Bitch Slap Read online

  Given the timing of their marriage mere weeks before the election, anyone who didn’t know her as well as I did might have judged her decision to wed, after several years of foot-dragging, as patently opportunistic. “Nonsense,” I told her. “You love Carl for all the right reasons. Rox, you’ve got a life now.”

  “I’d be insulted if you weren’t so insightful. It’s true—he fills a void.” Her tone was so blase, anyone eavesdropping would have thought that Carl merely amused her, or gave a good back rub, or helped with a few household chores. But I knew their love to be deep and genuine. Though Roxanne still clung to her veneer of wisecracking ennui, she was, inside, a changed woman. And the changes, I happily observed, were all for the better.

  With quiet sincerity, I told her, “We miss you up here.”

  “I miss you guys, too. Sorry the visits have tapered off.”

  “Nothing planned? The guest room’s always ready for you.”

  “No, ’fraid not. As you’ve already noted, I’ve got a life now.”

  I laughed. “And Chicago offers a few more social diversions than Dumont. You don’t need to drive four hours to find fun with friends.”

  “To each his own. Dumont seems to work for you.”

  “We weren’t talking about me.”

  “I certainly didn’t intend to talk about me. I called you, remember?”

  “Okay, Roxanne”—I crossed my legs, lounging lazily on the bench—“what can I do for you?”

  “Well,” she waffled, groping for a topic to justify her call, “I was wondering how the plans for the big merger are proceeding. Everything on track?”

  “Hope so. Tyler Pennell says he came across some wrinkle in the Ashton Mills books, but it’s probably nothing. When it comes to the numbers, that company is no slouch.”

  “So I’ve seen.” Roxanne had been involved in some early discussions that were held when both companies were sniffing each other like nosy, horny dogs. It was largely on the basis of her blessing that I had subsequently championed the merger to both boards.

  “I suggested that Tyler should voice his concerns directly to Gillian Reece.”

  “Miss Congeniality?” asked Roxanne through a low chortle.

  “She’s an accounting whiz as well as a first-class administrator.” While singing these praises to Roxanne, I noticed, out on First Avenue, Gillian’s husband, Esmond Reece, parking at the curb. He got out of his car, locked it, and strode away with purpose, heading up the sidewalk in the same direction I had been walking when my phone had rung. I told Roxanne, “If Tyler has questions, I’m sure Gillian has answers.”

  “I’m sure.” Roxanne was a true master at infusing agreement with cynicism.

  “Don’t be so hard on her. I thought you admired strong women.”

  “Oh, I admire her,” Roxanne told me. “I just don’t much like her.”

  Fair enough, I thought.

  “By the way, how goes construction of the mansion? Have they installed milady’s drawbridge yet? Have they filled the moat?”

  “Neil is hard at work wrapping up the project. I think they’re basically down to decorating. I get the grand tour this afternoon.”

  “Don’t make me jealous, Mark. I’m apt to slash my wrists.”

  “Well, I have been eager to see the place. Neil’s proud of it.”

  “Of course he is.” No cynicism colored these words. Roxanne loved Neil as much as I did (but that’s another story). “Gillian is lucky to have someone of Neil’s talents available right there in Dumont.”

  “Neil is lucky to have such an extravagant client—nothing but the best. They’re bringing up some hotshot curtain guy from Chicago.”

  “Todd Draper?”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “And you call yourself a journalist. Where have you been, Mark, under a rock?”

  “Well, I … uh …”

  Roxanne laughed with delight. “Just kidding, precious. I wouldn’t have known Todd Draper from Adam, but Neil used him for the rebuild of our condo.” After Carl had lost the election, he and Roxanne decided to nurse the wound of defeat by splurging on a complete redo of their high-rise apartment in Chicago, gutting it to the girders. They turned to Neil for the overall design, and he, in turn, chose the various decorating contractors.

  “Hngh,” I said, impressed, “it sounds as if this Draper guy really is good.”

  “Not only that …” Roxanne paused enticingly before telling me, “Todd Draper is quite the dish.”

  “Really?”

  “Mm-hmm,” she purred.

  “He’s driving up tonight—staying at our place.”

  “My, my, my. Isn’t that a promising setup? Now, you must promise me, Mark—no sneaking into his room tomorrow to roll in his dirty sheets. Don’t embarrass yourself.”

  “My God, you have a lurid mind.”

  “Don’t I, though?”

  Chapter Four

  Curious thoughts about Todd Draper wafted through my mind as I crossed First Avenue and resumed my walk to Neil’s office. Roxanne’s phone call had lent an unexpected note of cheery expectation to a day that had seemed, only minutes earlier, too predictable. We had a guest arriving, one whom Roxanne had described as a “dish.” Her taste in men was discerning—and uncannily similar to my own—so I couldn’t help toying with mental images of the guy who would later land on our doorstep. Also, I wondered, why hadn’t Neil mentioned that the impending inconvenience of having a houseguest would be outweighed by the visual stimulation he would provide?

  These minor mysteries vanished as Neil’s storefront office came into view with its discreet, tasteful sign near the door reading NEIL M. WAITE, AIA. His was a one-man operation, supplemented at times by interns from a local college. These quarters, along with my office at the Register and our house on Prairie Street, represented our shared life, our home. The simple act of turning the knob on his door conveyed a message of security and stability, and I chided myself for having found a disagreeable monotony in that morning’s unremarkable routine.

  Walking inside, I expected to find Neil busy in the rear area of his office, which was devoted to the design and engineering aspects of his trade, replete with a full array of computers and plotters, as well as the traditional drafting table and tools he still preferred to use for residential work. Instead, Neil was seated at a desk near the front of the room, which also contained a conference table for clients. Sitting at the table, talking to Neil as I entered, was Esmond Reece.

  Looking every inch the successful small-town architect, Neil wore a crisp, plaid dress shirt with knit necktie and tan corduroys. He broke into a smile as he looked up from his work at a typewriter—a sleek, gray, vintage IBM Selectric from the 1960s. Though his office was thoroughly computerized, he disliked the look of mailing labels on his correspondence, which he deemed tacky, so he used the Selectric solely for addressing envelopes. Its carbon-film ribbon and “porcupine” type ball produced clean, perfect text. That’s one of the qualities I love most about Neil—the man has standards, and he sticks to them.

  “This is a pleasant surprise,” he said, checking his watch. “You’re early.”

  “Better early than late.” Closing the door behind me, I moved to the desk and leaned to give Neil a hug.

  Esmond stood. “Good morning, Mark. Nice to see you. Thanks again for dinner at your home last night. It was wonderful.” Though his words were congenial, they lacked life, as if recited by a golem. Reinforcing this eerie image, he wore an odd sort of suit of stretchy charcoal fabric. Styled without traditional tailoring, it seemed to cling to, rather than hang from, his body. The jacket was buttoned to the neck, showing no shirt. It looked like a uniform for clones in some menacing futuristic thriller.

  I stepped to the table and shook his hand. “The evening with you and Gillian was our pleasure. You’re always welcome.” I sat at the table.

  Esmond remained standing, telling Neil, “If this is a bad time, I could—”

  “Not
at all.” Neil fed a large envelope into the carriage of the typewriter. “I’m glad you dropped by. It’s important to air your concerns.” He typed a few short lines; the machine’s metal ball raced along with a muffled rattle.

  Esmond sat again, looking perplexed. “I don’t want to appear to be going behind anyone’s back—certainly not Gillian’s—but I don’t know where else to turn.” He slumped.

  The momentary silence was broken by the sound of another envelope grinding through the typewriter carriage. “Uh,” I asked anyone, “what’s going on?”

  Neil answered while typing. “Esmond is worried about some of the cost overruns on the house.”

  “Ahh.” But I was confused. Turning to Esmond, I said, “Pardon a rather personal question, but isn’t Gillian paying for the house?”

  “Of course. She pays for everything.”

  “It’s her project,” noted Neil, pulling the last envelope out of the typewriter and jogging a stack of them on the desk.

  Esmond said, “I wasn’t talking about just the house. I mean, Gillian pays for everything, all the time.”

  “I see,” said Neil, getting up from the desk. He moved to the conference table and joined us, sitting next to me, facing Esmond. “I wasn’t aware of your financial arrangements.”

  I wanted to ask Esmond, Don’t you work? What do you do? Has Gillian always “kept” you?

  This last unspoken query was a long shot. Though Esmond seemed likable enough, a gentle soul, he didn’t strike me as an enticing candidate as a boy toy, even in younger years.

  Sensing the questions hanging in the air, Esmond said, “I need to share with you some of my background with Gillian. I assume she’s left you in the dark.”

  I explained, “I’ve known Gillian only in the context of Ashton Mills; we’ve interacted only at the professional level. She hasn’t spoken of her home life, and I’ve never pried.”

  “On the other hand,” Neil told Esmond, “working on the design of your new house with Gillian, I’ve had many discussions regarding your home life. I don’t mean to sound presumptuous, but I get the impression your relationship is somewhat, well … ‘distanced’ or mature.”

  “You’re not being at all presumptuous,” said Esmond. “It should be evident to anyone that Gillian and I are hardly lovey-dovey. Those days are long past. When I offered to enlighten you, I was referring to our financial situation, not our romantic status.”

  “Oh.” Neil seemed as unprepared for this discussion as I was.

  Sensing we were about to hear words of considerable interest, I reflexively removed the notepad and pen from my inside jacket pocket and set them on the table. As soon as I’d done it, though, I realized that my journalistic instincts were not appropriate to the situation. Lamely, I explained, “Too much stuff in my pockets …” And I added my cell phone to the small pile on the table.

  Watching me, Esmond said, “Actually, Mark, that’s how it all started.”

  Was he speaking in riddles? If he meant to confuse me, he’d succeeded. Feeling doltish, I asked, “That’s how what started?”

  “Cellular phones.” Then he paused. “I’m sorry. I should back up. You must think I’m addled. Gillian does.”

  “I highly doubt that,” Neil offered.

  “Then you really haven’t covered much ground with her. But trust me, Neil, she has no more understanding of the real me than I have of her.”

  I reminded him, “You said you’d back up. What are you trying to tell us, Esmond?” I was itching to unscrew the cap of my pet fountain pen, but withstood the temptation.

  “This goes back to the days when we first met, more than twenty years ago. We were both living in Milwaukee. Gillian was getting a leg up, so to speak, in the corporate world as head accountant at some widget factory—they made switches for dashboards, which may sound mundane, but it was highly profitable. She would later be promoted to CFO there, then move on to Ashton Mills.

  “But I’m getting ahead of myself. Back in her accounting days, she had recently divorced her first husband and sometimes dropped in for a drink after work at this trendy downtown bar—well, trendy by Milwaukee standards. That’s where we met. I worked at a research company in a nearby building, and I had just finished a major project. The more we got acquainted—”

  “Excuse me, Esmond.” I could no longer resist. Uncapping my Montblanc, I flipped open the pad and scratched a few notes. “What sort of research project?”

  “I’m an electrical engineer. At least back then I was.” Had he told me he was a beekeeper, I’d have been no less surprised. There was simply no reading this man. He continued, “I was involved in developing some key circuitry for an emerging technology that was still in the theoretical stage—still on the drawing board, as it were. My team was getting nowhere, and I thought I had a better idea, so I broke off on my own, renting space and equipment in the research facility. Soon after that, I came up with one of the original circuits that allowed cellular phones to talk to each other.”

  Neil and I stole a mutual, bug-eyed glance. Was this guy on the level?

  “Needless to say, down in Chicago, Motorola was very interested in my circuit design. They had big plans for this technology.”

  “Yeah,” I said with a soft laugh and supreme understatement, “the idea sort of took off, didn’t it?”

  “So, over a drink with Gillian one night, I explained all this, and her ears really pricked up.”

  “I’ll bet they did,” Neil said under his breath.

  “Gillian offered to negotiate the patent deal for me, and since I had no head for business, I readily accepted her offer. When the dust settled, well, let’s just say I never needed to work another day of my life. Gillian and I were jubilant, and at the time, the next logical step seemed to be marriage—a ‘partnership of skills,’ she called it.”

  “In other words,” I noted, “a merger.”

  “Yup. And part of the deal—her suggestion—was that she should look after our finances. Having no interest in money management, I saw it as a blessing that my new partner had such a keen head for it, so I turned over the purse strings.”

  Through a quizzical squint, I asked, “You agreed to this in a practical sense? Or in a legal sense?”

  “Very legal,” he assured me. “Gillian had everything drawn up, signed, and sealed. Ever since, she has invested my nest egg for us and paid me a salary from the dividends.”

  “Salary?” asked Neil. “Sounds more like an allowance.”

  With a resigned laugh, Esmond conceded, “I suppose it is. But don’t get me wrong—I’m more than comfortable.” With no hint of boasting, he added, “It’s a very large nest egg.” Reaching over the table, he patted my phone.

  Scratching behind an ear, I turned to Neil. “Then why the sudden concern about cost overruns?”

  “Just what I was wondering.” Neil turned to Esmond. “What am I missing here? You’re set for life, and Gillian has the most lucrative job in Dumont County. Any number of times, I’ve tried to rein in the construction budget on the house, but her stock response has always been ‘Money is no object; timeliness is.’”

  Esmond tossed his hands. “I’ve heard her use those very words. And yet, this very morning, she told me that, because of the cost overruns on the house, she had to reconsider her promised funding of a nonprofit venture that’s important to me.”

  I turned a page of my notepad. “May I ask the nature of that venture?”

  “Certainly. You’ll recall that last night’s dinner conversation touched on my yoga instructor.”

  I nodded. “Gillian referred to her as ‘swami.’”

  Neil flashed me a disapproving look.

  “Ughh”—Esmond shuddered—“Gillian thinks she’s being glib or clever, but anyone with the least sensitivity can tell she’s merely displaying her own ignorance. Tamra Thaine is a woman of deep insights and great learning. As her student, I might address her as ‘yogi,’ but for Gillian to offhandedly refer to her as ‘
swami’ is the height of arrogance and disregard. Belittling ancient teachings with a lack of interest and understanding, Gillian ridicules only herself.”

  I could hardly disagree with him. At last showing some spunk, he had voiced his position with force and eloquence. And there was no denying that Gillian had a smug, disagreeable edge—was she afflicted with an underlying, lifelong bitchiness, or was she simply indulging in a bout of CEO syndrome?

  To be honest, when Gillian had made the “swami” crack, my first inclination had been to laugh. I have never placed much stock in beliefs that have no apparent basis in reality—most notably, religion and other forms of superstition—and owing to my lack of familiarity with yoga, I didn’t know what to make of it. Was it truly a discipline rooted in centuries of study, with demonstrable results, or was it mindless nonsense, right up there with voodoo and faith healing? Not knowing the answer, I decided to err on the side of open-mindedness.

  So I told Esmond, “Gillian can be a bit much at times, but after spending so many years with her, you’ve surely come to an accommodation, weighing the bad against the good.”

  Speaking softly, but looking me straight in the eye, he said, “Over the years, Mark, I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s very little in her that is good.”

  I was tempted to defend Gillian, citing her quick mind, her organizational skills, her head for numbers, but I knew that these attributes would mean nothing to a man whose marriage had withered and whose love had died.

  Neil got us back on track. “Esmond, you were starting to explain how the expense of the new house is threatening an important nonprofit venture.”

  “Yes, Neil.” Esmond sat back in his chair. As he did so, the high-collared jacket tightened around his neck. He stretched his bony chin for a moment, then continued, “A year ago, when Gillian decided to move the corporate headquarters of Ashton Mills to Dumont, we took a hard look at how the move would affect our lives. We then lived in Harper, a little outpost of a town near the mills. Gillian never liked Harper, and she was eager to move to Dumont. I, on the other hand, had always appreciated the quiet life in Harper, where I first met Tamra, beginning my journey to inner awareness.”