by Nancy Thayer
A hollowed-out pumpkin, lacquered and filled with a loose arrangement of enormous yellow sunflowers, cattails, and bittersweet, was centered on the coffee table. Near it was the silver tray with the Limoges tea service. Catherine had served Melody China tea and tiny cakes and, later, a small glass of dry sherry. The small utility kitchen, complete with stove, microwave, and a refrigerator stocked with champagne, chocolate, fruit, and pastries, was hidden behind one wall of her office.
That wall, paneled in carved, beveled mahogany, also hid an enormous television set, VCR, and compact disc system, all state-of-the-art. Catherine had chosen mahogany for that wall because it matched the massive Empire desk her grandmother had given her twenty-four years ago, when Catherine had bought Blooms. Catherine’s grandfather had used that desk, and Catherine thought it brought good luck.
Not easy luck, but good luck.
All those years ago, when she had bought this flower shop, she had not had the money to buy an apartment or a car or even the right kinds of clothes.
Now she could buy anything she wanted, and the paintings on the walls of her office were testimony to that. Above her desk hung a Georgia O’Keeffe of white lilies. On the wall above the sitting area hung a seventeenth-century Dutch oil of a massive bouquet of flowers, and a small Renoir of lush glowing pink roses hung next to a smaller Impressionist oil of flowers in a spotted pitcher painted by Vanessa Bell at Charleston.
Success, she thought, and remembered Kit. Too often it seemed she forgot that Kit was not only her children’s father and, since Mr. Giles’s death, Blooms’ lawyer, but also her husband and lover as well. Now she slipped into her private bathroom, brushed her hair, freshened her lipstick, and carefully drew a stripe of dark brown just above her eyelashes.
Like everything else these days, the sight of her own face and body was bittersweet. Sweet because finally she had learned to accept herself and because it was a face and body that had been used. She had given birth to children, she had made love, she had laughed and cried and fought and cheered; she had seduced men with this body, and with this body she had surrendered everything. And that too was sweet; her life on earth had been full, as this body and face attested.
But she was no longer young, and all the face creams and exercises and aerobics and fresh-fruit diets in the world could not change that fact—and that was bitter.
She knew that she could still be stunning. Because she had made herself rich, she could afford certain helpful luxuries: weekly massages, manicures and pedicures, shampoos and expensive cuts for her wild curly dark hair, fabulous clothes. Her body, always curvaceous, was now voluptuous, and she had her own designer and dressmaker, who garbed her in outfits like the one she was wearing. Under a suit of heathery silk-and-wool tweed, a white silk shirt parted just above the curving cleavage of her breasts, so that the severe and businesslike cut of the suit was softened by the hint of creamy lace and creamier skin. She wore real pearls at her ears. Her only other jewels today were her wedding ring and diamond engagement ring, her watch, and, on her suit, between her breast and shoulder, her trademark jewel, an outrageously expensive bouquet of flowers, suitable for the woman who owned Blooms, of rubies, emeralds, sapphires, diamonds, and pearls. She had chosen and paid for this piece herself. An extravagance, perhaps, and yet in its way therapeutic. Over the years she had come to rely so much on Kit’s opinions and judgment that now and then she got frightened, nervous—couldn’t she think for herself? She’d never meant to be so dependent on any man, and the brooch reminded her that she didn’t need to be.
Kit’s knock on her office door broke her reverie. She hurried to let him in. They kissed briefly, and she could tell at once that it didn’t matter what she looked like today. He was worried.
“Would you like some coffee, Kit? A drink?”
“I’ll take a Scotch. And you’d better get one for yourself. Catherine, I think you’ve got a problem on your hands. With Shelly, or, perhaps, Piet.”
“All right,” Catherine said calmly, pouring their drinks. Kit never could understand the emotional responses her brother and sister aroused in her—how she could criticize them bitterly at one moment, only to jump to a feline defense of them whenever anyone else dared attack them. Catherine couldn’t understand this herself, but over the years Kit had pointed out her often illogical explosiveness, and now Catherine tried to monitor her reactions.
“Sit down, Catherine. Just listen to me a minute. Sandra came to see me today. She’s upset. She thinks Blooms is being cheated out of a great deal of money. She—”
“Wait a minute! Why did Sandra come to you? She’s my employee!”
“First of all, I suppose, because I’ve been Blooms’ lawyer ever since Mr. Giles died. More important, because she knew this would upset you, so she thought I should be the one to tell you.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Maybe so. But Sandra said that she’s noticed for quite a while that our profits are down. She’s checked and rechecked the books and records. She was certain that something was wrong, and then about two weeks ago Carla called in sick. Carla’s the one who receives the shipments of flowers from Amsterdam and checks them against the invoice. Carla initials the invoice if it’s correct or marks it if a change is needed, then sends the paperwork on up to Sandra, who pays the invoices.”
“I know all that. Why are you telling me—”
“Wait. The day Carla was sick, Amsterdam invoiced us for twenty boxes more than we received. When Sandra mentioned this to Carla, she said casually, ‘Oh, that happens sometimes. I usually catch it.’ But it bothered Sandra, especially since our profits have been down. So she asked Jason—”
“I don’t believe this. I don’t believe she didn’t come to me right away!”
“—to try to count the boxes when they’re delivered, without letting Carla know he was doing it. Three times he’s done it during the past two weeks, and each time Carla’s count was almost exactly twenty boxes higher.”
“Perhaps the truckers—”
“Sandra’s husband rode with the truckers the last three days. He counted the boxes that Amsterdam shipped to Blooms as they were loaded on the truck at the airport and unloaded at the shop’s back door. Then he called Sandra with the count. Each day Carla initialed invoices stating that we got twenty boxes more than were delivered.”
“Sandra talked to her husband about this before coming to me!”
“Catherine, Sandra was worried. This is a major accusation. She didn’t want to come to you until she had reasonable proof. She knows how you feel about your employees—she was afraid this would devastate you. She’s more worried about your emotional state than the state of Blooms’ finances. And of course, she’s worried about Carla.”
“Good old Sandra,” Catherine said with a sigh. “I mean it. Good for her for noticing all this.” She ran her hands over her neck to ease the tension. “Well. So it looks like Carla is a little snake.”
“She’s not doing this alone. Someone in Holland has to be doing this with her. Amsterdam’s billing us for more than they’re sending us. Carla’s covering, and they split the profit.”
“When you say ‘Amsterdam,’ you mean Shelly or Piet.”
Kit nodded uncomfortably. “You can see why Sandra was reluctant to talk to you. To accuse your own brother of stealing from your company—that takes a lot of nerve.”
“It may not be Shelly or Piet. It could be some other employee over there, someone who’s talked regularly with Carla.”
“That’s a possibility.”
“I have to go to Amsterdam.”
As she spoke the words, pleasure flowed through her, warming her heart, setting her fingertips tingling. She would see Piet again, after all these years, walk the streets of a city she’d never seen, hear a language she didn’t speak; she would be a woman alone and free.
She looked at Kit, suddenly guilty. Had he read her mind? Had she given herself away, had she smiled?
“I could go,
” Kit said.
“No. I need to be the one. I’ll go tonight. I want to surprise him—whoever it is. I’ll say I’ve come to see the Bloemenveiling, which will be the truth. I’ve never seen it. I’ll call Piet after I’ve gotten there, and tell him I want to see the auction, then I’ll ask him to let me see his offices—then the books.”
“You’re going to come right out and ask Piet to show you his books?”
“What else can I do? I can’t very well just show up at the offices and start searching through desk drawers. I have to bet on someone, and my bet is that it isn’t Piet. His company is too large for a swindle this small. I’m sure he has someone else doing the invoicing. Besides, I don’t think Piet would be stupid enough to jeopardize our business relationship. Carla and her accomplice can’t be making the kind of money that would interest him.”
“All right,” Kit agreed. “I see your point. And I agree someone should go now, before Carla realizes there’s any suspicion on our parts. Let’s go to the apartment. I’ll get a plane reservation for you while you pack. I’ll drive you to the airport.”
“And you’ll hold down the fort at home,” Catherine said. She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you. Be careful over there.”
* * *
Kit booked a first-class seat for her on a nine o’clock KLM flight. Catherine tossed clothes and papers in a suitcase. As Kit drove her to Kennedy, they went over the details of their plan. Both Andrew and Lily were at boarding school this year and so happy there that they seldom called home. Catherine would probably be back in the States before they even knew she’d left. She intended to stay in Amsterdam only two or three days at the most. Kit would call Sandra in the morning; he’d tell her that Catherine was in bed with a bad flu. Sandra could pass the word along so Carla wouldn’t suspect that Catherine had gone to Amsterdam. And Catherine promised to call Kit as soon as she had any news.
In spite of her excitement, Catherine managed to sleep a bit on the flight over, but by the time she’d gone through customs and checked into the Amsterdam Hilton, she was exhausted. It was noon in Amsterdam, dawn in New York. The auction and packaging of flowers would already be over for today. So she showered, left a wake-up call, and collapsed into a deep sleep.
At four-thirty the phone woke her. Immediately, she was alert, her brain clear. She dialed the GardenAir office number, and in only seconds a secretary had put her through to Piet.
“Piet. This is Catherine. I have a surprise for you. I’m in Amsterdam. I’ve come over to see the Bloemenveiling.”
“You’re here now?”
“Yes. I arrived this morning. I’ve already caught up on my sleep.”
“This is a surprise. Well. Shall we have dinner tonight?”
“That would be lovely.”
“Shall I call Shelly and ask him to join us?”
“No. As a matter of fact, Piet, I’d like you to do me a favor. Don’t tell Shelly I’ve called. Don’t tell him I’m here. Not yet.”
“Ah. So you are here not just for the auction.”
“I’d rather discuss this with you in person, Piet.”
“Very well. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
* * *
Catherine showered and dressed carefully. She and Kit had been married for sixteen years now. There were times when she thought she would happily have murdered him for his obsession with The New York Times crossword puzzle or some other daily ritual. When Kit was engrossed with that damned crossword puzzle, she knew she could crawl across the carpet naked and bleeding, and he wouldn’t look down until he’d finished the last word. There were also times, she knew, when Kit wanted to murder her, usually for being too impetuous, too neurotic. In the middle of a peaceful Sunday afternoon she might decide she needed to visit her grandmother at Everly. Or she’d have a great idea for a new flower arrangement, and she’d want to rush into her office to work. Often she made major decisions about their house or children without first discussing it with him. It was the children they fought about most of all: Kit was more of a disciplinarian, while Catherine was quick to give and forgive.
But over the years they had tempered each other. They knew this, and it pleased them. Catherine had learned to share more with Kit, because she had learned to trust him. Most and best of all, never in all the times of anger or bitter disagreement had she stopped wanting him. Even now there were moments at business meetings in the Blooms conference room when Catherine would look down the length of the table to see her husband speaking in his utterly calm, rational, reasonable way, and she would flash on how different he was in bed, how passionate, demanding, abandoned, ardent. She would be flushed, flustered, and as happy as a young girl in love for the first time. She had never been unfaithful to him, and he had never been unfaithful to her.
And she did not want to go to bed with Piet. But she couldn’t help but think that it would be nice if he wanted to go to bed with her. He had never married. He hadn’t been back to the States for several years. He and Catherine spoke often about business, but for the past few years Shelly had been their main contact. The international life had been good for Shelly, Catherine had thought, had given her brother a sufficient taste of an exotic, challenging world in which Shelly had seemed to thrive.
Catherine looked at herself one last time in the mirror. She had put on an Escada suit whose stained-glass hues set off her coloring. She couldn’t help it. She wanted Piet to find her ravishing.
And she could not help it when she saw him in the lobby and her heart leapt like a bird, exploding from its cage, flaring and soaring and swooping. He still frightened and excited her at the same time.
Piet was wearing a beautifully cut custom-made suit complete with vest and Italian shoes of leather as supple as silk. From the neck down he looked like a prosperous, respectable, even bourgeois businessman. But his sleek black hair was pulled straight back and tied with a black velvet ribbon into a short, low ponytail, emphasizing the angles and arches of his face and eyebrows. He looked as diabolically seductive as dark wine.
They kissed lightly, European style. As the hot perfume of his cloved breath brushed her cheek, Catherine swayed. She had to put her hand on his arm to steady herself. Jet lag, perhaps, but she felt giddy.
Piet was a gentleman as always and said nothing about her brief weakness. He spoke about Amsterdam and the world news as he escorted her into his car and to the d’Viff Vlieghen restaurant. Not until they were seated almost in secrecy in one of the dark, museumlike rooms and had ordered their dinner did he ask her why she had come.
Catherine looked across the table at Piet. Old lover, old friend, she thought.
“You say you’ve come to see the Bloemenveiling,” Piet said, smiling.
“I do want to see the auction. But there’s something else. Piet, I’m taking a chance by telling you this. I’m assuming you’ll be truthful with me.”
Piet shrugged but smiled at the same time, and the smile was also in his eyes.
Catherine took a deep breath. “We have reason to believe, at home, that you—no, wait. That someone in your company is billing us for more flowers than we’re receiving.” She told him all that Kit had told her, watching to see if she could read any reaction in his face.
He seemed displeased, but not anxious.
“I’m sorry to hear this. Twenty boxes a day can amount to quite a considerable sum over time. How long has this been going on?”
“We have no idea. It would be impossible to judge by our records. Our profits have been dropping for some time, but of course there are all sorts of variables to consider.”
“Carla still receives the shipments and checks the invoices at your end. Correct?”
“Yes.”
Piet sighed. “Well, my dearest Catherine, I have no choice but to tell you. Shelly is the one who oversees the packaging and the invoicing. Tomorrow morning I’ll take you throu
gh the auction from start to finish so you can see how it’s done.”
“But then he’ll know I’m here.”
“Tonight, after our meal, I’ll take you out to my offices. We’ll check his desks.”
“Does he have a private office?”
“Oh, yes. With a lock and key. But your brother is a charming man, don’t forget. He has many admirers at my offices. One of them keeps a key to his office in her desk drawer, and I have access to that desk.”
“I’m sorry to ask you for this. I’ll be very sorry if it’s Shelly who’s colluding with Carla. Perhaps I was wrong to send him over here, but I needed someone from New York to know how this side works. Shelly was bored. He wanted more responsibility in the company.”
“I don’t think you made a mistake. Shelly works hard. And he has learned to speak excellent Dutch. He is respected and very much liked.”
“In New York he ran with a rather fast crowd. He still does, when he’s home. Lots of parties. Lots of drinking. Just like my father.”
“Yes, he’s that way here, too. And more than drinking, Catherine. Although I don’t want to be what you Americans call a rat on your brother.”
“What do you mean, more than drinking? What can be more than drinking? Is he gambling?”
“No, no—”
“Prostitutes?”
“Your brother does not need to resort to prostitutes—”
“Well, what are you saying?”
“Catherine, you’re so naive. What I’m saying is that Shelly, like most young men of his social level, tends to indulge now and then in drugs. Specifically, cocaine.”
“Oh, Piet, no. Are you certain?”
“I’ve never actually witnessed him using it, no. But I’ve heard things recently. And if he’s developed a habit, it would explain why he’s started ripping you off. God! What a stupid thing to do!” Piet finally sounded angry.
“We don’t know that it’s Shelly. It could be someone else.”
“I don’t think so. When we go over the books, we’ll have a clearer idea. But don’t look so miserable, Catherine. Forget about that for now. Enjoy your meal. The food is delicious. Tell me about your life.”
