Looking Through Water Read online

  To the world, William McKay seemed to be cool and calmly in charge, the master of his domain. A handsome six foot two with sandy-blond hair just beginning to gray at the temples and steely blue eyes, William worked out hard every day in his private gym or on the squash courts of the uptown New York Racquet and Tennis Club. If he was at all concerned about his thirty-sixth birthday coming up in two months, he never showed it.

  Success had come easy to William, first on the playing fields at Phillips Academy Andover, later at the Military Academy at West Point, then as the army’s youngest Special Forces battalion commander in Vietnam, and now as one of the foremost stock traders on Wall Street taking full advantage of his seat on the New York Stock Exchange. The elite brokerage firm founded by his grandfather had grown to more than 120 professionals.

  William had tried his hand at marriage, after he returned home from ’Nam, to a girl named June whom he’d met at a mixer in high school. The ceremony was beautiful. He wore his army dress blues. They honeymooned in Jamaica, and he set his bride up in a starter house in Stamford, Connecticut. He thought this marriage would be the end to his loneliness.

  It wasn’t long before William found that he had fallen in love with his new profession and out of love with his bride, if they’d ever been in love at all. He worked later and later hours in Manhattan. As for June, she realized that she was more in love with the idea of being married than being with William.

  The marriage lasted less than a year. William suggested that they return the wedding gifts. She told him “over my dead body.” Her father, a prominent attorney in Darien, helped get the marriage annulled. William gave her the house and the wedding gifts, many of which were still unopened.

  A decade later, William was to be honored as New York City’s youngest ever Under Forty Executive of the Year by the chamber of commerce at a black-tie dinner at the Waldorf Astoria, a reward for his work as an adviser to a bunch of rich fat cats, helping them become even richer. How strange life is, William thought. Twelve years before, the army had called him an adviser as well, while leading his men through jungles in Vietnam, trying to kill the Cong before they killed him or his men. He had “advised” these young men on how to stay alive. If they failed to heed his advice, he’d sit in his quarters with pen and paper “advising” their parents of their sons’ deaths. It was the loneliest he’d felt in his lonely life. When he returned home in uniform from the unpopular war, he’d been spit upon by angry war protestors at JFK airport. Tonight he was being honored by New York’s aristocracy.

  This evening he would not be alone. He would be accompanied by his young fiancée, Stacy Bryant. He knew that she would be beautifully turned out after spending the afternoon at Vidal Sassoon having her long blond hair trimmed and a mani/pedi after a morning of fittings of the new navy-blue, sequined frock from Bergdorf Goodman that she had chosen for the event. She would turn heads. She always did—drawing looks of lust from the men and envy from the women, many of whom had spent their days carpooling in Connecticut.

  He thought about her as he walked to the bar in his credenza, put some fresh ice cubes in his glass, and poured himself another Glenturret. Twenty-nine years old, the girl had a fine pedigree to go along with her willowy good looks. Educated first at Rye Country Day School, she had captained the girl’s lacrosse team and starred in many of the school’s theatricals. Her mediocre grades, bolstered by her doting daddy’s money, were more than enough to gain her admission to Smith College, where she majored in art history. After graduation she’d worked at Sotheby’s, advancing her knowledge in American art before moving to a small boutique gallery store on Seventy-Ninth Street.

  It was there that they’d met on a warm fall Saturday morning a year and a half ago, while William was browsing in search of a small antique polo bronze for his new apartment on Eighty-First.

  The attraction was mutual, strong, and immediate. They met for dinner that night at one of William’s favorite restaurants, Giovanni’s on the Upper East Side, for Italian food and shared a bottle of delicious Chianti.

  It would have seemed unnatural if they hadn’t ended up back in William’s apartment, tossing their clothes around his bedroom and making passionate love on his queen-sized bed without bothering to throw back his silver fox bedspread. She ravished him. Never before had William experienced anything like her hunger and inventiveness. Thinking of it now, he smiled despite himself. It was a sad smile.

  He was snapped out of his reverie by the voice of his longtime assistant, Arnelle Whitten, on his intercom. “Mr. Prescott to see you, sir,” she said in her gentle island accent.

  Arnelle, a beautiful and cheerful Bajan woman, had been with him since he’d started at the firm more than eleven years ago, with the exception of eight months when she had moved back to her native Barbados to play house with her island lover, James somebody. Apparently the experience hadn’t gone well. She’d cried when she came to beg for her job back. William had tried to appear sympathetic but was inwardly delighted that she was coming back to him. In the time she’d been gone, her replacement, an airhead named Doreen, had all but undone Arnelle’s excellent filing system while decimating the office’s efficiency and raising her boss’s stress level to the highest level, what the military called DEFCON 1. Now Arnelle was back with a healthy hatred for all men except William.

  Taking a thick eight-by-ten-inch mailing envelope marked CONFIDENTIAL from atop his desk and sliding it into a drawer, William said, “Thank you, Arnelle, please send him in.”

  Randall Prescott, his brilliant young protégé, walked into his office carrying a blue folder under his arm. A thin, good-looking young man in his early thirties with dark hair and brown eyes, he always looked like he was stepping out of a Hugo Boss ad in GQ magazine, which William was sure he read religiously. On his job application, Randall had claimed to have been on the undergraduate fencing team at Yale before moving on to Harvard Law School, where he graduated in the top of his class.

  “Good evening, Mr. McKay. I’ve got some papers for you to sign.”

  “Thank you, Randy,” William replied. “Just leave them on my desk, if you don’t mind. I’ll sign them tomorrow.”

  “As you wish, sir,” he said, putting the folder down. “And by the way, congratulations again on the wonderful award you will be receiving this evening. I’m really excited to be introducing you at the dinner.”

  “Not too long I hope, Randy.” William smiled.

  “No, sir,” Randall said. “I know your preference for brevity and have tried to keep it short, but it wasn’t easy given all you’ve accomplished.”

  “My career’s not over yet, Randy,” William said.

  “I know, sir. You’re still a young man.”

  William wondered if the term brownnoser was still in vogue.

  “The committee asked me to pick out a commemorative gift for you. I hope you’ll like it. Miss Bryant helped me choose it. She has wonderful taste.”

  “Thank you, Randy,” William said as his young associate started toward the door. “By the way, Randy, as my attorney, do you think you should draft a prenuptial agreement for me and Stacy to sign?”

  “It’s always a good idea for anyone getting married. And, sir, if I may speak plainly, you are a very wealthy man. But it’s also true that your fiancée seems to be a wonderful woman, who I understand comes from a family of wealth and privilege, which she is in line to inherit, so perhaps a document is unnecessary in this instance.”

  “Randy, do I strike you as a happy person?”

  Randall was visibly taken aback. “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

  “Happiness, Randy. I’m sure you’ve read about it somewhere.”

  Randall barked a nervous laugh. “You seem to be happy when Stacy is around.”

  William nodded. “Stacy wishes I was happier. She thinks I should smile more . . . thinks I should open my heart and be more trusting of people.”

  “Sir?”

  “I’ve been married bef
ore. I have no children, at least not yet. My mother died when I was quite a bit younger than you, and I haven’t spoken to my father in over ten years. I have no heir and no logical successor. So what would you do if you were in my shoes?”

  Randall thought for a minute, then said, “Again speaking candidly, sir, I believe that lesser men would need a prenuptial.”

  “Lesser men?” William asked.

  “When I think of all you’ve achieved and all I’ve learned from you, I just don’t see you that way.”

  “What way is that, Randy?”

  “You’re deliberate and decisive. You determine what you want and you commit to doing whatever it takes to get it. I’ve learned that from you. You’ve never been one to hedge your bets.”

  “Interesting,” William said. “That gives me something to think about.”

  “I only want to help, sir,” Randall said, “and if you want me to draft a prenup for you, I’ll do it. You know I’m always looking after your best interests as if they were my own.”

  “I know, Randy, and it really helps me sleep nights,” William said with a smirk Prescott didn’t seem to notice.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “No, thanks, Randy,” William said, turning back to his desk. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Yes, sir,” Randall said, turning to leave.

  For eight years, Randall Prescott had served William well. Demonstrating an outstanding blend of legal acumen and high energy, he had assumed more and more corporate responsibility, eventually taking over many of his boss’s personal affairs. But lately, William had begun to find Prescott an irritant. It wasn’t his unctuous pandering or his transparent patronizing that was causing William’s growing mistrust. Tonight, William had finally figured out what it was.

  Feeling a growing sense of anger along with the warm glow of the whiskey, William poured himself another drink and stepped into his personal bathroom to change for dinner.

  Closing the door behind him, he stripped off his clothes, turned on the hot water in the basin, and shaved. When he finished, he splashed cold water on his face and took a close look at himself in the mirror. He knew the circles under his eyes were from not sleeping very well lately. He also noticed how his summer tan was all but gone, leaving him looking rather pale and gaunt. Maybe it’s time to head south for some sun, he thought as he stepped over to the shower and turned on the water.

  He picked up his half-full glass from the counter and carried it into the tiled shower. Holding his drink in one hand, he turned up the volume of hot water as high as he could stand it. As the shower door steamed over, he stood for a long, long time with water cascading down his neck and shoulders.

  Closing his eyes, he took a deep drink hoping that the whiskey would chase away the sense of loneliness that was welling up again in his heart. Now with the glass almost drained, he turned the temperature as low as he could stand it and felt reinvigorated.

  After a few minutes, William turned off the water, stepped out of the shower, and toweled off.

  He began dressing in the clothes that Arnelle had laid out for him. He liked the feel of the lightly starched, white, pleated formal shirt as he pulled it over his shoulders. His acuity a bit dulled by the whiskey, William fumbled a bit with his shirt’s studs and cuff links but made fast work of tying the dreaded bow tie that befuddled so many of his male friends. Black tuxedo pants, suspenders, socks, and formal black wing tips and he felt almost ready to face the world.

  As he walked out into his office, tuxedo jacket over his arm, his intercom buzzed again. “It’s eight o’clock, Mr. MacKay. Bernard is here,” Arnelle’s voice said, announcing William’s tailor.

  “Thanks, Arnelle.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’m going to head over to the Waldorf now for the banquet. I don’t want to be late. I don’t want you to be late, either.”

  “You get going. And don’t worry, I’ll be there. Please send Bernard in.”

  “Don’t keep Bernard too long, either. He’s my date for tonight.”

  William filled his glass again as Bernard entered the room.

  “Good evening, sir,” he said in his distinctive Scottish brogue.

  “How are you, Bernard? Long time no see.”

  “It has been a long time, sir. I know how hard you’ve been working.”

  “And tonight they give me my prize,” William said as he stepped onto the small wooden stool that Bernard had brought with him, swaying just a bit.

  A slight man, Bernard Stewart, a widower with two grown-up sons, was probably in his eighties. He was bald but for a rim of white hair, and his shoulders always seemed to be stooped over, no doubt an occupational hazard for tailors. Bernard deftly threaded a needle and started stitching the hemline of William’s pants.

  William focused on the circling sharks.

  “I remember when your father won this award thirty-six years ago. I trimmed his suit as he stood on this very stool.”

  “Was he happy?”

  “If my memory serves me, sir, he behaved very much like you are behaving tonight.”

  “Like father, like son, eh, Bernard? When I took over this company, I had to make some big decisions. We had to embrace technology. People who’d been here for years couldn’t change. They had to be let go. We needed to innovate to be competitive.”

  “These are things I know little of,” said the old tailor.

  After a short silence, William asked, “Bernard, what would you do differently, if you could do it all over again?”

  Bernard thought for a moment. “My boys—I wish that I’d spent more time with them. That’s time that you can never get back.”

  William said nothing.

  “What about you, sir?” Bernard asked.

  William just shook his head.

  CHAPTER 3

  LOCH LOON—2012

  As William reached the middle of the lake, he reminded himself that today he was on a special mission. For the next two weeks his daughter, Sarah, his only child, and her twelve-year-old son, Kyle, would be staying at the cottage across the lake.

  Sarah had been a joy growing up, a little blond-haired, blue-eyed bundle of energy and curiosity. She seemed born to the natural world. She couldn’t learn enough about the outdoors and its creatures, many of whom she befriended or adopted. From a very early age, all things in her world—trees, flowers, plants, and animals—had to have names. It sent her mom and dad scurrying to Barnes and Noble to buy reference books so that they could answer her questions.

  William would never forget the look on her face the first time he took her fishing at the lake and she caught a tiny little multicolored sunfish. She cried tears of joy when she released it so that she could see it again another day.

  William knew that he had a fishing buddy for life.

  Sarah’s curiosity served her well in the classroom, where she was an honors student throughout grade school and high school. William harbored some hopes early on that this bright young girl might choose a financial career and join him in the firm. He’d even thought about changing the company’s name to McKay and Daughter. While it was a nice pipe dream, William knew it wouldn’t happen. When he mentioned finance to his daughter, her eyes glazed over. Science and English literature were her passions. Her extracurricular activities did not include sports, but rather journalism and theater. Her senior year, she was editor of the school newspaper and produced a one-act musical for the drama club titled The McKays of Loch Loon. William remembered watching his daughter’s musical with pride not only in her accomplishment, but also in her appreciation of their beautiful family retreat. He laughed along with the audience when some of the young actors came on stage for the finale wearing kilts.

  William was not surprised that his daughter chose to pursue a career in journalism at Syracuse University and wondered if its proximity to Loch Loon had influenced her. While at Syracuse as a freshman, she met and fell in love with a senior named Peter Daniels. William found the boy
difficult to talk to from the first time they met. It seemed his only interest was movies, old and new, and he seemed to spend most of his time lying around watching them on television.

  After Peter graduated, the two eloped to Los Angeles. Sarah was only eighteen. William was concurrently shocked and infuriated. Selfishly, he feared losing the precious time he spent with Sarah at Loch Loon, although she vowed that, no matter how far away she was living, she would always return to the Adirondacks for at least two weeks every summer.

  It wasn’t until three months later that William learned that there had been extenuating circumstances. When the couple had taken off for the West Coast, his daughter was four months pregnant . . . pregnant with a child conceived on a recreational midwinter liaison at the family homestead at Loch Loon.

  To give Peter credit, he did seem to take good care of Sarah, and after a few years of financial struggles, he provided her and their son, Kyle, with a comfortable lifestyle by writing television scripts—all bad television scripts in William’s mind.

  Sarah had kept her promise to visit Loch Loon every summer, always with Kyle and sometimes with Peter. William would also take his daughter to dinner when he was on the Left Coast, but he missed having her close by and having the chance to watch his grandson grow up. Kyle loved his fishing trips on the lake with his grandpa as much as his grandpa did. William saw in the boy’s eyes the same look of wonderment that he’d seen in Sarah’s eyes. He knew that it was the same feeling he’d had when he was Kyle’s age fishing with his own grandfather.

  A month ago, Peter had announced that he no longer wanted to be married. Reluctantly, Sarah had agreed to a trial separation. She arrived at Loch Loon the previous day with Kyle.

  Sarah confided in her dad that the news had been tough on her teenage son, who had withdrawn into a shell, refusing to talk to anyone. She asked her father if he’d take the boy fishing to see if Kyle might open up to him. Today William was to add fishing guide/psychologist to his role of grandpa. He knew it would be challenging. He thought to himself that he knew a lot more about fish than kids, but he was willing to give it a try.