The Concealers

by James J. Kaufman

  Marcia answered Katherine’s soft knock and welcomed her with a warm hug. Nonetheless, Katherine, taking in Marcia’s dark-haired good looks, designer outfit, and classic jewelry—the real stuff, Katherine guessed—felt distinctly shabby. She wondered how in the world this was going to work.

  She appreciated Marcia’s smooth manner, which helped dispel her anxiety. “Finally,” Marcia said, “I get to meet the young lady Preston has been talking about nonstop since your lunch yesterday. Preston is saying goodnight to P.J., and he will be out in a minute. I’m so happy you are here. Would you like a drink?”

  “Are you having one, Mrs. Wilson?”

  “I’m having wine. Please call me Marcia.”

  Marcia led Katherine from the elegant foyer to the living room filled with antique furniture, a solid cherry built-in bookshelf along the wall to her left and floor-to-ceiling windows facing her. “Come, sit down next to me,” Marcia said, sitting on an expansive striped satin couch and pouring glasses of merlot for Katherine and then herself. “Preston has told me so many nice things about you.” Katherine commented on the condominium, the view, and particularly the bookcase. She asked Marcia what she liked to read, and they each shared their feelings about their favorite books and authors. Ten minutes later, Preston joined them in the living room and greeted Katherine.

  “You look beautiful,” he assured her.

  “Thank you,” Katherine said, thinking that she had waited twenty-three years to hear those words.

  “Would you like some wine, Pres?”

  “Yes, but I’ll have it at dinner,” he said. “The nanny is here. P.J. is settled.”

  Turning to Katherine, Preston asked, “What is your favorite food?”

  “Unfortunately—everything. If I had to pick one, it would definitely be Italian.”

  “I knew it. I’ve made reservations at Armani’s. It’s just across the street, Katherine, and inasmuch as it’s Thursday, I’d like to get there before eight so that we can take the stairway to the restaurant.”

  Katherine, having read an article about the Armani Store and Restaurant, felt a twinge of excitement. Marcia and Katherine rose from the couch.

  “We can continue this at dinner, my dear,” Marcia said, and the three of them left the apartment and took an elevator to the lobby.

  They walked across the street, around the corner, entered Armani’s through the store entrance, and walked slowly up the magnificent circular lighted stairway to the third floor.

  They passed the retail clothing section to the left, turned right, passed by the elaborate display of fine chocolates on one side of the corridor, with other fine items displayed on the right, and headed for the reception area across from the elevators. There they were warmly greeted by two ladies and a gentleman. One of the ladies picked up three menus and ushered them into the dining room, past the bar on the left and to a corner table by the floor-to-ceiling windows in the far right.

  Katherine was immediately taken by the ultra-modern décor, with its mixture of black, brown, and white, which seemed to her at once elegant and mysterious. As Katherine walked to the table, she felt the effect of the soft carpet, matching table settings, and furnishings, the indirect in-point ceiling lighting, followed by the breathtaking view through the special window covering. Preston held her chair and then Marcia’s, as they sat for dinner.

  “This restaurant is delightful,” Katherine said.

  “We love it,” Marcia said. “The food is good, and it’s so convenient. We’re so happy you could join us.”

  A thin young waiter with a pleasing manner and a strong Italian accent explained all the choices and specials, while an attendant poured water for everyone at the table. After ordering wine and examining the expansive menu, they each made selections from the antipasti, salads, and entrées, leaving the decisions about elaborate desserts for later.

  “I know you and Pres have talked a great deal, but if you don’t mind, I’d really like for you to tell me about yourself,” Marcia said. “I already know that you had the good sense to go to Columbia, and they had the good sense to grant you a scholarship. I used to teach at Columbia, by the way—psychology. Why did you not go to Columbia’s School of Journalism for your master’s?”

  “I thought about that, but in the end, I was intrigued with Fletcher Thomas, particularly because of its small size and the opportunity for one-on-one learning. I was fortunate to have Professor Simpson as a mentor, and honestly, I loved the program.”

  “What was your master’s project?”

  “An exposé of fraud and abuse and cost containment within Medicare and Medicaid.”

  “What piqued your interest in that?” Marcia asked.

  “I was fascinated by the 1997 big-tobacco litigation throughout the United States, and particularly, in Florida, the first true arena for the battle with tobacco firms. Florida’s legislature had eliminated the traditional legal defenses, leaving only fraud and abuse and cost containment, therefore causing these areas to receive extraordinary attention. I hated the fraud and abuse, yet was intrigued by its multiple moving parts and Medicaid’s gross insensitivity to the need to contain the cost. It was like looking inside a complicated watch to determine why it had stopped working.”

  “Very interesting,” Marcia said. “Quite analytical.”

  Their appetizers arrived and they ate, after which Preston excused himself from the table.

  “I must tell you, Katherine, that color looks stunning on you, and your necklace is perfect,” Marcia said.

  “Thank you, Marcia. I don’t mean to be rude, but is your dress a Valentino?”

  “Why yes, it is.”

  “I thought I remembered seeing it in a magazine ad. It’s really beautiful.”

  Preston returned to the table and explained that he wanted to say hello to a friend, just as the salads were being served. They sat quietly for a while, enjoying the food.

  Katherine scanned the dining room, noticing the two stylishly dressed, thirty-something women at the table to the right and an older group seated in the leather couches at the larger table in the middle of the room, obviously enjoying their meal and having fun.

  “I love this city,” she said.

  “Well, it has its merits. What was it like growing up in a small upstate village?” Marcia asked.

  “I liked it. Everyone knew each other and helped each other. Cheerleading, dances after the games, skinny dipping in Canandaigua Lake, boating, water skiing at Sodus Point. I had an eighteen-foot Penn Yan with a Johnson 25. There was lots of snow, big hills, skiing, and ice skating on a frozen pond under the moonlight with my boyfriend.”

  Katherine, warming to fond memories, was on a roll and didn’t want to stop. “It’s one of the most beautiful areas in the state—the heart of the Finger Lakes, rolling high hills, vineyards, deep clean lakes, hiking in the summer, snowmobiles in the winter. Have you ever been upstate?”

  “We New Yorkers think of upstate as Westchester,” Marcia said. “But Preston, as a young boy, spent some time with his father hunting in the Adirondacks and made a trip back there not long ago. Right, Preston?”

  Before Preston could answer, their next course arrived. Katherine sensed that Preston welcomed the interruption and that he looked forward to an opportunity to say a few words himself. They all watched as their dishes were expertly prepared and served and then were quiet for a while as they delved into the succulent food.

  As they delighted in the dinner and the continued replenishment of the wine, Preston said, “Marcia is referring to my trip to the Adirondacks with Casey Fitzgerald, my CFO, to find Joe Hart, the one I spoke to you about yesterday at lunch. You seemed to want to know more.”

  “Joe helped my husband and me out of a big mess,” Marcia said, interrupting Preston.

  Katherine sensed for the first time some tension between Marcia and Preston and w
ondered what drove it.

  “Preston told me about that,” Katherine said, “and he’s right. I did ask him if he would tell me more about Mr. Hart, what he did for him . . . for you both.”

  Katherine was pleased to see Marcia retreat, momentarily at least, and allow Preston to provide some backstory, to recount how his lawyers were convinced that bankruptcy was the only option and how Casey’s search had come up with Joe as an attorney with the unique skills to save his business.

  He told Katherine about Joe’s wife being murdered, how he had escaped to the mountains, how Preston had found him and practically begged him for help. He explained that Joe agreed to take his case, providing Preston would commit to fulfilling an unspecified condition in the future—to which Preston, out of desperation, reluctantly agreed.

  Preston outlined how Joe miraculously accomplished a turnaround with the banks and businesses and then, when Joe called in the IOU, how Preston had to find, earn the trust of, and care for a group of Joe’s friends—“the Collectibles”—each flawed in some way. Preston gave a brief summary of Missy, Tommy, Johnny, and Corey, four of Joe’s friends he had met, and the challenges they each faced. He then described Joe’s funeral, seeing them and Harry, a fifth damaged soul, at the funeral.

  Katherine could feel the intensity in Preston’s remarks and could tell he had been moved by the experience. Marcia was apparently also moved, but Katherine’s intuition suggested in some other way, how she could not fully understand. She wondered whether it was the subject, their relationship, or both, and perhaps more.

  Preston signaled the waiter, who promptly brought the dessert menus, explained the elaborate choices, and made recommendations. They made their selections, and the course was soon served. After finishing and ordering coffee, Katherine thanked Preston for sharing all of that with her.

  “What a story,” she said. “And I guess if I understand this right, the story is not over. What is your relationship like with these folks? Are you still seeing them and caring for them now? How did you feel about reaching out to Missy, Tommy, Johnny, and . . . ”

  “Corey and Harry. Those are good questions,” Marcia said, “and a subject I’ve explored with Preston many times. I can tell you, Preston did help Johnny, who is mentally challenged. Preston arranged for a speech therapist to work with him, and it made a big difference. Alice produced a lot of background that helped in that effort.”

  “Alice?” Katherine asked.

  “Marcia, please, let me answer the questions,” Preston said, clearly annoyed. “Alice Hawkins was Joe’s legal secretary. Joe’s wife, Ashley, had done considerable work in education and helping mentally challenged people, including helping Joe help Johnny. Alice introduced me to Johnny down in Braydon, South Carolina. She had some files of Johnny’s background from Ashley’s research, and some files of Joe’s, that helped point me in the right direction.” He nodded at his wife. “Marcia helped me as well.”

  Preston explained to Katherine how he’d met Missy and Tommy in Las Vegas, Corey in South Carolina—but that he had not been able to connect with Harry since the funeral. “I was informed that Tommy and Missy got married in Las Vegas,” he added.

  Marcia responded to Preston, “We were informed by an invitation. You chose not to attend.”

  “I gathered from what you told me yesterday, Preston, that Joe had a substantial influence on you and your life. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, he did,” Preston said.

  “That’s an open question,” Marcia inserted. “Preston’s evolving on the subject.”

  Katherine knew she had struck a nerve. There it is. She had to know more. How had Joe influenced Preston? At least, she wanted to hear what he had to say about that. And she wanted to hear the other Collectibles’ responses to that question as well. Alice sounded like the gatekeeper; Katherine thought she would start with her and decided to ignore—for the time being—Marcia’s comment about Preston’s evolving. As Gerry had often said, “Some stories never end.” She wondered whether she would ever be able to complete the assignment.

  “I would like to meet these people. Would you be willing to help me do that? I’m totally blown away by what Joe asked you to do. It’s sort of a pay-it-forward thing.”

  Preston appeared to be in thought for a minute and then replied, “Of course I would.”

  They all decided some light conversation was in order as each had a second cup of coffee. Eventually, they went back to Preston and Marcia’s condo. Marcia showed Katherine around, they peeked into P.J.’s room, where Marcia told Katherine how sweet P.J. was and about his hearing problems.

  Preston showed Katherine his den, picked up a business card, wrote a number on the back, and handed it to Katherine. “This is a direct line; you can reach me on it anytime.” He reminded her about the car.

  “I don’t know, I appreciate the offer, but I feel really odd about accepting it. You’re right that I do need a vehicle to take Hailey and move my stuff. Maybe—maybe you could come shopping with me and give me some guidance about a used SUV?”

  “Not a bad idea. Why don’t you come down to my Manhattan store tomorrow about noon? You could also meet Casey and Austin. I’d like them to meet you.”

  “Do they know about . . . me . . . and you?”

  “Casey does. I was too excited not to tell him.”

  Katherine thanked her hosts—she still hadn’t quite figured out what to call them—for a wonderful dinner and lovely evening. She especially thanked Preston for his willingness to openly discuss all of this with her, and for the generous offer of car help, to which he replied, “That’s what fathers do.”

  As Katherine rode the elevator down to the main floor and walked out of Trump Tower, she felt tears running down her face, and she made no attempt to wipe them away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Katherine bounced out of bed early after the best night’s sleep she could remember in a long time. She showered, dressed, and flew down the stairs and across the street to the coffee shop. While having breakfast she checked her to-do list. She went back to her apartment, took Hailey out, called her landlord, explained the situation, and asked him if there was any way she could get out of her lease. The rental agent told her she could, with thirty days’ notice, because the rents in that building were being raised, and they had someone who wanted the apartment. One down. It was time to check-in with her mother, a call that was, in fact, long overdue.

  Katherine caught her mother mid-shift. “Hey, Mom. Can you talk?”

  “Hi, Kat. Yes, for a couple of minutes. What’s going on?”

  “Give me a call when you can talk longer. Two minutes won’t do it this time. I’ll give you the headlines. I met Preston and his wife, and I’m going to look for an apartment on Long Island before I come up to see you.”

  “You what? Hang on. I have more than two minutes.” The line went silent, and Katherine could picture her mother hurriedly requesting one of her nurses to cover her.

  “I’m back. Sorry . . . you’re coming home. Great. When? You don’t know yet. Tell me more about the job. Your lease?”

  “I’m thrilled. I’m okay with the lease; the landlord’s anxious to get more rent and has someone waiting.”

  “That’s good.”

  Beth’s rush to talk about the job and the lease, while genuine, was to Katherine, her mother’s attempt to buy time and allow her to absorb what she had just heard. She puts this whole thing in play. Preston makes his move, I respond, and she can’t figure out if she’s happy or sad about it all. Katherine decided to pierce her mother’s cover.

  “As to the Preston part: he e-mailed me. I liked what he said and how he said it. We met for lunch. At the 21 Club, can you imagine? He invited me to his condo last night to meet his wife and then have dinner. It was an amazing experience. Bottom line: he’s all in, really trying, and I like him. A lot.”

 
The line went silent.

  “Mom, are you there? Mom?”

  Finally, Beth answered quietly. Katherine could hardly hear her. “I’m here. I can’t talk more now. It’s not work; I just can’t talk right now. I’m glad you met him. We’ll talk more later. I love you.”

  The line went dead. While there was a lot more to discuss, Katherine had at least broached the difficult subject. Two down.

  Katherine took the subway to Grand Central Station and the shuttle across to Times Square. Then she transferred to the uptown train to Columbus Circle and walked to the twenty-story, block-long building displaying the lighted Manhattan BMW-Mercedes Auto Plaza sign on two sides. She walked in the Fifty-Seventh Street entrance, noting the enormous windows admitting the sunlight onto a bevy of shiny new European cars. She gave the receptionist her name and asked for Mr. Preston Wilson.

  The young woman told her that Mr. Wilson was not in the building, that he had left a message for her to see Mr. Fitzgerald, and ushered her to a second floor corner office with the door open. “This is Mr. Fitzgerald, and he is expecting you. Please go in.”

  Katherine found Casey slouched behind his desk piled high with files, and munching on a Snickers bar. Aside from the spectacular view, the only items adorning Casey’s office walls were his framed CPA license and photos of his wife, kids, and German shepherd.

  Casey coaxed his 250-pound body out of his chair and waddled over to greet her.

  “So you’re Katherine. I’m delighted to meet you. Preston’s told me a lot about you. Please, come in and sit down.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald. Mr. Wilson has told me a little bit about you. I gather you are his right-hand man.”