And that was not her only distinction.
She was also the only one who hadn’t died.
Though from what the old man had told her, Carolyn didn’t think “alive” was a suitable way to describe poor Jeanette Young.
She would need to speak with Jeanette. That much was clear. As best she could, Carolyn needed to discover just what had happened to her in that room.
Chapter Six
Philip Young sat by his swimming pool sipping a Beefeater martini with his requisite three olives. It was a warm day. Indian summer. He watched as Carlos, his Salvadoran gardener, trimmed the topiary that surrounded the pool. The sun was hot on Philip’s cheeks, so he adjusted the wide-brimmed hat he wore. He’d just had laser resurfacing on his face to blast away the wrinkles and the age spots. He didn’t want a sunburn to ruin all that work.
He had a good life, and his life pleased him. Philip watched now as his daughter Chelsea welcomed a couple of girlfriends to sit on the other side of the pool. Such young nubile beauties. One of the girls was dark, the other blond. Philip forgot their names. But he certainly didn’t forget how good they looked in their bikinis, which was why he’d encouraged Chelsea to invite them over today. He took another sip of his martini and lowered his sunglasses over his eyes so they wouldn’t catch him watching.
“Daddy!” Chelsea was calling from the other side of the pool. “Would it be all right if we took the Bentley into town later?”
“What’s wrong with your Beemer?” Philip asked.
“We’re going shopping,” Chelsea said, “and there’s not going to be room for Trisha and Joni and me and all our packages.” She giggled.
Trisha and Joni. Those were their names. The two girls waved at Philip as they stretched out on chaises, exposing their long smooth legs.
“Oh, all right, Chels,” Philip said. “I don’t plan on going anywhere today. I’m staying right here and soaking up this last little bit of summer. Won’t be long until fall is here…”
Even as he said the words, Philip knew what the fall season entailed. His mood darkened. The family reunion. He leaned back and closed his eyes. The goddamn family reunion. Every ten fucking years.
He’d lost his father to that room fifty years ago, when Philip was still just a teenager. Then, ten years later, his sister Jeanette had faced something even worse than death in that terrible place. From that moment on, Philip had vowed that he would never again let that room take anything else from him.
He looked over at Chelsea. She was throwing her head back in laughter with her friends, her strawberry blond hair reflecting the sun. How beautiful she was, how full of life. She was just twenty-three. Young enough to have her whole life ahead of her, but finally old enough to be told about the room. Philip didn’t relish that duty. But this year, for the first time, both Chelsea and her twin brother Ryan would be required to take part in the lottery. Philip shuddered.
Required they might be-but he would not let anything happen to his children.
“Refill your glass, Mr. Young?”
His eyes flicked up behind his sunglasses to the face of his pretty young assistant. He’d hired Melissa to help him now that he was working mostly from home. The brokerage that bore his name could function quite well without him needing to trek into the city every morning from his home in Cos Cob the way he had most of his career. He was past sixty-five now; he was entitled to leisure.
That didn’t mean he didn’t work or that he wasn’t on top of the market. He could just do it poolside from now on, with a lovely young assistant to help him. “Yes, thank you,” he said to Melissa, handing her his empty martini glass.
When he’d hired her, Philip had explained to Melissa that the job would be more than just making telephone calls and filing papers. “I need an all-around personal assistant,” he had explained. That meant refreshing his drinks when she noticed he was low. And it meant other things, too-but only when Chelsea or other members of the family were not around.
Philip watched Melissa walk across the lawn to the outside bar. She certainly filled out her tight white jeans well. Chelsea had rolled her eyes when she saw Philip’s new assistant-“Trailer trash from Bridgeport, Daddy,” she had called her, and Philip supposed she was right-but his son Ryan had given him the thumbs-up. The reaction of his wife Vanessa, however, was considerably more muted.
“Tell me, Philip,” she had said, “does the girl know anything about the stock market? Or finances in general?”
“All she needs to know is how to make telephone calls and hit print on the computer,” Philip had replied.
And she knows how to do those things well, Philip thought. Other things she does even better. A small grin crept across his face.
“Darling,” he called over to Chelsea. “When are you and the girls going shopping?”
“Maybe in an hour or so,” Chelsea called back.
Melissa was handing him his drink. “Ah, thank you, my dear,” Philip said. “And how long are you planning to stay today?”
“However long you need me, Mr. Young,” Melissa told him, her big brown eyes flashing at him from under her long lashes.
He smiled up at her. “After Chelsea leaves, there’s some work I’d like to get done in my office,” he said.
“Of course,” Melissa said, giving him a broad smile.
Philip settled back into his chair, taking a sip of the martini. Yes, his life pleased him. There was no way he would let anything interfere with his life.
Not even a family curse could stand up against Philip Young.
He was one of the most powerful men on Wall Street. He had spent decades building up his firm. With the money his father left him he had invested wisely and shrewdly and sometimes unscrupulously. He was a very rich man.
But not nearly as rich as he would be one day when Uncle Howard finally died.
Philip planned on bulldozing that house and its accursed room the moment the old man finally kicked off. In the meantime, he kept encouraging Chelsea and Ryan to go up to Maine and visit with their uncle. Butter him up. Get on his good side. Philip worried that the old codger was going to leave the bulk of his billions to that good-for-nothing Douglas. The kid was always winking at Uncle Howard, joshing with him, making him laugh. “Get in there and work your charm on the old coot,” Philip had urged his kids. “Don’t let that worthless gypsy walk off with everything.”
It occurred to Philip as he sat there sipping his gin that this would be the first year Douglas would partake in the lottery as well. He stared across the pool at Chelsea and her friends. Every previous Douglas Young-from the kid’s great-grandfather down to his father-had been selected by the lottery to spend the night in that room. And every previous Douglas Young had died in there.
Why shouldn’t it be the same for Douglas Desmond Young IV?
A flicker of something passed through Philip’s heart. Conscience? No, it couldn’t be conscience. He’d long ago surrendered that. One had to if one was going to conquer Wall Street. Maybe it was grief. Philip wasn’t so hardened that he didn’t regret the deaths of his kinfolk. He’d loved his older brother Martin, of course. They’d been playmates and confidants as children. And growing up, his cousin Douglas Young III had been his hero, the upstanding, courageous public defender who thought of others before thinking of himself.
But Philip came to realize that he’d rather be alive than upstanding. That being deceitful was better than being dead.
Alone among his generation, he had survived. Every one of his siblings-including Jeanette-had fallen victim to that room. Every one of his first cousins, too, had all been cut down in their youth. One by one, they had been selected to enter the room or they had run off, like his foolish brother Ernie, only to be slaughtered for their mutiny. Philip was the only male Young in nearly a hundred years-except for Uncle Howard, of course-who had made it past the age of sixty.