Part 32 (2/2)

”That's not true.”

”We've been married for twenty-five years, I see her at least twice a week, we eat dinner with her most Sundays, and she still calls me Melinda half the time.” This was no slip of the tongue or mental gaffe. Melinda had been Steve's high school girlfriend.

”She just likes to yank your chain a little bit. She doesn't mean anything by it.”

”Do you know what she gave me for Christmas this year?”

Steve pinched a crouton from the salad. ”It was a book, wasn't it?”

”It was called Extreme Makeover, Personal Edition: How to Reface Your 'Cabinets' and Sh.o.r.e Up Your Sagging Structure.”

”It was not.”

”Yes,” Madeline said. ”It was.”

Steve frowned as always, unable to accept that the mother who loved him so fiercely had so little affection for his wife.

But how could she worry about this now when Steve's lies and lack of job loomed over them? She bent to retrieve the Parmesan, which had been left there far too long to invoke the three-second rule. She carried it to the trash while she struggled to tamp down her emotions so that she could broach the subject of his unemployment with some semblance of calm.

Steve was refilling their gla.s.ses when she returned to the counter with her shoulders squared. It was clear he wasn't planning to let her in on his not-so-little secret. She wondered if he'd told his mother.

”I spoke to Adrienne today,” Madeline said.

He went still much like an animal scenting danger might.

”I called your office trying to reach you after I heard from the hospital. She told me you don't work there anymore. That you haven't worked there for six months.” She swallowed and tears p.r.i.c.ked her eyelids even though she'd promised herself she wouldn't cry. ”Is that true?” she asked. ”Could that possibly be true?”

The air went out of him. Not slowly like a punctured tire, but fast like a balloon spurting out its helium. His shoulders stooped as he shrank in front of her, practically folding in on himself. Any hope that he might deny it or laugh at Adrienne's poor attempt at humor disappeared.

”Yes.”

She waited for the explanation, but he just sat on the bar stool with all the air knocked out of him, staring helplessly at her.

”But what happened? Why were you let go? Why didn't you tell me?” The pain and hurt thickened her voice and it was hard to see through the blur of tears. Steve actually looked like he might cry himself, which did nothing to reduce the soft swell of panic. Why was he just looking at her like that; why didn't he just tell her? ”I need to know, Steve. I don't understand how you could keep a secret like this from me. It's my life, too.”

He took a deep breath, let it out. ”The inst.i.tutional accounts I was handling were actually being funneled to Synergy Investments. Malcolm Dyer's firm.”

It was Madeline's turn to go still. She was not a financial person, but even she had heard of the now-notorious Malcolm Dyer, whom the press had labeled a ”mini-Madoff.”

”I should have known there was something off,” Steve said. ”But the fund was performing so well. The returns were so . . . high, and they stayed that way for over five years.” He swallowed. ”It's hard to walk away from that kind of profit. I missed all the signs.” His voice was etched with a grim disbelief. ”It was a cla.s.sic Ponzi scheme. And I had no idea.”

He swallowed again. She watched his Adam's apple move up and down.

”They closed down our whole division in September, but by cooperating with the government investigators, Trafalgar managed to keep it out of the papers while they regrouped. There was some hope that if the feds could get their hands on the stolen funds that they might be able to return at least a portion to our clients. A lot of them are nonprofits and charities.”

A part of her wanted to reach out and offer comfort, but the anger coursing through her wouldn't allow it. For twenty-five years they'd told each other everything-or so she'd thought. ”I can't believe you think so little of me that you'd dress and go through that kind of pretense every day rather than tell me the truth.” She drained her winegla.s.s, hoping to slow the thoughts tumbling through her head, maybe sop up the sense of betrayal. ”How could you do that?”

Steve shook his head. ”I don't know, Mad. I just felt so guilty and so stupid. And I didn't want to worry you or the kids. I figured I'd find something else and once I did-when there was no cause for panic-I'd tell you.”

Steve looked her in the eye then. His were filled with defeat. ”Only I couldn't find another job. Half the investment firms in the country have folded and the rest have cut back. n.o.body's hiring. Especially not at my salary level. Or my age.” His tone turned grim. ”I've spent every single day of the last six months looking for a job. I've followed up every lead, worked every contact I have. But, of course, my reputation's shot to h.e.l.l. And I don't seem to be employable.”

They contemplated each other for what seemed like an eternity. Madeline felt as if their life had been turned at an angle that rendered it completely unrecognizable.

”And that's not the worst of it.” Steve dropped his gaze.

He ran a hand through his hair and scrubbed at his face. As body language went it was the equivalent of the pilot of your plane running through the aisle shouting, ”Tighten your seat belts. We're going down!”

For the briefest of moments, Madeline wanted to beg him not to tell her. She wanted to stand up, run out of the room and out the front door, where whatever he was about to say couldn't reach her.

”I, um . . .” He paused, then slowly met her gaze. ”Our money's gone, too.” He said it so quietly that at first she thought she might have misheard.

”What?”

”I said, our money's gone.”

”Which money are you talking about?” she asked just as quietly. As if softening the volume might somehow soften the blow.

”All of it.”

There was a silence so thick that Madeline imagined any words she was able to form would come out swaddled in cotton.

Gary Coleman's trademark response, ”What you talkin' 'bout, Willis?” streaked through her mind, comic intonation and all, and she wished she could utter it. So that Steve might throw back his head and laugh. Which would be far superior to the way he was hanging his head and staring at his hands.

”How is that possible?” Her voice was a whisper now, coated in disbelief.

He met her gaze. ”We were getting such a great return from the fund, that I put our money in.” He paused. ”Every penny we didn't need to live on went to Synergy.”

”But I thought most of our money was in bank CDs,” Madeline said. ”Aren't they practically risk free?”

”Yes, real bank CDs are secured by the bank. Nonexistent CDs backed by a nonexistent offsh.o.r.e bank? Not so much.”

Madeline felt as if she'd ended up in a train wreck despite the fact that she'd never set foot on a train or even gone to the station. The twisted metal of their future lay strewn across the tracks.

”I invested my mother's money in the same fund.”

”Is there anything left?” Madeline thought her heart might actually stop beating. She could hear herself gasping for breath, but no air seemed to be entering her lungs.

”Just this.” He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, smoothed it out, and laid it on the c.o.c.ktail table in front of her. ”The feds are looking for Dyer. In the meantime, he's been judged guilty in a civil suit; apparently if you don't show up, you're found guilty. I filed a claim against Dyer's seized a.s.sets.” He shoved the paper toward her. ”This came yesterday. In addition to our house and what's left of my mother's house we now have a third owners.h.i.+p in a beachfront 'mansion' in Florida. In some booming metropolis called Pa.s.s-a-Grille.”

MADELINE DIDN'T KNOW WHERE STEVE SLEPT OR even if he did, and she was too numb to get up and find out. She spent most of the night tossing and turning on her side of their bed, realigning her pillow every few minutes as if simply finding the optimal position would grant her admission to oblivion.

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