Go-Between

by Lisa Brackmann

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, Caitlin and her foundation. Why is it so important to you and your friends?”

  “What, you think we don’t care about a safer America?”

  No clues. Just his typical shit-eating grin.

  He raised his hand to call the waitress. “Anyway, that’s nothing you need to worry about.”

  Which in her experience meant she should worry about it, a lot.

  “When do I get paid?” she asked.

  “Your official salary’s seventy-five K annually, so expect your first check in a week or two.” He reached into the pocket of his sports coat and pulled out a sealed 5” x 8” manila envelope. “Here’s some walking-around money to get you started. Five thousand.” A little smirk.

  Five thousand was what he’d given her the first time, in Mexico.

  She tried not to shudder as she took it from him.

  “And the rest?”

  “Four payments. What the hell, I’ll make them fifty K each. That’s a little more than we agreed on, but let’s just call it a bonus. A third of your salary’s going to taxes anyway. We’ll get the first one to you in a couple of days.” He started to rise, and then added: “You might want to put some thought into how you’re gonna manage all that cash in the meantime.”

  It was true. She hadn’t considered that at all.

  “Oh, better not forget this.” He retrieved another envelope from his sports coat. Thicker than the first. Something solid inside. Gary slid the envelope across the table. “Go ahead. Open it.”

  Inside was a wallet. Her wallet. A black leather Gucci that had been a gift from Tom.

  The one she’d lost in Mexico, the night she almost died.

  “New credit cards,” Gary said, “since you cancelled the old ones. Address for those is your sister’s place in LA. But the rest of your old stuff’s there.”

  She took a quick look. Driver’s license. Auto Club. A new AMEX and Chase Visa. Pilates and yoga studio memberships. A photo of her nephew and her sister. Another of her parents.

  x x x

  Safer America’s office was in a section of Houston called River Oaks. “Close to where Caitlin lives,” Gary had said. “She doesn’t like having to go far when she comes into the office.”

  The office was across the street from a mall topped by condos. The anchor store there was a place called Tootsie’s. “Oh, yeah, that’s where all the rich ladies shop,” the cab driver told her. Michelle had never heard of the store. She made a note on her iPhone to check it out. She needed to figure out how things worked here, in Houston, what the landscape was like, what the different neighborhoods meant. She’d known all that stuff in Los Angeles, but this wasn’t Los Angeles.

  She paid the driver and got out. Stood on the sidewalk and immediately started to sweat in the dead heat of the afternoon. Stared up at the innocuous office building in front of her, where Safer America was.

  She’d worn her black Armani suit, which she’d brought in case she’d needed to go to court. She didn’t have many nice things like this any more. A little black dress for parties, a couple of decent sweaters and blouses, a few good skirts and pairs of slacks. She mostly wore jeans and cardigans. Long-sleeved Tshirts. Sweats. Even thermals.

  Sweat trickled down her back. If I get the job, I’m going to need to buy some new clothes, she thought briefly. Hardly any of her Arcata wardrobe would work for Houston, especially not this time of year.

  Stupid, she told herself. Stupid to even be thinking this way. Danny was right. She shouldn’t have agreed to this. She should have called Sam, seen what he could do.

  But she didn’t know if she could trust Sam.

  I will call him, she thought. But this way, going along with Gary for now, maybe she’d bought a little more time, for her safety, and for Danny’s.

  “You come highly recommended.”

  Porter Ackermann sat behind a large walnut desk. He was middle-aged, in his late fifties, Michelle guessed, heavy, squat and immobile, like a piece of expensive furniture.

  Overall the headquarters of Safer America were as modest and unassuming as the building in which they were housed. A receptionist in a vestibule decorated with bland corporate art. A small suite of offices grouped around a short corridor. Still, there were signs of money. Porter Ackermann’s desk. Porter Ackermann’s suit.

  “That’s good to hear,” Michelle said.

  “Yes, very good, because from your résumé, well, we’ve had other candidates who on paper would seem to be better qualified.” Porter glanced at the résumé sitting on his desk, the résumé Gary had provided, and then looked up at Michelle, managing a flick of a smile. He had a pear-shaped face, with a wide jaw and heavy jowls, and kept the remains of his gray hair short.

  “I know my résumé looks a little thin,” she said. “But I’ve had a lot of experience managing the kinds of social situations that Ms. O’Connor has to deal with.”

  “So I’ve heard.” He made a show of studying her résumé. “Well, I for one weigh your references very heavily. But it really is all about the kind of personal connection you have with Caitlin.” He smiled again, an action that seemed like a mechanical arrangement of facial muscles. “Why don’t we head on over to her place and see if the two of you hit it off?”

  Porter steered his Escalade down a broad, quiet street. “River Oaks is mostly old money, in Houston terms. Oil and real estate.” He chuckled. “Of course, Houston is a relatively new city.”

  Michelle could certainly see the “money” part of the equation. The houses they passed were on the order of estates. Some of the older houses had charm, sturdy-looking American Colonials and Tudors, modest when you compared them to the newer mansions going up. Others were faux plantations. Colonials on steroids. Even a castle or two.

  She’d had a nice house in Brentwood, but nothing like these places. River Oaks rivaled Beverly Hills, and to her eye the lots and homes were bigger here. Cheaper land, probably.

  They followed the sweeping curve of the street around to the left. Out the window she saw a dog walker, a wiry Latino wearing all white, with two Dobermans pulling on a sturdy leash. She assumed he was a dog walker, anyway, and not the owner. His clothes, a short-sleeved white shirt and shorts, looked almost like a uniform. The dogs looked like guard dogs, their sleek coats showing the bunched muscle beneath.

  Other than a lone female jogger, this was the first person Michelle had seen on these streets. The whole place felt like a ghost town. An expensive, well-manicured one.

  “It seems very quiet here,” Michelle said.

  “Well, a lot of the River Oaks set like to summer in Colorado.”

  “But not Ms. O’Connor.”

  “Not Ms. O’Connor,” he agreed. “She’s a dedicated woman.”

  He turned the car into a drive blocked by a black wrought iron gate, flanked by brick columns, the entire property surrounded by a high stone wall.

  “Excuse me,” Porter said with a sigh, putting the car in neutral. He opened the door, swung his heavy body around and heaved himself out of the car.

  Michelle watched as he walked to the gate, punched a number into a code box there. There was a surveillance camera atop the column, she noted. A sign for a security company that promised an armed response beneath it.

  Well, it wasn’t too surprising that Caitlin O’Connor would be concerned with security, Michelle thought.

  By the time Porter returned to the car, he was beet red and sweating. “I’ll tell you, this weather’s almost enough to make a person believe in global warming,” he said.

  Caitlin O’Connor’s house wasn’t one of the biggest ones Michelle had seen on the drive through River Oaks. The grounds weren’t as extensive as the larger estates either. The house looked to be older, a comparatively modest two-story Colonial set back from the street by a neatly trimmed emerald lawn. Greek Revival—wasn’t that what the style was called?—with four columns flanking the entrance. A portico? It had been a long ti
me since her architectural survey class at UCLA.

  Three old oak trees shaded the house and yard. There were flower beds, a few in bloom even in the late July heat, and big shrubs that rose almost half the height of the front door, surrounded by low hedges.

  “Azaleas,” Porter explained. “They don’t look like much now, but you should see them in the spring.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Michelle said. Not to her taste, but it really was.

  Porter parked the car in the driveway, in the shade of one of the oak trees.

  A middle-aged Latina woman wearing a white shirt and white shorts answered the door. “Oh, Mr. Ackermann—how are you today?”

  She immediately stepped aside so that Porter and Michelle could enter.

  “Very well, thank you, Esperanza. Except it’s too damn hot.”

  “I think so too! Crazy, huh?”

  They stood in the foyer for a moment. Michelle had the impression of white and beige: the tiles and walls, the staircase leading up to the second floor.

  “This here’s Michelle Mason.” Porter tilted his head in Michelle’s direction. “I think Caitlin’s expecting us.”

  “She’s waiting in the Great Room,” Esperanza said.

  They followed her through the foyer and into the living room beyond.

  A beautiful room, big, twice the size of her living room in Arcata and two stories high, with plush carpet, French doors, and a wall of windows, done in different shades of white, cream and beige, with dark brown accents. That and the cool air made Michelle think suddenly of an ice cream sandwich.

  Caitlin O’Connor sat on the couch, the eggshell-colored sofa from the video that Michelle had seen.

  She rose to greet them. She wore a cream-colored, cowl-necked jersey top and slightly darker linen slacks, both pieces expensive to Michelle’s eye.

  “Hi, I’m Caitlin,” she said, extending her hand. Her blue eyes and blonde hair were the brightest colors around, but she still blended into the room.

  Michelle took her hand and clasped it briefly. “Michelle Mason.”

  Caitlin’s hand was cool. Nearly the temperature of the conditioned air. Her eyes seemed a little unfocused, Michelle thought. Or maybe she was imagining it, based on the seeds that Gary had planted.

  “So nice to meet you.” Caitlin smiled and gestured toward the couch.

  “Well, I’ll let the two of you get acquainted,” Porter said as Michelle sat. He glanced at his watch, an expensive one, though she hadn’t been able to catch the brand—Phillip Stein? “How ’bout I pick you up in, say, a half hour or so? Around four-fifteen.” He looked over at Caitlin. “That give you enough time?”

  “I think so,” she said, smile still in place. She turned to Michelle. “I’ve already heard so many good things about you.”

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it then.” Porter lifted his hand to his forehead in a mock salute. Michelle watched him walk away, almost seeming to tiptoe, a big man remaining light on his feet.

  “I’m an admirer of your work,” Michelle said, after he’d left.

  Caitlin sighed out a chuckle, lifted her shoulders a fraction. “Would you like a glass of white wine? It’s awfully damn hot out.”

  Michelle hesitated. If this was a job interview, saying yes to a glass of wine might be the wrong answer. But if Caitlin was a drinker looking for someone to drink with her, then “yes” might be what she wanted to hear.

  “Only if you’re having one,” Michelle said, smiling back. “Otherwise, water is fine.”

  “Oh, let’s open the wine. Esperanza,” Caitlin called out. “Hon, can you bring us that bottle of chardonnay in the fridge?”

  Esperanza must have been hovering within earshot. A minute or two later, she arrived with a bottle of Calera chardonnay and two glasses. As she started to open the wine, Caitlin said, “How about bringing out an ice bucket?”

  So she wanted to drink the entire bottle, Michelle thought.

  “I can open that,” she said to Esperanza.

  Esperanza handed her the corkscrew. “I’ll go get the ice.”

  A nice waiter’s corkscrew, thankfully. So many households used butterflies or Rabbits, and those just weren’t as good as a decent waiter’s corkscrew.

  She cut the foil and popped the cork. Poured Caitlin the proper-sized pour—not too much, you didn’t want it to get warm, but enough so that you could catch the nose.

  “You look like you’ve had some practice,” Caitlin said.

  “I’ve hosted a lot of parties. When they weren’t big enough to hire a bartender, I was the standin.” Michelle smiled. As artificial an expression as what Porter had given her earlier. Could Caitlin tell? “I make a great margarita.”

  She poured her own glass. A little less than what she’d poured Caitlin. Lifted it. “Cheers,” she said.

  Caitlin smiled, and raised her glass. “Cheers.”

  Michelle sipped her wine. Over oaked and heavy on the butter, but not bad.

  Esperanza returned with an ice bucket. “I’ll bring out some snacks,” she said.

  She came back a moment later with a couple of cheeses, some crackers and a small bowl of nuts.

  Caitlin cut off a corner of Brie and spread it on a cracker. Michelle took a piece of the Gouda and ate it alone.

  “I understand you lost your husband,” Caitlin said.

  Michelle wanted to laugh. She had the sudden image of having misplaced Tom, like you would your set of keys. “Yes. It’s been about two and a half years.”

  “Not so long, then.” Caitlin took a healthy swig of wine.

  With everything that had happened, it seemed like forever, but Michelle couldn’t really get into that. “It was unexpected,” she said, because that was what she’d gotten into the habit of saying.

  Caitlin made a tiny snort. “I wonder if it’s easier when you know it’s coming. Something like cancer. When you have some time to settle things. To say goodbye. What do you think?”

  How the hell was she supposed to respond to this?

  “I think it would be,” she said. “I wish I’d …” She took another sip of wine, trying to figure out what to say. She didn’t exactly want to confess all to this woman she didn’t know, whose own tragedy made hers look small by comparison.

  But Caitlin had opened the door. She obviously wanted to talk about it. Wanted to hear Michelle’s story.

  Maybe she was tired of telling her own.

  “My husband left a lot of loose ends,” Michelle finally said. “It was … it was a real mess. His business … well, things were really bad. He made a lot of mistakes. And all I can think of was … that he was too embarrassed to tell me about it.” Her turn for a minimal shrug. “I wish I’d known. I wish we’d had a chance to talk about it. Not because I could have fixed it for him, just so that …”

  She didn’t have to fake the wave of emotion that closed her throat. “After he died, I finally just took off,” she said. “Left the mess behind and traveled for a while. It wasn’t the most mature thing to do, I guess.” She looked up. Met Caitlin’s eyes. Her somewhat distant gaze. “But now it’s time for me to be a grownup. To get to work.” She smiled.

  “So here you are.”

  “If you think it’s a good fit. This is about what you need.”

  Caitlin poured herself more wine. “Well, I need someone to keep me on track, basically. Manage my appointments. Book my travel. Make sure I get places on time. Tell me who it is I’m seeing and why they’re important. There’ll be some event planning involved, most likely.”

  All work that Michelle had done before, during her ten-year marriage to Tom (all those parties and fundraisers), her stint as “associate director” of the photo gallery before that (when a wealthy collector or artist came in the door, you’d better know who it was), the clerical and admin jobs she’d had during and just after college.

  She nodded. “Those are things I have experience doing.”

  “Also …” Caitlin hesitated. “I don’t know how you�
��d feel about this.” She chuckled in a way that sounded almost embarrassed. “Porter tells me you … well, that you like going to the gym and doing yoga and that sort of thing.” She waited for Michelle’s nod. “I guess I could use more of that. Everyone tells me I should. I just haven’t … I’m not very motivated, I guess. And it’s tough with my schedule, sometimes.”

  “Well, I’m not a trainer, or anything. But if you want a workout partner, I’d be happy to do that. It would help keep me on track too.”

  Nothing you can’t handle.

  “Good.” Caitlin smiled. Her eyes seemed to brighten. “There’s times when you know you should make some changes. You just need a little push.”

  “You and Caitlin seemed to be having a nice sit-down,” Porter said, as they walked down the drive to his Escalade.

  “I hope so. I really enjoyed meeting her.”

  According to Gary, she already had this job. Porter had acted as though she’d needed to at least pass the test with Caitlin. Michelle thought that she’d passed, but she couldn’t be sure.

  “Where can I drop you?” Porter asked.

  Michelle hesitated.

  She assumed that Porter knew Gary. That it had been Gary’s “recommendation” that had gotten her this far. But there could be a layer between Gary and Porter for all she knew.

  Better to not make the assumption, at least not yet.

  “I guess that depends,” she said. “If you think I’m a good match for the position, then how about the Galleria?”

  “The Galleria?”

  “I’ll need some new clothes for this weather.” She smiled at him. “If not, my hotel’s fine.”

  Porter grinned back. It might have been sincere. “Well, I’ll have to run it by Caitlin first. But why don’t I go ahead and take you to the Galleria? You can try on a few things. See what you think about the fit.”

  Chapter Seven

  She bought a couple of pieces at Neiman Marcus: a fitted shirtdress and a jacket by Burberry Brit, two simple silk tees from Eileen Fisher and two pairs of Stella McCartney slacks. A black leather Cole Haan tote with a padded laptop pocket. Things that were stylish but not flashy. She’d need another suit, but she wasn’t going to spend that kind of money until she knew she’d gotten the job.