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John didn’t tell Cassandra the day of the crash.
By seven in the evening of the second day after ground zero, he was exhausted. He knew he had to go home and tell Cassandra what had happened. He wasn’t too sure how she was going to react.
He limped from his office to the apartment, a Princeton intramural rugby injury to his right knee flaring with pain.
“Bonsoir, monsieur,” said the elderly porter, short, wide of girth, and hoping against hope for a tip. He had no wine to go with his dinner.
“Evening,” John said, nodding in his direction to acknowledge him but not seeing the man. He dragged himself up the stairs to the apartment.
“Kids, we have a problem,” John called as he opened the door.
He was met with silence.
“Hello? Where is everyone? Cassandra, I have to talk to you.”
He found her in the kitchen.
“Why didn’t you answer when I called?” he asked.
“I knew you’d find me,” she said casually.
The cook had roasted a chicken with sprigs of rosemary and slices of lemon under the skin of the breast. The kitchen smelled wonderful. That was another thing they could save money on—lay off the cook and the housekeeper.
Cassandra sliced the chicken breast, taking one slice for her and putting three on the Royal Danica for John. A bit of blette—Swiss chard—and she put both plates on the kitchen table.
“Thanks, honey,” John said and sat. His stomach suddenly tightened at the sight of the food. “I’m not sure I can eat.”
“So what’s wrong?” Cassandra cut the tiniest bite that any human possibly could. She lifted it slowly to her mouth.
“In a few words—darling—the bottom has fallen out. Most of our investments—they did so brilliantly for months—suddenly tanked on a bit of news that I couldn’t have foreseen.”
“What?” Cassandra’s blue eyes were riveted on him.
“We’re not rich anymore. I’m afraid we have to sell some things.”
“What things?”
“I’d like to sell—we need to sell—the Greenwich mansion. I’m sorry, Cass, I know you love that place.”
She put her knife and fork on her plate.
“I can’t believe it!”
“Well, it’s true. I spent hours yesterday assessing what we could do, what kind of life we’ll have. I’m afraid we have to fire the cook and housekeeper, and I have to ask you to stop shopping. We simply can’t afford it.”
Cassandra stared.
“I’ll regroup, I’ll build the business again. Don’t worry, we’ll be on top of the world again in no time.”
“Well, let’s not be hasty. I’m not going to fire the help just yet.”
“I need you to do it tomorrow. Pay them to the end of next week. That’s 10 days’ severance pay. That’s the best I can do.”
“Slow down, just a minute!
“Really, we have to economize. We have to make do for a while, like the rest of the world. Believe me, Cass, I don’t like it any more than you do.”
“I don’t want to be the one making all the sacrifices!”
“I’m selling all the cars, the motorcycles, the Gull in Greenwich—”
“And if I know you, you’re keeping the Grey Skies!”
“It’s the one thing—”
“Of course, you get to keep your toys, but you expect me to —”
“I’m selling everything but the Grey Skies, just until I see how things work out.”
“What do you need a boat for?”
“You gotta have a boat.”
“Well, I gotta have my gym, my cook and my housekeeper. Lunch out. That’s minimum. All my friends have that—and more.”
“And we will again, Cass. Let’s call it quits for the night. Come on, give your old man a hug.”
Cassandra and John stood, and he gathered her into his arms. She didn’t snuggle into him, she just stood there, didn’t contribute.
“I’ll start again. We’ll be flush again soon,” he said. “Just stop using the credit cards.”
She pulled out of the embrace, gave him a skeptical glance, and left the room.
