“A friend of a friend recommended you,” Coke says. “She told me you’re the best in Boston.”
Jennifer resists the flattery (the “friend of a friend” is likely one of Coke’s lovers; there are many, Jennifer is sure), but she decides to stick with the job because the payday is too phenomenal to ignore. Patrick has launched a new hedge fund, but it’s taking him longer to raise the capital than he initially anticipated. He works around the clock for little or no monetary gain.
Jennifer also hopes that by taking on a project so foreign to her nature she might beat back some of the cravings she’s been experiencing lately.
The cravings have become more frequent and more and more pronounced recently. Jennifer will be perusing fabric samples or making chicken salad for the boys’ lunches, and she’ll think: Something is missing. This niggling thought irritates her further. She has everything she could ever want: her husband is back, her children are healthy, her career is booming. But then Jennifer watches Leanne Clinton move through the world with such ease, such contentment and clarity of purpose; it’s like she’s keeping a wonderful secret, the secret of happiness. Aside from her part-time work on behalf of the commonwealth’s underdogs, Leanne goes to barre class six days a week and to Mass every Sunday.
Does Jennifer need more exercise? Does she need religion?
She misses the pills. There, she’s said it.
Once the house on Garden Street is finally finished, when there is nothing else she can purchase, tweak, or fluff, Jennifer fills with a sense of mournful good-bye like it’s the last day of summer camp. It’s time to get serious about the penthouse project. Before she makes her first big purchase for Coke, she sets up a meeting; the last thing she wants is to order eighty thousand dollars’ worth of furniture only to discover that he hates it all.
Coke works preposterous hours, and he says that the only time he can meet with Jennifer in the space is at eight thirty on Thursday night. Eight thirty is smack in the middle of the hour that Jennifer cherishes the most. It’s after dinner, the boys are doing their homework (or, more likely, playing Minecraft and Snapchatting), Jennifer is well into her third and final glass of wine of the evening as she cleans up dinner and makes the lunches. She is usually wearing her yoga pants and her Patriots T-shirt. The prospect of getting dressed up and going out at that hour is exhausting—but what choice does Jennifer have?
She decides to make the best of it. She encourages Paddy to take the boys out for barbecue at Sweet Cheeks for some father-son quality time. Meanwhile, Jennifer puts on a skirt and boots and takes herself out for a cocktail at Carrie Nation, next to the State House. She gets a few appreciative looks from the businessmen having drinks at the bar, which cheers her up. Why doesn’t she do this more often? She could meet one of her divorced-mom friends for drinks. She could even meet Leanne. But then Jennifer comes to her senses. She doesn’t frequent the Beacon Hill bars because she is busy running a business, raising three boys, and being happily married.
Coke is at the space when Jennifer arrives. She notices a bottle of scotch and two highball glasses on the black porphyry bar. An acoustic version of Bruce Springsteen singing “Fire” plays over the sound system. All the lights are out.
Coke is standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows looking northeast over the financial district and the seaport. To the west is Boston Common, the Boston Public Garden, and Back Bay. This penthouse has been designed to make the owner feel like the king of Boston.
“The views are much better at night with the lights off,” Coke says. “Can I fix you a drink?”
Jennifer is about to ask if he has any wine, but she doesn’t want to come off as fussy. She has never tasted scotch, although Patrick drinks it occasionally, so how bad can it be?
“Sure,” she says.
He pours them each a drink and they clink glasses. Coke says, “Not only the best interior decorator in Boston, but certainly the most beautiful. Do people ever tell you you look like Selma Blair?”
“All the time,” Jennifer says, because they do, and this gets a big laugh out of Coke. Jennifer laughs right along and takes a sip of her whiskey. It’s bitter firewater, but Jennifer savors the burn.
Jennifer pulls out her laptop, but Coke waves it away. “I don’t need to see the pictures,” he says. “I trust you.”
“Are you sure?” Jennifer says. These are the words every decorator wants to hear, but she’s wary. Most of the things she picked out are severe, but some are softer, such as two Kelly Wearstler soufflé chairs. The chairs verge on feminine, but Jennifer’s thought is that they will make the room seem inviting to women. She has also picked a selection of antique banks to line the accent shelf in the living space, since all she knows about Coke, really, is that he’s a banker. She also knows he’s a philanthropist to Boston charities—the Jimmy Fund, the MFA, Boston Ballet. And he’s something of a notorious bachelor, photographed with a different woman on the social pages of nearly every issue of Boston Common.
“I’m sure,” Coke says. “I did my research.”
“You looked at my designs online?” Jennifer asks.
“Some,” Coke says. “I learned what I could about you as a professional and as a person. You grew up in San Francisco, you attended Stanford, you worked for six years at Christie’s, you’re married to Patrick Quinn, formerly of Everlast Investments, and stood by his side while he served time for insider trading. You live on Beacon Street in the house that has the Christmas tree in the bay window, the one all the tourists take pictures of.”
“Wow,” Jennifer says. “I’m flattered. And also a little frightened.”
“Well, I figure if I’m going to be paying someone north of half a million dollars and entrusting her with a budget that’s four or five times that, then I’d better know who I’m dealing with.”
Jennifer nods slowly and takes a closer look at Coke. He’s six feet tall, has salt-and-pepper hair. He’s reasonably well built, but he’s not overtly handsome. And yet he has something. He’s a conqueror. His confidence is the biggest thing in the room. It’s impossible not to notice, difficult not to admire. He heads one of the biggest banks in Boston, but what that entails Jennifer isn’t sure. Probably it entails being decisive, strong, and… intimidating.
“Did you learn anything else about me?” Jennifer asks.
He throws back his scotch and gives her a laser stare. His eyes are green, which gives him a touch of humanity somehow. “Is there something else you want to tell me?”
Jennifer imagines divulging her dark secret—her addiction—and then the even darker news that she still thinks about the pills all the time. But she would never want Coke to know about her weakness. She would sooner take a dive off the wraparound balcony.