Sidney Sheldon’s Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney)

TRACY TORE OPEN THE plastic wrapper of the pregnancy test and sat down on the toilet.

She was in the downstairs bathroom at 45 Eaton Square, the beautiful Georgian house she’d bought with the proceeds from her first two jewel heists in the early days of her career. Gunther Hartog had helped her pick out the house and decorate it, and Gunther’s impeccable, if slightly masculine, taste was still in evidence everywhere. The red damask wallpaper and eighteenth-­century gilt mirror in the bathroom made the tiny room feel like a luxurious boudoir. It reminded her of a time gone by. Before Jeff. Before marriage. Before trying, and failing, to have a baby had become the sole obsession of her life.

After peeing on the test stick, Tracy replaced the plastic cap and laid the stick flat on the tiles around the basin, waiting for the requisite five minutes to pass. In the beginning she’d watched the tiny square window the whole time, as if she could make that longed-­for second pink line appear simply by willing it to do so. Now she looked away, forcing herself to think about other things.

She thought about Jeff, on day three of his new job at the British Museum, and how happy he’d been when he bounded out of bed this morning, like a puppy chasing a shiny new ball.

“Can you believe it?” he’d asked Tracy two weeks ago, when he heard he’d gotten the job. “Me! Officially employed as a curator of antiquities at the British Museum. Isn’t that a trip?”

“Of course I can believe it,” said Tracy loyally. “You know as much about those treasures as anyone else on earth. More than most professional academics. You deserved that job.”

The truth, as they both knew, was that Professor Trenchard had pulled some serious strings to get Jeff the position. Tracy and Jeff had met Nick Trenchard, a world-­renowned archaeologist, on their honeymoon in Tunisia. Jeff had signed up for a dig at a Roman hill fort that Professor Trenchard was heading and the two men hit it off immediately. Strangely perhaps, as on the surface they had little in common. The professor was in his early sixties, cerebral, shy and utterly obsessed with the late Roman Empire. Jeff Stevens was an ex–con man with no formal education, who could have written what he knew about the Emperor Constantine II on the back of a postage stamp. But his enthusiasm and passion for learning were quite astonishing, as were his natural intelligence and capacity for hard work.

“I wish all my students were like your husband,” Professor Trenchard told Tracy over dinner one evening at Jeff and Tracy’s hotel. “I’ve never seen such commitment from an amateur. Is he this driven about everything?”

“When he wants something badly enough,” said Tracy.

“I do feel guilty, monopolizing so much of his time when you’re on your honeymoon.”

“Don’t.” Tracy smiled. “We picked Tunisia because of its rich history. Jeff’s dreamed of going on a dig here his whole life. I’m just happy to see him so happy.”

She meant it. She was happy, watching Jeff thrive as they began their new life. She was happy when they returned to London and Jeff enrolled in class after class on everything from Byzantine sculpture to Celtic artwork to ancient Roman coins to Chinese ceremonial armor. Without effort it seemed, without sacrifice, he had traded the thrill of their old life as thieves and con artists, robbing only the bad guys and making a fortune for themselves in the process, for the thrill of acquiring new knowledge. And Tracy was happy. For him.

For herself, unfortunately, things were a little more complicated.

The truth was, she’d simply assumed she would get pregnant right away. She and Jeff made love every night of their honeymoon and often during the day as well, when Jeff would sneak away from Professor Trenchard’s dig for “lunch” at the hotel. She took a test as soon as they got back to London and was so astonished when it was negative that she went to see her doctor.

“You’ve only been off the pill for a month, Mrs. Stevens,” he reassured her. “There’s no reason to think that anything’s wrong. However, if you do decide to have your fertility tested, I can recommend Dr. Alan McBride at Seventy-­seven Harley Street. He’s the best in the business and a thoroughly nice man.”

Tracy tried for six more months. She made sure she knew when she was ovulating, and that she and Jeff were having sex at the right time. Not that that was difficult. They were still having sex all the time. The happier Jeff felt, the more his libido went through the roof. Tracy still enjoyed their lovemaking. I’ve married the most handsome, charming, clever, wonderful man in the world, she reminded herself. I should be dancing in the streets. But for her, the transition from their old life had not been so easy, and she wasn’t always in the mood the way she used to be. Part of it was stress about the baby, or rather the lack of a baby. But another, huge part of Tracy mourned the loss of her old identity. She missed the adrenaline rush of the daring heists she and Jeff used to pull off together; the thrill of outsmarting some of the most brilliant, devious, corrupt minds in the world, of beating them at their own game. It wasn’t about the money. Ironically, Tracy had never been particularly materialistic. It was about the rush. Sometimes she would watch Jeff while he slept after sex, a look of pure contentment on his face, and feel almost aggrieved.

How can you not miss it? What’s wrong with you?

What’s wrong with me?

By the time she put that same question to Dr. Alan McBride, she felt wretched and desperate.

“I suspect that nothing is wrong with you, Mrs. Stevens. But let’s run some tests, shall we? To put your mind at rest.”

Tracy liked Dr. Alan McBride immediately. A handsome Scot with white-­blond hair and a naughty twinkle in his intelligent, light blue eyes, he was not much older than her, and didn’t take himself too seriously the way that so many senior doctors seemed to do. He also didn’t beat around the bush when it came to medical matters.

“Right,” he said, when Tracy’s test results came back. “The good news is, you’re not infertile. You’re ovulating every month, your tubes are all fine, no cysts.”

“And the bad news?”

“Your eggs are a bit crap.”

Tracy’s eyes widened. This was not the sort of terminology she was used to hearing from eminent Harley Street doctors. “A bit crap,” she repeated. “I see. How crap exactly?”

“If Ocado delivered you a dozen of them in a box and you opened it, you’d probably send it back,” said Dr. McBride.

“Riiiight,” said Tracy. And then, to her own surprise, she burst into laughter. “So what happens now?” she asked, once she’d regained her composure.

“You take these.” Dr. McBride pushed a packet of pills across the desk.

“Clomid,” read Tracy.

“They’re magic.” Dr. McBride positively glowed with confidence. “Basically they’re like those practice machines on tennis courts that fire off balls. Bam bam bam bam bam.”

“What’s all the bamming?”

“That’s your ovaries, shooting out eggs.”

“Crap eggs.”

“They’re not all crap. Try it. No side effects and it will triple your chances of getting pregnant.”

“Okay,” said Tracy, feeling hopeful for the first time in nearly a year.

“If you’re not up the duff within three months, we’ll go nuclear on the problem with IVF. Sound good?”

That conversation had happened three months ago. Tracy had just finished her last round of Clomid. If today’s test was negative, she would begin the brutal, invasive process of in vitro. She knew that millions of women did it, and told herself that it was no big deal. But deep down, IVF felt like failure. I’m a useless wife, thought Tracy. A faulty model. Damaged goods. Jeff should return me and trade me in for one that works. One with eggs that aren’t crap.

She looked at her watch. One minute to go.

Sixty seconds.

She closed her eyes.

She remembered the last time she’d been pregnant, with Charles Stanhope’s baby. Charles’s parents were rich Philadelphia snobs. They’d been furious when Tracy got pregnant, but Charles had assured her he wanted both her and the baby. But then Tracy had been sent to prison, framed for a crime she didn’t commit, and Charles had turned his back on her. She could still hear his voice now, as if it were yesterday.

“Obviously I never really knew you . . . you’ll have to do whatever you think best with your baby . . .”

Savagely beaten by her cell mates, Tracy lost her baby. She hadn’t told that to Dr. McBride. Perhaps she ought to? Perhaps it made a difference, even now?

Thirty seconds.

Warden Brannigan and his wife, Sue Ellen, had taken pity on Tracy and hired her as a nanny for their daughter, Amy. Tracy had saved Amy’s life, risking her own in the process, and had been granted parole as a result. She’d loved that little girl dearly. Too dearly, perhaps, for Amy wasn’t hers. Would never be hers. How old must she be now?

Ten seconds.

Tracy opened her eyes. Nine seconds. Eight. Seven . . . three, two, one.

Heart pounding, she grabbed the test stick and turned it over.

JEFF STEVENS TURNED THE coin over in his hand and felt a shiver of excitement thinking about all the hands that had held it before him. This is history. Living history. And I’m touching it.

It was incredible how new the thing looked, as if it had been minted yesterday. In fact the small silver disk had been forged in the old English kingdom of Mercia in around the year 760. It bore the name and image of Queen Cynethryth, wife of the fabled King Offa, often considered the first, true king of all England. Jeff Stevens liked the sound of King Offa. The guy had clearly had an ego bigger than his kingdom and the balls to match. He’d had this particular coin fashioned in the style of the late Roman emperors, who often issued currency in the names of their wives. On one side of the disk was the name of the silversmith who’d made it. The other side bore the inscription: CENETHRETH; REGINA (Cynethryth, Queen) with a perfect M in the middle for Mercia.

The coin was a statement. “If it was good enough for the Roman emperors, it’s good enough for me.” Not bad for a Saxon warlord/thug who’d fought his way to the top with his bare, bloody hands.

Jeff Stevens loved working at the British Museum. ­People often talked about their “dream jobs.” But for Jeff, this truly was a dream, a fantasy he’d nurtured since he was a small boy.

Jeff’s mother had been killed in a car crash when he was fourteen. Two months later his father, an aluminum-­siding salesman, married a nineteen-­year-­old cocktail waitress. One night when his dad was on the road, Jeff’s stepmother had made a crude attempt to seduce him. The teenage Jeff made a run for it and headed for Cimarron, Kansas, where his uncle Willie ran a carnival. From that day on, Uncle Willie effectively became Jeff’s father, and the carnival became his school. It was there that Jeff learned about human nature. About greed, and how blind and foolish it could make even the most intelligent of men. All the confidence tricks that he would later go on to use to devastating effect against some of the richest, nastiest individuals in the world, Jeff learned from Uncle Willie and the carneys.

But it was also one of the carneys who first instilled in Jeff a love of antiquity and a profound respect for the past. This man had been a professor of archaeology, just like Professor Nick Trenchard, before he was thrown out of the university where he taught for stealing and selling valuable relics.

“Think of it, son,” he used to tell Jeff. “Thousands of years ago there were ­people just like you and me dreaming dreams, spinning tales, living out their lives, giving birth to our ancestors.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “Carthage. That’s where I’d like to go on a dig. Those ­people had games and baths and chariot racing. The Circus Maximus was as large as five football fields.”

The young Jeff listened, entranced.

“Do you know how Cato the Elder used to end his speeches to the Roman senate? He’d say, ‘Delenda est Carthago.’ Carthage must be destroyed. His wish finally came true. The Romans reduced the place to rubble and built a new city on its ashes. But boy, think of the treasures that must be under there!”

Jeff had never stopped thinking about them. He felt as much excitement, holding the ancient Saxon coin in his hand now, as he had ever felt stuffing a bag with priceless jewels, or walking brazenly out of a major art gallery with an Old Master tucked under his arm. Best of all, this job was legit. There were no Interpol or FBI or Mafia goons on his tail. He actually got paid to do this.

“Hey, boss. The volunteers from the Women’s Institute just arrived. Where would you like them to start?”

Rebecca Mortimer, a Ph.D. student and intern, was the one member of the museum staff who was even newer than Jeff. A striking twenty-­two-­year-­old with brown eyes like gleaming horse chestnuts and almost waist-­length auburn hair, she had started work just two days ago, but already Jeff had a good feeling about their working together. Rebecca was as passionate about the ancient world as Jeff was, and there was an earnestness about her that he found endearing and that brought out his paternal side. Like the small army of elderly volunteers that the British Museum used to help out with special exhibitions and keep costs down, Rebecca was unpaid, but Jeff got the sense she would happily have sold everything she owned for the joy of working here. He knew how she felt.

“Show them into the Special Exhibitions Reading Room,” said Jeff, replacing the Mercian coin in its glass case and locking the display. “It’s the little room right next to the Great Russell Street entrance. I’ll give them a run-­through of their duties next week and you can help me take questions.”

“Really?” Rebecca’s eyes lit up.

“Sure, why not? You already know more about Saxon burial sites than I do.”

“Thanks, Jeff!”

She skipped delightedly out of the room, her long ponytail swishing behind her, but a few seconds later she was back. “Oh. I forgot to mention. Your wife is here to see you.”

“Tracy’s here?” Now it was Jeff’s turn to light up.

“Yes. I heard her asking for you at the desk in the Great Court. I said you’d be right down.”

TRACY GAZED UP AT the vast, modern, glass-­domed ceiling of Lord Foster’s Great Court with a combination of awe and surprise. Shamefully after all her years in London, she’d never been to the British Museum and had always pictured it as a grand, Victorian building, similar to the three South Kensington landmarks: the Natural History Museum, the Science Museum and the Victoria and Albert Museum.

In fact, as the leaflet she was now reading explained, the British Museum was actually pre-­Victorian, although much of its present-­day architecture was aggressively modern. At two acres, the Great Court in which Tracy now stood was the largest covered public space in Europe. But it led into numerous older wings within a vast Bloomsbury complex. Founded in 1753, the British Museum was the first national public museum in the world. Sir Hans Sloane, the famous naturalist and collector, bequeathed more than seventy-­one thousand objects, including books, manuscripts and antiquities such as coins, medals and prints, to King George II for the nation, providing the basis of the museum’s collection. Today it housed eclectic collections of treasures from around the globe, from Chinese ceramics to ancient Egyptian tomb relics to medieval manuscripts and Anglo-­Saxon jewelry. Tracy thought, No wonder Jeff fell in love with this place. Talk about a kid in a candy store.

“Baby! What a wonderful surprise.”

Jeff snuck up on her from behind. Tracy closed her eyes as his arms encircled her waist, pulling her into his body. He smelled of Penhaligon’s cologne, his signature scent and one that Tracy had always adored. I’m so lucky, so very lucky to have him.

“What brings you here?”

“Nothing, really,” Tracy lied. “I guess I was just curious to see the place.”

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Jeff sounded as proud as if he’d built the museum himself.

“It is. It’s beautiful,” said Tracy. “So’s that girl you work with,” she added archly.

“Rebecca? Is she? I hadn’t really noticed.”

Tracy laughed loudly. “This is me you’re talking to, honey. We’ve met before, remember?”

“I’m serious,” said Jeff. “You know I only have eyes for you. Although I must say I’m touched that you’re jealous.”

“I am not jealous!”

“Come with me.” Jeff took her hand. “I wanna show you what we’re working on.” His fingers felt warm and strong around Tracy’s. Maybe I am a bit jealous.

He led her into a small anteroom. The girl Tracy had met earlier, Rebecca, was inside, along with a group of about twelve women and a smattering of men, all in their sixties and seventies. Three rows of chairs had been arranged in front of an old-­fashioned slide projector, which was beaming images of what looked like gold weaponry and utensils onto the screen at the far end of the room.

“We’re about to open a brand-­new exhibition of Saxon burial treasure,” Jeff whispered in Tracy’s ear. “This stuff was all found under a parking lot somewhere in Norfolk. It’s the most complete royal gravesite from the period that’s ever been found. Absolutely unique.”

“Is that vase solid gold?” Tracy stared at the latest image on the screen, a gleaming, two-­handled vase almost a foot tall.

Jeff nodded.

“Jesus Christ. How much must that be worth?”

“It’s priceless,” said Jeff.

Tracy frowned. “Nothing’s priceless. I mean it, I’m curious. How much would a private collector pay for something like that?”

“I don’t know. A helluva lot. There’s more than a million pounds’ worth of gold there, even if you melted the thing down. But as an irreplaceable piece of history?” He shrugged. “Two or three million? I’m guessing.”

Tracy whistled. “Wow.” She glanced around as the old biddies finished their plastic cups of tea and began to sit down. “Who are the granny brigade?” she whispered in Jeff’s ear.

“They’re the volunteers. They’re going to run the exhibition. They help catalog the treasures, man the admissions desk and give guided tours. I’m about to give them an introductory lecture.”

“Are you kidding me?” Tracy looked shocked. “You leave amateurs in charge of millions of dollars’ worth of gold?”

“They’re well-­informed amateurs,” said Jeff. “Hell, I’m an amateur.”

“Yeah, but if someone grabs that vase and makes a run for it, at least you can run after them. What are this bunch gonna do? Throw their walkers?”

Jeff laughed. “No one’s gonna steal anything.”

Rebecca Mortimer wandered over. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said. Tracy noticed that her accent was cut-­glass Oxbridge, and that she didn’t look particularly sorry. “But we really ought to get started in a minute. Jeff?”

She touched his arm, only for a second. It was a tiny gesture, almost unnoticeable, but it implied a certain intimacy between her and Jeff that Tracy didn’t like. At all.

“He’ll be with you in a moment,” she said coldly.

Rebecca took the hint and walked away.

“My, my,” murmured Jeff, sotto voce, an amused look on his face. “You really are jealous.”

“It must be my hormones.” Tracy beamed back at him. “We pregnant women can get terribly overemotional, you know.”

It took a few seconds for the impact of her words to sink in. When they did, Jeff swept her up into his arms with a whoop of delight and kissed her on the lips for a very long time. The assembled volunteers all turned to gawk at them.

“Really?” said Jeff, finally coming up for air. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” said Tracy. “Four tests can’t all be wrong.”

“That’s wonderful. The most wonderful news ever. I’ll take you out to dinner tonight to celebrate.”

Tracy felt a warm wave of elation flow over her.

Jeff walked over to begin his lecture and she turned to go.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could have sworn she saw the young intern, Rebecca, shoot her a resentful look.

DINNER WAS WONDERFUL. JEFF took her to Como Lario in Belgravia, one of their favorites. Tracy ate the carciofi e radicchio followed by a perfectly tender scaloppine al limone. Jeff wolfed down his filet steak, despite barely being able to chew thanks to the smile plastered across his face. Tracy wasn’t drinking, but Jeff insisted on two flutes of champagne for a toast.

“To our future. Our family. To Jeff Stevens Junior!”

Tracy laughed. “Sexist pig. Who says it’s a boy?”

“It’s a boy.”

“Well, if it is, over my dead body are we calling him Jeff Junior. No offense, darling, but I’m not sure the world could cope with two Jeff Stevenses.”

Later, in bed, Tracy slipped into her sexiest Rigby & Peller negligee, a tiny silk slip in buttermilk with white lace trim. “Enjoy it while you can.” She snuggled up to Jeff, running her fingers languidly through the tangle of hair on his chest. “Soon I’ll be the size of a house. You’ll need to use a forklift to move me.”

“Nonsense. You’ll be the most beautiful pregnant woman on earth,” said Jeff, kissing her gently on the mouth.

“Do you ever miss the old days?” Tracy asked him suddenly. “The adrenaline? The challenge? You, me and Gunther against the world?”

“Never.”

He said it with such sincerity and finality that Tracy felt silly for asking.

“Besides, as I remember it, half of ‘the old days’ was you against me, or me against you. As for dearest Gunther, he was always out for himself, playing each of us off against the other.”

“That’s true,” Tracy admitted, smiling to herself at the memory. “But it was only playing, wasn’t it? It was a game, between the three of us. A wonderful game.”

“It was.” Jeff stroked her face tenderly. “And you, my love, were the world champion. But we went out on a high, didn’t we? And the life we have now . . . well, it’s perfect.” He ran a hand over Tracy’s still-­flat belly in wonder. Was there really a new life in there? A person who they had created?

“I love you.”

“How much?” Tracy murmured in his ear. She reached down to touch his erection but Jeff stopped her hand.

“Very much. But I don’t think we should be fooling around. It might hurt the baby.”

And with that, to Tracy’s astonishment, he turned out the light, rolled over and fell into a deep and instant sleep.

For a split second she felt irritated, but she soon snuffed out the feeling. Today was too special, too perfect to be spoiled with petty resentments. He’s only being careful because he loves me. When we go to see Dr. McBride together, he can explain to Jeff that it’s perfectly safe to make love.

Too excited to sleep, Tracy’s mind began to wander. Oddly, it wasn’t the baby she was thinking about, but the things she’d seen at the museum today. She thought about the young girl Jeff worked with. Was she being paranoid? Or had the girl given her a dirty look right after Jeff kissed her?

It doesn’t matter anyway, Tracy told herself. I trust Jeff.

Her mind quickly shifted to the exhibition of Saxon gold Jeff had told her about, and the images she’d seen on the screen. Tracy still couldn’t quite believe that an important institution like the British Museum would allow elderly volunteers to handle an event of such importance. These untrained, older ­people had effectively unfettered access to millions of pounds’ worth of artifacts. And yet even Jeff seemed to think nothing of it. Tracy thought back to the complex security systems at the Prado, and at other famous galleries and jewelers that she and Jeff had stolen from back in their heyday. Imagine if the only person guarding Goya’s Puerto in Madrid had been a shortsighted old biddy. How easy our lives would have been!

Jeff had told her tonight about a specific coin, rarer even than the museum’s prized Mercian specimens, that would be one of the highlights of the new exhibition.

“Tomorrow I’m gonna get to hold it in my hand. It’s Merovingian gold, minted for a Frankish king back in the sixth century. I swear to God, Tracy, it’s not much bigger than a quarter, but the workmanship! It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Instinctively, without even thinking about it, Tracy’s quick mind began to work out the best way to steal it. The awful thing was, there were so many options! Maybe I should offer my ser­vices to the museum’s trustees as a security consultant? she thought idly. God knows they could use the help.

Then she realized she was about to become far too busy to hold down a job.

She was about to become a mother, at last. It was the one role she had dreamed of and longed for her entire life. Everything else had been a dress rehearsal.

For Tracy Whitney, tomorrow had finally come.

She slept.