The Chase: A Novel (2 page)

Claire had to smile, well aware that Lucy thought her glamorous and idolized her. But then she thought about David and the night to come, and her smile vanished. Unfortunately, she felt certain that it was going to be a very long night.

If only they could recapture the past.

In her heart Claire knew that it was impossible.

Claire had just stepped out of the wall-to-wall beige marble shower when she heard the bedroom door open and close. “David?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” he said from the master bedroom.

Claire tensed even more. There had been nothing warm in his tone, just exhaustion and maybe a hint of irritation.

Refusing to get alarmed, Claire wrapped herself in a big towel and stepped into the room. It boasted high ceilings and views of the bay and bridge. The entire bedroom was done in shades of white, the fabrics each a different texture; even the sofa in the sitting area was a white-on-white wool blend. The mantel over the fireplace was white marble streaked with gold, and one of Claire’s favorite paintings in the world hung over the bed—a Gustave Courbet titled
Le Réveil
, featuring the nude Venus reclining while Psychée stood over her, parakeet in hand.

A week ago the painting had arrived at their doorstep, stunning her. Instantly Claire had called her father, once a professor of art and now a world-renowned art dealer, to find out why on earth he had sent them the masterpiece. Jean-Léon had told her that it was a present and he wanted her to enjoy the painting.

His explanation made little sense. The Courbet was worth tens of millions and Jean-Léon was passionate to an extreme about art, especially his own collection, which he had begun in earnest with Claire’s mother early in their marriage. Claire’s mother, Cynthia Asch, had inherited a sizable fortune, enabling her husband to start a gallery and collection. The Asch family had made their fortune in real estate in the booming years of the sixties.

The gesture of the gift had to mean something, Claire had thought, but her father was a hard man to understand. She still did not understand why he had sent the painting, although David had suggested it had to do with his age, and he was merely getting his estate in order.

Claire watched David now, her heart skipping—for there was a garment bag on the bed. David was placing suits, shirts, and other clothing in it. Claire stared. “Where are you going?” she asked quietly.

He did not even glance at her. “I have to be at a meeting in New York tomorrow. I have an eight
A.M.
out of here.”

Tomorrow was Friday. Not only was he leaving for the weekend—which was unusual though not unheard of—but it would be impossible for him to really enjoy the party, since he would have to get up at the crack of dawn. “Sounds like an emergency,” Claire said, hoping to sound calm. The last thing she wanted him to see was her anger, but inside, she was suddenly furious.

Didn’t he care about all the effort she was making on his behalf? Didn’t he care about them? And what was happening to her? Of all days for her to become unglued, today was the worst possible day. Claire did not have a temper. It served no one, much less herself.

“It’s not. Been planned for a few weeks, actually. I guess I forgot to mention it.”

He had forgotten to mention that he was spending the weekend of his birthday in New York City. Claire remained very still, trying hard not to be angry, and wondering, not for the first time, if he had a girlfriend. Was it only a few years ago that he would have asked her to come with him? How many times had they booked a five-star hotel like the Plaza or the Carlyle, made love all night, and taken in a show, all jammed between David’s meetings?

But she would not have wanted to join him in New York even if he had invited her. She had too much to do that weekend herself. In fact, she did not even enjoy his company anymore. The realization was stunning.

David finished packing and folded the garment bag in half, zipping it closed. “I think I’m going to close my eyes for a half hour before I get dressed,” he said, walking past her while stripping off his tie.

It crossed Claire’s mind that he hadn’t looked at her, not even once. She thought about their argument. It had been eating at her all day. Something he had said was bothering her, but she could not pinpoint what it was.

He was in the dressing room. Claire walked in after him, managing a bright smile. As she stood behind him while he slid off his blue and white button-down, she glimpsed herself in the mirror over the the vanity. She looked half her age—like a teenager, not like the glamorous and professional wife of a brilliant corporate lawyer.

The smiling woman in the mirror seemed so calm and composed. She did not look frightened.

But she was frightened.

Claire turned away. “David? Let’s talk.” She could hear how tense her own voice was. That would not do, and she coughed to clear her throat.

“Now?” Incredulous, David faced her in nothing but his briefs.

Claire glanced at him. He was a very attractive man, with hazel eyes and thick, dark hair, and he worked out and ate well, so his body was lean. Other women looked at him whenever they went out. David had briefly modeled for extra money while in college. He could still model. If he wanted to play around, he would have no trouble doing so. “I’m sorry we fought this morning, and I’m even sorrier I didn’t ask you first whether you wanted a big birthday party,” Claire tried with a small smile. A part of her was appalled that she was the one to be the peacemaker when she hadn’t done anything wrong. He should be apologizing to her for his boorish behavior.

“I don’t want to get into this right now. It’s going to be a long night.”

Claire stiffened even more, but when she spoke, she made herself sound unruffled. “Wait a minute. Will you accept my apology? I am genuinely sorry we fought. Aren’t you sorry, too?”

He stared at her. “Of course I don’t want to fight with you. Claire, I have had a fucking rotten day,” he said, moving to the sink. He ran water and splashed his face.

Claire was faced with the sight of his black cotton briefs stretching over his hard buttocks. She felt no stab of physical desire. It occurred to her that they needed to make love. When was the last time that they had done so, anyway? “It seems like every day has been rotten these past few weeks,” she heard herself say.

He straightened abruptly, regarding her in the mirror, which covered the entire wall. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She bit her lip. “Things have changed, haven’t they? I don’t think we’ve made love in months. Do you remember when we made love four or five times a week?”

He turned to face her. “That was eight or nine years ago!”

Had it been that long ago? “We don’t talk anymore, David,” she said softly, sadly.

“No, we don’t.” His words were flat.

They stared at each other, the realization unspoken but hanging between them. They didn’t make love anymore, they didn’t talk anymore, they didn’t care anymore.

Claire felt another stab, this one of panic. Was this it, then?

She inhaled and walked away, fighting to recover her composure. It was so hard—her mind seemed to be spinning uselessly now. And Claire suddenly realized what it was that was bothering her about their argument that morning. He had made some crack about earning a living. Claire seized upon the odd statement the way a terrier might a bone.

David had a six-figure income. Claire’s income was much lower, obviously—she made nothing working for her charities, and the Humane Society paid little. Still, they were in the highest tax bracket. They had savings and investments, much of which had come from a small trust fund she had come into at the age of twenty-five. Now Claire caught his gaze again. “Are we having money problems, David?” This was a much easier subject, she thought with relief.

His expression was impossible to read. “Things could be better.”

She felt her eyes widen. “What does that mean? We have savings, investments, our incomes—”

“I’ve made some bad investments. We’ve taken a fucking hit. And I do not want to discuss our finances now,” he said flatly.

Claire was stunned, but she knew that monetary problems could be fixed. Clearly, though, this was not the time to raise the subject, an hour before their first guests would arrive. She mustered a smile. “I’m sorry.” She touched his cheek. “I want you to have a good time tonight, David. It’s your birthday. I want you to be happy and worry-free.”

He didn’t hesitate. “I am happy. I’m just very pressured right now.”

Claire was the one to hesitate. “Are—you sure?”

He paused before saying, “Yeah, I’m sure,” and avoided her gaze.

She knew he was lying to her. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what’s bothering you?” she asked with sympathy.

He turned away. “It’s just the usual business crap.”

She didn’t believe him. She said to his back, “David, no matter what is happening with us, we do have a history and I am your wife. I am here for you. You know that.” She meant every word. At the very least, she owed him her loyalty.

He slowly turned back. “Actually, Claire, I have screwed up. Royally.” There was fear in his eyes.

Claire felt an answering fear. She had never seen him this way. She remained outwardly calm. “What happened?”

He hesitated. “I can’t tell you. But I may be in trouble,” he said, as he turned away again. “Big trouble.”

Claire stared after him. What in God’s name did “big trouble” mean?

The first guests were just arriving, and everything was as it should be. The decorations were fabulous—a combination of peach-hued rose petals strewn everywhere, even on the furniture, and hundreds of natural-colored candles in various shapes and sizes and clusters on every conceivable surface, all burning softly and giving the entire house a warm, ethereal glow. The bar had been set up in the closest corner of the living area to the entryway, with the flower petals strewn artfully over the table, amid the bottles and glasses, and over the floor. A tuxedoed waiter stood at the door with a tray of champagne flutes; another waiter stood beside him to take wraps. The deejay had set up in the back of the living room, and soulful jazz softly filtered through the house.

Claire began greeting guests. Her home quickly filled with some of San Francisco’s most renowned and wealthy residents; there was also a scattering of Los Angeles media moguls and New York businessmen, mostly high-finance types. Claire knew almost everybody, through either David’s business or her charities. Her real friends she could count on one hand, but she socialized frequently, and she genuinely liked many of the people she dealt with.

Claire saw her father enter the house. A mental image of the Courbet hanging on her bedroom wall flashed through her mind.

Jean-Léon Ducasse was a tall Frenchman with a thick head of gray-white hair. He had fought in the Resistance during World War II, and although he had immigrated to the States in 1948, he still did not consider himself an American. Everything about him was very Old World. He smiled as he came to Claire and kissed her cheek. “You look wonderful,” he said. He had no accent. His nose was large and hooked, and his hair was iron gray, but he remained a handsome man. No one would guess that he was in his late seventies; he looked sixty, if a day. It never ceased to amaze Claire how many women found him attractive. His current girlfriend was an attractive, wealthy widow in her late fifties, but tonight he was alone.

Claire hoped that her worries were not reflected in her eyes. She smiled brightly. “You look great, too, Dad. Where is Elaine?”

“She’s in Paris. Shopping, I believe. I was invited to join her, but I did not want to miss David’s birthday party.” He smiled at her.

Claire thought he was being sardonic. She was almost certain he would not care if he had missed David’s birthday. But it was always hard to tell exactly what her father was thinking, or what he meant. Jean-Léon had raised Claire alone; Claire’s mother had died, a victim of breast cancer, when Claire was ten. He had been preoccupied with teaching and later, after retirement, with his gallery. And even when he was not teaching at Berkeley College, he was either traveling around the world in pursuit of another masterpiece or new talent, or lecturing at foreign institutions. Claire had been raised by a succession of nannies. She and her father could have been close after her mother’s death, but Claire had never sat on his lap as a child or been told stories at bedtime. “Well, I’m glad you could be here, Dad,” she said, still distracted. What kind of trouble could David be in? Surely it wasn’t serious.

She prayed it wasn’t something illegal.

Jean-Léon was glancing around, taking in every guest and decoration. “You have done a very nice job, Claire. As always.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Claire said softly.

An elderly couple came up to Claire, smiling widely. The woman, Elizabeth Duke, was tall and thin and quite regal in appearance, clad in a red Armani jersey dress, while her husband, who was in his early eighties and about her height, was somewhat stooped. William Duke embraced Claire first, followed by his wife. “Claire, the house looks amazing,” Elizabeth cried, smiling. “And that dress suits you to a
T
, dear.” She wore a large Cartier necklace set with diamonds. Somehow she carried the ostentatious piece well.