SC-Epilogue, Part 6c

Note from Nick: This is it, the penultimate installment. The next one is the end.

✧ ✧ ✧

Jul 2001 – Feb 2002

✧ ✧ ✧

Christy’s treatment team met with her the day before the girls and I were scheduled to fly home. They discussed her treatment so far and agreed to a discharge date.

“How do you feel?” I asked when she told me.

“Scared.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Keep loving me?”

“You know I will.” I paused and then added, “You know I do. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“What about the girls? You should’ve seen the way Em looked at me.”

“When?”

“When you first got here. I thought she wanted to kill me.”

“She picked up a lot of the slack when you were drinking,” I said. “Laurie just retreated into her room.”

“I know. I thought she was just being helpful—Em, I mean—but…” She sighed again. “Do you think they’ll ever forgive me?”

“I know they will,” I said. “But let’s take things one day at a time. We’ll worry about tomorrow when it gets here.”

She nodded and leaned toward me, and I put my arm around her.

“We’ll get through this,” I said.

“I know. Only… I’m still scared.”

“Don’t be. You have lots of people who love you.”

“But… what if I start drinking again?”

“Then we’ll deal with it.” I kissed the top of her head, but it took her a long time to relax.

✧ ✧ ✧

I returned to Palm Springs by myself a week later. Harold and Anne drove up from San Diego and met me at the clinic.

Christy was waiting for us with her suitcase. She looked as healthy as I’d ever seen her, tan and rosy-cheeked, like the happy girl I’d married, not the haunted woman who’d stormed out of the house two months earlier. She wasn’t a blushing bride, but I still felt like we were starting anew.

Back at home, we gave her time to settle in before we invited family and friends for a party. We kept things deliberately low-key. Trip and I grilled steaks and portobello mushrooms, and Wren brought every kind of juice imaginable. Christy was subdued at first, and people treated her with kid gloves until Rich put things into perspective for us.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, she isn’t going to break,” he said. “She grew up with five older brothers. If anything, she terrorized us.”

“I did not!” she squawked indignantly.

“Did so, Sis.” He grinned and said to his audience, “She even gave Danny a black eye once.”

Christy bristled, a little blonde hedgehog. “Nuh-uh! You did.”

“Maybe. But I did it on your orders. I’m tellin’ ya, folks, don’t let her looks fool ya. She’s a tough little thing.”

“She is,” I agreed. “And we’re glad she’s home.”

“Hear, hear,” Trip agreed. He raised his cup, and everyone followed suit. “To Christy. Welcome home.”

“Welcome home!”

✧ ✧ ✧

Christy went back to work, although her apprentices started with an impromptu gallery show. Gabby, Peregrin, and Winter were artists in their own right, and they were eager to show Christy the things they’d been working on.

“Oh my gosh,” she told me that evening, “some of their pieces are really good. Gabby’s going to need her own show soon. She’s perfect for San Francisco. Winter still has a way to go, but Peregrin’s been working on…”

Christy began taking commissions again too. Fred and May had told her clients she’d had health issues, unspecified but not life-threatening. An investment bank had canceled their order for four pieces, but the others had been fine with the delay. Her agents knew the truth, although they hadn’t felt the need to make Christy’s private life public without her consent.

I went back to work as well. I hadn’t been on vacation the entire time, but I still had a lot of catching up to do. Whitney had returned by then, and she’d kept all of my projects moving forward. Alex Austin had overseen the design group as a whole. He was an engineer without a lick of artistic ability, but he was a good manager.

Trip agreed. “It’s the sign of a healthy organization when one of the principals can step away and things keep functioning smoothly.”

“So you’re saying you don’t need me?” I teased.

“God, no! Everything runs better when you’re in charge. Even the designs are better. I can’t explain it. I sat in on some of the meetings and tried that trick you do—”

“Trick? What trick?”

“You know, where you tell someone it’s good but you think they can do better. I don’t know how you do it, dude.”

I did, but it wasn’t something I could share—at least, not with Trip. He was too competitive, so he always wanted to be the best. He could accept when he wasn’t, but he still grumbled about it.

By contrast, I wanted the people in my group to be better than me, and they usually found creative ways to do it. Joska had done the same thing when I’d been an undergraduate, although it had taken me years to understand it consciously.

“Speaking of which,” I said in the present, “I’ve been thinking. We need to start an intern program. Not the AXP, but real interns, summer interns.”

“College students?” Trip said.

“Yeah. Third- and fourth-years.”

“What for? They don’t know anything.”

“Hear me out,” I said. “You remember back with mega-corp? The interns were the only part of that job I actually enjoyed. I want to do the same thing again, but for students. I want to help shape the next generation of architects.”

He made the connection right away. “You wanna be Joska.”

“Exactly.”

“Makes sense. And it’d be a good recruiting tool.” He nodded and warmed to the idea. “Even better, we don’t have to pay them.”

“Oh, no,” I said immediately, “that’s corporate slavery. We’ll pay them about what we’d pay a regular intern—”

“Dude, no way!” It was his usual reaction to spending money, and he did his usual about-face when he actually considered it. “On second thought… yeah, all right. How many are you talking about?”

“Two to start.”

“Two people for three months,” he mused, “and we aren’t paying them a full intern’s salary? Yeah, we can swing it. I’ll tell Shari to pull up the numbers, but—”

“I’m thinking 75 percent,” I said helpfully.

“That’s still a lot of money, but… If you’re sure?”

“I am.”

“Okay. You’re the people person.”

I planned to wait and see how the first interns worked out, but then I wanted to expand to four. And I’d find a way to build a small apartment complex, so they could live nearby without paying exorbitant rent. My long-term goal was eight or even twelve interns, spread across multiple disciplines. But I didn’t want to give poor Trip a heart attack in the meantime, so I’d have to build up to it gradually.

“All right,” he said, “I’ll make it happen on my end.” Then he leaned close and said in a low voice, “Do me a favor. Will you at least hire one hot girl?”

“Sure,” I said without hesitation.

He eyed me suspiciously before his shoulders fell. “Aw, c’mon, dude. Please?”

“Hey, you said—”

“You know what I meant. A straight one.”

“Oh, in that case—”

“I don’t know why I put up with you.”

I merely grinned. He wasn’t upset, not for real. Besides, it felt good to banter again, even if it might get us in trouble with HR.

“Whatever,” he said at last. “It’s great to have you back.” He clapped me on the shoulder and turned to go. “Drinks later? I’ll fill you in on the latest projects.”

“Projects, yes. Drinks, no.”

“How come you aren’t drinking? Christy’s the one with the problem, not you. Never mind, forget I said anything. Happy wife, happy life.”

“You got it.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Christy’s creativity returned to its previous level about the same time the girls went back to school in August.

“I know it sounds like a cliché,” she said, “but I have this whole new clarity with my art. Sometimes I don’t even have to do sketches, especially with the marble pieces. It’s like I see the sculpture in the block. I just chisel away until it comes out.”

I chuckled. “That’s pretty much what Michelangelo said.”

“And he was right!”

Fred saw her renewed energy and stopped by her workshop at least once a week. He emailed pictures of works in progress to May, and together they planned a one-woman gallery show in Los Angeles for the new year. He even convinced Christy to hire two more apprentices to help with the workload.

“Can she really afford this?” I asked him.

We were standing on the driveway and watching through the big workshop doors. It was the only place we could talk without having to shout over the banging of hammers and hiss-whine of pneumatic polishers.

“Can she afford it?” Fred repeated with a chuckle. “Oh, God, yes.”

“For real?”

“Uh-huh. The show alone will pay their salaries.”

“The new ones?”

“All of them,” he said, “and then some.”

I wasn’t convinced, so he started listing pieces and their estimated sale prices. I stood there and showed off my molars.

“Yep,” he finished. “All told, we’re looking at eight hundred thousand, give or take. We won’t sell everything, of course, but she’ll net two-fifty or three hundred after we deduct commissions and expenses. If she can finish the big pieces she’s working on now, she’ll break four hundred, easy.”

“Holy crap.”

He grinned at me sideways. “That’s getting close to what you make, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but I’m the CEO of a fifty-million-dollar company.”

“Anyone can do that,” he said flippantly. “Well, anyone with the experience. What Christy does is far less common. She creates unique pieces of art on a monumental scale. You can’t just waltz into your local gallery and pick up a life-size sculpture, much less in Italian Statuario or that Noir Belge.”

He sounded like a brochure. Then again, he was supposed to.

“And this is just the beginning,” he continued. “She’s early in her career. I wouldn’t be surprised if her pieces sell for three or four times as much in the next few years.”

“Seriously?”

“Uh-huh. And May thinks I’m being conservative.”

“Are you?”

“Maybe. She knows her market better than I do.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” I said.

“Oh, I know I’m right,” he said confidently. Then he gestured at the slab of ebony stone that Christy and Gabby were shaping. “Judging by that, I’d say the sky’s the limit.”

✧ ✧ ✧

We called Nana C. in September for her birthday. Rich and the girls sang to her, and Christy told her about the big show. She said she wanted to fly to LA to see it, and Christy volunteered Rich to travel to Boston and accompany her. They talked for a while longer and then said goodbye.

She sounded fine at the time, but we found out later that she’d been having headaches and double vision. She was probably suffering from a brain aneurysm, which ruptured two days later. She died in her sleep at the age of ninety-one.

Christy’s mother called to let us know, and the entire family converged on Boston. We held the wake on Saturday, and hundreds of people visited the house. Nearly a thousand attended her funeral on Sunday, including the mayor, several Kennedys, and even a few celebrities. Nana C. had been a fixture in politics and charities for seven decades, and everyone had loved her.

The attorneys for her estate scheduled a meeting on Monday morning with immediate family members. Christy and I left the girls with their older cousins and headed to the firm’s Back Bay office. Nana C. had recorded an updated video will about six months before she died. She looked as sprightly and alert as I remembered.

“If you’re seeing this, I must be dead,” she said dryly. “I’m sorry if that sounds macabre, Anne, but at my age I’m allowed.” She paused and sighed. “These messages get shorter every time I record a new one. I suppose it’s because I’ve said everything I want to say. I’ve been blessed with a long life and a wonderful family, and I’m ready for the end. If you want to remember me, light a candle on my birthday. Or maybe eat some ice cream. Any time, I mean, not just my birthday.” Her blue eyes glinted with amusement. “Now, on to business…”

She donned her thick glasses, and the old-fashioned chains swung gently as she looked down and read from a list of specific bequests. She left things like coin collections, cars, and season tickets to her grandsons. She left her jewelry to Christy, her only granddaughter. The video ended with another message to her family.

“Be nice to each other. All the money in the world can’t replace family.”

A junior attorney turned off the television, and the senior one outlined the rest of the will. Nana C. left a third of her estate to a list of charities. The second third included a trust that went to Anne and her younger sister, Evelyn, along with the house in Beacon Hill and a summer house on Cape Cod. The remaining trust was to be divided equally among her grandchildren.

Christy became an heiress in a few short sentences. Her new fortune wasn’t extravagant, but it would definitely change her life.

After the attorneys explained the probate process and what to expect in the next few weeks, Anne and Evelyn invited the family to gather at Nana C.’s house the following day. They wanted to give us a chance to take things that had sentimental value.

Christy and I were getting ready on Tuesday morning when Laurie appeared from the adjoining room.

“Dad, Mom… you need to see this.”

“What’s up?” I asked. “Can it wait? We’re running late.”

“I… I don’t think so.”

Something in her voice raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Christy heard it too, and we rushed into the other room. Emily stood with her arm around Susie, who was crying. At first I thought one of them had been hurt, but then I saw the TV.

It showed New York City from across the Hudson. Smoke rose from the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center. They were burning.

Christy crossed herself and then covered her mouth.

“What happened?” I asked.

Laurie just shook her head, so Emily spoke up.

“A plane— An airliner, Dad. It flew into the building.”

“Which one?”

“Both.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Planes eventually started flying again after 9/11, so we were able to return to Atlanta. The world would never be the same again, but life went on. I had a company to run and the girls had school, so we were able to lose ourselves in routine. Christy’s work was more of a challenge, but that was exactly what she needed.

She had to get ready for her gallery show in time, and she went about it with her usual single-minded determination. She and Gabby focused on the two main pieces, while the others cleaned up and put the finishing touches on bronzes from the foundry and marble pieces from the workshop. Everyone worked for ten weeks straight, with only a break for Thanksgiving. Then all six of them spent two weeks on the big pieces, adding final details and polishing the marble to bring out its luster.

Christy called the first piece Femme Olympians. It was a trio of young women sculpted in luminous Carrara marble. They were dressed in short Greek tunics and stood in a circle facing outward. One held a lightning bolt aegis, a shield instead of a weapon. Another held a trident and a fish, an offer to feed the viewer. The third rested her hand on a three-headed dog, a companion instead of a threat. The whole thing was a clever feminist twist on those paragons of masculinity, Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades.

The second piece was a triptych called The Crane Wife, which was the opposite of the first in almost every way. It was low- and mid-relief instead of freestanding, black marble instead of white, and a traditional scene instead of a fanciful one. In spite of the differences, it was still a piece with a strong feminist message. The panels told the story of a humble Japanese farmer who saved a crane from a hunter’s trap. The crane returned as a beautiful woman who became his wife. At night she plucked her own feathers and wove a silk brocade that made them wealthy, even though she consumed herself in the process.

(I still wonder if Christy thought she was the crane wife. I’ve asked her about it a few times since then, but she’s never given me a straight answer. She probably doesn’t even know herself. Still, she chose that story for a reason, and I think about it every time she starts a big project. Then I make sure I don’t work too late. I check on her more often, too. And I make sure she eats enough. Her apprentices help, especially during the day, but they have their own lives. Christy is mine. I digress, but I still worry about her.)

Christy and her crew finished the sculptures with barely a week to spare before Christmas. They were exhausted but elated, and we celebrated with a party before everyone took a well-deserved break for the holidays.

✧ ✧ ✧

A whole group of us flew to Los Angeles in February 2002. We took the girls and Rich, Fred and Lance, and all five of Christy’s apprentices. My own parents were in China with Susan, but Christy’s parents drove up from San Diego.

More friends and family planned to arrive over the next couple of days—Wren and Trip, of course, along with Leah and Mark, Brooke and Nate, Erin and Tom, and even Carter and Kim. Sara and her girlfriend promised to drive down as well. Much to my surprise, Christy had sent Gina and John an invitation, and they’d returned the RSVP almost immediately.

Christy and her apprentices spent two days getting everything ready for the show itself, while the girls and I went to Disneyland with Rich and her parents. I felt a little guilty that she was working while we were having fun, but she wasn’t the least bit upset.

“No, I’m glad you did,” she said. “The girls would’ve been bored to death at the gallery.”

“Is everything ready for tomorrow night?”

“I hope so. May still has an issue with the caterer, but— Oh! I forgot to show you.” She retrieved a presentation box from atop the dresser. “She gave us these.”

She opened the lid to reveal a set of four wineglasses. They were Murano glass, with a pattern of multicolored leaves and a different color stem for each—red, green, blue, and yellow.

“They’re beautiful,” I said. “That was very nice of her.”

“We need to remember to take them tomorrow night.”

“What for? Won’t the caterer have glasses?”

“Of course. But these’re special for us. You, me, Rich, and Mom. So the caterers don’t give us wine by mistake.”

“Ah, very clever.”

“I know, right!” She relaxed as the excitement started to wear off. Then her expression slowly fell. The doubts had set in. “What if no one comes? What if no one likes it? What if—?”

“They’re going to come, and they’re going to love you. Trust me. You’ve done a lot of work to get to this point. May and Fred too. They believe in you. We all do. Me, the girls, family, friends… everyone!”

“I know. Only—”

“Relax,” I said. “Trust me. The show’s going to be amazing.”

I was right.

When we arrived at the gallery the following evening, a cluster of people were waiting for the doors to open. The celebrities and big collectors didn’t arrive until later, but the place was abuzz with excitement when they did. Christy unveiled her two major pieces to a sustained round of applause. May and her gallery associates circulated, negotiated, and celebrated every sale.

By the end of the night, a wealthy Japanese collector had outbid several others for The Crane Wife, and a big law firm had bought Femme Olympians for double the original estimate. All of the other major pieces had sold as well, for the suggested prices or more in a few cases. Three-quarters of the smaller pieces had “Sold” stickers on their title placards or were gone entirely, taken home by their new owners.

When the last guest finally left, May disappeared into the gallery office. She returned with a printout and a grim look. We all fidgeted nervously until she cracked a smile.

“I couldn’t resist,” she apologized.

“Try harder next time,” Christy grumped. She drained her glass and held it out.

The caterers were all cleaning up, but Rich emptied his glass into hers.

“Sorry, it’s seltzer.”

“I don’t care.” She drained it but immediately grimaced. “Oh my gosh! Rich, that’s disgusting! How—? Never mind.” She gestured imperiously.

May surveyed the group with a long smirk before she settled on Christy.

“Congratulations. You just had your first million-dollar show.”

✧ ✧ ✧