Underwater (5 page)

Monty returned from his morning run just before ten o’clock and sat down at his computer. He’d cool off for about fifteen minutes before he showered and shaved. He pulled up his email and found another message from the granite vendor saying his past due payment would go to a collection agency if he didn’t take care of it by Friday.

He deleted it.
Fuck those bastards.
The kitchen and bathroom counters had been installed over six months ago, but he wouldn’t pay them until his sister forked over more money. The money that he had requested last week, when he met with Shepherd, her scumbag accountant. Let the collection people call that fucker. Candace had cosigned the home equity loan, so if she was going to cut off any more funds—funds he had to have yesterday—she could deal with it.

He scrolled through the rest of his email, finished his bottle of Powerade, and stripped off his clothes, heading for the shower. He did some of his best thinking standing naked under a hot stream of water. He had scanned and sent those receipts and invoices earlier this morning. If he did some tweaking to an old construction budget, he could make it look credible. He didn’t really want to fuck with it. But it might be all he would need to do to push Candace again.

Toweling off, he quickly finished in the bathroom and then put on a pair of designer jeans and a polo shirt. He needed to get out and do some clothes shopping soon, to update his wardrobe. At the meeting with Langford, he’d have to look sharp. Then, once he got him on board as an investor, funds would flow. Being Candace’s brother had its advantages, but sometimes he wondered if they were really worth all the shit he had had to put up with from her.

Grabbing his laptop, he headed for the door. A cup of java was what he needed right now, and he could hang out at a coffee shop until lunch.

Just before one o’clock, Jess brought Candace a lunch of broiled salmon, cooked medium rare, and an arugula salad with a balsamic vinaigrette dressing on the side. Candace took a bite of the fish and, satisfied that it wasn’t overcooked, decided she didn’t need to send it back. The president and CEO of SlimZ Inc. ate by herself in her office as she perused the swimwear market report prepared by the sales and marketing department. Her employees ate lunch at their desks—when Candace was in town, one was a fool not to. She was manic about keeping ahead of the competition and expected all her employees to adopt not only her work ethic but her frenzied pace as well. If one didn’t keep up, one’s career at SlimZ was over before it began. Whenever Candace was in town, the office hummed in very high gear.

At 1:20 p.m., finished with her lunch, Candace called Jess to remove her dish and to summon the design department employees to the conference room. Five minutes later, the head of SlimZ entered the room where a group of seven women were seated in front of her, waiting.

“We’re not doing big prints,” said Candace. “Small prints, maybe, but only if it looks like a solid. We’re not Lands’ End—we’re not going to make women wear upholstery, and it’s not about swimming. We’re also not Anne Klein or Ralph Lauren, so no buckles, ropes, or bangles. We’re SlimZ, and we’re doing one-piece swimsuits—for now. We’re doing black, of course, and I’m open to other color suggestions.”

“What about nude? And white?” asked Meredith, a twenty-something brunette.

“Let’s talk about nude,” said Candace. “First, if we do it, it won’t be nude. It’ll be beige. But do we do it? Why would we?”

“Well, if done well, it blends with skin tone and makes a sexy body sexier,” said a blonde named Heather.

“True,” said Candace, “but that means we won’t offer it—or white—in double-digit sizes. If we do white.” She studied the group’s reaction—no one’s eyes met her own. “Does anyone disagree?”

“Can we do that?” asked Meredith.

“We can do whatever we like,” said Candace. “Let me explain. Some of you know this, but in the past, I’ve worn a much larger size than I do now. I noticed something then when I shopped for clothes: the typical designer creates the same patterns, in the same colors, in all sizes—just making them wider—and the stores buy these items.”

Everyone waited as Candace paused and surveyed the room.

“Which is a big mistake,” she said. “I don’t know why it’s been so hard for them to figure this out: what works in size two does not often work in size ten, twelve, or fourteen. Women—most women—know this. It’s a big reason for markdowns in these larger sizes.” Candace cleared her throat. “Our target customer is smart. She wants to look great and
feel
great in her clothes—in her swimsuit—whatever her size. She pays attention to color, and like most people, she believes that black is slimming. So black, we’ll do in every size. Now, what other colors? What do you think, Paula?”

Paula, the department head, had been with Candace for six years. “Dark blue—navy, not royal blue. Eggplant, or dark violet. Dark brown—chocolate. Possibly bronze. Dark green—an olive green.”

“Good, so far,” said Candace, looking around. “Anyone else?”

“How about red?” asked Lucy, also a SlimZ veteran.

“I’m not against red,” said Candace. “Not orangey-red, though. Fire-engine red. Small sizes only. Remember: our swimsuit equals the little black dress. Which doesn’t have to be black.” She walked over to one of the whiteboards, looking at the various drawings, her back to the group. “I like the simpler designs. But they have to be elegant. This one-shoulder piece is sexy. Good job, Meredith. Not everyone can wear it, though.” Candace turned around. “It’s not just about color or pattern. The SlimZ foundation is our structure—that’s a given. It’s about matching body type with attractiveness. What flatters a particular body type. Tall, short, or medium height; slender, average, or large frame; pear shape, apple, hourglass, or stick; broad shoulders or narrow; big, small, or average bust; every conceivable neckline.”

Paula shifted in her chair and crossed her legs at the ankles. “Allowing the customer to look her absolute best.”

“Exactly,” said Candace. “We don’t just create swimsuits and undergarments. All of our customers are valued, whatever their size and shape. Our mission is to help them look their absolute best. We design and customize our products with this in mind, always.” Candace looked around the room. “Now, in New York, I’ll be talking about how we’re going to incorporate our designs in an interactive tab on our website.”

“So a woman can narrow her choices to the most attractive ones online,” said Heather.

“But,” said Candace, “as I’m sure you know, Lands’ End does this, at least their version of it. We’re going to do it better. How can we do that?” Her eyes swept the room.

“Lands’ End only sells online and via catalogue,” said Lucy. “If our customer doesn’t want to order online, she can make an appointment to have her choices ready to try on at the nearest Saks, Neiman’s, or Nordstrom.”

“I like it,” said Candace. “Paula, get with Amanda to discuss the idea, not just at those three retailers, but at all of our stores.”

“Done,” said Paula.

“So here’s what I need from the rest of you,” said Candace. “All possible body types and sizes. Design matches for each. Drawings, in color. Front and back. Accessible on our internal system for my review.”

The group sat motionless.

“Now,” said Candace.

In ten seconds, she was alone in the room. Half an hour from now, she had a meeting scheduled with the company’s IT group, led by Erin. Ginger, the company’s chief operating officer (COO), would also attend. The agenda included a discussion of the new website capabilities and a review of an update to the internal system.

Candace checked her email and opened a message sent this morning from Monty with photos of Adele attached, but no text. He had no shame. Candace clicked through the fifteen shots of Adele taken last month at a friend’s birthday party. That little girl was incredibly photogenic—it was as if she had been created to be photographed. Her blonde ringlet curls framed a doll-like face with sparkling blue eyes and an irresistible smile. In the few photos taken with Helen, it was unmistakable: Adele looked nothing like her mother. Her coloring, even her little turned-up nose resembled the Carawans, not the Pipers. Specifically, Adele looked like her grandmother, Susannah Carawan.

Candace closed her eyes. What would her mother look like if she were alive today? She’d be in her early sixties and probably still very attractive. Dying so violently at age forty-one, two years older than Candace was now, Susannah’s life had been cut way too short. Three months before her nineteenth birthday, Candace’s world had changed forever.

She had been driving the car that rainy August afternoon, speeding along a divided road somewhere in north Georgia. Susannah was next to her, in the passenger seat, and Monty, a senior in high school, was sprawled in the back. Remembering those few seconds over two decades later, Candace shuddered, then exhaled. The air-like feeling as the vehicle hydroplaned when Candace swerved while turning left. The sudden hard splash of water slapping the windshield. The incredible force of a pickup truck ramming the car and propelling it toward a tree. Glass shattering and peppering Susannah’s face. Her blood splattering everywhere. Her skull cracking, bits of her brain oozing through. The crunch of her bones against Candace’s right side.

With no seat belt on, Monty had been thrown against the opposite side of the backseat, banging his head but not losing consciousness. Candace hadn’t been injured, just bruised; in those moments right after the crash, she had gone crazy. Her heart beat a thousand times a minute as she held her mother against her, trying to stop the blood, talking to her, crying, the rain coming down in buckets outside. Monty lay motionless behind them, in shock. The few minutes before help arrived had seemed like hours. Unhurt, the other driver had hurried over to Candace’s side, standing outside the door in the pounding rain, trying in vain to reassure her that her mother would be all right.

Why am I reliving it? It won’t solve anything. There will never be a way to fix it.
It was why Candace always kept mind and body busy, why she worked so hard and kept her pace going, no matter what. So she wouldn’t have time for her emotions.

She scanned through more email messages, deleting some, then opened and skimmed through a document from Ginger about the system update. Ginger had been with SlimZ for four years and was hardworking and very good at her job. Like Helen, she had grown up in Chicago.

Candace couldn’t fathom her brother’s marriage. She didn’t know Helen very well, having only seen her a few times. Now things between her and Helen were strained at best. She had tried to reach out to her sister-in-law a few years ago, just after Helen and Monty were married and Adele was a baby. But Helen had always been distant and somewhat aloof. She was a real Midwesterner, focused within her own box and very buttoned-up. Her own parents had divorced when she was a child, and she never mentioned her absent father; her mother had remarried and lived in California.

Helen had moved to Atlanta to work at an investment firm, and she made decent money. Which was imperative, since she was the family’s breadwinner. How was she able to deal with their current situation? Was she just in denial? She was equally liable with Monty on the mortgage, the notes to Candace, and the home equity loan from the bank that Candace had foolishly cosigned.

Candace stretched both arms back behind her, releasing tension. Her phone vibrated. It was Rob.

“Darling,” he said. “Having a productive day?”

“Fairly. Are you leaving for New York tonight or tomorrow?”

“In the morning, early.”

“Marvelous.” Candace focused on the screen in front of her, wading through company email. “I think the cleaning lady came today. I should be home around seven.”

“I can’t wait to unmake the bed.”

Candace smiled. “There’s another reason I’m glad you’re here another night. We need to talk about this decision to marry. There are things we need to discuss.”

“Whatever you like,” he said. “I’m open to negotiation. I presume we’ll be doing a lot of that in the coming years. I’ll bring champagne.”

Candace loved champagne. “You’re so thoughtful, Rob. But you worry me a bit.”

He laughed. “You worry
me
a
lot
. However, it’s one of your charms.”

5

Due

F
ive weeks later, on a brisk Thursday morning, Monty refilled his coffee mug and headed back to his computer desk. Relishing the solitude, he sat down and pulled up Adam Langford’s last email. Initially, Langford had responded positively to Monty’s invitation to meet for a drink and talk about investing in personalassistant.com. At the last minute, however, he had reneged, claiming urgent family business.

Monty judged that more than enough time had passed to reestablish contact. He would have to take his time composing an email; it had to be specific, but succinct. Rather than just a reminder of what they had discussed previously, the wording had to be that of the presumptive sale, as though it was a given that Langford was fully on board.

Monty stretched his arms behind him, then began to type up a response. He reread it over and over, tweaking the wording. Twenty minutes later, he felt satisfied with the message and sent it. He’d give the guy until Monday to respond before he would call him. Meanwhile, he would work on developing his brainchild of an idea, using the time to put his creative genius and sharp intellect to work. Let inspiration flow. Monty needed the distraction, anyway, in part to block out the very unwelcome news Helen had given him last night.

Although they had screwed only a handful of times during the last few months, she was pregnant. He remembered at least once or twice when Adele had fallen asleep in front of the big TV and they’d locked the bedroom door. Helen used a diaphragm, and until now it had worked fine. A few years back, when they had conceived Adele, he’d thought (and told her) that he was sterile. He’d had chlamydia back when he was in his twenties, and though he had been treated for it, the doctor had advised him that since he hadn’t had symptoms for a long time—typical for men—his fertility was likely permanently impaired.

However, last night after Adele was fast asleep in the bedroom, Helen blurted out that her period was a few weeks late. Then she disappeared into the bathroom to do a pregnancy test. When he heard her gasp, he knew. Apparently this kid was scheduled to arrive in late November, around Thanksgiving. Once Helen got in to see her ob-gyn and had a sonogram, they’d know the actual due date and could find out the sex.

They didn’t need another kid right now, but Monty wasn’t too worried about the added expense. Helen would have to figure out how to pay double for day care and all the other costs. But that meant less money would be available to him. Still, there was a potential silver lining. Knowing she was going to have another niece or a nephew could weaken Candace enough to gift them some money again. Maybe she’d even consider forgiving all their debts and paying off the bank loans, like she ought to do. Monty needed more funds to finish the house, to do it right.

Afterward, they needed to live in the house indefinitely, rather than trying to sell it in a crumbling market. He would soon be the head of a family of four, and his family ought to live in a choice neighborhood. Arcadia Lane was located in such a neighborhood. It was in the heart of one of the city’s most exclusive areas, where kids went to private schools and families vacationed regularly in Europe. It was the neighborhood where Monty
should
live, where his family belonged.

His sister was a multimillionaire and she thought nothing of dropping ten thousand or more over a weekend—this, he had witnessed in the past. He decided to waste no more time before calling to tell her a new baby was on the way. He dialed her number, got her voicemail, and cursed under his breath. Why couldn’t that bitch ever answer his phone calls? He cleared his throat before speaking.

“Hey, Candace,” he said after the beep. “Wanted you to be the first to know our big news! Helen’s pregnant! We’re looking at late November. Give me a call.”

If she didn’t call back today, she really
was
a bitch, and if she did call and mentioned the house, money, or a job, he’d hang up. His life and his decisions were none of her business.

His laptop dinged, signaling a new email in his inbox.

From: Adam Langford

Sent: Thursday, April 15, 2010 8:57 AM EST

To: Monty Carawan

Subject: website venture

Monty,

Thanks for your proposal regarding funding for personalassistant.com. Unfortunately, I don’t believe it would be a fit for me. Have you examined all the security ramifications and implications of such an idea? I dare say that if this type of all-inclusive website could have been done, it would have been by now.

Good luck on any future endeavors and give your sister my best.

Adam Langford

Monty slammed his fist against the wall, jarring the shaky table.
“I dare say”? What a fucking jackass.

Of course it wouldn’t have already been done—no one else had come up with it. Of course he had thought of security issues, and knew how to deal with all of them. How could this jerk cut him down so smugly? Apparently, the guy had skimmed Monty’s email and written right back without giving it any thought. He was an arrogant asshole and didn’t deserve any more of Monty’s time, at least not right now.

Monty stood and grabbed his keys. He needed to get out of here and clear his mind.

Helen Carawan examined her reflection in the ladies’ room as she reapplied her lipstick. Leaning close to the mirror, she noticed that her eyes were red, her brows needed attention, and her cheeks looked hollow. She fluffed up her hair, then stepped back and turned to the side to regard her profile and sighed. Thank God she wasn’t showing yet. Her waistline had thickened a little, though, and a baby bump would start to protrude soon, probably sooner than it had with Adele. Three years ago, she hadn’t had any morning sickness, but this time she felt queasy almost nonstop. At least none of her coworkers had been in the bathroom to hear her vomit. She wanted no one at Vreden Management to know she was pregnant, not yet.

The only person Helen had told so far was her husband. After their terse conversation last night, she had wanted to call Dawn, but had been so depressed that she just couldn’t—especially since Dawn and Frank had been going through infertility for some time. Dawn was thirty-six, two years older than Helen, and had been married to Frank for ten years. Soon after tying the knot, they’d started trying to have a baby, but a year later, Dawn was diagnosed with endometriosis. When Helen found herself pregnant so fast after she and Monty began seeing each other, it had been a little awkward. Dawn was supportive as ever, though, no matter what was going on in her own life. But she wouldn’t allow Helen to feel sorry for herself.

Strength—that was what Dawn was for her younger sister, particularly during these last few years. While Dawn had suffered physically and emotionally with infertility, she had continued to be there for Helen, coming down from Chicago when Adele was born. Dawn had never liked Monty—she’d seen right through him when Helen could not. Frank and Dawn were still very much in love and had a fantastic marriage, and Helen envied their relationship. She dialed her sister’s number.

“Helen,” said Dawn. “How are you?”

Helen swallowed the lump in her throat and spoke in a low tone. “Pregnant.”

A second or two passed. “That’s great. Really it is—”

“I found out late last night—I think I’m about eight weeks. I’m going to call my doctor this morning to make an appointment.”

“Okay, I know you weren’t planning this. But it’s going to work out.”

Helen felt her eyes welling up. “I guess it’ll have to.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Crappy. Throwing up—every day. Tired. Cranky. Upset.”

“So, I guess you told Monty.”

“Of course.”

“Have you told Adele? Or anyone else?”

“No. I’ve got to process this first.”

“I understand. I won’t tell Frank. But you’ll tell me when I can?”

Helen glanced around to make sure no one was looking at her and then leaned on her desk. “Oh, Dawn! What am I gonna do? I have hardly any sick days left this year, and this fall I’ll be out on maternity. Plus, I’ve heard rumors of layoffs around here for weeks.” Vreden was a real estate investment trust company, one of several REITs forced to contract in the collapsing market.

“Rumors are just rumors. I know they’re hard to deal with. You’re a good worker, though, and you’ve been at the company for years.”

“I’m not indispensable. What I do doesn’t contribute to the bottom line. All I do is make brochures and write copy for the website. A bunch of people have already quit and found new jobs.”

“Okay, look. I know from what I see every day, things are tough. Companies are downsizing. CEOs and top management employees are worried about their investments,” said Dawn. She was a private wealth advisor at a financial services company. “But you’re the most experienced and the most talented in your area. You’re the kind of person they’ll keep. You’re going to survive, I know you are. Instead of worrying about your job, what you have to focus on is the baby. And yourself.”

“I know.”

“You’re strong, Helen. The thing is, and I know you don’t want to hear this, but Monty has to get a job. Any job.”

“But he works on the house every day—”

“Fuck the house. He needs to bring in some income, and you need to see his paycheck. Things have changed now, Helen, and you’ve got to talk to him about it. Confront him.”

Helen shifted in her chair. “I know I do. No matter how angry he gets or what he does.”

“You’re not afraid of him, are you? Please tell me you have no reason to be.”

“Dawn. I’m not. But when he loses his temper, that ends any discussion. He walks away.”
After breaking something.

“You cannot let him walk away. You have to deal with this. He has to make some money—he has to help you support your family. This thing with the house is an excuse. You said yourself that even when Candace lends you guys more money, nothing ever changes on the house. You need to find out what he’s doing with that money—money that you owe her, too.”

Helen leaned farther down and rested her elbows on her desk. “I don’t know how I’m going to do that. He’ll accuse me of not trusting him—of doubting him.”

“Let him accuse you. You shouldn’t trust him—you can’t anymore, and I wish you never had. You cannot let him keep on bullying you. You’re the one with the job—you make a good salary. You have the power. Use it. Open a bank account in your own name. Give him an ultimatum. Tell him he’s off your dime unless A, he brings you in on all the financials on the house immediately, and B, he gets a fucking job.”

“You make it sound easy. First of all, no one would even hire him. His work record is spotty.”

“He can find a job. He can deliver pizzas. Work at the goddamn grocery store, a hardware store. Anything.”

“He’ll never do it.”

“He has to. Listen, I know you’re in shock that you’re pregnant. You’re upset and you feel horrible. But you need to take control of your marriage. If Monty gets off his ass and gets a job, you guys will have more money. And if you take over that renovation, get it done and get the house sold—even at a loss—your world changes.”

“If, Dawn. If. Those are big ifs.”

“Demand it, Helen. When Candace finds out about the baby—”

“I’m not telling her. Not yet,” said Helen.

“Well, when she does, and she will, she needs to demand it, too. That he work, not ‘on the house,’ but at a paying job. Not because she’s his sister, but because she’s a creditor. She’s got a ton of money invested in that house, and I’m sure she requires specifics from him on that renovation—a regular report of where the money’s going. At least I hope she does. I think you need to call her today and tell her you’re pregnant.”

“I know, but—”

“Before
he
does.”

“He may have told her already,” said Helen. “He doesn’t tell me when they talk.”

“Well, I think you need to call her yourself. I know you two aren’t close. But she’s a businesswoman, and she’s your sister-in-law. Both of you have a vested interest in accountability.”

“I don’t know if I’ll call her.”
I won’t even call Mom. She’d be absolutely no help, as usual
—
she’d be the opposite.

“I love you so much. I hate to stand by and watch what you’re going through.”

Helen saw her boss walk out of his office. “I love you, too. Listen, I gotta go. I’ll call you later.”

She put the phone down and stared at the computer screen in front of her. She couldn’t talk to anyone else right now. Her mind was too focused on her baby forming within her body, and on her altered future.

She had to think of the positives—the negatives were too upsetting. Her situation was far from ideal, but she was already a mother, and thankful for Adele. Maybe this baby was a boy, and if so, maybe that would make a difference to Monty. No matter what it was, maybe just having two children would make him a more of a partner. Maybe it could bring them together as a couple.