by Sally Koslow
That made Henry smile. “Is today the day we’re visiting Aunt Jules?”
I glanced at the clock. “We’re leaving when the big hand gets to the twelve and the small hand to the eight. Did you color her a picture?”
“Oh, crap—”
“Henry Thomas, what did you say?”
“I mean, uh-oh. I forgot.” He scurried out of the room, leaving me to wonder how well Tom was disguising his rage when I wasn’t around. If Henry was near us, Tom sprang into what I used to think of as his normal self, but when we were alone, he throbbed with politeness, even his posture stiff.
I needed a break from the permafrost. For that day, Henry and I had planned an adventure, to take the subway to Grand Central and the train to Westport, where Jules would pick us up and we’d stay overnight. She’d promised surprises. Henry was hoping for a Thomas the Tank engine; he considered it the height of social injustice that Dash Keaton owned one and he didn’t, when it was his middle name. As for me, if I rolled off the 10:09 to a rosebud-strewn path and was thrown to the mat as Jules’ matron of honor during a quickie marriage ceremony, I’d be no more shocked than if she announced that we were guests at her bon voyage party before she emigrated to New Zealand to raise goats.
I knew four things: Jules had been ducking every question I asked. Tom had been speaking to me only when we were with Henry. I had never been more miserable. And I should have seen all this coming. Only a fool is her own informer, Mean Maxine reminded me every day, I never should have told Tom I’d gone after a job that might have been Chloe’s beshert.
I dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom. While I was showering, Henry ran into the bathroom and screeched, “Mommy, Mommy, it’s buzzing.”
“Put it down on the sink, please,” I screeched back. “And don’t drop it. Be gentle.” My bet was that Jules had called with a request for some delicacy she couldn’t find in her local market—the apple and rosemary jam she slathered on scones, perhaps; I’d insisted she give me a shout-out with a list of any last-minute items she needed. Only after I washed away the goo in my hair and moisturized every inch of my thirsty skin did I check to see who’d texted. Need u today after all. At least my boss, Eliot the Oracle, had added, Sorry.
I wanted to hurl the BlackBerry against the mirror. How dare Chloe be MIA—again—and let me discover the information through Eliot, the paycheck-writing side of our triangle? Once upon a time she’d have called, lubricated with embarrassment and regret, and slobber on about an emergency. I wouldn’t be hearing of this disruption in my life—and Henry’s—from the Oracle, whom I phoned immediately, though it was only minutes past seven. “Really?” I said. “I was set to go out of town.”
He offered a tepid apology before taking off on Chloe. “Asleep at the wheel” crescendoed to “This job-share thing will work only if you two make it work, and I get the feeling you aren’t even talking.” Before I defended my answer, he spat out, with more anxiety than annoyance, “Do you think Chloe’s looking for another job?”
Of course I did. “No, never,” I answered. “Something major must have come up. Don’t worry. I’ll be in as soon as I can.” I hoped he’d been keeping track of my superlative attendance record. “I—I have to ask you a favor, though,” I stammered. “Would it be all right if I brought Henry to work?”
There was an unnerving pause. “Why?” he asked. “What happened to your backup child care?”
Miss Poppins on retainer? “Our backup nanny came down with …” I stood buck naked and clammy. “Legionnaire’s disease.”
He responded with the kind of wheeze that arrives with a shrug. “Sure, bring the little guy. Maybe he can help with the vacuum cleaner campaign.”
I didn’t know who’d be most disappointed—Henry, Jules, or me—and had started rehearsing a lie to tell my son and my friend when Tom entered the bedroom, dressed for school. “Why not the clap?” he asked. “You know that nanny of ours is the biggest slut north of Brighton Beach.” As he sauntered through the bedroom en route to the bathroom he swatted my butt.
I’ve never been a skilled marital ninja. Fights agitate me, their tension like binding shoes I can never wait to kick off, and I wasn’t going to risk mangling this opportunity for détente. I forced my face into a pleasant expression and tried to disguise my suspicion of Tom’s sudden buoyant behavior. “You heard?” I replied. “Sucks, doesn’t it?”
“Why do you suppose Chloe’s done this?” I’d miscalculated. Tom’s condescension was like a splash of dirty water, returning me to simmering skepticism. Why didn’t he simply ask if Chloe knew I’d tried to steal the job, the one I hadn’t bothered to tell him I’d turned down, a decision I now regretted almost as much as going after the job in the first place? Since I’d told Winters Jonas I was declining his offer, on at least four occasions I’d picked up the phone to call and try to reverse my decree, before I reminded myself that someone else undoubtedly had been thrilled to accept the position and might have started working at Bespoke already.
“Don’t be a dick,” I said, and turned my back on Tom.
“You’re right.” His tone didn’t indicate whether I should expect another barrage. “The dick apologizes.”
“Apology accepted,” I said after a moment, although I didn’t know if it was a comprehensive apology or a minor footnote.
“My class has a field trip to the Museum of Natural History today. Henry can come along and be their mascot.”
How could I refuse when the alternative was for Henry to suffer through copywriters debating how to sell OCD-inclined consumers on the merits of hypoallergenic filtration systems, comfort handles, and advanced sound-dampening technology?
“I accept, thanks.” But I couldn’t work myself up to even a hug.
I found Henry in the kitchen, chomping on cinnamon toast Tom had made for him. “Pumpkin, there’s been a change of plans,” I said. “Instead of going to Aunt Jules’ today, Daddy’s going to take you to the museum with the dinosaurs.” I was prepared to embellish with details about an ice cream cone and a plastic brontosaurus, but Henry flung his toast in the air like a mortarboard and shot out of his chair, shouting, “Daddy, Daddy? Are you really, really taking me?”
I was near the front door when Tom stopped me. “I’ve been thinking about what you said about public school,” he said. “The one in our neighborhood is pretty good.”
One arm in my coat, the other arm out, I looked up at him. Tell me something I don’t know. “I get that,” I said, wearier than a woman my age had a right to feel after eight hours of sleep. “It’s no Jackson Collegiate, but it’s free, and if we become involved parents—”
“Will you let me finish?” His tone stung. “I’ve been talking to people at the playground.” Female people, I assumed. “Some of them are very high on P.S. 282 over on Sixth. Strong gifted program, chess, excellent student/teacher ratio. But most people think P.S. 107 on Eighth is the up-and-comer. The thing is, last year, there were two hundred sixty-three applications for only eighteen spots—the odds are harder than getting into Harvard.”
I appreciated that Tom had done due diligence, but why did we need to discuss this now? I heard only a blizzard of numbers. “Okay, I was wrong. We’ll wait it out, and if he doesn’t get a scholarship at Jackson, we’ll send him to one of those schools.”
“Hold on. There’s more. I have it on good authority that if we’re willing to write a letter to 107’s principal, declaring sincere interest in her school and promising we won’t flip-flop should Henry get a scholarship from Jackson later, there’s an excellent chance—but no guarantee—he’ll be accepted.” He paused. “You’d think the system for public school would be democratic, but it isn’t.”
I inhaled the information. “But you’ve already mailed off the Jackson Collegiate application?” Tom had worked on it for weeks. “Let’s say this Princeton of pre-Ks turns us down. Henry could still possibly go to Jackson, assuming he’s accepted? So this might—just might—be a win-win, unle
ss, of course, we get rejected everywhere?”
“Talia, you’re not reading the subtext.” You never do, his face said. “If we go for 107, we go for it alone. We’d need to pull the application at Jackson, because we might hear from them first. To proceed any other way would be dishonorable.”
God forbid anyone in this family is dishonorable. Oh, I forgot. I was. “Our son’s education is one big crap shoot?”
“That about sums it up,” he said. “Your call.”
CHAPTER 41
Chloe
I ran up the stairs, clutching the creamy sheet of paper I’d discovered in Xander’s library. Sweat soaked the starched shirt I’d put on a few hours earlier. I ran to the bathroom to splash water on my face, then stuck my iPod buds in my ears. Maybe Autumn Rutherford’s morning podcast would take down my heart rate.
Repeat after me, she said, low and sonorous. Do one thing a day that scares you. I’d knocked off that one, and it was only early afternoon. Living in the moment could be the meaning of life. Was it or wasn’t it? The bad news: time flies. The good news: you’re the pilot. Her voice was really low. Was Autumn a transvestite? The conscious brain can hold only one thought at a time—make it positive. I should be thinking about something loftier than Autumn’s gender. Success is determined by how you handle setbacks. We’d see about that. Listen hard, then ask strategic questions.
I had the questions and I wanted answers, five minutes ago. I ripped off my clothes and earpiece and stepped into the armor of a black suit Jules had insisted I buy after she ruled my wardrobe entirely too floppy. Within ten minutes, looking like Morticia Barbie, I was in a taxi; within thirty, at the door to the familiar bronze tower known as the Seagram Building.
Usually I met Xander downstairs at the Four Seasons, where we’d start our evenings with a perfect Manhattan for him, Lillet for me. In better weather I’d twist up my hair, channel Holly Golightly, and wait by the fountain in the broad piazza of concrete out front. But that day I was a woman with a mission a lot more Apocalypse Now than Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I charged through the stony lobby, ignoring flocks of uniformed employees, and stepped into the elevator.
Denton Capital Advisers, where Xander labored in the killing fields of financial service, trying to put the fun in hedge fund, occupied an entire upper floor. The elevator door opened to a long foyer, where a pale blond receptionist offered up a wan smile. I didn’t recognize her from the previous year’s Christmas party, which made me wonder when that year’s gala would be. Shouldn’t we have gotten the invitation, always an extravagance of parchment and gold engraving?
“May I help you?” the receptionist asked when I’d steadied myself in front of her desk—an excellent Sheridan reproduction adorned by an eye-popping orchid. The last time I’d been there, everything had been the color of newly minted dollar bills. Charlene had put her mark on Denton.
“I’m here to see Alexander Keaton, please,” I said, barely controlling my hyperventilation.
The young woman tapped on her keyboard. “I’m sorry,” she said, returning her face in my direction. “We don’t have a listing for anyone with that name.”
“It’s Keaton,” I said. “With a K. K-E-A-T-O-N.”
She repeated the process and smiled, her teeth white enough to glow. “Madam, are you sure you have the right company?”
Madam? Did I look like her mother? “Keaton, Alexander?” I repeated.
“Perhaps you got off on the wrong floor? This is Denton Capital Advisers.” Her tone was neutral, yet I wanted to strangle her with the rope of pearls that dangled over her beige dress.
“I realize that.” My voice cracked as my heart raced. “Edgar Denton is a close personal friend.” I hesitated. “Could you please see if he’s in? Tell him that Chloe Keaton would like to say hello, please.”
“Do you have an appointment, Mrs. Keaton?” the receptionist asked, hardening like ice.
“No, I don’t.” I strained for civility. “Please, it’s important!” God forgive me! “Someone is seriously ill.”
“I see.” She picked up the phone. “Francesca,” she asked in a voice 10 percent louder than necessary, “a Chloe Keaton wishes to speak with Mr. Denton. Could you please convey that message?” She listened while she made contact with the mirror behind me. “You may take a chair if you wish.” She returned to her computer, perhaps to order a personality.
I perched myself on a taupe suede sofa and considered calling Xander, but I didn’t want to talk in front of her. Ten minutes passed, and I stood to leave. That’s when the receptionist answered the phone and looked toward me. “Mr. Denton would be pleased to meet with you, if you care to wait a little longer.”
“A little longer” was thirty-five minutes, which I passed by trying to recall a mantra from Autumn. I fixed on The conscious brain can hold only one thought at a time—make it positive. Perhaps Denton was a CIA front, not a hedge fund.
“Mrs. Keaton?” I opened my eyes, which I hadn’t realized I’d closed, to see the hawkish face of Mrs. Branzino, she of the sleek black chignon, red talons, and hooded gray eyes, Edgar Denton’s personal assistant—some said more—since before Xander had worked at the firm. She took my hand, which I found odd, since whenever I’d been in her presence she’d directed all her conversation to Xander, not me. “How are you?” she asked. I silently followed her into Edgar’s office.
I like Edgar. He belonged to the same fraternity as my father, who’d made the original connection for Xander. Edgar got up from behind his desk, kissed me on the cheek—one cheek only, unlike Charlene—and escorted me to a straight-backed chair. On the lacquered table, two tumblers were filled with ice, placed next to small bottles of Evian. He sat in a matching chair to the left. “Water, Chloe dear?” he asked.
As he said my name, I failed to stanch my tears. When I blinked, Edgar handed me a linen handkerchief, gently saying, as if talking to a child, “How are you doing with all this?”
And then I knew.
“It must come as quite a shock to learn that Xander has parted ways with Denton.”
As if this explained anything. “Why?” I sputtered. “And when?” We could skip how.
“It’s best if your husband explains that to you.”
I hadn’t realized Mrs. Branzino was standing behind me like a chaperone. She appeared at my side, and I understood that my audience had ended. Edgar patted me on the back and said, “Everything’s going to be fine.”
Can you promise that? I thought as Mrs. Branzino escorted me out, past Xander’s office, his former office. Its door was closed. Did she think I was going to make a run for it, to make sure he wasn’t hiding in his private bathroom? She took me all the way to the elevator and stood before it until the door opened and closed in front of me.
When I got to the lobby I pulled out my phone and dialed.
“Alexander Keaton,” my husband answered.
“Where are you?”
“Chloe, is that you?”
“Of course it’s me. Where are you?”
“As it happens, I’m having an espresso now,” he replied, light as champagne.
“I’m in the city unexpectedly. I was hoping I could meet you in your office.” I prayed that he’d give me the address of another company. It could be in the grittiest alley of the South Bronx, next to a toxic waste dump in New Jersey! I didn’t care, as long as it had a phone and a desk.
“I’m at Trump Tower,” he said. “I can meet you downstairs.” He clicked off before I had the chance to ask more questions.
CHAPTER 42
Jules
I sat on the paper runway leading to the stirrups at the foot of the examining table, trying to concentrate on whether there might be a fortune in marketing gowns to replace the sad blue kimonos common to the Western world. Outside the door, I heard the Morse code of Sheila’s heels as she tapped her way in and out of other rooms. I was considering getting dressed and making a run for it, hoping the good doctor might forget I was there, but that wa
s not to be.
“Jules,” Sheila said as she stepped inside and studied my chart. “What’s the problem?” In that question was every central issue of my life.
My voice turned on like a faucet that had been closed for months. As if Sheila were a shrink, not on pussy patrol, I stammered, “I came here today to … do it … but I can’t. I’m frozen. I feel guilty going ahead—and guilty not going ahead with this. What the fuck should I do? I’m running out of time.”
“What do you want to do?” she asked. The shattering kindness in her question reminded me why I’d appointed Sheila as my gyno in the first place. Just when you thought she was all silicone and Gucci, she’d connect on a deep molecular level. This had happened before, when I’d felt a lump that—thank you, Jesus—vanished on its own.
“I don’t know what to do.” I hit on don’t know as if I were slamming golf balls.
“Then, dear Jules, doing nothing is its own decision, and”—Sheila’s exquisitely outlined dark eyes, pools of brown glinting with amber, softened as she turned to knock her countertop—“will be its own reward, both for you and your beautiful baby.”
She’d said it. Not the embryo, the fetus, the intruder, the mistake: the baby. Not just anyone’s baby, your baby, my baby.
I took in the enormousness of those two small words and began to tremble while the room swayed. I grabbed my chest as a sharp pain sliced through it. “Shit,” I moaned. “Now I’m having a heart attack.” As the room went dark, I felt as if a ceiling fixture were falling on me, ripping me in half. At least I’m in a doctor’s office, I thought as I squeezed my eyes closed against a burst of light.
“Water?” Sheila said sometime later, a worried nurse standing by her side. I tried to lift my hand to accept this offering but couldn’t move my arm. Sheila brought the cup to my lips.
