Tilly Bagshawe - Sidney Sheldon’s After the Darkness

‘Sure,’ said Connie. ‘If that’s what you want.’

Driving home to Michael, she could barely contain her rage. Move on? MOVE ON? To what? What have I got to move on to? A life of middle-aged penury with my formerly successful husband, living off scraps from my little sister’s table? Fuck you, Lenny Brookstein. You owe me. And now you can pay me. You think I’m going to let you walk back into Grace’s arms scot-free?

‘Mommy, watch me!’

Cade was on the swing. He rocked his skinny legs back and forth to gain momentum, then leaped into the air, landing with a satisfied thud on the sand.

‘Did you see how high I went? Did you see?’

‘I saw, honey. That was awesome.’ Connie drew her finely woven summer shawl more tightly around her shoulders. Cashmere, from Scotland, it had been a birthday present from Grace. Soon everything we own will be a present from Grace. The food on our table, the shirts on our backs .

The thought of spending next week with Lenny and Grace at their magnificent beachfront estate was enough to make Connie feel nauseous. Especially after her little tête-à-tête with Lenny on the dance floor at the Quorum Ball last night. The bastard had actually had the temerity to get angry with her. With her ! As if she were the one who’d pursued him . Lenny had led her on, then dropped her like a piece of trash, scuttling back to her baby sister and their oh-so-perfect life together. And now Connie was supposed to be grateful to have her airfare paid so she could sit in their $60-million home and watch the two of them canoodling?

It was Michael who forced the issue.

‘I’d like to go. It was generous of Lenny to invite us, and I could use a break from New York. Some sailing, some sea air.’

Michael had always liked Lenny. But that was Michael. He liked everyone. When Lenny extended the invitation last night, Mike practically bit his hand off.

If he knew where Lenny Brookstein’s hands have been – on my breasts, my ass, between my thighs – he might not be so quick to bite.

But Michael Gray did not know.

As long as Lenny Brookstein did the decent thing and gave Connie what was coming to her, he would never have to.

Lenny and Grace Brookstein’s Nantucket estate was an idyllic, sprawling, gray-shingled mansion set just off Cliff Road on the north side of the island. The main house boasted ten bedroom suites, an indoor swimming pool and spa, a state-of-the-art movie theater, a chef’s kitchen and an enormous, gabled roof terrace (known on Nantucket as a ‘widow’s walk,’ because in the olden days, sailors’ wives used to climb up to their rooftops and gaze out to sea, hoping to spot their husbands’ long-lost ships returning). Formal gardens, planted with lavender, roses, and box hedges in the European style, cascaded down the hillside to Steps Beach, one of the quietest and most prestigious beaches on the island. At the bottom of the garden were four guest cottages, charming, wisteria-clad dollhouses in white wood, each with its own miniature front yard and white picket fence. Anywhere else the cottages would have looked impossibly twee. But here, on this magical island frozen for all time in some simpler, bygone era, they worked.

At least Grace Brookstein thought so. It was she who had built and designed them, down to the very last Ralph Lauren pillowcase and antique Victorian claw-foot tub.

Grace adored Nantucket. It was where she and Lenny got married, without question the happiest day of Grace’s life. But it was more than that. There was a simplicity to the island that did not exist anywhere else. Of course, there was money on Nantucket. Serious money. Tiny, three-room fishermen’s cottages in Siasconset changed hand for upward of $2 million. During the summer, Michelin-starred restaurants like 21 Federal and the Summerhouse charged more for their lobster thermidor than Georges V in Paris. Upscale boutiques on Union and Orange streets in town showcased thousand-dollar cardigans in their windows. Galleries representing local artists regularly sold pieces for six figures, sometimes even seven, to the island’s wealthier residents. And yet, somehow, Nantucket remained determinedly low-key. In all the years she’d been coming to the island, Grace had never seen a sports car. Billionaires and their wives strolled around town in khaki shorts and white cotton shirts from the Gap. Even the yachts in the harbor were conservative, far less flashy than the ones at East Hampton or Saint-Tropez or Palm Beach. Lenny never moored anything but a modest, forty-seven-foot bareboat in Nantucket. He would have died of shame before he showed up in the three-hundred-foot Quorum Queen, even though in Sardinia, Grace could hardly get him off the thing.

Nantucket was a place where rich people pretended to be poor. Or at least poor er. It made Grace nostalgic for her childhood, for a simpler time in her life, a time of innocent pleasures. It thrilled her that Lenny loved the island just as much as she did. Other than Le Cocon, their bastide -style retreat in Madagascar, there was nowhere else on earth where Grace felt so totally relaxed. The Brooksteins were happy everywhere, but they were happiest of all here, in this house.

Grace and Lenny arrived three days before their guests. Lenny still had some work to catch up on ( didn’t he always? ) and Grace needed time to talk to the staff and make sure that everything was perfect for her visitors.

‘Give Honor and Connie the larger two cottages because they’ve got kids. Andrew and Maria can have the one right on the sand, and the Merrivales can go in the smallest one. Caroline’s been here before, so I’m sure she won’t mind.’

There was so much to do! Planning menus, ordering flowers, making sure the bikes and fishing rods were ready for her nephews and nieces. Grace felt like she’d barely seen Lenny.

The night before the hordes descended, the two of them had a romantic dinner at the Chanticleer, a pretty, intimate restaurant in the fishing village of Siasconset. At least it would have been romantic if Lenny hadn’t spent the entire evening glued to his BlackBerry.

‘Is everything all right, darling? You seem so stressed.’

Grace reached across the table and squeezed his hand.

‘Sorry, honey. Everything’s fine. I’m just a little…there’s a lot going on at the moment. Nothing for you to worry about, my angel.’

Grace tried not to worry, but it was hard. Lenny never brought his work problems home with him. Never. This morning a perfectly harmless homeless man on the wharf had asked Lenny for change, and Lenny had flown at him, lecturing him on alcoholism and taking responsibility for ten straight minutes. Later, Grace had been picking raspberries in the garden when she overheard Lenny shouting out of their bedroom window. He was on the phone with John Merrivale. Grace didn’t catch everything he said, but one phrase had stuck in her mind:

‘They all want a piece of me, John. The bastards are bleeding me dry. If you’re right about Preston, after everything I’ve done for him…I’ll cut his fucking hand off.’

What did he mean, ‘bleeding him dry’? And who were the bastards? Surely not Andrew Preston? Andrew had worked for Lenny since year one. He and Maria were practically family, like the Merrivales.

Grace’s only comfort was that at least Lenny was talking to John. She knew he trusted him and relied on him like a brother. Whatever the problem was, Grace felt sure that John would know what to do. He’d be here tomorrow. Then, hopefully, Lenny would feel a little more relaxed.

The vacation got off to a smooth start. Once the houseguests arrived, Lenny was more relaxed, quite his old self again in fact. With the exception of Jack Warner, who still seemed out of sorts, everyone appeared happy to be there and determined to have a good time.