Unstrung

by Laura Spinella

  “So . . .”

  “She said it was in a coat pocket.”

  “That is a little peculiar; she’s never without it. I wondered if she took it off during her last manicure. But I am glad she found it.” He tips his drink, staring at the Macallan in his glass. “Rob?”

  “She said she found it in the pocket of your father’s brown mackinaw.”

  I inch back on the barstool. That is odd, especially since I helped her pack up the bulk of his belongings ages ago. Among his clothing was the sheep-lined, belted coat he favored. The one he wore every winter day to his job as an economics professor at Tufts. “Maybe you misunderstood.”

  “Yeah. Could be.” He sips his drink. “Sometimes, when your father’s name comes up, I wonder if he’s come to haunt me—gaslight me at the very least.”

  “Well,” I say, returning the gesture with an even larger sip, “I wouldn’t necessarily count it out.” The mention of my father, or more to the point, Rob and my father, softens my mood. “It was good of you to call her, keep her up to date, even if the house issue isn’t resolved yet.”

  “I am sorry, Liv.”

  His remorse is palpable. I don’t doubt Rob’s sincerity. I suppose I should be grateful that he came clean with the facts long before the only answer was to auction off a violin. But I’m also aware that Rob is a risk-taker. I don’t get involved in the particulars of his day-to-day business ventures. But now I’m wondering if he’s dangled close to financial ruin before? Maybe I’ve only been clued into the big wins. It could be that he’s kept losses to himself. I can see it—aloof Rob controlling the flow of information. I sip my wine, thinking it’s a good thing casino gambling has never interested my husband. It might have left us stripped bare years ago.

  Exhaustion and distraction keep me from currently pursuing a financial Q and A. “Just . . . maybe next time you could make a point of not including the roof over my mother’s head—or an asset we were counting on—in your business deals.”

  “If it comes down to it, if we do lose the house, I’ll find a way to make it up to you.” He raises his glass to his mouth and lowers it. “Of course, I’m not exactly sure what we’ll do with your mother.”

  “Maybe that will work out too. Maybe she’ll find a seniors’ cruise line with an ongoing bridge tournament.” He laughs at what has always been our grandest plus, a similar sense of humor. “But whether it’s tomorrow or years from now, you’re the one who planned out how we’d go about funding the city-wide orchestra, Rob. The money I inherited from my grandfather—those investments.” This is a question I have to ask. “Tell me they’re not at risk too.”

  “They’re completely protected. You know that—earning steadily in low-risk investments.”

  “Good. That’s good to hear.” For a moment, the bar noise dominates. “So, I have a different question about that, my inheritance. Can the money we’re using for the endowment be filtered elsewhere?”

  “Elsewhere how? Like a trip to Aruba or something within the music program itself?”

  I smirk at his remark. “I know the point was to make the endowment airtight—no room for misguided funds; it was one of your big concerns, right?”

  “More or less,” he says. “If you wanted to remain anonymous in your efforts, I thought it prudent to strictly limit the use of the funds.”

  “Is there enough wiggle room to buy classroom instruments for one school in particular?” He looks harder at me. “I understand that overall public school instruments are going to be mediocre. But I’ve noticed that certain schools, maybe due to reputation, are supplied with instruments that don’t even qualify as inferior.”

  Rob narrows his gaze and takes out his cell, poking at the notepad. “What’s the street address for Braemore? I’m sure between your money and my scheming, something can be arranged.” I smile as he makes the note; at the same time, his cell rings. “Duly noted on the instruments. Just let me just grab this quick.” He ducks outside, away from the crowded bar.

  Drinking my wine, I reflect in the bar mirror. The Wellesley house was the future cornerstone of Rob’s endowment plan, actually one of his most brilliant moments as a financier. Honestly? It was kind of sexy. When we were dating, after things turned serious, I told Rob about the money I inherited from my grandfather—money that wasn’t mine until my thirtieth birthday. I saw the point of an age stipulation: giving the money to me before then would have been like storing water in a sieve. Once the inheritance was mine, I did consider shiny objects, trips abroad, and a fancy car. I did a few of those things. But none of it wooed me. The cash altered my net worth, not my self-worth; it only padded the room a bit, rented me a cute village apartment. For the most part, the money sat until Rob turned me onto the idea of funding a city-wide music program.

  We concocted the plan in his bed, on a Friday, during a thunderstorm while eating Chinese food. By then I’d auditioned for and won a symphony chair. A week’s worth of draining rehearsals sparked the impromptu conversation. A handful of private school kids had been invited to perform with us. I’d listened to them play all week. I wasn’t impressed. Picking at Rob’s crispy duck, I said, “Why do people assume money implies talent? I bet there are dozens of kids out there with twice the aptitude—probably real passion—and simply no chance.”

  He plucked a wonton out of my container. “So why don’t you give them one?”

  I put the Chinese food on the nightstand and rolled on top of Rob, thunder and rain making for a sultry setting. “Right. Because that’s such a natural fit.” I kissed him, Rob’s hands traveling in a way that still lights a fiery memory. “Hey, maybe I can give lessons too.”

  “Well, no. Not that.” He kissed me back, dominating me and the mood. “Be realistic. But you do have other options.” Through candlelight and the glow of a muted TV, sex and talk of unrelated ideas continued. “If it bothers you, fix it. God knows a little purpose wouldn’t kill you.” For a second, the idea teetered. It could have easily succumbed to the moment. Rob was poised just below my navel when he glanced up. “Lots of people talk, Liv. Very few have the means. Fewer still will put their money where their mouth is.”

  With Rob’s mouth on the verge of making me forget any talk about music and opportunity, I hauled myself upward, my knee accidentally colliding with his chin.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said, grabbing his jaw.

  I apologized as Rob rubbed his chin. “I have no idea how to go about something like that.” I looked hard into his candlelit eyes. “But you would.”

  From there Rob became the wizard behind the curtain, making connections and filtering orchestra funding anonymously. I was impressed by the intricate plan he devised, and proof that a man so interested in money wasn’t silently coveting mine.

  As for me, I liked—and still do—my back-row view. More than anything, I love what my grandfather would think about the use of his hard-earned money. If wisely handled, Rob said the inheritance would last about fifteen years. He encouraged me to seek out other benefactors, future funding solutions. I encouraged him to think harder. While Claire McAdams’s social standing will pack a Bates Hall fundraiser, mine wouldn’t fill a Porta-Potty. It’s why the Wellesley house became key years before. Eventually—assuming my mother doesn’t have the power of eternal life—the property will be ours. While technically Rob has equal ownership of the house, he said to do whatever I liked with it. The plan was nothing short of genius—until the genius gambled it away.

  In the bar’s mirrored reflection, I see Rob come back inside. I spin around on the barstool. “Before your call, you were saying . . .” He furrows his brow. I sigh. “You indicated a plan B if we do lose the Wellesley house. It’s a lot of money, Rob. I know you can make money. But the Wellesley house is worth what? Over a million dollars?”

  He signals the bartender for another Macallan. “North of two.”

  “North of two,” I repeat. His future financial plan for the orchestra funding is based on at least two million dol
lars. That’s a lot to make up for. Investment wise, I suppose it’s the kind money Rob shuffles around on a spreadsheet. We trade a glance as his drink is delivered. “Producing that much cash . . . Can you really do it?”

  “We’ve been at this a while now, Liv. I’ve been known to do all right by you.”

  He’s insulted. He possibly should be. Despite our current circumstance, Rob has brought an abundance of positives to my life and closure in a most precarious moment. “So,” I say, looking for better footing, “did you go to your office today?”

  “No, I stayed home. I knew you’d be gone all day, and I thought I could concentrate better. The brownstone is great for pacing while I talk.”

  I can see it. Rob’s office is boxy. He probably broke his Fitbit record walking miles through the narrow but deep brownstone. “Did you stop to eat lunch?”

  He grins, less irritated. “Worried about whether or not I ate? How sweet, Liv.”

  I stare at my wine. “Just anticipating the cranky mood and headache you’ll have in the morning.”

  “Makes more sense,” he says, taking a solid mouthful. “And yes. I did eat lunch, compliments of Sasha.”

  “Sasha?”

  “Yeah. She brought lunch by for the two of you, but she didn’t know you were going to do your community service hours today.”

  That’s true. I don’t usually go to Braemore on Fridays. But before I decided on nomadic wandering, I did tell him about some errands, a stop by Symphony Hall. “So you and Sasha, what? Had an impromptu picnic on the living room floor?”

  “No. We used your music room. The sun floods in there beautifully that time of day.” Typical Rob sarcasm hits my ears as he looks coolly past my head. “We had deli sandwiches in the kitchen. Talked for a while.”

  “About what?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I just find the image of you and Sasha and lunch a curious talking point.”

  The glass, halfway to his lips, halts. “You wouldn’t find it stranger if she showed up with food, realized you weren’t there, and said, ‘I guess I’ll take my lunch for two back to the office.’”

  “Either way, that was generous of Sasha,” I say. “She’s like that, an always susceptible soft spot.” I am thinking of Jeremy and the number of pro bono hours she admitted to working. But perhaps Sasha was thinking of Rob, the hard time I’ve given him in recent weeks.

  “Sasha’s good people.” Rob finishes his drink with one massive gulp. “She had some things on her mind. I was grateful for a change of subject. She talked; I listened. That’s all.” I nod at his explanation and we are quiet. Then he looks at me. Really looks at me, like he hasn’t in a long time—long before I beat the shit out of his Porsche with a baseball bat. “Liv . . .” The sound of my name seems to carry more weight than the rest of the slightly crooked conversation. “Sasha, we, uh . . . We talked about . . .” My body tightens, almost braces. “Are we going to make it, Liv?” he asks. “Is the Wellesley house going to push us over the edge? I know it’s been a rough year. But is this . . . Can we fix it?”

  My gaze drops to our shoes. Mine are hiding blistered feet, whereas his are covered by fine Italian leather loafers. Hard to see past. A quiver comes with my inhale. Lately, we don’t discuss our marriage in fine detail or even full sentences. No one says, “Honey, let’s talk.” Of course, this is not to say that Rob and I haven’t individually considered the shakiness of our union—clearly, it’s a concern we’ve both now shared with Sasha.

  In my mind’s eye, there isn’t a conversation about the marriage having deteriorated beyond repair. I just come home one day and find Rob, his rowing machine, and smartass remarks gone. There’d be a forwarding address and brief exchange about putting the cable bill in my name. Eventually, Rob would go on, find someone more appreciative of his tolerant nature or in less need of it. She’s not perfect either—maybe she doesn’t quite get his sarcasm and will merely smile and say dopily, “We’ll live on love,” should he lose everything. She can be described by a useless word like nice, and is competitive with Rob in the kitchen. She looks good in turtlenecks, which she wears well into May. Rob’s second wife is thinner, more toned, but also a slightly less attractive version of me.

  “Liv?” he says again. I look up from our shoes to his face.

  “In the most critical moments you sure are a brave bastard.”

  “I thought maybe one of us should say it out loud.”

  I trace the rim of my wineglass with my index finger. The slim band of diamonds on my left hand sparkles. I see that it’s sparkling more than usual as I stare at it through a prism of tears. I blink them back and face him. In a brief knot of honesty I reply, “I don’t know anymore, Rob. I don’t know.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Olivia

  Rob and I walk silently, side by side, toward the brownstone. A half a block away my tentative shuffle turns into a full-on limp. Rob touches my arm, stopping us. “Did you trip or something, turn your ankle?”

  “Nothing quite so timely and romantic. New shoes. Nasty blister.” In the chilly air, on the middle of the sidewalk, I discard one shoe. It’s an incredible relief, and I hang on to Rob’s arm while bending my leg upward to reveal a raw spot on my heel about the size of a quarter.

  “Ouch! Why didn’t you say something?”

  “What were you going to do? Lend me your shoes?”

  “We could have called a cab.”

  “To go two blocks?” I slip off the other shoe, which hasn’t produced quite the same wound, prepared to take my chances with dirt and jagged sidewalk debris. “I’ll survive.”

  “Yeah. I know. No matter what.”

  Having walked a few steps ahead, I turn. “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing. Just that you are a survivor, Liv. Things haven’t always been so easy for you.”

  “Where did that come from?”

  “Just some thinking I’ve been doing. I understand that your parents are responsible for a lot of who you are. I have an amicable relationship with your mother, but some of the reason for that isn’t lost on me.” I shake my head vaguely. “Her love for me is a dig at you. I get it.”

  “You shouldn’t take it personally—I don’t. She can’t help it. Instead of the Mayflower, I’ve often thought her descendants were more closely tied to arachnids or certain amphibians.”

  “Because?”

  I glance around the empty, lamp-lit street. “Because some species actually eat their young.”

  It’s typical humor between us, but Rob doesn’t laugh. “I never knew your father well, but I got a good taste of him in his closing moments. I can see where a lifetime of being a Klein would make you say something like that.”

  Tell me something I don’t know. While Rob and my mother get along famously, my father was ill when we started dating. It kept them at a distance. It was just as well. The chair of Tufts Behavioral Economics department would have likely made a lab rat out of him. “Fascinating specimen, Olivia . . . Intelligent, yet possesses risk factors more common to the corner bookie.” From there my father might have poured himself a drink and demanded Rob detail his family history: social, monetary, breeding. It would have wrapped up with a comment directed at me: “I suppose he’s more suitable than your first husband. But if you can keep it to two . . .”

  I sigh and tune back into Rob, who continues lamenting my mother. “It’s all part of Genie’s motivation, the reason her son-in-law gets such a high approval rating, even after he jeopardizes the roof over her head. Kleins are calculating, your father certainly was, right up until the end—such as it was.”

  “Yes . . . well, when it comes to calculating, I suppose I do my fair share to keep up tradition.” I start walking again.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  I did.

  Rob latches on to my arm and I stop, facing him. “I get that growing up in that house was toxic, Liv. Hell, your brother had to put an entire hemisphere between him and them. Not o
nly did you stay, but you survived it.”

  “Rob, where in the world is this coming from? Have you been cramming back issues of Psychology Today online?”

  “Lunch,” he says. “Today, at lunch, it’s one of the things Sasha and I talked about.” The blip of information grabs my attention. “Sometimes I don’t give it enough consideration, how your parents affected you. And . . .”

  “And what? You and Sasha determined the mental divide between personal responsibility and what can be directly blamed on Asa and Eugenia Klein? Is there a psychiatric intervention in my future, maybe some shock therapy?”

  “Hardly. No one’s that brazen—or nuts. But we did have a serious discussion. The kind you and I don’t seem to have anymore.”

  “Well, bully for you and Sasha.” My face grows warm. That I was the subject sandwiched between the mustard and ham on rye. That such a deep exchange took place about me, between my husband and best friend.

  Rob tucks his hands in his pockets, tipping back on the heels of the Italian loafers. He sees my discomfort. He reverts to banter more suited to us. “No worries, Liv. Although, if you’d benefited from some therapy years ago my Porsche might still be in one piece.” The look on his face, I haven’t seen it in some time. It has something to do with concern. “I just . . . Sasha reminded me that there are a lot of complexities that resulted in Olivia Klein. Sometimes I forget to factor that in.”

  “Thanks,” I say, nodding. “I appreciate the introspection. But do me a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t discuss my complexities with Sasha.” I glance down the street. “Together you’ll likely conclude that the damage is beyond repair—certainly not worth her effort.” I take a deep breath and give Rob the respect he’s earned in this moment, the effort he is making. “Or yours.” He grins and closes the scant physical distance between us. His arms fold around me. On the sidewalk comes a kiss that belongs to people who describe their relationship as bliss. I kiss him back. “Aside from that . . .” A fall breeze couldn’t squeeze between us. “Can you imagine the price tag for therapy? You’d need two Wellesley houses to pay for it.” We both laugh.