Anne lies still as Charles gets out of bed and leaves the room. The clock on her night table reads 4:36 A.M. Minutes pass and then she hears the front door close-no doubt he’s off on one of his brooding nocturnal walks. Now she’s alone in the apartment. Good. Yes, he’s a great writer, yes, she has to make allowances, but that scene he threw at the Rainbow Room was infantile; they’re going to be the laughingstock of Manhattan for the next month. She’s fighting tooth and nail to hold her company together and he throws her a curve like that. Everything is always Charles! Anne tosses off the covers and walks down the long hallway into the living room. She opens the cabinet and clicks on the television, channel-surfing until she finds an infomercial for a line of skin-care products. The pitchwoman is a pretty young blonde who’s got to be on speed; she’s talking so fast she’s almost slurring her words. Anne finds the mindless diversion comforting.
“All you pregnant women out there? Are you breaking out? When I got pregnant with Amber, oh-my-God, I had the worst breakout of my life.”
Anne clicks off the television and lies down on the couch. She grabs a pillow and hugs it to her. The city is so quiet it’s frightening. Try as she might to calm her mind, the memory keeps bubbling up like a toxic spring…
It was the third week of August and New York was limping into its late summer wilt. Anne had just gotten off the plane from Savannah, the last leg of a southern buying trip in search of interesting folk art. Outside Savannah she had discovered a family living beside a tidal flat who made these extraordinary cloth dolls with hand-painted eyes, whimsical and a little spooky. Perfect. But the rest of the trip had been a bust and Anne was exhausted when she climbed into the taxi at La Guardia. She rested her head on the back of the seat and closed her eyes as the driver made his way out of the airport.
Her cell phone rang. Anne debated whether or not to answer it and decided she had to.
“Yes?”
“Anne, it’s John Farnsworth.”
Farnsworth was the seventy-two-year-old financier and venture capitalist who had provided the start-up money for Home. He was from one of New England’s oldest and wealthiest families; he and his wife, Marnie, longtime acquaintances of Anne’s mother and stepfather, were high-profile philanthropists, pillars of Boston society.
“John, terrific to hear your voice. How are you?”
“Brutally hot up here in Cambridge.”
“You’re not in Maine?”
“Marnie’s not well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Listen, Anne, I just got off the phone with Ted Weiss.”
Anne tensed. Ted was her chief financial officer. “I know, John, we lost money last quarter. But wasn’t that projected?”
“It was. But not to this extent.”
“Sales are incredible, it’s costs that are killing us, but we’re getting them down. I think it would be insane to compromise our standards; in the end they’re what sets us apart.”
“Anne, companies that don’t make money can’t stay in business.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I’ve got five million dollars invested in you, and now Ted Weiss tells me you need three million more. There comes a time when one has to cut one’s losses.”
“John, please, Home wasn’t expected to turn a profit until next spring. We’re a little behind where we want to be, but we’re establishing a name for ourselves. So many exciting things are happening. Let me put together a presentation and I’ll fly up tomorrow.”
“Anne, you’re a very talented and attractive woman and I’m always happy to see you, but I don’t think this is going to work out.”
Anne punched mute.
“Driver, turn around. Take me back to the airport.”
It was Anne’s first visit to Cambridge’s Brattle Street neighborhood and she was dazzled. Enormous old mansions shaded by ancient trees lined the quiet streets, lawns stretched away to shaded dells, graceful fountains gurgled. There was a sense of order and security, of old wealth discreetly multiplying. Nothing evil would ever happen on these beautiful buffering streets.
On the plane Anne had spent twenty minutes meditating and then changed into a white linen shirt dress that hugged her derriere. She’d noticed John Farnsworth admiring her body on more than one occasion. She had the cabby stop at an antiquarian book store at the foot of Beacon Hill, where she bought a beautiful nineteenth-century edition of Alice in Wonderland. It set her back six hundred dollars, but she hoped it would turn out to be a wise investment. She knew the next hour could make or break her company, her dream.
The taxi turned into a circular driveway. The Farnsworth house was an immense stone Gothic surrounded by exquisite lawns and gardens. Anne got out of the cab. The air was heavy and fragrant. She closed her eyes, took two deep breaths, and rang the bell. The door was answered by a thin gray-haired woman in a uniform and crepe-sole shoes.
The front hall was the size of a small ballroom with dual parlors opening off it. Wood gleamed and glass sparkled; carpets cushioned and silk glistened. A Degas hung over a distant fireplace. The whole house was hushed as if in deference to the ailing Mrs. Farnsworth.
As the maid led her through a series of rooms, Anne thought: Do Americans still live like this? They came to a vaulted circular library with high stacks reached by a rolling staircase-a room that had awed Anne in Architectural Digest. The maid knocked gently on curved oak pocket doors.
“Yes?”
The maid slid one door open and then disappeared.
“Anne, come in.”
John Farnsworth’s inner sanctum was dominated by an enormous desk, a model schooner on a library table, and a painting of a black Labrador retriever over the mantel. The room smelled faintly of wood polish.
John sat behind the desk, his large head sporting a ring of white hair, jowls, and a ruddy spray of broken blood vessels. In a Wal-Mart he’d probably be taken for a retired pipe fitter who drank too much, but sitting there in his hunter-green blazer and tie, his flinty eyes flashing, his chin held at just the right angle, he oozed old-money confidence. He stood and shook Anne’s hand.
“Welcome.”
“The house is beautiful. I’m afraid Home can’t compete.” The last thing she’d want to compete with was this mausoleum.
“It’s comfortable. Sit down.”
Anne sat in an armchair and crossed her legs. The dress rode up her thighs.
“You look lovely, as always,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“How about a drink?”
“I would love a drink.”
John crossed to the bar. “Name your pleasure.”
“It’s a long list.”
“Why don’t I open a bottle of Chardonnay?”
“That sounds perfect.”
As John opened the wine, Anne looked around the room. The dog over the mantel was posed like a potentate, sitting up proudly, looking straight out. Like master, like dog. What would she do if he turned her down? Finding replacement financing would throw the company into full crisis mode, quality would suffer, and she’d have to let some people go.
John handed her a glass of wine and she took a sip. Superb. He sat back down.
“I brought you a little something,” Anne said, handing him the book.
He opened it and looked at the illustrations for a moment.
“It’s charming. Thank you.” He put the book aside and looked Anne in the eye. “Weiss faxed me your numbers. The company could go either way.”
That was Anne’s cue to rock ’n’ roll. She set her wineglass on the desk and leaned forward.
“The company is going only one way-up. People are talking about us. Our demographics are incredible: we’re selling to the highest-income zip codes in the country. I’ve just set up an exclusive licensing agreement with a three-hundred-year-old Venetian glass company. We’re going on-line; I’m talking to website designers tomorrow. We’ll be able to sell globally, tailoring the catalog to each country’s customs and tastes, and at the same time we’ll save a fortune on paper and postage.”
As he listened, Farnsworth drummed his fingers on a leather check ledger. “You’re a very bright woman, Anne. I’m impressed. Always have been.”
“Thank you. I’m very grateful for your support.”
“You know what you want and you go for it. I used to be like that. Maybe I still am.”
“That makes us kindred spirits.”
“The market is sick with catalogs, Anne. I’d like to help you out, but I’m just not convinced.”
Anne had come prepared to offer him another five percent of the company, but only as a last resort. She stood up and stretched back her shoulders, walked over to the window. At the far end of the lawn was a statue of a woman playing a harp. She turned and faced him. It was time to cut to the chase.
“What would it take to convince you?”
He considered her question, looking down at his hands. When he looked up he seemed distracted. “You’re all business, aren’t you, Anne?”
“I hope not.” Had she played it wrong? Should she have taken a softer approach? She glanced at her watch; it was almost four o’clock. She hadn’t eaten since early that morning, and the wine was making her light-headed and slightly dazed. The only thing she knew for sure was that she wasn’t leaving that room without a commitment. “I just got back from a buying trip.” She sighed. “It was 103 degrees in Savannah. Can you believe it?”
“Sounds hellish.”
“This room is marvelously cool. These high ceilings.” She carried her glass to a cracked leather sofa on the far side of the room and took a seat, crossing her legs again. “I fell in love with all this wood when I saw it in Architectural Digest. That painting’s new,” she said, indicating the dog.
“You don’t miss a trick, do you, Anne?”
“I even sleep with my eyes open.”
He laughed at this, in an admiring way. His teeth were beautiful-too beautiful; they couldn’t possibly be original. She leaned forward on the couch and dropped her voice into an intimate register.
“John, this catalog is my baby. I will fight to the death to protect it. I will do anything to ensure its success.”
He went to the bar, refilled his glass, and held up the bottle.
“Yes, please,” she said.
In some strange way she was beginning to enjoy herself. Winning wasn’t nearly as much fun without a few hurdles to jump over and she was certain she had just cleared a major one.
After refilling her glass he returned to his desk and took a pile of folders from a drawer. “Do you know what this is?” he asked, brandishing one.
Anne shook her head.
“It’s a proposal I received three years ago from a young fellow out in Wisconsin who was producing those floppy stuffed animals my grandchildren can’t get enough of. He wanted two million dollars. If I’d given it to him I’d have tripled my money by now. This is another proposal that came in at about the same time as yours. It’s from a computer refurbishing company out in Palo Alto. They wanted three million. If I’d gone with them I would have cashed out for eight million. You don’t get it, do you, Anne? You think you can waltz in here in that ass-hugging dress and dazzle me with pie in the sky and I’ll just sit with my mouth open and cut you a check. Home is running twenty percent below projections, and you’re starting to make me look like a fool. I’m a businessman, not a baby-sitter.”
Anne felt as if she’d just been punched in the solar plexus. For one awful moment she missed her father. She looked down into her wineglass; her mouth tightened.
“ Home is going to succeed,” she said finally, firmly, trying to control her voice. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of an easy retreat. She looked up and met his stare. It was one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do.
He put the files back in the drawer and crossed to the couch, sat facing her at the other end, his arm draped across the back. There was a long silence. Anne heard the faint buzz of a lawn mower. “My wife is very ill,” he said finally in a low voice.
Why was he telling her this? Now?
“I’m very sorry.”
“We’ve made a sizable donation to the Museum of Fine Arts. They’re naming a gallery in our honor. Marnie may not live to see the dedication ceremony.”
It made Anne uncomfortable to have him so close. She should have waited until the next day, shown up bright and early with Trent in tow. This was all wrong.
“I’m not used to being alone,” he said.
He lifted his hand and gently touched the back of her hair.
Anne took a measured sip of her wine, glancing at him over the rim of her glass. He looked nothing like the benevolent WASP grandfather who might sneak a glance at her thigh and nothing more.
“There’s a superb restaurant that’s opened a few blocks from here. I’d love to take you there for dinner. We can discuss the future, our partnership.” He stroked her hair and then let his hand rest on her shoulder; it felt warm and heavy. “Some risks are worth taking, don’t you think, Anne? I suppose that’s what keeps life interesting. But I’m not in the mood to go over all the details at the moment. And you look a little tired yourself, my dear, all flushed and overheated. We can relax here for the rest of the afternoon. What do you say?”
Anne wanted to say “Fuck you and your money, you manipulative old lecher,” but when she opened her mouth, “Sounds wonderful” came out.
“Shall I make the reservations for, say, seven o’clock, give you time to catch the last shuttle back to your famous husband?”
His hand was stroking her neck, trembling slightly with anticipation. His fingers slipped under her collar, dry and insistent.
“Seven o’clock is fine,” she said.
He got up and walked to his desk and picked up the phone. “Shall I draw the drapes?” he asked.
“Please,” she said. “The sunlight is a little glaring.”
Anne wakes with a start-what’s she doing on the living room couch? Early gray light pours in the windows, and for a moment she’s afraid. And then she remembers-the baby, the life growing inside her. That goddamn unreliable diaphragm. She remembers coming home from Cambridge, the money secured, but feeling soiled, guilty, enraged. She will never give birth to Farnsworth’s child. But what if Charles is the father? Where is Charles? She sits up and rubs her neck. He’s not in the apartment; she can sense it. He didn’t come back last night. Anne feels that dreaded sense of overload. She takes the whole mess and shoves it to one side of her consciousness, out of view. Big day: she’s going to crack the whip on those website designers; she wants Home on-line in eight weeks or they’re history.
Tea, fruit, shower. Then it hits her-she knows where Charles has disappeared to. Fine. She has her own problems. What she will do is call the employment agency, hire that Emma, get Charles moving whether he likes it or not. Anne gets up and heads into the kitchen to start her day.