C
HAPTER
40
“G
od, I think my vagina’s broken,” Gail said as she pushed past Claire with a slight hitch in her step, and placed a portable printer on Claire’s kitchen table.
Carolyn followed close behind with a fruit tray and began untangling and plugging in cords. “Miss Pilates Thighs couldn’t hold the stud at bay with her quads?” she asked with barely concealed jealousy.
Claire watched the scene in her bathrobe, confused and still groggy from sleep and two Advil PMs.
“Jackie called early this morning with some concerns from your mother,” Gail explained. “Most notably that there’s so much crap—and
crap
was the word Mama apparently repeated with such frequency and venom in her voice that your sister is ready to get her a T-shirt with the word emblazoned on it. Anyway, she was worried that Michael’s shit trail was overwhelming you, and that you could use some help. She couldn’t get out of school, so here we are.”
“Crap triage, at your service.” Carolyn took a ream of printer paper out of her Chanel satchel and loaded it into the printer tray. “We’ll help you print and organize all the data for Jack, so he can prepare for the forthcoming . . . what was it?”
“
Legal crapendectomy,
I believe,” Gail said, taking Claire’s hand and walking her over to the table. “I had no idea Cora had such a wonderful way with words.”
“Neither did I.” Claire checked her cell and found three worried text messages from Jackie. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and wrote back to thank her for sending in the cavalry, noting that it really wasn’t necessary. There was also a voice mail from Andrea announcing an opening at 4:00. “I need to call Nicky and get cleaned up a bit before we . . . do anything,” she announced to the chipper posse.
“This is a sweatpants and dirty-hair day, sweetie. Don’t waste your time on a shower,” Carolyn said, pointing to her ponytail and cashmere tracksuit with fur-trimmed hood.
Claire excused herself to the bedroom, and reached Nicholas on his cell phone. He and Ray had plans to work out with the new therapy bands and do laundry. He sounded tired and unenthused, but perked up when he remembered that he was also driving downtown with Ray to meet Michael for lunch.
“That should be nice,” Claire said, straining to keep the acrimony from oozing through her words. “And then maybe you can drive us to an appointment we have later this afternoon with a tutor?”
“Okaay.”
She hated trying to discern Nick’s temperament and expressions through the phone, and hated that she had to spend her morning sorting through the fallout of his father’s lies. But she sent a message to Michael about the appointment, asked Nick’s social worker at Craig to forward copies of his files to Andrea, and got dressed.
“So, Ashton’s back in town?” Claire asked, helping herself to some kiwi, and dreading any sort of rehash about what she’d discovered in Michael’s files. She appreciated her friends’ concern and willingness to jump right into the muck with her—loved it, in fact—but still, she wondered if any possible financial improprieties were best kept private. At least until she fully understood them.
“Yes,
Austin
was in town for the night, and I couldn’t resist the call. It’s pitiful, I know. He still wears his boarding school T-shirt and ball cap, but the boy’s got a tireless tongue, God love him.”
“Ugh, you’re killing me,” Carolyn said, curling up into the club chair. “I can barely remember the last time Robert and I even had sex, much less when there was any tongue involved. Not that he would be my first choice. And
you
get to have your pick between Pool Boy and the Hedge Funder?” She kowtowed with one hand toward Gail. “You’ve made a superb comeback since the last divorce.”
Claire sat down in front of the computer, pleased that they had gotten lost in the detour. She typed “Mac Kessler” into Google.
Gail sat down, too, but quickly stood and began stretching her lower back. “I’ve gotten married and unmarried so many times, I’m perpetually in comeback mode.”
“Well, you seem to have mastered it. And I’m beginning to think I should jump on that train.”
“Oh, hon, my not-so-lasting loves are hardly the answer. The Hedge Funder is very mediocre at foreplay.” She folded herself into a downward dog, the diamonds on her watch flashing morning light across the room. “But he
is
excellent at jewelry, I have to admit. Which basically gets me to the same place. Anyway, the point is,” she said through her legs, “that it’s never perfect.”
“I guess we can all vouch for that.” Carolyn looked over at Claire. “You okay, sweetie?”
Claire was reading the screen intently. “Mm-hmm. Just give me a sec.”
“In fact,” Gail continued, reverting to upright and studying Claire’s face, “I think I’m finally swearing off marriage. You know the old saying about fish and bicycles.”
“Uh, sometimes a fish
does
need a bicycle,” Carolyn said, chewing on a cuticle. “And not the battery-powered kind.”
“Or maybe the perfect massage,” Claire mumbled, envisioning a pastiche of her therapist and Richard, and just as quickly dismissing the thought. She had found Mac Kessler at a Boulder business called Flat Irons Consulting, which advertised itself as a pension plan administration firm. Mac specialized in third party pension administration for small businesses. Like Michael’s.
“My God, what I wouldn’t give for a nice long bicycle ride,” came the sigh from the chair.
Gail retrieved a container and silverware from a small bag and handed it to Carolyn. “Here, hon, try this. It’s Eric’s bread pudding with caramel sauce, and it’s sex in a spoon. I’ve already eaten about a gallon of it.”
Carolyn skipped the spoon altogether and dipped her finger in, several times. “Oh my God, that’s . . . orgasmic,” she moaned. “You have to taste this, Claire.” She brought the dessert to the table, dipped the spoon in the sauce and held it to Claire’s lips.
Claire took the spoon and sucked on it mindlessly as she read about the various administrative services Flat Irons provided for its clients: record keeping to maintain plan compliance with IRS requirements, filing of government reports, distribution of participant statements.
“Okay, hon, what’s going on?” Gail asked. “You look even more stressed than you did the last time we were here.” She came up behind Claire and started rubbing her shoulders.
Claire quickly closed the laptop and leaned into Gail’s hands. “I’m concerned about both of your vaginas. And I need to get reading glasses.”
“Seriously,” Carolyn said, kneeling next to her. “What are you looking at?”
Claire ladled the spoon through the caramel and began eating it like soup as she moved the Janus puzzle pieces around in her head. “What do you know about pension plans?” she finally asked, more as a stalling tactic than a question.
“Don’t have one,” Gail said. “But Warren did. It was pretty healthy, as I recall. Why?”
“I’m not sure exactly. Michael may . . . have some kind of trouble with his company’s plan.”
“Well, Robert didn’t like how ours was performing, so I remember him moving it to some new fund last year. I don’t remember the details, but I can ask.”
“No,” Claire panicked. “I don’t want to arouse any—wait, you haven’t said—”
“Of course not, sweetie,” she said, taking back the spoon. “Don’t worry. Robert has no clue how I spend my days.” Her tone was surprisingly benign.
“Hello?!” Gail shouted. “From what Jackie mentioned, Michael’s business is in the crapper, he’s got deals and creditors screaming for cash, he’s likely squirreling away assets in some mystery account—all unbeknownst to you. And now you think there’s a problem with his corporate pension, never mind the mysterious caller and the bimbo? Rats bite, Claire. It’s time to lay some traps.”
Claire closed her eyes, knowing she needed to get to the bottom of whatever Michael was doing. There was no point in arguing or postponing the inevitable. So she reopened the computer and searched Michael’s documents for the word
pension
. Seconds later the three women were reading a letter from Michael to someone’s assistant at Janus Capital in Denver, dated November 5 of the previous year.
As trustee for New Haven Investments’ employee pension plan, I will be making a change in the disposition of the plan assets. Please liquidate positions today, and upon settlement, wire transfer the funds at your earliest convenience to the account below.
It was Michael’s business checking account.
As the printer surged to life and spat out more hard truths, another revelation-soaked morning slogged toward afternoon.
Nicholas drove them to Andrea’s office just a few miles away, earnestly observing stop signs and speed limits, and asking for directions only once. Claire watched him in profile, trying to remember when the last remnants of baby fat had disappeared from his face, leaving him with the angular jawline of a man. The accident had stolen much of his boyishness over the last months to be sure, but the young man she was looking at now exuded a nascent maturity, a lifetime away, it seemed, from the boy who had struggled so mightily with his toothbrush. Nick cranked the radio version of Cee Lo Green’s “Forget You” and began singing the unsanitized lyrics. And for the first time since his hospitalization, his
fuck you
s were joyful and not personal. She smiled in approval of his skills, and car danced to the groove the way they used to when his favorite songs would come on, while all thoughts of treachery—financial and otherwise—floated away on the lightness of the mood. He pulled up to the converted Denver Square office building just as the song ended, and glanced sidelong at her. And for an instant Claire saw the old familiar flashes of her father, not just in his sparkling quarter moon grin, but in the way he cocked his head and seemed to read her thoughts.
“You’re not gonna dance inside, are you?” he asked with a time-honored eye roll.
The absolute
typical teenager-ness
of the interaction washed over Claire, and she closed her eyes and savored this blast from their playful past. “Maybe,” she said.
“Please . . . don’t.”
They found Andrea’s office on the second floor. Nick had gripped the banister and taken the stairs two at a time. His forehead was shiny and his mood still ebullient as they sat down in the waiting room and talked about his PT group’s ski trip on Monday. A few minutes later Claire heard a voice in the hall, and she felt her serenity fade. Michael walked in, putting his phone in his pocket, and sat down across from them.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. His left knee bounced rapid-fire, like a child who had to go to the bathroom.
Claire painted her Sara Lee smile back in place and greeted him impassively.
“Jeez, Dad. You look like . . . you just ate Grandmother’s . . . liver sauté thing.”
“Busy day, pal. No worries.”
No worries, really?
She clenched her teeth.
Nick studied both of them carefully. “What’s with the two of you? I’m the one with—with the brain . . . damage. Just . . . get the divorce already.” His tone was composed, and he smirked, as if conveying the obvious to the ignorant. “I’ll survive.”
Claire swallowed her shock and gaped at Michael, her eyes asking, “Now what?” Michael pinched his lips between his fingers, looking equally stunned and miserably faking the cool veneer she’d completely lost. She could almost hear him say, “Punt.” But he remained silent.
Andrea cleared her throat from the doorway. “So, would you all like to come in?” she asked in a voice that was both upbeat and calming. She was a petite woman with a soft round face and long dark untamed curls and, except for her striped tights, was dressed in full black.
Nick pushed himself up from the love seat and walked over to her. “I’m Nick Montgomery,” he said, shaking her hand, as they had always taught him. “Nice to meet you.”
“Well, hello, Nick Montgomery. I’m Andrea Anspaugh. It’s very nice to meet you, too. You can call me Andi.” The tiny diamond stud in her nose enhanced her aura of cool authority. “Please.” She indicated her office beyond the door, and waited for Claire and Michael to unglue themselves from their seats. Nick disappeared into the room.
“I’m so sorry,” Claire said, standing. “I don’t even know what to—”
“It’s just that we’re in somewhat of a . . . transition at the moment,” Michael interrupted, his face looking even more waxen than when he’d walked in. “And Nicholas sometimes has difficulty controlling his emotions.”
“Don’t apologize. I’ve been doing this for almost twenty years, and I’m very comfortable with raw emotions. Just as long as I don’t have to put anyone in a headlock.”
For a second Claire imagined the diminutive woman pinning Michael on the floor from behind, and laughed without really meaning to. Michael stared at her.
“It’s happened,” Andi assured them matter-of-factly. “But usually only with kids who have significant frontal lobe deficits. And from the hospital and rehab reports I’ve skimmed, I don’t anticipate those issues with Nick,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ears with turquoise- and silver-jeweled fingers. “He’s made tremendous strides, and I’m already very impressed with his progress.”
“We are as well,” Claire said, her expression hovering somewhere between pride and still-stunned.
“Can you help him with his educational goals?” Michael asked point-blank.
“Let’s find out.”
They followed her into her office, which resembled a loft with exposed brick walls, cozy furniture, and canvases of varying sizes hanging from picture wire. Nicholas stood in front of an acrylic portrait of Kurt Cobain.
“Did you do these?” Claire asked, scanning the other musicians on display.
“I did.”
“Ray told me you teach . . . some classes at the Art Institute,” Nick said, turning around. His spirits appeared intact, elevated even.