Heart of the Country

by Rene Gutteridge

  “I don’t understand this at all.” His eyes searched me as though he might find the answer in my expression.

  “I know you don’t. That’s because you’re the firstborn, Jake. You’re never going to understand what it means to be second.”

  His shoulders slumped a little. “Is second so bad?” he asked, gesturing up toward the skyscraper that held our offices. “Is this so bad?”

  “No. But I have to make my own way.”

  A pause in our conversation was filled by the busyness of the street. Sounds of traffic swallowed both our heavy sighs. Streams of people filtered by without a moment’s notice of our strife.

  Then Jake said, “It’s her.”

  “No.”

  “It is. It’s her. I told you from the beginning to U-turn it right around.”

  “This was not Faith’s idea,” I said firmly.

  “You bought a rental. Do you not understand this, Luke? She’s the kind of girl you rent—not what you buy.”

  “Why are you making this about her?”

  “She is not good enough for this family. She never was. She never will be.”

  “This is not about her.”

  “Oh yes it is.” Jake spun, almost walking circles around me. “I’ll give her credit. She may be hillbilly trash, but she’s not stupid.”

  I’d never seen Jake like that. He’d never stooped so low. That morning I’d told myself to keep my cool no matter what. But I really couldn’t have predicted this. Jake was losing his mind right before my eyes.

  “She is my wife.”

  “And she knows that as long as you’re with the family, as long as we have influence, she’s in jeopardy. So she sells you garbage about standing on your own—being your own man—and the next thing you know, you actually think this is your idea.”

  “It is my idea.”

  “Right. You’ve ostracized the family that’s been nothing but good to you, taken millions from us, and handed it over to that wife of yours. Real smart.”

  I stood there on the sidewalk, watching my older brother sweat like a pig, his eyes shadowy with contempt, and all I could think of were our days as little boys on Dad’s yacht, soaking up the sun. We were close then. He was always taller, bigger, but he never pushed me around. I could tell he thought of me as his equal most of the time. It made me stand taller next to him, and I found myself listening to his advice as we got older.

  But then we both were indoctrinated into the family business. We were allowed a week off, to move back home from our universities. And then we started.

  It seemed like eons ago. I stood my ground as I pushed my foot hard into the sidewalk. “Don’t talk to me like that. Don’t talk about her like that.”

  “The truth hurts, kiddo.”

  I wanted to slap that smug look right off his face. “One year,” I growled.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “In one year I will yield more than you’ve ever done in your career.”

  “You’re burning a bridge, Luke.”

  “Watch your clients.”

  He stormed off. I turned and walked to the idling car at the curb. I got in, told Ward to take me home. I stared out the window, remembering hazy sunsets on the beach, finding clams and swording with sticks. Two bronze-skinned boys playing endlessly, until the sun hid from them.

  But Faith was my life now. I had to do anything to keep her.

  5

  FAITH

  I STOOD LOOKING at it for a long time, hardly able to tear my gaze away, though all the excitement of the New York social scene was behind me. Music thumped in my ears and conversations tickled them, but all was drowned out by this single, simple painting.

  A bump against my shoulder caused me to turn. My friend Maria grinned wildly at me, the thrill of people and power evident in her soft-brown eyes. Her hair, spectacularly elegant with shiny curls bouncing lightly around her face, was outdone only by her magnetic, gleaming smile.

  “This is amazing!” she said, managing her typically high-pitched voice. “Did you see? Graham Deveroe is here!” Her excitement faded as she looked at me. “Of course you didn’t see. You’ve been staring at this dumb painting, haven’t you?”

  “Dumb? It’s brilliant. It’s impressionistic,” I said, ignoring her skeptical eyebrows. “It’s layer upon layer of every kind of yellow under the sun.”

  “The sun? Every kid paints a sun. How hard is that? But it’s lopsided. And that’s one thing the sun is not. Lopsided.”

  “It’s not the sun. Maybe it’s the interpretation of our spirits.”

  “My spirit isn’t yellow.” She gestured toward the painting. “It’s a smiley face without the smile. My vote is actually for mustard gone wild.”

  I studied it for a moment. “It’s pure delight, imagined by the genius painter Ramsey Selles.”

  “Oh, brother. It’s a sun, reimagined by a guy who has probably also done disservices to the ocean and possibly the moon.”

  “I really wish you got art.”

  “I do. In the form of men. See that one over there? Dark haired, brooding, perfectly proportioned? I’ve had my eye on him since I walked in the door.” She wrapped her arm through mine. “Too bad you’re already married to the very rich and highly independent prince of popularity and prosperity.”

  I turned her to face the painting. “I like it. It’s striking. You wouldn’t miss it in a room, that’s for sure.”

  “You cannot buy that and put it on your wall.”

  “I think my living room would never be the same.”

  “Yes, because no one would ever visit you again.”

  “Think bold.”

  “I’ll just think taste. How’s that?”

  I wanted to admire the painting more, but I felt him in the room. I always did. He was like a magnet. I turned and he was breezing toward us. The suit jacket parted as he walked. He was wearing the tie that I bought him. I loved to watch him walk. He had a confidence that I always wished I had.

  Luke touched my arm as he flashed the smile that had probably brought him as much success as his mind for business. I still liked his touch, and I liked that he was mine.

  “Ladies.” He pecked me on the cheek and looked at Maria. “How much of my money has she spent?”

  Maria, always with a drink in one hand and an agenda in the other, as Luke put it, rolled her eyes as she sipped her martini. “It’s not your money. It’s your dignity she’s destroying.”

  “I didn’t know I had any of that left,” he said, grinning at me.

  I wrapped my arms around him. “It’s important to cherish what you have, not crave what you don’t.”

  “See that?” He pointed at me with a large gesture. “Love of my life, mother of my future babies right here.” I noticed him notice someone in the crowd. His eyes grew intense and focused. He patted Maria on the shoulder as he started to walk off. “Watch my wallet?”

  Her finger traced her glass. “Don’t look at me. Graham Deveroe is here. I’ve got better things to do.”

  “Happy hunting!” I said to Luke, then returned my attention to the painting. “He’s tracking down a two-billion-dollar pension fund for a big buy-in. The CFO is here.”

  “Nice. Close that and you’ll have a place big enough to hide that hideous painting.”

  Before long, a man with elegant movements and theatrical eyes approached us, slipping up beside me almost unnoticed. “Brilliant, isn’t it?”

  “I love it. I have to have it.”

  “Allow me to help you. Give me a moment to check on the price—”

  “No need. I’ll take it.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Carraday. Thank you.”

  “Wow, must be nice,” Maria sighed. “I must find my own Luke.”

  I glanced sideways at her. “Marriage isn’t all bliss, you know.”

  “Oh, really?”

  I grinned. “Okay, 99 percent of the time it is.”

  “I knew it. You guys are the fairy tale, aren’t you
?”

  I grabbed a drink off a passing tray. “I love that man. All the perks are worth nothing unless you have trust and love.”

  “You’re coming up on the four-year itch.”

  “It’s the seven-year itch.”

  “Not by New York socialite standards.”

  “I’m not a socialite.”

  “I know, and it drives me crazy. Embrace your role, woman!”

  I laughed. “Maria, we really must find you a rich man to cater to your every need.”

  “Believe me, I’ve tried. Your method doesn’t work for me.”

  “My method?”

  “You know, sitting at a bar looking lonely and miserable. It’s like you were catnip to his inner feline. How does that attract a guy?”

  I smiled, remembering the day I first laid eyes on him. I was at a party that Maria had dragged me to, wishing I were anywhere else, when he sat next to me at the bar. I figured I’d get the usual “Can I buy you a drink?” line, but instead he bemoaned having to be there. “You look like I feel” was his pickup line. Soon after, he managed to get me to the outdoor patio on the roof. Two hours went by in five minutes, it seemed.

  We left tonight’s party early, much to Maria’s dismay. When we got home, he poured us wine and I observed him. I couldn’t imagine we’d ever have that seven-year itch Maria talked about.

  We sat on our lavish couch, staring at the yellow painting leaning against the wall above our mantel. I could tell Luke loathed it. His face clouded over as he saw it. His mood hadn’t been good since we returned home.

  I was still engrossed in the painting when I heard the pop of a wine bottle. “Another one?” I asked as he returned to the couch.

  “This could be a three-bottle night.”

  “Did something go wrong at the party?”

  “This is good,” he said, leaning forward, pretending to engage the painting as he quickly sipped his wine.

  “Is that the California cab we bought yesterday? Luke, that was supposed to be for the party tomorrow night.”

  “Why waste it on our friends?” He grinned, and I felt a little relief. At least he still had his sense of humor.

  “You’re bad,” I said, toasting him.

  “Am I?”

  “Very.”

  I raised my glass to the painting, then sighed and put it down. “It’s too much for the living room, isn’t it?”

  “It’s horrible.”

  “Come on, let’s move it.”

  “To the trash?”

  “No,” I said, elbowing him in the ribs. “Let’s try the bedroom.”

  “Now?”

  “I can’t let you sit around and pout all night about this painting.”

  “I like pouting.”

  “I know you do,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “Come on.”

  We lifted the painting off the wall. “This is soooo heavy!” he said.

  “I told you that you should be going to the Pilates class with me.”

  “Very funny.”

  We managed it into the bedroom. Luke took down the picture that hung over the fireplace and I got the stepladder. Together we lifted it and got it hung. I adjusted it so it was perfectly straight.

  Luke kicked his shoes off and fell onto the bed. “Maybe the bathroom?”

  “Maybe your office?”

  “Okay, okay . . . I surrender.”

  I hopped onto the bed with him. “I really like this painting.”

  “I know you do. And it’s a good thing I really like you. I can live with the painting, but not without you.”

  “That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “This is the biggest sacrifice I’ve ever made for you.”

  I laughed. That man always made me laugh. We sat there on the bed for a while, both looking at it.

  “You know,” I finally said, “I think it goes better in the living room.”

  I expected a slap on the arm, but instead there was silence. I looked at him. He was staring into space.

  “Hello?”

  “What?”

  “I just made an outrageously irritating statement and you’re not returning it with an outrageously insulting comment.”

  “Sorry,” he said with a small smile. “I hate when I miss a chance to outrageously insult you.”

  I sipped carefully, trying to choose my words. “Is everything okay?” I finally asked.

  “Yeah.”

  I set my wineglass down on the bedside table and turned to him, giving him my full attention.

  He glanced at me. “What? You’ve got that serious look.”

  I gathered my courage. I’d been hearing rumors. For months now. I had ignored them. But tonight, I couldn’t do that anymore. I had been in the bathroom at the party when I’d first arrived and overheard two women talking. They never mentioned Luke, and maybe it was a stretch for me to think they were talking about him or anything to do with him. But my gut had filled with an unusual dread. “Luke, what’s a Ponzi scheme?”

  There are many great things that happen when two people get married, one of them being that they learn to read each other like a book. And I saw it flash across his face, so fast that had I blinked, I would have missed it. His eye twitched and his lips quivered and then he maintained his expression with such force that I held my breath.

  “Why do you ask?” He poured more wine even though his glass was nearly full.

  I let out a breath. “I was having lunch with Rachel Cohen, and she started—”

  “What does Rachel Cohen know about a Ponzi scheme?”

  What did Faith Carraday know about one either?

  I kept my voice even-toned. “It’s just that Howard said something to her about the Michov Brothers being Ponzi.”

  “Howard said that?” Luke’s face flushed. He set down his wineglass. “Howard is an idiot! He sells one tech venture, and suddenly he’s Warren Buffett.” He got off the bed, loosened his tie. “Tell Rachel to keep her mouth shut. Tell her that talk like that can kill a stock on the Street.”

  “I was just asking,” I said, watching him walk to the bathroom. He shut the door. “What is wrong with you?” I yelled.

  It was quiet, and a few moments later, Luke opened the door and sat next to me on the bed.

  “I was just asking.” My voice quivered and I hated it. I looked away.

  “I’m sorry.” He patted my hand. “Look, a Ponzi scheme is when a fund like ours takes the money from new investors and uses it to pay off existing investors’ returns on investments. It gives the illusion of profit when there isn’t any.”

  “Like musical chairs.”

  “Yeah. And it works great until the music stops.”

  “It’s illegal, right?”

  “Very.”

  “Luke,” I said, touching his arm. Tears rushed to my eyes just talking about it.

  “Baby, listen to me. Michov is not a Ponzi scheme.”

  “Swear?”

  “I promise.”

  I laid my head against his chest and felt his breathing. His heart was racing, but even so, I knew he was telling the truth.

  6

  LUKE

  THE AIRY, OPEN CAFÉ typically caused me to lose focus on work, which was good. Faith and I met here, often just the two of us, to get away from it all, even though the vastness of the city loomed everywhere we looked. But today, Maria wanted us to meet her new and slightly older boyfriend, Walter, who seemed to thoroughly unimpress her, so I wasn’t sure why we were here.

  “So . . . are you gonna take it?” Maria twirled her fork over a pasta and shrimp lunch, batting her false eyelashes at everyone but Walter.

  “I don’t know,” Faith sighed, glancing at me for my reaction. I just smiled, tried to seem engaged. “It’s a way bigger mortgage. But it is amazing!”

  “You have to take it!” She jabbed her fork in my direction. “You hear that, moneybags? Buy this place for your wife.”

  “And her best friend,” Faith laugh
ed.

  “Oh yeah, you know I’d be hanging out there all the time.”

  “You hang out at our current home all the time anyway,” I chided.

  “It’s her dream home,” Maria said.

  “Hey, don’t look at me. I say we do it.” I looked at my food, losing my appetite by the second. My mind was engrossed with a run-in I’d had with Jake, a run-in that was haunting me more and more.

  Walter chimed in, “Not like prices are dropping in the Village, you know?” He threw his napkin on the table. “I’ll be back.” He pecked Maria on the cheek.

  Faith whispered, “I like him.”

  “Walter? Oh, please. He’s gone as soon as he picks up this lunch.”

  The conversation continued about Maria’s inability to keep a boyfriend for more than one season, but my thoughts disappeared into a noisy benefit party where I’d run into Jake a few weeks before.

  I’d just left Faith standing before that hideous yellow painting that she’d somehow found the beauty in, and was squeezing and slipping my way through a crowd toward Mitchell Wellington. He was tall, so easy to track in the packed room. Paunchy but well dressed, except his hair shone with oil like it was on a beach trying to get a tan.

  “Hey there, little brother.” His deep voice held so much that the everyday ear would not pick up on. Arrogance. Piousness. Self-righteousness. I turned around, smiling politely, extending my hand. He shook it with a firm grip. It had been months since I’d seen him.

  “Jake, what’re you doing here?”

  He returned my smile cautiously, eyeing me pretty heavily. I remembered exactly how he looked that night, with a dark fitted suit pressed perfectly against his tall frame. He was at least four inches taller than I was, but often it felt like a foot because he had a long-reaching presence. It was part charisma, part intelligence. It boiled down to the fact that he was a likable intellectual who could speak on many different levels to many different people. He always found a common interest with a person he wanted to get to know.

  I wanted to get to know Mitchell Wellington, but Jake was standing in my way.

  “Duty calls,” he replied, stuffing a hand into his pocket, jingling some loose change. “Met a corporate pension guy down here. It was painful, believe me.” He lifted his gaze like he’d whiffed something foul. “How do you do this all the time? The loud music. The obnoxious personalities.”