The Darlings (27 page)

“I should talk to Jane. I spoke to her this morning, before coming here.”

“You shouldn't be doing that. For now.”

“She's involved, Sol. She deserves some clarity.”

“Let's get this done first, Carter. One thing at a time. All right?” The men rose to their feet. Sol clapped his hand across his old friend's shoulders. “You spoke well at dinner,” he said, “about Morty.”

Carter nodded. “I didn't know what to say.”

“None of us do.”

As Sol turned to go, Carter said, “I appreciate everything you've done for me, Sol.” Sol nodded and extended his hand. Rather than shake it, Carter leaned in and embraced him quickly. It was a rare moment for both men. Both were silent, aware that they needed each other now more than ever before.

When Sol pulled away, Carter cleared his throat and said, “Listen, I know you've done great work here, especially under the circumstances. Really, I mean that. But I think at this point there's no such thing as a good deal. For any of us.”

And though he was content with the work he had done, Sol was inclined to agree.

FRIDAY, 6:03 A.M.

P
aul was having trouble determining whether he had woken up early or simply never gone to sleep at all. Merrill was curled up in a fetal position, like an infant. Her hand lay atop his thigh, its soft palm open in surrender. He felt strangely trapped by the small weight of flesh. He had tried not to move so that he wouldn't disturb it. Eventually, he had slipped into a twilight state, somewhere between sleep and consciousness.

It was still dark when he snuck out of bed. He wasn't sure of the time, but it was close enough to morning. Anyway, it seemed senseless to lie awake and do nothing but stare at the ceiling, particularly given how much work there was to be done. The dogs thumped their tails eagerly when he entered the kitchen. Someone had been there not too long before; one light was on and the smell of recently brewed coffee lingered. Paul poured himself a bowl of cereal in the semidarkness.

The lights flickered on above his head. Carter appeared in the doorway, clad in running pants, polar fleece and sneakers. He had on a thin skullcap and gloves, the kind worn by serious runners. His cheeks blazed from the morning air. Rubbing his hands together, he didn't look particularly happy to see Paul.

“You're up early.”

“Couldn't sleep.”

Carter pulled up a kitchen stool next to Paul and took off the gloves and hat. His fingers were stiff from the cold, and he fumbled with the laces on his shoes. Bacall came over and rubbed himself up against Carter's calf, as if to warm him. Instinctively they both dropped a hand to pet him.

After giving Bacall an affectionate scratch, Carter said, “Is Merrill sleeping?”

“I think so. She was when I left.”

“How is she?” He got up and poured himself a mug of coffee, which was no longer hot. After a sip, he grimaced and dumped it into the sink. He turned back to the counter and began to prepare a fresh pot.

“It's hard to say. It's been a long few days.”

“She seemed upset when you two arrived.”

“Yeah, well. It's a lot to take in. Not sure what I can say right now that won't upset her more.”

Carter nodded. “They're always upset with us, son. About something.”

Carter's back was to Paul as he worked at the counter. He measured the coffee exactly, holding it up to eye level like a scientist. As it began to percolate, he slipped a teaspoon of sugar each into two mugs, pouring the coffee just as it finished brewing. He gripped the mugs' handles in one hand as he brought it over to the table. He always does everything so efficiently, Paul thought.

“Thanks,” Paul said, accepting a mug.

Carter was quiet as he let Paul take a sip. Then he said, “Did you speak to Sol before dinner yesterday?”

Paul felt Carter's eyes on him. He couldn't meet his gaze; instead he looked away, drinking his coffee. He felt like a double agent deep in enemy territory. He hadn't committed to anything with David Levin, he reminded himself. Not one thing. Still, the betrayal was there, ripe for the taking. How could he be expected to sit at this man's table and encourage his confidence, knowing he had a call with David in less than an hour? Paul wanted to flash Carter some kind of sign, like a lighthouse warning a ship off its rocky coast.
Be careful what you say now. You can't trust me with it.

“I spoke to Sol briefly,” Paul said. “Mostly about my interaction with David Levin at the SEC. He gave me a thumbnail sketch of what to expect from them in terms of an investigation into RCM.”

Carter nodded. “Our investors won't be pleased.”

“No, I wouldn't expect they would be.”

“We're all at risk here, Paul,” Carter said. “I mean, this was Alain's relationship. And Sol's going to do his best to insulate the rest of us from the fallout. But they're going for blood. CEOs, general counsels; taking us down makes for good press.”

“Sol was clear on that.” Paul shifted uncomfortably.

“What does Merrill know?” Carter asked. His tone softened slightly.

“I gave her a general outline. I tried not to upset her.”

“Did she ask about what it would mean for the firm? And for the family?”

“Honestly, sir, she was pretty quiet. I'm sure she's aware of what it could mean. She's entirely supportive of you, though.”

Carter replaced his mug carefully on the table. Staring at its rim, he snorted.

“Meaning what, Paul? She knows her dad's not a crook?” The first light of morning had crept its way across the countertops, and they could see each other more clearly now. Carter's benevolent face had contorted; Paul could see it, buried beneath his brows, the question that was brewing:
Who the fuck do you think you are?

“I'm sorry,” Paul said, taken aback. “I didn't mean to imply that anyone in the family wouldn't be supportive. We all are, of course.”

Carter was staring out the window at his lawn. On it stood four deer, their dappled bodies fading at the edges with the autumn grass. They looked well fed, though they always did this time of year; they would have to be in order to survive the winter. Unaware of their audience, the smallest of the four wandered off on its own, nose to the ground. The stag raised his head to watch him but returned to feeding after a moment. It looked like work, finding sustenance at this time of year. Though thick in the summer, the lawn had shrunk to a sparse brown carpet, glazed over in patches with frost. The deer worked their way across it in silent unison, their bodies nimble, alert. Paul knew if they were to move even slightly, the deer would sense that they were being watched and scamper off beneath the hedgerows.

“You love Merrill, I can tell,” Carter said finally. The edge was gone from his voice. “That was what I always wanted for her. Someone who would see her for who she is, and love her for her. I hope one day you two have children, Paul. Because no matter how much you do love her, I promise you it's a different kind of love from what I have. You probably think that you would do anything for her. But you wouldn't. Not like I would.”

Paul opened his mouth to disagree but said nothing.

The first time Paul had met Carter, Paul had beaten him in tennis. He had been dating Merrill a few months, since the beginning of their 2L year in law school. It was July and they were both working in the city. He was a summer associate at Howary, and Merrill was clerking for a judge in the Southern District. They weren't living together yet, but they had started spending more nights together than not, always at her apartment because it was nicer. The invitation to stay at her house in East Hampton for the weekend had come very casually over a dinner with Merrill's friends; the friends were invited, too. It didn't occur to him that her parents would be there. Not that it mattered. He would have spent the weekend in a Motel 6 in Hoboken if she had asked him to.

The weekend did not begin auspiciously. When he had arrived at Merrill's garage, Paul saw that he was already doing everything wrong. He stared awkwardly at the laces of his New Balances and hated the fact that he was wearing jeans. Josh, the other male houseguest, was dressed up. Not dressed up, exactly, but dressed: Nantucket reds, a button-down, and loafers with no socks. An expensive, bright blue cashmere sweater was tossed across his shoulders. Rachel, Josh's wife, and Merrill were in white pants and nearly identical cotton tunics. It was as if a memo had been circulated with the attire for the weekend, and Paul had missed it.

And then there were the three tennis bags that Josh was packing into the trunk.

“Where's your racquet?” Merrill said. The three weekenders looked at him inquisitively. “I thought I told you to bring it. We've got a court at the house.”

Paul was sure she hadn't told him, but he didn't want to seem combative. Before he could respond, Josh piped up: “He can borrow one of mine.” He threw Paul a little wink, which made Paul want to punch him.

“You have stuff to play in, right?”

“Sure,” Paul said casually, thinking of his Patagonia bathing suit and T-shirt. “Sure I do.”

“You'll be great,” Merrill said. She hopped into the driver's seat of her Mercedes sedan. “Ready to go? Dad will be dying to play by the time we get there.” She still had that new-girlfriend glow, that
you're perfect, why didn't I find you sooner?
vibe that women radiate in the early stages of a relationship. If the jeans bothered her, she didn't say so. But they bothered Paul. The weekend already felt off-kilter.

When they arrived at the house, Carter opened the front door and waved. Bacall had burst from behind him and ran down to the car, where he danced happily about Merrill's feet, all paws and slobber. Paul recognized Carter, of course, most recently from his picture in
Barron's
. Paul had always been careful not to say anything to Merrill that implied he knew who Carter was, outside of being her father. He didn't want to seem like some kind of creepy celebrity hound. He wasn't sure if that kind of thing existed for finance people. But even at law school, he saw how other students whispered about her family: Her dad was a rock-star fund manager, her mom was a socialite, her sister, Lily, was an It Girl, always in the society pages of magazines.

He couldn't tell if Merrill politely ignored the chatter or simply didn't know about it. Beyond gossip, Carter Darling was hard to miss for anyone who read the financial news. Paul figured Merrill would either think he was a moron for not knowing who her father was, or worse still would suspect he was more interested in Carter than in her if he did. So mostly he just nodded when she mentioned him.

In the beginning, Merrill painted her family only in broad strokes. Paul admired this about her. The way she dressed, the friends she kept, most of all, her warm, honest smile: All were both practical and refined, bespeaking good breeding but also a genuine kindness toward all people. Unlike nearly everyone else in New York (Paul knew himself to be among this flawed majority), Merrill was neither impressed nor embarrassed by where she came from. Some of Merrill's friends flaunted their wealth, but there was a smaller group that hid theirs, too. Paul found both unsettling. It was the easy way Merrill carried herself that made her so appealing. She was fluid in her own skin. When he had met her, Paul thought he would have to fall in love with her despite her family. But later, he came to see them as she did: neither a blessing nor a curse, but simply a fact.

Carter was already dressed for tennis when they arrived, in a polo shirt tucked cleanly into matching shorts. To Paul's surprise, Carter greeted him with warm familiarity. “I need an opponent,” he said. “Mine just canceled on me. You wouldn't mind keeping an old man on his toes for an hour or so, would you? Merrill tells me you used to play for UNC. She can help you find some clothes upstairs if you're up for it. We have plenty.”

Josh and Rachel said a quick hello, then retreated upstairs to the guest bedroom, leaving Paul to fend for himself.

Paul had never seen a home this nice. Not in person, anyway. The proportions, more than anything, were disorienting. All the things in the house felt oversized and grand: the Viking range that looked as though it belonged in a restaurant kitchen; enough plates and glasses to cater a wedding. Carter himself dwarfed Paul. They stood awkwardly together in the kitchen, Merrill's suitcase still in Paul's hand, and the screen door propped open with a wrought iron doorstop shaped like a dog. The kitchen itself was patterned in tiny white and blue tiles, liked the inside of a teacup. It smelled of fresh cut grass and tennis balls, the smells of summer. On the lawn, Paul could hear the far-off buzz of a landscaper's lawnmower.

“Shall we?” Carter said, gesturing to the outside. “Let's go hit some.”

Paul beat him, but not without thinking about it first. Carter seemed to him like the kind of man who would rather lose an honorable fight than win a fixed one. Paul let him take a few points here and there, but only on the occasionally excellent serve or volley. By the second game, they had gathered a crowd, Merrill and Ines and Josh and Rachel, who cheered with equal enthusiasm for both sides. The girls had changed into bathing suits and shorts, and they drank Bloodies out of plastic cups, swirling their celery stalks and laughing.

When it was over, Carter and Paul shook hands across the net.

“Great game,” Carter said, bowing his head without a trace of bitterness. “You weren't ever thinking of letting me win, were you?”

“No sir,” Paul said.

“Good. Good man. You seem like the kind of fellow who understands that even an old dog like me likes to win his own fights.”

“Paul?” Carter looked up from the window, as if suddenly struck by a thought. “I know we've never talked about this, but do you get along with your dad? Merrill mentioned to me—this is a long time ago now—that you don't speak much about him.”

“Haven't seen him since I was eight.”

“Do you talk to him? Know where he is?”