A Picture of Guilt (14 page)

I touched my fingers to the flower. It was just a tiny flower; people take them all the time. But as I stroked its soft, velvety petals, it occurred to me that, innocent as it was, David would never have done something like that six months ago.

We crossed to the elevator. He clearly had loosened up since we met. That was a good thing, wasn’t it? Then why did I feel so uneasy? The walls of the elevator felt like they were closing in.

“Are you okay?” David asked.

I looked over. I knew what was bothering me. It wasn’t the flower.

I still can’t accept it when good things happen to me. Especially when it comes to relationships. If it seems too good to be true, it probably is. I make sure of it.

“What are you doing?”

I crushed it on the floor. “You’ve come a long way, haven’t you? I’ve even got you stealing now.”

He gazed at me, then, without speaking, picked up the flower and deposited it in the ashtray. The elevator slowed and stopped on the forty-fifth floor. As the doors opened, a young couple wrapped in each other’s arms hurriedly broke apart and edged past us into the car, giggly and gay. We got out. The doors closed with a whoosh, but not before the man reached for the woman.

David faced me. He had to be furious. He was probably going to tell me how hypocritical I was. Attacking him for one of my own failings. But I couldn’t tell him the truth.

Instead, he caught my chin in his hand and brushed his fingers across my cheek. “Ellie, it was only a goddamn flower. I’d give you a whole garden if I could.”

I wasn’t expecting that. Most men would have retaliated. But David wasn’t like most men. He was utterly without guile. I sagged against the wall. Maybe I was wrong. This was no big deal. Maybe I’d been overreacting. Even a teensy bit maudlin. This was supposed to be a pleasant evening, not fraught with tension. I straightened up and pasted on a smile, determined to be a charming dinner companion. David smiled back and knocked on 4520.

“Good evening, Ellie.” Abdul opened the door and planted kisses on my cheeks. He was wearing a loose-fitting dark blue silk shirt and white linen pants. He gave off a heavy scent of cologne.

“Abdul. How lovely to see you again. When did you get in?”

“David and I took the same flight out.” He smiled. “When he told me what a trying period you’ve been through, I insisted you join me for dinner.”

I glanced over at David. “It was a wonderful idea.”

He ushered us into his suite, which was furnished with settees, thick carpets, and Louis XVI chairs in rich patterns of red, gold, and blue. In the center of the room was a table set for three with crystal glasses and elegant china. Heavy drapes framed a picture window with a view of the Hancock and beyond that the lake. A breeze swept off the water, sharpening the edges of buildings and making the lights twinkle. The soft, dark blanket of water was pierced by an occasional flash from a boat or buoy. If the view from our room was half as beautiful, it would be heaven.

Abdul took a bottle of wine from a silver cooler and filled one of the glasses. “Try this.”

I sipped. “Excellent.”

He showed me the label. “It’s Joseph Heitz. One of your Californias.”

He put it back and picked up a crystal plate layered with triangular toast points. A small bowl in the middle held black caviar. I took one, scooping up a dab of caviar, scallions, and chopped egg. Abdul smeared his with a thick coating and bit into it.

The meal started with grilled shrimp marinated in a coriander lime sauce and progressed to rack of lamb with a caramelized shallot and thyme crust. Each course was served by two unassuming waiters, who whisked silver-domed covers off the plates. I reminded myself to tell Susan about it.

Abdul regaled us with stories about the small village in which he grew up, and despite his occasional lapse in manners that I attributed to the difference in cultures, I felt myself warming to him. The wine and the food did their job, too, and by the time the waiters served us sorbet topped with lavender blossoms, I almost believed my crisis over the flower was just a blip. An aberration. I’d been jumpy since Brashares’ death. That’s all it was.

“What brings you to Chicago?” I asked.

“I am looking at a small chemical company in Indiana. Great Lakes Oil has put it up for sale. David is helping me finance it.”

I sat up straighter. “Great Lakes Oil?”

He nodded. “Since their merger, they’re looking to spin off their smaller operations.”

“What a coincidence.”

Abdul angled his head. “Why is that?”

“I just got a call from them. Inviting me to bid on a video. An assistant vice-president wants to produce a video on shale oil. The industry flirted with it thirty years ago. But I guess with the price of oil what it is, they’re resurrecting all their toys.”

“Indeed.” He smiled.

I felt myself color. I’d forgotten to whom I was talking.

He rose and went to a small table with a silver humidor on top. Bending over, he opened it and extracted two cigars. “What is the executive’s name, out of curiosity?”

“Dale Reedy.”

He hesitated, then pulled a clip out of his pocket and snipped off the end of one cigar. “I don’t know the name.” He lit it with a silver lighter, then handed David the other.

Surprise flickered through me; I’d never seen David smoke. “Why are you looking to buy an American chemical company? Why not build your own in—in Saudi Arabia?”

Abdul puffed on the cigar. “That is our ultimate plan,” he said. “But Great Lakes produces an additive that extends the storage life of gasoline. It seems to work well in dry, hot climates.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “We want to bring it to Saudi Arabia. As you may know, the money from petrodollars does not stretch as far as it once did. We have only one job for every two men. And if men don’t work in our part of the world…” He waved his cigar, not needing to explain what could happen to a generation of young Saudi men with too much time and not enough money.

David cut in. “Did you get the correlations I faxed yesterday?”

Abdul turned to David. “You have anticipated me. As usual. However…” He handed his cigar clip over to David, who fiddled around with the tip. “It may be that our closing date is more fluid than I previously thought. Is there a way we can incorporate that into the hedging strategy?”

“Of course. Just remember, the more flexibility we incorporate, the more expensive the hedge.”

Abdul touched the flame of his lighter to David’s cigar.

“When you get a moment, e-mail me the parameters, and I’ll work up some new strategies.”

“I am fortunate to have you on my side.”

David smiled.

I rose and moved to the window, queasy from the smoke. The side of the Hancock, its windows lit in random patterns, looked like a giant Tetris board. I grabbed the metal base of the window and pulled. To my surprise, the window opened, and a strong gust of air rushed in, peppered with the blasts from car horns, shouts, and squealing brakes. Startled, I sprang back.

David scrambled up. “Are you all right?”

“I’m sorry.” I shook my head in embarrassment. “I—I didn’t expect the window to open.” I should have known. At the Four Seasons, everything works, including the windows.

“No.” Abdul extinguished his cigar. “It’s my fault. I did not ask if the smoke would be a problem.”

Gusts of air whistled through the room, scattering a sheaf of papers on a small table nearby. I reached up and shut the window, then bent over to pick up the papers. “No. It’s my fault. I should have said something.”

“Here. Let me.” Abdul crossed the room and bent down, too. Our heads bumped. He laughed nervously.

I patted my head. He retreated into the other room with the papers. A latch snapped open and shut. He came back out and motioned me back to the table.

“Now, tell me about this trial.” He poured me a fresh glass of wine. “You must have been disappointed at the jury’s decision.”

I took the glass. “You could say that.”

“After David told me about it, I read some of the stories online. I must admit I became curious about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The reports said something about RF interference. That it was raised during your cross-examination. What is this RF?”

“Ryan made mincemeat out of me on that,” I sighed. “Radio interference. It affected our equipment and damaged the tape.”

“And you never discovered the source?”

“We didn’t even know it was there until just before the trial.”

“Why did your lawyer not make that clear?”

“Well, first of all, he wasn’t
my
lawyer. But to answer the question—” I hesitated. “As a matter of fact, that is a good question. I don’t know.”

“This is the same lawyer who lost his life.”

“You
have
been keeping up.” I paused. “The police say he was the victim of a botched robbery.”

“What do you say?”

My gaze slipped from him to David. “I say…well, frankly, I’d rather not have to think about him, or Santoro, or Mary Jo Bosanick again.”

Abdul scratched his goatee. “Then it is good that it is over.”

***

Our room wasn’t as plush as Abdul’s, but we weren’t there for the decor. I padded over to the bed. My feet sank into deep pile carpeting. I perched on the edge of the mattress and bounced up and down. Perfect.

David smoothed a hand down my hair. I faced him, letting him trace the line of my jaw with his finger. Suddenly, we were full of each other. Hair, skin, smell. His arms wound around me, his mouth settled on mine. I fell back and pulled him on top. Our clothes came off, and our bodies took over.

Afterward, we lay beside each other in the dark. The light from the window threw spiky shadows across the room. David ran his hand down my leg.

“I’m sorry about tonight. But when Abdul called, he wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

I reached across and took his hand, ran it up my side, and covered it with my own. “It worked out just fine.”

“He likes you a lot, you know.”

I giggled. “Then I guess you better watch out.”

“Why?”

“They’re allowed to have more than one wife, aren’t they?”

“He makes a move, he’ll be one dead sheik.”

“Proprietary, aren’t we?”

He leaned over to kiss me, then buried his face in my neck. “I’m glad the trial is over,” he murmured.

David’s father died before he was born, and he’d lost his mother at seven. He’d gone into foster care after that, bouncing from one home to another. Some were good. Some weren’t. He didn’t talk about it much. But he didn’t need to. I knew what he wanted. Stability. Security. Routine. For him it was more than a want. Or a need. It was a prerequisite—the defining quality of his existence.

Some time later, when his even, quiet breathing told me he was asleep, I crept out of bed. Our room faced west, and I stared out the window. Lights twinkled, marking the streets in a repetitive series of grids that stretched to the horizon. It was hard to get lost in this city. You always knew where you were. David liked it that way. I wasn’t so sure.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-ONE

“I thought we’d go out for dinner,” I said when I picked Rachel up from Science Club. “I have to go to the studio later.”

There was no response.

“Want to go to that salad place?”

“With you?”

“Uh—yeah.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I take it that’s a no.”

She leaned forward and snapped on the radio. A loud bass hammered the console, and an angry voice yelled about white sluts and guns. Mercifully, Rachel changed the station, but another rapster, sounding very much like the first, flooded through the speakers. Looking over, I was about to suggest she turn it off when it occurred to me that she’d reprogrammed the buttons in the Volvo. I keep classic rock and NPR at my fingertips; I don’t do rap.

What’s more, Rachel knew she wasn’t supposed to play with the radio without special dispensation. I caught her watching me out of the corner of her eye.

That’s when I got it. She’d changed them deliberately and was waiting for my reaction.

I had to make an instant choice, one of those small, perhaps insignificant parental decisions that, nonetheless, fills me with panic. Should I remind her of the rules and reinforce my role as a disciplinarian, which would escalate the conflict between us? Or should I let it slide, thus giving her a degree of power she hadn’t yet earned? What was the right choice?

I mulled it over. It was a minor incident. Neither of us would remember it five years from now. But isn’t that what parenting is? An aggregate of unimportant decisions that mold a child into an adult? What if I made the wrong choice? Would she resent me for the rest of her life? Would she turn into an ax murderer? I waited for divine inspiration.

“Okay,” I said when it didn’t come. “How about Italian?” Better to have
shalom bayit
—peace in the house—at least for today.

She slouched lower in her seat. Her eyes slid to the radio, then narrowed into horizontal slits like they do when she’s happy. “Cool.”

***

I sank onto the couch in Hank’s editing suite, wrapping my jacket around me to ward off the chill. He’d agreed to stay overtime to help me edit a new demo reel for Great Lakes Oil. Styles in video production change, and I wanted to include some clips with an MTV look: quick cuts, strobed action, hot music.

While Hank set up the decks, I studied his collection of frogs, a cheerful jumble of amphibians given to him by clients, including a frog wearing a beret, a toad in a turban, and my contribution, a frog holding a menorah.

He swiveled around, and saw what I was looking at. “Got a new one coming.”

“What’s that?”

“A frog with chopsticks. Guy’s bringing it from Shanghai.”

“It was probably made in Japan.”

Shrugging, he turned back to the Avid and loaded a CD into the drive.

“Is that my old reel?”

“Yup. I backed it up.”

“You’re so smart. We’ll be out of here in no time.”