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  “He was very brave, but it doesn’t sound like he fared well,” Barry said gently.

  “I know he’s dead. I can feel it here.” Genevieve gently pounded her heart with a closed fist. “If I go back, they’ll probably do the same to me—and if they don’t kill me, they’ll never let me leave the island again, and I’ll live out my days in poverty and squalor.”

  Barry shuddered. “A choice between bad and worse.”

  “Papa also told me to stay out of France,” Genevieve continued. “My country has been independent from France for years, but they have people there, people who could track me down and—” she couldn’t finish.

  He scratched his head. “Wait a minute. Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. Your father was born there, the most brilliant man to come out of the Caribbean since Alexander Hamilton. He had a brilliant career as a research chemist. Then he gave it up to accept a government post back in the country where he was born, and when he saw all the pilfering going on he spoke out against it and they had him killed?”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice breaking. “My father made me promise that if I didn’t hear from him again that I would just let it go, not call any attention to it. He said he would do his best to make a deal with them to leave me alone, but he didn’t trust them. He said he would lead them to believe I had gone back to Paris, but he insisted I come to his condo in New York. The idea had been for Papa’s tax attorney to try to sponsor me for ongoing residency, but he died of a heart attack three weeks after I got in. That left me with no one.”

  “That’s a tough break, Gen. Why didn’t you make an appeal to our government?”

  She sighed deeply. “I can’t apply for refugee status because I can’t tell anyone what I know. If anything gets into the media, the people who killed my father will come looking for me. And as far as the U.S. government is concerned, there’s no trouble down there. So I’m in a terrible Catch-Twenty-Two.” In her agitated state, the faint accent with which she spoke became much more noticeable.

  Barry put his arms around her. “Calm down, Gen. You’re not alone anymore. You’ve got me to help you, and we’ll work this out.”

  She wanted to weep out of sheer gratitude. Barry wanted to help her. He might have lied to her about the status of his divorce, but he was proving to be a true ally.

  “It’s too bad your father didn’t go to the media,” he remarked.

  “I thought about that, too. But he probably felt his enemies would come after me if he did.”

  “All right,” he said, after a few moments of thought. “The first thing we’ve got to do is get you out of here.”

  “There’s really nowhere else for me to hide,” she pointed out. “I entered the U.S. in Miami and came to New York by train. After Sy died and I had no prospects for sponsorship, I hoped the Immigration people would concentrate their search in Florida, but out of all the millions of people in New York they managed to find me anyway.”

  “Well, you’re just going to have to find another place.” He snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it! You can rent that vacant room Stan and Brenda have. It’s perfect. It’ll be a helluva lot harder for the INS to locate a black woman in Harlem than on the Upper East Side. I’m gonna call them right now.”

  “It’s all set,” he said, hanging up the phone. “You can move in tomorrow. The room is two-twenty-five a week.” He paused. “Uh, I’ll help you financially if you need it.”

  “I’ll be all right. My father was a wealthy man.” It seemed like a terrible waste of money, to pay nine hundred dollars a month for a room plus the mortgage on her father’s condo, but she had no choice. “But weren’t Brenda and Stan curious? They know I already have a place downtown.”

  “I told Brenda straight off that it was for personal reasons. If anything, she probably thinks you’ve sublet your condo for a pretty penny. Believe me, with two kids in college and a hefty mortgage, she’s so happy to have that room rented she won’t ask you any questions. Besides, it’s only temporary.”

  “Temporary?”

  “When I get my divorce you’ll marry me.”

  “Marry you?”

  “Stop repeating everything I say, will you?” he said good-naturedly. “Of course we’ll get married. I’m an American citizen. Marrying me will guarantee you’ll be able to stay here. And if the INS questions our timing, there’s plenty of proof that I was held up by my divorce.”

  “But, Barry...” His willingness to help nearly overwhelmed her, but she had to be honest, no matter how much it might sting. Still, hurting people did not come easy to her, which made her next words hard to say. “I’m not in love with you.”

  If his feelings were bruised he didn’t show it. “That’s all right. I guess what I feel for you isn’t exactly the L-word either. We’ll deal with it, Genevieve. I’m not about to let you go back and meet the same fate as your father.”

  His words brought her memories flooding back. “The last time I saw him was that day at the airport,” she said sadly. “When I didn’t hear from him after a month I started going by the name of his favorite movie. It was too dangerous to use my real name, and it’s my way of paying homage to him.”

  Barry’s mouth fell open. “You’re not Genevieve Shane?”

  “I’m Genevieve, yes, but my real last name is L’Esperance. Papa loved an old western with Alan Ladd, so I chose that name.” Her eyes took on a faraway look as she recalled her last contact with her father. “He told me that his tax man had all the keys and paperwork for me. I already had the key to the condo. I lived here with him before I went to university. This was his home base during the last part of his chemistry career, before he accepted the government appointment back home.”

  “So the INS tracked you through your father.”

  “I really don’t know how they found me,” she said with a shrug. “I guess nothing’s impossible if you do some digging. This apartment was purchased through the corporation my father set up for tax purposes. His name didn’t appear on anything. And I do all my advertising and billing for my work under the corporation name. But somewhere there’s a record of who set up the corporation.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “I’m sure Papa hoped he’d be able to get off the island,” Genevieve continued, needing to express her memories. “But his situation was too precarious, and by then it was too late for him. It was a miracle he got me out.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I left Paris to be with him because I could tell from his phone calls that something was terribly wrong. I barely had time to say good-bye before he put me back on a plane for Miami. My name is on all his accounts, and the statements are sent to a rented mailbox. The only one who knew the truth about me was his tax man.”

  “The one who’s dead.”

  She nodded. “Sy Rubin handled my father’s money for years. He was a specialist in financial matters, and legal ones as well. It was he who suggested my father set up a corporation. Papa participated in projects all over the world, and they paid him well. Sy had him in all sorts of investments and tax shelters.”

  “Who handles your father’s estate now?”

  “Someone at Sy’s old firm, but there’s not much to handle. Sy converted everything to cash when the market started to slip. I monitor the statements every month.” She paused. “I’ve tried to keep a low profile, seeing as few people as possible since Sy passed.” Then she looked at Barry, guilt pouring over her like chocolate syrup on a sundae. “I guess this proves you’re not the only one who was keeping a secret, eh?”

  “You kept yours because your life was at stake, not because you wanted to get next to me. But I’m glad I’m here to help you. Like you said, that’s a heavy burden to carry by yourself.”

  “I do feel better, Barry,” she admitted. “And I can’t tell you how much I appreciate how far you’re willing to go to protect me. Now that I know about your situation with your marriage...it takes a special person to go from one marriage straight into another, knowing there’s no lo
ve involved, especially when the first marriage ended so badly.”

  He held out his arms. “In that case, how about a nice, friendly hug for a friend?”

  Chapter 3

  Genevieve was pleased with the large, airy room that circumstances forced her to rent sight unseen. Two tall windows provided good ventilation and light, and she’d set up her drafting table in a corner with only minimal crowding.

  “I think you’ll like it here,” Brenda Smith said.

  “It’s very comfortable, and convenient, too,” Genevieve said. “Just one block to the subway.”

  “Former President Clinton’s offices are in that large office building you pass on the way to the Seventh Avenue line.”

  “Yes, Barry mentioned that.”

  “Here’s the kitchen,” Brenda said. “We keep it equipped with dishwashing liquid and sponges, even rubber gloves. I do ask the tenants to clean up after themselves. I clean the refrigerator once a week and mop the floor three times a week.” She moved down to the next doorway. “And this is the bathroom,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I clean thoroughly in here once a week, and again, I ask that you help keep it clean. Everything you need is under the sink.” She glanced at Genevieve’s thick hair. “Speaking of the sink, try not to stand too close to the sink to comb your hair.”

  Genevieve raised a self-conscious hand to her head. She’d been reluctant to go to a salon because her highly secretive circumstances didn’t allow her to indulge in the chit-chat that usually went on there. When faced with the choice of getting her hair relaxed or being labeled as standoffish, she chose to just let her perm grow out. Her hair’s wavy and thick texture was a combination of her father’s tightly coiled hair and her mother’s straighter-textured tresses. She was tired of wearing it pinned up like the stereotype of an old maid librarian and longed to be able to wear it loose, but in its present natural state she’d look like a wild woman.

  “And please, no bulky sanitary supplies in the toilet,” Brenda continued. “Our plumbing is rather old.”

  The seemingly never-ending warnings of what she wasn’t to do began to grate on Genevieve’s nerves. She’d always gotten the feeling that Brenda, who was a few years older than Barry, disapproved of their relationship. Initially Genevieve believed it was because she was so much younger than Barry, but now she considered that Barry’s soon-to-be-ex-wife might be a friend of hers. “I understand,” she said politely, then changed the subject. “It’ll be nice having the floor to myself.” She knew the solitude wouldn’t last, and it wasn’t like she’d never lived with a roommate—she’d had two at her Paris flat—but by the time the Smiths rented the other room she’d be married to Barry and safely living with him.

  She’d be safe...but would she be happy? And what about Barry, who’d so unselfishly offered to come to her aid? He deserved happiness as much as she did.

  “You’re not by yourself on the floor,” Brenda said, interrupting her doubts. “Dexter’s still here.”

  “The student? Didn’t you say the other night that he was about to leave?”

  “No. I said I wouldn’t be surprised if he gave notice, but he hasn’t, not yet. He’s a struggling college student, and he’s been late with his rent a lot lately. I think he might be running out of money, although in the past he’s always managed to catch up. You probably won’t see a lot of him. He’s got a very busy schedule, so he’s not around much.” Brenda moved a few feet down the hall to the stacked washer and dryer unit tucked in a recessed wall. “Here’s the washer and dryer. Just enter your personal code to start the machines. We’ll bill you monthly for your use.”

  “That’s fine,” Genevieve said, grateful she didn’t have to use a commercial laundry. Her condo was equipped with a stackable washer and dryer in a utility closet. Bad enough to have to live in one room and share a bath and kitchen. She couldn’t picture herself schlepping down two flights of stairs to a basement with a heavy sack of dirty clothes, much less down the block to the nearest Laundromat.

  “Here’s your keys,” Brenda said. “One fits the top lock on the front door, and the other will open both the bottom lock plus the door to your room.”

  “Does it open the door to the other room as well?”

  “No, just your room.”

  Genevieve frowned. “That seems odd. How’s that?”

  “I’m not a locksmith, Genevieve,” Brenda said, sounding a little impatient. “I just know this key opens the bottom lock on the front door and your room only. Now, we do have wireless Internet that reaches up here, but you do realize there’s no phone?”

  “That’s fine,” Genevieve said quickly. “I use my cell phone all the time, anyway.” Her eyes went to the next flight of stairs and the boarded-up entry to the next floor.

  “Stan and I only have part of the remodeling done on the fourth floor,” Brenda explained. “But it’s all cleaned out, in case you were worried about, uh, rodents.” She suddenly turned apologetic. “Uh, about Barry. Genevieve, I’m sorry for the other night. Sometimes that husband of mine sticks his nose in where he shouldn’t and gets too personal.”

  “It’s all right, Brenda. Barry and I are just friends.” Genevieve saw no reason to elaborate on the plans the two of them made to marry as soon as they legally could. Everything had happened so fast these last few days. Barry had been a godsend in her time of trouble, but she still wasn’t comfortable with the idea of treating the institution of marriage so cavalierly.

  Once again, the queasiness she’d grown accustomed to developed in the pit of her stomach. As relieved as she was that she would soon be safe from deportation, it nonetheless made Genevieve a little ill to think that she was actually going to marry a man she didn’t love, other than in the most wholesome sense of the word, and who didn’t love her. That wasn’t the type of marriage she’d always dreamed of having, and she wondered if she was really doing the right thing.

  “Well, I think that’s it. Call us if you need anything. And welcome.” Brenda smiled the way only a landlord with a large mortgage and no vacancies could, then retreated rather quickly down the stairs. Genevieve figured she’d be catching the first train downtown to Bloomingdale’s.

  Over the next week Genevieve settled in at her new home. One room and a shared kitchen and bath was a long away from the comfortable, private two-bedroom condo on the tony Upper East Side her father had purchased a dozen years ago, but she tried valiantly to adapt. At least the East Harlem location was convenient. A total of five subway lines were no more than a block or two in either direction. Never much of a cook, if she wasn’t meeting Barry for dinner she picked up frozen entrees and food items from the Pathmark on One-Hundred-Twenty-Fifth Street or something from one of the many family or fast food restaurants that lined the street. They offered all types of cuisine, New York staples like pizza parlors, sub sandwich joints, Papaya King for hot dogs and fruity shakes, the obligatory Chinese restaurant, and plenty of places to chow down on soul food. This was, after all, Harlem.

  As for the occupant of the room on the opposite end of the hall, Brenda’s prediction proved accurate. Genevieve had yet to see him. The only evidence of another resident was in the kitchen trash can, where she noticed things like empty twenty-ounce soda bottles and balled-up brown paper bags or wax paper, suggesting someone who ate meals on the run. Maybe she didn’t have the floor to herself, but it felt like she did.

  She still had major doubts about marrying Barry, but she did feel more optimistic about the situation with the INS. At Barry’s suggestion, she dashed off a note to the building superintendent, explaining that she’d gotten married and had gone off on an extended honeymoon. She doubted that people outside of Hollywood types did such things nowadays, but heck, Barry did work as a television executive. She supposed that made him a Hollywood type, even if he was based in New York in the news division. She stamped it and asked a business colleague to drop it in the mail it for her while he traveled to San Francisco on business. This action had two purposes:
First, it would throw the INS off track. Second, the super would know to look after her unit. Maybe their agents wouldn’t make such a big deal out of trying to find her once they learned she’d gotten married.

  Of course, she hadn’t gotten married yet, but Barry assured her his divorce was moving toward a swift finalization. And once they were married she could return home and boldly face the INS. Even with her falsely claiming an earlier date of marriage on her correspondence to the super, once she married an American citizen and they proved it was legitimate, no one could send her back.

  As relieved as Genevieve felt to have a solution to her pressing problem, the entire premise still made her uneasy. How could she even consider marrying for any other reason other than being madly in love? Barry made no secret about being attracted to her, but could she really reciprocate his affections? The setup seemed terribly wrong to her.

  Then there was the matter of the condo. She also knew that Barry expected her to move in to his Brooklyn loft, which presented a problem of what to do with her father’s condo. She couldn’t even consider selling her last link to her father, but it came with fairly high carrying charges. She should probably look into subletting it as a furnished vacation rental. The Upper East Side location would be appealing to tourists, and nothing in the condo rules prohibited sublets. That seemed like the best option, but even that had its drawbacks, for it meant a series of strangers would be living in her father’s home. At least it was acceptable.

  Genevieve wished she could feel as good about marrying to attain legal residency, but she was unable to shake the ominous feeling that she was making a decision she’d live to regret. The whole thing was just so distasteful, and something else was struck her as being off, something beyond the obvious, but so far she hadn’t been able to identify it.