This Life: A Novel (4 page)

Blake listened to Matt’s
end of the conversation as she unpacked. She didn’t have any choice, unless she
asked him to take his phone call outside the apartment. He wasn’t being
offensive, and he’d be going to bed soon, so she endured feeling like an
eavesdropper.

That, and an
opinionated outsider.
Blake wanted to urge Matt to break up with his
girlfriend and find someone closer to his own age. He was only twenty-two, and
his lady Miranda was thirty-eight. They were about the same ages that Blake and
Lang had been when they’d married. With the wisdom of hindsight, Blake now
realized that hooking up with someone significantly older herself had been
disastrous.
But Matt and Miranda are not me and Lang
, Blake reminded
herself.

She looked around the
master bedroom, trying to decide what to unpack next. Essentials, such as beds,
sofa, a pair of recliners, dining table and chairs, and the flat-screen
television, had been set up by the moving company Edith had hired to pack and
deliver some of Blake’s most valued possessions to the penthouse, after Blake
signed the lease and took her trio of bodyguards out for a late lunch.

Other items, such as
her father’s turntable record player and collection of vinyl albums, sat in
their labeled boxes waiting for Blake to position them. Blake decided she
wanted the turntable centered under the single window that filled most of one
wall. She dragged its shipping box to that spot and lifted it out with the
utmost of care.

“I didn’t know anyone
owned those anymore.” Suki’s voice drifted from the bedroom door.

“People who are
nostalgic do.” Blake hefted one of the twin speakers, almost as tall as her own
five feet nine inches.

“Can I help you with
that, or anything?” Without waiting for an answer, Suki hurried to Blake’s side
and helped her settle the speaker in a corner. Together they extracted its mate
from the shipping box and placed it in the other corner.

Next to the turntable
itself Blake set up the rack she kept the vinyl albums in. One at a time, with
gentle handling, Blake began stacking the albums in the rack.

Suki examined the cover
art of each album as Blake pulled them from their separate shipping container,
a sturdy plastic case generously stuffed with protective padding to prevent
damage to the contents. “I know some of these. Jelly Roll Morton, Duke
Ellington, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Dizzy Gillespie, the Marsalis
clan. Oh, and Amy Winehouse, best female jazz singer since Ella…” Her voice
trailed off.

Blake paused and
studied Suki as she hadn’t before. “You’re a jazz fan?”

“I’m more into
classical and Eastern, but I also like some old jazz and Latin music.”

Smiling, Blake went
back to stacking albums in the rack. “My dad would really like you, if he were
still alive.”

“He was a jazz composer
and band leader himself, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah.” Finished with
that task, Blake pressed the power button on the turntable and put a Louis
Armstrong record on to play.

They both stood silent
for a minute or so, simply listening to the title track that opened Armstrong’s
“What a Wonderful World” album. Satchmo’s raspy voice filled the room, and
Blake’s eyes watered as she remembered her father singing the song to her at
bedtime, in a near-flawless imitation of Armstrong’s voice.

“Why didn’t you go into
music, like your father? Instead of modeling and then real estate development?”

Blake gazed out the
gigantic window at the frantic activity of
Manhattan
, far below. “I lack the talent.” She
shrugged, then added, “I can barely carry a tune when I sing, and I can’t play
piano without tripping over my own fingers. What most people don’t know is, by
going into real estate investment I still followed in his footsteps. He spent a
few years earning money by doing that, to finance promotion of his band.”

“Really? I had no idea.”
For the first time, Blake could see real emotion in Suki’s face. The woman was
impressed. “He’d be proud of you, I bet.”

“For that, yes. If he
agreed with my mother, though, he would have hated my marriage to Lang.” Blake
shut her eyes and savored the rest of the title track, reopening them only when
that song ended and Satchmo plunged into “Cabaret.” “Not that it’s his fault,
but if Dad hadn’t died my marriage to Lang never would have happened.”

They looked at each
other as Blake wondered whether Suki could be trusted to respect her privacy.
Suki didn’t ask for an explanation or hazard any guesses, and that alone made
her different from almost everyone else Blake knew.

“My mother eventually
remarried, after Dad was reported dead. It was my stepfather who got me started
modeling, when I was still a little girl.” Memories tried to pry their way into
Blake’s consciousness, remembrances of those terrifying first childhood
excursions to
New
York
to
audition for modeling agencies. Disappointing her stepfather wasn’t an option.

A bodyguard doesn’t
need to know about all that.
Blake took in the view of
Manhattan
as she continued, “When I wanted to raise
money to get into real estate investing, modeling was the only way I knew how
to earn large sums of money fast. And that’s how I met Lang. Through modeling.”

Suddenly Blake felt
totally drained of energy. She sat on the edge of her bed and watched the
record spin round and round on the turntable. “Right here,” she whispered. “In
Manhattan
.”

Suki went to the door,
out of Blake’s sight, then murmured a suggestion. “Get some rest, Boss. I think
you’re going to need your strength.”

“Good idea.” Blake
stretched out, fully clothed on top of the covers. She closed her eyes, and
Satchmo’s crooning was like a lullaby as darkness enfolded her.

#

February 25

New York
,
New York

Blake arrived with
Antonio at the law offices of Coleman, Mitchell, Gomez, & Park at
half past noon
, half an hour early for
the Wishman Spears closing. She wasn’t surprised to discover the conference
room empty when she checked in, because it was her habit to be first on the
scene for every business transaction. Blake liked to scope out the site and
position herself for maximum effect.

They’d barely chosen
where to sit when they were joined by her friend and frequent investment
partner, Thomas Mills, along with the two other real estate speculators helping
Blake finance the Wishman Spears purchase. Before they sat down, Thomas hugged
her and introduced her to the speculators, whom she’d heard of but never worked
with before.

“Margot thanks you for
asking me to be part of this,” Thomas said with a grin splitting his
distinguished dark face as he settled in at the conference table.

Blake thought about
that for a moment, but couldn’t guess the reason. “Why is that?”

“She’s been nagging me
to take her on another vacation in
New York
for years. When I told her I’d be helping you buy the
Wishman Spears, she immediately started packing.”

They were still sharing
a laugh when Rich Kaufmunn, her
Miami
real estate attorney, arrived a few minutes later in the
company of Susan Golden and Peter Britell, the attorneys from Venable LLP’s
New York
office assisting with
her purchase of the Wishman Spears. “Afternoon, Blake,” Rich said as he seated
himself to her right. “I hope your flight was more comfortable than mine. I
swear airlines keep cramming seats closer together.”

“You don’t think it’s
your expanding waistline?” she teased, prompting Golden and Britell to exchange
glances.

“My wife would tell me
if she had to start replacing all my pants with a larger size. She hates to
shop.”

Two paralegals carried
in a tray with a pitcher of ice water, pot of steaming coffee, cream, sugar,
glasses, and mugs. “Can we get you anything else? We’ve got sodas, herbal teas,
fruit juices. And if anyone is hungry we’ve got some cinnamon buns.”

Everyone said thanks
and promised they were fine, just in time for the Wishman patriarch and his
grandson to arrive and make it necessary for the pair of paralegals to repeat
themselves. Blake wondered why they didn’t just post a double-sided sign in the
center of the long table, listing the available refreshments.
Too much like
a restaurant menu, I suppose.

At precisely
one o’clock
in walked Ernesto Nunez
and his anorexic-looking redhead paralegal, who were assisting senior partner
Joe Mitchell in representing the Wishman family. Nunez greeted everyone while
his slip of a paralegal handed out copies of the closing papers, so that they
all could follow along.

“To review, the terms
of this agreement are—” Nunez tried to begin, but Blake interrupted:

“We should wait for
Mitchell.”

“I’m afraid Mr.
Mitchell can’t be here.” Nunez squirmed in his seat as he continued, “But he
looked everything over this morning, and he said—”

“
Why
can’t he be
here?” Blake demanded, folding her hands together on the table and leaning
toward the nervous associate.

“Something came up.”
The redhead was fighting a noble battle to refrain from smirking, but it was a
battle she quickly lost.

“I see.” Blake turned
to Kaufmunn, Golden, and Britell. “Would someone on my legal team please get
Mitchell on the phone for me?”

Kaufmunn fished his
no-frills cell phone out of his jacket pocket, grinning. “You’re making this
whole trip worthwhile for an old man, Blake.”

Golden and Britell
swapped glances again, and the latter cleared his throat and murmured, “It’s
your choice, Ms. Bertrand, but if Mitchell is satisfied that everything is in
order, there shouldn’t be any jeopardy if we proceed without him.”

“True, it’s my choice.
And I choose to leave no room for error.” Blake heard a woman’s voice answer
Kaufmunn’s call, and he put his phone on speaker so that everyone could hear
what was said.

“Good afternoon, ma’am.
I’m Rich Kaufmunn, one of the attorneys representing Ms. Blake Bertrand in her
acquisition of the Wishman Spears building. My client needs to speak with Joe
Mitchell right away, please.”

After a moment’s
hesitation, the woman’s voice replied, “Mr. Mitchell asked not to be disturbed
this afternoon.”

“Has he forgotten I’m
in the building?” Blake inquired. “Tell him he can get on the phone, or I can
climb the damn stairs to his office, but either way he’s going to talk to me.”

“Please hold,” the
woman squeaked, and put the call on hold for half a minute.

“Mitchell, here.” He
sounded breathless.

“Get in here, fast, or
you can explain to your clients how you cost them seven hundred million dollars
today,” Blake snapped.

“I’m sorry, Ms.
Bertrand, but I really—”

“You really what?
Prefer to bang your paralegal instead of attending the closing?” Ignoring the
gasps of Lawrence Wishman and Nunez and the snickerings of the grandson, the
redhead, and Kaufmunn, Blake continued, “I’m not a fool, Mitchell. I’ve been
around enough to know bedroom eyes when I see them, and that’s what you and
your paralegal were giving each other the whole time I met with you yesterday.
But you are lead counsel for the Wishmans. It’s your fucking
job
to be
present for the closing, reviewing the terms and assuring your clients that
they’re getting a fair deal from me. If you were
my
lead counsel, you’d
be fired. As it is, I’ll give you ten minutes to drag your skanky ass into this
conference room, or else you’re going to lose your clients a fortune.
Understand?”

After a moment Mitchell
blurted, “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” The dial tone rasped from Kaufmunn’s
phone.

Ms. Golden was living
up to her name, positively aglow with enjoyment. “Is doing business with you
always this entertaining, Ms. Bertrand?”

“I hope not,” Blake
answered. She reached for the coffeepot and filled a mug to half an inch below
the rim, and as she added a dollop of cream, she said, “If I’m usually
entertaining, I’m not being taken seriously. That’s what I expect first and
foremost in business. Everyone else had better be serious about business,
because I certainly am.”

“Even so,” Kaufmunn
murmured to Golden, “people underestimate Ms. Bertrand just often enough to
keep a real estate attorney from perishing of boredom.”

“It would be a
privilege and a pleasure to assist you with any other real estate business you
do in
New
York
,”
Golden informed Blake.

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

Six minutes after he
hung up his office phone, Joe Mitchell dashed into the conference room. His
hair was dripping wet and he reeked of soap. Blake scrutinized him from head to
toe, shook her head, and faced Nunez.