Underwater

by McDermott, Julia

  The sales team, with its in-house reputation for inflexibility and intransigence, was another matter. All nine members—led by Melinda—reported directly to Amanda, who had been at the company for over five years and was valued as a Team A player. Amanda was also in charge of the marketing team, led by Darlene, which handled PR, advertising, and social media. But an inherent adversarial relationship existed between Amanda’s group and Paula’s design staff. Sales personnel were often critical of new ideas and resistant to change; they preferred the easy route of established customer relationships. Designers, on the other hand, were emotionally invested in their creations, naturally defensive of them, and unable to relate to sales issues.

  However, Candace was confident in her managers and in the new swimsuit line. As long as her vision was captured in it and its secrecy was maintained, orders from the department stores would fly after the line’s unveiling at Fashion Week in September. SlimZ products enjoyed prominent display space in retail stores that were proud to carry them. SwimZ would be the hot new suit, the must-have for next year’s spring and summer seasons, the line that would change the market. Candace knew that it would succeed, not just because of the appealing designs, but also because of the innovative way they would be displayed in the stores: by size, not pattern or color.

  It made perfect sense, and she marveled that no one else had done something so sensible and smart. Every SlimZ product was sold that way in the stores and online, and Candace believed that all women’s apparel should be as well. Men’s clothing was always grouped by size in the stores, allowing the customer to look only at what would fit him. Why shouldn’t women’s clothing be sold the same way? Instead, for decades the stores had displayed products sorted by pattern and color, forcing women to dig through each rack to find her size. At best, it was frustrating and annoying; at worst, it was insulting.

  Retailers had insisted on merchandising women’s clothing that way, and they reserved size groupings for deeply discounted items they were trying to unload—but they took little care in maintaining those groupings. Candace felt that the whole system was flawed and led to lower aggregate sales. Her new swimwear line would be displayed in size collections only—this was a nonnegotiable in discussions with Myron, her chairman of the board. If a department store buyer of SwimZ refused to sign a contract promising to group the suits by size, he or she would not be allowed to carry the line.

  Candace scrolled through her email inbox, skimming her messages and deleting some without reading the contents. Where was the information she had requested from David? Surely he had had time to send it to her by now. Then she spotted an email from him with the subject line “Fund Outlays.” As promised, he had listed the amounts she had given, loaned, and was liable for. The total approached one and a half million dollars. He had also written a very troubling addendum:

  I have forwarded an email from Whitney Jamison. I just spoke with her. I also received an updated construction budget of dubious validity from Monty. Let me know if you’d like me to send it to you.

  Evidently they have drawn almost $65,000 more on the HELOC within the last few weeks. If you sign the new note, it would increase your total exposure on the property to $1,595,000. I strongly advise you not to do so.

  In our conversation, Whitney gave me the following information:

  Past due mortgage amount: $6,216

  Past due interest on HELOC: $7,540

  3 months interest on new note: $10,508

  1 year property insurance: $7,126

  1 year property taxes (Fulton County): $32,008

  As you requested, I am working on a draft email to Monty listing items outstanding and specifying your requirements going forward. Look for it shortly.

  In shock, Candace went back to her inbox, found the forwarded email, and read it in disgust. Damn her brother! What nerve to have negotiated a new home equity loan, expecting her to cosign, after defaulting on it and on his mortgage—while drawing sixty-five thousand more. This new loan would erase his mortgage payment and accrue interest only—interest that Candace would have to keep current until the house sold at some future date. It was a game of chicken, and she was losing.

  She—David—needed to find out once and for all what exactly remained to be done to finish the renovation and get the house into marketable condition. She didn’t want to take over the project, nor did she relish asking David to micromanage it—an additional task for which she would have to pay him.

  She started to call David, but stopped. She wasn’t ready to discuss it with him yet. The person she wanted to talk to right now was Rob. They had spoken briefly earlier today, but in the middle of a busy workday, he was probably unavailable. She sat back in her chair and took a deep breath.

  Her laptop dinged, signaling a new message. Hoping it was David’s draft to Monty, she leaned back toward the computer and opened her inbox again.

  From: Helen Carawan

  Sent: Thursday, April 15, 2010 2:15 PM EST

  To: Candace Morgan

  Subject: news

  Candace:

  I don’t know if you have spoken to Monty, but I wanted you to know that we are expecting another baby this fall. I thought it might be a good idea for us to meet with you to discuss our current financial situation regarding the house. Please let me know when and where would be convenient.

  Helen

  Candace dialed David’s number.

  “David, I am appalled. The audacity of my brother to go to the bank and arrange this ridiculous new loan—don’t worry, I’m not even considering paying their past due payments, interest, or anything else. This is complete bullshit. What I’ve gifted them alone is more than enough money to take care of it.”

  “I don’t disagree. However, I’m sure that money is long gone. I take it you won’t sign this new note?”

  “Why should I? Can’t these people pay their mortgage? My God. On top of all this, I just got an email from Helen saying she wants me to meet with the both of them about their ‘current financial situation.’ I’m not doing it, David.”

  “Hm. Actually, I think the fact that she’s proposed it is a good sign. I dare say she’s having a reality check now that she’s pregnant, which I assume wasn’t planned,” said David. “Helen is the stable one in the marriage, though. She may not know everything Monty’s up to. Perhaps she wants to have a come-to-Jesus meeting with him. I think it could be a positive step forward. If you agree but don’t want to be there, I could attend as your representative.”

  “Have you finished the draft email you told me you’re working on?”

  “Just about. I’d like to add some questions for the two of them, though.”

  “Good. Ask questions like these: What is their combined net income? What are their monthly living expenses, and what is the breakdown? If I’m going to continue as a creditor in this fiasco, I think I have a right to know these things.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I realize I should have asked them a long time ago. I just hate being put in this position, though, and being manipulated.”

  “Candace, I strongly urge you not to sign this new loan.”

  “I shouldn’t. And I won’t—at least, not until I get some answers from them and you verify them. At best, they’re dysfunctional. I don’t want to keep financing their lifestyle.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “But now that she’s pregnant, how can I be so hard-line? Do I just throw them out of the house, take it over, finish it, and sell it myself?”

  “That’s exactly what I’ve been telling you, that you may have to do. We really need to tour the inside of the house—see what kind of condition it’s in.”

  “Okay, but here’s what we’re going to do right now. You finish that draft and send it to me. I’m not sure if we’ll send it to Monty or if you and I will just di
scuss it. Actually, yes, that’s what we’ll do, and then you’ll use it as a guide for what needs to happen at this meeting.”

  “Fine.”

  “Also, I’m not going to answer Helen’s email. I’m going to forward it to you, and I want you to respond to her, copying both me and Monty, with a date and time for a face-to-face at your office, say, early next week. She can take the time off work, and he’ll be available—we know that for sure.”

  “Got it.”

  “I won’t attend it. But in this email, say that you need to see the house, and propose a couple of days and times you’re available to go. I may go with you or I may not, it depends on what else I’ve got going on. But when you go, take pictures of everything.”

  “Will do. You know, Candace, if you do take it over, bring in your own contractor and so forth, they can continue to live in the guesthouse while the work’s being done. You won’t have to throw them out—at least, not until the place sells. At that point, they can find a rental property. A house or an apartment. Once you know their income, you’ll know what they can afford, and they won’t be able to say they can’t.”

  “Here’s what I want, David. Ultimately. I want to sever all financial ties with them. I want this house finished, the C.O. obtained, the house listed and then sold as soon as possible for whatever it will fetch, even if that means I end up losing money and writing a little bit off. But I don’t want to sink any more money into it—no catching up past due payments and no making future payments. I want to get out of this once and for all, baby or no baby. I want to cut them off, permanently.”

  “Then don’t sign the new note.”

  Helen returned from the ladies’ room to find an email from David Shepherd, Candace’s personal financial advisor. Rather than replying to Helen’s email, Candace had forwarded it to David, who had responded to Helen and copied Monty and Candace.

  Imagining Monty’s reaction, Helen’s stomach dropped. Not only had David failed to congratulate her on the pregnancy, he had instructed both of them to be at his office at eleven o’clock Monday morning for the meeting that Helen had suggested; Candace wouldn’t be there, but David would act as her representative. He also stated that he would come to see the house sometime on Tuesday afternoon “to evaluate its condition.”

  Distraught, Helen’s hand went to her shoulder, her fingers massaging the scar that extended from above her collarbone to beneath her arm and under her bra strap. The ridged surface of her skin felt dry as the blood pulsated beneath. Two and a half inches wide and resembling a smeared road map, it had been a part of her body for so long now. The only person in front of whom she wasn’t embarrassed about it was Adele.

  When Monty had first seen it, back when the world was different and his only desire was to possess her, he’d briefly recoiled but then recovered, his lust taking over. The look on his face was painfully familiar to Helen, although she had never quite gotten used to it. All these years, she had tried to toughen herself emotionally to the reaction her disfigurement evoked, but the scar she carried within was more tender than the one she wore on the outside. It was her personal iron brand, and she would carry it to her grave.

  Monty would have a tantrum when he saw what she had written to his sister. He would be furious that Helen had requested to meet, and even more irate that David, whom he hated, had called the meeting and was planning to speak on Candace’s behalf. Helen shuddered, then felt hot anger rising. Why should she have to worry so much about Monty’s childishness? Deep down, was she truly afraid of him, as Dawn had asked, or not?

  She was. Now that she was carrying another child of his, the truth was that she felt vulnerable and alone. Tears began to form in her eyes as feelings of self-pity began to take hold. She had to be strong—she couldn’t panic, no matter what her state of apprehension and alarm. She needed to take her sister’s advice and open her own private bank account, then arrange with payroll to switch her direct deposit from the joint account she and Monty had to the new one in her own name.

  She felt no shame in recognizing who her husband was and what he might do. The truth was that she had to anticipate it. She couldn’t prevent it, but she didn’t have to run from it or let fear take over. The smartest and most important thing she could do was to take control of the situation she was facing. The way Candace always did.

  Her inbox dinged and she opened another message from David, this one written to Monty and copying Candace and herself.

  Monty,

  I just listened to your voicemail, but I will not be calling you back due to your unprofessional tone. Please call me when you are ready to have a civil and productive conversation.

  I did receive the updated budget you sent, but I have several questions about it which I will bring up to you and your wife in person at the meeting. I will see you and Helen on Monday at eleven o’clock at my office on Capstone Road.

  Regards,

  David

  Helen closed her inbox and tried to refocus on work, opening the graphic she had been working on this afternoon. What an absolute fool Monty was, on top of everything else. Was he just a narcissist? Is that what caused him to behave the way he did? He was more self-absorbed than anyone she had ever met; if only she’d really known who he was three years ago. But she and Dawn had agreed that a woman didn’t really know a man until he was her husband.

  Another ding. Shit! She had to get some work done today, sometime.

  Monty had shot back a response, copying everyone.

  David:

  “Unprofessional tone?” Coming from you, David, that’s incredible. I’ve kept all of your past, snarky emails in a folder. You won’t tolerate from me that which you spurt off. Let’s cut all this bullshit, since we don’t have a “professional” relationship anyway, nor mutual respect. I am beyond pissed off at both you and your ridiculous client. If she hadn’t persisted in ignoring me, we wouldn’t be where we are today. I can’t wait to be free of her and of you.

  From now on I will speak in whatever way I choose and you had better keep your opinions about it to yourself. My sister pays you to handle her millions, not to be her bad boy. Let her talk to me directly or not at all. As for the meeting you are demanding, Helen can go if she wishes—it was her idea—but I will not be gracing you with my presence. Nor will you be allowed access to our home on Tuesday to “evaluate it.”

  Go fuck yourself.

  Monty

  7

  Blood

  Monty paced back and forth in the small living area of the guesthouse, running his fingers through his wet hair. Returning to Arcadia Lane from the ball field at least thirty minutes after Helen and Adele were due home, he’d been dismayed to see that her car wasn’t in the drive. He had gone through the day’s mail, drunk a bottle of water, showered, and poured himself a large cocktail. What the fuck was Helen doing, emailing his sister, trying to arrange a meeting? And where was his wife right now? She hadn’t answered his call or his text. She rarely worked late, and she always let him know if she had to stay at the office to finish some stupid brochure.

  Between the gym and the practice field with Chip and a bunch of seven-year-olds, Monty had retrieved and read Shepherd’s email on his iPad. Helen didn’t know that he had managed to get one of the first iPads available, nor how he had done it. As soon as he had it in his hands, he had immediately disabled the signature setting “Sent from my iPad”—no one needed to know he was in possession of Apple’s newest toy before its official release next month. He had paid a premium to get it early. There was no way he was going to spend his time in a long line between two nerds at a mall, or at home waiting for an online shipment that could take weeks. He brought his iPad with him everywhere, surfing the web and managing his email whenever he was out and about. Handier than his laptop, it had become indispensable to keep up with the many projects he had previously filed solely in his brain, a brain that was so much faster t
han those of other people.

  Which might have been a source of deep annoyance if it weren’t for the very real advantages to be gained. Like with that moron Shepherd. That asshole hadn’t taken Monty’s call this afternoon, so he had been forced to leave a message; then Shepherd had attacked him in a patronizing email sent to all the parties. That fucker is not going to micromanage me, no matter what his “boss” tells him to do. It was clear that Candace’s lackey was a fool, in over his head in his career. Monty took great satisfaction in the presumption that Shepherd had lost tons of his clients’ money during the financial crisis of 2008. How many of them had taken their shrunken portfolios elsewhere? Monty surmised that it was a large number, and that Candace herself had lost a boatload.

  Downing the last of the vodka in his glass, Monty refilled it with ice and poured another, then heard the approach of Helen’s car.

  “Come on, Boo,” she said to their daughter as the two of them entered from the driveway. Monty couldn’t stand this nickname she used—the only Boo he’d ever heard of was Boo Radley, the village idiot-recluse.

  “What the fuck, Helen!”

  “What the fuck, Mommy!” Adele parroted her father, her bright smile shining.

  “Monty! Please!” Helen bent down to eye level with the little girl. “Don’t say that, sweetie. It’s not nice.”

  “But Daddy—”

  “I know, but Daddy didn’t mean to. Go on into Mommy’s room now and turn on the TV.”

  Adele did as she was bid, skipping the fifteen feet through the bathroom and into the bedroom. Helen shut the door gently.

  “Since we’re having another baby, Monty, I just thought it’s time to—”