White Elephant Read online

  Just then the main door opened and in came a very tired-looking Henry. Barely glancing their way, he took the shortcut through the kitchen to his office.

  Henry

  God, the brightness of the office hurt Henry’s eyes. Between the white walls—the white everything—and the sheets of snow coming down beyond the windows, it was blinding. Squinting, he could see Claudine at the far end, their tortured employees surrounding her. He felt sorry for them, which was a relatively new feeling. He used to think of them as the glue that kept the agency together, but recently he could only thank god his office was as far as possible from whatever terrible meeting was happening. From her. He couldn’t bear to hear whatever orders they were receiving or her instructions on proper manipulation tactics. In his brief glance, it felt like he was looking through a long tube, him on one side, and all of them smaller and trapped on the other.

  He never used to see it, how every word out of Claudine’s mouth was in service of her own agenda. Now it was all he saw. Yes, there was more financial stress than ever, but to actually take the listing for Montague House changed everything. They were supposed to never look back. Little truths were piling up, throwing him off-balance. They’d been a team for so long. But had she always been like this? He knew that when you’re as close as they were, working together, living together, it can be hard to recognize change. Was it possible he’d never seen who she was?

  The hard reality was that they were in one of those stretches that happens in any long marriage. They were on different frequencies, but eventually they’d find each other. They always did. Although today he was glad her office was on the other side of the floor. A key decision he made last year when they’d remodeled—separate heads of the table. Keeping watch from each end. At least, he had thought he believed that; now he wondered if subconsciously he was creating a necessary distance between them—space to be himself.

  Sliding off his Sorrels, he put them on the shoe rack inside the door and put on his work slippers. Then, before anyone could call him over, he took a sharp right, cutting through the kitchen, down the hall, to the safety of his office.

  Door closed.

  Blinds closed.

  His phone chirped.

  Glad u r back. Feeling better?

  Jules. Always so thoughtful. It was barely a secret she had a crush on him. He wasn’t going to overanalyze a bright spot in his day, but he knew to be careful. There was a need to make sure that nothing he said or did could be twisted or misunderstood. Also, he wasn’t Steve. Jules was safe, and honest. It was fine if her extra attention made him feel better. She was so unlike Claudine. For one thing, she made him laugh. It wasn’t his style to form a crush on an employee, and he wasn’t going to start now. But he could indulge just enough. Who knew, maybe he was wrong about the way she felt? Maybe she only liked him as a friend, and he was so out of touch, having been married so long, he had no idea what that looked like. On top of everything else, there was no way he’d set himself up for rejection and embarrassment. He walked around with enough shame. But it didn’t stop him from spending as much time as he could with her.

  It was hard to believe that Jules had worked there only a few months, she kept the place running. The yoga community’s loss was Calhoun + Calhoun’s gain. Jules told him that she liked having coworkers, the feeling of comradery so different than her usual role of teacher-pupil. It was good to feel connected, in the trenches with everyone, even if her contributions were currently small. She could see a day where she did more, became important.

  In recent weeks she and Henry had been staying at the office late, working long into the evening. It was under the auspices of putting more hours into the new property the Flynns had been interested in, but it was obvious they just enjoyed each other’s company. For Henry, her lightness was a welcome respite from the intensity Claudine brought to any room she occupied. They’d order takeout, burgers from 520 Grill, and talk about anything but work. Henry would tell her about recent Scandinavian buildings that caught his eye. He admired their unique way of blending energy efficiency with an emphasis on the importance of nature in design. She’d talk about the books she was reading, how she liked to alternate between classics and thrillers. It felt comfortable and familiar as they cycled through subjects, big and small. Who made the best ski pants. The definition of happiness. Are Doritos better than Cheetos. What about Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. Their conversations rolled like a taffy machine, stretching out long and colorful, then folding over and over again until they were all one.

  They became close in a way that not even they could articulate. In all these years, it was the nearest Henry had ever come to wanting to tell someone his secret. He’d tease the thought out all the way until the breath before he was going to do it, always stopping short when it came time to form the words. Where would he even start? No. Not ever. Especially not Jules. This wasn’t the way to do it. To relieve the symptoms he’d been feeling. The tightness. The pressure. It was as if someone had him by both shoulders, pressing down from above, crushing him like a boot on an empty aluminum beer can. It’d been years since he’d been this tempted to have a drink. His current state was unsustainable.

  A light rapping on the office door. Jules cracked it open.

  “Hey,” she said. “Thought I’d check on you in person. You okay?”

  “Just tired. Not exactly in a Christmas party mood.”

  “Holiday party,” she corrected. “We run an inclusive shop here. Wouldn’t want to offend a potential client.”

  “You learn fast.”

  Jules tucked her hair behind her ears, a nervous habit. It was only then that he noticed her dress. He was confused and a little startled.

  “Why are there skulls all over your dress?” he asked her. There were dozens of them. Hundreds. Little tiny skeletons. All just staring at him. He heard them giggle then realized it was Jules.

  “Skulls?” she said. “These are snowflakes.”

  God, Henry thought. Pull it together. Pull it the fuck together. He forced a fake laugh.

  “Guess I’m due for a trip to the eye doctor.”

  “Look, I understand what’s going on,” Jules said.

  “No,” Henry said. “I don’t think you do.”

  “You’re nervous about going back to the house.”

  Henry was instantly flooded with terror. How could she know? In one of their late-night office conversations, had he slipped up and told her and somehow forgot? It wouldn’t have been the first time he forgot something so monumental and life altering. Although what was his excuse in this case, without booze?

  “You’re worried about seeing your first house. That you’re going to be disappointed by it. And that when faced with all the time that has passed since… you’ll feel old. Skulls? I’m no psychologist, but it seems pretty easy to guess what that means.”

  Henry laughed, relieved. Yet what she said made a lot of sense. She was wise, not just smart.

  “I, for one, am excited,” she said. “I can’t wait to see the house, Henry.” She rarely said his name, and he felt a small thrill. “I’ve heard so much about it, driven past it, seen all the pictures. I’m sure they don’t do it justice. I’m so grateful to have the chance.”

  And he was grateful she would be there. Buoyed by her presence and her enthusiasm, he might be able to get through this night.

  He would do everything that Claudine wanted. He would smile. He would lead Zara on a tour, pointing out unique attributes of the house. As he had done so many times over the years, he would play the brilliant architect for the night. And then tomorrow he would quit. How hard could it be to pretend everything was fine for, what, a couple hours? Make Claudine happy. Sell the house. Sell it and never, ever, ever, ever think of it again. It was a good plan. It was the only plan.

  “I also can’t wait to see your White Elephant gift,” Jules said. “I bet it’s lavish.”

  “Don’t say ‘lavish,’ ” Henry said. “That’s a Claudine word.”
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  Jules smiled but then stopped. Henry wasn’t kidding. There was a severe look on his face. He didn’t want any part of Claudine rubbing off on Jules.

  “Well, I think my gift is going to cause quite a stir,” Jules said. “It’s been a work in progress almost since I started here. But I landed on something extraordinary. Alice and Natalie were telling me horror stories from the last few years. How people who brought underwhelming gifts weren’t around much longer after that. That’s why I put so much thought into it. I wanted to be sure I stood out.”

  You always stand out, Jules. That’s what he wanted to say. Why couldn’t he? Why couldn’t he be that bold? He had walked to the very edge of wherever that imaginary line is drawn between harmless flirtation and pointed seduction. Why couldn’t he step across it?

  “Claudine,” Henry said. “She probably needs you. I’ll see you over at Montague House.”

  Jules smiled and closed the door on the way out.

  Soon, when he wasn’t at the Miller property, he’d be at the diner. Sitting in a back booth while I worked, drinking coffee. Loved books. Always reading someone’s memoir. He’d tell me he liked reading about great lives, since the one he was living was so small. See, he had this whole interior life. If everything hadn’t happened, there would have been a lifetime of adventures and discoveries. But he wasn’t always so heavy. There was a playful side. He made his own bookmarks from pressed flowers, partial to the wild Aspen sunflowers and hillsides full of purple lupines that blanket Buttermilk.

  We made the most of our time, and it makes me smile even now to think of him. This is the way I choose to remember him. I need you to know they were good memories. He took me fly-fishing, on picnics. Sometimes we would just lay a blanket down near Mr. Miller’s cabin and take in the view. I’d lived here my entire life and didn’t know the place existed! It was gorgeous. You could see a perfect sunset, the whole sky glowing pink and red. The world was on fire.

  I’ve told you how he died. A logging truck collision on the back road.

  That is a lie. That’s not how he died at all. Forgive me. The truth is much harder to comprehend. Much harder to live with.

  Zara

  As we rode in from the airport, I realized Aspen was like a perfect toy town, nestled in the mountains. Trees wrapped with lights, branches heavy with snow that looked like frosting. Regal horse-drawn carriages, giant red bows tied around lampposts, people standing at bus stops with their skis. Holiday perfection.

  Dave sat up front next to the driver, Pip and I buckled safely in the back seat as we cruised down Main Street. With the weather what it was, it was a smart move having a local driver. Besides, he could call out some fun history along the way. Over there’s where silver was first discovered. Right there is where the army trained skiing soldiers for World War II, the 10th Mountain Division. Had I heard of Jerome Wheeler? Aspen’s original developer. He built tons of things, like the opera house and our destination, the Hotel Jerome. I didn’t care about any of that. There was only one place I wanted to see.

  “Where’s the courthouse?” I asked.

  Burned in my mind was that picture of Claudine Longet and Andy Williams, miracle ex-husband, walking down the sidewalk, up the steps, a united front. Proof that the only thing that ever mattered happened in the present tense. No one would have blamed him if Andy’d just like stayed in L.A. or wherever he was. But he flew in right away. To be with her. With the kids. They were the picture of solidarity. Her high boots, the double-breasted fitted coat, those gloves. It was everything. Andy held her hand every day as they walked into her murder trial. Pure class.

  The driver pulled up in front of the building.

  “Take a close look at the statue perched above the main doors,” he said. “Notice anything strange?”

  I stared at it for a few seconds. I was terrible at puzzles like this. Always hated Where’s Waldo? I shook my head no.

  “Lady Justice is usually blindfolded. Here she isn’t. Makes sense when you think about Aspen. We’ve never had blind justice. No such thing as being impartial. Don’t let all these fancy shops and famous people fool you. Always has been and always will be the Wild West.”

  I got out of the car and walked to the front of the courthouse. There were nine steps up to the main doors. I climbed them trying to imagine what it must’ve felt like for Claudine back then, wondering if being there gave me more clarity about whether or not she did it. Even after reading so much about the case, I honestly wasn’t sure. Did Claudine shoot Spider accidentally or intentionally? With the snow floating down around me, I still had no idea.

  I got back in the car and we drove down the block to the Hotel Jerome. They were on the same street.

  “You picked the right hotel,” the driver said. “Sure, some people like the other hotels here—the St. Regis, Little Nell—but there’s only one that has it all. History, celebrity, luxury. From the very beginning. Can you imagine it’s been here since 1889? This hotel has seen everything. Prospered during the boom, survived the silver crash, the Depression. The revival. All the revivals. Owners have changed hands more times than I can count. If there’s one certainty in Aspen, it’s uncertainty. Not much thrives on consistency; it’s reinvention. Adaptation. That’s good news for you. These days, it’s fit for a queen.”

  When Pip and I walked into the lobby, we knew he was right.

  I always love this story I once heard about one of those old queens of England. She wants to know what life is like as an ordinary girl. So she steals clothes from one of her servants’ children and runs out of the palace into the countryside. Soon she comes upon another little girl around her same age. They spend the afternoon together, racing each other through the fields and picking flowers and chasing bunny rabbits. Eventually they sit down on a rock wall to catch their breath. A cool breeze brushes the little queen’s hair from her face, her cheeks rosy from so much running. A frog hops by.

  Then the girl says to the queen, “If you could be anything in the world when you grow up, what would you be?”

  The queen looks around. Here they are in the countryside. It’s so pleasant. So peaceful. The girl’s house is in the distance, at the bottom of a sloping hill. It has a fat thatched roof, and the homemade lace curtains flutter in the breeze. A curl of thin smoke rising from the chimney. The girl’s father and mother are surely tucked inside, dinner being prepared, a peaceful night ahead. The girl looks proud as she watches the little queen’s face take in all that is her life.

  Then the little queen turns to her and says, “I want to be the fucking queen of England.”

  With that, she pops off that rock wall and skips her way back to the palace.

  I know that feeling. The temporary confusion of being famous but wanting to be regular. This is what it’s like to be a celebrity. Sure, there are some downsides. Paparazzi. Stalkers. Careless fashion bloggers. It’s all worth it. Any famous person who says they wish they weren’t is full of shit. Our lives are easy. Drivers, trainers, stylists, personal chefs. We don’t have to lift a finger. Walking into the Hotel Jerome was no different. Porters took my bags and the concierge whisked me into the barroom, where the bartender was already pouring my gimlet. I sat close to the fireplace beneath a distorted painting depicting two men in darkness, lit only by the campfire or lantern or whatever. A portrait of roughing it hanging in the middle of all that elegance. And I thought, they must have been here a million times. Claudine Longet and good ol’ Andy, popping over for a post-court drink. In the old days people were always doing things like that.

  I sipped my gimlet and the warmth from the fire felt nice. Then I scooped Pip up and headed to my room. It was time to dress for the party. Getting ready is always my favorite part. I like to take my time. Crank the music, do my own makeup. I was going to look good, I knew I brought a killer outfit.

  Claudine

  The moment she stepped into the massive foyer, she knew the night would be unforgettable. They would sell this house to Zara. She was su
re of it.

  Unlike Henry, Claudine had decided she was looking forward to seeing Montague House again. It felt like a necessary pilgrimage. Everyone always credited him for the brilliant design, but it wouldn’t even be there if it wasn’t for her. It didn’t used to bother her, that no one knew she was the one who had made it happen. Secured the land, convinced the banks, pushed him to get over the nastiness of the acquisition, so he could use his talents to their full extent and create something unforgettable. None of it would have been possible without her.

  The first time he took her up to see the view, all those years ago, she knew her future, their future, and the property would be linked. It was one of the only remaining lots that rested in the high planes on a plateau jutting out from the mountain, devastating views of the Rockies in all directions. Yes, what had happened was unfortunate, but the history of the West was full of more brutal dealings than this. The point was they left the world more beautiful than they found it by building the crown jewel of Aspen.

  It was exciting, as first projects often are, and they’d been meticulous in every stage of planning. Claudine had it sold before it was finished to a couple who, she realized, were probably the same age as she and Henry were now. The Lions, a perfect last name for who they were—she a supermarket heiress, he a movie producer. They were glamorous, the ideal buyers for her first sale. They’d kept in touch over the years, had sent clients their way, which was so important when just launching a business. But now the Lions found the winters too hard; they were too old and forced to seek asylum in Scottsdale. Claudine had been their first call. They remembered how smart she was, that she’d been a ferocious negotiator when they bought the house from her. The Lions insisted she take the listing. She’d found the perfect owners once; she could do it again.

  The Lions’ taste in furniture was classic Colorado. Rustic but not shabby. Cozy but not casual. An abundance of leather. Claudine chose just enough pieces that tonight’s guests would have a place to sit, that the gifts would have a grand table to be displayed, then had the rest of the first-floor furniture put away in upstairs bedrooms.