The Imperfects Page 14

  “Someone slammed my hand in the freezer door,” Jake hears himself lying. “I’m sorry, Kris. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the diamond. I should have. It’s just—all that money, the way it could change our lives. I didn’t want to get your hopes up until I knew for sure. I was wrong about that guy at Palermo. He wasn’t following us. I saw him today. He’s just some dude from the neighborhood.”

  It isn’t a total admission, but it’s a start. He waits for Kristi to ask follow-up questions, so he can tell her the more damning parts of his day.

  Kristi laughs. “Of course he wasn’t following you.”

  “You weren’t scared?”

  “I was scared because you were. I never thought you were actually being followed because of some diamond.” She continues to laugh as she walks into the kitchen, then returns to the living room, disappointed. “Did you forget dinner?”

  He tries to find the best way of telling her he lost his job. “I, um—”

  “Never mind,” she interjects. “I’m dying for pad see ew, anyway. Five minutes?” She trots down the hall to change out of her scrubs.

  Jake listens to the hum of the fridge, replaying their conversation. Why didn’t he tell Kristi about getting fired? It’s not something he can hide from her. He needs to confess now before his lie gets bigger.

  When she reappears in the living room, her skin is glowing, and she looks so calm, so pretty, so normal. “You ready?” she asks, tossing him a T-shirt.

  He tugs the shirt over his head and follows her out of the apartment without another word.

  * * *

  Unlike Jake, Ashley’s sightings of the Buick are not coincidental. Each day, the dapper man is at the Y, the library, school pickups, ATM stops, and the dry cleaner’s. Each day, he continues to trail her, same car, same menacing distance. Why hasn’t he approached her? What’s he waiting for?

  At the library, Clara runs toward Ashley waving a book titled My Grandmother and the Other 49 Children, which they ordered via inter-library loan. “It’s mostly about her grandmother Irma, but look—” Clara flips to the final pages of the hardback. Her finger scans a list of names with short biographies until she lands on Helen Auerbach’s. Momentarily, Ashley forgets about the man in the parking lot.

  Helen Auerbach stayed in Philadelphia after the Goldsteins rescued her, buying a house in Bala Cynwyd where she lived with her daughter. Helen started a tailoring business, which she continues to run to this day.

  Some of the biographies for the other children detail reunions with parents who obtained visas or survived camps, families who were displaced in Cuba and England during the war. Helen’s paragraph, like the other shorter paragraphs, says nothing about her family from Vienna.

  The glee falls from Clara’s face. “That must have made it harder, that the other children reunited with their families.”

  “Can I borrow this?” Ashley asks.

  “That’s generally what people do with library books,” Clara teases.

  “Thank you, Clara,” Ashley says more earnestly than she’s intended.

  “Are you all right?” Clara asks her.

  Ashley imagines telling Clara about the diamond, the man who is after her, even Ryan’s situation at work. She knows Clara will believe her, that she’ll probably have sound advice about confronting the man, about confronting Ryan, too, but she created this mess by confiding in Georgina, and she isn’t sure she’s ready to trust anyone else just yet.

  Ashley forces a smile. “Just a bit overwhelmed.”

  “Well, prepare to be more overwhelmed,” Clara says, flipping to the photographs in the center of the book. One of them is of Helen sitting on a blanket beside a woman. The caption reads, Helen Auerbach, picnicking with her mother.

  Ashley turns to Clara. “How did the writer have this?”

  “I don’t know.” Clara flips to the back flap where the author’s bio reads, Cheryl Appelbaum lives in Larchmont, NY, with her husband and their border collie, Yosef. “I checked the white pages. She’s still listed there.”

  Ashley walks to her car, hugging the book to her chest. She’s never been much of a reader but this must be what people mean when they say a book was written just for them. Ashley pauses when she realizes she’s breezed past the handicap spot where the sedan is usually parked. Today, the car isn’t there. It isn’t at the elementary school when she picks up Tyler and Lydia, either.

  After three days, she stops checking the rearview as she drives between the Y and the library. She emails Cheryl Appelbaum to see if they can meet for coffee and is unfazed when Cheryl writes back, saying that she’s in Europe for the next few weeks. There’s no rush, now that no one is following her. She can meet with Cheryl in a month, in two. Time, as far as the Florentine Diamond is concerned, feels vast. Wide open. She wafts between her daily routine, feeling a sense of freedom that she knows can’t last—and it doesn’t.

  On the fourth day, Ashley gets a knock on her front door.

  Lydia and Tyler are in the kitchen, eating cereal, while Ryan is upstairs, getting dressed for work. Ashley assumes it’s her neighbor Marion, who drops off their paper when it’s mistakenly delivered to her porch. When Ashley opens the door, three men stand outside in nearly identical dark suits, with closely cropped hair and politician good looks. She almost doesn’t recognize the man who’s been following her, he’s so similar to the men beside him. Then he smiles and she remembers his smile, his clear brown eyes.

  Even before he asks, “Is your husband home?” Ashley understands that this has nothing to do with the diamond.

  Ashley tries to act normal as she drives the children to school, but she’s seen enough CSI and Law & Order to know, more or less, who the men were. Did Ryan break the law? Are they here to arrest him? Is she an unknowing accomplice? Will they take her house? Oh, God, will they take the children?

  Her children keep calling to her from the backseat.

  “Mom, I’m starving.”

  “I didn’t get to finish my cereal.”

  “Why’d you rush us out?”

  “What’s going on? Why couldn’t we finish breakfast?”

  She pulls into the drive-through at McDonald’s. After they’ve eaten, she drops them off at school like it’s any other day. Tyler bounds out of the car, but Lydia remains in the backseat, eyeing her mother through the rearview mirror.

  “Who were those men?”

  “Just some people your dad works with.” Ashley’s tone is too upbeat. It makes her daughter squint even harder.

  “Is Dad okay?”

  “Honey, you’re going to be late for homeroom.” Ashley shoos her out of the car. Lydia shakes her head, making it clear she doesn’t believe her mother, and throws her backpack exaggeratedly over one shoulder as she gets out.

  Ashley drives straight home, forsaking the dry cleaning in the trunk, the animal shelter where she’s expected at ten. She waits in the car, spying on her house until the Buick pulls out of the driveway. How did she not notice it was an unmarked police car?

  On the couch, Ryan sits with his tie loose, his top button undone.

  “The police?” Ashley says. “What the hell were the police doing here?”

  Ryan does not look at his wife. “FBI actually.”

  “The FBI? Why would the FBI be at our house?” When her husband remains comatose, Ashley raises her voice. “Ryan, what’s going on?”

  Ryan hands Ashley a letter, the Department of Justice’s seal at the top.

  “Work called. They’re shipping my things. I’m not even allowed in the building.”

  Ashley skims the brief letter. A form letter, yet the threat it conveys is anything but routine. “The FBI is investigating you for fraud? And money laundering? You said it was a paperwork issue.”

  “I didn’t realize it was illegal.”

  “Ryan, you’re a lawyer
.”

  “A patent lawyer.”

  “So that’s going to be your argument to the judge? Sorry, Your Honor, I didn’t realize what I did was against the law?”

  “I only got paid for work I did. It wasn’t stealing.”

  “That’s not what the DOJ seems to think. How much, Ryan? How much did you steal from your company?”

  “I can’t do this right now.” He walks toward the stairs, but Ashley darts in front of him, poking her finger into his chest.

  “You do not get to walk away.”

  He brushes her to the side and mounts the stairs with Ashley trailing close behind, the letter still dangling from her hand.

  “It says here they’re going to indict you. Are you going to jail? What did you do to our family?”

  He turns, matches her furious gaze with his own. “What did I do to our family? Oh, I don’t know, put bread on the table for the last decade. I did what I thought was right. I didn’t know it was illegal. I didn’t think I would get caught.” He storms up the last few stairs and slams the door behind him.

  “Everyone always gets caught,” Ashley shouts.

  She sits on the top stair and lets the letter fall beside her. She tries to pinpoint a moment when she should have known. All those Saturdays where he went to the office, evenings where he had to work late. It had started about two years ago. At first, she’d thought he might be having an affair, but he often returned home hungry for sex. He never showered first nor smelled of foreign perfume. While he bought her flowers at random intervals—earrings, massages, gifts that signified guilt—nothing in his behavior suggested it was guilt over another woman. Had she wanted those gifts so badly that she’d ignored the obvious signs of a man atoning? Was part of this her fault?

  No, she decides as she rereads the letter. She never asked Ryan to be the breadwinner, not permanently. He’d wanted this family arrangement. This lie.

  * * *

  All Jake and Ashley say is that they are no longer being followed. The men are gone, no more cause for concern. Beck isn’t sure what to make of their dismissiveness. Their fear had been so convincing it had infected her, too.

  It’s now late April, five weeks since Beck found the diamond. Five weeks since Helen died. Five weeks where they have panicked and calmed. The following Monday, Beck settles into her cubicle with a renewed sense of purpose. She reads a Supreme Court decision, losing herself in the minutiae of work. She still plans to follow up with Peter Winkler, who hasn’t responded to her email, but the pressure is off. No one is looking for the diamond.

  An hour later, the receptionist pops her head into Beck’s cubicle. “Someone in the front to see you.”

  Beck follows her through the maze of partition walls to the front desk. A man in a Phillies baseball cap looks up when Beck enters the lobby. She’s never seen him before. He stands and bows his head bashfully as he holds out an envelope.

  Beck can feel the receptionist eyeing her. She doesn’t turn to look, trying her best to walk calmly to her desk. Her knees wobble, her heart races. She wonders if her coworkers notice. She wonders if Tom notices, too, but she keeps her gaze straight ahead as she walks past his office. Whatever is inside the envelope, she knows it has to do with the Florentine Diamond.

  When she unfolds the letter, she sees an insignia for a law firm she doesn’t know, a Taylor, Washington, and Weiner out of New York. Her eyes skim the page until they focus on three capital letters in the middle paragraph: IGS.

  We’ve procured a copy of the International Gemology

  Society’s (IGS) colored diamond grading report from a reputable third party that wishes to remain anonymous.

  A third party? What third party? The only other people who know about the diamond—as far as Beck realizes—are Viktor and Jake’s stoner friend. Could Viktor have told someone? He does have a history in the unsavory corners of the jewelry world, but Viktor has been a friend to her. While his actions toward Tiffany’s may have been less than ethical, they weren’t illegal and only harmed a company too rich and too powerful for its own good. No, Viktor would never turn on her.

  But how could Jake’s stoner friend have had the wherewithal to broker a black market deal? That seems equally unlikely. So, who else is left? Maybe someone at IGS? Viktor had said it was anonymous, but the gemologists who graded the diamond owe the Millers nothing.

  The letter continues.

  The colored diamond grading report issued by the IGS confirms that the diamond in your possession is the Florentine Diamond. The weight, dimensions, and cut of the diamond listed on the IGS report are identical to those of the Florentine Diamond. Additionally, the report noted a feathering “roughly in the shape of a heart,” which matches multiple descriptions of the Florentine.

  Taylor, Washington, and Weiner, Esq., are writing on behalf of the Italian government.

  The Italian government is not interested in determining how the Florentine Diamond came into Ms. Helen Auerbach’s possession; it is only relieved that after a period of ninety-nine years, the precious Medici heirloom has resurfaced.

  Medici heirloom? She remembers, vaguely, that Francis of Lorraine inherited the diamond when he became the Duke of Tuscany after the last male Medici died without an heir. Frances of Lorraine subsequently married into the Habsburg line and brought the Florentine to Austria. Sure, at one time the diamond had been a Medici heirloom. Why would the Italian government think it belonged to Italy now?

  As she keeps reading, her question is answered.

  Given the value of the Florentine Diamond, both monetarily and culturally, the Italian government is prepared to offer $500,000 for its return. Such an exchange would negate the need to initiate legal proceedings.

  The Italian government isn’t positive it belongs to them, either. Otherwise, they would have initiated those formal legal proceedings. They wouldn’t be trying to buy her off. One thing is certain, though. After one hundred years, the Florentine Diamond has resurfaced.

  Nine

  “The Italian government,” Jake says as he answers Beck and Ashley’s FaceTime call. His sisters sit, stone-faced, on the couch at Edgehill Road. “Why would it belong to the Italians?”

  “It’s complicated,” Beck says. “Austria owed reparations to the Allies at the end of WWI, which included returning some Medici heirlooms to Italy. Basically, if the Austrians had had the Florentine Diamond at the end of WWI, it’s unclear whether they would’ve had to give it back to the Italians. So, if the diamond isn’t ours, it might be an Italian heirloom, not an Austrian one.”

  Ashley picks at her nails while Jake stares into space. Beck doesn’t bother explaining the peace treaty and stipulations for Austria returning heirlooms to Italy; she’s already lost them.

  Lydia and Tyler tumble downstairs, chasing each other around the couch. Deborah barrels after them, two steps at a time, wearing Helen’s pink comforter as a cape. Beck is about to tell Deborah that Helen’s bedding isn’t a toy, until she sees the pleasure across the children’s faces as their grandmother lumbers toward them.

  “Guys, inside voices—we’re trying to have a serious conversation here,” Ashley shouts as they race back upstairs, their buoyant laughter lingering after they’ve disappeared.

  “So what do we do now?” Jake asks.

  “Nothing,” Beck says to Jake. “It’s an empty threat. If they had a sound case, they’d be approaching us through proper legal channels.”

  “It’s not a threat,” Ashley says. “It’s an offer, and I think we should take it.” Beck startles. “What? It’s a good offer.”

  “It’s an offer,” Jake says, circling back and forth across his living room. A modest sum relative to the diamond’s worth. His cut would be about as much as he made when he sold My Summer of Women. Hollywood money if not historic diamond money. Still, it was enough for a new apartment, enough that he wouldn’t have to get another
day job while he finished his script. Enough that he wouldn’t have to tell Kristi he’d been fired, either.

  “You’re serious?” Beck shifts her attention between her siblings. “Sure, let’s do that. While we’re at it, let’s just forget about Helen and the fifty children. I mean, why should we care when the Italians are offering us five hundred thousand dollars.”

  “No one’s forgetting anything. I’m going to see Sal Frankel next week,” Jake says. Sal Frankel is one of six still living from the fifty children. Kristi found him in an article about an assisted living home near LA.

  “You’re being dramatic,” Ashley says, rolling her eyes. “Besides, even if we sell the diamond, we still have the brooch. We can keep that and not have to hide a multimillion-dollar diamond.”

  “We made a deal. No sale until we know how Helen had the diamond. As far as I can tell, we haven’t gotten very far on that,” Beck says.

  “You made that deal,” Ashley argues. “Like usual, you decided and didn’t let us have a say.”

  “I’m with Ash on this. The last few weeks, looking over my shoulder all the time—it’s been hell,” Jake adds.

  “It doesn’t make you pause, for a second, to wonder how the Italians know, why they aren’t offering more? If you’d stop thinking about money for one minute, you’d see that something isn’t right. How do they even know about the diamond?”

  “It was me,” Ashley blurts, and before she has time to consider what she’s saying, the story about Georgina and Bartley’s comes spilling out.

  “You did what?” Beck says.

  “Ash...” Jake shakes his head, and it’s bizarre to hear disappointment coming from him.

  Ashley fights back tears. She’d told Beck she was coming down to strategize their next step, but the truth is that she had to get away from Ryan and the damning FBI letter. Ashley couldn’t spend another moment with her husband without wanting to throw something at him.

  As her siblings stare at her with disgust and disbelief, she wants to care about the diamond. She wants to care about Helen’s past. She does care, but right now, all she can think about is Ryan’s investigation. They need to hire a lawyer, but most of their money can’t be used for representation or anything else, because it was stolen from Ryan’s company. Now, here’s money that isn’t connected to Ryan, money that could keep her husband from prison, assuming he deserves to be saved.