BEHIND THE MASK

Claire Bennett had been in Bellmont for barely three weeks when Joan Mercer first appeared on her screen, and at first there was nothing particularly remarkable about the entry beyond the money attached to the name, because Claire had already worked through page after page of wealthy women, inherited fortunes, family companies, old houses, charitable foundations and marriages that existed more convincingly in newspaper photographs than they did behind closed doors, but the deeper she read into Joan Mercer’s file, the less interested she became in the fortune and the more interested she became in the woman who apparently owned nearly everything while controlling almost nothing. Joan was thirty. Claire was thirty-eight. The photograph attached to the report showed an exceptionally beautiful young brunette standing beside a considerably older man at some corporate dinner, wearing an elegant dark gown, perfect jewelry and the sort of pleasant smile that looked practiced rather than happy, while the man beside her occupied more space than he physically required, one hand resting possessively against her back while every caption identified him as William Mercer, President and Chief Executive Officer of Mercer Industries , although Mercer was not his family name at all. Claire noticed that immediately. She kept reading. Joan’s father, Richard Mercer, had built the company into one of Bellmont’s largest private employers, and when declining health persuaded him to retire eight years earlier, he had made an unusual arrangement that apparently satisfied everybody except the young woman most affected by it: his longtime second-in-command, William Harland, would become chief executive, assume the Mercer surname socially after marrying Richard’s twenty-two-year-old daughter Joan, and provide what Richard privately described as “continuity, stability and protection” while the Mercer family retained legal ownership through Joan and the family trust. Claire sat back slowly. “Well,” she murmured, “that sounds romantic.” The marriage had never been described publicly as arranged, naturally, because wealthy families preferred phrases such as natural partnership , shared values and preservation of the family legacy , but Claire had spent enough years around powerful people to recognize a transaction when she saw one. Joan had been twenty-two. Bill had been forty-seven. For several years he had treated her well enough. There had been Paris, Rome, Hawaii, expensive restaurants, corporate retreats where Joan was included rather than left behind, jewelry on birthdays, flowers on anniversaries and photographs in which the young wife looked uncertain but not unhappy, and perhaps Bill had even convinced himself that taking proper care of Richard Mercer’s daughter was part of the position he had inherited along with the executive office. Then, three years earlier, he had hired Vanessa Cole . Vanessa had been twenty-two. The report contained no proof of an affair, but it contained plenty of everything else. Business travel where Vanessa accompanied Bill and Joan did not. Restaurant receipts for two. A furnished apartment leased through a company-controlled holding group. Designer purchases. Late-night office access. Weekend flights. Vanessa had apparently broken up with her boyfriend six months after becoming Bill’s personal assistant, and from that point forward her entire life seemed to orbit Bill Mercer. Claire scrolled back to Joan’s photograph. Another note appeared farther down. Mrs. Mercer continues to appear at major corporate and charitable functions but is rarely present on executive travel. Claire stared at that sentence for a long time. Rarely present on executive travel. Meaning Joan had become decoration. The young woman whose family owned the company appeared when photographs required her and disappeared when Bill wanted Vanessa. Claire enlarged Joan’s face. There was no scandal around her, no lover, no reckless behavior, no stories of parties, nothing suggesting that the woman had ever really rebelled against the life constructed for her. Claire found that more interesting than anything else. Then she reached the family notes. Richard Mercer had apparently been an indifferent father long before he became an indifferent retired chairman, a man who provided money, schools, houses and expectations but very little affection, and when Joan married Bill he appeared to have considered his daughter properly settled and his company properly protected, satisfying both paternal and corporate obligations with a single signature. Claire looked at Joan’s picture again. “So nobody ever actually chose you.” That was when curiosity became something else. Joan Mercer went to lunch every Wednesday with three women she had known since university, and Claire learned that within a week because women with predictable lives were not especially difficult to find if somebody took the trouble to look. Claire did not intend to introduce herself. Not yet. She wanted Joan to remember her before she knew who she was. That required something stronger than a polite collision at a doorway. It happened outside Bellmont House, where Joan and her friends had just finished lunch and were waiting beneath the awning while a sudden afternoon rain swept across the street. Joan stood slightly apart from the others, looking down at her phone while one friend complained about her driver being late, and Claire approached from the sidewalk without an umbrella, caught in the rain but somehow looking better for it, blonde hair damp against her shoulders, cream blouse darkened slightly at the sleeves, heels clicking against wet stone as she hurried beneath the awning. She almost collided with Joan. Joan stepped back. Claire’s hand went instinctively to Joan’s waist. It stayed there one moment longer than necessary. “Oh.” Joan looked up. Claire saw the reaction instantly. Not merely interest. Shock. Joan had probably spent most of her adult life around men who looked at her as somebody’s daughter, somebody’s wife or somebody whose name appeared on ownership documents. Claire looked at her as a woman. “I’m sorry,” Claire said, although she did not move her hand immediately. “No, I—it's fine.” Claire finally withdrew it. Joan’s friends had gone conspicuously quiet. Claire glanced toward the rain. “Apparently I chose the wrong day to pretend I don't need an umbrella.” Joan smiled. “You're soaked.” “A little.” “You could wait here until it slows.” Claire looked directly into her eyes. “With you?” The question was playful enough to be harmless and intimate enough to make Joan’s cheeks warm. “If you want.” Claire moved nearer beneath the awning. “I might.” Joan’s friend Margaret looked between them with open amusement, but Joan barely noticed. Claire did. “Were you leaving?” “Yes.” “That’s unfortunate.” Joan blinked. “Why?” “Because I only just got here.” Joan did not know what to say to that. Claire smiled, then gently moved a wet strand of hair away from her own face. “What’s your name?” Joan hesitated absurdly, as though nobody had asked her such a complicated question. “Joan.” “Joan.” Claire repeated it slowly. Something about the way she said it made Joan swallow. “And yours?” Claire smiled. “Claire.” A black car stopped at the curb. One of Joan’s friends said, “That's us.” Joan looked toward it, then back at Claire. Claire stepped away. “It was nice meeting you, Joan.” “You too.” Claire started into the rain. Joan stared after her. “Claire.” Claire turned. Joan almost asked for a number. Almost. Instead she said, “You really should get an umbrella.” Claire smiled. “Maybe next time.” Then she walked away. Margaret waited until they were inside the car. “What just happened?” Joan kept watching through the window. “Nothing.” Susan laughed. “That was absolutely not nothing.” “She bumped into me.” “She had her hand around your waist.” “For two seconds.” “Joan, that woman looked at you as though she had ordered you for dessert.” Joan turned bright red. “Could we please not?” Margaret leaned across the seat. “You liked it.” Joan stared out the window again. That answer was easier. “Yes.” That night Bill arrived home after eleven. Joan was still awake. He loosened his tie while walking through the bedroom. “You didn't have to wait up.” “I wasn't waiting.” “Good.” His phone vibrated. Joan watched him look at it. The expression on his face changed. Not much. Enough. “Vanessa?” Bill looked at her. “Work.” “You smiled.” “What?” “You smiled when you read it.” Bill tossed the phone onto the dresser. “Am I not allowed to smile?” “I didn't say that.” “Then don't start something.” Joan looked at him for several seconds. Eight years of marriage had trained her wonderfully well. She knew exactly when to stop asking questions. Bill went into the bathroom. Joan lay back against the pillows. For reasons she could not explain, she remembered Claire’s hand on her waist. Not Bill. Claire. She closed her eyes. And remembered it again. Vanessa loved the apartment. That was perhaps the saddest part. Bill had rented it for her six months earlier, although he described it as a company apartment because that sounded cleaner, and Vanessa had left the boyfriend she had been living with for nearly four years because Bill promised that she was no longer going to live like an ordinary twenty-three-year-old woman waiting for her life to begin. The apartment had floor-to-ceiling windows. Designer furniture. A closet Bill gradually filled for her. He paid every bill. He took her wherever he traveled. He ordered dresses sent upstairs before dinners and sometimes told her exactly which one he wanted her to wear. Vanessa loved every second of it. One evening she stood before the mirror fastening an earring while Bill sat on the bed answering emails. “You know what Daniel said when I left?” Bill barely looked up. “No.” “He said you'd never leave her.” Bill's fingers stopped. Vanessa turned. “I told him he didn't understand us.” “He doesn't.” “He said I'd become your kept woman.” Bill looked up now. Vanessa smiled. “You know what I told him?” “What?” “That if being kept feels like this, I should have done it years ago.” Bill laughed. Vanessa crossed the room and sat beside him. “When are you going to tell her?” “Tell who?” She stared at him. “Bill.” “Vanessa, we've discussed this.” “You said eventually.” “And I meant eventually.” “You said you'd give me everything.” “I have.” “No.” She touched his chest. “You know what I mean.” Bill’s expression hardened very slightly. Vanessa saw it and immediately softened. “All right.” He kissed her forehead. “Be patient.” She smiled again. “I'm trying.” What Bill never explained was that he could not divorce Joan without risking nearly everything that made Vanessa willing to wait. The mansion belonged through the family trust. The controlling shares belonged to Joan. The Mercer name belonged to Joan. His authority existed because Richard Mercer had given him the chair behind the desk, but the desk itself had never been his. Claire waited nine days before allowing the second meeting. Joan had spent all nine thinking about her. Not constantly, she told herself. Only while waking up. And showering. And driving. And sitting through meetings. And lying beside Bill at night. The second encounter happened inside a luxury department store where Joan was attending a private preview for a charity fashion event, and Claire appeared behind her while Joan examined a pair of earrings she had no intention of buying. “You should wear the emerald ones.” Joan froze. She knew the voice before she turned. Claire stood behind her in a black dress, elegant, confident and breathtakingly composed. Joan actually exhaled. “You.” Claire smiled. “You sound disappointed.” “I've been trying to find you.” The words escaped before Joan could stop them. Claire’s smile changed. “Have you?” Joan tried to recover. “I mean, I wondered whether I'd see you again.” “That sounds less interesting.” Joan stared at her. Claire stepped closer. “So tell me the first version.” Joan looked down. “I looked for you.” “How hard?” “Claire.” “How hard, Joan?” Joan’s pulse accelerated. “I asked at the restaurant across from where we met.” Claire said nothing. “I searched the guest list from two charity events.” Still nothing. “I even asked Margaret whether she knew anyone named Claire who looked…” Joan stopped. Claire leaned slightly closer. “Who looked what?” Joan met her eyes. “Like you.” Claire’s expression softened. “That sounds exhausting.” “It was humiliating.” “No.” Claire touched Joan’s wrist. “It was flattering.” Joan looked at Claire’s hand. Then at Claire. “Why didn't you give me your number?” “Because I wanted to know whether you would care.” “I care.” Claire’s fingers slid gently into Joan’s hand. That small gesture nearly undid her. Joan had been taken to Paris, given diamonds, photographed on yachts and escorted into restaurants where people waited months for reservations, yet Claire simply holding her hand in the middle of a jewelry department felt more intimate than anything Joan could remember. Claire saw it. “You really aren't used to this.” “To what?” “Being wanted.” Joan’s eyes changed. Claire immediately knew she had gone too deep. “I'm sorry.” “No.” Joan tightened her fingers around Claire’s. “Don't be.” Claire waited. Joan spoke more quietly. “My father never really wanted a daughter, he wanted an heir he could arrange properly, and Bill wanted the company.” Claire did not interrupt. Joan smiled bitterly. “I suppose I worked out conveniently for both of them.” Claire lifted Joan’s hand and pressed a slow kiss against her fingers. Joan’s breath caught. “Claire.” “Too much?” Joan shook her head. “Not enough.” For the first time Claire lost a little of her composure. Only a little. Joan noticed. That thrilled her. Claire reached into her bag, removed a card and slipped it into Joan’s hand. Only a telephone number was written on it. No surname. No address. Joan looked at it. “You're finally giving me your number?” “I've decided you earned it.” Joan laughed. “You're terrible.” “You'll call.” “That confident?” “Yes.” Joan looked at her. “When?” Claire smiled. “When you can't stand not to.” She walked away. Joan called twenty-seven minutes later. By the time the Mercer Masquerade arrived, Joan had spoken to Claire nearly every day. Sometimes for ten minutes. Sometimes for two hours. Claire never pushed her to leave Bill. Never asked about money. Never asked what Joan owned. Instead she asked what Joan liked. Nobody had asked that in years. Joan liked Italian food more than French. She hated corporate golf weekends. She loved old movies. She wanted to see Iceland. She had never been there because Bill always considered it impractical. She preferred red wine but drank champagne because champagne appeared at corporate events. She liked dancing. She had not danced for pleasure since university. And every time Claire discovered something, she remembered it. That alone was enough to make Joan fall dangerously hard. The masquerade took place at the Grand Bellmont, where chandeliers burned above hundreds of masked guests and the company spent a ridiculous amount of money making wealthy people look mysterious. Joan arrived beside Bill. She wore black and gold. Bill barely noticed. Vanessa arrived separately in silver, officially as his assistant, unofficially wearing earrings Bill had given her two nights earlier. Joan noticed those. She said nothing. Then she saw red across the ballroom. Claire. Joan’s entire expression changed. Bill was speaking to a board member and did not notice his wife leave his side. Claire waited near the grand staircase. Joan crossed the room quickly enough that several people turned. When she reached Claire, she stopped only inches away. “You came.” Claire smiled behind a red jeweled mask. “You asked me to.” “I wasn't sure you would.” “I said I would.” “You always do what you say?” “When it matters.” Joan looked at her for a long moment. Then Claire held out her hand. “Dance with me.” Joan placed her hand in Claire’s immediately. Claire led her onto the floor. Joan moved closer than convention required. Claire’s hand rested at her waist. “I've been waiting all week for this.” “The party?” “You.” Claire smiled. “Better answer.” Joan laughed. They turned beneath the chandeliers. Around them, people began noticing. Joan did not care. Claire studied her. “You're different tonight.” “How?” “Less afraid.” Joan looked toward Bill across the room. “No.” Then back at Claire. “I think I'm just tired of being afraid.” Claire moved closer. Joan whispered, “Do you know what I thought about while I was getting dressed?” “What?” “That you might look at me the way you did the first day.” Claire’s hand tightened slightly at her waist. “I've been trying not to look at you that way all evening.” “Why?” “Because we're in a room full of people.” Joan looked around. Then back at Claire. “So?” Claire laughed softly. “There you are.” “Who?” “The woman I've been waiting for.” Joan’s eyes filled almost immediately. Claire saw it. “What?” Joan shook her head. “Nothing.” “Joan.” “Nobody has ever waited for me.” Claire went still. Joan’s voice trembled. “My father planned my life, Bill accepted it, and somewhere along the way I became useful to everybody, but nobody ever actually waited for me.” Claire lifted Joan’s chin. “I did.” Joan closed her eyes for half a second. When she opened them, there was no hesitation left. “Kiss me.” Claire looked toward the crowd. Joan touched Claire’s wrist. “No.” Claire looked back at her. “Don't look at them.” Claire smiled faintly. “Tell me you're sure.” Joan moved so close their masks nearly touched. “I have never been more sure of anything.” Claire kissed her. Not carefully. Not politely. Not like a secret. Joan’s arms immediately went around her, and for several seconds the ballroom, the company, Bill, Vanessa, her father and every obligation she had spent her life obeying simply disappeared. When Claire pulled back, Joan followed her. “Again.” Claire laughed softly. “Joan.” “Again.” Claire kissed her again. That was when Bill saw them. His face changed so completely that Vanessa followed his stare. “Oh.” Bill pushed through the crowd. Vanessa grabbed his arm. “Bill.” “Let go.” “Don't.” “Get your hand off me.” Vanessa held tighter. “Why?” He turned on her. “Why?” “Yes.” She looked toward Joan and Claire. “You told me you didn't love her.” “I don't.” “You told me the marriage was dead.” “It is.” “Then why are you acting like she's committing a crime?” Bill tried to pull away. Vanessa refused. “You have me.” His expression became furious. “You don't understand.” “Then explain it.” “Not here.” “You promised me you were going to leave her.” Bill stared at Joan across the room. “I can't.” Vanessa went still. “What?” “I can't leave her.” Her hand fell away from his sleeve. “You said—” “I know what I said.” “Why can't you?” Bill said nothing. Vanessa’s face slowly changed. “The company.” Bill closed his eyes. Vanessa stared at him. “She owns it.” “Her family owns it.” “Which means she owns it.” “Vanessa.” “You told me you controlled everything.” “I run everything.” “That isn't the same thing.” “Keep your voice down.” Vanessa laughed once, but there was no humor in it. “You didn't keep me because you were waiting to leave your wife.” Bill looked toward the dance floor. Joan and Claire were gone. Vanessa stepped backward. “You kept me because you knew you never could.” Joan did not go home. She went with Claire. By the time they reached Claire’s apartment, Joan had become almost giddy from a combination of fear, freedom and disbelief. She stood in the middle of the living room still wearing her mask. “I did that.” Claire closed the door. “You did.” “In front of everyone.” “Yes.” “Bill saw.” “Yes.” Joan started laughing. Claire watched her. Then Joan suddenly began crying. The change was so fast Claire crossed the room immediately. “Joan.” “I don't even know why I'm crying.” “I do.” Joan pressed herself against Claire. “Nobody ever chose me.” Claire held her tightly. “I chose you.” Joan cried harder. “My father handed me to a man because it solved his retirement problem.” Claire said nothing. “Bill took me to restaurants because that's what a good husband was supposed to do, and when Vanessa came along he didn't even need me for that anymore, he only needed me at dinners where my name mattered.” Claire stroked her hair. Joan looked up. “And then you came.” Claire wiped beneath her eye. “Yes.” “You looked at me.” “Yes.” “You kept looking.” Claire smiled. “I still am.” Joan kissed her. Later, when the night had become quiet and Joan was lying against Claire, she whispered the thing she had been afraid to say for weeks. “I don't want to go back.” “You don't have to.” “I mean ever.” Claire looked at her. Joan sat up. “I know this sounds insane.” “Probably.” “I don't care.” “That sounds healthier.” Joan almost smiled. “I want to be with you.” Claire said nothing. Joan touched her face. “I don't mean for a week.” “I know.” “I don't mean until the divorce gets ugly.” “I know.” “I mean I want to wake up with you, travel with you, come home to you, cook for you even though I barely know how, wait for you when you're late, listen to you complain about work, make your life easier, make you happy, all of it.” Claire studied her. “You don't owe me your life because I paid attention to you.” “I know.” “Joan.” “I know.” She took Claire’s hands. “That is exactly why I want to give it to you, because you are the first person who ever made me feel like it was mine to give.” Claire’s expression softened completely. Joan whispered, “Please stay with me.” Claire kissed her forehead. “I will.” Joan froze. “Really?” “Yes.” “You're sure?” “Yes.” Joan practically launched herself into Claire’s arms. Claire laughed as they fell back against the pillows. “There she is.” “Who?” “The woman behind the mask.” The divorce lasted less time than Bill expected and cost him considerably more than he imagined. The company became the real battlefield. Bill entered the emergency board meeting assuming years of service and personal alliances would protect him. They did not. Joan sat at the head of the table. Claire sat beside her. Bill stopped when he saw her. “What is she doing here?” Joan looked up calmly. “Advising me.” “On what?” “My company.” Bill laughed. “You have never run this company.” “No.” Joan folded her hands. “You made certain of that.” “You don't know anything about operations.” Claire spoke for the first time. “She knows considerably more than you think.” Bill turned toward her. “And who exactly are you?” Claire smiled. “The woman who read the financial statements you apparently hoped nobody else would read carefully.” The room went silent. Bill looked toward the directors. Joan slid a folder forward. “You have used company aircraft for personal travel, company-controlled housing for Vanessa, discretionary accounts that somehow became personal accounts and executive expenses that are going to require very interesting explanations.” Bill’s face hardened. “This is ridiculous.” Claire leaned back. “No, what's ridiculous is believing the daughter who legally owns the controlling interest would remain twenty-two forever.” Bill looked at Joan. “She put you up to this.” Joan shook her head. “No.” She looked at Claire. “She taught me that I was allowed to stop you.” The vote removed Bill as chief executive. He left the company that afternoon. Vanessa vanished almost immediately afterward. Without Bill’s title, company apartment, executive expense accounts and promises of a future financed by Joan’s family, there was very little left to wait for. Nobody heard much about her again. Claire became interim chief executive three weeks later. Six months later, after profits improved, two neglected divisions were reorganized and the board discovered that Claire possessed considerably more business ability than anyone had expected from the beautiful outsider they initially underestimated, the position became permanent. Joan remained controlling owner and chair. She could have occupied the executive office herself. She did not want it. For the first time in her life she was doing exactly what she wanted. She wanted Claire. And she wanted a home that actually felt like one. Almost a year after the masquerade, Claire came home shortly after seven. She opened the front door and smelled dinner before she heard Joan. “Don't come into the kitchen yet.” Claire stopped. “Why?” “Because I'm not ready.” Claire smiled. “Joan.” “Five minutes.” “I've been working since six this morning.” “I know.” “I am hungry.” “I know that too.” Claire dropped her briefcase beside the stairs. “And apparently none of this matters.” “Correct.” Claire laughed. Five minutes later Joan appeared. She had changed out of the clothes she had worn earlier and dressed simply because Claire liked seeing her dressed beautifully at home, a soft fitted dress, earrings Claire had bought her, bare legs and heels she had absolutely no reason to wear while cooking dinner except that Claire once told her they looked gorgeous on her. Claire leaned against the doorway. “You dressed up.” Joan smiled. “You were coming home.” “That isn't an occasion.” “It is to me.” Claire’s expression softened. Joan crossed the room and kissed her. “Dinner is ready.” “What did you make?” “I had help.” Claire laughed. “From whom?” “A recipe.” “That is not help.” “It was extremely supportive.” They sat together, and Joan spent most of dinner asking about Claire’s day, listening while Claire complained about a supplier, laughing when Claire imitated one of the directors and looking so genuinely happy that sometimes Claire still found herself remembering the young woman in the first photograph, standing politely behind Bill with the careful smile. After dinner Joan began collecting the plates. Claire watched her. “Leave those.” “I'll do them.” “Joan.” She turned. Claire had a peculiar smile. “What?” “Pack a bag.” Joan blinked. “What?” “We leave at eight tomorrow morning.” “Leave where?” “Chicago.” Joan stared at her. “Why?” “Business trip.” Joan’s smile faded slightly. “Oh.” Claire stood. Joan tried to hide the disappointment. “How long will you be gone?” Claire walked toward her. “Four days.” Joan nodded. “All right.” Claire stopped directly in front of her. “You should probably pack enough for four days.” Joan stared. “What?” Claire smiled. “You're coming with me.” Joan did not move. “For the business trip?” “Yes.” “With you?” “Yes.” Joan’s eyes widened. “You want me there?” Claire laughed softly. “Joan, I just told you to pack your bags.” “But you always travel alone for business.” “I used to.” “You really want me to come?” Claire reached for her waist. “I have meetings during the day, dinners in the evening, a suite with a ridiculous view and absolutely no intention of spending four nights without you when I don't have to.” Joan stared at her for another second. Then she squealed. Claire barely had time to brace herself before Joan jumped into her arms. Claire laughed as Joan wrapped both arms around her neck. “You're serious!” “Yes.” “I'm going with you?” “Yes.” “On your business trip?” “Our business trip.” Joan kissed her once. Then again. Then several more times until Claire was laughing too hard to answer. “I have to pack!” “You do.” “What do I wear?” “Clothes would be useful.” “Claire.” “Bring the black dress.” “The one you like?” “The one I love.” Joan kissed her again. “I'll pack it.” “And comfortable shoes.” Joan pulled back in horror. “You have clearly confused me with somebody else.” Claire laughed. Joan slipped down from her arms, then stopped halfway toward the stairs and turned around. “You really want me there?” Claire looked at her. Not at Mercer Industries’ owner. Not at Richard Mercer’s daughter. Not at Bill’s former wife. At Joan. “Yes,” she said. “I want you there.” Joan’s face transformed into that brilliant, unguarded smile Claire had first discovered beneath everything else. Then she ran upstairs to pack. Claire stood in the dining room listening to drawers opening overhead, Joan already talking loudly to herself about dresses, shoes, weather and whether four days required six outfits or eight, and Claire smiled because somewhere along the way the woman everyone had treated as an obligation had become the happiest person in the house simply because someone finally wanted her beside them. And this time, when Joan packed for a business trip, nobody was leaving her behind.