“I’d like to be able to restart my life with a nice home for Nicky. So if you’ll get the loan from your father and forward the funds for me to buy the house next week, I’ll walk away with the number we discussed,” Claire said, trying to ignore the heartrending sense of disbelief that it had all come down to this. “I don’t want to fight or drag things out unnecessarily. We’ve already done enough damage.”
Michael’s stared numbly at her, and she could see that he had expended the extent of his emotional capital for one afternoon.
“Just toss it around—with or without your lawyers. It’s fair. And if nothing else, we owe each other that.” Claire looked at him with regret and gathered her things. “Good-bye, Michael,” she said softly. “Call me by noon tomorrow and let me know where we are.”
She counted the steps to the door as she walked out, willing herself not to look back. She had been squeezing into the role of guilt-ridden partner for so long, that in peeling it off like a too-tight pair of jeans, she could breathe again. It felt almost euphoric, until she began to hyperventilate.
And in her wired, uncertain state, she didn’t hear Nicholas quietly shut the door to his bedroom behind the study, didn’t hear him tear the sheets from his bed.
CHAPTER 44
“Oh, hon, you didn’t ask for nearly enough. You’re holding all the cards now, and Paul Montgomery could write you a check for a couple million every year until he croaks and still never spend half his money.”
Claire, Gail, Jackie, and Carolyn sat at the back of DJ’s, an out of the way café in the Highlands, filling the hours until noon and buffering Claire’s tenterhooks.
“I didn’t want to give the old man a stroke,” Claire said over her plate of uneaten eggs Benedict. “And I don’t want to be beholden to them. I just want to be able to walk away from this as honorably and as quickly as I can. And not be financially tied to Michael’s choices anymore.”
“You did good, Claire,” Jackie said. “You and Nicky will have a great place to live, he’ll be taken care of financially, and you’ll have a nice cushion to start over with.”
“It’s all still a big ‘if.’ I couldn’t get a good read on Michael when I left. And I honestly don’t know what’s more frightening to him—going to Paul with the truth and asking for his help, or dragging this Wincor thing out to the bitter end and risking prison.” She didn’t tell them about Taylor, except that to say that she was a he, an old friend with no impact on the present situation. The rest would remain Michael’s secret, his story to explain, or not, to Nicholas.
“Sweetie,” Carolyn assured, “Michael will do everything in his power to keep his ass and his reputation pristine, if you know what I’m saying. And if that means requesting a little cash from Daddy, you can bet he will. Never mind that you’ve given him a head start with the authorities and offered him the deal of the century. I wouldn’t have been so generous to the lying bastard.”
“And never mind that our attorney is going to need a therapist when you tell him what you’ve offered without his advice,” Gail said.
Claire looked at her watch nervously.
“Michael’s just digesting things,” Jackie reassured her, glancing at Claire’s iPhone, which was propped against the bread basket. “And I’m sure that’s requiring more than the usual amount of Pepto.”
“I don’t know. It’s eleven thirty, and still nothing.” She could feel her optimism for a simple resolution waning with the morning. “I wish I could just push a button and have this all behind us.”
“Isn’t there an app for that?” Gail asked, reaching her fork across the table to Jackie’s French toast.
“Gail,” Carolyn said, “you know better than anyone that this is not going to be simple.”
“I know. But I also believe that Michael and Paul will come through. It’s far too good a deal for them not to,” she said to Claire, shaking her head. “Paul is a smart man.”
“I have to agree that you’ve made things far easier than they ought to be, sweetie. That money will be gone quicker than you think. And I’m feeling incredibly concerned about your future.”
Claire felt every last bit of mileage she’d put under her belt in the last few weeks. “I appreciate that. But I’m coming from a slightly less elevated rung on the financial ladder than you and Gail, and I’m fine with what I offered. I’d rather walk away with a smaller amount now than wait for all of Michael’s deals to stabilize and start cash flowing again, and be dependent on a monthly check. However, given that I haven’t been able to sleep for more than two hours at night, I have spent considerable time thinking about my own future cash flow. And,” Claire said, amazing herself with a smile, “I’ve come up with a plan I’m actually excited about.”
The women put down their coffees and put on their reading glasses, and focused as Claire expounded on the business proposal she placed in the center of the table. “I’ve made some calls and reconnected with my mentor and old colleagues in New York and London, and my plan is to do private art consulting.” Her as yet unnamed advisory service, she explained, would help clients identify onetime purchases or long-term collecting strategies, as well as source and acquire works. “I’m thinking about doing a private tour to Art Basel in December. Miami’s on fire now. I can also advise on framing, placement, and installation, too.” Her voice rose in excitement. “Hell, I’ll do it myself. And given the economy, I anticipate a brisk business in selling off single pieces, and liquidating entire collections, too.”
Jackie shot her a knowing smile. “I’m proud of you,” she whispered.
“Sign me up as your first client,” Carolyn said ecstatically. “Now that the collection’s in my name, you will be my go-to person for all acquisitions and sales. I also need to have a few pieces independently appraised, and I’ve been wanting to shift everything around on the main level. But I just can’t get the vision right. So,” she said with a flourish of her checkbook wallet, “you’re hired!”
With all the enthusiasm and light bubbling up around her, Claire felt as if she were taking the first steps out through the shadows. “Oh, let’s not worry about fees. I’ll come over and we can spend a morning creating a new vision for the space. And I can bring my appraiser, too.”
Carolyn leaned back into her chair, obviously pleased with the prospect.
“You know,” Gail said, pouring more syrup onto Jackie’s French toast, “Zibby’s been very tied in with the San Francisco art scene ever since she bought her little pied-à-terre there. And she just adores you, so I’m sure she’d be happy to make some introductions.”
“Thank you.”
“By the way, hon, what are you going to call this fab new brainchild?”
Claire relaxed slightly. “Well, my first thought was ‘Nothing Toulouse,’ but I’ll probably need to go with something a little more refined.” She laughed.
“How about Renaissance?” Jackie suggested after some consideration.
Claire rolled the idea around. “Renaissance Fine Arts Consulting,” she repeated, envisioning logos and business cards, and warming to this idea of her future. “That’s not bad.” Just then her cell phone vibrated and lit up with Michael’s name. It was 12:00. Claire looked from the phone into her cheerleader’s faces. “I guess this is it,” she whispered.
“No,” Jackie firmly stated. “This is it.” She pointed to the business plan. “Everything else is just details.”
“Hello,” Claire said with a small pit in her stomach.
The call lasted a mere two minutes. As Claire listened, her expression shifted from one of hope to devastation. When it was over, she set the phone down and wiped her mouth with her napkin.
“Sweetie?” Carolyn asked after a stunned silence. “What happened?”
Claire took a sip of water and gathered herself. “He called Paul.”
“So, he accepted your proposal?” Jackie asked
“Yes.”
“Then why so downbeat, hon? This is what you wanted, righ
t?”
“Apparently Nicky came home early and overheard me make my demands. And he confronted Michael about the pension fraud after I left. Nick got very agitated and threatened to call Paul himself, if Michael didn’t. He’s terrified of his dad going to jail, and he’s devastated by the whole mess,” she explained, feeling no elation in what should have been a small victory. “I guess it was a very long night. And Michael’s apoplectic.”
“Shit,” Jackie said, summarizing Claire’s mood.
“But he’s following through on what you asked?” Gail pushed. “The restitution and the money for you?”
“Yes. Both Paul’s and Michael’s attorneys will be contacting Jack on Monday,” she said, distractedly.
“Then it looks like Nicky helped to make your offer one that Michael couldn’t refuse. Which is good for both of them in the long run.”
“But drawing Nick into everything was not my plan. He’s suffered enough collateral damage already. This is his father, and he really didn’t need to hear about all the financial crap.” She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what it must have been like for a kid to learn—for the second time—that his boyhood hero was anything but super.
CHAPTER 45
The following week evolved into a flurry of lawyer and realtor meetings, offers and counteroffers between all involved parties. Michael and Paul attempted a re-trade with Claire for less money, while Jack encouraged them not to play cheap in the face of what could be. His client was, after all, sparing Michael weeks with the forensic accountants, and far worse. Their lawyers relented after expensive hours of posturing and Jack’s added, nonnegotiable provision that Michael would also be responsible for all legal fees. The initial wire transfer for the house arrived shortly thereafter. The remaining funds would follow over the next two weeks, during which time all other formal joint custody, property, and financial matters would be formalized. Michael’s team of lawyers notified them that the 3.2 million for the pension had been placed in an escrow account, and that they were in meetings with Mac Kessler. On the real estate front, the house in North Country Club had attracted another bidder, forcing Claire into an unanticipated full-price offer—but thus sealing that deal.
And then there was Nicholas.
“I want to drive,” he’d demanded in the school parking lot the Monday after his unintended earful. His expression was urgent and he knocked on Claire’s car window until she got out and moved to the passenger seat. He had not responded to her calls and texts over the weekend. And not wishing to add tension to trauma, Claire had given her son his space.
But she studied him then as he threw the car into reverse, desperate to understand how this news had affected him. The exhaustion and stress she saw in his face recalled the early Rancho days—telegraphing his renewed angst, and confirming her worst fears.
“Dad’s kind of a mess, and I don’t really want . . . to go to the house now,” he said as he pulled out of the lot. His nervousness was undisguised.
“We’re not actually going back to the house now, honey,” she said, placing her hand on his bicep, and wishing somehow to erase the memory of what he had heard pass between his parents. “I’m sorry you had to hear what you did. That was never my intention, and—”
“Um, where are we going?” he interrupted. “I’m holding . . . traffic.”
She saw the cars bunch up behind them and reminded herself that he needed to concentrate on the task at hand. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “Take a left at the light and I’ll show you where to go.”
Their silent drive to the cottage took just under ten minutes from school, which made what had seemed like a harried leap into new home ownership feel slightly less so. When they pulled up in front of the charming yellow house with the “Under Contract” sign on the lawn, Nicholas turned to her, perplexed. Jean, the realtor, was waiting for them on the covered front porch.
“So, you’ve obviously gathered that . . . that we’re moving ahead with the divorce,” Claire began, winging the whole speech since everything she had rehearsed had vaporized under the pressure of the moment. “No matter how badly Dad and I may have screwed things up, we’re doing what we think is best for all of us now. Our lives will be different than what we might have imagined, but . . . I guess that’s part of the journey,” she said, praying with all her might they could both find some goodness in that. “And I promise you that along the way, no one will have your best interests at heart more than I will.”
Nicholas studied his Nikes. There were a thousand thoughts and words simmering behind his pursed lips and strained façade, but Claire could see that they still weren’t ready to be spoken. She squeezed his palm reassuringly, hoping that one day those words would come. He was a teenager, plagued by uncertainty and cloaked in cool—the total adolescent dichotomy. And she would wait. “Yeah,” he finally whispered, squeezing back.
Claire pointed out the window with her free hand. “So that,” she said, exhaling at least a month’s worth of anxiety, “is going to be our new house.”
A light rain had begun to trickle down over the well-tended block, and mist rose into the afternoon air. Even in winter, the front yards along the street were neat and pruned. Nick’s body uncoiled and he rolled down the window, filling the car with the scent of damp concrete.
She had his attention. “I know this is sudden, Nick. But we need our own home, a place where you have your own bedroom, just like you do at our—at Dad’s.”
He cocked his head left and right out the window, seemingly taking in the picture from different perspectives. “Are we going in?” he asked after a moment.
Jean showed them into the house and gave Claire a stack of documents to sign. The closing was set for three weeks, she mentioned, before leaving them to explore. Claire led Nicholas through the family room to the kitchen and breakfast nook. The aroma of cinnamon combined with the pine floors to give the home a cozy feel. Nicholas looked out the picture window to the backyard. There was an arbor, and a cobblestone terrace surrounding a shaded garden.
“This looks . . . like you,” he said.
Claire was grateful that he didn’t seem angry she’d made such a major decision without him. But, still, she couldn’t discern any interest on his part. “And how ’bout you, buddy? What do you think?”
He looked around some more, running his hand along the cabinets, doors, and walls as he made his way to the center hall. His gait seemed shakier than usual, but it also could have been his billowy sweatpants lending the illusion of fragility. “It’s . . . cool. No upstairs?”
“No, but there’s a basement, and a great alcove attached to your room that we can make into a studio if you want.”
He followed her to the bedroom and gave the space a serious inspection—the closet, the bathroom, the photos and dolls on the bookshelves, the alcove that was presently serving as a playroom, the view from the window, which he opened—nothing escaped his scrutiny. After a good five minutes of pacing and eyebrow furrowing, his posture seemed to droop under the weight of some silent dissatisfaction.
“Nicky?” she asked nervously.
No response.
“I needed to jump on this before someone else snapped it up. Maybe we could have Chazz come out for a long weekend and—”
“No!” he shouted, tripping on the pastel flower-bouquet rug in the center of the room. His eyes looked as if they would suddenly spill buckets.
She took a step toward him, but he backed away. “What’s going on, honey? I know this is unfamiliar, and a little unexpected. I just thought that Chazz might help—”
“I told Dad. I’m done with . . . Andover. I . . . have new friends here,” he shouted even louder. “I hate this.” He tried kicking the rug back into place, but it just twisted under his foot, causing him to crumble into a heap on a bed of woven tulips.
Claire knelt down next to him. “I’m sorry, Nicky. Is it the house you hate? Or something . . . else?”
He remained quiet for some time. A cold w
ind blew in from the window, and he pulled his hoodie over his head. “I can’t count on . . . my brain,” he whispered from inside the fleece.
Gingerly she took this opening and walked with him through the many fears he’d been harboring, which the prospect of moving had clearly stirred up. There was the lingering fear of never measuring up to his past and to the memories of those who knew him then. There was his embarrassment over the bumpiness of his speech, the lost words and all the other things he could not remember. Being the new kid with no baseline or history made it easier to blend in, but blending in, while comforting, was not something he was used to either. And then there were all the coping skills he needed to develop for this latest shift in his routine. The challenges were epic and paralyzing.
“I was good at so much,” he said, staring up at the framed beach landscape on the wall.
She nodded, following his gaze.
“I’m not . . . good at anything anymore.”
Her heart splintered for the umpteenth time. “Oh, honey. You are. It’s just difficult to lose abilities and to remember how much better we used to be at certain things. Adults deal with this all the time. And I get that it’s harder for someone your age,” she said, while reproaching herself for throwing him into the spin cycle without so much as a warning. “But the abilities you’ve cultivated are beyond impressive, and your dad and I are so proud of you.”
Nicholas peered out from the side of the hood deliberately, like a tortoise. “What if Dad goes . . . to jail . . . for what he did?”
The comment caught Claire unprepared and she turned his chin toward her, studying him, stalling for time. His color was off and his face was taut. Anxiety about the future and the past—no wonder he seemed so contorted. A snapshot of Stretch Armstrong, the action doll from her childhood, flashed to mind, and she wished Nicholas could somehow see himself in the way she did: as a boy who was stretching the limits of what was possible, and not merely as being deformed and broken. She wrapped her arm around him, still searching for an answer that would lessen his strain. “Dad and your grandfather have excellent lawyers,” she tried. “If he does things right, I imagine he’ll have to pay some fines. And hopefully that will be it.” She braced for him to ask about Taylor again, but that subject did not appear to be plaguing him.
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