Then Bear Stearns collapsed.
In hindsight, the failure of that venerable old New York institution in March 2008 was the beginning of the end for Michael and Connie Gray, and for thousands like them. But of course, hindsight is 20/20. At the time, Connie remembered, it still felt as if something seismic and awful and unimaginable was happening to someone else. Those were the best kind of tragedies. The kinds that were close enough to give you a frisson of terror and excitement, without actually affecting your life.
It was nine months now since the awful September day when Connie’s own world had collapsed. She still woke up some mornings feeling happy and content for a few blissful seconds…until she remembered.
Lehman Brothers went bankrupt on September 16, 2008. Overnight, the Grays saw their net worth drop from somewhere around $20 million to about $1 million—the equity in their heavily mortgaged New York town house. Then the housing market dropped through the floor, and that million dollars fell to $500,000. By Christmas they’d sold everything but Connie’s jewelry and pulled the kids out of school. But the real problem was not so much the financial catastrophe itself, but Connie and Michael’s polar opposite responses to their predicament.
Michael Gray was a good man. A trouper. And you couldn’t keep a good man down. “Just think how many millions of people are worse off than we are,” he would tell Connie constantly. “We’re lucky. We have each other, two terrific little boys, good friends, and some savings. Plus we’re both young enough to get out there and start earning again.”
Connie said, “Of course we are darling,” and kissed him.
Inside, she thought, Lucky? Are you out of your mind?
Connie Gray didn’t want to “get out there and start earning.” She didn’t want to dust herself off and try again. She didn’t want to pack up her troubles in her old kit bag and smile, smile, smile, and if Michael spouted one more inane fucking platitude, so help her she would strangle him with his one remaining silk Hermès necktie.
Connie had no interest in becoming one of the credit crunch’s stoic, plucky survivors. The American Dream wasn’t about surviving. It was about winning. Connie Gray wanted to be a winner. She had married a winner, and he had let her down. Now she must find a new protector, someone who could provide a decent life for her and her children.
The affair with Lenny Brookstein had not been planned.
Affair! Who am I kidding? It was a two-night stand. Lenny made that very clear last night.
Connie had always gotten along well with Grace’s illustrious husband. In happier times, she and Mike would have dinner with the Brooksteins regularly. Inevitably, it was Connie and Lenny who ended up screaming with laughter at some private joke. Grace used to tell Connie all the time, “You know, it’s funny. You and Lenny are so similar. You’re like two peas in a pod. Whenever he talks to me about Quorum and business, I have no idea what he’s going on about. But you? You know everything! It’s like you’re really interested.”
And Connie would always wonder, How on earth did those two get married?
Lenny Brookstein was brilliant and engaging, tough and ambitious and alive, the most alive person Connie had ever met. Grace was…sweet. It made no sense to Connie. But she didn’t dwell on it too much. Back then she and Michael were happy and rich, albeit in a modest way.
Back then…
The first time it happened was in Lenny’s office, late at night. Connie had gone to see her brother-in-law privately, to talk to him about a bridge loan, and the possibility of his helping Michael find another position. The Lehman MDs had become Wall Street’s lepers, tainted by failure, untouchable. Michael was a good banker, but no one was prepared to give him a second chance.
Connie had started to cry. Lenny put his arm around her. Before they knew it, they were on the floor, tangled in each other’s arms, and Lenny was making passionate love to her.
Afterward, Connie whispered, “We’re so alike, you and I. We both have the hunger. Michael and Grace aren’t like that.”
“I know,” said Lenny. “That’s why we have to protect them. You and I can protect ourselves.”
It was not the response Connie had hoped for. But she did not leave Quorum’s offices that night disheartened. On the contrary, a new and interesting door had just been opened. Slipping into bed beside Michael an hour later, she wondered excitedly where it might lead.
IT LED NOWHERE.
Two weeks later, Connie slept with Lenny again, this time at a cheap hotel in New Jersey. Lenny was crippled with guilt.
“I can’t believe we’ve done this. I’ve done this,” he corrected himself. “It’s not your fault, Connie. You and Michael are under terrible stress. But I have no excuse.”
Connie whispered huskily, “You don’t need an excuse, Lenny. You’re not happy with Grace. I understand that. She was never right for you.”
Lenny’s eyes widened. He looked at Connie with genuine incredulity. “Not right for me? Grace? My God. She’s everything to me. I love her so much, I…” The sentence trailed off. He was too choked to finish it. Eventually he said, “She must never know about this. Never. And it must never happen again. Let’s put it down to a moment of madness and move on, okay?”
“Sure,” said Connie. “If that’s what you want.”
Driving home to Michael, she could barely contain her rage. Move on? MOVE ON? To what? What have I got to move on to? A life of middle-aged penury with my formerly successful husband, living off scraps from my little sister’s table? Fuck you, Lenny Brookstein. You owe me. And now you can pay me. You think I’m going to let you walk back into Grace’s arms scot-free?
“MOMMY, WATCH ME!”
Cade was on the swing. He rocked his skinny legs back and forth to gain momentum, then leaped into the air, landing with a satisfied thud on the sand.
“Did you see how high I went? Did you see?”
“I saw, honey. That was awesome.” Connie drew her finely woven summer shawl more tightly around her shoulders. Cashmere, from Scotland, it had been a birthday present from Grace. Soon everything we own will be a present from Grace. The food on our table, the shirts on our backs.
The thought of spending next week with Lenny and Grace at their magnificent beachfront estate was enough to make Connie feel nauseous. Especially after her little tête-à-tête with Lenny on the dance floor at the Quorum Ball last night. The bastard had actually had the temerity to get angry with her. With her! As if she were the one who’d pursued him. Lenny had led her on, then dropped her like a piece of trash, scuttling back to her baby sister and their oh-so-perfect life together. And now Connie was supposed to be grateful to have her airfare paid so she could sit in their $60-million home and watch the two of them canoodling?
It was Michael who forced the issue.
“I’d like to go. It was generous of Lenny to invite us, and I could use a break from New York. Some sailing, some sea air.”
Michael had always liked Lenny. But that was Michael. He liked everyone. When Lenny extended the invitation last night, Mike practically bit his hand off.
If he knew where Lenny Brookstein’s hands have been—on my breasts, my ass, between my thighs—he might not be so quick to bite.
But Michael Gray did not know.
As long as Lenny Brookstein did the decent thing and gave Connie what was coming to her, he would never have to.
FIVE
LENNY AND GRACE BROOKSTEIN’S NANTUCKET ESTATE was an idyllic, sprawling, gray-shingled mansion set just off Cliff Road on the north side of the island. The main house boasted ten bedroom suites, an indoor swimming pool and spa, a state-of-the-art movie theater, a chef’s kitchen and an enormous, gabled roof terrace (known on Nantucket as a “widow’s walk,” because in the olden days, sailors’ wives used to climb up to their rooftops and gaze out to sea, hoping to spot their husbands’ long-lost ships returning). Formal gardens, planted with lavender, roses, and box hedges in the European style, cascaded down the hillside to Steps Beach, one of t
he quietest and most prestigious beaches on the island. At the bottom of the garden were four guest cottages, charming, wisteria-clad dollhouses in white wood, each with its own miniature front yard and white picket fence. Anywhere else the cottages would have looked impossibly twee. But here, on this magical island frozen for all time in some simpler, bygone era, they worked.
At least Grace Brookstein thought so. It was she who had built and designed them, down to the very last Ralph Lauren pillowcase and antique Victorian claw-foot tub.
Grace adored Nantucket. It was where she and Lenny got married, without question the happiest day of Grace’s life. But it was more than that. There was a simplicity to the island that did not exist anywhere else. Of course, there was money on Nantucket. Serious money. Tiny, three-room fishermen’s cottages in Siasconset changed hands for upward of $2 million. During the summer, Michelin-starred restaurants like 21 Federal and the Summerhouse charged more for their lobster thermidor than Georges V in Paris. Upscale boutiques on Union and Orange streets in town showcased thousand-dollar cardigans in their windows. Galleries representing local artists regularly sold pieces for six figures, sometimes even seven, to the island’s wealthier residents. And yet, somehow, Nantucket remained determinedly low-key. In all the years she’d been coming to the island, Grace had never seen a sports car. Billionaires and their wives strolled around town in khaki shorts and white cotton shirts from the Gap. Even the yachts in the harbor were conservative, far less flashy than the ones at East Hampton or Saint-Tropez or Palm Beach. Lenny never moored anything but a modest, forty-seven-foot bareboat in Nantucket. He would have died of shame before he showed up in the three-hundred-foot Quorum Queen, even though in Sardinia, Grace could hardly get him off the thing.
Nantucket was a place where rich people pretended to be poor. Or at least poorer. It made Grace nostalgic for her childhood, for a simpler time in her life, a time of innocent pleasures. It thrilled her that Lenny loved the island just as much as she did. Other than Le Cocon, their bastide-style retreat in Madagascar, there was nowhere else on earth where Grace felt so totally relaxed. The Brooksteins were happy everywhere, but they were happiest of all here, in this house.
Grace and Lenny arrived three days before their guests. Lenny still had some work to catch up on (didn’t he always?) and Grace needed time to talk to the staff and make sure that everything was perfect for her visitors.
“Give Honor and Connie the larger two cottages because they’ve got kids. Andrew and Maria can have the one right on the sand, and the Merrivales can go in the smallest one. Caroline’s been here before, so I’m sure she won’t mind.”
There was so much to do! Planning menus, ordering flowers, making sure the bikes and fishing rods were ready for her nephews and nieces. Grace felt like she’d barely seen Lenny.
The night before the hordes descended, the two of them had a romantic dinner at the Chanticleer, a pretty, intimate restaurant in the fishing village of Siasconset. At least it would have been romantic if Lenny hadn’t spent the entire evening glued to his BlackBerry.
“Is everything all right, darling? You seem so stressed.”
Grace reached across the table and squeezed his hand.
“Sorry, honey. Everything’s fine. I’m just a little…there’s a lot going on at the moment. Nothing for you to worry about, my angel.”
Grace tried not to worry, but it was hard. Lenny never brought his work problems home with him. Never. This morning a perfectly harmless homeless man on the wharf had asked Lenny for change, and Lenny had flown at him, lecturing him on alcoholism and taking responsibility for ten straight minutes. Later, Grace had been picking raspberries in the garden when she overheard Lenny shouting out of their bedroom window. He was on the phone with John Merrivale. Grace didn’t catch everything he said, but one phrase had stuck in her mind:
“They all want a piece of me, John. The bastards are bleeding me dry. If you’re right about Preston, after everything I’ve done for him…I’ll cut his fucking hand off.”
What did he mean, “bleeding him dry”? And who were the bastards? Surely not Andrew Preston? Andrew had worked for Lenny since year one. He and Maria were practically family, like the Merrivales.
Grace’s only comfort was that at least Lenny was talking to John. She knew he trusted him and relied on him like a brother. Whatever the problem was, Grace felt sure that John would know what to do. He’d be here tomorrow. Then, hopefully, Lenny would feel a little more relaxed.
THE VACATION GOT OFF TO A smooth start. Once the houseguests arrived, Lenny was more relaxed, quite his old self again in fact. With the exception of Jack Warner, who still seemed out of sorts, everyone appeared happy to be there and determined to have a good time.
Michael Gray appointed himself Pied Piper to all four of the children, taking his nieces, Bobby and Rose, fishing for crabs with their cousins, and treating them all to ice creams at Jetties Beach. Grace was delighted. Poor Mike and Connie had been through so much this past year. You could see the vacation doing Mike good. As for Cade and little Cooper, they were in seventh heaven, outdoors all day on their bikes or up to their necks in sand.
During the days the other four men—John, Andrew, Jack and Lenny—sailed or played golf while their wives indulged in some serious retail therapy. Grace loved treating her sisters to little gifts. Nothing gave her more pleasure than spending her good fortune on others, especially Connie and Honor. She would happily have splurged on Caroline and Maria, too, but neither of them would let her.
It probably feels weird for them, because I’m so much younger. They think of me like a daughter. Still, Caroline especially had always been so kind. Grace was determined to find some way to show her appreciation.
“I was thinking of having a special dinner tomorrow night at home.” Grace accosted Lenny in his study. She was bursting with excitement. “I’m going to ask John all of Caroline’s favorite dishes and I’ll have Felicia make them. What do you think?”
Lenny looked at her fondly. “I think it’s a great idea, Gracie.”
Grace started to walk away but he reached out and grabbed her hand. “I love you. You do know that, don’t you?”
She laughed and threw her arms around him.
“Of course I know it. Honestly, Lenny! What a funny thing to say.”
“I’M NOT SITTING NEXT TO HER. Or Lenny. And don’t expect me to clap my fins together like a performing seal and bark in gratitude either. I’ll leave the groveling up to you, John.”
Caroline Merrivale was in a foul mood. Despite the fact that it was she who insisted they accept Lenny’s invitation to Nantucket, she now blamed John for everything. The dull excursions, the dreary company, the fact that they’d been relegated to the meanest and shabbiest of the dreadful little guesthouses. She refused to see Grace’s “special dinner” as anything other than yet another patronizing slight.
“Just d-d-don’t make a scene, Caro, all right? That’s all I’m asking.”
“All you’re asking? And what do you think gives you the right to ask anything? Have you spoken to Lenny? About the raise?”
John looked pained. “Not yet. It’s not as s-s-simple as you seem to think it is.”
“On the contrary, John. It’s very simple. Either you talk to him or I will.”
“No! You c-can’t! Please, you must leave L-Lenny to me.”
“Fine. But you’d better grow some balls and talk to him before the end of this vacation. If I have to listen to his vacuous wifelette gush one more time about how grateful she is for my incredible friendship, I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”
John Merrivale thought sadly, Grace is grateful for your friendship. Poor, misguided girl.
Lenny was a lucky man. Wives like Grace were one in a million.
“PLEASE DON’T STAND ON CEREMONY, EVERYONE. Dig in!”
Grace felt unaccountably nervous. The dinner itself looked fabulous. Felicia had excelled herself as usual. The lobster bisque smelled exquisite and
was the perfect shade of pale pink, the roast lamb looked mouthwateringly succulent on its bed of organic greens and the raspberry Pavlova was as much a sculpture as a dessert, a towering triumph of snow-white meringue and blood-red berries. Caroline couldn’t fail to be delighted.
And yet Grace could not enjoy her triumph. Earlier that day she’d seen Connie talking heatedly with Lenny on the beach, then storming off close to tears. When Grace caught up with her sister and asked her what was wrong, Connie had shrugged her away angrily.
“It’s Michael,” Lenny explained. “He’s depressed. They’re going through so much stress right now, honey, you mustn’t take it personally.”
But Grace did take it personally. Not four hours earlier, Honor had bitten her head off, too. All Grace did was ask if she wanted to come to the spa.
“Not everything in this life can be fixed by a fucking massage, Gracie, okay? Christ, is that your answer to everything? To spend more money pampering yourself?”
Grace was deeply hurt. She wasn’t a materialistic person. Honor, of all people, should know that. In fairness, Honor had apologized afterward. “It’s Jack. He’s got so much on his mind lately, I think some of the stress is rubbing off on me.” Grace forgave her and they made up. But still, a lingering anxiety remained. Perhaps she was imagining it, but it seemed to Grace that there was an almost palpable tension around the dinner table tonight.