How It Ended: New and Collected Stories (22 page)

It had been war between Alysha and the children from the day their father proposed to her. They repeated all sorts of vile rumors and even dug up the certificate from her first marriage, to the polo player, which she hadn't told him about because it had been annulled. She only thanked God they hadn't found out about Riyadh.

Alysha wasn't one to leave an attack unanswered. She used to scrutinize their credit-card bills, which, naturally, came to her husband, and point out extravagant expenditures. Sonja was a tomboy who spent millions on horses—a mousy plain Jane, whom no one could accuse of spending too much on her wardrobe. She had a house in Millbrook, where all her horsey friends gathered on weekends. Her brother, Alex, was supposedly an art dealer, with a gallery in Chelsea underwritten by his father.

Alysha had liked to call Alex at some advanced hour, like noon, while her husband was in the room. “Oh, darling, I'm sorry, are you still sleeping? I'm so sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep.” And she would hold the phone as Sam growled about the laziness of his offspring and Alex shouted, uselessly, that he'd been awake for hours.

She was still bitter about the trust agreement. She'd known about it, of course, but before the wedding she'd been blinded by love, not to mention the estates and the jet and the jewels. Somehow, she'd imagined the will could be changed once she was inside the walls of the castle. It really wasn't fair that Sam hadn't been able to dispose of his vast fortune as he saw fit, that his ungrateful children, who had no sense of style or elegance, should inherit almost everything. The little monsters hadn't been able to wait for their father to keel over, whereas Alysha had gotten him on a serious diet and exercise regimen, which made it seem all the more unfair that he died so soon after they found the Southampton house, or that he should have put so little money down. Her psychic had told her that Sam had at least five more years, at which point the house would've been paid off. Instead, in the middle of a session with the trainer she'd hired, he suffered a massive stroke and passed away twenty-four hours later.

“I just need a little more time, Saul. All will be well.” What he didn't know was that she'd already taken out a loan against the art and the furniture, which had kept her going this past year.

“We don't have any more time. If we don't sell something, you could end up losing the co-op as well as the house.”

“Then you must convince them, Saul. You're my savior, darling. We will look back on this someday soon and laugh about it, I promise you.”

After their dinner at La Grenouille, she invited Billy up to her apartment for coffee, and he seemed every bit as impressed as she'd hoped. The doorman had appeared at just the right moment to help them out of the car, and said, “Welcome home, Contessa.” She was almost impressed herself as they stepped directly from the elevator into her foyer, with its black-and-white marble floor and coffered ormolu ceiling. She pointed out the major paintings—the mortgaged Renoirs and the Monet—as they made their way to the living room, where there was no need to point out the view of Central Park. Billy walked over to the windows over Fifth Avenue and whistled. “Now that's what I call a view.”

“One gets used to it, after all this time, but I suppose I am very lucky.”

“It's really something.”

“Come see the rest of the apartment,” she said, taking him on a brief tour, which ended in the master bedroom.

“Oh, Billy, you must think I'm terrible,” she said, burying her head in his shoulder after crawling up from a longish sojourn between his thighs.

“No, I think you're wonderful,” he said.

“I couldn't help myself,” she replied.

The next day she gave him a pair of cabochon sapphire cuff links from Cartier.

“I'm … speechless,” he said after opening the little red box in his suite at the Carlyle. “I don't think anybody has ever given me anything this nice.” He looked positively misty-eyed. “They're beautiful. I … I can't thank you.”

“I'm so glad you like them, darling.”

“I love them.”

That night he made love like a teenager, and for the first time they stayed together until morning.

Three nights later she again spent the night at his suite. She was already up when the phone rang with his wake-up call.

“Darling,” she said, “I can't find my jewels. When I went out to the living room, the door to the suite was wide open.”

When they took inventory, it seemed that her earrings and necklace were missing, along with Billy's cuff links and several hundred dollars in cash.

She clutched him and buried her head in his chest. “It's terrifying to think they were right here in the room while we were sleeping.”

Billy called the manager and demanded to know what kind of security they had in this goddamn hotel.

“I think their attitude is appalling,” Alysha said after their initial interview with the hotel manager and the head of security.

“More worried about covering their asses than solving the crime.”

That evening, the head of security knocked on the door and said they were still investigating. “Mr. Laube, can I ask you how long you've known Ms. de Sante?” Outraged, Billy threatened to move out that very night.

“Don't worry,” Billy told Alysha later. “Between my insurance company and the hotel's, we'll reimburse you for your jewelry, if you can just give me an appraisal.”

“Oh, darling, that's so sweet of you.”

“No, it was sweet of you to buy me those cuff links. I'd just like to get my hands on the bastard who swiped them.”

“There was a gentleman looking for you earlier,” her doorman told her when she arrived home that night. “He wouldn't leave his name. I think he was trying to serve you with some kind of legal document. Of course I told him that you were out of town.”

“There must be some mistake,” she said, but Saul called the next day to confirm that she should indeed expect a subpoena.

“They're seeking a summary judgment of default and they want to depose you.”

“I have no idea what any of that means,” she said, “and I told you I just need a little more time.”

“You can dodge the summons for a few days or a week, but sooner or later you'll have to give your deposition. And you're going to have to pay off the loan.”

“Tell those nasty lawyers I'm far too busy at the moment for their silly deposition.” The gala was only three days away, for one thing, and she was on the seating committee, which had to finalize the assignment of tables today, a very delicate operation that involved accommodating the large egos of major donors, separating enemies, and rewarding friends. And she had her final fitting at Valentino.

She instructed her doormen to tell all callers, except for Mr. Laube, that she was in Paris.

The night of the gala, Alysha wore the strapless white lace Valentino with a black bodice. And she had meanwhile taken Billy to Dunhill for a made-to-measure single-breasted tux with peaked lapels. He couldn't quite believe it cost three thousand dollars, but she told him that such a godlike build deserved custom suiting.

Lincoln Center's plaza, framed by the soaring columns of the opera house, Avery Fisher and the New York State Theater, seemed to Alysha a suitable stage for the great occasion. Billy took her arm as they disembarked at the drop-off area and escorted her up the steps. The photographers lining the red carpet began to stir, repeating her name as they readied themselves for her entrance.

They began to snap; then one of them stepped forward. “Alysha de Sante?”

“Yes?”

He handed her a yellow envelope. “You've been served.”

“What the hell?” Billy said.

Alysha dropped the envelope, but on second thought, she realized that she could hardly leave it behind, and so she asked Billy to pick it up for her, the whole scene recorded as the cameras continued to flash, Alysha repairing her smile and leading the bewildered Billy through the gauntlet, turning to see Kip and Mary Trotter, who were right behind them, witnesses to the whole fiasco.

“What was all that about?” Billy asked, blinking and frowning, once they were inside.

“Oh, darling, I didn't want to bore you with my problems,” she said in a quavering voice. She realized she had to present her own version of events before he heard any malicious gossip, or, God forbid, read an unflattering account in some column. But first she had to fulfill her role as gala cochair and escort of the evening's distinguished honoree.

“Whatever it is, it's nothing we can't fix,” he said, squeezing her hand. The collective pronoun thrilled her even more than his compassionate expression; it was true—truer than he could possibly imagine—that with his help, her problems would simply vanish. It was all so simple, really. She would bare her soul to him and he would rescue her.

Mary Trotter took her by the elbow. “Anything wrong?”

“Everything is absolutely wonderful,” Alysha replied.

And indeed it was. She and Billy circulated through the crowd, accepting compliments. Alysha knew everyone and introduced Billy to those dignitaries with whom he was not yet acquainted, including the director of the ballet and the mayor. At one point when they became separated, she introduced herself to Zach Hunter, the actor, who would be more or less a contemporary of Billy.

“Very nice to meet you,” he said, looking over her shoulder.

“My gentleman friend, Billy Laube, is a big fan of yours,” Alysha said. “I know he'd be delighted to meet you.”

“Billy Laube? You mean, like, the Laube Foundation?”

She nodded, pointing to Billy, who stood a head above the crowd a few yards away. “Come say hello to Billy.”

She led him over and introduced them. Billy seemed relieved to see Alysha and delighted to meet a movie star. It turned out they had a friend in common, someone in Los Angeles named Ray Stark. They engaged in an enthusiastic exchange, much of it relating to the Denver Broncos football team. When they separated to find their respective tables, Alysha said, “Who
was
that man?”

“You didn't recognize Zach Hunter? Are you that young? He's an actor, a movie star. At least he was. I thought you knew him.”

“He introduced himself and told me I was the most beautiful woman in the room. I thought perhaps he did look familiar. But then he kept talking to me, so I thought I would introduce him to you so he would know I had a boyfriend.”

“Wow,” Billy said. “Zach Hunter was hitting on you. And you didn't even know it.”

“Perhaps he
was
a little before my time, or else he is more popular here than in Europe,” she said, taking his arm and leading him to the table.

The evening was an unalloyed triumph, and anyone expecting to see Alysha nervous or humbled was disappointed. She took the stage after appetizers and introduced Billy at some length, and he gave a very charming and self-deprecating speech that she had written for him with the help of her Wellesley-educated assistant. The performances were first-rate; even Billy seemed to enjoy the show, which at twenty minutes was just long enough to satisfy the faithful without alienating the banker husbands who had to be at work early the next morning. She knew there was a little buzz concerning the events out on the red carpet, but she chose to rise above it. All that mattered was what Billy thought. The rest of them would follow in his wake.

“You were wonderful,” she told him, safely in the car shortly after eleven.

“You're the wonderful one,” he said, throwing his big lumberjack arm around her and pulling her close. “I was worried about you.”

“You're sweet,” she said, “but I don't want you to worry. I'm used to these attacks. They are jealous of me, and they wish to see me suffer, but I won't give them the satisfaction.” She buried her head in his shoulder.

“Who? Who's attacking you?”

“The children.”

“Children?”

“My late husband's children. They hate me—they want to ruin me. They are contesting the beastly will and they have frozen my assets. My lawyers tell me we will win in the end, but before we do, I may lose my house in Southampton. Maybe even my apartment. Oh, Billy, I didn't want you to become mixed up in this nasty business.”

“Well, it sounds like you need somebody to get mixed up in it. What was the summons all about?”

“It's about the mortgage. They're going to foreclose on my beautiful house.”

“Nobody's going to foreclose on anything. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“I can't ask you to rescue me.”

“You don't have to ask,” he said, pulling her closer.

The next day, Billy canceled his lunch date and walked over to Cartier to look at rings. He'd almost proposed to her last night in the car, but he had old-fashioned ideas about propriety and presentation. He wanted to do it right. He wanted to have the ring and the proper setting for the proposal. Casting his mind about for a place, he realized that Alysha would be the person who would know the perfect location. In the past few weeks he had come more and more to rely on her. He realized that he liked this feeling of surrender, of being taken care of. She seemed to know everyone and everything. All he had to do was show up and be himself. They made a good team.

After fifteen minutes in the store, his head was spinning. Emerald cut, marquise cut, pear and princess … color and clarity. And he was shocked by how much you could spend on a fairly modest-looking diamond ring. Billy had little experience with jewelry. Most of the jewelry he'd given his first wife had originally belonged to his mother.

“I'm going on my break,” the salesgirl said, “but my colleague will be happy to help you.” She indicated a slim young man in a tight black suit, whose hair was combed to a peak in the center of his head.

“Mr. Laube, isn't it?” he said.

Billy nodded, surprised at being recognized by such an unlikely figure.

“Miss de Sante is a client,” he said cheerfully. “A very fine lady. A very refined lady, I should say.”

Billy nodded, wondering how this odd young fellow knew so much about him.

“I'm sorry you didn't like the cuff links,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The cuff links. That Miss de Sante bought for you. She said they weren't your cup of tea.”