The Never Never Sisters (13 page)

PERCY’S OFFICE WAS
supremely well air-conditioned, a necessary step, I supposed, for someone who chose
to summer in heavy denim. His receptionist, a young Asian woman with her hair piled
in a knot on the top of her head, was on the phone, so I stood for a moment, enjoying
the breeze. I hoped she’d offer me water too, but she just nodded and pointed me into
his office.

Percy’s door was open, and as I entered, he got up from behind his desk, smiling and
holding out one hand. He was wearing jeans again. Based on the frayed fabric on the
thighs, they were the same exact pair.

“Good to see you, Paige.” He pointed to the couch against the wall, and I sat. On
the small table in front of me was an iced coffee with a tuft of paper covering the
top of the straw, like a chef’s hat.

“It’s for you.”

“Thanks.”

Percy retrieved his own coffee from the edge of his desk and sank down on the other
side of the couch, turning his body toward me. “I know you.”

I froze, my hand midway to the coffee. “What’s that mean, you know me? Like, my type?”

“No, I know
you
. You run around the park loop.”

“Yes.” I shifted nervously. No one except Sloane really knew where I was right now.

“I couldn’t place you when we met last week. I thought you looked familiar, but then
I realized it.”

“You run there too?”

“Me?” He pointed at his chest. “No, I just track your loops through my binoculars
from behind the bushes. Your time is really getting better.” I stared at him and he
smiled. “Just trying to lighten the mood. I run too.”

“I’ve never seen you.”

“My shoes aren’t as bright as yours. You’ve got those hot pink shoes and I noticed
them once on this bleak gray day and then, you know how it goes.”

“How does it go?”

“Once you see something, you start noticing it again and again.”

“That’s true.”

“Tell me about it. It’s a premise that pays my rent.”

“Oh, speaking of that, feel free to charge me for this consult. Giovanni said—”

He held up his hands. “You’re Giovanni’s family, which makes you sort of mine too.
Please. Take the coffee.”

“That’s a very expansive definition, but thanks.” I took the coffee and sipped. “I’ve
met Giovanni once.”

“Regardless.”

“He seems nice, though. How do you know him?”

“We grew up in the same town. Same school, same class, same T-ball team.”

“Where?”

“Ohio.”

“How do you get from Ohio T-ball player to New York private investigator?”

“Oh. Steroids.” I started to laugh and he did too. “So,” he said, “how can I help?”

“This is confidential, right?”

“Of course.”

I told him everything, starting with last Tuesday. When I tried to articulate my vague
sense that Dave was lying about something, Percy nodded, which made me feel vindicated.
“You think he’s lying too.”

“I don’t know about that. I generally think there’s a lot of value in someone’s gut
sense.”

“So how do we get from gut sense to hard facts?”

“Roll up our sleeves, pay attention and sort through information, until eventually,
hopefully, we’ll get a sense of some leads to follow. But I can’t promise you answers.
It’s not like investigation is magic.”

“Great sales pitch, Percy.” I looked around. “You know, your office seems awfully
quiet . . . no phones ringing, no interruptions with urgent business.”

“I held my calls.” He shook his plastic coffee cup to distribute the milk. “You know
what’s tricky about this?”

Annie, the receptionist, opened the door and half stepped in. “I know you said not
to interrupt, but it’s Gunston.” She was a whole different creature standing up: miles
high and dressed in an asymmetrical drapey black top over skinny jeans. True skinny
jeans, as in designed for someone with thighs the circumference of razor clamshells.

“I’ll call back.”

She nodded and shuffled away in her ballet flats.

“You timed that, right? Just so I’d think you were busy.”

“Yep. She comes in whenever I press the panic button under the couch.”

“What’s her deal?”

He looked confused. “Her deal?”

“You meet with a lot of people who suspect their spouses of cheating, right?”

“Among other things.”

“So, presumably they’re feeling unattractive and undesirable, and then they’re greeted
by someone who looks like she moonlights at a
Vogue
photo shoot?”

“Who cares about their feelings? What about me? It’s a tough market, and I’ve got
to stand out any way I can.”

“Seriously?”

He ducked his head conspiratorially. “I’ve sort of made it my niche, having employees
who look as though they moonlight as models. So what if they can’t file and don’t
know the databases? I met Annie, actually, when I was waiting outside the tents during
Fashion Week. It’s true I’d been there five hours before someone would actually talk
to me, but I knew that if I stared down enough of them, I’d nab one. In an ideal world,
she’d dress like a Robert Palmer’s girl every day, but unfortunately she insists on
a casual Tuesday. Which is today.” He crossed his arms and settled against the couch.
“Bummer, right?”

A silence passed between us.

“You’re kidding.”

“Yes. I’m kidding. And she’s a fashion designer, by the way. Very talented, but her
ship hasn’t come in, so I’m employing her in the meantime. But I can tell her to wear
a Groucho Marx disguise for those clients you’re so worried about.”

“I think it would make them feel better.”

“I have to tell you, Paige. You’re the first client to make this point.”

“Maybe I’m just the most honest.”

He sipped his coffee.

“Where were we before your whole Robert Palmer song and dance?”

“I was about to tell you what’s tricky with this.”

“Everything. I feel like I’m looking for
why
he would lie as much as the
about
what
.”

“Well, that, sure, but from a practical point of view, there are corporate considerations.
We’ll need information from his employer, which will be difficult to get.”

“How would you recommend getting past that?”

“There are things we can do. Not a guarantee, just fact gathering.”

“Like?”

“Off the top of my head, putting a recording device in his office at home or looking
around in there. Let me think about it and come up with a plan that doesn’t, you know,
obviously run afoul of the law.”

“Okay.”

“Do you have any sense of what this is about?”

“He seems really distracted by this ongoing financial scandal. He’s a loyal person
and his clients are bankers, and although I’m probably imagining things, I’ve been
wondering about whether his allegiance to his firm would—” I didn’t want to say it
out loud.

“Do something that could get him in trouble.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“That doesn’t seem to fit to me,” said Percy. “Why would they suspend him for that?
I think they’d just fire him.”

“Maybe he didn’t do something big, but was peripherally associated with something
that went bad?”

“Like how?”

“I don’t know.”

“And you’re sure you want to know?”

“What do you mean?”

“A lot of times, the feds don’t even arrest people. They don’t have enough information;
they’re waiting for bigger fish. So what if you find out something, and then it’s
just between the two of you. Is it worth it to know?”

“I want to know. So just keep in mind that whatever it is might involve some sort
of insider trading issues.”

“Okay. And you want me to help you?”

I nodded.

“I’m pretty booked up this week with all our runway shows.”

I sighed. “You’re hilarious.”

“But I’ll make some time. How about we talk again on”—he paused, pencil lifted in
the air—“Tuesday? We can meet, go over a proposal. . . .” He trailed off. “You’re
going to go crazy waiting, right?”

“Not at all.” I was relieved to have some days to consider the next move. “Tuesday
is perfect.”

Sloane had asked me to call her when we were done, so I dialed her cell phone as I
walked to work.

“That’s great!” She sounded a little too thrilled. “Good for you.”

“Sure, I guess.”

“What are you doing tomorrow? We can get together and strategize.”

I had, as usual, wide stretches of availability, but Sloane’s enthusiasm chilled me
a little, as if someone had yanked the shades up and sounded the alarm when I was
used to waking naturally. “I have plans with Mom tomorrow,” I lied. “Any interest?”

“No. Thank. You.” She said each word like a schoolmarm.

“So Saturday, then? Breakfast at Vanessa and Frank’s.”

“Right.” She barely stifled a yawn. “Catch you then.”

EVEN THOUGH HELENE
had left me a confirmation voice mail, I didn’t expect either of them to show up for
their eleven thirty appointment. I’d had couples storm out of my office before—it
was the nature of the business—but Scott Jacoby’s exit had felt more desperate than
angry, as though he wanted to stay but couldn’t find a good enough reason.

I halfheartedly waited and occupied myself with my latest project, an article for
Healthy Marriage!
about ways to reconnect. It was my first assignment for them and the whole thing
felt trite, but I’d just read an article in a trade magazine, the gist being that
today’s marketplace demanded you get your name out there. Now,
Healthy Marriage!
Tomorrow, the morning shows!

It was harder than it sounded, distilling what I practiced into sound bites. For a
minute, I blinked in time with the cursor while gathering my thoughts, then wrote:

Ways to Reconnect

1. Plan activities. Divide up a weekend: Saturday one person chooses what to do and
on Sunday, the other one gets to! Keep an open mind and remember: the most important
thing is to share the experience, even if it’s something you end up laughing at later!

2. Bath time. Dim the lights, play soft music, draw a bath to take together. Bubbles
optional.

3. Something else.

4. Another one.

5. These are horrible. Have Dave and I ever done anything remotely like this?
No
. We took a bath that one time at the bed-and-breakfast upstate, the one with that
gassy dog stretched out in front of the fireplace, but we barely fit in the tub. Dave’s
legs kept knocking against the side. Hardly a recipe for reconnection.

6. How about this one? Catch your husband in a lie. A harmless, seemingly meaningless
lie.

7. What does he do each day? How is he filling the hours? If you sit down with a pen
and paper, you can’t reconstruct more than thirty minutes of your husband’s schedule,
which is something you’ve never thought about before. At least sixty hours per week
are unaccounted for—most of his waking time.

8. You could ask him to account for it—not every minute, just to the half hour, but
you’d sound like a loon. And even if he agreed to answer the most detailed questions,
would you ever be satisfied with the response? Trust issues. That’s what you’d say
if a client babbled all of this nonsense. You’ve never realized before why that might
make a client respond, “No shit, Sherlock.”

9. Shelve all those heavy thoughts and meet random guy. A cute one, whose eyes are
so sparkly they drive you to star metaphors.

10. Flirt with same guy. Yes, flirt. Call it like it happened. (Admiration of how
he looks in jeans) + (the giddiness of well-timed sarcasm) =
Flirtation
. Normally, you’d be scrolling through your contacts to fix him up with someone. Funny.
You haven’t done that yet.

11.
Without
your husband’s knowledge, ask that same guy—the one you’re not about to fix up with
anyone else—to help you find out if your husband is lying to you.

12. Ah, you’ve really set it up perfectly now, haven’t you? Just you and Mr. Sparkly-Eyed
Comedian, putting your heads together on a very secret project. What could be inappropriate
about that scenario?

13. Retire your remaining dignity! Retire your remaining—

When my phone rang, I jumped to pick it up.

“When are you coming out?”

“Lucy!”

“Wow. I’m touched by that reaction.”

“I’m excited to hear from you. Where are you?”

“At the beach. You?”

“Work.”

“Watcha doing?”

“Writing an article on ways to reconnect with your spouse. For
Healthy Marriage!
”

“
Healthy Marriage!
” She gasped. “What a coup! No, seriously. Did you make that up, or is that a real
magazine?”

“I think it’s mainly for waiting rooms.”

“Read me one of your tips.”

“All right, here goes. Number one: Plan activities together.”

“Brilliant!”

“Yeah. It’s a little pat.”

“Here’s how you stay together: you get over whatever it is that’s driving a wedge
between you.”

“Consider yourself quoted in
Healthy Marriage!
”

“Fine, but obviously I need to talk to my agent first. What’s their circulation—about
three billion?”

“I’m intrigued, Luce. You’re saying whatever the problem is in a marriage, people
should—”

“Act like grown-ups and work out your problems without involving the rest of us.”

“Are you thinking of anyone in particular?”

“Yes. My father and Meryl. And, yes, I’m aware they’re my hosts and I should be gracious,
but I would prefer for them not to fight in front of the rest of us.”

“Give me an example.”

“Like the other day, my dad told Meryl he was on the phone with his brother, but Meryl
checked his phone and it turned out he was on with my mom.”

“His ex-wife.”

“Right, and Meryl got all mad, and he said that was why he didn’t tell her, and in
the process they dragged us all into it.”

“So you wouldn’t have a problem if Jeff lied to you?”

“Not about something like that, no.”

“Hmm. What if Meryl found a bloody knife out behind the shed?”

“Who are you treating—Agatha Christie characters? At this point, I’d advise her to
wash it off and return it to the kitchen.”

“No, seriously, though. I have a client now who’s mad because her husband lied about
something that happened at work. A corporate malfeasance type of thing.”

“Do you have to decide whether to turn him in?”

“No, that’s only if he’s going to hurt someone. This is like a minor thing. Victimless.”
I realized that wasn’t strictly true, but it sounded better than the alternative.

“Tell her that you can’t be together for so long and share everything with one hundred
percent accuracy. It’s just not possible. Ask her if she’s ever kept anything from
him. I’m sure she has.”

“I suppose.” The security buzzer rang, and I glanced toward the monitor’s aerial downward
view of the Jacobys, their blurry black-and-white images clustered together as they
waited for the door to unlock. I couldn’t be sure given the graininess of the image,
but it appeared as though they were holding hands. Still squinting at them, I told
Lucy my clients were there and I’d call her back soon.

Once in my office, Scott considered the nearly empty candy jar.

“I’ll refill it.” I poured in some Hershey’s Kisses and offered the open jar to them.

Scott reached in and pulled out a Kiss and when Helene declined, I surprised myself
by reaching in, unpeeling one and popping it in my mouth. It had been four years since
I’d instituted the candy jar. Four years and this, I realized, was my first indulgence.
It was delicious. “So”—I tucked the Kiss into the side of my mouth and tried to sound
professional—“you guys seem different. What am I picking up on?”

“Nothing,” Helene said. “This is just us, how we usually are. I mean, how we were.”

“Scott? Last time, you seemed rather unhappy.”

“I’m fine,” Scott said. He started to clam up again, fiddling with his watch strap
instead of making eye contact. I wished, as I had before in this office, that I could
open people like doors—bend them at the hinges to see what’s inside, close them back
up without disruption.

“You seem not so fine.”

“Yeah.”

“Can you walk me through what happened in between last week and this week?”

“I got tired.” Scott finally locked into my gaze. “Of being mad. It’s so much easier
when we get along.”

“I understand. Your regular dynamic is comfortable for you.”

“Nice reflection. Two points.” He smiled thinly.

“You still feel the same—that you want to work on things between the two of you?”

“Yeah.”

“I would press for you to really think about—and tell Helene—what you need, what you’re
asking for. And the same for you, Helene.”

“I read an article last week,” Helene said. “What do you think about journaling?”

The Hersey’s Kiss had melted to a flat chocolate pad on the back of my tongue. I swallowed
it whole before answering. “Journaling?”

Under my desk, in my bag not ten feet away from Helene, was one of my mom’s journals.
I had been reading them daily, casually. In slow or weak moments, I’d pull one out,
try to decipher the chapters. I’d read it in my office, in a cab, lying in bed at
the end of the day. Had Dave and I been talking as we normally did, I would have joked
that my mom’s confessionals were my new Bible, but he had been too distracted to notice,
and if I was truly honest, I wanted to keep them to myself.

“Too pedestrian, right?” Helene frowned. “The article made it sound good—like there
was something about the act of writing your truths that made it easier to communicate.”

“I think it’s a great idea.”

Scott managed a weak “Okay,” and for the rest of the session, Scott and I popped Hershey’s
Kisses as the three of us set up ground rules for journaling. The Jacobys would alternate
taking turns writing as much as they wanted, but they agreed to commit to two entries
before we met again on the twentieth.

“What should we write about?” Helene asked.

“Anything you want,” I said, before remembering Pressman stroking his beard. “But
if you need guidance, you could write something about trust. How you get to the point
where you share that with someone. Is it earned or given? Is it static or kinetic?
What does the word mean to you?”

They ran a little over the hour, and when they left, I neatened up, collecting the
tiny little scraps of foil Kiss wrappers for the trash, moving back the magazines
and chairs.

I didn’t have any more clients and had several hours left in the day before I wanted
to go home, where, frankly, I was less comfortable than I was used to being. I returned
behind the desk and stared at my computer monitor, at the joke of a “Ways to Reconnect”
article. One by one, I deleted the ideas until there was nothing on the page but a
blinking cursor.

At a loss, I opened my mom’s notebook at random to a short entry. Just two words:

I can’t
.

I can’t what, Mom?

I dog-eared the page for later and returned to my keyboard.

Ways to Reconnect

1. Start a couple’s journal that you can pass back and forth between each other! Tell
each other stories that you’ve never shared before.

Somewhere out east, I was sure Lucy was gagging.