Good as Dead(38)

It was a little after five a.m. when I gasped myself awake. I was too shaken to go back to sleep, so I got up, showered, and opened my laptop at my kitchen table. As the coffee brewed, I clicked on my email. I saw that Jack had found a script he liked and was considering making an offer on it. He had production legal handle those deals, so there was nothing for me to do, but he copied me so I would know what he was up to. I glanced at the subject line—“possible new business”—then archived it in the appropriate folder.

Holly’s credit card statement had also arrived. I had to keep track of what she was spending to make sure the $5 million we had allotted wasn’t in danger of running out. We’d paid cash for the house and the car, which meant she had a little under $3 million left to fund her new life. I had the money in index funds with projected annual interest of about 6 percent. If she didn’t spend more than $180,000 per year, that $3 million would last her forever. With no mortgage or car payment to make, I thought it more than enough.

I moved the credit card statement to the encrypted server where I kept all the documents related to the accident. Then I opened it. It was my job to know how she was spending my client’s money. And to be honest, I was curious.

We had given her two credit cards, one for her and one for Savannah, so I knew which one of them was buying what. I tried not to panic when I saw Savannah’s statement. She’d been to the Apple Store, Sephora, Victoria’s Secret, Lady Foot Locker, and Louis Vuitton, all in one billing cycle. It wasn’t a total surprise, I knew she would splurge. What I didn’t know was if her spending would slow down or accelerate. What if she was testing the arrangement? Setting the stage for more demands? Would I dare say no to her if she asked? That video evidence was damning, and she was too smart not to have made a copy. Which meant we had no choice but to keep paying. The situation was as stable as a grenade. And Savannah had her finger on the pin.

Holly, on the other hand, had barely bought anything. She spent a modest amount at a hair salon, $135 at Pottery Barn, a couple hundred bucks on gas. The rest of her charges were at the grocery store. She went almost every day. They were mostly small amounts—under twenty dollars. Except for one charge at a sushi place, all her meals were made in her kitchen with food she bought at Gelson’s.

I tried to imagine what kinds of things she bought on those twenty-some-odd trips to the grocery store. I figured a lot of fresh produce, because why else would she have to go every day? Before I showed her the house, I outfitted the kitchen with everything I could think of—German knives, a stand mixer, an electric kettle, a full complement of measuring cups and spoons. Jack insisted that I do everything myself, he didn’t want to risk anyone else knowing what we had done. I had never stocked a proper kitchen, but luckily the saleswoman at Bloomingdale’s had, and was all too happy to help.

I thought about my own credit card statement, how different it was. I hadn’t been to the grocery store once. Most of my charges were from restaurants—lunches with colleagues, dinner dates with women I’d never see again, or, on the nights I didn’t want to chase or be chased, with myself alone at the bar.

My brother used to rib me about being an “incurable bachelor.” And it’s true, I had been a bit of a playboy. I had a lot of disposable income, and plenty of choices of what and whom to spend it on. Jack gave me access to all the hottest restaurants, clubs, and yes, even women, but after a while it started to feel like I was reliving the same date over and over again. My fancy suits attracted women who wanted to be dazzled, and I suppose I wore them because I feared if I didn’t dazzle, I might disappear.

But Holly was different. She wasn’t chasing anyone or anything. She knew what it was like to grow up with nothing, feel that toxic mixture of longing and shame that comes from watching other people be handed what you had to suffer for. She knew what it was like to find yourself with riches you weren’t sure you deserved, and how being surrounded by things you always thought were meant for other people—a new car, a shoe shine, a proper haircut—made you feel like an imposter in your own life. And, like me, she lived with the kind of ferocious grief that came with losing someone who fought to give you a comfortable, carefree life, but died before they could share it with you.

Holly and I were close to the same age—she was thirty-seven, I was thirty-eight. I wondered if we had met under different circumstances, without the stench of the accident between us, if maybe she might have liked me? I never talked about myself to her, of course, so she had no idea how much we had in common. Or how deeply I was drawn to her for her stoic integrity and gentle beauty. I was ready for a different kind of woman, a different kind of life—one that was not all about where to be, but how to be. Holly made me realize that. And now there was no going back.

I could never tell her how I felt, that would be wildly inappropriate.

But that didn’t stop me from wishing I could.





ANDY


Three months ago

When the courier arrived with an express letter, I knew it was bad news.

We were late on our mortgage, and I had at least a dozen unpaid bills. Tatum’s trip to urgent care after she fell off the swing and her arm swelled up like a football cost us over $400, and I hadn’t paid a nickel of it. The fall didn’t break her wrist, but it did cause serious injury to our pocketbook. We literally had nothing left.

I wondered why Libby hadn’t divorced me. Then I realized—we couldn’t afford to get divorced. Because that involves paying lawyers, and you need money for that. You also need a hell of a lot more money to maintain two residences instead of one. If we got divorced, Libby would be living in a shitty one-room apartment, and I’d be in a refrigerator box.