Page 57 of Between Two Strangers

A pause follows, and I wonder if I’ve managed to rattle the seemingly imperturbable Mr. Kane.

“It makes sense that the Whaleys are upset,” he says. “I think you can understand what this must be like for them. But if your apartment was broken into and people are leaving you nasty notes, I’d be shocked if Jane Whaley were responsible. She’s a shrewd lady. Why would she complicate her standing in a potential suit by breaking the law?”

“You think it’s all a coincidence?” I ask, not bothering to keep the skepticism out of my voice.

“I’d say yes—when you consider that New Yorkers have their apartments broken into all the time and often have disturbing things happen to them.”

I sigh in frustration. It’s pretty clear I don’t have a shot at convincing him of what the Whaleys are up to, and even if I did, he probably wouldn’t acknowledge it anyway. I bet fancy firm attorneys like him have to keep every response a hundred percent neutral.

I decide to go for broke on another front.

“I’d be in a much better position to evaluate all this if you would just explain why C.J. assigned the trust to me,” I say. “Something tells me you know more than what you’ve told me.”

There’s another pregnant pause, and I sense him making a calculation, deciding how much to divulge.

“I can understand your frustration, Ms. Moore. This can’t be easy for you. But if you’d be willing to meet me tomorrow, I have information that may help put some of your concerns to rest. And then you can get on with your life.”

Finally, I think. Finally, I might know.

“All right,” I say.

“I’ll see you at the University Club on West Fifty-Fourth Street. Eleven o’clock.”

28

Now

I’VE NEVER BEEN TO THE UNIVERSITY CLUB, NEVER EVEN HEARD OFit for that matter, but when I arrive at the corner of Fifty-Fourth Street and Fifth Avenue on Saturday morning, I realize I’ve passed it without knowing what was inside. It’s an intimidating Renaissance Revival building, made of sand-colored granite. The metal and glass awning above the entrance doesn’t have a name or even a symbol on it, because clearly there’s no need for the place to advertise its presence. If you’re a member, you’re aware where it is, and the rest of us peons have no business knowing.

Miraculously, I’d woken up this morning with a little voice in my head urging me to look up the dress code, maybe because my mother and stepfather are members of a country club where you can be turned away if you show up in jeans. The rules at the University Club turned out to be absurd. According to what I found online, women—known as “lady members”—are required to wear suits, dresses, or skirts and dress shirts. Pants are only allowed if paired with dress shirts or “elegant” sweaters or scarves. A whole host of items are strictly forbidden, including capris, cargopants, rompers, leggings, bare midriff tops, and anything at all made of denim.

There are no capris, cargo pants, or miniskirts in my closet, and certainly no rompers, but my go-to going-out outfit, on the rare occasions when I need it, almost always includes leggings. I ended up deciding to go with the black silk shirt I’d worn to the meeting in Scarsdale and the mid-length skirt I’d bought for the gallery opening, praying it won’t attract a giant stain today.

A doorman ushers me into a small foyer, where I’m greeted by another man in uniform. Standing at a podium in the grand lobby and wearing the expression of someone about to dispatch cars for a funeral procession, he asks for my name and directs me to the entrance of an old-fashioned yet luxurious lounge.

Though the room, with butter-colored walls and silk drapes, is nearly empty, Kane is parked at one of the tables against the far wall. He spots me as soon as I cross the threshold onto the thick, patterned carpet.

Bradley Kane tries to be subtle, but I spot him running his gaze over my outfit as I approach. Is he worried I’m going to be booted out because it doesn’t meet the club’s definition of “elegance”? I notice that he’s wearing a jacket and dress shirt but no tie. I guess the club dropped the tie requirement for males once most of the businessmen in the country stopped wearing them.

“Thanks for coming,” he says, rising. “I know it was short notice.”

“That’s okay, “I say, taking a seat in the cushioned chair across from him. If he’s finally going to give me the information I need, no notice is too short.

“Let me get you something to drink. A coffee? A cappuccino?”

I haven’t come for refreshments, but I request a cappuccino just to play along. Kane scribbles our beverage order on the page of a small pad on the table, signals for a waiter, and passes the order to him.

“I’m sorry to hear you’ve been going through a difficult time lately,” he says as the waiter moves off.

“It doesn’t sound like you believe me about what’s been happening.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you. It’s just hard for me to accept that the Whaleys would stoop to harassing you or breaking into your apartment.”

I want to note that, at the very least, Mark Whaley tracked down my address and confronted me outside my home, but I let it go. I’m not going to convince Kane, and besides, it’s not the reason I showed up at this club, a relic from another century. Instead, I simply fold my hands on the table, waiting for him to get to the point.

“Have you been able to find an attorney to advise you on the trust?” Kane asks.

“Yes,” I say, not adding that I haven’t met with her yet.

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