by CD Reiss
“Uh, no but—”
“Shouldn’t you know that?” Zack asked, smugly, I might add.
“Marriage doesn’t make you psychic.” I put my bag on my wife’s desk chair because I could.
“That’s a really nice suit, Steinbeck.”
“What did you want again, Zack?”
“Um, can I finish?” Kayti said.
“No,” Zack said.
“Yes,” I said at the same time.
Kayti wasn’t flustered for long. “Diana said no one knows. Those were her one-two-three words to tell you. No one knows. But she wouldn’t say more. So I don’t know what that was about. Should I call her and find out?”
“I’ll call her,” I said. “Thank you, Kayti.”
She nodded and left, clicking the doors closed behind her.
“Was there something you wanted?” I asked.
Zack pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket. “I wanted to deliver this personally to one of you. Thank you for the opportunity to work for McNeill-Barnes. Being part of this restructure has been a great learning experience. I’m offering my resignation.”
I didn’t open it. I’d had one too many good-bye notes that morning. “I’m sorry to see you go, but I won’t try to stop you.”
“Thanks for that.” He slapped my shoulder.
“Any reason? New job? Off to get a real life somewhere?”
“My grandmother back home. In Dayton. She’s sick. Dementia.”
“And you’re taking care of her?” I looked at him from his Tronton boots to his just-slightly-too-long hair. He didn’t look like much of a caretaker, but I’d stopped judging people on their looks a long time ago.
“My mother and I.”
“Take notes. It’d be a great piece. Actor turned journalist turned editor turned nurse.”
He smirked. “I’ll bring it here first.”
He started out, and I stopped him. “I’m sorry about your grandmother. But your path to the door should not detour to your office. Your laptop stays. Per your contract, you submit all your passwords. Don’t make me get legal after you. It’s a bore, and you don’t want to get served court papers in front of your family.”
“Don’t worry, my friend. I’m an open book. Give my best to Diana.”
Her name cut right through me.
Chapter 6
PAST PERFECT
A man puts on clothes for the place and occasion. A woman dresses to make a point. When I invited Diana to dinner to discuss the terms of the deal where I would buy McNeill-Barnes Publishing to sink it or save it, she dressed to tell me something.
It wasn’t just business.
We’d been going back and forth for weeks. She’d fought hard. She was tenacious and loyal to her parents’ vision. It looked as if she’d let the ship sink before turning it away from the iceberg.
Her dress was New York black, cut to make me wonder about the shape of her tits yet again. She was too young for her position and her confidence. At twenty-three, she carried herself as if every one of her curves fit into the puzzle of the world.
See? Nothing about her was submissive.
“Fifty-one percent of a dying company isn’t worth much, Diana.”
I wasn’t harsh or cutting, just truthful. She deserved the flat truth without punch-pulling. She’d earned my respect. I wanted to help her more than buy her company for parts. We were coming to the part of the negotiation where the deal lived or died. Once I finally said no or she finally said yes, what then?
“A living company is worth more than a hunk of brick.”
“And Cynthia Wilt’s entire backlist? And Norton Edge? You can keep it on life support with the IP you own.”
She sank a little in both surprise and disappointment. I’d mentioned the company assets numerous times, but never the backlist. I figured she assumed I didn’t know the worth of the backlist and was only after physical assets. Now, with her posture deflated, I knew she’d been hoping to use that as a bargaining chip at the last minute. I’d just killed it.
“Let’s make a deal,” I said.
I’d had a plan back-burnered for days. I hadn’t thought about it consciously or run it by any of my team. I’d just let it simmer to see how it cooked down. When she arrived in that black dress, the back burner boiled. Buying the company and kicking her out wasn’t an option. I had to see her again. And again. And again.
“Deal? I like that word. It kind of rolls off the tongue.” She tipped her wine glass and watched the tears form on the surface. “Let’s make one.”
“I’ll buy fifty-one percent and promise interest-earning cash infusions when necessary. I’ll give you five years to get in the black.”
She smiled as if this was easily done. She wasn’t stupid or naïve, but excited by the idea of a chance, no matter how slim. I didn’t know at the time that getting the company in the black was secondary to just keeping it afloat.
“But… ” I let it hang to see if her smile disappeared. It didn’t. “I’m in the day-to-day operations.”
“With fifty-one percent of the vote?” She leaned back, tapping the bottom of her wineglass.
“I’m not shelling out the kind of money you need without oversight.”
I didn’t admit to myself the real reason the deal included me. I couldn’t force myself on her. She wouldn’t take what I had to give. She would never crawl to me. Never submit completely. I had enough women who did. I could get Serena back any time. But Diana… Diana was an endless fascination. I just wanted to watch her exist.
She smiled to herself and hid her eyes.
“What?” I asked.
She moved her hand to her mouth and looked at me in a way she hadn’t before. “I’ve had too much wine.”
“Two glasses? Come on.” I poured her more. “Have another glass and tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Stop!” She laughed the command.
“You’re about to agree to my terms.” I put the bottle down. “I think you deserve to get good and drunk.”
We clinked. She sipped, put her glass down, drank more, took a deep breath.
“Since we’re going to be working together every day, more or less, I want to tell you something that’s been bothering me.”
“This is going to be great. Please.” I moved my bread dish out of the way and leaned forward. “Go on.”
She moved her bread dish out of the way and leaned forward. “When you first came to us, I looked you up.”
“I’d hope so.”
“Marine Park, Brooklyn. Family of electricians. Both parents died in a car accident when you were five. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“First in your family to go to college. A real bootstraps story. I couldn’t find money anywhere. And here you are.” The way she shook her head, like a drill boring into me ever so slowly. She could drill all she wanted.
“Full disclosure—the bootstraps are tainted. My grandparents loaned me money for my first down payment.”
“And you’re single at thirty-one. Never seen in female company.”
“I’m here with you.”
“This is business.”
“Is it?”
Her finger stroked her pearls, her nail tick-tick-ticking against them. The tablecloth shifted when her right knee rocked back and forth. Every woman had a tell for when they wanted to fuck. Diana had ten, and I’d learned all of them.
“You think I’m too old to be single?” I asked.
“No. You’re too handsome to be single. Too charming. Too sophisticated.”
“Don’t stop there. Go for broke.”
She smiled, looked into the whirlpool of wine, her cheeks burning with a touch of pink. She bit her upper lip and avoided my gaze.
She’s just looking down. That doesn’t make her a sub.
“I just can’t believe you haven’t been snapped up.”
“You’re asking if I’m gay?”
“That would be a horrible injustice for women everywhere.”
/> “I’m nothing if not just. And straight.”
“There is a God.” She gave me a quick flash of her eyes before she brought the wine to her lips, as if hiding behind it.
“Are you trying to seduce me before the deal is closed, Miss McNeill-Barnes?”
“We just closed it.” She put her glass down, tapping the bottom as if she had a cue to hit. “You get to fuck me on my desk every weekday.”
She used the word fuck like a piece of dark, bitter chocolate swallowed before it could be savored.
“Just the desk?”
“If that’s what you want.”
What you want.
She wants to please you.
Shut the fuck up.
I put the top of my foot against her calf and pushed her knees apart. She put her hands flat on the table, opening her mouth in a gasp. She aroused easily. With that, I could take her the good old-fashioned way and like it. It didn’t have to be a big deal. It didn’t have to be a lifetime of vanilla sex, even though I already wanted that more than anything.
“It’s Saturday,” I said, running my thumb across her hand and up her arm.
She warmed and bent under me. “Let’s pretend it’s Monday,” she said, eyes at half mast.
“I looked you up too. Immaculate Heart. Volleyball. You’ve only ever worked at McNeill-Barnes. Met your fiancé while you were failing out of Vassar. Then you dropped him. Why was that?”
“Couldn’t bear the thought of fucking him every night.”
“Too boring?”
“Too rough. Treated me like a rag doll. But enough about him.”
I stroked her arm. I didn’t feel any satisfaction or disappointment in being right about how she needed sex. I’d already decided she was perfect. Already knew I’d take whatever she’d consent to give.
“I’ll take you home because I’ve wanted to since I met you. But we’re business partners now. This is not me fucking you on the desk every day, no matter how tempting that is. It’s this weekend, then it’s business. Agreed?”
She rubbed the edge of her wineglass with her ring finger, making a show of thinking. Slipping her hand around the bulb of the glass, she lifted it. “Where do I sign?”
I called for the check.
Chapter 7
PRESENT TENSE
I think it’s clouded my judgment.
I’m sorry. I have to interrupt myself. I know the first thing you’re going to think.
There’s no one else.
I’m not cheating on you and I never have.
This isn’t about another man. This is about us. Me. You. Us.
I’d crumpled the note so tightly the ink had cracked. I couldn’t stomach the entire thing in one swoop. She was talking at me. I had no room to disagree or question. I only had room to stop, reread, dissect, panic in the front seat of the Jag, watching the Meatpacking District come alive with restaurant-goers and dog-walkers. Ten at night on Gansevoort was a fucking carnival on cobblestones. What did all these people want?
I called the one man she would tell everything. Her father.
“Lloyd?” I said when I heard the wheezing.
“Adam, how are you?” I knew from his tone that he had no idea. He greeted me like the best son-in-law in the world, as always.
“I’m fine. Have you seen Diana?”
“Not since yesterday. Is everything all right?”
If she didn’t tell him, maybe she wasn’t serious?
“Yeah. Everything’s fine. She’s not picking up her texts.”
“She’s probably at the gym.”
“Right. Okay. Thanks.”
We hung up.
Did I miss something? A clue? A behavior that should have made me suspicious? Had I been so blind to her misery? I went from angry at her to angry at myself. Then I didn’t believe her. This was a cry for help. Then fuck her if this is how she asks me to pay better attention. And did I not pay attention? Did she want more flowers? Why didn’t she ask? Why didn’t she tell me sooner, before she had to resort to this shitty tactic? When did it start? What did I miss?
I sent my hundredth text.
—Was it the baby?—
Chapter 8
PAST PERFECT
She was at her father’s place again. He lived in a three-bedroom on Park Avenue in an apartment with maids’ quarters. Fifteenth floor, overlooking the Avenue. He’d struggled to keep the co-op when McNeill-Barnes nearly went under, but it was where he and his wife had made their life together, and he insisted on dying where they’d lived.
So romantic.
The doorman greeted me by name. I took the elevator up to fifteen. The apartment took up the entire floor, so there were two doors in the hall. One with a welcome mat, thick molding, a table with an ivy plant next to it, and a little brass mailbox.
The other was just a white door with a rubber mat. Servant’s quarters. I knocked on the plain white door and waited. Rustling. Voices.
Gilbert answered in his usual suit and tie. “Mr. Steinbeck,” he said, stepping aside. “They’re in the kitchen.”
The kitchen was through a short landing on the back stairs and through another door. A shorter walk than the front door. I knew she’d be there, and she was.
A tea set sat on the kitchen table, and Diana’s bare feet were up on the chair as if she wanted to fold herself into a fetal origami. Her father sat across from her. He wasn’t wearing his mask and tank. His health had bounced back with the business.
“Hey,” I said.
Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed. Still the clearest tempered-glass blue, which made the red stand out and the shine of her cheeks more apparent. She put down her red journal. In it, she asked questions. Just lists of questions.
Who decided the speed of light?
Why can’t some people sing?
What’s in glue?
Where do they get the vitamins to make vitamins?
I was sure it was getting filled with questions about why we’d had to terminate her pregnancy. Some days she read me her questions, but with her curled up in her father’s kitchen chair, I didn’t ask her to.
She held out her arms for me like a child. Moments like this, I felt the truest bliss of my marriage to her. When I could take care of her, gather her in my arms under her back and knees, and carry her to the couch with her head on my shoulder.
I laid her across me on the couch and held her.
“It’s not your fault,” I said, taking my handkerchief from my pocket. “It’s no one’s fault. It happens.”
“I hate it,” she snuffled. “I hate that it happens.”
“I know. I do too.”
“I keep wondering what she would have been when she grew up.”
“Nothing. It wasn’t meant to be.”
She spent another few minutes sobbing, and I held her even though my arms ached and I was thirsty. I heard her father behind us as he went to bed, his footfall still slow even though he was feeling better.
“Adam?” she said.
“Yes?”
“Tell me. Honestly. Are you upset?”
“Of course.”
“You don’t seem upset.”
I was unhappy that the baby’s spine had grown outside its body. The sonogram had been devastating, and the decision we’d had to make had broken my wife’s heart. But it was the right decision for us. We couldn’t bring a person into the world to do nothing but experience a few weeks of excruciating pain before dying. Having the baby so we could feel it and touch it would have been selfish.
Once the decision had been made, I wasn’t upset about it, because it was right. And because Diana’s collapse gave me the opportunity to take care of her. I’d bathed her after the surgery. I’d stroked her hair and fed her. It was as close to dominating her as I would get, and it soothed me. The buzz of anxiety and dissonance that followed me around shut off like a faucet.
“I don’t like seeing you like this,” I said. “That’s the worst for me.”
She
laid her head back on my chest as if she couldn’t look at me. “Will you always take care of me?”
My God. Why didn’t she just ask me if I’d allow the sun to rise and set?
“Always,” I said. “As long as you let me, I’ll take care of you.”
Chapter 9
PRESENT TENSE
Part of me wants to just exonerate you, but that’s dishonest. You never gave yourself to me. Or maybe you’re just not deep. Either way, I can’t live with that. I want more. I want to love fully, and there’s so much missing. Can’t you feel it? I mean, it can’t be just me. You’re in this marriage too. But then I think you’re not and you never were.
—Was it the baby?—
I went on another roll after that, but it was shorter than the others. I only had a half a block to walk to the Cellar.
—When are you going to talk to me?—
—You can’t just keep ignoring me—
Rob saw me before I was even close to the velvet rope. “Holy fucking shit.” He held out his meaty hand. He wore a dark suit under a black trench coat that was spotted with new raindrops.
“Didn’t you get a real job yet?” I asked.
“And leave this? No way.” He undid the rope. “Man, the girls missed you. I did too, gotta say. Everyone’s always asking where you went.”
“I’ve been around.”
“Are you back now? Back for good?”
“Just seeing some old friends tonight.”
I checked my texts in the elevator.
—When are you going to talk to me?—
—You can’t just keep ignoring me—
And a hundred before it that were much the same. Jesus Christ. I sounded psychotic. That wasn’t going to work.
—Diana. If you want to make this
about lawyers and money,
we can do that. We can do all the
things people do when they get
acrimonious. But I can’t believe you
want that. I know because I looked at your