The Devil's Interval (19 page)

“Long enough to know that every relationship has its,” he said, making a flat plane in the air and tilting it up and down, “turbulence and rocky landings.” The couple at the table just below ours had given up all pretense of non-nosiness, openly watching us.

I nodded to Plummer. “Couldn't agree more.”

“Grace and I loved each other, but we were very different people. And I was consumed with my work. Still am. It's exhilarating and frightening and overwhelming, all at once. I know that must sound silly—after all, we're just pushing money and paper around. But it's a fine art, and I'm a very good practitioner of that art.”

“I'm sure you are,” I said.

“I had a very difficult time relaxing, a very difficult time getting away from what preoccupied me virtually 24/7. And Grace was a woman who liked a certain amount of attention. She's the one who first took me to the Crimson—it was playful and intoxicating, and like my work, it seemed a bit dangerous. But it was something we could enjoy as a couple. And no matter what happened, we always
went home together.”

“But sometimes…,” I faltered.

“Sometimes?”

“Sometimes Grace went alone, or with her friend, Ginger.”

He shrugged. “So?”

“That wasn't threatening to your marriage?” I said, asking a question I'd asked myself at 3 in the morning on sleepless nights.

“We didn't have that kind of marriage,” said Plummer. “You know how there are things inside a relationship that only those two people know? Grace and I didn't have what people like you and your husband have—kids, soccer games, getting costumes together for Halloween.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “See? Your life is as strange to me as mine must seem to you.”

“So, instead of trick or treat, you had…the Crimson Club?” I persisted.

“In a way. For us, it was harmless, silly, amusing, and something we shared.”

The waiter was back, putting an overdressed, highly-decorated plate of baby lamb chops on the requisite bed of sustainably grown wild rice in front of each of us.

“Two last questions,” I ventured.

He sighed. “Perhaps.”

“First, this seems very silly, but I keep thinking about it. Someone told me that Grace used to sing the ‘clouds in my coffee' line to you from the old Carly Simon song, “You're So Vain.””

He stared at me. “Why on earth could that possibly matter to you?”

“It just seemed puzzling, like it was some kind of inside joke.”

He shook his head. “It wasn't about either one of us being vain,” he said. “It was something Grace would say whenever I asked her about her childhood. She'd say, ‘Oh, that's just clouds in my coffee.' And if I pressed her, she'd laugh and just sing the line to me.” He fell silent for a moment. I didn't know any more than when I asked the question.

He threw his napkin on the table and crossed his arms. “Okay,
Mrs. Fiori. Last question.”

“I was just wondering why you decided to talk with me tonight?”

He glanced over my head, toward Michael.

“I don't know. Sitting up here,” he gestured at the head table, “feels like being on an airplane. You know how people talk to perfect strangers on airplanes? It feels oddly safe, almost anonymous. Although I would guess that's simply evidence of how poor my judgment is, to think of talking to someone from the Fourth Estate as safe.”

“It's okay,” I said. “No one seems to take me very seriously as a journalist. I started out as a kind of Kelly Girl temp in the job, and every day, it feels like an accident that I still get paid to do it.”

Frederick looked back at Michael again. “There's something else,” he said. “I've known about your husband's work with foundations for a long time. And once we began our foundation and needed tax counsel, many people recommended his firm. And, as I asked around, I heard about…”

I put my fork down. “You heard about our troubles last year,” I said flatly.

“I did,” he said. “Frankly, it made me think better of you both. That you seemed to have weathered those storms. And tonight, it made me believe I might as well talk with you because you might be less judgmental than many about the life Grace and I shared.”

I couldn't tell if my head was feeling a little buzzy from the predinner cocktails or the unexpected twist the conversation had taken.

“Are you offended?” asked Frederick.

I shook my head. “No. I think I must have some small glimpse of how you feel, though. Well, how anyone feels who finds that their private life has moved into the public domain. Though, it does make me wonder…”

“Yes?” Frederick said, patting his coat pocket. “Excuse me, I think it's almost time for the speechifying. I need to find my notes.”

“It makes me wonder why you ducked me when Gertie was
trying to schedule time to talk.”

“Can you blame me?” asked Frederick. “I'm hardly enthusiastic about either seeing my life with Grace used as fodder for some magazine piece or encouraging someone who thinks that Gifford is innocent.”

“You don't think there's even a chance of that?” I asked, as Frederick drew a stack of oversize index cards out of his inside breast pocket.

He sighed. “Not much of one,” he said. “I found the evidence very compelling. And if it's not Gifford, who else could it have been?”

“Who else?” I murmured to myself, as I watched Michael walk to the podium. It's always a slightly strange, parallel universe kind of experience to watch your spouse take on a public persona. When Michael has had a high-profile podium opp—lecturing at his alma mater, hosting a benefit for his law school scholarship fund—I've gone to watch. It's the odd combination of the very familiar—the last-minute check to make sure he hasn't forgotten a smidge of shaving cream on his neck, the tie knot centered, no stray hockey cuts that need tending—and the wonder that the man I've seen change messy diapers, weep at movies, roar down the ice in pursuit of a puck with frightening intensity, and do a serviceable imitation of Dame Edna is standing, poised and handsome, looking downright distinguished and relaxed in front of a hall full of people.

Michael was all that and more this evening—charming, articulate, respectful of the fund and Frederick's energy and entrepreneurship in creating it. Frederick watched, with a persuasively self-effacing smile, and chuckled at Michael's jokes. Then, just as he stood up, I put my hand on his arm, and mouthed “good luck.”

He leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Remember what I said. Who else? If you find out, you tell me.”

Then, in half a dozen paces, he was standing at Michael's side at the podium, waving to the audience. It suddenly struck me that I was making a career out of watching Frederick give speeches.
This one, like his talk at the Botanical Gardens, focused on the idea of giving back to the community that had showered him and his wife with such prosperity.

“Once upon a time,” he said, “people in my business would occasionally get their hands dirty.” He paused. “But then, copiers came along, carbon paper disappeared, and now, there's virtually no way a man can get a little honest dirt on his hands in my business. I thought about that,” he said, turning the first card face down, “when I came here this evening, because my late wife, Grace, was actually a big fan of getting her hands dirty. She volunteered at the Botanical Gardens, and she also gardened at a transitional home for young women in recovery and their children. It was not unusual to find Grace at the end of the day scrubbing dirt from under her fingernails. I think her manicurist despaired of Grace as a client.” Manicurist, I thought to myself, Ocean View Day Spa. We still need to check that out.

Frederick continued briefly in this vein, tying it together with a thank you to his partners and fellow venture capitalists in the Bay Area for their gifts to a fund that would enable social change.

“Grace always told me we should all be gardeners,” he said. “I thought she meant that in the literal sense, because she found the work so satisfying. Now that she's gone, I realize that what she meant was that we should all be involved in helping things grow, whether or not we actually get our hands dirty. This evening, I want to thank you for helping our fund grow, and through that fund, helping countless Bay Area nonprofit organizations grow and continue to meet real needs. Good evening.”

Warm applause. Pearl Soo joined him at the podium to say thank you and invite the guests to linger over coffee and dessert. I had some hopes for another conversation with Frederick, but he was immediately swarmed with friends and colleagues. Michael edged his way around the crowd and came to sit in Frederick's chair.

I reached over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You were brilliant,” I said. “Also handsome and distinguished. And even a little witty.”

He looked pleased. “It's just the tux,” he said.

“Well, it is slightly more flattering than your average hockey uniform,” I said.

“You and Frederick were attracting some attention,” he said. “Looked like anything but head-table social chatter from where I sat.”

“Later,” I said.

In the car on the way home, we deconstructed the evening. I have friends who claim their husbands are unwilling to do this, too distracted or aloof or important or something to notice the food, the misbehaving guests, the undercurrents—whatever they might be. I find Michael's keen eye and shameless willingness to accidentally-on-purpose overhear one of his more engaging attributes.

We postmortemed the dinner and were in agreement: The salad was delicious, though a little foo-foo, entree forgettable, dessert chocolate so it didn't matter how good it was. “Okay, I said, “worst dress.”

“Easy,” he shot back. “The pink, feathery thing our new audit associate had on.”

“Hmmm,” I temporized. “Not sure I agree. She's a little wisp herself, so she can carry those feathers off.”

Michael disagreed. “You're wrong. She looked like an underfed piglet in a boa. Kinda like if Porky Pig's daughter was anorexic. Go ahead, make your call.”

“Also easy,” I said. “Our big-boned Court of Appeals justice in the silver lamé. That must have been about three rolls of aluminum foil she had going on there.”

“You are so catty,” Michael retorted.

“Look who's talking. And speaking of talking, thanks again for getting me a seat next to Frederick Plummer.”

“You two looked as if you were telling each other the secrets of your lives,” he said. “I'm serious,
cara
, people were watching you.”

I shrugged. “Oh, well. Let 'em talk,” I said.

“Find out anything?”

“Actually, he was surprisingly open,” I said.

“You sound bothered about that.” I eased my shoes off and wiggled my toes to get some feeling back in them. Who invented high heels anyway?

“Not bothered. It's just…well, two peculiar things. First, I actually
like
the guy.”

“And you didn't expect to?”

“Not really. From what I'd read, he seemed like the kind of careless rich guy who ignores his wife, and then gets outraged when she goes looking for companionship somewhere else. Plus, I have to admit, even though I realize how disgustingly bourgeois this sounds, that I was bothered by them hanging out at the Crimson Club.”

“We probably are disgustingly bourgeois,” said Michael. “Even if you do secretly look forward to getting spanked occasionally.”

“Am I ever going to hear the end of that?”

“You bet your cute little ass you're not,” said Michael. “See, here's the thing, Maggie. Even our life can sound pretty sordid if you just report on the events.”

“You mean, spoiled housewife betrays upright husband, who turns out to be a stereotypically hot-tempered Italian who may or may not take out his aggressions with a hockey stick?”

“Something like that,” said Michael.

“Yeah, well, that's the other strange thing. Plummer apparently knows all about our troubles and that's partly what made him willing to talk with me.”

“Fellow sinner, huh? Well, don't let him entice you to the Crimson Club to cement your newfound friendship,” said Michael.

“Does everybody know everything?” I asked.

“As you should know better than anyone else. It's a ‘small town.' You were involved in a high-profile murder, and the personal motivations that got you involved in it weren't much of a secret by the time the whole thing was resolved.”

“Doesn't that bother you?” I asked.

“I try not to think about it,” said Michael. “I think everybody's got some pile of bones in a closet or under the bed. Most people
aren't tactless enough to bring up other people's messes.”

“It wasn't as if he was being tactless,” I protested. “It almost seemed kind. Letting me know that he understands what it's like to go through some public scandal.”