S1. E.3 Tuesday 04/16/2019—Sandra Has A Moment
We meet Andrew's wife, Sandra Wells. Andrew wants to confess everything to her but in a tender but terse moment, he falters. He cannot lose her, but he cannot admit his gambling problem either.
Episode 3: Preview
Sandra Wells, Andrew’s wife of seven years and public relations executive, is on the phone with Union Boss Anthony Corravallo, who was released after being falsely accused of the murder Fergus was arrested for. Andrew wants to tell Sandra about his trouble and gambling problem, but a tender but tense moment between them makes Andrew lose his nerve.
Sandra Wells was Andrew’s wife of seven years. Nine years ago, Andrew met Sandra at the Greenwich Country Club when she was twenty-six. The Beck’s and the Wells’ families had a long history with the club and Greenwich. Being five years apart, they didn’t talk much in their youth. Sandra was strong, resilient, and whip-smart. So when they found each other, they were a natural fit. But to their surprise, they spoke a language that few in their circles understood: disdain for the elite.
Sandra had a slim build and long dark blonde hair that curled elegantly at the bottom and rested neatly on her shoulders. She had dark brown eyes and an easy smile. When photographed together at various events, they were frequently labeled one of Greenwich’s “power couples.”
Sandra, a success in her own right, was Senior Vice President at Wells Public Relations—a firm her mother, Roxanne Wells, founded. And while Roxanne served as the CEO and the social lynchpin, Sandra was the brains of the operation. She knew how to make the trains run on time and think outside the box. She also kept Andrew’s personal life in order; she was the yin to Andrew’s yang.
Andrew and Sandra’s Greenwich, Connecticut, home on 16 Sprain Road was a short three-minute drive from the 7,500-square-foot house Andrew grew up in on Hawkwood Lane. Their home was more modest, 2,500 square feet, but more than enough for them.
Andrew closed the door gently and dropped his keys into the ceramic Berkeley Golden Bears bowl. The clink as the metal keys hit ceramic filled him with dread. He could not tell if the chill that shook his body was the cold April night, or the fact he could not figure out a way to tell his wife he had a gambling problem.
He could hear his wife on the phone. He let out a deep sigh, a moment of reprieve.
“That’s amazing!” Sandra said. “I knew he didn’t do it. When did he get released?”
She nodded her head instinctively into the phone as she listened intently.
“Ah-huh. Okay, okay, we need to set up a press conference with the Teamsters Union President and broadcast his innocence loud and clear.”
Andrew leaned up against the kitchen's entrance, where Sandra paced while she talked and gave instructions on the press conference and what needed to be covered. He was always in awe of her work. She moved at light speed, connecting dots before most people could even see there was a dot. She was so focused that she didn’t hear or see him. He smiled in wonderment and admiration.
Then, the dread came back. He tapped his head against the wall.
I can’t lose her.
A wide smile graced her face as she saw her husband and waved for him to enter the kitchen. Andrew stepped in slowly, looking at the ground. It was hard for him to face her. As a man who always had the right thing to say at the right time and could be articulate and persuasive even with a gun pointed at his head, he had suddenly lost any sense of coherence. He had no idea what to say or where to begin. He hoped she would be on the phone all night.
“Okay, call me when the press conference is set up, I’ll work on the talking points. Oh, wait, he’s calling me now.”
Sandra clicked over to her incoming call. “Mr. Corravallo! Oh, my god, I am so relieved to hear they found the real killer of Michael Keegan, this Mackenzie person. I knew you were innocent.”
She waited.
“Yes, sir, we are on it. Now, I don’t want you talking to the press. Not yet. Have your staff say you want to be with your family, and we will have a full press conference tomorrow. Just tell any press that you’re happy this horror is past you and that you are thankful that the NYPD found the real killer.”
Anthony Corravallo, the New York City Teamsters Union Boss, was in a turf war with Mr. Keegan when he found out Keegan was bringing in non-union and undocumented workers on the billion-dollar development of the high-rise luxury apartment buildings surrounding the Tomlin Sports and Entertainment Complex on the West Side of Manhattan, right above the High Line. The public dispute sparked fights and damage to the project up until last Thursday when Carravallo was arrested for Keegan’s murder.
Corravallo spoke loud enough for Andrew to hear his anger but not his words.
Sandra grabbed her head and winced during the tirade.
“No sir, I don’t think it serves us to tell the press you are going to sue the NYPD or that they are a bunch of incompetent…you know what? Please don’t say that.”
She motioned with her hand as if she was telling someone to stop.
“Mr. Corravallo. Mr. Corravallo! I know you’re angry right now, but now is not the time. Let’s keep our heads about us. Go home, get some rest, and my staff and I will meet you at the Teamsters Headquarters downtown tomorrow.”
Sandra took a breath and sighed.
“Yes, sir. Good, yes, I know your little girl misses her daddy too. Go straight home to her. Let her know Daddy is okay.”
Sandra hung up, put her phone on the kitchen table, buried her face in her hands, and shook her head. She took a deep breath, released her face, and let it out.
Andrew chuckled and said, “Sounds like a pleasant guy, you know, for a Union boss.”
He walked to his wife and gave her a hug and a kiss.
“You men are really crazy sometimes.”
“Lumping us all in together, are we?”
“Yes, for now, between the last week? I want a free pass on all male generalizations, Dr. Beck.”
He squeezed her and kissed her on the forehead. “Granted. You earned it.”
“I know he’s angry, but why blow up everything? Why lose an opportunity to build big media and public opinion points for your organization with an angry tirade? We could leverage the crap out of this.”
“The male ego has no bounds. I should know.”
Sandra squeezed her husband’s face and shook it gently. She let go, and the playful look left. Andrew looked deep into his wife’s chocolate brown eyes and could feel her peer into his. She said nothing, but her face said it all: concern. Andrew felt her tap his chest twice, and she broke away from the embrace and walked to the refrigerator.
“You hungry? You want something to eat?”
“No, I’m good.”
She opened the fridge and stared into it.
“So they freed Corravallo?”
She kept searching as she said, “Yep. He’s a bit of an asshole but not a murderer. How could the police make such a big mistake?”
“They found his prints on the weapon.”
Sandra closed the refrigerator, and there was nothing in her hands.
Andrew asked, “What do you know about the guy who did it?”
“Nothing, only his name, Fergus Mackenzie.”
He couldn’t look his wife in the face.
She shrugged and said, “I guess we’ll find out more tomorrow.”
Andrew changed the subject. “I have to go to Mom’s tomorrow. Funeral stuff, I imagine.”
“Do you need me to be there?” Sandra asked.
“No, babe, you have a pretty important day tomorrow, and I’m sure you’ll have more than enough Beck family drama this week. You could use a day off.”
She smirked and said, “Yeah because a day with Roxanne Wells is always a picnic.”
Andrew chuckled.
“You know,” Sandra said, “she’ll probably take credit for Corravallo getting off. That it was her strategic outpour of indignation that freed him rather than the police finding the real murderer.”
“The only strategic outpour Roxanne understands is a gin and tonic at the Greenwich Country Club.”
Sandra laughed so hard she snorted.
They both had a good laugh, and Sandra approached her husband.
“I miss you, you know.” She grabbed and held his hand gently.
“I’m here.” He pulled her hand up to his lips and kissed it.
She let the hand fall. “No, you’re not, not yet.”
Andrew nodded as his eyes glistened.
“I’m trying.”
“Don’t stop.”
Andrew watched his wife pour a chardonnay from the fridge and entered the living room. He pulled at his hair, opened the liquor cabinet, found a crystal tumbler, and poured himself a Macallan 18. He took a sip, let it sit, and swallowed.
He stared at his glass, “If only everything in life was as smooth as this. Fuck.”
Up Next: Episode 4 - 08/30/2024
Wednesday 04/17/2019—“The Putt”
When Andrew heads to his childhood home in Greenwich, Connecticut, he finds his recently widowed mother, Helena, painting a reproduction of an iconic picture of her husband, Ted, after he sunk a putt to be the 1988 Masters Golf champion. She is painting it for her husband's memorial ceremony, which will take place in a few days. The picture began a traumatic period for Andrew and his father that continued to his death just a few days ago.
Author’s Note:
Thank you for reading the first three episodes of The Inevitable. I hope you are enjoying this serialized format. I would love your feedback on the story, the characters, or this format and whether it works for you. You can leave a public comment or message me personally.
Thank you so much for reading and supporting my work.
Chris K. Jones