So Long, Summer Camp

Part 6: Oct 1996 – Jun 2002

Christy’s career hadn’t exactly been on hold in Boston, but she hadn’t had the space to create what she really wanted. That had changed when we’d returned to Atlanta in 1996, and especially after she’d taken over the garage.

She ordered supplies first, things that had been too bulky for our apartment, like modeling clay and mold rubber. Then she began looking for businesses and buying equipment she needed for larger projects.

The foundry she’d used before had new owners and weren’t interested in small jobs anymore. She found a new one in Union City, on the other side of Atlanta, an hour away.

“You couldn’t find one closer?” I asked.

“I found several. But I want to work with this one. They specialize in monuments and fine art. They do everything—lost wax, green sand, and centrifugal. They even do vacuum casting. And they can weld sections, so I can create bigger statues.” Translation: Who’s the expert here, you or me?

“Okay,” I said, suitably chastened, “sounds good.”

“Mmm, yes, dear.”

She bought a kiln next and had it delivered, although I couldn’t help but laugh when I came home and found out she’d been trying to find a way to plug it into a regular outlet. Fortunately, the NEMA standards people had put a stop to that little misadventure before it had started.

“What’s so funny?” Christy grumped.

“That won’t work.”

“I know that! The thing’s too big.”

“It’s a 6-50 plug,” I explained, “and that’s a 5-15 receptacle.”

Her glare turned flinty. “Can you think of anything else we can’t plug in ’cause it’s too big?”

I took the hint. “I’ll call an electrician,” I chuckled.

“But I wanna try it now,” she wheedled. “Can’t you do something? Please, please?”

“No, sorry. This needs a fifty-amp circuit. I want a licensed electrician to install it.”

“Maybe he needs to install something else,” she muttered.

“Ha! Don’t worry, Little Bit, I know what kind of plug you need. And we both know it fits. As a matter of fact, I’ll show you after the girls’re in bed.”

The electrician arrived on Monday. He installed a safety disconnect and the new circuit, plus a dedicated outlet for the ventilation system. Christy already had pieces loaded for a test-firing in the morning. I expected to find a happy wife when I returned from work, but I found chaos instead.

Emily and Susie were screaming and chasing each other around the breakfast furniture, which wasn’t in the kitchen anymore. It was in the living room instead. I scooped Susie into my arms and effectively stopped the fight. Then I pried Mr. Ribbit from her grasp and returned him to Emily.

“Much better. Now, where’s Mommy?”

I received a shrug from one child and a silly grin from the other, but Christy and Laurie appeared from the garage a moment later. They each dumped an armload of toys onto the play mats in the breakfast nook. Clearly, I’d missed a memo.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“What’s it look like?” Christy snapped.

“Okay,” I said slowly. “Susie’s play area is moving in here. But… why?”

“The kiln.”

“What about it?”

“It gets hot. Like, twenty-four hundred degrees.”

“What! On the outside?” I actually looked around for the kitchen fire extinguisher.

“No, the inside,” Christy said quickly. “But the outside gets hot too. I almost burned myself. I don’t want Susie anywhere near it.”

I agreed completely, so I sent the girls into the living room with orders to play nice. Then Christy finished moving the toys, while I moved the television and VCR.

“What’re you gonna do with the extra space?” I wondered after we finished. I had visions of parking in the garage again. Silly me.

“Stone.”

“I’m sorry. Did you say…?”

“Stone,” she repeated. “You’ll see.”

She already had marble dust and resin to cast it, but she went looking for a place to buy natural stone. I came home a week later and had to park behind pallets in the driveway. She’d bought a ton of the stuff—a literal ton, two thousand pounds—and she wanted it moved into the garage.

The smaller blocks weighed seventy or eighty pounds, while the medium-sized ones were about two hundred. I couldn’t even move the largest block, which probably weighed five hundred pounds. I did the math and realized that a chunk of marble for a life-sized statue would weigh five or six tons.

“You can’t move those by hand,” I said.

“No, of course not.”

“Then… what’re you going to do?”

“Buy a forklift.”

“Uh… maybe let’s talk about this first?” I said. “Besides, the garage isn’t big enough for a forklift.”

“Okay, then a pallet jack. Or some kind of hoist.”

I blinked. “A what?”

“Paul, dear…”

“Got it. You’re the expert.”

She went to the local auto parts store and ordered a two-ton engine hoist. The guys behind the counter, bless their hearts, tried to sell her a dinky chain hoist instead. They couldn’t understand why an “itty-bitty lady” needed that much lifting power.

“What’d you do?” I asked when she told me.

“Told them I needed it to lift my itty-bitty gold card.”

“Ha!”

“It worked. They sold me the hoist. Stupid men,” she added in a huff.

She also started buying power tools. She had a full set of hand tools already, hammers, chisels, and rasps, but she needed things like an angle-grinder and a hammer drill. When she added diamond blades and carbide-tipped bits, they’d carve through even the hardest stone.

The power tools ran on house current, so I was a little confused when I heard a strange noise coming from the garage one weekend. I went to investigate and found Christy playing with an air nozzle and hose attached to a new eighty-gallon industrial air compressor. She’d learned her lesson with the kiln, and she’d paid for delivery and installation this time.

“What’s it for?” I half-shouted over the racket.

“My new hammer.”

“Of course.”

“Oh, and a water-fed polisher.”

“Do I even wanna ask how much it cost?”

“The polisher?”

“No, the whole setup.”

“Probably not.”

She wasn’t done yet. The new tools required a lot more safety gear, although I was a hundred percent in favor of that, no matter the cost. She wore a thick jumpsuit and leather gloves to protect herself from flying chips when she was carving. The gloves had padded palms to absorb vibrations and were fingerless so she could feel her work. She also wore safety goggles, hearing protection, and a fairly serious respirator.

For my part, I paid the bills and let her buy whatever she wanted (well, except the forklift). After all, she’d spent three years in a tiny apartment with no studio, and she’d done it mostly without complaint. I figured I owed her. That meant several eye-popping credit card bills and the occasional bounced check, but I could live with it.

Happy wife, happy life, right?

* * *

Christy started working in earnest after the older girls returned to school in January 1997. She’d been creating things for several months already, but they were little statues or models of things she’d sketched in Boston. Most of them were flexing creative muscles she hadn’t used in a while.

Still, she’d finished nearly a dozen pieces, and she began selling them in local galleries. She only sold one or two a month, but it didn’t matter. She was making the kind of art she wanted, and that was enough.

Her first big break came in April, about a month after Erin’s wedding. A gallery in Midtown called and asked her to bring in some of her work. One of the owners, Lance, was also an interior decorator, and he thought her pieces would be perfect for several of his clients.

He sold the first batch in less than a week, and his partner immediately recognized an opportunity. Fred asked Christy to bring in some of her larger pieces, which found new homes almost immediately.

“Oh my gosh, Paul, they want me to start casting limited editions. And I can take commissions for larger work. Lance knows, like, everyone. Lenox Square wants a Degas-style ballerina in bronze, and a law firm downtown wants a stylized version of Lady Justice. Only, I don’t know how much to charge.”

Fred offered to be her agent. I thought it was a good idea but wanted to meet him first.

“Why?” Christy protested. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course, but I don’t know this Fred guy. Or Lance. What if they’re ripping you off?”

“Oh, all right.”

Lance was about what I expected: a trendy guy with an art history degree and a talent for design. (These days, we’ve been friends for years, and he’s the only person I’ve ever met whose house is perfectly decorated. I literally wouldn’t change a thing about it. He’s also the only person besides Christy whose opinion I trust completely. If he tells me something doesn’t look right, I change it, end of discussion. But I’m getting ahead of myself.)

Fred was a bit of a surprise when I met him. I’d expected a boring business type or an art nerd who understood numbers, but he was athletic and well-built, a former college football player. He had common sense and a degree in finance. Even better, he was charming and earnest, and he agreed completely when I said I wanted to review his contract before Christy signed.

I took it home and pored over it without spotting any major red flags. Still, I wasn’t an attorney, so I faxed it to Erin.

“It’s fine,” she said the next day. “I ran it past a friend in Miami who’s an entertainment attorney. It’s a basic artist-agent agreement.”

“See? I told you,” Christy said.

“Let’s call Sara,” I said, “just to be sure.”

“Why’re you being so paranoid?”

“I just don’t want you to get burned.”

“Is this about you-know-who?”

“Scumbag. Yeah, I guess it is. Sorry. Still, I wanna call Sara and ask her.”

“Ugh. Fine.”

“It’s also a good excuse to catch up,” I said hopefully.

“I suppose.”

* * *

Sara called back and said that the contract was fine, so we met Lance and Fred for dinner.

“I’m looking forward to working with you,” he said to Christy after she signed. “You’re incredibly talented.”

“Thank you.”

“And you have great potential.”

She beamed.

“So, let’s talk about what you’re working on…”

Her next big break came about six months later, in December 1997. We’d spent Thanksgiving in San Diego and then flown up to San Francisco on Sunday. Then Christy and Sara spent three days touring galleries, meeting owners, and talking to other artists.

The girls and I had fun being tourists. We rode the cable cars and explored Chinatown. We visited Fisherman’s Wharf and Golden Gate Park. And then we snacked and shopped our way through the Mission District.

My calves were sore from three days of hiking and pushing Susie’s stroller up the hills, but the girls had loved every minute. They were so worn out by the last evening that they went to bed immediately after their baths. Even Emily crawled under the covers and fell asleep without a fuss. Their mother, on the other hand, was full of energy.

“Do you think it’d be okay if we go up to the bar?”

“Let’s make sure they’re good and asleep first,” I said.

They were, so we left Christy’s cell phone on the nightstand with a note. Laurie knew how to call my cell phone if she needed us. Then we took the elevator up to the nineteenth floor.

The restaurant was practically empty, and we chose a table by the window. We enjoyed the spectacular view of the city skyline until a server arrived to take our order, a vodka martini for me and a double bourbon for my chirpy wife.

“Oh my gosh, this is the first drink I’ve had all day.” She drained the glass and then sat back with a sigh. “Much better.” She took a couple of deep breaths and relaxed as her metabolism did its thing.

I caught the server’s eye.

“Can we get a menu, please? And another bourbon. Maybe on the rocks?” I suggested.

“I don’t care,” Christy said, “as long as it’s alcohol.”

“Just a single this time,” I said to the server, “and two glasses of water, please.”

We ordered a couple of appetizers when she returned with our drinks.

“You know me so well,” Christy said.

“Mmm. So, tell me about your day.”

“Oh my gosh, this place is amazing. Sara was right. Today was the best day of all. So many galleries to choose from! I think I need an agent here too. Or maybe Los Angeles.”

“What about Fred?”

“He’s the one who suggested it.” Christy took a drink and nodded toward the city. “He doesn’t know the market out here, so he can’t advise me.”

We’d become good friends with Fred and Lance since Christy had started working with them, and I wasn’t surprised that Fred was looking out for her best interests. He treated her like a kid sister, even though he was actually a couple of years younger than us.

“Makes sense,” I agreed. “And what’s this about LA?”

“Oh my gosh, I met the most amazing couple! Didn’t I tell you? No, I suppose not. I only met them today. He’s full Japanese and she’s half. Well, she’s actually American, but you know what I mean. Her mother’s Japanese.” She drained her bourbon and signaled the waitress for another.

Our food arrived at the same time as her new drink, and Christy began devouring slices of ahi tuna.

“This is amazing,” she said between bites. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

I cut a piece of the baked brie.

“Anyway, where was I? Oh, right! Toshiro and May. Her name’s actually Mei, but she goes by May.”

I couldn’t hear the difference, but it was obvious to Christy.

“They own a small gallery here, but they have two big ones in LA.” She paused for a moment to replay the conversation in her head. “One’s in the Arts District and the other’s in Torrance. I don’t know LA very well, but—”

“It’s down south, by Redondo Beach. Oddly enough, I know exactly where it is.”

“Oh? How?”

“John Sepulveda.”

“Gina’s husband?”

“Uh-huh. His family’s from there. Palos Verdes. And there’s a city there that was designed by Frederick Law Olmsted, Junior.”

Christy’s brow furrowed. “Why do I know that name?”

“Well, Olmsted Senior designed Central Park and a bunch of other things, including the gardens and grounds at Biltmore.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Junior wasn’t as famous, but he laid out the city of Palos Verdes Estates. He and another guy used deed restrictions to— Never mind. It’s urban planning stuff. And not very nice.”

“Why not?”

“They used deed restrictions to keep out non-whites.”

“Oh my gosh! Seriously? When? Recently?”

“No. Starting in the twenties, until the Supreme Court outlawed it in ’48. Anyway, Toshiro and May own a gallery in Torrance…?”

“Uh-huh! There are tons of Japanese there. Real Japanese, I mean, not Japanese-Americans. Honda’s headquarters is there, and they…”

She talked through another drink and a second order of tuna tataki. Toshiro and May wanted to bring her to LA to meet some of their Japanese clients, and they wanted to include her in a gallery show to introduce her to the art community in LA.

“They couldn’t believe I speak Japanese,” she finished. “I was a little rusty, though, ’cause I don’t have anyone to talk to.” She eyed me mock-balefully.

“Hey, don’t look at me! I barely speak American. No habla Japanese.”

“That’s Spanish.”

“So you speak Spanish now too?”

“I can’t help it! Only, not really. Just enough to talk to the nice people at the Mexican restaurant when I pick up takeout.”

“Why’m I not surprised?”

“So sue me. You know how I am.” The ice clinked in the bottom of her glass, and she gestured to the server. “Stop interrupting,” she said to me. “May has a bunch of ideas for the kind of things their clients will like. She’s an artist too, a painter. She thinks…”

* * *

Christy built a dedicated following in Atlanta and Los Angeles, with a smaller but passionate group in San Francisco. Her style was the same across all her work, but her creative inspiration varied. Her Atlanta clients liked more traditional sculpture, anything from Renaissance to modern themes. The LA crowd wanted Asian- and Japanese-inspired pieces, and they favored animals as much as humans. The San Francisco people wanted a bit of everything, from amusing to erotic.

Case in point, Christy created one piece called Janus & Janet. Renée was visiting at the time, and we posed together, back to back. Christy seamlessly blended our bodies into one. She cast the final statue in bronze, about three feet tall, a nude woman from one side and a nude man from the other. The effect was surreal, and a San Francisco collector bought it sight unseen, based on the description alone. He liked it so much when he actually received it that he ordered a half-dozen replicas to give as Christmas gifts.

The different markets all had their exceptions, but the general rule applied. Christy privately described them as “good, better, best.” The Atlanta people were a steady source of income, the LA people were the happy middle ground, and the San Francisco people allowed her the freedom to do whatever she wanted. May and Fred coordinated and kept her busy with commissions and limited editions.

Christy’s career really kicked into high gear when we moved into our new house in 1999, and especially after Susie started preschool in the fall. Christy finally had enough room to work on several projects at once. Her 3,000-square-foot workshop had a kiln, a small furnace, and the forklift she’d always wanted. The semidetached studio even doubled as a gallery for finished work.

Fred suggested to Christy that she might hire a full-time apprentice, and they brought Gabby onboard to help with the larger pieces and the demand for limited editions. Business was so good that in 2000 they hired two more people, a welder-turned-artist named Peregrin and an MFA student named Winter. Between them, they took over the production of smaller pieces and replicas.

I was just as busy with my own career. Paul+Hughes Design beat Trip’s most optimistic projections for 1998 and 1999, and he announced at our September board meeting that the company was worth thirty million. Six months later, in April 2000, we moved into our new global headquarters. We had more than a hundred employees and plenty of room to grow.

The Lake Lanier development was moving forward as well. We weren’t raking in the dough, yet, but the golf course was under construction, and the country club had started advertising for members. We’d sold about a quarter of the lots in the subdivision, and most of the buyers had opted for a Paul Hughes home. I had to deal with a few who wanted nouveau-riche monstrosities, but I focused on the dream clients instead, the ones who wanted Architectural Digest instead of National Enquirer.

* * *

In many ways our lives were perfect for several years, starting in about 1997. Christy’s career and mine were both thriving, and the girls were doing well in school. Laurie joined a competitive swim team, Emily began ballet, and Susie started regular dance classes.

We went on family vacations in the spring, to resorts in Florida and the Caribbean. We spent a week at the Pines each summer. We went skiing in the winter, to places like Vail and Deer Valley. Christy and I partied with friends and took vacations by ourselves, to France, Hawaii, and Japan.

Things looked fine from the outside, but cracks had begun to appear in the foundation. The problems started with money.

Christy spent more as her artwork sold more. She went on shopping sprees at Nordstrom and Neiman Marcus. She bought dresses and shoes, purses and jewelry, and pretty things for the girls. Some months the credit card bills were so big that I had to pay them down over time instead of all at once.

Part of me couldn’t really blame her, especially since she thought she was spending her own money. But her art cost money to create, which she never considered. Many months she spent more than she made, and we argued about it constantly. The arguments turned into actual fights whenever she bounced a check or maxed out a credit card. She always apologized and promised to do better, but she never did.

She started drinking more, too. We usually finished a bottle of wine with dinner, but one bottle became two over time. Two turned into three when we started opening another after the girls went to bed. Eventually, Christy switched to whiskey after dinner instead of wine.

For a long time, I told myself that she was getting drunker at night because her metabolism was slowing down. And I didn’t complain because I enjoyed it—she was usually horny when she’d been drinking, and women didn’t suffer from whiskey dick.

Then I began to suspect that she wasn’t just drinking in the evenings. Sometimes I’d come home from work and she’d already have a bottle of wine open. Other times she had a glass of something stronger. She always claimed she’d just poured it, and her metabolism was high enough that I couldn’t be sure. She might’ve started five minutes ago or five hours.

I probably could’ve lived with the spending and drinking, but she neglected the girls sometimes too. Once again, it was little things at first. She’d get busy on a project and be late to pick them up from school. Or she’d forget their backpacks for swimming and dance class, and the girls would be late because they’d had to return home to get them. I heard about it at bedtime, but I always made excuses for her.

A couple of times she even forgot to pick them up after school, and I received a phone call from the office. I told myself it was because she was working and had lost track of time. She’d done that as long as I’d known her. And she had an annoying habit of taking her studio phone off the hook and ignoring her cell phone when she was working, so the school was forced to call me instead.

All of this happened over several years, and it started long before we moved into the new house. Christy didn’t start spending and drinking all of a sudden, just like my work and travel demands didn’t double overnight. The girls suffered from both, although I didn’t realize until it was almost too late.

* * *

September 1, 2000, marked the beginning of the end, although the events that led to it were still months in the future.

That Friday, we flew to Boston for Nana C.’s ninetieth birthday celebration. The whole family came, and we had activities planned for Saturday and Sunday before a big party in the evening. It was a swanky black-tie affair at the Ritz-Carlton for two hundred guests. Christy’s family had always been serious drinkers, but that night took things to a new level. Rich was the only sober one of the bunch, and probably only because he had to be for some reason.

I left the ballroom early, well before midnight, and went upstairs to check on the girls. They were asleep in bed, so I paid the babysitter and let her leave early. Christy returned sometime in the early hours of the morning, but she was so drunk that she didn’t even try to wake me. I found her on the couch in the morning, still in her party dress, cradling a Veuve Clicquot bottle—empty, of course.

By then I’d begun to worry about her drinking, but I didn’t know how to talk to her about it without starting a huge fight. So we returned to Atlanta and went right back to the way things had been. In hindsight, I used work as an excuse to avoid problems at home.

Trip landed four multimillion-dollar contracts in a row, and they all needed my attention. I had to turn the design proposals into detailed plans, which was something I could control. Things continued like that through December and into 2001—we signed two or three big contracts each month. I worked eighty hours a week and only took short breaks for Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Whitney worked even harder than I did, but we had so many new clients in January and February that she began to crack under the pressure. I reached out to Trip for help, and he put new work on hold. Then he took over project management for several big jobs that were nearing completion, while we worked on the new ones.

I finally started to see the light at the end of the tunnel in late March. I told Trip that I needed a break, and he agreed. I told Whitney to take one too. She was so exhausted that she didn’t even ask her usual questions. Instead, she simply packed up and left in the middle of the day. I finished out the week, just to make sure things were running smoothly. The team leaders had things under control, and Trip told me to go. He could deal with anything else without me.

I wanted to take at least a month off, so Christy and I planned a family vacation for the girls’ spring break in April. We spent eight blissful days on the beach in St. Martin, and I didn’t touch my cell phone or computer once. Unfortunately, things began to unravel soon after we returned home.

It started when I picked up the mail from the post office. I normally didn’t open anything addressed to Christy alone, but I did it accidentally that time. I discovered three credit cards in her name. I hadn’t known a thing about them. The statements had charges from the usual places, but also from one place that raised a huge red flag.

She usually shopped at the big liquor store near the house, but the charges on her private cards were a lot more frequent than they should’ve been, especially for what I knew we drank. So I started checking on her in the studio, and she always had a sports bottle nearby.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t be sure what she was drinking unless I tasted it myself. I couldn’t smell it on her breath, either, because she had a habit of chewing gum or mints while she worked. I thought about asking her apprentices, but I didn’t want it to get back to her.

In the end, I checked her studio trash cans, where I found exactly what I’d been afraid of, empty wine and liquor bottles. Worse, they were all hidden in other trash, like she knew I might see them when I took the cans to the end of the driveway.

The girls were the final straw, especially when I realized how bad things had become for them. Christy lost track of time when she was working (and probably drinking), so she wasn’t reliable as a parent. The girls were anxious and angry most of the time, and I hadn’t been around to pick up the slack.

I noticed the first changes when I started picking them up from school. They visibly relaxed when they saw my SUV in the line at the normal time. They were happy and excited to tell me about their day. Laurie gave me a hug and a kiss when we dropped her off at the pool. Emily and Susie made sure I came inside and watched them in dance class. Then all three begged me to take them for ice cream after. They did the same at home and acted like I might disappear if they let me out of their sight.

At first I told myself it was just because they didn’t get to see me as much, but deep down I knew the truth. They craved the one thing we hadn’t given them, the one thing we couldn’t buy. They needed stability. They needed parents.

* * *

I decided to talk to Christy, and we both needed to make some changes. I rehearsed a speech in my head and started gathering props: the secret credit card bills, empty liquor bottles, and a drawing that Susie had made of our family. It only included seven of us: three girls, three dogs, and Daddy. Mommy was conspicuously missing. Susie’s teacher had sent it home with a concerned note. I felt like a complete jerk for using it, but I couldn’t think of a better way to show Christy what was happening to us.

Some idealistic part of me hoped that our lives would change completely once we talked. I’d start helping around the house and with the girls. Christy would cut back on her drinking and spending. Then we’d all live happily ever after, the end.

Unfortunately, real life didn’t work that way.

Things went to hell from the start. Christy was defensive, while I was angry and demanding. I don’t have many clear memories of the argument, and none of them are worth repeating, here or anywhere.

Christy finally lost it when I showed her Susie’s drawing. She snatched it from the table and stormed out. I heard the garage door opener and then her van as she gunned the engine and drove away.

She didn’t return that afternoon, and I told the girls she was out running errands.

I expected her home by dinner, but she didn’t show.

I really began to worry when she didn’t come home that night.

She’d left her cell phone on the charger in the kitchen, so I couldn’t call her. I called everyone else, but no one had seen her. I went to bed with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

The house phone rang at four o’clock in the morning. I wasn’t really asleep, so I snatched it from the cradle before the second ring. I didn’t even look at the caller ID.

“Hello! Christy?”

“No, it’s Anne. Birdy’s here, though. She’s safe.”

“Oh, thank God! Wait. She’s there? With you? In San Diego?”

“Yes. A taxi just dropped her off. She must’ve flown out. We’re still trying to get the story out of her. We wanted you to know, though. She’s okay. And… I think she needs to stay with us.”

“Okay. Thanks. I—” I sighed heavily. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I know, dear.”

“We had a fight. Obviously. But I want to talk to her.”

“Maybe later. She’s not in any condition to talk. Have you told the girls? That she’s gone, I mean?”

“I didn’t have much choice, did I?” I snapped.

“No, I suppose not.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

“It’s all right. I understand. You’re upset.”

“Yeah.” I took a couple of deep breaths and found a sandbar of calm. It wasn’t an island, but it would have to do. “I told them she had a gallery trip,” I said to Anne. “I don’t even care about the fight. I just want her to come home.” I heard the desperation in my voice and didn’t care.

“I know, and she will,” Anne said. “In the meantime, we love you both. The girls too. We’ll call you in the morning. Well, later in the morning.”

“Thanks, Anne.”

“Mmm. Get some sleep.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Well, try your best. Goodnight, dear.”

I stabbed the End button and simply dropped the handset to the floor. What the hell was I supposed to do now?

* * *

My cell phone rang the next afternoon. I didn’t recognize the number, a 760 area code, but I answered immediately.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Paul, it’s Anne.” She sounded as exhausted as I felt. “I’m calling from Betty Ford. The clinic, I mean. Christine’s here. She’s going to stay for a while.”

“Thank you.” I inhaled through my nose and breathed out slowly. “Did she tell you what happened?”

“Enough. She was a little incoherent when she arrived. She’d been drinking. That was our second clue. Last night. Or this morning. Whichever.”

“Do I need to fly out? My parents can watch the girls.”

“Not yet. I think she needs some time alone.”

“So… she doesn’t want to come back?”

“No, no!” Anne said immediately. “Not at all. She needs to know what she’s losing. I tried to tell her, but…” Anne sighed. “She’s so stubborn.”

“No fucking kidding,” I muttered.

Anne pretended she hadn’t heard. “I gave the clinic your phone numbers, and Christine herself can call you once they finish admitting her.”

“Do you think she will?”

“I hope so. Only, she’s very angry right now.”

“I understand.” My own anger had faded, although a growing sense of dread had replaced it.

“Richard’s here with us,” Anne continued, “but he’s going to fly back tomorrow. To Atlanta, I mean.”

“Atlanta? Here?” My voice rose with alarm. Did she really mean to have me killed?

“Oh my gosh,” Anne laughed, “not that. And shame on you for thinking it.”

“Thinking what?” I lied.

“Do you really think I’d do that?”

“No?”

“Richard can help with the girls,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “And then with Christine. When she comes home, I mean.”

“Comes home?”

“Honestly, dear, stop making everything sound like a question. Of course she’s coming home. Only, it might be a while.”

* * *

Rich moved into the pool guest house and told the girls that he wanted to help with the household chores. He asked them about their own chores and then made a chart. He was surprisingly domestic, probably because he’d lived alone for most of his adult life. I asked him to include me in the assignments.

“Sure. What do you do now?”

“Normally? Pay the bills. Take out the trash. Take the girls to school. Tuck them in. And… uh… that’s about it.”

“I see,” he said, very diplomatically.

“Yeah, I know,” I snapped in response. “That’s part of the problem. I thought I was more egalitarian, but I guess I’m a male chauvinist after all. Happy?”

“Chill out. I’m not pointing any fingers. ‘Mistakes were made.’ Let’s move on.”

I recoiled in surprise. That wasn’t the reaction I’d been expecting, especially from a guy who put the “over” in overprotective.

“Um… thanks?” I said.

“You’re welcome. Now, what do you want to do?”

“I’ll start doing the grocery shopping. And I can cook dinner.”

He shook his head. “I’ll do the cooking. It’s relaxing. And it’ll be easier if I do the shopping too. Laurie can go with me, at least until I learn what they like to eat.”

“Okay. I can help with the laundry.”

“That’s Laurie’s new job,” he said.

“Vacuuming? Dusting?”

“Emily. Little Miss Clean.”

“The dogs?”

“Susie.”

“Okay,” I said slowly, “then what should I do?”

“Taking care of the pool is a big one. The girls said Birdy did it before.”

“Got it. What else?”

“Keep her business and studio running,” he said. “We can handle everything else.”

* * *

The next evening my cell phone rang with a 760 area code.

“Hi, it’s me,” Christy said.

She sounded resigned, but I had to stop myself from biting her head off. She’d been at the clinic for days, and this was the first time she’d called. I understood why—she’d been upset, embarrassed, and probably overwhelmed—but that didn’t change how I felt. Besides, she hadn’t even apologized.

I told myself I was being selfish. Plus irrational. And rude, especially as I let the silence drag out in a fit of pique. I still loved her, even if I didn’t like her very much at the moment. I adjusted my attitude and put a smile in my tone, although it still came across as tired.

“Hi, me. It’s good to hear your voice. Are you okay?”

“Yes? No? I don’t know.” She told me her room number and gave me a phone number where I could reach her. “They’re still evaluating me,” she said bitterly, “so they won’t tell me how long I’ll be here.”

I nodded and felt my anger fade. “Is there anything I can do? What can I bring you?”

“Maybe some clothes. I only have what I came here with.”

“Will do. What about your cell phone? And your sketchbook?”

“My sketchbook, please. Not the cell phone. I can’t use it while I’m here. Have the girls said anything? What did you tell them?”

“That you’re in LA, at the gallery.”

“The gallery,” she snorted softly. “I don’t know if they’ll ever work with me again.”

“I’m sure they will,” I said. “Every artist has… issues.”

“Issues? Oh, boy. That’s a polite way to put it.”

“We’ll get through this.”

“I’m glad one of us thinks so.”

“We will,” I insisted. “I love you, and we’ll do whatever it takes.”

“I love you too. Only… I’ve made a mess of things, haven’t I?”

“Nothing we can’t fix.”

“I suppose.”

“Trust me,” I said.

“You’re always Mr. Positive.” She sighed, and I didn’t feel the need to fill the silence between us. Maybe my resentment hadn’t subsided after all. “I need to go,” she said at last. “It’s time for dinner. We’re on a strict schedule here. Another thing I hate.”

“You’ll survive,” I said.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“That’s my Sunshine,” I chuckled. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“If I’m still alive.”

I flew to California the next morning and rented a car when I arrived in Palm Springs. I drove straight to the clinic. Christy looked downcast when I saw her. She was wearing the same clothes as when she’d stormed out, which seemed like a lifetime ago.

We went for a walk around the lake and then found a bench. We didn’t talk about the argument or anything else that had happened. We mostly talked about her daily routine. It was a safe topic.

“Have they given you any idea how long you’ll be here?” I asked.

“Treatment isn’t defined by a number of days,” she parroted dully. “Besides, I’m supposed to take things one day at a time.”

“Okay. So… what do you want me to tell people? I mean, about why you’re gone.”

She shrugged.

“Well, I talked to Wren and Leah. I told them where you are. And I gave them your phone number. I hope that’s okay. If not, too bad.”

She nodded.

“What about Brooke? Do you want me to call her?”

A shrug and then a reluctant nod.

“I told everyone in the studio that you had an unexpected trip to LA. Gabby said they have orders to keep them busy for at least a couple of weeks. She wasn’t sure after that. I’ll take care of it, one way or the other.”

“Thank you.”

“But I need to call Fred and May. They’ll start asking if they don’t hear from you soon.”

“Tell them I died.”

My silence was a gentle rebuke.

“Fine,” she said at last. “Tell them…”

“That you’re taking a break,” I finished.

She snorted at the irony.

“We’ll get through this.” I don’t know how, but at least we’re talking about it.

* * *

I returned home and found that Rich had been hard at work, cleaning.

“Most of it was in her studio,” he said. “The usual. Wine and liquor. No handles. She has— had expensive taste. I cleaned out the bar in the house, too. I hope you don’t mind that I poured it out.”

I felt a pang of loss, but it was selfish. Again. “Everything?”

“Everything. Sorry.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “I’m sorry I left it for you.”

“Nah. I’m fine as long as I don’t start.”

“Okay, cool.”

“The girls and I went through the house itself. We made a game of it. I told them we’d bake a dozen cookies for every bottle they found.”

I glanced at him sideways with a question.

“We won’t put the Girl Scouts out of business,” he said, “but it’ll take a few weekends to bake that much.”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll need to go through your bedroom. I don’t think you’ll find much—too easy for you to find by accident—but you might be surprised. Check her purses and even her shoes. Oh, and the top of the closet. She used to hide things there when she was a kid. She can’t reach that high, so she thinks no one else can either.”

“Got it,” I chuckled. “Anything else?”

“No. We didn’t find any pills or dope. Just alcohol.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Mmm. Have you decided what to tell the girls?”

“Not yet,” I said. “I’m open to suggestions, though.”

“Well, I think Laurie’s figured it out. I’m not surprised. I wasn’t thinking ahead when I cleaned the bar out. She saw me pouring everything down the drain. Then we searched the rest of the house, and she connected the dots.”

“It’s okay.”

“I don’t think she understands exactly what’s going on, but she’s pretty upset about it. She’s a quiet one, though. She just kinda shuts down.”

“Yeah. That’s her way of dealing with it. I wish I’d realized sooner.”

“It affects people in different ways,” Rich said. “My ex and I used to fight.”

I nodded, although I knew very little about his ex-wife. I’d only met her a couple of times, and he didn’t talk about her much. Christy and I had privately suspected it was a marriage of convenience more than anything—they both wanted to appease their families.

Rich drew me back with a chuckle. “Em’s a little Birdy, isn’t she?”

“Her looks, for sure,” I agreed.

“Her personality too. She’s a bossy little thing.”

“You can say that again.”

“Susie reminds me of me. Looks-wise, I mean. She’s a hundred percent you otherwise.” He grinned. “Like if you and I had a kid.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t hide a grin.

“Back to the original question,” Rich said. “What do you want to tell them?”

“For now, only that she’s sick, but she’s getting help.”

“It’s a disease,” he corrected calmly. “She’ll need to deal with it for the rest of her life. So will you. And… I don’t wanna tell you what to do, but the clinic should have a program for dependents. Families and children, I mean.”

“Yeah, they gave me a bunch of brochures. I haven’t had a chance to go through them yet.”

“Let me know what you decide, and I’ll back you up.”

“Thanks.”

We fell silent and gazed across the pool and into the gathering twilight. The lake was high enough that we could see it through the trees. It had rained heavily the day before.

“I think Mom was right,” Rich said at last. “This is where I’m supposed to be.”

He was in the mood to share, so I let him.

“I love being around the girls. And I like the area. Don’t get me wrong,” he added, “I love San Diego, but… too many memories. You know?”

“Mmm.”

“Maybe time for a change of scenery. Do you know anyone who needs a security consultant?”

“As a matter of fact, yeah, I do.”

“Who? You? Seriously?”

I nodded. “I designed a house for a jeweler, about a year ago. She wanted a bunch of home security. Not just alarms and cameras, but intrusion deterrents, a hidden safe, and a panic room.”

Rich nodded slowly as I spoke.

“I had to contract it out. Cost a small fortune, too. It ate up most of our profit on the job.”

“Hooyah.”

“We’re also bidding on an aerospace job in Denver. They do defense work, so half of the building is high security.”

“Want me to take a look?”

“Have you done that kind of thing before?”

“Security? Sure. We didn’t just shoot things, you know.”

“Mmm.”

“Although,” he mused, “I have more experience with physical security, especially breaching it. We didn’t worry too much about electronic security. Well, we did,” he amended, “but not the type of thing you need. We usually blew shit up and went in strong. The SMU guys did the sneak and peek jobs, the intrusion and intel-gathering.”

“Lemme guess,” I said, only mildly sarcastic, “SMU isn’t Southern Methodist University?”

“No. Special Missions. The kind of thing I still can’t talk about.”

“Gotcha.”

“I know a few guys, though.” He rolled his hand in a “move along” gesture.

“Right. So, you can get up to speed.”

“Yeah. Corporate security’s more about preventing theft and espionage. You normally don’t have to worry about guys like me with weapons and explosives.”

“No,” I chuckled.

“Still, my background should help with that kind of business in the future. What’s so funny?”

“It’s another quote,” I warned.

He sighed. “Go ahead.”

“I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

He snorted but didn’t deny it.

* * *

The girls and I flew out to Palm Springs a couple of weeks after they finished school for the year. I’d taken Rich’s suggestion and signed up for the clinic’s family program, which taught spouses and children how to cope with alcoholic family members. Susie was still too young, but Laurie and Emily were old enough.

Christy’s mother wanted to join us as well—she had two children who were alcoholics, after all—but Harold resisted. I privately suspected that he didn’t want to admit that he might have a drinking problem too. His attitude had always been “out of sight, out of mind.” And he wasn’t above playing the age and granddad cards, either.

“I’m too old to learn new tricks. Besides, who’s going to look after Susie?”

“I’m sure they have day care,” I said.

“Of course. But we never get to spend time with just her.”

We argued politely, but he had an excuse for everything. Anne eventually gave up. She and Harold could watch Susie while the rest of us were in class, although she gave him a look that didn’t bode well for his future drinking.

“See?” he said, a touch uncertainly. “I knew we’d find a solution.”

“Mmm. Yes, dear.”

I piled on. “Is this what they call a ‘fighting retreat’?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “Besides, it’s called a ‘tactical withdrawal’ these days. We don’t say ‘retreat.’ It’s bad for morale.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t you have a class to go to?”

* * *

Christy’s treatment team met with her the day before the girls and I were scheduled to fly home. They discussed her treatment so far and agreed to a discharge date.

“How do you feel?” I asked when she told me.

“Scared.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Keep loving me?”

“You know I will.” I paused and then added, “You know I do. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“What about the girls? You should’ve seen the way Em looked at me.”

“When?”

“When you first got here. I thought she wanted to kill me.”

“She picked up a lot of the slack when you were drinking,” I said. “Laurie just retreated into her room.”

“I know. I thought she was just being helpful—Em, I mean—but…” She sighed again. “Do you think they’ll ever forgive me?”

“I know they will,” I said. “But let’s take things one day at a time. We’ll worry about tomorrow when it gets here.”

She nodded and leaned toward me, and I put my arm around her.

“We’ll get through this,” I said.

“I know. Only… I’m still scared.”

“Don’t be. You have lots of people who love you.”

“But… what if I start drinking again?”

“Then we’ll deal with it.” I kissed the top of her head, but it took her a long time to relax.

* * *

I returned to Palm Springs by myself a week later. Harold and Anne drove up from San Diego and met me at the clinic.

Christy was waiting for us with her suitcase. She looked as healthy as I’d ever seen her, tan and rosy-cheeked, like the happy girl I’d married, not the haunted woman who’d stormed out of the house two months earlier. She wasn’t a blushing bride, but I still felt like we were starting anew.

Back at home, we gave her time to settle in before we invited family and friends for a party. We kept things deliberately low-key. Trip and I grilled steaks and portobello mushrooms, and Wren brought every kind of juice imaginable. Christy was subdued at first, and people treated her with kid gloves until Rich put things into perspective for us.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, she isn’t going to break,” he said. “She grew up with five older brothers. If anything, she terrorized us.”

“I did not!” she squawked indignantly.

“Did so, Sis.” He grinned and said to his audience, “She even gave Danny a black eye once.”

Christy bristled, a little blonde hedgehog. “Nuh-uh! You did.”

“Maybe. But I did it on your orders. I’m tellin’ ya, folks, don’t let her looks fool ya. She’s a tough little thing.”

“She is,” I agreed. “And we’re glad she’s home.”

“Hear, hear,” Trip agreed. He raised his cup, and everyone followed suit. “To Christy. Welcome home.”

“Welcome home!”

* * *

Christy went back to work, although her apprentices started with an impromptu gallery show. Gabby, Peregrin, and Winter were artists in their own right, and they were eager to show Christy the things they’d been working on.

“Oh my gosh,” she told me that evening, “some of their pieces are really good. Gabby’s going to need her own show soon. She’s perfect for San Francisco. Winter still has a way to go, but Peregrin’s been working on…”

Christy began taking commissions again too. Fred and May had told her clients she’d had health issues, unspecified but not life-threatening. An investment bank had canceled their order for four pieces, but the others had been fine with the delay. Her agents knew the truth, although they hadn’t felt the need to make Christy’s private life public without her consent.

I went back to work as well. I hadn’t been on vacation the entire time, but I still had a lot of catching up to do. Whitney had returned by then, and she’d kept all of my projects moving forward. Alex Austin had overseen the design group as a whole. He was an engineer without a lick of artistic ability, but he was a good manager.

Trip agreed. “It’s the sign of a healthy organization when one of the principals can step away and things keep functioning smoothly.”

“So you’re saying you don’t need me?” I teased.

“God, no! Everything runs better when you’re in charge. Even the designs are better. I can’t explain it. I sat in on some of the meetings and tried that trick you do—”

“Trick? What trick?”

“You know, where you tell someone it’s good but you think they can do better. I don’t know how you do it, dude.”

I did, but it wasn’t something I could share—at least, not with Trip. He was too competitive, so he always wanted to be the best. He could accept when he wasn’t, but he still grumbled about it.

I wanted the people in my group to be better than me, and they usually found creative ways to do it. Joska had done the same thing when I’d been an undergraduate, although it had taken me years to understand it consciously.

“Speaking of which,” I said in the present, “I’ve been thinking. We need to start an intern program. Not the AXP, but real interns, summer interns.”

“College students?” Trip said.

“Yeah. Third- and fourth-years.”

“What for? They don’t know anything.”

“Hear me out,” I said. “You remember back with mega-corp? The interns were the only part of that job I actually enjoyed. I want to do the same thing again, but for students. I want to help shape the next generation of architects.”

He made the connection right away. “You wanna be Joska.”

“Exactly.”

“Makes sense. And it’d be a good recruiting tool.” He nodded and warmed to the idea. “Even better, we don’t have to pay them.”

“Oh, no,” I said immediately, “that’s corporate slavery. We’ll pay them about what we’d pay a regular intern—”

“Dude, no way!” It was his usual reaction to spending money, and he did his usual about-face when he actually considered it. “On second thought… yeah, all right. How many are you talking about?”

“Two to start.”

“Two people for three months,” he mused, “and we aren’t paying them a full intern’s salary? Yeah, we can swing it. I’ll tell Shari to pull up the numbers, but—”

“I’m thinking 75 percent,” I said helpfully.

“That’s still a lot of money, but… If you’re sure?”

“I am.”

“Okay. You’re the people person.”

I planned to wait and see how the first interns worked out, but then I wanted to expand to four. And I’d find a way to build a small apartment complex, so they could live nearby without paying exorbitant rent. My long-term goal was eight or even twelve interns, spread across multiple disciplines. But I didn’t want to give poor Trip a heart attack in the meantime, so I’d have to build up to it gradually.

“All right,” he said, “I’ll make it happen on my end.” Then he leaned close and said in a low voice, “Do me a favor. Will you at least hire one hot girl?”

“Sure,” I said without hesitation.

He eyed me suspiciously before his shoulders fell. “Aw, c’mon, dude. Please?”

“Hey, you said—”

“You know what I meant. A straight one.”

“Oh, in that case—”

“I don’t know why I put up with you.”

I merely grinned. He wasn’t upset, not for real. Besides, it felt good to banter again, even if it might get us in trouble with HR.

“Whatever,” he said at last. “It’s great to have you back.” He clapped me on the shoulder and turned to go. “Drinks later? I’ll fill you in on the latest projects.”

“Projects, yes. Drinks, no.”

“How come you aren’t drinking? Christy’s the one with the problem, not you. Never mind, forget I said anything. Happy wife, happy life.”

“You got it.”

* * *

Christy’s creativity returned to its previous level about the same time the girls went back to school in August.

“I know it sounds like a cliché,” she said, “but I have this whole new clarity with my art. Sometimes I don’t even have to do sketches, especially with the marble pieces. It’s like I see the sculpture in the block. I just chisel away until it comes out.”

I chuckled. “That’s pretty much what Michelangelo said.”

“And he was right!”

Fred saw her renewed energy and stopped by her workshop at least once a week. He emailed pictures of works in progress to May, and together they planned a one-woman gallery show in Los Angeles for the new year. He even convinced Christy to hire two more apprentices to help with the workload.

“Can she really afford this?” I asked him.

We were standing on the driveway and watching through the big workshop doors. It was the only place we could talk without having to shout over the banging of hammers and hiss-whine of pneumatic polishers.

“Can she afford it?” Fred repeated with a chuckle. “Oh, God, yes.”

“For real?”

“Uh-huh. The show alone will pay their salaries.”

“The new ones?”

“All of them,” he said, “and then some.”

I wasn’t convinced, so he started listing pieces and their estimated sale prices. I stood there and showed off my molars.

“Yep,” he finished. “All told, we’re looking at eight hundred thousand, give or take. We won’t sell everything, of course, but she’ll net two-fifty or three hundred after we deduct commissions and expenses. If she can finish the big pieces she’s working on now, she’ll break four hundred, easy.”

“Holy crap.”

He grinned at me sideways. “That’s getting close to what you make, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but I’m the CEO of a fifty-million-dollar company.”

“Anyone can do that,” he said flippantly. “Well, anyone with the experience. What Christy does is far less common. She creates unique pieces of art on a monumental scale. You can’t just waltz into your local gallery and pick up a life-size sculpture, much less in Italian Statuario or that Noir Belge.”

He sounded like a brochure. Then again, he was supposed to.

“And this is just the beginning,” he continued. “She’s early in her career. I wouldn’t be surprised if her pieces sell for three or four times as much in the next few years.”

“Seriously?”

“Uh-huh. And May thinks I’m being conservative.”

“Are you?”

“Maybe. She knows her market better than I do.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” I said.

“Oh, I know I’m right,” he said confidently. Then he gestured at the slab of ebony stone that Christy and Gabby were shaping. “Judging by that, I’d say the sky’s the limit.”

* * *

We called Nana C. in September for her birthday. Rich and the girls sang to her, and Christy told her about the big show. She said she wanted to fly to LA to see it, and Christy volunteered Rich to travel to Boston and accompany her. They talked for a while longer and then said goodbye.

She sounded fine at the time, but we found out later that she’d been having headaches and double vision. She was probably suffering from a brain aneurysm, which ruptured two days later. She died in her sleep at the age of ninety-one.

Christy’s mother called to let us know, and the entire family converged on Boston. We held the wake on Saturday, and hundreds of people visited the house. Nearly a thousand attended her funeral on Sunday, including the mayor, several Kennedys, and even a few celebrities. Nana C. had been a fixture in politics and charities for seven decades, and everyone had loved her.

The attorneys for her estate scheduled a meeting on Monday morning with immediate family members. Christy and I left the girls with their older cousins and headed to the firm’s Back Bay office. Nana C. had recorded an updated video will about six months before she died. She looked as sprightly and alert as I remembered.

“If you’re seeing this, I must be dead,” she said dryly. “I’m sorry if that sounds macabre, Anne, but at my age I’m allowed.” She paused and sighed. “These messages get shorter every time I record a new one. I suppose it’s because I’ve said everything I want to say. I’ve been blessed with a long life and a wonderful family, and I’m ready for the end. If you want to remember me, light a candle on my birthday. Or maybe eat some ice cream. Any time, I mean, not just my birthday.” Her blue eyes glinted with amusement. “Now, on to business…”

She donned her thick glasses, and the old-fashioned chains swung gently as she looked down and read from a list of specific bequests. She left things like coin collections, cars, and season tickets to her grandsons. She left her jewelry to Christy, her only granddaughter. The video ended with another message to her family.

“Be nice to each other. All the money in the world can’t replace family.”

A junior attorney turned off the television, and the senior one outlined the rest of the will. Nana C. left a third of her estate to a list of charities. The second third included a trust that went to Anne and her younger sister, Evelyn, along with the house in Beacon Hill and a summer house on Cape Cod. The remaining trust was to be divided equally among her grandchildren.

Christy became an heiress in a few short sentences. Her new fortune wasn’t extravagant, but it would definitely change her life.

After the attorneys explained the probate process and what to expect in the next few weeks, Anne and Evelyn invited the family to gather at Nana C.’s house the following day. They wanted to give us a chance to take things that had sentimental value.

Christy and I were getting ready on Tuesday morning when Laurie appeared from the adjoining room.

“Dad, Mom… you need to see this.”

“What’s up?” I asked. “Can it wait? We’re running late.”

“I… I don’t think so.”

Something in her voice raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Christy heard it too, and we rushed into the other room. Emily stood with her arm around Susie, who was crying. At first I thought one of them had been hurt, but then I saw the TV.

It showed New York City from across the Hudson. Smoke rose from the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center. They were burning.

Christy crossed herself and then covered her mouth.

“What happened?” I asked.

Laurie just shook her head, so Emily spoke up.

“A plane— An airliner, Dad. It flew into the building.”

“Which one?”

“Both.”

* * *

Planes eventually started flying again after 9/11, so we were able to return to Atlanta. The world would never be the same again, but life went on. I had a company to run and the girls had school, so we were able to lose ourselves in routine. Christy’s work was more of a challenge, but that was exactly what she needed.

She had to get ready for her gallery show in time, and she went about it with her usual single-minded determination. She and Gabby focused on the two main pieces, while the others cleaned up and put the finishing touches on bronzes from the foundry and marble pieces from the workshop. Everyone worked for ten weeks straight, with only a break for Thanksgiving. Then all six of them spent two weeks on the big pieces, adding final details and polishing the marble to bring out its luster.

Christy called the first piece Femme Olympians. It was a trio of young women sculpted in luminous Carrara marble. They were dressed in short Greek tunics and stood in a circle facing outward. One held a lightning bolt aegis, a shield instead of a weapon. Another held a trident and a fish, an offer to feed the viewer. The third rested her hand on a three-headed dog, a companion instead of a threat. The whole thing was a clever feminist twist on those paragons of masculine virtue, Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades.

The second piece was a triptych called The Crane Wife, which was the opposite of the first in almost every way. It was low- and mid-relief instead of freestanding, black marble instead of white, and a traditional scene instead of a fanciful one. In spite of the differences, it was still a piece with a strong feminist message. The panels told the story of a humble Japanese farmer who saved a crane from a hunter’s trap. The crane returned as a beautiful woman who became his wife. At night she plucked her own feathers and wove a silk brocade that made them wealthy, even though she consumed herself in the process.

(I still wonder if Christy thought she was the crane wife. I’ve asked her about it a few times since then, but she’s never given me a straight answer. She probably doesn’t even know herself. Still, she chose that story for a reason, and I think about it every time she starts a big project. Then I make sure I don’t work too late. I check on her more often, too. And I make sure she eats enough. Her apprentices help, especially during the day, but they have their own lives. Christy is mine. I digress, but I still worry about her.)

Christy and her crew finished the sculptures with barely a week to spare before Christmas. They were exhausted but elated, and we celebrated with a party before everyone took a well-deserved break for the holidays.

* * *

A whole group of us flew to Los Angeles in February 2002. We took the girls and Rich, Fred and Lance, and all five of Christy’s apprentices. My own parents were in China with Susan, but Christy’s parents drove up from San Diego.

More friends and family planned to arrive over the next couple of days—Wren and Trip, of course, along with Leah and Mark, Brooke and Nate, Erin and Tom, and even Carter and Kim. Sara and her girlfriend promised to drive down as well. Much to my surprise, Christy had sent Gina and John an invitation, and they’d returned the RSVP almost immediately.

Christy and her apprentices spent two days getting everything ready for the show itself, while the girls and I went to Disneyland with Rich and her parents. I felt a little guilty that she was working while we were having fun, but she wasn’t the least bit upset.

“No, I’m glad you did,” she said. “The girls would’ve been bored to death at the gallery.”

“Is everything ready for tomorrow night?”

“I hope so. May still has an issue with the caterer, but— Oh! I forgot to show you.” She retrieved a presentation box from atop the dresser. “She gave us these.”

She opened the lid to reveal a set of four wineglasses. They were Murano glass, with a pattern of multicolored leaves and a different color stem for each—red, green, blue, and yellow.

“They’re beautiful,” I said. “That was very nice of her.”

“We need to remember to take them tomorrow night.”

“What for? Won’t the caterer have glasses?”

“Of course. But these’re special for us. You, me, Rich, and Mom. So the caterers don’t give us wine by mistake.”

“Ah, very clever.”

“I know, right!” She relaxed as the excitement started to wear off. Then her expression slowly fell. The doubts had set in. “What if no one comes? What if no one likes it? What if—?”

“They’re going to come, and they’re going to love you. Trust me. You’ve done a lot of work to get to this point. May and Fred too. They believe in you. We all do. Me, the girls, family, friends… everyone!”

“I know. Only—”

“Relax,” I said. “Trust me. The show’s going to be amazing.”

I was right.

When we arrived at the gallery the following evening, a cluster of people were waiting for the doors to open. The celebrities and big collectors didn’t arrive until later, but the place was abuzz with excitement when they did. Christy unveiled her two major pieces to a sustained round of applause. May and her gallery associates circulated, negotiated, and celebrated every sale.

By the end of the night, a wealthy Japanese collector had outbid several others for The Crane Wife, and a big law firm had bought Femme Olympians for double the original estimate. All of the other major pieces had sold as well, for the suggested prices or more in a few cases. Three-quarters of the smaller pieces had “Sold” stickers on their title placards or were gone entirely, taken home by their new owners.

When the last guest finally left, May disappeared into the gallery office. She returned with a printout and a grim look. We all fidgeted nervously until she cracked a smile.

“I couldn’t resist,” she apologized.

“Try harder next time,” Christy grumped. She drained her glass and held it out.

The caterers were all cleaning up, but Rich emptied his glass into hers.

“Sorry, it’s seltzer.”

“I don’t care.” She drained it but immediately grimaced. “Oh my gosh! Rich, that’s disgusting! How—? Never mind.” She gestured imperiously.

May surveyed the group with a long smirk before she settled on Christy.

“Congratulations. You just had your first million-dollar show.”

* * *

Christy’s art income and the inheritance from Nana C. changed our lives, although not the way money usually did. My salary alone was more than enough to cover household expenses, including what we put into investments and the girls’ college funds. We could travel when we wanted and afford luxuries like a private plane, so we decided to keep Christy’s money separate. At Fred’s suggestion, we hired a financial advisor to manage everything for her.

Moira Burns was a Scottish expat who’d been a British Army officer in her former life. She was a no-nonsense woman who reminded me of a self-portrait I’d seen once of Artemisia Gentileschi—slightly plump, red-cheeked, and with a wary expression that seemed habitual.

“Before we talk about a salary and monthly allowance,” she said, “let’s talk about a spending spree.”

“Yes, please,” Christy chirped.

“Tell me about the big things you want to buy and we’ll discuss them.”

Much to my amusement, Moira was serious about the discussion part. She immediately shot down some of Christy’s wilder ideas, like a private island, a yacht, and a ski lodge.

“None of those are practical,” she said. “You aren’t Richard Branson. Not yet, at least. Besides, they all require upkeep. I’m talking about a new car or—”

“Oh, oh, I know!” Christy said. “I want a Mercedes convertible. A red one!”

“That’s more like it.” Moira wrote it down. “What else?”

Christy wanted to replace her minivan with a new one. She also wanted shoes and purses and maybe some dresses.

“Oh, and a watch for Paul,” she added. “Maybe a new plane, too.”

Moira read my reactions before she answered, “Yes to the watch, no to the plane. What else?”

“Things for the girls, I suppose.”

“Good. What else?”

“Do you want a new car?” Christy asked me.

“No, but thank you.”

“Do we want to build the boathouse?”

“We can,” I said.

“We’d need something to put in it,” she hinted.

“Right,” Moira said. “What kind of boat?”

Christy actually bounced in her seat. “A ski boat. A fast one!”

“Anything else?”

Christy thought for a long moment but couldn’t come up with anything.

“Okay,” Moira said as she underlined things on the list. “I’ll set up a line of credit for the boathouse. I’ll arrange the financing for the cars and the other big purchases. And I’ll set up a new account for everything else.” She glanced at me. “Now, about this watch… Timex, Rolex, or Patek Philippe?”

I winced a little guiltily.

“Right.” She made a note. “Patek Philippe.”

“Why?” Christy wondered. “How much do they cost?”

Moira answered without looking up, “As much as a Mercedes convertible.”

“Oh, okay.” Christy’s blithe reaction earned a tight-lipped sigh from Moira.

“That’s why we hired you,” I said.

“I understand.”

She arranged everything over the next couple of weeks. She paid off Christy’s old credit cards and gave her a new one. Then she put her on a strict allowance. My jaw dropped when she told her the amount, but Moira acted like it was nothing.

“But I need to warn you,” she told Christy, “this is all you get for the month. You won’t get any more once you reach your limit, even if it’s still the first of the month.”

Christy normally would have argued, sulked, or simply “forgotten,” but she actually listened to Moira.

“Oh my gosh, Paul,” she said later, “she was so disappointed when I spent too much on the car.”

I barely controlled my reaction. I’d done the same thing! Why hadn’t it worked for me?

Do you really wanna know? the little head asked wryly.

Oh, shut up! No one asked you.

Christy still had a checking account and debit card for household expenses, but she stopped overspending with them too. At first I thought she must’ve balanced her checkbook, but she’d never done it before, not in the twenty-plus years I’d known her.

The answer was simpler, which made me wonder why I hadn’t thought of it. Moira had taught her the trick of calling the bank’s automated number to find out the balance. She’d even programmed the number into her cell phone for her.

Our lives improved dramatically once Christy had her own bank account. I still thought she spent too much, but I kept it to myself. It was her money, after all, and it made her happy. Besides I benefited from most of it, especially the lingerie and jewelry.

Looking back, I wish I could’ve frozen our lives at that point, the summer of 2002. Christy and I were both happy. Our marriage was healthy, and our careers were going well. She’d been sober almost a year and was determined to stay that way—she and Rich went to regular AA meetings at their church. The girls were happier than they’d been in a long time. Even the dogs seemed content.

Then we received a phone call from my mom.

* * *

We headed to the airport the next day. My parents were already at the private terminal when we arrived. Trip and Wren were too, along with their kids. Our girls popped their seatbelts as soon as the SUV stopped moving, and Laurie and Emily opened the doors.

“Whoa! Take your bags with you,” I told them. “Dad’s taxi doesn’t do luggage.”

Laurie immediately reached into the back, but Emily looked like she wanted to argue. She saw me watching and grinned sheepishly. Then she retrieved Susie’s backpack and handed it to her before she grabbed her own.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Laurie start to run toward the terminal before she realized that Davis would be watching. She was more self-conscious around him lately, and she slowed to a ladylike walk instead. Davis was thirteen and just like his father—tall, good-looking, athletic, and popular. He and Laurie had grown up together, almost brother and sister, but she’d begun to look at him differently.

Susie slammed the car door with the force of a gorilla. Then she and Emily raced past Laurie without a second thought. They didn’t care about Davis or boys or any of that mushy stuff. They just wanted to compare Bratz doll outfits with Missy.

I sighed. “This is just a big adventure to them.”

“They’re young,” Christy said. “No one close to them has died before.”

“Nana C.”

“She was old already. Besides, they remember 9/11 more than the funeral.”

“True.”

“What about you?” Christy said after a moment. “Are you okay?”

“No. But yeah.”

We talked for another minute before we headed inside with our suitcases. My mom had been crying, but I barely had time to hug her before my dad and Emily interrupted. She wanted to fly copilot, and he was fine with it.

He could handle the plane by himself, but two pilots were always safer. Emily had sixty hours of student flight time, but never in a plane as big as the King Air.

“Are you sure?” I asked Dad.

“Are you kidding?” he said. “She handles the radios and nav better than you do.”

“Gee, thanks!”

“Come on, Short Stuff,” he said to her. “Let’s go do the preflight walk-around.”

We boarded the plane about twenty minutes later, and I was glad I didn’t have to fly. I sank into a funk and didn’t snap out of it until we landed. The flight could’ve been one hour or five, but I wouldn’t have known the difference.

“Are you really okay?” Christy asked as we drove to the hotel.

“I will be,” I said. “We just have to get through the next few days.”

“Mmm. Why don’t I take the girls swimming before dinner?”

That made me smile. “You just want to go swimming yourself.”

“So sue me. You could come too. It might take your mind off it.”

Trip and Wren and their kids joined us at the pool, and we spent the rest of the afternoon acting like a couple of families on vacation. We weren’t, of course, but we pretended anyway.

We ate breakfast with my parents the next morning and then returned to our rooms to get ready. The memorial service was scheduled for eleven, and we wanted to arrive early.

Emily and I were dressed and ready by ten, but we were the only ones, as usual. Christy was putting on her makeup and Laurie was still in the shower. I wasn’t sure where Susie was, so I went looking for her. I found her in the corner in the adjoining room, staring out the window. She was dressed except for her shoes, although she hadn’t fixed her hair.

“Hey, Suse, it’s supposed to be hot,” I said. “Do you want to put your hair up?”

She didn’t react.

“Suse?” Nothing. “Susie?” Still nothing. “Hey, Boo,” I called, a little louder.

She blinked and looked away from the window. “What?”

I repeated my question in a normal voice, “Do you want to do anything with your hair?”

She shrugged. “I suppose.”

“Want some help?”

“Yes, please.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, and she moved to stand in front of me. I took a brush from the nightstand and pulled it through her dark hair. It was the same color as mine, but thick and naturally wavy, like Christy’s. Her eyes were Christy’s too, while the rest was all me, including her tendency to brood. At least I knew how to deal with it.

“Britney Spears?” I asked, shorthand for pigtails.

Susie shook her head.

“High pony?”

Another headshake.

“Okay. Then… how?”

“Hillary Duff, please.”

“Chopsticks?”

She nodded.

“Can do.”

I brushed for another minute before I pulled her hair into a ponytail-bun. She tugged a hairband from her wrist and handed it over her shoulder without a word. I snapped it around the ponytail and reached for the chopsticks. They were made to be hair ornaments, with little rhinestones on the thicker ends. I stuck two of them at right angles through the ponytail and then fluffed it out.

“Check in the mirror?”

Susie shook her head.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded, although she was working up to something.

“Dad…?” she said at last. “I’ve been thinking… about my name.”

“What about it?”

“I think you should call me Susan now.”

“Why, sweetie?”

“Because she’d like it. Susan, I mean. Up in heaven.”

* * *

Four days earlier, Susan MacLean had been sitting at a red light when a Ford F150 rear-ended her Cherokee. The other driver had been distracted by his cell phone. The impact knocked Susan’s car into the intersection. An oncoming tractor-trailer didn’t even have time to swerve. It slammed into the Cherokee on the driver’s side. Susan survived the second impact, but she died from her injuries before the medevac helicopter arrived. She was sixty-two, still so young.

Susan had never wanted to be a public spectacle, in life or in death, so her sons held a private memorial service by the lake at the Pines. The place looked much the same as it had six years earlier, when she’d announced that it would remain a nudist camp. Even the people were the same, although we wore somber looks instead of smiles, suits and dresses instead of sunscreen.

Kirk and Doug thanked everyone for coming and said a few words. They looked like I felt, haggard and still in shock. They reminded us that Susan’s graveside service would take place at Arlington National Cemetery. She wanted to be buried with her husband, Jack.

Several others spoke. I wanted to say a few words myself, but I couldn’t do it. I literally couldn’t. I tried several times, but my throat closed up and I had to blink back tears. I finally gave up and trusted that Susan would know what I felt in my heart.

Someone began singing “Amazing Grace.” Christy squeezed my hand and gave me a teary, comforting smile. Then she sang for both of us.

“Thank you all for coming,” Kirk said afterward. “The women from the shelter made lunch. It’s waiting for us in the clubhouse.”

I eventually found my voice, and I joined the others as we reminisced about Susan and her life. I heard more laughter than tears, but there were plenty of both.

Doug’s wife, Olivia, appeared beside me. She pressed a bracelet into my hand. The metal was warm from where she’d been holding it, and I knew what it was without looking at it.

“I took it from her jewelry box,” Olivia said. “She— Sorry. We talked about it. She gave me a list. She wanted you to have it.”

“Thanks. I…”

“I know,” Olivia said. “Me too.”

The charm bracelet didn’t have any real value—it was just a silver chain with six P’s—but it brought back a rush of memories. I had to suppress another wave of grief, so I dropped it into my pocket. It landed with a little jingle.

Susie tilted her head. “What was that?”

“Just a keepsake.”

Her forehead creased.

Olivia knelt and said, “It’s something to remember her by.”

“Susan?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“Hey, Suse,” I suggested, “why don’t you tell Olivia about your name.”

“No,” Susie replied with seven-year-old dignity, “I think I should wait. It’s too soon.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“But she knows. God probably told her.”

Olivia stood as Doug approached.

“What’s this?” he asked. “About a name?”

“Susie was thinking about changing her name,” Olivia explained.

“I’m named after your mother,” Susie added, “but everyone calls me Susie. Or Suse. Sometimes Boo. Well, only my dad and sisters. Mom never calls me that. She only ever calls me Susie. Unless I’m in trouble. Then she calls me by my full name.” She did a pretty good imitation, “Susan Renée Hughes,” to amused chuckles. Then she turned serious again. “Only, I think she’d want everyone to call me Susan. Now, I mean.”

“I—” Doug managed a smile. “I think you’re right,” he said at last. “And she’d be proud of you for speaking up.”

Susie’s bright eyes glinted, just like her namesake. “I take after her, you know.”

“You do,” Doug laughed. “You certainly do.”

* * *

Christy and I were fashionably late when we arrived at the attorney’s office the next morning. I gave the receptionist our names.

“Of course. Mr. Wei is expecting you. I’ll take you back.”

We followed her to a conference room, where a middle-aged man with Asian features rose to greet us. His salt-and-pepper hair was conservative, and he wore a dark gray linen suit. He looked respectable and even-tempered, exactly how I’d imagined when he’d told me on the phone that he was Susan’s executor.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hughes,” the receptionist told him.

We shook hands.

“Nathan Wei. Thanks for coming.” He was friendly and informal, and his accent was generic, California with a hint of South Carolina in the vowels. That made him a local instead of a recent transplant. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” I said. “It was… a shock.”

“To say the least,” he agreed.

I glanced at the others around the conference table. Kirk and Dawn, Doug and Olivia, and Stacy and Jason all smiled or waved. Vonda Jarvis sat by herself and nodded a greeting. We’d seen everyone at the memorial, so we didn’t need to catch up. The attorney gestured toward a younger Black woman seated at his left.

“You’ve spoken to Tanisha, my assistant.”

“Yes.” We exchanged polite smiles. “Nice to meet you in person.”

“You too.”

“I believe you know everyone else,” Nathan finished. “Please, have a seat.”

“Sorry we’re late,” I said as I pulled out Christy’s chair for her. “We had a mix-up with childcare.”

“And by ‘mix-up,’” she admitted, “he means that I lost track of time.”

“That too.”

The others chuckled and the mood felt lighter, if only for a moment.

“Thank you again for coming,” Nathan said as he returned to his own chair at the head of the table. “And I’d like to reiterate my condolences.”

We murmured thanks, and he nodded to Tanisha, who began passing out slim binders.

“Here are copies of Mrs. MacLean’s will,” he said. He waited until we each had one before he continued, “She named many of you as beneficiaries…”

The attorney summarized the first part, which was standard stuff. Susan’s sons inherited the camp itself, all the undeveloped land, and her tangible personal property. She set up trusts for each of her grandsons, enough to pay for college and buy a house after they graduated, but not so much that they’d never have to work.

“Kirk and Doug each receive a 7.5 percent share of the total estate,” the attorney went on. “Vonda should have an updated number for us.”

She did, and Trip had been right about Susan’s net worth. Her sons’ combined 15 percent was still an eight-figure inheritance. Vonda was stunned to learn about her own 3 percent share, while Stacy and I each received 1 percent, which also came as a surprise.

“You know how Mom felt about you,” Kirk said to the three of us. “Vonda, you especially.”

Doug agreed with a somber nod.

“Indeed,” Nathan chimed in. Then he began reading where he’d left off, “The residue of the estate shall be placed in a trust, to be used at the discretion of the York-MacLean Foundation.”

She named five of us to the board: Kirk and Doug, along with Vonda, Stacy, and me.

“The foundation will continue Mrs. MacLean’s work,” the attorney read on, “to support women and girls, minorities and immigrants, and anyone who exists at the margins of society.”

That was typical Susan. She’d always done her best to help people, and she’d done it as long as I’d known her. She’d woven it into her life, an unbroken thread in the warp and the weft of everyday existence. Sometimes she’d done it with a personal touch, like with Stacy and me. Other times she’d used money and influence, like the women’s shelter, job training center, and day care.

I thought about all she’d done and felt her loss more keenly than ever. She’d been part of my own life for decades, from before I could even remember. And in the years since that fateful summer, the one of the storm and frozen peas, she’d been a lover and a friend, a mentor and a boss, a client and a business partner. Throughout it all, she’d been someone I admired, the kind of person I wanted to be.

I eventually returned to the present and realized that my life was at a crossroads. I could stay on my current path and enjoy a comfortable life, or I could follow Susan and do what she’d always done. I sat there and thought about it for what seemed like a long time, although it was probably less than a minute. Then I sighed and felt a profound sense of calm.

I’d made my choice long ago, back in the summer of 1978. I chose to grow up, and that has made all the difference.

The End

* * *

But wait, there’s more!

The extended epilogue contains 56 new scenes, with more action, more dialogue, and more of the people you love!

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