The coffee mug fell then shattered. Carl had hoped they might reconcile eventually to work more amiably together, although a future friendship was highly unlikely given their disparate views of the world, and the lingering animosity that rose when alcohol induced it.
She recalled that last night with Nicholas as she drove home in the rain while he slept. Fate had intervened, for they did not die on the railway tracks with a car wreck as a tomb. It was a time to die for Nicholas Segher, but it was not a time to die for Carla Baden. Another clock ticked for her.
Chapter Forty-three
February 1994
CARL’S preoccupation with mortality following the death of Nicholas had become tiresome for everyone, and debilitating for her. She wondered if it was possible to renegotiate the time and date of death, and if learning a belated lesson could postpone it. People miraculously survived accidents and illnesses beyond all odds, and there must have been a reason they did not go when it seemed they should. Perhaps a guardian angel could intervene on one’s behalf, and amend the plan that God had written.
Nicholas, Carl learned after the event, had not kept their relationship as secret as she had thought. It seemed most everyone at the firm knew about the baby and the abortion, and this explained the level of sympathy that came her way. Similar levels of pity had tailed her when the fiancée had turned up, but Carl had not seen it, and this was more a reflection on her than on Nicholas: her ignorance, the power of oblivion, and her total disconnect.
Carl had hoped Matthew would return to Maine after his stint with CNN in Atlanta, but he chose Bosnia instead, telling Helena he had accepted a desk job in London. On doing so, he immersed Carl in the deceit, and she was the one who had to maintain the lie on a daily basis.
Olivia was in love with Jacob Naylor, the program director at WTV9. Carl hoped it was short-lived, like all the others, and did not try to understand Olivia’s interest in a man so shallow his status and wealth were visibly important.
Worse still, Walter Garson had moved into Orchard Road. Helena seemed happy in relative terms to have a man’s affection and attention, and clearly, character was not important.
A pile of new files fell into Carl’s in-tray from a theatrical height, bringing her back from reflection. “We’re in another fine mood today,” she whispered as her secretary stormed away. Carl shook her head. At least she could say, in her own respect, that her moods were consistently sullen and did not sway so violently.
Carl opened the first file, Marsh purchase from Hayes, and for once, her interest piqued. Ethan Marsh, triathlete, had contracted to buy a bungalow on the shores of Maine’s sapphire-colored lake. Carl wrote instructions for her secretary to conduct the relevant searches, and prepare the initial letter, which concluded as usual, with an invitation for the client to contact her at any time. She placed the file in her outbound tray, sighed heavily, and repeated the process four more times, wishing for once, a file might offer a challenge or a fight for justice.
Olivia called again to entice Carl away from the humdrum for a weekend in Newcastle. It was part of her male management strategy for Jacob, with absence, suspicion, and jealousy intended to generate an engagement ring. Carl agreed, also for male management purposes: Walter Garson’s presence in her childhood home was driving her nuts.
The girls caught the Saturday morning train to Newcastle, checked into their hotel, and wasted no time suiting-up for a coconut oil basting at Nobbys Beach.
They baked for a while in the morning sun then had lunch at the wharf. In the afternoon, they slept from the excesses of food, wine, and heat, and in the evening, they crawled from club to club, before collapsing into bed at 4AM.
A high-pitched, repetitive buzz from the room next door woke them two hours later, and Olivia ran around the room screaming, “Fire! Fire!”
Carl pounded on the joint wall. “Turn that bloody thing off!” she yelled. With no effect, she called reception, and a hotel employee reported after some investigation that there was no one in the adjoining room, but a prior occupant had set the alarm for six. He apologized for the inconvenience.
“Probably someone’s idea of fun,” said Carl falling back into bed.
“My head hurts,” said Olivia.
“Try sleeping up the other end of the bed,” said Carl. “The centrifugal forces aren’t as bad there.”
Olivia moved as suggested. “I think it’s working,” she said after a few minutes.
Carl smiled and returned to sleep.
Rhythmic banging against the wall from the other adjoining room woke them a couple of hours later.
“We may as well get up,” Carl groaned. “This is ridiculous.”
“Oh, my head,” said Olivia as the rising cacophony from next door reached its crescendo and died.
They packed their suitcases by throwing everything in at random then dropped the cases at the concierge desk for storage. The foreshore beckoned, where a triathlon was in progress.
“It’s the local boy,” said Olivia as the leaders emerged from the ocean to sprint along the esplanade to the bike transition.
“Not too shabby,” said Carl.
They watched for a while sweating with the masses, until empty stomachs and aching heads demanded sustenance and cover from the sun.
They laughed a lot that afternoon in honor of ten years of friendship, dining alfresco on the beach with the Pacific gently pushing the last of the swimmers into its shore. Carl recognized the occasion also as a farewell, and the last time they would be together in this way: Olivia was following the mantra, and before long, priorities would change, and a cherished friendship would become a subject for reminiscing, like what had become of Tulip.
It would be different if Carl could like Jacob in the slightest way, but time spent in his presence was not manageable, even though the alternative meant a life without Olivia. The thought was painful, and Carl wanted to cry.
“I know I’ve said this before,” she began, “but thank you for doing what you did for me. If it wasn’t for you, I don’t know what I would have done.”
“Do you ever think about him, Carl, and what you’d do if he came looking for you?”
“No, and he won’t come looking for me—he doesn’t even know who I am. No one does. I would have to declare myself as the mother, and they would have to connect me to the baby. I can tell you that that is never going to happen.”
“Never say ‘never’,” said Olivia. She raised her glass. “To best friends, forever.”
“To best friends, forever.” Goodbye my friend, Carl thought. I wish you everything.
Chapter Forty-four
March 1994
HELENA had wrist burns. Carl said nothing: the problem had no words since nothing would change how Helena viewed Walter Garson. At least the weekend away with Olivia had displaced some of Carl’s melancholy, and she tried not to picture what had happened at Orchard Road during her absence.
The poster on her wall was the same, but she was able to see it now from a new perspective. ‘I asked of life, what have you to offer me? And the answer came, what have you to give?’ At fourteen, Carl had thought the words meant that life was about affordability. Now though, she understood the message: she had to put the past to rest, and live her life rather than exist, and only then would gifts flow her way.
She had been to the cemetery three times since that night she lay bleeding on the grave of Kelly Anne Travis. Each time she had been there—for the burial of Brian, William, and Grandma—Carl had made a point of keeping her back toward Kelly not wanting to remember. The plan, to recess the memory in a box bound with string locked in the outposts of her mind, had not worked indefinitely as Carl had hoped. The time had come to confront the truth, and let it go.
Kelly’s gravesite was not so formidable on an autumn morning with the sky blue, grass green, and the air scented by honey. Carl stared down at the concrete slab, and saw her young frame splayed across it, screaming, unable to comprehend what was happening. It
was the dominant memory of her childhood, and it had displaced anything good, if there was in fact anything good worth remembering. Ten years had passed yet the smells lingered, and the fear, and it was easier when she believed they were demons, as reality brought shame with it.
She stopped by the graves of William and Brian and felt nothing, as if the skeletons below the well-tendered dual plot did not share her DNA. She could not remember a time before their deaths, just the aftermath.
Helena spent a lot of time at the graves talking to her sons, still giving them life like breast milk for a stillborn. If somewhere on their paths, they had encountered a U-turn, and lived, perhaps then, Walter Garson would not have moved into Orchard Road to wield so much power so easily over a broken spirit.
Their father no longer returned for the deathly anniversaries as he had done for years, because his new wife kept him away from such sorrowful pursuits. Carl knew Baden men better than that, and knew that the rot continued on the inside unabated.
Olivia announced her engagement to Jacob Naylor, which did not come as a surprise, but was still a dagger to the heart. It was worse for Mr. Rey, as the wedding would cost him an arm and a leg, but he accepted this with much love, happiness, and pride.
Carl was not thrilled with the role of maid-of-honor and all it entailed: in particular, the close proximity to Jacob Naylor for nine hours or so, and the gown search. As one would expect with Olivia, the search would not begin in any bridal salon in Maine, but on the stretch in Double Bay where designers presented their creations in glorious showrooms.
Olivia had wanted six bridesmaids, but settled for four, as this was all Jacob could muster for his side of the party. They would wear bronze crinkled organza dresses, and Carl was grateful at least for the absence of pink, lace or fluff, but matching shoes seemed gaudy.
Without giving a reason, Carl left the bridal entourage to visit Mr. and Mrs. Segher who lived in Woollahra not far from Double Bay. She thought to call first to announce her pending arrival, but had no introduction.
A shiny black Victorian door opened to a well-dressed woman with her hair styled, and her face conservatively made-up. She looked as one might if they were going for brunch at a classy restaurant, but was instead just home for the day. Before Carl could find her name, the woman started to cry, and a similarly stylish man came to the door. They ushered Carl inside.
On a classic French provincial buffet, one photo explained the reception: of Nicholas and Carl, and another work colleague who had posed with them for the firm’s propaganda portfolio. Carl had come for healing, to confess, apologize, and move forward. She expected hostility and for her news to shock, but Nicholas had been before her, and nothing much needed saying.
She learned though that the fiancée, who was not on display in the silver frames, was not the daughter-in-law of choice since a series of break-ups in a long history painted a grim picture of the future. The pregnancy, not declared until after three months had passed, had forced Nicholas to accede one last time. Her father, an esteemed member of the judiciary, also contributed to the decision. And although they yearned for their son’s child so Nicholas could live on, they respected that Carl had not entrapped him in a similar way.
Carl left with the peace she was looking for, and much more, although she could not reconcile the son the parents knew and her own experience.
The Marsh file had been straightforward so no reason had arisen for Carl to call her client during the conveyance. As firm practice dictated, she donned a jacket, and strode to meeting room two to finalize the matter with Ethan Marsh.
It was routine: a handshake, introduction, congratulations on the purchase, here’s the final account, and thank you for choosing Rey, Carol & Mendelson.
“We’ve met before,” he said.
“Ah, yes,” she said. “I believe so.”
“You called me a bore.” He smiled.
“Lovely position, the bungalow. You’re lucky the developers haven’t pillaged that area, yet,” she replied handing him the keys.
He smiled. “Thanks.”
Carl escorted him to the exit, they shook hands again, and that was that: an anti-climactic encounter at best, and why she felt let down by it, she did not understand.
Chapter Forty-five
March 1995
THE marriage of Olivia Rey to Jacob Naylor was imminent, and as chief bridal liaison, Carl had no interest in a primary duty to coordinate a night out for the hens. Fortunately, Olivia, or more correctly, Jacob, was specific on the ambit of the final hoorah: no male strippers flinging G-strings and thrusting pelvises where they did not belong. That narrowed options considerably.
Olivia chose a Mexican night complete with tequila, salsa, and a clothed, yet navel-touching, hip swirling Latin dance instructor who offered far more intimacy than a mere stripper. At midnight, the entourage moved on to the KOKO, a new nightclub in town, to test their new moves on the unsuspecting.
Jacob lurked in the shadows, unnoticed by Olivia, but spotted by Carl who reported him immediately. Olivia responded, cavorting on the dance floor with a bevy of young men in tow who clearly appreciated her hip gyrations. Jacob left in disgust, and Carl strode to the bar for more champagne to celebrate the victory.
At the perimeter of the bar queue, outwards four-deep, she came across Ethan Marsh pressed up against a pillar with a girl in a gold dress hard against his body.
“Oh, please,” said Carl as she passed. “You have a bungalow, use it.”
When she returned from the bar with a tray of champagne and glasses, Ethan Marsh was breathing without assistance albeit still draped in the girl with the gold dress. He nodded an acknowledgement.
“Passed your bedtime, isn’t it?” said Carl.
“Retired,” he replied.
“And making up for lost time by the look of it,” she said flicking a glance at the gold dress.
He smiled, and stepped aside to allow her to pass.
Olivia wore a dress suitable for a princess as expected, with layer upon layer of tulle forcing Jacob to jostle for position next to his wife, keeping him an extra distance away from Carl on the bride’s other side.
Walter did not accompany Helena to the wedding: he was away on business, but word had filtered through that he was sporting a black eye arising from a road rage incident in the city. Aaron, Carl’s boyfriend, stepped in as an escort.
Aaron was the antithesis of everything Carl thought she might want in a partner: non-lawyer, finance type with a ripped body and power walk that contradicted his lack of confidence. Neither side of him appealed, but Carl had come to appreciate from recent trials and revelations that she needed to reconnect with other humans, and Aaron made himself available.
It was a mistake, but Carl had yet to find a way to end the hapless merger of incompatible beings. Olivia’s suggestion had a lot of merit: become uncontactable.
As soon as the bride and groom had left the reception, Carl changed into jeans to join the rest of the bridal party at the KOKO to drown her post-nuptial blues. She did not notice Ethan Marsh as she queued at the bar.
“What’s with the hair and Pinocchio face?” he asked when she returned with a drink.
“My best friend just married a penis head,” she replied.
“Oh, that’s charming,” he said with a laugh.
“Where’s your girlfriend?” Carl asked.
“What girlfriend?”
“The one you were making out with last week, in public.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Ms. Baden.”
“It’s Carl.”
“Carl? That’s a girl’s name?”
She sculled her drink, and fell forward against his torso. He moved a bar stool in her direction. “Here,” he said, “have a seat. What are you drinking, Carl?”
“Southern Comfort.”
“And?”
“Ice.”
“That explains a lot,” he said. “Stay on that stool if you can. I’ll be right back.
”
“Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“I think you managed that all by yourself. I'll be back.”
Carl woke, sat up in bed, and gazed around the unfamiliar setting. “Oh, oh,” she muttered. “Yikes.”
Ethan Marsh entered the room. “Coffee?” he asked, offering her a mug.
Carl clutched a white sheet to her breasts, and leaned back into the mass of white pillows that covered the mahogany bedhead with the coffee mug clasped tight in her hands.
He sat down in a dark brown wicker chair filled with more white cushions, and rested his feet on a matching stool. Sheer white curtains blew inward on a cool breeze, the French doors to the timber veranda pushed open to present the lake in its glory. Waves slapped at the pebbled shore, just feet away from the bed.
“Who’s Walter?” he asked.
“Walter?”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
“Good God no! He lives at our house, with my mother. Why?”
“Last night, you were begging me not to take you home to Walter.”
Rain Page 17