Pot of Gold

by Judith Michael

  "You can't do that." Quentin's voice sounded desperate, and he stopped to take a breath. He felt the edge of the desk digging into his thighs; he had backed into it and was leaning against it for support. Sand dug into his feet like pieces of glass. He was still cold; even the jogging had not warmed him up. "It's illegal. We have an agreement, ninety days' notice of any change in corporate structure—"

  "That agreement is null and void. We've talked to our lawyers and there's no question about our rights and responsibilities here, as trustees. You've imperiled this company by staking its financial well-being on a product that could make us liable for a criminal investigation five minutes after you ship it. Given that information, there's no way we'd allow you to remain as president and chief executive. You can ask your lawyers about this if you care to divulge all the details of why it happened. Or they'll read about it in the papers; we've been trying to think of a way to keep it quiet, but once the State's Attorney's office has it, it's probably impossible."

  The papers. He hadn't thought of the papers. Or television, radio, magazines. He'd lose the company, and the media would gobble it up; there was nothing those bastards loved better than bringing down anyone with power and influence. He felt himself sink into the desk. A couple of half-assed memos, that was all. He'd lose the company. All his plans, his timetables, his scenarios for using the right people at the right times to increase his sphere of influence beyond the state . . . swept out. gone. He'd lose the company. No. He'd lost the company.

  Jesus Christ, how the hell did this happen!^

  "Too bad you didn't consult us at the beginning," Sam said as he opened the study door. "We could have avoided this. Thor and I don't have a lot of sympathy with fraud; in fact, we've got zilch. You knew that, of course; that's why you never told us what was going on. Too bad." The two of them walked out; Quentin watched them walk along the terrace and disappear around the corner of the house, to the front walk, to the street, to their car, to their ownership of Eiger Labs.

  Sons of bitches, he thought, but the thought was weak, like a tendril of smoke from a dying fire. It hung in the air for a moment, and then it was gone.

  The Christmas tree was still up, its ornaments dusted by Hannah that afternoon, the floor beneath it swept clean of the needles that had dropped, strings of pear-shaped lights circling its branches like glowing stars. Emma sat in an armchair beside it, looking through the arch into the dining room as everyone cleared the table and carried dishes to the dishwashers in the kitchen. "I can help," she had said, but no one would let her. "Absolutely not," Hannah said. "Another time, but not tonight. This New Year's Eve is in your honor and you're not going to do a speck of work."

  And so she was seated at the dinner table, between Claire and Alex, when all the cooking was done, and she was served all four courses—"like royalty," she said with a giggle—and then David, who had been looking at her with awe all through the meal, staggered by her beauty and romanticizing her brush with death, led her into the living room to sit beside the tree "and we'll do all the chores," he said, holding her hand as if it were made of glass.

  And that was how she looked, Alex thought, watching his son stand beside her for a moment before returning reluctantly to the dining room. Whatever Emma did, her movements were tentative and fluid, with the slow grace of a dancer. She was thin, but in a way more beautiful than ever, with a kind of fragile translucence, almost as if one could see through her. Like an angel, Alex thought fancifully, if ever there were angels. But the sadness that had been in her eyes for so many weeks was gone, and when she smiled, it was the smile of a young woman who had thought she was lost and had now found her way home.

  Emma saw him watching her and she smiled at him, remembering how she had Hked his face from the first time she saw him, and thini^ing how nice it was to have him with them now, at ease and at home, with a look on his face when he watched her mother that brought the only pang to Emma's heart that she felt that whole New Year's Eve. She sat quietly in her chair, not thinking about very much, letting the warmth and love around her gather her in. Her mind felt washed clean, almost shiny, too smooth and slippery for anything to take hold. Thoughts and images swirled in and out, nothing lasting for more than a minute. The doctor had said she should not worry about that, she'd be back to normal in a little while, but it had been Claire who was worried; Emma had not minded at all. Emma felt fine. She could think about everything, but she could not think about anything long enough for it to hurt.

  She watched everyone come in to sit near her and she smiled at them, loving them all. They didn't care whether she talked or not—and most of the time she didn't feel much like talking—they just loved her and treated her like royalty, and she loved them so much she thought she couldn't keep it all inside her: it was like the fire in the fireplace, dancing and lifting, curling all through her, warm and shining, filling her up, leaving no room for anything else.

  Now, the dinner table cleared, the dishwashers humming, the fire leaping as Alex put on another log, they all came to the living room. Hannah sat in an armchair, Claire and Alex sat on one couch, Gina and Roz on the other. David sat on the floor, at Emma's feet. In the background, the "Ode to Joy" from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony was playing on the radio.

  "Let me do the coffee," Roz said, and filled delicate china cups from a silver coffee service.

  "My turn," Gina said, stopping Hannah from getting up, and she cut Hannah's cake. It was decorated with Happy New Year in curlicues of icing, and the inside was swirls of chocolate and white—"because it's been a year of both joy and sadness," Hannah said. Gina cut the slices with a silver and ivor>' cake cutter, putting them on French dessert plates that Claire had found in a tiny, exclusive shop on Madison Avenue in New York.

  Claire looked at the exquisite china and silver, and then she looked at her beautiful, fragile daughter. The only thing that

  matters, she thought, and wondered how that could ever have been something that had to be demonstrated. For nine days she had been at Emma's side; Hannah had brought meals and the three of them had eaten together, and the rest of the time Claire stayed in Emma's room, sleeping at night on a cot she had ordered even before they came home from the hospital. During the day, when Emma slept, Claire worked on designs for a job her new company had gotten after she finished the Eiger contract; as soon as Emma woke, she put them aside, and they talked. They talked about everything that was in the past: all the years of Emma's growing up, her schools, her friends, the evenings and weekends at home when she and Claire had cooked together, played word games, listened to music, entertained friends. And they talked about Alex. "He's really in love with you," Emma said. "He keeps sort of leaning toward you, wherever you are. Are you in love with him.^"

  "Yes," Claire said.

  Emma looked at her closely. They were sitting together, Claire on the edge of the bed, Emma propped against the pillows, wearing a silk bedjacket, content to sit perfectly still; she could sit for an hour or more without making a move. But now she leaned forward and covered her mother's hand with her own thin one. "You really are. You look different. Sort of . . . shiny."

  "Shiny.?"

  "Like there's a light inside you. You know . . . happy."

  "I am," said Claire simply. "But a lot of that is because you're here and getting well."

  But that brought the conversation too close to what was wrong with Emma, and Emma would not talk about that or ask about it. If anyone began to talk about why she was sick, Emma turned her head away or talked about something else. "Are you going to marry him.?"

  "We haven't talked about it." Claire paused. "But we've talked about his coming to live here, and bringing David. How would you feel about that.?"

  "Oh. Everything would be different. Everythings changing. I said that once, a long time ago, didn't I.?"

  "Yes, you did, and good and bad things happened after that. But I think this will be wonderful, Emma. Different and wonderful."

  "You haven't loved any
body, have you? Since my father."

  "No. I thought I did, a couple of times, but it wasn't like this."

  "So you really want them to live with us.^"

  "I want to live with Alex, and it's important to him that he and David live together. So, the answer is yes. I really want this. More than anything except your getting well."

  "I might not be here anyway. I might go to college. So this way you and Hannah wouldn't be alone."

  "Hannah won't be here, either. She's going to be a sort of housemother in a poetry center her friend is building."

  "She can't! She lives with us!"

  "You mean she's ours," Claire said with a smile. "It felt like that, didn't it, ever since she came.-^ But she isn't, you know; she has her own life. And she wants to go where people need her."

  Emma shook her head. "I don't like things to change."

  "I'll always be here for you," Claire said gently. "This house will be here, and the door will always be open for you. And Alex will be part of the welcoming committee."

  "And David. How old is he, anyway.'"'

  "Fourteen."

  "Oh, Mother, boys are such a pain at fourteen. Couldn't it just be Alex.^ I like him. I've never even met David."

  "You will, on New Year's Eve. I think you'll like him. I think we'll all get along fine. He's a very nice fourteen."

  Emma thought about it. "Whose room is he going to sleep in?"

  "We haven't talked about it. I guess Hannah's. He certainly isn't going to be in here; your room stays just like this, for whenever you want to be here."

  "Well." After a moment, Emma sat back against the pillows. "I guess. But I wish Hannah wouldn't go."

  On other days, they talked about Gina and Roz, and about Roz's farm and Emma going there to ride the horses, and about what Emma wanted in the gardens around their house when it came time to plant, in the spring. They talked about college, beginning next fall; Emma wanted a place that was small, and not too far away, where she could take different courses without having to settle on any specialty right away. The idea of making

  decisions frightened her, although the doctor told her that would pass, too, after a while.

  Some evenings, Alex joined them for dinner in Emma's room, and they talked about his writing and the theater group in the Village, and about David, and Alex told stories of places he and David went on weekend excursions around New York. Emma listened, and talked briefly, in small spurts of energy, about whatever Alex or Hannah or Claire wanted to talk about, anything except Brix and Eiger Labs and the Eiger Girl. The others waited for her to bring them up, but she did not.

  "Give her plenty of time," the doctor had said. "And space. Don't crowd her. She'll deal with things in her own way, at her own pace. If she can't, she can get help from a psychologist, but I'd give her a chance to handle it herself."

  Sitting in the chair beside the Christmas tree, Emma ate her piece of New Year's Eve cake and asked for a second helping, as she had at dinner. "I'm so hungry all the time," she said, holding out her plate.

  "Well, don't apologize," said Hannah as she cut another slice. "It's about time you started appreciating my cooking."

  "Now that you're leaving," Emma said.

  "Well, you'll come and visit, and I'll cook for you."

  "But I don't want you to go," Emma said. "It's nice, the three of us; I want it to stay that way. I want you to stay."

  "It would change anyway," Alex said quietly. "We talked about that."

  Emma looked at him sideways and said nothing.

  "You remember," David said urgently. "I'm coming to live here, with you and your mom. Dad said he told you. You didn't forget. Did you.^ Or . , . don't you want me to.''"

  "No, it's all right," Emma said. "I do remember. You're a nice fourteen."

  "What does that mean.'"' David asked.

  "It means we're going to get along fine," Claire said.

  "And I won't be far away," Hannah said. "You can come for visits all the time. Things will be different, but not as different as they would be if I went really far away, to Singapore or some place like that. I did go away once, almost as far as Singapore, in fact, and my daughter was staying with my mother, and she said just

  what you said—'I don't want you to go; it's nice, the three of us; I want you to stay'—but I had to go, and then when I was gone, she missed me so much she carried on every night on the telephone. So what I did was, I sent her special packages of food and presents, lovely little dolls, lace-trimmed blouses, exotic earrings, wonderful presents, and I wrote a poem or a story to go in each package, so it was as if I were there every day, talking to her, and she wasn't so unhappy that I had to be somewhere else. You see, Emma, we can always find ways to be with people we love."

  "That's nice," Emma said dreamily. "You could write stories for me, too."

  "Well, I will. But you're coming to visit, too. As often as you want."

  As Hannah talked on about visits to New York, Claire watched her with narrowed eyes. She glanced at Alex and saw her doubts mirrored on his face. "When did that happen.''" he murmured, leaning close to her.

  "I don't know," Claire replied; it was what she had been asking herself. When, in the long series of adventures Hannah had told them about—a love affair on a cruise, and another, long one with a real estate magnate, and being a caterer and a bouncer, and losing her daughter, and traveling in Africa and teaching in St. Louis—did she go somewhere almost as far as Singapore, long enough to send her daughter special packages of food and presents, stories and poems.''

  "I don't think it happened," Claire murmured to Alex. "I think she made it up to make Emma feel better about her leaving us. She always tries to make us happy if we're unhappy."

  "Then what about the other stories.''" Alex asked.

  "I don't know. She told them with such vivid detail and such passion . . . and the death of her daughter! No one could make that up, not the way she did."

  A small smile was on Alex's lips. "But all of them had a reason."

  Slowly, Claire nodded. "She gave them to us, like special gifts, and we used them in our own ways, to help ourselves." She was still watching Hannah, whose lively, crinkled face was looking at Emma with love and laughter as she spun tales of the adventures thcv would have in New ^'ork.

  After a moment, Claire looked at Alex and smiled. "It doesn't matter whether they're true or not. I'd never ask her. Fairy godmothers do what they have to do, any way they can, and we shouldn't question them. And when their job is done, they leave, to go someplace else where they're needed. Just like Hannah."

  Alex chuckled. "I remember when you told me she was your fairy godmother. I thought it was a charming fantasy. But if anyone fits the fantasy, she does. Did you ever tell Hannah that's what you think she is.^"

  "Yes. I think it amused her. You know, when she first came to us, she said she was my cousin, and we—" Claire stopped, a small frown between her eyes.

  "Do you think she really is.^"

  "I don't know. It doesn't matter. But if it ever became an issue, I'd adopt her."

  Alex laughed. Hannah looked their way. Her bright eyes met theirs in a long look. "I love you all," she said. "There's no one in the world I love as much as I love this family. And when you come down to it, that's the only thing that counts, isn't it.^"

  "Love and health," Gina said.

  "And money," Roz added dryly. "If love and health are first, money has to be second."

  "I don't know," Claire said. "There's such a thing as too much money, I think."

  "Only when people become careless," Alex said. "The trouble with having a lot of money is that it becomes too easy to forget how tough life can be."

  "You mean that there are hungry people in the world.'"' Hannah asked. "But we never forgot that; we give money to all kinds of groups and organizations and people. Like the Mortons; I'm sure Claire told you about them. We've kept in touch with them, and their little boy's leukemia is in remission, he's getting better, and they
've even paid back some of the money."

  "I think Alex meant that it's easy to forget how people can hurt each other," said Claire.

  Her hand was in his, and Alex tightened his clasp. "They forget how hard we have to work at relationships, protecting the ones that are good for us and recognizing the ones that aren't. Given enough money, too many people begin to operate on the

  principle that money, by its weight and abundance and importance, can cure everything. If they're in a bad relationship, they can buy their way out of it. If they're in a good one, they don't have to work at it because money keeps it going."

  "But a lot of the time that's true," Roz said.

  "It didn't keep your marriage going," said Hannah.

  "Well, it doesn't always work, but you can't just say that money isn't important, because it is."

  "But important for what.^" Alex asked. "What money does best is pile up possessions. It's a little like bribing the gods; give them enough and they'll make your life rosy again."

  Roz shook her head. "Money buys freedom. You're not free if you have to spend all your time making enough money to get from one day to the next."

  "It's just a lot more fun having it than not having it," Gina said. "And I don't believe Claire ever forgot about people or relationships or anything else. I don't think she ever thought she could bribe the gods with her lottery money, either."

  "I thought our worries were over," Claire said. "I thought we weren't vulnerable. I thought we couldn't be touched."

  "Well, we know that's wrong," Hannah said. "But you wouldn't want to give all the money back, would you.'' And go back to work.''"

  "Well, you couldn't, not for the same guy," David said. "I heard about him on the news, on TV, it was in the paper, too, that guy you used to work for. Eiger.'' There was this story that he said his son—his name is Brix; it's really a creepy name, isn't it.^—he covered up some tests they did, some cream that people use on their eyes, or anyway, women do, and they were getting sick and somebody went blind, well, anyway, in one eye, I guess, and his son covered it up, and he doesn't work there anymore." He looked up from his position at Emma's feet and noted the intense interest on the faces of everyone and went on, enjoying the attention. "And then they said his son blamed him, you know, his father, for the whole thing; he said his father was the one who covered it up, or anv'way, told him to do it for him. And his father isn't head of the company anymore, and it looks like there's no more company, either. And everybody's fighting with everybody else on TV, and I guess in the newspaper, too, which is really weird."