The Muse

by Anne Calhoun

  Until Arden, wearing a suit of gold, picked up a pen that was mightier than any sword or gun, and fought at his side.

  He was ready, instead, to have the life he could have, after Afghanistan.

  “Now what?” he said, as much to himself as to Arden. Nature certainly didn’t bother to answer him, too busy getting on with things, powering down for the winter, geese flying south overhead, the breeze rustling the dry leaves, a snake side-winding through the gravel at the side of the road, heading somewhere on serious snake business.

  “Thirsty?” Arden said, keeping one wary eye on the snake.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  She got to her feet, then held out her hand to help him to his. A sword, gilded gold, straight and strong and true. He took it, did most of the work himself. He had to outweigh her by eighty pounds, but it was the thought that counted. Then he followed her back to the SUV.

  She handed him the water. “What set that off? Anger over getting lost?”

  He nodded at the dirt road. “Dust.” When her brow furrowed, he added, “The roads were all dirt. When the IED went off, it took a while for the dust to settle. I haven’t smelled dirt like that since I got out. I guess dirt is my horn.” Admitting something. Still not looking at her. His face still felt hot from the ride, the fury, the crying. “I was really angry. I am angry. It’s exhausting to be this angry and not admit it.” He swiped at his face. The grit in his skin, his eyes, felt familiar. Tears welled up, partly due to irritation, partly because he couldn’t seem to stop crying. Months of not-crying finally coming due.

  “I didn’t know you could drive,” he said.

  “Of course I can drive,” she said with a smile. “I just don’t very much. You really didn’t know where you were?”

  Maybe she meant right now, maybe she meant metaphorically. It didn’t matter, because he was smiling back at her. A real smile. “I could live off the land indefinitely. I wasn’t paying attention.” His smiled faded. “I really wasn’t paying attention. To being alive, to you, to anything.”

  He was now. Images and emotion surged through the newly channeled, raw grooves in his heart. He wanted to see how she turned out, how laugh lines once again suppressed the grooves of grief bracketing her mouth, the wrinkles that would form under her eyes. He wanted to see her exhausted with joy after delivering their child. He wanted to see her in Central Park, pushing a toddler on the swings while a baby slept in the carrier on his chest. He wanted to see her walking a child to school along the city streets before she went into the office. He wanted to bring her a coffee, then sit by her on a park bench while the kids played soccer. He wanted to lay down with her at night knowing that whatever hell the day brought, she was next to him, wrinkles and stretch marks and crow’s feet and age spots.

  The images flared in his mind as bright as the bomb blast that burned away his vision, one after the other, as fast as an ignition switch. And just like that bomb blast, all that remained when he got his vision back was the future he could have, if he’d only accept that it was his for the taking. He would honor the dead with his life. It was the only thing worth offering to them. His life, his whole life, well lived, in unity with himself, the world around him. He’d found the essence of the pose, of his changing, shifting life. It was Arden.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “My pleasure,” she replied. “Are you hungry? Derek keeps energy bars in the console, and I brought chocolate croissants from Le Pain,” she said.

  He lifted an eyebrow at the chocolate croissants.

  “I was with Betsy,” she said.

  That’s all it took for the odd combination to make sense. “Yeah, I’m hungry.”

  She opened the back of the SUV and hitched herself up onto the black carpet, then offered him the array of food she’d brought. He drank a bottle of water in three long swallows and ate two protein bars before he slowed down to sip another bottle of water.

  “This isn’t what my future was going to look like,” he said, out of nowhere. With Arden, conversations started and stopped, picked up and took left turns, nothing to finish because it was a lifelong thing.

  “I know that feeling,” she said.

  “I don’t have any idea what I’m going to do.”

  “Me, either,” she said, looking around the countryside with interest. “We have a farm about forty miles that way,” she said, pointing behind her shoulder. “Organic farming, maybe?”

  He tried to imagine his city girl in boots and a barn jacket, and failed until he added a horse, probably a thoroughbred. After savoring that image for a moment, he dug through the bag of pastries in search of the promised chocolate croissant. “I do know that I want to figure that out with you.”

  “You sure about that? I’m a disgraced socialite. I know the panic attacks. They come and go in cycles. I’ll probably never be entirely rid of them, and the fallout of the last few weeks will follow me all the days of my life.”

  “We all walk with ghosts, Arden.” He took a bite of the croissant. “I thought I could keep them alive by being what their families needed. A brother to Phil. A provider to Baby B. Doing all the things Manny would never get to do.” Just saying the words brought the tears flooding back. He swallowed the croissant and the lump in his throat.

  “You were trying,” she said. “No one can fault your dedication to the people you love.”

  “I can’t stop taking care of them. But I will stop trying to be the men they lost. They’re gone. I have to let them go, so I can stay.”

  “That sounds like a good plan,” she said.

  “You saved me,” he said. “They saved my life so many times, but you saved me, too.”

  “I’m in good company, then,” she said. When he looked back at her, one eyebrow raised, she added, “You taught me how.”

  – TWENTY –

  Late November

  A couple of weeks after Arden stood in front of a crowd of reporters and announced she was closing the MacCarren Foundation and turning over the endowment to the arbitrator responsible for distributing reparations to the victims of the Ponzi scheme, she rang the street-level bell for Irresistible.

  “You’re sure about this,” Seth said as they waited for a reply.

  “I’m sure,” she said. “It’s actually a little exciting. I don’t know how this is going to go. I’m kind of enjoying being Arden, not a MacCarren.”

  “Welcome,” a voice called through the intercom as the door buzzed open. Arden made her way up the stairs, Seth close on her heels. The showroom was empty but for a sales associate arranging an array of colorful lace bodysuits on a display rack by the windows.

  “How may I help you?” she asked.

  Arden had to give her credit. Her face showed not the slightest sign of recognition, just a relaxed, pleasant, helpful attitude. “Is Simone available?” she said.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “Let me ask,” the associate said.

  Arden looked around the showroom with interest. “Great examples for drawing drapery,” she said under her breath.

  “I’m happy to draw you in anything you like from here,” Seth replied.

  Simone appeared in the workroom doorway, her red hair caught up in a messy twist secured with one black lacquer stick and two yellow pencils. “Hello, Arden,” she said, and crossed the room to give her a kiss on both cheeks.

  “Ma’am,” Seth said.

  “Lovely to see you again,” she said to Seth.

  “I’m looking for Ryan,” Arden said. “He’s all but disappeared since the summer, and I thought you might know how I can get in touch with him.”

  Simone’s blue eyes grew wary. “May I ask why?”

  Arden gave her a wry smile. “I have a business proposition for him.”

  Simone studied Arden’s face, then apparently came to a decision. “He’s here,” Simone said, and tilted her head toward the workroom.

  Arden followed her through the door. Ryan wa
s indeed in the workroom, lying on his back with his feet against the wall, a Bluetooth earpiece in one ear, eyes closed as he murmured to himself in French.

  “He’s practicing language tapes,” Simone said in explanation.

  “In French,” Ryan said without opening his eyes. “En français. Je m’entraîne à apprende le français avec un logiciel de lange. A qui parles-tu, ma chérie?”

  His eyes widened when he saw Arden. In a smooth motion he swiveled to the side and got to his feet, tugging the Bluetooth earpiece free as he did. Arden stared at him. She’d barely known he existed until that horrible day at the East Hampton house. Her father and brother rarely admitted anyone to their closed circle, and she’d found Ryan’s presence bewildering, until the FBI explained how he discovered the scheme, then pretended to want a seat at the table in order to gain their confidence and get a full confession. He’d used a wild summer of expensive girlfriends and parties to provide his cover, and apparently fallen rather hard for Simone Demarchelier in the process.

  Finding him on his back, wearing corduroy trousers and a sweater with a turtleneck collar and elbow patches, earnestly repeating French phrases, disarmed her. “Hello, Ryan,” she said quietly.

  “Hello, Arden,” Ryan said. He crossed the floor to shake Seth’s hand, but looked like he was thinking better of offering his hand to Arden. She held hers out first.

  He took it, studying her face as he did. “What can I do for you?” he asked, then winced. “Sorry. That’s not where I want this to start. I want you to know that I am sorry. It was clear from the beginning that you and the rest of your family were innocent bystanders. I swear I had no idea the FBI would raid the house while women and children were there.”

  Women and children. The chivalrous language surprised her again. “You’re not to blame,” she said. “The FBI is not to blame. Dad and Charles are at fault. No one else, and especially not you.”

  “Still. I didn’t want it to go down that way.”

  She shrugged. “It did. We go on.”

  A silence fell, broken only by the cheerful French female voice piping transitive verb forms from Ryan’s earpiece. He swiped at his phone and shut her off.

  “Can I get anyone a drink? Tea? Water? Wine?” Simone asked.

  “I’d love some tea,” Arden said.

  The ritual of making tea and setting out a selection of cookies eased everyone through the most awkward moments. They sat on the sectional positioned in front of the three-way mirror. Simone poured for herself and Arden. Ryan and Seth stuck to water.

  “Where are you working now?” Arden asked when she’d taken her first sip.

  Elbows braced on his knees, Ryan rolled his water bottle between his hands. “I’m exploring options,” he said dryly.

  She lifted an eyebrow.

  “Recruiters aren’t exactly beating down my door. I’ve had a couple of offers from friends to ‘help me find something,’ but they’re being loyal, not serious. I’m not sure I want to go back,” he added. “I’m also not sure what else I would do.”

  “Sounds familiar,” Arden said. Beside her, Seth smiled.

  “I’m sorry about the foundation,” Ryan said, as if remembering yet another thing he should apologize for. “I didn’t think the government would go after that, much less get it.”

  “I gave it to them. I could have fought them, but in the end, I wanted a clean break. It’s best for my mother, my nieces, and for me.”

  Ryan made a noncommittal noise.

  “So,” she said, far more casually than she felt, “I’m going to start over. Build a new investment bank based on the ideals my great-grandfather started with a hundred years ago, honesty, integrity, hard work, fair profits. Garry’s back from New Zealand, at least for the time being, acting in an advisory role. Would you consider coming on board?”

  His brow furrowed. “As your employee?”

  “As a founding partner. Hamilton MacCarren has a nice ring,” she said.

  At that his eyebrows shot toward his hairline. “You’re going to use your name,” he said.

  “The name MacCarren used to mean something positive. It will again. Until it does, I refuse to be ashamed of it, hide it, deceive people.” She drew breath. She’d told no one but Seth, Neil, and Garry about her plan, asked no one else for input or advice. No more living in fear. No more asking for permission. “My share of the profits will be donated to the victims’ fund, until the last investor is repaid.”

  His eyes were alight as he stared at her. “You’re going to open an investment house using your name, and repay the people your father and brother stole from.”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though you have no responsibility for their theft.”

  “Yes. I’ve seen the worst unchecked greed can do. That experience is worth something, and integrity means more to me than it ever has. The way I see it, what happened is an asset, not a liability. We’ll also put money and time behind efforts to strengthen regulatory oversight,” she added. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  Simone sat back, her eyes alight as she studied Arden. Ryan huffed out a laugh. “Hell, yes, I want in on this.”

  Arden smiled. “I hoped you would.”

  Early December

  Arden trotted up the stairs to the town house’s front door and whirled through, into the foyer. “Hello?” she called as she toed out of her boots and tossed the mail on the hall table.

  No answer. She and Seth were due in the West Village for the end-of-class gallery show Betsy and Micah organized. While she’d spent the day in meetings with Garry, Neil, and Ryan, focused on getting Hamilton MacCarren up and running, Seth had taken the day off for an appointment with an adviser to register for courses in NYU’s masters in counseling program, with a specialization in art therapy. He’d given his future a lot of thought and decided to dedicate his career to helping returning veterans cope with their experiences in the military. It colored everything they did—marriage, work, family life—and seeking help from another veteran eased the stigma and removed the “civilians don’t understand” roadblock.

  He wasn’t exactly living in the town house, but he wasn’t exactly spending much time in Brooklyn, either. They’d had a quiet, separate Thanksgiving—Seth in Wyoming with his parents, Arden at Hollow Hills Farm with her mother, Garry, and Serena and the girls, who had flown up from Florida for a week. The girls’ ponies were stabled at Hollow Hills and would stay there until Serena decided if she was going to make a permanent home in West Palm, or return to the city. She’d been worried that filing for divorce would end her relationship with Arden and her mother, but in fact, they’d all become much closer. They were survivors, Seth commented, when she mentioned this. Drawing strength from one another would only make the road easier for all of them, especially the girls.

  She stripped out of her office clothes and considered what to wear to the show. Her grandmother’s vintage Chanel little black dress would suit perfectly, with a deep V-neck, wide shoulder straps, and a full skirt. She’d paired it with a short, swingy coat, also vintage Chanel, then tugged on a pair of ordinary black cotton leggings and her flat-heeled Frye boots, picked up a suitable pair of heels, and headed downstairs.

  Seth let himself and his bike in just as she reached the main level. She went up on tiptoe to give him a quick kiss. “How was NYU?”

  “All set,” he said, then held her at arm’s length to look her over. “The leggings don’t seem to go with the dress,” he observed.

  “I thought we’d bike down to the gallery,” she said. She’d acquired an assortment of chic biker girl gear, including a retro white Electra Townie that suited her far better than her sporty hybrid bike, with matching saddlebags, a rear rack, a helmet in a fabulous shade of cranberry, and a wool-lined black trench that sported reflective tape that billowed out as she rode, making her highly visible to motorists. She held up her heels. “Panniers or your messenger bag? I don’t have anything else to bring. Betsy arranged all the food with Edit
h.”

  “Messenger bag,” he said with a smile, and tucked the shoes inside.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked.

  “The day after I met you, I took a couple of pairs of shoes to an I-banker’s assistant in Midtown.”

  “Did she tip you?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Hmmm . . . Room for improvement, then,” she said, and gave him another lingering kiss. “You look very handsome,” she said as she patted his chest.

  He wore a pair of dark wool slacks, a button-down shirt, and a shawl-neck sweater with leather patches at the elbows, and even with the reflective strap around his calf to keep his pants leg free of his chain, he looked very hot, and very content. The expression sat more easily on his face than it ever had, but today there was an aura she’d never seen before. A hint of the shell shock had crept back in.

  He winced at her touch. “Easy there.”

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, wondering if she’d misread the look in his eyes.

  “Nothing. If we’re going to ride down, we should get moving. I’ll show you later.”

  The ride from the Upper East Side to the West Village was sheer joy, the street lights bright enough to ride comfortably, the shops starting to bring out Christmas decorations, and the weather clear and crisp. They rode through the park to Fifty-ninth Street, exited onto Eighth Avenue, and took that all the way to Bleecker Street, where decorations turned charming and a Christmas tree lot was set up near Abingdon Square. Seth rode behind her when they biked together. Worried she would hold him up and reluctant to be watched over, she’d bridled at leading them until he explained that a) he didn’t care how slowly she rode, b) it would kill him to look back after eight blocks and find he’d left her having a panic attack in city traffic, and c) it was an act of considerable trust to let him “watch her six,” and would she please do him the honor?