“I like to go to places like this,” Sandra was saying. “I mean you might meet someone who’s casting a movie or something like that.”
How much bleach does it take to get her hair that color? Doug wondered.
The maître d’ was approaching with a fresh bottle of champagne. “Compliments to the beautiful lady from Majestic,” he said.
Sandra gasped. “Oh my goodness.”
As she leaped from the chair and hurried across the room, Douglas Connelly got up to slip out. “The usual tip,” he said, hoping he wasn’t slurring his words. “But be sure that bottle gets charged to Majestic or whatever he calls himself.”
“Certainly, Mr. Connelly. Is your car outside?”
“Yes.”
That’s another thing that drives Kate nuts—my having a chauffeur, Doug thought as a few minutes later he slumped in his limo and closed his eyes. The next thing he knew, Bernard, his driver, was opening the door at his East Eighty-second Street building and saying, “We’re here, Mr. Connelly.”
Even with the doorman’s arm guiding him through the lobby, it was an effort for Doug to keep his legs moving in the same direction. Danny, the elevator operator, took the key from Doug’s hand after he had fumbled it out of his pocket. On the sixteenth floor, Danny escorted him to his apartment, unlocked and opened the door, and led him to the couch. “Why not rest here for a little while, Mr. Connelly?” he suggested.
Doug felt a pillow being placed under his head and the top button of his shirt being opened and his shoes being removed.
“Just a little under the weather,” he mumbled.
“You’re fine, Mr. Connelly. Your keys are on the table. Good night, sir.”
“’Night, Danny. Thanks.” Doug fell asleep before he could say anything else.
Five hours later he did not hear the constant ringing of the landline phone on a table only a few feet away from the couch or the equally insistent buzzing of the cell phone in his breast pocket.
Finally, in the waiting room reserved for families with patients in surgery, Hannah, her face ashen, put her cell phone away and folded her hands in her lap to keep them from trembling. “I’m not going to try him again,” she said to Jack. “Let him sleep it off.”
7
Douglas Connelly woke up at nine Thursday morning. He grunted and opened his eyes, momentarily disoriented. The last thing he remembered was getting into the car. Then blurry images formed in his mind. The doorman holding his arm . . . Danny taking the keys from him . . . Danny putting a pillow under his head.
The head that was splitting now.
Awkwardly, Doug sat up and swung his feet onto the floor. Leaning his hands on the coffee table for balance, he managed to pull himself up to a standing position. For a moment he waited until the room stopped spinning, then he made his way into the kitchen, where he took a half-empty bottle of vodka and a can of tomato juice from the refrigerator. He poured them half and half into a juice glass and gulped it down.
Kate was right, he thought. I shouldn’t have bought that bottle of champagne last night. Another possibility pushed through the fog in his head. I’ve got to be sure that the bottle that jerk Majestic sent over to the runner-up beauty queen didn’t end up on my bill.
Doug moved slowly into his bedroom, shedding his clothes with every step. It was only after he’d showered, shaved, and dressed that he bothered to check his phone messages.
At 2 A.M. Sandra had tried to reach him. “Oh, Doug, I feel terrible. I just went over to thank Majestic for the champagne and the sweet things he said about me, and he begged me to sit with him and his friends for just a minute. Before I knew it, the sos-men-elee, I mean whatever they call that guy who opens the wine, came over with the bottle Majestic had sent over and said you had to leave. I had a lovely time with you an—”
Connelly pressed the delete button before Sandra had finished speaking. He could see that the next message was from Jack, and the one after was from his daughter, Hannah. Well, at least she doesn’t ride me about how I should sell the plant every time she talks to me, he thought.
When he realized that Jack’s call had come in at 5:10 A.M. and Hannah’s call twenty minutes later, he knew something was wrong. Blinking his eyes to try to focus and sound sober, his finger unsteady, he pushed the button to return the call.
Hannah answered on the first ring. In a monotone she told him about the explosion, about Gus and about Kate’s severe injuries. “Kate just came out of surgery to relieve the pressure on her brain. I can’t see her yet. I’m waiting to speak to her surgeon.”
“The plant is gone!” Doug exclaimed. “Everything? You mean everything, the factory, the showroom, the museum, all the antiques?”
Hannah’s voice unleashed her pent-up anger and heartbreak. “Didn’t you get our calls? Your daughter may not survive!” she screamed. “If she does, she may be brain damaged. Kate may be dying . . . And you, her father, ask about your godforsaken business.”
Her voice became icy. “Just in case you want to stop by, your daughter is in Manhattan Midtown Hospital. If you’re sober enough to get here, ask for the post-op waiting room. You’ll find me there praying that my only sister is still alive.”
8
At six o’clock, as Lottie Schmidt was having coffee at her kitchen table and desperately worrying about why Gus had left to meet Kate Connelly at the ungodly hour of 4:30 A.M., the doorbell rang. When she answered the door and saw her minister and a policeman standing together on the porch, she almost fainted. Before they could say a word, she knew that Gus was dead.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of disbelief. She was vaguely aware of neighbors coming in and out and of talking to her daughter, Gretchen, on the phone.
Had Gretchen said that she would fly in from Minneapolis today or tomorrow? Lottie couldn’t remember. Did she warn Gretchen not to be flaunting pictures of her beautiful home in Minnetonka? Lottie wasn’t sure.
Lottie left the television on all day. She needed to see the video of the destruction of the plant, needed the comfort of knowing that at least Gus hadn’t been burned to death.
Charley Walters, the director of Walters Funeral Home, had made the arrangements for most of the people in their congregation and was reminding her that Gus always said he wanted to be cremated. Later Lottie remembered that she responded to Charley by saying something like, “Well, he was almost cremated in that fire, but luckily was not.”
Her neighbor and close friend, Gertrude Peterson, came by and urged her to have a cup of tea, a taste of muffin. The tea she could swallow, but she waved off the muffin.
Sitting hunched in the fireside chair in the living room, her small frame diminished by the chair’s high back and wide seat, Lottie huddled under a blanket. The cop had told her that Kate Connelly had been gravely injured. Lottie had known Kate from the day she was born. She had mourned for the motherless little girls after the terrible accident their parents were in.
Oh God, she prayed. No matter what she’s done, let her live. And forgive Gus. I told him he was making a mistake. I warned him. Oh God, please have mercy on him. He was a good man.
9
Jack Worth stayed with Hannah until Douglas Connelly reached the hospital. Jack found it hard to hide his contempt when he saw Connelly’s bloodshot eyes. But his tone was deferential when he said, “Mr. Connelly, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about this.”
Doug nodded as he walked past him to go to Hannah. “What is the latest word about Kate?” he asked her quietly.
“Nothing more than what I told you. She’s in a deep coma. They don’t know if she’ll make it and if she does, there may be brain damage.” Hannah pulled back from her father’s embrace. “There were people from the fire department here earlier. They took my number. They wanted to talk to Kate, but of course that was impossible. She and Gus were found just outside the back entrance to the museum after the explosion. Jack is afraid the police might think they set it off deliberately.”
 
; Pushing her father away, her tone low but furious, Hannah said, “Dad, the plant was losing money. Kate knew it. Jack knew it. You knew it. Why didn’t you take that offer for the land? We wouldn’t be sitting here right now if you had.”
In the cab on the way to the hospital, Douglas Connelly had prepared himself for the question. Despite the throbbing headache that the early-morning drink and three aspirin had not been able to overcome, he forced himself to sound firm and authoritative as he answered.
“Hannah, your sister exaggerates the problems the business is having, and the land is worth a lot more than the offer we got for it. Kate simply wouldn’t listen to reason.” Without attempting to touch Hannah again, he walked across the small waiting room, sank into a chair, and buried his face in his hands. A moment later his muffled sobs shook his body.
That was when Jack Worth stood up. “I think it’s better that you two are alone,” he said. “Hannah, will you let me know if there is any change in Kate’s condition?”
“Of course. Thanks, Jack.”
For long minutes after he left, Hannah sat unmoving in the gray waiting room armchair. Her thoughts drifted as she studied her father sitting opposite her in the matching chair. His sobs quieted as suddenly as they had begun. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
I wonder if all the chairs in the waiting rooms are exactly like these, Hannah thought . . . Will Kate live? . . . If she does, will she be the same person? I can’t imagine Kate not being just the way she always was . . . She had dinner with Dad last night. Did she give him any hint that she was meeting Gus at the museum?
It was a question she had to ask. “Dad, did Kate mention she was going to the museum this morning?”
Doug sat up, nervously clenched and unclenched his hand, then rubbed his forehead. “Of course she didn’t tell me that, Hannah. But God help us, when she called me last week and started ranting again about selling the complex, she told me that she’d love to blow it up to kingdom come and be finished with it.”
The last sentence was spoken just as a grave-faced doctor was opening the door of the waiting room.
10
Dr. Ravi Patel gave no sign that he had heard Doug Connelly’s shocking outburst. Instead, ignoring Doug, he addressed Hannah. “Ms. Connelly, as I told you before we operated on your sister, she has a severe head injury and brain swelling. At this point we cannot know if she has suffered any permanent brain damage, and we won’t know that until she comes out of the coma, which could be in a few days, or a month.”
Her throat dry, her lips barely forming the words, Hannah asked, “Then you think she is going to live?”
“The first twenty-four hours are crucial. I would certainly say that you do not have to wait here. You’re better off getting some rest yourself. I promise if there is any change I will—”
“Doctor, I want the best possible care for my daughter,” Doug interrupted. “I want a consultation and private nurses.”
“Mr. Connelly, Kate is in the intensive care unit. Later you may want private nurses, but now is not the time. Of course I will be happy to consult with any doctor you choose about her condition.” Dr. Patel turned back to Hannah and verified her cell phone number. Then, with understanding in his eyes and manner, he said, “If Kate makes it through the next few days, she may have a long road to recovery. The best thing you can do is to begin to preserve your own strength.”
Hannah nodded. “Can I see her?”
“You can certainly look in on her.”
Doug took Hannah’s arm as they followed the doctor out of the waiting room. “Nothing’s going to happen to her,” he said in a low voice. “Kate’s tough. She’ll come through this better than ever.”
If she doesn’t get arrested for arson and possibly even murder, Hannah thought. By now her anger at her father had faded into a kind of resignation. He certainly could not have anticipated that Dr. Patel would walk into the room just as he blurted out Kate’s comment.
At the end of the long corridor Dr. Patel pushed the button for the heavy doors that opened into the intensive care unit. “Be prepared,” he told them. “Kate’s head is bandaged. She’s on a breathing tube and has all kinds of wires attached to her.”
Even with that warning Hannah was shocked to see the still figure of her sister on the bed. I guess I have to take Dr. Patel’s word for it that it’s Kate, she thought as she searched for anything that would help her recognize her. The hands on the bed were totally bandaged, and she remembered that when she first arrived at the hospital she had been told that Kate had suffered second-degree burns to her hands. The breathing tube covered most of her face, and there was no hint of Kate’s blond hair escaping from the wrappings around her head.
Hannah bent down and kissed her sister’s forehead. Was it Hannah’s imagination, or could she detect a faint scent of the perfume Kate always wore? “I love you,” Hannah whispered. “Don’t leave me, Kate.” She almost added, “You’re all I’ve got,” but managed not to say it.
Even though it’s true, she thought sadly. We certainly haven’t had much fathering over the years from a dad who always insisted, “Call me Doug.” She stepped back, and it was her father’s turn to lean over Kate’s bed. “My little girl,” he said, his voice trembling, “You’ve got to get better. You can’t let us down.”
With a final glance at Kate, they turned to go. At the door of the recovery room Dr. Patel once again promised to call if there was any change in Kate’s condition.
At one thirty, when they were about to leave the hospital, to forestall any suggestion of having lunch Hannah said, “Dad, I’m going to the office. There are a few things I should do, and I’m much better off being busy than sitting home.”
When they stepped onto the street, they found a media crush awaiting them.
“What is Kate Connelly’s condition?” reporters demanded to know. “Why was she in the museum with Gus Schmidt at that hour of the morning? Did she tell you she was going there?”
“My daughter’s condition is very serious. Please respect our privacy.” A cab was dropping someone off at the curb. His arm around Hannah, Doug forced their way through the crowd and pushed Hannah into the backseat. He jumped in himself and pulled the door shut. “Get going,” he snapped to the driver.
“My God!” Hannah exclaimed. “They’re like a pack of vultures!”
“It’s only the beginning,” Douglas Connelly said grimly. “It’s only the beginning.”
11
Despite her father’s urging to go home and get some rest, Hannah firmly insisted on being dropped off at her office across town on West Thirty-second Street. “The company is planning a press release to announce a new designer’s line,” she said. She did not mention that the new line would have her name on it.
At the corner of her office building, she opened the cab door and gave Doug a peck on the cheek. “I’ll call you the minute I hear anything. I promise.”
“Are you going back to the hospital tonight?”
“Yes. And unless the doctor calls and there’s a reason to go earlier, I’ll get there around seven.”
The tap of the horn from the car behind them made Hannah realize that she was holding up the traffic. “I’ll talk to you later,” she said hurriedly as she stepped onto the sidewalk. The busy street, packed with pedestrians shoulder to shoulder and racks of clothes being ferried from one building to another, was a sight that Hannah usually loved, but today it offered no comfort to her. Though it was not raining, the raw, damp wind made her hurry into the building.
Luther, the security guard, was at the lobby desk. “How is your sister, Ms. Connelly?” he asked. After the media crush outside the hospital, Hannah had realized that the fire was breaking news and she needed to be prepared to answer questions about it and about Kate.
“She was gravely injured,” she said quietly. “We can only pray that she will make it.” She felt as though she could read Luther’s mind. What was Kate doing in that place at that hour?
Without giving him time to ask her anything else, Hannah moved quickly to the elevator. It was only when she got to her office and dealt with the surprised reactions of her fellow workers that she realized that no one had expected to see her today.
Farah Zulaikha, the company’s head designer, tried to send her home. “We’re putting off the announcement for a better time, Hannah,” she said. “There’s going to be a lot of publicity about the fire for at least a few days. Some people who live near the East River told me they could see the flames from their windows.”
Hannah insisted on staying. She told her that it was better to be here than just sitting in the hospital or at her apartment. But once she was in her small and cluttered office with the door shut, she sat at her desk and buried her face in her hands. I don’t know what to do, she thought. I don’t know where to turn. If Kate doesn’t make it, or if she lives but is brain damaged, she won’t be able to defend herself if they try to say she was responsible for setting off the explosion.
How many times in the last year or so had Kate openly said that the plant should be closed and the property sold? All our friends knew it, Hannah thought. Kate and I each own 10 percent of the assets, but every quarter for two years we’ve been running at a loss. Thank God we had enough in dividends to buy our apartments when we did.
Did Kate use the words “blow it up” to anyone other than Dad?
The doctor heard him say that.
But why would she want to blow the whole place up with priceless antiques in it? It doesn’t make any sense.
That thought gave Hannah a measure of comfort. But then, with a sinking heart, she remembered that there was a $20 million insurance policy on the antiques alone.
She had recently seen the video of a car racing down the highway with the driver twisting and turning to avoid a crash. The woman had made a call to 911 and was screaming, “I can’t stop it! I can’t stop it!”