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“Yes.” Andi offered them seats on maroon velvet couches. “Just a couple intro and human form classes.”

Claire sat down next to Nicky, and Michael chose the adjoining sofa. “Your Jim Morrison is wonderful. Incredible likeness.”

As Andi reviewed Nick’s history with them, Claire watched Nicky’s eyes travel from canvas to canvas with obvious admiration.
Clever man, that Ray.
Nick spoke openly with her about his speech and memory challenges, and his desire to work through them. Michael was not as easy to read.

“I don’t remember the . . . drug overdose,” Nick said, making his air quotes around the offending event. “But I guess I can’t . . . anything—do anything about that. I just want to finish school.” He looked at Andi as if she were the only person in the room, determined, focused. Resolute.

Claire relaxed into the couch. Nick was clearly making more than just physical progress at Craig, and with Ray. Michael’s knee started up again.

“You absolutely can reach your potential, in spite of your injury, Nick. Your brain is just functioning differently than it once did.” Andi leaned in toward him. Her earrings swayed hypnotically against her cheeks. “I’m guessing you can probably blow right through a calculus problem, but maybe you have a hard time making change for a dollar?”

Nick nodded.

“Totally normal after a TBI. It takes time for the brain to rewire itself, so you’re just going to need some special strategies. Got a smart phone?”

“Yeah.” He took his phone from the pocket of his hoodie.

“Ever use the calendar function?”

“Not really.”

“I’d like you to enter basic things into the calendar like breakfast, shower, workout—your everyday tasks—with times and alarm reminders when you get home today. Organization and planning are crucial for school, and I want you to get used to scheduling everything with an alarm so you can increase your follow-through and independence. You should use a planner, too, for assignment due dates.”

Nick started typing into the phone.

“You could put blood tests in there also,” Claire suggested. “And your classes at Craig.”

“What about school?” Michael asked. His posture was perfectly still and erect now. “
Can
he finish senior year and get his diploma?”

Andi walked over to her desk and returned with a folder. “I like to look at short-term goals, say four to six weeks at a time, since Nick’s needs and abilities are evolving. But in terms of school, I think he would do great at East. That’s your district high school, right?”

“Yes,” Nick answered, looking up from his phone.

“I work with several students there. The teachers and class options are excellent. We can get him registered and can get an individualized education plan in place to give Nick some time accommodations and other help.” She handed Nick a course catalog. “I think you’d like the art department there as well.” Their faces radiated an obvious simpatico. They were partners in his future already, Claire could see.

“What about tutoring him privately, rather than public school?” Michael asked in a reedy tone, as if the thought had just suddenly occurred to him. “So that he could, maybe, meet graduation requirements at Andover?”

“Dad!” Nick fixed a defiant stare on Michael. “I’m not graduating from Andover. I’m
not
. . . going back there,” he snarled, clutching the catalog with both hands. “And I’m obviously not Princeton—not going to Princeton.” The face-off shifted to mute, the two of them engaged in the intractable power struggle between fathers and sons.

Attaboy, Nicky.
Claire studied Michael’s neck, the involuntary bob of his Adam’s apple above his straight-point collar, and wanted to strangle him, almost as much as she wanted to give her son a standing ovation.

Kurt Cobain’s piercing eyes seemed to look down over Nick’s shoulders at Michael, too. The intense blue was almost an exact match to Nick’s, she noticed. But while Kurt’s exuded pain, Nick’s unwaveringly said: “My will is strong.” And like the whisper of a brush through hair, Claire heard the subtle rustling of a defining moment. She laced her fingers and smiled.

Andi came around the table and sat down next to Michael, and for an instant Claire panicked that she would put her hand on his knee or make some other ingratiating gesture that would completely offend Michael’s sense of the professional. Instead Andi handed him a report. “In my experience,” she said in the confident manner of an expert, “patients have a better shot at reaching their goals in real-life settings. Being in class with other students, getting where they need to be on schedule, socializing—these are all challenging situations, but also good opportunities to build the skills they need for success moving forward.” She paused, assessing her audience. Michael scanned the information, while Nicholas moved closer to the edge of the couch. “Of course these situations will be frustrating at times. For all of you.” She and Claire locked eyes this time, like coconspirators. “But as you can see,” she said, pointing out the relevant figures, “the odds for an improved outcome for patients with Nick’s abilities increase dramatically with school reintegration, and combined with intervention by strong advocates, like you two”—she smiled reassuringly at Michael and Claire—“and with a specialist, a tutor, like me, if you’re so inclined.”

Claire felt certain that this was how Nick would find the keys to move forward. “What do you think, Nicky?” she asked.

“I want to go there . . . to East,” he said without hesitation. “I just want to finish.” He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, but he didn’t break down.

Their focus shifted to Michael, who placed the report on the coffee table and appeared to compose his thoughts. After an excruciating pause in the proceedings, he finally responded. “Well, sport, it sounds like Andi’s got a good program in mind.” He reached out and enveloped Nick in an embrace. “I know you can make it work. And then we’ll just see what comes next. You know, in terms of college.”

Michael’s phone vibrated loudly from his pocket. He pulled away from Nick to read the text. And in what amounted to a thirty-second fire drill, his eyebrows migrated nervously around his forehead as he apologized for having to duck out, thanked Andrea for her time, and asked Claire to make arrangements with her for school registration and a tutoring schedule.

Which was the ideal conclusion in Claire’s estimation.

 

“I would’ve . . . punched him if he said no.”

You and me both.
“C’mon, Nick, you’re far more resourceful than that,” Claire said as they gathered his ski clothes and gear from the basement for his group trip.

“So, when’s it . . . happening?”

“Well, I’ll download the paperwork tonight and go over to school Monday morning with Andi and get you registered.”

“No,” he said, “the divorce.”

Claire stepped out of the storage closet and leaned on Nick’s ski pole. “Oh.”

“Is it because of my . . . accident?” His surprising vulnerability transformed his features. Behind the action-hero jaw and dogged stoicism, her little boy reemerged, exposed and in need of the same reassurance every child in limbo craves. Despite earlier statements to the contrary.

“Nicky, your dad and I—we have our problems. But they’re just that,
ours
. Don’t for one second think you’ve done anything to cause them.”

Claire turned on the fireplace and sat him down on the floor. And huddling there with Nick in front of the hearth, she laid out the simple, unfortunate truth that life takes left turns at the most inconvenient times, but that her devotion to him—along with his dad’s—ran to the moon and back. Always had and always would. She apologized and told him that things might get tricky for a while, but that his best interest was always their number one priority. The flames reflected in his pupils, and she could see him fighting some deep, painful emotions. She knew this was the moment of reckoning. But she was also afraid to elaborate on his parents’ mistakes, because in spite of her desire to finally be frank and truthful with Nick, she never wanted him to feel that as equal parts them, he was also equally stupid and selfish.

“Nicky, the cocaine from your overdose,” she said in a trembling voice. “It came from that man I invited to the house. He was a business associate of your dad’s. I didn’t know him well . . . and that was my mistake.” She swiped at the tears that fell from her eyes.

“Then why did he come?”

She swallowed hard. “Because he seemed like an . . . interesting person. And I thought—I thought his business proposal was promising, so I wanted to spend some more time with him.” It was a cop-out, she knew, but the psychologist had told her to not to get too deep into the particulars unless Nick asked specific questions.

“Why did he bring . . . coke?”

“I guess it was something he liked to do. But after I saw it, I asked him to leave.” She looked away for a second, debating. “I should have made him go sooner. But I didn’t. And he must have dropped it,” she said, reaching out for him. “Inviting him over in the first place is the biggest regret of my life, and I would give anything to change that, honey. I’m so incredibly sorry.”

Nick pushed back, eyes narrowed, as if considering the veracity of her story. And Claire sat there, holding her breath, waiting for him to pronounce the fate of their relationship, and suddenly nervous that he would bring up Taylor again. That was Michael’s story to explain, and she doubted she could fake uncertainty about it this time. She needed to keep her cool.

“And Dad blames you for . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Yes.” She exhaled. “And I . . . can understand that.” There was still no erasing the painful truth that, in spite of Nick’s discovery about his father’s dalliance and the anger it had clearly inspired in him before the accident, they would not be sitting in this place were it not for her choices.

He turned to Claire with an expression that conveyed both sudden insight and long-term resignation. “I still can’t remember that . . . night. But it was obvious for, like,
ever,
that you and Dad weren’t . . . that happy anymore. I get that much.” His voice was quiet and sad, and so sure.

Claire sat dumbstruck as Nick stood up and began stuffing his ski clothes into a duffel bag, his back intentionally to her. Her gauzy portrait of the past, it seemed, had not been so puzzling a picture for their son. “I love you so much, Nicky,” she said after a beat.

“I know.”

 

Later that evening over her last quarter bottle of sauv blanc, Claire checked in with Jackie and shared her strangely illuminating discussion with Nicholas, along with her optimism over his new academic path. And just like during their teenage assessments of the latest
Seventeen
magazine, Jackie waxed poetic on the intelligence of sensitive, creative boys, and wholeheartedly endorsed Andi’s East High game plan.

Switching gears, they tossed around Claire’s options with Michael in light of recent revelations: Dig deeper into the pension mystery, or give it all up to Jack and his legal eagles to handle, and file the papers ASAP. Jackie voted for Plan B. Claire was getting sick of Plan Bs, but held off on any concrete decisions until she understood more.

And then without planning to, Claire blurted out the story of her massage. The memory, which continued to bubble up and alternately shock and comfort her, was too uncontainable, too good a story not to share with
someone
.

“Oh my God,” Jackie shrieked through the phone. “He totally took advantage of your vulnerability.”

“What? No, not at all,” Claire said, not at all expecting that response from her sister. “It was . . . therapeutic. It was
good
.”

“Therapeutic? Are you kidding? This seems like something you’d be
so
not comfortable with.”

“That’s just it. I felt so weirdly at ease. Well, and maybe not a little pissed at my philandering husband, and I just went with his efforts to release all the blackness, so to speak.” They both dissolved into hysterics. “Seriously,” she said, trying to be. “It wasn’t at all sexual. This man
saw
something in me, Jax.” She left out the part of seeing Richard in the man. “And he helped me step out of my misery.”

“Well, that must have been one hell of an orgasm. So, good for you, I guess.”

“Yeah.” Claire stared guiltily at her empty bottle of Groth. “As long as we’re analyzing my louche behavior, do you think I’m drinking too much?” she asked.

“You’re asking a woman who, at this very moment, is wearing a T-shirt that says ‘Wine Makes Mommy Smarter.’ Carpe vino.”

C
HAPTER
41

“S
mitty!” Richard stepped into the grotto-like lower level of the restaurant and waved to Claire, backlit by stained glass saloon doors. If he had doffed a cowboy hat and flung it onto the nearby cactus, no one would have thought it odd. “Great joint,” he said, wrapping her in a fleece hug.

“Best guacamole in town.” Claire stood back and studied him with a reflective smile. He looked tanner and more rested than he had at Rancho, or possibly it was his haircut—all of which made him appear younger. He wore a Pebble Beach turtleneck under his jacket, baggy jeans, and what looked like bowling shoes.

“You’re digging the sartorial pizzazz, aren’t you?

She hugged him again, fighting back an unexpected avalanche of emotion. “Did you leave your loafers at the bowling alley?”

“These are some of the finest golf shoes my buddy at the pro shop could sneak out the back door, I’ll have you know.”

They sat down on opposite sides of the rough-hewn table as the avalanche gathered speed, and broke free. “I thought you were here to ski,” she feebly choked out.

“Hey,” he said, reaching across to her. “What’s going on? I usually don’t inspire tears.”

“Sorry. And I’m usually not such a puddle. It’s just that since we last talked, things have gotten . . . complicated. It’s a Grand Canyon–sized mess, and I just don’t want to do anything stupid. Again.” She wiped mascara from her cheeks and readjusted her posture, hoping her mood would follow suit.

The dimples that framed Richard’s mouth conveyed the cheerful optimism Claire had tried, but failed, to muster. “First things first,” he said, signaling to the waiter who had been hovering close by. “Señor, you’ve got some thirsty customers here. How ’bout a vat of margaritas, Smitty?”

“Hmm.” While her pre-five o’clock protocol said no, her willpower bent. And swiftly snapped. “Maybe just a pint of tequila. And a chaser of salt for my wounds.”

He gave her a look that said
Oy.
“We’ll have a pitcher, please. And keep the chips and guac coming.”

For the next half hour, Claire brought Richard up to speed on her discovery of Michael’s extracurricular and apparent financial waywardness, as well as Nick’s progress—which somewhat tempered the bleakness of the situation.

“So,” Richard asked, scrunching his nose and looking vaguely alarmed, “what do you think is going on with this pension stuff?”

“I was hoping you could tell
me.
It looks like he may have borrowed the funds to prop up some of his deals, but I can’t be sure.”

“Claire, that money belongs to his employees. And the fact that Janus just sent him the funds doesn’t smell right. That money needs to be transferred directly to another pension account. Which is probably what this Kessler guy has his pants on fire about.”

She nodded and poured each of them another glass from the pitcher. “I don’t know what to do next.”

“One of my colleagues did a story not too long ago about a fund manager who went to jail for something similar. This could be serious, Smitty.” The optimism had totally left his face. “You’re not an officer of the company, are you?”

“No.”

“Okay, good.” He leaned back, tilting his chair on two legs. “If you’d like, I can make a few calls to make sure you’ve got no liability here. And I know the business writer for the
Boulder Daily Camera
. Maybe she can get us a little more information about Mr. Kessler’s clients.”

The reassurance she had been hoping for from Richard was woefully lacking, and she found herself slouching deeper into her angst. “I don’t want to tip anyone off to . . . anything, though.”

“It would be good to connect the dots on that one, just to make sure Michael really is one of his clients. But we journalists can be clever, despite our occasional missteps in footwear.” He clinked her glass and winked. “Don’t worry.”

“This is giving me an acute case of indigestion.”

“How ’bout I look through the info you’ve got at home after lunch? Maybe with a better sense of the big picture, I can come up with some suggestions.”

“I was hoping you’d tell me that I may have misread things and that it’ll all be just peachy. But, yes, I’d appreciate your business expertise. There’s a lot I could use help deciphering.” She pushed her glass and chips away. “If it’s not too inconvenient.”

Richard waved off her concerns and took out his cell phone to call his friend at the Boulder paper. And as Claire listened to him restate the basic facts—confidentially and in the dispassionate manner of a reporter—it became painfully obvious to her that there was no rearranging them into a less ugly design. Richard then conferred with someone named Hilly in the legal department before signing off with a genial, “Owe you one, pal.”

“Okay,” he said, taking a hearty swig of his drink. “The good news is that Meg will get back to me by the end of the day on Kessler’s client list. And the other positive is that legal’s pretty sure someone in your hypothetical situation would have no personal liability if Michael turns out to be a crook. Although Hilly suggested getting with a lawyer and untying the knot in the very near term.”

“That’s on my short list.”

“This is never easy, Smitty. Especially when you’re dealing with someone playing close to the edge.”

Claire’s right eye twitched as if irritated by some invisible, unreachable eyelash. “I just want to minimize the trauma to Nicholas, and get out with my sanity and my own bank account intact. You managed that, right?”

He cocked his head and thought for a moment. “I guess we did. The only nice part about not having a lot of dough is that there’s less to fight over. I basically got Jagger, and Judy got the house and the goldfish. But goldfish get suicidal around me, so that was a no-brainer.” He was trying hard, Claire could tell, to cheer her up. “Lauren was going off to college, which we’d fortunately planned well for. So now we split holidays with her, and she’s doing great. Kids are resilient, Smitty. And they do want to see their parents happy.”

“Right.” The restaurant music abruptly switched from brassy mariachi to Elvis Costello. She hummed along softly.

“But I don’t want to gild the lily. The financial negotiations were about as fun as a colonoscopy. Fortunately you get amnesia about it all. Eventually.”

“Ugh. You’re giving my indigestion whiplash,” she said, folding her head into her hands.

“Sorry. Let’s change tracks for a momento and assume that Michael has some decency and will want to do right by you and Nick. He may not be able to salvage his holdings, and he may even be in a legal stew, but a guy with his connections and family money is bound to be able to pull something off, no?”

“Look,” she said, unfolding. “We were merely wealthy, and not obscenely rich like his family is. Note the use of the past tense,” she added with particular emphasis. “But in Michael’s defense, he’s not someone who’d magically found himself on third base and thought he’d hit a triple. His dad’s extremely allergic to handouts. And scandal. Michael has
never
relied on his family.”

“Huh, intriguing. The elusive Paul Montgomery’s a cold fish.”

“You know Paul?” Claire asked, taking fresh and suspicious notice of the journalist across from her.

“Noo. I’ve had colleagues repeatedly shut out by him, but I’ve got no professional interest in your father-in-law. Cross my heart,” he promised. “My aim is just to make sure you’re okay.” He reached out and wiped the hair from her eyes. “My aim is true.”

She couldn’t help smiling, and her nerves gradually subsided over what turned out to be a shared appreciation for the clever lyrics of the man on the speakers, particularly as they related to relationships and heartbreak. They had both been Costello groupies in their college days, they discovered, never imagining that their own dreamboats would also turn out to be the footnotes they had sung along to.

“C’mon,” Richard said, taking out his credit card. “Let’s blow this joint and go see if we can’t find something helpful in all that dirty laundry.”

Claire followed him out into the bright afternoon and to their cars, and he followed her to the apartment. She squinted through the drive, hoping her pal could just find the right approach for her. Because she still didn’t trust her own instincts.

 

Gail and Carolyn had helped her organize Michael’s printed documents into a triptych: Michael’s draft e-mail to Nicky, investment deals, and the QuickBooks logs. She offered Richard a bottle of water and the second two piles with profuse gratitude.

“Making sense of dirt and questionable business practices is right in my wheelhouse, Smitty.” He slipped on tortoiseshell reading glasses and settled into the couch. And for nearly two hours he read everything she’d given him, in addition to files and e-mails on the computer when he needed supplemental information. Claire answered his infrequent questions for clarification, but generally left him to his digging and note taking, which were peppered with vociferous grunts and mutterings. Mostly, though, he looked as troubled about what he was seeing as Claire felt. She tried to busy herself cleaning her clean kitchen and texting Nicky—who was loving the powder at Winter Park, and hating that he was barely skiing blues. And as she reminded herself to be grateful that her son was back on the mountain and poised to start school again soon, Richard’s cell phone erupted into the dueling banjos from
Deliverance.

“Whatcha got for me, Meg?” he answered, pushing his glasses onto his head.

Claire sat down next to him and listened to him confirm that New Haven Investments was indeed a client of Flat Irons Consulting, and that Mac Kessler was a well-respected consultant who had joined the firm five months ago.

“And one more thing. Can you get me some background on a Kimberly Erickson at Janus in Denver . . . ? You’re the greatest, Meggy. Give that daughter of yours a big hug from me.” He set down the phone and rubbed his bloodshot eyes.

“So?” Claire asked, impatient for the postmortem.

He exhaled deeply. “I think you’re dealing with someone who’s never found himself striking out, to use your baseball analogy. Guys like this—charming, smart, masters-of-the-universe types—they have enough ego to believe that certain rules don’t apply, and that they can always turn things around and get right back on top with just a few sleights of hand.” He shook his head incredulously. “And the screwing around fits right into the profile. I see this all the time, Smitty. They play fast and loose with everything until—” Richard stopped and stared at Claire’s wilting expression.

“Until what?”

“You know.” He made a soft exploding sound.

She could almost feel the bomb in her head. “God, he’s such an arrogant . . . ass,” she said, sulking into the kitchen. She picked up a dish towel and twisted it into a tight knot.

“I’m really sorry, Smitty. I wish I had better news for you.”

“Were you able to make any more sense of this?” she asked, reappearing and flicking the towel at the mess of papers on the couch.

He nodded somberly, his puffed-up cheeks making him look like a despondent beagle, and he explained that, according to a marketing report to the investors in the San Diego project, construction on the high-rise had been completed, but due to the collapse of the local real estate market, the units were priced at forty percent above market and all the buyers of their presold units were walking away from their contracts. The bank was calling for an eight-million-dollar capital infusion to avoid foreclosure. As a result, Michael had issued a capital call to the three other investors in the deal for 1.6 million dollars each, in addition to the 3.2 million he would be responsible for as the majority partner.

“He can save the deal, then?” she asked with a twinge of hope.

“Theoretically he could pay down principal with the cash from the capital call, service the bank debt, generate additional operating funds to rent up the building to eventually sell it, and preserve their original equity. But one of the investors has done nothing but hedge on sending the one-point-six, Paul is questioning the financials, and the third investor declared bankruptcy and is totally out.”

“So that leaves Michael holding the bag for how much?”

“About four-point-eight million,
if
the two others don’t bail.”

“There’s no way he’d let the deal tank with his father involved,” she said, trying to process the information. “He won’t disappoint him. And four-point-eight million, he could get that in a heartbeat.”

“Seems there’s other deals in need of cash, too, but it looks like San Diego and a venture called Wincor Tech were what pushed him to the dark side.” Richard pulled his glasses back onto his nose and took out his notes and launched into an analysis of what he saw as Michael’s Tour de Desperation. On top of having to pony up for his bankrupt partner and cover his own share of the capital call, he explained, Michael had personally guaranteed the bank loan on San Diego for forty-eight million. So not only was he at risk for losing the partnership’s equity in the deal if they didn’t put up the eight million dollars, he
could
be liable for a whole lot more.

Claire started pacing in front of Richard.

“Sit, Smitty. There’s more,” he said, patting the couch.

She looked at him uneasily before curling into the couch and listening to him detail the Wincor Technologies saga, which for a minute sounded like it held the answer to Michael’s cash-flow problems.

Michael had been the sole angel investor in the fledgling energy company over the previous two years, and he’d made a deal with a group to come in and buy his majority stake in the company for what amounted to five times his investment. However, a condition of the sale was that Wincor complete the patent process for its proprietary technology. And unfortunately, it seems Wincor’s lawyers ran into a licensing problem with the owner of a small but essential working part of their solar panels, and needed to pay the owner a two-hundred-thousand-dollar licensing fee. Without this license, the patent could not be issued, and the sale would not go through. And additional funds were needed to pay salaries and legal fees while they completed the patent process.