“Okay. Time for some tough love. You, miss, have to get your shit together.”
“Where’d you learn that lovely expression? Phillips Exeter Academy?”
In decidedly un-Nick-like fashion—tentative and apologetic—he said, “Maybe this is the right time to tell you that I didn’t leave Exeter voluntarily.”
Did I just hear that Nicholas Franconi, the jewel in our crown, the man with the golden résumé, had left Exeter involuntarily?
He repeated, “Did that penetrate? I said I didn’t leave Exeter voluntarily.”
“Fired?” I whispered.
“They whitewashed it. If I quit on my own, they’d call it a resignation. And give me good recommendations without mentioning my Achilles’ heel.”
“Which was what?”
“Too embarrassing,” he mumbled.
“You brought it up. You have to tell me.”
“I will. But first I have to tell you that I’m cured,” he said. “I’ve fixed the problem.”
I was expecting something confessional or criminal or pharmaceutical, but his hands were over his face covering an unexpected grin. The answer that escaped between his fingers was “Time management. Aaargh!”
“Time management? Like late for work?”
“I kept missing planes and trains—chronically, they said—so at the other end, I’d miss meetings with potential donors, which, believe me, tends to piss off everyone. So at first it was just ‘Try harder . . . buy a watch, set it ahead, set your alarm earlier, read a book on time management, for Chrissake.’ And then it was see a shrink and pretty soon don’t put him on the road. And finally . . . Sayonara, asshole.”
“Yikes,” I said. “I never would’ve guessed that in a million years.”
“I have my tricks now.”
I said, “I appreciate your telling me. And not just because it startled me into forgetting my own troubles for two minutes.”
“I was asked to leave. You’re only on probation. And may I remind you, until you get it in writing, it’s just hearsay.”
I was still sitting at my desk thirty minutes later, trying not to do anything rash like packing up my personal effects. Surely Nick would return, having fixed some or all of this mess. I knew Stuart would be unavailable. I tried anyway and left a message saying, “Did you grasp that something terrible happened at work? Here’s a clue. I’ve been wrongly accused of steering money into my own pocket. With a little help from you, by the way. If interested, call me back.”
Next, I sent an e-mail to myself at work to see whether I’d been snuffed out. It didn’t bounce back. And there was my picture and bio still on the school’s website.
Stuart texted me, That sucks. Cant talk now wcb asap.
Of course, being unreachable due to his exalted role in life, he couldn’t talk, now or ever. It evoked a thought that was increasingly running through the part of my brain that handled logic—that maybe we weren’t engaged at all. And if the red string on my finger was a symbol of his marital intentions, maybe I should I break it off, literally and figuratively.
But I did nothing, recognizing that my bad mood might be responsible for this romantic disillusionment. And also because my phone was ringing—my father calling back! Without my having to say hello, I heard, “What’s wrong? What happened?”
For the umpteenth time, or so it felt, I outlined the morning’s charges. He said, “Are you at school? Do you want me to come get you?”
And for the umpteenth time—or so it seemed—I asked, “Where are you?”
“Didn’t Joel tell you? Or your mother? I was in Florida, but—”
“I’ve had it with your ‘Florida’! Like that explains anything!”
“But I told them . . . they both know—it’s business.”
“What business! You’re a painter. That’s not a business! What’s the big secret? Is there a woman down there?”
“Faithy—what’s gotten into you? I mean besides being accused of embezzling?”
“You’re impossible to reach! It’s like you have a secret life. And my fiancé can’t call me back, either, due to God knows what.”
He said, “I flew home today. I was on a plane when you called. I’m back in Boston now. I’ll drive to Everton tonight. We’ll have a family meeting and we’ll get this straightened out.”
Such a simple phrase. We’ll get this straightened out. Not that it was clear which “this” he meant, but finally I was hearing a string of syllables I believed could be true.
11
Family Caucus
MY FATHER LOOKED GOOD, better than the rest of us, with his off-season tan and what appeared to be product in his gray hair.
By dinner, I was sick of myself, very inclined to change the subject from Everton Country Day to anything else. For a few minutes, between her arrival and the ordering of pizzas, my mother was furious on my behalf. We were an ECD family to the core! Well, Joel had gone to the public high school, but still, when she thought of my lifelong attachment and paying full tuition, not to mention the PTO meetings chaired and the cakes baked—hundreds of pounds of butter over those thirteen years!
My father said, “Let’s not leap to any conclusions about Faith’s job. This is a tempest in a teapot. She did nothing wrong. In fact, they should be congratulating and promoting her for this major get.”
“You’re acting awfully calm and rational,” said my mother.
“It might look that way, but believe me, I’m plenty offended. I called my lawyer this afternoon and left a message with his secretary.”
My mother said, “Not Bent MacPherson, I hope.”
“Of course not. He’s an ambulance chaser. And not even good at that. But my new guy handles intellectual property, which I think could be an interesting crossover.”
Did Henry Frankel just say that his lawyer’s specialty was intellectual property?
I didn’t have to wonder for long because Joel asked, “What do you need with an intellectual property lawyer?”
Dad said, “One of my clients suggested it.”
“Are you talking about insurance clients?” I asked.