Gilded Age (12 page)

I nodded but wondered if she couldn’t afford a nice bag right now.

We walked out to her car. Noontime groups of women from the surrounding office buildings were headed out to lunch wrapped in their practical woolen coats with their sensible low-heeled shoes and huge black shoulder bags. Ellie towered above them with her great mass of caramel hair flying out over the glossy sleekness of her fur.

“So Steven doesn’t mind if you just take off for the afternoon? Nice work if you can get it.”

“I don’t know how the whole Steven thing is working out.”

“Why not?”

“He’s hired me to be his muse. Have you ever heard of anything more bizarre?” The wind off the lake was rapidly turning her face red. “I go and sit around the studio and try things on and brainstorm with him. But I don’t know how much longer something like this can last. I mean, when I stop amusing him, or he stops thinking I’m fabulous, or I stop laughing at his jokes—what then?”

“I thought he needed PR help.”

“It’s not exactly advancing my career or my skills. I can’t put on a
résumé ‘muse for an ex-junkie nobody designer,’ can I?” We turned the corner, walking past a police precinct straight out of a thirties noir movie—stone pillars, globe streetlights. Next to it, a vacant lot was covered in trash.

I was surprised by her vitriol. “You don’t know where it will lead. You could meet someone in the industry—”

“You know, you always say that. ‘You don’t know where this will lead.’ But I think I do know where it will lead. If not to a husband, then to a boss. Look at these girls,” she said, gesturing to four twentysomething women walking toward us. “You think they don’t live in fear of some boss and his tirades or don’t sit by the phone waiting for some man to call? They live by men’s whims. God, I’m so sick of it. I just want to opt out of the whole thing.”

She had unnerved me, and I was worried about her. Ellie never seemed to worry, or perhaps she didn’t worry with me. “But that’s life,” I said. “We are all of us, always, accommodating others, unless you want to be a hermit.”

She put an arm around me as we walked. “I know. And you’re about to do the biggest accommodation act of all. I’m just saying in the balance we accommodate men, much more than the other way around. And I’m a little bit sick of it. I want to know what it would feel like to have someone accommodate me for a change. Or everyone—how delicious would that be?” We kept walking and when I didn’t say anything she said, “Okay, maybe just one fabulous man to do my bidding.” When I didn’t laugh she added, “Just for a while.”

“So opt out. Buy a house. Live alone.” Her attitude annoyed me today.

“I’m thinking of buying a condo. Gus’s investments are going so well I might have a down payment soon.”

I was constantly amazed at Ellie’s concern about money. She had a prenup with her first husband, yes. But surely he’d settled something on her? Then again there’d been those whispers of an affair, a few even. Maybe such things canceled out any payments.

We both climbed in her car, an ancient red BMW with a dent in the hood.

She drove fast and parked in front of Potter and Mellen, the city’s oldest jeweler.

“This is where you shop now? Niiiice,” I teased.

“Baubles,” she said, and smiled.

All her life money flowed out of Ellie’s pockets as quickly as it came in. When she was married in New York, her husband had kept her on a short leash with his cash. “We could have walked,” I said.

“Not in your condition.”

We stepped under the royal blue awnings and then into the warm room as hushed as a vault. Immediately two saleswomen welcomed Ellie with hugs and kisses.

“Have you come to visit it?” they asked in the well-modulated tones of nurses on the maternity ward.

“To show it to my friend,” Ellie answered.

The impeccable women smiled and went behind the counter. One carefully spread a blue velvet swatch on the case as if unfurling a baby blanket. The other settled an enormous brooch on the cloth.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Ellie whispered. She wasn’t used to having her own money, to commanding a decent sum from her own work and deciding exactly how it would be spent. I could see that she was enjoying mulling over this purchase.

It was an immense gold brooch, in the Art Nouveau style, depicting a tree with a twisted trunk and spreading branches. Nestled inside the branches were old mine-cut diamonds and smooth cabochon emeralds.

“Oooh, pretty,” I said. “Old, yes?” I asked the lady behind the counter.

“Turn of the century. We don’t get pieces like this very often.”

I could see why; jewels like this weren’t often sold out of families. It brought to mind my mother once describing a new family in town as “the type of people who buy their jewelry.” Ellie had picked the piece up and was holding it to her shoulder.

“It’s something very special,” the woman now said to Ellie and me.

“But it’s too beautiful to be kept in a safe. I’d wear it all the time. Every day,” Ellie said.

The lady behind the counter smiled wider. “It’d be wonderful with jeans,” she said in a whisper.

“Or a green velvet gown,” the other murmured.

Just then Viola Trenor, wearing a sack dress that looked like it was made out of hemp and golden suede boots, emerged from the other side of the shop, where the china and crystal and silver were kept. She held a stack of manila folders with notes and paper clips hanging out. We all hugged and kissed.

“Are you registering for the wedding?” I asked.

“I’m trying,” Viola said with a wan smile. “I’m having a hard time getting into the spirit of it. P. G. and I are such practical people. I don’t know when we’d ever use half this stuff.”

Thinking of all the brides who’d be thrilled to be in Viola’s place—immense wedding and the lavish present fallout from it—I said, “This is your chance. People want to give you things. Think of family Thanksgivings and Christmases, stuff to pass down to a daughter.”

“Yes,” she said distractedly. An avalanche of family china and silver probably overflowed Jefferson Gryce’s house; as a widower he’d give P. G. and Viola everything they’d need to entertain twenty-four generously. But to my surprise Viola said, “I think today was a particularly bad day for me to do this. I’ve just come from a Dress for Success board meeting, and they’re having a hard time meeting this year’s fund-raising goals. They might have to actually close it down. Can you believe it? They do such good work. The stories you hear from the women they help …”

“I have some suits from my accounting days,” I said. “I can bring them by.”

She smiled sweetly. “That would be nice, and they’d appreciate it, but what they really need is money. There’s so much more to it than outfitting—there’s training and résumé writing and interviewing skills, general operating costs, and the economy’s so bad right now …”

To my utter shock, Ellie said, “I’ll help.” She took a slim lizard wallet out of her skirt pocket and started writing a check right there. I didn’t see the amount but noticed a generous number of zeros.

Viola turned to me while Ellie was writing.

“And Cinco Van Alstyne’s wife is helping too.” She smiled. “Corrine. Do you know her?” I felt a pang then. Perhaps Cinco’s wife wasn’t a complete social idiot. Cleveland smiled on anyone who helped Viola.

“Not well,” I said. Corrine was her name; I’d forgotten.

Viola had been there in Ellicottville when we’d all heard the story about the Van Alstyne dinner party. It didn’t surprise me she had roped in Cinco’s wife. The story had probably jogged her memory. Viola could round up help from anyone, and she wasn’t squeamish about pressure. I wondered how long it’d be before P. G. and the entire Gryce family were opening their wallets. It made me smile to think of it. In this one area, as far as changing a man, Viola might have had even Ellie beat.

Ellie gave Viola the check, and after Viola quickly glanced at the amount, she tried to keep the surprise out of her voice. “Ellie, this is so nice of you! You must come to the next board meeting and let us thank you. Or, I know, you should come … Well, you should come meet some of the women.” Viola continued to gush. “Not to push my luck because you’ve just been so generous, but I know they would love to meet you. A lot of them aspire to the fashion world. And of course you’re so glamorous. It’d be a thrill for them, an inspiration.”

Ellie blushed. I couldn’t help but think that Viola’s response was all the most ardent moralist would have wanted. Ellie promised to come meet some of the women, and we left the store.

“That was nice of you,” I said as we drove back to my car.

“I’m a sucker for a cause like that. Helping people get back on their feet.” She looked at me quickly sideways. “And doing it all through clothes—what could be closer to my heart?”

I smiled and she continued.

“But for the grace of God that might be me,” she said. “Putting
on someone’s old suit and trying to type a million words a minute. I know how it feels to be in that spot. Everyone needs someone to take care of them.”

I nodded, but such retro musings out of Ellie surprised me. We pulled up next to my car.

“Not buying that jewel and giving Viola some money—it actually made me feel for a moment that things were going to be okay, you know.” She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “Tell your lovely husband I said hi.”

I got out of the car and watched her drive off toward the Terminal Tower, which proudly rose at the end of the street like a Gotham lighthouse. It was then I realized she was driving in the opposite direction from her job.

The Ritz

E
llie was driving downtown to meet Randall Leforte for a drink. He’d asked her to meet him at three o’clock. An absurd time, but she figured it ensured she’d see no one she knew. She walked into the empty bar at the Ritz, sat on the leather stool, and ordered a glass of champagne. If she were going to have a rendezvous with Randy Leforte, she might as well go all the way and order the champagne. They’d had a few dinners, attended that benefit where he’d been obsessed with getting their picture taken. She was initially repulsed by his slick appearance: she was pretty sure he went to one of those spray-on tan places, he’d had his teeth whitened, his watch flashed with diamonds, and he wore too much gel in his dark curly hair. Despite this, after a few lunches she’d decided he was sexy. He was tall, and under his sharply cut suits she detected evidence of daily workouts. By now she saw his grooming as a desire to please that might translate nicely in bed, or a healthy dose of vanity, which hinted he’d be concerned with his performance. Really he was quite handsome, and a fling with a tall, dark, handsome lawyer with a Maserati might be just what she needed. Perhaps Steven was right.
Perhaps
this
was the woman she would be now, taking pleasure where she found it, yet independent and on her own. Men did this sort of thing all the time—slept with unsuitable women.

He walked in wearing a ridiculous suit—navy blue with a heavy chalk stripe, and tight, in a Cleveland tailor’s parody of a Savile Row. But it made his broad shoulders look larger and his waist narrower. His white teeth almost glowed in the dim bar, and he kissed her on the cheek, sat down, and ordered a Macallan rocks.

“No clothes from the attic this time, or was this Granny’s?” he asked, nodding at her fur.

“New, actually. I’ve come into a bit of money.”

He smiled.

“You’re in a good mood,” she said.

“I’m always in a good mood when I see you.” His BlackBerry vibrated, and he glanced at it, then set it aside. “I have a little question to ask you.”

Leforte slid a hundred-dollar bill on the bar without acknowledging the bartender. “Look, I’m not good at this. But I like you.” And here he swung on the bar stool to face her. “A lot.” He drank his scotch down. “I didn’t think I’d be nervous, but you make me nervous, you know? You’re about the only one who ever has.” His BlackBerry vibrated again, and he checked it with a shaking hand, then set it back on the bar.

Ellie didn’t mind the interruptions. Leforte’s career intrigued her; it was true. She remembered as a girl telling her mother that one day she’d make her own money.

“That’s right, dear,” her mother said distractedly, putting her tennis racket away in the front closet and heading toward the kitchen to make lunch.

“Maybe I’ll be a lawyer.”

Her mother washed her hands at the kitchen sink and then leveled her gaze at Ellie. “With your face, I think it’d be easier to get one man to take care of you than to get a courtroom full of men to think you’re smart.”

She’d felt slapped and embarrassed.

When Ellie didn’t say anything, her mother continued. “Maybe you’ll marry a lawyer.”

But her mother’s comments made Ellie feel oddly powerful too. Her face was pretty enough to get someone to take care of her? And looking back, she supposed that was where it all started.

“I’ve been bored as hell in Cleveland for a while,” Leforte was saying. “It’s a hick town when you get right down to it. Everyone here is so provincial. Old Cleveland is a stuffy, prehistoric group of geriatrics.”

Ellie thought this herself sometimes, but it jarred hearing it from him.

“Anyway, I was bored until I saw you at the orchestra that night. I thought, There is a woman with real class.”

Ellie winced at the word, though Leforte didn’t notice.

“And these past few weeks, I just know that you’re the type of woman I could be with, that I want to be with.”

Alarm bells started sounding in Ellie’s ears. This was not the sort of talk she expected from her afternoon tryst.

“And because I’ve never done this and never thought I would do this, I’m going to be really bad at it. I have to just get what I’m thinking out on the table.”

He leaned forward then, took her face in his hands, and kissed her. It was a fine kiss; technically it was quite accomplished. There was nothing wrong with it. The scotch after-burn covered a faint taste of stale coffee in his mouth. But Ellie felt nothing in her stomach; it didn’t flip. When he was finished he said, “I want to marry you.”