After refilling her coffee cup, Phoebe walked out the door to the patio. Sixty-six degrees—warm for mid-November. Russian junipers in giant pots swayed. She imagined the hundreds of tulip bulbs planted behind a protective grassy screen blooming in the spring. Soft pillows and cushions covered the seating running the length of the terrace. Soon she’d have to pack them up for the winter. Owning two homes made her life twice as hard. She’d give up Greenwich, but the grandkids loved it there.
Phoebe pinched back dead bits of foliage as she walked along the perimeter. Recently she’d sensed something seriously wrong with Jake. His mouth had thinned to almost invisible. He drummed his fingers until she felt like chopping them off. The kids said his snapping at work had gotten out of control.
She tipped her head back and let the sun penetrate. Tall buildings surrounded them, but the sky was always available up in the penthouse. Blessings undisguised, blessing in the skies. Skyline of New York here, vast views of the Atlantic in their Greenwich home brought joy, but she’d give it up in seconds for calm.
He should retire. They didn’t just have enough; they had too much. No matter how many charity checks she wrote, it didn’t seem like she gave away enough. Jake had to stop. The pressure on him kept her up nights, knowing how he carried the entire family on his shoulders. Every one of their relatives either worked for Jake or had money invested with him. They couldn’t all keep leaning on him.
His work remained as much a mystery to her today as it always had been. Phoebe was welcome at JPE by everyone except those who worked on the thirty-seventh floor. Nobody went there unless expressly invited. Not that she wanted an invitation. The one time she’d entered, needing papers for Jake, who was home sick, the people working there, especially Gita-Rae, looked at her as though she carried bedbugs, which could only improve the filthy place anyway. They’d be like pets up there.
Afterward, Phoebe asked Jake how he let the thirty-seventh floor stay so disgusting—stacks of old computers, piles of papers, battered wooden desks covered with tchotchkes—when he wouldn’t let the rest of the company display anything personal except one photo in a silver frame.
“I don’t give a shit as long as they do their business. Nobody goes in there,” he said. “Just stay away from them. They’re a bunch of animals—animals who work well. They should. I pay them enough. Case closed.”
? ? ?
Noah grabbed Phoebe in a bear hug the moment she opened the door. As usual, he, his wife, and their daughters arrived before Kate’s family.
“You’re shrinking, Mom. Old age is starting already. Better get some Fosamax. Kids, come here! Holly, Isabelle, can either of you see Grandma?”
Phoebe reached up and ran her hand over Noah’s smooth cheek. He had a heavy beard—like Jake he often shaved twice a day—although everything else about him screamed Phoebe, from his fine black hair to his slight build. “My comedian son has arrived. Grossinger’s Hotel lost big when they lost you.”
“Oh, poor Mom,” Noah said. “The Catskill hotels closed so long ago. Is dementia starting?”
“Grandma isn’t shrinking! And Daddy isn’t a comedian!” Five-year-old Holly hopped on her right foot and then her left. “And she doesn’t have dementa.” She turned to her mother. “What’s dementa?”
Before Phoebe’s daughter-in-law, Beth, could answer, Isabelle, at nine, a been-there, done-that sophisticate, rolled her eyes. “It’s dementia, not dementa. It means getting confused from being old.”
Holly turned to Beth, stricken. “People get confused when they’re old?”
Beth glared at Noah. “Daddy was teasing. Nobody’s old or confused.”
“Are you sure?” Jake came into the entry and swept up Holly in one swift motion. “This one’s getting pretty old. Huge! Jeez, you’re breaking my arms, kiddo.”
“You’re teasing, Grandpa. Right?”
“I don’t know. You seem kinda heavy. Are you getting fat, or have I become weak?”
“I’m not fat! Am I, Mommy?”
“I’m teasing, babykins.” Jake raised Holly’s arm as he held her. “You feel like a little chicken. Are you sure you’re not hollow?”
Kate and her family arrived as Beth comforted Holly and chided Jake in one long sentence. In the midst of their huge apartment, the nine of them crowded in the foyer. Phoebe’s tension abated. Dinner would be fine. Nothing in the world made Jake happier than having the family together.
“I love this, Grandma,” Amelia said. Phoebe’s oldest granddaughter beamed as she held out her plate for seconds of chicken polenta casserole.
“Say ‘please,’ Amelia,” Kate reminded. Amelia and Kate were almost visual twins, though Amelia had inherited Phoebe’s father’s red hair. Both carried Jake’s don’t-screw-with-me attitude.
“Grandpa, tell the story about selling the cookies,” Isabelle asked.
“Not now, kiddo.” Jake reached for a baking powder biscuit and then shoved it whole in his mouth. He looked at Phoebe with a “What? What?” expression.
“Tell it, Grandpa!” Amelia said. “Tell it.”
The grandchildren loved the story—just as Noah and Kate once had—of Jake and his friend pretending to be Boy Scouts, going door-to-door taking orders for nonexistent Boy Scout cookies.
“Come on, Dad. Share your finest hour.” Noah pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose.
“Tell us!” Isabelle shouted.
“Enough already with the stories.” Jake’s voice sharpened. “Must we go over old shit for the rest of our lives?”
The children reared back. No one spoke. Holly began crying. Beth swept her out of the chair and carried her from the room.
“Dad? Are you okay?” Noah asked.
“I just don’t need any crap tonight.” Jake papered over his obvious shame with pugnacity.
“All the girls did was ask for a story,” Phoebe said. Amelia and Isabelle didn’t say a word. “Don’t worry, darlings. Grandpa’s not mad at you. You didn’t do anything wrong. He’s just in a bad mood.”
That was a bullshit excuse. Jake never turned on the grandchildren. She waited for him to do one of the head-spinning emotional shifts he’d been pulling lately, but instead he stood too quickly, knocking over his water glass. He slammed his chair under the table and stormed out.
“Girls, go in the TV room. Amelia, put something in, or—a DVD. Take the plate of cookies from the kitchen.”
They waited in silence for a few minutes. Kate’s husband, usually the quiet one, spoke first. “Is he all right?”
Zach was a doctor; perhaps he saw signs of disease.
“What the hell’s going on with him?” Kate balled up her napkin and threw it at Jake’s place mat. “This is what he’s been like at the office. An asshole.”
“He’s a wreck.” Noah removed his glasses and rubbed his temples. “When we ask him what’s wrong, he bites off our heads. Last week, we asked him to go out for lunch, and he refused. ‘Too busy, too busy,’ he said. Half the time, he’s holed up with Charlie or working the phones like a lunatic. If he pulls at his hair anymore, he’s gonna start looking like me.” Noah ran a hand over his thinning hair. “He darkens the windows every day.”
Jake’s office, like all the offices, was a fishbowl, with glass that electronics could turn opaque.