44 Charles Street (15 page)

Francesca walked Chris to the landing outside his room that night, after they said goodnight to Marya. They talked about Charles-Edouard for a few minutes. He was definitely a character, and had enormous talent as a chef. Neither of them mentioned Todd again. Chris didn’t want to upset her, and Francesca was still digesting it but felt better after tonight. And then she went upstairs, and Chris went to his room. He had spoken to Ian during dinner, and everything seemed fine.

The house was quiet after everyone went to their rooms. They’d all had a lot to drink. The wines had been important and delicious. He had served Château d’Yquem with dessert, and the brandy finished them all off. They were all happily asleep in their beds, as Eileen tiptoed quietly down the stairs with her stilettos in her hand. She was quiet as a mouse as she opened the front door and closed it softly behind her. Brad was waiting for her outside. He had his motorcycle parked around the corner, and he looked annoyed.

“What took you so long? I’ve been waiting for an hour.”

“I’m sorry.” She looked at him nervously. She could cover what was left of the bruises with makeup now. He had convinced her that his punishment was her fault, because she hadn’t defended him as she should have and had pissed him off. Her father had always told her it was her fault too when he threw her or her mother down the stairs. He had broken her arm twice. “I had to wait until everyone went to bed,” she explained to Brad, and he looked furious as they walked around the corner to where his bike was parked.

“What are you? Twelve? You pay rent in that place. That bitch can’t tell you what to do.”

“Yes, she can. It’s her house. She can throw me out.”

“Fuck her,” Brad said angrily, and handed her a helmet, and a minute later they took off, with Eileen on the back of his motorcycle, holding on for dear life. He was pissed about it, but Eileen had been adamant that he couldn’t come upstairs. They were going back to his place. She wanted to make it up to him for upsetting him before. He was right. She hadn’t defended him to the others. And he had convinced her, just as her father had, that she was bad, and wrong. She was going to prove otherwise to him tonight.

Chapter 11

E
ileen sneaked back in the next morning before anyone got up. She felt like a kid again, and no one knew she had gone out. Brad hadn’t brought her home, and she didn’t want them to hear the motorcycle anyway, so she took a cab. She was home in plenty of time to shower and dress for work. Brad had been incredible to her, gentle, loving, kind, and it was the best sex she’d ever had. She thought it was a shame her roommates didn’t know him better. He was a very decent man. They had just gotten off to a bad start. She hoped that Francesca would relax about him in time and forgive him. Eileen already had. She was seeing him again that night. The relationship with him was heady stuff.

They all had a quiet evening at home that night. Marya was studying recipes, while Francesca did her laundry, and Chris was reading in bed. Eileen said she was going out with friends from work. They had had such an exciting evening with Charles-Edouard cooking the night before, that all of them took a night off. Marya had left some soup on the stove, and Francesca was on her way upstairs with her laundry, when Chris shot out of his room with a look of panic.

“She did it again!” he said, looking both furious and scared. “She OD’d again. She’s in a coma. Ian was with her, and they said he was frantic when they found her. Now he can’t speak. He’s in shock. She had a guy with her. He’s dead. They think she might not make it this time.” And somewhere in his heart, Chris hoped she wouldn’t. It would be simpler for Ian. He was desperate to get to his child. He flew down the stairs and out the front door as Francesca stared after him, praying Ian was all right.

She waited up for them to come back. It was four in the morning when they finally did. Chris was carrying Ian, who was sound asleep. She opened her door and came down the stairs when she heard the front door close.

“How is he? Is he okay? Can he talk?” She looked as worried as Chris, and he looked as though he had been hit by a bus. It had been a long night.

“He said a few words before he fell asleep. They said I could bring him home. He watched the guy die when he OD’d, talk about trauma for a kid. They’re holding Kimberly responsible for it. That’s what happens when someone OD’s, the survivors are charged with their death. That’s why no one ever calls the cops when someone OD’s. She’ll probably go to jail for this, or prison, unless her father’s lawyers can get her off again.”

“How is she?”

“Alive unfortunately,” he said angrily. “She was coming around when I left. I can’t let Ian go through this again,” he said with a look of desperation as she followed him into his room and he set his son down on the bed. Ian never stirred. “They sedated him. He was hysterical at the hospital. He thought his mother was dead. I’m going to fight for custody this time, and win. No sane judge can give him back to her now. I won’t let this happen to him again. She’s too sick.” Francesca nodded, and wondered who her father was, that his lawyers were so powerful. Chris had mentioned it before. But of course she didn’t ask. It was irrelevant. Ian was all that mattered now.

Francesca went down to the kitchen and brought Chris a cup of warm milk. She was just on her way back with it when she saw Eileen slip in. It was very late for an evening with friends from work. And Francesca guessed correctly from what Eileen was wearing that she’d had a date, but she had no idea with whom. At least she hadn’t brought him back to the house. All Francesca hoped was that she’d been out with a nice guy. Eileen looked happy as she ran quickly up the stairs to her own room, and Francesca delivered the cup of warm milk to Chris. He was sitting in a chair, watching Ian sound asleep on the top bunk.

“It’s going to make a huge stink if his mother goes to jail,” Chris said as he sipped the milk. But he had no regrets for her if it got him sole custody of Ian. He only cared about his son. He had stopped caring about her years before, except for her effect on Ian.

“Don’t worry about it,” Francesca said softly in the dimly lit room. “Get some sleep. You can deal with all that tomorrow.” And she knew he’d have to face another temporary custody hearing in the next few days. That was how it worked. Custody cases got priority and went ahead of everything else.

“Thank you,” he said to Francesca, and she slipped quietly out of the room and went back to her own.

The mystery of who Ian’s mother was was solved for all of them on the front page of the newspaper the next day. Chris had been married to Kimberly Archibald, of one of the most powerful families on the East Coast. Her father was an important venture capitalist who had made a vast fortune with the one he already had. The article told Francesca essentially what Chris already had the night before. It said that she was being charged with manslaughter for the death of a fellow addict in her apartment. The article claimed that she had bought and paid for the drugs. Francesca felt sorry for Chris and Ian as she read it, and then stopped as she saw the second paragraph that mentioned his name. She realized then what an innocent she was. It said that she had been married to and divorced from Christopher Harley of the Boston political family of the same name. More important, his mother was a Calverson. They were related to senators, governors, and two presidents. Chris’s marriage to Kimberly had been a merger of two of the most powerful families in the country, one financial and the other political. And Chris wasn’t just a graphic designer quietly making a living and renting a room from her on Charles Street. He was the heir of an important family, which he seemed to have divorced himself from to lead a quiet, simple life, until his ex-wife splashed him all over the front pages of every paper in New York. He was totally unassuming. Francesca put the paper in a drawer so Ian wouldn’t see it when they came down to breakfast a few minutes later. Marya still didn’t know what had happened the night before. She looked surprised to see Ian, but didn’t comment on how pale he was, or how shaken he looked. He didn’t smile, and hardly said a word at breakfast, even when she gave him his favorite Mickey Mouse pancakes. He still looked sleepy from the sedation they’d given him the night before and he hardly ate.

“What happened?” Marya whispered to Francesca when Chris thanked her for breakfast and took Ian back upstairs. Chris looked worried and exhausted, and he hadn’t seen the paper either. Francesca handed it to Marya, who read the article and gasped as she read it. “Oh my God, how awful. I hope Chris gets custody of him now for good.”

“He should, particularly if she goes to prison. Chris thinks her father won’t let that happen.”

“He may not have a choice,” Marya said wisely. “Ian looks awful.”

“He saw the man die, and his mother OD.”

“No child should have to go through that.” She felt terrible for both Chris and Ian, as did Francesca. Chris came back downstairs then without Ian. He had left him upstairs, he wanted to see the paper. His mouth was a thin line when he did.

“Nice, huh?” he commented to both women with a grim look. The story was bad enough, but he hated it when they traced his family back through all the generations. At least most people who knew him never made the connection with him. And they hadn’t mentioned Ian being on the scene, which was a blessing. They had had some respect for the fact that he was seven years old. “Burn this, will you?” he said as he handed Francesca the paper and went back upstairs. Eileen had come in by then, and Francesca explained it to her after Chris left. She felt deeply sorry for him. Neither she nor Francesca mentioned the hour she got home the night before or where she had been. Francesca staunchly believed it was none of her business, as long as Eileen didn’t put the rest of them at risk with who she brought home. Francesca hoped she was using good judgment.

Chris kept Ian home from school that day, and he was still very quiet when Francesca and Eileen came home from work. Charles-Edouard was there that night. He had been with Marya all afternoon going over recipes and talking about their joint book. He offered to make them a light meal, and a special pizza for Ian. He had bought soft-shell crab, and a few lobsters, and in a short time he and Marya had whipped up another feast. She had told him about what had happened to Chris’s son, and he felt terrible for him. When the boy came into the kitchen that afternoon, Charles-Edouard introduced himself and asked if Ian would mind helping him for a few minutes. They hadn’t met yet until then. Charles-Edouard asked Ian to hold an egg in his hand and stand very still. Ian was expressionless as he stood there holding the egg, and Charles-Edouard looked extremely serious as he suddenly pulled the egg out of Ian’s ear.

“Why did you do that?” Charles-Edouard asked him solemnly. “I told you to hold the egg, not put it in your ear.” In spite of himself and the trauma he’d been through, Ian grinned. “Now, this is very serious. Hold the egg please. And this time don’t move. Ah, so, and a carrot in this hand. Excellent. Please listen to instructions, I’m a very important chef.” Ian was smiling by then. And this time the egg appeared to come out of his nose, and the carrot from the neck of his shirt. Ian guffawed as Charles-Edouard did his tricks. Within five minutes, he had Ian giggling, and then squealing with laughter, as another egg came out of his sweatshirt, and a lemon from his jeans. “I can’t trust you at all, can I?” Charles-Edouard said, suddenly doing a juggling act with three eggs, several vegetables, and two spoons. It was executed flawlessly until one of the eggs fell and broke on the floor, and Ian screamed with laughter at the mess. Charles-Edouard pretended to be embarrassed and then dropped the other eggs on the floor and made an even bigger mess. Everyone was grinning by then, and Ian looked up at the tall man with the white mane and told him he was really silly. But Ian was talking again and even laughing. It brought tears to Francesca’s eyes as she watched them. He was wonderful with the boy. He was as good a clown as he was a cook.

Marya cleaned up the mess before they made a bigger one, and Charles-Edouard sat down and put Ian on his knee. “Would you like to help me make dinner?” he asked him, and Ian nodded, and a few minutes later he had a chef’s hat on the boy and was showing him how to cook lobster and crab and he demanded a round of applause for his young sous-chef when he served it. And he had taught Ian how to make pizza, and tossed the dough high in the air while he did. And once again the dinner was delicious. But better than that, Ian was talking a blue streak. Chris thanked him when they shared more Cuban cigars in the garden, and Charles-Edouard acted as though it were nothing. But it meant the world to Chris. The world-famous chef had won his heart forever for what he had done with Ian. He was better than any social worker or shrink.

It was a quiet night after Charles-Edouard left. He had promised to come back and cook dinner for them over the weekend, and Marya had suggested that Francesca invite her mother, which she dreaded, but she knew that she would love it.

She called her mother the next day and invited her, and she accepted. And the following day Chris had the custody hearing, which was a media circus. His ex-wife’s lawyers made no attempt to fight it. They had their hands full trying to get Kimberly’s manslaughter charges dropped. Chris’s lawyer had already warned them that he would be seeking permanent custody of Ian, with a vengeance this time. He had no mercy left for Kim after what she’d done, and exposed Ian to again and again. And he was awarded temporary custody at the hearing. It was on the news that night, and Francesca’s mother happened to see it and called her immediately when she did.

“Do you know who that man is?” She was enormously impressed by who he was related to. Francesca was more so by his humility and discretion.

“Yes, I do.”

“He’s related to some of the most powerful people in this country.”

“I guess he is. He doesn’t talk about it. And this whole thing with his ex-wife is really hard on him, and his son.”

“She sounds like a complete mess. I feel sorry for her parents.”