Exit Strategies

by Catherine Todd

  I’m sure. “And how would that be, exactly?”

  He didn’t meet my eyes. “Well, I asked her to reconsider about the tuition amounts.”

  I almost laughed. “And did you have any success?”

  He hesitated. “I’m sure she’ll consider it. I don’t think I’m entirely without influence in this case.” He smiled.

  No success. “I see,” I said. I didn’t smile back. I felt dizzy with a mixture of emotions—all of them unpleasant.

  “Look, Becky,” he said again, as if the repetition of my name would set me at ease. Or make things all right. “We’re colleagues. You have a great future here at RTA, I’m sure of it.”

  I heard the unspoken threat, this time his. If you don’t blow it.

  “You’ve brought in a major client, an excellent start.” He cleared his throat. “Crystol Enterprises needs both of us to make it a success. We have to work together. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I understood all right. Play ball, and the game can go on as before. What I was wondering was, did Crystol Enterprises really need us both? Was Taylor trying to make himself indispensable to the client so I couldn’t take her to some other firm? What would happen if I tried? What…

  “Becky?”

  “I understand what you’re saying,” I told him.

  “Good,” he said, sounding relieved, as if I’d agreed to something I hadn’t intended. “Think it over.”

  “I will,” I told him. “You can bet on that.”

  “I don’t know if I can go on working there,” I told Isabel when I called her to report on my meeting. We’d had a lot to discuss since the fund-raiser, which had revealed, in so many senses of the word, so many things.

  “He threatened you?” she asked.

  “It was more subtle than that,” I told her. “He reminded me that my future at the firm depends on my cooperation.”

  “Could you sue him or tell the other partners or something?”

  I sighed. “He was really careful to keep just within the boundaries, even if he violated the spirit of attorney-client ethics in spades. The other partners might just think I had hurt feelings or something like that. You know how these things can be slanted. As for suing, even if there were grounds, I couldn’t do it without having another job. You watch 60 Minutes. You know what happens to whistle-blowers.”

  “What will you do, then?” Isabel asked.

  “I don’t know. Unless Taylor leaves, I’ll probably never make partner now anyway. He’ll find some way to ding me. I’ve made him look bad, even if nobody else knows about it. I don’t think he’ll forget it.”

  “You don’t think you’re overreacting just a bit?” she asked. “He may not have that much power.”

  “Maybe not, but I wouldn’t bet the farm,” I told her.

  “So what will you do?” she asked again.

  “Well, I can’t afford to quit now, whatever happens,” I told her. “Particularly now that I have to find some way to get the money Carole’s lost or is refusing to disburse from the trust. But I think I have to start exploring an exit strategy. Taylor’s afraid I might take Bobbie Crystol away from the firm,” I said. “I don’t know if I could, but he thinks I might be able to.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” she said.

  “Not entirely. I’d have to have somewhere to take her, assuming she’d be willing to leave with me.” I was suddenly so tired. It was all too much. “I’m not surprised at anything terrible Carole does to me,” I told her, “but I can’t get over Taylor. I mean, I had feelings for the guy, in a remote sort of way. I knew all he really cares about is the firm, but—”

  “Then you shouldn’t be surprised at his consistency,” Isabel said with some asperity. “Or did you think you could change him?”

  I laughed. “I don’t think I’d gotten that far in the fantasy.”

  “Good. You’ll live. You know what he is and how to deal with him now. End of story. Besides, you know—and he knows—that workplace romances are the worst.”

  “Boy, those grapes sure look sour,” I remarked.

  “Then don’t take a bite,” she said.

  “I’m still mad as hell,” I told her. “I’m positively glowering. This whole thing just isn’t any fun anymore.”

  “Well, don’t move too fast,” Isabel said seriously. “Think how long it took you to get where you are.”

  I didn’t need the reminder. “Weren’t you the one urging me to open myself up to new experiences?” I chided her.

  “I said, ‘Be flexible,’” she told me. “As in pliant or resilient. I don’t remember that rash was any part of the conversation.” She paused. “Shit,” she said, in a distant voice far from the receiver.

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing. My book fell off the desk and hit my toe.”

  “We lead such glamorous lives,” I told her. “What are you reading?”

  She mumbled something indistinct.

  “What? I didn’t hear you.”

  “A novel,” she said, sounding a little strange.

  “Why are you sounding all prissy? What is it? Danielle Steel? Jackie Collins? Confess.”

  “Michener,” she said.

  “You’re reading Michener?” I asked, surprised. Usually she preferred books that were a little more piquant.

  “I’m allowed,” she said, sounding touchy.

  “Don’t bite my head off,” I said. “What—” I suddenly realized the reason for her embarrassment. “Texas!” I said. “You’re reading Texas, aren’t you?”

  “It’s very interesting,” she said formally.

  “I’m sure it is,” I agreed. And long. She must be more serious about Daniel than I realized.

  “Want to borrow it when I’m finished?” she asked.

  When I hung up, I checked my voice mail. The results were not cheering.

  “This is Carole,” said the voice that was coming to haunt my darkest dreams. “I warned you.” Click.

  So much for Taylor’s influence. What next? If Carole was progressing to telephone threats, she must have something really nasty in mind, a prospect I could not encounter with any degree of calm, much less levity. I was almost afraid to hear the second message.

  “You haven’t RSVPed to Opening Weekend,” Bobbie Crystol said in an accusatory tone. “I really expect you to be there. Taylor is coming and some other people from your firm. Give me a call.”

  Christ, now I would have to go, whether I wanted to spend the weekend checking out the life-extension powers of hot-rock massage or not. I really needed to be exploring what to do about the trust money, but I didn’t want Taylor moving in on Bobbie, my best hope of landing a halfway decent job at another firm. The only trouble was, I wasn’t entirely happy with the role of Bobbie Crystol as lifeboat. Mrs. Sefton’s little hints about her at the fund-raising dinner—dropped, admittedly, at a very distracting time—continued to nag at my conscience, demanding to be explored.

  Dorothy Beekman was surprised to hear from me, as well she might have been, since we were never on chummy terms even in my more social days. Still, she was too much of a lady to act anything less than pleased, once I had made it clear who I was.

  “I was hoping we might get together for a chat,” I told her. I liked the word chat. It didn’t sound threatening or particularly lengthy. Plus it was vaguely archaic, like Dorothy. I explained that seeing her had reminded me how out of touch I’d become socially, and that I hoped to remedy that gradually—perhaps by volunteering for a committee? I told her I was trying to interest my mother, just recuperating from a fall, in some appropriate charitable work as well. I hoped Dorothy had not heard about my escapade with the dress, as it might seriously undermine my credentials for social rehabilitation.

  She said she would be happy to do lunch.

  “Umm,” I said, faced with the inescapable obstacle of no longer having lunchtime totally free, “that might be a problem.”

  “Are you on a diet?” she asked.<
br />
  “Well, ah, I work,” I told her.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, as if I had confessed to being an eccentric species of animal that needed humoring. “Of course. I remember. But my dear, just now I’m not getting out that much at night. I haven’t been in the best of health.”

  I said I was very sorry to hear that, and what about afternoon tea?

  “What a charming idea,” she said.

  “What about tomorrow?” I asked her. “The U.S. Grant? Three-thirty?” I would have to come back to the office afterward, but I thought it could be managed.

  “Lovely,” she said.

  Afternoon tea is not an institution usually associated with Southern California, where the appropriate symbolic drink of choice might be tequila imbibed under a palm tree, preferably at sunset. Even Gatorade is more of a contender. Tea requires cups and saucers, not plastic glasses, and it doesn’t go with chips, much less with guacamole. You can’t drink it on the beach, and all those scones and little sandwiches are Bad for You. Still, there are several great tea places in metropolitan San Diego, with harpists and white tablecloths and silver tea services. The U.S. Grant, a downtown hotel, is one of them.

  Dorothy was waiting for me in the lounge. She was wearing a close-fitting St. John knit dress that was attractive but accentuated her thinness. On me it would probably have looked like a sausage casing. She seemed relieved when she saw me.

  “I hope you haven’t been waiting long?” I asked her.

  “I’m always early,” she said graciously. “And this is such a lovely place to sit.”

  “Our table is right over there,” I said. She wobbled a little when she stood up, and I took her arm and guided her.

  “I feel so foolish,” she said. “I’ve been a bit lightheaded lately.” She shook her head. “But let’s not talk about that.”

  I decided to get right to the point, in retrospect a foolish decision. “Actually, would you mind if we did?” I asked her.

  She looked alarmed. “I can’t see why it would interest you,” she said.

  “Bear with me,” I said.

  She drew back in distaste. “You didn’t ask me here to try to get me to bring some dreadful lawsuit, did you?”

  I blushed for my profession. “No, no, it’s not that. But I’m afraid I wasn’t perfectly straightforward with you about why I did want to get together.”

  She relaxed a little. “I knew that already,” she said with a tight smile. “No one ever volunteers to be on committees unless they want something. It’s the biggest problem we have. All the younger women work or have other interests, and no one has time for charitable activities anymore. Plenty of people will give money, but no one will give time. It’s very sad. I don’t know what will happen when our generation is gone.”

  I felt vaguely ashamed of my subterfuge, and now I was going to have to volunteer for the cleanup committee or something equally undesirable to make amends. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  The waiter brought our pots of tea—Lapsang souchong for me, Earl Grey for her. The sandwiches were delicious.

  “So what did you want to talk to me about?” she asked when he had gone. “Not really the state of my health, surely?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes, if you don’t mind. Mrs. Sefton”—what was that woman’s first name?—“was the one who told me you’d been ill, and—”

  She looked seriously displeased.

  “Please don’t be annoyed with her,” I said, wondering what I’d started. In certain circles, if you cared to move in them, Dottie Beekman’s disapproval was tantamount to dismissal. “We were talking about alternative medicine, and your name came up.”

  “In what context?” she asked carefully.

  “In the context of Dr. Bobbie Crystol and her anti-aging treatments,” I told her.

  She held off a bite of scone with her fork as if it were a menacing object. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. “It was entirely my own fault.”

  “Please, I need to know if there’s anything, um”—I struggled for the right word—“upsetting about her treatments.”

  She looked at me. “Why do you need to know?”

  That was a complicated question, and I wasn’t exactly in a position to tell her the complete truth. I had a duty to the client. But I felt horrid about lying to her. Again. Actually, I wasn’t really sure of the answer myself. Did some part of me just want to prove that Bobbie Crystol was a dangerous egomaniac? Was I jealous? Was it Mark’s warning? I couldn’t really say. But somehow Mrs. Sefton’s comments had struck a nerve. “I can’t explain why, not entirely,” I told Dorothy Beekman. “It’s a lot to ask you to trust me, I know. I can tell you that one reason I want to know is that I’m thinking of going to her spa myself.”

  She patted my hand. “Aren’t you a little young for that?”

  I smiled. “Thank you for the compliment, but according to Dr. Crystol I’ve already missed my chance for a timely start. So tell me, is there anything I should be concerned about?”

  “You mean did her treatments make me sick?” she asked directly.

  “Well, in a word, yes.”

  “Nothing like that can be answered in a word,” she responded. “I went to her clinic in Georgia when I visited my sister in Atlanta. Everyone was talking about it. Dr. Crystol gave me a diet and a great deal of pampering—herbal wraps, massages, facials. It was quite wonderful. Blissful, in fact.”

  I waited.

  “I felt very good, full of energy. I even started getting up earlier. I decided to stay on for a month or two in Atlanta and continue with a more intensive program. The second part of the program deals with your attitudes, I suppose you’d say. Things like eliminating fears from your life and healing illnesses by harnessing your own consciousness. It was…interesting.” She looked away.

  “What happened?” I prompted her gently.

  “My blood pressure went up,” she said. “Rather seriously, in fact. I developed a heart arrhythmia.”

  “What did Dr. Crystol say?” I asked.

  “She monitored me very carefully,” she said. “She said my pulse was trying to tell me that I was living too fast, that I should try to slow down. She said my health was in my own hands and that I should try to eliminate anger and hostility in my life. She said I was holding too much in and that I was in danger of developing heart disease.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, she was right.”

  “You developed heart disease?”

  She nodded. “I wasn’t able to follow her advice. She told me what to do, and I couldn’t do it.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to go into it, but there is someone in my life I can’t forgive. I’ve hung on to that anger. I’ve made myself sick.”

  Her acceptance of the blame for this facile diagnosis made me angry, but not at her. “Did you see a doctor?” I asked her.

  “Dr. Crystol is a doctor,” she pointed out.

  “A cardiologist, I mean.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And what did the doctor say?” I asked gently.

  She smiled. “Oh, well, you know how doctors are. Pessimism is their defense against uncertainty.” She lifted her cup to her lips. “This Earl Grey is delicious, isn’t it?”

  “Just one more question?” I asked her.

  She sipped her tea, saying nothing.

  “Did you take anything while you were being treated by Dr. Crystol?”

  She blinked. “Take anything?”

  “Drugs? Vitamins? Anything like that?”

  “Oh, yes. Some people got injections and we all got drinks. Dr. Crystol called them Health Shakes or Life Shakes or something like that. I can’t really recall.”

  “What was in them?”

  She looked at me in surprise. “I don’t know. Herbal supplements or vitamins, I assume.” She raised her eyebrows. “I can see what you’re thinking, Rebecca, but I’m sure there’s no connection. None whatsoever. Now, shall we get down to business? Which is it going to be?”

  “Going to
be?”

  She nodded. “Leukemia? Diabetes? What about the fashion show to benefit Family Recovery? I have vacancies on a lot of committees.”

  “Surprise me,” I said.

  Chapter Twenty

  My mother was not enamored of her new life.

  “The food sucks,” she said.

  “Oh, Grandma,” said Allie, laughing. I didn’t blame her. I had never in my life expected to hear my mother, who had once actually washed my mouth out with soap when I’d said, “Shit,” use that expression.

  My mother looked rather pleased at Allie’s reaction. “The boy that cleans my room told me that’s what young people say now,” she said proudly.

  I hoped my mother had sense enough to be nice to the staff, but I doubted it. “Does it really?” I asked her. I had toured the dining area and the kitchens at mealtime, and the food had looked just fine.

  “The vegetables are undercooked,” she said.

  I tried not to smile. My mother’s generation regarded any vegetable that retained its shape after cooking with suspicion and disapproval.

  “Eeuuw, gross,” said Allie dutifully.

  Lest I find myself in the unenviable position of urging two generations to eat their vegetables, I decided to let it drop. “How are you feeling?” I asked her.

  My mother closed her eyes. “It hurts,” she said.

  “What does, Mother?”

  She sighed. “Everything. My leg. When I walk.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Maybe you haven’t quite healed after your fall. The doctors said you were cleared to walk, but if it keeps on hurting we’ll have them check you out again, okay?”

  “I’m only entitled to an hour a day of assistance,” she said.

  “What?”

  “An hour a day. That’s what it works out to. What I’m paying for. After that I’m on my own. I have to do things for myself.”

  “Don’t you want that, Grandma?” Allie asked her.

  “I want to go home,” she said, looking at me.