Misfortune

by Nancy Geary

  Blair realized that the mention of Marco’s name had made her blush. Tilting her head down so that Clio wouldn’t notice the sudden flush to her cheeks, Blair mentally replayed the past twenty-four hours. Marco’s visit to her house in Sag Harbor seemed like a dream. It had been scheduled for only a few hours, a lunch meeting designed to clinch the relationship, but his jitney had departed for the city without him. How long he could stay without arousing suspicion was the more pressing question, although in truth, at this moment Blair didn’t care whether their budding romance was discovered. Marco’s magnetic narcissism drew her to him. Blair liked to imagine him at just this very moment lying nude on the weather-beaten deck, reading Art News.

  “What does Jake think?” Clio asked.

  “About Marco?” She paused but caught herself from hesitating too long. “He’s thrilled.” Despite her husband’s repeated telephone calls over the last day to determine whether Blair had yet asked for money, she had tried her best to put Jake and his managerial ineptitude out of her mind.

  “Is he out here this week?”

  “No. He went back Monday night.”

  Clio cocked her head slightly and appeared to eye Blair all over. “It must be hard to be apart so much in the summer.”

  “It is.” Blair tried to sound sincere. “But there is the old adage: Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

  “Is that right? I never found that to be true.” Blair sensed that Clio’s words dangled in front of her, teasing. Then Clio abruptly changed the subject. “So, what is it you wanted to discuss?”

  “Well, as I mentioned…,” Blair began, pushing her chair back from the table and crossing her legs. She felt beads of perspiration run down the front of her chest and hoped they would not show on her lilac T-shirt. “Marco’s work is enormous, too big to properly display in our current space. We need an additional showroom. Fortunately, the floor below us is vacant, and would be perfect.” She paused. Clio said nothing. “How should I say this?”

  “What?”

  “I was wondering…” The words felt heavy in her mouth. “There are some significant expenses associated with signing Marco. He wants a financial commitment from us, an advance. It’s standard, really, but we just don’t have the available cash. We’re waiting on checks, customers who’ve been slow to pay, and we’ve had quite a number of bills come due.” Clio looked bemused by Blair’s ramblings. She knows what is coming, Blair thought, and she isn’t going to make it easy. My entire life, she has never made one god-damn thing easy. She sits there flashing her perfectly manicured fingers at me, comfortable in her Jil Sander pants, a woman who spends more on a pair of summer sandals than most people spend in a week, who thinks nothing of a thousand-dollar dry-cleaning bill. Now she wants me to beg. This is Jake’s fucking financial mess, anyway. He should be here, groveling at her feet.

  Blair had the urge to abandon this plan, but the memory of Marco kept her from a hasty exit. Her skin tingled remembering his fingertips touching her lips, holding a strand of her hair. Would he walk away without the advance? As much as she hoped their attraction was mutual, she couldn’t take the chance.

  Blair cleared her throat. “I want to make you a proposition.” She was surprised at how authoritative her voice sounded. “Would you and Dad consider an investment in Devlin Gallery?” Her teeth pinched the sides of her cheek as she tried to keep her mouth from trembling.

  Clio laughed. “Haven’t we made a number of them already?”

  “Excuse me?” Blair feigned ignorance, but her astonishment must have shown on her face. Her throat felt hot.

  “Did you think I didn’t know about the money your father has given you and Jake?”

  Blair was speechless.

  “We have no secrets, Richard and I. There was, there is, nothing your father and I don’t share. He would never have given you money without my consent.”

  “But it’s his money.” Blair looked around as if the words had come from a source other than herself.

  Clio appeared to ignore her comment. “Now you want more, do you? Would this be another so-called loan, or would it be simpler to call it the gift that it really is?”

  “We’re perfectly prepared to pay you back, with interest. We’re not looking for a handout, only an investment in what promises to be a winner.”

  “The winner being this sculptor fellow?”

  “Marco. Yes. His pieces will command substantial prices. I’m sure we’ll be able to repay you in full after just a few months, certainly by year end.”

  Clio sat silent. Blair tried to calm herself by eating, but her chopsticks shook in her hand. She put them on the edge of her plate and interlaced her fingers in her lap. The silence seemed interminable.

  “I’m sorry,” Clio finally said. “It’s just not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “With your father in the condition he is, we need to be more prudent about investments. I don’t see how a loan to the Devlin Gallery fits that criterion.”

  “I said we’d pay you back.”

  “I know, and I’m sure your sentiment is sincere, but given your track record, I don’t think we can rely on that.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Your father has tried to help you, has given you substantial sums on multiple occasions. It’s apparent to him, and certainly to me, that there is poor management somewhere, either that or a poor selection of artists. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been here again and again.”

  “Dad believes in us, in what we’re trying to build. His prior investments were to help us to get up and running, the initial lease, our working capital, that sort of thing. Any new business needs funds. Our gallery is still young by New York standards.” The words felt like cotton stuck in her throat.

  “As I recall, the most substantial, and recent, gift was for home renovations.”

  “That’s because, I, we…” Blair stumbled. What was going on? How could this be happening? “Jake has poured our profits back into the business, but we needed a place to entertain clients, somewhere people could see how to live with the art we sell. Our apartment renovation was for marketing.”

  “That may be, but the point is, the money was spent, and it did not come from the business’s profits. Look, Blair”—Clio leaned forward—“my number one concern is your father. Our investments, personally and through Pratt Capital, need to carry less risk now.”

  “I’m telling you that there won’t be any risk.”

  “If that’s the case, you should have no difficulty getting a commercial loan from a bank.”

  Blair felt tears begin to well in her eyes, a mixture of humiliation and disbelief. This was all Jake’s fault. She had swallowed her pride and come to her stepmother for help, that was bad enough, but she never expected to be criticized, ridiculed, or, worst of all, denied. She wasn’t prepared to lose her business, her home, her newfound attraction. Apparently she had underestimated Clio and overestimated herself.

  The memory of the previous day burned in her mind. She and Marco had walked the beach holding hands. She’d rested her head on his arm for a moment, feeling the hard curves of his muscles. As they’d dragged their bare feet through the soft sand, they had discussed his future at Devlin Gallery. “I will make you a household name,” she had said.

  Laughing, he’d replied, “Very good, but I haven’t even seen my first hundred thousand.”

  “I know. It’s coming. The money will roll in.”

  Then he’d kissed her, his warm lips pressing onto hers. “Are you this ambitious for me alone, or is it for yourself ?” he’d asked afterward.

  “For both of us.”

  Now, all she could think was that Marco would leave. If the lack of money didn’t drive him away, the inadequate show space certainly would. He would be a fool to stay. She couldn’t fault him for finding another dealer under the circumstances, but the thought made her desperate.

  “Please, can you at least talk to Dad?”

&nb
sp; “Frankly, I don’t see why I should.”

  “Dad would want to help.”

  “I know he would. He is the most generous man I know, and thinks of everyone before himself. That’s why I’ve gotten more involved in his business affairs. In the condition that he’s in, and with the needs that he now has, I’ve got to make sure his financial best interest comes first.”

  “But he cares about my best interest.”

  “He certainly does. Blair, you are thirty-five years old, and he has looked after you your entire life. Now it’s time for you to think about him.”

  “Him or you?” Blair twisted her napkin.

  “Our interests are the same.”

  Although uttered with the utmost sincerity and tenacity, Blair doubted the truth of Clio’s words. Clio was hoarding the money for herself, for her house, her clothes, her car, and her causes. Her concern was life after Richard, not life for the duration of his existence. “Well, I’ll talk to Dad. I think the decision should be left to him.”

  “He already knows what you want.”

  “What?” Blair consciously closed her mouth.

  “I’m not as naive as you may think. Didn’t you think that when you called to invite me to lunch, I would understand your agenda? I’ve been your stepmother for nearly thirty years, and you’ve never called me before, let alone wanted to do anything with me socially. It was logical to assume you wanted something.”

  “And you talked to Dad then, before you even knew what I was going to say?”

  “I told him that we had spoken, that we were going to get together, that I assumed you or Jake or the gallery needed money, and that I was inclined to say no. He agreed.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Blair hadn’t meant to speak her mind.

  “You don’t have to. He’ll tell you the same thing. It’ll break his heart to say no to you, but he understands he should. Go ahead and discuss it with him. But let me assure you, if you prey on him, I’ll intervene. I won’t let him be badgered.”

  “How dare you accuse me of something like that?”

  Clio ignored her. “You can’t avoid me. I’m here for better or worse. You may not like it, but that’s the way it is.” She wiped her mouth, then lifted a silver bell to the right of her place setting.

  Hannah, the cook, appeared a few moments later and began to clear the dishes.

  “Would you care for dessert?” Clio asked as if nothing untoward had transpired between them.

  “No. Thank you. I’ve had quite enough.” Blair’s tone was low. She wondered how long she could stay seated, looking at her stepmother, without screaming. “I had best be going.”

  “Aren’t you going to see your father?”

  “Another time would be more appropriate,” Blair replied. “I can let myself out.”

  Clio remained in her chair.

  Blair stood in the driveway and felt the late spring sun through the cool breeze on her cheek. She gazed at the long railed ramp leading from the gravel drive up to her father’s entrance and regretted that she hadn’t been to visit several days before. She could have explained the situation to him before Clio poisoned the well, explained that the money was a loan, that the gallery really needed his help, that this would be the last time she would ask for anything. He wouldn’t question her business acumen or her aesthetics. Clio had to be lying about his wishes.

  How dare Clio accuse her of mismanagement? She was more than competent to run the gallery and had done a good job. Hadn’t she built its reputation? Hadn’t she attracted new artists, some of whom left more established dealers to come with Devlin? She would like to see Clio try to do better, a woman whose only accomplishment was her marriage. Clio had never worked a day in her life.

  Perhaps she should go to see her father after all. She needed to feel his strong arms around her, to hear his soothing voice telling her that all would turn out right; but she knew this comfort was a thing of the past. He was weak now, could hardly lift his arms, let alone embrace anyone, and his often inaudible words lacked the authoritative tone upon which she relied. Besides, she knew that Clio would be with him at this moment, reporting on their lunch together, laughing smugly at how well she had foretold the purpose of Blair’s visit. She felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her.

  Blair had just driven out of the drive when her cellular telephone rang. She knew it was her husband before she lifted the receiver.

  “What did she say?” he asked.

  “She said no.”

  “What?” The crack in Jake’s voice made her cringe.

  “Didn’t you hear me? Clio told me to get a commercial loan. She won’t give us the money.”

  “It’s not possible. What did you say? How could you not convince her?”

  Blair felt the sparks of her anger begin to flame. Jake, not she, was responsible for this mess, yet once again she was supposed to solve their problems. “Look, I did the best I could, and I don’t need you to second-guess how I raised the issue.”

  “But how could this happen? They’ve never said no.”

  “They didn’t say no. Clio did. But apparently she had already spoken to Dad.”

  “I…I…,” Jake stammered.

  Hearing her husband on the verge of tears made Blair nauseated. She hated weak men. Her husband was a coward who had spent his adult life hiding behind the Pratt family name and their money. That was the difference between him and Marco. Marco needed no one. “Pull yourself together. The point is that neither Pratt Capital nor my father is going to come up with the money to bail you out, so I suggest you figure out an alternate plan. I refuse to lose Marco.”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Think fast.” Blair wanted to hang up on him.

  “Do you think if we could get by Clio, your father would give it to us?”

  “It doesn’t matter. The pure and simple fact is that we’re getting nothing if Clio has anything to do with it. This is your problem now, and you better solve it.”

  “Clio? It’s Miles.” Miles Adler had never known Clio Pratt to answer her own telephone and was slightly startled to have gotten her directly, and after only one ring at that. Rather, he had grown accustomed to expecting the singsong sound of a maid’s voice, “Pratt residence, good day,” then several minutes on hold to gather his thoughts. Now Miles adjusted his grip on the receiver, leaned back against his black calf ’s leather chair, swiveled it around 180 degrees, and focused his gaze out the window behind his desk. From the twenty-first floor he had a commanding view of the treetops of Central Park, the Sheep Meadow in its constant state of reseeding, and, beyond that, the skyline of Manhattan’s West Side.

  “I meant to call you.”

  “Quite frankly, I wish you had. I just got off the phone with Randolph McDermott.” Miles paused to give Clio a chance to interrupt, but she remained quiet. He ran his finger along the rounded edge of his polished granite desk. The three-inch-thick slab of stone felt cool and smooth. “Randolph tells me you called off the ProChem deal.”

  “That’s correct,” she said.

  “What the hell—” Miles cut himself off. He picked up his fountain pen and scribbled circles on the engraved notepad in front of him, obliterating “Miles P. Adler, Senior Adviser, Pratt Capital.” His title was ridiculous, something that he and Richard had concocted on a business trip to Geneva three years ago. Side by side in Swissair’s first class, neither man could sleep despite several cocktails. Richard sipped Scotch and water. Miles preferred a good Pinot Noir. They decided that Miles should have a proper title, a position, something to use in introductions and on letterhead. “Manager” seemed too bureaucratic for an organization of two men, a secretary, an accountant, and an investment portfolio of nearly $1 billion. Miles had pushed, half-jokingly, for “the Chosen One.” They had settled on “Senior Adviser.”

  “Pro-Chem is a great investment. I’ve negotiated extremely favorable terms for Pratt Capital, after a lot of time and energy, I might add. I resent your calling
off the deal without even consulting me.”

  “I’ve never understood consultation with you to be a prerequisite to Richard’s and my decisions.”

  “We’re partners, for God’s sake!”

  How ludicrous the expression sounded. Miles could no more expect to be treated as Clio’s equal than a hemorrhaging human could expect respect from a shark. His partner was Richard. Clio extracted cash from his talent and energy, but to her he was hired help, another one of many on the Pratt payroll.

  “I’ve tracked the nutritional supplements market for months,” Miles said. “I’ve researched every comparable product out there. The line that Pro-Chem is developing is perfectly suited to capture a significant share of the market. Plus, it’s working on supplements specifically targeted for aging baby boomers and more elderly exercisers. With the change of demographics, it’s a gold mine.”

  “Are you finished?”

  Miles stabbed his pen into his pad. He heard a snap, a broken nib. “Goddamn it, Clio,” Miles exclaimed. “I want this deal. It’s good for Pratt Capital, so it’s good for you and Richard. We’ve got to act fast. If we let it slip by, it’ll be snatched up in a minute. I need you to call Randolph and tell him you made a mistake, that of course we’re still on.”

  “I’ll do no such thing.”

  “What’s the matter with you?” Miles rose to his feet and began to circle his desk, a horse tethered by the three-foot lead of the telephone cord. He wished he had a hands-free telephone, or at least a cordless, but such gadgets were prohibited under Richard’s regime. “Focus is crucial,” Richard always exclaimed. “A conversation requires your total attention. Otherwise, you’re bound to miss something. So don’t try to do anything else.” Too bad now. Miles made a mental note to stop by Radio Shack and get a walkabout headset on his way home. He wouldn’t let his telephone conduct be dictated by his wheelchair-bound boss ninety miles east. “This deal has been in the pipeline for two years.”