“Do you?” Calmness slips. I shake my head; I’m still not ready for the larger what’s at stake issue. I spy the plea bargain agreement, also sitting on the coffee table. “Well, at least your transgressions won’t be documented within the Suffolk County court system. Apparently, reparation for my . . . reaction will require more than a weekend in jail and complimentary balcony seats.” I put down the glass and poke at the papers. “Not to make excuses, but I wasn’t thinking too clearly while I was swinging that bat.”
“You were drunk.”
“And you wouldn’t have been?”
He bobs his head up and down, a nonverbal agreement. “Actually, in court, I was surprised you so clearly recalled the details. Usually when you’ve had that much to drink you tend to forget.”
“Perhaps it reflects the severity of the incident—yours, not mine.”
He nods. “What, um . . . what reparation?”
“One hundred community service hours to be served, by me, in amends for my smart mouth.” I smile broadly. “Apparently a gavel and power decreed by the state of Massachusetts makes Judge Nicholson an expert on the inner workings of Olivia Klein Van Doren.”
“Huh,” Rob says, perplexed. “I have the better part of a decade under my belt, and I’m not sure I could explain you.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.” He walks farther into the room. “Neither will the roses.”
“A hundred hours—geez, that sucks. Sasha couldn’t . . .”
“No, I’m afraid the community service hours are mine to keep. Although Sasha is working on a . . . She’s attempting to negotiate an environment more suited to my skill set.”
“Damn. Is Harvard offering a class in the lasting effects of sarcasm on the human psyche? You being the control substance, of course.” The attempt at humor falls flat. He smiles—a dazzling effort that also misses. He quickly sobers. “What, uh . . . what does that mean, ‘an environment more suited to your skill set’?”
“It means if my idea pans out, I won’t have to pick up trash off Storrow Drive—a fact that can only work in your favor.” I am reminded, again, of the catalyst for the whole outrageous circumstance. “So you’ve come bearing roses. That’s the easy part, Rob. Go ahead. Enlighten me. Explain how the Wellesley house ended up a hostage in your latest venture?” Casting the cashmere throw aside, I lurch off the sofa. I eye the roses that rest in his arms. He looks like the master of ceremonies in a beauty contest, about to crown the winner. It seems like a job Rob would handle deftly. Since I would have been eliminated during the congeniality portion of the contest, I brush past and take refuge in the music room.
On the desk is the Shep Stewart clipping from today’s Boston Ledger. Rob’s actions, while upsetting, have created the most unlikely possibility: I’m going to serve time in Theo McAdams’s classroom . . . This has gone too far—further than smashing a Porsche with a bat. A smarter Olivia would cancel the Braemore idea before it spins out of control and . . .
A plea from Rob disrupts burgeoning wisdom.
“Liv,” he says, coming up behind me. “I’m working several angles to save the house. Look, I know what it means to you—or what its value means in the future. Believe me; the value of the house means as much to me.” I turn, rolling my eyes at him. “If you want the nitty-gritty details we can go over everything. It’s quite amusing when you hear the whole story . . .” My mouth gapes at the notion. “Okay, so amusing isn’t going to fly here, but it really was an oversight. I’d forgotten . . . Or I didn’t realize the house was part of the collateral package I’d put together for my share of a golf course deal in Vero Beach. The deal was tabled about six months ago—the land got tied up in some legal snafu when a local Indian tribe tried to claim the property, and—”
“Indians. You’re going to blame this on Native Americans?” I retreat back to the living room. “I don’t want to hear it, Rob! Just fix it!” I fold my arms and turn. “I don’t have another Amati to sell!”
“I will. And, I swear, you won’t lose the house. If all else fails, I’ll raise alternative capital. The house as a future asset will be safe. But there’s every chance the local tribe’s claim won’t pan out, and your mother—”
“Yes. My mother. Another great point. Wait until Eugenia Klein finds out you lost the roof over her head—the home she’s lived in since running away from hers more than fifty years ago. All the security she’s ever known, Rob. Security that was entrusted to me! Yes. That’ll go over just swell.”
He looks at the herringbone parquet and to me. “Geez, I’d forgotten that part.”
I soften at his sheepish glance. “Well, it’s not like we regale the story every Christmas Eve.” I breathe deep and close my eyes. My mother is from the South—a stark white, pretentious, upper-class 1960s South. Eugenia Strathmore met my father while he was on tour with the Indiana University orchestra. It was before he mangled his hand, while he still planned on a future as a professional violinist. Regardless, a well-bred girl, fresh from her society debut, was not supposed to fall for a Jew from the North, not even a rich one. Since her family all but cut her off, the Wellesley house has been her refuge. Dying in it, I’m sure, is a nonnegotiable plan. “Do you know my mother showed up here this morning?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“She knows about me and jail but—” My flailing arm halts midway. “You do?”
“Yes. I talked to Eugenia. Do you really think I expected you to explain the Wellesley house issue? I told her a good bit of what’s happened. She was . . . surprised. When she said she’d be in the city tonight having dinner with friends, I thought it best to explain the rest in person. I asked her to come by.”
Before I can react, the doorbell rings. For a moment, I think Rob has stowed my mother on the front porch. I move toward the door, eyes narrowing. “And you think this will remotely help you how?”
I open the door and my mother glides through. Surely she’s furious, having learned what set off the tirade, which led to my incarceration and her public humiliation. She approaches the living room with the decorum of a high-ranking diplomat. It’s the civility shown after your piss-poor country has accidentally blown something up in hers. “Rob.”
I note that the greeting lacks its usual favorite son-in-law warmth.
“Genie,” he says.
He is the only person who gets away with this nickname, a privilege that is not lost on me. Not even my father called her anything less than Eugenia. She’s changed her clothes—a different dark suit, complemented by fresh blood-red nail polish. The world has gone casual, everything from airline travel to what you might wear to a finer restaurant. Eugenia Klein is determined to keep up appearances for the rest of us. She will be the one properly dressed when either hell freezes over or the masses see the error of their ways. “I assume you’re still working on rectifying the unfortunate situation we spoke about earlier.”
“I am, Genie. It’s going to take a little time. But I swear, I’ll fix it. You needn’t worry.”
She smiles and I blanch at their unlikely comradery. Anger is not something she wants to feel for her Rob.
“I have confidence, Rob. Of course, I’m hardly thrilled by the news, but I trust you’ll repair the situation.”
“Even so,” he says. “I thought you’d like to know the particulars, how the house got caught up in it in the first place, and what I plan to do to resolve—”
She waves a liver-spotted manicured hand at him. Something is missing; I can’t place it. “Heavens no,” she says. “I’ve no desire to listen to dry business dealings. That’s your specialty.” She does shoot him a fine-point look. “Just remedy things so we don’t need to speak of it again. Can you do that, Rob?”
He nods dutifully. “Already in the works—promise.”
“Good.”
So if you’re not here to play twenty questions with Rob . . .
My mother comes toward me. “I accepted Rob’s invitation this evening because I want t
o speak with you, Olivia—again.”
“Me? Why? Did I only imagine our mother-daughter tête-à-tête this morning?”
“When we chatted, you left out details.” She points to Rob. “Now that I’m in possession of those facts . . .” Her gaze ticks back to my husband. “Would you be a dear and fix me a Manhattan? Maybe see if you have that wonderful organic cheese Olivia sometimes buys. I didn’t care for my dinner. It’s difficult to find a restaurant that can craft a proper meal nowadays—everything’s about atmosphere. Seems the day’s events have left me lightheaded.”
The prod to leave registers and Rob exits toward the kitchen, saying something about putting the roses in a vase. My mother waits until we hear the squeak of the swinging door. She motions toward the music room. With her smartly painted fingertips, she grips my upper arm with a strength you might not expect from a seventy-five-year-old woman. She closes the pocket doors behind us. “What?” I hiss, wondering if the news has caused a plaster crack in her well-preserved comportment.
I know what the Wellesley house means to her. She lost her husband; the property is her tangible connection. It’s as though we are sharing the same thought when a flicker of emotion sparks on her face. Damn if I don’t feel one in return. “Mom, I know what the house means to you. I know this came as a shock, what Rob did—”
“Yes. What Rob did.” She opens her eyes so wide the wrinkles around them vanish. “Not his best moment. But it would have been helpful if you could have mentioned as much earlier today.”
I’m stifled; perhaps she’s come to apologize. “At the time, I didn’t have the finer details. Without Rob here to explain, especially explain how he plans to fix it . . .” I graze my hand through the air between us. “But maybe now you understand why I behaved like I did the other night, why things spiraled out of control.”
“Actually, Olivia, not in the least.”
“You do understand he’s all but gambled away your home.” She remains stone-faced. “To Indians! Your coveted Wellesley house?”
“Naturally I’m upset about the house. I’m irritated with Rob. And while I don’t deal with financial matters, I’m not an idiot. But one has to choose their battles.” She looks me up and down. “If I have to expend energy on a cause . . . Rob’s transgression can be perceived as an honest mistake. Highly regrettable but honest.”
“Are you serious?”
“He’ll rectify it. Rob isn’t my point in coming back here this evening,” she says. “You are. I’ve been thinking about it since he called. The way you handled the situation—instead of trying to be a partner to your husband in a time of need, you chose to beat his vehicle into a pile of junkyard metal. Out of the two . . . events, I find it to be the more troubling aspect.”
I take a short turn around the room. “Oh my God. You are serious.”
“And you should be too.” Her face falls to a fantastic level of soberness. “How far do you plan on pushing him?”
I need a drink. Fortunately, the music room also comes with a small but well-stocked bar cart. I grab a bottle of gin and pour, downing a mouthful like tap water. I do not offer my mother a drink—let Rob get it.
“I’ve been witness to your calamitous folly in the past. I know what you’re capable of if you feel provoked. Tell me. What mother—aside from Jane Fonda’s—enjoys hearing about her daughter’s vigilante behavior?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Mom, get an analogy from this century, would you?” Secretly, I think my mother has always been fascinated by Jane, her acts of applaudable dissidence. Marrying my father was Eugenia Strathmore’s single act of dissent in an, otherwise, all too obvious woman.
“Forget Jane. Forget your crimes. I’m far more concerned about what you’ll do next. When consumed by emotion, Olivia, you don’t possess the clearest head. I came here to offer a warning.”
“A warning?”
“Yes. A warning. Marriage is difficult. I appreciate that Rob is not perfect, but you’d better take a good hard look at your own imperfections—you’ve been fighting them for a while now.” The observation draws a stinging breath from me. “That man appears to love you unconditionally.”
I hate it when she refers to Rob as that man. It makes me feel like he’s more her business than mine.
“I thought it quite lucky when he turned up in your life, particularly so past your prime.”
Sadly, I don’t even flinch at her circa-1940s remark about my expired sell-by date.
My mother looks toward the closed pocket doors. “Rob was second in his class at Princeton. He possesses a Juris Doctor, even if he chooses not practice. He’s never even been divorced! He comes from a widely respected family—albeit New Yorkers.” She pauses, drawing closer to me and her point. “Add to the fact that this husband hasn’t responded to trying circumstances with outrageous behavior. He’s certainly not the kind of man who would shirk his responsibility by—”
“You’re not seriously going to compare Rob to . . .” I can’t believe it. No. Wait. I can absolutely believe what she’s about to say. She’s going to parlay Rob’s current mistakes into an opportunity to point out my past ones. I put down the drink and fold my arms. “Don’t do it, Mom. Don’t you dare say the words Sam Nash, or use now to rehash history so old it couldn’t possibly matter to anyone beyond the Clinton administration.”
“History, Olivia, is what we learn from. And currently, I find yours extremely relevant. As I said, at the moment, Rob’s not standing in his best light.” She shifts her bony shoulders. “Even so, it might be worth focusing on what he hasn’t done. Rob’s not a coward, Olivia. He faces his responsibilities. I would think coming to me, confessing this issue, is a fine example of that.”
“Here we go,” I mutter.
“Rob didn’t sneak off, marrying you without giving a thought to me or your father. As it is, look how long it took you to find someone compatible with your personality.”
I roll my eyes, guessing pre-Rob she had my future laid out. After she was dead, I’d take up residence in the Wellesley house, fill it with cats, engraving the word spinster on the 1905 plaque marking the front entry. “Or it could be that I simply didn’t want to get married until I met Rob.” I take a large sip of my drink. “Even Jane would cheer me on there.”
“Mmm . . . And why is it you were so anti-marriage? For heaven’s sake, who would have thought I’d select from the wedding registry at Bloomingdale’s for Phillip and his husband before you!” She says it aloud, but it’s a tense whisper, demonstrating that she acknowledges but does not approve of her son’s life.
I smile at the rub—her gay son with zero proclivity for music, a manly buff surfer dude from head to toe. Tell me the gods weren’t in on that one.
She continues to ramble. “Was your distaste for marriage about independence or dedication to your career?” My face grows warm as she points out modern, commendable reasons for not being fixated on a significant other. Then she hits the nail on the head—or into my hand. “No, not you, Olivia. Your aversion to marriage was all about the colossal disaster of your first marital go-round. Does that make more sense?”
History rolls in, repeating like Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata—irritating endless measures. “Look, if you’re going to start in with—” I sigh. She is. She’s also blocking the exit.
“Rob didn’t get you pregnant at twenty. Then, like your first husband, do nothing but breathe a sigh of relief after getting into a horrific accident. The result of which could have killed you and did end the life of your—”
“Don’t be dramatic because it suddenly suits you, Mom. The accident didn’t come close to killing me. I had a two-inch cut on my forehead and seat-belt burn.”
“Regardless, the accident did end a pregnancy that was not part of Sam Nash’s plans.”
“Or yours,” I reply.
“Perhaps. But it wasn’t your father’s reaction or mine that sent you into an emotional tailspin. You couldn’t handle it when Sam Nash left. I’m merely at
tempting to head off a repeat—”
“Sam didn’t leave me.” It’s how I prefer to see it. “I told him to go. There wasn’t any reason for him to stay.”
“Regardless, I told you from the moment I laid eyes on him he was nothing but low-life trouble.”
“You mean from the moment you decided he was nothing but what you and your family would have labeled white trash, worse than the kike you married.”
“Olivia!”
Her fair eyes go so wide I believe they may dislodge from her head. It’s an epithet taken from one of a few arguments I was privy to in my youth, a handful of twisted visits my mother, Phillip, and I made to Atlanta’s Cascade Heights, or as I eventually called it, Cascade Whites.
“I’ll blame that remark on an example of your reckless state of mind.”
“I’m sure you’ll blame it on whatever you want,” I mumble, sipping the gin.
“This situation and all those years ago, it’s a reminder of how erratic your behavior can be. Because of Sam Nash, you didn’t finish school. You were so distraught you sought refuge with your brother.”
I snicker. “And you think that had any more to do with Sam than it did you and Dad?”
“I recognize the signs, Olivia. I’m just trying to ward off—”
I thrust my hand up like a stop sign. “Shut up. Just shut up, Mother. The situation with Rob couldn’t be more removed from the one with Sam.”
“Precisely. Two different men. That’s progress and not so far from my point. While the past few days don’t prove it, you’re also not the same chaotic young woman you were back then. Granted, I’ve learned to live with the impulsiveness that drives you—I accept that where artistry like yours exists, there are bound to be eccentricities.”
Finally, she gives me an opening. “You mean like Dad and his own disastrous escapades?” The double standards are endless.
“Do not compare, Olivia. Do not bring your father’s misfortune into this.”
I pick up the glass, firm in my grip, recalling my father’s badly mangled hand and what artistic eccentricities cost him. It’s too bad he just couldn’t have cut off an ear. It would have saved us both a lot of trouble. I cheer the glass at her. “Fine, Mom. Is there an end to this lecture anytime soon? I do have symphony rehearsal tomorrow.”
Unstrung Page 6
