Chapter 9 - The Ruin of Gavin Mercer
The rain in late April was different from the storms of Maine.
It was warm, greasy, and smelled of exhaust fumes and wet asphalt as it fell over the steps of the New York State Supreme Court.
Gavin Mercer stood on the granite landing, his coat collar pulled up against the drizzle.
His lawyer had left twenty minutes ago, after informing him that his legal fees were no longer covered by the defunct corporate insurance policy and that his remaining options were limited to a negotiated plea with the federal prosecutors: forty-eight months at the minimum-security facility in Otisville, restitution of twenty-four million dollars, and the permanent revocation of his commercial general contractor’s license.
Across the street, parked beside the small park in Foley Square, a black town car waited with its motor idling.
Gavin watched through the rain as the rear door opened.
Marcus Vance stepped out, holding a large, black umbrella over Claire, who carried a small bundle wrapped in an ivory wool blanket against her chest.
Gavin’s legs moved before his brain could stop them.
He stumbled down the courthouse steps, his worn leather soles slipping on the wet granite, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. He ran across the four lanes of traffic, ignoring the blare of taxi horns and the curses of bike messengers, until he collapsed against the rear fender of the town car.
"Claire," he wheezed, his fingers clawing at the rain-slicked window. "Claire, please. Just five minutes. Just let me see her."
The driver stepped forward, his hand moving under his suit jacket toward his holster, but Claire raised one hand through the half-lowered glass, stopping him.
The window descended three inches.
The scent that drifted out was not Milan perfume or vintage gin. It was the smell of clean lavender, warm milk, and safety.
Gavin pressed his wet face to the opening. "Claire... I’m going to prison. Do you understand? Patterson threw me to the wolves. Lila turned state's evidence this morning. They're taking everything. I don't have five hundred dollars in a checking account."
Claire looked through the glass at him. Her face was serene, framed by the dark wool of her hood.
"I know," she said.
"I built that company with you!" Gavin sobbed, tears cutting clean channels through the grime on his cheeks. "We had eleven years, Claire! Eleven years! How can you look at me like I’m a stranger?"
"Because you were," Claire said gently. "For eleven years, you were a stranger who lived in my father’s house and used my mother’s name to build your monuments. I just took too long to read the balance sheet."
From within the wool blanket, little Beatrice let out a small, soft murmur, her dark eyes blinking open in the shadow of the town car's interior.
Gavin looked down at the tiny, round face. His breath caught. For one brief, terrifying second, the realization of what he had thrown away pierced through the thick, calcified armor of his narcissism—not the billions, not the towers, not the magazine covers, but the flesh of his flesh, looking at him with total, unblinking unfamiliarity.
"What's her name?" he whispered, his hand trembling as he reached toward the glass.
Claire pulled the blanket slightly closer, shielding the child from the cold draft of the New York street.
"Her name is Beatrice," Claire said. "And she is going home."
"Claire—"
"Roll up the window, Marcus," Claire said softly.
The tinted glass slid upward with a quiet, smooth seal, cutting off the sound of Gavin Mercer’s voice, the sound of the horns, and the sound of the rain.
The town car pulled away from the curb, its tires hissing softly against the wet pavement as it turned north, toward the open highway, toward the pines, and toward the sea.
May you like
In the rearview mirror, Gavin Mercer shrank until he was nothing more than a dark, sodden speck standing alone on the vast expanse of gray concrete, while the world he thought he owned moved on without noticing he was gone.
***
