Carousel Court (33 page)

Phoebe reads the first few lines. It's a joke. It's a job description cut and pasted from Monster.com:
Brand ambassador (55k) Saks Fifth Avenue

Phoebe stops reading after the section that reads:
The Brand Ambassador is responsible for driving their business and creating their own success.

She sends a text message:
haha

He responds:
Thoughts?

About what?

The position.

What position?

I know it's not remotely connected to what we've discussed but I think it's all I can do for you now. My situation is in flux, turned upside down and back again. Will explain.

Who is this? Who are you trying to reach? JW, this is Phoebe. You're messaging the wrong person.

I know who I'm messaging, Pheebs.

You're fucking with me and I don't know why? :)

It's Saks. I figured you'd enjoy the perks. HUGE employee discounts ;)

How drunk are you?

Sadly sober.

Saks in NYC? That's a job you think would suit me.

Greenwich, CT.

You're not serious so will ignore this.

It's pressure-free. Easy living.

Who did you really mean to send the email to?
One of your other girls?

I've figured something out.

What IS this really?

Will discuss. Maybe a bad idea. Maybe just stupidity.

You offered me something. Are you rescinding it?

Forget it. Shouldn't have sent. Some chaos in my world none of which has anything to do with you.

It very well does have to do with me if—fucking SAKS?!

It'll all be fine.

She taps out
Fuck you
and deletes it. She taps out
You fucking dick
. She taps out more crude terms and deletes them all.

• •

Cicadas are falling from the trees into four feet of green sludge in the pool. The air is all smoke and burns her lungs. Phoebe wonders how long it takes to drown. Could she fall face-first into the pool and stay under until she passes out? She wonders if Nick would dive in after
her. For the first time since she's known him, she's unsure of the answer. He might very well let her drown.

There is no D&C for Phoebe. She called again. She reached the same sympathetic administrative assistant who knew her by voice. There was no conversation to arrange with De Bent. He wouldn't take or return her calls. She'd made five. Today was the sixth and last. The admin confirmed: The position she'd interviewed for had been filled. There was nothing for her at D&C. And there was no Laguna house. There was an apartment in New York City that was either available or not. If the position JW emailed her about, at Saks Fifth Avenue in Greenwich, Connecticut, is the offer, there is no path forward, no quick fix. There is the here and now: the thick smoke, the suicidal cicadas, and a life further from anything she ever imagined for herself than she can take.

Phoebe stands in the wind on the edge of the pool, arms by her sides, cicadas and debris swirling around her. If she raised her arms and held them aloft, she might look like something out of Revelation.

70

F
rom under a white sheet next to Jackson's crib, Phoebe watches the rotating blades of the ceiling fan until she's too dizzy to keep her eyes open. This is how she starts the day.

She's talking sleepily to him. She sings his name quietly as she sits up. She turns to him when he doesn't respond. The crib is empty.

The note Nick left on the kitchen island reads:
He's at Mai's.

She has the day to herself. The house feels bigger, emptier, than when they first arrived. She checks her phone. There are no messages from JW, though she wasn't expecting any. She considers it, decides not to text or call him. There are no messages from crude physicians or her district manager because she no longer works there. She stands alone at the kitchen island. The curtains and blinds are open. Harsh sunlight pours through. She walks from window to window, closing each set of blinds, pulling all the curtains closed until the house is dark. Everything shakes in the winds. The loose bedroom window rattles, the trees bend in it. Over the hum of the central air is the sound of her own breathing. She feels as empty and still as the house itself.

71

N
ick says “No thank you” when the man in the orange apron behind the register offers him a Home Depot account. He moves through stores like IKEA and Bed Bath & Beyond with purpose. He arranges deliveries and pays in advance for assembly. He registers and interviews and submits background check information to the agency. He is granted access to the website and surveys profiles, sends emails and has conversations with four women, arranges successive meetings at Starbucks with two of them, and chooses one.

The woman, Jackson's new nanny, leaves the Starbucks and Nick finishes entering her contact information into his iPhone. She can start in a week. He sets reminders and deletes items from a list. He sends a text message to Phoebe:
How is he?

Her response is immediate.
Fine
.

When do you leave?

Stop Nick

It's NYC, right, that's where you're following
him to? Quite the trail you're blazing. A real example for our son. There's a term for what you do, what you've been doing for years.

Stop.

Whoring. Piece by piece you've whored yourself out.

Not true.

I need another day or two. Can you wait that long? Before the wind pisses you away?

Fuck you

Glad he's with Mai and not you. Just called her. He'll spend the night there.

Not necessary.

Actually, I'm coming home. I'll be there soon.

And then?

Then you're free. Gone. Go.

So you'll stay?

Only when you leave.

You're being ridiculous.

I don't know how I missed it. All the signals. From the start.

Don't blame yourself.

I was young and stupid. I was insecure

Was?

That's it. I needed affirmation and you were good at that. That's a skill you've lost for sure. But you always managed to pump me up. That's your con. That's why they keep you around. The pharmas
and the JWs. That's my wife. The corporate fluffer. Fuck me. How did I miss that?

Don't come home.

Stop me.

Changed the locks.

Bullshit.

Will call police if you try to break in.

Shoot me.

• •

An hour later, he forwards her the picture Arik sent from Mallory's phone: Nick and Phoebe's address on Carousel Court, scrawled on cardboard.

Some assholes might pay a visit. Blame me if they do. They may show up looking like this. Shoot them instead.

He attaches an image of a white latex mask.

72

I
t's almost noon. She is supposed to meet JW at a country store in Malibu. From her rental car, she calls Mai.

“Is he awake?” He is. “Can I say hello to him?”

Jackson says, “Hi, Mommy! Froggy looking at me,” about a frog in a small koi pond Mai has in their backyard.

“I'll see you very, very soon, precious, okay?”

• •

The little shop off the beach is closing early because of the fires. A man stands on the roof, douses it with water from a hose. The store is nearly empty and smells like pine. The floor creaks beneath Phoebe's sandals. The tan bohemian woman behind the counter wears a crochet top and jean shorts and is watching local news coverage of the fires. Phoebe hears the rushed urgent tones of the two other customers; they're escaping to Santa Barbara.

Phoebe picks out a twelve-dollar pastel sea-glass key chain for the keys to the Manhattan apartment. The woman behind the counter gives her a sympathetic look, her gaze falling to the torn collar of Phoebe's stained white cotton dress. Phoebe's sunglasses fall from the
top of her head when she reaches for the credit card that was declined. She hands the woman a ten-dollar bill, and as she's reaching into her bag to search for more cash, the woman says, “That's fine.”

Phoebe awaits word from JW, the only reason she's here. His condition for seeing him. He likes the game. He sent her instructions:
Rent a car. Directions: Take the 110 West, then PCH to Malibu, the little shop at the first exit past the 76 station, text me when you're there.

From the front seat of the car, she dangles the apartment keys and new key chain from freshly manicured fingernails. She snaps the image and sends it. The response is immediate:
Those aren't real. The keys.

?

I was making a point. Closing a deal.

Of course,
she writes back.

She didn't know. Of course she thought the keys were real. A set of three silver keys to the heavy oak door that opened up to her thirty-third-floor three-bedroom with a glimpse of Central Park and rooftop deck and the fresh start. A golden opportunity, a leg up, a clean break that, if she didn't fully deserve, she would surely earn.

If I'm in NYC tomorrow, where can I get a real set of keys?

See you soon.

She buries her feet in the cold wet sand of the beach. The spray off the ocean is foamy and has a polluted pink tinge, wraps itself around her as the tide moves in. She closes her eyes. The surf is pounding. Her head throbs from no sleep. Gray and white gulls idle in strong gusts off the water, cry out. She won't move until he calls.

• •

“Where are you?” JW's voice is rushed.

“Where you told me to be.”

“Stay put. Almost there.” He's driving. Phoebe can barely hear his voice over the wind.

“Then where?”

“You'll see.”

“Why this secrecy?”

“It's a surprise.” Everything goes quiet. She waits a beat, wonders if he dropped the call. He clears his throat.

“I want to go tonight. I can fly to New York tonight.”

There's no response.

• •

The black BMW that arrives an hour later is his and the only other car aside from hers in the gravel lot. He doesn't get out; the windows are tinted. The message on her phone is from him:
Follow me.

• •

The main house is ranch-style, midcentury, and lies beyond a massive stone archway. It's deserted. JW says, “I have keys,” dangles a set of two brass keys in front of Phoebe, who refuses to get out of her car. A helicopter, the third she's seen, passes low overhead. They park in a deserted circular gravel lot. JW slings a leather bag over his shoulder and grabs a
Financial Times
and his iPad, sets the alarm of the car, and approaches Phoebe, who sits in the idling rental car, still gripping the wheel, the air-conditioning blasting. He motions for her to come, follows a cobblestone path leading down a dry ivy-­covered hillside, dotted with eucalyptus and short palms, which becomes dirt until they reach the guest cabin: yellow, small, but neat and clean.

The air-conditioning has been turned off and the place is only a white king-size bed, a low whiskey-colored leather sofa and matching armchair, and a white plush throw rug. Candles are everywhere and JW immediately turns on the thermostat and the cool air is instantaneous and flows through black metal teeth in the hardwood floor. On the wall over the bed, Phoebe sees them: three bronze men ascending braided iron ropes. They're nude, muscular, and determined.

“Bruschetta,” JW says, standing over a mini refrigerator. “Brie, pinot, Pellegrino, roasted cashews.” Then he makes a sound of deep satisfaction. “She didn't. She did. God love her.” He produces a silver tray of oysters. The note he reads is from the proprietor of the bed-and-breakfast: “ ‘Fresh today from Water Grill, per your request.' ” He
hands the rice-paper note to Phoebe. What he didn't read:
Be safe!
Phoebe assumes it's a reference to the fires.

“Sit,” he says. “Open wide.” He holds a shell to her mouth. It requires every ounce of will not to slap it from his hand. The grip of her interlaced fingers is too tight. She offers a tight smile, keeps her mouth closed, shakes her head.

“More for me,” he says, and slurps the oyster, spilling some on his chin, wiping it with the back of his hand. “I'm not some kind of monster. I know you're ascribing all sorts of motivations to what must seem like schizophrenic plotting and replotting.”

She watches. He won't stop moving, checking out the room, pulling back the sheer white curtains, rechecking the thermostat. “And I know you're here for some clarity, and we'll figure it out. As we always have.” He ducks through a narrow doorway that must be the bathroom, then dips back out. “Oh, Jesus, I am wrecked,” he announces as he stretches, and when his arms extend, the hem of his oxford rises to reveal some extra weight around the middle. “Eat, eat. Come on.” He's walking back to the silver oyster tray.

She grabs his left forearm and squeezes. “How do these assholes do it?”

Their eyes lock. His are bloodshot and tired, the creases in his forehead pronounced, his stubble more gray than brown.

“I used to ask you,” she says. “How all the young assholes who worked for you could afford million-dollar homes before they turned twenty-nine.”