Surface (20 page)

C
HAPTER
26

I
n this foreign world of separation—permanent, reversible, or whatever it was to be—friends would be crucial, Claire knew. She would need the support and allies. Problem was, she had done such a bang-up job of keeping everyone at bay after the accident. And this, combined with her early focus shift from the art world to the art of cultivating a home—along with her devotion to Nicholas, her thirty-, then sixty-, and then one-hundred-fifty-pound object of attention—had served to consign most women with the exception of Jackie and just a few close girlfriends to the periphery of her life. She had been a well-respected organizer for important causes, a steadfast and generous member of the community, but not a collector of acquaintances. And this new loneliness would only grow. She knew that, too.

So Claire sat down to the task of reconnecting with those she’d let fall away. Her self-imposed isolation may have been efficacious, but she was not cut out to be a recluse forever. What Richard was able to supply in those final days in Los Angeles had reawakened her openness to fellowship. Now it was just a matter of conjuring the courage to step up and trust that people had short memories and big hearts.

Carolyn Spencer was at the top of her list. She’d called Claire persistently after the accident, and had briefly visited with her at the hospital during that first week, but like all the others, Carolyn’s unreturned messages of concern grew sparser. Claire hoped she hadn’t thought her evasiveness unforgivable. More likely it was Robert who’d find fault with her voyage underground, given his long history with Michael dating back to their Andover days. But she and Carolyn had their own history, too, as mothers and girlfriends and philanthropists. And Carolyn was an arbiter of sorts, the Katharine Graham of that well-heeled Denver circle. Kay Graham with a cocktail or three.

As Claire dialed the number, she felt a pinch of apprehension. What if Michael already had managed to freeze her out with her old friend? What if he’d gone beyond talking to locksmiths? She really had no idea now what he was thinking or capable of doing.

A maid answered swiftly.

“Is Carolyn in? This is Claire Montgomery.”

“Just one moment please, Mrs. Montgomery. I’ll see if she is available.”

Claire waited as the seconds ticked away, the silence gnawing at her confidence. She twisted a strand of hair around her index finger and wondered what kind of excuse she’d be met with.

The voice returned to the line. “Mrs. Spencer asked if you would leave a number where you can be reached.”

With a sinking feeling that Carolyn would not call back, Claire left her number and wondered if resurrecting her old life might require a little more heavy lifting than she’d anticipated. She thought of telephoning Richard for a boost of confidence, but the idea of recounting the latest Michael development was less than inspirational. Not that he’d say
I told you so.
But still. She decided to unpack the last bag she’d left sitting in the living room since her arrival, rather than continuing with any more phone calls.

She took two framed photos of Nicholas from the small carry-on, along with the collection of Edna St. Vincent Millay poetry he had sent for her last birthday, barely a month before the accident. She eyed the inscription inside the dust jacket:
Happy B-day, Mom May 15 Love ya, XO Nick.
Even in his absence Nicholas was present. And there were moments, just like this, when the thought of her faraway boy sent her imagination into a flurry of smashing dishes and shattering glasses—and the reassuring noise that such a hurling fit might bring.

As Claire walked toward the kitchen and its supply of breakables, her phone rang.

“Claire, hello, it’s Carolyn. How
are
you, sweetie? I’m so happy you called.”

A wave of gratitude roused her as she gathered her thoughts. “Well, I, um, I’ve just moved back to town. How are you?” She closed the cabinet, feeling as if some unknown anesthesia was beginning to wear off.

“Same as always. Busy as Brangelina and planning a dinner party for forty in between. You know, I left you about a hundred messages after we last spoke and . . .” There was a long pause in which Claire imagined all that her old pal was leaving unsaid.

“I know, and I’m so sorry I didn’t—”

“Oh, please don’t apologize. You must have needed an assistant to handle all the calls. But I’m so glad to hear your voice. How are you coping, honey?”

“It’s been . . . bottomless, and so very scary. But things will be better when Nicky gets back this weekend. I hope.” She was beginning to panic that things really might not be better, and she desperately didn’t want to give in to that anxiety. “Maybe we could meet for lunch before then and catch up?”

“I’m so relieved to hear how well Nicky’s doing and that he’s coming home. Robert’s been getting updates from Michael. And you know I’d
love
to see you for lunch, but I’m busy with the Malawi benefit and the Heart Ball, and I’ve got houseguests in from New York over the next week.”

“I understand.” Wondering what kind of updates Carolyn had really gotten, and wondering if she was politely fudging her way out of anything more than a phone call, Claire tried to keep her tone positive. “Why don’t you just give me a call when you have some free time, then?”

“We’ll never see each other in that case. Hold on for a sec, would you? . . . a bone-dry, nonfat . . . extra hot . . . You know, Claire, I’m having this little party tonight.... Be a dear . . . two pumps . . . sugar-free vanilla? Why don’t you come?”

“Are you talking to me?”

“Yes. Sorry. Trouble with my earpiece. But you really should come to the party.”

“Tonight?” Claire felt her throat tighten. “I’m not really in the right space for a party at the moment. And I’m sure you’ve planned everything down to the last detail.”

“Don’t worry about a thing. It’ll be good for you, Claire.”

“I don’t think that’s the best idea right now. You know, everyone all at once, after—” Claire found herself in the bathroom and she sat down on the cover of the toilet seat. “I appreciate the invitation, but I really can’t.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You have to come. I haven’t seen you in five months.”

“Almost six, actually.”

“That long? Oh, good lord, then, it’s settled. I’ll see you around seven o’clock. Cocktail attire. God, did I say that out loud? I’m such a twit. You always look gorgeous. And I miss you.”

Just then Claire’s call waiting beeped and she saw that it was Michael. “Carolyn,” she said, relieved by the interruption, “Michael’s calling from LA. Can we chat tomorrow?”

“Or tonight, sweetie. Your choice. Either way, I’m
thrilled
you’re home.”

Claire hung up one call and answered the other.

“Listen, there’s been a slight change in plans,” came Michael’s harried voice on the other end of a choppy connection.

“What are you talking about?”

“The guys were doing routine maintenance on the plane before the return flight. Turns out they need to replace the windshield, of all damned things. And they can’t get one in until Monday morning.”

“But you’re supposed to be home this weekend. That’s all Nicky’s been talking about.” No point in mentioning that it was all she’d been looking forward to. “I’ve arranged his first appointments at Craig for Monday morning, and we’ve got our meeting with Ray, the behavioral therapist.”
And this sounds like some kind of bullshit excuse.

“So we should get on a plane that needs a new windshield?” he asked indignantly. “We’ll be home Monday afternoon. And Nick, he’s . . . he’s fine with it. The appointments can wait a day, for God’s sake.”

Her posture stiffened, the armor of her mistrust galvanized. “This isn’t just another client lunch you’re trying to squeeze in, or a round of golf with Teddy at Riviera?” She rarely balked at the inevitable excuses for meetings tacked on to their vacations, or last-minute side trips. But not this time, not when she was dealing with multiple practitioners and a byzantine web of scheduling. And missing her son.

“The new windshield is ordered, Claire. But I
am
meeting with the Manhattan Beach fund group, for your information, not playing golf. The real estate market isn’t exactly performing, in case you haven’t noticed, and I’ve got fires to put out. Someone has to pay these insane medical bills. We blew through the insurance allowance months ago.”

Michael’s continued exasperation over finances surprised Claire, and she scrambled for a retort, something that could magically change the circumstances. But nothing emerged. He was clearly in salvage mode and stressed about a deal. There would be no rerouting him. She exhaled audibly. “Then I guess that’s that, and I’ll see you both at the house Monday afternoon.”

“Where you’ll be graciously let in,” he added before clicking off.

Claire wandered around the small apartment looking for an outlet for her frustration. She went back to emptying the contents of the carry-on bag. Which took another full three minutes. After putting the bag away, she stood in the living-dining area and turned clockwise in a slow circle, looking for something else that needed doing. But there was nothing. Impulsively, she texted Carolyn.

She placed the phone on the counter and pinched her lips between her fingers, squeezing and releasing them. Several minutes later it rang again, and Claire slid slow-motion into the dining chair. “Hello, Mother.”

“Why on earth didn’t you tell me you were already in Denver? I just got off the phone with Jackie and she told me you’re having dinner together on Saturday night. She assumed I knew you were back.”

“It was a last-minute decision. But I was going to call just as soon as I finished unpacking.”

“When will Nicholas be home?”

“Monday. Afternoon.”

“That’s just wonderful, dear. Everything is going to start falling back into place when the three of you are together again. You’ll”—
cough
—“see”—
cough
—“dear.”

No, you’ll see, Mother.
“Right.”

“Now, why aren’t you going to Jackie’s tonight? You shouldn’t be alone in that apartment.”

“I won’t be.” The response slipped out before she even realized.

“You have plans?” Cora asked, a deep note of skepticism in her voice.

“Yes, I actually have plans.” It dawned on Claire that this really was an unlikely turn of events, given the recent state of her social life. “There’s a party this evening.”

“You’re going to a party?”

“Carolyn Spencer is having a small cocktail party.”

“That’s wonderful!” Claire heard the long sucking on a Kool Lite. “This will be so good for you, finally getting back into your life and friends, dear. It’s just what you need.”

“I wasn’t going to go, but . . . I don’t know. I hope it won’t be a disaster.”

“What are you talking about? This woman invites you to a party. That
means
something. You are still a beautiful, elegant, and intelligent person, and everyone deserves a second chance. I told you, this is all coming back together for you.”

“But—” Claire held her breath, feeling the ache of having believed in all of Cora’s maneuverings and rationalizing. The ache inflated like a gas bubble and she stood, hoping to release the blockage. “Michael had me locked out of the house—intentionally or by mistake, I can’t be sure—but the point is, we aren’t exactly coasting toward the reconciliation I had been hoping for. In fact, it looks like we’re heading in the opposite direction.” She gave Cora the abridged version of her run-in with Berna, Michael’s telephone tirade and the mystifying sense of decisiveness to his words, and her own mounting sense that he might have been resigned to this direction for some time. And after it was out there—the truth, exposed in all its pathetic awfulness—Claire waited for some expression of shock and outrage at her “surrender,” waited for Cora to ask why she didn’t sound more devastated by this news. But nothing came. No outburst. Not even a cough. She felt the pressure under her ribs begin to ease like cured indigestion. In the twisted world where she now lived, she felt almost happy that Cora was finally seeing the situation for what it was. An irreparable disaster. And that not repairing things might be—she was still trying to wrap her mind and heart around this—the best course.

“Mother, are you still there?”

“Yes, Claire, I’m here. I’m just trying to come up with the right approach to this. I have to say I’m a little thrown.”

“How about no approach, Mother? How about, ‘Gee, Claire, I’m so sorry for what you’re going through’? How about just being a mother and not a strategist for once in my life?”

“Of course I’m sorry, dear. You know I only want what’s best for you and Nicky.” The tenor of her voice hinted at remorse, but mostly it sounded smoke-stained and anxious as ever to bandage things up. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I need to go now, Mother.”

“Wait, dear. Maybe you better rethink this party tonight. It might not be such a great idea after all.”

“Oh, this just keeps getting better.”

“Honey, given what you’ve told me, maybe you should wait to go out socially. I don’t want this to be an unnecessary debacle for you. That’s all I’m saying.”

“What happened to all the respect I was going to win by going in there with my head high?”

“Yes, but—”

“Listen, my friend invited me to a party. I haven’t been in the company of friends for months, and it’s pretty clear I’m going to need some other people to lean on.” It felt like someone had switched on a jackhammer inside her chest, and it suddenly dawned on Claire why her father had dropped dead of a heart attack at fifty-nine. “You know, Mother, I’ve religiously followed your advice and believed in your harebrained fantasies about my life since I was a little girl. But I have, as of this moment, officially lost my religion.”