Bitch Slap Page 5

  “In other words,” I attempted to move his story along, “you didn’t want to make the move with Gillian.”

  “Right. And to tell the truth, I saw this as an opportunity to split amicably; we could each follow our separate lives and pursue our own goals. But she wouldn’t hear of it, claiming we needed to keep up appearances for the sake of business.” Esmond laughed, noting, “It was the first time in many years that she had expressed any need for me whatever, and even though this claimed need was decidedly passive and backhanded, it somehow lent a sense of renewed purpose to our marriage. When she asked what it would take to convince me to move to Dumont, I had a ready answer—Tamra Thaine.”

  This was starting to sound a tad kinky. Through an uncertain smile, Neil asked, “What about Tamra?”

  Sensing our thoughts, Esmond shook his head gently. “Nothing like that. You see, back in Harper, I had come to know Tamra through my private lessons, but she wanted to expand her business and teach classes, so Gillian and I provided the seed money for her to open a small yoga studio in an old storefront. It was nothing lavish, but it served Tamra’s purpose well, and she established a modest practice. Tamra’s knowledge of Eastern studies goes far beyond yoga, however, and she had been toying with the idea of expanding her class offerings, not in hopes of additional income—Tamra’s material needs are slight—but as a service to the community, which could benefit from her wisdom. Trouble is, such an undertaking would require two things that were unavailable to her in Harper: larger facilities, and a larger population base to draw students from.

  “I wanted to help Tamra in this venture, so Gillian and I struck a deal. I would move to Dumont with her and maintain the facade of a stable marriage; in return, our new home here would include a private yoga studio, and more important, Gillian would personally set up an endowment allowing Tamra to establish an institute of Eastern and Hindu studies. The property has already been purchased, and conversion of the facilities has begun.”

  “Here in Dumont?” I asked, looking up from the notes I was taking. In our gossipy little town, this was news—and I’d heard nothing of it.

  “It’s just outside of town, off the highway that extends from First Avenue. The property was originally a farm; then it was used as some sort of school a few years back. But the school has since shut down, and we were able to pick it up cheap.”

  I recognized exactly which property he was describing, and I cringed at the memory of my encounters with its previous owner. Flipping to a fresh page of my pad, I said, “Maybe I’ll drive out there this afternoon and take a look. This might make a good story.”

  “I’m certain Tamra would be grateful for any publicity—not for herself, of course, but for the institute. It’s quite a challenge, getting everything up and running. The community deserves to know about it.”

  Neil noted, “Gillian has never mentioned this to me. Funny.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Esmond. “She’s never had her heart in the project. Her support of it is merely meant to humor me. It’s not philanthropy; it’s a bribe. But now that I’ve lived up to my end of the bargain by moving here lock, stock, and barrel, she plans to renege on her promised funding—specifically citing the cost overruns of the house.”

  Neil got up, moved to the desk, and pulled a thick manila folder from one of the file drawers. Opening the folder and spreading a few ledger sheets on the desk, he told Esmond, “As of today, everything’s still on budget. To my thinking, all the overtime has been outrageously expensive, but Gillian insisted on completing the project quickly, so the extra costs were planned into the budget. You can relax, Esmond—there haven’t been any cost overruns.”

  Esmond stood, looking perplexed. His clingy clone-suit remained bunched around his shoulders and his lap for a few moments, looking anything but fashionable, before falling into place. “Then why,” he asked, “would Gillian say just the opposite?”

  Neil said, “She was probably having a bad day.”

  I offered, “Or maybe she was bluffing, just trying to razz you.”

  Esmond allowed, “She’s good at that.”

  Standing, I stepped next to him and patted his back. “Let her calm down. She has a lot on her mind with the merger, but after Thursday, with the agreements signed and the deal done, I bet she’ll have everything back in perspective. She can be a difficult person, I know, but Gillian has always struck me as a woman of her word. If she promised to fund the institute, that’s that.”

  “I hope you’re right, Mark.”

  Neil said, “Of course he’s right. Would you care to join us for lunch, Esmond?”

  “Thank you, that’s kind of you, but no. I have an appointment and should run along.” He stepped toward the door, turning back to tell us, “I appreciate the time you’ve given me—and the encouraging words.” With a thin smile, he added, “Things are looking up, I guess.”

  Neil returned the smile. “It’s all a matter of perspective. Think positive.”

  Esmond raised a finger, telling us, “Harmonic convergence.” And with a nod of resolve, he left.

  Watching him walk past the front window, returning to his car, I asked Neil, “Harmonic convergence?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Esmond and Tamra—do you think there’s more to their relationship than yoga?”

  Neil repeated, “Beats me.”

  Chapter Five

  Our lunch conversation at First Avenue Grill was dominated by speculation regarding the relationship between Esmond Reece and his yoga instructor, Tamra Thaine. We now knew that Esmond was trapped in a loveless marriage, and his devotion to Tamra was more than evident, so it was not unreasonable to suspect that they might be romantically involved. On the other hand, neither Neil nor I had met Tamra, so we had no means of gauging whether the doting was mutual. What’s more, Gillian Reece struck neither of us as the sort who would be willing to look the other way if she thought her husband was involved with another woman. Having observed Gillian and Esmond at dinner the previous evening, I had concluded that their relationship was strained, but I had seen no evidence of the open warfare that would doubtless be triggered by infidelity.

  Leaving the Grill, driving Neil to the Reece house, where we would meet Glee Savage for our one o’clock tour, I thought aloud, “This Eastern stuff—I admit I’m largely ignorant of it, but I get the impression that its practitioners embrace a fairly high standard of morals.”

  Neil whirled a hand. “The transcendental thing.”

  “Yeah. So it just doesn’t follow that Esmond and his yogi would be horsing around. I mean, it’s all about discipline, right? Not sex.”

  With a low chortle, Neil said, “What about the Kama Sutra?”

  My eyes moved from the road ahead to glance at Neil. “I forgot about that.” My mind was suddenly swimming with images of bizarre yoga contortions that had taken on a mystical, sexual, serpentine twist. Blinking these visions away, I attempted to concentrate on my driving.

  Reaching the outskirts of town, we came upon the newer, wooded neighborhood of large houses that had sprung up during the boom period of the late nineties. Doctors, lawyers, and a handful of industry executives had opted to abandon some of Dumont’s stately older homes in favor of starting from scratch, building family-size castles in a mishmash of styles that ranged from fake Tudor to plastic Tuscan.

  With the general downturn in the economy, however, development of these sprawling homesites had ceased—save one, that of Gillian and Esmond Reece. Gillian not only bucked the trend by deciding to build when others had been stymied by the wait-and-see malaise; she also redefined the trend by raising the bar and setting new spare-nothing standards that would not be challenged anytime soon. Fortunately, in spite of her questionable motivation and unschooled tastes, she’d had the sense and foresight to hire a good architect.

  Neil’s astonishing Reece residence came into full view as I followed a curve in the road that led to the development’s highest knoll. There, perched atop
a hillock, was an artful creation of stone, glass, and timber that both blended with and commanded its surrounding vista. I had seen the drawings, of course, and I had visited the site during earlier phases of construction, but now it looked finished, and more important, the house looked as if it had always been there.

  “It takes my breath away,” I told Neil, braking the car in the middle of the street, gawking through the windshield.

  “Thanks, Mark,” said Neil, patting my knee. Humbly, he admitted, “I’m pleased with it.”

  I laughed. “I hope so. It’s truly a masterpiece—your latest masterpiece. Kiddo, you just keep topping yourself.”

  “Trouble is”—he frowned—“this one’s gonna be a tough act to follow. Clients like Gillian don’t come along every day.”

  “Is that a blessing or a curse?”

  Thinking over my question, he answered, “The jury’s still out on that.”

  Along the curb in front of the house and lining the long driveway from the street to the garage, trucks and cars were parked at rakish angles by a crew of workers involved in the rush to complete their various construction and decorating jobs. I recognized Gillian’s bloodred Bentley—everyone in Dumont knew the car, which was not only conspicuous in our small town, but possibly the only one of its kind in the state. The other vehicles were unknown to me, so I reasoned that Glee Savage had not yet arrived—her prim little hatchback in shocking fuchsia would be hard to miss.

  I was still driving the big black Bavarian V-8 I had brought from Chicago. Cruising past the Bentley to park at the end of the block, I was grateful that my car no longer branded me as the rich, gay out-of-towner. Neil and I had comfortably blended into the existing fabric of the town. It was now the Reeces who would take some getting used to.

  Just as I turned the key to cut the engine, I noticed the dashboard clock flash one o’clock, and glancing in the mirror, I saw Glee’s distinctive hatchback sputtering up the road from behind. “That Glee,” I told Neil, “she’s always on the dot.” We got out of the car and waited on the sidewalk as Glee parked.

  She opened the driver’s door, acknowledging us with a wave and a yoo-hoo as she leaned to pull her purse from the backseat. She kept it back there because it would not have fit in front. One of Glee’s signature fashion statements was the collection of large, flat purses she had amassed over the years. They resembled carpetbag portfolios, easily two feet square, adorned in a variety of colors and patterns that allowed her to coordinate with any ensemble plucked at whim from her closet. Today’s specimen sported ferocious black-and-orange tiger stripes, picking up the autumnal hues of the outfit I’d seen earlier in the office.

  “Wow!” said Neil. “That’s showin’em, Glee.”

  “Awww, you’re such a honey.” With her heels pecking the new sidewalk, she rushed to give Neil a hug. They always greeted each other with a transparent affection that seemed to stem from their shared interest in style and design—something of a rarity in Dumont. Anyone watching them embrace on the street that afternoon would recognize that it was fondness, not passion, that underlay their warm greeting. Though Glee was not quite old enough to be mistaken for Neil’s mother, she might have passed as a spunky aunt. She told him, “I can’t wait to see what you’ve done here.”

  “Your waiting’s over. Come on inside, and let’s find Gillian.” As Neil led us to the house, Glee fished in her purse for a pen and steno pad.

  Approaching the front door, Neil paused to describe his inspiration for the overall design. “My clients wanted a big, comfortable house, and they also wanted to make a ‘statement.’ The danger, of course, would be in allowing the house to become a mere status symbol; if its main purpose is to reflect the wealth of its owners, it’s a trophy, not a home. So I wanted to avoid all the typical visual clues of affluence or opulence—an overscale facade, the indiscriminate use of luxury materials, and most important, succumbing to trendy, thematic design styles that are deemed ‘the latest.’”

  Glee nodded. “Today’s hot trend is tomorrow’s white elephant.”

  “Exactly. And a house is meant to be around for many years—it’s meant to be lived in as well as looked at. So I steered clear of any recognizable trend or theme.” With a sweeping gesture, he told us, “You’d be hard-pressed to give a one-word description of the style of this house.”

  I had not previously heard Neil articulate the philosophy of his design process, but now I understood how unerringly he had achieved his goal. The building that loomed before me was neither “modern” nor “country,” and it was a far cry from “Victorian” or “Mediterranean.” But it worked. Everything seemed to fit, nothing was superfluous, and the entire structure was in harmony with its setting.

  “Your choice of materials,” Glee gushed, “is stunning.”

  “The stone was quarried in the northern part of the state, and the timbers, though not local, are a reflection of the wooded landscape.”

  I suggested, “They also tie in with Gillian’s involvement with the paper industry—trees.”

  Neil smiled. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

  Glee was earnestly taking notes, recording Neil’s words verbatim. She told him, “What impresses me most, though, is your use of glass. The stone and timbers, in the hands of a less skilled designer, might come across as ‘rustic,’ but not here. The glass seems to lighten the whole structure and offers just the right counterpoint of sophistication.”

  With a grin, Neil suggested, “Feel free to quote yourself.”

  “I just may do that.” She underlined something on her pad.

  “When we get inside,” continued Neil, “you’ll see how important the glass is to the overall concept of the living space. The trick was to give the fenestration a look of exterior order and discipline while not allowing the scale and placement of windows to seem ‘forced’ from the interior. Window treatments will be crucial—did I mention that Todd Draper is doing them?”

  “From Chicago? Lord, Neil, there’s none better.”

  “Whether Gillian appreciates it or not, she’s getting curtains with a pedigree. Ready to have a look inside?”

  By then, Glee and I were more than ready. We eagerly followed Neil as he opened the door and led us into the foyer.

  The entrance hall was of grand scale, but its pleasing proportions did not convey the impersonal, commercial feeling of a hotel lobby. Rather, the room seemed warmly welcoming, signaling that we had just entered someone’s home. The soft palette and comfortable furnishings contributed to an easy sense of tranquility, though this effect was limited today by the presence of decorating crews who trudged in and out with their wares, calling questions and barking instructions to each other. Conspicuously, the rows of windows had not yet been touched, awaiting Todd Draper’s reputed magic, so the acoustics of the room were still harsh and echoing. A rug stood rolled in a corner, not yet covering the rough-hewn floor, probably limestone, which also contributed to the noisiness.

  Neil stood with Glee at the center of this activity, answering her queries about square footage, lighting systems, and the decorating subcontractors. While they spoke, I did some snooping on my own, nosing down the halls that led from the foyer—I saw the dining room, a wood-paneled den, and a small sitting room that looked more like a parlor than a full-blown living room. Wondering about the whereabouts of the main room, I returned to the foyer and noticed a tall set of closed double doors directly opposite the front door. Yes, I recalled from Neil’s drawings, the living room lay beyond those doors.

  Stepping toward the doors, I heard Neil tell Glee, “But I’m proudest of the living room. I’ve always liked the traditional American concept of the living room, as opposed to newer, less formal incarnations of the space as a ‘great room’ that opens to the kitchen and family room. To my way of thinking, there’s nothing wrong with the old idea that the living room is a special place, filled with the best of everything, off-limits to messy children. And that’s what I’ve created for the Reeces. I’m g
lad the doors happened to be closed; you can experience the full effect, the ‘ah’ factor, upon entering.”

  “Needless to say,” said Glee, “I’m itching to see it.” She licked her shiny red lips in anticipation.

  There was a momentary lull in the noise from workers in the hall, and standing near the crack between the living-room doors, I heard voices within, raised in a discussion that did not sound friendly. One voice was a woman’s—Gillian’s—and the other was that of a man who also sounded familiar.

  I moved to Neil and Glee at the center of the foyer, telling them, “Perhaps we shouldn’t go inside right now. Gillian’s in there, and she seems to be having a disagreement with someone.”

  “Par for the course,” said Neil, unconcerned. “It’ll blow over. So let me take a minute to describe the room for you.” Glee turned to a fresh page of her steno pad as Neil explained, “It’s not only a living room, but a library. We took the two-story elliptical space at the center of the house and created an island of hushed formality. Surrounding the main furniture grouping, you’ll see floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the full two stories high. A balcony rings the room at the second-floor level, accessible from a winding stairway and from several ladders that roll on a track. Tall, narrow windows are interspersed with the bookcases, surrounding the room with light. These windows cry for dramatic treatment, so I’m especially eager to see Todd Draper’s finishing touches.”

  “Has he shown you drawings?” asked Glee.

  “Sure,” said Neil. And he continued to discuss various decorating issues with Glee, passing several minutes in the foyer.

  Finally, Neil turned to me, asking, “Have things calmed down in there yet?”

  Stepping to the double doors, I intended to lean close and assess the situation, when we all heard Gillian shout, “When hell freezes over!”

  The man inside retorted loudly, “Does that mean ‘no,’ or did you have something more subtle in mind?” Now I recognized the voice—it was Tyler Pennell, who had apparently taken my advice to go directly to Gillian with his concerns regarding due diligence for the merger. It was equally apparent that he had been fully justified in his reluctance to deal with the woman.