Somebody Else's Daughter (19 page)

But the waiter was unfazed, and nodded toward the butler's pantry. “Parties bring out the worst in couples.”

“I'm looking for my son,” she explained. “Teddy Squire. He's here somewhere, with their daughter?”

“Wait here.”

The waiter returned seconds later. “He'll be right down.” He handed her a glass of champagne and motioned to one of the kitchen chairs. Claire sat in the chair in her dripping raincoat, feeling like a servant, trying to stay out of everyone's way. She was on her second glass of champagne when Joe Golding glanced into the kitchen and noticed her, and although he studied her only briefly, assuming, perhaps, that she was one of the catering staff, there was something in his eyes that told her she interested him. He had a brooding, unsmiling face, suggesting to her that he was a man who was rarely satisfied, but now he pushed out his chin and nodded at her, a primal greeting perhaps, but a greeting just the same. And then he was gone.

Two weeks later they ran into each other at a wine tasting, a school fund-raiser. Golding was there with his wife, Candace—everybody called her Candy—but after just a morsel of conversation with the woman, Claire quickly construed that she was anything but sweet. Candace wore a shawl around her shoulders that had a peacock on it, and a heavy turquoise necklace and several bracelets—it was good turquoise, vintage. Her hair was black, cut short, and she wore almost no makeup, only a hint of color on her lips. She was leaning on a cane, wearing an expression of superiority. She didn't initiate conversation with anyone, Claire noticed. In contrast, her husband, Joe, moved like a street vendor, plying his wares.
Come to me! Come to me!
He was the sort of man you couldn't help noticing. Not that he was especially good-looking; he wasn't. But he had a way about him, a presence that made you want to be near him. He gave the impression of being the guy with the bottom line. You wanted answers, you wanted the whole story, you went to him. He had a pickle barrel chest, big shoulders. He exuded strength, a roguish confidence. She could practically smell his money. They were talking to Greer Harding, who was all wrapped up in carnation pink, down to her pink Tod's. Greer made a joke and the three of them started to laugh. Watching them, it occurred to Claire how out of place she felt. Even with all her father's money, she couldn't seem to relate to these people. It was so
high school.
They were in the popular group and she was the outcast. The only person who looked at all interesting was Teddy's writing teacher, Mr. Gallagher, who was standing off to the side like a butler awaiting instruction. He was taller than everyone in the room, and there was something guarded and elegant about him, like those nineteenth-century men in paintings by John Singer Sargent. His hair was a reddish blond and he wore a thick woodsman's beard. His gray eyes were wolfish, keen, yet tainted with suspicion. She had seen eyes like that on the street, a kind of hunger, a weary glimmer. It was what she saw when she looked in the mirror.

The wine presented an amiable distraction, and she went over to the Bordeaux table, where the Heaths were schmoozing with a cluster of parents. Claire couldn't help feeling intimidated by them. They had the authority to judge her son and by extension her—she knew the only reason they'd accepted Teddy was because of her father's money. Truthfully, the whole arrangement made her uneasy, but she also felt it was the best for him. In less than a year they'd be applying to colleges and Teddy needed all the help he could get.

Jack Heath had on his headmaster's uniform, a blue blazer and khakis, the red bow tie, and wire-rimmed glasses. His unbearably thin wife, who was Teddy's vigilant adviser, seemed to be hanging on to his arm for support. She had on a dainty wool butter-colored suit with matching pumps and headband. There was something stuffy and schoolmarmish about her, Claire thought, and they seemed an odd pair, Claire couldn't quite put her finger on it. Pioneer was no longer the hippie farm school that Claire had attended, where grades were almost an afterthought. No, Claire could tell just by looking around the room that these parents expected a lot for their money; they wanted results.

Claire went up to Maggie Heath and shook her hand. “I wanted to thank you,” she told her, “for letting Teddy come to school here. Until now, he hasn't been a very motivated student, I'm afraid. We moved around a lot. The schools in L.A. are somewhat difficult.”

Maggie looked at her doubtfully, then said, in a less-than-thrilled voice, “We're thrilled to have him.”

“Everyone gets a clean slate at Pioneer,” Jack Heath proclaimed. “You just leave everything to us.”

They talked about the days when Claire was a student there, when Woody Baxter ran the school. “I remember he drove this yellow Carmengia, ” she told them. “It was always breaking down. We used to go blueberry picking during math class.”

The folklore was making the Heaths squeamish, Claire realized.

“Times have changed,” he said flatly. “The community. It's a lot different here now.”

In a tart, proud-wife vernacular, Maggie Heath began to list the myriad improvements her husband had made since Baxter's retirement, but Claire noted something perfunctory in her delivery. A moment later Greer Harding interrupted Maggie to introduce them to another set of parents. Claire politely excused herself and asked the pleasant bartender for a glass of wine—this time Chianti. Behind the bartender was an enormous mirror with an ornate gold frame, through which Claire could watch the party behind her. The waiter handed her the wine and she sipped it gratefully. When she glanced up into the mirror a second time, another face was looking back. Joe Golding.

She could feel herself beginning to sweat.
You don't love me enough,
his eyes seemed to brood,
but you will.

He came up to her and ordered a glass of wine and they toasted each other silently, smiling like two dignitaries sharing a secret. What the secret was neither would say, but it wasn't going away—a negotiation was in order. Golding introduced himself, taking her hand. He had rolled up his shirtsleeves and his forearms glistened with black hair. There was something intimate in the way he touched her.

“I'm Teddy's mother,” she said.

“So that's what you were doing in my kitchen.”

“She's very beautiful,” Claire said. “My son has quite the crush.”

“It appears to be mutual.”

“I hope he's behaving himself.”

“I wouldn't count on it.”

“That's some party you had. That band—where did you find those guys?”

“The Connie Winter's Orchestra,” he clarified. “I'm a brass fan. There's nothing quite like the sound of a trumpet. It hits me in all the right places.”

“You don't look like the patriotic type,” she said.

“I'm a sap,” he admitted. “I start bawling whenever I hear taps.” He shook his head. “It was a nice party, but I knew there was someone missing.” He smiled at her with his gypsy eyes. “Promise me you'll come to our next one.”

She couldn't help feeling charmed. “I promise not to wear my raincoat. ”

“I knew your father,” Golding said. “He was a good man. I'm sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“We played golf a few times. He liked a good cigar. And he was a hell of a director. Nobody did Chekhov like Eddie—the best
Cherry
Orchard
I've ever seen. There were these cherry blossoms everywhere. You came out of the theater—you were covered with them. It was brilliant.”

“I know he'd appreciate that.” She took a sip of the wine. “This is good.”

“Chianti from Tuscany. Very Hemingway.”

“Cheers.”

They touched their plastic cups. She smiled. The moment lingered.

His wife caught his eye and he motioned to her. “We're all going out for dinner afterward. If you want to join us.”

“I'd like that.”

Golding kept his greedy eyes on her longer than necessary. “Bring your husband. I'd like to meet him.”

Before she could tell him otherwise, he had disappeared.

16

Gallagher couldn't take his eyes off her. It was her hair that did it, the long yellow braid, the particular angular shape of her face, the fleeting gaze of inquiry. She was older now, and no less beautiful, but it was her, he was sure of it. It was the girl from his truck. The girl in the forgotten Polaroid. Claire.

She carried herself like a woman who knew her own beauty yet could not be bothered with it. Her dress a simple black tunic. Thin silver bracelets around her wrists. She wore small pearl earrings, her neck bare. Her skin very pale, a glimmer of color on her lips. He was much taller, of course, but he was taller than most women. He was just about to introduce himself when Maggie Heath appeared and took his hand. “I want you to meet some of the parents.” An expedition ensued through the enormous room with its tall castle windows and heavy mahogany furniture. There were the Madisons and the Liddys and the Sterns and the Fairchilds. “And these are the Goldings, ” Maggie said, beaming like a proud mother. Nate had anticipated meeting the Goldings a thousand times before this moment, going over their handshake in his mind as though he were replaying a single frame of film—they were, after all, something like relatives— although he ventured the Goldings would never recognize him. He suspected they had blocked him out of their minds long ago, as they should have. He had simply been a liaison to their happily-ever-after. For a few unpleasant hours, they had dealt with the burden of having a dead woman on their property and had even probably been a little grateful for her death—yes, he knew it was cruel to think so, but it was probably the truth. They were all older now. Nate was no longer the scrawny drug addict. Instead of the filthy clothes he had worn that day, he was dressed in a suit and tie and he had a beard now, which grounded him, he liked to think, in the realm of scholars and intellectuals. The Goldings too had changed. The wife, who had a sharp, reliable beauty, was afflicted with a back injury of some sort, and relied on a cane—he'd overheard her telling someone she'd been thrown by a horse the day before. And Joe Golding had grown stout over the years. He looked buffed up, like a good car—fully loaded— but nobody ever bothered to read the fine print. A physically powerful man, he had an air of magnanimity about him that Nate instinctively distrusted. Like an emperor, people fawned all over him.

“Here's the man I've been telling you about,” Maggie announced. “This is my old friend, Nate Gallagher.”

They shook hands. “Your daughter's a charming girl,” Nate said. “A talented writer.”

Golding smiled, pleased by the comment. His eyes held Nate's a moment too long. Nate cleared his throat and the wife asked, “What sort of things do you write, Mr. Gallagher?”

“Short stories, mostly. I'm working on a novel.”

“Nate's a wonderful writer,” Maggie chimed in. “But it's in his blood.” Maggie explained about his father. “Nate was a faculty brat.”

“Well,” Golding said. “I'll have to read your work. Where can I find it? Do you have a book?”

“I'm hoping to have one out soon,” Nate said sheepishly. He suddenly felt incredibly foolish.

Golding's wife looked sorry for him, and put her hand on his arm. “You've really inspired our daughter. We appreciate it so much.”

“It's my pleasure.”

Another couple interrupted the Goldings and Nate gratefully backed into the crowd. He felt a little light-headed and helped himself to another drink. Someone tapped him on the shoulder and he turned; it was Claire. “Hello there,” she said.

“Hello.”

“I'm Claire Squire. Teddy's mom?”

“Of course.” He took her hand. It felt cool and soft, like one of Larkin's doves. “He's a great kid.”

She swallowed her drink. “Actually, I'm a little drunk. I'm not used to this kind of thing.”

“No?”

“People.” She grinned. “They make me nervous.”

“Let's get some air.”

“What a good idea.”

They pushed through the crowd toward the enormous foyer and the wide front door. It was amazing to think that the building had once been home to a single family. The sun was just beginning to set and the air was cool and damp. Her arms had goose bumps, and he took off his jacket and offered it to her, draping it over her shoulders.

“You're the writer, aren't you?” she said. “ ‘Everybody has a broken heart.' Teddy told me about it. It's true, isn't it?”

“To some degree.”

“What about yours?”

“I have my share of war stories.” He thought of the photograph of her in his truck, a premonition of some sort. He thought of telling her about it, but decided against it.

“You're very tall,” she said. “You're a skyscraper. What's it like up there?”

“What's it like?”

She took off her heels and put her hand on his shoulder and climbed up on the stone wall and now she was slightly taller than him. Standing there with the wind in her hair she was iconic, a goddess. She smelled of roses. “There.”

“How do you feel?”

“Tall,” she said. “You must feel terribly superior.”

“Just the opposite,” he said. “I'm pathologically insecure.”

“You can't be. You're much too handsome. You have this sort of nineteenth-century quality.”

“It's the beard. I've been told I'm an old soul,” he admitted.

“Me too.”

He looked at her gently. “I believe that.”

“Maybe we knew each other in another life.”