Surface (25 page)

“I know, Claire. Until we arrange something formally, why don’t you plan to be here during the week to take him to Craig or other activities—whatever you guys want. And then I’ll handle evenings and the weekends.” He spoke logically, without disdain, and with the convincing charm that had made him so successful over the years. The charm, she noted, that he had lacked for the last six months. “How does that sound?”

Claire bit down on her lip, still furious that she’d allowed her guilt and naïve hope to back her into this corner. She subtly pressed Michael on other plans, but he eluded any further discussion, insisting their only concern for the present should be Nick’s comfort and routine. She would wait, then, if that’s how he was going to play. “So, you’ve talked to your lawyers about this?” she tried.

He looked at his watch and shifted in his seat. “This is just standard shared custody stuff. Nothing official. In fact, Nicky can stay at your place whenever you want after he gets settled.”

“I only have one bedroom, Michael. I didn’t anticipate any sort of permanence to this arrangement. You know this is
not
how it’s going to be in perpetuity, right?”

“Look,” Michael said, standing. “I have a dinner in a half hour, and we don’t have the time to get into a discussion about major issues right now. Let’s just see how things go for a while. There’s no hurry. No rush.” He held his palms out as if to say, “I don’t have the final answer here. See, my hands are empty.”

“Right,” she said, maintaining her calm, and wondering what his game was. Clearly, though, the game would require patience and perseverance, too. “Then I guess I’ll just get a few things from upstairs, and we’ll discuss the future . . . sometime in the near future.” She stood, feeling strangely grateful for the reprieve.

“I, uh, forgot to mention that my father is in town and he wants to spend some time with Nicky tomorrow. So it would be best if you came by later in the day.”

“How long will he be here?” she asked, wondering if she’d have to spend the week avoiding a man who used to think she hung the moon.

“I’m having dinner with him tonight,” he said, fumbling with something in his pocket and looking suddenly preoccupied and tense. It was his key chain, which he dropped and then scrambled to pick up. “He flies out tomorrow afternoon.”

“You need to get me a new set of keys, by the way.”

Footsteps echoed in the hall, and Nicholas appeared in the doorway. Claire could hear Berna retreating to the kitchen. She held her breath, still feeling the roiling in her gut.

“So, what do you think, pal?” Michael asked, ushering Nick into the room with a generous smile. “Is there anything else you want in here?”

Nick looked around, checking out every corner and surface. He made his way to the bed and picked up the control and raised and lowered the mattress. With some strain he sat down in front of his computer and stared at the sleeping screen. After what seemed like minutes, his hands shakily skimmed the keyboard, but he didn’t attempt to type anything. “I’m hungry,” he said, turning to them with a frustrated frown, caught, it seemed, in the margins of what he had yet to overcome.

They helped him to stand, each holding an arm.

“Larkburger?” Claire asked.

“Your mom will take you wherever you want tonight.”

Nicholas wriggled free and fumbled to open a CD from the stack on the desk. After a tense wrestling match with the case, he placed the disc in his computer. Wiping his eyes, he returned to where they stood. “Can I just have soup . . . Mom, can you just make me some soup here? I’m tired.”

Claire looked to Michael for something she wasn’t entirely sure of—permission or reassurance, some gesture to rescue her from the somber uncertainty of the moment. He nodded okay.

“Sure, honey,” she said, squeezing Nick’s fingers. “I’ll make you soup tonight, and we can get burgers another time.”

An acoustic harmonica wailed the intro to “Thunder Road,” followed by Springsteen’s gravelly launch into the lyrics they’d so often sung on drives up to Aspen. The three of them stood gazing out the window toward the backyard and the horizon in the distance. And through the lens of those dusky browns and reds, and the beginnings of the moon, Claire imagined Nicholas as the beautiful but weathered lighthouse around which she and Michael would occasionally gather for mooring. As the tempo and intensity of the song ramped up, she could see Michael mouthing the words, his features weary but somehow calmed.

“Who’s Taylor?” Nick blurted at the coda, shifting his gaze to his computer, and then squarely onto his father.

Almost imperceptibly, Michael’s body stiffened. “Taylor? I’m . . . not sure, pal.”

“Really?” Nicholas raked his hair with his hands and rubbed at his temples. “Damn it,” he grunted, brushing past them to lie down on the bed.

Claire studied her husband closely as she related the previous incidents surrounding Nick’s mention of Taylor. She had meant to ask him before, but his moods had always gotten in the way. Michael merely shrugged his shoulders and expressed equal bewilderment, unable to shed any more light on the mystery than she could. They both looked back to Nicholas, who had closed his eyes and was murmuring his way to sleep.

And in that moment Claire remembered why the name had sounded vaguely familiar the first time Nick had asked about Taylor. It was the same name, she was certain, that he had mumbled into his pillow the afternoon she’d returned from the beach—the afternoon he’d recognized her and wondered where his dad was. The name, which he continued to murmur into his pillow here, until the murmuring faded to a light snoring.

C
HAPTER
32

“S
o, what’s your plan for the day, girlfriend? I thought we might do a bit of retail therapy to lift your spirits. Neiman’s is having a Burberry trunk show, and I feel the need for something British.” Gail launched into her speech the moment Claire answered her cell.

“Funny you should mention therapy. I think I could actually use some of the non-retail kind.”

“Sounds serious. Are you okay?”

“Well. Yes and no.” She sunk into her couch with the phone and took a deep breath. “Okay. I was embarrassed to mention this at lunch, but I agreed to a kind of . . . separate living arrangement with Michael after some flare-ups, thinking it would be better to soft-pedal everything for a bit, you know, to see if we could still somehow work things out under separate roofs. But then he had me locked out of the house while he was in LA with Nicky, though he said it was unintentional, and then I got angry and pushed until it sounded like he was about to drop the divorce bomb. And now”—she paused, catching her breath and stepping officially off the hamster wheel—“it looks like I’ll be eating my meals in the company of a novel for the foreseeable future.”

“What’s the new address? I’m coming right over.”

Gail arrived shortly after 10:00 with a bag full of homemade croissants, fresh-squeezed OJ, and a platter of beautifully prepared tropical fruit.

“My God, this is gorgeous. You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”

“No trouble at all, since I had Eric do it. Honey, I couldn’t prepare a pineapple if I tried.” Gail set her things down and scanned the apartment. “This is cozy.”

“Thank you for being kind,” Claire said, giving her the two-minute tour.

“Okay, so, spill. You two are actually talking the
d
-word?”

Claire spread their picnic out on the Formica table and proceeded to recount Cora’s ludicrous-in-hindsight plan, and just how much she’d been willing to resign herself to out of the desire for reconciliation. Over a second round of juice—newly spiked with vodka—she segued into the catalog of Michael’s increasingly enigmatic behavior and Nicky’s ever-stoic response to the hurdles of coming home.

“Oh, Claire,” Gail said, wiping crumbs from her chin. “For someone so smart, how can you be so obtuse? A scheduled visitor at your own house? You don’t need a therapist, though it certainly wouldn’t hurt. What you need is a lawyer.”

Claire took a measured sip from her glass. “I know the setup sounds hard to swallow. But I stupidly thought it would be temporary, a way for us both to get some perspective. I was blinded by hope, and fear. And it seemed somehow . . . appropriate for the short term.” She grazed on Gail’s croissant remains. “If I hadn’t invited Andrew in, none of this would have—”

“Yeah. And if my aunt had balls, she’d be my uncle.” Gail leapt up with dramatic fanfare and began to dance around the table, waving her hands over Claire’s head and shaking her hips and shoulders briskly, like a shaman. The sleeves of her Valentino tunic billowed and her bangles chimed as she chanted nonsensically, and with great fervor.

“What on earth are you doing?” Claire practically snorted.

“I am absolving you.”

“Huh?”

“I’ve dispelled the evil. You may now officially remove that scarlet A from your psyche, hon.”

Claire hung her head back and rested it on the chair. “Ugh.
I know
. But tell me, oh, Mystic One,” she said, sitting back up. “How do I do this? How the
hell
do I do this?”

Gail poured them each a cup of coffee. “Good thing I have a little experience in this area. First thing you need to do is call Jack Kaufman. He handled two of my divorces like Tyson on Holyfield, God love him.”

“I’m not looking for blood and carnage. I’m hoping we can do it somewhat amicably. And I don’t know if I want to get that ball rolling just yet.” She thought about Taylor, but didn’t want to share her—what were they, concerns, suspicions?—until she could determine whether they might be somehow relevant, or if the mysterious outbursts were just another side effect of Nick’s TBI.

“Sweetie. Divorce is a tough business, and you need someone tougher and smarter than whomever your husband is going to hire. And I guarantee he’s already choosing his team.” Gail paused and looked around the small apartment again, clearly weighing something troubling.

“What?” Claire asked.

“Are you sure about staying here? You have every right to march right back into your house and unpack, you know. In fact, it might be a good—”

“No,” Claire said, lowering her eyes. “I can’t. It made me feel . . . sick. Being there inside those walls with him felt wrong. It’s crazy, but—” She swallowed another mouthful of the juice, searching for the words and the nerve to say aloud what she had been thinking all night and all morning. “I don’t want to live there anymore,” she finally said, meeting Gail’s eyes. “I want to live with my son, but not there.”

Gail clasped her hand. “That’s okay, honey. I completely understand. So I doubly suggest getting Jack on retainer before Michael does. He will be a great asset. And besides, he’s really a doll to work with.”

“Well, I’ve got Nicky to consider in the way I handle everything, too. And civil would be best. It’s just that”—she pushed slices of pineapple and kiwi around her plate with the edge of her fork—“the thought of spilling all the, um, unpleasant details to some stranger who I need to go out and advocate for me is so humiliating. For all of us.”

“I know this is difficult to process at the moment. But trust me, yours isn’t the first marriage to have gone south because of an affair brought on by”—Gail rolled her eyes and blew out what sounded like some long pent-up disdain for Michael—“well, a host of issues. Not to trivialize your situation, but Jack’s seen it all, and your circumstances aren’t unusual. Think of it like a gyno visit. Yours is just another vagina, hon, over the course of a busy day.”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “At least I won’t have to take off my underwear.”

“But Jack
will
get Michael to bend over.”

“Gail, that’s not my goal. I know he’s hurt and angry with me. But he was acting reasonably pleasant when we were together yesterday. And I’d like to keep it that way.”

Gail looked skeptically down her perfect nose at Claire. “And do you find that interesting?”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe nothing at all. But you said he’s been mercurial and emotionally distant, and now he’s suddenly pleasant? I wouldn’t call an hour of
allowing
you back into your house and acting polite in front of your son pleasant. Good parenting, yes. An understanding of marital property laws, most definitely. But it’s been my experience that a cigar isn’t always just a cigar.”

Claire leaned across the table. “Do you know something I don’t?”

“Of course not, hon. I don’t mean to stir the pot. I’m just saying you need to be hyperaware and focused on your best interests right now.”

“I’ve definitely been having a hard time being objective. When I look back on the last year or two, I can’t tell if I’m reading too much into certain comments or behaviors because of where we are now. Or too little. I clearly wasn’t paying close enough attention when I needed to be.”

“Well,” Gail said pointedly, “those distressed comments of his about Nicky’s age strike me as someone who’s feeling old. That’s more of a female vanity thing, but in my not-so-humble opinion, your husband has always been a little too concerned about what people think of him.”

Claire considered this surprising appraisal, doubting its accuracy even as she asked Gail whether she thought Michael could be having his own midlife crisis.

“I’m saying he’s one of those Master of the Universe types who, in spite of his success, is insecure. I’ve watched him at enough cocktail parties, jockeying for praise and respect—in the most charismatic sort of way, mind you—but always setting up the story or the joke to pay off in kudos.” She went on to describe dating someone just like Michael, how he’d subtly swayed her priorities until she’d practically lost herself in the job of making him feel good. Then she reached into her Birkin and pulled out a business card, and pushed it across the table to Claire. “This will be a healthy move for you, Claire. Jack helped me navigate my way through multiple crises.”

“Hmm,” Claire mumbled, convinced that Gail had inserted a little too much of her own baggage into the pile she’d just unloaded. “I’m not sure your assessment is right.”

“Didn’t you tell us yesterday how hard you worked to put such a pretty polish on everything, only to disappear into your role as not-so-happy homemaker?”

Claire nodded slowly.

“Well, our formerly vivacious,
happy,
unflappable Claire hasn’t come out to play in a helluva long time. And I miss that friend.” Gail lasered in on her with judiciousness reminiscent of Jackie. “You did disappear into that role you were playing. And it didn’t seem to make your husband or your marriage any happier. Did it?”

“No,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

“Look at me, honey,” Gail said, framing her face with jazz hands. “Three divorces, and I’m still optimistic. Don’t panic. Splittsville’s no picnic, but you’ll be okay.”

“I just never imagined giving up, you know? I’m not a giver upper.”

“Hey—letting go and moving forward is not giving up. It’s being strong.”

Claire forced a smile and picked up the business card. Then she entered Jack’s number into her phone.

“You
will
get through this.” Gail stood and pulled her into a calming hug. “I promise. But in the meantime, you could most definitely do with a diversion. And I could do with several new pieces for spring.”

Claire tried begging off with her plans to see Jackie and Nicholas in the afternoon, along with the unwise nature of a shopping spree given the path she was headed down. But there was no deflecting her friend’s insistence on a couple hours of mindless entertainment, which she was only too happy to supply.

“Hell, this is exactly what you need,” Gail said, pointing a Rouge Noir fingernail right between Claire’s eyes. “Your self-imposed penalty phase is officially over. It’s field-trip time.”

Claire’s thoughts veered to Richard, and what perfect drinking buddies her two persistent pals would make.

 

Reaching over to the backseat of Gail’s red Jaguar, Claire handed her sister a croissant still neatly wrapped in a napkin, the butter just beginning to seep through the fine linen. “Eat up. You’re going to need sustenance.”

“Thank you for dragging my sister out
and
for the chauffeured diversion,” Jackie said to Gail. “I’m feeling very civilized back here.” She ran her hand over the Burr walnut trim and the supple leather. “God, I really need to get rid of my minivan.”

Gail eyed her in the rearview mirror. “You don’t strike me as a minivan gal.”

Jackie grimaced. “Yeah, well. One day you’re driving around in a VW Bug with the top down, singing ‘Satisfaction’ at the top of your lungs, and the next thing you know you’re scraping fish sticks out of the car seat, then you’re hauling soccer gear and girl scouts, and then you’re in the Chrysler showroom.”

“Aren’t life adjustments strange?” Claire said, not ironically.

“I know, honey. Keep your chin up.” Gail rolled into the valet circle of the Cherry Creek shopping center at about forty and skidded to a stop. “Just last night I was contemplating the pathetically unhip state of my Walgreen’s purchases. In my twenties it was breath mints, condoms, and a
Vogue.
And now, it’s iron supplements and Monistat.”

Claire gathered her purse from the floor, bracing for the hurricane of spending her pal was about to unleash. “So you’re saying that you’re not still buying condoms?”

 

Inside Neiman’s, the women gravitated to the Etro scarf display in the accessories area. A purple-and-navy silk paisley stopped them in their tracks, and Gail asked the saleswoman to take it out. She draped it in a loose cowl around Claire’s neck.

“Oh, honey, it just lights up your face.”

“I told you,” Claire said, glancing into the mirror as she unwrapped it. “I’m only here for the entertainment value, with the possible exception of something for Nicky. No goodies for me.”

“But can’t you hear it speaking to you,” Gail asked, putting the scarf up to her ear. “Oh, yes. She says that she eez perfetto for you.”

“Play nicely, Gail. I’m trying to exercise some willpower here.”

“Fiiiine. Have it your way.” Gail waved good-bye to the scarf and their sales associate and motioned toward the escalator. “But this shindig’s just starting, ladies.”

They ascended to the second floor couture department, where an immaculately coiffed woman of about fifty approached them with an enormous smile on her face and an undeniable skip in her step. Claire saw her coming before the others and whispered into Jackie’s ear. “Watch this.”