The Imperfects Read online

  * * *

  Two weeks. Jake didn’t really believe that Kristi would stay mad at him, but here he is, two weeks later, waiting alone in the lobby at Good Samaritan while Kristi has her checkup. She’s granted him reentry into their bedroom, begrudgingly, always pretending to fall asleep while he’s brushing his teeth. He can’t remember the last time they cuddled, let alone had sex. He isn’t even allowed up to the obstetrician’s office. At least he’s in the building. Now, it’s a matter of finding the right way to make her forgive him.

  He drums his thumb against his thigh as he decides what to say to her. He debated printing out the pages of the script, then setting them on fire in the waiting room, but realized this was probably illegal. Or he could have brought his computer and smashed it against the floor, but he can’t afford a new computer, and Kristi might consider it another example of how impetuous Jake is. He debates coming clean about being fired and punching the man. It’s insanely stupid that he hasn’t told her yet. With the civil forfeiture of the diamond, the situation is even more tenuous. There’s the very real possibility that the diamond doesn’t belong to the Millers, that there won’t be ten million dollars, or five hundred thousand even, now that they can’t sell to the Italians. Somewhere in the far crevices of Jake’s brain, he knows he should get another job, but Helen’s script is progressing steadily. A little more time, and he’ll know if it’s any good. Besides, he’s not putting Kristi into debt. He has enough saved for this month’s rent. They don’t share a credit card.

  Jake stands when he sees her approaching, her right palm cradling her near invisible belly. Before she has time to tell him about the appointment, he blurts, “Kris, I’m so sorry. I should have deleted it. I should never have written it. Please, tell me what I can do to make this up to you.”

  “It’s a girl,” she says, a smile consuming her face. “We’re having a girl.”

  Without questioning it, Jake pulls Kristi to him. When the small swelling of her stomach brushes against his, he thinks he can feel their daughter inside, tumbling. “A girl.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” Kristi says into his chest. “I overreacted.”

  “You didn’t. It’s all me.” Jake pulls away so he can look into her eyes. “I’m the one who messed up here.”

  “That’s true. But it’s not like you sold the script or anything. And it’s nice that you wanted to understand my mom’s experience. She’d be flattered—” Kristi hits him playfully. “Don’t even think about showing it to her.”

  Jake crosses his heart and puts his arm around Kristi’s shoulders. “Is it still fast, the heartbeat?”

  “So fast. I’m sorry I made you wait in the lobby.”

  Jake shrugs. “There’s always next time.” She squeezes his waist and, for the moment, Jake decides he’s right not to tell her about the firing.

  * * *

  The Golden Girl Thief. That’s what the media calls Helen. Golden because the Florentine was yellow. Girl because she could have been friends with Rose and Dorothy and Blanche. Thief because she’s not a bandit, an outlaw, a burglar, a kleptomaniac, but an old lady with a diamond that could not possibly be hers. At least, so asserts the press.

  Although only Beck’s name is listed on the notice of the forfeiture, the press has found the other Millers, the Johnsons, and Kristi Zhang.

  Since the last checkup, Jake and Kristi have resumed their intimacy—cuddling and regular sex and Tuesday night movies. They walk to the theater on Vermont Avenue where ticket prices are still at 1990s levels and they splurge on a large bucket of popcorn with extra butter.

  During the movie, Kristi gets up twice to pee, then a third time before they trek home.

  “I hope I don’t have to squat behind a tree,” she jokes as they tumble onto the street. It’s a cool night, and Kristi snuggles up to Jake as they climb home. They walk slower than usual, Kristi trying to steady her labored breathing as they mount the hill on Franklin Avenue.

  “I’m barely showing—how am I this out of breath?” she says, panting.

  Jake bends down and motions to his back. “Want me to carry you?” She climbs on and he trudges up to the Shakespeare Bridge, Kristi’s laugh trailing them.

  They stop on the bridge, looking at the houses below. “Pretty soon we won’t be able to do Tuesday night movies,” she says, leaning against him.

  He squeezes her tight. “We’ll just do them at home instead. We can even buy one of those air poppers.”

  “I don’t think anyone uses them anymore.”

  “Who cares what anyone else does?”

  When they walk down Rowena, they spot a crowd of people congregated on the sidewalk near their building. Someone must be having a party. Most of the other tenants are in their twenties, with jobs where they can have keggers on a Tuesday night, but who is he to judge when he hasn’t worked in two months?

  “Jake—” Kristi slows as the crowd turns toward them. There must be seven people standing outside, some with cameras, others too old to be partying with the twentysomethings that live in the building.

  The reporters rush over, encircling Jake and Kristi, asking at once, “Jake Miller, did you know your grandmother stole the world’s most valuable diamond?”

  “Can you tell us anything about how your grandmother came into contact with the diamond?”

  “Care to comment on whether the Florentine belongs to the Millers?”

  “Do you know how your grandmother had access to the Florentine?”

  “What about your sister Beck? She was kicked out of law school. We’re hearing reports that she helped your grandmother steal the Florentine.”

  He stops trying to push through the crowd. “My sister is not a thief. She’s the most moral person I know. And my grandmother isn’t a thief, either. She was a Holocaust survivor. Show some respect.”

  “Then how did she get the diamond?”

  “Did she know anyone affiliated with the Habsburgs?”

  “How long has she had the stone?”

  “Kristi, do you know anything about Jake’s grandmother? How do you feel about having a thief in the family?”

  Their questions become a wall of sound. He puts his arm around Kristi and they fight through the reporters like they are braving a strong gust of wind. Once inside the building, the reporters’ words are muffled by the thick glass door. Jake hurries Kristi upstairs to their apartment.

  Kristi stands in the middle of their living room, chewing her nail. “What was that?”

  Jake turns on the TV, and Kristi gives him a look like, Seriously, dude, you’re going to watch Seinfeld now? He flips to the local news. “I guess news of the diamond broke.”

  Kristi sits beside him on the couch and they watch an image of themselves racing into their apartment, of Jake turning and defending his sister.

  “Did you even see a camera crew?” Kristi asks, and Jake shakes his head. “Must be a pretty slow night if we’re their lead story.”

  Jake tries to relax her. “They’ll get bored. It’s not like we have anything to tell them.”

  Kristi inches closer to Jake even though their legs are already touching. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says as though there’s anywhere else he might be. Her voice has no reservation in it, but Jake can’t shake a lingering wariness that Kristi’s forgiveness is provisional. It has nothing to do with Kristi and everything to do with the fact that he hasn’t told her about the man he punched, how he spends his days at the library instead of gainfully employed at Trader Joe’s. Now isn’t the time to tell her, not when she feels comforted by his presence, not when there’s a pack of reporters outside.

  So, he puts his arms around her and says, “Of course I’m here. Always,” willing it to be true.

  * * *

  Once the reporters find the Johnsons, Ashley decides that she and Ryan must tell the children about his crimes. The media d
oesn’t know about his impending criminal charges. The prosecutors have assured them it won’t get out until Ryan is sentenced, but reporters have a way of finding information that’s supposedly classified. Ashley doesn’t want Lydia and Tyler hearing about their father from one of the other kids at school.

  They decide to tell the children after dinner, once the reporters have left for the evening and their front yard is dark and quiet again. Ashley sets up an ice cream sundae bar. At first, they let the children go wild, but on the fifth scoop of caramel sauce, Ashley says to Tyler, “Bud, that might be enough.”

  Lydia sits at the table with her plain vanilla ice cream, no toppings.

  “You don’t want a little hot fudge?” Ryan asks. “Some whipped cream?”

  “I like things simple,” Lydia says ominously, although her mother cannot begin to interpret what this means. “So what’s the occasion? Why are you trying to bribe us with ice cream?”

  “Why would you think we’re trying to bribe you?” Ashley asks, making a mental note to be subtler next time they need to break unsettling news to their children.

  “When’s the last time you bought ice cream instead of frozen yogurt?” Lydia’s eyes widen.

  “Or whipped cream,” Tyler announces, spraying the can onto his index finger and popping his finger into his mouth.

  “Is this about the diamond Helen stole?” Before Ashley can protest that Helen didn’t steal anything, Lydia continues. “We can read, you know. So now she’s a thief, too?”

  Ashley hears something in her tone. Is it possible she knows about Ryan? She’d told Beck that she heard them fighting, but Lydia couldn’t know that he stole half a million dollars, could she? It still makes her breathless, just how much money he siphoned from his company.

  “Are we going to be rich?” Tyler’s voice rises an octave. When he smiles, his lips are lined in chocolate.

  “We’re already rich, dummy,” Lydia snipes. When did she get this attitude? When did she start to act like a teenager? “Or we were before Dad messed everything up.”

  “Lydia!” Ryan chides.

  Ashley places her hand on his forearm, trying to calm him. “What is it you think your father did?”

  Lydia picks at her cuticles. “I’ve just heard you guys arguing about money. Is Dad going to jail?” Her voice is so soft she becomes young again.

  “Probably,” Ashley says. “It’s his fault. He’s going to do what he can to make it right, but that might mean going away for a while.”

  Tyler freezes. “For how long?” Melting ice cream drips from his spoon, poised above his bowl.

  “We won’t know until he pleads guilty and is sentenced.”

  Tyler wipes his mouth, spreading chocolate across his cheek. “Is he going to come back?”

  “Your father will come back,” Ashley says. For the first time, this takes no effort. For the first time, she isn’t trying to convince herself to forgive Ryan. “It’s going to be tough, but we’re family. We’ll be here for him.”

  Ryan casts her the first genuine smile he’s worn in months. Tight-lipped, not exactly happy, but relieved. When she returns her attention to her children, they do not share his relief. Tyler stabs at the ice cream in his bowl, eyes brimming with tears. Lydia’s face has hardened, and Ashley sees a glimpse of Beck in her cold expression, the way everything from their youth had turned her sister angry, secretive.

  As Ashley is about to ask her children what she and Ryan can do, what they need from their parents, Ryan cuts in. “I have no excuse for what I did. It was entirely unfair to both of you. To your mom, too. I’m going to do whatever I can to make this right, but it’s okay for you to be angry with me. I deserve it. I can only say I’m sorry.”

  Such a simple expression, I’m sorry. To Ashley, there’s nothing simple about it. When her husband says this, she believes it.

  She reaches for his hand, then reiterates to their children, “We’re going to get through this. Together.” Her children look up at her, and she holds their gaze until it softens. They trust her. She trusts herself, too. They will get through this. Together.

  * * *

  Soon after news breaks about the diamond, lawyers begin calling Beck, offering their services with reduced hourly fees. Even at a fraction of their normal price, the legal fees will cost more than the diamonds from Helen’s doll are worth. More than the few thousand dollars Helen had stashed in her house. More than the brooch is worth, too. No matter how hard up they are for cash, Beck refuses to sell the brooch. While the diamond might not belong to the Millers, the brooch is Helen’s. It’s a family heirloom, not to be hawked to the highest bidder. Miraculously, her siblings haven’t mentioned it, almost as if they’ve forgotten it exists.

  Despite the high-profile nature of the case, this isn’t the type of altruistic claim that would entice a firm to represent them pro bono. Representatives of businessmen call Beck, too, offering legal services in exchange for a private sale when they win the case. Their certainty worries her almost as much as their cryptic descriptions of their employers. They call Beck on her cell and at work. One sends an associate to her office.

  When the receptionist calls Beck to tell her someone is waiting in the lobby, Beck scurries up to the front desk to get rid of the individual. She freezes when she spots a man in khaki shorts and a golf shirt, seated cross-legged in the lobby.

  The stranger looks up at her with blue eyes she inherited. Beck has dyed her hair lush colors so it wouldn’t resemble his mousy brown, now gray, hair. She’d pierced her nose so the Miller point was less obvious, tattooed her arms to obscure the Miller freckles, but she’d never been able to hide his eyes.

  Even though he has shaved his beard, she recognizes him right away.

  “Dad,” she says automatically. Beck wishes she’d called him something else. Unlike Deborah, who hasn’t been Mom for a long time, Kenny has always been Dad.

  * * *

  Beck keeps one step ahead of Kenny as they walk the few short blocks to Library Place. She needed to get him out of her office but doesn’t want to be anywhere private with him.

  Kenny waits at a table with a cup of coffee while Beck orders fries and a Coke from the burger stand. She isn’t hungry, but she needs somewhere to focus her attention while she sits with him.

  With every step she takes toward her father’s table, she considers dumping her tray and making a run for it. She knows she won’t be able to get rid of him that easily. The sooner she sits down and lets him say whatever it is he wants to tell her, the sooner it will be over.

  Beck places her tray on the table and settles into the seat across from her father. He takes a sip of his coffee, eyeing her French fries. “You always were a terrible eater,” he finally says.

  “That was Ashley.” Her tone is aggressive, twenty-two years of anger in those three inadequate words.

  Kenny continues to drink his coffee. He seems at peace with her anger, which only makes her angrier.

  Beck checks the time on her phone. “You’ve got ten minutes.”

  “I saw the article in the Inquirer. I was worried about you. I wanted to see if you were okay.”

  “Okay? You want to know if I’m okay? What about twenty-two years ago, you think I was okay then?” She hates that he’s reduced her to a predictable script of trite, yet true, emotions. She plans to tell him she’s fine, to leave her alone. Instead, what comes out is, “The Philadelphia Inquirer?”

  The Florentine Diamond made it into all the papers, but her father saw the write-ups in the Philadelphia newspaper.

  “Becca, I—”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “I live in Atlantic City. For the last few years.” His blue eyes search hers imploringly.

  Beck checks her phone. “You’ve got seven minutes.”

  “I thought you might want to know—Helen, she gave me a diamond.” Bec
k drops the fry she been mashing between her fingers. He has her full attention. “For your mom. Two actually.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Helen gave him a two-carat diamond for the ring and another, one carat, to pay for the setting. Kenny was twenty-seven. He’d spent the past several years organizing for Students for a Democratic Society and, with the war over, had no plans for his future. He and Deborah had been dating on and off for a few years, although he doubted Helen knew about the off parts. Before he and Helen met, Deborah had told Kenny that her mother never loved her. When Kenny was finally invited to dinner at the house on Edgehill Road, he realized Deborah was wrong. Helen had guided him into her bedroom, where she took a velvet pouch out of her dresser. She dropped a flower pin with a large yellow stone at its center and several loose diamonds into her hand, then gave Kenny two diamonds.

  “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll castrate you,” Helen said, returning the pin and the other loose diamonds to her dresser. “And don’t insult me by asking if they’re real.”

  It was then that Kenny realized Deborah was loved deeply. Helen and Deborah—their love just spoke different languages.

  Kenny went to see a jeweler, someone on Jewelers’ Row, that Helen had chosen. When he arrived, the man had already designed a ring for Deborah based on Helen’s instructions. It felt wrong, having Helen plan their ring, their engagement, especially given Kenny wasn’t sure he ever wanted to get married.

  “I probably shouldn’t tell you that,” he says, even though it’s hardly a shock to Beck.

  “So I told the jeweler I’d consider it, and he seemed pretty surprised.” Based on his conversations with Helen, the jeweler had already made the wax for casting. Kenny slipped the diamonds into his pocket and said he would be back in a few days. As he walked out of the store, Kenny decided that he would marry Deborah someday, but not on her mother’s terms. A neon sign down the block blinked Diamonds. The dealer didn’t ask him where he’d gotten the diamonds, just offered him what sounded like a lot of money.