Chapter Fifteen
HELENA
I stare at the screen long enough for toothpaste foam to slide toward my wrist. This is not dignity. I rinse. Return.
The blue dot is moving south. Probably toward Brooklyn. I do not open the map. I place the phone facedown.
Then turn it over again. Not to look. To read the message underneath.
Site visit. You asked last night.
I had. Afterward. In bed. A question instead of an assumption.
I type:
Thank you.
Delete it. Too formal.
Got it.
Too cold. I settle on:
Drive carefully.
The dots appear.
You sound 74.
I smile. Then hate that I smile.
Wear a seat belt.
83.
I put the phone down. For twenty-three minutes, I do not check the map. At twenty-four, Tessa walks into my apartment without knocking because I gave her access years ago and apparently my entire life now exists to teach me lessons through keys. She sees my face.
“No.”
“What?”
“I don’t want to know.”
“You came here.”
“For the board packet.”
She points toward a stack on my dining table. Then sees the second mug. Caleb’s. Unwashed.
Her eyes travel slowly toward the hallway. I say, “Don’t.”
“I have said nothing.”
“Your face has filed three reports.”
She picks up the packet.
“Was he here?”
“Yes.”
“All night?”
I stare. Tessa presses her lips together.
“Right. Not my business.”
“That has never stopped you.”
“No, but personal growth is contagious.”
I sit at the table. She does not move.
“What?”
The humor disappears.
“There is something else.”
I know before she speaks. Not the anonymous sender. Something worse because her eyes keep avoiding mine.
“What?”
She opens the board packet to a page that has nothing to do with the board. A charitable giving ledger. Eight months ago. Ward Meridian Foundation.
A preservation fund. The same fund whose independent committee gave Caleb the fellowship that paid for three months of his studio’s operating costs. My stomach drops.
“I know.”
Tessa looks at me.
“You knew?”
“I knew we funded the organization.”
“You knew before he won.”
“Yes.”
“Did you influence the committee?”
“No.”
“Did you contact anyone?”
“No.”
“Did you increase the donation because he applied?”
I say nothing. Tessa closes the packet.
“Helena.”
“The fund had been on our giving list for years.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“No.”
My own language returned to me. I hate it.
“I increased the contribution.”
“How much?”
I tell her. Her face changes.
“That is not small.”
“To Ward Meridian, it is.”
“Not to him.”
“No.”
She sits across from me.
“Does Caleb know?”
“No.”
“Does he know you knew he applied?”
I look at the table.
“No.”
Tessa exhales slowly.
“You have to tell him.”
“I will.”
“When?”
“After tomorrow.”
Her expression hardens.
“No.”
“I have the financing hearing tomorrow morning.”
“That has nothing to do with him.”
“It has everything to do with whether the Halden restructuring survives.”
“Then tell him tonight.”
“I am not doing this before a hearing that determines—”
“You are doing it again.”
The sentence cuts. I look at her.
“Doing what?”
“Choosing the time he gets information based on what is convenient for you.”
“It is not convenience.”
“It is control.”
My back stiffens. Tessa does not retreat.
“He gave you a location this morning.”
My eyes flick toward the phone. She saw. Of course she did.
“That is unrelated.”
“No. It isn’t.”
“It is not the same.”
“He is giving you something voluntarily because you told him you would stop taking things without asking.”
“I have not taken anything.”
“You are holding something.”
Silence. I hate her. Not really. That would be easier.
“I need tomorrow’s hearing clean.”
“Then tell him now.”
“He has a jobsite.”
“He will have a jobsite tomorrow. And the day after.”
I stand. Tessa watches me cross to the windows. The Halden is visible. I do not find Caleb’s window.
I find the building as a whole. That should count for something. It does not.
“I did not buy his award.”
“No.”
“The committee was independent.”
“Yes.”
“He would probably have won anyway.”
Tessa says nothing. That is worse.
“He deserved it.”
“I am sure he did.”
I turn.
“Then what exactly am I confessing?”
“That when something mattered to him, you put your money near it without telling him.”
The sentence lands. I look at the phone again. A location he gave me. A thing offered.
Not taken. Tessa stands.
“Tell him before somebody else does.”
She leaves with the board packet. I remain by the windows. At ten thirty-seven, Caleb sends a photograph. A restored cornice.
No message. Just the detail. Stone cleaned enough to reveal carving beneath decades of grime. I know what he means.
He wants me to see it. That simple fact makes the secret feel heavier. I call him. The phone rings.
Once. Twice. Three times. Then voicemail.
I could leave a message. I do not want this in voicemail. I text:
Call me when you are free. I need to tell you something.
The dots never appear. At noon, counsel calls about tomorrow’s hearing. At one, the board chair wants revised projections. At three, Rosa sends a complaint about contractor parking.
At five, Caleb replies.
Long day. Can we talk tomorrow after your hearing? Mason told me about it.
I stare at the screen. He is giving me the delay I wanted without knowing why. I should say no. Call now.
Tell him. Instead I type:
Yes. After the hearing.
The message sends. My stomach turns. I tell myself I am not lying. That may be the ugliest part.