Surface (34 page)

Claire raised her head, waiting for the next blow.

“It looks like Michael fought any further investment. But, really, he couldn’t afford
not
to fund Wincor, given that it had been his baby all along, and given the likelihood of a windfall—which he desperately needs—with its sale.” Richard showed Claire the relevant legal messages from the attorney on the deal, which only made her feel more nauseous.

“God, it’s like once I started pulling the thread of his secrets, the whole sweater came undone,” she said in a parched voice.

He handed her his water bottle and gently brushed a piece of towel fuzz from her nose. “The grammar lapses alone on some of his e-mails are grounds for divorce.”

She laughed a little and rested her head on his shoulders, the scent of his cologne reminding her of licorice. “Okay, you may as well hit me with the rest. What does this dark side amount to?”

“Well, it was a perfect storm of crappy markets and unfortunate timing. And without much liquidity from what I can see, he had to go somewhere for a quick five mil plus.”

“The pension?”

“Yep.
And
your house.”

“What?” Her body stiffened. “I saw a loan from Wells Fargo for two million—”

“Yeah. He mortgaged most of your house for that, Smitty. And what’s troubling—apart from the pension improprieties—is how he could manage that without you signing any loan documents.”

Silently Claire added up her own mistakes against Michael’s and cursed her inexperience. “He paid cash for it all those years ago, and he probably put the house in his name,” she said, feeling doubly foolish. “I never thought to ask to see a
deed
.”

Richard consoled her with the benefits of community property law, which only worsened her mood. Not wishing to be tied to any part of a two-million-dollar mortgage, and exasperated by the financial morass Michael had sucked them both into, Claire asked him for some good news.

He nodded halfheartedly. “It looks like the Wincor buyer is still anxious to close the deal. But the patent timing is unpredictable at best.” Richard’s cell phone vibrated with an incoming text, which he paused to read. He looked back up. “Bad news is that the assistant at Janus who liquidated the pension funds and wired them to Michael was, not surprisingly, a newbie. And Ms. Erickson will probably be finding herself in some serious hot water.”

“Nice,” Claire whispered.

“It’s one flimsy scheme, Smitty. I’m sure he’s banking on the Wincor sale so he can return the pension funds before tax season. But it’s ballsy, and unlikely he can put Kessler off much longer on the records from Janus. I don’t know how he plans to pass this off, ’cause it definitely ain’t kosher.”

Claire stood and resumed her pacing. “What the hell do I do now?”

“You’ve got plenty of information to give to your lawyer.”

“But that amounts to turning him in, doesn’t it?”

Richard looked at her, confused. “Well, I can check with my pal Phil who did the piece on the pension raider and see what Michael might be up against if this thing blows.”

“I don’t want it to blow, Richard,” she said, staring at the carpet and chewing on the future. “That’s just it. As much as I hate him right now, I certainly don’t want him to go to jail.” She imagined Michael in a prison-issue orange jumpsuit and felt a brief flash of satisfaction. “Nicky needs a dad. Especially now.”

“Right. I hear that. And frankly, I don’t understand why he’d be pushing for a divorce in the middle of all this. His malfeasance would come out in the discovery process. Unless he’s even slicker than we think.”

“Actually,” she said, “he’s been backpedaling, or at least seems in less of a rush to formalize things legally.
No need to get a bunch of lawyers involved.
Which makes sense now. He’s stalling until he can pay off the debts.”

Richard advised her to go straight to her lawyer with everything and let him make the call. But still shading in her confusion, Claire wanted to know what Michael’s legal issues might be. Richard made the call to his pal at the WSJ. And the news he got was not inspiring: Michael, as trustee for his corporate pension, had the authority to invest the funds as he saw fit, but zero authority to distribute the funds for his personal use. And doing so amounted to embezzlement, which was a federal crime. Phil suggested that paying restitution would be a start, but no guarantee of avoiding prosecution by the Department of Labor. Much would depend on lawyers, reputations, and other intangibles.

Claire understood that to a certain degree, her choices would determine Michael’s fate. If she went to her lawyer with the evidence of his actions, Jack would be obligated to turn the case over to the authorities. But if she went to Michael first, providing him the opportunity to somehow get the cash together and return the funds, and then turn himself in, things might turn out much better for him. For all of them. Still, she fretted about how he would get the cash together in a hurry if he hadn’t been able to already.

“That’s not your problem, Smitty. You’re giving him the chance to fix things. That’s far more generous than he’s been with you,” he said pointedly.

“I know,” she said, fighting the feeling she’d been appointed head of some sinister cabal, and wanting to block the whole mess from her mind. “And I really appreciate everything you’ve done.”

“All in a day’s work,” he declared with a hopeful smile. “Though I much prefer the company here to my usual associates.”

“I’d offer to cook you dinner, but . . .” She walked into the kitchen, wanting really to just disappear on the spot. She opened the refrigerator door to reveal a bachelor’s minimum.

“No worries,” he said, studying the red toes that peeked out from her tailored jeans. “I’ll take my fee in salsa.”

Claire looked from the refrigerator to Richard. “But I don’t have any.”

“Dancing, Smitty. One of my favorite Denver joints has killer steaks and a great salsa band on tonight. And we’re going.”

 

Richard’s haunt on the west side was right out of Cuba, circa Marlon Brando in
Guys and Dolls,
its walls dotted with black-and-white photos of salsa kings and tango queens, and still redolent of a smoky past. Claire slid into the vibe much quicker than she’d imagined, appreciating the steak and Malbec, and the general diversion of eating a proper dinner in a restaurant with another human being. But the specter of her future never lurked too far, so she attempted to focus on Richard’s past.

“We were like Fox News and MSNBC, Judy and I. And the hot-and-cold running squabbles got less entertaining over time,” he told her, sounding jolly and regret-free, and like everything Claire wanted to be. “It was an unnecessarily drawn-out death, and one of us should’ve pulled the plug years ago. But I’m sure I don’t need to point out that your situation’s a little more urgent.”

Claire surreptitiously chewed on a hangnail she had picked loose during the ceviche course. She imagined throwing back a cocktail and dancing herself into a blinding haze, but her back remained firmly glued to the wooden chair, and her hot meter registered a bland two or three at best.

“Listen, after a certain point, you have to accept that there’s really nothing left you can say or do. But if it’s any consolation, you do get to a place of détente with your partner.” Richard ordered a round of mojitos. “And with yourself.”

“I think it’s different for a woman. I’m sure you never worried about starting over at forty-three. Or being a single parent and rebooting a dormant career.”

“Is that why you’ve hung in for so long?”

Claire shrugged. “Maybe. I just wasn’t unhappy enough to get out. Christ,” she said, restating the still strange truth, “I didn’t even know I
was
unhappy. And, yes, it’s all very daunting.”

“Depends how you look at it.” He leaned in over the table with the fiery enthusiasm of the recently transformed. “Instead of living in some kind of netherworld, what about the chance to really squeeze the marrow out of life?”

“I suppose . . .”

“And maybe even test drive some new cars along the way?”

“Are you talking about dating now?”

His expression shifted to a goofy grin.

“The idea of dating is about as appealing as that colonoscopy. Never mind the odds that I’d make a huge mess of it.” She cut a piece of steak, but left it on her plate. “This whole thing has left my soul with a unsettling case of ADD.”

Richard stood and took her hand. “Smitty, your soul’s in need of a little smack. It’s time to go blow off some serious . . . whatever it is you’ve got going on in your head.”

The driving beat of the trombones and timbales combined with Richard’s grip to leave her with little choice. Which made her almost happy. She took a quick gulp of courage with her free hand and followed him toward the dance floor. The two couples already there moved seamlessly through turns and pretzels and sexy body rolls, while Claire did her best not to trip over Richard’s feet. They hadn’t exactly taught merengue in cotillion, but she was grateful for the ingrained lesson of following a lead. She let her hips and shoulders sync to the music and fudged her way through two songs, as promised. When the band broke for beers, she led him back to their table.

“Well, that was fun for a few minutes,” she said, wiping the dampness from her temples and leaning back into the chair. She tapped her feet under the table, feeling the exhilaration of the adrenaline rush begin to recede. “Did I hurt you?”

“Not too badly. Fortunately the shoes are bulletproof.”

“God, I’m sorry. But you can’t say I didn’t warn you. I just had no idea you were such a Renaissance man.”

“I took a few lessons. But you’ve got some moves, too, when you let go.”

Her body prickled for an instant at those haunting words, but she smiled at his very genuine attempt to reengage her in something outside her present reality. “I guess that was just the shot of Cholula I needed. So, muchas gracias, señor.”

They walked out to the parking lot making plans to get together soon, possibly in San Francisco when she visited Cora. Richard spun her to the music that had started up again inside, and they laughed as the starlit night and distant sirens swirled around them. On the downbeat he pulled her body toward him and tilted her chin up.

Claire’s feelings of temporary abandon and pleasure vanished. “No,” she yelped, quickly disengaging. “I don’t want to risk our friendship with some haphazard . . . thing. I’m a wreck right now, and you’re too important to me.”

Richard stared into her eyes for a long moment, reading her with a sad but accepting expression. “Well, that was a very thoughtful delay of game,” he finally said. “And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to complicate things. Rewind?”

As she looked back into the generous sparkle of this man who had given her so much, she thought of the fantasies he’d inspired, and she worked hard to reconjugate their relationship in her mind. But circumstances were circumstances, and she knew that arm’s length really was all she was equipped to handle. She reached her hand across the darkness to him. “As long as we can agree on the rules.”

He paused. “BFFs?”

C
HAPTER
42

W
ith Michael on business in San Diego—scraping the barrel, Claire hoped, for some sort of salvation—Claire and Andi accompanied Nicholas to his first day at East. Nicky pulsed with nervous excitement as they walked into the counseling office at seven a.m., where Mr. Doyle had miraculously assembled the school psychologist, the school nurse, and most of Nick’s new teachers for a brief introduction. Claire’s nerves were more maternal in nature. It was like the first day of preschool, except that she had the bittersweet sense that she was witnessing the last gasps of her son’s youth.

While Andi got everyone up to speed on Nick’s background and laid the groundwork for the academic accommodations and individualized plan he’d need in place, Nick responded to their various questions with dogged thoughtfulness. With his backpack on his shoulders, he entered notes into his phone and appeared battle-ready and confident. And when it came time for him to go to his first class, Claire took her cue to let him find his own way. “I’ve got it, Mom,” he said as they were swallowed into a sea of rushing students outside the office.

 

Claire had made plans to meet Jackie and Carolyn at Gail’s house later that morning for breakfast. She arrived before the others, and while she’d learned to expect the unusual when she visited her pal—be it the chance arrival of a minor Scandinavian royal for tea, or a well-defined male model posing nude in the sunroom for a sketch in charcoal—finding Gail standing in the vestibule, rather than of one the uniformed staff, with a cigarette in her mouth was Claire’s surprise du jour. They kissed hello, and Claire took in Gail’s cheetah-print Cavalli jeans, her wet hair pulled back into a ponytail, and her lack of makeup, and tried to imagine just what, exactly, was going on at the Harrold household on this day. Harry Winston, Gail’s new white powder-puff bichon, circled her bare feet, stopping intermittently to lick and bark at the sparkle of Gail’s tiny diamond toe ring.

“Okay, I give up.” Claire raised her hands in mock exasperation. “Why are you standing here, and when did you start smoking?”

“Ugh, come with me.” Gail took Claire’s wrist, stepped over the frenetic activity at her ankles, and led her into the kitchen. She spoke in a throaty voice as they walked. “I’m practicing being alone. I gave everyone the day off. Everyone. I’ve been cleaning out my closets, I’ve deep-conditioned my hair, and I’m in the process of reorganizing my files. And if I smoke, I don’t eat.” She sat down on one of the cushioned bar chairs at the center island and took a long drag on the cigarette. Then she dropped it into the sink.

“So, how’s that working out for you?”

They stared at each other for a second until Gail burst out into raspy hoots. “It sucks. This house is too big to rattle around in alone. And I’m just not good at it. I don’t know what I was thinking, except that I was worrying that I was turning into my mother.”

“They can certainly do a number, can’t they?”

“Bloody Mary?” she asked, already making herself one.

“I can’t. I’m picking Nick up after school and taking him to the shelter to drop some things off.”

“First day back to school—very exciting!”

“I know. I was anxious, but
he
seemed perfectly fine walking into a strange new environment and playing catch-up. The kid amazes me every day.”

“Hon, it’ll be his turf, his place to make whatever mark he wants to. I think this will be a huge boost for him.”

“Your mouth to God’s ears.”

“And I’m glad to see that the mother-son shelter trip lives on.”

“Well, it’s good to keep up the familiar routines. I had Nicky grab some outgrown clothes and old games at the house, and I put together a bag of food. And we’ll make our delivery.”

“That’s lovely. I always write checks, honey. But most of the time it’s just better to do.” Gail walked over to the enormous butler’s pantry. “So, how ’bout I put together another bag of food for you to take with you?”

“That would be delightful.”

“And I’ve got a bunch of clothes I could give you as well.”

Gail disappeared into the pantry, and Claire’s thoughts drifted to the night before and Richard’s knowing eyes, to Michael’s dark secrets, and to the idea that she’d be living the discount version of Gail’s lonely life all too soon. The dog began licking her shoe, and Claire picked him up and placed him in her lap. “So, talk to me, Harry Winston,” she said into his pink-rimmed eyes. “What’s it like being unattached and clueless?” He licked her neck and hopped down just as Gail emerged from the pantry with a collection of food. Claire got up and scanned the contents of the bag. “Adriatic fig spread, imported caper berries, and jalapeño jam.” She looked up at Gail. “What? No water crackers or crostini? No tapenade?”

Gail curled her nose and pillowy lips into a crinkle. “I guess those weren’t ideal choices. I’m a little off my game at the moment.”

Claire went into the enormous venetian-plastered pantry to search for some more suitable items. A second later she returned empty-handed. “Is there no can of soup or tuna fish in this godforsaken kitchen?”

“You know Eric. He makes everything from scratch, and I’m pretty much helpless without him, aren’t I?”

“Um, I thought we were having breakfast here,” she said, noticing the barren glass breakfast-room table.

“Shit. I completely forgot to pick up the quiche.” Gail pulled her hair out of the ponytail and let it fall into her eyes. “I broke up with the Hedge Funder last night, and I gave Austin his walking papers again this morning, and then I got so caught up in my purging exercise that I—”

“No worries. I’ll just put on the coffee, and we can have the fig spread on some toast.”

“God, I’m Zsa Zsa Gabor two-point-oh,” Gail sighed, dramatically draping her legs over the armrests of the bar chair.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better,” Claire said, pouring some Italian roast into the Gaggia, “I can raise your pair of breakups with an embezzled pension fund
and
a leveraged house and portfolio. To the tune of well over five million. Plus a mountain of other potential debt.” There was no point in holding back facts anymore. What she needed was a plan architect and field marshals.

Jackie and Carolyn walked into the kitchen.

“Okay, I fold,” Gail replied wide-eyed. “You win.”

Looking into her friends’ flabbergasted faces, Claire decided to take them on the full Tour de Desperation, stopping at the more scenic points for them to vent. And the more she told, the more incredible it sounded to her that she had been so oblivious to Michael’s activities. “I knew there was something he’d been holding back all this time. I just never registered the significance of certain . . . signs. But there you have it,” she said, glancing at the over-mature rose in the bud vase by the sink, “my hopeless mess in all its glory. Not only is the marriage bankrupt, we just might be, too.”

Jackie came around the center island and sat down next to her. “This situation is not hopeless, and you are not helpless.”

Claire shot her a muted stink eye. “Um, no matter how I slice it, we all lose. If I go to Jack with all the evidence, Michael will likely be facing some pretty serious consequences, which won’t be good for Nicky. And if I go to Michael first, his chances of quickly securing the cash won’t be any less bleak, never mind that he’ll probably want to kill me on the spot. Which, again, is bad for all of us.”

Gail swung her feet to the floor with barely disguised irritation. “My dear, sweet friend. Do you need a Miracle Ear or what?” she growled into her face. “Michael has been playing three-card monte with your life. There’s a PRICE for that, father of your child or not.”

Jackie nodded. “He’s going to have to pay this bill one way or another.”

“And
that,
” Carolyn added in a voice delicious with possibility, “could be your angle.”

Claire cocked her head, uncertain about what, precisely, this Machiavellian observation meant.

Carolyn poured a dollop of milk into her espresso. “You could hit him with some serious leverage of your own, Claire, and make whatever demands you want.”

“I like what I’m hearing,” Gail said, leaning in. “Go on.”

Carolyn fixed a deadly serious gaze on Claire. “How dirty do you want to play?”