As the silence grows, I realize that this might be the first time the two of us have been alone together. But, that can’t be right. We’ve … well, we’ve had a buffer. That’s what it’s like being one of eight. Families are complex organisms more than they are about individual relationships. Your liver and your spleen get on fine, but you don’t judge that on how they work if you put them in a bag together, just the two of them.
Honey is an enigma to me. Her decision to cloister herself in a convent seems to come from another period in history, when women—Catholic women, anyway—had no options beyond marrying young and managing a brood. To enter the convent was a higher calling; yes, a calling, as it was described. A calling to give one’s life to Christ, to sacrifice, to suffer for the betterment of the rest of us. From my point of view, it was quite the opposite: To me, it was an escape from the real suffering that comes with living a life and being held responsible for one’s decisions.
I look up from my drink for a moment to see that Honey’s thinking about me too.
“We’re very similar.” She says it out of the blue, as if she’s solved a puzzle and is pleased and satisfied but maybe a little puzzled and appreciative. Each expression looks natural upon her perfect skin.
I sip my drink. I don’t agree with her assessment, and I’m not so sure that she has the slightest clue as to who I am. But I’m probably not as serene in any of those feelings, so they must slip through onto my face.
“Do you remember anything about me from before the convent?” Honey asks. I pause and give it some thought.
“I remember the family,” I say at last.
Honey nods. “It was mostly on me to take care of you and Lucy when you were small. Diapers and putting you down and the like.”
“Is that why you entered the convent?” Maybe the celibate life seemed more attractive after a few years of diaper duty.
Honey waves it away. “Of course not. I loved the both of you. You were like my own those years.” She smiles into her club soda, remembering. “You two couldn’t have been more different. Lucy so easygoing and contemplative. And you, a complete disaster. A toddling fireball who threw tantrums when she didn’t get her way.”
Now I smile into my martini: That sounds about right.
“I cried myself to sleep every night when I first entered the convent,” she says wistfully, which seems odd, given the statement. “I missed you so much. All of you girls—but you and Lucy most of all. You were mine, you know?”
I try to picture her like that, like the big sister who was more of a mother than anything else. But I can’t quite do it. All my memories of Honey come later.
I remember how exciting it was to go to the huge convent in Burlingame for the monthly Sunday visits. We’d pile into a car after church, Lucy and I on laps, and bring a picnic to share. The Sisters of Mercy Convent was a fabulous estate built by a wealthy family in 1919, and the four-story mansion with manicured grounds was certainly a step up from the crowded and chaotic O’Leary house. I remember how proud my parents were of Honey, but I also remember my father, in his Irish brogue, cautioning the mother superior as she eyed Honey’s six younger sisters: “Only one to a family, Sister.” And I remember Blondie bringing a transistor radio along one time because Honey had never heard the Beatles. Honey said that they weren’t nearly as good as Elvis and that their popularity wouldn’t last.
Before this moment, I had never considered that ours was a one-sided relationship.
So, I take another sip of my martini. As the evening goes forward, for the first time I can remember, I have a deep conversation with my sister. Although Lucy had told me that Honey was still upset about my divorce, I decide to talk to her about my marriage. I tell her how painful it was being married to Winston: how he didn’t want children, how he cheated regularly, and how he dumped me for a younger woman after twenty-five years. I know she’s heard the story before, but all of a sudden it seems important that she hears it from me, first hand. Whatever she might tell Lucy about what she thinks of divorce, right now she just listens. She looks sympathetic but not affected. My tears well up, perhaps because of bad memories, a strong martini, exhaustion, or all of the above. I dab my eyes with my cocktail napkin, but I don’t look up.
“Honey,” I start. “I’m exhausted. Let’s just—let’s get together tomorrow evening and figure out our battle plan for this whole—project.” I don’t say “investigation,” because it’s dramatic, and I don’t need people like Honey and Spiro suddenly thinking they’re Agatha Christie characters.
“Of course,” Honey says as she rises. I look up once and smile and nod to her as best I can. She does the same and heads out toward the registration desk, a swift departure being the privilege of the club soda drinker.
I call over for the check but find it’s been taken care of. When did Honey have the opportunity? The question keeps me awake for a bit, as I puzzle over the timing up in my room. Sisters are exhausting.
CHAPTER SIX
Tuesday Morning
It’s always great traveling west. No matter how late I stay up, I always wake up early because of the two-hour time difference. This morning I’m up at five. I come up empty trying to find the light switch on the bedside lamp, so I give up and stumble in the dark toward the easy chair where I laid out my sneakers and jeans the night before.
In the lobby I fix a cup of coffee from the predawn hospitality setup and head into the darkness in front of the hotel. Tasteful brass No Smoking signs are posted everywhere, and I am reluctant to venture too far away for safety considerations. Except for my day trip over the weekend, it’s been a while since I’ve spent time on the West Coast, and it’s entirely possible that the state of California has become smoke-free in my absence. I know there must be someplace around here where I can sneak a cigarette, so I decide to check out the rear of the hotel. To my delight, I discover a couple of waiters smoking outside a kitchen door. I drag a lawn chair from a stack near a side wall, and I give a nod to the guys as I light up.
No one in my family knows I smoke, and there would be no end to the judgment calls if they did. Typically, I smoke two cigarettes a day. The first I have in the morning with my coffee and the other at night with my glass of wine. It’s a holdover from when I was married to Winston. I could quit easily enough, and I’ve been in situations where I’ve had to lay off for days at a time, but I always seem to go back to it. Even if it means sitting in predawn darkness on a lawn chair behind a restaurant kitchen.
After I shower and get dressed, I head back down to the lobby. I see Sandy sitting in the restaurant in a booth that resembles a modern version of a wagon wheel. Even early in the morning, her big blonde Texas hair is heavily sprayed so that not a single stray hair can be seen. I sit down across the table from her, just as one of the waiters from this morning appears with Sandy’s breakfast: a Diet Coke and a strawberry waffle. I shake my head.
“It’s called balance, Tanzie.” She smiles.
“Just black coffee for me,” I say to the waiter. “I’m not much of a breakfast person,” I tell Sandy.
“Bullshit. You need to eat something. Bring her … how about some biscuits and gravy? Everybody likes that.”
She looks at me. The waiter looks at me too. Does he also think I’m her mother? Does he expect me to scold her?
“They don’t do biscuits out here, I’m afraid,” I say with motherly authority.
“Or grits,” the waiter adds preemptively.
“Okay then, how about toast? Do they eat toast?” Sandy asks sarcastically.
“Dry wheat toast, please,” I say, with a contrived smile. It’s starting already. That too-close-to-your-coworker thing that happens during audits. Sandy is my boss, and I really do like working for her, but all day and all night is going to be a challenge. I exhale. “You’re right, Sandy. Thank you.”
Westwind, CoGenCo’s wind energy subsidiary, operates out of the top floors of a forty-story building off Market Street, a couple of blocks
from the Hyatt. Sandy changes out of her commuter flats while lobby security makes a call up to Westwind reception. We ride up the escalator to the elevator bank and then up to the penthouse on forty.
“Are you the auditors?” asks the young woman manning the reception desk after Sandy and I enter through the glass doors. She has short spiked violet hair and a nose ring, and tiny hoop earrings line the entire perimeter of both ears. I imagine her morning routine rivals Sandy’s in effort, but with an entirely different result.
“Yes,” Sandy says. “We’re out here from CoGenCo in Houston.” She hands the young woman a business card. “We need to talk with Marshall Carter.”
Ms. Techno Goth makes a call and explains our situation. She nods and hangs up. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Carter is tied up most of today.”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to interrupt him,” Sandy says matter-of-factly. “He should have received an email this morning from Brian Wilkinson, CoGenCo’s CEO, explaining our visit.”
“Just a moment, please,” the receptionist says, as she picks up her phone again. “Phyllis, there are two women from CoGenCo here to see Marshall. They say they have an appointment.”
Sandy shifts onto one foot as we wait in silence. I can see her heel bob in and out—she’s trying to find a comfortable position. If the shoes are hurting after an elevator ride, the prognosis is grim for the rest of the day. I wonder if suffering by non-Catholics has any impact on the souls in purgatory. If so, there might not be any left, thanks to the women’s shoe industry.
The receptionist hangs up. “Mr. Carter can meet with you shortly. He said you needed an office to work out of. Will a conference room work?”
“Sure,” Sandy replies. “We need Internet and read-only access to your contract and financial systems.”
“Okay, I’ll get someone from IT,” Ms. Techno Goth says, leading us down the hallway to an elevator bank. “I’m Connie, by the way. We have a conference room on thirty-seven. It’s sort of out of the way, but it’s the only space we have available.”
“That’s fine,” Sandy says, and she and I exchange smiles. One of the golden rules of dealing with auditors is to keep them as far away from the action as possible. No telling what they may overhear or observe. A separate floor is world class.
The elevator opens, and we walk down a hallway to some double doors. Connie swipes her key card and then pushes open the door, holding it open for Sandy and me. “We only have a small part of this floor,” Connie tells us. “It’s really just the conference room, a few cubes, and an office or two.”
“Could we have the offices instead?” asks Sandy.
I immediately perk up at this question, hoping Connie offers us separate workspaces. Even cubes would be better than sharing a conference room.
“I’m afraid not. The one office with furniture is occupied, and none of the others have desks in them. The cubes aren’t hooked up to power, or I would put you there. Sorry, but we just haven’t had time to fix up this floor yet. We’re scheduled to move IT and some of the engineers down here next year, but for now, it’s not very functional.”
Connie ushers us into a conference room that must double as a storage space. There are no windows, and the table is stacked high with boxes and blueprints. A broken office chair rests on its side against one of the walls.
“Make yourselves at home. I’ll send IT down to get you set up.” Connie glances at her phone. “Mr. Carter can see you at ten. I’ll come down and escort you to his office.”
“Thanks,” says Sandy, picking up a box and moving it over to the broken chair.
“Want some coffee?” I ask. “I think I passed a break room back down the hallway.”
“No, but see if they have a vending machine. I might want a Diet Coke.”
Down the hallway, I find a small alcove with a coffee pot but no vending machine. I open the top cupboard in search of a Styrofoam cup but come up empty, so I open the lower cabinet.
“Hello,” I hear from behind me, and I jump out of my skin. “Sorry,” the voice continues. “So sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Behind me is a tall, dashing fellow in a plaid shirt and black cashmere sweater vest. I put him in his late fifties or early sixties. Instinctively, I look at his left hand. At first, I’m delighted that there is no ring, but then caution comes over me like a cold, wet blanket, as it occurs to me that he may have taken it off. A Winston clone, in other words—some opportunistic bastard who never fails to remove his wedding ring on trips, even those as brief as a stroll down the driveway for the newspaper. That’s the problem with having been married to a shithead husband: The experience compromised my ability to judge men. Ironic, perhaps, that in my role as the “frauditor” for CoGenCo, I size people up pretty well. But there is a difference between business and pleasure, I suppose.
I wonder whether the stranger in front of me has any clue what’s been going on in my head. I issue a cordial smile. No wonder I can’t get a date.
“I was looking for a paper cup,” I say.
“Oh no, they don’t have paper cups here,” he says. The accent sounds a bit Beatleish—Liverpool, maybe? No, it’s more singsong. “You have to provide your own, you see. Sorry.” I’d forgotten the British propensity to apologize. It’s a charming trait.
“I’m a visitor. Tanzie Lewis.” I extend my hand. “I’m here from CoGenCo in Houston.”
“Ted Cardiff,” he says slowly, with a proper nod, and we give a quick handshake. “I’m a visitor as well. A consultant from the UK.”
There’s a dirty mug with a chipped handle in the cabinet below the sink. Taking it, I scoot over to the sink to allow Ted access to the hot water while I scrub out the mug with a drop of blue detergent and my fingers. “Are you from England?” I ask. Winston and I used to go over to London often when we were first married, and he was an investment banker—before he preferred to travel alone.
“Wales,” he says.
“Ted Cardiff, from Cardiff?”
Ted chuckles. “Not far from it, actually. A little farther north, in Tenby. Do you know it?”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve never been to Wales. I’ve seen pictures, though, and it looks lovely. CoGenCo, the company I work for, has a couple of refineries over there.”
“Tenby is on the coast. It’s quite popular with tourists in the summertime.” Ted smiles. I nod, and I volunteer that I’m out here on an audit and working out of the conference room around the corner with my boss.
“They always stick auditors in the boonies,” I tell him. “How did you get relegated to this delightful space? You’re not secretly with the IRS, are you?”
Ted smiles at this. “I’ve been engaged by Zurich, the insurance company, to look into some engineering matters.”
While I’d love to stay and chat with him, I don’t want to keep Sandy waiting, particularly since I won’t be returning with her Diet Coke. I nod at Ted and smile. “I need to get back,” I tell him.
“How long will you be visiting?” he asks.
“Probably until Friday.”
“Then maybe I’ll see you again, Tanzie. Iechyd da!” He raises his mug.
“What?” I ask. “Is that Welsh?”
“Yes. To your health,” he says.
I raise my mug back at him. “Cheers,” I say as I exit the coffee bar.
When I return, the IT person is sitting in Sandy’s chair and setting up her Internet and folder access.
“You’re out of luck, Sandy,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee. “There’s no vending machine in the coffee room.”
“There’s one on forty and another on thirty-nine,” volunteers the IT guy. “Not much going on down here.”
“I met a consultant,” I say. “Ted Cardiff from Wales. Isn’t that funny?”
I get blank looks from IT and Sandy.
“Cardiff is the capital of Wales,” I explain. “Get it?”
I don’t know which is lamer: me thinking that’s funny, or the fact that our e
ducation system is so poor that neither Sandy nor the IT guy knows basic world geography.
Westwind’s president, Marshall Carter, looks up from his desk as his admin, Phyllis, taps on the doorframe. I’d put him in his late forties, based on his thick head of brownish red hair with a smattering of gray at the temples. He has on a crisp white shirt with a red paisley tie; it’s very un–San Francisco, which tends to lean more hip or casual. What is remarkable about Marshall is his size—or lack of size, I should say. He is tiny but adorable; a cherub baby face that looks out of place on a fortyish head and body. I can’t help but feel guilty for having set him up like this. It now seems a bit like child abuse.
“Come on in, ladies. Come on in,” he says in a high, nasally twang. The office is all glass-and-steel surfaces, without much in terms of personalized decoration. He stands up, and after brief introductions and a quick handshake, Sandy and I seat ourselves on the two guest chairs in front of his massive glass-and-steel desk. Sandy is all business, and I wonder if Marshall can sense her inner pit bull.
“I received Brian’s email this morning, and I must say, this is simply horrible,” Marshall begins, getting straight to the point. “We’re like family out here, and I can’t imagine any of my people getting involved in a kickback scheme.”
Silence. Brian must not have told him that the allegation was that “the president of Westwind” was involved in a bid-rigging scheme.
“How long have you been out here, Marshall?” asks Sandy. We know the answer to this already, but it’s a way to warm up conversations and gauge how open Marshall is in general.
“Only a couple of years. I’m an environmental engineer by training. Graduated from Rice way back when, worked for a few oil and gas companies in EH&S—that’s Environmental, Health, and Safety—and then got into operations, which is much more fun. This technology is fascinating to me. A total science fair.”
He goes on to explain to us at length about his upbringing in the small town of Columbus, Texas, the tiny midway point from Houston to Austin. He moved to the big city and married the love of his life, only to have her dump him twenty years later to “find herself.” At that point, he accepted the offer to move to San Francisco and head up Westwind.
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