“That’s shortsighted, Tanzie. Selling in this market is lunacy; everything’s under water!” Winston shouted. This was unusual for him, and I knew I had his attention.
“You asked me what I wanted and that’s what I want.”
Winston collected himself and raised his eyebrows while he shook his head. Silence and then more silence while he stared at the table in disbelief. He then raised his head. “Do it, Rick. Just do it.”
Now Winston was the one getting up to leave.
“Just one more thing, Mr. Lewis,” Stu said. “We haven’t agreed on who should take the dog, Rocky.”
Winston and I looked at each other. “He’s my dog, Tanzie. You gave him to me for Christmas. Doesn’t that mean he’s mine?” Winston looked at Rick and then Stu.
“I suppose so, Mr. Lewis,” Stu answered. “It would appear that the dog would be considered your separate property, but my understanding is that he is currently living with Mrs. Lewis.”
“Well, he can continue to until the house sells, and then he’ll come with me. No sense making him live in an apartment downtown.”
“Winston, can’t we share him? He spends more time with me … I trained him. You can take him hunting, but—”
“I’ve had enough for one day! You’re selling our assets in the worst market since ’29. A ridiculous move, in my opinion. Rocky is my dog. End of story, Tanzie.”
Winston made his exit, and Rick gathered his papers and hurried after him. I heard the elevator ding and stared at Stu, who was making himself look useful by poring over the proxy statement he had no ability to comprehend. Winston was right about selling in a down market, but it was the only way I had left to hurt him. I was the suicide bomber of our combined wealth. I took a cigarette out of my purse and began to light up.
“Mrs. Lewis, I’m afraid there’s no smoking allowed.”
I took a drag and stubbed it out on the settlement folder left behind by Rick. I gathered my things and left without another word.
During my divorce proceedings, the women at the club suggested I invest in myself: A month at La Costa, a facelift, strategic lipo, a little nip and tuck. Several of my friends had used a particular plastic surgeon in Atlanta who for $40K would restore a natural and youthful appearance to your face. The fee included private nursing at a five-star hotel in which you could stay until your scars looked more like an automobile accident than vanity. Tempting as that was, I was nervous about being off the gravy train of a steady and high income. Texas does not provide for alimony, so the settlement was it for me, and I didn’t want to risk depleting my savings too quickly.
There is no way with my entry-level salary at Bishop that I will be flying to Atlanta or San Diego anytime soon. But maybe, if I play my cards right with this fraud and get a promotion, I can feel better about putting a dent in the portfolio—only, of course, after I write NYU a check for Lulu’s tuition.
When I return to my floor, the three are still behind closed doors, so I am once again relegated to sitting tight for an indefinite period, until I notice the red light on my phone indicating I have a message. It is from my friend Beth, a recipient of one of those $40K procedures. Her message says she has been trying to reach me all morning on my cell but it just goes to voice mail, and she sounds frustrated. She says she’s sorry to call me at work and asks me to call her right away. I can tell by her voice that this isn’t a social call. I fish in my purse and plug my dead phone into the charger before calling her back on the office line, ignoring potential exposure to my cube neighbors. I reach Beth and she is in her car driving on the freeway.
“I have terrible news, Tanzie,” she says.
“Oh no, Beth, what is it? Is Grant okay?”
“He’s fine. I don’t know if you heard,” she continues. “Ken and Alice were killed in the explosion this morning. The kids too. They were visiting for Easter and stayed a couple of extra days.”
My heart sinks and I feel the tears burn down my cheeks. “But they don’t live anywhere near there,” I say, voice shaking. “What were they doing in the Galleria?”
“They sold their place in Memorial in January and bought one of those new condos. Downsizing since the boys were off at SMU.”
“Oh, Matt and Eric. I can’t believe it.”
“It’s so terrible … we felt the explosion this morning all the way out at our house. Everyone is in shock. The flames just incinerated that whole block. They’re saying fifty-two people are confirmed dead and countless more injured. That seems low when you look at all the housing in that area …”
I am finding it hard to talk. Not only is there a lack of privacy, but also I am crying so hard that I can’t get words out effectively.
“There’s going to be a service this Friday and I wanted to make sure you knew,” Beth says.
I retrieve an old tissue from my purse and blow my nose while covering the phone mouthpiece, trying to compose myself.
“Of course, I’ll come down. I’ll book a flight as soon as I get off the phone.”
“You’ll stay with us, okay? I miss you … you never call. It’ll be good to see you again, Tanzie.”
“All right. Thanks Beth, I’ll call you with the details when I get everything taken care of. Give my best to Grant.”
I hang up the phone and cradle my head in my hands. I am too shocked to think straight, but I know I need to get out of the office. I draft an email to Hal, Frank, and Moe indicating that I am not feeling well and am going home, then shut off my computer and head for the elevator. My eyes sting under my dark designer sunglasses, and I try not to bawl publicly as I walk to the garage. As I drive to the exit, I pass Mazie’s red Mercedes.
CHAPTER SIX
Once home, I pour a stiff scotch instead of the usual white wine and go to my balcony for a smoke. I had forgotten all about the explosion when I discovered the fraud, and then forgotten all about the fraud when I heard about the Mayhews. Suddenly, I do not care about who is ripping off Bishop or where my career is going or not going.
Why couldn’t I have called Alice or e-mailed or joined Facebook? Some horrible part of me must have wanted to punish her, I suppose. Why? For having a husband who adored her? For having children when I hadn’t? Had I really expected her to pick sides and not allow Ken to socialize with his best friend? The truth is that I was embarrassed that I worked out of a cube and couldn’t keep up financially with my old lifestyle. I’m sure Alice hadn’t cared, but I did. I had let jealousy and pride skew my better judgment. I knew then that I needed to make plans to get back to Houston and reconnect with the friends I had left.
I awake a little dehydrated, and my eyes are so puffy that even cucumber and Preparation H do not help. “Female problems,” I write in the e-mail, which assures me that neither Hal nor Moe and Frank will want any elaboration. As a new employee, I have not accrued time off, but they can take it out of my check; it amounts to all of $500, give or take.
I make a few calls, buy a ticket, and by 10:00 a.m. I’m on a tiny commuter plane headed for Houston. I could have easily leveled with Hal, and I am certain he would have given me the time off without pay, but I didn’t want to broadcast the connection between the Bishop explosion and my friends’ untimely deaths around the company. It seems too private to share with anyone in Tulsa just yet, particularly Hal, Moe, or Frank.
At the airport, I rent a silver beer can of a car for $26 a day and head south on Highway 59 toward the Houston skyline. Although Beth has insisted that I stay with her, I did win the point about having my own car, probably so I won’t need to interrupt her Wednesday morning golf to pick me up at the airport. I am a little surprised that Beth is on the golf course so soon after such a tragedy, but I suppose that’s how she is choosing to cope with her grief—just by continuing with her routine.
I arrive at her River Oaks home while she is still at the club and am greeted at the door by Maria, her housekeeper of twenty-five years who lives in the quarters above the garage. Maria gives me a hug and a smi
le and takes one of my bags. I follow her upstairs to the guest bedroom, where she leaves me to freshen up after the flight. Sadly, there isn’t much to freshen. A gilded mirror hangs by the bed, and I cringe at my reflection as I walk by. I wish I’d had more notice before re-encountering my swank social set. I have gained about twenty-five pounds and my hair, though better than Mazie’s, has suffered under the care of the Tulsa salons I’ve been using, trying to save a buck. It has been a tough six months for me, and it shows in my budding turkey neck and crow’s feet. I am starting to get that dumpy old lady look that will relegate me to stretchy jogging suits and oversized blouses, which is a difficult trend to reverse once it sets in. I turn away from the mirror and head downstairs, hoping to be spared from another view of my depressing reflection.
It is a beautiful spring day in Houston, so I sit in one of the cushioned patio chairs under an arbor by Beth’s pool. Maria brings me a Diet Coke, and I am finishing a game of Bedazzled Blitz on my iPhone when I hear the French door open and see a smiling Beth reaching out for a hug. Wow, she looks great, I think: Sleeveless polo shirt and not a bit of arm fat wiggling. Her legs are tanned except for her ankles and feet, which are pasty white with bright pink toenails peeking out from Ferragamo sandals.
“It’s so good to see you! I have really missed you, Tanzie.”
She sits down and lights up a cigarette, offers me one, which I accept—when in Rome—and then I listen while Beth fills me in on the details of the explosion. We reminisce about Alice and the Wednesday mornings we’d spent out at Ravenswood together. We cry and then cry some more. As we light up a third cigarette, Beth shifts the conversation, giving me an update on what’s going on at the club.
“Sandy and Van just got back from their place in Carmel last week, and Grant and I are thinking of going with them to Scotland in May. You know, St. Andrews, Royal Dornoch, Muirfield, that whole thing. Grant’s a little on the fence, though. I’m not sure he can take Van in large quantities; he can be bit overbearing. We’re seeing if we can get another couple to go with us—”
Beth catches herself. She knows full well that the other couple would have been Winston and me a few years ago.
Maria breaks the tension by appearing with a couple of salads with grilled chicken and fat-free dressing for lunch. Beth is a low-carb, low-fat gal, and I cannot argue with the results. Maybe I will lose a pound or two staying here for the next couple of days.
I can tell Beth is a little surprised by how awful I look, and she jumps at the chance to pull some strings and get me into her salon for a quick makeover. “Rachel is a miracle worker, Tanzie. She says she can fit you in if you get over there right away.”
“I’m certainly in need of a miracle. Can she do something about this?” I joke, wiggling some excess skin around my neck.
“No, but I know someone in Atlanta who can.” Beth smiles and I smile back, grabbing my purse and fishing out the gigantic rental car key chain.
I head out for my cut and color, promising to be back in time to join Beth and Grant for dinner. Despite my deep sorrow for Alice and Ken, it feels good to be home again, and I drive to the salon noticing all the changes that have happened in Houston during the six months I have been gone. Houston has no zoning, so wealthy neighborhoods abut ganglands, and high-rise office towers have sprouted right in the middle of residential areas. I remember the uproar from a number of years ago when the forty-story Marathon Oil building destroyed the privacy of the Tanglewood gentry who could no longer skinny-dip in their swimming pools without being seen by teams of petroleum engineers.
In the short time I have been in Tulsa, luxury high- and mid-rise condos have also sprung up from the West Loop all the way east to downtown, like mushrooms after a rainstorm. The salon is over by the Galleria, and the traffic on the main artery is diverted because of the explosion. I am shocked by the devastation as I pass slowly by in the stop-and-go traffic that’s typical of this area, even on a good day. I am not that close to the explosion site, but the ground is still smoldering and the rubble from the fifteen-story condo building has taken out windows and dented cars for more than half a mile in every direction. I cry all over again and watch tears blackened with mascara flecks drip onto my lap.
When I get to the salon, Rachel is running behind, and I take the opportunity to go next door to Win Win, a dress shop I had frequented over the years. Its flaming owner, Tommy Nguyen, recognizes me instantly and comes running over with his arms open.
“You look horrible, Mrs. Lewis,” he chastises. “I haven’t seen you in months.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I moved to Tulsa.”
“Whatever for?” he asks.
“It’s a long story, Tommy. I’m down here staying with Beth McAfee. Did you know Alice Mayhew was killed in the explosion? She’s shopped here a few times.”
Tommy lets out a gasp and covers his mouth.
“Her husband and children, too. It’s just the worst,” I say, shaking my head. I decide to change the subject to avoid another bout of crying. “I’m getting my hair done next door. I only have a few minutes and I know I look terrible. Any chance you can find something for me to wear?”
Tommy gives me a long hug. Once he releases me he steps back, giving me a head-to-toe review. “You have gained weight,” he says, all business. “Shame on you. But I think we can make you look good, Mrs. Lewis.”
Tommy grabs some items from the racks and calls for his brother Danny, who does the alterations.
I try on a black dress and Danny gets busy with the pins; the Ungaro slacks and blazer are next. I am horrified to see the European equivalent of a size 14 tag on the pants and even more horrified that the waistband needs to be let out a tad. “This is all I can do today,” Danny says, and he bustles out of the room.
I change back into my things, leave a credit card with Tommy, and walk back to the salon. Within minutes I am getting my nails done while I sit with folded foil packets all over my head. Rachel does indeed deliver a miracle, and just after 6 p.m. I walk out, not a new woman, but my old self plus a few pounds. Win Win is officially closed for the evening, but Tommy opens up for me and I go into the dressing room, emerging moments later in slacks and a blazer that fit perfectly. I give Tommy a kiss on the cheek and thank him for his kindness.
As I sit in the car, I realize how far I have fallen from my old life and shake my head, wondering if I will ever get it back.
I give Beth a call, and we agree to meet at the Grotto, my favorite Italian restaurant. By the time I make it to the restaurant, Beth and Grant are already seated and wave at me to come over when I enter through the bar. Grant gives me a kiss on the cheek.
“You look great!” he lies.
“You too.” I smile.
We order drinks and the discussion turns to the explosion. Grant knows I work for Bishop and treads gingerly so he doesn’t offend me with his disgust over the tragedy.
“No one is sure why it happened,” he concludes. “May have been some digging. There certainly is a lot of construction going on in that area.”
“Or it could have been their fault,” I say. “They have a culture of cutting corners. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out they used substandard piping or didn’t maintain the system properly. They seem—”
“Not a very loyal employee, are we?” Beth interrupts.
“Not these days.” I take a breadstick out of the basket, knowing I will be the only one consuming carbs tonight. It seems like the better choice over the garlic bread and focaccia. Still, Beth raises her eyebrow, so I put it down on my bread plate after taking a single bite.
“Bill Matheson is handling some of the lawsuits,” Grant says. “I know Alice’s parents have retained him. There may be others as well.”
“That’s right up his alley. He’ll do a good job,” I say, eyeing the breadstick.
“Bill’s already been interviewed on the news a few times.” Beth leans toward me and lowers her voice. “He’s such an obnoxious blowhard. I don’t k
now how Julie puts up with him.”
“That’s what makes him such a good lawyer, Beth,” Grant says, defending his pal.
“True,” I say. “But I’ll never know how all of you last for eighteen holes listening to all his baloney.”
“We’ve been friends so long, I probably just don’t notice it,” Grant says with a shrug. “Man, you girls are mean.”
Beth and I look at each other and smile. It was no secret that we didn’t like Bill and Julie. “I think I’ve uncovered a fraud,” I say, changing the topic. I give them the particulars of the Mazie caper, including the sports car and dowdy appearance.
“What are you going to do about it?” Beth asks. “Prosecute?”
“Not sure. I tried to tell my boss but I just haven’t had a chance,” I answer.
Grant is an insurance executive and begins a tale he heard about from a colleague.
“You know, years ago, my buddy over at Marsh was asked to cover a claim on a fraud down in Brazil. One of the major oil companies, not sure which one, had a posh office down there. In the president’s office hung a very expensive oil painting, a Mark Rothko, I think. During the collapse of oil prices in the mid-’80s, the office was closed, and when the painting was appraised for shipment back to the States, they discovered it was a forgery.”
“Oh no! Did they know who stole the real one?” I ask with a smile.
“They thought, but could not prove, that sometime during her employment the president’s secretary had substituted the original with a copy, and no one had noticed.”
“Can you imagine? This woman, who probably loved art, working for this Jethro who would have preferred dogs playing poker or a velvet Elvis.” Beth laughs.
“You have no idea what it is like to work for people like that,” I chime in. “I’d probably do the same thing, if I’d been clever enough to think of it.”
Revenge of the Cube Dweller Page 7
