Jake & Mimi (6 page)

Tomorrow will be six months. Six months since we lay in a rowboat on the pond in Central Park, Mark on his back in the cradle
of the boat and me on my back in his arms. We bumped the shore, and Mark pushed us out again. We drifted through sun, into
shade, into sun again, my eyes lazily closed as he stroked my arm, up and back down, up and back down, then opening to see,
in his hand, the shining ring.

It still brings a surge to me. A true surge, one of love and happiness. I press my neck against the cool tile of the tub,
finish the last of my wine, and rise from the water. I turn the shower on to its strongest setting and rinse off. The ring
was so beautiful that day. Its diamond caught the rays of the sun, I remember, and sent them out again, up into Mark’s eyes
and off the leaves of the trees. I make the water hotter, then hotter still, and I can feel it pounding the last troubling
thoughts right out of me. They disappear into the steam, and when at last I shut it off, step onto the bath mat and reach
for my soft, white towel, I am clean and clear again. Minutes later, in my slip, I walk to the bedroom and climb in the bed.
Just an hour ago I was tense and worried, and now I feel wonderful. One song before sleep.

The Pavarotti tape waits in the player by my bed. I switch off the light and hit the
PLAY
button, and in seconds his voice fills the dark room. “Nessun Dorma.” The singer cannot sleep. Not while his love is away
from him. Such beauty. Where does it come from, in a man? I’m a fool. I wish Mark were here. It is the worst of sins, to forget
what you have and long for what you don’t. And what I have is precious. The luckiest girl in New York, and I sit at home and
worry. No more. Tomorrow morning I’ll step out of the office and make it to the video store while there is still a selection.
The Oscars are in ten days, and there are still two contenders we haven’t seen. I’ll get the one Mark wants, the crime one,
and I’ll have him over tomorrow. I’ll put out candles and make popcorn, and even before the previews are over, I will come
on to him. It will be perfect.

Pavarotti holds his last, soaring note, and then the room is quiet. My building is all the way east, on the water, and listening
hard I can hear in the distance the horn of a boat. It is so peaceful. Plaintive. Sleep, Mimi. Tomorrow will be busy. Mr.
Stein is assigning me a new account. Something special, he said. It’s the last thing I need, this far into tax season, but
he’s giving me help. I’ll work the returns with a new associate, a young guy who just joined the firm last month.

Jake Teller, I think his name is.

Please let him not be difficult. He won’t be, I’m sure. Stop worrying, Mimi. Okay, I’ve stopped.

To sleep. Dream of veils.

M
iss Lessing walks the same route home every day.

It is longer by nearly a block than if she kept to First Avenue, but instead of squat bars and grim scaffolding, she ends
her commute with a vibrant stretch of neighborhood shops. She passes first the produce stand, with its bins of fresh fruit
open to the air; next the bustling deli, where they know her by name; and then the newsstand, where she greets the smiling
Latino boy who, on her weaker days, will sell her a lottery ticket and then lean out the window to stare after her. At mid-block
her eyes often drift up to the delicate stonework of the prewar walkup, then lower again as she passes the tiny art gallery,
with the watercolors she likes in the window. Then a friendly wave to the Asian cleaners who press her suits and finally,
just before the corner, the smoked-glass window of Vine. Vine is an elegant wine-tasting room, and Miss Lessing rarely passes
it without stopping to read the day’s selections. If one intrigues her, as it did today, she takes a pen from her purse and
writes it down.

Each afternoon I see her first as she turns onto the block, see her from my window spot in La Boheme, the faux Parisian coffeehouse
across the street. Today she wore a demure blue suit, offset by white stockings. I watched until she turned the far corner,
and then I returned my cup to the counter and stepped out of aromatic La Boheme and into the teeming street. I walked east,
then south, through what was once called Germantown. Forty years ago my father would bring me here on Sunday mornings, to
browse in the sausage shops. They are bars now, or boutiques.

I walked down through the Seventies, and through the Sixties. At Fifty-seventh Street the clamor of York gave way to the quiet
of Sutton Place, and from there it was but three blocks to the clearing, a small patch of grass and flowers between two gray
buildings. The clearing commands an unobstructed view of the river and its walkway but is set back far enough that one can
watch from the railing in peace.

As I do now.

Three nights a week Miss Lessing works out at her gym, but three others she runs along the river. Any minute now she will
step into view. I hold to the railing and watch the river walkway. A young woman runs by in a garish sports bra, and now another
in shorts cut to her hip.

There she is.

Dressed discreetly, as always, her long T-shirt falling almost to her knees. Tonight her brown hair is pulled into a tight
ponytail. Her chin is up, her runner’s legs striding smoothly. Such carriage. And then she is gone. Seven seconds it takes
her to pass from sight.

I watch the spring wind stir the dark surface of the river. When she appears again on her return pass, she will be beautiful
in her exhaustion. Her head down, soft beads of perspiration rimming her smooth face. I look at my watch. 6:40. It will take
her about twenty minutes.

I watch the waves and settle in to wait.

T
he first rule of tax season is never to answer the phone. I do, though, certain that it’s Pardo, calling to accept the offer
of primo Knicks tickets I left with his assistant just minutes ago.

“Jake Teller,” I say.

“Mr. Teller.” I recognize the voice of senior partner Abe Stein. “What’s the first rule of tax season?”

“Screen your calls.”

“Good. Abe Stein here. Could I see you in my office, please?”

“Sure.”

I look at the foot-high pile of tax returns in my in-box, then at the slew of pink message slips. Each will be a client wanting
last-minute advice. Even the stodgy ones get pretty creative as tax day nears, and they call us for fresh explanations of
the distinction between dodge and deductible. I walk down the long hall, through reception, then down the carpeted hall of
the south wing, to Mr. Stein’s corner office. A visit here can only mean more work, and as I knock on the heavy mahogany door,
I already feel nostalgic for the fourteen-hour days of the past two weeks. Just let it be a straight return — nothing from
out of left field.

“Come in.”

Mr. Stein sits behind an impressive rosewood desk. He has the quiet air of a professor, but the word in the halls is that
when the senior partners get together, he speaks last and loudest. In front of him, in one of the two leather client chairs
that face his desk, sits a young woman.

“Hello, Jake,” says Mr. Stein. “Do you know Mimi Lessing?”

“Just barely,” I say.

We met for ten seconds on my first morning. In the crush of work ever since, I’d forgotten her, though I don’t see how I could
have. She is beautiful. Lithe, a runner maybe, with clear brown eyes and olive skin. Beneath her light suit she wears a camisole,
which pulls away from the top of her smooth chest as she leans forward to shake my hand.

“Hi,” she says, her hand small, warm.

“Hi.”

“I’m putting you two on an account,” says Mr. Stein.

I must be living right. Ten nice Jewish boys and her, and I draw her. I take a seat.

“Mimi,” says Mr. Stein, “Do you remember an Andrew Brice?” Mimi tries to place the name but can’t quite, and Mr. Stein points
with an open hand at the wall. “Go have a look at that frame, you two.” We stand and walk to a gilt-edged frame that holds
an ancient, dignified page of company letterhead. The page has yellowed and the corners have flaked away. The ink is faded
but legible.

“It’s a tax statement,” I say.

“It is indeed. For one Theodore Brice, for the fiscal year 1924. Can you read the figures?”

I step closer to the glass. “One hundred ten thousand dollars?”

“That’s right. More than Babe Ruth made. Theodore Brice served with our founding partner, Fred Hyson, in the Great War. Hyson
came back and founded this firm. Brice came back and went to law school, and then to work for the Rockefellers. How is your
American history?”

I look at Mimi.

“That was the time of Standard Oil,” she says.

“Very good. Come, sit down.” We do. “Brice was a shark lawyer back before these waters were infested with them. A pioneer
of the big deal, and the practice of securing a hefty percentage for the lawyer who closed it.”

“And we did his taxes?” she asks.

“Fred Hyson did them personally. And they developed a custom. Each year on April first, Brice took Hyson to lunch at the Algonquin.
After their meal Brice would order a Rob Roy, spill a drop on his tax sheet for luck, and then sign his name.”

Mimi leans forward, and the camisole parts from her skin again. She raises a hand and presses it to her. “Andrew Brice,” she
says. “I remember now. Last year at this time, at the elevators. You introduced us.” Mr. Stein nods. “So he’s a legacy.” He
nods again.

“And he carries on his father’s custom?” I ask.

“After a fashion. The son didn’t quite inherit the old man’s spark or drive.”

“In financial matters?”

“In all matters.” Mr. Stein leans toward his desk, and I notice for the first time the two account folders on top of it. He
picks up the heavier one. “Theodore Brice died in 1970 a rich man. A month later his only son — Andrew — liquidated all the
assets, except for some property upstate. Preferred to take his inheritance in cash, apparently.” He lays the folder back
on the desk. “After estate taxes and what have you, that inheritance was ten million dollars. And as far as we can tell, he’s
lived off that and nothing else ever since.”

“He doesn’t work?” I ask.

“Not a W-two in thirty years.” He picks up the second folder and opens it. “No record of any income, outside of interest.”

“He made money in the markets, maybe?” says Mimi.

“I’m not sure Brice knows a stock from a bond. He’s never bought either. His investment strategy was to split his ten million
evenly between twenty accounts —five hundred thousand in each.”

“He’s afraid of bank failures?” I ask.

“Or war. Or famine. Or locusts. Brice is not your standard rational investor.”

“But we must have advised him of other options,” says Mimi.

“George Hyson, son of the founder, broached the topic in 1971, at their first lunch. Andrew Brice made it clear that it was
not to be raised again. And it hasn’t been.” Mr. Stein takes off his glasses and wipes them with a soft cloth. “Every firm
has its concessions to company lore. Brice is ours. You know the term for them?” He looks at me.

“Courtesy cases,” I say.

He nods. “Brice’s taxes take an hour a year. Which, by the way, he insists we bill him at staffers’ rates. Thus, his annual
worth to Hyson, Levay is eighty-five dollars.” Mr. Stein replaces his glasses and looks at each of us again. “You’re trying
to think of a polite way to ask what all this has to do with you.” He pauses.

“Something has gotten into our courtesy case. It’s been five years since George Hyson retired and left to me the honor of
accompanying Brice to lunch. In those five years Brice has never once called this office. Never had a tax question. Never
solicited a shred of financial advice. He simply appears at noon on April first each year, takes me to lunch, signs his tax
return and the bill. Until this morning.”

“He called?” says Mimi.

“Yes. He’s been doing some thinking, and he’s concluded that an investment strategy would be prudent after all.”

Mimi and I exchange a look. Her cheeks are high and fine, a hint of flush to them. “After thirty years?” she says.