Miranda's War (20 page)

“And where are you on this one?”

“Your guru thinks I'm against you. Not so.”

“You've never said word one.”

“That's right. There was no need to. Not until now.”

“How do we resolve it?”

“Ah, you want to resolve it.”

“I want the state to limit what we have to pay, what we have to do to live here.”

“Sure, but if your problem is symbolic, this bill is not becoming law, then shouldn't the solution be also?”

“Such as?”

“How about a commission to study the zoning problem?”

Stephen realized he was being rolled in the wrong direction and found the earliest opportunity to end the conversation politely. It was early afternoon on the day after the primary and he had no events on his calendar, no strategy for what to do next and no campaign in place. His aides scurried in and out of his campaign office with updates as to what was trending on Twitter and in the blogosphere about him, the requests (really demands now) from party leaders for him to move on to other issues and the constant invitations to appear on news programs.
The Boston Globe
had attacked him in an editorial entitled “Rokeby the Snob.” He could give a press conference and have every media outlet in the state appear.

Chapter Forty-Two

By the next morning Miranda had formed a shadow organization, Save Our Towns, for the express purpose of launching a municipal bond boycott. She'd monitored every email Stephen had sent his friends about the possibility of such an action. She found he had saved correspondence between his firm and the Secretary of Finance about bonds and even a law review article about the anti-trust implications of consumer boycotts. It had been percolating in his mind for possible deployment, like a lot of other strategies they had discussed.

Miranda decided to run the boycott idea by Zenni, whose busy schedule now seemed to have an opening anytime she called. He invited her right over.

“Who's Save Our Towns?” Zenni asked as they settled into his office over coffee.

“It's eight people from the Rokeby campaign that realize he can't finish the job.”

“I'd say from what I saw on the morning news, he's not exactly in a position of strength. A candidate with nothing to say?”

“Anyway, I'm launching the site today. Maybe he comes around; maybe he doesn't. The Governor can negotiate with me. And there's something in this for you.”

“Oh come on, Miranda,” he said with a weary sigh, “we haven't even closed the Pierce deal. It's a pain in the ass for all concerned. You almost got yourself impeached.”

“You mistake me for some type of suburban dilettante. Political movements aren't won or lost in the first battle. I'm in this to win, to get security for my towns. That deal with you wasn't even a battle. It's like MacArthur's power struggle for control of the Asian front.”

He laughed and clapped his hands.

“God, you are one of a kind. And just what is it that you want from me this time?”

He sat back and awaited the entertainment. She delivered. Her plan was shrewd and her timing perfect.

“Let's go for lunch and I'll choose the wine.”

Over a prominent table at Zenni's favorite restaurant, she explained the sociological literature on what transpires when the territoriality of a group is threatened. He semi-listened between sips of a rosé she had chosen. The waiters greeted him by name as they passed. He soaked in the ambience, the winks and waves of his friends and the fawning attention she gave him in equal measure, feeling as if he could have just about anything he wanted.

“Miranda, I find your theories quite fascinating, and I'm convinced you can wreak havoc, but what's in it for me?”

“Let's assume the bond boycott works, the state is being squeezed and the Governor won't back down. What happens to the real estate market in our towns?”

“Uncertainty.”

“Exactly, nobody knows if the large estates are going to be safe long-term or not. We'll get some relief, but who knows if it will hold? It's like the Hanoi peace accords in '73. And for a while prices will fall.”

“What are you suggesting, more museum deals?”

“Much easier than that. I mean there are ten or fifteen five-acre estates in each town that are run-down and on the market or the shadow market. You swoop in and buy them at a huge discount. It's like the housing crash all over again.”

“What would I do with them?”

“Nothing. Just wait for the market to stabilize, three to six months, until it's over.”

“How does it end?”

“The Governor blinks. The bill is stopped. They leave us alone.”

He was more than intrigued, pulled out his smartphone and punched in some numbers on the calculator.

“Let's have some port,” he suggested.

“Well?” she asked.

He brushed her right knee and leaned toward her.

“Let's go someplace.”

She agreed, he paid the check, and they went back to his car.

“Is your wife in town?”

“We're separated.”

“Since when?”

“Why do you need to know?”

“I don't need to know. I just want to know.”

“Three months.”

“Have you been dating anyone?”

“I didn't leave her for anyone else, if that's what you mean. Our marriage has become pointless, emotionally arid, dull, unchallenging. What else can I call it?”

“So has mine.”

“So I've gathered.”

They went back to his car, a late-model silver Mercedes SL, and he drove toward Beacon Hill, past the State House.

“Stephen Rokeby came up with the bond-boycott idea. But I'm going to use it. And I'm going to sit across from the Governor and settle this. Not him.”

“Good artists copy,” Zenni said smugly. “Great artists steal.”

“Maybe you should turn around,” she said, as the streets became quieter and more private.

“I think I'll keep going.”

He turned onto Joy Street and meandered through the narrow sinuous streets of the Hill to what seemed like an alley but turned out to be a well-maintained private lane with three town houses. His, the biggest, loomed at the end. It had lovely beige and green awnings over the windows and a magazine-quality appearance.

He parked in front and turned off the engine.

“Let's go inside, my dear.”

Reluctantly, she did.

“No furtive use of the back door?” she asked.

“Would you prefer that?”

“I was expecting it.”

“Haven't I exceeded your expectations?”

“You have,” she said.

They went into the marble foyer and he grabbed her right hand. He led her into the living room, and she admired the silk tapestries on one wall and his art collection on another: a Childe Hassam, two Remingtons, a Monet, a Pissarro and a Sargent. There were also some lesser works that she was unable to identify but placed at the upper third of the impressionist market. In all, she figured this was a $15 million collection.

“Who's the collector?”

“Both of us.”

“And your children? Ages?”

“Twenty-two and nineteen, tucked away at colleges, depleting my reserves.”

He handed her a glass of wine and they clinked their glasses.

“I rarely do this, if that's what you're wondering.”

“I never have,” she said with an assurance that he found convincing. “Though I can't say I've never thought about it.”

Soon they were in the master suite, she sitting on a plush chair a few feet from his bed, and he standing, shirtless, in front of her.

“I thought you wanted this, Miranda. I thought you were feeling that pull, the bond we have.”

“I was. But I can't. Not now.”

He crouched down next to her and kissed her cheek.

“Chanel No. 5?”

“Not today.”

He fumbled with her blouse and then she pulled away.

“I loved Archer. Maybe I still do. Look at what he gave me.”

“He's fighting you over everything.”

“Everything. He didn't even congratulate me when I became Chairman, woman, whatever. It's such a crime against his code.”

“Becoming Chairwoman, or not congratulating you?”

“He was pleased when I got on the Commission. That was fine. But to be pushy and take power, very tacky. He disapproves. He's perfectly happy with his world the way it is. And I guess that means our marriage can't work. Because I'm not happy. I never was, well maybe the first two years. But not since then. I need a challenge. I'm restless. I can't resist the urge to take over things. I want to make these academic liberals realize they like capitalism. We can make it refined, controlled, but it's still capitalism.”

“I like what you're doing. You want to show capitalism doesn't have to be ugly. And a woman as attractive as you is the perfect person to do it.”

He kissed her. She pulled away.

“Adultery just gets in the way, Tony. I've done enough to Archer. And he's hurt me too. No more.”

“We're two adults trying to be discreet.”

“You're very good at that.”

“At what?”

“At blending the personal with the deal.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This is a package,” she reminded him. “You get the Pierce and you get the woman.”

“You're a beautiful, fascinating woman. And I think the attraction is mutual.”

“It is. But I am where I am because I married a man who offered me the name, the cachet, the cash, the whole deal. And as I look at you now in this bed, all I can think of is the first time with Archer.”

She grabbed his shirt and held it up for him. Eventually, he put it back on.

Chapter Forty-Three

At 7:00 the next morning Miranda launched the Save Our Towns website, imploring investors to boycott the state's municipal bonds. She put on Chopin études and sipped an espresso. The house was absolutely calm, Archer having gone to work an hour before. She stood right in front of the authentic Sargent and lightly touched the canvas. It had the feel of a three-day-old onionskin. Then she walked a few steps over to the forgery, painted in 2002, which she actually thought was a superior work, and did the same thing. The difference was perceptible to the trained observer. But Archer had done the same thing and didn't feel it. She returned to her study and sent an email to him with a cc to Ted: “Gentlemen: see saveourtowns.org. I launched it minutes ago. Do with me what you will.”

Rokeby called her cell; she hesitated but took it.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“I'm finishing this.”

“Some of those people you've listed there as town Chairmen aren't with you.”

“They're not with you. You haven't done anything in the last three days. What are you waiting for?”

“I'm talking to the Governor. You're not.”

“You should read your history. We won World War II while talking to our enemies. We said we weren't but we were. You use what you've got in battle.”

There was a long silence, during which she noted that there had already been 745 emails received on the site and $28,500 had been pledged to Save Our Towns.

“Well, what would you like to do?” he finally said with the boyish tone she had found so disappointing at their first meeting.

“Isn't it obvious?”

“How does it look for you to leave your husband now that you've become Chairman?” Archer asked at 9:30 that night in his study.

“You made your position clear at town meeting by not showing up. You humiliated me, the harshest punishment in your repertoire. But I still won.”

“And you take that as a vote of confidence?”

She nodded.

“If that vote were held again now it would be the reverse. You've exceeded the leash you were given. Nobody thought you were going to start a bond boycott.”

“Maybe you're right. Or maybe the people will like what we get done. Maybe they'll decide that winning ugly is better than losing gracefully.”

He shook his head.

“I know I broke your leash months ago,” Miranda continued. “I'm not coming back. This isn't a passing phase. I really don't belong in your world.”

“Then have the courage of your convictions and leave. Leave this house, this town and this world. Stop trying to save us!”

She could not answer or even look at him. Instead she slinked out and poured herself a glass of Bordeaux at the bar.

“That's it, drink your $100 bottle of wine, or should I say mine, while you sit here in my $2 million house, on my three-acre estate, and use my Apple computer to email landscapers and artists and directors and policy gurus to join your obnoxious, unseemly, self-centered counter-revolution against everyone who doesn't think the way you do.”

He stood inches from her and grabbed the bottle of wine off the bar.

“What does the glib counter-revolutionary have to say for herself now?”

“Tell me you didn't feel a moment of pride when I became Chairman.”

“I did—for a day. But I never could forgive you for how you did it. And I never will.”

“It never would have happened if I'd sat there and waited for it.”

“I'm cutting you off from my world as of now. No more charge cards. No more computer. No more websites. No more furtive meetings with Anthony Zenni.”

He went into her study and ripped her computer from her desk. She ran in and pushed him away. The computer fell out of his hands. She saw the boys at the doorway, Cody appearing stunned and Asa looking directly into her eyes. She snatched the computer.

“I'm sorry you had to see this, but Mom and I are going to have to separate for a while.”

“You don't even speak anymore. You've been separated for a long time,” said Cody.

“I know. This is not how a family is supposed to be, with Mom and Dad in separate studies.”