Eleventh Hour
Page 29
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She tasted something sour, something that made her want to gag, but she knew she shouldn’t gag or she’d start to choke. At least she was alive.
There was something in her mouth, something at the back of her throat. Then she remembered.
It had been a lovely evening in December, just a few days before Christmas, not too cold, no snow for the past three days, and the winds were fairly calm. Such a splendid occasion, perfectly orchestrated, naturally so, since John’s private assistant had arranged it. Albia’s birthday dinner was at John’s magnificent Rushton Avenue condominium penthouse, looking out on Lake Michigan. It hadn’t been just the three of them, no, Elliott Benson was there, a man she didn’t trust, didn’t like. He was rich and charming, supposedly a friend of John’s, and she’d been told they’d known each other since college, but the truth was, whenever she had to spend time with him, she always wanted to go home and take a shower. She’d wanted it just to be the three of them, no aides, no other important people to coddle who had been or would be of assistance to John’s career, but Albia had wanted him there.
Albia was John’s older sister, an elegant, articulate woman, rich in her own right from ownership of several successful men’s boutiques. Albia had been in John’s corner since their mother had died when he was only sixteen and Albia twenty-three. She was turning fifty-five, but she looked a dozen years younger. She’d married when she’d turned thirty, been widowed just a year later. Albia had always been reserved, even standoffish with all the campaign volunteers, but since John had begun dating Nick, she’d warmed up considerably. Nick felt very close to her, indeed she was becoming a confidante.
Tonight, there was so much excitement, a feast on the dining table, a gorgeous diamond bracelet, presented by John to his sister, around Albia’s wrist, winking and glittering in the soft glow of the half dozen lighted candles on the table. Elliott Benson had charmed and joked and flattered Albia, presenting her with diamond earrings that easily rivaled the bracelet John had gotten her. They were in her ears, gorgeous earrings. Elliott was trying to outdo John, it was easy enough to see, at least to Nick. Why had Albia wanted him there?
Nick’s gift to Albia was a silk scarf imprinted with a Picasso painting that she’d found in Barcelona. Albia, exclaiming over that lovely scarf, had said, “Oh, I remember that Mother had a scarf very similar to this one. She loved that scarf—”
And her voice had dropped like a stone off a cliff.
Nick, filled with Albia’s pleasure, pleased that her scarf had reminded her of John’s mother, said, “Oh, John, you’ve never spoken of your mother.”
John shot a look at his sister. She shook her head slightly, as if in apology, and looked back down at her plate.
“That’s right, John,” Elliott said, “I never even met your mother. Hey, didn’t she die? A long time ago?”
“That’s right,” John said, his voice curt. “Nicola, you knew, didn’t you? It was a car accident. It’s been many, many years. We don’t often speak about her.”
She said, “A car accident? Oh my, I hadn’t realized. I’m so very sorry. It must have been such a shock to both of you.”
“Not to my father,” John said.
Elliott started to say something, then chewed thoughtfully on a medallion of veal and stared at one of the paintings on the dining room wall.
Albia said, “It was a bad time. Would you please pass me the green beans, Nicola?”
Elliott told stories of college days. All of them involved girls that both men had wanted. His stories were funny, utterly charming, and many times he made himself the dupe, but still, it was a very strange thing. “Then, of course,” he said, “there was Melissa—no, let’s not speak of her this evening. I’m sorry, John. Another toast. To Albia, the loveliest lady in Chicago.” And while he drank the toast, he looked at Nick and she wanted to slap that oily look off his handsome face.
Over a dessert of crème brûlée, Nick felt a sudden cramp, then another, this one stronger, more vicious. She had to excuse herself to run to the bathroom, where she got sick, and soon felt so ill, so utterly miserable, that she just wanted to curl up and die.
The pain was ghastly, her belly twisting and knotting. She threw up until she was shaking and sweating and couldn’t stand. She remembered hugging the toilet with Elliott, John, and Albia standing next to her, not knowing what to do until Albia said, “I think we should call an ambulance, John. She’s really sick. Elliott, go wait downstairs for them. Go, both of you! Quickly!”
There was something in her mouth, something at the back of her throat. Then she remembered.
It had been a lovely evening in December, just a few days before Christmas, not too cold, no snow for the past three days, and the winds were fairly calm. Such a splendid occasion, perfectly orchestrated, naturally so, since John’s private assistant had arranged it. Albia’s birthday dinner was at John’s magnificent Rushton Avenue condominium penthouse, looking out on Lake Michigan. It hadn’t been just the three of them, no, Elliott Benson was there, a man she didn’t trust, didn’t like. He was rich and charming, supposedly a friend of John’s, and she’d been told they’d known each other since college, but the truth was, whenever she had to spend time with him, she always wanted to go home and take a shower. She’d wanted it just to be the three of them, no aides, no other important people to coddle who had been or would be of assistance to John’s career, but Albia had wanted him there.
Albia was John’s older sister, an elegant, articulate woman, rich in her own right from ownership of several successful men’s boutiques. Albia had been in John’s corner since their mother had died when he was only sixteen and Albia twenty-three. She was turning fifty-five, but she looked a dozen years younger. She’d married when she’d turned thirty, been widowed just a year later. Albia had always been reserved, even standoffish with all the campaign volunteers, but since John had begun dating Nick, she’d warmed up considerably. Nick felt very close to her, indeed she was becoming a confidante.
Tonight, there was so much excitement, a feast on the dining table, a gorgeous diamond bracelet, presented by John to his sister, around Albia’s wrist, winking and glittering in the soft glow of the half dozen lighted candles on the table. Elliott Benson had charmed and joked and flattered Albia, presenting her with diamond earrings that easily rivaled the bracelet John had gotten her. They were in her ears, gorgeous earrings. Elliott was trying to outdo John, it was easy enough to see, at least to Nick. Why had Albia wanted him there?
Nick’s gift to Albia was a silk scarf imprinted with a Picasso painting that she’d found in Barcelona. Albia, exclaiming over that lovely scarf, had said, “Oh, I remember that Mother had a scarf very similar to this one. She loved that scarf—”
And her voice had dropped like a stone off a cliff.
Nick, filled with Albia’s pleasure, pleased that her scarf had reminded her of John’s mother, said, “Oh, John, you’ve never spoken of your mother.”
John shot a look at his sister. She shook her head slightly, as if in apology, and looked back down at her plate.
“That’s right, John,” Elliott said, “I never even met your mother. Hey, didn’t she die? A long time ago?”
“That’s right,” John said, his voice curt. “Nicola, you knew, didn’t you? It was a car accident. It’s been many, many years. We don’t often speak about her.”
She said, “A car accident? Oh my, I hadn’t realized. I’m so very sorry. It must have been such a shock to both of you.”
“Not to my father,” John said.
Elliott started to say something, then chewed thoughtfully on a medallion of veal and stared at one of the paintings on the dining room wall.
Albia said, “It was a bad time. Would you please pass me the green beans, Nicola?”
Elliott told stories of college days. All of them involved girls that both men had wanted. His stories were funny, utterly charming, and many times he made himself the dupe, but still, it was a very strange thing. “Then, of course,” he said, “there was Melissa—no, let’s not speak of her this evening. I’m sorry, John. Another toast. To Albia, the loveliest lady in Chicago.” And while he drank the toast, he looked at Nick and she wanted to slap that oily look off his handsome face.
Over a dessert of crème brûlée, Nick felt a sudden cramp, then another, this one stronger, more vicious. She had to excuse herself to run to the bathroom, where she got sick, and soon felt so ill, so utterly miserable, that she just wanted to curl up and die.
The pain was ghastly, her belly twisting and knotting. She threw up until she was shaking and sweating and couldn’t stand. She remembered hugging the toilet with Elliott, John, and Albia standing next to her, not knowing what to do until Albia said, “I think we should call an ambulance, John. She’s really sick. Elliott, go wait downstairs for them. Go, both of you! Quickly!”
