Lillian snatched up the suit, placed it in a hanging bag and put the bag in Claire’s free hand as she was walking out the door. “You can pay later, after you get settled.”
Pulling into the driveway with her recycled couture and a hatchback full of household supplies and groceries, Claire ran through a list of other tasks for the week: the “I’m back” phone calls Lillian had encouraged her to make, an appointment with her own doctors, a haircut and color. And only when she reached for the phantom garage door opener again did she realize her navigational blunder. She stared out at the impenetrable garage doors and dark windows of her house, and put the car in park. The goddamned route was imprinted. She hit the steering wheel with both hands. The horn blared and the reality of her refugee status hit with blunt force. She rested her forehead on the wheel and tried to remind herself that home was where she made it.
After a few deep breaths, she glanced back up at the house and thought she saw movement in one of the upstairs windows. She stepped out of the car and watched the draperies being drawn shut. Maria had Thursdays off, Michael had gone to LA, and someone was in the house. Watching her. Claire turned off the ignition and walked to the front door. She rang the doorbell and waited, not having the faintest idea what she planned to do if someone answered. But no one came. She rang again and knocked loudly, growing uneasy with the whole situation. She peered through the foyer window and pounded on the glass, questioning whether she had just imagined the motion. Then she remembered her house keys in her purse.
Claire went back to the car and fished them from the zippered pocket they’d lived in since she’d been gone, and returned to the front door. She inserted the key into the lock. One way or another she would get an answer. The lock didn’t move, wouldn’t turn left or right. She tried another key while holding down the doorbell. Still the lock refused. She banged on the door with the heels of her palms. Finally, the door opened. A sturdy woman in a gray maid’s uniform stood on the other side of the threshold.
“Who are you?” Claire demanded, stunned at the sight of this stranger in her house.
“Mrs. Montgomery?”
“Yes, I’m Mrs. Montgomery. But who are you, and where is Maria?”
“I am Mr. Montgomery’s housekeeper.”
Mr. Montgomery’s housekeeper? “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Berna.”
“Well, Berna, I was clearly having difficulty getting in. What’s happened with the doors?”
“I couldn’t say, Mrs. Montgomery, but I’m afraid—”
Claire pushed the door and attempted to step in, but Berna had it blocked with her body. “I’d like to come in and get some of my clothing upstairs, if you don’t mind.” She didn’t have room for much more clothing in the apartment’s small closet, never mind her earlier pledge. But suddenly that forsaken apparel seemed vital. It was vital she get into her house. Her eyes wandered over Berna’s taut gray bun.
“Mr. Montgomery has instructed me not to allow anyone into the house while he is away.”
“What are you talking about? This is my house, too, and my things are inside.”
“I apologize for the confusion, Mrs. Montgomery. I’ll let Mr. Montgomery know you came.” Berna closed the door before Claire had the presence of mind to stick her foot in. The deadbolt clicked with a swift and final lock.
“You can’t do this,” Claire shouted. She raised her palm to pound at the door again, but her arm froze midair. A sharp pain ricocheted behind her eyes. Dumbfounded, she turned and ran to the car.
As she swerved out of the driveway, the wheels of the Jeep spewed fierce contrails of gravel.
CHAPTER 25
Calm down before reaming him. Don’t do anything rash. Clean something. Claire repeated Jackie’s telephone advice as she carted her bags into the apartment and unpacked them. She looked around the kitchen, still fuming. There were drawers to be lined, counters to scrub, and a hundred other mindless tasks to check off her list. But, Oh. My. God. Was this for real? She shoved her hands into the yellow rubber dish gloves she’d bought and wiped down the sink. Then she uncorked her only bottle of wine and poured a hefty glass. The apartment felt stuffy and the pungent aroma of Indian food floated somewhere outside the door.
Dazed, Claire picked up the cocktail suit and walked it to the closet, hooking it on the upper rack. Errant flecks of dust floated down onto its sleeve. What the hell am I doing with this, she wondered, rebuking herself, the suit, Lillian, the whole goddamned ridiculous scenario. She didn’t need someone else’s things. She just needed her own. Unable to fathom this latest turn of events, Claire speculated what other madness might be going on inside her house. Had Michael moved her clothing and personal effects to the off-season closet so as not to be reminded of her? Was that it? Or more likely he’d donated them to the Eastern European training camp where Berna had clearly honed her domestic skills. “This is so not right,” Jackie had admonished. The thought plagued her as she lay down on the bed and sipped at her cabernet, her glove squeaking against the sides of the juice glass. She wondered at her husband’s motives, and what else he might be doing in his efforts to discard what no longer seemed to fit in his world, before grabbing the telephone.
“Michael, who is this Berna woman, and WHY THE HELL HAVE YOU LOCKED ME OUT OF THE HOUSE?”
“Whoa, Claire. I understand that you wanted to get some clothes from—”
“Answer my question, Michael.” Her hands had begun to sweat inside the gloves.
“I had to let Maria go. Scheduling issues. But I gave her and Rigo a handsome severance.”
“How could you? They worked for us for almost ten years.”
“And now they’re happily retired. Taking a well-deserved vacation in Miami, I think.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It just happened last week. Frankly I’ve had more important issues to—”
“Like locking me out?”
“No. There were too many old keys floating around, and there’ve been some break-ins in the neighborhood. The Lawrences got cleaned out. But I’m sorry about the confusion.”
She yanked at the pinky of the left glove, pulling and twisting the tip. “So this is how it’s going to be?” This was not at all how it was supposed to be.
“You can get anything you need when I get back. Berna has left for the week, so you’ll just have to wait until Nicky and I get home. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t understand why you’re doing this. This was just a . . . a temporary . . . I don’t know what it was. I thought we could at least—”
“We discussed all of this in LA. We’ll formalize a schedule for you to be with Nicholas at the house, and for my time with him. Separately. I thought you understood that.”
She struggled to bring into focus the dreamlike quality of the last hour. Her pulse raced and saliva pooled in her mouth. What a colossal fool she’d been cleaving to Cora’s pipe dreams, and her own. It had been yet another titanic miscalculation, in a long line of them. And as she weighed the consequences of saying the words she’d promised herself she wouldn’t for the sake of the future, she took a deep breath. “Maybe I better talk to a lawyer.”
There was a loud scoff as Michael responded, his voice stripped of calm. “So you really want to throw down the gauntlet? After everything that’s happened?”
“Throw down the gauntlet? You’re the one locking me out of our house. And you’re telling me I shouldn’t see a lawyer?”
“I’m telling you that we should keep things—” He paused, renegotiating. “Friendly. For Nick’s sake.”
“I’m hardly the one making things unfriendly here, Michael. I’ve been trying to salvage what I thought was left of our marriage. For everyone’s sake. And by the way, we are still married and that’s still my house too. So if you can—”
“You’re right,” he said, preempting further tirade. “But this isn’t the time, Claire. Not on the telephone.” His voice had curiously lost its threate
ning edge. “I hear you, though. And we’ll deal with the situation when—”
“The situation? Our life isn’t a situation.” She pulled off the gloves, tossed them onto the floor.
“Look, we’ll work it all out when I get back. I don’t think there’s any need to get a bunch of lawyers involved at this point. The episode with Berna was just an unfortunate . . . mistake. She was overzealous. And I’m sorry. Really. Let’s get Nick settled, and then we’ll figure out how to go forward.”
Claire couldn’t tell whether his contrition was bogus or sincere, but she did have the sudden realization that after a certain point the ambient heat in your world becomes cozy, so soothing you don’t even notice the wallpaper peeling. She hung up the phone, utterly numb, and more uncertain than ever about the future. Was Jackie right in wondering whether this was more than just an unfortunate miscommunication? From her balcony Claire could see Washington Park and the jogging trails she hadn’t stepped foot on for six months. She took off her clothes and changed into running shoes and tights. False hope, she noted, was terribly suffocating. She could wait a little longer to talk to a lawyer in order to keep Michael happy and amicable while she contemplated her options. But there was no point in making too many adjustments to this newest version of normal.
Outside, the air was crisp and the bruised sky prepared for dusk. She stretched her legs, ready to run fast and hard, away from the merde.
CHAPTER 26
In this foreign world of separation—permanent, reversible, or whatever it was to be—friends would be crucial, Claire knew. She would need the support and allies. Problem was, she had done such a bang-up job of keeping everyone at bay after the accident. And this, combined with her early focus shift from the art world to the art of cultivating a home—along with her devotion to Nicholas, her thirty-, then sixty-, and then one-hundred-fifty-pound object of attention—had served to consign most women with the exception of Jackie and just a few close girlfriends to the periphery of her life. She had been a well-respected organizer for important causes, a steadfast and generous member of the community, but not a collector of acquaintances. And this new loneliness would only grow. She knew that, too.
So Claire sat down to the task of reconnecting with those she’d let fall away. Her self-imposed isolation may have been efficacious, but she was not cut out to be a recluse forever. What Richard was able to supply in those final days in Los Angeles had reawakened her openness to fellowship. Now it was just a matter of conjuring the courage to step up and trust that people had short memories and big hearts.
Carolyn Spencer was at the top of her list. She’d called Claire persistently after the accident, and had briefly visited with her at the hospital during that first week, but like all the others, Carolyn’s unreturned messages of concern grew sparser. Claire hoped she hadn’t thought her evasiveness unforgivable. More likely it was Robert who’d find fault with her voyage underground, given his long history with Michael dating back to their Andover days. But she and Carolyn had their own history, too, as mothers and girlfriends and philanthropists. And Carolyn was an arbiter of sorts, the Katharine Graham of that well-heeled Denver circle. Kay Graham with a cocktail or three.
As Claire dialed the number, she felt a pinch of apprehension. What if Michael already had managed to freeze her out with her old friend? What if he’d gone beyond talking to locksmiths? She really had no idea now what he was thinking or capable of doing.
A maid answered swiftly.
“Is Carolyn in? This is Claire Montgomery.”
“Just one moment please, Mrs. Montgomery. I’ll see if she is available.”
Claire waited as the seconds ticked away, the silence gnawing at her confidence. She twisted a strand of hair around her index finger and wondered what kind of excuse she’d be met with.
The voice returned to the line. “Mrs. Spencer asked if you would leave a number where you can be reached.”
With a sinking feeling that Carolyn would not call back, Claire left her number and wondered if resurrecting her old life might require a little more heavy lifting than she’d anticipated. She thought of telephoning Richard for a boost of confidence, but the idea of recounting the latest Michael development was less than inspirational. Not that he’d say I told you so. But still. She decided to unpack the last bag she’d left sitting in the living room since her arrival, rather than continuing with any more phone calls.
She took two framed photos of Nicholas from the small carry-on, along with the collection of Edna St. Vincent Millay poetry he had sent for her last birthday, barely a month before the accident. She eyed the inscription inside the dust jacket: Happy B-day, Mom May 15 Love ya, XO Nick. Even in his absence Nicholas was present. And there were moments, just like this, when the thought of her faraway boy sent her imagination into a flurry of smashing dishes and shattering glasses—and the reassuring noise that such a hurling fit might bring.
As Claire walked toward the kitchen and its supply of breakables, her phone rang.
“Claire, hello, it’s Carolyn. How are you, sweetie? I’m so happy you called.”
A wave of gratitude roused her as she gathered her thoughts. “Well, I, um, I’ve just moved back to town. How are you?” She closed the cabinet, feeling as if some unknown anesthesia was beginning to wear off.
“Same as always. Busy as Brangelina and planning a dinner party for forty in between. You know, I left you about a hundred messages after we last spoke and . . .” There was a long pause in which Claire imagined all that her old pal was leaving unsaid.
“I know, and I’m so sorry I didn’t—”
“Oh, please don’t apologize. You must have needed an assistant to handle all the calls. But I’m so glad to hear your voice. How are you coping, honey?”
“It’s been . . . bottomless, and so very scary. But things will be better when Nicky gets back this weekend. I hope.” She was beginning to panic that things really might not be better, and she desperately didn’t want to give in to that anxiety. “Maybe we could meet for lunch before then and catch up?”
“I’m so relieved to hear how well Nicky’s doing and that he’s coming home. Robert’s been getting updates from Michael. And you know I’d love to see you for lunch, but I’m busy with the Malawi benefit and the Heart Ball, and I’ve got houseguests in from New York over the next week.”
“I understand.” Wondering what kind of updates Carolyn had really gotten, and wondering if she was politely fudging her way out of anything more than a phone call, Claire tried to keep her tone positive. “Why don’t you just give me a call when you have some free time, then?”
“We’ll never see each other in that case. Hold on for a sec, would you? . . . a bone-dry, nonfat . . . extra hot . . . You know, Claire, I’m having this little party tonight.... Be a dear . . . two pumps . . . sugar-free vanilla? Why don’t you come?”
“Are you talking to me?”
“Yes. Sorry. Trouble with my earpiece. But you really should come to the party.”
“Tonight?” Claire felt her throat tighten. “I’m not really in the right space for a party at the moment. And I’m sure you’ve planned everything down to the last detail.”
“Don’t worry about a thing. It’ll be good for you, Claire.”
“I don’t think that’s the best idea right now. You know, everyone all at once, after—” Claire found herself in the bathroom and she sat down on the cover of the toilet seat. “I appreciate the invitation, but I really can’t.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You have to come. I haven’t seen you in five months.”
“Almost six, actually.”
“That long? Oh, good lord, then, it’s settled. I’ll see you around seven o’clock. Cocktail attire. God, did I say that out loud? I’m such a twit. You always look gorgeous. And I miss you.”
Just then Claire’s call waiting beeped and she saw that it was Michael. “Carolyn,” she said, relieved by the interruption, “Michael’s calling from LA. Can we chat tomorrow?�
�
“Or tonight, sweetie. Your choice. Either way, I’m thrilled you’re home.”
Claire hung up one call and answered the other.
“Listen, there’s been a slight change in plans,” came Michael’s harried voice on the other end of a choppy connection.
“What are you talking about?”
“The guys were doing routine maintenance on the plane before the return flight. Turns out they need to replace the windshield, of all damned things. And they can’t get one in until Monday morning.”
“But you’re supposed to be home this weekend. That’s all Nicky’s been talking about.” No point in mentioning that it was all she’d been looking forward to. “I’ve arranged his first appointments at Craig for Monday morning, and we’ve got our meeting with Ray, the behavioral therapist.” And this sounds like some kind of bullshit excuse.
“So we should get on a plane that needs a new windshield?” he asked indignantly. “We’ll be home Monday afternoon. And Nick, he’s . . . he’s fine with it. The appointments can wait a day, for God’s sake.”
Her posture stiffened, the armor of her mistrust galvanized. “This isn’t just another client lunch you’re trying to squeeze in, or a round of golf with Teddy at Riviera?” She rarely balked at the inevitable excuses for meetings tacked on to their vacations, or last-minute side trips. But not this time, not when she was dealing with multiple practitioners and a byzantine web of scheduling. And missing her son.
“The new windshield is ordered, Claire. But I am meeting with the Manhattan Beach fund group, for your information, not playing golf. The real estate market isn’t exactly performing, in case you haven’t noticed, and I’ve got fires to put out. Someone has to pay these insane medical bills. We blew through the insurance allowance months ago.”
Michael’s continued exasperation over finances surprised Claire, and she scrambled for a retort, something that could magically change the circumstances. But nothing emerged. He was clearly in salvage mode and stressed about a deal. There would be no rerouting him. She exhaled audibly. “Then I guess that’s that, and I’ll see you both at the house Monday afternoon.”
Surface Page 19