by Amy Meyerson
Ignoring the dig, Tom says, “It’s a starting point. They know we’re not going to take it.”
The Millers return with a counteroffer that is equally outlandish. The Austrians inch up, the Millers down. Still, their sums are millions apart.
“Do we have a magic number?” Tom asks the Millers.
“Eight million,” Ashley blurts out, then calculates her share, whether it would be enough to avoid selling the house. “Actually, six.”
“Four,” Beck says. “If we can get them up to four, we’ll take it.” That’s three for the value of the Florentine as a diamond, plus one million for its history.
“I just want some promise that it will be on public display and that they’ll mention Flora,” Jake says.
“That isn’t something we can force them to agree to,” Tom cautions.
“Jake, we’ve been over this,” Beck reminds him.
“It just doesn’t feel right, the world not knowing about Flora.”
“I know.” Beck glances at Tom, whose eyes are wide with worry. “I promise we’ll find a way to honor her, just not right now.”
In the end, the Austrians will go no higher than three and a half million dollars. It’s been four hours of back and forth and takes another hour to hammer out the agreement. After five hours of negotiating, the magistrate judge is visibly exhausted and leaves Tom and the Austrians’ lawyers to present the offer to Judge Ricci. They need her to agree, since there are still outstanding claims on the diamond.
While they wait, the Millers walk to Rittenhouse Square. They sit on two side-by-side benches and fantasize about their individual shares of the settlement—about $550,000 after expenses and the firm’s fee.
Ashley pictures the overjoyed expression on Ryan’s face when she tells him they won’t have to sell the house. Sure, they’ll have to take out a bridge loan until all the claims are settled, but they’ll get to keep their family home. The children will spot them embracing in the kitchen, ask what happened, and Ashley will reach for them and say, Nothing. Everything. They won’t understand, but they’ll know they’re safe.
Jake imagines walking into a bank with Kristi, holding her elbow as she cradles their child. When the teller asks, he’ll hand her the check for $550,000, written over to his daughter. They’ll exit the way they entered, as a family. He’ll brave a kiss, and the pressure of Kristi’s lips against his will feel like a homecoming.
Beck realizes that she’ll be able to afford the rent on her apartment without Tom’s help. She envisions sitting at her dining room table, a stack of loans and bills beside her, writing checks for each one. She tastes the sour adhesive of the envelopes as she licks them shut, feels the rush of wind as she walks onto Twenty-Fifth Street toward the mailbox. Since she was sixteen and Deborah took out those credit cards in her name, she’s been in debt. It’s foreign to her, not having to worry about the interest that mounts each month, about a credit score so abysmal she’ll never be eligible for a loan. Beck watches her mother, who looks unprecedentedly calm, and Beck knows that she, too, is overwhelmed by the money, the love, the family that she never dreamed she’d have again. She wonders whether they will hear from Kenny, despite the agreement he signed, now that there’s money. If he tries anything that threatens her mother’s chance at happiness, Beck might really deliver on her promise to emasculate him.
Deborah is indeed feeling a profound sense of rightness she’s never experienced before, not even in the house in Mt. Airy. The first thing she is going to do is take Viktor on vacation—maybe Venice, where they can lounge on a gondola and stay in a suite that overlooks one of the canals, making love in a king-size bed with the windows open.
By the time Beck gets the call from Tom that the judge has agreed to their arrangement, the afternoon light is fading. The days are starting to get shorter again, the darkening sky reminding them that it will soon be winter. Tom tells Beck that the FBI has approved a final visit to the vault.
“Do we have time to get to the bank before it closes?” Jake asks, stretching his legs and appearing in no great rush.
Beck checks her phone. It’s after four. “I think we can just make it.”
As the Millers hurry through the park, Deborah texts Viktor to meet them at the bank.
“Can we give him a few minutes?” Deborah asks when they arrive at Federalist Bank and Viktor hasn’t texted back. “He promised to bring champagne.”
“We don’t need champagne.”
“It doesn’t seem right, celebrating without him.”
The Millers fidget as the minutes tick by. Deborah checks her phone again. Still no word from Viktor. “He’ll be here.”
Beck gently guides her mother toward the door. “He can meet us inside.”
Deborah gives the street one final scan in each direction before stepping into the lobby. As the Millers follow the manager into the vault, her phone buzzes.
I’m sorry, Viktor writes. Something about his text feels off.
You still have time to make it. If not, we’ll see you later? she responds, willing away the nagging discomfort that settles in her stomach.
“You ready?” Beck asks once the Millers are alone in the vault.
You ready? Those were Viktor’s words when Deborah stood beside him in this very room and bore the violent energies of the diamond. Suddenly, Deborah wants to shout, Don’t open it. Don’t let this be the end. She balls her fists to restrain her outburst. It’s irrational, her response. For so long, she’s trained herself to distrust anything that feels this right. Nothing has changed with Viktor, she tells herself. He simply couldn’t come today. He was apologizing because he wanted to be there. Everything is fine. This isn’t the end. She unclenches her fists, but her neck remains tight. She’s as ready as she’ll ever be.
The Millers are giddy as Beck places the safe-deposit box on the table and opens the lid. Everyone leans over her to see inside the box.
There’s nothing there.
“It’s supposed to be here, right?” Jake asks.
“Of course it’s supposed to be here.” Ashley glances at Beck for confirmation. Her sister stares, dumbfounded, at the empty box.
When Deborah sees the empty cavity, she lets out a gasp. Jake turns toward her and sees a truth on her frozen face that she hasn’t fully admitted to herself.
“What did you do?”
The room grows airless, and Deborah leans against the table, breathing the deep, long breaths of Shavasana. Aware that her children are staring at her, she doesn’t turn toward them. She can’t see the accusation that hardens their faces, can’t endure their simmering questions, can’t defend herself because, once she does, it will all be true. Viktor will be gone.
“Please tell me this isn’t happening,” Ashley says. “This can’t be happening.”
“Deborah,” Jake breathes. “What the hell did you do?”
Only Beck remains quiet, paralyzed by the story taking shape before her.
“Let me have a moment. I need to think.” Deborah stares at the scratches etched into the top of the metal table. “Viktor and I stopped by yesterday to see the diamond, but—”
“What do you mean you stopped by? You can’t just stop by.” Jake clenches his fists, trying to control his anger. “This is property of the FBI. Do you know how many laws you broke?”
“I didn’t do anything.” Deborah looks up to see over twenty years of hatred on her son’s face. Her daughters’ expressions are no more sympathetic. “It was here when I left, I swear. It was right here in this box. This isn’t my fault.”
“That’s always the case, isn’t it?” Ashley doesn’t wait for her mother to respond, just keeps going. “Nothing’s ever your fault. You’re always the victim.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say. We came, saw the diamond, and left. End of story.” She knows better than to tell them about the electri
c shock the diamond ignited inside her, all that death compacted into one stone. She knows better than to tell them about Viktor’s proclamation of love, too. “I mean, I may have left the vault a few moments before Viktor did.”
By now, Jake is mumbling about how stupid Deborah is, how reckless, but why should that surprise him? It’s not like she’s ever been responsible a single moment in her life. “Did you stop to think how this might affect us? What am I saying, of course you didn’t. You’ve never thought about us.”
“That’s not true. I know I wasn’t the most reliable mother in the world, but I thought about you three all the time.”
“I guess that puts you in the running for mother of the year,” Jake snipes.
“Not the most reliable? Is that what you tell yourself?” Ashley laughs cruelly.
“Please don’t gang up on me. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
Ashley shakes her head in disbelief. “Here we go again with the victim card.”
“Stop saying that,” Deborah says, feeling as victimized by her children as she does by Viktor.
“Victim, victim, victim,” Ashley chants.
Beck watches her family fight, too hollowed for words. Her eyes drift toward the ceiling where a camera is mounted in the corner. Whatever happened to the diamond, the truth has been recorded, right there on that camera. The FBI will watch the tape. They will discover what happened. They will see this moment, too, when the Millers unravel, acting like petulant children. It will all be documented.
Jake paces, taking long strides across the room. This is how the second act of a script about the forfeiture would end—family loses diamond. “Your story makes no sense. Why would Viktor steal the diamond? He’s been helping us from the start. If he was going to steal it, wouldn’t he have done it as soon as he knew what the diamond was?”
“Ask Beck. She’s the one who got him involved.” Deborah regrets the words as soon as she says them.
Beck momentarily forgets about the camera in the corner, the record it keeps. Shaking, she turns to her mother. “Don’t you dare blame this on me.”
Deborah feels small as she faces her children, desperate to scream, Can’t you see I’m heartbroken? Her eyes sting, but crying will only inspire more ire, more hatred. Part of her craves their cruelty, any feeling besides the complete emptiness that consumes her at the thought of Viktor, the room in Venice they will never inhabit, the love she still believes is true.
To her surprise, Jake shifts his attention to Beck. “Why did you go to Viktor?”
“Why would you trust him?” Ashley asks.
“You really want to have a conversation about trusting the wrong men, Ash?”
“Don’t,” she warns.
Ashley has goaded Beck and there’s no stopping her now. “I’m not the one who turned a blind eye while my husband stole half a million dollars.”
“Ryan stole half a million dollars?” Deborah asks, aghast. When she’d listened to Ashley and Beck talking about Ryan’s legal troubles, she hadn’t heard a dollar amount. Deborah had no idea it was so much.
“His six-figure salary apparently wasn’t enough for him,” Beck says.
“Stop,” Ashley pleads.
The sinister pleasure on Beck’s face sends a chill through Deborah.
“What’s the matter, Ash? Can’t take everyone knowing your perfect family is a lie? And why did he steal that money? What was missing from your life? What was he trying to fix with cars and jewelry and fancy dinners?”
“Please, just stop.”
“No, I’m curious now. What are you really so upset about—is it that your husband’s going to prison, or that you won’t get to drive a Mercedes anymore?”
Ashley holds Beck’s gaze for a moment, but her sister’s expression is impossibly callous. She can see more insults building in Beck’s brain. As the tears form in Ashley eyes, she runs out of the vault before Beck can say anything else cruel.
“Real nice,” Jake says to Beck. “You’ve always had a way with words.”
“That’s your department. I can’t wait to see how all of this plays out on the big screen, how you’ll mine this for your own gain.”
“My own gain? You have no idea what I’ve been through.”
“So now it’s all poor Jake?” Beck can’t control the nasty comments she spouts at Jake, how it’s his own fault that Kristi left him. It’s laughable, really, that he, Jake Miller, is going to be a father.
Jake slumps to the floor. Everything she says rings true. It is laughable. He’s laughable. “I’ve lost everything.”
“And that’s supposed to be my fault?” There’s no warmth in Beck’s eyes, no empathy in her tone.
“If you hadn’t gone to Viktor, none of this would have happened. You can say whatever nasty things you want to me, to Ash. That won’t change the fact that this is your fault.”
Beck recoils like he’s punched her. Typical. Beck can dish it out but can’t take it.
“All of this is your fault,” he repeats, taking another jab.
Deborah rushes over to Beck and pulls her daughter toward her, casting Jake a look so disapproving it almost makes him feel guilty. But who is Deborah to suddenly be the arbiter of bad behavior?
Momentarily, Beck lets her mother embrace her, then pushes her away. “I asked you not to date him,” she says before storming out.
“Was that really necessary?” Deborah shakes her head at her son.
Jake laughs. “Congratulations, Deborah. You’ve really fucked it all up this time.”
He leaves Deborah alone in the vault. Deborah checks her phone one last time, hoping that she’ll have a text from Viktor, that he’ll say he fell asleep and is on his way, praying that this has all been a misunderstanding, something they can laugh about when they reconvene at the house on Edgehill Road.
The gray safe-deposit box rests on the table, open and empty. Deborah hears Ashley’s accusation, You’re always the victim, and it’s true. She was the victim. Kenny made her that way. She loved him and he left her penniless. But Ashley’s words are true in another way—she’s always made a bad situation worse. Things with Viktor had felt different. She had been different. He taught her to believe in herself. She won’t let him take that away from her, won’t let herself be victimized again.
She reaches for her phone. Still no text from Viktor. His silence only strengthens her resolve. She calls Tom to tell him what’s happened.
Nineteen
The house is dark when Tom drops Deborah at Edgehill Road. Her car is still downtown, parked where it will be ticketed, possibly towed, but when Tom had asked her if she’d needed a ride, she’d said she did.
Deborah has no idea what time it is. Everything happened so slowly, the police and FBI questioning her, then making her wait as they tried to locate her children. Tom sat with her, reassuring her that everything would be okay. She did the right thing, calling him. Eventually, he convinced the FBI to let her go home for the night.
As Tom walked her out, an agent said, “I trust you won’t be disappearing on us?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Deborah told them. What she meant was, I don’t have anywhere to go.
“Are you going to be okay?” Tom asks, putting the car in Park.
“I’ll be fine.” She unbuckles her seat belt. “Do you think Beck is okay?”
“She’s tougher than she seems.” Tom leans against the steering wheel, and Deborah feels a motherly pride in his words. Beck is tough. Tom didn’t break her. This won’t, either.
“What about the settlement?”
“The FBI will find Viktor. He can’t just disappear.”
Oh, but he can. Viktor is capable of anything. Deborah wants to hate him for this, but it’s what she loves most about him.
For two days, Deborah does not leave Helen’s bed. Tom calls with upda
tes on the FBI’s search for Viktor, with regrets that he hasn’t been able to find Beck. He stopped by her apartment, waited for an hour on the stoop. She never arrived. He’s called her friends, the few she has. None of them has heard from her, either. Deborah is charmed by his attentiveness, even if she doesn’t trust it. While Viktor may not have robbed her of her conviction in herself, their love, he’s stripped her of her ability to trust other people, especially men. Maybe she should have learned this years ago, but it feels like a bleak way to live, knowing that you can’t believe people are who they present themselves to be. She thanks Tom for his updates, promises to call him the moment she hears from Beck and stays in bed, not sleeping, not eating. She watches her ghostly image in the mirror above Helen’s dresser, thinking about Viktor, now gone, about her mother, now gone, too, about how she’ll never have closure with either of them.
* * *
It’s after nine by the time Ashley arrives in Westchester. Her children are still up, watching a James Bond movie with Ryan in the living room, his arms around their shoulders. Tyler’s eyes bulge as he watches a car chase, and Lydia kicks her legs in anticipation. Ryan looks up and spots her spying on them from the hall. He smiles, then quickly grows concerned. He begins to stand, but Ashley walks over to the couch and sits beside Tyler, kissing the mop of hair on her son’s head. Engrossed in the movie, her children barely notice her. She leans back against the couch. Tomorrow, she can tell Ryan about Viktor and the diamond. For now, all she wants to do is watch the rest of the movie with her family.
* * *
From the bank, Jake heads straight to the airport and waits standby for an open seat back to LA. Flight after flight takes off full. He has a flight booked for the following afternoon, but he can’t return to the house on Edgehill Road. Can’t afford a hotel room, either, now that there is no $550,000, now that he’s still just an out of work screenwriter, sleeping on his friend’s couch. $550,000. Enough for his daughter’s college, for rent on a sizable two-bedroom apartment for Kristi, enough to float him while he finishes his script. It’s useless, these fantasies. The money is gone. All because of Deborah and Beck. Reckless Deborah, who will never change. And self-righteous, stubborn Beck, who never should have brought Viktor into their lives. If Kristi were here, she would remind Jake that they’re hurting, but he doesn’t care. They are responsible for their fates born out of bad judgment and selfishness. He knows he’s right to blame them.