This day, Daphne did not want to talk to Lock. She was adamant about that from the beginning.
I’m calling to talk to you, Gavin. I want to tell you something.
Surprisingly, the “something” she had to tell him was not about a third party—not about the postmaster dating a twenty-year-old Bulgarian house cleaner, not about Jeanette Hix’s being addicted to diet pills, which gave her insomnia, which led her to prowl the Cumberland Farms at four in the morning and shoplift a ninety-nine-cent bag of caramel Bugles.
Instead, Daphne said,
Lock tells me you’re doing a fantastic job. You, my friend, are a wizard. I hope you’re planning a nice, long vacation after this is over, someplace exotic. You deserve it, darling. I’m proud of you.
Well, thank you, Daphne,
Gavin said. He hung up the phone, impressed. A conversation with Daphne, and not one sideways reference, not one barbed word. Only sincere praise, or a passing along of praise, because she wanted him to know. He was proud of himself.
One night, when Gavin was getting ready to leave at five o’clock (heading home, where he would sit on his parents’ deck looking at the ocean, drinking wine, smoking, listening to Mozart, reading his Lonely Planet guide to Southeast Asia . . . Vietnam was sounding better and better), Lock stopped him.
“Gavin?”
Gavin stopped by the door. Lock’s tone of voice was ominous. Was this it, then? Gavin wasn’t prepared! Think! Whip out the weapon. He had the knife sharpened in his mind; all he had to do was wield it!
Gavin smiled expectantly, his mind a whirlwind. What was it he had planned to say?
Before you contact the authorities, let me say one thing: I know about you and Claire. I came into the office one night in April. I saw you two . . . together.
Lock was slow to speak. He looked pained. God, this was torture! Gavin stood there, caught in the force field of the insidious thing he had done—stealing from the very cause he was working so hard to promote!—and he was overcome with remorse and nearly unbearable disgrace. Lock was going to put a name to his acts—theft, robbery, embezzlement. This acknowledgment alone would kill Gavin. Committing the crime was one thing, but having it exposed was quite another. Had he learned nothing from taking advantage of Diana Prell in the broom closet, or from the debacle at Kapp and Lehigh? Gavin experienced what could only be described as pure, unadulterated shame. He was, as they said in certain Asian cultures,
losing face.
Gavin understood this turn of phrase now. Even as he stood, waiting for Lock to lower the hatchet, his face was stiff and burning. He could not look Lock in the eye, so he gazed beyond Lock, out the twenty-paned window into the late summer afternoon.
Lock rose and approached him. Instinctively, Gavin backed up, but he was not fast enough to get away. Lock caught him, clapped him on the shoulder.
“I know things haven’t been easy around here,” Lock said.
Gavin’s eyebrows shot up. He thought of Rosemary Pinkle and how disappointed she would be. She was such a nice woman and she believed in Gavin. Tomorrow he was supposed to join her for drinks in her garden with a niece she wanted him to meet.
“With the gala, I mean. All the phone calls. Isabelle pushing you one way, Claire pulling you the other.”
Gavin nodded, uncomprehending. His parents were due in next week. They would not appreciate arriving to scandal. Gavin wasn’t quite sure what they thought of him—he had never been quite sure—but he knew it wasn’t terribly good. He hadn’t measured up, somehow.
“And I just want to say thank you. You’re doing a great job.” Lock squeezed Gavin’s shoulder in emphasis, so firmly that it hurt.
“I am?” Gavin said reflexively. He breathed out his fear.
“I’m so grateful. If this gala comes off in the legendary way I think it will, it’s in no small part because of your hard work.”
“Oh,” Gavin said.
“But you’re not off the hook yet,” Lock said.
“No?” Gavin said.
“The worst is probably still to come.”
“You think?” Gavin said.
“Yes,” Lock said.
He Blows It
T
here was only one time previously in his life that had been as frenetic and difficult as this summer. He had been in the process of buying a company, one bigger than his own; he had someone else handling the financing so that he could focus on the negotiations, which were primarily with an older gentleman named Gus MacEvoy, who owned the other, bigger company, and who was reluctant to sell. Most of Lock’s dealings were classic M&A stuff, pages right out of his business school textbook, but that didn’t make it any less stressful or consuming. And to make matters more complicated, Daphne was at home with Heather, who was eighteen months old and driving Daphne crazy. Daphne had undergone surgery to remove her ovaries a few months before, and she was still in pain and was suffering from a hormonal imbalance. When Lock got home (with all that was going on in the office, this was sometimes not until eight or nine at night), Daphne was alternately whimpering, fuming, or despondent. Her life, she said, was tedious beyond belief. It was
Sesame Street
and peekaboo and endless putterings up and down the street while Heather picked a dandelion, or put a pebble in her mouth, or ran ahead, stumbled, and cried. Heather threw her food instead of eating it. Heather spilled things, she broke things, she ripped pages out of Daphne’s magazines, she fussed unless Daphne read
The Runaway Bunny
three hundred consecutive times. She had to be held. She screamed in protest every time she had her diaper changed. Daphne took her to the playground, and one of the other mothers made a sideways comment because Daphne was reading the
New Yorker
while Heather was playing in the sandbox.
I was not cut out to be a mother,
Daphne said.
I want to put her up for adoption.
Lock had laughed. He thought Daphne was kidding.
We’re not going to do that,
he said.
Well, you don’t get a vote,
Daphne said,
BECAUSE YOU’RE NEVER HOME!
Those days had been hard, but they’d survived. Lock bought the company with Gus MacEvoy’s blessing; Heather grew quickly into a charming little girl—for a while there, her mother’s best friend.
And, Lock told himself, he would survive this summer. The gala would make them enough money to fund all of their programs and initiatives and start an endowment, and he and Claire would be able to get back on track.
Right now, however, the relationship was floundering. Claire blamed him, and to avoid further arguing, he accepted the blame. He apologized; there was little he could do.
What had happened was this: He and Daphne had been eating dinner on their deck. It was hot, so they’d ordered sushi, washing it down with silver gin fizzes. This sounded pleasant in the telling, but Daphne was growing more belligerent and demeaning with each sip of her drink, talking about this person and that person, wondering aloud about the sexual preferences of these near strangers, and then, ultimately, wondering about Lock’s sexual practices with Isabelle French. Rather than engage Daphne in that fight once again, Lock stood up to clear the dishes. And there, ascending the stairs from the front door, was his daughter, Heather. Lock nearly dropped the plates. She had come home.
The Vineyard, Heather said, was crowded and noisy, there was traffic, there wasn’t anything for teenagers to do, and Désirée’s parents never wanted to drive them anywhere because of the traffic, so they sat in the house, bored, and they bickered. Désirée said,
If you hate it here so much, why don’t you just go home?
So . . . here she was.
Lock hugged her. “You can always come home, sweetie. Your rooms are all ready for you. God, am I glad to see you!” Daphne was still on the deck, possibly carrying on her invective with herself. Lock didn’t want her to see Heather yet; he didn’t want her to ruin it. Heather might leave as suddenly as she’d come. As it was, she would be here for more than four weeks. It was a gift he’d never expected.
It did not sit well with Claire. She was, naturally, happy for Lock, happy that Lock was happy. But Heather’s presence put a limit on when they could see each other. Now, after work, Lock went right home. He and Heather drove to the beach and they swam. Lock was teaching Heather to surf cast; she caught a bluefish on the second night. Heather had to train for field hockey, which would begin as soon as she went back to school, so she rose early and went running, but Lock didn’t like to think of her out on the dirt roads around their house alone—the roads where Daphne had had her accident. So Lock began getting up early and going with her; he needed to lose weight, anyway. He couldn’t meet Claire late at night when he had to get up at six in the morning to go running. He couldn’t meet Claire because he and Heather were surf casting or he and Heather were renting
Night at the Museum
or he was taking Heather to the Pearl for dinner. Or Heather was at the movies with her friends and from there was going to the Juice Bar for ice cream and from there was going to hang out on the strip. When the hanging out was over (eleven o’clock, her curfew), Lock had to pick her up.
“That’s perfect,” Claire said. “You can stay with me until eleven. Tell Daphne we’re working on the seating chart.”
“Right,” said Lock. “But Heather might need me before eleven. If she wants to go home early.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” Claire said.
He had expected her to be more understanding. She had four children; she was a slave to their schedules as much as he was to Heather’s.
“I have to be available for her,” Lock said. He was terrified that Heather would get bored and take off, that she would find fault with him or with Daphne and leave. Claire’s kids were younger; they were not at the point yet where they could use their own wings.
But just wait until they do,
Lock said.
It will throw you for a loop. You will understand, then, where I’m coming from.
Claire said, “I feel like I’ve been replaced.”
“I feel funny doing this when Heather’s on the island,” he said. “She’s always been away—at school, or on the Vineyard. Now that she’s here, I feel worse about it somehow, like I’m betraying her.”
Claire narrowed her eyes. “How dare you say that.”
“What?”
“I have children, too. I have four sweet, adorable children at home, but I don’t throw them down in your path to make you feel guilty, do I? I leave the kids out of it. Heather isn’t any different because she’s yours; she’s not better or more special than my children.”
“I wasn’t saying she was.”
“You were so. You said you felt like you were betraying her. All of the kids are getting betrayed, Lock—I’ve had to live with it since last fall.”
He kissed her head. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
She pulled away. “You are so hurtful. You are so arrogant. God, it infuriates me.”
He was tempted to let her go. Even a few weeks ago, this would have been unthinkable. He needed Claire; his happiness depended on her. But Heather was his daughter, his only child. Did he have to keep explaining it?
“I’m afraid she’s going to leave,” he said. “I have to do everything humanly possible to keep her here.”
Claire pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m going,” she said.
Lock checked his watch. “Okay,” he said. Claire flew down the stairs. “I love you,” he called out. She slammed the door.
He saw her again a few days later, and he apologized. They were both under a lot of stress, he said. Once the gala was over, things would get back to normal.
“What exactly
is
normal?” Claire said.
He laughed, but she did not find it funny. He changed the subject. “I saw you bought your table for the concert.”
“Matthew paid for it.”
“Matthew?”
“Max West. He sent me a check.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I didn’t have the money. Not even close.”
“You said you had money set aside.”
“I lied.”
“Jesus, Claire, if you needed money, you could have asked me.”
“What?”
“You could have asked me. I would have happily bought your table.”
“And what exactly would you have told Daphne?”
“She wouldn’t have noticed.”
“She wouldn’t have noticed?”
“It all goes through our accountant,” Lock said. “I wish you had asked me. Instead of hitting up your old rock-star boyfriend.”
“Did you actually just utter that sentence?” Claire said.
“What?” Lock said. “I would have liked to come to your rescue. I wish you’d asked me instead of Max.”
“You’re picking a fight with me.”
“I’m confused. Why did you feel you had to lie to Isabelle?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“No, it isn’t. There was no pressure for you to take a twenty-five-thousand-dollar table.”
“Yes, there was.”
“You imagined there was.”
“Don’t be an ass, Lock. There was pressure. ‘We have to lead by example, I am leading by example, we have to sit up front together . . . ’ ”
She was doing a fair imitation of Isabelle’s voice, and Lock smiled.
“Don’t laugh. It’s not funny. I was bullied into it.”
“Well, you didn’t end up paying. You should be happy.”
“Happy?” she said. She was angry now. Her lips were pale and bloodless and her cheeks were blazing. He needed to let this subject go. Was he affronted that she hadn’t asked him for the money? Yes, he was, a little bit.
He grabbed her. “I want to be the person who fixes your problems. I want you to turn to me.”
“But I can’t,” Claire said. “I love you madly and badly, but I can’t depend on you for anything because
you’re not mine
. And you’ll never
be
mine, will you?”
That was the question. The affair had seemed so right when it started; it had been the answer to his prayers. But with each passing day it got more complicated. He felt himself sinking and he wanted to sink, he wanted to become utterly consumed with Claire—but he couldn’t take the final step and leave Daphne. He was certainly not willing to do it with Heather at home.
“I’m giving you everything I have,” he said.
“You’re giving me everything you have,” Claire said. “But it’s not enough.”
“It’s not?” he said.
The next day, Benjamin Franklin, treasurer of the Nantucket’s Children board of directors, walked into the office and asked Lock to see the financial records since the audit. Lock glanced at Gavin’s desk. Gavin was out for the afternoon: his parents were arriving on the island that evening, and Gavin needed time to spruce the house up, get his father’s Cherokee serviced, buy flowers and wine for his mother, et cetera, et cetera. Gavin would know where the financials were; he would be able to explain it all to Ben Franklin. Wouldn’t you just know that Ben Franklin would come while Gavin was out? Frustrating!
“Why do you want to see them, Ben?” Lock asked. This was, after all, an unusual request. Ben Franklin was reluctant at best about being treasurer, lazy at worst; he liked Gavin to do all the work for him. And Ben wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer anymore. Lock studied him. Did he even know what he was asking?
Ben chuckled. “My granddaughter Eliza works at the bank as a summer teller.”
“And?”
“And I’d like to look the books over. To see what it is you’re trying to hide.”
“Hide?” Lock said. “Gavin keeps the most impeccable books you’ve ever seen.” He stood up, and Ben trailed him to Gavin’s desk. Lock opened the filing cabinet.
Financials 2007–8:
a manila folder with the bank statements. He pulled it and handed it to Ben.
“And I need the donor log,” Ben said. “And a copy of the most recent budget.”
“Yep, yep, yep,” Lock said, trying not to sound impatient. One of Ben’s twenty million grandchildren worked at the bank as a summer teller, and for this reason Ben wanted to see the financials? It was a complete non sequitur. Lock logged on to Gavin’s computer, pulled up the files, and printed them out. Ben Franklin and Lock were silent as the pages printed; Lock was preoccupied with thinking who on the current board might replace Ben as treasurer. It was a thankless job; nobody wanted to do it. Lock handed the sheets to Ben. “There you go, sir. I’m sure you’ll find them all in order.”
Ben tipped an imaginary hat. “I’m sure I will.”
T
hey made a pact: no more fighting. Things had become tense between them.
I feel like you’re squeezing me in,
Claire said.
It’s felt that way to me since we started,
Lock said.
I always have to accommodate your schedule. And you’re a frightfully busy woman. Now I’m busier because of Heather. I squeeze you in, you squeeze me in. We squeeze each other in. Nothing in this relationship is as one-sided as you think it is, Claire.
No?
she said. She was dying to challenge him. Just seeing his name on the display of her cell phone made her feel combative. It wasn’t right.
So they’d called a truce. They shook hands. Just get through the next three weeks, past the gala, get Heather back to Andover, the kids back in school. Start over. Agreed? Agreed.
The work for the gala was almost done. It was time to enjoy it, Lock said. After all, it was a party.
A party! Yes, he was right. The g.d. chandelier was completed. Ted Trimble had it now and he was—very carefully—wiring it. Claire had eight spaces at her table to fill. Since Matthew had paid for the table, Claire was able to give seats away. She invited Siobhan and Carter first and—surprise!—Siobhan was thrilled. Claire invited Adams and Heidi Fiske and Christo and Delaney Kitt. She invited Ted and Amie Trimble as a thank-you for wiring the chandelier. Already, Claire was feeling better. She was feeling excited. She would be up front, surrounded by her dearest friends. This was
her
event. Max West would play, and Pietro da Silva would auction off the first piece she had created in nearly two years. She was the cochair. This was
her
party, thrown in a tent as big as an airplane hangar. Whoo-hoo!