Jake shoved away his plate of toast and dropped his head in his hands. “I’m sorry beyond what you can imagine. I never wanted to hurt you or the kids. I made sure you were above reproach. Do you think I don’t know this affects other people?”
“People aren’t ‘affected.’?” She pushed the paper closer to him. “They’re ruined.”
“Don’t you think I’ll pay for this for the rest of my life?”
“We’re all going to pay for this—”
“I’ll be put away. My price is freedom.”
Hateful words formed. The list of lives he’d smashed rolled till an infinite number of people snaked through every crevasse of her brain.
And, still, she didn’t possess the coldness to walk out.
Dissonant thoughts and anxieties sparked until they drowned one another out and the noise exploded into a screen of hot-red worry.
The kids. Her sister. His brother. Her friends. Almost every single one, except Helen, had given Jake their money to invest. All their relatives handed over their life savings. Jesus fucking Christ almighty, what had he been thinking?
All his employees. Thousands of faceless people. More? She ran her hand over the newspaper as though the answers would seep into her skin.
Jake cradled his head in his arms. His hair, always so impeccable, so perfectly tended, stuck up in pieces, so suddenly grey it seemed that any remaining brown had disappeared in the courthouse.
Without her, Jake would be entirely alone.
With him, Phoebe would only have but him.
Maybe he was mentally ill. She prayed it was true. She left the kitchen, ready to call Eva. After pulling on a thick sweater and boots, she went to the screened-in portion of the patio, wanting the privacy afforded only by the outdoor space with Jake home, a portent of the days facing her.
She dialed the phone.
“Phoebe.” Eva’s even tone gave away nothing. Had Phoebe called Zoya first, shrieks would have greeted her. “How are you holding up?”
She’d walk on the thinnest of ice answering that question. Sympathy seemed the last thing to expect. The Cupcake Project necessitated calling Eva, but she was also the first friend Phoebe had called.
“I’m about as bad as you envision. I can’t lie.”
“I hope that’s true,” Eva said. “That you can’t lie.”
“Do you mean did Jake tell me?”
“Not asking is impossible. I’m certain you’re devastated, but we’re ruined. Everything. We put everything with your husband.”
Phoebe struggled against crying. Forcing Eva into any sort of sympathetic position shamed both of them. Not only had Eva lost all her savings, her work, she was now supporting the daughter of her cousin, who she’d managed to get out of Rwanda years ago, along with some of her husband’s family.
“I knew nothing,” Phoebe said. “Linh and Zoya?”
“As you can imagine. Zoya is swearing in Russian, Yiddish, and English. Her son is ready to come and kill your man. Linh hasn’t stopped scribbling numbers since we read the papers.” Eva paused for a moment. “Thank you for calling.” The words were clipped and cold.
“Did you doubt me?”
“Certainly you could have left it to lawyers. Calling took fortitude.”
“I’m planning to sign the Cupcake Project over to the three of you,” Phoebe said.
“I don’t think that’s going to be possible.”
Eva understood more about the nuts and bolts of the Cupcake Project than Phoebe ever had. Of course, this idea of transferring the business, conceived in a flash, wouldn’t be straightforward.
“The papers are complicated, but I think it ultimately belongs to me. Jake’s assets are all frozen, but not mine.”
“Phoebe, I don’t think you are aware of the implications. Are you in shock? Everything you possess will also be frozen in moments, if it isn’t already. You no longer have the ability to transfer anything.”
“Don’t I own the business?”
“Soon, I think, nothing will be yours.” Eva’s voice became iron. “We will run things until someone tells us otherwise. The receipts always went to the accountant. Where should we send them now?”
The business end of the Cupcake Project had drifted over to Gig Baumer, Jake’s accountant, more each year. She virtually gave him the keys to the business, paying no attention to where he put the money.
“Can you use the cash to pay the staff and vendors?” Phoebe asked. “No, never mind. I’ll ask—” But there was nobody to ask but Jake, and how could she ask him? “Send me your bank account information, and I’ll transfer twenty thousand dollars to you immediately.”
“Phoebe, we’ve already locked the shops for the weekend. Ira is getting us a lawyer from the Mira House board. You can’t fix this. You don’t want to see the truth. You think you’re in hell. That Jake’s crime is your tragedy. But it’s not. You have no idea where you’ll end up. My guess? Someplace decent.”
CHAPTER 29
Phoebe
Three weeks later, New York showed through a scrim of white as light snow fluttered over the city.
Phoebe and Jake settled in to reread soothing books—him, a Lee Child thriller; her, a Susan Isaacs novel—as Christmas Eve dusk fell. Phoebe read constantly. An unoccupied mind meant wrestling with perseverating choices: Did she lack the courage to leave or was it staying the course that revealed bravery?
Jake was in virtual lockup despite being out on bail. He was allowed on the streets within a prescribed radius until seven o’clock in the evening, but the barrage of screaming reporters, photographers, and furious investors waiting outside kept him marooned at home. Phoebe was the one who fetched supplies, braving the glare of the world. She might as well be considered under paparazzi arrest.
Revulsion poured in acid waves each time she left the house.
“Phoebe! Phoebe! Phoebe!” the reporters screamed as though calling a runaway dog. “Over here!”
“How much did you steal?”
“Where’s the money?”
Their home and cell phones rang with tearful and raging messages from the bilked: strangers, friends, and family.
“I hope you and your evil bitch wife die.”
“We have nothing now. We can’t even afford Paul’s cancer medicine.”
“Jump out a window, why don’t you!”
They spent their days in bathrobes or sweatpants; Jake with his eyes locked on the television, hers on the computer or a book. They slept by Ambien; Phoebe stumbled through on Xanax.
Their apartment held the grim presence of a family in mourning. No sheets covered the mirrors, but Jake and Phoebe sat a solitary shivah, where no one visited except lawyers, who brought papers to sign instead of casseroles.