Underwater

by McDermott, Julia

  Her brother was incredible. Two months ago, when David’s assistant Geneviève discovered that the vendor invoices the office had received were phony, David had momentarily become unhinged. Then he’d chided himself for not having authenticated the documents himself or following through. That evening, he emailed Candace about the issue, flagging the message as urgent, but she hadn’t contacted him until the next morning.

  In the intervening hours, David had researched all the invoices Monty claimed to have paid since the beginning of the project back in early 2008, including the most recent one, supposedly funded from an equity line draw. A few of the early vendor invoices were legitimate, but no record existed for most of the rest, and one supplier had disappeared—or had never existed. The next morning, David had been prepared to be the recipient of Candace’s wrath, expecting her to threaten pulling all of her accounts because of his mistakes.

  But that hadn’t occurred. Before their conversation, she had learned that the guesthouse where the Carawans resided had been destroyed by the ferocious storm the night before. The sorry plight of her niece and sister-in-law, if not her brother, had evoked her sympathy. She had instructed David to hold off on confronting Monty about the invoices, deciding that it wasn’t the right time.

  She returned to Atlanta the next day, saw the devastation for herself, and announced that she would cover all costs not paid by homeowner’s insurance to level the cottage and take out the remaining tall trees. She also provided funds to make the home’s basement livable again, and for household items and replacement furniture. Within a week, the Carawans moved back into the basement.

  David shook his head and switched his focus to the day’s agenda. Like most Mondays, he had a million things to do and a busy week ahead. Candace would soon let him know how she wanted him to handle her brother’s latest tantrum, he was sure.

  Helen had to get some bleach.

  She pulled out her shopping list and added Clorox to it. She planned to swing by Walmart on her way to pick up Adele after work. She checked the time: it was almost four—just over an hour left before she could close up shop and call it a day. Then her phone vibrated.

  “You busy?” asked Dawn.

  “Not too. Tired, though. Make that exhausted.” Helen stretched in her seat. Her desk was situated in a corner, which kept her invisible to most of her coworkers here at Vreden.

  “I’m sorry. When’s your next doctor appointment?”

  “Friday. I’m having another ultrasound.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Fine. They just want to see how the babies are doing, measure them and everything.” Helen smoothed her top against her stomach, which was growing exponentially. She felt a tiny flutter, then another. “Wow. I just felt some kicks.”

  “Oh my God! That’s so wonderful!” said Dawn.

  “Yeah, it’s about the right time for that to start, as I recall.”

  “Helen. How are you doing?”

  “Okay. Hanging in there.”

  “Have you guys bought all the stuff you need yet?”

  “Yeah, we have, just about. We’re fine. Except—”

  “Except what?”

  “Except, it’s harder to keep the basement clean than it was the guesthouse. It smells like mildew down there.”

  “Are you sure it was adequately waterproofed before you moved in?”

  “Dawn, I’m not sure of anything to do with the place. Plus, all basements down here are mildewy. It’s humid, like, year-round.”

  “Go get a dehumidifier. Can you?”

  “I should. Maybe I’ll look for one at Walmart.”

  “Wait,” said Dawn. “If this house is supposed to be so high-end, why wouldn’t you have one installed? A good one, I mean?”

  “I don’t know why. Dawn, here’s the situation. Monty is working with David now on all the details. I’m in the loop, but I’m not getting involved. I just—I can’t.” A single tear ran down Helen’s cheek, and she quickly wiped it away.

  Dawn’s voice softened. “You’re dealing with so much, Helen. Maybe you could talk to David, not to get involved, but just to touch base. Would that work?”

  “I dunno. I guess I could. He’s been so nice.”

  “Good. And forget the dehumidifier, for now.”

  “Well, maybe I do need to get on that. I noticed some mold on one wall of the bedroom.”

  “Oh my God. You can’t have that, Helen.”

  “I’m getting some Clorox on the way home today, and treating it over the weekend.”

  “Is that safe? I mean, shouldn’t you have someone else do it?”

  “You’re right.”

  “And get the cause of the mold identified and fixed. See—this is the type of thing you can go to David about. Couldn’t you? Like, just tell him what the issues are, and see what can be done?”

  “I’ll try it.” She glanced around. “Look, I gotta go. I have to finish a design before I can get out of here today.”

  “Just let me know what happens, okay? I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Helen put the phone down and stared at her computer screen. She couldn’t go to David about the mold. He hadn’t been to the property since that day back in April to take pictures for Candace, and Monty would be livid if he came over again. Anyway, David was a financial advisor, not a construction expert. In the big scheme of things, was a little mold in the basement bedroom that big of a deal?

  Surely they wouldn’t be living down there for very much longer anyway. She would take care of the problem, or get Monty to, and she wouldn’t mention it to Dawn again. Since they’d moved back in to the basement, Monty had been more focused on getting the renovation completed. He was dealing directly with David now and cooperating with him to manage the funds. As long as David didn’t get in his face, it seemed to be working. David copied her on everything, but when she asked Monty any questions, he was evasive. She had no idea what was really happening while she was at work. What she saw around the house looked half-done and seemed to remain that way. When she remarked about it, Monty said she didn’t understand how construction worked.

  Her victory in getting him to go over the bills and the renovation budget together had been short-lived—they’d only done it twice. After the tree fell on the cottage, things had gotten crazy. Monty had talked her into letting him handle the money again, saying she could log into their account anytime she wanted, to see what was going on. He claimed it just didn’t make sense for them to take the time to recalculate what the bank account already reflected. His job search was temporarily on hold—it had to be, he said. He was just too busy.

  Once the house was finished, Helen was afraid he would dig in his heels and refuse to put the place up for sale until the market recovered to the point where they could sell it for as much money as he originally planned. If he did dig in, he’d have to find a job and start helping her to support the family.

  Candace dialed David’s number at five o’clock.

  “Hello, Candace.”

  “David, I know you wanted to wait until tomorrow to respond, but I’d like you to write an email to Monty now and send me a draft to review.”

  “Okay. But—”

  “I’ve thought about it, and here’s what I want you to say. First, I want you to ask these questions: ‘Why are you blaming Candace for your financial problems, when she has come to your rescue time and again? Why are you blaming her for the numerous bad decisions you have made, decisions which she had no part in? What monies do you and Helen have in savings or retirement funds that you are unwilling to use to finish the project? When are you going to find a regular, full-time job?’ ”

  David began to rub his temple. “The reason I wanted to wait to respond—”

  “I know, David, and I don’t care anymore. I also want you to list for him all the monies
I’ve loaned, paid, and given to them as of right now—dates and specific amounts, including the most recent ones to the bank. Then, I want you to state that they have put my initial investment at risk. I want you to say that Monty’s pattern of lying, withholding information, and sending angry emails and messages has got to stop. I want you to say that no more funds will be made available to finish the project until he furnishes valid receipts for work already done, a verifiable completion budget, and their tax returns from 2009. All things which we have previously demanded yet still haven’t received.”

  “What makes you think—”

  “I know. I want you to say all of this, nonetheless. In addition, I want you to demand that Monty come clean with whatever is still required to be done to get the certificate of occupancy. That day I went over there after the storm, he assured me that the C.O. was on its way, that everything had been taken care of. Yet we still don’t have it. You told me that it’s illegal for them to be in the place without it, and here we are two months later, with no sign of it. When I walked through the first floor that day, I was appalled at what I saw, and I’m afraid that nothing has changed.”

  “We ought to take this thing over, Candace.”

  “Well, before I make that decision, I want you to send this email so I can go on record. The last thing I want you to demand is a current income-outflow budget. They simply must start to live within their means. Monty needs to face reality, and apparently Helen can’t get him to do it. I am not the bad guy here, and I refuse to allow him to paint me as a greedy villain.”

  “I will send you a draft email this evening.”

  “Good. I’ll review it in time for you to send it tomorrow. Copy Helen and myself on it.”

  “Got it.”

  “That’s it for now. I’ve got to run.”

  David put his phone down and looked over the notes he had made while Candace was speaking. Within ten minutes, he crafted the email and sent it to her. When she was in a semi-manic mood, it was best to get her what she wanted right away. She’d read it later, revise it, and get back to him about when to send it. He doubted that the final version of the email would resemble the rant she had just unleashed, and worried that it wouldn’t make much difference in her pattern of enabling Monty.

  At six thirty Tuesday morning, Helen woke up in a pool of warm blood.

  Panicked, she called Dr. Russell’s emergency line. The doctor told Helen to come in as soon after seven o’clock as possible—Friday’s scheduled ultrasound would happen this morning. Helen cleaned up and got dressed, dropped Adele off at school, and drove as fast as she could to the obstetrician’s office. Monty met her in the waiting room, and in a few moments a nurse ushered both of them back to the ultrasound technician, who greeted them in a soothing tone.

  Helen settled herself on the table, fighting back tears. There was more blood this morning than there was the first time. Monty stood by her side, his eyes glued to the monitor, not touching her. The technician started the process and the room filled with the quiet dread of impending tragedy.

  Searching for clues, Helen kept her eyes trained on the technician’s face, which was stone cold and still as she studied the screen. A few seconds passed, then Dr. Russell entered the room, her eyes focused on the images of the babies. “Good morning,” she said. “Danielle?”

  The technician looked up. “Good morning, doctor. We have two heartbeats, and they’re both strong.”

  Dr. Russell grabbed Helen’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “All’s well. No worries. What do you think happened to cause the bleeding?”

  “I don’t know,” said Helen, her eyes glassy.

  Dr. Russell smiled. “You need to take things easier. Do you have help with your toddler?” She glanced over at Monty.

  “She goes to day care while I’m at work.”

  “What about when you’re not at work?”

  Helen shut her eyes. “She’s not that much trouble. Really.”

  “Well, you need to let others help you with her. Like your husband.” She turned to face Monty. “You can do that, can’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. You both know that this is a high-risk pregnancy—all multiples are. We all need to work together to make sure everything goes well, and Helen gets as close as possible to her due date. That means a lot of rest, and less stress. Okay?”

  Monty nodded, narrowing his eyes.

  Dr. Russell turned back to her patient. “Helen, you’re not going to work today. I want you to rest for the day and don’t go back to your regular schedule until you’ve seen no blood for twenty-four hours. Now, would you two like to know what they are? Or not?”

  “Yes,” said Monty.

  Helen nodded.

  “Paint the room blue!”

  “Both boys?” asked Monty.

  Dr. Russell smiled and nodded at Helen.

  Thirty minutes later, as they rode the elevator down together, Monty made an announcement. “I’ve picked out their names. You named Adele, first and middle.”

  They weren’t married when Adele was born. Helen was still Helen Piper, and she had named her baby Adele Marie Piper. When Monty became her husband, they had changed the surname to Carawan.

  Monty watched the floor numbers change and spoke again, almost talking to himself. “Broden Henry, and Parker Owen. We’ll call them Brody and Park.”

  Helen gave him a quizzical look. “How did you come up with those?”

  “They’ll play football, too. Those are good names for football players. And they don’t sound like each other. I don’t want twin-sounding names for them.”

  The door to the elevator opened on the ground floor, and Monty stepped out first. “I have some things to take care of,” he said without looking at her. “See you at home later.”

  Monty slipped behind the wheel of the BMW, locked the car doors, and placed both his private phone and public one between the two front seats. After picking up a fully caffeinated latte at Starbucks, he drove over to the high-rise Midtown condo building and entered the underground garage. The woman who currently occupied his newest real estate investment would just now be getting up, or, if he was lucky, she’d still be in bed.

  He had met Rachel Benton last summer at a bar in Buckhead. Eight weeks later, he’d purchased the condo for a song, paying cash, and by December, he had filled it with expensive, modern furniture. Rachel worked as a decorator for the most affluent Atlanta residents and was able to find unique pieces and art—the best of the best. Twenty-five years old, she had moved here from Philadelphia three years ago and had gotten started in the design business with the help of a rich, society-conscious aunt.

  Rachel had an amazing body and her youth was intoxicating. She was almost as tall as Monty and had gorgeous legs and the best ass he had ever seen—and he had seen several. She had long, silky blonde hair and perfectly formed, perfectly sized tits. He felt a stiffening as he imagined her naked, lying in the queen-sized bed, waiting for him.

  He ran through a light that had just turned red on Peachtree. He was in the mood to celebrate: he was going to be the father of twin boys. How awesome was that! He’d send his sister an email later today announcing the news, while Rachel was away at a client’s home.

  He parked the car and took the elevator up to the fourteenth floor, then bounded down the hall, unlocked the door, and almost raced into the bedroom. She wasn’t there. Then he heard the shower running and entered the luxurious Italian-tiled bathroom that was quickly filling with steam. Through the glass doors he could see the profile of her flawless, nude body. He watched for just a second or two, then stripped quickly and stepped inside, startling her. Grabbing her around the waist, he moved his arms up just under her breasts, pressing himself against her back, her wet hair in his face. She turned around, pulling him toward her.

  An hour later, she sat in front of her v
anity applying makeup, wearing only her pink bikini underwear. From the bed, he studied her reflection. Her only imperfection was a faint rose birthmark on the side of her face, just in front of her ear. She camouflaged it with makeup and covered it with her hair, normally pushing her tresses forward—she never pulled her hair back. She didn’t wear earrings, but she loved necklaces and bracelets, and over the last year he had indulged her with many.

  “Monty,” she said. “Stop staring at me. You know I have an appointment with a client.”

  “When will you be finished?”

  “I’m going to the gym after.”

  “And then?”

  Satisfied with her mascara, Rachel put the wand down and turned to face him.

  “You’re killing me, baby,” he said. “Let’s go again—”

  “I don’t have time, and you know it.” She stood and walked over to the dresser. “If I don’t hurry, I’ll be late. I’ll see you tonight. And don’t forget the cash you said you’d give me.”

  “Yeah, I’ll call you.” Annoyed, he gathered some clothes to put on. “I have a meeting, and I have to catch up on email.” After getting dressed, he regarded his image in the mirror. He’d get in a workout today, too. He certainly didn’t want to hang out at Arcadia Lane with Helen lounging around. He had promised to pick up Adele after school, but once he delivered her to her mother, perhaps he would just come back to the condo and hang out. He could take Rachel out to dinner, and after another round in bed, he’d go home after Helen and Adele were asleep.

  His public phone vibrated with the receipt of an email. David Shepherd. Fuck. He wouldn’t read it right now. He didn’t want anything to spoil his good mood.

  12

  Exit

  After a working lunch with Amanda and Darlene, Candace returned to her office, closed the door, and checked her inbox for messages. A new email from Monty with the subject line “Twins” caught her attention. Candace shook her head slightly as she opened the email, skimming it. Her brother had chosen not to reply to David’s message marked with a red flag, the one she had edited and finalized this morning. Without even acknowledging receipt of that email, Monty had sent her a two-paragraph personal update.