Surface (35 page)

C
HAPTER
43

“W
ish me luck, Mother.”

“Just keep thinking about your future, dear, and everything on that checklist of yours.”

Claire eyed the notes she’d taken from her last conversations with Richard and Gail, arranging them in her memory in specific order. “It’s a little unnerving, to say the least,” she said, rolling her shoulders. The scent of Chanel and bananas hung heavily in the apartment air, and she fought a serious case of stage fright.

“Hold your ground, and you will be brilliant. I know you will. Tell me about Nicky’s week before you go. I’m so proud of him, I can’t stand it.”

The distraction wasn’t unwelcome, and Claire happily recounted their trip to the shelter, where Nick had spent several hours doing art projects with the kids in the therapeutic preschool program, as well as the reports she’d gotten from Nicholas and Andi about his return to school. Nick was integrating into his classes well and socializing with kids, which had the very noticeable effect of improving his moods. Being with new peers in the “real world,” especially kids who had no preconceived notions of him, Claire realized, was doing more to boost his confidence and outlook than fifty successful swats at a balloon. The routine and structure of his new schedule seemed to provide a sense of comfort as well, while the adjustment to entering nearly every facet of his life into his phone and planners, along with the other adaptive skills he was learning to employ, challenged him. He had missed handing in several assignments on time and still had difficulty shifting from one task to another. Which was to be expected, according to Andi. But he loved his drawing class, and overall was displaying an unceasing desire to thrive.

“Dear, that’s so wonderful. Maybe Nicky
can
apply to college.”

“We’re taking things slowly, Mother. But I suspect that may be a possibility at some point—just not in the traditional way his father expects.”

“What do you mean?”

“Possibly art school.” The notion seemed logical and reassuring to Claire. But she would sit back and let Nick drive that bus, if that was the route he chose. And Michael would have to ride along.

“Well, who do you know at the top schools? Maybe we should start making—”

The eagerness in Cora’s voice would have been endearing if it weren’t so historically lethal. “Mother, how ’bout we just let things unfold naturally for once. Hmm?” Claire looked out the living room window toward her old house and downtown, scanning the area just between the two.

There was silence, followed by a brief and remarkably un-phlegmy cough. “I’ll just button my tongue for now. But,” she said, not missing a beat, “I have to ask how the house hunting is going. That’s not overstepping, is it?”

“No, and I think I’ve found the perfect option. Jean showed me a darling cottage in North Country Club that’s been completely renovated, with the original woodwork and moldings. It’s close to school, and I wouldn’t have to do a thing except paint Nick’s room, which is currently pink. It’s got great light and a nice alcove for a studio.” Claire picked up the property brochure from the pile on her dining table and stuck it in the folder in her purse.

“That sounds lovely, dear.”

“It is, and it’s going to go fast if I don’t move on it.” She put on some lipstick in the hallway mirror and tucked another item into the folder. “So send some serious positive thoughts.”

The sun was preparing to set as Claire pulled into the driveway. She had just under an hour before Andi would drop Nicholas off at the house after their tutoring session. There was no time to waffle or stew any further, so she marched straight to the front portico, unlocked the door with the new key Michael had finally given her, and moved deliberately through the house, taking in the antiques and oriental rugs, all those pieces she’d lovingly selected and arranged over the years. But the happy memories of their origins had been so marred by the truth that her home appeared to her now as merely a collection of “stuff,” devoid of any sentimentality or meaning. She closed her eyes and pictured the cottage she’d returned to three times that week, pictured Nick there with her. And she visualized the bullet points on her checklist one last time, before proceeding down the hall.

Shielding her unease behind her best poker face, Claire cleared her throat from the doorway of the study and studied her husband. An odd sensation struck her when their eyes met—odd that he was her husband, and even odder that he wouldn’t be for much longer. His haggard face told her that he was still not sleeping. And that the San Diego trip had been less than successful. If she didn’t know better, she might have thought he’d been on some kind of bender.

“What are you doing here?” he asked with undisguised frustration.

So much for any attempt at casual bonhomie, she thought. “I’ll get to the point.” Claire approached the desk, took a CD case from her folder, and placed it just out of his reach. She paused for a second, noticing the text message that lit up the inside of her shoulder bag.
Go tell him how it’s gonna be, Smitty. You can do this!
Adrenaline flooded her chest. “I know who you are,” she said in a strong, even voice, belying her emotions. “And I know what you’ve been doing.” She glared at his face, containing eighteen years of misplaced trust and politeness with a firm stance.

Michael’s cheek twitched, and Claire watched his irritation turn to nervousness under her scrutiny.

“Do you have
anything
to say?” she pushed, after a long stretch of quiet.

He fixed on the CD case and reached to pick it up. “What’s this?”

“
That?
That’s the very unfortunate truth. All of it.”

He turned it over in his hands, which appeared to have developed a slight tremor. “What are you talking about? You march in here like some bad Broadway detective with some kind of evidence of
the truth
? I don’t have time for theatrics, Claire. I’ve got a lot of work to do here.”

“Yes, I’d say you do. But,” she said, sitting down in the other partner’s chair and reflexively flicking the heel of her ballet flat off and on, “I’m going to help you.”

His lips moved, as if trying to compose the correct response, but all he managed was a dull “Huh?” His hands still gripped the CD.

“You’ve been very busy this last year—and then some, I’m sure—with your girlfriend and—”

“Girlfriend? Seriously?” He tossed the CD into the trash. “You’ve got a lot of guts accusing me of whatever it is you think I’m guilty of after the mess your little . . . diversion caused.” He picked up the desk photo of Nick and turned it toward her, something fierce flashing in his pupils.

She caught a retort between her teeth, and held it. “Let’s be clear about something, Michael,” Claire said. “You’ve been making me out to be the wicked whore of the west, leaving me to drown in my guilt, and all the while you’ve been playing a much more wicked game with our lives.”
No,
she thought to herself,
nothing golden remained.
“There are consequences for our decisions. I know this better than anyone. And now it’s your turn to face them.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about San Diego and the mortgage on the house and our Schwab holdings. I’m talking about Mac Kessler and the company pension you used as your own personal bank account.” She watched Michael’s face blanch as she continued. “I could forgive you for
Taylor
”—she practically spat out the name—“but this,” she said, retrieving the CD from the trash, “makes everything easier for me. Because now I know that it wasn’t just one unfortunate lapse in judgment. It’s an epic string of lies and cheating, and complete disregard for me and for Nicholas. And I won’t suck that up.”

“Taylor,” he whispered, looking confused. “You know about . . . Taylor?” He ran both of his hands through his hair, rocking back and forth in his chair and revealing circles of perspiration in the creases of his Turnbull & Asser bespoke shirt. “How?”

She eyed the disc. “That’s hardly the issue, Michael. What
is
at issue are the many lines you’ve crossed, both legally and ethically. And to coin a choice phrase of yours—it stinks. It stinks to high heaven.”

Michael’s eyes darted around the room, the desperation of his reaction accentuated by the dark half-moons above his cheeks. There was a time bomb between them, Claire felt. And it was ticking off the seconds before one of them blew. She took a mental step back, digging deep through the recesses of her memory. Michael’s defensiveness, the fear, the indignant responses—they really had been a pattern for some time, along with the detachment and apparent insomnia. A pattern, she thought, of a guilt-ridden soul challenging the elasticity of its integrity. God only knew what other secrets he harbored, and that she had failed to connect the dots on. But this time, she reminded herself—as had Richard, and the girls and Cora—she had all the tools and ammunition she needed. And she could finally stop pretending. She exhaled her own indignation and smiled sweet as Sara Lee. “There are a couple ways I can choose to handle the information I have. But like I said, I’m willing to help you out.”

Michael shifted in his chair. “You’re going to help solve a—a—” His voice took on the familiar mumbling tic of the dysarthria patients in Nick’s speech classes. “A complex real estate and financial market . . . problem? Enlighten me. Please.”

“The complex problem is not about markets at all. It’s about embezzlement, and how you’re going to make things right.”

“Embezzlement? All of a sudden you’re some kind of expert on embezzlement? You know nothing about the intricacies—”

“I wouldn’t underestimate what I’ve become an expert on,” Claire said, interrupting him and checking her watch. “Here’s the deal, Michael. You took three-point-two million dollars from your company pension and used it to fund business deals. That’s not your money to spend. Theft from an employee benefit plan is a federal crime, and you will undoubtedly have some legal issues. But if you return that money immediately, and volunteer to the authorities to pay whatever interest and fines they slap on this, you will hopefully ingratiate yourself and not go to prison.”

He gaped at her, his hands shaking on top of the desk. “Well, since you appear to have all the details, you know that the bank account’s a little anemic at the moment. I’m working my ass off to secure some new funding. So stop this ridiculous charade and go take care of Nicholas, would you? Aren’t you supposed to be picking him up?”

Just as her veneer was cracking, another alarm sounded in Claire’s head. Michael was like a cornered animal, and he was lashing out. And she understood that she had to make him see the logic of her plan without lashing back at
him
and further arousing his fears and insecurities. “Michael,” she restarted as calmly as she could, “I’m well aware that you’ve depleted much of our joint brokerage account, in addition to mortgaging our house. All without consulting me.” She watched him fumble with a pencil. “But I’ll put that aside for now, in light of your need to make restitution on the pension. Immediately. And it seems that your only option for quick cash is your father. He could help you make this all go away, or at least improve your—”

“My father? Are you nuts?” He launched out of his chair, sending it crashing into the bookshelf behind him. He turned and kicked the casters, knocking over a dish of pistachios in the process and sending them raining onto the floor, all the while muttering to himself and incubating . . . something. After an agitated bout of pacing, he turned to her, his face a riot of red splotches. “I have a reasonable expectation of privacy, so don’t think for one minute that my lawyers won’t nail you to the wall for breaking into my computer, which is obviously what you’ve done here,” he shouted. “I’ll give you the fight of your—”

“I don’t think so,” she said, cutting him off. But instead of a swell of self-assurance as she was about to take her folder dramatically from her purse and give him the “when you play, you pay” line she’d rehearsed, her voice froze in her throat. Her body shuddered and her eyes blurred. She sunk back into the chair, overcome. “Shit. Shit! What are we doing?” She looked at Michael, at the landscape of their history all around them, those happy moments frozen in the picture frames insinuating themselves where, just a second before, outrage boiled. “What the hell are we doing? This isn’t
us,
” she cried. She bent her head into her hands. “It’s not me.”

The guttural sound that erupted and echoed through the room startled Claire, and she looked up to see Michael’s rage dissolving under his own squall of tears. Slowly he groped for his chair and lowered his body into it with uncharacteristic submission, then braced his hands on the desk as he rolled forward, the drone of the furnace a mournful accompaniment to his visible anguish. For a long while they both sat steeping in their grief. And in his raw, hiccupping exhales Michael was transformed to Claire from the two-dimensional villain of her outrage into a flawed human being.