Diving In

by Galway, Gretchen

  “Sure,” Ansel said. “Whatever.”

  “I will.”

  “Feed me when I visit, that’ll be enough.” Ansel wasn’t joking; Jordan had magical powers in the kitchen. If anyone in San Francisco should be running his own restaurant, it was Jordan Boyd, and that was saying something. Someday, Ansel would tease him that he deserved the credit because he’d contributed a little money and painted the walls orange. For now, he had to twist his old college roommate’s arm just to consider taking a dime.

  “I’ve got a spreadsheet,” Jordan said. “I’m calculating the interest I’ll owe you.”

  Embarrassed, Ansel ran the new fuzzy roller over the palm of his left hand. It felt so soft that he regretted the need to dunk it in paint. “Come on. It’s pocket change.”

  “Fifty grand?” Jordan turned to Rachel. “Must be nice to be rich.”

  When Ansel and Rachel were in third grade, their last living grandmother had died. The quiet old lady’s secret investments in a few local startups (in Menlo Park, Palo Alto, and Sunnyvale, California) had led to their mother’s shocking inheritance of ten million dollars. Their family’s life had changed overnight.

  “It has its moments.” Rachel turned to the front of the restaurant. “What do you think about adding a mural over the doorway?”

  “You’re already doing enough,” Jordan said. “Both of you.”

  Ansel joined her, following her gaze overhead. “I think you should. It’s kind of boring.”

  “Even with the orange paint?” Jordan asked weakly.

  “It needs something more,” Rachel said.

  “Maybe,” Jordan said.

  “You’re a chef, not an artist,” Ansel said. “Trust Rachel.”

  Jordan waved in resignation. “All right. I’m going back to the kitchen where I belong. Do what you need to do.” He started to walk away.

  “You’ll love it,” Rachel said.

  Ansel called after him, “You don’t have a problem with unicorns, right?”

  With his hand on the kitchen door, Jordan turned, his mouth stretched open in horror. Rachel covered a laugh with her hand.

  “Or rainbows?” Ansel added.

  Jordan looked relieved, as if he’d decided they were kidding. “I love you, man, and I couldn’t do any of this without you. If you want to paint rainbows and unicorns on the walls of my restaurant, go ahead.” He grinned, patting his chest. “I’ll just paint over it when you move on to your next charity case.”

  “You’re not charity.”

  “I won’t be after I pay you back.” Jordan disappeared into the kitchen, the double doors slapping behind him.

  “People are so stupid about money,” Ansel said.

  “It’s because they don’t have enough of it,” Rachel said.

  “Rich people are worse. Look at Dad.”

  “What’s he done now?” Rachel asked.

  “Nothing.” He returned to the paint tray and picked up the roller. “Just the usual. Unimpressed with my lifestyle.”

  “Mom says he’s going through a midlife crisis,” Rachel offered.

  “Since we were born? No, this is between him and me. Nothing I’ve ever done was good enough for him.” He looked around the unfinished space, imagining a crowd of people, the rumble of conversation, the smell of fantastic food. “But this restaurant will be different. Jordan—well, you know. His food’s unbelievable. The restaurant will take off. Even Kevin Jarski will be impressed.”

  Rachel looked uncomfortable. “I hope you’re not doing all of this for Dad. He’s just not the type to—”

  His phone rang in his pocket. Thinking about the ignored text messages, his stomach tightened. He took it out and stared at his father’s handsome face on the screen as it rang a second time. “Speak of the devil,” he muttered.

  “It’ll be worse if you put him off,” Rachel said softly.

  “I hope Mom calls you next,” Ansel said, pushing the button of doom. His sister was right; he’d run out of time. With a deep breath, he lifted the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Ansel, what’s up?” His father sounded easygoing, with the accent of the Southern Californian surfers he’d grown up with, but his voice was purely an accident of geography—Kevin Jarski hadn’t been mellow a day in his life.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  Rachel took the roller out of his hand and tiptoed away. She knew better than to be around the two men of their nuclear family when they had a conversation, even over the phone.

  “So,” his father said. “How’re ya doing?”

  “I’m fine.” Ansel stood taller, bracing for the inevitable.

  “Twenty-three grand,” his father said.

  “Yes.”

  “Then, a few weeks later, twenty-seven.”

  Ansel looked out to the narrow street. More of an alley, really, and too far from the trendy neighborhoods for the rent to be outrageous. He wished he’d been able to give Jordan more money so he could open in North Beach or Pacific Heights, closer to where the rich hungry people lived, but Jordan had refused. “I’d wanted to make it an even fifty,” he said into the phone.

  “What’d you spend it on?” his father asked. “Or should I say, who?”

  Annoyed at his shaky hands, Ansel straightened his shoulders and lowered his voice. He wouldn’t let his father make him feel like a child. “Actually, I’m helping Jordan start a restaurant.”

  “Jordan…”

  How could his father not remember? “Jordan. You know, my roommate for three years? In college?”

  “Forgive my memory,” his father said. “Your college years weren’t exactly in a row. And there were so many of them.”

  Ansel clenched his teeth. He’d never been happy in school. He’d been terrible at it, never turning assignments in on time, always distracted by more interesting things. School was where he’d discovered how powerful a few dollars could be; how, with his help, the guy down the hall could travel to Peru for that archeological dig over the summer; or how the two women in his history class could devote an entire year to a political campaign they believed in.

  Part of him hoped his father would see the restaurant as an impressive, practical enterprise. One that could make money. “Jordan’s a great chef. He just needed a little start-up funding.”

  “Will you be sticking around to help him run the place?”

  Ansel swallowed. This was the awkward part. Jordan didn’t want any long-term help. He’d refused it. He insisted on being the man in charge, the captain of his ship, the only cook in the kitchen. “No. I—”

  “Just prefer writing the checks,” his father finished.

  Ansel imagined his father sitting at the computer, managing the family investments; because of him, the Jury-Jarskis never ran out of funds, no matter how quickly the rest of them spent it.

  “I like helping people who don’t have the same privileges I have,” Ansel said. “Isn’t that what you and Mom taught us to do?”

  When Belinda Jury had inherited the ten million from her mother, she’d immediately formed a foundation to help people. She was especially active in Central America, never resting, always traveling, fundraising, working.

  “You’re doing the easiest thing in the world,” his father said. “Spending somebody else’s money.”

  “Does Mom know you feel this way about being generous?”

  His father was silent for a moment. “Your mother is a saint. Giving money to friends is hardly the same as feeding orphans in developing countries, is it?”

  Ansel put a fist over his mouth and stared at his feet. He noticed a streak of orange paint on his favorite sneakers. It’s just Dad, he told himself. Just being his usual grouchy self. Don’t let him get to you.

  Rachel came up beside him. “You okay?”

  He met his twin’s concerned gaze, stuck out his tongue to lighten the mood, and said into the phone, “Rachel’s here. We’re painting the restaurant.”

  “She’s an artist, not a contractor.”<
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  “She’s doing a mural,” Ansel said.

  “I hope Jacob appreciates what he’s getting from her,” his father said. “She’s got a gallery in Seattle already interested in scheduling a show, you know.”

  “It’s Jordan, not Jacob,” Ansel said, but he flashed Rachel a genuine smile. “Gallery in Seattle?”

  She flushed. “We’ll see.”

  He punched her lightly on the shoulder. “I know a great caterer up there. Let me know when your opening is.” He’d helped a friend set up her business a few years ago, and it seemed to be doing well.

  “It’s a pipe dream,” Rachel said, walking back to her paint tray.

  “It’ll happen,” Ansel said. He heard his father clear his throat, so turned his attention back to him. “Anything else, Dad?” Of course his father wasn’t impressed yet; he hadn’t seen—or tasted—what Jordan was capable of. Next month, when the restaurant opened, or in a few months after that, when it was fully established, he’d bring his father there to see it in person. Then he’d understand. This was bigger and more serious than anything he’d done before. “We’re kind of busy. The paint’s drying out.”

  “You can’t keep doing this, Ansel. Fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money.”

  His parents never liked to spend money on themselves, even with millions in the bank. He knew that reasonably pointing out the minuscule percentage of fifty thousand out of the entire bonanza that was the family treasure chest would not impress his father’s sense of financial modesty.

  “Jordan’s a great chef,” Ansel said. “This restaurant is going to be awesome.”

  “Good for him.”

  “He’s keeping it small to start, but I bet you, within ten years, his place is going to be famous.” Ansel looked around the tiny space, not smelling the latex paint but conjuring up the aroma of garlic, Asian spices, searing meat, roasting vegetables, wonderful things. “No—five years.”

  “If it is, it’ll be because of the work he puts into it, not you. It’ll be because he stuck with something, kept his nose down, saw it through.”

  “I agree,” Ansel said, his voice low.

  “When are you going to show that kind of commitment to something?”

  Ansel held his breath. He wished he hadn’t said anything. He wished he hadn’t answered the phone.

  “Ansel?” his father prompted.

  He swallowed. “I told you, I’m—”

  “Or to someone?” His father’s heavy sigh buffeted his ear. “I had two kids by the time I was your age.”

  He and Rachel had been born a few weeks before their father’s thirtieth birthday. “Barely,” Ansel said with a forced laugh, “and we were twins. Doesn’t really count.”

  “Oh, you count. That’s why I have to do this. I should’ve done it years ago.”

  Ansel’s bad feeling got worse. “Dad, I really should be going. I’ve got four walls and three doors to paint before—”

  “I’m cutting you off.”

  Ansel stopped breathing.

  “Did you hear me?” his father asked.

  Hot burning shame washed over him. It was a few seconds before he could speak. “I assume you’re talking financially? Or are you chucking me out of the family altogether?”

  “Don’t be hurt. I don’t enjoy doing this.”

  The tightening in his throat disgusted him. “I’m not hurt,” Ansel said. He shouldn’t have been surprised. The things he could’ve done over the years with that money instead of giving it away, the luxuries and trips he could’ve indulged in, but no—nothing he did was ever good enough for Kevin Jarski. “I’m bummed you don’t seem to care about the same things I care about.” There, that was honest. He wasn’t going to lie, or beg, or get angry.

  “Who could keep up with what you care about? I don’t have the slightest idea, between the dog walkers, the restaurants, the hopeless tech startups—and all those messed-up girlfriends of yours, one after the other, none of them sticking around for more than a year.” His father sighed again. “And those were just the women I knew about. I can’t imagine how many there were between the serious ones you introduced to us.”

  Ansel could hear the air quotes over the phone. “I haven’t found the right person yet. I’m still in my twenties—”

  “Barely,” his father said, throwing Ansel’s own word back at him. “In nine months you’ll turn thirty and realize what a waste you’re making of your life. It’s much harder when you’re older to get serious about something important.”

  Ansel raised his voice, letting the anger pour out of him. “I’m not wasting my life.” Rachel put down the roller and came over to stand next to him. Always nice to have a twin to ride shotgun in a crisis. “I’m good at starting things,” he continued. “That’s what I do. I help people launch businesses, go after their dreams.”

  Rachel squeezed his arm.

  “That’s a copout, Ansel,” his father said. “You’re patting yourself on the back, but the truth is you leave all the hard work to other people.”

  “I’m not patting myself on the back. I’m explaining how I’m not a total waste of a human being.”

  “Of course you’re not. You have loads of potential.” His father cleared his throat. “I know it doesn’t look that way right now, but I’m doing this because I love you. I know you can do better.”

  “Thanks, Dad. Nothing is more comforting than hearing you say that,” Ansel said bitterly. “Just tell me, how much money do I have to make before you believe I’m living up to my potential? When I pay back the fifty thousand? Or do I need seven figures to prove myself, like Grandma Jury did?”

  “It’s not about money,” his father said, his voice rising, as if Ansel’s reminder about getting his money from his mother-in-law had hit home. “It’s about commitment. To a person, a cause, a craft—like Rachel is with art. It’s not about the almighty dollar.”

  “Let me talk to him,” Rachel said, reaching for the phone. She hated when they argued.

  Heart pounding, Ansel shook his head and moved out of reach. If it wasn’t about the almighty dollar, then why was it such a big deal he’d never made enough of them? “I think it is. I think you’re ashamed of how important money is to you. I think you still feel guilty for ever telling us we were rich.” He ran a hand through his hair, recently buzzed short at Supercuts. The cut had exposed a shocking amount of prematurely—obviously it was premature, he was still twenty-nine, wasn’t he?—gray hair mixed in with the black. “You think it spoiled us.”

  “Not your sister,” his father said. “Just you. It spoiled you.”

  Ansel’s heart seemed to stop beating. He lowered the phone, waiting for normal functioning to return. After a full five seconds, still unsure he was all right, he returned the cell to his ear. “Well. I’m glad to know where I stand.”

  His father’s voice softened. “It wouldn’t be fair to spring this on you without a grace period, so you can have a few months to draw from your favorite account, what’s left of it, but absolutely, after your birthday, no more. That’ll be it. The flow of cash is being diverted.”

  “I don’t need it. I don’t want it.”

  “Don’t be like that,” his father said. “You’ll need something to get started. And if you have long-term plans that lead somewhere, like graduate school, then of course we can talk about the money again.”

  “I need to go now.”

  “Ansel—”

  “Good-bye.”

  His father sighed. “Give my love to Rachel. Now that girl knows what she’s doing.”

  Ansel had to hang up on him. It was that or drop his phone into the paint can.

  He thought he had known what he was doing.

  Hand shaking, he picked up the roller and began to blindly paint the walls.

  Maybe the problem was that it wasn’t enough.

  And never would be.

  Chapter 2

  THE FOLLOWING MAY, EIGHT MONTHS after letting her heart get crushed under the boot
of Miles and Lucy’s happiness, Nicki was still a work in progress.

  The senior stylists at an exclusive salon had cut and colored her hair. The oversized hoodies and faded jeans had gone into a bin at Goodwill. An employee at Nordstrom’s, after measuring her in a cavernous dressing room scented with lavender, had fit her into five new bras that cost a week’s salary but felt like heaven, and now her breasts floated like astronauts.

  To top it off, she’d had LASIK eye surgery and no longer wore the glasses she’d had since she was five. Glasses were a lot cooler than they used to be, but she wanted the transformation to be as comprehensive as possible.

  Yet, even after all that, as beautiful as she ever was going to get, she was still alone.

  Weren’t makeovers supposed to change lives? In movies, the newly beautiful woman had fresh confidence and attracted men like bees on shit. Honey. Either way, it wasn’t happening. The biggest compliment she’d received after her transformation was from Kennedy Madison, the prettiest thirteen-year-old in class, who told her, enthusiastically, that she looked younger than Kennedy’s mom did. Given that Nicki had just turned thirty, and Kennedy’s mom was pushing fifty, this didn’t have the intended impact.

  Regardless of her appearance, she was still Ms. Fitch, seventh-grade history teacher and director of today’s mummification.

  “Ms. Fitch! Noah wants to be the dead guy,” one of her students shouted from the front of her classroom where he sprawled on his back over three desks shoved together. “You said I could be the pharaoh.”

  Nicki plugged in the stereo for the eerie music she’d be playing in a minute. “Noah, if Carl wants to have his brains sucked out of his nose, wouldn’t you like to help?” When she turned out the overhead lights, thirty-two thirteen-year-olds burst into giggling and whispers. “Let the mummification begin,” she intoned into the semidarkness.

  The kids didn’t care if her breasts floated like helium balloons under her trendy blouse; it was Egypt Day, the biggest day of the year. The tradition she’d created six years earlier was already legendary. When her former students visited her, they often mentioned the mummification demo as the highlight of seventh grade.