His lies rolled out like lush carpet. Smooth and so thick that you sunk right in. He’d use anyone, wouldn’t he? Her sister. His brother.
“My goodness!” Connie’s hand went to her heart, mirroring Jake’s gesture. She tapped her oval red nails—lacquered so shiny they resembled valentines—against her blue satin dress. Her gaze shifted to Phoebe, reaching for her hand, which Phoebe reluctantly gave over. “Is your sister going to be okay?”
“She’ll be fine.” Her words traveled through broken glass lining her throat.
Jake put an arm around Phoebe shoulders. “It’s a party. She doesn’t want to talk about it, so can you keep it under your hat, sweetheart?” he asked Connie. “I’ll catch you up tomorrow. For now, smile.”
Connie obeyed with a toothy grin. “Anything. Everyone’s been wanting to say thank you. The room looks fantastic, huh?” She held out her right hand, pointing casually and shaking her wrist a bit. The peridot and diamond bracelet Phoebe had picked out as a gift—the green stones matching Connie’s eyes—were magnificent against Connie’s olive skin.
“The bracelet looks lovely.” Phoebe felt sick as she added the prices of the bracelets and watches she’d bought for the staff.
“How do you know exactly what I love? Thank you!” Connie admired her outstretched wrist. “It’s gorgeous.”
Phoebe stretched her mouth into what she hoped resembled a smile more than a rictus. “You deserve that and more.” How much had Jake’s secretary invested in the Club? Had she brought in her family’s money, like most of the JPE staff? “Have you heard from Noah? Kate?”
“No. Why?” Connie’s face tightened. “Are they in touch with your sister? Do you want me to try calling?”
“No, no,” Jake broke in. “Not to worry. Only a few crossed wires. It’s all under control.” He scowled at Phoebe. “No work for Connie tonight.”
On the ride over, she’d tried Kate and Noah every ten minutes, then five, repeatedly pressing redial until Jake grabbed the phone and turned it off. “Enough,” he’d said. “They’ll be at the party.”
Phoebe peered through the dimly lit room, but she didn’t expect to see them. She snuck into the ladies’ room and turned her phone back on, first checking for messages and then calling both children again. She sat on the closed toilet seat, pressing Noah’s and Kate’s numbers until, finally, she gave up. Lipstick reapplied haphazardly, she returned to the party.
Kate’s words came back. There’s a hurricane on the way. All those people out there were right in the path.
Fairy lights shimmering in fresh ropes of evergreen reflected off crystal stars hanging from the ceiling. They hurt her eyes. A waiter walked over carrying a silver tray covered with filled wine glasses. Phoebe reached out, but Jake clamped a hand on her wrist and waved the jacketed young man away. “No drinking. I need you compos mentis.”
She pulled away from him and stopped the waiter, touching his shoulder and then gesturing for a drink. Jake’s glare and his hard jaw meant nothing to her.
Theo sat in a corner with his wife, both gripping glasses filled with amber liquid. Glenfiddich, she knew. Had Theo told Ellen? His wife always stuck inseparably, almost insufferably, close to him, so seeing her glued to him provided no clue. Jake’s brother appeared as though someone had tipped him over and emptied his soul.
Phoebe pulled her sweater tight. Jake had used her as part of his making things right. Sending her to Gig, to the bank. Was she now liable?
As if she couldn’t feel worse, Charlie, the consigliore of the thirty-seventh floor, walked toward them. She could imagine him with a cold handgun tucked under the leather jacket he wore all winter. Top staff dressed corporate, as ordered by Jake, while Charlie marched around the office in muscle-hugging black jeans and black shirts.
At best, the folks from the thirty-seventh floor unnerved her; most made her skin crawl. Gita-Rae’s low-cut blouses highlighting her bony chest made Phoebe feel as though she were examining X-rays. Connie had confided that the girls up on thirty-seven shook visibly upon Gita-Rae’s approach, and her supervision style included voice-cracking screams. Her obsequiousness toward Phoebe smacked of behind-the-back nastiness. Those who spat down, often licked upward.
Jake put a hand around her waist and pulled her close. He reeked of need. His caress repulsed her.
“Hey, boss.” Charlie pumped Jake’s hand. “Mrs. Boss.” He kissed Phoebe on the lips—she’d been too slow to offer her cheek. Waves of cologne attacked her. “Terrific party.” He held up his arm. “Great timepiece.”
“Wear it in good health,” Jake said.
“How you holding up?” Charlie moved in too close. “Everything good?”
“Everything’s fine.” Steel embedded in Jake’s response pushed away the question.
“Ya need anything?” Charlie persisted.
“Get me a Coke,” Jake said.
Charlie’s mouth tightened. Obviously, he hadn’t been offering his services to personally fetch something. “Coming right up, boss.”
As employees descended, Jake squeezed her hand as though it were a life preserver, while nodding and accepting thanks for gold pendants, cashmere shawls, and leather briefcases. Jake insisted on presents people wore and carried. He liked seeing his generosity at work.
CHAPTER 27
Phoebe
The digital clock clicked from 5:59 to 6:00. Thin light crept into Phoebe’s study. Ridges marking the sofa’s tufts divided her back into individual squares of pain. Questions raced in a hamster wheel of repetition throughout the sleepless night.
What are the kids doing?
Deb—should I tell her, despite Jake’s warnings?
Who, who, who in the world is this man I married?
Jake fell into an Ambien-induced coma soon after they returned from the party—suddenly he found drugs wonderful and fine. She, on the other hand, couldn’t take one. Not after all the wine and Xanax. I Love Lucy played all night as she lay in front of the droning television.
Phoebe couldn’t bear lying next to Jake. Even when she’d dozed occasionally during the long night, her subconscious wormed another reminder of the looming abyss and woke her. Questions blurred as Lucy and Ethel tumbled from antic to frantic in their attempts to fool and please Ricky and Fred.
She dialed Kate and then Noah on autopilot. Painful pressure in her chest screamed heart attack, terrifying her in one moment and, in the next, bringing a coward’s comfort as she imagined the relief of lying in the hospital.
Phoebe tipped back her head trying to get a bead on her blindness. How much had she missed? Was there a single genuine particle in Jake? She continued wondering while setting up the coffee, showering in the guest bathroom, and throwing on a terry cloth robe from the guest room closet. She poured two cups of coffee, unable to break her habit of carrying a cup to him, adding half-and-half and sugar to his, leaving hers black and bitter, not certain that even skim milk could slip past the knot clenching her stomach.