Camouflage

By C.C. Avram

Helen Stern has reason to be livid. Abandoned at birth by her mother, she was raised by England's greatest psychic. Dubbed a freak by her classmates because she had what they called Hocus Pocus, Helen was never allowed to live a normal existence. Helen prays for an escape, often fantasizing that her birth mo

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wordeee
• Release date: May 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781946274601

Book preview

NEW YORK, 65TH STREET AT CENTRAL PARK, ALMOST JUDGMENT DAY

WHAT A HELL HOLE. She’d never gotten used to the noisy city or the shards of light that seeped through tightly drawn bedroom curtains at all hours of the day. Every morning, without fail, the urbane city, in constant motion, was a reminder her soul needed somewhere more peaceful—the exact opposite of New York; verdant, calm, remote and downright spooky. That morning, Helen felt an urgency to be back in Hampstead, the place of her birth—the only place that held all her good memories. Sighing, she fixed her eyes on the twinkling lights outside. Suddenly, a shudder crept up her spine. Something will be amiss today immediately became her predominant thought; it was a gut feeling in the dark chambers of her mind. Who the hell needs light when darkness conceals so much? She scoffed at the twinkling lights outside as the feeling of dread grew even more intense. The feeling was unwavering; a dark, foreboding omen; a call to action so urgent it alarmed her psyche. Helen was convinced—no, she was certain—something would go wrong today. As an intellect, she never relied on her sixth sense; which she hated, by the way, but she didn’t ignore it either. Something was definitely wrong! Yet, if anything was to go wrong, there couldn’t be a better time than now. She was almost at the finish line.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Helen wiggled her numb toes and felt heat rise in her body. What the hell? Switching on the bedside lamp, she rummaged through the dresser, grabbing a short-sleeve leotard. Pulling the spandex over her hips, she welcomed the coolness of the oak floor underfoot as she padded to the bathroom. Splashing water over her face, she brushed her teeth, hooked a terrycloth towel around her neck, laced her sneakers and headed to the kitchen. Filling her squeezy bottle with iced water got her all rattled up; the cold sensation caused a sudden outburst, Damn, damn, damn! I can’t take any excitement today, certainly not after yesterday’s debacle with Chance—such a nuisance, she thought. Drawing attention to the company now was a no-no, and she sure as hell hoped none of it interfered with her plans! Not after all the years of meticulously planning her win.

In her in-home gym, Helen switched on the treadmill and pressed the speed dial until she was running at a good clip. Forty-five minutes later, dripping wet but somewhat calmed, she headed to the shower. Checking J.I.’s stock prices on her phone over breakfast, she was pleased to see they’d held their value even with the nuisance incident. At least something was going alright.

Helen, already dexterous in emotional control, was resigned to facing any disaster head-on; by the time she stepped onto East Sixty-Fifth. What could it be? Anton, she was sure, had handled the matter with Chance. Could something have gone wrong with her plans? But what? Should she wait for clarity before going off the deep end? Helen knew there was no point waiting because her hunches were never wrong. Sooner or later, the bad news would surely hit the news. With the raging burden of the gazillion projects she needed to complete before her final triumph, Helen Stern couldn’t afford to waste time. Jaws set in a grim look; she strode down the avenue. Moving with grace and determination, the gentle breeze flapped around her shoulders, the brown and tan silk scarf, which happened to match the chocolate brown mid-calf skirt. The complimenting tan Safari jacket she wore crowned the whole look. Her tiny waist, cinched with a crocodile belt, complimented her chestnut coloring. Adjusting her brown sling bag, she accelerated her pace to the office. No one, in a million years, would ever believe what lurked beneath the beautiful exterior of this siren.

Charlie, Charlie. Stop this minute. Now! a frantic voice screamed from a distance. Helen immediately turned in the direction of the turmoil to see a little boy running full speed after a ball rolling into the busy street. She jumped in front of the tyke, who ran head-on into her long legs.

Hold up there, tiger, she hoisted the kid into the air. She found herself squeezing him in a tight embrace, reluctant to put him down.

Ball, my ball, the kid squirmed, trying to wiggle out of her grasp.

Oh, thank you. Thank you so much, a chubby mother, now out of breath, lunged forward to retrieve her son. I should have been watching him more carefully. Thanks again, Miss . . .

Yes, you should have! You should better protect your child. Stern, Helen said, reluctantly handing over the little boy. What’s his name again?

Charlie. He is very hyperactive.

Helen stared at the kid, a grimace stretching the corner of her mouth, barely able to suppress her annoyance with the careless mother. A mother’s duty is to protect her child. A mother’s duty is to protect her child. The refrain clamored in her mind. Her abandonment had left a black hole in her soul she’ll probably never be able to outrun. Helen hoped when her current pursuit was over, all that would be left in the past. After all the plotting and scheming she’d been doing over the years, too many to count, everything would be better. Thank God it would all soon end; and she’d prayed, she’d finally be able to quit carrying around the pain of her past.

Charlie. Thank the lovely lady, the mother coaxed as the child tried to hide his face against her shoulder. The woman kissed the top of her son’s head, and Charlie looked up, a broad smile on his face.

Thank you, the kid said, clutching his mom’s hand as she put him down onto the sidewalk.

Helen watched as mother and son retreated, relief and joy spreading over their faces. She felt the darkness closing in. Oh, she lamented, I should have had a mother to protect me. I should have experienced the joy of childhood. I should have been loved. I wouldn’t have been so devious; in fact, none of this would be happening if only—

For the rest of her walk, Helen was unusually moved by ordinary events; mothers taking their children to bus stops, joggers running their faithful dogs, and lovers kissing good-bye at crosswalks; all of these seemed to burn a sense of loss into her consciousness. She’d never had that kind of intimacy. Aware of intimacy’s emotional cost; the exact energy she didn’t have to spare, she’d long ago settled for sex with no strings.

God bless you, Miss, mumbled the dirty head poking out from under a tattered blanket. Life sure is hard today, but it’s worth living, ain’t it? As long as there’s life, there’s hope. Thank you, ma’am.

Hope! Incredible! How could a cardboard home on the sidewalk of New York leave anyone with hope? As hideous as his life looked, the homeless man seemed more at peace than she’d ever been. He’d slept soundly on his concrete bed while she, soon to be Mistress of Jacobson Empire, with everything to live for, always felt restless, unsettled, and hopeless.

Was Anton right after all? Should she halt her plans before there was no turning back? The desire to topple her mother’s empire had been her only source of comfort for so long, and the fury deep in her soul wouldn’t let her walk away. She wanted, no, she needed this victory. Why was she now sensing doom when everything had gone according to plan? Helen’s focus remained on the man causing her to doubt her motives. Damn you! In the years of encasing her heart in ice, no one had come close to penetrating its cold exterior. Now he was chiseling and chipping away at her nexus of hate. Too jaded for love, she wondered why she’d allowed him close enough to disturb her peace—though she’d admit he would be a perfect match. "Stop this!" she interrupted her wandering mind and the chaos creating in her head. You don’t even know who you are, much less him. How can one have a future without knowing their past?

Helen stopped at the light, looked up at the tower, eyes climbing the sixty-five stories into the sky. The signpost on the building’s top floor read, The grand Jacobson Industries; her final conquest. When this was all done, she’d go home to Maya and find out the truth of her birth? But was Anton right? Could it be time to ride off into the sunset and leave the past behind where it belonged? Should she save her soul? Try as she did, Helen couldn’t find it in her heart to give up the war she waged against her unsuspecting mother. No way would she buy that. Was she evil for waging this battle? No way. Evil was far different from vengeance, and this silent war she waged against Andrea Jacobson-Preston was one of retribution.

J.I. Industries; if there could at all be any compensation for all her pain, this building was it. With the Helen Companies eminent I.P.O., in a matter of weeks now, if Brandon Snowden did his job, all of this would be hers. The thought pleased her very much; it really went a long way in calming the tsunami raging inside her. Raising her eyes once more, this time to the gods, Helen prayed for the strength to see her plan through to the end. If Anton were right, she’d just have to face the consequences of her evil ways. As Helen stepped off the curb, the fire of revenge burned bright.

Are you nuts, lady? A taxi screeched to a halt. Helen jumped backward at the sound of the blaring horn, landing safely on the sidewalk, her revere interrupted. "You gotta death wish or something? You crazy, chica. Stupida. You coulda cause a bad accident. The taxi driver was pointing at her angrily. Vaya. Go on now," he waved her across the street, pointing, shaking his head angrily, and lapsing into his native language while he wound up his window.

The light was yellow, Helen mouthed, hurrying across the street. He should have been prepared to stop on the amber light. Christ! What on earth is the matter with you? she remonstrated loudly. Bloody woolgathering again!

Morning, Ms. Sten, Ms. Walters said. Is everything okay?

Why do you ask?

You are late this morning. I.P.O.’s jitters? That’s understandable, she smiled, knowing she, too, would benefit from the stock going public.

I suppose, Helen disappeared into her office, not bothering to explain her jitters was from rescuing a little boy from sure demise. Throwing her bag inside the credenza, she composed herself, ordered coffee, shuffled through the papers on her desk and wondered the outcome of Chance’s issue. Restless, still perturbed by her hunch, her near-death escape, and overall general malaise, Helen wondered if she should call Anton for a report. Her pride would not let her, even if she pretended it was all just business. Instead, she went to the East facing floor-to-ceiling window to observe the glowing sun; watching sunrises and sunsets were two of Helen’s favorite things to do. Maya often said the day’s cycle was determined by the time of the rising and setting of the sun. Could she find a clue for her uneasiness in the sun? Pressing her face against the windowpane, Helen peered down onto the busy street below. From her fiftieth-floor office, the people bustling around looked like ants. That’s what her mother would be when she was done; an insect squashed beneath her feet. Naturally, her devil self was countered by her angel self.

You know Helen. You’re insatiable. Happiness, really? You want happiness, huh? What exactly does that entail? Shouldn’t you be happy watching the sunrise, observing the bustle of Manhattan, being at the top of your game? What else do you want from this illusion called life?

First, I hate New York; so there’s that. But how about some happiness for a change, her mind answered, and some peace? What about peace, eh? I need some peace.

For the second time that morning, Helen realized how alone and unhappy she’d been most of her life. Had she purposely chosen a life of loneliness because she wouldn’t forgive or, was she lonely because she hadn’t chosen to love? Were her years of obsession with vindication and retribution the cause of her loneliness? Had she always been this lonely? She’d never wondered about such things until that ass, Anton, came along. Who was he to give her advice?

Despite the pain of her abandonment, she’d been ‘happy’ once—with Maya. Today, Helen would give anything to be back with her Nana in that old, cozy, welcoming kitchen in Hampstead.

Damn, too much adrenaline flowing for one day! She said loudly as she abruptly turned from the window.

Your coffee, Ms. Walters placed a silver tray on her desk.

Thank you. Helen inhaled the aroma; she loved the smell of coffee. Adding a tip of cream, she savored it to the very last drop. Draining her cup, she went to the powder room to freshen up before her first appointment. So far, no drama, but she’d saved a life—brownie points for her.

A pealing and persistently ringing phone interrupts Helen’s primping, spurring her into action. However, by the time she gets to the phone, it had already chimed four times. Hello. Hello. She heard the click. Ah hell, Helen banged the phone back into its cradle. The phone summoned her attention again. This time, she grabbed it on the second ring. Oh, no, no, no, no. Please, no! she wailed at the caller.

HOME AT LAST: THE HAMPTONS, LONG ISLAND NINETEEN YEARS EARLIER

NOT MUCH FANFARE accompanied sixteen-year-old Helen’s arrival to New York that steamy July day. Intermittent rain pelting the hot concrete had turned to vapors, resultantly making the day foggy. Following airport signs to the taxi stand, Helen waited in the long line where a man was mechanically handing out yellow tickets to destinations.

Where to? he asked as she reached him.

"Omni Berkshire Place…Madison and 52nd.

And so it was. She’d simply arrived, checked into the hotel, then waited until morning to do what she’d come for; search for her mother. Morning found her jet-lagged but expectant. Hoisting her duffle bag, she, at the spur of the moment, opted to have breakfast closer to where her mother lived. Stepping into the street as she’d seen others do, imagining cars would stop for pedestrians as they did at home in London, she quickly piqued how dangerous that was; the yellow weapons of death careened corners in the Big Apple. Tourists scampered back onto sidewalks, and so did she. Noting native cab seekers waving arms around until a yellow cab lurched to a stop, she did the same.

The greasy bacon and eggs from a diner nearby didn’t sit well with Helen’s otherwise impeccable eating habits. The bubble beginning in her stomach made her stop by a Kiosk. She bought a bottle of seltzer from the Indian man at the counter. Taking a swig, she headed on to sixty-second and Central Park, the last address she had as her mother’s.

Good Morning, she smiled at the stern uniformed doorman, cap perched on his oversized head. I’d like you to buzz Mrs. Preston, please.

Mrs. Preston rarely stays here anymore. He was tight-lipped, offering no more information. A hefty bribe, doe eyes, and a heart-stopping smile got her the information she needed. She hoped he wouldn’t be fired. How far is that from here? Helen added dulce to her smile.

About two hours away. Then he waved down a cab for her.

The Hamptons, Helen instructed as she scooted into the back seat, earning herself a raised eyebrow from her cabbie. She raised hers back, and the cabbie took off. Gazing out the window as the car sped away, the New York skyline, though impressive, left her cold. Too new a city for her taste. She preferred the crumbling, thousand-year-old stone buildings in her own country. Undeniable, however, was the energy of the venerable city. Far more appealing than London. The rainy-day had now dissipated, thus giving rise to another muggy July day.

Traffic was moving faster than expected, but to Helen, the drive was stressful. An hour in, she began to relax as the scenery became more hospitable—cityscape giving way to open spaces. As they neared the destination, the open spaces bled into beautiful villages and hamlets nestled along the Atlantic. Closer yet, the East End houses became grander and grander with incredible landscapes. It began to feel like another world.

It has to be this house, the driver informed, stopping in front of a massive, gated property. The house we just passed is 664.

Let me out here then. Helen gathered her bag and stepped off the cab. Giving the driver a generous tip in addition to the already expensive fare that would be charged to her credit card, she suddenly realized she’d have to watch her spending. This was not expected. Hoisting her duffel bag, she walked the short distance to 666 Baldwin Street gates, Preston Estates, as noted by the brass plaque. It was a property that spanned the remainder of the street. How appropriate that Andrea Jacobson’s house number would be the alleged mark of the devil. Walking past wrought-iron gates, Helen observed a uniformed chauffeur opening the car door for an elegant, grey-haired man who slipped into the back seat. Moments later, the massive iron gates opened, and the Silver Shadow glided past. Before the gates closed, Helen slipped inside and hid behind a large elm tree.

A geometric cobblestoned driveway, barely visible from where she stood, wound itself to the front door. On either side of the walkway, gas lamps that lit the night’s path still glowed. Helen waited until she was sure no one was approaching before creeping to the back of the house. An Olympic-sized swimming pool girdled by thick shrubbery, its blue water overhung with clovers and buttercups, greeted her. Just off to its left was a well-tended rose-garden, which offered respite for her overburdened mind. Nestling into a wooden swing that dropped from the sturdy, shade tree, Helen swiped away a tear. It was in a beautiful garden like this that Andrea betrayed her. Spiraling higher and higher, her breath slowed, and her eyes closed. A weird kind of peace enveloped her as she drifted into scenes from her made-up childhood; the laughter of her Mom and Dad, listening for her nanny to come and fetch her from the garden for lunch, the beautiful sounds of a happy childhood—was all she had ever wished.

Hearing the gate open, Helen jumped from the swing and hid behind the tree. Well, old girl, she said under her breath, all your pain, at least economically, has been worth it, cause missy, you’ve hit pay-dirt here. Andrea had a lot to lose—a lot. One day this will all be yours. The financial benefits, inconsequential to Helen, still caused her to do a jig and dance as she crept back to the front of the house and watched a young boy and his apparent caregiver disappear into the house. With bolstered composure, she straightened her back, made her way up to the front door, thinking, Let the game begin. Pushing the ringer on the double mahogany doors, its wood ribbons polished to perfection, she waited. A wizened white-haired woman, whose cold, penetrating, and wise eyes suggested she was used to battle, opened the door.

Yes? Her tone was sharp, seeming surprised someone was on the premises unannounced.

The gate was open, Helen offered no hint of an apology for her intrusion.

What do you want, young lady?

I’m looking for Andrea Jacobson-Preston, please.

And who may I say is calling? The woman eyed the duffle bag she’d rested on the steps.

Her daughter. She’ll know. Helen smiled wickedly, no joy reaching her lips.

Her daughter? What nonsense is this? Melissa looked quizzically at the girl. Dressed in washed-out blue jeans, ripped to shreds at the knees, a skimpy white shirt showing her belly-button, the girl’s appearance was certainly not like anyone Andrea would know, much less a daughter. No resemblance whatsoever.

Nonsense, I assure you I’m not and have never been.

Do you have a name, child? This sort of scam happens to wealthy people more often than you can imagine. Who put you up to this? Melissa wondered which of Andrea’s past lovers was in cahoots with this waif, but there was something.

I’m Helen. No one put me up to this. I am Andrea’s daughter. She was impatient with the inquisition.

Helen, who? You mean you have enough notoriety to have just one name? Melissa snapped, noting the British accent.

Helen Stern.

Stern? Melissa looked up sharply. Stern?

That’s what I said. Getting a little deaf, are you?

And a smart-ass, too, eh? Melissa said. Come in. I’ll send for Mrs. Preston. Her voice, strong and authoritative, did not match her physicality.

Helen took in the foyer that showed exquisite taste. A domed ceiling, made entirely of beveled glass, supported a Waterford Crystal chandelier, which in turn sparkled in the morning sun, its light kissing the highly polished black and white checkerboard foyer. In the center of the room, on an ornate pedestal table, stood a crystal vase filled with a kaleidoscope of fragrant flowers. Double staircases spiraled dramatically from each side of the foyer, ending at an archway that framed gigantic French doors. While she waited, Helen wandered down the hall and slipped behind a heavy wooden door to peek inside. It was a library. A very masculine room laid out for intellectual pursuits: Andrea’s husband’s study, no doubt. On a massive cherry desk, flanked by a deep red, dimpled, high-backed leather sofa and two plaid fatois, several golfing trophies and a porcelain frame, held a picture of Andrea and a little boy. On paneled floor-to-ceiling bookcases leaned a decorative ladder to reach the highest shelves, some twenty feet up. Several leather-bound books boasted the name Dr. Scott Preston—Andrea’s husband, a psychiatrist. How fitting. For Andrea to abandon her child, indeed, suggest a madness of a sort. Around this Scott guy, Helen vowed to take extra precautions to avoid his trained eagle eyes. Her true motives for coming to Preston Estates could not be discovered.

At the other end of the room, double doors stood open. The adjoining room, more exquisite and in stark contrast, was certainly the prettiest room Helen had ever seen. Stark white, the three outer walls were glass, boasting radiant colors from the rose garden beyond them. Evergreen shrubs, thick against a fence and the weeping willow hidden behind, were bending and bowing, no doubt, to the Queen, for this had to be the study of Andrea Jacobson-Preston. Silken drapes caressed the walls before flowing gracefully into a heap atop the highly polished blanched wooden floor. Helen felt her breath catch. On the oak desk were two pictures: one, she guessed, Andrea’s husband and their son, and the other, a photo of a teenage girl in an antique silver frame. Helen leaned in to take a closer look and was startled to realize it was herself. The picture they’d taken when they first met. Suddenly the room became very hot, and beads of sweat formed on her upper lip. Helen sat on the edge of the desk to study the photo. Why would Andrea have a picture of her in open view? Wasn’t she trying to conceal that she’d had a child years ago? The hubbub in the foyer reminded Helen that she was trespassing, so she quickly made her way back to the entranceway.

A slender, elegant woman, her back to her, was urgently speaking to the white-haired women who’d opened the door.

Where is she?

Probably nosing around, Melissa answered. She seemed the type.

Melissa! Stop being intolerable!

Hello, Mother, Helen said quietly.

Andrea, hearing the unmistakable voice, froze for a split second before spinning around to face the voice she’d yearned to hear for so long.

Hello, Mother, Helen repeated. I’m home.

Oh my God! Oh my God, it’s really you. Helen, oh my dearest Helen, Andrea rushed and embraced her child, holding her so close breathing was difficult. I knew you would come, she whispered, moisture clinging to her lashes. I knew one day you would come home. I have waited for this day for so long. Andrea clung to her daughter as though she’d never again let her go. A montage of memories that still caused her pain, fear, and loss flooded her mind. Andrea remembered only too well the cold, stark, sterile room and the first cry of her daughter. The child they wouldn’t let her hold before swathing her and leaving the room. She could hear her blood-curdling scream as they disappeared…my baby…I want my baby…but no one had listened. Andrea squeezed Helen even tighter.

Feeling conflicted between resentment and the comfort she’d so longed for, Helen tried to ease out of her mother’s embrace. Why was