“But still,” she said. “So much.”
“We’re in a different stratosphere now.” He analyzed the room to see who was there and where the money congregated. “I’m not a putz from Brooklyn anymore.”
“You were never a putz.” She laughed, her face lit with the glow of the room. “Okay, sometimes you’re a putz, but very often you’re a heroic putz.”
“Thanks, baby.” He lifted his chin toward a group he’d identified as being married to the room’s biggest money. “Over there, you see those women? Go forth and bring me greedy wives. Then you can go talk to Deb and Helen. And thank me—I put them at our table and not the gold-encrusted wives.”
“Putting on my Groucho glasses as we speak.” She ran a hand down his cheek before walking away.
Jake pulled up his Club persona. Right about now, a drink would be perfect. He imagined the cool bite of Scotch and ached for the liquid like mother’s milk. A few seconds later, the craving left. Most people thought he’d had an alcohol problem that he’d conquered with iron control. Some believed medical reasons kept him sober. Friends accepted his declaration of loathing the smell, since his mother self-soothed with booze more and more as the years went on.
The truth was none of the above.
In vino veritas.
Loose lips sink ships.
Jake headed to the polished mahogany bar, white lights marking the path to the booze. Longing rushed in again. He pushed down the hunger with a promise of having this shit over in another year or so. Then he could have a drink.
He’d be glad to close the door, though he wondered if he’d miss the kick of seeing the insane gullibility all around. Sometimes he felt like he was the victim. After all, Jesus Christ, who would have expected so many people—smart people, well-informed people, business people—to buy into the idea that anyone could keep building a fortune straight up? Life always came with downs, so who actually believed that Jake could perform the magic he said he could pull off? The educated ones, they had to know, wink-wink, what they were buying into. Otherwise, how could it have been so fucking simple building a fortune using his artless plan?
He clapped a hand on his brother-in-law’s shoulder. “Hey, bro. Thanks for coming.”
Ben hugged him. “Man of the hour! Congratulations. What an honor. You deserve every accolade. Honestly, I don’t know how you manage these miracles.”
Alan, Helen’s husband, stood smirking on Ben’s other side. Why Phoebe insisted he include this jerk in tonight’s affair was beyond him. “From Flatbush Avenue to the Waldorf,” Alan said. “We bow to thee.”
Sarcasm and sour grapes laced Alan’s words. He and Helen were in a small group of people blackballed from the Club. Phoebe brought it up repeatedly, how much Alan and Helen wanted to open an account with the Club, and just as often, Jake gave a flat no.
“I don’t understand,” she’d said only last month. “All of the family, all our friends, you let in. What’s wrong with Helen? She’s my oldest friend—my best friend.”
“Enough with Helen and Alan already!” He’d stomped over to the kitchen cabinet and grabbed a handful of Sugar Wafers. “He works for Fidelity. What does he need me for? He lives inside the giant.”
“Helen said they’re so big, it’s like having fifty million choices for dinner.”
“I thought Alan was the big expert.”
“He’s a lawyer, not a stockbroker. They could really benefit from you.”
“I told you before: he’s a pain in the ass. Always asking questions. Always wanting to ask why I do this or say that. I don’t need his bullshit.”
“How can I keep saying no?”
“You don’t have to. I just did.”
“Will you at least explain the reasons to him?”
Jake had walked over to where she washed the dinner dishes and squeezed her shoulder with kindness. He wasn’t a fool. Helen and Phoebe went back to grade school, and his refusal to let Alan and Helen into the Club embarrassed his wife. But worse would be letting them in; the combination of Alan’s ferrety curiosity and his knowledge of financial legality with his oversized brain was lethal.
“No. Not wanting to talk to him is exactly the point, including not talking about his not joining. That he keeps badgering you just proves how I’m right.”
She’d scrubbed a small pot. “I feel so weird. Everyone is a member except her. What do I say?”
“Tell her this, and say it’s a secret you shouldn’t be telling: the Club board doesn’t allow members who have positions of internal authority at financial institutions. For reasons of security.”
“Is that true?” Phoebe asked.
“I just said it, didn’t I?”
“How come you never told me before?”
“How long before you realize how much I hate talking about business? Why do you think you, me, the kids, none of us has an account with the Club?”
Phoebe appeared puzzled. “What position of authority do I have?” Underestimating her intellect tripped him up every time.
“Oh, baby. Business is all about appearance,” he’d said. “Can we simply drop this? Don’t I get enough aggravation at work?”
Facing Alan’s attitude tonight was proof he’d made the right decision. “And I bow back to you,” Jake responded. “Phoebe says you and Helen bought a house out on the Island. Congrats. Sounds like both of you are doing terrific things.”
“Chicken feed to you, eh?” Alan swept a hand over the room.
Jake clapped a hand on Alan’s sloped shoulder. “Life is all about family, right? A beautiful family who loves you makes a good life. You’re a lucky man.”
CHAPTER 17
Phoebe
Phoebe exhaled as she merged onto the highway. Even the massive trucks bearing down like dinosaurs on wheels didn’t bother her. Being alone in the car for a blessed half hour, longer if the traffic stayed heavy, sounded excellent.
She headed to the Cupcake Project in Westport, Connecticut, which was managed by Eva. Linh was in charge of the original Greenwich shop; Zoya would oversee number three, getting readied in Westchester. They planned to open in a month, in time for Halloween. The three shops made a ragged triangle, with Phoebe linking the three points.
Two new stores in such a short time seemed a sure recipe for disaster, though after his reservations about the first store, Jake had pushed them like crazy. He had gone from being jealous of Ira and resentful of Mira House to acting as though the settlement house deserved historical treasure status and Ira was his best friend, including asking Phoebe to invite him to the award ceremony the previous week.
She hadn’t.
Her worlds had already collided. Mira House invested all of its profits with Jake, taking out the money they needed for day-to-day operation and, with Jake’s guidance, saving the rest for a long-range capital campaign. After Mira House had become Jake’s poster child for what he called his long arm of charity, he had anointed himself the savior of nonprofits, with the Club representing the perfect stew of growth and safety. He forced Phoebe to step in anytime he couldn’t fill a request to sit on a board. At this moment, her name decorated the stationery of a breast cancer research institute, a repertory theater, and a wild bird fund.
When juggling everything threatened to topple her, her link to sanity was inventing new cupcake flavors or updating menus. Katie called from college three times a week to talk over everything from papers due to how much her roommates drank at parties. Other friends couldn’t pry a word from their daughters, while Phoebe lived every minute of Katie’s life, including her romance with the boy she hid from Jake: a punk band musician. She couldn’t be happier about Katie acting out; far worse would be getting involved with someone Jake thought perfect. He’d tie a bow around the pair before poor Katie knew the boy’s middle name.
Noah grew from hiding on the beach with sea creatures to wringing himself inside out to earn Jake’s pride. He ran track until he led the pack and debated until he hit the state championsh
ip.
Academically, he stood at the top of his class.
Socially, he could date any girl in the school.
Emotionally, only Phoebe could help Noah when panic attacks plagued him. Jake, with his obsessions about privacy, wouldn’t allow therapy, insisting that anxiety was genetic. Jogging was Jake’s version of a prescription.
Phoebe’s solutions for Noah ranged from pathetic to terrible, including slivers of Valium, binging on VCR movies together, and, oddest and most soothing to him, trips to Brooklyn to hang out with her parents.
Jake leaned on her as though she were his personal crutch. An entire closet became devoted to her outfits for charity events and board meetings. Luncheons. He dragged her to the movies with each change of film at the local theater. She woke at five to exercise before getting Noah and Jake out of the house.
The Cupcake Project’s success exceeded all expectations. Blessing or curse? Gig Baumer, their Jake-chosen accountant, swore that the taxes would break them, so thank goodness for Mira House. Being entwined with a nonprofit apparently saved their behinds. Gig took them under his wing as his own charitable arm. Phoebe couldn’t understand a thing. Zoya nagged her to educate herself, but all the monies went to Gig, who parceled them out as needed.
• • •
As they wound down the tasks that needed completion before the shop opened, Eva handed Phoebe a batch of employee evaluations tucked neatly into one of their trademark yellow and blue folders. Then she brought two mugs of ginger tea to the table where they sat. “What’s going on with you and Ira?”
Phoebe viewed Eva with suspicion. “What did Zoya say?”
“Why assume it was Zoya?”
“She’s got the biggest mouth and the dirtiest mind. Ira and I are friends. Why would you even ask such a question?”
“We can see how close you two are lately. Inseparable. When men and women are ‘just friends’ ”—Eva punctuated her words with imaginary quotation marks—“it’s either because one or both of them is dead below the waist or they both find the other completely undesirable.”
“We certainly aren’t inseparable—gossip reigns here—but we are friends.”
Despite driving all over New York and Connecticut, managing the business, and keeping up with the chores that Jake piled on her, Phoebe still went to Mira House on Thursday mornings for Cooking for English. After that came her only peaceful time of the week: lunch with Ira.
“Is that what Jake thinks?” Eva asked. “My man would find it weird if I ‘ate lunch’ ”—again Eva used air quotes—“with a guy every week.”
“Even if that man was part of your work life? In some sense your partner?”
Eva turned her head sideways and curled her mouth. “Oh, really? You’re meeting Ira for work?”
“Not everyone’s husband meets their every need. Honestly, Eva, the worry is much more about who Jake’s lunch partners are than about who I dine with.”
“Again?”
Phoebe dissected her fears about Jake’s fidelity with only one person: Eva, her only friend who didn’t either paper over Jake’s faults or resent him for his success. “I just get the feeling. Truthfully, I almost followed him the other day.”
“Followed him? Where would you pick up his trail?”
“That’s the problem. He’d probably leave from work, but he won’t be walking. Should I hail a cab and say ‘Follow that car’?”
“You could get a private detective if you really want answers.”
“That’s the rub, eh.”
“The rub?” Her puzzled air reminded Phoebe that Eva hadn’t been born in the United States. Colloquialisms confounded Eva.
“Sorry, just a weird expression, meaning ‘That’s the problem.’ If I knew Jake cheated—and I’m not saying he did—our lives would fall apart. Stop looking sorry for me. What? Do you think it’s true?”
“Of course not. Why would I?”
Should she believe Eva’s face or her words? “Did he ever come on to you?”
Eva’s horrified look convinced her that Jake had never said an inappropriate word, but Phoebe knew the answer before asking. Jake, if he were to cheat, wouldn’t play near their shared world. Her husband drew an inviolable circle around her and the kids, working overtime to keep two things from her: his work problems and whatever bad habits he knew she’d deem reprehensible. She pondered this as she drove, as she exercised on the rowing machine in the basement, doubting that Jake could be satisfied with watching old Westerns on TV as his sole recreation and release.
“It’s my insanity, Eva. My suspicion bubbles up every few years. Your job is to remind me I’m nuts.”
“Why would he cheat? Why would anyone cheat married to you?” Eva smiled. “Did I do that right?”
“I always think of the line ‘Should I worry about my drinking?’ Conventional wisdom says if you ask the question, you know the answer.”
Eva grabbed a napkin from the counter and placed a cupcake on it. “Eat this. We just made them. Meyer lemon.”
“Lemon?”
“To remind you even the sweetest life holds sour bits.”
“Tutsi wisdom from Rwanda?”
“My horoscope this morning.”
“Do you think our life is written out already, just waiting for God to unfurl it?” Phoebe asked.
“You mean do we have a predetermined destiny?”
Phoebe nodded before blowing on her hot tea.
“Reasoning like that indicates weakness. In my opinion.” Eva straightened the pile of polka dot napkins. “If you think your future is fated, then you do nothing to keep danger away. You just lay there and let it wash over you.”
Sometimes Phoebe blocked out how many sour bits of racial affronts forced her friend to pucker up each day. Some people pulled away their hands when she tried to give them change. They showed their shock at learning that Eva was the manager, not the counter help. Frosty reactions came from women walking the moneyed streets of Connecticut, as though Eva were there to mug them. Gentlemen slipped her their business cards, certain she’d happily meet them for an assignation.
“Call them out when it happens,” Phoebe had suggested the first time Eva revealed the problem. “Ask them why in the world they’re giving you their card. Loudly. Say this: ‘You want me to phone you? Are you offering me a job?’ ”
“Nothing would make me happier, but I’ll stick with quiet seething,” Eva said. “The power dynamic rarely slides in my direction.”
• • •
Ira waited at their regular table. Puglia Restaurant, an institution in Little Italy, brought memories of her meals with Rob at Katz’s. The mix of locals and tourists recalled the deli, though it was fancier, with exposed brick and marble tables. Like Katz’s, they pushed the tables close enough for patrons to examine their neighbors’ choices with an intimate eye.
The first few times Phoebe and Ira ate together, she’d ordered grilled chicken, grilled fish, or the grilled vegetable plate. At their fifth meal, Ira pulled the menu from her hand and declared himself in charge of ordering.
“Any allergies?” he’d asked.
“No, but—”
He put up a hand to stem the words like calories and fat and told her to trust him, as though she were dining with an inverse of Jake: same style, different beliefs.
The simple dish of baked ziti with sausage the waiter placed before her that day had all but taken her to bed.
Now she traveled around the menu, moving from gnocchi to sautéed calamari with the ease of someone who’d never learned the language of Weight Watchers.
She squeezed through the narrow path to arrive at their table and kissed Ira somewhere between his mouth and cheek.
“You’re here!” Ira still seemed surprised when she appeared each week.
She pointed to her wrist, tapping her watch. “Two o’clock.”
They danced on a thin razor of attraction, held firmly within boundaries by never acknowledging their uncomfortable truth. I
ra tried edging the conversation there, but only a few times. Phoebe blocked any mention of a “them.” She had no need of marital tsunamis.
Safety lessons had come early in Phoebe’s life. She could remind herself to stay within the lines simply by imagining who her first child might have been. All she wanted from lunch with Ira was sitting with someone who carried unrealized dreams about her.
“I ordered the famoso.” He tipped his glass toward Phoebe, who clinked back with the familiarity of long-standing tradition.
She enjoyed knowing that people would peg them as a couple and think Ira had placed the wedding ring on her finger. This minor charade didn’t give her pause. Walter Mitty romances she’d allow herself.
“Wonderful as always,” she said after a sip.
Puglia’s famoso “famous house wine” had become their tradition. Ira insisted on paying for their meals. Phoebe, shying away from anything reminiscent of their unscalable bank account differences, ordered on the budget side, insisting that the house Chianti thrilled her.
“Truth time,” Ira said. “Does Jake know about our lunches?”
And there went the applecart. Had Eva been prescient today? “I’d have no problem telling him. We work together. Aren’t you rather like my boss?”
“Phoebe, I’ve never been your ‘boss.’ Don’t hide there. I didn’t ask if you would tell him. I want to know if you do.”
“Why?”
“Trust me. I’m not breaching our walls. You intrigue me. Curiosity about your marriage is part of getting to know you.”
“So you’re not really asking if I tell him we have lunch once a week?”
The waiter interrupted, bringing amber glasses filled with ice water. “Ready to order?” They knew this prickly guy. What he meant was “Tell me what you want within five seconds, or you won’t see me again for fifteen minutes.”
“Spaghetti with meatballs,” Ira said.
“Living wild, I see.” Phoebe scanned the menu for something compatible with the combination of hunger and indigestion brought on by this cascade of upsetting conversation. Tums might be dessert. “Plain angel hair pasta with butter and a sprinkle of Parmesan.”
The Widow of Wall Street Page 16