Promises to Keep (15 page)

Walter’s inheritance was negligible—corruption on the part of the financial advisers and lawyers combined with a lack of willingness on his father’s part to admit he didn’t understand finances or to let other people take control. Callie and Steffi were brought up with the name, but without money.

Nothing like this.

Her Vans make no sound on the marble floor, and she peers through vast arches into glossy mushroom-colored rooms, the walls and ceilings lacquered to a high-gloss finish, reflecting antique lamps, acres of windows, sculptures and artwork everywhere she looks.

And, in a corner, she suddenly spies a dog bed with a small curled-up dachshund, fast asleep.

Fingal has disappeared, and she is still waiting, uncomfortably now, for someone to appear, so she walks over and crouches down by the dog.

“I had no idea Fingal has a brother,” she says softly, reaching out a hand to pet the dog. Wow, she thinks. This must be a really old dog, because the fur is slightly matted and coarse to the touch.

“Are you sleeping, baby?” she croons, scratching the ears, waiting for the dog to open its eyes and look at her, and then she freezes.

“Fuck,” she whispers, swiftly standing up just as Mason appears in the doorway.

“It’s stuffed,” he says with a grin. “Actually I’m not supposed to say that. I’m supposed to say it’s an Installation.”

“You mean, it’s art?” Steffi is praying that her cheeks stop burning very shortly.

“Yup. If I told you how much it cost you might have a heart attack and die on the spot. But please don’t do that, because it would be very inconvenient.”

“Okay, can I just say that I am so mortified right now I would be very happy if your marble floor would, in fact, open up and let me fall through.”

“Don’t worry about it. Everyone does it. Unless of course they read the art papers and know the artist and that Olivia paid a record price for it, and so on and so on. Then they’re all impressed and ooh and aah over it.”

“So how much was it?”

“Too much.”

“Do you actually . . . this might be a rude question . . . but . . .” Steffi frowns.

“Do I like it? A dirty stuffed dachshund that looks as if it’s about a hundred and fifty years old?” He snorts with laughter. “What do you think?”

“Okay. Good. For a while I was questioning your taste. Don’t you and Olivia talk about stuff like this?”

“Not art. I’m not the slightest bit interested. I let her do what she wants when it comes to art, and she keeps saying it’s a great investment.”

“Really? Even though the world is collapsing all around us?”

“Give it ten years and hopefully we’ll see some return.” He shrugs. “Who knows?”

Steffi looks around her happily. “Wow. This is some place. This is, like, seriously impressive.”

“I know. Who would have thought it, looking at me in my wrinkled suits?”

“Actually, you look better in jeans.” Steffi looks him up and down appraisingly. “Much better, in fact. You should go to work like this. You look like you’re way more comfortable.”

“Thanks.” There is delight in Mason’s face. “Not often I get compliments these days. It was a compliment, right?”

“Definitely.”

“Come on into the kitchen. Do you want some lemonade? And . . . you won’t believe this . . . but we made the Neiman Marcus chocolate chip cookies.”

“You did? You’re kidding! Who’s we? You and Olivia?”

“Olivia cook? Don’t be ridiculous! No, the kids and I, and I have to thank you because they are the greatest cookies I’ve ever had.”

“You don’t have to thank me. I had nothing to do with it. Where did you get the recipe?”

“Online. But I wouldn’t have known about them if it weren’t for you. I think you may have changed my life.” He grins, placing the cookies on the counter. “Try one.”

“Oh. My. God.” Steffi sighs, crumbs spraying out of her mouth. “These are good.”

“Told you. Oh shit!” The smile leaves his face. “Oh Steffi. They’re not vegan. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She adds, “I break the rule for chocolate. And I have been known to fall off the wagon for my mom’s roast chicken.”

Steffi perches on a stool. Fingal is already curled up in a custom-built dog bed tucked underneath the kitchen counter.

“So how did you and Fingal get on? Did you fall in love?” She nods. “I really did. He’s amazing. He was a bit naughty at my sister’s house—my niece let him out of the TV room and he proceeded to eat the mushroom pâté, but other than that he’s just so easy. And I love the way he leans into you.”

“He only does that if he likes you.”

“Aw, you’re just saying that to persuade me to have him for a year.”

“Is it working?”

“It already worked. I’m persuaded. I love him. So when can you let me see Sleepy Hollow?”

The sound of the elevator is followed by a clatter of high heels and a small blond woman appears, sweeping in, then stopping abruptly when she notices Steffi.

“Oh . . .” She looks at Steffi with raised eyebrow. “Hello?” She is no longer the friendly woman who showed up at Joni’s; she is now imperious, and wondering who this blond girl is, sitting at her kitchen counter.

“Hi!” Steffi jumps up with outstretched hand and a big smile. “We met at Joni’s? The vegetarian restaurant? I’m the chef?” She can’t help it; every word she utters becomes a question, aiming to please Olivia.

“Steffi is the girl who’s going to look after Fingal,” explains Mason. “Remember? I told you she was taking him for the weekend to see how they got on.”

“I love him!” Steffi babbles. “What an adorable dog he is. I can’t wait to look after him!”

“Oh!” Olivia smiles coolly. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “I had no idea who you were! Of course! The chef!” And quick as a flash she excuses herself and disappears.

And even though she was smiling, and even though she was friendly, something about her words—“The chef!”—make Steffi know, instantly, she has been dismissed.

L
ila’s last high school reunion was five years ago, but she didn’t really need to have been there to be able to tell you what had happened to the vast majority of her class.

Even before going, Lila knew that the girls would all be pencil thin, with long, dark, straightened hair hanging from a center parting in a glossy sweep. They would be wearing tight boot-cut jeans with sparkles on the rear pockets, and high-heeled boots. They would have diamond studs in their ears, of varying sizes depending on how well their husbands had done, and would be carrying the latest oversize designer handbag. Their husbands would stand in a corner of the room and talk about sports and trading and where they had gone on their most recent holidays. No one would come out and say it, but there would be an undercurrent of who was worth the most.

Even before going, Lila knew that Alissa Goldbaum, now Alissa Goldbaum Stern, would still be queen bee. She would live in the biggest house on the best street in Scarsdale, would drive a very large and impressive car, and would be swathed in the latest, trendy, designer gear.

Even before going, Lila knew that the women would all look a thousand times better than the men. Even the girls who had big thighs, or bad teeth, or large noses when they were all in high school together would have
Pilated
their thighs down to nothing, spent hours in the dentist’s chair having Lumineers expertly stuck to their teeth, fixed their noses . . . added cheekbones, smoothed frown lines and removed double chins, thanks to liposuction, Botox, Restylane.

The men would be much the same, only chubbier, their success apparent in their jackets that didn’t quite fit. Their teeth would be as before, their hair thinning, their chins slack. But none of them would see that when they looked in the mirror. They had made fortunes. When they looked in the mirror, all they would see was that they were kings of the world.

Even before going, Lila knew that she would still not be one of them. She would still be regarded as someone who was an oddity, who didn’t fit in.

Years ago, in eighth grade perhaps, or ninth, Alissa had turned to her at someone’s party. “You could be really pretty,” she said, “if you just lost a bit of weight and had your hair straightened.”

Lila hadn’t been particularly offended. Even at that age she was secure enough in herself to find it funny, and she knew Alissa had thought she was being kind, was offering advice that she thought would help Lila be a better person.

Lila isn’t thin, doesn’t have straight hair, and didn’t spend her twenties living on the Upper East Side and prowling the singles scene before finding a husband, having a baby, then moving to Westchester County or back to Long Island within a five-mile radius of the house in which she grew up, getting involved with the local Hadassah, becoming a mover and shaker on the board of the new Conservative synagogue.

And more to the point, Lila hasn’t been married. She hasn’t married a nice Jewish boy and gone on to have two point four children. She doesn’t live in a big colonial and put said children in the preschool of new Conservative synagogue.

Lila has never wanted children in the way her peers did. She hasn’t wanted the life she was destined to have, the life that all her school friends have. She has never thought of herself as particularly maternal, in fact always jokes that she is slightly allergic to small children.

She doesn’t mind older children, very much enjoys their company, actually, but she finds today’s children increasingly hard to stomach. What has happened to rules? she wonders. To boundaries? When did it become acceptable for small children to butt in on an adults’ conversation whenever they have something to say, without so much as an “excuse me”? And worse, when did the parents stop speaking in midconversation and turn with beatific smiles to respond to their children’s question, leaving their conversation partner stopped and shocked in midstream?

When, she wonders, did parents stop teaching their children to say “please” and “thank you?” Sitting in cafés these days, she most often hears children say, “I want,” with not a hint of a “thank-you” when the food arrives.

They climb on the seats in the booths, their muddy shoes all over the banquettes, and grin playfully at the people sitting in the booth behind them, while the mothers ignore them, presumably thinking that everyone in the restaurant will find their children’s behavior as adorably cute as they do.

They get down and run around, swerving round waitresses carrying hot food aloft, shrieking and bumping into people, while the mothers don’t see, or choose not to look.

Lila walks into shops and small children come tearing out under her arms as she pushes the door open—not a hope of any of them standing aside to let the adult through.

Oh GOD, she sometimes thinks. I am turning into my grandmother. I am becoming a curmudgeon. Surely forty-two is too young to be turning into this? But she doesn’t understand what is happening to today’s parents.

Of course she cannot understand, for she is not a parent herself. She cannot possibly know what it is like to be exhausted, overwhelmed, to know that your children are behaving appallingly but you have already had words with them a million times today and frankly you just do not have the energy anymore.

Lila cannot know that you spent years trying to get your children to say “please” and “thank you,” but you are only human and you cannot do it all the time, and sometimes you are just too damned tired.

Sometimes it is easier to just tune out, because no one can be 100 percent vigilant all of the time.

But Lila doesn’t know this. She just knows that once upon a time she presumed she would find a nice husband, probably sometime in her late twenties or thirties, and they would have a couple of children, and she would live in a small colonial somewhere. She thought this not because it was something she wanted, but because it was what her parents expected of her. What her world expected of her.

And now, at forty-two, her life is not at all what she expected. She is no longer employed by a large company, but struggling to find work as a marketing “consultant,” grateful only that her prior company paid her such a large severance.

She is not married, and doesn’t want children. She is very happy in her cottage with her big Waspy English boyfriend, and every other weekend with his lovely nine-year-old son, Clay, who is surprisingly well-behaved and chatty.

So when Ed asks the following question, she is nothing if not a little surprised. They are flopped on the sofa on Sunday night, watching a pay-per-view movie while waiting for
Entourage
to start. Lila is alternately flicking through the pages of
Martha Stewart Living
and watching the movie, which has a little too much action, blood and guts to really capture her attention, and Ed is stroking her legs, which are flung over his lap.