The Pearl Diver (9 page)

A night with Kendall and the kids. I had no idea what to expect. What I got was a TV marathon. As the children threw toys around the family room, Kendall ran around the house, double-checking that all the news shows were being recorded. She was working four different TV sets located in the master bedroom, the family room, the au pair’s bedroom, and her own study. Hugh liked electronics, but nothing as extreme as this, I thought as I went upstairs to the au pair’s bedroom, where I was supposed to record any mention of Kendall on the NBC affiliate. Saturday was usually a slow news day in Washington, and the airwaves had been full of Kendall during the supper news hour. Now it was eleven, and I was practically falling asleep, given my insomnia the night before, but I was duty bound to catch everything that Kendall said. She had been cleverly circumspect, volunteering none of the suspicions about the possible involvement of political rivals. Of course, because some of the press had read the release before Burns seized it, they asked her about political rivals of Harp Snowden, which was what she’d intended all along.

“I don’t know, honestly,” Kendall said for the cameras. “I don’t know who took me, or the motive. The men never sought money
from me and they did not harm me physically, except for my being tied.” Here, the cameras flashed on her bandaged wrists, and the reporters usually went on to comment about the crime rate in Washington, and perhaps to flash the exterior of Bento. Marshall had refused to allow cameras inside the restaurant.

I was sitting on the floor, my back against the bed, watching the news. Sports footage was playing, so I ran my gaze around the au pair’s room. Lisa had seemed to react normally when I’d seen her that morning. She’d been horrified about what had almost happened to Kendall, and full of hugs for the kids. I’d thought we should ask Lisa’s permission to enter her room to tape the program, but Kendall said that if it had been okay at noon, it would be okay now.

It was such a teen girl’s room, I thought; there was a poster of Britney Spears on the wall, a pink-and-purple Indian-print bedspread on the old spool bed, a bed that looked as if it had come out of my grandmother’s house. Kendall had been given some nice furniture. There was a marble-topped Victorian vanity crowded with toiletries—moisturizer and lip gloss and perfumes and K-Y jelly—

K-Y jelly? I looked at it again. I shouldn’t snoop, I told myself. The girl was nineteen, which was above the legal age of consent. She had to have a local boyfriend, that was it. I took another survey of her room. There, on the bedside table, was a cluster of family photos. Lisa smiling and holding flowers, standing in her high school graduation robe, flanked by her parents and siblings. Another one, Lisa with her friends in a rural area that, from the landscape, I guessed was South Africa. And finally, a solo shot of a serious-looking young man wearing a tuxedo, and herself in a long dress with a corsage on her wrist. The South African equivalent of a prom, I guessed. But if her boyfriend was in South Africa, why did she have K-Y jelly on her dresser?

Suddenly, the word “Bento” blared into my consciousness, and I rushed to hit the red button on the VCR. Kendall’s kidnapping story was on. When the newscast finished, I rewound the tape
and took it to Kendall, who was washing out the wineglass I’d barely used during dinner.

“Did I make it on NBC?” Kendall asked. “I was on our ABC affiliate but not WETA.”

“Yes, you made it. I have the tape here.”

Kendall smiled. “You probably think I’m a goof, getting so excited about being on television. But it’s kind of exciting! I’m so used to putting the spotlight on other people, not having it on myself.”

She was still in shock, I thought to myself. When she came out of it, she would drop the brittle facade and cry. To change the topic, I asked where Win was. I hadn’t seen him at all during the day, and I half-wondered if he was staying away from me because of the awkwardness the night before.

“He got up around three and then had to go out to show some houses. Now he has another meeting. Let’s hope it turns into a deal.”

“Wow, he really works late.”

“Twenty-four seven.” Kendall smiled wanly. “I’m so glad you could be in the house tonight.”

“Surely he’ll be back by midnight,” I said, glancing at the clock.

“Oh, he might be later. He says that the only way he can get things done is by working in the office when nobody’s there.”

“I see. And Lisa’s out tonight with her boyfriend, then?”

“Oh, God, does she have a boyfriend? Did she tell you something like that?” Kendall groaned.

“No. I said very little to Lisa this morning, but I just thought she was probably seeing someone, given her age.”

“One of the things I thought was great about her was that she had a fiancé back in Johannesburg. I thought that would mean less dating, you know, more availability for baby-sitting in the evenings. But it hasn’t really worked out that way. She’s got tons of girlfriends and they go out almost every night to Georgetown or anywhere they hear has boys. But who can blame her? Remember us at that age?”

I remembered Kendall: always so pretty, popular, and daring. “How do you get along with Lisa?”

“She’s very sweet. I know the kids love her, and God knows, she has been a lifesaver during the times they had strep throat and colds and whatnot.”

“But how do you and she get along personally?” I persisted.

Kendall hesitated for a second. “I guess okay. Sometimes I think she’s judging me, you know, for spending so much time out of the house, and then needing a hand when I get home, but honestly, with Win being busy, I do need help.”

I thought carefully about how to phrase my next question. “Are there ever times when you’re out doing your charities, or whatever, that Win is home caring for the children?”

“If he’s home, he wants Lisa to help with them. It’s too much for him otherwise. Let me warn you: It’s like that with all guys. Hugh may look perfect now, but…he’s not a diaper changer. I can tell from his hands.” Kendall poured the remaining few inches of wine from the bottle into her own glass.

“What can you tell about Hugh’s hands?”

“They’re too big. He’ll be all thumbs.” Kendall sipped, then smiled.

“Not long ago, you said his hands were a sign of fertility. Now it’s parental incompetence.”

Kendall giggled. “I guess it all depends on which expert I’m quoting. Fundraisers like to do that, you know.”

I’d worried so much about Kendall, built up in my mind what a tragedy it would be to lose her. There were plenty of reasons to feel sorry for her, but her attitude was driving me crazy. Still, I’d try one more appeal. “Kendall, do you remember when we were little…the Barbies?”

“Barbies? You mean, like, drugs? I don’t do anything like that anymore.”

“When we were four, you taught me how to play with Barbie dolls. And then, at summer’s end, you let me choose my favorites and take them back to California. You were so generous.”

“No problem, Rei. I don’t need them back. Jacquie’s already starting to get them at birthday parties, can you believe, and she’s not yet three.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” I said. “I mean, when we were really young, things seemed so…easy between us. Last night, when you were gone, I just—I just knew something was wrong. It was like that communication was open again.”

“Are you talking about woo-woo?” Kendall said. “Because actually, I was thinking about you. I hoped you’d notice that I’d been gone for a while, though of course, there was no chance of you finding me, once I went in that car.”

“I was anxious right away. I still am. The thing is, Kendall, the police need to find out who took you—”

“Of course they do. But they’ll never get to the truth. It’s too political.”

“Yes, the people who took you might have been connected with presidential politicking…or it might be someone else. Someone who chose you randomly”—here, I was referring to Jiro’s thoughts about restaurant sabotage—“or someone who knows you personally. There might be something you haven’t even thought about, like the odd person out in a”—how could I say this politely?—“a love triangle.”

“You think I’m running around on Win?” Kendall’s eyes glittered with strong emotion. “With whom? Let me guess, you think Harp Snowden.”

“I really wasn’t thinking like that.” I’d been thinking of Win and Lisa.

“Well, let me tell you one thing, Rei. I hold the reins in the relationship, because I bring in money. No political hopeful would be stupid enough to try to seduce or sexually harass a woman fund-raiser. Word would get around town so fast he’d be dead.”

“Really.” I was struck by her vehemence.

“That’s right. To Harp, I’m the Virgin Mary. He can genuflect at my feet, but it stops there. I once thought you were smart, Rei, but it seems as if you’re awfully naive not to know this—”

“I’m sorry, Kendall. I never thought about it that way.” I had never seen her so enraged. Now I was afraid to bring up Win’s stoned appearance. She’d have an excuse for that, I bet, and more harsh words for me. “Anyhow, I better go up to bed now. Tomorrow I have a ton of things to do.”

“Like what?” Kendall seemed slightly mollified by my apology.

“Well, I’ve got to straighten up the apartment, since I’ve hardly been there long enough to put anything away. Then I’m meeting a friend at a cafe, and I have to hit the farmers’ market, and finally, I’m picking up Hugh at the airport.”

“The carefree, child-free life.” Kendall winked at me. “Soon those cafe days will be over.”

Maybe so, I thought after I said good night, went to the guest room, and settled in between the pretty, but scratchy, poly and cotton sheets. My cafe days might come to an end, but I wouldn’t seek to replace them with what she had.

Around six-thirty the next morning, I went home. It was a complicated procedure, because I had to call a cab to take me to the Metro station; it wasn’t worth it to wake Kendall, I thought. I was home an hour later, and used the next hour to clean the apartment. Then I jogged over to the farmers’ market in Dupont Circle. The market was packed, as usual, with the assortment of foodies fighting over astronomically priced produce. I had wanted to get some morel mushrooms to sauté with garlic, but the last box was snatched up as I waited in line. Well, asparagus was in season. I was pondering which bunch to grab when I heard a familiar Japanese voice in my ear.

“Oh, hello!” I turned and saw that Jiro was wearing jeans and had a canvas shopping bag slung over his shoulder. He would have looked like a civilian, except for the fact that his shirt was a hip-length white cotton
kurta
that reminded me of what he wore in the kitchen.

“Take the thick one. Better texture,” he said, eyeing the slim spears of asparagus I’d just touched.

“I always thought small ones had better flavor.” With a feeling of skepticism, I took the stout bunch he handed me.

“I promise you, this is better for both taste and texture. Blanch it for just under a minute, then slice on the diagonal and toss with
mirin
and sesame oil. You can add some toasted sesame seed as garnish.” He put the thicker bundle in my hand.

“Thanks for the recipe. Are you shopping here for business or pleasure?” I asked.

“Just the restaurant,” he said with a light laugh. “I don’t have the time to cook at home.”

“Isn’t it cheaper and easier to get the produce from a supplier?” I wondered aloud.

“Of course, but there are some really special things here. There is a farmer who grows
shiso
leaves, which you cannot get anywhere else. And sometimes, I can get quail eggs, which I need for the garnish on several dishes. What else have you bought?” He eyed my shoulder bag.

“Nothing,” I said. “I got here so late. I wanted to make a nice meal to welcome Hugh home tonight. I missed out on our favorite mushroom for risotto.”

“
Ah so desu ka
,” Jiro said. “Why don’t you cook a fish?”

“I thought it was a bad idea to buy fish on Sundays,” I said.

“Try those fellows at the end. They caught the trout directly in a mountain spring in West Virginia. Now, I prefer the whole fish salt grilled. Do you know how?”

“Sure. It’s a French technique—”

“And also Japanese. Watch out, I will have you cooking in the kitchen soon.
Sayonara.
” He smiled and left.

As I was paying for the asparagus, a slim young man behind me asked, “Is that the Japanese guy who was on
Iron Chef
?”

I nodded.

“Cool,” he said. “May I touch your asparagus?”

“How about trying his cooking at the new restaurant called Bento?” I said over my shoulder as I shot off for the fish vendor. I would try the trout, after all.

Half an hour later, I’d finished shopping at the farmers’ market and bought an extra container of coarse sea salt at a bodega in my neighborhood. I parked the fish and vegetables in the fridge and jogged again to Urban Grounds, the cafe where Andrea wanted to meet. I’d been there before. It was just around the corner from Eighteenth Street’s hodgepodge of Asian and African restaurants, incense and home-design shops. Urban Grounds was nursery-school cheerful, its pink and orange walls decorated with whimsical oversized sculpted coffee cups. A glass case held croissants, scones, and sticky buns in the morning, and lavish pastries and cakes in the afternoon. I eyed the chocolate hazelnut croissant but remembered how, just a month ago, Kendall had asked me if I was pregnant. I passed on the chocolate and ordered a toad in the hole: an omega-3 egg that was cooked in a hole cut in the middle of a slice of whole-wheat toast. Protein was what I needed.

Andrea was already there when I entered, sitting at a table in the back. I waved to her, and indicated that I was going to order my breakfast. As I did so, I thought it seemed strange that Andrea hadn’t taken a better table, up front. There had been a few free when I’d walked in, but now they were filled with Adams-Morgan weekend regulars.

“Thanks for coming,” Andrea said when I finally sat down. She was dressed in low-slung jeans and layered orange and pink camisoles that ended just above her navel. Today, her navel was studded with a purple crystal. How slim and sexy her midriff looked, I thought, reflexively touching my own softness under the spandex running tights I was wearing. Andrea sipped a cup of black coffee and looked incredulously at my latte, into which I was stirring three sugars. At least it was raw sugar.