An imperfect plan a nove.., p.14
An Imperfect Plan: A Novel, page 14
A disorienting sense of being unmoored washed over her. She had nothing left—no parents, no job, no home, no husband, no friends. She stepped out of the elevator and out through the revolving door, finding herself outside on the icy sidewalk. She vaguely wondered how many days she had left until the bottle of pills she had would be gone, considering the fact that she would have to find a new dealer. She shoved her hands in her pockets, the fingertips of her right hand brushing something. She pulled out a matchbook from the bar she had been in two nights before with Chelsea—with Desmond. She furrowed her brow and tossed it into a nearby trash can.
Drained emotionally and mentally, she collapsed in a heap on a bench as she cried, her breath coming in fits and starts. When she had no more tears or voice, she slowly rose, wobbling. And there in front of her was a neon sign flashing: OCEAN STATE REHAB CENTER.
Chapter Twelve
GRETA
2009
Every time Logan got a fever, Greta watched him like a hawk, praying that he wouldn’t have another seizure. The doctors had tested for epilepsy and were fairly certain he’d had febrile seizures two years ago, telling her to keep an eye on him and that he’d most likely outgrow the condition.
Lucia was singing as she prepared snacks and looked after the boys while they played with clay, making mountains, dinosaurs, and airplanes. The boys adored the nanny, and Greta felt good knowing that Lucia was now knowledgeable about seizure protocol.
Greta placed her oversize Ferragamo bag on a clay-free section of countertop and sifted through the mail while she watched her boys. She could never stay home with them, reading picture books aloud, doing puzzles, coloring, playing with action figures, watching the same movies over and over again. She loved them deeply, in a way she hadn’t been prepared for, but that hadn’t changed her fundamentally—she didn’t have the patience for playing with them all day. Even now she wished the messiness of the kitchen and the smell of the homemade clay didn’t irritate her. Her maternal instincts were what most in society would have deemed paternal instincts—she loved them, wanted to take care of them by going out and making a living. On Lucia’s days off, Greta often put the television on and confined the boys to the family room. She worked hard to not be like her critical mother and her cold father but wondered if it was impossible to escape her Walsh DNA. She never knew what to do with the twins and felt like she was failing.
“How was the picnic?” she asked brightly.
“Great!” Lucia replied. “They played and ate and had a wonderful time. We made ice pops with organic juice when we got home; they should be ready soon.”
“I wike wed,” Brayden said excitedly.
Lucia translated: “Yes, you like the cranberry juice better than orange.”
Logan chimed in: “Lulu lookie.”
Lucia turned to Greta. “I’m taking a child-development class on Tuesday nights. They say that at this age, they should know twenty words. Are you worried that their speech might be delayed?”
Greta felt her face flush. “Well, they were preemies, so I think it’s fine.” What the hell could Lucia know about speech patterns in toddlers from one class? Greta was careful not to verbally attack Lucia, who was probably only trying to help. But she felt defensive and worried that Lucia knew her children better than she did.
“Sure, that makes sense,” Lucia responded, but Greta heard it as patronizing. She let it go because she wanted her kids to have a nanny who cared about them.
She said, “Oh, can you get some more cream of tartar? They love this homemade clay you make.”
“Sure,” Lucia said.
“Here.” Greta pulled a credit card from her wallet. “Actually, you and the boys can go to the market tomorrow. I’m on deadline with a huge project for work.” She blew past the woman’s slightly surprised look and kept talking. “Actually, could you start doing some simple errands for us, especially now that the boys have started their toddler program?”
Lucia nodded. “Of course. I’d be happy to.”
“Great. I’ll leave a list. Just remember to look at labels, because I don’t like giving them anything with chemicals.”
“Absolutely.”
“And just throw the receipts in here,” Greta said, pointing at a top kitchen drawer.
Greta was proud she’d hired such good help for her boys but strangely envied her nanny’s stress-free life. This girl had no deadlines, no grays to pluck, no wrinkles to obsess on, and didn’t even seem to have to work hard to elicit smiles from her boys. How did she make raising her sons look so effortless when Greta found the job so daunting?
They discussed the boys’ schedule for the week and agreed that Lucia would run errands after she put a load of laundry in the wash; she could put it in the dryer and fold after picking them up from preschool. Greta had only signed the twins up for the preschool program because Emily had insisted that Megan and Connor were geniuses because of it, and she had put the boys’ names on the Greenwich Montessori’s waiting list. Greta didn’t like to admit that she was so removed from the school she didn’t even know their teacher’s name, but she’d put Lucia in charge of their school schedule and attending those events and told herself she’d really start getting involved when the boys were in grade school and it mattered more.
Brayden and Logan had stopped making things with clay and were now staring out the window as if mesmerized. They seemed joyful and bonded as they babbled to each other in their own secret language.
“Oh, your mother phoned and said to call her after you put the boys to sleep. She said it was very important,” Lucia said.
“Okay, thanks. Maybe I should just call her now?” Greta suggested, wondering why the boys needed to be in bed for her to call her mom.
Lucia looked uncomfortable for a moment before saying, “Well, she sounded like she was crying. I can stay longer and put the boys to bed if you need me to.”
“That would be wonderful,” Greta said, grateful that she could focus on her mother, who rarely called crying. She dialed and waited for her mother to pick up. “Hey, Mom. What’s going on?”
“Well, you’re hard to track down,” Evelyn said, and it was evident in her tone that she was upset.
“Sorry, you could have tried my cell. Lucia just told me you called the house.”
She cleared her throat a little and ignored the comment. “Listen, honey. Please sit down.”
“What’s wrong?” Greta asked—with her mother, a serious issue could encompass any number of nonemergencies.
“Your father and I are getting divorced,” Evelyn said, beginning to cry. Before Greta could process this, her mother kept talking. “Not a real divorce, but we’re staging one so we can separate our assets. We started this process when your father got in a bit of trouble.”
“You mean when he went to jail,” Greta said, tiring of her mother’s denial.
After a few seconds of silence, she went on. “Yes, well anyway, I’m putting the Nantucket house in your name—don’t worry, we have renters in it all summer to offset the expenses.”
“Wait a minute. Mom, slow down,” Greta said, finally sitting down. “Why?”
“When your father was arrested, we lost a lot of clients, and thus our assets got hit kind of hard, and . . .”
“So do you think it’s smart to hide more assets? Seems kind of risky,” Greta said.
“I know you don’t always get along with your father, but he’s still your father, and he was in a lot of trouble and he worked hard to fix it. It was his idea to get divorced and give you the house so that if the Feds come after him—us—you and Emily are okay,” she said.
Greta just wanted a normal family and vowed never to get involved with any shady dealing at Teiking. She wanted to comfort her mother, but she blamed her father for putting them both in this position.
“I know he lost clients, but he can start over. I can give him some leads.”
“Blackwood is completely folding,” her mother admitted.
“I thought they said if he did time, the insider-trading changes would be taken off his record? Or was that only the conspiracy and securities-fraud charges that were dropped? Are you sure it’s that bad?”
“Yes, it’s bad. I called our lawyer, and he said if we liquidate our seventy-five million, we’ll owe millions in capital gains taxes.”
“Mom, it will be okay.” She had no way of knowing this and actually thought it unlikely, but she needed time—and to placate her mother. Greta resented having to comfort a mother who had rarely comforted her when she was going through hard times, but she tried not to keep score and looked for her good side.
“I bet it was that Jack that ratted him out to the FBI; you need to stay away from that man,” Evelyn said, nearly hyperventilating.
Jack? How did he get involved? “I don’t think Jack would do that,” Greta said. “Besides, he’s not worked with Dad in years.”
“Jack must have been jealous that Dad wanted you to run Blackwood,” Evelyn said. “He thought you were going to get married, and he was pissed it ruined his career planning.”
Greta took a long breath and sighed. Her dad had wanted her to marry someone rich like Emily’s Marshall, and Jack was likely an ideal candidate. Oh well. She had no idea if Jack had his eyes on running Blackwood. All she knew was that she didn’t want her boys to be brought up with all this drama. The older she got, the more flawed she realized her parents’ marriage was. She only looked up to small parts of their character: her father’s brain, her mother’s refinement. But she wanted her sons to admire her overall character, not just bits and pieces. She didn’t want them to feel belittled the way her mother and father often made her feel.
“You’re smart to live in that tiny house,” Evelyn said.
Greta bit back a retort—a four bedroom wasn’t “tiny,” but it wasn’t a hill to die on in that moment. “I’ll sign the papers to transfer the house, but are you sure it will even matter if he’s already been arrested? The police could figure out pretty easily that the Nantucket house is yours,” Greta said.
“No, no, we have it all under control. And don’t tell anyone about the divorce.”
“I don’t know how you deal with all this.”
“Greta, now you listen to me. There’s nothing about your father that you know that I don’t.” There was a loaded silence before her mom continued. “Nothing. I know all the details of his mistakes, so please don’t be fresh. I have stayed with him because family is more important than a mistake here or there.”
This was the closest her mom had ever come to saying anything about her father’s affair, and it surprised her a little. She’d always thought of her mom as purposefully naive; apparently she was just forgiving—or pathetic. “Right, Mom. Got it. I hear Patrick coming in, but I’ll stop over soon.” Patrick wasn’t home, but she needed to find out more about what was going on from someone other than her mother. Maybe she could call Jack.
An hour later, when Patrick actually did walk in, his shirt was stained with sweat from his tennis coaching. Greta hid that her eyes rolled as she accidentally compared him to the men in suits she interacted with all day.
“Hey, sweetie,” he said as he gave Greta a rushed peck on the cheek and ran to greet the boys with open arms. Greta followed him and explained that Lucia was staying later because her mother was a wreck after her father’s latest shenanigans. She helped him reheat his dinner, left in the fridge by Lucia, while she looked for her keys and was secretly grateful to skip the bedtime routine to help her mother. She hated doing dishes and sometimes wondered why she didn’t just treat herself to full-time kitchen help like her parents did. And after baths it was exhausting to play three rounds of Memory with Brayden after a long workday, so she welcomed the night off.
She needed to eat dinner with Patrick more. Even if she still wasn’t feeling connected to him in the bedroom, she should try harder to have them eat as a family versus having Lucia feed the kids and letting Patrick fend for himself while she ate a bowl of Kashi cereal by her laptop. She had wanted to create the all-American family, to have a fulfilling marriage and dote over her boys, but being a wife and mother didn’t always feel natural, and she wanted to blame her own upbringing for it. She knew that was lazy, the old “blame the parents for your emotional issues” trope, but considering what was currently going on, it couldn’t be denied that her parents’ relationship was odd at best and unhealthy at worst—not the best of role models when it came to creating that healthy family dynamic she had yearned for. She’d try harder, she promised herself—just as soon as she figured out what was going on with her father’s business. She wished she could talk all this over with Patrick, but she needed to see Jack, someone who knew her father professionally and may be able to provide insight, if not answers.
“I guess I’ll go check on my mom,” Greta said. She was too tired to deal with Patrick’s usual passive-aggressive comments regarding Jack as her “old high school flame” or “new hedge fund honey,” and she was only meeting up with him to find answers. No sense inflaming that old nerve.
She blew him a kiss goodbye, feeling guilty that she hadn’t told Patrick the truth.
When she arrived at MacDuff’s, Jack had a glass of house wine waiting for her. She hugged him before sitting down.
“I heard. How bad is it?” Jack asked.
“Pretty bad,” Greta said, gulping half her glass at once.
“I’m sorry,” Jack said.
“I hate people knowing I’m a Walsh. When you Google my dad, the first thing that pops up is his mug shot. It’s embarrassing.”
“Okay, but people know you’re different. And you should be proud of all the clients you’ve brought to Teiking without your old connections.”
“I’m just glad I’m not a Walsh anymore.”
“I kind of wish you still were,” Jack said as he leaned toward Greta, smirking.
“Stop.” But she said it teasingly. Jack was handsome, and she couldn’t deny she was reminded of their high school fling and enjoyed the attention. Looking at him, she tilted her head a little and said, kindly, “Why does my family think you called the FBI?” Part of her wondered too—was Jack still upset she’d broken up with him or that he’d never own Blackwood? This put their past in a new light and made her even more grateful that, despite the recent tension in her marriage, she’d married for love and not money.
Jack didn’t miss a beat. “Your dad probably worries that, if Blackwood folds, I’ll go after his clients, but I swear, I think of him like a father.” He lowered his voice suggestively. “Sometimes I wish he were my father-in-law.”
Greta shook her head and leaned away from him. She gave him a mock stern look and then caught the bartender’s eye to signal for a refill. It was comfortable being with Jack; she had known him for years. They had history and a common language, since they worked together as well. But she didn’t like when he crossed the line.
“I do,” Jack said, putting his hand on top of hers, and Greta was surprised to feel a flicker of something she hadn’t felt since they were both young. She stopped herself from letting the feeling sink in—they had an amazing work relationship that she’d never want to risk changing.
“Thanks,” Greta said to the bartender as he dropped off her new glass. It hadn’t escaped her notice that he hadn’t really answered the question. It seemed to her, though, that he thought it was as ludicrous as she had, the idea of him turning in her father, and probably didn’t feel the need to defend himself.
“Are you happy?” Jack asked, moving slightly closer.
“Yes, I am,” she said as she convinced herself that was a goal of hers. Her smile was a little rueful, but she was telling him what she wanted to make a truth. She was successful, had her two beautiful boys with her handsome and athletic husband, and in spite of this embarrassment with her father, her life was good.
He leaned back but kept his eyes fixed on hers, his hands still close enough that they probably looked like a couple, which made her feel uncomfortable. She was merely reaching out to an old friend, not hitting on her coworker.
Her family had enough secrets; she didn’t need one more. But she had felt so asexual recently, so not attracted physically to Patrick. She couldn’t keep blaming infertility and motherhood. Maybe it was a real problem that she’d eventually need to face? Her entire marriage was built on lies, lies that would likely catch up with her.
Greta wanted her toddlers to grow up with two parents. Motherhood and being a wife didn’t always come naturally, but she’d succeed—there was no other option as far as she was concerned. Patrick was a good husband, a perfect father; she wouldn’t ruin that. Jack was her closest friend at work—or maybe just the closest thing she had to a friend at work—and understood how complicated her family was.
“High risk, high return,” Jack said confidently, brushing his hands through his hair, which was just starting to gray at his temples.
She secretly worried that her father was right—she was outgrowing Patrick, and Jack was more her type—but she suppressed that thought and stayed strong as she responded, “All I can see are the risks.”
“Okay, fair enough. If you’re happy at home, I’ll back off.”
“Yes, things are good,” she said, putting both hands around her wineglass. She focused back on what had brought her to wanting to meet up: her father. She knew exactly what conspiracy and securities fraud meant but still admired her father nonetheless. She had a hard time facing that the skills she’d admired her whole life were now peppered with deception.
Jack leaned back. “Gret, your dad’s firm is a feeder fund to this guy Barney Maxwell, who is in even more trouble than your father, and the FBI is so tied up on his case that your dad got off easy. Trust me.”
Greta turned that over for a moment, wondering if she should research this Maxwell. Jack also sounded like he did know more about her father’s case than he was letting on. “I just hate seeing him this old and behind bars again. He made a lot of mistakes, but he also worked hard, and now, right before retirement, he’s losing everything.” Shaking her head, she took a deep breath, trying to keep her emotions in check. “I make my own money and Emily will be fine, but my poor mom and all the shit she’s put up with—I think she even knows he’s had this long affair with his secretary.”
