Pot of gold : a novel

by Michael, Judith

  "Oh," Claire said abruptly. "A. N. Jarrell. Are you.^ Is that who you are.^ I should have thought of that. I've read your books;

  they're wonderful. No one writes about families as well as you do, and the way we use the past, the way we learn . . . that is who you are?"

  He nodded. "But what I was saying—"

  "I was wondering why I hadn't seen a new book from you in—oh, years."

  "Five. But what I was saying was that I never had your experiences with money, nor would most people—and that's what we're talking about—because almost no one comes even close to winning what you did."

  "I don't get it all at once," Claire said defensively.

  "It wouldn't be terrible if you did. I wasn't criticizing you. Do you always do that.'' Get your back up when somebody talks about how much money you have.''"

  "Of course I don't. Well, I don't know. I hope I don't. I'm not ashamed of it."

  "No.^ Is that honest.^"

  "I'm not ashamed of it," Claire said hotly. But then she remembered thinking that she had not earned her sixty million dollars; she had not even inherited it; she had simply bought a ticket. "I don't know," she said again, slowly. "Would you be ashamed if you won it.'"'

  "Not for a minute."

  "Why not.?"

  "Because we should always be grateful for good luck; there's not such an abundance of it in the world, and most of us deserve some now and then. You got a lot more than some, but why shouldn't you.'' You're a good person, why shouldn't you have a stroke of great good fortune.'' Besides, you didn't snatch it from under anyone's nose; you didn't swindle old people out of their life savings or loot the pension funds of trusting workers or destroy small companies and lay off thousands of innocent employees in a leveraged buyout; you played by the rules and you won. What is there in that to make you ashamed.''"

  Claire was laughing. "Not a thing. Thank you. Til remember that. Why haven't you written a book in five years."'

  "I don't know. I just stopped. No desire, no motivation, and it takes a hell of a lot of both to turn out a book."

  "But something must have happened."

  Alex leaned forward and hilcd their cups from the thermos.

  "You were the one who talked about not having control. It happens to all of us."

  His wife died. He lost his family and his home. Five years ago? Probably.

  "But you talked about controlling what happens so you can build a life around it," Alex said before she could ask about his past. "What is it you can't control.^"

  "Oh, a lot. Too much, I think. At least, sometimes it seems that way." She reached out and broke off a small bunch of grapes and held them in her hand. The firm spheres were cold and smooth against her palm, at the height of ripeness, at the height of perfection. She never bought less than that now. But she had no control over what happened to Emma, and she was beginning to wonder how much control she had with Quentin. And none of that was Alex JarrelTs business. But the silence was lengthening and she searched for a way to change the subject.

  "I was hoping Emma would be here this afternoon," he said, and Claire shot him a sharp look.

  "Did you talk much yesterday, before she brought you into the house.^"

  "Hardly at all."

  Claire waited for him to say that Emma had been crying. It had been so obvious: the streaks of tears on her face, her red, puffy eyes, the tremor in her voice. But Alex said nothing, letting Claire keep to herself whatever she wanted. "You're a very nice man," she said quietly. "Emma is out; I think she went shopping. She should be back by six."

  "Well, I'll call her', if I may; I'd like to talk to her."

  Of course that's what he wants, Claire thought. Because this isn't just a pleasant conversation; it's an interview. It all has a purpose. In an odd way, she felt let down. For a while, she had forgotten that he was gathering information; she had thought he liked her and understood her. But whatever he said had nothing to do with his feelings. He had a story to write and his way of getting information was to be casual and conversational, rather than rattling off questions as had the reporters who wrote stories on her in May. Alex Jarrell, novelist, journalist, interviewer, would have been just as warm and thoughtful, just as nice a man, with anyone; it was his job.

  She stood. "I think we've covered just about everything you need."

  "Not quite." At that moment, his tape recorder clicked off. "One side of a tape; that's just a beginning." He stood with her. "Did I do something to make you uncomfortable.'*"

  "No, you've been very good. I forgot it was an interview."

  "So did I. In fact, I have a terrible fear that when I go home and play this tape, I'll hear far too much of my own voice talking about me."

  Claire smiled. He really was a very nice man. "What other questions do you have.^"

  "Some basic ones about this house and whatever else you've been doing that's different from the way you lived before you won the lottery. I don't mean buying a car or a fur coat, though that's part of it; I mean different patterns in your life. Like these experts you mentioned, the women who helped you learn the art of shopping; I assume you wouldn't have known them before you had money, or at least spent time with them. Organizing your life, I remember you saying. And then I'd like to talk about your going back to work; how you feel about it now that you don't need a salary; and whether your work has changed because of the money, become more free, perhaps, or more daring, or maybe none of the above. I find that an interesting question. And I would like to know what you're having trouble controlling, but if you're firm on not talking about that, we won't. I think, at bottom, what I really want to do is go back to that question I asked earlier: whether you're the same person. I'd like to know whom you see now, when you look in the mirror."

  Claire gave him a long look. "Someone who feels more comfortable looking in the mirror. And everywhere else." She glanced at his recorder. "It isn't running."

  "I won't forget what you've just said. But I would like to talk about all my other questions, with the tape running. Would tomorrow be all right.'^"

  "Yes."

  "In the morning.^ I'd like to see the house by daylight. Ten o'clock if that's a good time."

  "Yes," she said again.

  They walked downstairs together and Claire opened the front door. Alex pulled on his leather jacket; it was scuffed and faded.

  with suede patches on the elbows. "Thank you for your time," he said. "I've enjoyed this."

  "So have I." Their hands met briefly, and then Claire watched him walk with long strides to his car.

  "Well, whatever you talked about, he certainly feels good about it," said Hannah, coming up behind Claire. "He wasn't that jaunty yesterday."

  "Jaunty.''" Claire closed the door. "I didn't notice."

  "Well, what did you think of him.^"

  "I think he's the most interesting man I've ever met."

  "My goodness. The most interesting.'^ That's very exciting."

  "No, Hannah, he's an interesting man and that's all. Interesting does not mean a romance."

  "It does a lot more often than you think. He obviously made quite an impression on you. And was it a good interview.'"'

  "It was different. We seemed to ramble a lot; we didn't focus on anything for very long. I think he'll be more specific tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow.'' There's more.''"

  "I don't think he'll ever run out of questions. I just hope he has a deadline."

  Hannah chuckled and led the way to the kitchen. "Forrest brought fresh trout that he caught in Montana. Will Emma be home.^"

  "She said she'd be here at six."

  "Then she shall have trout and oven-roasted potatoes." Scrubbing the small red potatoes, Hannah hummed a few bars, cleared her throat, then hummed a few more. "Claire," she said at last, "I have a favor to ask. Could you loan me some money.^"

  "Loan.^ I'll give vou anv money you need, Hannah, vou know that."

  "You think I couldn't pay it back. But I can and I will. With i
nterest. I'd much rather it was a loan."

  Claire frowned slightly. "How much do you want.''"

  Hannah took a long breath. "Twenty-five thousand dollars."

  Claire stared at her. "Hannah, what—" She stopped. She had no right to ask Hannah what she needed money for. She had never mentioned any debts, but perhaps she had been ashamed and now could not put them off any longer. But how did she expect to repay a loan.^ More likely she was helping someone else.

  One of the friends she made in her trips to town, to the grocery store, the farmers' market, the meat market, the fish store, the pharmacy. She always brought back stories; it seemed she was a sounding board for whomever she met. "Of course," Claire said. "I'll write you a check tonight."

  "Oh, you are wonderful." Hannah crossed the kitchen to hug Claire, and it was only when she moved that Claire realized how rigidly she had been standing at the counter, waiting, holding her breath. She went back to scrubbing potatoes and was cutting them into halves when the door from the garage opened.

  "Hi," Emma said, entering in a flurry. She dropped a garment bag from Simone's on one of the kitchen chairs. "I found a coat. It's not the best, but it's okay and it was getting late so I bought it."

  "Why don't we go to New York and find what you really want.'"' Claire asked. "We used to have a good time shopping together."

  Emma dropped her eyes. "I know. I just don't have a lot of time."

  "Are you getting a cold.^" Hannah asked. "You look feverish."

  "I'm fine, why do you keep asking how I am.'"' Emma asked angrily. "Anyway, was he here.'' The guy from the magazine.'^ Alex.?"

  "Yes," Claire said. "He said he wants—"

  "I thought you'd ask him to stay for dinner."

  "No, why would I.'' Emma, he's a journalist writing a story' and he's interviewing me. That's all. He said he wants to talk to you, too; he was sorry you weren't here."

  "Oh, well, it doesn't matter. I don't have anything to say to him. But you liked him, didn't you.''"

  "Yes, very' much. He's a likable person. And interesting. He'll be back tomorrow at ten; will you talk to him then.'"'

  "He's coming back.? Is he coming for breakfast.?"

  "Emma, what is this need you have to feed people.?" Hannah asked.

  Emma flushed. "It's a way to get to know them. Mother always says sitting around a table is the best way to reallv talk to people."

  "But he's a professional interviewer," Claire said, "and he does just fine without food. Will you talk to him tomorrow.?"

  "I suppose, if you want me to. I have to go; I'm going out for dinner."

  "You didn't mention you had a date tonight," Claire said.

  "I don't. I mean, I do, with a friend. We're just going to dinner in Westport, then I'll be home. Early."

  "We have fresh trout," Hannah said. "Caught this morning."

  "Well, you can freeze it; I'll have it some other time."

  "Then it won't be fresh."

  Emma shrugged. "I'll see you later." She turned in place and went back to the garage. I didn't really talk to them, she thought. I should have sat down and talked for a little while; I wasn't even friendly. She got into her car and backed out of the garage. I stayed by the door the whole time. Ready to escape. She drove down the narrow street, her headlights illuminating little eddies of fallen leaves stirred up by the moving car. It wasn't that she thought of her house as a prison; it was that everything these days seemed constricting and she was always wanting to move, to get away, whatever she was doing. Except with Brix. She couldn't imagine ever wanting to get away from Brix.

  She parked in front of a small restaurant with white curtains and red-and-white-checked tablecloths and found Gina waiting for her in a corner booth. "You look beautiful as usual and I'm glad to see you," Gina said, getting up to kiss her. She put her hand on Emma's cheek. "A little warm, though; are you getting a cold.''"

  "No! Oh, I'm sorry. It was just that you sounded like Hannah. Somebody's always asking me how I am these days."

  "Well, how are you.''"

  "Fine. I don't know why people keep asking. I'm fine."

  Gina contemplated her. "Honey, what have you been trying out lately.''"

  Emma felt a moment of terror. "What.-^ Trying out.'' W'hat does that mean.''"

  "You know what it means. Grass.^ Coke.'' Probably coke. How much are you doing.^"

  Emma stared at her, hollow with fear. If Gina could see it, everybody could. Her mother could. Her mother had been so proud of her for not doing drugs all through high school. She loved it when her mother was proud of her. "What's wrong with me.'*" she whispered to Gina. "Don't I look right.^"

  "You're wound up like a spring, is how you look, and you don't concentrate—look at you now, you're looking all over the place, not at me, and I'll bet you're thinking of a dozen other things besides what I'm saying. You're always on edge these days, sweetheart, and I know what that's like because I've been through it. So how much are you doing.^"

  Emma's head drooped. "Not very much. Just when I'm—^just once in a while."

  "When you're with Brix. Right.^ And when else.'' Come on, Emma, you're not with him that often."

  "Just . . . once in a while. He gave me some for when I get nervous. And it helps when I'm really hungry. You know, sometimes, when I'm worried about Brix or something, I get really hungry; and when I've been working for hours, and all of a sudden it all stops, I'm just starved, I can't wait to eat, but I can't, you know, or I'd gain weight, and Brix told me if I did, they wouldn't want me anymore; they'd drop me and find another model. So if I use coke—just a little, you know, it doesn't take a lot—I'm not hungry anymore, and I feel fine." She looked up. "Does Mother know.''"

  "I don't know. I'd guess that she doesn't. And I haven't talked to her about it, if that's what you're asking."

  Emma's breath came out in a long sigh. "Don't tell her. Please."

  "I'd like you to tell her, Emma. I'd like you to talk to her about everything that's bothering you."

  Emma shook her head. "1 didn't know you'd done it, too," she said after a moment.

  "Coke and a lot more. I did major experimenting with a spectacular varierv' of controlled substances when I was your age and on into my twenties. It was the thing to do; everybody was doing it and I didn't want to be left out. And I have to say, a lot of it made me feel pretty terrific, at least some of the time. But not enough of the time. It's a dead end, Emma; that's why I cut it out. Drugs don't make things easier or better or nicer in the long run; all they do is make you want more. I'd stop doing them if I were you."

  "Well, but you did it for years and you're fine."

  Gina sighed. She looked up as a waiter appeared. "Two

  glasses of Chianti, two pasta puttanesca, two house salads with oil and vinegar on the side. Okay?" she asked Emma.

  "Fine. I'm not really hungry."

  "No kidding. I'll bet you're never very hungry anymore."

  Emma shrugged.

  "And you haven't taken any riding lessons, either, even though your mother wanted you to."

  "Did she tell you that.^"

  "No, Roz did. Your mother's friend; the lady who owns the horses. I'm there a lot these days, riding and helping out. It's a gorgeous place, Emma, a little piece of paradise, and Roz is a very special person. You'd like it if you gave yourself a chance."

  "I haven't got time. Maybe I will later, when I have some time."

  They were silent for a moment. "Well, how about my other good advice.^ Can you tell your lover boy you've decided no more coke.''"

  "He likes doing it with me. Doing it together. He likes doing things together."

  "Sure." Gina picked up the glass of wine the waiter set before her and sipped it. "Not bad. Do you want to talk about him.''"

  "Not really. I get confused when I do. It's best when I'm with him and we're not talking at all."

  "Oh, Emma," Gina sighed. They sat quietly for a few minutes, until their dinners came. "Okay, why are we here.^
You wanted to talk to me about something. If it isn't Brix, what is it.''"

  "It's sort of about Brix. Gina, I know you don't think he's wonderful, but I'm worried about him and I don't know what to do and I don't know who else to go to." She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "I saw two memos on Brix's desk, about people who were tested with the PK-20 eye cream, and they talked about. . . about adverse reactions . . . something about four percent of the people ..."

  Gina put down her fork. "What reactions.'"'

  "Something in Latin that I couldn't read, and conjunctivitis; I knew that, because I had it once. And . . . and there was something about . . . about blindness . . ."

  Gina's hand grabbed Emma's. "You're sure of that.-^"

  "I read it. It's there. Something about maybe the person didn't

  use it properly. ... I read them pretty fast, but I couldn't make up something Hke bhndness. It's what I've been thinking about since I read them." Emma paused. "Gina, could you find out what it's all about.^ I'm sure they're taking care of it—Brix wouldn't be involved in—well, I mean, he'd want everything to be right, I know he would—but maybe he could get involved without knowing—well, not really, he's very important in the company—oh, I don't know, it's just that something sounds awfully wrong and if you could find out ..."

  Gina nodded. "Did you think of asking Brix.'"'

  "Yes, but I . . . couldn't. I just didn't see how I could."

  "I don't either. Okay, I'll see what I can dig up. It doesn't sound good, Emma; they're planning to release the line in March."

  "I know. They're all going a little crazy, you know.'' Tod and Bill just thought of a whole new idea, so we'll be starting again next week, a whole new series of ads. It's like it never ends and they haven't even used the first one yet. They all act like it's the biggest thing in the world."

  "It may be, for the company anyway. From what I hear, they've put everything into it. It's either going to be the splash of the century or the end of Eiger Labs."

  "The end.'' The end of the company.'* It couldn't be; they make lots of other things."