by association.

For a handsome man to single her out (and not just any handsome
man but Jack Warner, a possible future president!) was so thrilling, so deliciously unexpected, that it never occurred to Honor to question Jack's motives. Or the speed with which he hustled her down the aisle. Jack, she soon learned, did everything at speed. No sooner had he asked her out on a date than he proposed. No sooner had she accepted than he'd booked the church. No sooner had they gotten back from their honeymoon than he was on her case about getting pregnant.

“What's the rush?” Honor laughed, stroking his sleek blond head in bed one night. She still had to pinch herself sometimes when she woke up next to Jack. He was so perfect. Not just perfect-looking but perfect on the inside, too. Noble, courageous, visionary. He wanted so many good things for America. “We've only been married five minutes. Can't we just enjoy being together for a little while, first?”

But Jack was insistent. He wanted a family and he wanted it now. On their honeymoon in Tahiti, Honor had been worried. Jack got a phone call from home on their first morning at the resort that had clearly upset him. He canceled their snorkeling trip (“You go. I have to work.”) and barely spoke to Honor for the remainder of the day. That night, he kept calling out “Karen!” in his sleep. When Honor questioned him the next day, he was defensive. “Jesus, Honor. You're cross-examining my dreams now?”

After that, he was withdrawn and morose the entire week, refusing to talk about what was troubling him and avoiding all of Honor's attempts at closeness. He didn't even want to make love. But when they got back to New York, to Honor's immense relief, the black mood lifted. Suddenly he was all over her again.

He wouldn't want to start a family if he didn't love me,
she reasoned.
This is his way of saying sorry for Tahiti. And really
,
why should we wait? What could be sweeter than having a mini-Jack running around?

Their first daughter, Roberta, was born nine months later, followed within a year by her sister, Rose. Because the pregnancies were so close together, Honor was still carrying weight from Roberta when she conceived Rose. As a result, when Jack took her out for dinner to celebrate their second anniversary, Honor was almost fifty pounds heavier than she had been on her wedding day.

“Why don't you start running again?” Jack suggested bluntly over
the pan-fried scallops. “You could go with your sister and her trainer. Grace is looking fantastic at the moment. That guy must be doing something right.”

It was as if he'd stuck a pin in Honor's eyeball.
Grace. Why did everything always have to come back to Grace?

When Honor married Jack Warner, she felt like the star of the show for the first time in her life. Growing up, Grace had
always
stolen her thunder. The worst part was, she'd done it without even trying. Just by walking into a room, Grace owned it, shining with a light so blinding it obliterated Honor's presence altogether. Honor tried hard to stamp down her feelings of jealousy and resentment. She knew Grace loved her, that she thought of Honor as her best friend. And yet there were times when Honor Knowles fantasized about her sister having an “accident.” She pictured Grace falling from the high bars, her perfect little doll's body contorted and broken on the gym floor. Or a car accident in which Grace's exquisite, model features were ravaged by flames.
The flames of my hatred.
The fantasies were shameful, but they felt good.

When Honor married Jack, she thought,
All that's behind me now. Now that I'm happy and famous, now that someone wonderful loves me, I can be the big sister Grace always wanted me to be.

It didn't work out that way. Ironically, it was Honor who had introduced Grace to Lenny Brookstein, at one of Jack's fund-raisers. Two weeks later, Grace announced they were in love.

At first, Honor thought she was kidding. When she realized her mistake, she felt sick to her stomach. “But, Gracie, you're eighteen years old. He's old enough to be your grandfather.”

“I know. It's crazy!” Grace laughed, that sweet, tinkling laugh that made all men melt like butter on a stove. “I never thought I could feel this way about someone like Lenny but…I'm so happy, Honor. Truly. And so's Lenny. Can't you be happy for us?”

“Darling, I
am
happy. If it's what you really want.”

But Honor wasn't happy. She was furious.

It wasn't enough for Grace to settle down with some normal, rich investment banker, like Connie had done.
Oh no. Madam has to go and ensnare the biggest billionaire in New York.
Honor Knowles's brief moment in the sun was already fading. While she was stuck at home, fat and ex
hausted like a mother hen, Grace was once more the talk of the town. And now here was Jack, her own beloved husband, comparing her unfavorably to her little sister because she'd gained a few pounds giving birth to
his
children! It was not to be borne.

And yet Honor did bear it, stoically and in silence. The same way she bore Jack's neglect of her and the children, his selfishness, his rampant ambition, and most recently, his infidelities. She lost the weight, every last pound of it. As far as the public was concerned, Senator Warner and his wife had a fairy-tale marriage. Honor was not about to disillusion them. The pretense was all she had left, and she kept it up, smiling at Jack loyally during his speeches, giving magazine interviews about her homemaking tips and Jack's brilliance as a “hands-on” father. Of course, Honor knew full well that the only thing Jack had had his hands on lately were the au pair's breasts, but she would have died rather than admit it.

The same went for her loathing of her sister. On the surface, Honor Warner remained close to both her sisters, but particularly to Grace. The two women ate lunch together twice a week, in addition to their regular shopping trips and vacations
en famille
. But beneath the loving, sisterly façade, Honor's resentment bubbled like scalding magma.

Jack encouraged his wife to strengthen her ties to the Brooksteins. “It's win-win, darling. You get to spend time with Grace. I know how much you love her. And I get some face time with Lenny. If Lenny Brookstein endorses my run for the White House in four years' time, I'll be unstoppable.”

Honor thought about it.
If Jack runs for president, he'll have to stop chasing tail. It's too risky. Plus, if he
becomes
president, with Lenny Brookstein's money, I'll be first lady. Not even Grace can trump
that.

Recently, however, Jack's fervor for his billionaire in-laws had inexplicably cooled. It started with bitchy comments about Grace's clothes and Lenny's ever-growing paunch. In the days leading up to the Quorum Ball, it spilled over into something more overt. Jack was drinking heavily. At home, when drunk, he would rant at Honor about Lenny Brookstein's “disloyalty,” his “arrogance.”

“Fucking prick, who does he think he's talking to? One of his employees?” he rambled. “If Lenny wants his dick sucked, he should ask
John Merrivale or that ass-kisser Preston. I'm a fucking United States senator!”

Honor had no idea what Jack was talking about. She longed to ask, but she was too afraid. Despite everything, Honor Warner still loved her husband. Deep down she was convinced that if she helped Jack's career—said the right things, wore the right dress, threw the right parties—he would eventually fall in love with her again.

She could not know that Jack Warner had never been in love with her in the first place.

 

J
ACK CAME DOWNSTAIRS IN HIS BATHROBE,
hunting for some Alka-Seltzer. Roberta, known to her parents as Bobby, flew into his arms like a whirlwind.

“Daddy!” Blond and chubby, like a Renaissance cherub, Bobby had always been a very affectionate child. “Ilse says if we're not good, we won't go to In-tuck-it. That's not right, is it?”

Jack set his daughter back down on the floor.