Christopher Nicole - Her Name Will Be Faith

“Okay, I’ll be right behind you.” Lawson sat on a stool, pulling a pad open towards him. “Good evening, Lawson Garr here. Can I help you?” Tall, bronzed and athletic, he was the perfect mate for the American girl, at least physically; the attraction had been instant and mutual, parent-proof even if it meant Belle being married to a Limey ex-colonial and exiled two thousand miles from Bognor, Connecticut. That Belle shared Lawson’s extravagant tastes, which made them a very unstable couple, financially — real estate in Nassau had not exactly boomed since Independence — was a more serious cause of worry to Mike and Babs Donnelly. But Lawson worked as hard as he played. “Why, hello, Mr McKinley,” he said. “Nice to hear from you…”

Liar, Belle thought, as she closed the bedroom door. Who the hell wants to hear from a client at 11.40 at night? Goddamn it, some people have no consideration… shit, what an evening! Why the hell did Lawson find it necessary to entertain so much? The people tonight had been gross. Fat, moronic slobs. How the hell did crumbs like that come to have money enough for a $400,000 holiday home, anyway?

She put her dress on a hanger and threw her undies into the clothes hamper before smoothing cleansing milk over her face; the weather was unnaturally warm for the time of year and she was a mess of sweat — but she was too tired even to shower. Lawson was ages, and she was nearly asleep when he came in, but one look at his face brought her bolt upright in bed. “Sweetheart? What is it? You look as if you’ve just fallen off the Empire State.”

“I think I just did!” He sat beside her. “That was McKinley.”

“I heard,” Belle said. Fabian McKinley was one of the wealthiest men in the Bahamas. He owned land everywhere, and in particular, from her point of view, he owned most of Dolphin Point, the headland on Eleuthera — the most north-easterly of the Bahamian islands — where the elder Donnellys had a holiday home; he was not the ideal neighbor. “What’s on his mind now? Josh been pinching his limes again?”

Josh was the Donnelly caretaker.

Lawson might not have heard her. “He wants to sell,” he said. Belle sat up. “Not Dolphin Point?”

“Every goddamned acre. Forty-two.”

“But why?”

“Search me. It’s not my business to ask.”

“But he wants you to handle the sale?”

“Exclusive for three months. Because I know the area, he says. The asking price is one million US dollars.”

“Oh, boy,” Belle said. “Maybe he’s not such a crumb after all. A million… you’ll get twenty thousand, Lawson. Oh, boy. We’ll be able to keep the boat.” Suddenly she was anxious. “Do you think you can find a buyer? A million is a lot of loot.”

“Listen, doll,” Lawson said. “McKinley may only want a million, and that is in line with current prices, sure — for undeveloped land. But I am damned sure that I could triple that, by splitting it up into lots, laying water and electricity, having plans drawn up, maybe even starting building.”

“You mean…” Belle frowned at him. “Develop it yourself?”

“Why not?”

“Two reasons. One, as you’ve been appointed sole agent, it wouldn’t be ethical. Two, we don’t have a million dollars; last time I checked the account we didn’t even have a million cents.”

“Granted. But your old man does. Or could raise it.”

Belle’s frown deepened. “Big Mike?”

“Why not? Don’t he and your brother claim to be the biggest stockbrokers on Wall Street?”

“Not the biggest. Only the best. And that’s open to opinion. Anyway, stockbrokers handle a lot of money. They don’t necessarily keep it.”

“Are you going to tell me that your dad couldn’t lay hands on a million dollars if he had to?”

“Maybe. But he doesn’t have to.”

“Even if it means a quick million profit. One for him, one for us. Fifty-fifty. A million dollars, Belle. God, think what we could do with that! Pay off the mortgage, get those bills off our back, keep the boat… hell, we could buy a new boat. You know what I’ve always wanted? A Hatteras. Goddamn, a 42-foot Hatteras… they’re the tops.”

Belle allowed herself to dream for a moment. Then she said, “But would it be legal?”

“What can possibly be illegal about it? McKinley wants to sell, I find him a buyer. That’s what I’m paid to do.”

“Yes, but you know you can get more out of the land than he does. And you’re going to take that profit. I mean, it sounds a bit like insider dealing to me. Shouldn’t you be telling McKinley all of this?”

Lawson leaned forward and kissed her on the nose. “McKinley isn’t a good listener. And who’s to know? The land goes on the market, and some rich Connecticut stockbroker snaps it up.”

“Who just happens to be your father-in-law.”

“So I told him it’s worth it. There’s nothing illegal in that. It’s my business, for God’s sake. And a million dollars, Belle. Just think of it. A million dollars!”

Belle thought of it. “But what about Neal Robson? Now he’s actually bought down here.”

“Forget it,” Lawson said. “This has to be kept strictly in the family. Anyway, Robson wants his set-up kept a secret until he can tell your folks in the grand manner. Silly twit.”

Belle nodded her agreement. “Think Dad’ll go for it?” she asked.

“I’ll be on the phone to him first thing tomorrow morning,” Lawson promised.

“This morning, you mean,” Belle yawned.

The sky was clear blue, just a little hazy with afternoon heat, and the water flat calm; the bridge was perfectly mirrored as the Mercedes sedan crossed the river to Newport after the four-hour drive up from New York.

Josephine Donnelly hadn’t even paused to drop off the bags at the country cottage she and her husband maintained in Bognor, Connecticut; she’d do that on her way back to Pinewoods, her parents-in-law’s house: she was in a hurry to welcome Michael home from the first race of the season — and try not to think about the rest of the summer, when she would hardly see him at all.

A short, slender English girl in her early thirties, Jo Donnelly wore her wavy dark-brown hair cut very short, leaving her crisp, handsome features exposed and compelling.

Her children sat together in the back, where they would distract her least by their constant wrangling; Owen Michael was ten, and Tamsin eight. Now they bubbled with excitement as they rolled into the yacht owners’ car park near Esmeralda’s usual berth; she had no sooner braked than they were tumbling out to race along the pontoons.

Jo followed more slowly, running her fingers through her windswept hair, her grey-brown eyes searching the close-packed yachts. She wore slacks and a loose shirt and sandals, and still attracted glances from the various crews. She had a slim waist and breasts that filled her B-cup bras well, but her stomach muscles were flabby — and little wonder; it was years since she had played any serious tennis or squash, and in fact she had found little time for any sort of exercise since returning to full-time journalism.

And now her own heart was beating pleasantly; Michael might only have been away a few days, but it was the first race of the season, and even if she dreaded and resented the next twenty weeks, he was a compellingly attractive man. And not only because he was her husband. All the Donnellys were compellingly attractive, from Big Mike and Babs, through their so beautiful daughters, Belle and Marcia, to their so macho sons, Michael junior and Dale. The family bubbled, in a way her own had never done–her father had been an officer in the British army and had believed it weakness to reveal emotion of any kind. Which was probably why she had been instantly attracted to the handsome American boy doing a year at Cambridge when she was up reading English Literature.