My Father's Wives (20 page)

We were standing in a grass field, lovely but not especially noteworthy. Mature trees encircled us, no statues, no extravagant lights.

“What do you see?” Ciara asked me.

“Nothing. It’s just green.”

“Precisely. It’s called Green Park. Now, what do you notice about it that is unusual?”

There wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, even the landscaping. In fact, there wasn’t any landscaping at all.

“There are no flowers,” I said.

Ciara’s face broke into a wide smile; she clapped her hands joyfully. “Very good, Johnny. Your father could have stood beside us until the end of time and not noticed that.”

I felt a surge of pride. “Why aren’t there any flowers?” I asked.

“Depends on which story you believe. One version says it’s because this was once a graveyard for lepers, and it was believed the disease would rise through the ground and be spread via the flowers.”

“What’s the other version?”

Ciara took a deep breath. “In the seventeenth century, King Charles II used to pick flowers from this park to give to his mistresses.
His wife, the queen, discovered his infidelity and ordered that all the flowers be pulled up.”

“Which version is true?” I asked.

“The truth, Johnny, is whatever you choose to believe.”

“Did my father say that?”

Ciara shook her head. “Johnny, your father never said any such thing. In fact, he would have said just the opposite.”

“Are you telling me to be more like him?”

Ciara reached out and touched my cheek. I think I saw tears forming in her eyes. “No, darling,” she said. “I’m telling you to be less.”

AS WE APPROACHED CIARA’S
flat we passed the flower shop and I was reminded of something Judith had told me. “She says that you saved her life,” I said, indicating the florist’s sign. “What does she mean by that?”

Ciara rolled her eyes. “My word, she is
such
a drama queen.”

“What happened?”

“I’ve been on Kinnerton Place for thirty years. Judith has been longer than that. I happened into her shop one day and fell in love. How can you help it? It’s so beautiful. As I became better known and my life became more frazzled, Judith became my solitude. I joined her in the shop for tea at least once a week, more if I could. The colors inspired me and soothed my soul. Years later, when your father and I were making the final arrangements of our divorce, I told him I didn’t want any of his money. I have my own. I asked only that he purchase the shop from the owner of the building and gift it to Judith. He did, and put it in my name. So, technically, I own the shop, but I’ve told Judith from the very first that she can do whatever she pleases with it so long as she never leaves. If I die before she does I’ve left it to her; if she goes first I’ll leave it to her daughter. That shop will be on that spot as long as I live, which means I will always have my sanity. And it’s your father I have to thank for that.”

I choked up. It was the first time in my entire life that I felt proud to be my father’s son. “I want you to know,” I said, “that of all the things anyone has told me about Percy, that was the only one that made me feel good.”

I kissed her on both cheeks as we arrived at the entrance to the Private Mews where she lived, a few paces past the florist, on the other side of the pub where the crowd was still outside smoking.

“You are a lovely man,” she said. “He missed out a lot when it came to you.”

“I guess we both did.”

“Perhaps,” she said, “but he more than you.”

Then she kissed me again, just brushing my lips with hers, and without another word strode quickly into the darkness that enveloped whatever was on the other side of the wall, while I struggled to keep from being knocked to the ground by the sheer force of her gentle touch.

THE EIGHT O’CLOCK BRITISH
Airways to JFK would have me in the office by noon, which was comfortably before Bruce’s stern invitation for one o’clock. Thus, I found the travel relaxing and productive; I accomplished more during those seven hours than I had in the previous ten days combined.

In fact, I spent almost no time thinking about Percy. Only once did he cross my mind and even that came with a smile. It was when I first opened my briefcase and found Judith Blacklock’s floral curriculum, detailing a variety of courses and diplomas as well as tips for floral arrangements and payment plans for students. The thought of Judith surreptitiously sneaking a brochure into my briefcase while I was distracted by Ciara made me laugh out loud.

Sonny pulled up outside our midtown office building at five minutes past noon. I was feeling jaunty and relieved as I approached the revolving doors on Sixth Avenue, briefcase in one hand, garment bag slung over the other shoulder; it was good to be back. My travels had begun to feel like an odyssey; I needed some time to digest all I had
discovered and figure out what it meant. Meanwhile, I was just looking forward to being in my office, perhaps even basketball later in the day.

As I stepped toward the building I saw a man beside the entrance who appeared out of place. He was tall and thin with a mustache, wearing a Yankees cap and denim jacket. There was something startlingly familiar about his face, mostly the mustache. The man was also obviously drawn to me, staring directly into my eyes, nodding just enough to make it clear he was seeking my attention.

I approached with a quiver in my belly. “Can I help you?” I asked.

The instant he began to speak I recognized the face surrounding the mustache. “Mr. Sweetwater, would you be able to take a quick stroll around the block with me?” He began to walk and I fell in alongside, striding quickly to keep pace with his long legs. He walked like a man determined not to let anyone notice that his mustache did not belong on his face. “Why have you not replied to my e-mails?” he asked.

“What?”

“As I detailed for you in my office, I sent you an e-mail Monday, a second Tuesday, a third yesterday, from the account of an insurance agent soliciting your business.”

“I didn’t get them,” I said.

“I know you’ve been traveling but you were here for portions of Monday and Tuesday,” he said, a hint of frustration in his tone. “I assume you have the ability to receive e-mail when you are not in your office. Could they have been rejected by corporate firewalls?”

“I can’t imagine. We have the worst tech security in the world. I just sent a note complaining about it last week.”

“That could explain it. You’re a powerful executive; I assume your complaints are met with hasty action. In this case, that action seems to have derailed our plans. But only temporarily.”

I felt myself shudder with realization about the e-mail. Not the ones I hadn’t received from Cranston. The one I hadn’t received from Claire.

Cranston was walking so fast it was difficult to keep pace. “So,” he said, “are you prepared to receive my report?”

Quickly, I stopped thinking about the e-mails. I stopped walking also, abruptly and without consideration. The question should not have taken me by surprise, but still I was fully unprepared to answer. I merely watched as Cranston continued up Sixth Avenue, turned the corner onto Forty-eighth Street, disappeared from sight.

A garbage truck was blocking two lanes of traffic, which caused every taxi driver to lean on his horn and shout expletives out the window. On the sidewalk, men in suits and women in heels and a guy pushing a laundry cart stepped around me; some paused to glare. I still didn’t move. I just waited and watched the corner, where eventually Cranston appeared again and leaned against the side of the building, talking into a cell phone.

The first step I took in his direction felt monumental, like Neil Armstrong on the moon. The second came more easily, the third easier still. I was striding at a normal pace as I approached the corner and turned, right in front of Cranston, who waited a beat before following. “There is no rush,” he said as he pulled even. “You can take all the time you need.”

“Can I ask you something?” I said, my anxiety mounting. “Do I
want
this information?”

This time it was Cranston who stopped dead in his tracks. “I have no way of answering that question,” he said, a touch of sympathy in his voice. “I have information that is significant only because you hired me to do this job. If you don’t want to know, then it is of no significance at all. It can be easily discarded and no one will ever know a thing.” There was nothing in his face or tone that indicated what he knew.

“I have to be at a meeting in a few minutes,” I said. “I can’t make this decision right now.”

“Then don’t.” Cranston took the phone he’d been pretending to use, touched the screen, handed it to me. “I will call you on this line
tomorrow afternoon. The phone has been programmed to accept calls from only one source, so if someone else dials the number accidentally it will not be received. The phone will make no sound, it will only vibrate, so if you are in a position where you cannot respond merely ignore the vibration. Do not attempt to return the call, I will try again five minutes after the first time and then every five minutes until you answer. Do you understand?”

I nodded.

Cranston smiled. “It was a pleasure chatting with you,” he said. “I trust our paths will cross again.”

He turned and crossed the street behind him, stepping between two cabs at a red light. I stared at the phone in my hand for a moment, then tucked it into my breast pocket and started back. It was nearly one o’clock.

IN MY OFFICE, I
stared at photos of the kids. Tonight was their school concert. I wouldn’t miss that for anything. I had a father who missed school concerts; I would never be one. I was thinking, too, of Claire. I felt like so much had changed in eleven days, but the one thing that hadn’t was whatever happened in my guest room.

Cranston knew. Whatever it was, he knew it and was prepared to deliver it as soon as I was prepared to receive it. That was the easy part. The tricky part would be what came next. If Cranston presented me with evidence that Claire was having an affair, what then? I would confront her with what I’d seen, of course, but then what? Storm angrily out the door? Headed where? My entire life has been spent trying to find the exact place I am in today. From the smell of fresh dill in the hallway of my father’s building to the clicks and clacks of my mother’s doors, to the gentle way Claire rests her hand in the center of my chest when she falls asleep. Where would the next stop be? An apartment in the city? My kids every other weekend? Evenings in
clubs with cocaine-snorting models or disenchanted girls with pierced tongues? I wasn’t interested in that life
before
I was married. I certainly wasn’t interested now. So, in truth it really wasn’t the pending call from Cranston that worried me. It was what I would need to do after I hung up the phone.

There was a knock on my door promptly at one o’clock. It was Bruce, tie loosened, the smile of an expectant father on his lips. “In the gym,” he said. “Five minutes to change clothes.”

I was in the elevator four minutes later, wearing Under Armour and Air Jordans, and I was confused. As much as Bruce loves basketball, this hardly met the level of urgency I was anticipating. Bruce is well aware that when he sends a message his demand will come before any and all others; family and business considerations will be overlooked, consequences ignored. For all he knew, I could be closing a deal worth a billion dollars. To call me in for a game of basketball was highly unusual.

Then the elevator doors parted on the nineteenth floor, and just like that it made all the sense in the world. Stepping into the gym I felt a surge of adrenaline. Sweat broke out at my hairline; my breath came quickly. I put my hand out as he approached, bigger than life, bigger than even in my wildest imagination.

“Jonathan Sweetwater,” Bruce said. “Say hello to Michael Jordan.”

We shook hands. His were damp with perspiration. Or perhaps those were mine; it wasn’t clear.

“Nice shoes,” he said, looking down at my feet.

“Thanks,” I said. “I never play without them.”

Jordan nodded. “Neither do I.”

Bruce shoved a basketball into the center of my chest. “Warm up, we don’t have all day. I told Michael you’re going to kick his ass. And you better, or the whole deal he’s making with us is off.”

I was so taken aback, I needed the smile on Jordan’s face to realize that was a joke. But we
were
going to play. I started to dribble. Right hand, left hand, between the legs, jump shot.

Jordan nodded. “Looks good.”

“I told you,” Bruce said. “He’s going to kick your ass.”

I took a few more jump shots, then sprinted the length of the court twice. A drop of sweat rolled down my cheek to my jaw. “I’m ready,” I said.

Jordan turned and heaved a ball one-handed toward the basket on the opposite end of the court. It banked hard off the backboard and straight through the hoop, barely disturbing the net before crashing to the floor. “I didn’t call that off the glass,” he said. “Your ball.”

Bruce tossed me a basketball and stepped away backward, taking a seat on the wooden bench. I stood a moment, mesmerized, the leather in my hands, the wood of the floor, the beating of my heart. With no further consideration, I began to dribble. I went to my right because I always begin to my right; most defenders assume I can only drive to my dominant side, so I take them to the right, then surprise them with a quick move back the other way.

Jordan met me as I crossed the middle of the court and put his hand in the small of my back. “Any time you want, make that move left,” he said, under his breath but loud enough that he meant for me to hear. “All you Wall Street guys have that same move.”

It was surreal and exciting to have Michael Jordan talking trash to me. The trouble was he had anticipated the only move I have. Flustered, I backed away. Then, staring right in his face, I rose up and tried a long jump shot.

The ball seemed to remain in the air forever. I could see it rotate in slow motion, as though my entire life—or at least the last eleven days—had been spent in pursuit of this moment, this one chance for unfathomable glory. It was a longer shot than I generally take, but my energy level was raised so high I knew it would reach the rim. The arc was perfect; I could tell as it flew that it had a chance.