He stood up, walked over to the wardrobe and pulled out a jacket. Savile Row tailored, classically cut, it fit him perfectly. Walking back to Tracy, he kissed her on the top of the head.
“Don’t let it worry you, angel. You have enough on your plate. I’ll call Dr. Williams first thing tomorrow, see if I can get him to reach out to her. I’ll also talk to the trustees, just to check she hasn’t been wiring all her alimony checks to Scientology or something. She’ll be OK. I promise. Let’s have dinner and try to forget the whole thing.”
“Ok. I’ll put some makeup on.”
She slipped into the bathroom and locked the door behind her, gazing intently at her reflection in the mirror.
Everything Cameron had said made sense.
Grief could make people delusional. And the CIA files had described Charlotte Crewe’s divorce settlement as financially generous, including the deeds to their Park Avenue apartment and a large monthly allowance.
If he’s honoring those terms, Tracy thought.
But then, why wouldn’t he be? Wasn’t it more likely that a grieving mother was still struggling with paranoia, than that a man as rich as Cameron would nickel-and-dime an ex-wife he clearly still cared for?
Of course it was.
I’m being silly, Tracy told herself.
By the time she’d finished fixing her makeup, she almost believed it.
LUCY GREY SMILED WARMLY at the young woman perched nervously on her couch.
“It’s been a long time, Kate. How are you?”
“Fine.” The young woman didn’t smile back. Instead she carefully smoothed out a crease in her skirt and stared out of the window.
Dr. Lucy Grey had been a therapist for more than twenty years, and she had counseled hundreds of patients. But few of them made as much of an impression on her as Kate.
It was always the failures that Lucy remembered.
The young widow had first started coming to therapy five years ago, right after her husband died. She’d attended sessions regularly for more than a year before gradually drifting away, although she’d come back intermittently since. And yet Lucy was ashamed to say she’d made no real headway with her in all that time. She still knew next to nothing about Kate’s daily life. About her job, her social world, her friendships. Lucy did know about Kate’s grief. About the longing for her dead husband that consumed her, like a fireball burning gas. But that was all she knew, all that existed between the two of them. It was almost as if Kate Evans was her grief. And that shouldn’t be the case. Not after five years.
Having smoothed out her skirt to her satisfaction, Kate now flicked a barely visible piece of lint off her cashmere sweater. As usual she was immaculately groomed, her long legs perfectly waxed and her mane of dark hair gleaming like an oil slick as it spilled over her shoulders.
That was another thing that bothered Dr. Lucy Grey about Kate Evans. How careful the young widow was. How cautious, how controlled, her every movement and utterance measured to the last degree. Somehow it made things less real between them. Less honest. More insulated.
It made Lucy feel as if she were in a play, playing the role of therapist. Which was extremely disconcerting.
“Why are you here?” she asked gently.
Kate looked up at her with tortured eyes. “Have you ever done something, started something, for the right reasons, that ended up having consequences beyond your control? Terrible consequences?”
Lucy looked at her steadily. “I’ve done things that didn’t turn out as I’d expected. As I’d hoped.”
“But nobody died. Did they? Because of your mistakes?”
“No, Kate. Nobody died. Do you want to tell me what this is about?”
She shook her head. She did want to tell Dr. Grey. Desperately. To tell someone, anyway. To unburden herself. But how could she? If only Daniel were here!
Then again, if Daniel were here, none of this would have happened.
Since Hunter Drexel’s call she’d barely slept. He wanted to see her, to meet. She couldn’t do it! Just the thought brought her out in hives.
As Althea she’d been powerful, protected, invincible. But Hunter Drexel knew the truth. He’d called her Kate. Just the sound of his voice had undone everything, shattered the illusion like Dorothy pulling back the Wizard of Oz’s curtain.
But it wasn’t just Hunter who haunted her. Images of the teenagers from Neuilly, their young bodies riddled with bullets, flooded her head day and night. Henry Cranston’s death was different. Unnecessary, yes, and excessive. But it was hard to shed too many tears for such a loathsome man. But those children!