I Regret Everything (4 page)

It wasn't his physical attractiveness, because while he was nice enough looking—dark hair, medium build, a shade under six feet—he wasn't exactly a runway model. Mr. Best just seemed to have it figured out. Here was someone with a goal and a plan. He had a job where he made money and an art life, too. I wanted to know what he knew.

Facebook showed several Jeremy Bests in New Zealand, Australia, England, and America but mine did not have an account. Needless to say, he was a stranger to Twitter, LinkedIn, and Tumblr. In fact, the online profile of my Jeremy Best was remarkably low-key. A search engine only turned up membership in some professional societies. His alter ego, Jinx Bell, had a similarly inconspicuous Internet presence: a couple of poems in literary journals, the edition of
The Paris Review
where his work had appeared, and that was pretty much the extent of it.

But he was a published poet, an artist, and that was impressive. Did he want an apprentice?

T
he day before Spaulding's appearance, Ed Simonson and I were having lunch at the University Club. He had invited me out to discuss a delicate matter and the mealtime din made it easier to speak confidentially. Ed speared his last oyster, put it in his mouth, swallowed, and chased it with a sip of lager. I thought of him as the Raptor. It wasn't a nickname I shared with anyone.

“I've been looking over what you've done on the Vendler estate.” Like all good attorneys, Ed Simonson was inscrutable. His expression did not indicate whether he thought the work was high quality or I was going to be asked to resign. Had my designs on the client's Montauk home been telepathically surmised? The finest attorneys have an ability to peer into the souls of their adversaries. Did he think of me as an adversary? “Solid work there, as usual.”

The Vendler estate was routine. Was this what he had wanted to talk about? I ate a spoonful of chowder and waited for him to continue. A woman laughed at a nearby table. Across the room a couple appeared to be having an argument. Thirty seconds passed. There was a vacant look in Ed's eyes. He was either deep in reflection or had suffered a small stroke. To occupy myself, I removed a monogrammed Mark Cross fountain pen from my pocket and examined its sleek design. The old-school pen was an affectation I allowed myself because no client who employed a firm like ours wanted to sign anything as serious as a will with a ballpoint. Ed still hadn't moved when the waiter cleared the appetizers and set our entrées down.

“How long have you been with the firm?”

“Five years.”

Five years was the point where lawyers at Thatcher were given an early indication of whether they would be made partners. Most were informed they should quietly begin looking for a new situation. You're welcome to use your office, phone, and stationery, they were told, but your future is not at This Firm. Was that the purpose of the lunch? I had a sense that Ed liked me on a personal level and was struck with the realization that this was his way of imparting the bad news gently, as if sea bass in a Béarnaise sauce was going to compensate for professional disaster.

Clearing his throat, Ed mentioned Dirk Trevelyan, an older client who had minted gold on Wall Street. Was he going to suggest Trevelyan might have something for me when I left my current job? Why had he asked me how long I'd been at the firm? It was a question to which he already knew the answer.

“His current wife is a talented artist apparently.
Quite
a talented artist.” It was difficult to discern why Ed repeated the phrase, repetition not being a rhetorical device he favored. “You've done the drafting and the amendments for Trevelyan's will so you know that his art collection is positively extraordinary, the Utrillo, the Brancusi, and that little Kandinsky he's got.”

I told him that we had arranged for a professional photographer to take pictures of each piece for the purpose of cataloguing the estate. It was important that he know just how on top of my game I was.

“Well, the second Mrs. Trevelyan found it all very inspirational. Trevelyan keeps her on a short leash financially and the lady has expensive tastes that apparently led her to borrow money from some unsavory characters. She was in for over seven figures when she decided to pay them off with Dirk's Kandinsky.”

Ed sliced a piece of tuna, put it in his mouth, and chewed mechanically. It was as if the story had made his appetite vanish. Seeing him eating reminded me there was food on my plate and I took a bite of the sea bass.

“She gave it to them?”

“And the old man has no idea. Because . . . you're not going to believe this . . . she painted a copy and that's what's on the bedroom wall.”

The enormity of the betrayal sat there, neither of us saying anything. Ed took another bite of his tuna, then absently picked up my Mark Cross pen and tapped the table a couple of times before wrapping both of his hands around it and squeezing.

“How did you find out?”

“Mrs. Trevelyan came to see me. Jeremy, this is sticky. Do you know what that little Kandinsky is worth?”

“I think we had it valued around five million.”

“In all my experience, imagine . . .” He shook his head, whether with respect for Mrs. Trevelyan's skills or consternation at her husband's position, it was hard to tell.

“Where is she now?”

“Mrs. Trevelyan flew to Bora Bora this morning. She didn't want to be around for the fireworks.”

“What are you going to tell him?”

The waiter stopped by to refill our water glasses and ask how we liked the food. Ed told him everything was perfect and turned his attention back to me.

“By the way, the partnership committee is meeting later this summer. You're aware we don't consider associates for partnerships until they're in their seventh year at the firm, but because of the job you've done and the nature of your clients your name is in the hopper.”

“Really?” I said, stupidly.

“Your work has been exemplary. No promises, though. But if you don't get it this go-round, right now I'm not telling tales out of school when I say your future at T.S.&S. is bright.”

“I'm remarkably glad to hear that.”

“One thing to be aware of, Kevin Pratt has a year of seniority on you. He's an excellent attorney and Trusts and Estates can't absorb two new partners.” This was the Raptor on full display—dangle a reward, snatch it away. Or not. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking other than he enjoyed befuddling the associates. “It may just be a numbers game.”

“So, Trevelyan. What are you going to tell him?”

“I'm not going to tell him anything, Jeremy,” he said, going in for the kill. “This is your chance to shine.”

A day after the lunch with Ed my memory of our encounter commingled with images of his droll daughter and the perplexing question of why the Bartok Duo had brought me to tears. Was it the crippling beauty of the music? Fear that the swelling I'd discovered indicated cancer when it was probably just a swollen gland? The answer remained obscure but the desolation I experienced felt bottomless. This is why a person learns to compartmentalize. I was on my way to see Dirk Trevelyan and needed to focus.

It had rained again since I had returned to the office from my afternoon stroll in the park and great puddles massed in the gutters. I delicately stepped over one, taking care not to get my wingtips wet, and slid into the backseat of the waiting town car just before the clouds opened again and rain battered the windshield. The Jamaican driver greeted me in a mellifluous baritone. A peaked chauffeur's cap crowned his short dreadlocks. He introduced himself as Joseph and his serene aspect guaranteed me a quiet hour in which I could work. When he eased the car into traffic I opened my briefcase.

We hadn't driven half a block when I looked out the window and through a curtain of rain spotted a soaked Spaulding marooned under the awning of a boutique. I told Joseph to stop. At the curb, I rolled down the window.

“Would you like a ride?”

Spaulding brightened when she saw me and with her sweater over her head like a cowl ran to the car. I swung the door open and she slid in, raindrops coursing down her face, the lenses of her glasses dripping.

“It's as if the sky was pregnant and her water burst,” she said.

“That's disgusting,” I said. She laughed. “Where are you going?”

The moisture must have released the molecules in the residue of her shampoo or the soap she had used that morning and caused them to effervesce because a lovely natural scent now misted the backseat. In the office I thought I'd sensed pine and ginger. Now what? Orange peel? Cinnamon? I had no time to waste on this—
Orange peel? Cinnamon? Get a grip, Jeremy
. Her hair was damp. She took her glasses off and brushed it out of her luminous eyes.

“Would you mind untucking your shirttail? I need to dry my glasses and I'm kind of wet.”

This was not the kind of request made of a person one barely knew. The driver's dark eyes regarded me from the rearview mirror. Was he amused? Did he know this girl was the managing partner's daughter? I was never someone who treated anyone working for me as if they were invisible and while Spaulding's request would have unnerved me were we alone, Joseph's presence heightened my discomfort. But it did not heighten it enough to stop me from removing my shirttail from my pants. Spaulding took it and dried her glasses, polished the lenses, held them up to inspect, then rubbed them once more, her tapered fingers mere inches from my lap. It was an intimate act and while it occurred I realized I wasn't breathing. When she finished I tucked my shirt back in and inhaled. Her bouquet filled my nostrils. She arranged the glasses on her face and thanked me. I composed myself, cleared my throat.

“So, Spaulding
. . .
”

“Yes, Mr. Best?” A spray of mischief in her eyes.

“Where are you going?”

“Where are
you
going?” When I told her I was off to see a client in Westchester she asked if she could come. “I don't have to be anywhere and I really don't want to hang around my mom's apartment.”

The late spring rain veiled the sidewalks, the store windows, the buildings, turning them into a shifting wash of slate gray. The windshield wipers beat a rough cadence. I needed to get myself in the right state of mind to tell the client what was going on with his wife and didn't want to be stressed. Equa­nimity was my stock in trade, the quality my clients expected. This girl was distracting.

“Where does your mother live?”

“Can't I go to Westchester with you?”

Unlike the moment when Spaulding appeared at my office door, when I could have said I was too busy to talk, now that she was seated next to me in an air-conditioned town car hydroplaning uptown in a downpour, asking her to leave felt cloddish. What harm could come from a ride to the country? At a red light, a man and a woman huddled under a large black umbrella swam in front of us. It was a monsoon out there. I couldn't drop Spaulding off on a corner. She settled into the seat. The light turned green.

“I'll be good,” she said.

Our passage through a puddle at the intersection of 72nd and 3rd sent a sheet of water sailing into the air like a celebration. I took out a folder containing Dirk Trevelyan's last will and testament, flipped to the paragraphs pertaining to his current wife, and began to make notes. Spaulding produced a Moleskine notebook and a pen from her purse, glanced at me, and started to draw.

As we rode north on the FDR Drive, Spaulding looked up and asked, “What do you think of my father?” The kind of question that can only lead to a bland answer. Ed Simonson could be tough, profane, avuncular, frightening, and solicitous, occasionally within seconds. But delving into any of these complexities with his daughter would serve no purpose.

“He's a terrific lawyer,” I said. “We don't socialize, but I like him.”

She turned her attention back to her notebook, scratched a new line. My unwillingness to engage on this subject did not seem to bother her. “He'd like me to follow in his footsteps.”

“That's what my father wanted. He was an attorney, too.”

“A big shot Manhattan lawyer?”

“Andy Warhol did his portrait.”

“Get out! Did you get along?”

It had been a long time since I had spoken to anyone about my father. Maybe I needed to be distracted from health worries, or from trepidation about my assignment. Whatever it was I didn't shut the conversation down.

“My father left my mother when I was ten. He wasn't a traditional parent, the kind who took a child to ball games or the movies. He wasn't a traditional lawyer either. Back in the eighties if you were the kind of artist or designer successful enough to be allowed in the VIP room of a trendy nightclub and forward thinking enough to have a will, chances are Philip Best wrote it. He was a regular in the social columns, went to all the big art openings, the best parties. If it was the kind of thing you couldn't take a kid to, he loved it.”

Joseph eased the car over the Willis Avenue Bridge. Spauld­ing looked at me, waiting. It was hard to know whether it was the open way she listened or my repressed need to talk about this, but I plowed on.

“His life was fabulous until this famous artist he worked with died. My father was the guy's executor. The paintings in the estate were worth millions and the heirs accused him of shady dealing. It turned into a big mess, there were lawsuits and he nearly got disbarred.”

Spaulding closed her notebook and touched my sleeve. “Oh god, that's awful.”

“Then he introduced me to Tim.”

“Your dad was gay?”

“If you're asking me if Tim was a woman, the answer is no.”

“Poor mom.”

“She would definitely have agreed with you. I remember asking if I was supposed to call Tim ‘Uncle Tim' but my father said, no, I could just call him Tim. He had zero idea I was being sarcastic.”