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“Understood. Thanks again.”
We sign off and I flop back against the couch, letting Caroline’s revelation not only sink in but also shed light on everything I thought I knew—both about C.J.’s motives and the kind of man he was. It was clear to me as I sat in Kane’s conference room that the assignment of the trust would be an affront to his wife, that she would be upset if she found out he’d left it to me, but I never guessed that was the whole point.
By this time, I’d almost convinced myself that Ihadmeant something to him, but it’s clear I was simply a means to an end. While he was dreaming up just deserts for his wife, a memory of me must have surfaced—perhaps because he was considering the enormity of her transgression compared to his one-night stand—and he decided to incorporate me into his plan. It’s certainly not on a level with revenge porn, but it must be stinging for his Jane nonetheless.
The whole thing makes me feel nauseated—and sullied, too, like I’ve agreed to participate in a cruel practical joke on someone I don’t know.
And what does this say about Christopher Whaley? He was certainly justified in his anger about his wife’s transgression, but he’d strayed as well. And if the news about the trust leaked out, Jane could end up humiliated in their community. If C.J. was intent on sending her a fuck-you message, he could have easily left the money to a charity instead.
It’s hard to reconcile his action—a middle finger from beyond the grave—with the seemingly nice guy I met in Boston.
I close my eyes, trying to send the world away. I feel a soft plop and sense a presence on the couch with me, a purring Tuna now by my side. I hear her start licking her fur in slow, even strokes. God, I wish I could be her right now—relaxed and content, not a care in the world.
But at least I finally have the answer.
“You ready to eat?” I ask Tuna, and she lets out a little meow in assent.
After pushing myself up off the couch, I fill her bowl and then peruse the cupboards and fridge for something to serve myself. Both are nearly empty, so I end up mixing a can of tuna fish with cannellini beans and tossing them with olive oil and vinegar. I take the bowl to my desk along with a piece of toast and a Diet Coke and boot up my computer. As if this business with the trust wasn’t enough, I’m still unsettled by the break-in at my apartment and the mystery man at my studio, and I need to follow through on another of Mikoto’s suggestions: that I investigate Deacon Starr.
An initial Google search of his name turns up his Instagram account, of course, as well as his professional website, which at least I’d checked out after our coffee date, and his LinkedIn account, which Ihadn’tbothered to skim beforehand. Though I don’t expect to learnmuch from LinkedIn, I check out his page, anyway, first making certain that I’ve clicked the “anonymous search” setting—because the last thing I need is for Deacon Starr to realizeI’mstalkinghim.
There’s a friendly looking headshot of him in front of the background banner image, which, not surprisingly, features a hiking trail. The short bio mentions a couple of companies he worked for before going out on his own as a web designer, and he’s included several testimonials from recent clients. During one of our two dinners, he’d claimed he had to turn away assignments left and right, that clients said his work was totally cutting-edge, but the most glowing terms used about him in the references are “professional,” “timely,” and “reliable.” My only takeaway: if nothing else, he’s a bullshit artist.
Next, I make a stab at finding out if he has an arrest record. I’m hardly a pro at Google searches, but I wade through the links offering free people searches and end up going down the rabbit hole on a few. Each insists they’ve found lots of info on a Deacon Starr, but indicate they need my email address before they can send it, and I don’t want to provide that. Finally I find a legit-seeming site that lets me search for arrest records state by state, and if I’m to believe what they tell me, Deacon’s never been accused or convicted of a crime in New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Connecticut, or Massachusetts.
That doesn’t mean he hasn’t stalked women, though. He just might not have been caught. One way or the other, I’m going to feel uneasy in this apartment until I know who was inside here and at my studio door.
When I return to the kitchen to make a cup of herbal tea, I notice that my phone screen has blown up with texts. One is from a number I don’t know, but it turns out to be James Tremlin, who’s doing the piece about collage artists. He wonders if I’m free to meet tomorrow at either four or five and suggests a place called Hudson Clearwater on the far edge of the West Village. I tell himthat five works for me, and that the location is fine, and I’ve barely hit send when he writes back to say he’s got light brown hair and he’ll be wearing a dark leather jacket.
One of the other texts filling my screen is from Mikoto:
My uncle will have some names for you by tomorrow. Talk to you then.
Thanks so much, I write back, amazed by how generous she’s been.
I briefly consider adding that I discovered the reason behind C.J.’s actions but decide she’s probably had enough of my drama for one day.
I glance at the final message and my heart skips. It’s from my mother, who almost never texts me.
David and I are concerned about parking Tuesday night. Do you have any suggestions?
I roll my eyes inwardly at how she can barely contain her excitement about the opening. But I immediately regret my annoyance, telling myself that she’s right, parking can be a bitch in New York, especially downtown. I text her back, promising to email her a bunch of options.
I return to my desk, google parking garages close to the Meyer Gallery’s East Village location, and forward the links to her in an email, but then, on the spur of the moment, I do something that surprises me. I pick up the phone and call her. It’s been a couple of weeks since we last spoke and I’m hungry for the sound of her voice, even though I know from experience that I won’t get off the call feeling sated.
“Hi,” she says. She almost never says my name anymore, thoughI’m not sure if this particular behavior started immediately after everything that happened with Chloe, and I didn’t notice, or it’s been a more recent development. “I guess you got my text?”
“Right, and I just emailed you some suggestions.”
“Good, thank you. I’ll pass them on to David.”
It’s easy to picture her on the other end of the line, probably sitting on one of the white wooden kitchen stools. She’s tall like me and very slim, a by-product of speed walking around the local high school track three or four times a week, which she’s done for years. When I was growing up, I often heard people exclaim how pretty she was, and though her features are mostly the same, you wouldn’t use “pretty” to describe her these days. There’s a near bottomless-looking crevice between her brows, and her eyes droop, sadly, at the ends. For years she dyed her shoulder-length hair an arresting shade of ash-blond, but she stopped just over a decade ago and let it go gray, and she chopped it much shorter as well.
“I’m so glad you can come,” I say. “I guess it means taking a day off from work, right?”
“Just the afternoon. It’s not a problem, though. I’ve got a lot of vacation time stockpiled.”
“Well, I really appreciate it, Mom.” And I do. “Here’s a thought, and I’m not sure why I didn’t bring it up earlier, but should the five of us grab a bite after the show? There are a couple of restaurants right near the gallery.”
