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New York City
THREE DAYS LATER, WHEN we arrived in New York, Blackwell, Alex, Tank and I orchestrated everything to turn our arrival home into a media event that would put Alex into the best possible light.
On the plane, we strategized. On the ground, we executed.
When we left the plane, it was mid-morning, the day was bright and warm, and two large black SUVs were waiting for us on the tarmac. One of the vehicles would take Daniella and Alexa home, while the other would take the rest of us to Wenn where we’d hold a press conference spearheaded by Stephen Rowe himself, who had no choice but to comment on the fact that Alexander Wenn was indeed alive—and ready to talk about his experience on the island.
“That man is shitting his pants right now,” Blackwell said as we drove through traffic. “Oh, how I can’t wait to see how he’s going to play this.”
She looked out the window as we moved down Fifth, and I could tell by her wistful expression that she was relieved to be back home after so much time away. I saw her look up at the canopy of trees that lined Central Park, and I watched her part her window for a moment to breathe in the distinct smell of the city’s air. It was far from as clean as the air we’d gotten used to on the island, but it was clear that it nevertheless was the air that she craved to breathe.
On the plane, she’d dressed me head to toe in a black Dior suit, and because I couldn’t do my own hair or makeup without the use of both hands, she’d taken charge of that as well.
For the press conference, we’d decided on simplicity. My flat-ironed hair was pulled away from my face in a ponytail that hung straight down my back, and she’d applied just enough makeup to make me look fresh-faced and healthy despite my recent surgery. The only extravagance she’d given me was a bold red lip, which I wore like a badge because I knew we were about to head into the throes of war.
Somehow, she had procured a matching black sling for my arm, which ached though I wasn’t about to tell anyone so. I bit through the pain and focused on what was ahead of us—facing Stephen Rowe for one, and hearing what he had to say to the media before having to step aside so Alex could address them. Second would be watching his reaction to Alex’s response to the most obvious question he’d get from the reporters—would he be returning as Wenn’s CEO and chairman of the board?
During the flight, we’d received two blows of bad news. The first came as no surprise but was still disappointing—Janice Jones was no longer in New York.
Through his unwieldy network of connections, Tank had learned that on the day it was announced that we were alive, she had left her apartment with a full suite of luggage, stepped into a waiting limousine, and had been swept away to a destination that had not yet been uncovered—Tank was still looking into it.
The second blow was worse. The apartment Rowe had purchased for Jones had zero ties to him—instead, it had been listed in her name. The purchase price was for just over two million dollars, and Jones apparently had paid for it in cash.
“Not bad for a stripper,” Blackwell had said upon hearing the news. “I mean, my God—she must have swung her ass around her share of poles to come up with that kind of money. And I’m not exactly talking about brass poles, either, if you get my drift.”
“My question is who sold her the apartment,” I’d said. “Tank, we need to track down the real estate agent who represented her and the agent who sold her the home. What I want to know is if, at any time, Stephen Rowe accompanied her to showings. If he did, what were the real estate agents’ general impressions of them? Did they behave like a couple? Was anything said between them that could be used against Rowe? Was Rowe at the closing? That sort of thing. What do you think?”
“That it won’t work,” he’d said. “I’ll look into it, of course, but real estate agents are bound to privacy when it comes to the clients they represent. When it comes to places like New York City, for example, where the competition for business is incredibly intense, few will break those rules.”
“Why?”
“Because if word got out that they did break them, it could destroy careers and reputations that took years to build. They won’t risk it.”
“Well, that’s a downer,” I said.
“I know it is—but it’s also the truth.”
* * *
WHEN WENN CAME INTO view, I saw that the media already was waiting for us on the sidewalk, even though the press conference wasn’t set to begin for another two hours. But that was no surprise—we knew that they’d want to photograph our arrival, so we’d been expecting them, as had Wenn’s security detail and the police, who were there to assist with crowd control.
And was there ever a crowd—perhaps more than any of us had anticipated. It never ceased to amaze me how much my life had changed over the past year. Once again, I was part of an international story, and the enormity of knowing that my face, along with my injury, would be fodder for newspapers, blogs, and television news unnerved me to no end. It was something I’d never get used to, despite the fact that it was a reality I’d readily stepped into so I could marry the love of my life.
Alex reached for my hand. “Are you ready for this?”
“I am.”
“Stay close to me—we need to protect your shoulder. I’ll make a brief statement when we step outside, and instruct them that I’ll answer their questions at the conference.”
He turned to Lisa. “You might want to take this opportunity to speak to the press yourself—you’re a best-selling author and your fans are going to want to know how you are. Many of the reporters here are aware of that, and they probably already have arts reporters here who will have questions prepared specifically for you. If you’d like, I can introduce you to the crowd when I’m finished speaking. Tank will remain with you while the rest of us go inside. What do you think?”
“I can’t imagine anyone being interested in anything I have to say.”
“Oh, please,” Blackwell said.
Lisa turned to her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Blackwell tapped her forehead against the window beside her. “Ward, Ward, Ward. You’re a star now—don’t you get it? I helped to turn you into one, so own it. Let’s have none of this bullshit that no one is going to be interested in what you have to say, because we both know that isn’t true. At this point, you already have millions of readers, most of whom are hungry for your next book—which given your absence and the question of whether you were dead or alive, they likely feared wasn’t going to happen. But now they know it will. My advice is to say a few words, answer a few questions, and move the hell inside after you thank your readers for their concern. It’s not exactly rocket science.”
“Well, that didn’t take long,” Lisa said.
“What didn’t take long?”
“You’ve only been in New York for a little more than an hour, and already you’re back to being Bossy Babs.”
“Bossy Babs?”
“That’s right. Bossy Babs.”
“Is that what you call me behind my back?”
“No. I actually just thought of it right now.”
“Well, aren’t you quick. You can call me what you want, but we both know that you love it when I’m aggressive. People crave it. Most dream of having my kind of self-confidence.”
“Or they run screaming from it.”
“My dear, please. We both know that’s far from the truth. My self-confidence is to be coveted.”
“Or condemned.”
“Coveted.
“Anyway,” Lisa said, shaking her head as she turned to Alex. “I suppose I should say something. Though I’m not exactly sure what since I’m not a particularly gifted public speaker.”
“Seriously?” Blackwell sighed, stretching out the word as if it were made of an elastic that would never break. “Really, Ward? Do I need to pee in a cup and give you a direct shot of my DNA before you face those people? Would that help you grow a pair? Because if it would, I’d do it for you.”
“I don’t want anything to do with what’s swinging between your legs, lady.”
“Yes, you do. In fact, it would do wonders for you.”
“This whole conversation is disgusting.”
“I see it as—”
“You’ll do fine,” Alex interrupted. “Just keep it short and sweet—but expect an avalanche of interview requests to follow by the end of the day. You can do all or none of them. Wenn Publishing’s PR department will help you sort out which ones might benefit your career. For instance, I would never turn down the Times, the Journal, Publisher’s Weekly, or USA Today for obvious reasons. You never know who will come calling, but our team will be there to help.”
When the car pulled left and slowed to a stop, the media immediately took note, as did the police and Wenn’s security team, who prevented the crowd from rushing the car. I looked at Alex, who had shaved off his beard on the plane and was wearing a fitted black suit with a red tie that matched the color of my lips.
Blackwell missed nothing.
I thought that he looked impossibly handsome, like a movie star somehow magically untouched by the past two weeks. Despite the circumstances, this will be good for him, I thought. To focus on this instead of on the loss of our child.
“Tank, you’ll step out first?” Alex asked.
“On my way.”
“If you’d open my door, I’ll be able to assist Jennifer out. Then, if you would, please help Barbara and Lisa if they’re still speaking to one another.”
“Lisa knows that I adore her,” Blackwell said. “We just had a bit of fun, that’s all. Being in New York again makes me feisty.”
“Bitchy,” Lisa said.
“Feisty.”
“All right, then,” Alex said. “Playtime is over. Let’s do this.”
With a quick kiss on Lisa’s lips, Tank stepped outside—and the circus began the moment he walked around the front of the car and opened Alex’s door. Before Alex even stepped outside, reporters started to shout out his name. They asked questions. They demanded answers.
The attention was dizzying, but I steeled myself against it when Alex turned to take my hand. I placed it in his, and he squeezed it gently in an effort to relax me. I heard my name being called out even before I left the car wearing the pair of dark sunglasses Blackwell had given to me.
Two of Tank’s men flanked us and led us toward the building—and the reporters who lay in wait for us.
Smile, I thought. Show the world that you’re well.
I did, and so did my husband. Alex waved to the crowd of reporters, and to my surprise, there came a cheer when he did so. It made my heart swell when that happened for him. People wanted him back. They were genuinely happy that he was here, right there before them, in the flesh. The reporters continued to shout out each of our names, but this was about Alex, so I held his arm tighter and let him enjoy the raw enthusiasm that was being directed at him.
“This is so wonderful,” I said to him, but Alex couldn’t hear me above the din. The press hurled questions at him that came at us so quickly, they were essentially indecipherable from one another. With the help of the police, Wenn’s security parted a path so we could move toward the building’s main entrance. As we passed through it, I was aware of the rapid clicking of cameras, strobes of light going off all around me despite the sunlight, people asking me if I was going to have a full recovery, and then reporters asking Alex to please offer a comment before the official conference.
And so he did.
With me at his side, and Lisa and Blackwell now just behind us with Tank, Alex faced the crowd and held up a hand, which quieted them.
“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I can’t tell you how great it is to be back in my hometown of Manhattan, and to see so many familiar faces. Most of us have had a working relationship since I took over Wenn after my father died, so seeing many of you is not unlike seeing family—even if we have had our rows over the years. But that’s family—right?”
At that, the crowd of reporters laughed.
“I know I speak for all of us when I say how much we appreciate your support. Over the past three days, my wife, Jennifer and I were finally able to read much of what you’ve written about us in the wake of the accident, and I can tell you this—we felt the hope in your words. We felt that you were rooting for us when we were stranded on that island, and for that, Jennifer and I, and everyone you see behind us, would like to thank you for keeping us in your thoughts—and for handling our disappearance with such grace and sensitivity. It makes our homecoming that much sweeter knowing that we had your support.”
He paused for a moment and looked up at Wenn’s gray exterior. “I’ve missed her,” he said when he turned back to the crowd. “We’ve been away from each other for too long. So, I hope you understand if I cut this short so I can see my colleagues and friends before I join Wenn’s new CEO and chairman of the board, Stephen Rowe, in answering your questions at the press conference later today. I know that some of you would like to speak with one of Wenn Publishing’s best-selling authors, Lisa Ward, who was on that island with us. She has agreed to take a moment to answer some of your questions, which her fans will likely appreciate. I’ll be back before you know it to answer all of your questions in a proper fashion.”
But he wasn’t getting away that easy, and all of us knew it. As we turned our backs to the crowd, a flurry of questions rose up into the air, and the bulk of them indicated what was to come later—did Alex know when Stephen Rowe would step down as CEO and chairman of the board so Alex could resume his responsibilities?
“Answer them,” Blackwell said as the doors started to part for us.
But Alex shook his head. “I’m not answering that question,” he said with the hint of a smile on his face.
“Why?”
“Because I want Rowe to answer it. Let him take the heat for his response. Let him sweat it out when he’s hammered with questions about why he won’t do the right thing and step down from the positions I previously held so I can get back to work. They assume that’s what he’s going to do—it’s obvious by their questions. So imagine how they’re going to react when they realize he has no plans of doing so at all.”
“Some will call him a thief,” Blackwell said.
“Some will,” Alex agreed. “And some will call him even worse than that. And wouldn’t that be a shame.”
With that, we moved into the lobby while Lisa and Tank remained outside where the press hammered her with questions.
