The Never Never Sisters
Page 26
“She didn’t, Sloane. I respect her opinion, sure, but I made those choices.”
Her dark eyes were skeptical. “After all my years of therapy, I know exactly what I need from the people close to me. I need to be able to trust them. If they screw up, that’s it. Game over.”
“But don’t you miss—”
“What? No, I miss nothing. It’s called self-preservation.”
Giovanni came back into the lobby, waving his Ziploc bags, and sat on the arm of Sloane’s chair. “We should leave at seven thirty.” He looked between us. “Which is in twenty more minutes. What am I interrupting?”
“She’s just telling me I live in a doghouse,” I said.
“And she’s telling me I’m unforgiving.”
“Oh.” Giovanni appeared concerned until we both started to laugh, and Sloane stopped short.
“You’re going to make it work with Dave, I assume.”
“I think the whole thing might have been more about me than him.”
“How?” Sloane shook her head. “He got suspended from work and lied about it.”
“We don’t know that.”
“Shut up,” said Sloane.
“I know you don’t like that answer, but it is my life—”
“No,” said Sloane. “I mean, shut up and watch. What’s the name of the firm, Dave’s firm?”
“Duane Covington.” As I said it, the anchor said it too, and I stared at the screen’s red banner: Breaking News: Agents Raid Duane Covington, elite Midtown firm. Sources link these arrests to the government’s investigation into Mission Fund. Details to follow.
“Holy shit,” I said as Sloane and I grabbed each other’s arms. “Holy shit.”
chapter forty-one
“I SHOULD CALL him, right? I should call him?”
Sloane and Giovanni nodded dumbly, and Giovanni said, “Maybe try?”
I dialed, my hands shaking. It went straight to voice mail. “No answer.”
They didn’t look surprised.
“Should I call Dad? No, Dave would hate that. Should I call a lawyer? What should I do?” I texted him: R u ok?
“He would be able to call you, right?” Giovanni frowned. “I mean, he’d get a phone call if . . . They always say you get a phone call.”
“Let’s change our flight,” said Sloane. She nudged Giovanni. “We’ll stay.”
“Of course.” He stood up, pulled out his phone.
“Stop. I’ll be okay.”
“Don’t be a martyr.”
“Really. I’ll be fine. I’m fine. It would just make things weirder if you’re here when this all . . . falls out.”
They looked at each other, and I could tell they were imagining the awkwardness of staying at the Lincoln as their almost-stranger brother-in-law was run through an indictment process. Sloane nodded slightly.
“I’ll be fine. This is—it’s not totally unexpected.” My head felt like it could float away. “Maybe I’ll just—maybe I’ll figure out—”
“Call Percy,” said Sloane.
Giovanni was nodding. “Percy. He’ll know what to do.”
“So would Dad. Or one of Dave’s friends from law school.”
“But maybe, for Dave’s sake,” Sloane said, “you want to keep it as quiet as possible until we know something concrete.”
I scraped my teeth over my lower lip. She was right. I would start with an apology for that night in the hammock, but when I dialed Percy’s number, the phone went to voice mail on the first ring and I hung up. “He didn’t pick up,” I explained to Sloane and Giovanni, who were looking at me expectantly.
“Call him again,” said Giovanni. “Leave a message.”
I left things vague and polite, telling Percy that I was sorry to bother him and that I had some questions on some new developments. As soon as I hung up, my phone made the breaking-glass noise that meant I’d received a text. We crowded around; it was from Dave.
Fine. Things crazy here tho. So much work! Will be home v. late, not for dinner.
“What the hell? What. The. Hell?”
Sloane covered her mouth.
“He’s probably just trying to protect you,” said Giovanni.
“He thinks I’m an idiot. He thinks I can’t handle this news.” Sloane bit her nails, as though she had to shove something—anything—in her mouth so as not to scream about what an asshole he was. “That’s ridiculous. I can totally handle this.”
They nodded vigorously: Yes, you can!
“Okay,” I said. “We’re going to share a cab. First stop, Duane Covington. Then on to JFK for you guys.”
“Really? You’re going there?” Sloane looked like she thought this was not such a good idea.
“Not to do anything stupid. I just want to observe. To see for myself what’s going on.”
The sky was peach colored when they dropped me off across the street from the GM Building. The cab couldn’t get closer because of the glut of white vans around the plaza. Past the vans was a layer of reporters—their makeup so heavy I could see blush streaks from fifty feet away—and inside their circle of cameras was the story: a steady stream of agents trailing in and out of the building, those on return trips carrying hard drives and files.
I sat on the fountain and watched the action from across the street, counting the exterior windows up to the twentieth floor. Was Dave there, watching the carnage? I worried about the things to come: having to convince him to testify against whoever had dragged him into the scandal; the length of his sentence; what it would be like to see him in that orange jumpsuit and, oh god, would he be shackled? I scanned the crowds for signs of anything familiar. I visualized going to court and sitting in the front row. I could—I would—do it, just like Mrs. DeFranza had.
Because underneath it all ran my love for Dave, powerful enough to flood out any disappointment. I hated how he lied to me, but it was the flip side of the man I married—ambitious to a fault and with something to prove. What had caused the downfall was also what I loved about him, and why he complemented me. We could get past it.
This was what had been on the tip of my tongue while talking to Sloane, that forgiving someone—mining the hurt and pain to find the underlying love—is not a sign of weakness. It’s a north star. When my phone rang again, I picked up, feeling calmer than I had in weeks because in some ways, it was a relief to finally know.
“Paige? It’s Percy.”
“I’m so glad you called. I need advice. I’m at Dave’s firm right now. It’s a total shit show.”
“I was hoping we could meet in person.”
“Okay. Where are you?”
“In my office.”
Perfect. I hoped the location would help clarify that our relationship was professional only. “Fine. Do you have some lawyers on speed dial?”
“What?”
“Defense lawyers. Watch the news and you’ll understand. I’ll see you in twenty.” I sent supportive thoughts to the twentieth floor and then to some of the vans in case he was already there and then, as the sun set to the west of Duane Covington, I left.
Percy suggested, in a solicitous manner that I might have mocked under different circumstances, that I sit down for our chat. I got the feeling that he was trying to break something to me.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Whatever you want to talk about, can I go first?”
“Sure.”
“Did you look at the news? The feds are crawling all over Duane Covington, taking equipment, raiding it, presumably arresting people. Presumably my husband.”
“No.” He typed on his computer and shook his head. “I didn’t know.”
“Does it give any details?”
“No, just that there’s a raid.”
“The freaking news
cycle moves so slow.”
“That’s nuts,” he said, glancing at the screen again. “But that’s not what I need to tell you.”
“What could you possibly need to tell me that’s more important than this?”
He looked down for a split second, and my heart fell. Was it about that moment we’d had? I wondered how I could best transmit that that was now the farthest thing from my mind. But then he said, “About what I learned at the book club party.”
“The what party?”
“Annie Poleci’s book club party.”
“It was tonight. I totally forgot.” Percy’s expression said, Yeah, well, I didn’t. “You went?”
“Of course.”
“Was Annie Poleci there?”
“She was.”
“God, she’s so lucky she wasn’t in the office tonight.”
“Sounds like it.”
“What happened?”
“We chatted, Annie and I. And I learned about her meeting with the human resources representative. The one who took the notes? You with me, Paige?”
“I’m with you.”
“You want to know what she said? It’s . . . relevant.”
I could hardly see how anything other than the raid was relevant now, but he looked convinced. “Tell me.”
It was basically a college party. They never even discussed the book—at least not in the first hour—even though Percy had bought it and actually read it. They drank beer; they gossiped. It was easy to get to Annie. She was standing in a group of people, looking bored while listening to a guy going on and on about getting into a little cage and being lowered into the water to swim with the sharks as if he were on some National Geographic special. He was getting way too detailed—about the kind of Plexiglas, et cetera. And Annie just had that look on her face, like Why am I wasting my night here?
Percy started joking with her and then making small talk. He learned Annie was from Chicago, that—surprise, surprise—she worked at one of those gargantuan law firms that eats its young.
He told her that he had a sister who worked at one of those places and hated it—could never take a vacation, felt like a warm body—and Annie seemed to perk up. He made up some story about his sister not being allowed to go on her honeymoon at the last minute. And then Annie said, “At least that was about the work,” in a really cynical tone.
“Your partners are worse?” Percy said.
“Not always.” Annie had twisted her lips. “But a few weeks ago—I walked in on this young partner completely glomming on one of his associates.”
“Glomming?” Percy asked, and Annie explained. They were in a stairwell, and the partner was totally blocking the associate’s path, hovering over her, way too close. He was saying something—she didn’t hear what—in a really low, menacing voice. And Annie distinctly saw this guy’s hands on the associate’s ass.
“Harassment?” Percy said.
“Exactly,” said Annie. “It was like walking into a sexual harassment video. I mean, it was the type of shit I didn’t think would go on anymore. What is this—Mad Men?”
I looked at Percy. “Can you check on your computer whether there have been any arrests?”
He looked at me like I was crazy but leaned over and clicked a key, shook his head. “Nothing.”
“I heard you, yes. You’re trying to tell me that the partner was Dave and that he sexually harassed someone?”
“Well,” he said, “I think that’s why he was suspended. Think about it, if you fill in the notes.” He read aloud: “June 30, Dave Turner/ (complaint by) Annie Poleci. Annie P. saw Dave Turner with NS? We met for an hour meeting and I immediately notified the corporate dept. (by phone), Stuben (by phone). We will implement handbook policy.”
“So, maybe. This woman, Annie, she sounds like one of those types, you know—overzealous college feminists that get a rude awakening when they’re out in the real world.”
“You think?” said Percy.
“Oh, I’ve seen it happen, for sure. But even if something like that happened, it would never be with Dave.”
“It kind of sounded like Dave.”
“Why?”
“She was clear on who he was. She said she’d talked to the partner before at some sort of dinner, and that part of what made it so crazy was that he seemed like such a nice guy. And he’s young and married. I went online—he looks like the youngest partner by far in his group.”
“He is. Except for William, who’s single.”
“I’m pretty sure she saw Dave.”
“But growling and grabbing someone’s ass? Please. And what am I supposed to believe—Dave’s an inside trader and a sexual harasser? Come on.”
“Even if he didn’t do it,” said Percy, “I’m pretty sure he was on the hook for it. Annie said she didn’t say anything or do anything in the stairwell, but she ran right to HR, and the guy was suspended the next day. But I didn’t get how far away she was in the stairwell, and I couldn’t really press her without ruining my street cred as just some random disinterested member of the book club.”
“And she didn’t say anything about a financial scandal?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, well, so this is a nonissue. He didn’t do it. They figured it out, and he’s back at work. Back to reality, please—check whether there have been any arrests?”
Percy clicked Reload on his computer and then shook his head. “There’s one more thing about this.”
“Okay.”
“So, Annie didn’t tell me the name of the associate in the stairwell, just that she was a midlevel associate and kind of quiet and in their group. I assume her initials are NS—as in ‘saw Dave Turner with NS.’”
“Okay.”
“So I checked, and there’s no associate in the New York office that fits that description with those initials.”
“Okay.”
“Except, there’s a Penelope Standish who does, and in her bio, she’s referred to as Nell.”
“Nell Standish?”
He nodded.
“Dave does work with a Nell. I’ve seen that name on e-mail.”
“Yeah. She’s in his practice group.” He typed in his computer and pulled up her profile on the firm. “Just to check—does she look familiar?”
She had curly hair. She looked wholesome, young and innocent, trying so hard to be professional under that sharply pointed collar doubled over her lapel.
“She looks so sweet,” I said, reading her bio, “and she went to Dave’s college. God, you’d think she’d have helped out a little, cleared things up for a fellow alum.” I looked at her again. There was something about her face that was familiar. The point of her jaw. With her hair pulled back . . .
I heard myself gasp.
“You okay?” Percy’s hand clapped my back.
How did I not see it? How did I see anything but this?
“Now you know what I know.” His voice was apologetic, but not surprised. Of course he knew. He’d probably known since we first met.
It was the most standard reason in the world why a husband would lie to his wife. It was something I saw the ramifications of nearly every day. A garden-variety affair. In this case, Dave and Nell, the deceptively prim-looking college girlfriend who, perhaps not so long ago, had thanked him for loving her like that.
chapter forty-two
THERE IS NOTHING slower than the speed of a news story in which you are personally invested. There had been three arrests at Duane Covington, and the first was Herb. When I saw his headshot flashed on-screen, I held my breath because this was how it was all supposed to play out—Dave riding his mentor’s coattails straight into the sewers. But instead of Dave’s, the next names were two partners from the real estate group, men I didn’t even know.
I had time to picture it unfurling like the plot of a bodice ripper: Dave and Nell furtively glancing at each other across a conference table. Their initial, hesitant kiss. The murmurs of We shouldn’t, the responding sighs, the being so overtaken by passion they were unable to help themselves. The serious discussions about how to end it, the exclamations of how this was all so wrong, so very wrong and yet felt so right. Then, two weeks ago, little Annie Poleci, horrified at the spread starting to collect on her backside because she sat in front of a computer for thirteen hours each day, resolved to take the stairs more and misinterpreted their tryst.
Of course he knew the whole time why he was suspended. Of course the firm had figured out—probably rather quickly—that it wasn’t sexual harassment. I was sure Nell had come forward about the affair like the Good Samaritan that she was, but I was also sure there had been some minor smoothing over to be done—you know, technically, partners weren’t supposed to sleep with associates, especially ones on their team—the whole botched power dynamic had probably garnered Dave a slap on the wrist—but everything was eventually cleared up. Of course Dave hadn’t wanted me to tell anyone. One phone call from my dad—one of the firm’s big clients—and everything could go up in smoke.
I hadn’t yet cried, partially out of shame—every accusation I could throw at Dave he’d be justified in echoing to me: living in secrecy, selfishness, thoughts of infidelity—but mostly out of shock. All summer, I’d been trying to seize the information first, to guard against this very feeling of stupor.
I considered all sorts of grand gestures: stapling the picture of Nell to his pillow; copying it and using it to line our entry hall; throwing all of his clothes out the window. At four thirty in the morning, though, I realized how I was going to play it. I was going to attack the facts, these astonishing facts, before he could make it impossible. I changed into my running clothes, got my wallet and my phone and sat down on the couch to wait.