Birthday Girls (20 page)

And then the conversation turned loud. And clear.

“Your stepmother is going to be the richest woman in America,” a voice said. A familiar voice. Larry’s voice.

“It doesn’t matter,” she heard Sondra reply. “I don’t want her money.”

Abigail leaned away from the door and tucked herself against the Irish lace drapery, safe from sight, thinking
this is going to be interesting
.

“You like her, don’t you?”

“She’s my stepmother.”

“And she’s taken good care of you?”

There was an odd moment of hesitation preceding Sondra’s response. “Yes. Of course.”

“Do you like this job? Working for her?”

“I hardly feel as if I ‘work’ for her. I rarely see her.”

Abigail toyed with the pearls around her neck.

“Why are you satisfied with this menial job, Sondra?” Larry continued. “You’re a beautiful woman. You could have any one of a thousand other jobs that would be better than being a gofer on a set.”

Sondra’s laughter was hushed. “In case you’ve forgotten, Larry, I’m pregnant. Hardly employable material.”

“And you’re about to become a single mother. Are you planning to live off Abigail’s crumbs for the rest of your life?”

“Larry, what’s this all about? I thought you called me out here to discuss the props for next week’s set.”

“I just wondered how happy you are with your job.”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it?”

“Why? What do you care?”

“The Rupert’s deal means zillions of dollars. It could change your life.”

“My life? The Rupert’s deal is Abigail’s. I told you when you hired me that I intend to work for my keep. I don’t want my stepmother’s money. It was humiliating enough that I had to ask for a job.”

“Have you ever thought of doing anything on your own?”

“So far, the only thing I’ve done on my own was marry Craig. Look where that got me.”

“You can change that, Sondra. Like I said, you’re a beautiful woman. Smart, too.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Something so you’ll never have to depend on Abigail again. Your own show.”

Inside the dining room, Abigail clutched the lace drapery. She pressed her ear to the doorway. Her pulse began to pound.

“My own show?” Sondra asked. “Doing what?”

“Being a single mother. It’s the hottest trend in this country today. A great angle. With all kinds of possibilities for spin-off merchandising. Magazines, videos, on and on. Much hipper than this worn-out cooking and entertaining shit.”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“I would. I made Abigail what she is today. I can do the same for you.”

Abigail closed her eyes.

“Wouldn’t it cost a lot of money?”

“Once Abigail signs with Rupert’s, I’ll have plenty of money. And finally I’ll get my fair share.”

“I always thought you loved your job.”

“Let’s just say I’m branching out. Are you interested?”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“Do that,” Larry replied. “But don’t wait too long. Once the Rupert’s deal is signed, I’m history.”

Still, Abigail remained motionless, rigid, frozen in disbelief. A fist of betrayal closed over her heart.
Larry
, she thought. Larry—the one person she counted on, the one person who was always there, holding her empire together. Larry was about to jump the proverbial ship. And he was trying to take her stepdaughter with him.

She blinked at the sharp rise of heat in the room and tried to tell herself it didn’t matter. Then she closed her eyes again and prayed for Kris to return.

Maddie
had dressed as if she were having dinner with Parker—a simple black silk dress, short, not down to her ankles, and devoid of her usual lace and “fru-fru” that Kris said was hopelessly out of style. She might still be taken for Cody’s mother, but with her new hairstyle and a little help from Abigail’s earring collection, at least she looked like a mother with class. (“The onyx earrings,” Abigail had advised when Maddie stopped at the manor for a fashion check that morning; “the ones surrounded by pavé diamonds.”) Thankfully she didn’t have one of those damned menopausal headaches to remind her of her biological clock.

Checking herself in the mirror in the foyer of Hilliard’s Steak House, Maddie knew she’d never be as chic as Abigail or as sensual as Kris. But she was Maddie Daniels, and for Maddie Daniels she looked pretty damn good. Hopefully the butterflies would not spring forth from her navel during dinner and shatter the effect of confidence that her appearance portrayed.

He was already there. “Maddie,” Cody said, rising with
a smile when the maitre d’ delivered her to the table, “you look wonderful.”

She tried not to notice how wonderful he, too, looked, in real pants (not jeans), a deep brown blazer, and a soft caramel turtleneck. “Thank you,” she said quietly, and sat down. “I’ve never seen you in real clothes.” As soon as the words were out, she wanted to choke them back.

Cody laughed. “I didn’t want you to feel as though you were having dinner with one of your kids.”

She hoped the lump in her throat was not visible on her neck. Grasping the envelope that contained the proofs, she held it out toward him. “That never crossed my mind.”

Reaching past the shimmery candle, he took the envelope. “Of course it did.”

Maddie folded her hands in her lap and had no idea what to say next. The fact was, dressed as he was, he did look older. The fact was, he looked quite handsome. If she were his mother, she would have been proud … 
stop it!
she commanded herself.

While Cody studied the contact sheets, Maddie forced herself to gaze around the restaurant, to watch the nameless other patrons in two’s and three’s and four’s, their lips moving in conversation, their words merging into a blanket of indistinguishable sounds. She thought about Sharlene—nearly the same age as Cody. Did anyone notice when Sharlene and Parker were out together? Did anyone care? And what difference did it make who robbed what cradle? Besides, Cody didn’t have a wife whose life would be shattered.

At least, Maddie didn’t think he did.

Her eyes darted to his left hand. She exhaled a sigh of relief when she did not see a ring. Then again, men didn’t always wear …

“Incredible.” Cody interrupted her thoughts as he held one sheet up to the candle and examined it closely. He, of
course, did not need glasses, as Maddie would have. He did not even have to squint. “The lighting over her head … it almost looks like a halo.”

Maddie smiled. He may be a boy, he may be a boy toy, but Cody certainly had enough smarts to “get it,” to see what she’d been trying to capture, to understand the method of her creativity. “A little tungsten here and there …” she said.

He shook his head. “It’s brilliant. Now I see why you shoot the covers for
Savoir
, and I don’t.”

The hairs on her arms bristled. “Cody,” she said flatly, “it’s very flattering that you’ve invited me for dinner. It’s very flattering that you admire my work. But if it’s a job you’re looking for …”

“Would you care for a cocktail?” A waiter stood at her elbow.

“I’ll have a beer,” Cody said. “St. Pauli Girl. Maddie?” he asked. “Wine?”

She tucked her hair behind one ear. “I’ll have a martini,” she said. “Straight up. Very dry.”

The waiter disappeared. Cody set down the proofs and gazed at her across the table. “I don’t want a job, Maddie. I have a job.”

“Do you have a wife?” she blurted out.

He laughed. “No. And I don’t want one of those either.”

She plucked the napkin from her empty water goblet and spread it across her lap. “I’m sorry. It’s just that …”

“What? You think I only asked you here tonight because I wanted something? Well, I did. I wanted to see the proofs. And I wanted to have dinner with you.”

Despite herself, Maddie smiled. “You are a very interesting … man,” she said. “I hope I haven’t offended you.”

“Just relax, Maddie. And look at your menu. If you don’t like kabobs, the blackened steak is great, too.”

• • •

He was
right The steak was great As were the salad and the garlic mashed potatoes and the crème brûlée—all those yummy things that would make Abigail (and Andrew) cringe if they knew Maddie had eaten them. But beyond the food, Maddie was entranced by the man-boy across from her. His passion, he told her, was not commercial photography, not glitzy, money-making stuff, but portraits.

“The world is so caught up in video that portraits have become a dying art. The family is no longer immortalized. I want to change that. I have a small studio—nothing like yours, but it’s big enough for people to come and sit Then, with my camera, I give them what I hope is a lasting memento. Something that can become part of their heritage, and part of their kids’ futures.”

Maddie thought about the portraits of Abigail’s grandfather and great-grandfather that dominated the library at Windsor-on-Hudson. The portraits that remained long after their deaths, a permanent record of their existence.

“I’m surprised people still want them,” she said.

“Despite what anyone says, the concept of family values is still popular. As it should be, I think.”

Maddie agreed, then thought about Kris, whose values seemed to be—had always been—elsewhere. She swallowed her coffee and hated that she’d thought of Kris, the too-close reminder of birthday wishes, of Parker, and of how much Maddie loved him.

When they were finished, Cody suggested she come and see his work.

His studio.

His portraits.

He might as well have said his
etchings
.

She set the cup in its saucer. A wave of dizziness washed over her: the menopausal monster reminding her of
her place, her age, her time. “Maybe another time,” she said. “This has been a lovely evening, but I really must get home.”

He did not protest. “I hope so,” he said. “I hope you’ll give me a call.” He wrote his home phone number on a square cocktail napkin.

Folding the napkin, she tucked it in her bag. But somewhere deep inside Maddie knew if she lived to be a hundred, let alone fifty, she’d never have the guts to call.

By Sunday
afternoon every muscle in Abigail’s legs, back, and shoulders ached. She’d spent the weekend in motion: tearing through closets, heaving out clutter; ripping through files, purging old documents. Anything to keep her mind off Larry. Anything to distract her from his betrayal.

So far, nothing had helped.

She stood in the garden now, a few feet from Edmund, who was chopping at branches of bittersweet. The bright red-orange berries would be the focal point of the centerpiece for the Thanksgiving table—the feast that would, come hell or high water, be her last at Windsor-on-Hudson.

If there was any way she could rescind her invitation to Larry and Grady, she would. But she couldn’t allow what she had learned to screw up her plans to escape. As much as she wanted to confront the son-of-a-bitch, as much as she wanted to find a way to buy out his stock and toss him out on the sidewalk of Wall Street, Abigail feared it would ultimately work against her.

For now, she was stuck. Pretending that all was well was the only way to ensure that her disappearance would be believable.

She yanked at another branch and thought about the other Thanksgiving guests. Sondra, the cherished stepdaughter-about-to-be-turncoat. The widow-gossip Harriet
Lindley, whose belief that the world should be totally happy was quite unnerving. And L.C. Howard, who was at present delighting in Edmund’s “find” of two spectacular Gauguins. Abigail wondered if L.C. would bring a young lady, and if Abigail would be required to act as if it were truly lovely to meet her and suggest that soon they must do lunch.

“I think we have enough to adorn the entire manor,” Edmund said, setting down his pruners.

Abigail kept tugging.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

“I’ve always said one can’t have too much bittersweet in life,” she responded, then fell backward as the root released. She thumped on the ground and wiped her brow with her canvas-gloved hand.

Edmund extended a hand and pulled her up. “I wasn’t talking about bittersweet. I was talking about whatever it is that’s bothering you.”

She shook her head. “Nothing. Nothing’s bothering me. Why would you think anything is bothering me?” She gathered the bundle and dumped it into the wheelbarrow.

“Well, for one thing, I can count on less than one hand the number of times you’ve helped me in the garden. And for another, you’ve barely spoken for days. I assume it has something to do with this Rupert’s deal, but I shouldn’t assume anything that I don’t know for sure.”

Edmund. Always the logical.

Abigail put her hands on her hips and looked over the grounds. They were bleak now. November-dreary, with everything turned gray that once was green, and everything dead that had once flourished. It was best to leave Windsor-on-Hudson this way, not when it was in full bloom, not when it was painted with life and tinged with possibilities. It was better to leave when it was bleak. Dreary. The way her soul had become.

“I don’t want any more responsibility,” she heard herself say, surprised at her admission.