Making Waves

by Catherine Todd

  “Fuck the cat,” he said, but he lowered his voice. “You know why she died, Caroline; she killed herself. What are you trying to prove?”

  I said nothing, not only because I didn’t want to tip my hand completely but because it was complicated to explain.

  “I asked you this once before, and this time I want an answer. Why are you so interested in Eleanor Hampton?”

  “I’m not sure I can tell you the answer to that,” I said truthfully. “Maybe it’s because I feel sorry for her, maybe it’s something more. She sent me a lot of papers, and I just got interested, that’s all.”

  “Those goddamn papers again. What was in them?”

  “Nothing much. As a matter of fact, I’ve destroyed them,” I lied. “But it started me thinking.”

  “It’s fucking sick, that’s what it is. If you want to feel sorry about something, why don’t you take on Bosnia or Somalia as a project? Or why don’t you get a goddamn job? Do something useful.”

  “Let me ask you something, Steve: If everybody at the firm is convinced Eleanor killed herself, why are they so threatened by questions about it? What if she had a little help in getting to the other side? Wouldn’t you want to know the truth, even if it wasn’t very pleasant?”

  Steve’s expression changed from anger to one of horror or perhaps fear. He leaned over the gap between us and took my wrist between his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t care what mad things Eleanor Hampton might have said or written,” he said in a deliberate voice. “It is not in your best interest to pursue this.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  He sat back. “Don’t be melodramatic. Of course not. But speculation and innuendo could hurt the firm, and if the firm is hurt, it will ultimately come out of your settlement.”

  “And the truth can go hang?”

  “I’m talking about conjecture, not evidence. There’s something else, too. Whatever happens between us, I still have feelings for you. I’d hate to see you turn into an object of scorn and disgust among the people at the firm—our friends, Caroline—the way Eleanor did. And if you attempt to carry on some kind of personal vendetta or a one-woman crusade, that’s exactly what will happen.”

  “And it wouldn’t be much of a help to your career, either.”

  He fetched up one of his “I’m being as patient as I can but don’t push me” sighs. “Whatever you say, Caroline; I’m tired of arguing. If you don’t want to believe I have your best interests at heart, then don’t; I don’t care. But if you would stop short of embarrassing me, yourself, and the children, I’d really appreciate it. Also,” he said, clearing his throat, “if you persist in this, I really believe the children would be better off with me. At least until you come to your senses.”

  I was furious that he would drag Jason and Megan into it. He knew my weakness. I certainly didn’t want him to see that he had scored. “Bullshit,” I told him.

  “Wh-what?” He seemed taken aback.

  “That’s crap, Steve. You’re just trying to bully me into agreeing to whatever you say.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll just have to see about that,” he replied, so confidently that my heart began to beat in alarm again.

  “Have you said what you came to say?” I asked coldly, to mask the fear.

  “Not quite.” He coughed and looked at me. “I wanted to tell you something else, too. I’m glad the kids are out of the house.” He hesitated. “I hope you won’t be too upset.”

  “What is it?” I prompted.

  He looked away. “I’ve instructed my attorney to file for divorce,” he said to the vase in the corner. He produced a card from his inside coat pocket. “His name is Jay Thompson. Here’s his card.” He handed it to me, still without looking at me directly. I was glad that Mr. Don’t-negotiate-till-you’re-sitting-on-their-chest James, Esquire, had enough conscience left to find it difficult to face me. “When you get an attorney, have him contact Jay. You should do it as soon as possible,” he added.

  I got up without speaking and went into the family room. I’m sure he thought I was struggling for composure, going in search of a tissue. I silently blessed Susan for her advance information, which had given me time to prepare. Did he really think it would come as a complete surprise?

  I walked back into the room and handed him Rachel Fenton’s card. “This is my attorney,” I told him. “Why don’t you ask Jay Thompson to contact her? She’s working on the separation agreement now.”

  I confess that, painful though the moment was, I enjoyed his stupefied reaction. “You already saw an attorney?” he asked me.

  “Of course,” I said. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  He blinked. “Yes, that’s what I wanted.” He stood and looked down at me. “There’ll be a lot to work out. The house, the kids…” I hoped I was imagining the slightly menacing tone.

  “Yes, but not today,” I said, determined to stay in control of the interview. “We’ve already been through too much, and it’s better if we don’t do this when we’re angry.”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “Soon, then?”

  “Yes,” I told him. “Soon.”

  15

  On Tuesday morning, armed with an ecologically correct reusable shopping bag, I set out to find a bottle of wine to go with the ossobuco. If you know what you’re doing, you can buy at a discount house, but if you don’t, the alternative is one of the wooden-floored specialty stores that look as if the casks are aging in the very next room. I confess to a certain fondness for those places, despite the many tedious hours I had spent listening to Steve and some clerk hyperventilate about the merits of the latest botrytisized Johannesberg Riesling or whether the Pinot Noir grape could ever really be made into a great California wine. I heard perfectly normal-looking people say that a wine was mean, pinched, and watery, and that was just the smell. I found it impossible to enter into a conversation in which a liquid was described as “fleshy.”

  Still, if you can get past all that, a wine shop (with or without the final “pe”) is undeniably attractive. The fact that, historically at least, the contents of all those beautiful bottles are occasionally and notoriously unreliable (the Austrians added antifreeze to boost the alcohol content, the French packaged vin ordinaire as a cru considerably more grand than it was, and the Italians…) does not detract from the comfortable, cozy atmosphere, something like a good bookstore. Besides, a lot of work went into the designer labels, so if nothing else you could always admire those.

  The clerk, a youngish sort with the serious mien of a novice monk, suggested an Italian red—a Barolo or a Chianti classico.

  I shook my head. “Too heavy,” I said. Steve would have debated the reliability of Italian wines, but I just wanted to make sure my guest had his mental faculties unimpaired when it came time to consider my documents. I was only going to get one shot at it.

  The clerk frowned in concentration. “The dish, I believe, requires a strong wine to accompany it,” he said with the patient air of one used to dealing with novices and Philistines. “If you want to go with something white, I might suggest one of the big California Chardonnays. Or perhaps a French wine, such as a white Burgundy…”

  All those years of being an unwilling eavesdropper on oenophilic bibulo-babble suddenly paid off. “White Burgundy?” I asked him. “Like Le Montrachet?”

  He was far too classy for such a vulgar reaction as salivating, but let us say that the prospect of selling a two-hundred-dollar bottle of wine acted as a significant tonic upon his enthusiasm. I, of course, had just discovered another agenda.

  “Our Montrachets are over here,” he said, not quite tripping over his feet in an effort to reach the locked cabinet in which these treasures reposed. “We have 1990, which was a very good year, along with ’88 and ’89. The ’86 is considered the best of the last decade, but some people are afraid it’s too old,” he said regretfully.

  “Aren’t there other kinds of Montrachet?” I asked uncertainly.

  He looked a
bit crestfallen but recovered quickly. “There is only one Le Montrachet. It is the top, the crème de la crème. But there are other vineyards nearby with hyphenated names like Puligny-Montrachet, Chassagne-Montrachet, Bâtard-Montrachet…”

  “Bâtard-Montrachet!” I exclaimed as if I had just remembered it. “I had a friend who recommended that very highly. What’s the difference between that and Le Montrachet?”

  He smiled. “About a hundred dollars and a few steps—literally—across the road. There is, of course, a difference in taste, but the Bâtard is also a very good wine.”

  I smiled back. We were almost there. “My friend particularly enjoyed it, I remember. I’m fairly sure she bought it here. Perhaps you know her. Eleanor Hampton?” It seemed worth a try. Most of La Jolla used the store at least occasionally.

  The smile slipped a little. “Why, yes. The Hamptons were very good customers. But surely she—Mrs. Hampton—didn’t I hear that she passed away recently?”

  I wondered why so many people felt the need to avoid saying “died.” “Passed away” seemed so wispy and unsubstantial for the ultimate certainty of death. “Yes, she did,” I told him gravely, in keeping with the mood. “As a matter of fact, I believe she had been drinking a bottle of Bâtard-Montrachet when she d—passed away.”

  He blanched. “I’m sure there was no connection…”

  “Oh, no, of course not. She seems to have been quite happy with her selection. Just an accident, that’s all.”

  He looked relieved. “Good. I mean, she did seem happy. At least I think so. She seemed to be anticipating some sort of celebration.”

  “You waited on her?” My voice sounded squeaky. I couldn’t believe my luck.

  “Well, I think so, yes. She often ordered by phone, and she came in now and then to pick up just a bottle or two. I remember that she bought a bottle of the Bâtard-Montrachet a number of weeks ago because she made so many jokes about ‘Bâtard’ meaning bastard,” he said a little apologetically. “People do often mention it, but she was more than usually interested in the name. In fact, I had the feeling that was the main reason she chose it, although of course it would have been a wonderful bottle of wine.”

  “Did she say why ‘bastard’ was appropriate? I mean for right then?”

  He shook his head. “I gather she was divorced, wasn’t she? She seemed very angry.” He sighed. I supposed Eleanor Hampton was not the only angry or lonely divorcée he had dealt with. La Jolla was full of them.

  “But you said she mentioned a celebration?” I prompted him.

  “She didn’t say anything,” he said thoughtfully. “It was just a feeling I got. She came in asking for a good bottle of wine—like you,” he added, showing high-maintenance teeth, “and when she saw the Bâtard—well, as I mentioned, she wouldn’t hear of anything else.”

  I would have liked to reward him for his help by buying a Bâtard myself, although I didn’t much like the parallel it implied, but my budget wouldn’t stretch to accommodate such a noble gesture. Instead I descended many rungs on the price scale and bought an Aligoté, a perfectly decent white Burgundy I had always liked. The clerk took it in good part. Having shared an Eleanor story made us temporary confrères.

  “Was the Bâtard really her last bottle of wine?” he asked curiously as he wrapped my purchase.

  “The police found the bottle beside her body,” I assured him.

  He permitted himself a small smile. “Empty, I hope.”

  I smiled back. “I assume so.” I looked around the vast assortment of wine varieties in the store. It was hard to imagine all of it coming from something so unadorned as a grape. “What would you choose, if you knew it was your last bottle?” I asked him, out of curiosity.

  He looked up quickly, reddening a little. “Well…”

  “Really. I’d like to know.”

  “Okay,” he said sheepishly. “I guess I’d probably choose a white zinfandel. You’re not supposed to, but I really like them.” He handed me the bottle, wrapped in paper inside a plastic sack. I put the whole package into my reusable shopping bag.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” he implored, as if he’d confessed to a preference for pedophilia instead of just an ordinary blush wine.

  His secret was safe with me. “They can tear out my fingernails,” I assured him.

  He smiled feebly.

  On Tuesday evening, early, I gave Megan and Jason a pizza and an entreaty to spend the evening upstairs unless a life-threatening misadventure required their descent.

  “Now hear this,” I reiterated. “This is not a date.”

  “Oh, Mom,” said Jason, rolling his eyes.

  “I am not kidding. This is a business dinner. Important financial business. I am paying for this man’s time, so please don’t get any ideas. This is like having someone over to help with your homework. This is like studying for a test. This is like—”

  “We get the picture, Mom,” Jason interrupted. “We’ll stay out of the way, won’t we, Megan?”

  My daughter, who realized why I was making such a fuss about the issue, looked embarrassed but nodded her assent. “Sure. It’s fine, really.”

  “Well, you don’t have to hide. You can introduce yourselves if you want to. It’s not like I’m ashamed of you.”

  They exchanged looks. “Relax, Mom,” Jason said, patting me on the shoulder.

  But I couldn’t. I was so keyed up by the discovery that Eleanor’s mood on the day of her death was far from suicidal—almost exultant, in fact—and by what I had learned from Maria, that I could scarcely wait to see what evidence the box would turn up. I just knew it had to be in there somewhere.

  First, however, I had to get through dinner, and I was more than a little tense about that, too.

  David Sanchez was attired perfectly in a blue pullover sweater—a little too formal for fried chicken and coleslaw, and less than what was required for, say, coubiliac of salmon or caviar mousse. He had apparently judged the occasion and the menu correctly. He was brisk and businesslike. I was relieved.

  “Would you like to eat first or start work first?” I asked him, to make sure he knew I remembered the purpose of his visit and hadn’t lured him there to reenact the food scene from Tom Jones.

  “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to eat first,” he said, following me into the kitchen. “It’s been a long day, and I don’t think well on an empty stomach.”

  Jason and Megan stood in the doorway like the chorus in the middle of some particularly bloody Greek tragedy, hands at their sides, vigilant against hubris. “These are my children,” I told him, no doubt unnecessarily. “My daughter, Megan, and my son, Jason. This is Mr. Sanchez.”

  He smiled and extended a hand to each in turn. Megan looked shy. Jason looked grave.

  “I’ve cleaned up all our dishes,” Jason informed us. “I think I’m going to go upstairs now. I have a lot of homework.” He looked at Megan.

  “Oh, right,” she said. “Me, too. We know you have business to talk over.”

  “Fine,” I told her. “Come down if you want anything. We won’t be too late.”

  Jason had clearly decided to exert himself to make a good impression. He extended his hand again. “Nice to meet you, sir,” he told David.

  I hid a smile. We’d done our best to teach him good manners, but I hadn’t heard a “sir” out of him since he’d hit adolescence some years before. In fairness, I probably had his coach to thank for his knowing how to use it now.

  “Nice kids,” David said, when they had gone upstairs.

  “Thanks,” I told him. “They are, actually, even if they’re showing off for company. At least I’m relieved that they know how.”

  He laughed. “You mean you don’t have to pay them? Everything I read in the paper suggests that kids are a lot more assertive these days.”

  I shook my head. “You have to pay for it, but not with money,” I told him. “Sooner or later they’ll call in the chits. You don’t have any children, then?”
r />   He hesitated just a split second too long for comfort. “No.” His eyes shifted around and then looked right at me. “My wife died.”

  “Oh. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay. It was a long time ago. Eight years.”

  Cancer, I thought, or an accident. “Drink?” I asked him uncertainly.

  “Not if we’re working tonight. Some water would be nice.”

  I crossed to the refrigerator to get out the San Pellegrino.

  “Just tap water would be fine,” he told me. “With some ice, please.”

  “It’s terrible here. It tastes the way that stuff they put on athlete’s foot smells.”

  He laughed. “Okay,” he agreed. “Can I help?”

  I wasn’t sure about the ethics of this, but it was nice to have a man around the kitchen again, so I let him cut up the things for the salad. I liked the way he did it, without fuss and without expecting to be praised at the snip of every carrot.

  Over the pasta with roasted eggplant and peppers (I had a porcini mushroom sauce to die for, but it used heavy whipping cream and I didn’t want his arteries to stiffen till I was through with him), we made breezy, desultory conversation about La Jolla, the food, the public schools, anything at hand. I was trying very hard to be politely impersonal. I didn’t make any jokes. I wasn’t snide. I didn’t mention Eleanor Hampton. I behaved beautifully.

  “You were right,” he told me.

  “About what?”

  He smiled. “You are a great cook.”

  I smiled back. “Thanks,” I told him. “And do you really know Ross Perot?”

  He shrugged. “We’ve met.” He smiled again. “But we haven’t shared ribs in the Board Room.”

  Over the veal, he mentioned that he had recently come back from visiting his parents.

  “Where do they live?” I asked him.

  He expertly extracted a bit of marrow from the bone. “San Miguel de Allende. That’s in Mexico.”

  “I know where it is,” I said. “I’ve been there. It’s nice.” It was, too, although there might be a few too many colorful characters and artsy Americans for strict authenticity. Still, that hadn’t stopped me from writing a travel article about how quaint and picturesque it was.