Scott Nicholson - Disintegration

"It's a little chilly in here," Joshua said. He pulled a couple of thin books from the nearest shelf. "Hemingway. Dad's favorite writer. I think we ought to build a fire."

Jacob sat in a Queen Anne chair, a piece of furniture not designed for comfort. If the foyer was a hallway into the past of the entire Wells family, this room was solely his mother's, stiff and formal and brutal, as severe as a prison cell. Jacob had rarely spent time here during his childhood, and he perched on the edge of the chair as if expecting his dead mother to clatter around the corner, cane-first, and shout at him not to disturb anything. He breathed shallowly, afraid even to stir the air too much.

Joshua stooped and opened one of the volumes to the front pages. "First edition, what do you know?"

He tossed the books onto the log irons, where they lay like clumsy giant moths with paper wings. He pulled out his lighter. "Welcome home, Jake."

He flicked the flint wheel and stared into the dancing flame. The flame touched the brown pages and burst into brighter life, sending shadows crawling along the curtains. Joshua grinned, his eyes sparkling with the reflected fire. He echoed familiar words, written words:

"Hope you like the housewarming present."

Donald Meekins was definitely avoiding her.

Renee looked at her watch. She'd been waiting for twenty minutes in the little room with Jeffrey Snow, who sat at his desk and occasionally looked at her over his computer. Jeffrey was fresh out of college and had been hired by M amp; W Ventures after the previous office manager had been caught kneeling under Donald's desk by none other than Mrs. Meekins. Jeffrey was as far from blonde and bouncy as they came, with a weak chin and faded gray eyes, and his name wasn't Staci and he didn't sign his name with a little heart over the letter I. He had just the proper amount of stern bookishness to cow tenants who were behind on the rent and enough equanimity to divert those who clamored for repairs or a new paint job.

"Can I knock?" she asked Jeffrey.

"He's on an important phone call. Long distance."

"I see. Has Jacob been by?"

"Mr. Wells?" Jeffrey looked around the office as if expecting to see him in one of the chairs by the rubber tree. "I haven't seen him, ma'am."

"This week?"

"Not since the accid-" Jeffrey pulled at his tie as if it were cutting off the oxygen to his brain. "Not since March."

"He got my message, so he must have come by at least once."

"He still has a key."

"I guess things are a mess around here. I know Jacob and Donald were in the middle of a big land deal west of town. The way the economy's going, you can't afford to sit on anything."

Jeffrey tapped at the keyboard as if randomly plugging in numbers to escape her. "I wouldn't know about that, ma'am. I only keep track of the leases."

"I like Ivy Terrace. Easy to keep clean."

"Yes, ma'am. And Donald paid you up three months ahead. That qualifies you for a five percent discount if you renew."

"We'll be building another house soon," she lied. "When we get things straightened out."

Renee stood and arched her back, stiff from the long wait. She looked at the telephone on Jeffrey's desk. There were three lines in the system, each with a red indicator light. One line each for Donald and Jacob, and one line for Jeffrey. None of them were lit.

Renee picked up her purse from the floor beside her chair. Jeffrey did a bad job of hiding his relief at her leaving. "Tell Donald I'll give him a call later," she said.

"Certainly, Mrs. Wells."

Renee waited for Jeffrey's attention to return to the computer screen, and then she marched past him, twisted the knob to Donald's office, and flung the door open. Donald was behind the saltwater aquarium looking at the miniature undersea world, his face distorted by water and glass. The fish moved in darting patterns of color, nervous in their narrow world.

"Bring any bait?" Donald asked.

"No. Just some dynamite."

The light in the room was soft, the furnishings heavy and dark against walls of paneled walnut. Donald had built his environment to match his personality. Aside from the fish, the only bold color in the office was the plaid upholstery in the wooden case that held a clutch of dusty golf trophies. Along the rear wall was a bookshelf that was bare except for some piles of loose papers. A filing cabinet beside the desk looked as if it had been placed there for effect instead of utility. Donald came around the aquarium and approached Renee with the slow steps of a condemned man climbing the scaffold.

Renee searched his eyes for any sign of emotion. She hadn't seen him since the funeral. She wondered if he knew about Jacob's history of mental illness or if Warren Wells had cleaned up that mess along with all the others.

Donald smiled, his face tanned to health club perfection, the several rows of deep wrinkles on his forehead giving him the appearance of concern. His hair was shoe-polish black and he resembled an overgrown ventriloquist's dummy. "How's it going?"

"Oh, you know." She didn't want to cry here. She wouldn't think of Mattie or Christine. Not this time. Not now. Not unless she had to.

"Jacob loved her so much. This must be killing him."

"You've talked to him, then?"

"No. I've been trying to reach him. He won't return my calls. I can't reach him on the cell and he didn't give me the number of your new place."

"You haven't seen him?" She watched his face. He was a businessman, a speculator, an adulterer. A proven liar, and good at it.

"Of course, I expect him to take some time to recover, get through this at his own speed. But we need a plan to tide things over until then. We've got some big deals hanging in the balance."

She couldn't reconcile her image of Donald with the man who'd nearly wrecked his own marriage through a foolish affair. He seemed as cold and passionless as his fish. Jacob said Donald was an asset to the company, though, a partner who knew which palms had to be greased to push a deal through. This metaphorical grease seemed to cling to his skin, and probably left him slick under the folds of his expensive but drab suit.

"Jacob told me to touch base for him. I thought he'd been in a couple of times." The walls seemed to close in on Renee. She had left the office door open and thought about making an escape. But this job wouldn't be finished until the final nail was driven in the coffin.

Donald glanced at the door and lowered his voice. "Do you trust your husband?"

"He's my husband."

"I don't know how much he tells you-"

"We're partners, Donald. I make deposits for him."

"Okay, then," Donald said, slipping into his smarmy business manner. "You know we'll lose our purchase option if we don't make the second payment on the Martin property. And we've got a couple of contractors breathing down our necks for some major past dues. I know this has been devastating, but I'd hate to see Jacob lose everything his father worked for."

Renee stared at Donald, whose eyes were watery and narrow. "He'll come through. He's a Wells."

"I know, 'A Wells never fails,' but-"

He glanced at the door again, went silently past Renee and closed it. Then he faced her, wearing what she imagined was the same grave expression he used when pleading for a zoning variance before a municipal planning board. "I've been worried about him. Ever since Christine died, maybe even before that, he was taking too many chances, overreaching and gambling. The real estate market's way too soft for the moves he was making, especially in commercial development. I don't know how much he told you, but when he went into his funk after Christine died, the company nearly collapsed."

All she had done, all the sacrifices she'd made, were for Jacob Wells and their future together. This wasn't the plan. She'd been bailing a leaky boat and hadn't known it. As with the Titanic, there hadn't been enough life preservers to go around.