Friends Like These(9)
“Still working yourself to death for the man, huh?” When I turned, Finch was standing at my side, eyeing me pointedly. “Because you’ve seemed awfully busy.”
He was bound to say something. Finch’s entire artistic career was built on provocation. The key was to ignore him. Narcissists tire easily.
“Stephanie, can you come here for a second?” Jonathan called, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.
“If you’ll excuse me. Jonathan needs me,” I said to Finch as I slid past him into the living room.
“It’s just a waste, that’s all,” Finch called after me. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
I did not turn back around.
“Hello, Stephanie? Over here, please. Now.” Jonathan waved me over.
“You were going to show me the fireplace, right?” I called out, hoping it might remind him to stay calm. Freaking out about Finch being there was obviously not going to help anything. “I won’t complain the rest of the weekend if you get me in front of a fireplace.”
“Right.” Jonathan put a hand on my arm. “Somehow I doubt you will stop complaining, but there are actually four fireplaces. You and Maeve even have one in your room, which also has a view of the Hudson and the incredible sunset. You’ll see tomorrow. Anyway, it’s the very best room in the house, so naturally I gave it to the two of you.”
“What’s this about a fireplace?” Maeve asked as she joined us.
“Hey now,” Finch said, slithering over with alarming speed. “Shouldn’t we be drawing straws for the best room? Unless maybe you ladies want to share.”
“We’re good, thanks,” Maeve said, cheerfully oblivious.
Maeve somehow gave everyone the benefit of the doubt, despite all she’d been through. It was one of the many reasons I worried about Bates. Jonathan had said he was a “solid guy,” but Jonathan didn’t always have the best taste in men. And I mean, Bates? But Maeve was utterly smitten. She claimed it was because Bates was kind and funny, and he’d been nice enough when I met him. But he was also very good-looking and very rich, and Maeve got mesmerized by sparkly surfaces. I blamed her awful family. Maeve had cut them out of her life, but they’d still left their mark.
“Finch is just playing. We’ll take whatever room you’ve got,” Keith said, slapping Jonathan on the back before heading to the far side of the living room. It only took him opening a couple cabinets to find the bar. “Ah, here it is. Nice setup, Jonathan.”
“Solid call, Keith.” Finch plopped himself down on one of the red leather couches. “After that drive, I could use a fucking cocktail.”
Drinks. Exactly the way to kick off any intervention. Maeve and I exchanged a look as she dutifully headed over to where Keith was crouched. I watched her try to distract him from the alcohol, tilting her head to the side and smiling sweetly. But Keith was fixated. From far away he looked like such shit, too. None of us knew exactly what he was using. It had started with pot and then Xanax and Ativan. At some point he’d moved on to Oxy or Percocet or something. God only knew the extent of it these days. Forget Jonathan’s dad and the loan and the gallery, Keith might be dead soon if we didn’t get him into rehab.
I wondered sometimes what would have become of us if we’d just called the police that night on the roof. I’d wanted to, at least at first. Until I’d been reminded of the cost to everyone’s future— mine most importantly. But if we had called someone, Alice might still be alive— she and Keith still together. Instead, that night was still reverberating through all of us— Jonathan with his pathological generosity, Derrick marrying miserable Beth, me working myself numb, and Maeve— well Maeve deserved to be happy, finally. She’d been through enough for one lifetime.
I did wonder if Maeve had gotten the most recent email from Alice’s mom. She’d sent similar ones to all of us previously— usually once or twice a year— resurfacing to blame us for what had happened to Alice. Though this latest message had a newly threatening tone: I know what you did. Still, there was nothing to do but wait for Alice’s mom to retreat back into her grief. So far, she always had. Usually we talked about the messages. At least Maeve and I did. But this time neither of us had said a word. I think we were tacitly agreeing that it would be too much to face on top of the intervention.
“You’ve got a problem with somebody having a drink at seven p.m. on a Friday night?” Finch smiled wryly when I looked at him. Evidently he’d been watching me watch Keith. “You only like to have one kind of fun?”
“Fuck you, Finch,” I said before heading away again, across the room. So much for not taking the bait.
“What the hell is Finch doing here?” I whispered to Derrick, who was standing at a window looking out.
He shrugged. “Being a jerk? Isn’t that all Finch ever does?”
“Did you know he was coming?” It sounded like an accusation. Maybe it was, a little bit.
Derrick and Finch had known each other since they were kids back in Arkansas, though they’d grown up on opposite sides of the tracks, literally. Derrick’s family was wealthy by local standards, Finch the product of abject poverty. Something else for the art world to eat up. Derrick actually introduced Keith to Finch, back when Finch hadn’t yet been paid a dime for his art and Keith was still starting out. Despite that, Derrick didn’t seem to like Finch very much. I never could figure out why he’d helped him in the first place. Though that was Derrick: nice to a fault.