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Authors: L. Alison Heller
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Fund. Some are speculating that he followed the same path of Morgan Bell and
Ricardo Lalouse before him: paying contacts hundreds of thousands of dollars for illegal
tips and then using that information to line the pockets of Mission Fund executives.
Experts say DeFranza is a bigger catch: “This is potentially huge,” said an unnamed
source who worked with him. “DeFranza is big, he traded big, and he was a favorite
son of the big guy himself, Rocher.”
When I went back into the living room with a pile of take-out menus, Dave switched
back to the fireworks. “Lots of exciting new shapes this year,” he said.
“Such as?” I tried to inject some enthusiasm into my voice.
“Watch and see.”
I stood above him for a second before sitting. “I’m sorry for forcing you out tonight.
It was selfish.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “We both sucked.”
We rarely bickered, Dave and I. I’d listen to couples air grievances all day and tell
them that conflict was natural in the face of living so closely with someone. There
had been times I’d go home and wonder—where was ours?
I’d asked him that once and he’d shrugged. “I’ve fought with other girlfriends. You
and I just get along.” It did make sense, that some people were more compatible than
others—
liking
each other in addition to loving each other—or maybe it was a testament to my insistence
that we try to understand where the other was coming from, as annoying as Dave might
say it was in the moment. Whatever it was, I was grateful. I hated arguing.
Dave sorted through the menus with feigned interest, and I joined him, picking up
one from the roast chicken place. I stared at the red drawing of a waving, headless
chicken and thought of the newspaper article I’d just read.
The image that had stuck even more than the poor guy fainting in the shrubbery was
DeFranza’s wife at the window, watching the arrest from inside. Had she always been
aware that she’d made a deal with the devil? That the four-story manse in Jersey was
funded at least in part by stealing and lying? Had she tried to persuade him against
breaking the law, or encouraged him, crossing her fingers that they wouldn’t get caught?
Had she been floored, unable to link the scene playing out to the decent man she knew?
And, more important, what on earth did she do now?
chapter nine
Vanessa
PEOPLE WHO SAY money doesn’t buy happiness are idiots; money
literally
buys happiness. Take, for example, the Saskatoon berries I had express mailed from
the Pacific Northwest. It took twenty-four hours from the time I realized I needed
them to the minute I held them in my hands—the shipping costs were astronomical and
I will take them to my grave.
When the alarm went off at five in the morning, Frankie sat up in bed. “What happened?”
“The Saskatoon berry jam needs attention.”
“What?”
“The jam that is currently
in
the slow cooker and must come
out
of the slow cooker. Flavor: Saskatoon berry.”
“Ness, get a hold of yourself.” This was rich coming from a man who, upon making it
big, bought four versions of the exact same suit.
Yes, Frankie.
I’m
the one who doesn’t know how to relax
. “Are you having a breakdown?”
Frankie must have been thrown by the word “Saskatoon.” He didn’t accuse me of having
a breakdown the night before when I discussed the menu: schmear and bagels, frittata,
fruit salad and crumb coffee cake. There were only four of us, and it would’ve been
understandable if he’d questioned the sheer volume. He didn’t—because all of those
words, unlike Saskatoon berries, were familiar to him.
I’m not trying to sound like a sexist, but it’s a matter of wiring. Fathers are incapable
of remembering details the way mothers can. Sloane had tried Saskatoon preserves once,
at the Museum of Canadian Wilderness, and had loved it so much, she’d insisted on
a Saskatoon cake for her
Ricardo Lalouse before him: paying contacts hundreds of thousands of dollars for illegal
tips and then using that information to line the pockets of Mission Fund executives.
Experts say DeFranza is a bigger catch: “This is potentially huge,” said an unnamed
source who worked with him. “DeFranza is big, he traded big, and he was a favorite
son of the big guy himself, Rocher.”
When I went back into the living room with a pile of take-out menus, Dave switched
back to the fireworks. “Lots of exciting new shapes this year,” he said.
“Such as?” I tried to inject some enthusiasm into my voice.
“Watch and see.”
I stood above him for a second before sitting. “I’m sorry for forcing you out tonight.
It was selfish.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “We both sucked.”
We rarely bickered, Dave and I. I’d listen to couples air grievances all day and tell
them that conflict was natural in the face of living so closely with someone. There
had been times I’d go home and wonder—where was ours?
I’d asked him that once and he’d shrugged. “I’ve fought with other girlfriends. You
and I just get along.” It did make sense, that some people were more compatible than
others—
liking
each other in addition to loving each other—or maybe it was a testament to my insistence
that we try to understand where the other was coming from, as annoying as Dave might
say it was in the moment. Whatever it was, I was grateful. I hated arguing.
Dave sorted through the menus with feigned interest, and I joined him, picking up
one from the roast chicken place. I stared at the red drawing of a waving, headless
chicken and thought of the newspaper article I’d just read.
The image that had stuck even more than the poor guy fainting in the shrubbery was
DeFranza’s wife at the window, watching the arrest from inside. Had she always been
aware that she’d made a deal with the devil? That the four-story manse in Jersey was
funded at least in part by stealing and lying? Had she tried to persuade him against
breaking the law, or encouraged him, crossing her fingers that they wouldn’t get caught?
Had she been floored, unable to link the scene playing out to the decent man she knew?
And, more important, what on earth did she do now?
chapter nine
Vanessa
PEOPLE WHO SAY money doesn’t buy happiness are idiots; money
literally
buys happiness. Take, for example, the Saskatoon berries I had express mailed from
the Pacific Northwest. It took twenty-four hours from the time I realized I needed
them to the minute I held them in my hands—the shipping costs were astronomical and
I will take them to my grave.
When the alarm went off at five in the morning, Frankie sat up in bed. “What happened?”
“The Saskatoon berry jam needs attention.”
“What?”
“The jam that is currently
in
the slow cooker and must come
out
of the slow cooker. Flavor: Saskatoon berry.”
“Ness, get a hold of yourself.” This was rich coming from a man who, upon making it
big, bought four versions of the exact same suit.
Yes, Frankie.
I’m
the one who doesn’t know how to relax
. “Are you having a breakdown?”
Frankie must have been thrown by the word “Saskatoon.” He didn’t accuse me of having
a breakdown the night before when I discussed the menu: schmear and bagels, frittata,
fruit salad and crumb coffee cake. There were only four of us, and it would’ve been
understandable if he’d questioned the sheer volume. He didn’t—because all of those
words, unlike Saskatoon berries, were familiar to him.
I’m not trying to sound like a sexist, but it’s a matter of wiring. Fathers are incapable
of remembering details the way mothers can. Sloane had tried Saskatoon preserves once,
at the Museum of Canadian Wilderness, and had loved it so much, she’d insisted on
a Saskatoon cake for her
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