The Talented Miss Farwell Page 14

  “Reba!” On her second night, her last night, Becky’s own party’s cohost rolled in two hours late, barely bothering to cover up the fact of having been somewhere more important or interesting. “Look at all this gorgeousness! And I did nothing. You hate me.”

  “No more than usual.” Becky did the double-kisses against Dani DeStefano’s mock-pout cheeks, hardened with fillers. In fact she had practically killed herself all day getting the suite’s pool area ready and could have used a hand, even one of Dani’s.

  But if her one Miami contact came through, all would be forgiven. This was her last and best chance to snag Josh Tenner, and Becky had gone all out. Four cater-waiters for a party of twenty. Platters of ceviche on every surface, a dozen baskets of moon lilies floating in the pool, and a pleasingly sullen trio warbling Irish folk-punk flown in this morning—an early profile she’d dug up on Josh had mentioned that he loved the live Dublin music scene.

  Dani sideswiped a ground arrangement of ankle-height votives with her stiletto. “Oops! Fire hazard! Yes, champagne please. Lighting these must have taken you hours.”

  “It was nothing.” Becky couldn’t waste more time on pleasantries. “Are they coming?”

  “Hmm, it’s so buggy out here, though. Who, darling?”

  She wanted to take away Dani’s champagne flute and bash her with it. “The Robb-Tenners!”

  Dani looked at her. “They’re here.”

  “What?”

  Dani pointed, not nearly as subtly as she might have, to the clutch of six or seven people near the bar, sitting sideways on chaise longues, huddled up in a low conversation. Sure enough, now that Becky actually examined faces, she recognized Emi’s Asian features, Josh’s dark sideburns. But—but—that group had been here for at least half an hour. Emi was in jeans and a button-down . . . and so was Josh. Their sneakers weren’t even couture!

  Jesus, she’d missed them? Could they have come in during the four minutes—six, max!—that she’d run to use the restroom? Both Becky’s arms went numb with panic. She was going to kill Dani. But first, she gripped Dani’s elbow and marched her over to the nondescript group, instantly affecting warmth, generosity, welcome. As Emi rose to kiss Dani, Becky wedged herself into the empty space next to Josh, setting her foot on the low table rung to cordon him off from whatever loser he’d been talking to before.

  “So, what’d I miss?” She put on a huge, complicit smile while frantically eye-signaling a particular server. “Is there any more news about Darras? What a fucking nightmare.” Everyone was talking about the empty booth where one of New York’s top galleries was supposed to have been, before last week’s stunning news of its collapse, the owners pulling out at the last minute.

  “It’s bad,” Josh said.

  “Bad? It’s an incompetence tsunami. You’d think someone would have—”

  “We’re pretty upset for Paul, actually. Emi has two good friends who show with him and now—” He spread his hands.

  “And that’s the hardest part,” Becky said, smoothly downshifting. “Where it leaves the artists.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve known Paul for years and I’m sure he’ll do right by those guys.” Becky watched Josh aim this reassurance at Emi, now perched on the arm of someone’s chair.

  “Of course he will,” Becky murmured, slapping a mosquito on the back of her arm. “Oh good. Here’s a little treat. We could all use a pick-me-up, am I right?”

  With less of a flourish than he could have made, the server leaned over the group and placed on the table a glass tray holding three straight razors, a bank-new twenty, and a Bayer’s aspirin bottle holding a quarter ounce of high-grade Cuban cocaine.

  Astonishment and delight from the hangers-on, but Josh only said “Um. Wow.” He looked around, but Emi was deep in conversation with two women and his other friends were snorting lines like pigs at the trough. Becky felt a sharp thrill of satisfaction; she had him cornered.

  “So. Secondary market, huh? How’s that going?” Tenner Gallery’s move into resale had made headlines.

  “Well, thanks.” Josh’s tone was warily polite.

  “Good, because I have a deal to propose, and I hope you won’t be too modest when I say that Tenner is the only shop I’d consider placing my—”

  “Sorry, what? I’m having trouble hearing you.” Josh winced as the Irish troubadours shifted into a loud cover of—why?—“Mr. Bojangles.”

  Becky spoke fast, going in for the kill. She explained her proposal: Tenner’s handling the sale of her entire Chicago collection, immediately, in exchange for which she would host a Happening, or an Encounter, or whatever it was called, for Emi’s first Chicago exhibit, at whatever venue—

  “Anything like that,” Josh interrupted, “is for her reps. I don’t have anything to do with—”

  Chicago’s art market, Becky said, straining to be heard, has such potential for— Sensing his displeasure, she switched tacks: she’d had a ton of interest in her own collection, as a whole, (not true; everyone had scoffed at the idea of such a short sale in this market) but she had a feeling that Tenner was— Of course, totally, no one should talk business on such a gorgeous night but if he’d only take a quick look at some images—

  That’s all you got? She heard Mac in her mind, disappointed and just a tiny bit amused. Time to nut up, buttercup.

  “Is anyone else getting eaten alive?” Josh said, only a little desperately, slapping the back of his neck.

  “I’m not,” Emi said, and Becky could have kissed her. Her own skin, thanks to a Herve Leger bandage dress and its stupid cutouts, was covered in bites.

  “I think it’s all the candles,” someone else said, tipping his head up from the coke.

  “Well, I’d rather not bring home malaria,” Josh said, landing his hands on his thighs.

  She knew it was desperate, but Becky didn’t care. She pulled out a slide sheet. “Look. This Diebenkorn is part of the same series you have in your catalogue.”

  Josh looked. He nodded.

  “And I have two De Staëls from the same period. Plus an André Derain, the one of the bridge. You said you’d always hoped a good Derain would—”

  “How do you know that?”

  “That it could hook a buyer into Fauvism who would then—”

  “No, wait. Where did you hear I said that about a Derain?”

  Becky bobbled, her pitch thrown off. Josh stared hard at her, annoyed. How had she known about his desire for a Derain? Honestly, she couldn’t remember. She’d pumped Dani for info, although that was spotty at best. She’d done hours of research on the Tenner Gallery, their financials, purchase history, forecast trends, party attendees. Made calls to the Robb-Tenners’ associates and acquaintances, pretending various levels of closeness to Emi and Josh in order to keep the conversation flowing. Well, and there was the time she’d paid a freelance art installer to end up with one of Josh’s exes at the end of a long Tribeca late-night bash—she’d never specified what he had to do with her in those hours!—and to report back in the morning with everything he’d gleaned.

  By now Josh had stood, disentangling himself from the chaise and the coke table and Becky’s leg. She started up again, “Forget the Derain, you’re right, let me show you the numbers I ran on—”

  But Josh had backed away enough to get a bead on Becky and the rest of the scene. He took in the lilies, the acoustic faux-Pogues, the circles of bare skin running up the side of Becky’s electric-blue dress. Then it all collapsed. As if in concert, led by Josh, the others rose too. Even Dani, who was the only one to thank Becky and kiss her goodbye. Flustered, Becky began calling after people, urging them to the raw octopi, the silver tequila. They could throw the candles in the pool! Or move inside—

  Josh and Emi slipped away, arms around each other, into the palm tree shadows lining the property. From the back, in their matching clothes, they looked like two brothers consoling each other, or plotting revenge. They turned a corner, and were gone.

  Becky
sat down on a chaise and scratched her bug bites until they stung. What would Ken Brennan say, in this moment, on this patio? Becky visualized him: pleated khakis, loafers, no socks, mustering an oh well smile for her. He would’ve said the coke was a cheap shot, which it was. He would have said that she gave it her best, that Tenner was overrated, that there had to be another gallery. That tomorrow was another day and he had faith in her.

  She was so, so tired. And so broke. This ridiculous last-ditch party. A second opinion on TJ’s neuropsych evaluation. The private investigator who’d been on her payroll for less than a month. He’d done well, she admitted, he’d gotten her almost everything she’d asked for, and he’d asked no questions.

  Tomorrow’s flight was at 5:45 am, and by 10 she’d be leading a presentation on the final Planting Festival numbers at the council meeting. Easel pad, markers, bad coffee, bad jokes, her Rockport Total Motion comfort pumps. She’d come so close to fixing what was broken. What she’d broken. But she’d failed, misjudged a hundred social cues and made a fool of herself. Now they’d all have to soldier on with more platitudes and hard work, good Midwesterners to the end.

  16

  Pierson

  1991

  On Planting For The Future, that first one, it was seventy-four degrees, full sun, light wind. The most perfect May Saturday in the history of Pierson, in the history of the world. We lucked out, everyone said. Sometimes your number comes up. Underneath the weather talk Becky knew what people were saying. Things are finally turning around. We might catch a break yet.

  Becky raced all over the riverfront—she’d been out since predawn—in the pale-yellow Town Hall T-shirt all the volunteers were wearing. She had a clipboard, she had a walkie-talkie. She answered a million questions: Are there any more gardening gloves? Do you know why the hose on Galena isn’t working? Where’s First Aid? Somebody told me to tell you one of the speakers shorted out.

  Everyone had turned out: families, seniors, whole squads of Brownies and Boy Scouts and VFWs and Rotarians. Kids wandered the food tents, spending all their cash on corn dogs and popcorn and Diet Sprite. None of the Memorial Day or July Fourth parades had had this kind of turnout—not in years. Five hundred, six hundred people at the fullest part of the day, and if they weren’t seeding beds they were paying for rides on the Tilt-A-Whirl or the Gorgon’s Head; they were listening to a local band and eating hoagies from a cart.

  Becky stopped by a gaggle of women who’d claimed one of the biggest planting beds. Old hands, they’d brought their own padded gardening kneelers. They praised her for getting the numbers exactly right: enough seed packets, hoes and forks, porta potties, coffee urns and packets of creamer. “Your dad would be real proud,” the most gray of the gray-haired women said.

  All of a sudden Becky’s eyes watered, and she had to pretend to need to rush off. She did have to rush off, of course, there were a hundred other things that needed her attention. But the mention of Hank got to her. A few moments later she found herself wandering away from the crowds.

  This is where he would be, in this patch of grass behind the Ace Restaurant. Not planting, but enjoying the day, the hustle-bustle, his girl running the show. He’d have been in a metal folding chair with plastic strips. A Packers hat on his head and white zinc on his nose. He’d have a magazine in his lap but he wouldn’t look at it; instead he’d have his eyes on the river ahead of him. Not noticing the patched-up unsightly riverwalk, that constant reminder of all that the town couldn’t get done.

  Becky stood in the warm grass. Alone and not alone.

  “Pretty nice,” Hank said, smiling up at her. “Check out those seagulls.”

  A dozen birds floated on the green water, just north of the Galena bridge. Every few moments a couple shot up straight vertically, hovered in air, then dropped again to the water, plunging down, flapping like crazy.

  “What are they doing?”

  “Diving for fish, maybe. This warm weather’s got everything going.”

  For a while they just watched the water, the wide eddying flow as it shunted south from Ash Hill State Park, poured down the cement breaker in a mini waterfall, and turned foamy against the rocks under the bridge. Little sloppy waves pricked up like scales, flashing sunlight back in wavy glimmers. Pages on Becky’s clipboard fluttered. Bass rumbled from the band covering “My Girl,” occasionally pierced by a feedback squeak.

  Her walkie-talkie blared. “Anyone seen Becky? Registration needs her pronto!”

  “Yep,” she said, holding down her button. “On my way.” By the time she turned back to Hank, he was gone.

  As if she didn’t already see Becky approaching, a secretary waved frantically at her from the registration tent. Her name was Joni and she fit the type for one of Town Hall’s dozens of cubicle dwellers: short curly salt-and-pepper hair, bristly wide-eyed attitude. She wore her yellow Planting for the Future T-shirt over a lumpy blue windbreaker.

  “We have a problem.” Behind the table with Joni, Marcia Knox nodded in urgent agreement.

  Becky saw what she meant. “That’s the opposite of a problem.”

  Cash, buckets of it. Crammed into the raffle bin, overflowing several banker’s envelopes, hundreds of small bills handed to two government workers with nothing but a card table and a flapping sign: enter the raffle (win a year of free parking), donate to the flower maintenance crew, sponsor a type of petunia in honor of a friend or loved one. cash only.

  “What about this?” Marcia whispered, half-rising off her chair. A gray metal cash box, stuffed overfull, held mostly closed by her butt.

  “Now that’s a nest egg,” Becky said, but neither of the women laughed. “All right, don’t panic. Later on I can—”

  “I’m not comfortable being in charge of this much money,” the first secretary said, with a meaningful loaded look. Oh for Christ’s sake, Becky thought. Do I have to do every goddamn thing myself?

  “Fine, give it to me,” she said. With palpable relief Joni and Marcia immediately shoved the cash box and the banker’s envelopes into two canvas tote bags, then emptied the raffle bin into a third.

  After fruitlessly looking around for someone to drive her, Becky began a slow heavy walk uphill to Town Hall. Maybe she could steal a few minutes in her office. In the cool quiet, with a few red licorice strands she’d stashed in her desk.

  Instead of waiting for the terminally slow elevator she took the stairs, sweat cooling on her skin, forearms aching from the weight of the tote bag straps. The safe was kept in a filing room on the other side of the hall, but the light was on in her own office. Becky stopped. A figure was moving around inside.

  Phil Mannetone. When Becky burst through the doorway he didn’t move to hide what he was doing—bent over her desk, searching through papers. Instead he casually looked up with a sideways grin. “I’m the only one who sees it, aren’t I? What you’re doing in plain sight.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Becky knew she needed to think, to get control of the situation, but all she could feel was a white-hot fury at this ape with his paws in her things. She stepped toward him and he quickly moved to the other side of the desk.

  “About three months ago one of my underlings got ripped a new one for messing up the copier, again. Yelled at by one of your underlings, who said that seven visits from the tech service guy was way over the line and if he couldn’t photocopy a memo he had no business in our office.”

  Becky felt her throat tighten. What to do. How to get around this.

  “So I comfort the little shithead, tell him I’ll take care of it. Who knows, maybe we do need a new copier. But then . . .” Phil held a smile. “I looked up the invoice. And checked the dates. I bet you know what I found, Becky. No tech came out on those dates.”

  Becky dropped her bags one at a time, soft thunks. Twenties and fives and wads of one-dollar bills spread onto the carpet, a messy pile. She went over to her file cabinet, took out a key and unlocked it.

  “Don’t try to swee
t-talk me,” Phil said, his voice wobbly. “I’m not playing any of your games again. I never wanted to—” Becky ignored him, pulled out the manila envelope, and took out the 8 x 11 photos. “What are you doing, what are those?” She set them out on her tidy desk, one at a time, giving each ample space. Then she simply stood back and waited.

  Phil approached gingerly, hands behind his back. Eyes scanned one and then the next, and then the next. His face worked hard, clenching and chewing, mouth moving without sound.

  The PI’s long lens had captured decent shots of the most incriminating interactions—in black and white, blurry in closeup but still definitively the two of them. The first set showed Becky pressed against Phil with his back against her car. Her face buried in his neck (she’d had to stand on her tiptoes), his head tipped back, eyes closed. What was great was how his hand was caught right smack cupping her ass cheek. He’d done that only for the briefest of moments, right after she’d gone on about their connection and his constant flirting, before yanking it away in horror and sliding out from her grasp. But it had been enough.

  The next set of photos was even better. (Or worse, depending.) Becky, through the back windshield of Phil’s car, blouse ripped open and lacy bra exposed (she’d done that herself). The two of them in a clinch—three seconds, max, before Phil pulled away. The PI had even caught a gleam of wet on Phil’s mouth, and his smile—she forgave the hack his exorbitant fee for that alone. Phil must have been in the process of nervously apologizing, declining the offer although he was flattered, don’t get him wrong—but of course what he said wasn’t visible in the photo.

  “You bitch,” Phil breathed.

  “Here’s how this is going to go,” Becky said. She hadn’t fully prepared, hadn’t guessed today would be the day, but was nothing if not ready to step up. “You’re going to resign. You’re going to take a job way out in Freeman County. Lucky for you, there’s an opening in the Comms Department, and even luckier for you, your supervisor is willing to write you a glowing recommendation and pull a favor to get you hired.”