Surface (19 page)

“Dad says he’s bringing the plane. So that’s . . . cool. I guess.”

Claire thought of Michael’s obsession with details, his thrill and expertise at closing a deal. And she hoped that he would keep things together just as perfectly when he walked their son out of those hospital doors forever. “I love you, Nicky.”

C
HAPTER
24

A
s she counted down the days to Nick’s return, Claire devoted her time to meeting with the doctors and therapists at Craig and getting all the paperwork handled. She discussed with the new social worker her concern about the times when she would not be at the house with Nick to monitor all the issues that had been handled while he was at Rancho, and got a referral for a retired behavioral therapist who might help them out. He could augment the work they’d do at Craig, while keeping a trained eye on Nick at the house. It was overkill, and Claire knew Nick wouldn’t be thrilled, but until she was confident that he was comfortably readjusted to living at home again, she was more than prepared to risk overkill. On this topic, Michael concurred. By text.

She filled her remaining hours setting up the apartment and making it feel homey enough. Not wishing to get distracted (depressed, deflated) by all that her real home represented, she hadn’t returned. Removing anything from there and bringing it back with her would only make the temporary seem more permanent, she rationalized. She also didn’t trust her ability to be dispassionate enough to walk into her closet for some extra shoes and not stay. So she pledged to keep her needs basic—which wasn’t so hard. The requisite lightening of her load over the past months had actually felt liberating. And until she was certain how the situation with Michael would eventually play out, she wanted to be careful to maintain her checking account balance at a comfortable level. While she was grateful for the lump sum that continued to arrive there each month from Michael—they’d never shared a joint account, a Montgomery family tradition dating back to the Pilgrims, she was certain—said lump didn’t quite compare to its pre-Andrew heft. But considering everything, she was hardly ready to discuss money with a husband who might, as Cora suggested, really miss her full presence at the house when Nicky got home, and might actually grow to miss
her
. The idea of contacting a lawyer had crossed her mind, but she worried more about what kind of message that would send if he were to find out. Besides, there would be plenty of time for lawyers later, if the
merde
really hit.

After a long morning of errands as Claire headed back toward the apartment, an unexpected splash of red caught her eye on Sixth Avenue. She slowed to take in the bright new awnings and window bays that had popped up at Lillian’s shop. The consignment business, she noted, must be doing well. Given the state of the economy, it ought to have been. And Claire thought of the countless times she’d been in the little boutique over the years. Lillian’s was an elegant and discreet business. Her old friend took only the finest designer clothing on consignment and paid her clients fifteen percent of the original purchase price on their previous season’s Chanels, Armanis, and the like. Claire had been making quarterly trips there since Nick was born, providing a healthy pipeline of luncheon suits and evening couture as she thinned her closets for newer purchases. She and her friends never bought there, but they quietly reaped the fifteen percent reward for their fine taste.

Tired of the silence that seemed to have shrouded her world, Claire was tempted to stop in to say hello. Like a trusted hairstylist, Lillian knew all the little dramas of her clients—the vacation sagas, the romantic highs and woes, the divorces. But unlike some of the stylists Claire had dealt with, Lillian always put a positive spin on things, always had a kind word. It might be a good place, she thought, to stick her toes back in the water of her old life and test the temperature.

“Dah-rrling, is that you?” Lillian purred in her Hungarian accent, rushing over to Claire from behind a rack of evening gowns. “How wonderful to see you. When did you come?” As always she concealed her large frame in a simple black suit, and her eyeglasses dangled from the gold-and-pearl chain around her neck. She spoke with the measured dignity of one trying to conceal the remoteness of her origins.

“Just this week. You hadn’t heard I’ve moved back?” Claire asked casually.

“No, no.” Claire watched as Lillian looked her over for signs of something. Wear, perhaps. “Everyone was in with their collections at the beginning of the month, but it’s been quiet now.”

“I just thought I’d drop in to say hello.”

“I’m glad you did. It’s been too long.” She wrapped her arm around Claire’s shoulder and led her to the sofa where they used to share tea after their business was done. “And your Nicholas, how is he doing?”

Although she expected the question, facing her old friend under the shadow of tragedy was harder than she’d expected. She sank back and willed her eyes to stay dry. When they didn’t cooperate, Claire dabbed at them with her knuckle and looked sheepishly through the hair that had fallen over her face. “I’m sorry. We’re all doing much better. And Nicholas will be home soon.”

“Oh, my dear.” Lillian pulled a linen handkerchief from her pocket and placed it in Claire’s lap. “You take this and I’ll get us some tea.” She let her hand linger gently on Claire’s leg as she stared into her face with her dark, sympathetic eyes. Then she stood and walked to the back room of the shop, the swish of her slip and hose beneath her skirt the only sound Claire could hear. Moments later she returned with two porcelain cups, steaming and frothy with milk. They sipped in silence.

“Ah,” Lillian said, suddenly placing her cup on the table, then clapping her hands, “I have something you will adore.” She gave Claire a sidelong smile. From one of the small racks by the mirror, she removed a suit and held it out for inspection. “Yes,” she said to the hanger.

Claire looked at it with curiosity. It was a lightweight cobalt blue wool Chanel with the signature double-C buttons and a satin camellia brooch.

“Come.” Lillian motioned for Claire.

“It’s exquisite,” Claire said as she approached the mirror, still uncertain what Lillian wanted from her.

“This came in while I was on vacation. I just noticed it this morning.” She held it up in front of Claire. “The color brings out the green in your eyes.”

“But Lillian, I don’t—”

“Shh. Try it. I want to see it on someone, and it’s your size.” She slipped the jacket off the hanger and guided Claire into the dressing room, handing her the garments. “I’m waiting outside,” she said as she closed the slatted door behind Claire.

Claire looked around, bemused and equally embarrassed at the thought of trying on someone else’s clothing. She pushed open the door and stepped back out, voicing her apologies, but Lillian would have none of her noncompliance.

“Just for fun, my dear. No one’s here.”

So Claire did the only polite thing she could and a moment later walked out, zipping the skirt and feeling as if she’d been thrust lampless into an unexpected fog.

“What did I tell you, my dear? It’s divine, no?”

She fussed with the jacket hem and tugged at the waist of the skirt in front of the three-way mirror, despite the flawless fit. It was lovely, she had to admit. But maybe it just seemed so lovely in contrast to her functionally drab uniform since the accident, or because it accentuated the slim sway of her hips and rounded her out, instead of hanging lifelessly on her as most of her clothes now did. She’d given so little thought to clothing and appearance since the accident, and the shock of
seeing
herself again filled her with an odd wistfulness.

She removed the flower brooch from the lapel and placed it on a pocket, then arched her shoulders back and stood high on her stockinged toes, unsure what else to do. “Well, that was fun,” she said, flat-footed again, “but I really need to be going, Lillian.” Claire laughed awkwardly and started for the fitting room, but Lillian handed her a pair of high satin heels.

“Now try.”

Claire glanced around the empty store, only to be met with Lillian’s persistent eyebrows. She stepped into the shoes, and when she looked in the mirror she was surprised to see not exactly her old self, but a refreshed version of her new self. The lifelessness had gone from her demeanor. She felt almost . . . good.

“My dear, sometimes it just takes the most surprising little something.” Lillian beamed behind her.

“Oh, Lillian. I’m not shopping. I just came to say hello.” She hurried back into the dressing room and as she started to unbutton the jacket, Claire caught her reflection again and hesitated. She fluffed her hair, checking herself from the side. When she took the jacket off, the price tag dangled in front of her, revealing the amazing discount of “gently worn.”

“It will be good for you,” came the husky voice from behind the door. “A little pick-me-up, my dear. Trust me.”

Claire pulled on her sweater thinking that Lillian, in all her good grace and tact, could sell a ball gown to a plumber. She carried the suit to the front of the store and draped it on the counter. She ran her fingers over the fabric, shaking her head, still feeling the awkwardness of the whole situation. “It was lovely to see you, Lillian,” she said as she pulled her car keys from her purse. “Thank you for the little diversion.”

Lillian snatched up the suit, placed it in a hanging bag and put the bag in Claire’s free hand as she was walking out the door. “You can pay later, after you get settled.”

 

Pulling into the driveway with her recycled couture and a hatchback full of household supplies and groceries, Claire ran through a list of other tasks for the week: the “I’m back” phone calls Lillian had encouraged her to make, an appointment with her own doctors, a haircut and color. And only when she reached for the phantom garage door opener again did she realize her navigational blunder. She stared out at the impenetrable garage doors and dark windows of her house, and put the car in park. The goddamned route was imprinted. She hit the steering wheel with both hands. The horn blared and the reality of her refugee status hit with blunt force. She rested her forehead on the wheel and tried to remind herself that home was where she made it.

After a few deep breaths, she glanced back up at the house and thought she saw movement in one of the upstairs windows. She stepped out of the car and watched the draperies being drawn shut. Maria had Thursdays off, Michael had gone to LA, and someone was in the house. Watching her. Claire turned off the ignition and walked to the front door. She rang the doorbell and waited, not having the faintest idea what she planned to do if someone answered. But no one came. She rang again and knocked loudly, growing uneasy with the whole situation. She peered through the foyer window and pounded on the glass, questioning whether she had just imagined the motion. Then she remembered her house keys in her purse.

Claire went back to the car and fished them from the zippered pocket they’d lived in since she’d been gone, and returned to the front door. She inserted the key into the lock. One way or another she would get an answer. The lock didn’t move, wouldn’t turn left or right. She tried another key while holding down the doorbell. Still the lock refused. She banged on the door with the heels of her palms. Finally, the door opened. A sturdy woman in a gray maid’s uniform stood on the other side of the threshold.

“Who are you?” Claire demanded, stunned at the sight of this stranger in her house.

“Mrs. Montgomery?”

“Yes, I’m Mrs. Montgomery. But who are you, and where is Maria?”

“I am Mr. Montgomery’s housekeeper.”

Mr. Montgomery’s housekeeper?
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Berna.”

“Well, Berna, I was clearly having difficulty getting in. What’s happened with the doors?”

“I couldn’t say, Mrs. Montgomery, but I’m afraid—”

Claire pushed the door and attempted to step in, but Berna had it blocked with her body. “I’d like to come in and get some of my clothing upstairs, if you don’t mind.” She didn’t have room for much more clothing in the apartment’s small closet, never mind her earlier pledge. But suddenly that forsaken apparel seemed vital. It was vital she get into her house. Her eyes wandered over Berna’s taut gray bun.

“Mr. Montgomery has instructed me not to allow anyone into the house while he is away.”

“What are you talking about? This is my house, too, and my things are inside.”

“I apologize for the confusion, Mrs. Montgomery. I’ll let Mr. Montgomery know you came.” Berna closed the door before Claire had the presence of mind to stick her foot in. The deadbolt clicked with a swift and final lock.

“You can’t do this,” Claire shouted. She raised her palm to pound at the door again, but her arm froze midair. A sharp pain ricocheted behind her eyes. Dumbfounded, she turned and ran to the car.

As she swerved out of the driveway, the wheels of the Jeep spewed fierce contrails of gravel.

C
HAPTER
25

C
alm down before reaming him. Don’t do anything rash. Clean something.
Claire repeated Jackie’s telephone advice as she carted her bags into the apartment and unpacked them. She looked around the kitchen, still fuming. There were drawers to be lined, counters to scrub, and a hundred other mindless tasks to check off her list. But, Oh. My. God. Was this for real? She shoved her hands into the yellow rubber dish gloves she’d bought and wiped down the sink. Then she uncorked her only bottle of wine and poured a hefty glass. The apartment felt stuffy and the pungent aroma of Indian food floated somewhere outside the door.

Dazed, Claire picked up the cocktail suit and walked it to the closet, hooking it on the upper rack. Errant flecks of dust floated down onto its sleeve.
What the hell am I doing with this,
she wondered, rebuking herself, the suit, Lillian, the whole goddamned ridiculous scenario. She didn’t need someone else’s things. She just needed her own. Unable to fathom this latest turn of events, Claire speculated what other madness might be going on inside her house. Had Michael moved her clothing and personal effects to the off-season closet so as not to be reminded of her? Was that it? Or more likely he’d donated them to the Eastern European training camp where Berna had clearly honed her domestic skills. “This is so not right,” Jackie had admonished. The thought plagued her as she lay down on the bed and sipped at her cabernet, her glove squeaking against the sides of the juice glass. She wondered at her husband’s motives, and what else he might be doing in his efforts to discard what no longer seemed to fit in his world, before grabbing the telephone.

“Michael, who is this Berna woman, and WHY THE HELL HAVE YOU LOCKED ME OUT OF THE HOUSE?”

“Whoa, Claire. I understand that you wanted to get some clothes from—”

“Answer my question, Michael.” Her hands had begun to sweat inside the gloves.

“I had to let Maria go. Scheduling issues. But I gave her and Rigo a handsome severance.”

“How could you? They worked for us for almost ten years.”

“And now they’re happily retired. Taking a well-deserved vacation in Miami, I think.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It just happened last week. Frankly I’ve had more important issues to—”

“Like locking me out?”

“No. There were too many old keys floating around, and there’ve been some break-ins in the neighborhood. The Lawrences got cleaned out. But I’m sorry about the confusion.”

She yanked at the pinky of the left glove, pulling and twisting the tip. “So this is how it’s going to be?” This was not at all how it was supposed to be.

“You can get anything you need when I get back. Berna has left for the week, so you’ll just have to wait until Nicky and I get home. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this. This was just a . . . a temporary . . . I don’t know what it was. I thought we could at least—”

“We discussed all of this in LA. We’ll formalize a schedule for you to be with Nicholas at the house, and for my time with him.
Separately
. I thought you understood that.”

She struggled to bring into focus the dreamlike quality of the last hour. Her pulse raced and saliva pooled in her mouth. What a colossal fool she’d been cleaving to Cora’s pipe dreams, and her own. It had been yet another titanic miscalculation, in a long line of them. And as she weighed the consequences of saying the words she’d promised herself she wouldn’t for the sake of the future, she took a deep breath. “Maybe I better talk to a lawyer.”

There was a loud scoff as Michael responded, his voice stripped of calm. “So you really want to throw down the gauntlet? After everything that’s happened?”

“Throw down the gauntlet? You’re the one locking me out of our house. And you’re telling me I shouldn’t see a lawyer?”

“I’m telling you that we should keep things—” He paused, renegotiating. “Friendly. For Nick’s sake.”

“I’m hardly the one making things unfriendly here, Michael. I’ve been trying to salvage what I thought was left of our marriage. For everyone’s sake. And by the way, we
are
still married and that’s still
my
house too. So if you can—”

“You’re right,” he said, preempting further tirade. “But this isn’t the time, Claire. Not on the telephone.” His voice had curiously lost its threatening edge. “I hear you, though. And we’ll deal with the situation when—”

“The situation? Our life isn’t a
situation
.” She pulled off the gloves, tossed them onto the floor.

“Look, we’ll work it all out when I get back. I don’t think there’s any need to get a bunch of lawyers involved at this point. The episode with Berna was just an unfortunate . . . mistake. She was overzealous. And I’m sorry. Really. Let’s get Nick settled, and then we’ll figure out how to go forward.”

Claire couldn’t tell whether his contrition was bogus or sincere, but she did have the sudden realization that after a certain point the ambient heat in your world becomes cozy, so soothing you don’t even notice the wallpaper peeling. She hung up the phone, utterly numb, and more uncertain than ever about the future. Was Jackie right in wondering whether this was more than just an unfortunate miscommunication? From her balcony Claire could see Washington Park and the jogging trails she hadn’t stepped foot on for six months. She took off her clothes and changed into running shoes and tights. False hope, she noted, was terribly suffocating. She could wait a little longer to talk to a lawyer in order to keep Michael happy and amicable while she contemplated her options. But there was no point in making too many adjustments to this newest version of normal.

Outside, the air was crisp and the bruised sky prepared for dusk. She stretched her legs, ready to run fast and hard, away from the
merde.