Kristmas Collins Read online

  Maybe I was being paranoid, but Taylor noticed it too, and said, “I guess ‘Jailhouse Rock’ woulda been too obvious.”

  I would have taken pleasure in my entrance creating one of those moments where the crowd froze in horror, and a hush came over the room. But most of the guests were too distracted by their revelry … and alcohol … to notice.

  I did spot a couple of my former brothers-in-law with their bra-bursting second wives, who were trying to put the ho, ho, ho back into Christmas. The rest of the guests appeared to be the usual hodgepodge of old, money, and old money. Despite reports of it being a “down” year for Wainwright & Lennox, which was connected to the lingering martyrdom from the Kerstman debacle, there was no evidence of it in this room.

  W&L is an investment bank that dates back to the Civil War. It holds a pristine reputation in the world of high finance. Mainly because its reviews had always been written by the clients they’d made gobs of money for.

  The investors, the ones who were often bilked by the fraudulent IPOs that W&L underwrote, had another tale to tell—and likely didn’t have a lot of sympathy for them. Sometimes the manipulation of share prices was achieved with techniques like “laddering,” while other times it was good old-fashioned extortion and bribery. None of which came up in those glowing reviews.

  But what everyone could agree on was that W&L had an amazing knack for being able to position itself to profit from—and some would say, help fuel—many of the biggest economic bubbles of the past century, from the stock market crash of 1929 to the tech bubble of the 90s, and the most recent housing crisis. Must be a coincidence.

  My first job out of NYU Law School was at W&L’s in-house law firm, which worked endless hours to fend off lawsuits, and keep the firm’s pristine image unsullied. They preferred family members to work there—a club that they reluctantly admitted I was a member of after my marriage to Libby—because they were less likely to risk their inheritance by having a heart to heart with the feds about some of the firm’s tactics. But working for Wainwright wasn’t all bad—it actually made my job representing celebrities seem authentic.

  In the center of the room an enormous Christmas tree towered over the partygoers. But in keeping with the party theme, this tree was a fake. Next to the plastic pine, fittingly, was a throne. It was occupied by a Santa Claus, who held two six-year-old girls on his lap.

  After Taylor ran off to meet up with a few of her cousins, I made a surprise attack on the throne, sneaking up behind the two girls. They felt my presence, and my cover was blown. But that didn’t stop me from pulling them into an embrace, which caused them to giggle. I received a dirty look from Santa, not that it affected my standing with him—I’d been on his “naughty list” since my first date with his daughter. I shot one right back at him, but quickly looked away—the sight of Alexander Wainwright dressed as Santa Claus was always too much for me to take. It was the equivalent of Bernie Madoff playing the role of Baby Jesus in the upcoming Nativity play.

  The twins were the result of the never discussed “save the marriage” crusade led by my former wife. It didn’t work, and we learned the lesson that all parents should be taught in Marriage-101—never drag your kids into your problems, especially ones that aren’t even born yet. But so far the girls haven’t held it against us, which we’re thankful for.

  We named them Franny and Zooey, because our devotion to Salinger was one of the few things Libby and I could agree on at that stage of our union. Alexander and Beatrice still held Catcher in the Rye responsible for Libby’s rebellious streak, which was blamed for her marrying a middle-class schmuck from Tarrytown, and gasp, becoming a lowly prosecutor.

  I took a long look at the identical twins. I had always thought I was a horrible father every time I would mix them up, but Libby recently mentioned that she’d often done the same. This made me feel better, since her mothering skills and devotion to our children were beyond reproach.

  “So what did you ask Santa for?” I inquired.

  Zooey answered for both of them, “A castle!”

  I could tell she wasn’t referring to a plastic, toy version of one. They were definitely more Wainwright than Collins. But I was trying to make up for lost time in Collins-izing them. Over the last nine months, I’d gone from being a total stranger to “Daddy,” which I’m sure hadn’t gone unnoticed by their grandfather.

  “Nice suit,” Alexander said to me. “I was concerned that you might wear prison stripes out of habit.”

  I noticed a smile peering through the opening in his Santa beard. Seemed like they’d added some extra snark to the eggnog this year. But I refused to let him bait me in front of the girls. “I was honored to receive an invitation.”

  He leaned in close to my ear. “I like to keep my enemies close, and those who steal my money even closer.”

  To be fair, I didn’t steal his money. Alexander knew that, but suspected that I knew where it was, which was no different to him than if I robbed him at gunpoint. The FBI also suspected me in such matters, as did Alexander’s former business partner, now rival, Stone Scroggie, who was the mastermind behind the initial heist. It was irrelevant if I knew where it was—the important thing was that they thought I did, and that they were convinced I was the only one who could deliver it. Or in other words, life insurance.

  I reached the maximum two minutes I could spend in Alexander’s presence without blood shooting out of my eyes. And since I thought that might scare the girls, I decided to move on. But just as I was about to slither away, my former mother-in-law cornered me. Alexander looked as annoyed by this turn of events as I was.

  Beatrice was a Lennox, the other wealthy Connecticut family that had its name on the stationery. The Wainwright and Lennox families were constantly marrying each other—I could count six marriages off the top of my head—which was either creepy, or a well-organized plan to maintain the species, and eventually take over the world.

  The not-yet-corrupted Franny and Zooey greeted their grandmother by running to her. They hugged each of her legs, which were covered by her designer gown. I hoped that this might dislodge her robot limbs, and the Stepford Wife scheme would be publicly exposed, but no such luck. And Franny and Zooey couldn’t catch a break either, as Beatrice made them aware that their affectionate act was not acceptable etiquette for young ladies, especially since they almost spilled Grandma’s drink. She threatened to lock them in the coal cellar if they didn’t drastically alter their behavior.

  This was not an idle threat. The manor house did contain an actual working coal cellar, which Alexander liked to brag about. It was dormant when I’d lived here, but it was revived after W&L made a large financial investment into clean coal technology this past year.

  Once Beatrice was done scaring the dickens out of my kids, she turned her contempt on me. She admonished the “rude behavior” I exhibited upon my entrance, and informed me that I was lucky she didn’t revoke my parole, which apparently she had the authority to do. Having seen the Wainwrights in action, I would never bet against their power and how far it reached.

  Out of habit, I put my finger on my nose, which had always been the distress signal between Libby and me when one of us was trapped at these parties. But when I caught a glimpse of her across the room, engrossed in a conversation with her current boyfriend, Ned Blaine, I remembered that I was living in a whole new world these days. One that I would have to survive all on my own.

  Chapter 4

  As I made my way to the door, Libby busted me from across the room, effectively ending my attempt to slip out unnoticed.

  I’ve adored Libby from the moment I laid eyes on her, and after having a couple years in a small cell to reflect on it, I had even more respect for her. So technically, I wasn’t avoiding her. But my work was done here and I had a train to catch, and honestly, nobody really wants to see their boss on the weekend.

  While I was enjoying the normal undergrad life at Iona College, my best friend since childhood, Zee Thomas, had rocketed to stardom with the New York Yankees. The teenage, phenom pitcher had captured the hearts and imagination of the city, but still struggled in social situations, as had been the case since we were kids. So he dragged me along one night to a party that his marketing agency had thrown for him in the city, to play the role of security blanket. Libby Wainwright, a sophomore at NYU, and an intern at the agency that represented Zee, also attended the party. The rest was history. And the historical record read: Twenty-two years, fifteen years of marriage, four children, a messy affair, one divorce, and a prison sentence.

  It wasn’t hard to figure out what attracted me to Libby. She was beautiful, smart, and funny. Okay, she was never very funny—laughing had always been frowned upon in the Wainwright house … literally. But what really drew me to her, besides the beauty and brains combo, was that just being around her made it seem that anything and everything was possible. Maybe that was why I didn’t realize how over my head I was dating the daughter of Alexander Wainwright.

  What she saw in me was still a great mystery to me—as I’m sure it remains for Alexander and Beatrice. Perhaps marrying a suburban middle-class kid appealed to the rebellious side that her father always referred to—although, a rebellious streak for a Wainwright was much differently defined than one for normal people. She would never be confused with James Dean.

  Or maybe it was that I was the first guy who could ever make her laugh, and every girl remembers her first.

  But I think the real reason that Libby chose Kris Collins was because she’d always been an idealist, in the sense that she would create an idyllic vision of the world in her mind, and she would then move heaven and earth to make it reality. And for reasons only known to her, a life with me fit into her ideal vision.

  But she’d proved that she’ll alter the vision when circumstances intervene. When she was a child she believed that there was good in all souls, and everyone could be saved. This thinking was the main reason the Amigos ended up in the Lake House instead of the Big House. But when she was attacked while jogging in the park during her freshman year at NYU, she conceded that there were inherently bad people in the world. That’s when she decided to become a prosecutor—to put away these bad people who threatened her ideal world. And she took no less mercy on me when I shattered the vision she had for us.

  As I got closer, I could hear Ned Blaine talking up Wainwright Manor to a couple of party guests—the “exquisite” French wallpaper of the ballroom, the “spectacular” thousand bottle wine cellar, and how it resonated a hominess, even though it was over eighteen-thousand square feet and had eight bedrooms and eleven-and-a-half baths. I wasn’t so sure about the hominess part—that half a bath was ten times bigger than any room we had in my house growing up in Tarrytown.

  When Ned spotted me he raised the charm to an even higher level—a skill that had helped make him one of the top realtors of upscale properties in Manhattan. If I was the lawyer to the stars, then he’s the one who sold them the best places to live. In fact, he sold Libby and me our first apartment on the Upper East Side, which we bought after fleeing for our lives from her parents’ place. At least I felt that way; I think Libby was actually sad to leave.

  Ned almost tripped over himself to greet me with a friendly handshake, trying too hard as usual. I should probably despise the man who moved in on my ex-wife like she was a luxury condo overlooking Central Park, before the ink was even dry on our divorce agreement. But Ned had always been generally harmless—he reminded me of one of those polished politicians with the perfectly coiffed hair and sparkly white teeth, who would intently look you in the eye when they speak to you and overuse your first name like they’d learned it in a seminar. And the fact remained, when Libby gets remarried, and she will some day, probably in this very room, it likely won’t be to Ned Blaine. But he does have a better shot than Kris Collins. That ship had sailed, and all the Christmas magic in the world couldn’t turn it around.

  Ned and I had also been collaborating on a secret project that he calls “Operation Farmer on the Roof.” He covertly let me know that things were going as planned with it, and we had a meeting with our contact set for Christmas Eve in the city. I nodded, hoping I’d be alive to attend.

  Ned then strategically stepped away, so that Libby and I could talk about whatever Libby needed to talk to me about. Ned understood the dynamics of closing a deal, and he knew he wasn’t going to close one with Libby unless she was comfortable with his relationship with her children. And unfortunately for Ned, her children came furnished with a father that she was determined to keep relevant in their lives.

  After exchanging the cold cheek-kiss of divorced parents, she said, “So you were going to skip out of here without saying hello?”

  “I wasn’t skipping out on anything,” I replied a little too defensively. “The only reason I came was to see the Amigos one last time before they were thrown out on the street. I was going to leave straight from the Lake House, but Taylor dragged me inside to surprise the twins.”

  She looked at me with skepticism. “They were hardly thrown out on the street … and you also came because you knew it would irritate my parents.”

  “I must say, one of the hardest things during my time away was not getting to piss them off every year,” I replied with a smile.

  “Now that sounds like the old Kris Collins. And in that suit, you are starting to look like him again.”

  “By old, are you referring to the gray beard?”

  “I meant, as in the past. You would wear a suit to the beach if we had let you,” Libby replied, and once again reminded me that she was the most literal person I’d ever met.

  “My daughter said I used to be ‘all Don Draper.’”

  Libby never watched TV, so the remark would’ve had the same effect if I’d referenced Homer Simpson. But she wasn’t listening to me, anyway. Her mind was where it always was these days when it came to me—focused on my relationship with our children.

  She gazed across the room at Taylor. “I can’t believe how grown up our daughter has become.”

  “Time flies when you’re having fun … or even when you’re not.”

  “Tell me about it. It’s hard to believe that she’s not much younger than we were when we met.”

  I nodded, enjoying the impromptu trip down memory lane, and let her continue.

  “On the subject of college, will you be joining us for her visits this spring?”

  “If my boss will give me some time off—she’s a real slave driver.”

  A smile escaped her lips—it was nice to know I still had the touch. “I think that can be arranged.”

  “Taylor told me that she’s leaning toward Clemson.”

  She sighed. “Last week it was Virginia, next week it will be UCLA.”

  A brief quiet came over us—the thought of our little girl living in California was overwhelming. But from a safety factor, I’d still prefer her near the San Andreas Fault than Alexander’s winter residence in Hilton Head.

  “Have you completed your Christmas shopping?” Libby asked.

  “Well, I know I’m sending Taylor to lacrosse camp in Florida. Rumor has it that she also knows this.”

  “I’m sorry, it couldn’t be helped. The camp called to confirm and she answered. It was an honest mistake—I guess I’m not very good at keeping secrets.”

  For what it’s worth, she’d always been much better than me at it, but that would be stating the obvious. She moved on, “What about the others?”

  “I still have a couple of days … I do my best work under deadline pressure.”

  “You only work under deadline pressure. So you have no basis to say for sure if it’s your most effective way to work.”

  “I was thinking about wrapping up Zee with a bow for Alex.”

  “That’s not really funny,” Libby said, looking slightly queasy. “I love Zee like family, but I’m hoping that Alex discovers a new male role model over the next couple of years.”

  By the uncomfortable stare she sent in my direction, I got the feeling that she was referring to me.

  All first born male Wainwrights are named Alexander, so there were a lot of Cousin Zander and Uncle Als running around at this party. Unlike his older sister, Alex never came to see me once during my time away, and we’ve rarely spoken since my release. But being sort of an Alex expert, in that she’s one of the few in the human species that he actually communicates with, Taylor assured me that his silence has nothing to do with my time in prison, or “the thing with Mom,” as she calls it. So we are on good terms, and Taylor has promised to keep me informed if the status of our relationship changes.

  This was nothing new, or related to the public embarrassment his father had caused. It went back to when he first began talking … or not talking. We’ve had him tested for everything from autism to social anxiety disorder over the years, but the diagnosis always came back that he was a well-adjusted, smart kid, who just didn’t really care to communicate with people. Sometimes I can’t blame him.

  One person he did communicate with was Zee, who has been like a father figure to him. I never took no offense to this, but I sometimes worried about Alex following a similar path. Especially since Alex reminded me so much of Zee, beyond their shared social awkwardness. I’ve had a recurring dream for years about being ambushed on one of those daytime talk shows where the true paternity of the child is revealed. Although, it would better explain things.

  The mention of Zee reminded me of our meeting tonight, and I attempted to hurry things along, “So what am I getting Alex for Christmas?”

  “I’m glad you asked. You and your son will be doing a tour of spring training baseball in Florida this February. You know what a baseball fanatic he is. And I’m hoping that you can use some of your connections with professional athletes so that Alex could meet some of the Yankees players, which is his favorite team.”