Now Cassie returned the text to say she had her bag and would be waiting at the curb when Roxanne finally made it.
Outside she filled her lungs with humidity, salt-tinged air and just the slightest hint of decay. Blindfolded, she would have known where she was. She and Mark had brought Savannah back to Florida’s Gulf Coast whenever they could to celebrate Epiphany with the Costas clan. No one had kidnapped Cassie after college and dragged her unwilling and protesting to New York. She’d wanted to leave her past behind, and she had loved so much about living in Manhattan—her husband, stepdaughter and their life together. But whenever it was time to return to her roots, she’d walked out of the airport and felt the best parts of her past envelop her.
Today there was no magic in the air, no anticipation of what would be waiting in Tarpon Springs, lamb roasting on a spit, tables laden with pastitsio and moussaka, Yiayia’s baked breads, the platters of baklava and kataifi and so much more. The vast Costas clan was scattered now, a few back in Greece, most in other parts of the United States pursuing lucrative jobs. They came together for Easter and sometimes Christmas. As often as possible they stayed through Epiphany, when the city filled up with Greek-Americans from all over the country who wanted to celebrate their culture.
Today Cassie would only be greeted by Savannah, in the new house that had stretched her budget to the breaking point but had seemed so necessary for giving her stepdaughter the privacy and comfort she would need to heal. Savannah wouldn’t be happy to see her, in fact far from it. The teen was in turmoil, still raw and bewildered after her father’s sudden death and the uprooting that had followed. She blamed Cassie for everything that had gone wrong in her life, and her anger showed no signs of relenting.
There was so much Cassie couldn’t share with her stepdaughter. She certainly couldn’t share what she’d learned on this trip. The money she’d counted on from Mark’s retirement account, money she’d foolishly expected to get them through the next few years, didn’t exist.
The words of their financial advisor still echoed. Greg, a man in his fifties, was fit and trim with a luxuriant head of silver hair, the prototype of a Harvard-educated MBA whom a doctor would trust with his nest egg. Greg had made her comfortable with French roast coffee in a china cup and chatted a moment about life in Florida before he told her that all was not well.
“I wish I didn’t have to tell you this,” he’d begun. “Mark was content to let me deal with his investments, and we were doing well. Then about a year ago he said I was being too careful, that he might want to retire earlier than he’d planned, so he liquidated most of his retirement account to make an investment in a new tech company. There were penalties involved, of course, and I tried to talk him out of it. He lost a lot of money just taking what was left out of the account, but he was sure it was a fantastic opportunity. Only it wasn’t.”
She had stared at him, bewildered, and he had reached over to pat her hand. “I warned him. I actually pleaded to stay the more conservative course, but he was convinced he was on the road to a windfall. He wouldn’t share the name of the company with me. He claimed a prep school roommate was some kind of financial genius and was arranging everything.”
“Sim?” she asked. “Sim Barcroft? But he’s a financial analyst for some international conglomerate. He’s working out of the country somewhere. I don’t think Mark had heard from him in years.” She couldn’t believe that Sim was responsible for hundreds of thousands of dollars disappearing.
Greg shook his head. “He must not have told you, Cassie. I checked out the guy, because that’s all I could do, and people practically cross themselves when he’s mentioned. He is a financial genius. Only this time, apparently, luck or research or common sense failed him, and he made a bad gamble. The next time I saw Mark, he admitted he’d lost everything. I’m not too surprised he didn’t tell you. He was sure he could make up what had been in his account by the time he retired. I think he was hoping you’d never find out.”
That and everything else Greg had told her seemed so impossible. He’d showed her papers, reports, promised she could bring in a forensic accountant if she needed to be sure everything was on the up-and-up. But in the end, as she’d taken the elevator to the lobby with its fluted pillars and marble floors, she had known she wasn’t being cheated. Because in their final argument she and Mark had fought about money. The missing funds in his retirement account were only the final piece of their financial puzzle. Mark had made other bad decisions, and now she had to figure out how to move forward.
She was still lost in thought when Roxanne finally pulled up in her cherry red Mazda Miata, top down, her hair covered by a black chiffon scarf tied under her chin.
Cassie hefted her carry-on into the trunk and climbed in beside her, tossing a copy of the Tarpon Times presently occupying her place between the seats. “Very Grace Kelly,” she said, tugging the end of Roxanne’s scarf and trying to smile. Her aunt was wearing shorts and a tank top. Her bare arms were tanned, and her face was carefully made up to provide harmony between her olive skin and the blond hair she had chosen without the help of her Creator.
“I was thinking more Thelma and Louise.” Roxanne reached down and handed Cassie a gray version of the same scarf. Then as Cassie wrapped and tied the scarf over her own dark curls, Roxanne shifted gears, and they took off, weaving between cars and pedestrians until they were out on the highway and heading north.
“Flight okay?” Roxanne asked when they settled into a lane. “You were probably lucky you got a seat, changing flights and all.”
“There was no point in staying longer.”
“Did you see your friend?”
Cassie wasn’t in the mood to recap her failure, but on the ride to the airport she’d told Roxanne all the reasons she was going back to Manhattan, most probably a mistake since Roxanne remembered every conversation she’d ever been part of and was always ready to hear the next installment.
On the other hand, bold and brassy as she was, Roxanne was also one of the most insightful people Cassie knew. She saw things most people missed, and sometimes Cassie had found Roxanne’s homespun insights to be more helpful than those of her well-qualified psychiatrist husband.
“I called Valerie and left two voice mails,” she said. “She never returned them. I dropped by her apartment building and found the superintendent. He pretended he didn’t remember me. After I gave him my name, he told me she wasn’t at home. Without even checking.”
“What do the kids call that these days? Ghosting?”
Cassie thought cruel was more accurate. Valerie Dorman’s husband, Fletcher, had been one of Mark’s partners in their practice, Church Street Psychiatric Associates, in Tribeca. Although Valerie was older, the two women had immediately become friends, lunching together, combing through shops, volunteering at museums and local charities.
Once Cassie had learned that her new stepdaughter, three-year-old Savannah, should already be on a waiting list for a pre-K class, the Dormans had recommended the Pfeiffer Grant Academy, where their two daughters were enrolled in the middle school. The Dormans, generous donors to the school’s building fund, had twisted an arm or two, and Savannah had started her education there.
“I can’t help but wonder if Savannah being ousted from Pfeiffer Grant was the reason Valerie vanished,” Cassie said. “Were the Dormans embarrassed that they recommended her? Or was it because Mark left the practice before he died? Or both? Whatever it was, I’d like to know, but it’s pretty clear I never will.”
“A friend who deserts you when you need her most isn’t much of a friend. You’re probably better off.”
“It’s not just about friendship. I was hoping she’d help me figure out why Mark left Church Street. He left without another position, Rox. That just doesn’t make sense.” She hesitated. “And that’s not the only financial misstep.” She gave a short summary of what Greg had told her.
> Roxanne whistled softly. “This isn’t good.”
“I can’t touch Mark’s social security until I’m at least sixty, although I’ll get payments for Savannah until she’s sixteen. Luckily Mark didn’t screw up his life insurance, too.” Once again strangled by Mark’s betrayal, Cassie took a moment to clear her throat. “But most of that went into buying the house.”
“Selling your condo in New York didn’t take care of a house in Tarpon Springs?”
“Mark took care of all our finances—”
“That was a mistake, Cassie. Why did you go for it?”
Cassie had some theories, none of them flattering. “He liked doing it, and I didn’t. He seemed good at it. Or so I thought until he died, and I started getting bills from our owner’s association. Every unit in the building was charged a huge fee two years ago because they had to reinforce the building’s foundation. I knew about the assessment, but I was sure Mark had paid our portion. I just assumed.”
“Never assume anything with a man.”
“He hadn’t paid it, so there were fines on top of the assessment and a lien on our condo, and by the time I paid everything, there wasn’t that much left. Enough for the move and setting up the new house, and not much else. I had to dip into the life insurance for part of the down payment. I wasn’t worried, because I knew the retirement account would come to me. But I shouldn’t have been so naive. We...” Her voice trailed off.
“More?” Roxanne asked.
“Right before he died, we fought about money. Before he left the practice, all our bills went to Church Street. He said he worked on them there if he wasn’t going out for lunch. Mark loved paper and never really liked paying bills online. But after he resigned, the bank statements were forwarded to the condo. So when I was organizing the mail, I opened one. Our savings account had been closed. And when I asked him what was going on, he told me it was too complicated to explain, but that he had it under control, and I shouldn’t worry. We still had lots of money.”
“Was that like him? To assume you wouldn’t understand something as simple as money disappearing?”
Cassie watched the scenery flying by between 18-wheelers and RVs. “He’d never been like that. In his last year, Mark changed, Rox. He withdrew. He snapped at everybody. He would apologize, and then he’d do it again. He brooded. At first I assumed he was in pain. Remember when he injured his back?”
“Sailing, right?”
“He tripped when he was tacking. Luckily he had a friend on board to help him get to shore. For a couple of weeks he wasn’t able to go into work. But eventually with help he improved and didn’t need surgery. I assumed things would smooth out, but they didn’t. I think I was blaming the accident when it was something else entirely. When I asked what was going on, he’d say it was work, and he couldn’t talk about it because of patient confidentiality. And then he quit the practice. Just like that. With no other position in sight.”
“He must have given you a reason.”
“He said a new doctor was divisive. Some of his colleagues liked the younger man’s ideas, but others felt he was trying to change things too quickly. Mark claimed he was trying to mediate, but nobody really supported his efforts.”
“And that’s why he quit?”
“That was as close as he came to telling me. But at this point all of it’s just history. I can’t dwell on what happened.” Now that she’d explained that much, she hoped Roxanne wouldn’t dwell on it, either. At least not today.
Roxanne switched lanes to pass two horse trailers. They drove for a while until she settled back into the middle lane. “So what’s your plan?”
This subject wasn’t any more pleasant, but it was safer. At least Cassie didn’t have to dig deep into her anger at a husband she also grieved. Mark had often talked about emotional ambivalence and the paralyzing effect it had on his patients. Right now paralysis was unacceptable.
“I have to put my energy into finding a job. I need to bring in a paycheck.”
Roxanne nodded. “Doing what? Do you know?”
“My marketing degree is as outdated as my experience. I’ll put together a résumé and list all the volunteer work I’ve done, but any job will be entry-level. I guess I’ll have to snap up whatever I’m offered. I’ll probably be asking if a customer wants fries with his burger.”
“You’re back in Tarpon Springs, remember? That would be fries with your gyro.”
“See, I can’t even get that right.”
“I seem to remember you liked working at the hospital where you met Mark.”
Cassie remembered the heady sense of accomplishment that job had given her. It hadn’t been her first, but it had definitely been her best. She’d become confident in her own abilities, and she’d made important contributions. By the time she’d met her future husband, she’d been secure and self-assured.
“I was in charge of the gift shop, remember? They let me close it down, completely redo it, and then open it again. It was fun and successful, too.”
“And then you married Mark and quit.”
Cassie wanted to hear if her own words still made sense. “Savannah was barely three, and she needed me. When she was older, I looked for another job. But so much of marketing is about products and companies I’d rather not promote. And I guess I believed somebody had to keep things going, make meals, volunteer at school, be there when Savannah got home and then make sure she got to her after-school activities. Besides, let’s face it, even then she was a handful.”
“Some things never change.”
“I should probably go back to school.”
“Do you want advice? Because I have some to give.”
Despite the air rushing past her, Cassie picked up the newspaper between them and fanned herself for something to do with her hands. “As long as it doesn’t involve another husband.”
Roxanne reached down and patted her knee. “Do you remember what happened after Gary died?”
Roxanne’s husband had died three years earlier, a cancer so rare that by the time the doctors diagnosed it, he was gone. “You came home,” Cassie said.
“You visited us in Virginia before Gary got sick. Remember? And you loved Apollo’s Café. You thought our food was fantastic.”
“I haven’t forgotten. You were both so happy.” Roxanne and Gary had taken a simple brick building on the edge of the Northern Virginia sprawl and turned it into something special. The food had been Greek with flair, fresh ingredients and old favorites fixed new ways. Most nights the café was filled to capacity.
“When he died, I didn’t think hard enough about my future. Gary was gone, and I didn’t want to be there alone. So I sold and came home. It was the worst mistake I ever made.”
“At the time you said you missed family, that you wanted to be here to keep an eye on Yiayia and cook at the Kouzina. You’re not happy?”
“Lord no. I put myself in prison and threw away the key. I expected Mama to let me take over the kitchen. Instead I have no role at the restaurant. On the rare occasions she lets me cook, she stands over me and demands I make everything the traditional way.”
Cassie hadn’t realized any of this. “She’s that bad?”
“Worse. I went from being a successful restaurant owner and chef to Mama’s occasional line cook. Now where else am I going to go? These days Apollo’s Café is a second-rate sushi bar. Gary Jr. and his fiancée, Patricia, are living in Paris, and nobody knows how long they’ll be there, so there’s no point in moving closer to them. I made a bad decision on the heels of Gary Senior’s passing, and I regret it every single day. So try not to make any big decisions until you have to. You’ve already made one, a house you bought to make Savannah happy. And now that mortgage is going to eat you alive if that girl doesn’t finish you first.”
“I’ve been going on about my own problems. I didn’t know you were un
happy here. I’m sorry.”
“At the moment your problems are worse than mine. You make me feel better.”
Cassie wanted to laugh, but there was no laughter inside her today. “Have you thought about getting a job at one of the other restaurants in town? There are so many.”
“Can you just imagine what Mama would do?”
Cassie knew she was right. Yiayia would disown her daughter, and Roxanne’s disloyalty would be the main topic at every family gathering until eternity ended.
“At least neither of us has the problems that woman has.” Roxanne tilted her chin toward the paper in Cassie’s hands.
“What woman?”
Roxanne pointed to a photo on the front page. “Travis wrote that. I brought the article for you to see.”
Travis Elliott was one of their distant cousins, so distant in fact that in most families the relationship, complicated by “steps” and “removeds,” wouldn’t even be noted. But in the same way that Savannah would always be considered a Costas, whether she wanted anything to do with Cassie’s family or not, Travis was a Costas and therefore subject to every invitation and snatch of gossip.
Cassie scanned the article. A local woman had stuffed a handmade zipper pouch with money to pay her landlord. She’d been one of those restaurant workers recently struck down by an outbreak of hepatitis A and unable to work for weeks. Not surprisingly the woman had then gotten behind on her rent, but she’d finally managed to pull some money together. Of course, that wouldn’t have been much of a story without a sad ending.
“Poor woman,” Cassie said, staring at the photo of a pretty embroidered zipper pouch. “It doesn’t say who she is.”
“I wouldn’t want the world to know my name if I was being evicted for not paying my rent.”
Cassie had volunteered at a homeless shelter in Manhattan, and she knew how easy it was to end up on the streets. “Travis didn’t say what happened to her.” She folded the paper and slipped it between their seats again.”
The House Guests Page 4