Dunbar Read online

  Florence stared at the glittering jets surging from the fountain in the Central Park reservoir, but instead of being thrilled by their abounding energy she found herself mesmerized by the power of gravity dragging the water down after its brief ebullience, like a scolding father killing a child’s high spirits with a curt remark. She slid open the doors of the terrace and walked back into her drawing room. She had gone outside to escape the heat, and now she was going back inside to escape the cold. Soon she would be too hot again. Nothing was right; nothing could cure her restlessness. Uneasy after her conversation with Abigail, she had come straight to New York to confront her sisters about where they had hidden her father, but they had slipped away as she arrived and continued to ignore her messages and emails. Only Mark, Abigail’s guilty and alienated husband, was left in the city. She had called him last night, but he had no idea where Dunbar was, or even where Abigail had gone.

  “All they’ve told me,” said Florence, “is that Henry is in a clinic somewhere in Switzerland.”

  “Well, at least that’s one country you can rule out,” said Mark, with what he intended to be a hollow laugh but only qualified as a grunt. “Even when there’s no need to, Abby lies ferociously. As you know, she thinks that telling the truth is a weakness. The truth is, roughly speaking, usually one thing—either Henry is in Switzerland or he isn’t—but lying is potentially infinite and so it wards off the thing those girls dread most: monotony.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “Come on, Flo,” said Mark, “this is the sister who weakened the props on your rocking horse, hoping they would snap while you were riding high, and that your neck would follow suit.”

  “It was hard for her, my mother was there, and hers was—”

  “You’re too forgiving,” Mark interrupted, “I live with her. The first time she told me that story, I thought I was supposed to admire her honesty, or the way she transcended her difficult childhood; now I realize that she was boasting about early signs of greatness.”

  “Well, why do you stay with her?” asked Florence.

  “Fear,” said Mark. “She has to be the one who wants to end it; if I do, she’ll find a way to destroy me.”

  Florence could think of nothing to say. The conversation concluded with a hedged promise from Mark that he would help, if he could do so “without ending up in a sanatorium of my own.”

  Mark’s use of “sanatorium” as a Soviet euphemism for savage incarceration made Florence regret having spoken to her emasculated brother-in-law. Her father’s disappearance was making her unbearably aware that if he died before they were reconciled, she would be left with the memory of a relationship overwhelmed by disappointment and disapproval, like that crashing, downcast fountain in the park. He had doted on her until a year ago, letting her believe that she would always win the competition for his favor, against her sisters, against the Board members, against his friends and suitors, and against his forty thousand employees, but when she admitted that she didn’t want anything to do with the family business, and wanted to go off with Benjamin and the children to lead what was supposed to be a simple life in wild Wyoming, Dunbar was overtaken by one of his rages, removing her from the Board, cutting her out of his will, and spitefully excluding her children from the Trust. He treated her indifference to business as a personal insult, as well as an immaturity that, given time, would have dissolved in the atmosphere of self-importance that suffused his organization, the feeling that history was not just being witnessed but created by his media empire. She knew that history must be something more than a gleefully tendentious version of the news, but it was not on that argument that her relationship with Henry foundered. She understood that her father was being so harsh because her independence was not only a rejection of his legacy but also of her role as a surviving fragment of her mother. She was only capable of being independent because she had been adored in the first place, but a man as possessive as her father could not experience her autonomy as a compliment, or protect himself from mistaking her sisters’ acquisitiveness for love.

  Florence had been sixteen when her mother died. For a long time afterward she felt her own existence contracting loyally around her mother’s absence. At the same time the meaning of her mother’s death expanded uncontrollably, until it seemed to explain the moods of her teachers, the taste of her food, and the color of the grass. Slowly, after a year of paralysis, forgotten memories of her mother started to circulate in Florence’s dreams and in conversations with people who remembered Catherine’s remarks and stories and gestures. She became alive again in her daughter’s mind. For Henry this had never happened. His wife was frozen and idealized, while Florence was given the job of perpetuating the qualities he admired in her. It was what Henry Dunbar was used to: mergers and acquisitions, delegation and rebranding. Florence was merged with Catherine’s ghost, rebranded as the companion, best friend, sweet-natured woman, and heir apparent that his psyche required. When she chose her husband over her father, and the next generation over the last, she knew that in his eyes she was heartlessly destroying his last defense against acknowledging Catherine’s complete extinction. Given his temperament, she was not surprised that he preferred to turn his grief into rage. What she didn’t anticipate was how long he would resist any reconciliation, and that one of them might die before it was achieved.

  Even while he was ranting, calling her names that would have been unforgivable if she hadn’t regarded his fits as a kind of incidentally verbal epilepsy, her father must have known that he couldn’t reduce Florence to the penury she deserved. Although she was a pauper by Dunbar standards, she had more than enough money not to submit to him on financial grounds. She already owned the apartment she was in right now; she had inherited her mother’s fortune (which, as he reminded her, cursing his misguided generosity, she really owed to him, as she owed everything to him) and she was also the beneficiary of a satellite trust that he had created for his children and which Wilson told him was impossible to break, or to exclude her from. She had given him back her Dunbar shares without protest, or payment, humiliating him with her generosity.

  Florence slid open the doors and stepped back onto the terrace, half marveling at how predictable she was, and half wondering if she was doing what she predicted in order to prove herself right. She had been up most of the night, watching the clock creep forward toward a time when she could allow herself to phone Wilson. He had managed to protect her over the last year, while continuing to be her father’s most loyal ally, but after being sacked, Wilson had retreated with his wife and family to his holiday place near Tofino, on Vancouver Island, where it was still far too early to call him. Just as she was yet again calculating how long she would have to wait, her phone rang and Wilson’s name appeared on the screen.

  “Wilson! I was just thinking it was still too early to call you.”

  “I’ve been holding back for a couple of hours myself. When I heard last night that nobody can get hold of Henry I was too worried to sleep.”

  “Do you have any idea where he is?”

  “I’ve got a team of interns ringing private hospitals and clinics all over Europe and North America, asking for him by name, and also with the aliases he uses to check into hotels incognito. So far, nothing.”

  “How can I help?” asked Florence.

  “We’ve only got four days until the decisive Board meeting. I’ve been phoning around, but it seems like your sisters have fixed their majority. Most of the Board are sound people chosen by your father with my help, but they’ve been shown the key document I urged him not to sign, giving all the real power to Abby and Megan, and now they’ve got Dr. Bob’s report, which is going to be used to justify his dismissal as non-executive chairman. Your sisters want to get him out of the picture completely. He still has too much influence, his presence is enough to make the Board look for ways to please him, even though he doesn’t have any legal power of his own.”

  “If he’s unfit to run his aff
airs, there should be a power of attorney. I’m sure he would have given that to you.”

  “He did, but it was conditional on my employment, and your father really did sack me. You can guess who my replacements are.”

  “But couldn’t we argue—” Florence began.

  “It doesn’t work,” Wilson interrupted. “Even if we got me the power of attorney back, your sisters could sack me a minute later, once their position has been confirmed by the Board.”

  “God, it sounds like they’ve got this coup sewn up.”

  “It’s bewildering—nobody understood power better than your father. For the last forty years he’s operated on every continent, and for at least half of that time he’s been able to highlight, spin, or bury a story, get hold of any world leader he wants to talk to, influence elections, and destroy his enemies. And then one day he woke up and just wanted the toys instead of the real thing. I was astonished, he’d never been impressed by any of that before, but whatever happened to make him lose his focus, none of it justifies the abduction and humiliation, and…”

  “And what?”

  “I don’t know; I don’t know what they’re capable of, but I know that I’ve never seen your father as frightened as he was that day in Hampstead. He was having a panic attack. He was frightened of the sky, he was frightened of the light; he seemed to have agoraphobia—this is the man who bought a million-acre ranch in New Mexico because he loves big skies.”

  “I feel like someone who’s been woken by a fire alarm,” said Florence, “as if my life with Benjamin has been an expensive fantasy taking place while my sisters hijacked the Trust and kidnapped my father.”

  “It may be time to put on your Dunbar armor.”

  “Oh, believe me, it’s on and it’s not coming off until he’s safe.”

  “I can only see one weakness, and one long shot. The weakness is Mark. He has a conscience of sorts, but most of all he’s grown to despise Abby. He might be prepared to say things to a beloved sister-in-law that he wouldn’t say to an ex-attorney.”

  “Forget it, I’ve already called him, and he’s too scared.”

  “Still, it may be worth spending a couple of hours with him and listening to what he tells you. Perhaps he can’t act against Abby directly, but I know he’s very torn and he might give you some hints.”

  “What’s the long shot?” asked Florence.

  “Do you remember Jim Sage, the pilot of Global One?”

  “Of course, he tried to teach me to fly.”

  “If they took the plane, he’ll know where they landed. He would naturally just tell you, unless he’s been forbidden to. They might not have anticipated that approach. I’m emailing you his cell number right now.”

  “Okay, I’ll call him after we’ve finished.”

  “I’ll be in New York by this evening. I’m coming with Chris; Henry was always a good godfather to him and he wants to help. There’s a seaplane collecting us in twenty minutes and taking us to Vancouver. I’d better get my things and head down to the jetty.”

  “Thanks for doing this, Charlie. You could have just retired after the way you were treated.”

  “That’s what my wife wants, but I’m not ready for a life of storm watching, interspersed with visits to UNESCO world heritage sights. I’m going to fight to get your father back in charge and fight for a decent transition that protects the forty thousand people who work for the Trust. And, to be completely honest, I don’t want to see your sisters win.”

  After the call, Florence felt that pacing the terrace was not enough; she had to go into the Park to work out her anxiety and decide how far she needed to get involved in the family politics she had walked away from so zealously only a year ago. There seemed to be no way to secure her father’s safety without getting entangled in a war with her sisters, putting pressure on a divided brother-in-law, marshaling arguments to sway the Board. And yet what she had said to Wilson was true: she had already put on her armor, she was already at war, and the decision felt all the deeper for having worked its way through her apparently gentle nature like an underground, winter-born river that only emerges from a hillside after heavy rain, but then sweeps boulders away and uproots trees.

  The cinder paths in the Park, whose curvature was as remorseless as the grid of streets that surrounded them, annoyed Florence in a way that would have struck her friends and family as uncharacteristic. They seemed to insist that she was now at leisure, that recreation must meander and postpone, in contrast to the dumb practicality of tracing the shortest distance between two points, but she had no desire to make charming detours, to be told to relax and enjoy the journey; she wanted to get to the point, she wanted to take action to save her father. She cut across the grass, defining her own path, and as she walked, she found Wilson’s email on her phone and tapped on Jim Sage’s number.

  “Hello.”

  “Jim? This is Florence, Florence Dunbar.”

  “Hey, Florence, it’s good to hear your voice,” said Jim affectionately. “What can I do for you? Have you decided to learn to fly, after all?”

  “How did you guess?” said Florence, improvising. “I had such a lousy trip here yesterday; it reminded me of what you said about getting my own license. Are you free at all? I’m in New York right now. Perhaps we could schedule something.”

  “I’d love to do that, Florence, only I’m in Manchester and I don’t know when we’re headed back. Your sisters are kind of spontaneous with the itinerary compared to Mr. Dunbar.”

  “Manchester?” said Florence. “What are you doing there?”

  “I have no idea. It’s not for me to reason why, but all I can tell you is the weather here is dark and dismal.”

  “Well, when you’re back, let’s get airborne,” said Florence, drawing the conversation to a close as quickly as possible, in the hope of getting hold of Wilson before he was engulfed by the roar and the shudder of one of those old seaplanes.

  “It’s a deal,” said Jim.

  She hung up and immediately made her next call.

  “Florence!” said Wilson, over the sound of lapping water. “I’m just getting on the plane.”

  “Manchester,” said Florence. “I spoke to Jim and he told me that’s where they landed. Tell the interns to concentrate on England, especially places closer to Manchester than London.”

  “Will do,” said Wilson. “Good work. They’re about to start the engines, but Chris wants me to send his love.”

  “Send him mine,” said Florence, allowing herself to smile for the first time in several days.

  The King’s Head was set back from the shores of Merewater by a patch of lawn with a flagpole planted at its center. To Dunbar, sitting in the bay window of the bar, the rope on the flagpole looked as if it could barely keep hold of its writhing flag, a St. George’s Cross tormented by a whistling onshore wind, which also lashed the black waters of the lake into nervous white waves and dashed them hurriedly onto the rocks of a narrow beach at the foot of the hotel. To mark the outer edge of the lawn swags of heavy black chain hung between thick white posts, echoing the color scheme of the water as well as the untouched Guinness in front of him on the table. Outside in and inside out, from lake to glass and glass to lake, and in between a chain, on which he could all too easily imagine himself tripping and being pitched forward onto the rocks; his precious, unreliable brains spilling out; the waves lapping hungrily; his blood the color of the cross on the flag, trembling and wrinkling in the wind.

  Dunbar clasped the table for support. There were too many dismembering resemblances between one thing and another. He must try to keep things in their proper place, the lake in the lake, the beer in the glass, the blood in his body.

  “Another round!” said Peter boisterously, rising to his feet.

  Although Mrs. Harrod had only taken a sip of her ginger wine, and Dunbar had not yet embarked on his glass of Guinness, Peter’s own pint of Guinness was dry, and he had already drunk the three large whiskies he ordered for himself
on arrival, pretending they each wanted one.

  He hastened to the bar, radiating charm.

  “We would all like another large Famous Grouse, and two more pints of Guinness, please. The lady is still ‘working on’ her ginger wine.”

  He threw in a request for an assortment of sandwiches and placed a fifty-pound note on the counter, patting it repeatedly both to draw attention to his willingness to pay for his bold order, and also from a half-conscious reluctance to part with the money. It was the second of Mrs. Harrod’s fifties, and there was only one left. There would of course be some change from the first hundred, but he really needed to start encouraging Dunbar to check out his Swiss credit card. If that wasn’t working, he should ditch the others and try to find an off-license instead of wasting his money in bars. He needed to get properly drunk, he was at that point in the cycle, he needed to navigate through blackout, to give impulsive performances to amazed strangers and to end up somewhere inexplicable, deranged in a city he didn’t know, in a room he didn’t recognize; if not free, at least severely disoriented.

  “I’ll bring everything over, sir,” said the barman.

  “I’ll carry the whiskies,” said Peter helpfully.

  Back at the table, he poured the three doubles into one glass.

  “I’ve always despised the imperial measures,” said Peter. “If we can make it to The World of Beatrix Potter, which I know is temptingly nearby, we can probably see the adorable little thimble that constitutes the original ‘single’ measure, carefully chosen to be exactly the right amount of whisky for a newborn squirrel, or a parsimonious dormouse.”