Friends Like These(53)

“Early this morning,” I said. “Looks like we do owe the contractors money. It was a mistake— Peter was trying to help a friend, things got complicated.”

“Eleven thousand dollars kind of misplaced. Makes sense.”

Keith was right that I was understating the problem. Also, the contractors had tried to burn down the house after I agreed that I’d pay them, which suggested something even worse than Peter had told me. Whatever it was, it would be better to sort it all out from the safety of our Tribeca apartment, with its protective doormen and many alarms. And, yes, Bright Horizons was very strict about logistics, and they had said Sunday afternoon was the only check-in, but all manner of flexibility could be purchased for a price. All I needed to do now was talk Keith into going.

“Why don’t you drink that coffee?” I said. “We could sit outside for a minute. There’s a table out there. It’s really nice.”

Or so Peter had told me. I’d never sat out there myself.

“Okay,” Keith said. “But I probably shouldn’t leave Crystal up there alone too long. Last night she was weirdly open about being on the lookout for something to pocket.”

It was nice outside; Peter was right. He’d placed a little café table and two metal chairs under the overhang, framing a view of a couple large maple trees and the bush with a bluebird’s nest Peter had told me about. Sure enough, there were a bunch of small birds flying around, though they looked more brown than blue.

“This is nice,” Keith said, after we’d sat in silence for a while. “Guess Peter isn’t entirely useless.”

I felt a flash of anger. “Seriously?”

“Come on, that was a joke.” Keith laughed. “Whatever, so Peter didn’t pay some bill. Still nice that he did all this with the house for you. It’s good for you to have someone like that. I feel like after your dad, you need that kind of devotion. Everybody does.”

I didn’t want to talk about my dad. “Listen, I think— we all think that— ”

“I know.” Keith put his coffee down. “Rehab, right?”

I exhaled. “I got you a spot at a place, Bright Horizons. It’s all set up.”

“Bright Horizons?” Keith made a face. “A little on the nose with the name, don’t you think?”

“It’s a good place,” I said. “They come very highly recommended. It wasn’t easy to get you a bed. And they specialize in medically assisted treatment. I’m not saying that will make it easy or anything, but it should make it easier.”

Keith nodded, but his mouth had turned down. “Where is it?”

Too far away from the gallery. Too much time away from work. I could hear the excuses already.

“It’s in the Finger Lakes, only a three-hour drive from here,” I said, but really it was more like four and a half. And now I had to get to the point, or at least part of it. “You have to check in by Sunday, at the latest, or my dad is calling in your loan. Apparently somebody from his office went by the gallery— they said you seemed high.”

Keith’s brow furrowed like he was trying to remember. Finally, he grimaced. “Ah, I think I remember that. I joked about it with the guy. He was young, or whatever, so I thought he’d think it was funny.” He shook his head ruefully. “That’s what happens when you’re high this much: you start thinking, and saying, crazy shit.”

“I’ll work the gallery myself if I have to,” I offered. I figured that would be Keith’s first stop on the excuse train.

“You’d do that, wouldn’t you? You’d fucking go to my gallery every day and hand-sell paintings.”

“Of course I would.” I’d actually already cleared my schedule. I was an executive vice president of new development at Cheung Capital— a reasonably big job. But I was hardly critical to daily operations. And I could pretend to have good taste in art. Being smug and obnoxious was half the battle.

“Why are you always so fucking good to me?” Keith asked.

I thought for a long moment. “You remember that painting you did of me? For that family series?”

“Yeah, Family of Origin. I did one for each of you.”

“But do you remember my painting specifically?”

“Of course,” Keith said. “I remember you were pissed about it.”

“It was a huge painting of just my dad. He looked like a monster, and I was like this little shadow in the corner.”

“Do you want me to say that I was wrong to paint it like that? That it was an oversimplification of a complex relationship, and I did it because I was an asshole? Because I was definitely an asshole,” he said. “I’m still an asshole. I thought we’d established that.”

“No,” I said quietly. “You were right. That painting was right. So much of my life has been defined by who I’m not— explaining or apologizing for not being the ambitious, driven son my father wants. At least I don’t pretend as much anymore. But I think I forgot to figure out who I actually am instead. Anyway, if it hadn’t been for me, we would have called the police that night. Alice would be alive. Maybe you’d even be— ”

“Nope. Nice try. We were all there that night. We made our own choices, including Alice. She could have gone to the police afterward, any time she wanted.”