The Darlings

  The DARLINGS

  Cristina Alger

  Pamela Dorman Books / Viking

  VIKING

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa • Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in 2012 by Viking Penguin,

  a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Cristina Alger, 2012

  All rights reserved

  A Pamela Dorman Book/Viking

  Publisher’s Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA

  Alger, Cristina.

  The Darlings : a novel / Cristina Alger.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-101-56031-0

  1. Investment bankers—Fiction. 2. Financial crises—Fiction. 3. Family secrets—Fiction. 4. Upper class—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 5. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3601.L364D37 2012

  813'.6—dc23 2011036292

  Designed by Daniel Lagin

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Contents

  INTRODUCTION

  TUESDAY, 9:30 P.M.

  WEDNESDAY, 6:23 A.M.

  WEDNESDAY, 11:20 A.M.

  WEDNESDAY, 12:56 P.M.

  WEDNESDAY, 1:25 P.M.

  WEDNESDAY, 3:06 P.M.

  WEDNESDAY, 3:45 P.M.

  WEDNESDAY, 4:47 P.M.

  WEDNESDAY, 5:03 P.M.

  WEDNESDAY, 5:27 P.M.

  WEDNESDAY, 8:03 P.M.

  WEDNESDAY, 8:45 P.M.

  THURSDAY, 5:06 A.M.

  THURSDAY, 7:50 A.M.

  THURSDAY, 9:30 A.M.

  THURSDAY, 9:57 A.M.

  THURSDAY, 11:16 A.M.

  THURSDAY, 12:56 P.M.

  THURSDAY, 5:00 P.M.

  THURSDAY, 6:02 P.M.

  THURSDAY, 9:20 P.M.

  FRIDAY, 6:03 A.M.

  FRIDAY, 7:50 A.M.

  FRIDAY, 9:10 P.M.

  SATURDAY, 6:15 A.M.

  SATURDAY, 10:02 A.M.

  SATURDAY, 11:01 A.M.

  SUNDAY, 8:58 A.M.

  SUNDAY, 11:00 A.M.

  SUNDAY, 11:20 A.M.

  MONDAY, 7:06 A.M.

  EPILOGUE

  For Mom

  INTRODUCTION

  This is it, he thought, as he clicked on his left blinker. The end of the road.

  The sign for the bridge had snuck up on him. He had done this drive before, but not at 2 a.m, and he had never been much of a night driver. There had been a little traffic leaving the city, but now there was almost none. Every time a car passed him on the left he wondered who the driver was and why they were on the road this late. He wondered if they were thinking the same about him.

  More than one driver had turned to look at him as he passed by. Checking out the car, he thought. He probably shouldn’t have brought the Aston Martin. Even in the dark it was a real showstopper. Of all his cars, it was his favorite. It was a near-perfect replica of the one driven by James Bond in Goldfinger and Thunderball. The original had sold at auction two years before for over $2 million; he would have bought it in a heartbeat if he had had the opportunity. But this was the next best thing: perfectly restored and refinished in classic silver; even to a professional’s eye, it was almost indistinguishable from the genuine article.

  As he merged toward the bridge turnoff, a white Kia pulled up alongside him. For a moment, he locked eyes with the driver. The guy gave him an approving smile, a thumbs-up. Usually he got a little rush from impressing guys like that: some accountant from Westchester who probably made less in a year than he could in a day. This time it sent his heart racing, and not in a good way. It was a miscalculation. This wasn’t the time to be attracting attention.

  He hated miscalculations. There had been a lot recently, which was, of course, how he had ended up parked at the base of the Tappan Zee Bridge at 2 a.m. on a Wednesday. Not exactly Plan A. His mind whirred as he parked the car and switched off the headlights. The engine fell silent and all he could hear was the white noise of cars crossing the bridge and the rush of his own blood roaring in his ears. He sat still for a minute, and stared blindly at the bridge. It looked different than it had last week. In the daylight, it looked like a steel cage suspended over the river, more like a carnival ride, a roller coaster with two peaks. The top beams were lit up and the reflection danced across the black water below. It was beautiful.

  This was harder than he had thought it would be. Maybe impossibly hard. He knew he had to stop thinking and just move, but his heart was pumping so hard that he felt faint, almost as if he were having an epileptic seizure.

  He reached for the bottle of Dilantin that he kept in the glove compartment. He had bottles stashed in every car, just in case. His hands shook as he twisted off the cap and the bottle slipped out of his hands. He scooped up the pills from the passenger seat—there were only two left—and put them in his pocket.

  You know this bridge, he told himself.

  It’s three miles long and seven lanes wide.

  And there are four phones, two on each side.

  The storm was churning up the river. He couldn’t see it in the dark, but he imagined it now, the cold, tufted rush of black water slipping endlessly beneath the belly of the bridge. Already there were sustained winds of up to 40 mph with gusts of up to 60 mph, so the current was moving faster than normal. If someone were to jump, his body would be pulled down and under into the river, swallowed whole. They might not even find the body; just a heart-deadening splash, and gone.

  In the past ten years, there have been more than twenty-five suicides from this bridge. They put in the phones to connect callers to a suicide prevention hotline.

  The weather is optimal. This has to be done now.

  Running through statistics and scenarios, especially the outside or unlikely ones, the ones that others might discount to zero, usually calmed him. His breath slowed a little, enough so that he could get out of the car. His shoe hit a patch of loose dirt, causing him to slip slightly. He stopped and wiped a bead of sweat from his temple. He couldn’t see the phone in the darkness, but he knew it was there. Just yards away. For the millionth time, he reminded himself that this wasn’t just the best exit strategy; it was the only exit strategy. He had done the math, run the numbers, analyzed the risk. This was it: the only way out.

  TUESDAY, 9:30 P.M.

  Paul slipped in through the side door just as the applause was ending. He stood at the edge of the ballroom until the clapping faded and the music started up again. His wife, Merri
ll, was up front near the stage. She looked on as a photographer snapped pictures of her mother, Ines, the gala’s chairperson. Around him, partygoers wafted from table to table; a giant amoebic mass, shimmering in the incandescent light of a thousand cocktail glasses and candles. As Paul wended his way toward his wife, he caught a couple of cold stares tossed in his direction. His hand shot reflexively to the knot of his tie, straightening it. It was one of his favorite ties; part of what Merrill called the “first-string rotation” in his closet. He felt good in it, usually. Tonight, amid the sea of tuxedos, it felt woefully inadequate. He kept his eyes trained on his wife and tried, without luck, to recall the name of Ines’s charity.

  The live auction, it seemed, was over. This was a slight disappointment; he had been told it would be a spectacle. This was his mother-in-law’s first year as chairperson, and she wasn’t one to be outdone. For months, she had run around soliciting the most extraordinary auction items she could think of: a weekend at Richard Branson’s house on Necker Island; private piano lessons with Billy Joel; a baseball signed by Babe Ruth. While Paul couldn’t imagine someone throwing down six figures at a charity auction in the middle of a recession, Ines seemed unfailingly confident that she would raise more money this year than ever before. Bullheaded confidence was part of Ines’s charm. She hired a Sotheby’s auctioneer, ordered oblong bidding paddles with the name of the charity stenciled on the back in gold, and called in favors to get as much press buzz going as possible. She wheedled her way into the pages of some social magazine or other, posing with a handful of other women who also listed their occupation as “philanthropist.”

  From the looks of the stage, Ines had been right. Posters of the auction items had been set up on easels behind the podium. Each one now bore a bright red Sold sticker, the kind that got put on car windshields at the dealership. On the last easel, the auctioneer was using a thick marker to ink a staggering “Total Dollars Raised” figure on a large placard.

  Ten yards short of Merrill, a hand reached out of the crowd and snagged him by the shoulder. “Bro!” Adrian appeared before him. “I was wondering if you were going to show.” Adrian’s cheeks were flushed and a mist of sweat had appeared at his hairline, from dancing or drinking, or both. His bow tie, a polka-dot number that matched his cummerbund, hung undone around his neck. Adrian was married to Merrill’s sister, Lily. Even though he and Paul were the same age, it was hard for Paul to see Adrian as anything other than a younger brother.

  Paul went to shake his hand, but Adrian held up two bottles of beer instead. “Want one?” he said, offering it up.

  Paul suppressed an eye roll. “Thanks. I’m all right. Just came straight from work.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” Adrian nodded thoughtfully and took a swig of beer. This seemed highly unlikely to Paul. Adrian was in a tuxedo, for one thing, with those velvet slippers he loved to wear to formal occasions. Also, he was suspiciously tan. Now that he thought about it, Paul hadn’t seen Adrian in the office since last Thursday.

  “I mean, not the actual office,” Adrian added quickly. “I was down in Miami with clients for the weekend. Had to run here from the airport.”

  “Looks like you got some sun.”

  “Weather was killer down there. Got in nine holes of golf this morning.” With a big grin, Adrian drained the beer. “Mother’s milk,” he said, with an approving nod. “You sure you don’t want this one?”

  Paul shook his head. “Glad you had fun,” he said, turning away.

  It was, he recognized, Adrian’s job to entertain. But the market had been bouncing all over the place, and the call volume from clients was up nearly five times, and Paul’s patience for anyone at the firm who wasn’t working at least eighty hours a week was limited.

  As he glanced over Adrian’s shoulder, Paul saw Merrill slipping farther into the crowd. “Hey,” he said, “I’ve gotta go find Merrill. I’m already late as it is.”

  “Yeah, yeah, go do that. She was asking where you were. You coming to the after-party?”

  “I don’t think I can swing that. I’m pretty shot. It’s late.”

  Adrian shrugged. “East Hampton tomorrow? Lily and I are going to leave around lunchtime to beat the traffic.”

  “Doubtful. Work, and all that. We’re planning to drive out Thursday morning.”

  “Cool. Gotta be there by 12:30 p.m., though, to see the kickoff. Darling family tradition.”

  “Who are they playing this year?”

  “Tennessee. Looks tough. Okay, Bro. We’ll look for you before we hit the after-party.” Adrian threw Paul a “you-da-man” nod and dropped the empty bottle on a passing waiter’s tray.

  “Right. Later, then.” Paul watched Adrian roll off like a tumbleweed, hands in his pockets with signature nonchalance. He joined his brothers at the bar. All four were tall and thin as matchsticks, with thick heads of charcoal-black hair. The oldest, Henry, was telling a story while Griff and Fitz, the twins, laughed riotously. From all sides, women instinctively slowed as they passed by them, like stars getting sucked into a black hole. The Pattersons were so handsome that each had his own magnetic pull; together, they became the universe’s gravitational center. When Adrian pulled up, Henry tossed his arm casually about his shoulder. Perfect white teeth flashed as they greeted each other.

  Adrian wasn’t as stuffy as Henry, and he wasn’t as frivolous as Griff or Fitz. He was actually a reasonably nice guy, the kind of guy that Paul liked in spite of himself. As Adrian laughed with his brothers, Paul wondered briefly if there was any way he could find Adrian’s total indifference to stress inspirational instead of infuriating. He was trying to be more understanding with Adrian now that they worked together, though market conditions were making that tough.

  A light touch on his arm stirred him from this consideration.

  “There you are!” Merrill said. She was flanked by Lily; both were dressed in blue. Or perhaps it was Merrill who flanked Lily: Lily bloomed at these sorts of social events, unfurling her petals like a flower in a hothouse. Her cornstalk blond hair had been spun into a complex series of braids, not unlike that of the dressage horses she still rode on summer weekends. From her ears dangled two teardrop diamonds, each stone larger than her engagement ring. Her father had given them to her, Paul knew, on the occasion of her wedding.

  Merrill looked quietly beautiful—the simplicity of her dress brought out the blueness of her eyes, the tone of her shoulders—and though she was smiling, her face was taut with frustration. Paul sensed that he was about to be reprimanded. He leaned in, kissing both sisters on the cheek.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” he said preemptively. “And I know I’m supposed to be in black tie. I came straight from the office. You both look great, as always.”

  “You’re here now,” Merrill conceded.

  “You missed Mom’s speech, though,” Lily protested. She blinked her big eyes impetuously at him.

  “I know. I’m sorry. How was the party?”

  “Great,” Lily said absently. He had already lost her attention. Her eyes scanned the room just beyond his shoulder. “Are you guys coming to the after-party? Looks like things are winding down.”

  “Of course,” Merrill said.

  “Doubtful,” Paul said, in tandem.

  They stared at each other, and Lily let out an awkward laugh. “I’ll leave you guys to discuss,” she said. “I think you should come, though. It’ll be fun. Even Mom and Dad are stopping by.”

  Lily turned and flounced off, the bustle of her dress trailing behind her. The dress was cut low in the back, and Paul noticed how uncomfortably thin she was. He could see the articulation of all her vertebrae, and small hollows beneath the blades of her shoulders. Lily was forever dieting. She had an evolving list of foods to which she claimed to be allergic. Sometimes Paul wondered if she had cut out food entirely.

  “We have to go to the after-party,” Merrill said once Lily was out of earshot. Her voice was strained. “Tonight’s important to my parents.”
<
br />   Paul pulled in a deep breath and let his eyes flicker shut for a halfsecond. “I know,” he said. “But I’ve got to weigh that against sheer exhaustion. I’ve been working around the clock. Which is important to your dad, too, by the way.”

  “There are things he values other than work.”

  Paul ignored the snappishness in her voice. “Look, I’m doing the best I can. I’m just exhausted. I’d love to go home and just fall asleep with you.”

  The crease in Merrill’s forehead relaxed. “I’m sorry,” she said, and shook her head. She reached up and wrapped her arms tenderly around the back of his neck. Paul pressed his nose against her golden brown hair; he could feel the slope of her skull beneath, and she smelled warm, like maple syrup. When she pulled back, she kept her hands resting on his shoulders. He slipped his grasp to the small of her back and held on to her, admiring her at an arm’s length. “I really do understand,” she said, and sighed. “Work’s been crazy for me, too. I barely had time to change. I look terrible. I didn’t even do my hair.”

  “You look stunning, actually. Great dress.”

  Her eyes lit up. “You’re sweet.” Her round cheeks flushed, the color of peonies. She smoothed her dress at the hip. “You should see my mother’s. She’s literally been talking about it for months. She had it made by some Latin designer.”

  They both looked over at Ines. She was basking in the attention of Duncan Sander, the editor of Press magazine. Duncan’s hands fluttered like birds’ wings as he spoke, and Ines was laughing grandly. It was the kind of image that would end up in the Styles section of the Sunday Times. Press had run a two-page spread on the Darlings’ home in East Hampton the previous summer, called “The Darlings of New York.” Ines loved to reference “the article” in casual conversation, and she spoke of Duncan Sander as though they were old friends. In truth, it wasn’t really an article, but more of a blurb attached to a glossy photograph of Ines and Lily, inexplicably attired in white cocktail dresses, frolicking on the front lawn with Bacall, the family Weimaraner. To Paul’s knowledge, Ines never saw Duncan except at events like this.