Unstrung

by Laura Spinella

  I widen my eyes at her twisted inference. “Whoa . . . Wait. Sasha, listen to me . . . It’s not—” But I stop, bewildered as to how I will neatly fill in that blank. “There’s nothing going on between Theo McAdams and me. I admit, I like him. Maybe more than most people. But I swear to you, there’s nothing romantic.”

  “An affair can be a lot of things aside from romantic, Liv. It can be comfort, escape . . . even accidental in the right circumstance.”

  “Okay, but—”

  “I know it sounds irrational, but sometimes affairs aren’t even about sex. Or it doesn’t start out that way. Sex is just where need ends up. One minute it’s what seems like a straightforward relationship,” she says, her hand darting at me. “And the next . . .”

  Before I can respond, her phone rings.

  “I have to take this . . . Hi.” She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and her gaze drops to her lap. “You’re back.” Noise rises around us, enough that she presses a finger to her ear. “Good. No, I ended up at dinner after all.” Her tone sounds like confirmation that I have dragged Sasha to Neptune Oyster. “Could we talk about this later, after I get home?” Her glance drifts back to mine. I feel as if I am eavesdropping, and I busy myself with the sea greens and lobster. She ends the call abruptly and announces, “I have to go—tomorrow’s case. But, Liv, about Theo . . .”

  “I swear, Sash. You couldn’t be more off the mark.” Theo’s father, on the other hand . . . I clear my throat and point to her phone. “The call. Did your last-minute evidence turn up?”

  “Something like that.” Sasha reaches for her purse, which is newer. This fall’s Kate Spade line—a deep hobo bag that I warned her would be a bottomless pit when trying to retrieve her wallet or whatever.

  I say not to worry about the bill. But in true Sasha form she’s diligently conscientious. She digs for her wallet, discarding random bits of her life on the table: three lipsticks (I own one), hairbrush, checkbook, dry cleaning receipt—I didn’t know we used the same dry cleaner. While I wait for the kite string and skate key, she plops a boarding pass, rubber-banded notebook, and a claim check stamped in a gold fleur-de-lis pattern, and a bag of peanuts. Finally she comes up with her wallet. She looks at the mess on the table and hurriedly scrapes it all back in before paying her share of the bill.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Sash.” Rising from the table, she looks startled. “The purse.” I point. “When you insisted on it, I said important things would plunge right to the bottom, you’d lose them forever.”

  She grips onto the edge of the booth and offers a shaky smile. “I think you were probably right about that, Liv.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Olivia

  The brownstone is dimly lit. But I hear Rob’s voice and I follow it, turning on lights as I go. A trail of talk and the smell of food leads to the kitchen. Upon seeing me, he quickly ends a call. “How was your trip?” A tofu hot dog is on the downdraft grill. I should have packed up the remains of Sasha’s filet; he would have gratefully gobbled it down. He doesn’t reply. “Rob?”

  “Uh, not exactly what I was expecting in some ways . . . No great surprise in others.”

  “Could you be more cryptic? A little more information, if you don’t mind.” Rob concentrates on the grill. I wonder how long he can remain in iron-chef mode while roasting bean curd.

  “I don’t have a lot of positives to share, okay?” He continues to focus on fake tubular meat, applying grill marks meant to make it look appetizing. “What’d you do while I was gone?”

  Turning away, I drop my purse onto the counter and flip through the mail. “Nothing much.” I tap envelopes on the quartz edge. For a brief moment I consider telling Rob about my visit to Sam—less the kiss. I glance over my shoulder. I don’t. It would only add tension, not alleviate it. I put the mail down. Damn, maybe I’m more concerned there wouldn’t be any tension. “Hell, Liv, you should have gone for it . . .” I stay in the neutral zone. “Mostly rehearsal. Braemore was closed today. Don’t forget we have that charity thing on Friday.” He nods, retrieving a plate from the cabinet. “So are you going to tell me what did happen while you were in New York?”

  “You mean about the house?”

  I move my hands in a vague gesture. “Unless something of greater interest transpired?”

  Abruptly he abandons his hot dog and decides to take out the garbage. I wait as he knots one Hefty bag and replaces it with another. Rob stalls until he is forced to return to the grill. “I haven’t gotten the house issue resolved yet. I sought out some new investors. It didn’t work out. It’s late. Can we leave it at that?”

  “No, Rob. We can’t. I’d like to know if my future funding is really gone. If I’ll need to go to this charity event prepared to do my own schmoozing. Maybe Claire McAdams has a tip sheet.”

  “I think you’d need more of a crash course.”

  “Precisely. The beauty of a no-brainer asset.”

  “Liv, I don’t need another reminder.” Irritation colors his voice. “Deals like this take time to finesse. You can’t bully your way into getting people to loan you that kind of money.”

  I’ve steered clear of particulars long enough. “Exactly what kind of money are we talking about—the whole golf course deal. Bottom line?”

  He shuts off the cooktop and transfers the hot dog onto a plate. Rob doesn’t take his eyes off it, his hands planted firm on his waist. He glances in my direction and runs a hand through his dark hair. “Almost three million.”

  “Dollars?” I’m suddenly more sure why Rob is standing in the kitchen, cooking a tofu hot dog that is likely past its sell by date. No wonder the Wellesley house is a load-bearing wall in his collateral package. “So it’s the house . . . and more? That’s what you need to raise?”

  Rob does the brave thing and makes firm eye contact. “Yes. I’ll have to liquidate some additional assets.”

  He’s referring to smaller holdings, at least compared to the Wellesley house. Things he’s rebuilt since his last financial debacle, stocks, maybe our retirement savings, which the Amati auction had previously spared. But the house, particularly ones like this, people stalk them, waiting for vintage Wellesley properties to come on the market. His creditors would snap it up and sell it in a heartbeat. I take a turn around the kitchen.

  “I never thought it’d go this far, Liv. I’ve tried pooling other resources. It’s just a lot of bad timing, cash that is tied up in investments I can’t touch right now. My usual go-to sources . . . Well, they’re—”

  “Let me guess, not overly anxious to buy into whatever you’re selling.”

  “Not fair, Liv. I’ve made far more money than I’ve lost. Solid returns for my clients—and for us.” He splays his hands in front of him, noting the brownstone.

  I shake my head. “Then could it be that this time, after last time, you’re looking a little too high stakes? Maybe sounding a wee bit desperate?” He doesn’t answer, abandoning his healthy meal for the drink on the counter. “What? No quick-witted comeback?” The crystal winces in his grip. He is quiet, staring at his Macallan, which he does not drink. But who knows how many he had before I showed up.

  “While I was in New York, I went to see my father about the money.”

  Oh. Quite a few drinks, I imagine. The statement crystalizes the desperation meter. While Rob might discuss the New York Knicks, Grand Prix racing, and foreign markets with Robert Van Doren Senior, they do not talk about Rob’s business ventures. He’s unaware of his son’s previous financial skid. His father never got over the insult of Rob’s refusal to join his successful accounting firm. Honestly? I could see Rob’s point. He would have languished in the minutia of book-balancing other people’s trite money. He needs to be where the action is. The rift between father and son has been a sore spot since I’ve known them. From the time Rob decided to go into business for himself, his father has been waiting for an I told you so moment. I suspect he found one. “Your father. Sorry if that doesn�
��t ease my mind.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Just imagining his reaction.”

  “Yeah. Not too difficult. Interesting. On my way home, I could only think of one thing that might have been more humiliating.”

  Neither of us needs to say it, though I do. “Confessing it to my father.”

  He snickers. “I’m sure the chair of the Tufts econ department would have had a field day with this.” Rob’s frustration hits tilt as he shoves the tofu hot dog and plate across the counter, where it careens into the backsplash. Italian pottery breaks into pieces; a wall tile cracks. “Hell, Asa Klein would be so appalled he’d probably insist you should have stuck with your first husband.”

  “Sadly,” I say, knowing my father, “I can’t disagree.” I stare at the broken things on the counter. Rob’s gaze cuts to mine. “I didn’t mean it like that.” I take a step toward him. “I wasn’t talking about Sam, only that my father would be livid about the house.”

  “Either way, it’s astonishingly convenient, isn’t it? The prized athlete, good ole boy—loaded, no doubt—recently surfaces, and with a clean bill of health. What the fuck more could you ask for?”

  Ashamed by the accuracy of Rob’s angry ideas and a heated parking garage kiss, I look away. “I only meant the house,” I repeat softly.

  Rob reaches for his drink and downs a vile swig. He puts down the glass and focuses on melting ice, maybe our melting marriage. “Right. Anyway, be aware, Liv. I don’t know if I can fix this. I honest to God don’t know what else to do.”

  “How much time until . . .”

  “Until the house is lost for good?” I nod. “About sixty days.” He takes another sip of his drink. “Part of my New York trip was to negotiate an extension.” He smiles a cunning Rob Van Doren smile, a weighty asset that was once the smallest part of what had awed me. Now it just looks . . . fraught. “I didn’t secure that either. So short of a monetary miracle . . .”

  I glance around the stylish brownstone. “Great. At least I know what to get my mother for Christmas.”

  “And that would be?”

  “A key to our house.” The moment I say it, I realize how badly the sarcasm misses.

  “Touché, Liv.” Rob cheers his glass toward me and brushes past, disappearing into the basement.

  Seconds later I startle at the sound of glass shattering. There’s an exposed brick wall at the bottom of the stairs; I suspect the last of the Waterford just met with it. I am rushed by a wave of sympathy. Last time Rob fucked up, it didn’t come with such an explosive level of guilt.

  Years ago, when I added his name to the Wellesley deed, it was so much more than what I said to Sasha—a reciprocal gesture for buying his bride a brownstone. I was making a statement: the benevolent venture of funding the orchestra belonged as much to me as it did to Rob. I know he felt equal satisfaction; we’d done something good. Something noble—particularly noble for two people who wouldn’t ordinarily be defined this way. “Do you know the Van Dorens?” “Why yes, lovely couple, so generous and charitable . . .” It’s not what people say about us. For me, it wasn’t necessary that they did. It still isn’t, but that’s not to say it didn’t feel good. Noble. It’s a word more suited for someone like Claire McAdams.

  Poised at the top of the basement stairs, I almost go down and assure Rob the house issue will resolve itself. What is it people say when faced by irksome tragedy? “It’s only a car . . . a house . . . it’s just money . . . meaningless stuff.” My mother has assets and options. In reality, she probably wants to live in my spare bedroom as much as I want her there. It’s the orchestra funding that’s widening this smear of bad blood between Rob and me. We both feel it, an already shaky marriage strained to its breaking point. Overwhelmed by all of it, too burdened by the past and future, I give up on the present and head to the bedroom.

  Routine is comforting; I take to my nighttime ritual like a bow to strings—favorite nightgown, the umpteenth book I’ve started at my bedside, face cream that costs $90 an ounce. It promises to revitalize a youthful glow. It’s fitting; the falsehoods in my life continue. Seated at the vanity, I stare into my eyes, paler blue than Rob’s. Once my best feature, they are now sinking into the sockets, outlined by years of cynical squinting. I rub equally pricey cream into my hands, which present no better picture. Fingertips that are permanently ribbed, and I see another age spot to be counted. It peeks up from between my thumb and index finger. While playing, I’m provided with a permanent, up-close view.

  On the bathroom counter is Rob’s travel bag. I know what’s inside: shaving gear, man moisturizer the aesthetician who does his facial peels talks him into, his toothbrush. I abandon my routine and decide to put his personal items away. Rob will notice when he comes upstairs, a subtle peace offering for what happened downstairs. Unzipping the leather case, I withdraw the expected belongings, picking out a travel-size bottle of cologne. I gave it to him for Christmas—a suggestive manly sexy scent that Rob wears particularly well.

  A sniff takes me back more than a year. It was a time exceedingly less complicated than this one, or so I thought. I was on a week-long symphony break and Rob insisted on a spur-of-the-moment trip to Italy. Who does that? I thought we did and the two of us went, forgetting the rest of the world. While abroad we had the most exquisite time. Even now, the cologne seems like a sign, a happier, more believable us. Two days after we returned, instead of a gondola in Venice, I found myself aboard Rob’s quickly sinking financial barge. I don’t subscribe to whimsy, like finding lucky pennies or the meaning of butterflies. But I allow for a touch of that now, breathing in the positives the cologne still elicits. For a good long while, Rob and I, we got this right.

  I stay on task, standing over the travel case and digging for his toothbrush, groping at spare change he tends to toss in. I come up with a cotton shoe shine cloth. It is marked The Bed, Manhattan’s Most Exquisite Small Luxury. I’m about to toss it into the trash, but instead lay it out flat on the marble counter. The sexy tagline is complemented by a gold fleur-de-lis. I stare at it, feeling a wallop of déjà vu. I can’t place it. Then I do—the claim check from Sasha’s hobo bag. My butt hits the vanity chair with a heart-rattling thump.

  The past few hours, maybe days, rush like an express train through my head—Sasha’s vague demeanor, and the phone she kept tucked beside her, out of sight. Her odd behavior during dinner and her quick exit before it was even over. I blink into the mirror. A queasy feeling that I haven’t experienced since my first hint of Theo weaves through my stomach.

  It’s ridiculous.

  I look away from the mirror. Then I look back. Is it?

  Recent memories propagate—Rob and Sasha’s impromptu lunch. But it was hardly their plan. They didn’t know I wouldn’t be home . . . It wasn’t their lie being perpetuated while I was out bonding with Theo . . . I pay no heed to wild imagination. I put back the shoe shine cloth and scrape the spare change back into the bag. But the action jars another fact that spilled from the hobo bag. Among Sasha’s lipsticks and personal items was a boarding pass. I didn’t see the date or destination. But I can’t recall a recent trip she’s made, one where a boarding pass would end up in a purse she’s owned for little more than a month. An innocent call from last Sunday rolls through my head, so does tonight’s. Both times Rob was talking on the house phone, definitely with Sasha the first time. A call to the house phone wouldn’t look out of place, not like a call to his cell phone. Come to think of it, other than last Sunday, I can’t remember the last time Sasha called on the house phone.

  I hear Rob come into the bedroom and quickly shove the rest of his belongings back into the case. As he comes into the bathroom, I dart from the vanity bench. He puts his arm across the door, blocking my way. “No matter what happens with the house, Liv, I think we need to talk about some things.”

  I don’t look at him; the accusation would slip too easily from my mouth. I can’t believe it’s true. I don’t want to
know. Like a game of limbo, I duck under Rob’s arm. He doesn’t turn but enters the bathroom and slams the door. I shuffle across the bedroom floor. Houses. The brownstone and the Wellesley properties are in both our names. It would be a cleaner, more amicable split if Rob were to simply remove himself from the Wellesley deed, giving me sole ownership. It would also give me somewhere to live—immediately. It would be an even divide of assets. In a jumbled haze, I plunge my arms into a heavy robe. It does nothing to warm the chilly air surrounding me. What if Rob’s sudden remorse is really a mad dash to the exit? It matches his style, maybe more so than anonymous charitable endeavors.

  At the window, I take a few deep breaths. The glass fogs and clears. I need to do the same thing with my mind. This is absurd. I watch a man walk by with his dog; another man jogs past wearing reflective clothing. I wonder what they will go home to—warm beds and trusted lovers? I glance over my shoulder. The shower is running. My head tips against the cool glass as the most telling memory surfaces. It’s not about a brownstone or a mini estate tucked into a prestigious Wellesley neighborhood. It’s not from last week or even the past few hours. It’s a conversation with Sasha from seven years ago.

  “Liv, just meet Rob for coffee.”

  “Why? He’s your castoff date. What do I want with him?”

  “I don’t know, maybe nothing . . . To me, he just had a strong Liv vibe—quick witted, good looking, Teflon coated.”

  “Thanks so much.”

  “You know what I mean. He seems sort of indestructible, like a Rock ’Em, Sock ’Em Robot, but way sexier.”

  “So why aren’t you interested?”

  “Because when I kissed him he didn’t turn into my prince.”

  “Great. Make that your used castoff date.”

  “Oh, come on, Liv. It was a kiss. Nothing more, I swear . . . I did consider it; then I thought of the greater good that could be served if I passed. What do you say?”