Getting It Right

by Karen E. Osborne

  "You met at a party, right?" She'd heard this part a dozen

  times or more. "Your friend Sheila introduced you," she prompted. What she wanted to hear was how they went from a Cinderella story to War of the Roses.

  "Correct. Sheila and I were at a party of a friend, when this handsome, smooth-talking man with smoldering violet eyes walked right up to us. I knew right away he was old money." Judy chuckled. "He spent the whole evening wooing me. Mother was beside herself when I told her. This was what she had dreamed for me, a man like your father. I have to admit," she added with a wistful tone, "he was what I had dreamed for me as well."

  Alex could tell this part of the tale verbatim. It often came up after a tirade against Worth, after a terrible night when he didn't come home. Alex would sit and listen as her mother recounted the night they met, the courtship; the wedding—paid almost entirely by the Lawrences—cost fifty thousand dollars, which was amazing back in the day.

  "It wasn't just the money," her mother continued. "It was also the power. He made things happen. Important people listened when he spoke, as young as he was, and even older people paid attention." Judy took out a tissue from her purse and pulled at her nose. "He was good to me at first."

  This was the point in the story where she usually stopped. "What happened?" Alex twisted around. "Why did things change?"

  Judy's tone became matter-of-fact: "Who knows? . . . Work, travel, kids, and your father's legendary lack of self-

  control." She waved her hand for Alex to start driving again. "I'm hungry. Where are we going?"

  Alex eased out of her parking spot and searched for another open restaurant. She knew her mother didn't want to discuss it anymore, but Alex wasn't satisfied.

  "Did it happen slowly, or did something big happen?"

  "Well, if you must know the truth, it was his terrible upbringing."

  "He was abused or something?"

  "Don't be stupid. No, his parents spoiled him and Peggy . . . Thrice-married Peggy, now there's a story. First the Spanish accountant—well, really, that had no chance, nor should it have. And then she married the backwater jazz musician who was as bad as the blacks he consorted with. Sorry, I forgot, I'm not allowed to say things like that."

  Alex dropped her head forward with a silent sigh.

  "Her last marriage lasted less than a minute—a personal trainer of all things." Her mother threw up her hands. "Anyway, it just happened."

  "How? Tell me."

  "Your father is self-centered, if you haven't noticed. What do you want to hear? That I did something terrible and sent him into other women's arms? Well, I didn't. I tried to be a good wife."

  It was clear her mother was not going to provide any real insight. She never did. Maybe she herself didn't know what happened nor did she understand the roles they had each played in the withering of their marriage. Just ahead, Alex saw another diner and pulled into the parking lot. The two women sat for several minutes in silence.

  "Men are like that, Alex. You'll see if you haven't already. They just are."

  * * *

  They lucked out. The young woman who seated them was solicitous. Once they settled in, Alex decided to try one more question she'd always been afraid to ask.

  "Mom, why did you stay with Daddy after he started fooling around? Why didn't you pack us up and leave?"

  With clear eyes, her mother leveled her gaze on Alex. "Your father loved me. He still does." Her hands fluttered in the air. "Men are weak and rich men are the worst. Besides, divorced women, like unmarried women, die bitter and lonely." She wagged a finger in Alex's direction. "So you be careful, young lady. You're not so young anymore."

  "I take care of myself."

  "If your father dies—when he does, someday—each of you girls will get a bundle."

  "I don't need it. I'm making my own way." Was that true? Sean certainly thought she was just playing at being a struggling business owner until her inheritance came in, a loan a mere request away. She replayed her mother's words in her head. The explanation didn't make sense. Did he really love her? Was that enough? All the anger, suicide attempts—it just didn't add up. Hoping her mother would say more, Alex stayed quiet.

  Finally, her voice as low as it was when she was talking to Aunt Peggy about private things, her mother asked, "Have you ever been in love, Alex? Crazy in love with a man who made it hard to breath every time he touched you?"

  Alex only had to think about it for a fraction of a second. "No."

  "It's a funny thing . . . I loved him so much, I believed he would change." She looked at her daughter with moist eyes. "After he got that woman pregnant, he swore to me never again."

  "Did he stop?"

  "Of course not."

  "Did he honor his promise for a while, at least?"

  Judy shrugged. "Besides, where would I go? The trick is to find someone who'll provide for you, someone who'll be there when you get old."

  "I don't believe that." Alex lifted the menu and pretended to read it. Like her sisters, she never let men stick around long enough to fall in love. There was no way she would ever put up with the life her mother had chosen. If she didn't find someone who wanted to be with her and only her, then she would stay single. She didn't need a man to fulfill her. Her mother was wrong—it was better to be alone than to be unhappy with someone who didn't love you enough.

  * * *

  They ate their breakfast in relative silence, occasionally making comments about the quality of the food, her mother pronouncing it passable. Then Alex drove Judy home and tucked her behind her electric gates. Before going to her own home, Alex swung by the office and put in a few hours on the Frankel job. By the time she closed up shop, she was pooped. All she wanted to do was watch mindless television, wash her hair, soak in the tub, and turn in early.

  After parking the Jeep, she walked toward the lobby, her head down, keys clicking in rhythm with each step. When she reached her door she saw Sean in front of her, his hands deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched, a wool cap pulled low over his ears. His handlebar mustache glistened in the fluorescent light.

  "What's wrong? I just spent three hours catching up at work and I got a lot done last night. Has Jonas called again?"

  "No, no." He sounded flustered. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry, and to let you know I'll take care of everything at the office."

  "Oh."

  "I know you're under a lot of pressure with your dad and all. I should have been more understanding . . ." His voice trailed off.

  "It's okay." She reached out her hand and touched his. "I know I haven't been holding up my end."

  He grasped her hand. "No, I've been a jerk. Listen, I wanted to let you know that you should do what you need to do, and I'll take care of everything else. So, things are a little tight. We've been through worse."

  "Thanks, Sean." As much as she appreciated the effort, she was bone tired and needed to end this conversation. "It would mean a lot to me if I could take a few days off to help my family."

  "Sure, stay home and tend to stuff. When you're ready, when you can . . ." His voice trailed off again.

  She unlocked the door. "Did you want to come up for a cup of coffee?" She hoped he'd say no but felt guilty.

  "Don't want to bother you." He moved away from the front door. "Let me know when you're ready to come back." Then, in typical Sean fashion, mustache moving up and down as he spoke, "When might that be, you coming back when you can?"

  Alex was almost amused, Sean never knew when to stop talking. "A couple of days. I've practically finished the Frankel project and emptied my e-mail inbox." She was too tired to placate him more than that, and he must have sensed her exhaustion because he said goodbye.

  It was clear—if she were honest, it had always been since the day they met—that Sean loved her. Would he make a devoted husband, the kind Alex dreamed about when she let herself think about it? Didn't she need to love him back? Didn't he need to love her even more than he appeared to?


  Alex walked to the elevator and pushed the button. Her mother's words came back to her as she rode up to her apartment: Have you ever been in love, Alex? Crazy in love with a man who made it hard to breathe every time he touched you?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  In spite of only a few hours of sleep, Kara woke up early Monday morning: today was the day. The FBI agents had said she had until midnight to make a decision about helping them trap Zach. She needed a plan, but it was hard to think. All night memories kept flooding back, sometimes in flashbacks, sometimes just in feelings and aches in her body. She covered her face with the bedcovers and cried out, "Stop!" to her empty room, to the recesses of her brain—it didn't work. The minute she closed her eyes, slices of memory, the fragments of sexual violence, came to her.

  Tuesday's accusation still stung. It was unfair. What could Kara have done? It was true that she was the oldest, they all ran to her whenever Big Jim was swinging his belt at them, his wife included. Kara would scoot the other kids under her bed and hold both of them close.

  A sob caught in her throat.

  It was six thirty a.m. "Get up," Kara said aloud. Her body didn't respond. She closed her eyes for a second and then tried again. This time, the internal message worked. First, she sat up, and then with effort swung her legs over the side. She shuffled to the bathroom and washed up. Feeling better, she dragged on jeans and a sweater, dabbed makeup over the bruise on her cheek. Red capillaries spread out from the amber irises of her eyes. A few drops of Visine helped.

  She decided to call in sick, something she hadn't done since a year ago February when she had contracted the flu. It didn't feel like a lie when she called her friend Joyce, the school receptionist, at home. She felt crappy enough physically and emotionally to qualify as too sick to work.

  "Do you want me to drop by later, bring you some soup or something?" Joyce asked.

  Kara declined. She didn't intend to stay home. Even though she still had no idea how she was going to get out of her trouble with the FBI, she knew she had to see her caseworker, Liz Kennelly. Had Liz known about the sexual abuse when she removed all three of the kids from the Smyth home? Had Big Jim hurt Flyer as well? Did Liz have all three of them examined? Did Liz—or anyone—do something to keep Big Jim from hurting other children?

  * * *

  "Where are you off to, missy?" Mrs. Edgecombe watched Kara finish her tea and toast in a matter of minutes. Still in her bathrobe, her white braids hung down to her waist.

  "I'm coming down with something so I'm going to the doctor instead of work." She hated to lie to Mrs. E.—she hated to lie, period, but it seemed she was doing a lot of it lately. "I'll be back soon." She coughed for added effect. "I had a rough night." At least that was the truth.

  "Is that why you fainted and hit your face? You've got the flu or something?"

  "Could be."

  Mrs. E. reached over and stroked Kara's arm. "There must be something going around."

  "How are you?"

  "Phish."

  "I'm glad."

  "I heard they caught the guy who killed that little boy. Did Danny tell you?"

  "Barry White?"

  "Was that his name? You knew him, right?"

  "Was it someone from the neighborhood?"

  "No, an outsider." She picked up their plates and balanced them on a tray across her lap. "Just as things were getting so much better around here, safer for sure, something like this happens."

  Kara's life had always been like that: two steps forward, three steps back. Something bad lurked around the corner, no matter how well things were going.

  "Danny thinks the neighborhood is still pretty safe."

  "And murder can happen anywhere," Kara added.

  "Does."

  "Did your grandniece's parents, your sister, live here with you?" Kara remembered Mrs. E.'s story about her family.

  "We shared the house."

  "And she died? How?"

  "Car crash. A drunk driver, upstate."

  "I'm sorry."

  Another phish sound. "Me too."

  "How old was their daughter, your grandniece?"

  "Same age as that little boy, ten."

  "You're a good woman, Mrs. E."

  The old woman looked embarrassed. "So, you're off to the doctors. I'll have some chicken soup waiting for you when you get home."

  Everyone was entitled to secrets.

  * * *

  Kara stepped into the hall that connected her three rooms. She planned to brush her teeth, retrieve her coat, and take the subway south to see Liz. Then her phone rang.

  "It's me, Zach."

  "What do you want?"

  "We need to talk."

  She let the coldness she felt toward him reflect in her voice: "Were you able to straighten things out?"

  "No, not yet, that's why I need to see you."

  Kara stayed quiet. If he had an explanation, a real one this time, she would listen.

  "I'm sorry you got caught in the middle of this, baby. I really am."

  Still, she waited.

  "Are you there?"

  "Yes." She sat down on the edge of her bed, opened and closed her fist, her fingernails digging into her palms with each flex. "So, what do you want to tell me?"

  "I've got a plan, and I need your help."

  He sounded like the old Zach, his tone kind and loving. But Kara knew she had to be strong.

  "It seems the SEC might be investigating me—nothing serious."

  "Sounds serious."

  "They're always investigating traders. In fact, I don't know one guy on the Street who hasn't been a target at some point in his career."

  "Really?" She switched the phone to her other ear.

  Her response must have sounded skeptical because Zach's tone took on an edge. "They investigated my friend Chris three times and he's super clean. Sometimes they do it themselves, and sometimes they use the FBI."

  "When they think it's something big?" Marty jumped on the bed next to her and Kara stroked his fur.

  "They should be going after the money-grabbing bigwigs."

  "So, why go after you?"

  "They shouldn't harass innocent citizens."

  "Okay, but why you?"

  "I think maybe it's the FBI following you. They're at the investigative stage, casting their net."

  Finally, the truth. "What are you going to do?"

  "Have they approached you? You need to tell me."

  Despite Agent Boyd's threats, she was tempted to tell Zach everything. How could he clear them both if he didn't have all the facts? To ease some of the tension she felt, Kara held the phone in her left hand and rubbed her left shoulder muscles, which were tight and bunched. She pressed harder and tried to think. What would Zach do if she told him about the FBI? He said he had a plan. He must have a team of corporate lawyers who take care of things like this. Would his lawyers also help her? She stood up, switched hands again. All her instincts told her to be honest with him, but still she hesitated.

  "Kara, have they threatened you? Because if they have, they have no right. They have nothing on us—nothing." His words flew at her. "They use scare tactics to get people to turn on each other. When people stick together, the feds come up empty."

  She noticed his use of the word us and began pacing around her bedroom. "I don't know anything, and I didn't do anything."

  "Of course not, you're innocent. We both are."

  Who could she trust? Not Zach.

  "Too bad that won't stop them from making our lives miserable. Kara, you have to level with me. Have you spoken with them?"

  "No."

  An audible sigh came over the line.

  "What if they do approach me? What should I say?"

  "Be up front. Tell them you delivered an envelope, and before handing it over you examined the contents. Tell them it was a contract about insurance for Sam to sign. That's what Sam does, he provides all kinds of corporate insurance."

  Kara realized she was holdin
g her breath. She let it out as quietly as she could.

  "You saw Sam open the envelope, watched him sign it, and you returned the envelope to me. I have a signed and dated copy as proof." Then, as an afterthought: "This will protect you too."

  There it was, beyond a reasonable doubt. He was guilty. He had done everything the FBI said, and he wanted her to lie to them. Then she would be an accomplice. "I have a lawyer," she whispered.

  Zach's response was explosive: "A lawyer?"

  "I have to go."

  "So, they did get to you."

  She deserved the accusatory tone.

  "When did you get a lawyer? They only get in the way, Kara." Now he quickly changed up his tactic: "Sweetheart, let's meet and talk this over. Poor baby, this has to be so hard for you."

  "I'm hanging up now, Zach."

  "Don't—"

  "Goodbye." She clicked the red symbol on her smartphone.

  The pain in her neck and shoulders was getting worse. She could barely turn her head right or left. With effort, she walked to the bathroom and downed three Motrin with shaking hands. Breathe. It only took a few minutes for the drugs to kick in. The pain began to subside, but not the hand tremors.

  "Kara, are you up there?" Mrs. E. called from the foot of the stairs. "Special Agent Boyd wants to see you. I told him you were sick."

  "I'll be right there." She glanced at her watch. It was only eight a.m. What now? Don't I have until midnight?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  When it happened, it happened quickly. One minute Alex was embroiled in a fruitless search for her father's missing daughter, and the next minute she had a Harlem address a mere cab ride away. Her good fortune had not stopped there: not only did she know how to find Kara, she also had a date with a fascinating social worker named Michael Rosen.

  The day had started out with a quick check on her dad, who was holding his own; the zapping of yesterday's coffee in the microwave, knowing it would taste like burnt dirt but downing it anyway; eating a slice of cold pizza for breakfast; looking for a social worker with the last name Kennelly.

  New York Placement, a private, not-for-profit adoption agency that worked as a subcontractor for New York City, was located on Broadway and 66th Street. Managing Supervisor Elizabeth Kennelly had time to meet with Alex. If Alex's luck held, she was the Kennelly.