Chrysalis, p.21
Chrysalis, page 21
“So give him a few months runway,” she gently suggests and I know it’s the most logical thing in the world.
“I feel like I owe him more than a few months.”
“Pick a number, then. Six months. A year. Whatever you think you owe him, give it to him. But after that, do what you want and promise yourself you’ll never tether yourself to anything that makes you feel this trapped again.”
I’m nervous as I walk into the restaurant, early for my meeting with Dale. I’m never nervous when I meet with him, a fact that only puts me more on edge. He’s come all the way to Sydney, which means he’s got something on his mind. I don’t think I’m fucking anything up, though, no matter how badly I did, I have no doubt we’d get through it. My shit’s getting done—I’ve just been less available.
Fushi is one of the hottest lunch restaurants in Sydney right now. It’s a place I want to bring Darby to, but we’ve only been back in the city for three weeks. The cuisine is sushi and I know she’d love it. I’ve been working a fair bit—catching up on all I’ve missed, and quietly moving the chess pieces that will set the office up for success once I quit. I haven’t had the conversation with Dale yet. Before I do, I want to have thoroughly crafted my exit plan.
But there is no sense of urgency. Darby is enjoying this part of the world and we’ve already planned half a dozen long weekend adventures for the next several months. From Australia, it’s a short jump to dozens of island nations. She’s already planning itineraries for us in New Zealand, Fiji, Papua New Guinea and Indonesia. We’ll also return to the beach house and see more areas of Australia. I was right about her wanderlust. At the end of each day, she is bright-eyed and smiling when she tells me about what sights she’s seen.
“How’s Darby liking Sydney?” he asks just after we’ve ordered our hard liquor drinks. Dale is old-school. He’s all about the three martini lunch.
“So far, so good,” I reply. “She loves the warm weather. I think I’ve mentioned that she loves art, too. She’s been hitting all the museums. I think the move’s been good for her.”
“I’m glad,” he says genuinely. “Like I said, she’s a smart woman for getting out of the rat race. Good for her.”
A more serious look comes over his face and I expect him to get down to business. I stayed up half the night last night making sure to be prepared. The briefing I’m about to give him has been carefully crafted to assure him that I’m completely in control. But he doesn’t bring up the Sydney office. He brings up something for which I’m wholly unprepared.
“You remember Lena, right? Remind me…what year did you join the firm?”
“November of 2010,” I say, already perplexed.
“That’s right,” he recalls with uncommon wistfulness. “She raved about you after the office Christmas party. You made quite an impression on her.”
I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. Lena is his ex-wife. She was a lovely woman, but they’ve been apart for years. He spares me the need to respond by speaking again.
“Two weeks after that party—on the day after New Years—she filed for divorce.”
We’re about to have a sentimental conversation. We are having a sentimental conversation. The problem is, I have no idea why.
“What I should’ve done,” he begins slowly, “…was let someone else run the company and beg for her to take me back. She was the love of my life, and I should’ve gone after her. She’s remarried now. To a forty-year old French guy.”
Our drinks arrive and he pauses from his story long enough to thank the waitress and take a long sip of his cocktail.
“I’m happy that she’s happy. I don’t want her to be miserable. But I’m miserable,” he reveals. “And I miss her every minute. Most days I can’t look myself in the mirror for how much this job has cost me.” He takes another sip. “Can you?”
And in that moment, I know he’s had me pegged all along. I shake my head, and in doing so I shake off the persona I had planned to present today.
“No,” I admit. And confessing it feels good.
“Good.” He nods approvingly.
It is then that I realize that part of him expected me to deny it. And, why wouldn’t he? I’ve been brushing him off for months.
“When you came here…I always knew it would be temporary. I had you slated for Managing Partner in Chicago.”
I’m floored. Chicago is his territory. He’s founder and CEO and it’s the backbone of the firm.
“I had planned on announcing my retirement next year, but I realized I wouldn’t mind accelerating it if I wanted to keep you. I’ve been grooming you, Michael. Truth is, I always thought you would be my successor.”
He leans back in his seat.
“I knew you could have gone anywhere you wanted, but I’ve been doing everything I had to all these years, to make you want to be here. But as much as I want you to fill my shoes, I don’t want you to end up like me. And if I let you stay here, no matter how much rope I gave you, I know you would. Because that’s the job. And doing the job is who you are.”
I don’t know what to say.
“This has nothing to do with your performance. Despite everything that’s going on, you’re still running circles around the MPs in every other office. And I’m not pushing you out the door right away. You can have as much time as you want and I’ll do whatever you want me to do to preserve the optics of whatever you decide. I’ll expect you at work tomorrow. I know you’ll lead a good transition. I know you won’t let me down. But this isn’t what you’re supposed to be doing right now. And if you don’t know it already, you will. So, Michael…”
He straightens up and looks me dead in the eye.
“You’re fired.”
A month after Dale fires me, I’m on a plane to meet Darby in Chicago. I’ll spend more time on planes getting there and back than I’ll spend in the city, but I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. Darby has finally accepted The Art Institute’s offer to name one of its newest wings for her family—The Christensen Gallery. It will be the newest expansion of the modern art wing. Darby’s been here for two days working with the museum and preparing her speech for the event.
My cheeks hurt from how hard I’m smiling and my hands ring from the force of my applause at the close of her gracious speech. She cuts the ribbon to let the hundred or so cocktail-attired VIPs come inside. My hand is in hers all night as she chats with the patrons. Her eyes are alight with excitement. The art community is her tribe as much as it is mine and events like this let her network her way into attractive projects. Since leaving the hospital, she’s been thinking more about how to spend her money and her time.
We stay until the last of the champagne has been drunk and until after the last stragglers have filtered out. The Executive Director bade us goodbye fifteen minutes ago and we are utterly alone. I took precautions to make sure we’d stay this way. I’ve arranged for a guard to be posted at the door, and for the cleanup crew to wait until we’re gone. I know that having this place to ourselves again—even though we had not yet visited this wing—reminds Darby of that night I brought her here nearly a year ago.
“You know how we’re in this together…” I turn to face her and take her other hand in mine.
She nods through a small smile that blooms on her face, a mixture of amusement and curiosity. She has no idea where I’m going with this. She’s tickled and maybe a little drunk from the champagne, but I’m nervous as hell.
“I’m devoted to you for the rest of my life. Even if we decide not to be together, I will always have your back. Through rich or poor. Through thick and thin. You know all of that, right?”
She nods, hesitantly now.
I drop down on one knee. Realization dawns in her eyes. I look down to fish the box out of my pocket—it’s not the blue of Harry Winston, but the red of Cartier. When I bring my eyes back up to hers, I can see that she recognizes the packaging, but doesn’t know what’s inside. It’s not the telltale cube that she’s expecting, the one that would indicate a ring. She’s trying to figure out what could be inside a box that is rectangular and wide.
“Darby Nicole Christensen…”
Her hand flies up to cover her mouth.
“I don’t need to marry you to love you forever. And I’ll never, ever pressure you to wear my ring. But married people have rights that we don’t. If you’re sick, I want to have the right to sit by your bedside. If you’re in trouble, I want the legal rights that any husband or wife would have. And I want you to have the same rights when it comes to me.”
With my eyes on her face, I open the box.
“I’m giving you this pen today as a token of my undying love. Will you use it to sign documentation that would entitle us to that?”
She doesn’t answer right away. She’s too busy admiring the stunning fountain pen. The entire barrel is covered in pave diamonds set in eighteen-carat white gold. There is a larger diamond at the base of the stylus and when she opens the cap, she’ll find an elegant sterling silver nib. It’s a vintage piece. No more than ten are believed to remain anywhere in the world.
She’s transfixed, but I’m impatient. It is obvious that she loves the pen. But I’m nervous about how much she likes this idea. I’m about to continue making my case when her eyes meet mine again and her face lights up in a brilliant smile.
“Yes.”
“Let’s get dressed up,” Darby says between kisses in bed. We’ve been lazing around all morning. This past month has been the first time since I was ten that I didn’t have a job. I’ve repaid years worth of sleep debt, found time to work on my foundation, and fucked Darby in every square inch of our apartment. At first I was ambivalent about getting fired, but so far I haven’t had a single regret.
Since I left Dewey and Rowe, I flew back to Chicago just once—to talk to some builders about Tara. I know who delivers and who doesn’t, and I want to lock down firms I like. A lot goes into building a house if you want it built right. And I’ve been making modifications to the plans. With Darby’s input, we’ve added a movie theater, doubled the size of the library, and killed a guest bedroom to triple the size of the master closet. We’ve even created a small room for a sensory deprivation tank.
But today is a special day. And I’ve looked forward to it. We’ve flown in our lawyers from Chicago. This month, we’ve also made decisions about all of the legal rights we’ve decided to give. We’ll give one another medical and financial power of attorney so that we can make critical decisions on one another’s behalf. I’ll officially install her as Vice President on the Board of Directors on my non-profit. If anything happens to either of us, the other one is in charge, and will be completely covered.
Thinking through things like this has also given me the opportunity to rework my affairs as they relate to Bex. Since I started making real money, she’s always been in charge of anything related to my estate. The way we’ve worked it, Darby has the power to make financial decisions on my behalf if I’m incapacitated for as long as I’m alive. But if I die, there’s no way she’ll ever need a penny of my money. I’ve left everything except items that mean something special to Darby to Ella, her little brothers, and Bex. The way we structured it is much smarter than what the law would have provided had we decided to marry.
“Dressed up like how?” I ask, wondering what Darby has in mind.
“You know…make a day out of it,” she replies. “Maybe go to dinner afterward. We’ve barely put clothes on for the past month, but today…why don’t you dust off one of those sexy suits?”
Darby likes me in a suit and tie. And she’s right—I have been spending a lot of time in t-shirts and boxers. I don’t mind getting dressed up for her and I’m looking forward to when we’ll take it all off, later.
It’s only when she walks into the kitchen just under an hour later that I know that I’ve been tricked. She is wearing a gorgeous white dress. It is cream-colored lace that falls off of her shoulder and a white sheath beneath it to modestly hide what would have otherwise been a scandalous showing of skin. She’s got on white satin shoes with cute bejeweled bows and she’s clutching a small sequined purse in her hand.
“Can’t forget my pen,” she says casually, waving the purse a little as she meets my eye. “Let’s go not get married,” she smiles and I know she knows she’s got me.
But I’m too choked up to respond. Because Darby’s giving me the wedding she knows I would have preferred, and I can’t imagine a more beautiful bride.
The signing of the papers barely takes half an hour. We’ve read over everything in advance. We sit in a glass-walled conference room with a beautiful view of the bay beneath us, turning to the pages with flags on them, signing and dating on thick black lines.
Darby has planned a special dinner for us, and I think she thinks we’ll get a little drunk, because when we went to leave the apartment, she had already booked a car. On the ride over, she presented me with a beautiful pen of my own. Another vintage Cartier that is the understated match for the one I got her.
The final document we sign had nothing to do with our non-wedding. They are the closing documents for our beachfront house. It was owned by a New Yorker who rarely went there anymore and had taken to renting it out on Air B ‘n B. The price we offered him made it attractive for him to part with. Accepting the deed to that house is the most gratifying part of the event. It is the first and only asset that Darby and I own together. We still don’t have a solid plan, but I like the way I’m settling into ceasing to need one. None of this could be turning out better.
As we pull up to a restaurant called Riverrun—one of my favorites—I begin to get suspicious when I see a sign that says it’s closed for a private party. It’s a small place, but I am almost certain that it has some sort of party room and I don’t know why Darby would book it.
When I walk inside, I don’t see the empty tables I expect. I see the only faces that could possibly make this day better.
“Uncle Michael!” Ella runs up to me and nearly knocks me down, because by now I’m weak on my feet. The restaurant has been transformed and glows softly in candle light. In the room is everyone the both of us love.
I am dazed as I shake hands and receive hugs from Bex and Alex, from Ben and Tami and their tiny babies who can’t be more than four months old. I get a whispered “It’s about time” from Anne before I’m introduced to her new girlfriend, Meghann. I get an exuberant hug from Andrew and congratulations from his boyfriend Ken. I am floored when I see Avi and am truly pleased to see his wife again and meet his adorable little girls. I get a hard pat on the back from Dale and am thoroughly choked up when Randy pulls me in for a hug.
Darby has given me some amazing nights, but this night—the night of our non-wedding—replaces everything that came before it as the best night I’ve ever had. This is my family. These people are my life and I’m finally going to live it.
“Ten bucks says you get through, no problem.”
Michael’s breath is warm near my ear. He’s speaking too quietly for the TSA agent we just passed, let alone anyone else, to hear. We’re shuffling forward, toward the x-ray, in the Pre-Check security line at JFK. His hand has slid up from where it had rested on the small of my back to gently cuff the back of my neck from beneath my hair.
“I think you might lose this one,” I reply, just as quietly, more focused on the stroke of his fingers on my skin and the smell of leather from his jacket than I am on what trouble I might be in if the TSA doesn’t like what’s in my bag.
“It’s not contraband, cupcake. If they ask any questions, we’ll just tell them all the kick-ass things you did to win that award.”
He stops walking to gaze down at me.
“‘Dr. Darby Christensen, Living Legend, For Excellence in Medical Research’…you know how proud I am of you, right?”
“I do know.” I smile back up at him, thinking back to the moment I stood on stage accepting the honor. The standing ovation I received had filled the room with resounding applause, but I swear when I caught Michael beaming at me, I could hear him clapping louder than anyone else.
“Worst they’ll do is confiscate it,” Michael murmurs as he sets the bag which contains it, gently, into one of the white security screening bins. It is a tall glass pyramid that stands about a foot high and, if the TSA decides to make something of it, could be considered to be a deadly weapon.
“No…” I say slowly. “Worst they’ll do is escort me to a back room and do a body cavity search.”
“You know I’d never let that happen,” he says a little more seriously.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. If Michael thinks he’s any match for airport security, he’s mistaken. But he likes being the man, and his instinct to protect me is genuine, and sweet. Since I started working with Avi, it’s me who’s become a force to be reckoned with. Avi does the hacking. Philip does the surveillance. And I’m the brains behind the deal-making and political maneuvering. Taking down men like my father—the bad apples of American politics—is fairly hands-off and strategic, but every once in awhile, it requires a little braun.
After we sail through security with no incident, Michael gives me an ‘I told you so’ look and I don’t hold back from rolling my eyes this time. We stop at Hudson News to buy twenty dollars worth of candy because, according to Michael, they “never have anything good on the plane”. When I browse the area around the cash register to look for a trashy magazine, I can see that most newspapers are still running yesterday’s story.
“They say good things happen in threes,” Michael murmurs a minute later as we exit the store and begin making our way to the gate. I know then that he saw me eyeing the news. Avi found enough in my father’s snitch files to gather evidence that devalued the FBI’s need for Charlie Sweeney’s testimony. In police custody with no bargaining chip for a reduced sentence, the manslaughter charges stuck. Despite a fast conviction on that front, he avoided a maximum security prison for the first three years. Evidence from my father’s files put him on the hot seat for nearly a dozen other charges.
