A front had pushed through in the afternoon, blowing away all the haze and humidity, making it cool enough for dinner outdoors. I set the round glass table on the terrace, choosing woven mats, bright blue linen napkins, and blue-colored Mexican wine glasses, whose rustic appearance added to the casual, summery nature of the setting. I surrounded the three hurricane lamps in the center of the table with heaps of lemons and limes set on a bed of fresh lemon leaves. Effie was busy in the kitchen, seasoning and breading a pile of soft-shelled Eastern Shore crabs, which she laid out on parchment-lined cookie sheets ready for baking. Small gorgonzola cheese soufflé appetizers were set to go into the oven.
“Town Market says the bill has to be paid,” Effie said tersely. Her false teeth clicked. “Hasn’t been paid for over a month.”
“You and Scully must have eaten a lot while we were gone because we haven’t been here for almost a month.”
“Two weeks,” she snapped.
“Whatever. Tell him to keep his trousers on. He’ll be paid, he always is.”
I set dishes of olives and cashews on a small cocktail table down by the stone wall, got the drinks table stocked, and arranged a chaise for Madam.
Then I put on my bathing suit and went upstairs to give her her bath. I accomplished this by wrapping a large plastic trash bag over her leg and sitting her down on a stool in the shower, at which point I would turn away and she would pass her towel out through the door. The swimming trunks were in case of an emergency.
“What’s for dinner?” she called over the running water. The scent of her new rosemary scrub made the air tingle deliciously
“Effie got soft-shells. They look excellent.”
“Is Junior up yet?”
“Yes, Madam. He showered a while ago and I believe he’s taking a walk. I saw him down by the studio.” I turned on the blender to make her espresso ice cream shake. I didn’t want to talk about Junior. I had spent the entire afternoon getting myself worked into a state about Junior Hammond—Watch your mouth, boy … I’m going to get you fired … you little fairy—and felt I might lose my composure with only the slightest provocation.
“He really is a nice man, isn’t he? I feel kind of sorry for him.”
I kept my back to her.
“Can you hear me, Nigel? I said, he really is a nice man.” She turned off the water and I handed in her towel.
“Madam, I am not normally so blunt with you, as you know. But I feel I must speak my mind. I have a very bad feeling about Junior Hammond. I think you should send him away after dinner and never see him again. I know you’re as worried about the taxes as I am, but our life has been in a tailspin ever since we first came in contact with the Hammonds in December. I think you should get a tax lawyer to make some kind of deal for you with the IRS— it’s done all the time—go back to work, and then you should just get on with your life.”
“I know you’re right. I just don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
What could I say? I don’t know what’s wrong with you, either, but I’m getting tired of it?
“Let me put it into perspective for you,” she said.
I poured the shake into a frosted glass and stuck in a straw.
“Maybe this will make it easier: I have not worked for over a month and, unfortunately, because of my leg, I won’t be able to work for at least six more weeks, and then I’ll have to start with physical therapy. My leg will be very weak, so I’ll only be able to work for a couple of hours a day, and you know I can’t get anywhere on two hours a day. So now we’re into September. It’s only June and the bank account is almost empty. Effie is having a nervous breakdown about the grocery bill and promised it would be paid—we’re talking basic survival, Nigel. Food. We’re getting dangerously close to the bottom of the money barrel. It’s possible we can make it through the summer, but only if we budget very carefully. And you know me, I’ve never been on a budget in my life and I’m scared to death.”
I didn’t respond.
“So you tell me. What would you do?”
Junior looked much healthier when he came down to dinner. He’d put on a clean shirt and fresh tie and washed and combed his hair. While he was asleep, Effie had gone through his suitcase and steamed and pressed his clothes, so his light gabardine slacks and navy double-breasted blazer, bespoke from his London tailor, looked sharp. I could have made an entire suit for myself out of the fabric in one of his pant legs. Madam put on a black cotton shift, and if it weren’t for the crutches, you would never have known there was anything wrong.
She and Junior played gin rummy and drank martinis. One thing I’ll say to his credit, she was very relaxed when he was around because it was almost like having an adoring older brother—she could do no wrong.
“What’s up for you this week?” He crunched up a crab. Bread crumbs covered his chin and Tabasco had splattered on his snow-white shirt front. His tie, a scarlet linen Charvet, was so full of spots it was going to be a complete write-off.
“I’m going to sell the Andromeda.”
Madam had brass.
“You’re kidding me.”
Madam shook her head.
“What on earth for? That’s your legacy.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t have any choice. I’ve been living it up a little too much for the last ten or fifteen years, and the IRS—which has zero sense of humor—feels they’ve gotten the short end of the stick. I have to pay by the end of June or the party’s over.”
“How short do they think they are?”
“About a million.”
“You’re going to sell a twenty-million-dollar painting to settle a million-dollar-tax bill? By the time you’ve paid the IRS and the capital gains, you’ll only net about eight mil out of a twenty-million-dollar asset. Where’re you getting your advice? From your horoscope?”
“Well, I’m not actually getting any advice. Armand was going to pay the taxes, but we all know what a jerk he turned out to be.”
Junior laughed. “Some of us already knew what he was. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Don’t even think about selling Andromeda to pay off Uncle Sam.”
“That’s easy for you to say. I have to do something.”
“Yeah, but that’s such a girly approach.”
“Well, I am a girly,” Madam laughed.
“You can say that again.” Junior took his checkbook out of his pocket. “Exactly how much do you owe the government?”
Madam seemed to balk. “Well, by the end of June, with the penalties and interest, it’ll come to one million, two hundred and seventy-two thousand, eight hundred and twenty-six dollars and thirty-one cents.”
He wrote out the check, payable to the IRS, tore it out of his book, and handed it to me. “Take care of it, Nigel.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now, that’s the end of that subject.” Junior muffled a burp with his napkin. “Are there any more crabs?”
Talk about letting the camel get its nose under the tent.