Miranda's War

by Foster, Howard;

  “Let’s assume the bond boycott works, the state is being squeezed and the Governor won’t back down. What happens to the real estate market in our towns?”

  “Uncertainty.”

  “Exactly, nobody knows if the large estates are going to be safe long-term or not. We’ll get some relief, but who knows if it will hold? It’s like the Hanoi peace accords in ’73. And for a while prices will fall.”

  “What are you suggesting, more museum deals?”

  “Much easier than that. I mean there are ten or fifteen five-acre estates in each town that are run-down and on the market or the shadow market. You swoop in and buy them at a huge discount. It’s like the housing crash all over again.”

  “What would I do with them?”

  “Nothing. Just wait for the market to stabilize, three to six months, until it’s over.”

  “How does it end?”

  “The Governor blinks. The bill is stopped. They leave us alone.”

  He was more than intrigued, pulled out his smartphone and punched in some numbers on the calculator.

  “Let’s have some port,” he suggested.

  “Well?” she asked.

  He brushed her right knee and leaned toward her.

  “Let’s go someplace.”

  She agreed, he paid the check, and they went back to his car.

  “Is your wife in town?”

  “We’re separated.”

  “Since when?”

  “Why do you need to know?”

  “I don’t need to know. I just want to know.”

  “Three months.”

  “Have you been dating anyone?”

  “I didn’t leave her for anyone else, if that’s what you mean. Our marriage has become pointless, emotionally arid, dull, unchallenging. What else can I call it?”

  “So has mine.”

  “So I’ve gathered.”

  They went back to his car, a late-model silver Mercedes SL, and he drove toward Beacon Hill, past the State House.

  “Stephen Rokeby came up with the bond-boycott idea. But I’m going to use it. And I’m going to sit across from the Governor and settle this. Not him.”

  “Good artists copy,” Zenni said smugly. “Great artists steal.”

  “Maybe you should turn around,” she said, as the streets became quieter and more private.

  “I think I’ll keep going.”

  He turned onto Joy Street and meandered through the narrow sinuous streets of the Hill to what seemed like an alley but turned out to be a well-maintained private lane with three town houses. His, the biggest, loomed at the end. It had lovely beige and green awnings over the windows and a magazine-quality appearance.

  He parked in front and turned off the engine.

  “Let’s go inside, my dear.”

  Reluctantly, she did.

  “No furtive use of the back door?” she asked.

  “Would you prefer that?”

  “I was expecting it.”

  “Haven’t I exceeded your expectations?”

  “You have,” she said.

  They went into the marble foyer and he grabbed her right hand. He led her into the living room, and she admired the silk tapestries on one wall and his art collection on another: a Childe Hassam, two Remingtons, a Monet, a Pissarro and a Sargent. There were also some lesser works that she was unable to identify but placed at the upper third of the impressionist market. In all, she figured this was a $15 million collection.

  “Who’s the collector?”

  “Both of us.”

  “And your children? Ages?”

  “Twenty-two and nineteen, tucked away at colleges, depleting my reserves.”

  He handed her a glass of wine and they clinked their glasses.

  “I rarely do this, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “I never have,” she said with an assurance that he found convincing. “Though I can’t say I’ve never thought about it.”

  Soon they were in the master suite, she sitting on a plush chair a few feet from his bed, and he standing, shirtless, in front of her.

  “I thought you wanted this, Miranda. I thought you were feeling that pull, the bond we have.”

  “I was. But I can’t. Not now.”

  He crouched down next to her and kissed her cheek.

  “Chanel No. 5?”

  “Not today.”

  He fumbled with her blouse and then she pulled away.

  “I loved Archer. Maybe I still do. Look at what he gave me.”

  “He’s fighting you over everything.”

  “Everything. He didn’t even congratulate me when I became Chairman, woman, whatever. It’s such a crime against his code.”

  “Becoming Chairwoman, or not congratulating you?”

  “He was pleased when I got on the Commission. That was fine. But to be pushy and take power, very tacky. He disapproves. He’s perfectly happy with his world the way it is. And I guess that means our marriage can’t work. Because I’m not happy. I never was, well maybe the first two years. But not since then. I need a challenge. I’m restless. I can’t resist the urge to take over things. I want to make these academic liberals realize they like capitalism. We can make it refined, controlled, but it’s still capitalism.”

  “I like what you’re doing. You want to show capitalism doesn’t have to be ugly. And a woman as attractive as you is the perfect person to do it.”

  He kissed her. She pulled away.

  “Adultery just gets in the way, Tony. I’ve done enough to Archer. And he’s hurt me too. No more.”

  “We’re two adults trying to be discreet.”

  “You’re very good at that.”

  “At what?”

  “At blending the personal with the deal.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This is a package,” she reminded him. “You get the Pierce and you get the woman.”

  “You’re a beautiful, fascinating woman. And I think the attraction is mutual.”

  “It is. But I am where I am because I married a man who offered me the name, the cachet, the cash, the whole deal. And as I look at you now in this bed, all I can think of is the first time with Archer.”

  She grabbed his shirt and held it up for him. Eventually, he put it back on.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  At 7:00 the next morning Miranda launched the Save Our Towns website, imploring investors to boycott the state’s municipal bonds. She put on Chopin études and sipped an espresso. The house was absolutely calm, Archer having gone to work an hour before. She stood right in front of the authentic Sargent and lightly touched the canvas. It had the feel of a three-day-old onionskin. Then she walked a few steps over to the forgery, painted in 2002, which she actually thought was a superior work, and did the same thing. The difference was perceptible to the trained observer. But Archer had done the same thing and didn’t feel it. She returned to her study and sent an email to him with a cc to Ted: “Gentlemen: see saveourtowns.org. I launched it minutes ago. Do with me what you will.”

  Rokeby called her cell; she hesitated but took it.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  “I’m finishing this.”

  “Some of those people you’ve listed there as town Chairmen aren’t with you.”

  “They’re not with you. You haven’t done anything in the last three days. What are you waiting for?”

  “I’m talking to the Governor. You’re not.”

  “You should read your history. We won World War II while talking to our enemies. We said we weren’t but we were. You use what you’ve got in battle.”

  There was a long silence, during which she noted that there had already been 745 emails received on the site and $28,500 had been pledged to Save Our Towns.

  “Well, what would you like to do?” he finally said with the boyish tone she had found so disappointing at their first meeting.

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “How does it look for you to l
eave your husband now that you’ve become Chairman?” Archer asked at 9:30 that night in his study.

  “You made your position clear at town meeting by not showing up. You humiliated me, the harshest punishment in your repertoire. But I still won.”

  “And you take that as a vote of confidence?”

  She nodded.

  “If that vote were held again now it would be the reverse. You’ve exceeded the leash you were given. Nobody thought you were going to start a bond boycott.”

  “Maybe you’re right. Or maybe the people will like what we get done. Maybe they’ll decide that winning ugly is better than losing gracefully.”

  He shook his head.

  “I know I broke your leash months ago,” Miranda continued. “I’m not coming back. This isn’t a passing phase. I really don’t belong in your world.”

  “Then have the courage of your convictions and leave. Leave this house, this town and this world. Stop trying to save us!”

  She could not answer or even look at him. Instead she slinked out and poured herself a glass of Bordeaux at the bar.

  “That’s it, drink your $100 bottle of wine, or should I say mine, while you sit here in my $2 million house, on my three-acre estate, and use my Apple computer to email landscapers and artists and directors and policy gurus to join your obnoxious, unseemly, self-centered counter-revolution against everyone who doesn’t think the way you do.”

  He stood inches from her and grabbed the bottle of wine off the bar.

  “What does the glib counter-revolutionary have to say for herself now?”

  “Tell me you didn’t feel a moment of pride when I became Chairman.”

  “I did—for a day. But I never could forgive you for how you did it. And I never will.”

  “It never would have happened if I’d sat there and waited for it.”

  “I’m cutting you off from my world as of now. No more charge cards. No more computer. No more websites. No more furtive meetings with Anthony Zenni.”

  He went into her study and ripped her computer from her desk. She ran in and pushed him away. The computer fell out of his hands. She saw the boys at the doorway, Cody appearing stunned and Asa looking directly into her eyes. She snatched the computer.

  “I’m sorry you had to see this, but Mom and I are going to have to separate for a while.”

  “You don’t even speak anymore. You’ve been separated for a long time,” said Cody.

  “I know. This is not how a family is supposed to be, with Mom and Dad in separate studies.”

  Archer spread his arms around the boys and guided them out the doorway. Asa looked back at his mother momentarily as she ran her fingers over the brushed aluminum, hoping not to feel a dent. The computer was unscathed. She took it up to their bedroom and slammed the door. She sent email inquiries to divorce lawyers and clicked on and off the town ordinance about the residency requirements for members of boards and commissions. Of course they had to reside in town. She contemplated the absurdity of reigning over the Conservation Commission from an apartment in the Back Bay.

  She called Julia and asked if she could come over. Very quietly, she left the house with her laptop and drove to Julia’s over the unlit winding roads. Julia looked as distressed as she was, her softly serious face leaning in for a close look.

  “Archer is coming down on me like a ton of bricks,” she said when they were in the living room.

  “We all know you two have problems. There have been rumors he’s divorcing you since the town meeting.”

  “Does anyone know why? I don’t.”

  “Of course you do! Archer is Lincoln, and Lincoln is Archer. I’ve never met the man but I can tell you he respects your intellect and is repelled by your tactics. So are we all.”

  “Lincoln seemed to approve of me then.”

  “He wasn’t there. And if that vote were taken now …”

  Her sentence was completed by a raised eyebrow and a frown.

  “How can I turn it back?”

  “Win, Miranda. Just get it done in the next few weeks. And then keep your head down.”

  At 6:30 a.m., Archer’s wake-up time, she went into his auxiliary bedroom. He was already doing push-ups in his shorts.

  “I’ve been up most of the night. I don’t want you to think I don’t care,” she said.

  “Good, I don’t want another scene like that—ever.”

  “What will it take to save our marriage?”

  “We go back to where we were before you decided to do what you’ve been doing to the exclusion of everything else. Wasn’t I clear about that?”

  “You want me to resign from the Commission?”

  “If you want to stay on, then do your job and stop everything else. You’re not going to change us.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed near him on the floor and touched his face, recalling the moment they came home from the hospital with each of their boys.

  “You know, when you look outside at this beautiful property,” she said, walking over to a window facing the modern sculptures on the marble obelisks, “the problems of the world seem so far away.”

  “That’s why we’re here.”

  “Did you know that the day we moved into this house was one of the happiest days of my life? I didn’t realize it then. Moving is so traumatic. But this was where we both wanted to be. There was no better place.”

  “You wanted to live in Weston.”

  “I love it here. I really do.”

  “But you aren’t at peace here. What do you want? Just tell me in one simple sentence what you want.”

  “I thought you would let me find it, love.”

  He stared into her eyes, and when she began to cry, she grabbed his hand and helped him up off the floor.

  “I need a few days to process this. I’m not going to do anything more until then.”

  “Well, take a few days then,” he said, putting a decided emphasis on the word “few” and went into the bathroom.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Jerry McCarthy did not want to answer the question the Governor had asked. He was ready to minimize the boycott with an offhand remark about how hard it was to govern as an independent administration. There were always disgruntled groups hurling threats. He wanted to give Save Our Towns the back of his hand and watch as it fulminated and then dissipated as the market stabilized. He knew the bond market well, having headed the Boston office of a major brokerage firm for fourteen years. He also had a degree in economics and knew cartels were exceedingly difficult to manage.

  “Sir, I cannot say categorically that the boycott will fail and not cost us money. I could go on at length if you’d like to know how difficult this will be to pull off, but they seem to be having an impact already.”

  “Proceed.”

  “Let’s start with market power. As far as I can see, this group doesn’t have the major buyers.”

  “I’m not asking you to speculate, Jerry.”

  “If a significant number of buyers refuse to buy our bonds, then demand falls and we have to raise the interest rate we pay. Yes, that would cost us money.”

  “And it’s starting to bite?”

  “Yes, it is. And I would expect it to—for a few days, maybe a week. I’m raising the rate on our Mass. Turnpike 2019 issues by a few basis points. And we’ll get the buyers.”

  “Of course you will,” said the Governor. “And maybe the bitch can’t keep it up. And her people will start peeling off. And maybe they won’t. I don’t understand these people very well. They pay a lot of taxes. But we give them lots of stuff in return, funding for their towns. At least that was what I thought we were doing.”

  “We aren’t hitting them as hard as we could be on the tax side. I’d love to phase out deductions for high-income earners. We just haven’t pushed that agenda. On land use, my understanding is that we’re pressuring the wealthy towns to let in Section 8 housing. And we’re tying strings to local aid so they do more. I want those towns to do more on
affordable housing, no question.”

  “Of course you do,” said the Governor. “Affordable housing in Lincoln and Dover and Wellesley sounds like fairness. It’s making them do their fair share. Whatever you want to call it. We’re not walking away from that. People in this state want it.”

  “So what do I do, Governor?”

  “I’m willing to sit down with Steve Rokeby, because he’s a reasonable guy trying to extricate himself from a horrible situation, and say I’ll support a bill that will set some type of limit on what the state can make those towns do.”

  “What kind of limit?”

  “I’m not sure. I need you to tell me how this would work. He doesn’t care about a few units of section 8 housing. He’s an investment banker. He wants to know how much this will cost his people. Right now there’s no limit. So let’s give him some number, a high number, erring on our side. But he needs a number. And then I can cut her out of the loop.”

  For the next fifteen minutes McCarthy tried to dissuade the Governor from meeting Rokeby: he was desperate, politically naïve, too young to make the final exit his father did and, according to McCarthy’s sources, disgusted with Miranda. The Governor ordered a meeting for the next morning. He wanted a “pragmatic solution,” as he did for every other problem.

  Stephen accepted the invitation, strong though the wording was, right away. The meeting was set for 7:30 the next morning. He was to meet an aide to the Governor a block from the State House and be taken in through a side entrance.

  “I won’t be in the news today,” he told Alicia as she was getting out of bed.

  “Are we spending the day in the house?”

  “I’m seeing the Governor and it’s ultra-secret.”

  She grabbed him, and for the first time since he’d started the campaign, it felt real.

  “It’s her website that did it, the boycott,” he said.

  “I don’t care what did it.”

  “You think I’m going to walk into his office and he’s going to make me some deal on zoning just like that?”

  “He called, didn’t he?”

  “I’ll go in there and listen, but he won’t close a deal with me that fast. He manipulates people. He’s an independent, remember?”