The Apartment (17 page)

Abby opened her computer that afternoon, and sent Josh an e-mail of the first two chapters of her book and one short story and said she'd enjoyed meeting him, and then forgot about it, and went shopping with her mother at Maxfield, and some of the vintage stores they both liked. Their wardrobes were very eclectic, and they loved borrowing strange pieces from each other.

The weekend flew by, and she was sad to go back to New York on Sunday. Her parents had told her that they were going to Mexico for Christmas and had invited her to join them, but she thought she should stay in New York and write, and she didn't like Mexico as much as they did, she always got sick. In some ways, her parents acted like people who didn't have children. They treated her more like a friend, and always had. But the flip side of that was that they accepted her independence and had always given her her freedom. They had always treated her like an adult, even as a child. And they were delighted to include her in anything they did now, but they had never adjusted their life to her. She was welcome to follow along, but they made their own plans, regardless of hers, like Mexico over Christmas.

She promised to come back soon, and her father drove her to the airport and hugged her tight when they got there.

“We love you, Abby,” he said, holding her for a moment. “Good luck with the writing.”

“Thank you, Dad,” she said with damp eyes. Even after the last three years of insanity with Ivan, which had been like joining a cult, they still believed in her. It was amazing, but that was the kind of people they were—always engaged in the artistic process, and profound believers in the power of the creative, even if they weren't perfect parents. She loved them anyway. She waved as she walked into security, and a moment later she disappeared, and went to board her plane to New York. It had been a great four days.

When Claire got to San Francisco, nothing had changed. And the occupants of the house never changed either. Her parents' house was a small, slightly shabby Victorian in Pacific Heights. It needed a coat of paint, but Sarah kept it looking fresh inside, even when she had to paint a room herself, which she sometimes did. And she used her least expensive upholsterers to re-cover the furniture so her husband wouldn't complain about the expense. Her father looked depressed, and was grousing about the real estate market. He hadn't sold a house in eighteen months, which Claire thought was due to his personality, not the economy. Who wanted to buy a house from someone who told you everything that was wrong with it and the world? And he hated the broker he worked for.

Her mother was making chirping noises, and had the house looking bright and pretty, with flowers in Claire's bedroom. She had bought a turkey, which was slightly too big for them, as though they were expecting guests, but they no longer entertained, and rarely saw their old friends. Her father had eliminated them over the years, and her mother no longer tried to convince him to have a social life, so she met her women friends for lunch. She did a lot of reading at night. And no one ever mentioned the fact that her father drank too much, which contributed to his depression. He was never falling-down drunk, but three or four scotches at night were too many, and Claire and her mother knew it, and never said it out loud. They just let him do what he wanted, and after the second scotch, he sat alone in front of the TV, which he did every night until he went to bed.

Claire's mother wanted to know all about George when Claire got there, and she could see how excited she was about him. He hadn't called her yet from Aspen.

When Claire didn't hear from him when she arrived, she assumed that George was already skiing, or afraid to intrude on her with her parents, and she was sure she would hear from him later that night. When she didn't, she called him from her room on her cell, and the call went straight to voicemail. With the time difference between San Francisco and Aspen, she figured he was already asleep, so she left him a loving message.

He didn't call the next day on Thanksgiving, probably for the same reason. He was skiing for sure that day, and he knew she would be having Thanksgiving dinner with her parents, and he didn't know what time. Claire sent him a text, and he didn't respond.

It didn't start to worry her until the next day. They hadn't spoken since he dropped her off late Tuesday night, which was very unusual for him. He liked to keep track of her all day, with calls and texts, and to know what she was doing. After three days of silence, she wondered if he hated holidays so much that he had retreated into his cave in a mild depression. She didn't want to push him, or intrude or insist. So she sent him another loving text and said she missed him, without trying to make him feel guilty for not calling. He obviously needed space, and they would be home in two days, on Sunday night, and were planning to spend the night together.

Her mother's questions about him continued through the weekend, and Claire tried to answer as honestly as she could, that she had no idea what the future would bring, but that it appeared to be serious for both of them, and he was wonderful to her. She didn't tell her that he had asked her to be the mother of his children the night before she left, or that she hadn't heard from him in three days. She was sure that that was a momentary aberration—they had never been closer than the night before she left for San Francisco.

On Saturday, she felt a mild flutter of panic, and began to worry about him, and that something might have happened. What if he was sick, or had been seriously injured skiing? He might have broken both his arms and couldn't use his cell phone, or had a head injury, since he said he didn't wear a helmet but was an avid skier. But she thought he would have had someone call her if he was hurt, or texted her himself if he was sick. She had to believe that holidays were even harder for him than she had thought. He had cut off all communication with her, and was obviously depressed. She was concerned that she might have offended him without realizing it, but nothing on their last night together indicated it. He had hardly been able to tear himself away from her when she got out of the car on Tuesday night, and an hour before that said he wanted to have babies with her. How angry could he have been, and over what? Clearly, his silence was not her fault, but it was alarming anyway.

She was careful not to let her mother see how upset she was, as she continued to field her questions, and gently deflect them. And by Saturday night, Claire tried calling him several times, and left him messages saying how worried she was about him and how much she loved him. He did not respond.

She still hadn't heard from him when she boarded the plane to New York on Sunday morning. She was due to arrive at JFK at four o'clock, and to meet up with him after that. She called him from the car, and neither his cell phone nor the landline at his apartment answered. She knew the staff was off, and she didn't want him to feel that she was stalking him, but there was a knot in her stomach the size of a fist now. What had happened, and why wasn't he calling her?

She never heard from him that night, waiting at her apartment. Abby came back from L.A. and said she'd had a great weekend with her parents, and Sasha and Alex were back from Chicago, and Sasha said it had been a perfect Thanksgiving. Claire's weekend at home had been predictably depressing, and even more so faced with George's inexplicable silence, but she didn't say a word to her friends. And Morgan said they'd had a lovely Thanksgiving dinner at Greg and Oliver's. Everyone's holiday had gone well except her own. She was sure there was a simple explanation, and George would apologize for his lack of communication when he called. But in the meantime, not knowing the reason for it was agony, and she lay awake until four
A.M.
, hoping to hear from him. Even a booty call after midnight would have been welcome—some sign of life from the man she loved who had wanted her to be the mother of his children only five days ago, and hadn't spoken to her since. It made no sense.

She woke up two hours after she fell asleep, long before her alarm, and waited until eight
A.M.
to call him. His staff didn't come in until nine on Monday mornings, so no one answered when she called his apartment, and he still wasn't answering his cell, and he had to be home by then, unless something serious had happened.

She dressed for work hastily, without coffee or breakfast, and felt disorganized and a mess and distracted when she got to her office. She waited until just after nine and called his office, knowing that he always got there by eight-thirty to prepare for the day. His secretary answered on the private line and said that he was in a meeting. Claire said to just tell him she had called. And now she was sure he would call her.

She could hardly think straight until lunchtime, and she snapped at Monique when she set foot in Claire's office. She was in no mood for her today. And providentially, Walter never came into her office.

Claire called George again at lunchtime and was told that he was out to lunch, and would be in meetings off-site all afternoon, and would not be back in the office. His assistant's voice gave nothing away. She was pleasant and cool, and when Claire hung up, there were tears running down her cheeks. Something was clearly very wrong. But what? And why? He was stonewalling her, and she had done nothing to deserve it. She was so panicked and in so much pain from worrying about it, she was breathless.

She left work half an hour early and told Walter she was coming down with the flu and had a fever. It was easily believable, she looked awful.

She went to bed as soon as she got home, and just lay there, until she heard Morgan come home hours later, and went to find her in her bedroom.

“He won't talk to me,” she said in a hoarse whisper, as Morgan stared at her in amazement. She looked like she had been beaten, or had a serious illness.

“Who won't talk to you?” She couldn't imagine.

“George. I haven't heard from him since I saw him on Tuesday night. Everything was fine, and I haven't heard from him since then. He won't take my calls or answer my texts. Nothing. Silence. Do you think he dumped me?” She could hardly bear to say the words, but Morgan might know more than she did. Maybe he had told her.

“Of course not.” She brushed the thought aside. “He's crazy about you.” She looked puzzled for a moment. “I know he gets weird about holidays, and sometimes he just disconnects for a few days. If things get too stressful at work, sometimes he takes off and goes somewhere for a day or two, and when he comes back, he's fine. Did you two fight about something?”

“Not at all.”

“I saw him in the office today, and he looked normal. He was laughing with one of our clients. I think he had a busy day, but I'll admit, that doesn't explain it. Maybe leave him alone, and see what he does. Don't chase him. He's not injured, he's not dead, he's alive. He'll call you.”

But two days later he still hadn't. She hadn't heard from him in eight days, and there was no explanation for it.

Claire had taken two days off from work, still claiming to have the flu. Everyone in the apartment knew by then, and they were tiptoeing around as though someone had died. Claire emerged from her room as seldom as possible, not wanting to see anyone, and Morgan asked Max what he thought about it that night.

“I don't know,” he said honestly. “Men do strange things sometimes. Sometimes they move too fast and scare themselves to death, and then they run. But he's a serious guy, with a responsible business. You'd think if he was backing out, or changed his mind, he'd have the balls to tell her.”

“Maybe not,” Morgan said quietly. They were having a late dinner at the restaurant, and the crowd was thinning out. She just hoped George didn't walk in with some other woman, but she couldn't imagine he'd have the bad taste to do that. And she couldn't ask him at the office. He was her boss, and had never discussed the relationship with Claire with her. Whatever she knew, she had heard from her roommate. George was not one to discuss his private life with his employees, no matter what they read on Page Six. “He's dumped a lot of women over time. I think he's somewhat relationship-phobic. But there's no reason to just cut her off. He should say something. The poor thing is going nuts, and she looks like she died.” Morgan was upset about it, and even knowing him as she did, she couldn't figure out what was going on.

“I can imagine,” Max said, looking sympathetic, and then Morgan thought of something she'd been meaning to ask him, but kept forgetting and hadn't found the opportune moment.

“I know this sounds crazy, but a few weeks ago, I found something unusual in a file the accounting department gave me by mistake. It jumped out at me off the spreadsheets. Money that was put in the wrong account, another smaller amount that was withdrawn and then returned a week later. Nothing was missing, but it was shuffled around and in the wrong accounts. What do you make of something like that? Do you think some kind of funny business is going on there?” George was always so meticulous about their accounts that it had surprised her. “And he invested funds in a company where one of the directors was indicted by a grand jury a few years ago, and then it was dropped. Do you think something weird is happening?”

“No, I don't. He's too smart to do something dumb like that, and he's a standup guy. He's got a golden reputation. He's not going to screw that up and risk getting in trouble. I think more likely someone just messed up in accounting, and then fixed it.”

“I thought that too,” she said honestly, “but you never know. Sometimes strange things happen in my business. Look at Bernie Madoff.” He had been the ultimate financial criminal of all time, and had been sentenced to 150 years in prison, for bilking banks and clients out of billions. But not in her wildest dreams could she imagine George doing something like that. Nor could Max, which reassured her. She trusted his judgment, and he had keen instincts about people.