Elin Hilderbrand - The Rumor

My fifty thousand dollars, gone, she thought. Really and truly gone. Madeline thought she would feel complete devastation, but instead she experienced a kind of relief. The money was gone, and so she was freed from worrying about it.

All she could think about was Grace. Poor Grace! Madeline decided the time had come to set aside her fear and pride.

She called Grace’s cell phone. No answer, but Madeline wasn’t surprised. She hung up without leaving a message.

Next, she called the house. Her heart was hammering, and her temples throbbed. She hadn’t been this nervous since… she couldn’t remember when. Maybe ever.

One of the twins answered. “Hello?” The voice sounded very curious; of course, Madeline’s name would have popped up on the caller ID.

Madeline exhaled. It was Hope.

“Hi, Hope,” Madeline said. She thought about identifying herself, but that seemed awkward and pointless. Hope knew who it was. “Is your mom there?”

“She’s here,” Hope said. “But she told us she doesn’t want to talk to anyone on the phone.”

“Okay,” Madeline said. “Tell her I’m on my way over.”

Grace was sitting on the front step when Madeline arrived. Madeline thought maybe she might be holding a shotgun to ward Madeline off, but she was holding something even more surprising. A cigarette. Grace was smoking.

“Don’t look so shocked,” Grace said. “I used to smoke in college.”

“I didn’t know that,” Madeline said.

“See?” Grace said. “Still things to learn about your best friend.”

The phrase best friend floated between them, a peace offering. Madeline took both of Grace’s hands. “What’s going on?” she said.

Grace stubbed her cigarette out on the front step. “Let’s go upstairs,” she said.

They assumed the same postures that they had weeks earlier, back when Grace had just kissed Benton for the first time. Madeline sat in the green leather chair, and Grace fell face first across the crushed-velvet sofa. Madeline recalled her words from that night. I’ll point out, Grace, because I’m your best friend and it’s my job, that no good can come of this.

No good.

Madeline thought that Grace might want to start with what had happened to Eddie, but instead, her lower lip wobbled, and she burst into tears. I thought Benton and I were in love; I was making plans to leave Eddie, maybe as soon as the end of the summer. But then Benton and I were in the garden shed making love, and Eddie came home and found us. He didn’t see anything, but he knew what was happening, obviously, and he told Benton to leave and never come back. Grace swallowed. And Benton left. I’ve been trying to get ahold of him, but he’s shutting me out. He sent me a text saying he’s moving to Detroit!

Madeline sat on the floor next to the sofa and rubbed Grace’s back while she cried. Madeline would never say so out loud, but this was probably all for the best.

Or maybe not. Maybe the best ending was the one Angie had described and the one Madeline had written. I want an ending where the woman is happy instead of good.

Madeline reached into her bag and pulled out her manuscript. She had planned on giving it to Grace as a symbolic gesture-Grace could shred it or burn it; Madeline didn’t care.

But now she had a different idea.

“Listen,” she said. “I did write a novel that was based on your relationship with Benton.”

Grace raised her face. “You did not! I thought that was just a stupid rumor. I didn’t think there was any way you would…”

“I did,” Madeline said. “And here it is.” She plopped the manuscript down on the side table. “But don’t worry, I’m not going to publish it.”

“You can’t publish it, Madeline!” Grace said. “Especially not now!”

“I know, I know, Grace,” Madeline said. “I told my publisher to pull it off the list.”

Grace sat up, and her expression turned to one of rage. “I can’t believe you! I told you about Benton because you are my friend! My best friend! And what? You used everything I told you? You promised you would never betray me, but you did. You did!”

“I’m sorry, Grace,” Madeline said. “I wrote it out of desperation. I was so blocked. I spent the money on the stupid apartment, and then, when I sat down to write, the only story that came to mind was yours. I fought the urge for a while, but I was worried about money. I tried to get my fifty thousand back from Eddie, but I couldn’t, and I was angry about that, and frustrated, and scared. But you’re right. I had no business using your story. And that’s why I told my editor I couldn’t publish it. She was really, really pissed off. She loved it.”

“She did?” Grace said.

“It’s a good novel, Grace. It’s a real love story. Maybe you should read it.”

Grace regarded the manuscript skeptically. “I don’t know about that,” she said.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Madeline said. “And, even though you’re angry about my book, and even though I’m angry about what Allegra did to Brick, I am here with you in your study. I am here, Grace.”

Grace looked at Madeline and dissolved into more tears. “What am I going to do now?” she said.

“Take a deep breath,” Madeline said. “Tell me about Eddie.”

“I’ll tell you about Eddie,” Grace said. “But now I don’t trust you! You have to promise me you won’t…”

“Grace,” Madeline said. “I won’t.”

The most important person in his life now was his new attorney, Bridger Cleburne. Bridger worked at a very large, prestigious firm in Boston, but he hailed from Lubbock, Texas, where he had been the star pitcher on the baseball team that won the Little League World Series in 1984. Bridger used his childhood glory days as a point of commonality with Eddie, “Fast Eddie,” the holder of so many track records at New Bedford High School.

Eddie didn’t care about his track records or about Bridger’s role in the Little League World Series. He needed Bridger to get him out of trouble.

But Eddie’s “situation,” as Bridger called it-a very long word, in his Lone Star State drawl-wasn’t an easy fix. It turned out that one of Eddie’s cleaners-teeny, tiny Elise Anoshkin-was still a few months shy of her eighteenth birthday! A minor, an illegal minor! It was all looking dire for Eddie. The FBI had been watching the house since the second week of the “shenanigans”-another long word for Bridger-and a wiretap had been installed. The evidence was damning.

At first, Eddie thought he’d been turned in by Glenn Daley. He was sure Barbie had either knowingly confided in Glenn or had let some hint or clue slip during the heat of passion. Then, crazily, Eddie wondered if Benton Coe was to blame. Possibly, Benton had been looking for a way to get Eddie out of the picture so he could marry Grace. But Bridger had told Eddie that there were two informants, neither of them Glenn or Benton. One was Eloise, Eddie’s secretary! Apparently, she had needed her paycheck so badly because her “situation” was that she had turned Eddie in: Eloise had overheard Barbie on the phone with one of the potential clients early on. Eloise had contacted her son-in-law’s brother, Officer Dixon at the Nantucket Police Department, and the police had started watching the house.

The other, more dangerous informant was the thirty-year-old billionaire owner of the house. He had given the FBI full access to install surveillance equipment.

How had the owner found out? He had bumped into Ronan LNW from DeepWell at the bar at the Bellagio in Vegas. Ronan had been wearing, of all things, a Chicken Box hat, and when the owner asked Ronan about his connection to Nantucket, Ronan said that he rented an unbelievable house on Low Beach Road in Sconset. Imagine the owner’s delighted surprise when he found out Ronan rented his house. What were the chances? The owner bought Ronan a glass of twenty-five-year-old Laphroaig, and from there it wasn’t hard to imagine that Ronan had leaked like a sieve and told the owner just how much fun he’d had in that house.

The owner wasn’t angry about the immorality of the situation. But he was furious-being a cutthroat businessman himself-that Eddie hadn’t given him a share in the profits.

Now, no matter how one looked at it, Eddie was going to jail. The feds had evidence on Barbie as well, but if Eddie made a deal, Barbie would be spared.

And so Eddie received a sentence of three to five years at MCI-Plymouth. Number 13 Eagle Wing Lane was repossessed by the bank, as were both of Eddie’s commercial properties, including the offices of Dr. Andrew McMann, D.D.S.

The house was paid up until the end of the month, but Eddie was going to advise Grace to sell it. She could buy something smaller and use the difference to send the girls to college and pay back Madeline and Trevor.

These decisions were all made quickly, in a matter of days. Nadia and the other girls were on their way back to Kyrgyzstan.

It could have been worse, he supposed. Three to five years could become two years with good behavior. MCI-Plymouth was a far cry from the Plymouth County Correctional Facility. Eddie would have a TV in his cell, which would be a single, and the food was supposedly sourced from a nearby farm cooperative; there were barbecues held once a month in the state forest. There was a gym where Eddie could start an exercise regimen, and an infirmary with a full-time nurse practitioner, who could, possibly, find a way to cure Eddie’s chronic heartburn. Most important, there would be other white-collar criminals, whom he might, someday, sell houses to.

These things only slightly ameliorated the anguish caused by going to jail. The shame of it was enough to kill him. Now everyone knew that Eddie Pancik was an underworld king. He was a pimp. He could barely bring himself to look at the twins. What would their lives be like at school? What would the other kids say? Their senior year would be ruined, when it should have been the best year of their lives. Eddie decided the right thing to do as a father and a man was to formally apologize to them. He did this the morning of his sentencing, in the hours before he was to plead guilty to seventeen charges of sex trafficking, harboring illegal aliens, tax evasion, and corruption of a minor.

The girls were out by the pool, side by side, reading, as they often were now, despite the fact that Eddie had returned Allegra’s cell phone, thereby restoring her access to her social life. Eddie strode out across the grass in his bare feet, head exposed to the sun now that all three of his Panama hats had bitten the dust. It was late July and one of the most glorious sunny days that God had to offer. The yard was blooming in forty different directions. It was so lush, so colorful, so aesthetically pleasing, that Eddie’s overwhelming instinct was to get on his knees and pray-for forgiveness and in gratitude for the beauty of the world that he had taken for granted and that he would now be leaving behind.

He stood equidistantly between the foot of the girls’ chaise longues. His father had managed Ramos Dry Cleaners and had never made more than twenty-five thousand dollars a year, but Charles Pancik never had to prostrate himself in front of his children. He had been a man of honor. Eddie and Barbie still talked about him with reverence.

“Girls,” Eddie said.

They set down their books and regarded him. They were wearing sunglasses, so it was hard to read their expressions. Since they had learned what had happened, they had treated him with a certain pity, almost as if he were terminally ill. But they must have been angry and disgusted with him, too. They must have been.

He said, “I owe you both an apology.”

They stared at him.

“I did an inexcusable thing. I broke the law, and I engaged in a business arrangement that debased five young women, one of them only a year older than you. I used my position of power to make money from these girls selling their bodies. I was wrong, and I want you to know I’m very sorry.”

Hope said, “It’s okay, Daddy.”

“No,” he said. “It’s not okay.”

“It was a business arrangement,” Allegra said. “You got paid, the girls got paid, the men got what they wanted. You didn’t hurt anyone.”

“You didn’t kill anyone,” Hope said.

“Well, that doesn’t make it right,” Eddie said, thinking, Tax evasion, corruption of a minor, sex trafficking-these would be words connected with his name for the rest of his life. “I’ve led by poor example, and as a result of my actions, I’m going to jail, and your mother is going to sell the house.”