Dead Certain (15 page)

“She put all my stuff in trash bags and left them out on the driveway. She told me she never wanted to see me again.”

“Why would she do that?”

“She’s my second wife,” he confided, dropping his voice conspiratorially. “First wives marry you for better or for worse, but with second wives it’s for better or better. The minute she heard about what had happened to Bill, she started stuffing my shirts into Hefty bags.“

“Why? What does Bill have to do with her throwing you out?”

“After the house it was the last straw.”

“The house?”

“I put the house up as collateral for that bridge loan, you remember. That pissed her off pretty good. But when she heard Hurt didn’t show and that Bill had a heart attack, that did it.”

“You mean you used your house as collateral to borrow the money that you put into Delirium?” I said, wanting to make sure I was getting it right.

“Yeah. The two hundred grand we needed for the bridge loan. I was tapped out on all my other sources, and with Icon in the game it seemed like a safe bet. Now...” He pulled an imaginary lever and made a flushing sound.

Cheryl arrived with the coffee. I waited until after she’d poured us each a cup before asking her to call Jeff Tannenbaum and tell him to get himself down to the office. They don’t teach you anything about drying out drunks and preventing nervous breakdowns in law school, but that doesn’t mean that they shouldn’t.

Somehow Cheryl managed to get me out of the office in time for my appointment at the hairdresser. The fact that she threatened violence undoubtedly helped. Shortly after I dumped Stephen, in a moment of weakness I agreed to let my mother make an appointment for Christopher to do my hair. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Christopher—far from it. My mother’s hairdresser was not only charming but extremely talented. But I felt more comfortable in a board room than a beauty shop, and I did my best to avoid them by leaving my hair unshorn and favoring an unfashionable French twist.

Christopher’s salon was in an elegant converted brown-stone on Oak Street that catered to the designer-handbag set. They even had valet parking. Christopher was waiting for me at the door. He bent at the waist to theatrically kiss my hand (as if he’d really been born in Hungary instead of Des Moines) and announced that he was going to make me AGAP. When I asked the shampoo girl what that meant, she explained that the initials stood for “as gorgeous as possible.” In my case that meant full makeup and an “up do,” a complicated, upswept hairstyle that made me look like Audrey Hepburn on steroids.

I emerged from the salon wondering why anyone would ever want to do this to themselves on a regular basis, much less pay a small fortune for the privilege. I was also worried sick about Mark Millman and having cold feet about taking Elliott to the Founders Ball. Three months ago, nervous about the prospect of attending my first Founders Ball in years without Stephen Azorini on my arm, it had seemed like a good idea. Now I wasn’t so sure.

It wasn’t just that strong men had been known to crumble under my mother’s astringent scrutiny, or that by inflicting the Founders Ball on Elliott, I was, in effect, presenting him with everything that I chafed at in my life in one large, unpalatable lump. Part of me was terrified that once he got a good hard look at where I came from and what was expected of me, he would do the only sensible thing and bolt.

Stephen Azorini had moved easily through my parents’ world, effortlessly making up for whatever deficiencies he’d had in background with his intelligence and spectacular good looks. It also helped that Stephen actually liked it. With Elliott it wasn’t just that I was worried that he would be cut less slack. I was also afraid that he would trip up socially, and that after all my years of declaring that those things didn’t matter to me, I would think less of him—and myself—for it. After all, hair shirts have a way of becoming terribly uncomfortable when the time comes to actually put them on.

As I got dressed I felt all the nervousness and expectation of prom night compounded by more adult concerns. Even without Elliott this was destined to be an emotionally complex evening. After all, those of us who knew about the pending sale of the hospital were in the awkward position of raising funds for an institution whose charitable status had exactly seven more days to run.

Not only that, but Gavin McDermott was sure to be there. I did not relish the prospect of making small talk with the man who’d not only done his best to publicly humiliate one of the people I cared about most in the world, but had unfairly accused her of incompetence and threatened to end her career, as well. As I stepped into my high heels I considered pouring myself a Scotch but decided against it. This was probably going to be one of those nights that was best faced dead sober.

They were tearing up the street in front of our apartment. It was part of the city’s perpetual losing campaign against potholes, and it made parking on Hyde Park Boulevard—normally difficult—now next to impossible. Choosing to ignore everything my mother had ever taught me about dating etiquette, I told Elliott I would wait for him out front.

It was not yet quite dark, and I instantly regretted my decision. I felt terribly conspicuous as I stood clutching my Judith Leiber evening bag on the busy city street. My mother had picked my dress, an off-the-shoulder gown of russet-colored satin with a fitted bodice that contrasted with a skirt so dramatically voluminous it could have easily accommodated a bustle. Over it I wore a gauzy, satin-edged shawl that was the fashion equivalent of a fig leaf, useless against the evening chill but meant to keep me from feeling naked.

I must confess I was completely unprepared for the effect my outfit had on people. Young men honked their horns, and old women who got off the bus stopped to tell me that I looked beautiful. A little girl, walking with her mother, asked shyly if she could touch the fabric of my skirt, and a pair of college kids asked if I wouldn’t mind twirling around because they just wanted to see the skirt move. By the time Elliott pulled up to the curb, I must confess I felt a little bit like Cinderella—enchanted and transformed.

“You look beautiful,” said Elliott, hopping out of the car to hold the car door open for me. I clambered into the passenger side of the Jeep, pulling masses and masses of shimmering rust-colored satin in behind me. As he slid behind the wheel he flashed me a grin so big and gorgeous that it set my stomach doing flip-flops. “Thanks for not making me come in to meet your father,” he quipped.

“You’re welcome,” I replied, as we pulled away from the curb. “However, I have news for you. The requisite paternal inquisition is still to come.”

“I’ve had some experience with fathers,” Elliott confided easily. “All you do is call them sir and they’re putty in your hands. It’s your mother who scares the bejesus out of me.”

“Be afraid,” I said ominously. “Be very afraid.”

As we drove north on Lake Shore Drive past the ever increasing number of boats that now dotted the harbor, I cast a surreptitious glance in Elliott’s direction. I was rewarded by the sight of the familiar tousle of brown hair, the fluid assurance of his hand on the gearshift, and the realization that nothing between us had changed. I still wanted to sleep with him as badly as I had ever wanted anything.

The Founders Ball has always been held in the grand ballroom of the Drake. As we made the turn onto Walton, traffic thickened and slowed to a Saturday-night crawl. Up ahead I could see a phalanx of red-vested car parkers sprinting to relieve the black-tie crowd of their Lincolns and their Lexuses. It seemed strange to think that this was taking place on the same block as my new apartment. Granted, the block was enormous and the north side (with the exception of the back of the Drake) was entirely residential. Still, it was quite a contrast to Hyde Park, with its bodegas and its bus stops, its Nobel laureates and its poets of street violence.

As we inched our way toward the Drake, Elliott, who’d been chatting easily about the trial in Springfield, suddenly turned serious.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he inquired, nervously eyeing the ornate portico of the Drake.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Can you get a beer at one of these things?”

Before I had time to decide if he was pulling my leg, the passenger door was pulled open and I was being welcomed to the Drake. I stepped out onto the red carpet that had been laid over the curb and pulled my skirt out after me. Then I waited demurely under the gilded awning while Elliott accepted the claim check for the car and came around to take my arm.

We went through the big brass doors together, up the stairs to the first landing, where a floral arrangement the size of a Volkswagen was meant to signal the fact that you had finally arrived. We crossed the burgundy carpet past the Palm Court and were about to ascend the second set of stairs that led to the ballroom when I stopped dead in my tracks.

“So how come you aren’t wearing a rented tuxedo?” I demanded, marveling at how quickly the sensation of fine wool beneath my fingers had somehow formed itself into this question.

“So how come you’re supposed to be so smart and you didn’t realize I was giving you a hard time?” he countered.

I looked at him for a moment and reached up to ostensibly straighten the loops of his tie, which was not only perfectly straight, but hand-tied, as well.

“You look wonderful,” I said, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek.

“As wonderful as him?” inquired Elliott, chucking his head over my shoulder. I turned in time to catch sight of Stephen Azorini sweeping past with some kind of Nordic goddess on his arm. I didn’t say anything. Instead I moved closer and kissed Elliott softly on the mouth.

“Better,” I whispered in his ear, oblivious to the popping of flashbulbs all around us.

Elliott took my hand and didn’t let go. I couldn’t tell which one of us the gesture was meant to reassure, but I was grateful nonetheless. As we climbed the half flight of stairs up to the ballroom together I took a deep breath and felt a wave of something that felt suspiciously like contentment. After Russell died, I’d sleepwalked through the years, hiding inside a carapace of work and obligation. Lacking energy for anything else, I’d allowed my personal life to follow the path of least resistance, resuming my relationship with Stephen Azorini, avoiding complications, and doing only what was required.

But reaching the point where I was arriving at the Founders Ball on Elliott Abelman’s arm had been anything but uncomplicated. As perverse as it may seem, I took this as a good sign. Not that I was going to get anything like a chance to enjoy it.

No sooner had we entered the ballroom than one of my mother’s friends—I couldn’t for the life of me remember which one, they all look alike—grabbed me by the elbow and told me in an urgent whisper that my mother was looking for me. It was a message that was repeated a dozen times by a dozen stylish matrons as Elliott and I made our way through the crowded room in search of my female parent.

The theme for this year’s gala was “Starry Nights,” and as if to illustrate the point, the entire interior of the ballroom had been draped in black velvet—the walls, the ceiling, and even the floor. Illuminating this artificial night were thousands and thousands of tiny white lights pushed through the fabric that covered the ceiling. The overall effect was beautiful and romantic. It was also an awful lot of trouble to go through for a charity that was about to disappear.

We found my parents in the center of the room. As always my mother looked beautiful. She wore a simple sheath of pewter-colored satin designed to complement an old-fashioned choker of diamonds and rubies that she wore only once a year to the Founders Ball. The necklace had originally belonged to her great-grandmother, a gift from her husband, the man who’d given the city Prescott Memorial Hospital.

My father was at her side, looking handsome in his genial, silver-haired way, and no doubt already half in the bag. That my father was an alcoholic was something that I hadn’t consciously considered until college. That was when I realized that other people’s fathers didn’t start their day with an eye-opener at breakfast and switch to gin and tonics at noon. Of course, it was hard for me to be too critical. After all, my father was sweet even if he was ineffectual, and I was pretty sure that if I were married to my mother, I’d want to be drunk most of the time, too.

Whether it was a form of familial telepathy or just from having been so often at the receiving end of her temper, I could tell even from a distance that my mother was furious. All I could do was pray that it wasn’t at me.

As promised, when introduced, Elliott shook my father’s hand and called him sir. Father, as Elliott had predicted, seemed pleased. Mother, whose scrutiny of Elliott I’d been actively dreading for months, seemed to take barely any notice of him. Instead her attention was focused, laserlike, on a handsome figure across the room.

“Can you believe he’d even have the gall?” she demanded. “The nerve of that man showing up here!”

I followed her gaze, fully expecting to see Stephen Azorini and Miss Norway. Instead, I was surprised to see Gerald Packman, the CEO of HCC, warmly shaking hands with the mayor and his wife.

“I should call security and have them escort him out,” she fumed.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” I countered, secretly worried that she might actually do it. The trouble with Mother was that she was like the little girl in the Mother Goose rhyme, the one with the little curl. When she was good, she was very, very good; but when she was bad, she was horrid. The plain fact was that Mother was capable of almost anything when she was angry.