by Nancy Geary
“That’ll pass. You know what a terrible temper he has.”
“I’m a homemaker, to use a horribly old-fashioned term,” she continued. “But my home will soon belong to someone else.” She cupped his cheeks in her palms and felt the slight bristle on his skin. “But I’ve been your wife, and that is the one thing I’m proud of. The one thing I’ve done right. I don’t want to ruin that now by an illness where you’re left with bedpans and test tubes. I don’t want to be sick, and I don’t want you to nurse me.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Bain, you said you’d listen. This is a decision I’ve made for me and for you, for us. But I’ve known it was going to be difficult. It’s not our dynamic. I’ve gone along with everything you chose, all the decisions you made for both of us. Now it’s my turn.”
“This is not the time to try to even a score.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”
“Grace!” he exclaimed. “I’m your husband. We were practically children when we met, and look at us now. Our own children are grown.” He tried to smile momentarily, but then his expression grew serious again. “I can’t imagine life without you. And if you’re sick, you can be damn sure it’s me who will take care of you. You’re not being fair to me otherwise.” He didn’t bother to look away as the tears escaped his eyes. “I want to care for you. I want to be your nurse if you need one. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.”
She shook her head. “Palm Beach will be easier, easier for both of us. And you . . . you’re not that old, Mr. Alcott. And you’re still the handsomest man I know. There’s a lot of life left.”
“I don’t want it without you.”
His hands were dappled with age spots. His hair had thinned, his temples grayed. And yet she could picture him so easily, sitting on a blanket on the banks of the Charles River, eating her sandwiches and then kissing her. It was the kiss that had prevented her from protesting the war in Vietnam; the kiss that had set the course of her life.
“Aren’t you scared?” she asked.
“Scared?”
“Of knowing. It’s easier for me to just let whatever will happen, happen. Then I can let my imagination go and hope for a Hollywood ending.”
“The truth isn’t scary. Whatever it is, whatever the outcome, knowing what we face means we can face it together. It’s the demons that spin in our heads, the uncertainties that will haunt us. We’ll never be able to just enjoy; we’ll always wonder. Every day will be filled with panic and uncertainty and fear. The truth, no matter how bad, will give us freedom to be together. Please, Grace, I’ll be right by your side.”
“If I go back to the hospital, you and Dr. Preston will take over. I know that. I need that not to happen.” She closed her eyes.
“It won’t.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “That morning, the morning the Marxes first came to look at the house, do you remember?”
She felt herself blush. “Of course.”
“I’ve asked myself why we don’t make love more.”
She looked away. After all these years together, conversation about sex still embarrassed her.
“You’re as beautiful to me now as you’ve ever been. In some ways, you’re more beautiful. And after that morning—I guess I should say that night and the morning—I realized again how very lucky I am. I may not have shown you enough, or reminded you enough. Perhaps I should have held you in my arms every day and told you again and again. I don’t know. But I want those days back, the days and nights that have passed without intimacy. I’m the luckiest man in the world. I’m lucky to have you. Lucky to hold you. Lucky to have you as my wife.”
With that his shoulders shook and he buried his face in her lap. She didn’t say a word, but gently rubbed the top of his head, feeling his hair and his skull beneath her fingertips. Time passed, she wasn’t sure how long, without them speaking, but she couldn’t bring herself to interrupt the silence that seemed to tie them together. The physical contact was more palliative than anything either of them could say.
Finally, he sat back on his heels and wiped his eyes. “Let’s run the tests, get the diagnosis. Together. And then . . . then you can decide what you want to do. It will be your choice, not mine. I promise. I promise to respect whatever decision you make. I may try to dissuade you,” he said, forcing a smile, “but I won’t go back on my word.” He slipped the thin gold band off his left finger. “Here,” he said, holding it out to her. “Take this. It’ll remind you of my promise, my commitment. That ring is everything to me. And if I can’t be your husband and honor your wishes now, then I’m no good to either of us.”
She held it in her palm. She remembered picking it out at a jeweler on Newbury Street. An elderly man had helped them make a selection. She’d been surprised that Bain had wanted a ring at all, the public branding of matrimony, but he’d insisted. She doubted he’d ever taken it off before this moment. She couldn’t recall ever having seen him without it. Nicked and scratched, the thin ring had survived.
Nobody questioned her when she made a series of calls, hastily canceling her even more hastily planned farewell party. She wasn’t particularly surprised. As soon as news of the house sale had made its way through the tributaries of the community, her relationships had changed. Acquaintances were visibly distant; friends aloof, too. She wouldn’t be entertaining. In Florida, Bain was hardly a resource for business connections, and the Alcotts would no longer pledge at St. Christopher’s. So they had nothing to offer. There was nothing to be gained by maintaining an effort.
In some ways, Grace appreciated the distinct lack of interest. She couldn’t have managed with lots of questions or more than idle curiosity. She had her response, which she left on countless answering machines. The party had been ill advised given everything she had to do with the move. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” she parroted breezily. She was sorry for the confusion and hoped she’d have an opportunity to say good-bye in person.
Only three people called her back to make arrangements for that to happen.
Chapter Twenty-six
The conference room on the twenty-third floor of International Place had a spectacular view of Boston Harbor and the Federal Courthouse. Sun sparkled on the water. From her plush swivel chair, Grace watched a steel-hulled liner slowly making its way to dock while two sailboats, weaving in and out of commercial vessels and channel markers, raced to sea.
The chairs surrounding the polished granite table were filled. Bain and Bob Chadwick spoke in hushed tones. The Alcotts’ lawyer, a legal version of a family practitioner with a small, unassuming office on Route 28, had driven up with them from Chatham. On the trip he’d explained somewhat apologetically that the Boston attorneys had done the bulk of the work. They’d even revised his draft of the deed.
Beside Bob sat Kay, who fiddled with a gaudy gold pin on the lapel of her pink suit with a faux-fur collar. The outfit, including her pink shoes, looked as though it had been purchased in its entirety off a window mannequin. Grace speculated that she’d spent part of her handsome commission in advance on a new wardrobe.
Robin Marx presided over one end of the table. She flipped through the pages of Vogue magazine, obviously bored by Kay’s efforts at conversation. Then she checked her watch and her BlackBerry, hoping that someone or something would distract her.
Across the table from the Alcotts stretched a row of pin-striped suits. They each had a substantial pile of paperwork in front of them. A blond man named Mark fidgeted with his polka-dot bow tie. The partner, Chad Barker, scribbled notes on a yellow pad. The senior associate, Emma Watts, drummed the eraser end of her pencil against the table. The nervous gestures made Grace wonder what possible legal issues hadn’t been addressed at this point. Hadn’t this team of Juris Doctorates attended to every detail well in advance?
Jay Marx was on the telephone. One hand was shoved deep into the pocket of his wide-wale corduroy slacks. He paced back and forth in front of a cr
edenza and intermittently uttered “Unacceptable” into the receiver. “Absolutely unacceptable.”
In addition to the telephone, the credenza held platters piled with sandwiches, curled parsley garnish, and nearly two dozen cans of soda. Would they be here long enough to need nourishment or was the meal in place for another meeting in this conference room? Although her throat was dry and her stomach empty, the last thing she wanted following the sale of her home was a meal.
Jay paused for a moment. “Could someone get rid of that tuna? It smells like crap.”
Emma buttoned her fitted jacket and nodded at Mark.
“Sorry, Mr. Marx,” he said, jumping up. He grabbed the platter and disappeared out the door.
Bob Chadwick sat forward and cleared his throat. “We did say eleven. By my watch, it’s twenty past. Shall we get this show on the road?”
Kay laughed nervously and recrossed her legs. “Yes. Yes, absolutely.”
Without getting off the telephone, Jay raised one finger as a signal. He needed more time.
“Well, how about if Mr. Alcott begins looking at all that paperwork?” Bob asked. “I don’t think I’ve even seen the final copies.”
“I’m sure you’ll find everything in order,” Chad said. He was a handsome man in his midforties. When he’d introduced himself, his handshake had been extra firm. Now his potent sandalwood cologne filled the entire room.
Emma stopped her drumming. “We did overnight it to you.”
“Well, since I needed to be here this morning, my paperwork and I must have passed on the Southeast Expressway,” Bob replied. “Although of course you still can charge your client for premium mailing,” he muttered.
Bain smiled, amused by the small-town versus city lawyer dig.
“Our mistake,” Chad said, flashing a politician’s smile. Then, turning to Bain, he said with a level of enthusiasm that seemed inappropriate, “Get your pen out. We’ll need lots of signatures.”
Grace watched as the papers were passed one by one to Bain and Bob. They conferred briefly over each document: the certification and indemnification regarding urea formaldehyde foam insulation, the municipal lien certificate, real estate tax credits, final water bill, settlement sheet, and Title V certificate. With his jaw set, Bain signed his name again and again. She watched the neat scrawl emerge from his fountain pen, the curves and letters with which she was so familiar. Not once did he look up or acknowledge her, less than an arm’s reach away. To do so would make his task infinitely more difficult.
In many ways, her presence was extraneous. Grace had known every nook and cranny, creaky floorboard, cracked molding, and swollen cabinet; she’d planted every tulip bulb and holly bush, trimmed the Rosa rugosa and weeded the flowerbeds; she’d explored every inch of property around a house that had never been hers to begin with. Bain had held the property in his name and his alone. But he’d wanted her to come with him since they had to be in Boston anyway. In a few hours, they were boarding a plane for Florida. Even now their two overnight bags stood sentinel by the conference room door. He hadn’t wanted her to wait, wandering around Faneuil Hall alone.
She swiveled her chair to glance out the window. Off in the distance, a jet escaped the runway at Logan and climbed into the sky.
Bain hadn’t raised the subject of the medical tests in the last week. They’d agreed to postpone the decision until after the closing. Hospitals in Florida were perfectly adequate, and Dr. Preston could give referrals if she was willing to proceed.
Jay ended his call and sat beside his wife. He crossed his arms and leaned back. Watching his smug expression, Grace wondered whether he and his wife were as dreadful as she perceived them to be or whether jealousy and bitterness had clouded her perspective. Did they genuinely feel entitled to have others at their disposal or was that simply the impression they wanted to exude?
After Bain signed each document, Bob passed it to Chad, who placed it in front of Robin. With his pointer finger, he showed her where to affix her signature.
Jay smirked. “The first acquisition for the Robin Marx Corporation Limited,” he said, teasingly. “Let’s hope its CEO doesn’t get any more grand ideas.”
Emma giggled. The noise sounded silly.
Chad rested his hand on Jay’s shoulder. “You’re a good man.”
Why did a corporation need a house in Chatham? Grace lacked financial acumen but she knew enough to know that Robin did, too. She’d even needed an outside consultant to come up with a salmon-and-sage theme. No doubt the arrangement was some sophisticated transaction devised by her husband and his lawyers, a way to pass off home improvements as business expenses or avoid taxes. That kind of scheming was why Jay and Robin could afford the house, could do all the repairs, could renovate and rebuild until it was unrecognizable. She and Bain were old school, nothing fancy, and look where they’d ended up.
“Let’s sign over the deed and we’re done here,” Chad said.
The deed. Actual ownership.
“Where is my payment?” Bain asked.
“Right here.” Chad handed a check to Bain. $1,170,000. The amount was printed electronically. It was the largest check Grace had ever seen.
Bain held it in both hands, studying it. As he squinted his eyes, he reminded her of a 7-Eleven clerk, trying to verify that a fifty-dollar bill wasn’t counterfeit by looking for nearly invisible colored threads on one side. He didn’t say a word.
“Is something wrong?” Chad asked after more than a few minutes of absolute silence had passed. “Must feel pretty great to hold that in your hands,” he chuckled.
Bain looked at Chad and then at Jay. “This is not certified.”
Jay scoffed.
“Please,” Chad said, sarcastically. “It’s drawn on Jay’s private client funds account at Fleet.” He turned to his client. “And what’s the minimum balance you need for them to let you in?” He chuckled. “Frankly, it’s better than certified.”
“That may be true. But the purchase and sale agreement specifies a bank check.” Bain’s voice was firm.
Tuning in to the conversation, Bob reached into the pile of documents and pulled out the relevant one. He pushed it toward Chad, pointing to the pertinent paragraph. “Right there. Three-B. The balance of the purchase price is to be paid by bank or certified check.”
“What exactly are you insinuating?” Jay rose from his chair.
“Nothing. I’m only asking for compliance with the terms of our agreement.”
“I really find this insane,” Chad said.
“Not insane. Insulting,” Jay said, scowling.
“Sir,” Bain said, deliberately. “I am neither making nor passing judgment. You and Mr. Gates may well be of comparable worth for all I know. But I am entitled to a certified check. Not a private client check or a business check or any other kind of check.”
“What’s going on?” Robin said, the pitch of her voice reflecting her sudden anxiety.
Grace felt similarly anxious. She’d been listening to the exchange, wondering about the rising level of animosity. Was Bain actually trying to stop the sale, or just to exert some control? Was he insisting on a technicality for a reason? She couldn’t tell, and she couldn’t let herself imagine the consequences. Horizons had to go. They couldn’t hold on to the property.
As hard as it was for her to offer a solution, one did seem obvious. “Isn’t there a branch nearby? Couldn’t we get it certified now? We’re in no hurry,” she suggested.
All heads turned to stare at her.
“Perfect,” Bain said, touching her forearm. “We’ll wait.”
“If you’re going to insist, fine.” Chad nodded at Emma. “Let’s call over to the bank and let Barbara know we’re on our way. She can expedite this process.”
She rose from the table. Her skirt was substantially shorter than Grace would have found acceptable in a business environment, but she knew times had changed. Bain didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were fixed on her. She couldn’t read his expre
ssion.
“Mind if I have one of those sodas while we’re waiting?” Bob asked. Without waiting for permission, he got up, moved to the credenza, and returned with a can of Coca-Cola and a small bag of Cape Cod Potato Chips. He tore it open and removed a kettle-boiled chip. The crunch seemed to echo.
Grace’s palms felt cold and clammy. There was no reason to be apprehensive. People like the Marxes had plenty of money, had minions organizing their affairs. Orders could be executed instantly. Nothing was going to go wrong at this point.
They waited as the telephone conversation dragged on. Emma had turned her back to the room and now spoke in hushed tones, covering the receiver with her hand to muffle the conversation. Finally, she faced the table once again. “I see . . . Yes . . . Okay. Thank you for your assistance.” She hung up.
“All right, then,” Chad said. “Let’s get this done as quickly as possible.” He walked over and handed her the check.
She didn’t take it. “The funds have not been transferred.” Her voice was flat. “The check can’t be certified today because the funds aren’t there . . . yet.”
“Not there!” Kay decided to enter the conversation now that it appeared her commission was in jeopardy.
“I can’t believe this,” Jay said. “I can’t fucking believe it. You’ll get your money. There’s plenty of money. There must have been a delay somewhere, a glitch in the fucking fail-safe system. The wire transfer will clear by tomorrow, or Friday at the latest. I can assure you of that.”
“I’m sorry. The house is not for sale.”
Grace couldn’t believe her ears. She would have thought she’d been dreaming, imagining, but the expression on the face of each Boston lawyer told her otherwise.
“You can’t do that,” Chad said. “This is not a material breach. We can close tomorrow.”
Bob stood up and buttoned his jacket. “You were the ones who insisted on a time-is-of-the-essence provision. Not us. You’re in breach.”
Grace thought she saw the corners of Bain’s mouth turn up. Bob had earned his fee.