Underwater (18 page)

“Hi, this is Dawn Mitchell with Meridien Wealth Management. Today is Monday, June twenty-eighth. I will be out of the office today, but please leave your name and number and I will return your call as soon as possible. Thanks.” The recorded message complete, Dawn put the phone down and turned to see her sister entering the kitchen. “How did you sleep?”

“Okay,” Helen said while stretching. Adele was still upstairs. “How long have you been up?”

Dawn smiled. “I can’t sleep much past my usual time.” She had worked every day last week, meeting Helen and Adele for lunch twice. She had decided to take a long weekend and stay home today and Tuesday. “I haven’t even checked email yet, though. Guess I should.”

Helen poured a glass of skim milk and sat down at the round kitchen table. Dawn placed her coffee mug on the table, sat down, and opened her laptop. She clicked on her email and began scrolling down the inbox.

“Well, here’s a surprise,” she said. “Something from Mom.”

Helen bit her lip. “What did she say?”

“Oh my God,” said Dawn.

“What?”

Dawn sighed. “She and Rich are splitting up. Getting a divorce. After thirty years.”

Helen’s eyes widened. “She’s telling you that in an email? Did she send it to me, too?”

“No,” said Dawn, her eyes on the screen. “ ‘Tell Helen the news when you talk to her. I’ll call you both next weekend.’ ”

“It’s typical of her to ignore me,” said Helen. “Let me see that.” She scooted closer to her sister and read the cryptic message. “I wonder what happened?”

“It’s so like her not to explain. My God.” Dawn shook her head, then took a sip of her coffee. “Actually, it’s amazing they’ve stayed together this long, when you think about it.”

Neither of the sisters was close to their mother, Diane. She had married their father, Tim Piper, when she was only twenty and he was twenty-four. After six years and two children, they divorced and Tim moved to Maine, leaving Diane to raise the girls. He had never been part of their lives, and when Diane married Rich Corrigan in 1980, the sisters had welcomed his presence as a step closer to stability, accepting him as a substitute father. Once Helen grew up and finished art school, Diane and Rich had moved to Southern California.

“Has it really been thirty years?” asked Helen.

“They were celebrating their twentieth when Frank and I got married. Remember? They went on that cruise?”

“Oh, yeah. She got sick?”

“Right,” said Dawn, focusing on the laptop screen. “You know, I wonder what would have happened if she and Rich had been able to have kids of their own. I remember when they were trying.”

Helen swallowed and studied her sister’s face. Dawn had had five miscarriages. To Helen’s knowledge, Diane had had two, in her thirties.

“I don’t care,” she said. “You and I never hear from her unless it’s bad news, or they need money. Or both. I’m sure she’s still pissed at us for telling her to stop asking, and mad that we told Rich how often she had.” Helen leaned back and sighed, pushing away the possible parallels between her marriage and her mother’s. “She hasn’t seen Adele since she was a baby, and she never calls.”

“Well, I’m guessing this is about money. Or she’s having a late-life crisis. As ridiculous as that sounds.”

“I know. I wonder how Rich is doing,” Helen said while reflexively placing her right hand under her top and resting it on her scarred skin. Rich was a private person and said that he didn’t believe in talking about his problems because, when it came right down to it, no one was really interested—everyone had their own. Helen felt the same way, except with Dawn. “Anyway, what a mess.”

Dawn turned to look into her sister’s eyes. “Helen, have you forgiven her? I mean”—she glanced down at Helen’s hand on her shoulder and then back up at her face—“she was twenty-six then, and taking care of two toddlers all day. Tim was away so much—”

“Let’s not talk about it, okay?” Helen cast her eyes down. “I try not to think about it, or her. Ever.”

“I don’t blame you. She’s been out of both of our lives for so long anyway—”

“Which is fine with me.”

“Me, too. It’s just, well, I know you suffered. Really, I
know
you did. But if you could just let it go, completely—”

Helen looked back up at her sister, gazing at her with misty eyes. “I have.”

Dawn cocked her head, pausing. “We both know she was a terrible mother. But she never meant to hurt you, Helen. It was an accident.”

Helen looked away, blinking back tears. “I know it was. But Dawn, she didn’t—she didn’t
damage
you. You don’t carry a scar.”

“You’re right. I don’t carry a physical scar, like yours. I
was
damaged by her, though, in a different way.”

Helen exhaled, then looked back at her sister.

“You’ve said you don’t really remember that day. I do. You were standing next to her at the stove, holding on to her legs like every two-year-old does. I ran in the kitchen toward both of you. She had a glass of wine in her hand—I’m sure it wasn’t her first. She was angry at me. She whipped around toward me and, by accident, she knocked over a pot of hot oil—”

“Stop,” said Helen.

Dawn grabbed her sister’s arm. “We’ve never been able to talk about it. Don’t you know how guilty I’ve felt, all these years?”

Helen gazed into Dawn’s eyes. “Why do
you
feel guilty? She was the one who did it. She was the adult.”

Dawn’s eyes welled up. “I startled her. I ran in—”

“Like any little kid in any family does.”

“But it wasn’t any family. It was
our
family. You, me, and Mom—Diane, a single mother in the ’70s. Helen, she just couldn’t handle raising two kids alone. She burned you by accident. She didn’t take you to the doctor because she was broke. She was probably also afraid she’d be accused of child abuse. She had a fucked-up life, and we paid the price.
You
paid the price.”

“The thing is, Dawn, I don’t care about her. I’ve lived with this for so long”—Helen glanced down to her left, then back up—“that it doesn’t matter.
She
doesn’t matter. I don’t care what happens to her. If she and Rich split up, that’s their problem—or maybe, their solution. Whatever. I don’t want to know.”

“But can you forgive her, for what she did to you back then?”

Helen shut her eyes for a second, then opened them. “She’s never asked me to forgive her. She’s never said she was sorry. She’s
not
sorry—”

“I’m sure she is.”

“How do you know? She doesn’t care, Dawn. Not about me, not about you, not about Adele.”

Dawn reached for Helen’s hand and held it. “Look, I’m not defending her. But you can forgive her, anyway. You
need
to forgive her, not for her sake, but for yours.”

“Why?”

“Because, when you do, you’ll be getting rid of a huge burden, a burden you’ve been carrying around since you were two years old. And as long as you don’t forgive her, you’re letting her have power over you. I know you don’t want that.”

Helen bit her lip and stared at Dawn. “Is this something you heard on
Oprah
? It’s not that simple. Mom doesn’t have any power over me.”

“Come on. I don’t pay attention to Oprah.”

“Dawn. You’re the one of us without flaws—”

“That’s not true—”

“Hear me out, okay? You’re beautiful. You’re smart. You have a perfect figure, and yes, perfect skin. And you’re successful. You’ve got a great career and a fantastic marriage.”

“I’m human, Helen. I’m not perfect.”

“In my opinion, you are. You always have been. Everything you’ve touched has turned to gold.”

“No. I don’t have a beautiful baby girl like you do.”

“You will, though.”

“How do you know that? You don’t know, and neither do I. But I do know something about forgiveness, and it’s not something I heard on television. I’ve been married for ten years now. I know things aren’t great between you and Monty, and I’m not going there. But because I’ve been with Frank so long—because of what we’ve been through together—I know how important forgiveness is, in any relationship. Blame isn’t the answer. I’m telling you.”

“Mom and I don’t have a relationship.”

“Our relationships with her aren’t ideal, but she is our mother. She’s your kids’ grandmother. Even if she doesn’t act like one.”

Helen clasped her hands behind her head and leaned back in her chair. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Let’s be honest. We both care about her, at least a little bit. Maybe we even pity her.
I
care much more about
you
. You suffered because of the way she is, the way she’s always been. She’s irresponsible and self-absorbed. She doesn’t care about anyone but herself. She’s a narcissist. We don’t have to love her. We don’t even have to like her. But you can let go of the hurt she caused you.” Dawn leaned toward her sister. “
You’re
beautiful, Helen. No one sees the scar on your shoulder the way you do.
No one
.”

“Dawn, I want to believe you. But you’re not me—you haven’t seen the looks I get, the looks I’ve gotten all my life. You can wear sleeveless tops. You can wear spaghetti straps and strapless dresses—strapless
bathing suits.
It’s cold most of the time in Chicago, and that worked out for me when I lived here. It’s not that way in Georgia. I can’t even wear comfortable clothes.
Sexy
clothes. I always have to hide this.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. You
don’t
have to hide it.”

“Why? Because I’m married? Because everyone who knows me knows about it? Because I’m not supposed to care how someone reacts—
cringes
—when they see it? I dress the way I do because I want to. Let me be modest. Let me hold on to some semblance of vanity. Please.”

Dawn looked into Helen’s eyes and held her gaze for a moment. “I do. I will. You make your own decisions, and I’m not trying to criticize you. I’m only saying that it’s really not so horrible. It’s not so bad as you think. It’s a scar, and it’s not a small one. It’s not a disfigurement. It’s not a handicap. Maybe it would help you if you let it show.
Let
the world see it. Don’t worry about how people react. That’s their problem, not yours.”

“You don’t understand—”

“You’re right. I don’t know what it’s like to be you. I wish I did. I do know you can change your attitude about it. You can just say, ‘Fuck it.’ Don’t let it be a negative. Make it positive. It’s part of you—of your body. Fine. Is that all we are? Physical? Beauty is fleeting, Helen. You think I’m physically attractive. But what’s going on, on the inside of me? Why can’t I have a baby?”

Helen let out a breath. “Dawn—”

“I want to adopt, and Frank doesn’t. There. Now you know.”

Helen looked into her sister’s eyes, leaned toward her, and grabbed her hand.

“We’re at an impasse,” said Dawn, her eyes filling with tears. “I didn’t want to burden you with my problems, so I didn’t mention it. The thing is, we both want a baby so much, but we don’t agree on what to do. And I’m afraid. You have Adele, and soon you’ll have two more babies. But I may never have one. I may
never
have the deep happiness that you have—as a mother.”

“Oh, Dawn.” Helen reached her arms around her sister. “You
will
have it, I know you will. You and Frank will work this out. He loves you. He won’t—”

“I know he loves me,” said Dawn. “But love doesn’t create perfect solutions. You’ve got children. You’re beautiful—to Adele, to me, and to everyone. Please believe me.”

Helen pulled Dawn close and the two hugged for a long moment, neither wanting to lose the other’s touch.

14

Information

A
t a quarter to twelve on Wednesday, David Shepherd
pushed his chair back from his desk, stood, and put his suit jacket on. To avoid today’s ninety-five-degree heat, he planned to grab a sandwich at a deli in the building’s lobby.

Geneviève looked up from her computer as her boss appeared outside his office door. “I just emailed you a list of fifteen rental properties for Ms. Morgan,” she said. “Rent prices ranging from about a thousand to a little over thirteen hundred.”

David stopped at her desk. “Thank you, Geneviève. Would you start making inquiries after lunch, and let me know what you find out?”

“Certainly.
Bon appétit
.”

David smiled, turned, and headed to the elevator. The door opened and, pleased to beat the midday crowd, he stepped inside to an empty space.

His assistant usually took a late lunch, around one o’clock. Like most Frenchwomen—old or young—she was either naturally thin or she paid close attention to her diet, or both. In her fifties now, she dressed in professional but attractive clothing, with an effortless French flair: colorful scarves were her trademark. She was also a hard worker with an easygoing disposition, and had been with him for years.

He hadn’t reprimanded her for failing to verify Monty Carawan’s false supplier receipts a few months ago—though he had asked her to do it, David felt himself responsible for the mistake. However, it was a small oversight in the big picture of Candace’s situation with Monty.

On Monday afternoon, Candace had called and instructed David to offer the less expensive contractor a fee 12 percent lower than his quote. He had advised that a cut in price would likely result in a cut in quality, but Candace was firm. Not wishing to argue, he had acquiesced. If he were wrong, she could deal with the ramifications of her decisions later on, when a buyer was found and a property inspection was done.

At the moment, getting the Carawan family into a rental was priority number one. On Monday, Candace said she had just learned that Helen had been laid off, so a location convenient to her office wasn’t important anymore. David shook his head slightly as the elevator door opened to the lobby. That poor girl. Why in God’s name had she married such a weasel as Candace’s ne’er-do-well brother? It was a mystery.

Strangely, after Candace learned of her sister-in-law’s ill luck, she hadn’t changed her mind about taking over the renovation, kicking them out, and cutting off funds. For the last two days, David had been bracing himself for such a turnaround. He knew his client’s idiosyncrasies, and second-guessing herself was one of them. Given the current circumstances, her newfound resolve was surprising, though welcome.

He hoped it was her last stand, so to speak. With a toddler underfoot and his wife unemployed and carrying twins, Monty Carawan would simply have to find a job, support his family, and stop his constant pleas for cash.

Because it looked like Candace was finally done parting with it.

Monty had learned all he needed to know—for now—about the new product line his sister’s company was developing.

While Candace was fucking her boyfriend over in France and up in Manhattan, he’d been busy. Staying at the condo with Rachel during the last ten days had helped. The constant sex was good for his mind. Rachel left in the morning—not early, though—and stayed away until five or six in the evening. Then they’d have a drink or two, screw, and get ready to go out. She’d dress up in something sexy, then strip for him again a few hours later. He loved her firm yet soft body, her scent, her femininity, her youth—and her perfect skin.

He owned the place and had paid for all the furniture in it. Rachel paid the utilities, the homeowner dues, and the twice-monthly maid service. The condo was in his name, and she was living here as his guest, an arrangement that suited him well—at least, until he got tired of her. Last week, she had been away for seventy-two hours. During her absence, he had accomplished his goal: he met Jessica Copeland and found out some valuable information.

It hadn’t been easy to connect with her, out at night and unaccompanied by Beau Warren. But he had been patient. When he learned that she planned to go out to dinner with the girls on a Thursday night for a friend’s birthday at Plunge, a Buckhead hot spot, he had acted. He surprised Rachel with a ticket to Philadelphia to visit her best friend from high school. Then he arrived at the restaurant bar early and hung out, watching a Braves game and eavesdropping while Jess and her friends drank cocktails. When the gaggle broke up at around eleven o’clock, he watched them hug and listened as they moaned about having to get up early in the morning, to go to work or take care of their infants. Then, when Jess made her way back from the restroom, he snagged her.

He had used the sincerity method—at first. Looking distracted, he stood quickly and blocked her path, almost causing her to tumble off of five-inch heels. He grabbed her arm with just the right amount of firmness, righted her, and apologized. Then he feigned recognition of her as his sister’s employee. Introducing himself, he insisted on buying her a drink. She sat down next to him at the bar, and once he got a cosmo in her hand, things had gone swimmingly.

At first, he listened more than he talked, and he learned a lot. Jess knew that Candace had a brother, but she didn’t know much about him. Evidently, Candace never spoke of her family. She didn’t display photos in the office and Jess had never seen any on the computer. The little bit Jess knew of Candace’s personal life was only because she was her assistant—Jess had met her fiancé only once or twice.

Monty cracked a few sarcastic jokes about his sister, making Jess laugh but not crossing the line. She bought his story: that he was Candace’s behind-the-scenes adviser, but that because he was her brother, she rarely spoke of him to anyone but top management at SlimZ. That he was a fashion industry consultant and traveled to Paris, London, and Milan. That he and Candace had had a special relationship for years, ever since their mother had died. That Candace had told him how hardworking her assistant was, but
hadn’t
mentioned that she was gorgeous.

He’d kept on flattering Jess, keeping her glass filled and working his magic until her initial nervousness vanished. Believing he knew about the new swimsuit line, she started yammering about how company secrecy had been driving her nuts. About how she couldn’t wait for the damn swimsuits to be public after Fashion Week, so life around the office could get back to normal. About how excited she was to be working in the industry, though, and how she hoped to become a designer.

That segued the conversation back to Candace and how she depended on Jess to do everything for her, even log her into the company’s computer system. Monty said he had advised his sister to pick weird, long passwords like he always did, and to change them regularly, of course. Then Jess told him that Candace had exempted herself from the company policy of frequent password changes, and that in reality, her boss wasn’t all that tech savvy. Monty joked about Candace’s naiveté and inexperience with technology, saying she was a rather late adopter. Jess laughed, then gave him the hint he needed: that Candace had never graduated from the spell-it-backwards trick when picking a password.

When Jess got up to leave the bar, Monty walked her outside and got her a cab, then hired a valet to take her car home. He gave her a lingering hug and a kiss on the cheek, and as she drunkenly waved good-bye, she called out that she would see him at Candace’s wedding this fall, if not before.

The next day, if she remembered talking to him, Monty was sure she would tell her boyfriend, who might even tell his uncle Chip. But that was fine. Neither of them would put anything together about his ultimate goal: to show Candace what he was capable of doing. If Jess told Candace about their meeting—it was unlikely, because he had made her promise not to, since they both knew how much Candace liked her privacy (
“. . . if she wanted you to know about me, she would have told you
”
). If she did and Candace confronted him directly, he would just deny the whole thing.

Today was Friday, more than a week after his encounter with Jess last Thursday night, and Candace hadn’t contacted him. Rachel had returned from Pennsylvania last Saturday. She’d gone to the gym this morning, then come back to the condo to shower and dress for a one o’clock lunch and afternoon appointment. He sat in the expensive brown leather chair in the corner of the condo’s spacious bedroom and watched her touch up her makeup. Then she rose, stepped into a pair of peep-toe nude high heels, and regarded herself in the mirror. “See you at five?”

“Sure,” he said, smiling. “I can’t wait to get you naked again.”

Rachel turned, cocked her head, and raised an eyebrow. “Is that all you ever think about? Me naked?”

“There’s nothing else I
want
to think about. Or see.”

She smiled and walked toward the bedroom door, swinging her hips. “
Ciao
.”

“Bye, doll.”

He listened to her unlock the door to the condo and shut it behind her. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes, visualizing her bare body. He needed money to live the life he was meant to live—lots of money. Years ago, he should have been given the chance to earn his own fortune as an architect. He would have been famous by now—more famous than Candace, wealthier than she was, and much more admired.

But he’d been robbed of his future, and Candace was responsible. Jack Carawan had unfairly allowed her to use up all the inheritance money from his aunt, whose death had been a convenient, life-changing event for his sister. Because of it, Candace had gotten to go to an elite college and had been able to lay the groundwork to start her business. Because she had come home the next summer, had gotten behind the wheel one day, and had cut off a pickup truck in the pouring rain, his mother had been killed. Candace had killed her, and in doing so, she had ruined his life.

Susannah had always been his advocate. In an instant, she was dead. Her blood and brains had splattered everywhere in the car, even on him, lying in the backseat and bleeding himself. Once his mother was in the ground, he was forced to deal only with his father. Jack had almost relished destroying his dreams—dreams that Susannah had encouraged. He refused to send Monty to a private architectural school. His only option was to go to a state school, the University of Georgia. Was it so surprising that he hadn’t been motivated there, so of course he couldn’t succeed academically? After one semester, Jack had yanked him out of Athens and insisted that he learn the construction trade. But Monty’s talents lay elsewhere: in drawing and visualizing buildings, not in painting drywall or hammering wood.

Thank God he had gotten away from that in his twenties. Then Jack had kicked the bucket early. Monty had come into a small sum of money, but only enough to pay off his credit cards and buy a better car. Weeks had turned into months, and months into years. Now Monty was almost thirty-eight years old, and he hadn’t accomplished what he was meant to do. It was all because other people had stood in his way, undermined him, and sabotaged his plans.

If he didn’t resent them for it, if he didn’t want justice, if he didn’t want to even the score, as best he could—well, then he wouldn’t be human. He was sick and tired of being looked down on by the other person left alive, the one who had quashed his dreams and crushed his future.

Candace took a sip of water and turned her attention to her laptop on the desk in her Buckhead office. She skimmed David’s latest email and dialed his number.

“Hello, Candace. You got my message?”

“Right. Tell Geneviève that yes, the lease will have to be in my name alone, now that Helen’s unemployed. However—”

“It needs to be month-to-month,” David finished her sentence.

“Correct. Now, how soon can the workers start on the house? What’s the guy’s name again? Ben?”

“Ken. He said they can begin as early as next week. All of their belongings need to be out of the house first.”

“Then I suggest you have your assistant find a rental today. If not today, Monday.”