by Unknown
Paget looked off into the distance. ‘He had some emotional problems,’ he finally answered. ‘Today’s shorthand, I suppose, would be that Carlo lacked self-esteem.’
The remark carried a painful trace of understatement. In the time it took the waitress to pour their first glass of wine, Terri decided to bury two questions she badly wanted to ask: ‘What problems?’ and ‘How did Carlo come to live with you?’ – the second of which, she was somehow sure, would drive Paget back within himself.
Smiling, Paget raised his glass to her. ‘To a marvelous career,’ he said, ‘for a lawyer who’s already better than most.’
Terri felt pleased and embarrassed, all at once. ‘Hardly. But thanks.’
Paget gave her a droll look. ‘Someday, Terri, you’ll learn to accept a compliment. Perhaps your friend Johnny and I should take turns forcing them on you, until you acquire the knack. It’ll be a lot easier for us than for you.’
‘I don’t mean to be like that. It’s just that when people say nice things about me, I feel as though I’ve fooled them.’
Paget smiled in acknowledgment. ‘The impostor syndrome. I know it well. Inside every self-assured professional lives a frightened neurotic who prays that he can somehow succeed before his clients discover the fraud. It’s the guilty secret that drives us all.’
‘You too?’
‘Me too.’ Paget grinned. ‘Even though, viewed from the outside, I’m clearly an incredible talent.’
‘Not to mention,’ Terri added, ‘Marnie Sharpe’s forbidden fantasy.’
Somehow the image piqued Paget’s sense of the absurd. He started laughing and couldn’t stop. ‘God,’ he said, ‘the mental pictures . . . ,’ and began laughing again. There was a sudden carelessness about his smile that made Terri want to keep it there: for a moment, she could imagine the young man he had been, before time and circumstance had changed him. And in that same moment, she realized how attractive he still was. The perfect match, she thought foolishly, for a prima ballerina.
‘Mary, Andrea . . . ,’ she said, smiling. ‘Do you ever fall in love with Wasps?’
‘Never; it’s the tragic flaw that keeps me apart from Marnie. Ever since I was young, I’ve had the deep-seated fear that I’d grow up to marry an eastern type named Muffy, and then she’d give birth to twin loaves of Wonder bread.’
Terri shook her head. ‘You can relax,’ she said. ‘Carlo is not your white-bread kind of kid. More like an Italian film star.’
‘Takes after his mother,’ Paget said lightly. ‘Goes to show what careful planning can do.’
Again, Terri sensed something unspoken. It changed her mood ever so slightly; perhaps he had made her think of Elena. She finished her first glass of wine. ‘What I can’t understand,’ she said finally, ‘is why you didn’t think you’d be a good father.’
Paget poured them both more wine. ‘For the same reason that I didn’t think that I’d had a particularly great childhood. Too often, people do with their children what their parents did with them. My parents had parents too – who was I to think I was any better?’
‘You are, though.’
Paget shrugged. ‘Sometimes people can rise above themselves. If the need’s extreme enough.’
‘And Carlo’s was?’
‘Yes.’ Paget hesitated. ‘Carlo’s was.’
The reluctance had crept back in his voice. Terri realized that, for whatever reason, Paget had been more candid with her than was his custom; perhaps it was safe to give something in return.
‘My parents fought,’ she said. ‘Or, more accurately, my father fought, and my mother tried to protect us.’
‘From what, exactly?’
‘He drank. And when he drank, he got violent.’ Terri looked up at him. ‘It’s something I’ve never really talked about.’
Paget considered her. ‘Why not?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Terri hesitated. ‘When you’re young, you realize the family doesn’t want people outside to know. It gets to be a habit.’ She touched her chest. ‘Intellectually, you understand all that. But it’s what you feel here . . .’
Paget sipped his wine. ‘Your mother never left him?’
‘No. She’s Catholic and believes in the rules, no matter what.’ Terri stared at the table. ‘And there were five of us. I was the oldest – there are two still at home, and Mom’s still watching out for them.’
‘How did she do that? Protect you, I mean.’
‘I don’t know.’ Terri exhaled, began again. ‘I guess part was that she was so watchful, pretty much all the time. When my father drank, he heard insults where there weren’t any. You never knew when it would hit. When I was little, I remember closing my eyes, covering my ears.’ Terri folded her hands. ‘Sometimes my mom had to stand up for us. But mostly she kept us out of the way, tried to calm things, kept up with our classes and activities. My father saw it as some sort of conspiracy, almost. But it was just my mom taking care of things the way she had to do.’
Paget gave her a reflective look. ‘What did you learn from all that?’
‘That there’s nothing I can do for her.’
‘What I meant was: for yourself.’
Terri touched her wineglass, tracing the circle at its rim. ‘To avoid fights,’ she finally answered. ‘And to take care of things myself.’
‘It stands to reason.’ Paget’s tone changed, as if to signal a change of subject. ‘Tell me about Elena.’
Terri felt a knot in her stomach she had not known was there. ‘Do you mean: what has Elena learned from me?’
Paget shook his head. ‘That’s your question, Terri. It wasn’t mine. I’ve got no right to strip-mine your personal life.’
She looked up at him, surprised. His gaze was even, almost gentle. The tears in her own eyes startled her. ‘I’m sorry . . .’
Christopher Paget, Terri realized, had reached across and briefly touched her arm.
‘For what?’ he said. ‘You’re my friend, okay? I’ve decided that arbitrarily, because Carlo likes you. It’s an awesome responsibility, but since there are two of us, we can probably handle it.’
All at once, Terri felt relief course through her, warm and sudden. Lightly, Paget resumed the conversation. ‘Sometimes, as Freud once said, a cigar is only a cigar, I really did want to know about Elena.’
Terri smiled. ‘Oh, Elena’s wonderful. She’s very imaginative, poetic almost, and she has this incredible fantasy life. She’s much more like Richie that way – I’m so literal, and about as poetic as a pair of Birkenstocks.’ Talking about Elena, Terri realized, made her feel more like herself. ‘This is probably a mother speaking, but I’m sure that Elena will be someone out of the ordinary – a sculptress or a terrorist or something.’
‘Maybe she’ll content herself with vandalism.’ Paget thought for a moment. ‘What are you going to do about her schooling?’
Terri frowned. ‘I’m not sure. I’d like to pick somewhere permanent to live, with good schools. But we really can’t afford a house.’
Paget looked surprised. ‘I can’t swear to it, but the last time I looked, we paid our associates a living wage. In fact, although you were gracious enough not to say it, I had the distinct impression you left the P.D.’s office less for my charisma than to double your salary.’
Terri smiled. ‘It was the money. And I’m not complaining. It’s just that Richie works at home right now.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He’s trying to start his own company.’ Terri paused. ‘He’s very bright, really, very inventive. Like Elena, Richie sees things that I really don’t. It’s just that sometimes, I think, someone like that finds it difficult to work for other people.’
‘Are you ready to order?’ the waitress asked.
As Paget finished ordering, Terri looked around them. The tables were filled with couples and foursomes, some smiling, some serious and intent, their profiles reflected in the mirrors. These days, Terri and Richie seldom ate out alone; when they did, T
erri enjoyed looking at the other faces and imagining their lives. Sometimes she would pick a man and woman, trying to figure out which date this was or why they were together. It caused her to wonder now what she would think were she someone else, watching herself with Christopher Paget. ‘A penny for your thoughts,’ Paget said. ‘Or would you like a raise?’
Terri smiled. ‘I was just thinking that I liked this place.’
Paget nodded. ‘I like rooms with a little animation. This way I don’t feel like I’m communing with my ancestors.’ He seemed to hesitate. ‘On the subject of raises, we review our compensation every year. You’re doing well with us, and it might make the joys of ownership look a bit more doable.’
Terri looked at the table. ‘Thank you. It’s nice of you to take an interest. But there’s daycare, too, and I can see some other expenses coming up.’
Paget looked quizzical. ‘Does Richie watch her in the afternoon?’
‘No.’ Terri paused. ‘He’s busy at home.’
The quizzical look vanished, replaced by the blank expression that, Terri had come to realize, concealed thoughts Paget did not wish to show.
‘Perhaps you can work it out,’ he finally said. ‘Elena sounds like a special kid. I know when Carlo came to me, I decided that education and stability were what he needed most. It was worth the pain of paying for it.’
Terri hesitated. But there was no point in discussing her fights with Richie, his insistence that children were flexible and could be happy anywhere. ‘When it comes to money,’ Terri joked, ‘“pain” is a relative concept. I mean, don’t you own a railroad or something?’
Paget laughed. ‘The government owns America’s railroads, including Great-Great-Grandfather Kenyon’s. As for the money I inherited, I never touch the stuff.’
Terri looked at him a moment, trying to decide whether he was serious. ‘You’re kidding.’
‘Of course not.’ Paget smiled. ‘Are you familiar with the theory of devolution? That’s what happens when your great-great-grandfather passes down a ton of money, creating three of the most useless generations that ever walked the planet. It’s like a curse. Shortly after college, I decided that my only hope was to make my own money. Which I have.’
‘So when Carlo talks about how hard you work . . .’
Paget nodded. ‘Sad but true. That didn’t help with Andrea, either.’
For a moment, Terri felt dull-witted, trying to process how this changed her idea of him. The thing that came to her was that, more than most people, Christopher Paget had his own idea of himself and had never wished to tamper with it. Finally, she asked, ‘What do you do with all the money?’
‘Except for the occasional gift to worthy causes, it’s in trust for Carlo and my theoretical other children, who grow more theoretical by the day.’ Paget smiled again. ‘The dirty trick I’ve played on Carlo is that, for purposes both legal and philosophical, the money actually goes to his children – which is as far into the future as I can postpone the curse. Carlo gets a more than comfortable life income, but only after I die. By which time, I trust, he will have developed what used to be called character.’
Terri laughed. ‘That’s appalling. Does Carlo know?’
‘Oh, I’ve told him. Just last year, once he was secure in the more spiritual aspects of my paternal devotion.’
‘What did he say?’
‘As I recall them, his precise words were, “Then there’s no point in putting rat poison in your cabernet.” I nearly choked up with real tears.’ Paget smiled again. ‘“Don’t worry, son,” I said. “You’ve still got me.” To which Carlo responded, deadpan, “Then you’re just going to have to work a little harder.”’
‘He really said that?’
‘Absolutely. But the truly frightening thing was that his grades shot up next quarter.’
Terri smiled. ‘I liked watching the two of you – the joking back and forth.’
‘It’s my way of showing affection, and I fear I’ve passed it on.’ Paget’s tone was dry. ‘But then I had to give the boy something. As matters stand, Carlo’s the last of the Pagets.’
‘You never wanted more?’
‘I just never had the right situation, and now I’m pretty much out of time.’ Paget glanced at her. ‘Are you and Richie planning on another one?’
Terri sipped her wine. ‘I don’t know yet.’ She paused a moment. ‘We didn’t plan Elena, really.’
Paget nodded. ‘Birth control is tough these days, given that IUDs and the pill can kill you. If I were Johnny Moore, I’d say something like: “The marvels of medical science – condoms to condoms in a single generation.” And once you’re pregnant, the options aren’t so hot.’
‘I really couldn’t have done anything else.’ Terri stared at her wine-glass. ‘It was time, I guess. Richie wanted a commitment – we’d have gotten married anyhow, he said, and he really wanted children. And I’d always had this strong sense of wanting to build a real family, one that’s intact and free from conflict. That still means a lot to me.’
Paget appraised her for a while. ‘This may be presumptuous,’ he said, ‘but have you ever wondered if you’re still trying to fix your family of origin?’
Terri looked up at him. ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘But sometimes I’ve wondered if I’m too much like my mother.’
Paget paused, as if sensing that he had gone too far. ‘Perhaps I’m too much like someone who’s divorced and has spent far too much time thinking about why.’ His voice was dismissive. ‘Probably the biggest gulf between my generation and our parents is that self-examination frightened them to death, whereas we’re attuned to every quiver of the id and ego. It’s tiresome, I’m sure.’
It was uncanny, Terri thought: Paget seemed to know what questions to ask, when to talk, when to listen, and when to retreat under cover of self-deprecation. Either he was more sensitive than he cared to show, or he was getting a better fix on her than she herself had or wanted anyone else to have. It was unexpected, and somewhat unnerving.
‘Not tiresome,’ she said lightly. ‘It’s just that I’m too tired for all this stimulation.’
Paget laughed. ‘Tell that to Carlo. The other night, when I was philosophizing about something or another, I heard him murmur, “Get the hook.”’
‘Like in vaudeville?’
‘Uh-huh. The kid’s ruthless. But it may be a line worth remembering?’
Paget, Terri realized, was telling her that she controlled the depth and rhythm of their conversation, was free to pick and choose. All at once, she felt relaxed again: grateful for the evening and for everything that he had said.
‘This was nice of you,’ she said.
He smiled. ‘I thought you and Carlo said I didn’t get “nice.”’
Terri raised her glass. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You get it.’
Almost in spite of himself, Terri thought, Paget looked pleased. Lightly, he said, ‘I’ll put that one in the bank, Terri,’ and changed the subject to work.
Dinner arrived; ahi tuna for Terri; cassoulet for Paget. The food was wonderful, Terri thought; they shared a little, and went over Steinhardt and Caldwell again, all the way through crème brûlée and a glass of port.
‘Do you have any idea,’ Paget asked as they finished, ‘who the other two tapes belonged to? The ones Steinhardt couldn’t identify?’
She shook her head. ‘No way to tell that they even existed, except to find them: the index is gone, and for all we know, it’s just a gap. Does it matter?’
‘Probably not. I’m just curious, that’s all.’ Paget thought for a moment. ‘If they do exist and Ransom had them, Sharpe will find them soon enough. She’s probably at home right now, baking cookies and listening to Troy Donahue tell Dr Steinhardt about his mother.’
‘“Ids on Tape,”’ Terri said. ‘Poor Lindsay Caldwell.’
Paget nodded. He finished his coffee, asked Robert to call a cab for Terri, and paid the bill.
It was drizzling outside, a cool wetness tha
t felt good on Terri’s face, a pleasant complement to the glow of wine and port. Standing next to Paget, it occurred to her, suddenly and by surprise, that she had liked the last few hours of her life.
From the row of headlights cruising up Market Street, a battered yellow cab peeled off, heading down the side street where they waited.
‘Your limousine,’ Paget said, ‘has arrived.’
She turned to him. ‘Thanks for dinner.’
‘The least I could do.’ He smiled. ‘Short of a raise, which is coming.’
There was mist in his hair, she saw. Suddenly, impulsively, Terri stretched to kiss him on the cheek, and then stepped back again. She felt like a kid.
Paget was giving her a quizzical smile. ‘What did I do,’ he asked, ‘to deserve that?’
Terri felt herself grin. ‘It was the wine,’ she answered, and got into the cab.
The next morning, while Paget was still at home, McKinley Brooks called.
It caught Paget by surprise. ‘’Lo, Mac,’ Paget said. ‘What’s up?’
‘Any number of things.’ Brooks paused. ‘You’ll want to see me, I think.’
His voice was somber, almost hesitant. ‘Can you give me a preview?’ Paget asked.
‘Yup. We found another tape.’
For a moment, Paget thought of Lindsay Caldwell. ‘What’s on it?’
‘She starts out talking about you taking Carlo. But then she changes the subject, it seems. To the Lasko case.’
Paget stiffened. ‘What in hell are you talking about?’
‘You really don’t know?’ There was another, longer silence. ‘Mary Carelli was a patient of Dr Steinhardt.’
Chapter 9
Mary had started, Brooks said, with Paget taking Carlo.
It made what had happened sound almost brutal, as if Paget had coldly planned to deprive Mary of her son. But on the warm spring afternoon that Paget had come to the Carellis’, he had intended to stay for an hour or so and then resume his life.
Mary’s parents lived in the North End of Boston, just off Hanover Street, in a brick walk-up distinguished from its neighbors by green shutters that needed paint. John Carelli had run a corner grocery store, while his wife, Francesca, raised seven children, of whom Mary was the last. They were both in their seventies, the store had long since been sold, and, at least to Paget, any life in the house had decamped with their last daughter, so different from the others.