The Darlings (13 page)

WEDNESDAY, 5:27 P.M.

Y
vonne found Patrick in the kitchen, setting out place mats for dinner. She could smell garlic bread in the oven. In the background, the 5 o'clock news was playing; she hadn't realized how late it was.

“I'm so sorry,” she began, before she had taken off her jacket. Her cheeks were flushed red, from adrenaline and from the cold. “Where are the boys?”

Patrick smiled, his eyes tired. He put down the last place mat and gave her a hug. He wasn't angry, which made her feel even guiltier.

“I sent them up to their rooms. Pat got suspended.”

“Oh, Christ.”

“Yeah. It's not good.” He shook his head. “I gotta say, though, I think the kid was right. I don't know what we do now.”

Yvonne sank onto a kitchen chair, her bag dropping beneath it. “What happened?”

“Pat and Chris were supposed to meet after school to walk home, but Pat was late. When he got there, that kid from down the street, Joe Dunn, was picking on Chris. That's been going on for a while. So Joe called Chris a pussy and Pat decked him. The teachers were all leaving because school had just let out, so a lot of people saw it.”

Yvonne let out a sigh. “How many days?”

“Three. Starting Monday. It's a stupid punishment. The kid's getting a seven day vacation.” Patrick joined her at the little round table, set for four. He always sat next to her at a table instead of across, which she loved. Even in restaurants. He had done it on their first date (the place was loud, he said) and had never stopped.

Pat was dressed in what had become his daily uniform, work boots and cargo pants. A year ago, he wore chinos and a button-down every day, a requirement of his position as manager of the Operations department at Bear Stearns. It was a stable job, replete with health care and stock options, which now, of course, were worthless. For six months after the bank shut down, Pat pounded the pavement, looking for a comparable position at another financial institution. He was qualified, everyone said, but no one was hiring. By August he was desperate. He took a part-time job as a security guard for a local bank, “until there was something better.” He was still saying it was temporary, but with less conviction. From what Yvonne could tell, he had stopped looking for jobs in the financial sector. The bank offered him extra hours—four days a week instead of three—but still, it wasn't enough. Even with Yvonne bailing as hard, their little boat was sinking, faster than she ever imagined.

“Chris okay?”

“Yeah, he's all right.” Patrick glanced away. He scratched his head reflexively. This was an uncomfortable topic. Whenever they talked about it, they did so with eyes averted, like strangers in an elevator. “I don't know. I think he's embarrassed. He was shaking like a leaf when I got there.”

“We need to do something.”

She had said this before.

Usually, Patrick said: “Like what?” She had no answer for that, so the conversation would stop there. “I know,” he said instead, his eyes meeting hers.

“Thank you for getting the boys, I was going to do it myself, but—”

“It's okay. I knew what was going on. Must have been crazy at the office.”

She frowned. “It wasn't really. Sol just needed some wires set up. It was just bad timing; he called right after I talked to the school.”

Patrick nodded. He sat back into his chair, stretching his legs out beneath the table. “Yeah, I just figured with the Morton Reis thing, you know. Stuff got busy. It was no problem getting the boys.”

Yvonne paused. The news blared in the background. “What Morton Reis thing?” She said, perplexed.

His eyebrows peaked in surprise. “The . . . the—you know. I saw it on the news. That's why I called; I was worried about you.” Suddenly, he was looking over her shoulder at the television. “See!” He said. His eyes were alight with recognition. He pointed at the screen. “It's on again. That's Morton Reis.”

Yvonne pivoted, following the line of his finger. The picture was fuzzy, but there was a shot of Morty on the television, in a tuxedo standing next to Carter Darling.

“And that's—”

“Carter Darling.” Yvonne finished other people's sentences sometimes, a nervous tic. She was quiet for a moment, and then said, “Oh, God,” as the headline began to sink in, “when did you hear about this?”

“When I called you. Around lunch.” Patrick sounded confused. “But it's been on TV all day.”

“I don't have a TV on my desk.” She said numbly. She felt as though someone had poured a glass of ice water down her spine.
Morty's dead?
She stared at the television screen.
How could Sol not have said anything?

“Sol didn't tell you?”

“He just wanted me to set up some wire transfers.”

“You seem . . . you okay?” He flicked off the television.

The static silence of the room felt almost unbearable. From upstairs, the
whump
of a chair leg ricocheting off the floorboards reminded them both that the boys were home, confined to their shared bedroom.

“I think—” she said and halted. Then she slipped the sleeve of her coat back over her arm, buttoning it at the neck. It was night now, and she shivered thinking about walking all the way back to the subway. It would be empty, heading in the wrong direction back into the city, away from dinner tables and toward darkened office buildings. “I think I have to go back to work.”

Patrick's eyes widened. “Now?” he said, frowning. “Yvonne. It's six. It's dinner time.”

“I know,” she said, nodding. “But there's something wrong with the wires.”

She stood up and grabbed her purse. “Feed the boys, all right? I'll be back as soon as I can.”

Patrick inhaled deeply. He released it slowly; he was counting to five. She thought he might snap at her—he had every right to—but she didn't have time to waste.

“Please be safe,” Patrick said resignedly, kissing her on the cheek. “It's nighttime.”

As the subway car rumbled its way into Manhattan, Yvonne closed her eyes. Data rolled through her head in waves. There were so many things she knew: things she shouldn't know, things she was supposed to have forgotten, things that no one thought she was smart enough to piece together on her own. She was a dangerous woman, in that way. And yet, it was the things she didn't know that were the most dangerous.

As she emerged from beneath ground, the cold air hit her square in the face. Yvonne sped up, walking at a fast clip past the glistening doors of the office buildings, a closed coffee shop, store windows barred shut for the night. When she reached the offices of Penzell & Rubicam, she flashed the night watchman a smile and held out the laminated badge that hung from her neck on a silver-balled string. She thought he gave her a suspicious look, but then he yawned.
I'm just a little jumpy
, she thought.
He doesn't know a thing.

Questions about the night watchman were quickly replaced by the two questions that had been plaguing Yvonne since earlier in the day. Now, they would keep Yvonne in the office for the next several hours.

What were the wire transfers for?

And why had Sol asked her to backdate them?

WEDNESDAY, 8:03 P.M.

A
fter he released Marina, Duncan sat at his desk for a little longer. He knew he ought to go home; there were groceries waiting for him—the ice cream was melting, probably—at his service door. But God, some nights he really hated an empty apartment. He had sworn to himself that he wouldn't drink alone anymore, but he already knew that tonight would be an exception. The nights before holidays were the worst. The junior staffers seemed invigorated all day, charged with fresh energy, suitcases beneath their desks. They left quietly, slipping out one by one. Where were they going? Did they all have the big meal to look forward to, a long table with aunts and uncles and children in tow? How was that possible? Even as a child, Duncan had never experienced that. There had been the drunken Mommy/Daddy Thanksgivings, then just the drunk Mommy Thanksgivings. College, well, college he didn't remember. As an adult, he had bounced from house to house, leeching family off his significant other like a parasite. And the last three years he had been alone, and knee-deep in scotch by 4 p.m.

But tomorrow would be different. A week ago he had gotten a call from his favorite niece, who lived in the city and had too much work to go home to visit her mother for the holiday. Some issue or other with her boyfriend, she had said. She didn't know if he would be up for celebrating. “Come over,” he had said. “We're having a party.” She sounded as though she needed that.

Overnight, Duncan had rounded up six friends so that it wouldn't seem to her as though Thanksgiving dinner had been thrown together on her account. He gave each one an assignment to bring something, wine or a side dish or apple pie.
Like a tradition
, he thought. His niece would enjoy that.

The news was awash with reports about Thanksgiving Day Parade balloons, stuffing recipes, and predictions of snow. One story caught Duncan's eye: the suicide of billionaire Morton Reis. Duncan had met Reis once, at a
Vanity Fair
party in the Hamptons. He came across like an old codger, friendly but out of place. He had been terribly dressed, in ill-fitting chinos and a plastic watch. A strange pairing with his flamboyant wife, who had, as Duncan recalled, parked him at the bar so that she could go mingle. Duncan had found Reis intriguing. In his experience, it was usually the least assuming guy in the room who turned out to be the most interesting. After a few inquiries, someone told Duncan that Reis was a billionaire and a bit of a recluse, something of a car aficionado, and that Julianne, unsurprisingly, was his second wife.

I wonder if she killed him
, Duncan thought, as he scrolled through a gallery of photos that CNN.com had posted of Reis.
Shot him and dumped his body off the bridge to make it look like he jumped. Wouldn't have been the first time. They always say it's the spouse.

Only one photo was with his wife; it showed the couple at a benefit for the Metropolitan Opera. They were turned away from each other, each chatting with other partygoers. At Reis's right shoulder was the dapper Carter Darling. Carter was leaning in, as though whispering something into Reis's ear. Each man held a glass of champagne.
Carter Darling looks like Cary Grant
, Duncan mused.
What a pity he isn't gay.

As he walked home, Duncan tried to remember every detail he could about Morton Reis and Carter Darling. There was something there; he could feel it in his fingertips. After twenty-five years in this business, he had a nose for a story. Though it had led him down a few dead ends, it had sniffed out some ungodly messes, too. This was how it began: an offhand comment, the recurring thought that the newspaperman in him couldn't dismiss. He walked faster and faster down Sixth Avenue, moving past the corner where he typically found a cab. Something was coming, hard and fast. He had to steel himself for its arrival.

WEDNESDAY, 8:45 P.M.

T
he walk home was blisteringly cold. The wind ran in currents across Park Avenue. Paul hunched into his turned-up collar, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. He shivered uncontrollably and cursed his decision to wear the Barbour. By the time he reached the front door, his eyes stung with tears. Merrill opened it and fell into him, wrapping her small warm body against his. He could tell that she had been waiting for him. She had changed into sweatpants and her red cashmere socks, the ones that were too thick to wear with shoes. Her smile was fleeting and beneath it, her face looked drawn.

They hugged. “How are you?” Paul said gently.

“I'm sad,” she said, her voiced muffled against his lapel. She sounded like a child. “I can't believe it. I've known him since I was a kid.”

“I know you have.”

They retreated to the couch. There was an imprint on its cushions; she had been lying there for a while, he thought. They lay down together, her body snug beside his. Her head rested on his rib cage. Paul kicked off his shoes and they clattered over the couch's arm. His body ached with tiredness.

“How're your parents?”

“Mom's upset. It's strange, she seems angry, more than anything. No sympathy for Julianne whatsoever. I don't know. They never had a particularly solid marriage, I guess.”

“That doesn't matter. This must be terrible for her.”

“That's what I said. Did you talk to Dad?”

“No. I called his cell but he wasn't answering.”

“He's trying to get Julianne home from Aspen. It's Thanksgiving, of course, so there are no flights at all. He's trying to get a friend to fly her home on a private plane or something, but now she's saying she wants to stay out there, for the holiday at least. They're talking about having a service early next week. Dad thinks it should be sooner, but so many people are away for the holiday weekend.” She sighed, realizing that she rambled when she was tired.

“We'll be there, whenever it is.”

“Of course.”

“Paul?” Merrill lifted her head off his chest. “What's going to happen at work?”

Paul stared at the blank whiteness of the ceiling. It was a relief from the walls, which were painted dark green, like a British racing car, and cluttered with paintings and photographs. The richness of the room, the overlay of so many hanging things felt grand to him; at times, mildly claustrophobic. The far wall was dominated by two antique maps, given to them by Carter and Ines as an engagement present. One was an early map of New York, back when the Upper East Side was nothing but open farmland. The other was a nautical map of Cape Lookout in North Carolina, from 1866. Cape Lookout wasn't anywhere near where he was from, but—according to Ines—it was the only antique map of North Carolina available.

Beneath the maps was a slim mahogany table, selected by Elena and Ramon, the Darlings' decorators, to “complement” the maps. Merrill hadn't told Paul how much it cost, and though he wondered about it every time he walked into the apartment, he really didn't want to know. Some days, the apartment felt disorientingly ornate, like something out of
Architectural Digest
. This was one of those days.

Paul looked down at his wife. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, her face stripped bare and slightly ashen. Still, she was beautiful, her eyes a luminous blue flecked with gold. Her hair smelled as it always did, and her body felt familiar next to his. It was only because of her that he lived here. Sometimes, he wondered if he would have stayed in New York at all, if it wasn't for her.

“Is Dad going to lose the business?”

She looked at him in that way of hers, loving him and needing him all at once. He felt a rush of sadness fill his chest; he wanted so much to make everything okay.

“Come here,” he said, and wrapped her up tight in his arms. His body was just beginning to feel warm again. “Your dad's going to be fine. We're going to figure everything out.”

“I love you,” she said simply. “Things like this just make me realize how much I love you.”

Paul decided not to bring up his conversation with Alexa until later. Maybe when they were in the car, on the way to East Hampton. This was mostly out of cowardice, but then it would be quiet in the car, with no distractions. And, for a couple hours, she wouldn't be able to get up and walk away from the conversation, which Merrill sometimes did when she was angry or upset or frustrated. Paul had a sense that it was very likely she would be all three. Not necessarily with him, though that was a possibility.

For the moment, Paul held her on the couch and let her talk. She needed that, to talk and have someone just listen. What she said didn't really matter, and she was so tired that it didn't make much sense anyway, but Paul sensed that it was a relief for her to let it out. She rambled on about how Morty had been like an uncle to her and Lily, how after a few drinks he would tell them stories about her father as a young man that they weren't supposed to hear and how he took them both to get their ears pierced after school, when Ines didn't want them to. How he never bought himself new clothes but would lavish the Darling girls with presents around the holidays. How it felt, to her, like the world was coming slowly apart at the seams.

Merrill started to cry as she talked, the hard kind of crying, with snot slipping down her face. Paul held her as her body shook. When she was done, they ordered from the Chinese place down the street.

“I haven't eaten since breakfast,” she said to the delivery boy as he wordlessly peeled off singles, making change. As though she owed everyone an apology.

She ate ravenously, straight from the cartons. Usually he would have enjoyed being with her like this, informal and cozy. But she looked so pale and thin in his oversized UNC T-shirt . . . She worked so hard, always putting everyone—her colleagues, her family—ahead of herself. Lately, it seemed to be taking its toll on her physically. She had lost weight. She was sleeping badly. She had developed a cough that she couldn't seem to shake.

“Do you want to play Scrabble?” she asked when she was done eating. They always played Scrabble after Chinese food.

“I think you should get some sleep,” he said.

“You always win, anyway,” she said, and smiled.

“You let me. Go brush your teeth.”

Paul tucked her in. Her body disappeared beneath the duvet and her eyes shut as soon as her head hit the pillow. After he turned off the light, he stayed for a while, watching her in the amber twilight of the unlit room until her breathing became shallow and rhythmic. When he kissed her, she stirred lightly beneath his touch. Her brow rippled as though she was consumed in a dream.

After the leftovers were packed away in the fridge and the trash had been taken out and his face had been scrubbed clean in the bathroom sink, Paul padded into his home office to look through old e-mails. There was one in particular that he wanted to read. He did so again and again, until its words blurred across the page and he was no longer reading it but simply reciting its memorized contents in his head. Finally, he printed it out and put it in a file. Though he was tired, the pieces of the last shattered day were coming together like a Rubik's Cube.

Eventually the world behind the semitranslucent window shade brightened, and the room came alive again with the pink light of morning. It was Thanksgiving. He had been waiting for it for weeks, though now that it was here it certainly didn't feel like a holiday. He heard Merrill stirring in the bedroom. He went to put on coffee.

The coffee brewed gently on the counter, filling the kitchen with a familiar, rich scent. Paul reached up into the cabinet to pull down a mug. He had to dig behind the china coffee cups they had gotten off their registry in order to find the big, chipped Harvard Law School mug that was his favorite. If Merrill were awake, she would try to steal it from him. It was the biggest of the mugs, and she was even more of a caffeine fiend than he was. He smiled. He put it out on the counter for her, and pulled the slightly smaller Dean & Deluca mug down for himself.

Sometimes he wondered how much stuff from their apartment they would take if they ever moved. Did they need sixteen eggshell-thin coffee cups with matching saucers? What about the perfect window treatments with the matching pillows that Ines had so painstakingly picked out and Merrill secretly loathed? The porcelain vase and the cut crystal ice bucket and the set of good silver, all of which lived in the storage unit in the basement of their building? They never used any of it. Would Merrill even notice if one day it was all gone?

What they needed was a plan. By the time they arrived in East Hampton they would have one, he told himself. It wouldn't be over—in fact—it was all just beginning. But at least, he hoped, they'd be in it together.