Pot of gold : a novel

by Michael, Judith

  His ideas came swiftly. Occasionally he thought of Claire, of Emma, of Gina, of Brix, but not for long: he had a job to do. When the telephone rang, he reached for it absently, finishing a sentence, thinking of the next one.

  "Quentin Eiger," he said, still writing.

  "Mr. Eiger, my name is Hank McClore; I'm with the Connecticut State's Attorney's office."

  Quentin's head came up. "And.''"

  "And I'm calling to tell you that, because of information received, we are going to court tomorrow morning to get an injunction enjoining you from making any shipments within Connecticut of a line of cosmetics containing a proprietary ingredient known as PK-20, pending an investigation of the safety of that ingredient. I also have sent copies of our information to the FDA, and I would

  anticipate that they will enjoin you from interstate shipment of those cosmetics. The Connecticut Department of Health will join in our investigation, the purpose of which will be to look for evidence of fraud, criminal intent, and criminal conspiracy."

  Quentin stared at bare trees, black slashes against a steel gray sky. "Our products are safe and always have been. You may have heard rumors—there are always rumors in any business—but you have nothing else." His voice barely contained his fury. "If you know what's good for you, you'll call off this witch-hunt before it goes a step farther. You may be able to terrorize small businesses, if that's what gives you kicks, but not Quentin Eiger; if you don't stop this, I warn you, I'll see to it that you're out of a job, and no one else will look at you."

  "Mr. Eiger," McClore said, his voice oddly gentle, "we are in possession of memos reporting moderate to severe reactions, including a case of blindness in one eye, in test populations using PK-20 Eye Restorative Cream. Those memos reflect the findings of test reports that were collated within one week of the date on the memos. We also have a second set of test reports in which the damaging percentages were altered, and the case of blindness omitted entire—"

  Quentin slammed down the telephone and burst from his chair, through the door of his study to the terrace facing the water and then onto the windswept beach. He strode on the hard-packed sand, his thoughts in tumult. His carefully constructed strategy, lying neatly on his desk, was worthless, a ruin. And he could think of nothing with which to replace it. How the hell had they gotten the test reports.^ He had assumed Brix had destroyed them; he should have made sure. But that should not have made any difference. Someone had gone into the files and found them and given them to the State's Attorney. Someone in his company, perhaps more than one, was a traitor. The son of a bitch; he'd find out who it was and—

  But it didn't matter anymore. He walked along the water's edge, kicking small stones and ruigs out of his way. He'd have to start again, with a new line of products, or, more likely, give PK-20 a new name, give the whole line a new name and a new image. Maybe he'd get away from the whole pcrpctual-youth gambit; tr- something completely new. Health, maybe. Evcrs-body was a nut on health these days, and if they were convinced

  that certain creams and ointments would keep their si^in, their hair, their nails, what the hell, all the cells in their body healthy, they could draw their own conclusions about youth. It was a whole new approach. Quentin slowed his steps. Nobody else was doing it. If he used the PK-20 line under some sexy name that implied perpetual health and got a couple of new models, he could do it in less than a year. Excitement filled him. He would save it all and end up with a better product than the first one, end up bigger than he'd ever anticipated.

  Slowing, he became aware of how cold he was. He was wearing only lightweight pants and a sweater over an open-necked shirt, and the air was bitter. Shivering, he turned and jogged toward his house. He had a lot of work to do; he'd cancel his date for tonight and get to work. He glanced up to see how far his house was, and his steps slowed. Two men stood in the doorway of his study, watching him, and as he came closer, he recognized them: his partners, the two men who, with himself, made up his board of directors. What the hell were they doing here.^ They were never here in the winter.

  "I thought you'd be in Florida," he said as he came up to them. "Or was it fishing in the Caribbean this year.'"' He shook their hands. "Sam, Thor; how are you.''"

  "We just got in," said Sam. The two of them backed into the study and Quentin went in and closed the door. He had sand in his shoes; it felt like stones, cutting into his feet. But to take off his shoes in front of the two men was impossible; to be in stocking feet would put him at a disadvantage.

  "Well, sit down," he said, standing beside his desk. "What's going on.^"

  They remained standing. "We're sure you know by now," Thor said. "We heard some things about the company that bothered us and we called the State's Attorney; he said he'd be talking to you today. We assume by now he's called."

  "You heard some things.'"' Quentin repeated. "From whom.'"'

  "It doesn't matter. A lot of people are in on this by now. Has he called.?"

  Quentin nodded stiffly. "He doesn't have anything; he's fishing. But to save a lot of trouble, I've decided to rework the PK-20 line, modify it, rename it, bring it out with a whole new approach, a whole new message. I can do it within a year. I'll have some

  losses to make up, but that's nothing to worry about. There's nothing to slow me down—"

  "It's always interested me, Quentin," said Thor thoughtfully, "that you never say 'we' when you talk about Eiger Labs. It's always 'I,' as if you do everything yourself."

  Puzzled, Quentin frowned. "That's a peculiar thing to say. Of course I don't do everything myself. Though I must say there are days when it feels like that." He smiled, but the two men did not return his smile.

  "We're asking you to resign as president of Eiger Labs," Sam said. "More accurately, we're removing you. We'll try to save the company; at the moment, it seems there isn't much to save. But whatever happens from now on will happen without you."

  "You can't do that." Quentin's voice sounded desperate, and he stopped to take a breath. He felt the edge of the desk digging into his thighs; he had backed into it and was leaning against it for support. Sand dug into his feet like pieces of glass. He was still cold; even the jogging had not warmed him up. "It's illegal. We have an agreement, ninety days' notice of any change in corporate structure—"

  "That agreement is null and void. We've talked to our lawyers and there's no question about our rights and responsibilities here, as trustees. You've imperiled this company by staking its financial well-being on a product that could make us liable for a criminal investigation five minutes after you ship it. Given that information, there's no way we'd allow you to remain as president and chief executive. You can ask your lawyers about this if you care to divulge all the details of why it happened. Or they'll read about it in the papers; we've been trying to think of a way to keep it quiet, but once the State's Attorney's office has it, it's probably impossible."

  The papers. He hadn't thought of the papers. Or television, radio, magazines. He'd lose the company, and the media would gobble it up; there was nothing those bastards loved better than bringing down anyone with power and influence. He felt himself sink into the desk. A couple of half-assed memos, that was all. He'd lose the company. All his plans, his timetables, his scenarios for using the right people at the right times to increase his sphere of influence beyond the state . . . swept out. gone. He'd lose the company. No. He'd lost the company.

  Jesus Christ, how the hell did this happen!^

  "Too bad you didn't consult us at the beginning," Sam said as he opened the study door. "We could have avoided this. Thor and I don't have a lot of sympathy with fraud; in fact, we've got zilch. You knew that, of course; that's why you never told us what was going on. Too bad." The two of them walked out; Quentin watched them walk along the terrace and disappear around the corner of the house, to the front walk, to the street, to their car, to their ownership of Eiger Labs.

  Sons of bitches, he thought, but the thought was weak, like a tendril of
smoke from a dying fire. It hung in the air for a moment, and then it was gone.

  The Christmas tree was still up, its ornaments dusted by Hannah that afternoon, the floor beneath it swept clean of the needles that had dropped, strings of pear-shaped lights circling its branches like glowing stars. Emma sat in an armchair beside it, looking through the arch into the dining room as everyone cleared the table and carried dishes to the dishwashers in the kitchen. "I can help," she had said, but no one would let her. "Absolutely not," Hannah said. "Another time, but not tonight. This New Year's Eve is in your honor and you're not going to do a speck of work."

  And so she was seated at the dinner table, between Claire and Alex, when all the cooking was done, and she was served all four courses—"like royalty," she said with a giggle—and then David, who had been looking at her with awe all through the meal, staggered by her beauty and romanticizing her brush with death, led her into the living room to sit beside the tree "and we'll do all the chores," he said, holding her hand as if it were made of glass.

  And that was how she looked, Alex thought, watching his son stand beside her for a moment before returning reluctantly to the dining room. Whatever Emma did, her movements were tentative and fluid, with the slow grace of a dancer. She was thin, but in a way more beautiful than ever, with a kind of fragile translucence, almost as if one could see through her. Like an angel, Alex thought fancifully, if ever there were angels. But the sadness that had been in her eyes for so many weeks was gone, and when she smiled, it was the smile of a young woman who had thought she was lost and had now found her way home.

  Emma saw him watching her and she smiled at him, remembering how she had Hked his face from the first time she saw him, and thini^ing how nice it was to have him with them now, at ease and at home, with a look on his face when he watched her mother that brought the only pang to Emma's heart that she felt that whole New Year's Eve. She sat quietly in her chair, not thinking about very much, letting the warmth and love around her gather her in. Her mind felt washed clean, almost shiny, too smooth and slippery for anything to take hold. Thoughts and images swirled in and out, nothing lasting for more than a minute. The doctor had said she should not worry about that, she'd be back to normal in a little while, but it had been Claire who was worried; Emma had not minded at all. Emma felt fine. She could think about everything, but she could not think about anything long enough for it to hurt.

  She watched everyone come in to sit near her and she smiled at them, loving them all. They didn't care whether she talked or not—and most of the time she didn't feel much like talking—they just loved her and treated her like royalty, and she loved them so much she thought she couldn't keep it all inside her: it was like the fire in the fireplace, dancing and lifting, curling all through her, warm and shining, filling her up, leaving no room for anything else.

  Now, the dinner table cleared, the dishwashers humming, the fire leaping as Alex put on another log, they all came to the living room. Hannah sat in an armchair, Claire and Alex sat on one couch, Gina and Roz on the other. David sat on the floor, at Emma's feet. In the background, the "Ode to Joy" from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony was playing on the radio.

  "Let me do the coffee," Roz said, and filled delicate china cups from a silver coffee service.

  "My turn," Gina said, stopping Hannah from getting up, and she cut Hannah's cake. It was decorated with Happy New Year in curlicues of icing, and the inside was swirls of chocolate and white—"because it's been a year of both joy and sadness," Hannah said. Gina cut the slices with a silver and ivor>' cake cutter, putting them on French dessert plates that Claire had found in a tiny, exclusive shop on Madison Avenue in New York.

  Claire looked at the exquisite china and silver, and then she looked at her beautiful, fragile daughter. The only thing that

  matters, she thought, and wondered how that could ever have been something that had to be demonstrated. For nine days she had been at Emma's side; Hannah had brought meals and the three of them had eaten together, and the rest of the time Claire stayed in Emma's room, sleeping at night on a cot she had ordered even before they came home from the hospital. During the day, when Emma slept, Claire worked on designs for a job her new company had gotten after she finished the Eiger contract; as soon as Emma woke, she put them aside, and they talked. They talked about everything that was in the past: all the years of Emma's growing up, her schools, her friends, the evenings and weekends at home when she and Claire had cooked together, played word games, listened to music, entertained friends. And they talked about Alex. "He's really in love with you," Emma said. "He keeps sort of leaning toward you, wherever you are. Are you in love with him.^"

  "Yes," Claire said.

  Emma looked at her closely. They were sitting together, Claire on the edge of the bed, Emma propped against the pillows, wearing a silk bedjacket, content to sit perfectly still; she could sit for an hour or more without making a move. But now she leaned forward and covered her mother's hand with her own thin one. "You really are. You look different. Sort of . . . shiny."

  "Shiny.?"

  "Like there's a light inside you. You know . . . happy."

  "I am," said Claire simply. "But a lot of that is because you're here and getting well."

  But that brought the conversation too close to what was wrong with Emma, and Emma would not talk about that or ask about it. If anyone began to talk about why she was sick, Emma turned her head away or talked about something else. "Are you going to marry him.?"

  "We haven't talked about it." Claire paused. "But we've talked about his coming to live here, and bringing David. How would you feel about that.?"

  "Oh. Everything would be different. Everythings changing. I said that once, a long time ago, didn't I.?"

  "Yes, you did, and good and bad things happened after that. But I think this will be wonderful, Emma. Different and wonderful."

  "You haven't loved anybody, have you? Since my father."

  "No. I thought I did, a couple of times, but it wasn't like this."

  "So you really want them to live with us.^"

  "I want to live with Alex, and it's important to him that he and David live together. So, the answer is yes. I really want this. More than anything except your getting well."

  "I might not be here anyway. I might go to college. So this way you and Hannah wouldn't be alone."

  "Hannah won't be here, either. She's going to be a sort of housemother in a poetry center her friend is building."

  "She can't! She lives with us!"

  "You mean she's ours," Claire said with a smile. "It felt like that, didn't it, ever since she came.-^ But she isn't, you know; she has her own life. And she wants to go where people need her."

  Emma shook her head. "I don't like things to change."

  "I'll always be here for you," Claire said gently. "This house will be here, and the door will always be open for you. And Alex will be part of the welcoming committee."

  "And David. How old is he, anyway.'"'

  "Fourteen."

  "Oh, Mother, boys are such a pain at fourteen. Couldn't it just be Alex.^ I like him. I've never even met David."

  "You will, on New Year's Eve. I think you'll like him. I think we'll all get along fine. He's a very nice fourteen."

  Emma thought about it. "Whose room is he going to sleep in?"

  "We haven't talked about it. I guess Hannah's. He certainly isn't going to be in here; your room stays just like this, for whenever you want to be here."

  "Well." After a moment, Emma sat back against the pillows. "I guess. But I wish Hannah wouldn't go."

  On other days, they talked about Gina and Roz, and about Roz's farm and Emma going there to ride the horses, and about what Emma wanted in the gardens around their house when it came time to plant, in the spring. They talked about college, beginning next fall; Emma wanted a place that was small, and not too far away, where she could take different courses without having to settle on any specialty right away. The idea of making
<
br />   decisions frightened her, although the doctor told her that would pass, too, after a while.

  Some evenings, Alex joined them for dinner in Emma's room, and they talked about his writing and the theater group in the Village, and about David, and Alex told stories of places he and David went on weekend excursions around New York. Emma listened, and talked briefly, in small spurts of energy, about whatever Alex or Hannah or Claire wanted to talk about, anything except Brix and Eiger Labs and the Eiger Girl. The others waited for her to bring them up, but she did not.

  "Give her plenty of time," the doctor had said. "And space. Don't crowd her. She'll deal with things in her own way, at her own pace. If she can't, she can get help from a psychologist, but I'd give her a chance to handle it herself."

  Sitting in the chair beside the Christmas tree, Emma ate her piece of New Year's Eve cake and asked for a second helping, as she had at dinner. "I'm so hungry all the time," she said, holding out her plate.

  "Well, don't apologize," said Hannah as she cut another slice. "It's about time you started appreciating my cooking."

  "Now that you're leaving," Emma said.

  "Well, you'll come and visit, and I'll cook for you."

  "But I don't want you to go," Emma said. "It's nice, the three of us; I want it to stay that way. I want you to stay."

  "It would change anyway," Alex said quietly. "We talked about that."

  Emma looked at him sideways and said nothing.