“It’s over.” Jake still wouldn’t look at her. “We can only help a few people.”
She remained mute, at a loss for a frame of reference.
“People like Louis made plenty off the company, believe me,” he answered himself. “They’re not losing a thing.”
Louis Klein treated Jake like his fourth child. He called Phoebe on her birthday and sat at the family table at their kids’ weddings.
“I wrote checks to your sister, bonuses for all the people in the office. People like Leon—that’s who I’m taking care of. The money will go out tomorrow morning. I’ll make sure.” He spoke as though doing something worthy of pride.
Waves of faces flashed. Uncles. Cousins. Eva. Linh. Zoya. Ira. Mira House. She might as well separate molecules of water as isolate family and friends not in the Club.
“I’m seeing Gideon on Monday. Don’t worry. I’ll put everything in order.”
“How?”
“Don’t worry.”
“My sister’s money is gone?” she asked. “Eva and the others? Ira? Mira House?”
Jake struggled to a sitting position and placed a hand on each of his knees. “Are you not listening? Almost everything is gone. I’m slicing up what’s left; too many people need a piece of the pie. The Club’s gone, Pheebs. You gotta stay quiet for now. Don’t call Deb, or the money could disappear before she gets it. Do you understand?”
“How did this happen, Jake?”
He raised the television volume. “Like a house burning, one stick of furniture at a time.”
• • •
Now they faced going to the party.
The holiday celebration.
JPE’s bash was always held someplace fancy enough for the women to glitter, while allowing the men to wear nothing dressier than sports jackets and fresh shaves. A place where they could let down their hair, receive expensive gifts selected by Phoebe, drink endlessly, gorge all night, and live up to the family touch Jake infused into the company.
This year’s “family touch” was Jake’s fingers snaking into the staff’s pockets, pulling out their salaries, and channeling the money to the thirty-seventh floor—where most of the staff had invested their life savings—smashing their trust until it was no more than particles of dust.
She would skip the party and let Jake claim whatever illness he wanted for her, if not for the tiny hope that some miracle would bring Kate and Noah to the celebration.
Extravagant fabric shimmered from Phoebe’s closet. She stared at dresses, evening skirts, and palazzo pants until they blurred into a Picasso of her wardrobe.
Bouclé.
Crepe.
Silk.
Red.
Beige.
Blue.
White.
Black.
Black.
Black.
She could take a knife and slash every piece.
Or slit Jake’s throat.
Thief.
Crook.
Pirate.
Plunderer.
Jake walked in, his charcoal suit too clean a contrast to his bloodshot brown eyes, dense with misery. He’d combed back his thick hair but skipped the second shave he usually took before a party. His tie knot appeared clumsy.
“You’re not dressed,” he said.
“When did it start?” she asked.
Silence.
“Why did you do it?”
Still as dirt.
“Nothing makes sense.”
“Just get dressed. We’ll talk later.”
When he left the bedroom, she rummaged in her dresser till she found a prescription bottle under a pile of silk camisoles, shook out a Xanax, and swallowed it dry. Once the pill was down safely, she grabbed a long black skirt and a grey blouse. She’d match Jake. Sack cloth and ashes. Two clichés of penitence.
A car service driver picked them up. No one worked during the holiday—especially not Leon. He could drink his favorite Chopin vodka, which Jake always made sure was on hand, all night if he wished—he’d be the driven, not the driver. The night of the party, Jake sent a car for Leon.
Connie rushed over, hugging Phoebe first and then Jake. “I was so worried about you!” she said to Jake. “Where’d you go? You disappeared. You didn’t answer your calls; I was going crazy wondering what happened. Some questions came up about the party and I—”
Jake patted Connie’s shoulder. “Phoebe’s sister took ill.” Jake tapped his chest as though the problem lay in Deb’s heart. “She’s in the hospital. West Boca Community at first, but we arranged transportation to Cedars.”
His lies rolled out like lush carpet. Smooth and so thick that you sunk right in. He’d use anyone, wouldn’t he? Her sister. His brother.
“My goodness!” Connie’s hand went to her heart, mirroring Jake’s gesture. She tapped her oval red nails—lacquered so shiny they resembled valentines—against her blue satin dress. Her gaze shifted to Phoebe, reaching for her hand, which Phoebe reluctantly gave over. “Is your sister going to be okay?”
“She’ll be fine.” Her words traveled through broken glass lining her throat.
Jake put an arm around Phoebe shoulders. “It’s a party. She doesn’t want to talk about it, so can you keep it under your hat, sweetheart?” he asked Connie. “I’ll catch you up tomorrow. For now, smile.”
Connie obeyed with a toothy grin. “Anything. Everyone’s been wanting to say thank you. The room looks fantastic, huh?” She held out her right hand, pointing casually and shaking her wrist a bit. The peridot and diamond bracelet Phoebe had picked out as a gift—the green stones matching Connie’s eyes—were magnificent against Connie’s olive skin.
“The bracelet looks lovely.” Phoebe felt sick as she added the prices of the bracelets and watches she’d bought for the staff.
“How do you know exactly what I love? Thank you!” Connie admired her outstretched wrist. “It’s gorgeous.”
Phoebe stretched her mouth into what she hoped resembled a smile more than a rictus. “You deserve that and more.” How much had Jake’s secretary invested in the Club? Had she brought in her family’s money, like most of the JPE staff? “Have you heard from Noah? Kate?”
“No. Why?” Connie’s face tightened. “Are they in touch with your sister? Do you want me to try calling?”
“No, no,” Jake broke in. “Not to worry. Only a few crossed wires. It’s all under control.” He scowled at Phoebe. “No work for Connie tonight.”
On the ride over, she’d tried Kate and Noah every ten minutes, then five, repeatedly pressing redial until Jake grabbed the phone and turned it off. “Enough,” he’d said. “They’ll be at the party.”
Phoebe peered through the dimly lit room, but she didn’t expect to see them. She snuck into the ladies’ room and turned her phone back on, first checking for messages and then calling both children again. She sat on the closed toilet seat, pressing Noah’s and Kate’s numbers until, finally, she gave up. Lipstick reapplied haphazardly, she returned to the party.
Kate’s words came back. There’s a hurricane on the way. All those people out there were right in the path.
Fairy lights shimmering in fresh ropes of evergreen reflected off crystal stars hanging from the ceiling. They hurt her eyes. A waiter walked over carrying a silver tray covered with filled wine glasses. Phoebe reached out, but Jake clamped a hand on her wrist and waved the jacketed young man away. “No drinking. I need you compos mentis.”
She pulled away from him and stopped the waiter, touching his shoulder and then gesturing for a drink. Jake’s glare and his hard jaw meant nothing to her.
Theo sat in a corner with his wife, both gripping glasses filled with amber liquid. Glenfiddich, she knew. Had Theo told Ellen? His wife always stuck inseparably, almost insufferably, close to him, so seeing her glued to him provided no clue. Jake’s brother appeared as though someone had tipped him over and emptied his soul.
Phoebe pulled her sweater tight. Jake had used her as part of his making
things right. Sending her to Gig, to the bank. Was she now liable?
As if she couldn’t feel worse, Charlie, the consigliore of the thirty-seventh floor, walked toward them. She could imagine him with a cold handgun tucked under the leather jacket he wore all winter. Top staff dressed corporate, as ordered by Jake, while Charlie marched around the office in muscle-hugging black jeans and black shirts.
At best, the folks from the thirty-seventh floor unnerved her; most made her skin crawl. Gita-Rae’s low-cut blouses highlighting her bony chest made Phoebe feel as though she were examining X-rays. Connie had confided that the girls up on thirty-seven shook visibly upon Gita-Rae’s approach, and her supervision style included voice-cracking screams. Her obsequiousness toward Phoebe smacked of behind-the-back nastiness. Those who spat down, often licked upward.
Jake put a hand around her waist and pulled her close. He reeked of need. His caress repulsed her.
“Hey, boss.” Charlie pumped Jake’s hand. “Mrs. Boss.” He kissed Phoebe on the lips—she’d been too slow to offer her cheek. Waves of cologne attacked her. “Terrific party.” He held up his arm. “Great timepiece.”
“Wear it in good health,” Jake said.
“How you holding up?” Charlie moved in too close. “Everything good?”
“Everything’s fine.” Steel embedded in Jake’s response pushed away the question.
“Ya need anything?” Charlie persisted.
“Get me a Coke,” Jake said.
Charlie’s mouth tightened. Obviously, he hadn’t been offering his services to personally fetch something. “Coming right up, boss.”
As employees descended, Jake squeezed her hand as though it were a life preserver, while nodding and accepting thanks for gold pendants, cashmere shawls, and leather briefcases. Jake insisted on presents people wore and carried. He liked seeing his generosity at work.
CHAPTER 27
Phoebe
The digital clock clicked from 5:59 to 6:00. Thin light crept into Phoebe’s study. Ridges marking the sofa’s tufts divided her back into individual squares of pain. Questions raced in a hamster wheel of repetition throughout the sleepless night.
What are the kids doing?
Deb—should I tell her, despite Jake’s warnings?
Who, who, who in the world is this man I married?
Jake fell into an Ambien-induced coma soon after they returned from the party—suddenly he found drugs wonderful and fine. She, on the other hand, couldn’t take one. Not after all the wine and Xanax. I Love Lucy played all night as she lay in front of the droning television.
Phoebe couldn’t bear lying next to Jake. Even when she’d dozed occasionally during the long night, her subconscious wormed another reminder of the looming abyss and woke her. Questions blurred as Lucy and Ethel tumbled from antic to frantic in their attempts to fool and please Ricky and Fred.
She dialed Kate and then Noah on autopilot. Painful pressure in her chest screamed heart attack, terrifying her in one moment and, in the next, bringing a coward’s comfort as she imagined the relief of lying in the hospital.
Phoebe tipped back her head trying to get a bead on her blindness. How much had she missed? Was there a single genuine particle in Jake? She continued wondering while setting up the coffee, showering in the guest bathroom, and throwing on a terry cloth robe from the guest room closet. She poured two cups of coffee, unable to break her habit of carrying a cup to him, adding half-and-half and sugar to his, leaving hers black and bitter, not certain that even skim milk could slip past the knot clenching her stomach.
Fuck what he’d said. At eight, she’d call Deb. Eva.
Phoebe caught sight of the photo rendered to art hanging in the hall. Crystalline water and turquoise sky served as a backdrop for the family portrait from Greenwich. Phoebe took the silver frame off the wall. She fixated on Jake’s eyes—bringing the picture so close the image pixilated—searching for a clue. The kids were barely out of diapers when the picture was shot. Were Jake’s crimes already in motion?
She appeared love struck. In two dimensions, she gazed at Jake as though he were God, while he stared at the camera.
“You know what your problem is?” her sister had asked whenever Phoebe seemed surprised by some Jake transgression in those days. “He put stars in your eyes when you were too young, and you still haven’t shaken out the glitter. Sweetheart, the gold’s supposed to fall out by the end of the first six months. Eighteen tops, and that’s only if he’s away in the army.”
Deb had been right. Phoebe always stayed the girl who’d sinned and been rescued by Jake.
Phoebe, steaming full mugs in her hands, banged the bedroom door open with her knee.
“Wake up.” She placed Jake’s coffee on the nightstand, centering it on the oversized bronze coaster.
He blinked as she opened the curtains. “What time is it?”
“Six thirty.”
“Did the kids call?”
“No.” She sat on the wing back chair facing his side of the bed. “I need to tell Deb.”
Jake drained half the cup as he always did with his first swallows and then threw back the covers. “No.” He stomped to the bathroom.
“She has to know!” Phoebe yelled through the door. “So she can sell her shares.”
Jake stormed back into the room, his face red and tight. “Don’t be a moron. There’s nothing to sell. There aren’t any ‘shares.’ It would be a withdrawal from a dry account. I can’t handle the redemptions already in line.”
“How about the main business? Can’t you handle a withdrawal there? What will Deb and Ben do? Everything they have is with you.”
“You really aren’t getting it. There is no money. Nothing, except for the checks I wrote. She’ll receive one, but I can’t give the full amount to—”
“We’ll sell the Greenwich house. Give the money to—”
Jake sank on the bed. “Phoebe. Houses aren’t spare gold bars you can turn in for cash, and even if we could, what do you think? That Deb and Ben will keep this secret? That they won’t call their kids, their friends—”
“She’ll stay quiet if I ask.”
Jake sat beside her, taking her hands until she pulled away. “No one keeps a secret like this. Don’t worry. I only need a few days. Deb and Ben are on the list for a check. When I meet with Gideon, he’ll help me figure out the next step.”
“Why, Jake? What was this for?”
He avoided her eyes. “I always thought I could make it right.”
“Why would you even start? So we could buy shit? Expensive furniture?” She strode to the walk-in closet and flung open the doors. “Shelves of shoes and racks of dresses? You became a thief for this crap? You sold your soul for houses?”
“I’m taking a shower,” he said.
“You’re really going to work?”
“Of course. What did you expect?”
“But . . . the kids?”
“Kate and Noah will be at the office.”
“You think so?” Against all odds, she was ready to believe him.
“I’m positive,” he said. “I promise. I’m gonna fix this. There’s gotta be a way out.”
Phoebe dragged herself to make Jake’s breakfast as he showered. Would the kids be at work? They were so close, the four of them. Unusually so, seeing or speaking to one another daily. For Kate and Noah not to answer her calls indicated disaster.
She reached for her favorite red bowl—once her mother’s—cracked two eggs and tried to calm down, whisking beat by beat.
Dissociate.
Heat the omelet pan.
Using the paring knife, she sliced a pat of butter directly into the stainless steel. Screw the Pam spray. Once the butter melted to the perfect edge of sizzling, she slipped in the beaten eggs.
She stood immobile as the edges of the eggs thickened and turned puffy. Water stopped running in the bathroom. No matter how expensive the paint or thick the old plaster walls, pipes ran through them, and sounds bled out
.
She lifted the corner of the omelet, impatient to fold it. Toss the eggs on a plate. Throw herself into a second shower and wash off her fear with stinging hot needles of water.
A buzzer startled her as cheese bubbled from the fold. She looked at the clock as though it might provide an answer. Almost eight.
Noah!
Kate would be getting the kids ready for school, but Noah could leave the house early. He’d always been the forgiving child. “Don’t be mad at Mommy,” he’d plead when she and Kate had their mother-daughter fights during the teenage years.
She pressed the speaker button for the intercom to the lobby. “Yes?” She smiled, anticipating hearing Noah’s name.
Anthony, the weekday man on the desk, announced himself and then said, “Two gentlemen are on their way up to see Mr. Pierce.”
“Men?” She clutched the edge of the counter. “Who? You let them up?”
“Um, they’re with the law, ma’am. They had badges.” Anthony’s typically even voice rose. “They didn’t ask; they just went.”
She released the speaker button. “Jake!” she called. When he didn’t answer, she screamed full blast, “Jake!!”
Within moments, he ran into the kitchen, wet hair slicked back, thin bare legs peeking from beneath his robe. “What’s wrong?” He looked around as though expecting an explosion or fire.
“The police.” Fear blocked her throat and chest. She struggled to speak through the thickness. “The police are here.”
“Police?” He whipped his head in both directions, as though men hid behind the stove, under the counters. “Where?”
“On their way up. Anthony just called.”
“What the—”
The front bell chimed, followed by a rap on the wooden door.
“Get the door,” he ordered.
Phoebe pulled her robe tighter. “They’re here for you. You answer it.” She ran toward their bedroom, hearing muffled words float up as Jake opened the door. Phoebe listened as she yanked jeans and a sweater from the closet. Please God, let the children be all right. Tell me what to do.
She picked up the phone and dialed Jake’s office.
“Connie, it’s Phoebe.”
“Hey, hon. You guys left so early last night I didn’t say—”
The Widow of Wall Street Page 22
