The Darlings (23 page)

“Nothing to do with Max,” George said grandly. The bottle in her hand was kicked. She stood behind him as he opened another, and stroked his cheek with the back of her hand. “Really, I've fallen for Brooklyn. Or maybe I've just fallen out of love with Manhattan.” She began to pour again.

“Oh George, no you haven't!” Marina said. She was aware of a slight slur in her voice.

“Don't you find it so depressing? All the restaurants are empty. All the good stores are closing. I hate it.”

Isabelle laughed. “I thought it was depressing until I went into Barney's last weekend. Everything is like forty percent off! It's the first time I have ever been able to afford anything there.”

“Any price tag that says forty percent off should have a disclaimer that reminds you that your 401(k) is forty percent off, too,” said Malcolm. Malcolm was a lawyer, the only corporate type present. Laughter rippled down the table, bouncing off the double-height ceilings, the faint shadows of treetops discernible through the darkening wall of glass windows. “And no one's getting a year-end bonus, either.”

“None of us expected to, counselor,” Franklin said, smiling without a trace of resentment. “We're all artists and writers, remember?”

“Or self-employed,” Max said. He raised his glass. “If anyone sees my boss, tell him I deserve a raise!”

Everyone was merry, clinking glasses and toasting their sorry fate. Marina found this vein of humor surprisingly refreshing. All of Tanner's friends were hedge funders or trust funders, and they were taking the downturn seriously indeed. It was an oft-discussed topic at dinner parties. Trips to Aspen were being canceled; summer homes were on the market; there were fewer holiday parties than ever before.

“I have trouble feeling sorry for the bankers in your neighborhood, George,” Isabelle said. “Yes, their hedge funds are closing and they're getting laid off. But the same thing's happening in the magazine industry.”

“And they were
responsible
for what's going on. There's a big difference between an ailing magazine and Lehman Brothers. Lehman deserves to go under. They created the problem,” a writer named Elise offered. The mood was turning somber. Brows furrowed around the table and more than one person nodded in consent.

“I'm not sure that's entirely fair,” Marina countered cautiously. “I mean, an analyst at Lehman is no more at fault than an editor at
Press.
They aren't making the high-level decisions. They're just doing what they're told. Sure, some of them were getting paid too much. But why turn it down if it's being offered?” What she was saying might not be well received by liberal company, but the alcohol had eroded her judgment. Her head was spinning slightly, and the dim candlelight and brightly painted walls made her feel vaguely as though she were trapped in the middle of Mardi Gras. She was, she realized, dead drunk. Through the fog, she heard a distant ringing.

“I think your purse is calling you,” Franklin said gently into her ear. He reached behind her and unhooked her handbag from the back of her chair.

“Thanks,” Marina muttered, embarrassed. She stood up abruptly and fumbled for her phone, which had found its way to some hidden corner of her bag. No one noticed as she slipped through the nearest doorway, away from the din of the party. She closed the door behind her. Glancing around, she realized she was standing in Max's home office. Unsure of whether it was okay for her to be there, she stood awkwardly in the center of the space, lights still off.

She didn't recognize the number. It was from area code 212, a Manhattan landline. For a fleeting second, her heart fluttered. It was Tanner, calling from his parents' apartment.

“Hello?” she said. She tried to sound as casual as possible. For a second, she thought to reopen the door, letting in the ambient noise of the party.

“Marina? It's Duncan.” He paused and the line went silent.

Marina's heart stopped.
Duncan
. What on earth could he want?

Unable to speak, she simply remained, phone pressed to her ear, her lips slightly parted.

“So, happy Thanksgiving,” he said. He cleared his throat. He sounded nervous. “Hello? Did I lose you?”

“No, I'm here,” Marina said hoarsely. “Happy Thanksgiving to you as well. I'm sorry. I'm out in Brooklyn and the reception isn't very good.”

“Brooklyn! Why? You don't live out there, do you?”

“No,” Marina said quickly. “Just at a friend's for Thanksgiving dinner.”

She thought:
if he's calling to ask me to do something, I'm going to quit on the spot
. “Can I do something for you?”

“Oh goodness, you're in the middle of dinner. Terribly sorry. I shouldn't keep you.” He sounded uncharacteristically chastened, and Marina instantly regretted the sharpness of her voice. He didn't want anything; he was calling to wish her a happy Thanksgiving. Of course. It was so thoughtful of him to think of her, and here she was snapping at him.

You're becoming a bitch,
she thought.
And you're drunk.

“There is actually something I need from you. Now that you mention it.”

Marina was silent.

“It doesn't have to be done today, just when you get the chance. Maybe tomorrow.”

There were few turns of phrase Marina hated as much as “when you get the chance.” Duncan employed it often, tacking it onto any request that he had otherwise indicated as urgent or time sensitive.

“Certainly. Happy to.”

“Can you pull the interview I did with Jane Hewitt this summer, as well as any notes,
et cetera
that I used to prep for it? I also want to see my schedule from the day she came in; you can pull that off my Outlook. I'm thinking of doing a sort of follow-up piece on her, so I want you to get me the names and general hierarchy of the SEC. Don't rely on the one we created this summer; it's out of date.”

Marina had begun to cry. Tears slipped silently down her face, but they were thick and fast and she knew that soon she would be outright sobbing. She cupped her hand around lower half of the phone in an attempt to muffle it, wiping her nose on the back of her hand as she did. Through the wall, she could hear the muted roar of laughter and the sound of someone clinking a fork against a glass as if in preparation for a toast.

“That sounds interesting,” she said. It was the best she could manage for someone who was being dictated to in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner.

“Oh and pull what you can on Morton Reis and his firm RCM and also Delphic—that's Carter Darling's firm.” After a half-step pause, he exclaimed, “My dear. Are you crying?”

She had thought she had been quiet, but it was possible she had let out a small whimper.

She sniffled. “I'm sorry,” she said. She felt reckless and numb and like she had nothing left to lose. “I am crying. I know that's terribly inappropriate. It's just that my boyfriend broke up with me yesterday, and I had already canceled Thanksgiving with my family to spend it with him, so I'm at a friend's instead. And now I'm working. Anyway, I'm sorry.”

A silence ensued. Marina tapped one foot nervously against the plush carpet.

“Well, nothing like a little wanton honesty,” Duncan said, finally. He chuckled, his strange little nervous chuckle that had an unusually high pitch. “What's the name? Your boyfriend?”

“Tanner,” Marina said. She now felt very sorry to have brought it up. “Tanner Morgenson.”

“Well. Marina. I know a lot of people and I have to say I consider myself a good judge of them. This may be out of line—but hell, I think we lost sight of the line a few minutes ago—Tanner Morgenson sounds like an absolute idiot. You're beautiful and clever, and poised for someone your age. You're going to do well here, Marina, I'm sure of it. Not many people can put up with me, you know. You've got a certain confidence and thickness of the skin, which are absolute necessities in this town.”

“Thank you. That really means a lot to me. Especially from you.”

“Well,” he said, and she imagined him turning slightly pinkish, “I think you should see this as a blessing. A release from a lifetime of mediocrity. No doubt you outshine this young man in most every way. He isn't the grandson of William, son of Bill, is he? If you don't mind my asking.”

“Yes.” Though she imagined he was about to let loose some scathing criticism about the Morgensons, Marina felt a blush of pride to be affiliated with so grand a family. She might go up a half tick in Duncan's social register.

“Well, Marina, I'm going to tell you a little secret now, which is perhaps a poorly kept secret, but most of them are, anyway. The Morgensons are absolutely, completely, and utterly bankrupt. Have been for quite some time. I have it on the very best authority.”

Marina's eyes grew wide as pumpkins. “No. That can't be! I've been to their home—to several of their homes! Just last night, in fact. Their apartment's beautiful.”

“Well, that may be true, but young Tanner has another thing coming if he expects to get a dime. His grandfather made a killing, but gave most of it to charity and what was left he split between four children. Tanner's father's a complete moron. Bill Morgenson's never worked a day in his life, except getting himself tangled up in the occasional get-rich-quick real estate investment. He reduced his small fortune to virtually nothing over the years, and has gotten a bit desperate. Eighteen months ago, at the height of the market, he sank whatever he had left into that big glass building in midtown—you know the one I'm talking about, the name will come to me in a minute—which was a complete bust. I have a very dear friend who happens to be close to the deal who told me the three main investors—Morgenson being one—personally guaranteed it. Which of course is absolute idiocy. So really, the family's in the ground. It's only a matter of time until Tanner's tending bar.”

“But the mother!” Marina said. “Doesn't Grace have money? That's what everybody says.”

“Oh no, none at all. Her father couldn't stand Bill. Didn't go to their wedding, I'm told. Cut her off entirely.”

“Amazing.” Marina was stunned. “They certainly put on a good show.”

“That they do. Now what do you say you finish your dinner and then you help me do some research on Jane Hewitt. And Morton Reis. And Carter Darling. And after that, we will see who really holds the cards.”

“Happy to,” she said. She grabbed a pad off Max's desk and wrote down the names as quickly as she could.

“Call Owen Barry at the
Wall Street Journal
, too. Tell him I need to talk to him and it's urgent and I'll be in touch shortly. Give him those three names. He knows everything about everyone. Also, see if you can track down the contact information for Scott Stevens. He used to work at the SEC down in D.C., and at one time oversaw an investigation into RCM. My understanding is that he left there rather abruptly—in late 2006, I think—and the investigation was shut down after that. It would be interesting to speak to him.”

“Owen Barry. Scott Stevens. Okay. Is there anything else I can do?”

“Not for the moment. If I think of something, I'll ring you. This will be a fun little project for us, Marina. Think of it as vigilante justice.”

“Do you want me to call him, maybe? Scott Stevens?”

Duncan paused. “Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Just the contact information will be fine.”

She bit her lip. “All right,” she said. “Let me know if I can be of help with research or anything. This is the kind of thing I really like to do.”

After she hung up the phone, she took a look around Max's home office and smiled. Here was someone who had actually done something, despite having been born privileged. His desk was overflowing with papers, and his computer glowed in the semidarkness, as though alive with ideas. Suddenly, she found herself liking Max immensely. As she slipped back into the party, her hand instinctively brushed her cheek; it was now dry. She had stopped crying.

THURSDAY, 6:02 P.M.

“L
et's all sit,” Carter said as he ushered everyone into the dining room. Carmela was standing nervously at the back, waiting for instructions. The table was perfect; soft candlelight lit up the peach-colored walls. The china sparkled. Stomachs began to growl, mouths moistened as everyone took their seats. Outside, the wind had picked up, setting the porch lamps swinging in the night air.

When everyone had found his place, Carmela said to Carter, “Everything's ready. Do you want me to serve?” They both glanced at the sideboard. A feast had been laid out. Carrots glazed in brown butter; steaming mashed potatoes; roasted autumn vegetables shimmering with olive oil; Carmela's famous stuffing—all presented in terra-cotta serving dishes, a symphony of fall color. In the center was a perfect, plump turkey. Whenever Carter gave the word, Carmela would whisk the turkey back into the kitchen for John to carve. Then Carter would serve it, placing pieces delicately on the plates with silver tongs, and everyone would tell him how beautiful it looked this year.

“Not yet,” Carter said brusquely. “Just make sure everyone has a drink.” Carmela nodded and began to pour the wine.

Sol turned his glass over before Carmela reached him. “Just water for me,” he said. “Or whatever he's drinking.” He pointed to Carter's ginger ale.

“Of course. Would you care for some?” Carmela said quietly, holding out the bottle for Marion's approval.

“Oh yes, please. This is beautiful,” Marion said apologetically, gesturing at the spread. “You always do such a lovely job.”

Carmela nodded in acknowledgment and then glanced around, as if unsure the compliment was rightly hers. As soon as the glasses were full, she disappeared into the kitchen. The table fell back into an awkward lull. From behind the swinging door came the sound of pots banging on the stove. A strain of classical music wafted through and then stopped abruptly; Carmela had switched off the radio.

Adrian yawned loudly, breaking the silence. He reached forward and took a roll out of the breadbasket. He nudged Lily for the butter. She glared at him as she passed it, her ears flushing red with annoyance. Adrian pretended not to notice and began slathering his bread.

“Do we think she's coming down soon?” Merrill said to her father.

Carter's jaw tightened. “I imagine so.” To the table, he announced loudly, “Let's talk about something.” He was trying to keep things light, but it had come out wrong and he sounded angry. Merrill looked down at the floor like a reprimanded child.

“Has anyone spoken to Julianne?” Adrian asked.

“Something else.” Carter snapped, cutting him off.

Carmela reentered the room with a pitcher of water. “Let's just start,” Carter said to her. “The turkey's getting cold.”

“Who won the game?” Marion offered, trying again. She smiled at the group.

“Lions got crushed,” Adrian said. He pulled off a piece of crust, crumbs skittering across the tablecloth. He shrugged. “Decimated. We lost forty-seven to ten.”

“Oh my. Against whom?”

“Tennessee Titans.”

“Now remind me why it is that you all root for Detroit every year.”

Like spectators at a tennis match, the rest of the family glanced back toward Adrian. No one else dared to touch the bread. “Damned if I know,” he said. He shrugged, and with pointed disinterest, jammed a bit of roll into his mouth.

When he was done chewing he wiped the edge of his mouth with his napkin and turned to Lily, who was actively glaring. “What?” he said, rolling his eyes. “He said we were starting. I'm starving.”

“Why don't you wait until everyone's served?” Lily said crisply. She was sitting up perfectly straight, fingers laced primly together at the table edge. She looked eerily like Ines. Any trace of the erection which had plagued Adrian earlier in the evening was instantly gone.

“My grandfather was one of the original owners of the Lions,” Carter announced, drawing attention back to the head of the table. “He was friends with George Richards, who brought the team to Detroit in 1934.”

“Oh,
that's
interesting,” Marion said, even though everyone had heard this story before. “Do you still have family in Michigan?”

“Is that story even true?” Merrill asked suddenly. Her voice was laced with an acidity that Paul had never heard her use with her father. Only Paul could see that she was picking ferociously at the cuticle of her thumb beneath the table. It had begun to bleed. Paul reached out to stop her but she pulled away, wrapping her finger discreetly in a napkin.

“Of course it is,” Carter said. He seemed disarmed by Merrill's tone. Their gazes locked intently. For a moment, it was as though the rest of the table had fallen away and only Carter and Merrill existed. Paul and Adrian both sat frozen in their seats, unsure of what would happen next.

“Because you always say that half the things your dad said weren't true, and that sounds like the kind of story he would make up.”

“
Merrill
,” Lily said sternly from across the table. “Stop.” She widened her eyes in the direction of the Penzells. The sharpness of her voice, the angle at which her pale eyebrows had knit themselves furiously together, conveyed an urgency that Adrian evidently found amusing. He let out a sharp, barking laugh that was met with silence from the rest of the table.

The Penzells stared off into space, brutally aware that they had happened upon a private family moment. All evening, they had been trying with limited success not to draw attention to themselves. Sol, unfortunately, had made the mistake of wearing a tie. His was the wrong sort of shirt for a tie, however, soft collared and plaid, and it gave the impression that there had been a last-minute squabble with Marion over the dress code, which Sol had lost. Sol now pulled at the tie, loosening it around his neck, and pretended not to sense the tension between the Darlings.

He sat back in his chair and it rocked a little too far on its back legs, startling everyone.

“Careful!” Lily squeaked reflexively. She reached forward as if she could snag him from across the table. Sol snapped his chair back into place and readjusted his tie.

“Sorry,” he said to Lily. “Didn't mean to scare you.”

“For God's sake, Lily,” Merrill said, exasperated. She turned to Sol and Marion. “I'm sorry,” she said. “But I don't think we should start without Mom.” She put her napkin down on top of her plate and rose to her feet. The napkins were linen and lace, like tiny little tablecloths. A red spot of blood about the size of dime was visible at its edge of hers.

“Sit down, Merrill,” Carter said. “Your mother will come down when she's ready. We have guests.”

“I'm going to go check on her,” Merrill said, and walked out, the door swinging gently in her wake.

“Mom?” Merrill's voice skipped off the bathroom walls like a stone. “Are you up here?”

Ines paused, her body still for a minute while she decided whether or not to reply. Ines wondered how long they had been waiting for her to come down. Could it already be 6 p.m.? No one cared if she watched the football game. She thought she had heard the Penzells pull up in the driveway, but she wasn't sure. Outside, the sky had grown dark, and the drive up to the house was dotted with lights.

Dinner must be ready. Ines imagined what was going on downstairs; she could see it exactly. Adrian was probably hungry. Lily was fretting with the place settings, or buzzing nervously around the Penzells, impatient with Adrian and embarrassed that her mother was being an ineffectual hostess. Carter would be hungry, too, but he wouldn't allow them to start without her. The girls must have discussed it quietly and agreed that someone should check on her. Merrill might have volunteered, but more likely, they had drawn straws for the job. When they were little, the girls used to put their pointer fingers up against their noses when an unpleasant chore was suggested—taking the trash out or helping with the dishes—and whoever was slower to the draw would be responsible for it. Merrill, older and quicker, usually won.

Merrill must have lost this round
, Ines thought. Or maybe she had volunteered; Merrill the diplomat, Merrill the peacekeeper.

Ines imagined her trudging dutifully up the stairs, wondering why her mother was being difficult. The conversation among the others would be stilted in her absence. They would talk in circles about football and the coming storm, avoiding anything that had to do with Morty or the business. Or Julianne. Or Ines. Ines felt a pang of guilt, but it was passing.

She had been trying to pull herself together all day. Her makeup bag had tipped over and exploded across the bathroom floor. Shards of powdered bronzer and a fractured mirror had skittered across the tiles. Her expensive foundation had splattered like beige paint. Broken glass from the bottle glistened between the fibers of the bathmat. Ines kept trying to clean up the mess, first with tissues and then with her hands, but it was everywhere. Now she was kneeling on the bathroom floor, trying hopelessly to pick the glass out of the rug before she hurt herself. The fine bones of her feet felt unprotected from the hardness of the tiles. Small red dents had begun to appear on her kneecaps where the edges had dug into her flesh, like the lines that appear on one's calves when kneesocks are too tight at the top. It wasn't an altogether unpleasant sort of pain. It reminded her of being in church, kneeling on the unforgiving surface of the wooden beam that folded out from beneath the pew.

The shower was running. Ines had turned it on to drown out her crying. Tears rolled down her face in salty, hot drops. Her nose ran, too; clear mucus that stung at her chin. Because the trashcan was just out of reach from where she sat, crumpled Kleenex bloomed like flowers across the bathroom floor. Just listening to the shower felt cleansing. Its constant, steady pounding against the marble felt reassuring, too, there was something infinitely practical about it.

She was too tired to bathe herself today. The thought of drying her hair and applying makeup overwhelmed her. No one would notice, anyway. Carter certainly wouldn't. It had been months since he had looked at her with any kind of sexual interest or even casual physical appraisal. It was as though he no longer saw her at all.

Ines wasn't a fool. She was practical enough to recognize that her inherent value was depreciating. Her once boundless energy was now diminished. She could hardly keep her eyes open past 10:30 p.m., even at the ballet or a dinner party with friends. She was more forgetful than ever. And worst of all, her body was deteriorating at a rate that felt unbridled. This drove her to distraction. Every year, it seemed, she had to explore increasingly drastic options (facelifts, juice fasts, liposuction) just to maintain the status quo. It wasn't that she didn't understand her husband's waning interest. But that didn't make it easier to accept.

Ines knew that she had lost him as a lover a decade ago. It could have been longer than that, though she didn't like to consider this possibility. She had spent the end of her forties and the beginning of her fifties conceding that struggle. She had arrived at a place where she no longer craved that sort of attention from Carter. Instead, she settled for a platonic strain of admiration, the kind Hollywood bestows upon older actresses. It wasn't sufficient, but it sustained her. Maybe it was a bad patch, she told herself. Maybe it was temporary.

At the very least, Carter had never resented her. The money had always been theirs, not his. For that, Ines was grateful. She couldn't stand to be monitored as some of her friends were, submitting credit card receipts to their husbands like a member of the household staff. It always shocked Ines to hear her friends complain of their husband's resentments about money. It seemed to have gotten worse with age, despite the fact that many of these men were only growing richer by the year. It was as though, once past childbearing age, wives became functionally useless. They lunched and threw parties and bought clothes, but they were no longer sexually appealing. Their children required little if any maternal attention. Their husbands saw them as cash drains, an extra person on the payroll.

Perhaps it was she who had strayed first. It had happened insidiously, sometime between the births of Merrill and Lily. Ines's focus, once on Carter, shifted to her children. She wasn't one of those women who romanticized motherhood. There were days that she hated it, all the feeding and the ear infections and the lack of adult conversation. But she tried to do it well, and the girls were hers, in a way that no one, not even Carter, had ever been. A lot of nights she was asleep by the time he got home. In the midst of it, her marriage slipped out of focus, the backdrop behind a portrait of the girls.

On bad days, Ines told herself that she had stayed in it for Merrill and Lily, so that they would have everything she hadn't. Not just the schools and the houses and the tennis lessons and the perfect dresses but the full family, a father who adored them. Ines's own father had passed away when she was eight. Her mother fell into a deep depression and was deemed unable to care for her, so Ines was sent to Rio to live with her grandparents. Ines recalled little from her childhood except that her grandfather was kind and forgetful, and their house was silent, and furnished in austere dark woods and stone tiling. She spent her teenage years lost in American fashion magazines and cinema, and resolved to get out of Brazil as soon as she was able. At seventeen, she came to New York to model. After a year, Ines realized that she was neither tall enough nor striking enough to sustain that sort of career. She was, however, stylish and smart and willing to do whatever it took to get where she wanted to go. She found herself a job as a secretary at
Women's Wear Daily
. By twenty-five, she was a junior fashion editor at
Harper's Bazaar
, working elbow to elbow with Anna Wintour.