On the Avenue (2 page)

She stepped carefully out of the Jacuzzi and toweled herself off. She stood before the studio-lighted mirror and gave herself a careful once-over. She was thin and toned. Her blue eyes were almond shaped, her nose straight. Her full lips accentuated the smoothness of her complexion. She removed the pins
from her hair and shook out the bright blond mass of waves, letting the tendrils fall to the middle of her back. A satisfied smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She was totally pleased with her appearance.

She padded out to the bedroom. With expert ease, she slipped the dress off its brass hanger and pulled it over her head. Then she took a deep breath, stretched her hands behind her head, and worked the ivory buttons into place one by one. The dress felt like soft butter against her skin. She shivered at the cool kiss of it and thanked God for her good taste. The pair of Louboutins was on the floor; she stepped into them, then went to the door and turned the knob.

The hallway was still mercifully quiet. She looked both ways, noting that the doors to Madison's and Park's rooms were closed. A feeling of excitement washed over her. The plan had worked. “Here we go,” she whispered, and went toward the kitchen. On the threshold, she put a hand on her hip, struck a fashionable pose, and cleared her throat.

Lupe, short and thin and wearing her customary stained apron, spun around. Her eyes widened in surprise, and the espresso pot she was holding slipped from her fingers.
“Dios mío,”
she said, her Colombian accent thick.

“That's a good thing, right?” Lex walked across the large kitchen, circling the marble island as she modeled her newest design. “Well, how do I look?”

“Beautiful,”Lupe said with a genuine smile. “But not enough clothes.”

Lex rolled her eyes. “Come on. I designed it two weeks ago and had this sample made in Milan. Isn't it gorgeous?”

“Mucho bazoomas,”
Lupe said, staring at the plunging neckline that made a peepshow of Lex's breasts. “A girl so young, there's no need to dress like that.”

“But you like it, don't you?”

“Yes, I like it.” Lupe's eyes suddenly narrowed. “Where you going, anyway?”

“Out with an old friend,” Lex replied casually. “We're having dinner downtown.”

“You're not sick anymore, I guess?”

Lex put a hand to her forehead and made a pretense of coughing. “I'm feeling a little better. And I don't plan on eating much, anyway. Where're Madison and Park?”

Lupe shook her head as she turned back to the commercial-sized dishwasher. She had been the housekeeper for the Hamilton family for nearly a dozen years and knew every one of Lex's tricks. Instead of answering, she said, “Your father told me that you're not supposed to go to the gala tonight. You know that.”

“I'm not going to a gala. I'm going out for a quiet dinner.” Lex tried her best to keep her tone casual,
innocent,
and
believable. She didn't know if it was working. She looked down at the marble countertop and started leafing through last month's issue of
Paper
magazine. A minute passed in silence, and she finally glanced up.

Lupe was giving her one of those don't-tell-me-that-cute-guy-in-your-bedroom-is-just-a-gay-friend stares. She slammed the dishwasher closed and began drying her hands on a dish towel. “What I'm supposed to say when you father calls, eh? You gonna go out now and turn off the cell phone. Then I'll be in trouble. Forget it. I'm not lying for you tonight.”

Lex's jaw dropped. The excitement she'd been feeling a minute ago turned into sheer panic as she followed Lupe out of the kitchen, past the dining room, through the living room, and into the library. “Lupe,
please.
You
have
to. You don't understand. If I don't go to the gala tonight, I'll never want to wake up again. I'll spend the next year crying my eyes out.”

Lupe was dusting off Trevor Hamilton's prized mahogany Civil War-era desk. It was situated in the middle of the library and flanked by four walls filled with books. “No,” she said again. “Your father said no, and I can't lie.”

“Come on, be a sport,” Lex pleaded. “I'll never ask you for another favor again.”

“No.”

“I'll clean my own room and do my own laundry.”

“No.”

“I'll vacuum the living room.”

“No.”

“I'll make my own dinner.”

“No.”

“I'll load the dishwasher.”

“No.”

“I'll go to confession with you at St. Patty's tomorrow.”

“No.”

Lex sighed. She pouted and crossed her arms over her chest. What a waste. After today's exhausting shopping trek, she deserved to show herself off. Two stores. Crowds of people. All that time creating the perfect dress and now—

Dress.

The word echoed through Lex's mind and a little lightbulb clicked on over her head. Of course. That was the answer. Why hadn't she realized it earlier?

She whirled around. “Okay then, Lupe. We'll cut a deal. You lie for me tonight and I'll buy you the Oscar de la Renta cashmere sweater you've been wanting for the past three months.”

Lupe stopped dusting off the desktop. Her back straightened. Her fingers clenched into tight little fists. And for the first time since they had begun arguing, she didn't say anything.

Lex walked over to her. “You have a picture of it in
your bedroom. Just think how great it'll look on you,” she whispered seductively. “Think how your friends will be staring in envy when you go to your nephew's wedding next month.”

Lupe had been listening intently. She closed her eyes, bit down on her lower lip, and then quickly shook her head. “Enough. No. I can't do it.”

“Of course you can. It'll be my treat. Our secret. By the time you finish saving up the money to buy the sweater, it'll go onto the clearance rack and into the hands of someone who totally doesn't deserve it.”

Silence.

“And I'll buy you great shoes to match,” Lex said, fully aware that she'd hooked Lupe in. “Going once …”

Lupe sighed loudly. She ran a hand over her forehead, where a trail of sweat had broken out.

“Going twice …”

“Oh, why you do this to me? It's not nice.”

“Going three times,” Lex trilled. “In five seconds the deal's off—”

“Okay,” Lupe cut in. “I'll do it. I'll tell your father you're asleep when he calls.”

Lex smiled broadly. She threw her arms around the small woman and hugged her tightly. “Monday after school I'll pick up the sweater. Then we can go to Barney's for shoes! Just you and me!”

Lupe nodded guiltily, then made the sign of the cross.

Scurrying from the library, Lex flew through the living room, past the dining room, and back into the kitchen. She went into the small pantry and clapped her hands vigorously. “Where are you, honey?” she called out. “It's time to go.”

Champagne, her tiny teacup Chihuahua, came prancing out of his favorite corner. He was an adorable dog, with closely cropped well-groomed golden hair. A dark brown collar wrapped his little neck, and from it hung a gold charm in the shape of a champagne flute. He stared up at Lex and barked.

She bent down and scooped him into the crook of her right arm. Then she headed for the foyer, where her purse sat on an oval table. Stealing a final glance in the mirror by the front door, she bolted out of the apartment and into the waiting elevator. The floors dinged one by one as she and Champagne descended. The Hamilton apartment was, of course, the penthouse at 974 Fifth Avenue. The prewar building was beautiful, but as far as Lex was concerned, it retained too much of its antiquated charm. The carpet in the elevator was a faded red. Many of the numbered buttons had smudged into shapeless black lines. And it took nearly a minute to reach the ground floor.

She hurried out into the lobby. She could already feel the electric pulse of the streets and hear the controlled chaos of the traffic. Her heart fluttering, she
spotted the doorman, Steven Hillby, standing at his usual post by the reception desk. Tall and big-boned, he was the official mayor of 974 Fifth Avenue. He knew everything about everybody.

“Oh no you don't,” he said when he saw Lex striding toward him. “A little birdy named Trevor Hamilton told me you were supposed to spend the night
inside.
” He stared down at her with a smug expression.

Without so much as arguing, Lex popped open her purse, took out her favorite pair of Oliver Peoples sunglasses, and slipped them on. Then she dunked into the purse a second time and withdrew a crisp hundred-dollar bill from the bulging side pocket. She held it out to Steven. “Cut the bullshit,” she said with a playful smile. “Now go on out there and rev up the engines.”

Steven snatched the bill from her fingers and held open the doors for her. “This way, ma'am.” His tone was suddenly—and exaggeratedly—sweet.

“You didn't see me leave,” she said as she stepped outside.

“And you didn't see me take a bribe.”

“I never do.”

At the curb, Steven motioned for the gray Mercedes limo parked at the northwest corner of Fifth Avenue. When it pulled up beside him, he waved Lex forward, into the open back passenger door. “Have a good evenin', ma'am.”

“Thank you, kind sir.” She dropped into the plush leather seats and settled Champagne on her lap. The door closed. “The Met,” she said.

The partition that divided the front seats from the luxurious passenger compartment slid all the way down. Striking blue eyes stared back at her from the rearview mirror. Clarence Becker had been the Hamilton family's chauffeur for three years. He was a scrawny forty-two-year-old guy with a good heart and a penchant for booze, loud music, and expensive cigars. Lex often referred to him as a sweet thug.

Now he was staring at her intently. “Lex …,” he said, his voice trembling with worry.

“I've already heard the speech, Clarence, and I'm in no mood to hear it again.”

He turned around in his seat. “If your father finds out I drove you to the gala, I'll never hear the end of it. He told me you're not supposed to …”

As his voice trailed away, Lex reached for the magic purse. She withdrew a long Cuban cigar from the
other
side pouch—the one reserved for rare emergencies that money couldn't solve—and held it out.

Clarence's eyes widened. He reverently took the cigar into his fingers and stared at it. Then he passed it beneath his nostrils, inhaling the expensive scent. “Ohhh,” he groaned. “This a hot little number. Yum.”

“Straight from Daddy's fine-tobacco collection,” Lex said. “He could care less about cigars. Park and I
smoke most of them. And there'll be five more for you tomorrow—
if
I get my ride.”

Clarence gave her a conspiratorial wink as he dropped the cigar into his lapel pocket and turned around. A moment later the car pulled out onto Fifth Avenue.

Mission accomplished.
Lex leaned back and smiled happily. Who said freedom couldn't be bought?

The Great Hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art was glittering. Candles burned on the tables, and endless strands of white lights had been draped across the vaulted ceiling in honor of Van Gogh's
Starry Night.
It was like a scene from a fairy tale, Madison Hamilton thought as she scanned the crowded floor. She recognized most of the faces smiling back at her. Some were her father's business acquaintances. Others were old fixtures on the New York social scene. Dinner had been served, and
now the quiet crowd was mingling as the orchestra played Bach.

She stood up from her place at the coveted President's Table—reserved for patrons who had dropped ten thousand dollars a plate—and looked down, making certain she hadn't spilled any food on her gown. It was vintage Chanel. A simple black lace strapless that fell to her ankles and hugged her waist snugly. At her neck, a Harry Winston ten-carat choker sparkled like the Manhattan skyline. Her dark hair was pulled up in a chignon. She knew all eyes had been on her since the gala had started an hour ago, and she didn't mind the attention one bit. Here, among her intellectual peers, she was being admired for more than just her beauty. Madison had spent the past two months interning in the Met's fund-raising and development office, coordinating many of tonight's decorative festivities on her own. It was no secret that she had the brains to match the influential last name.

Madison yawned just as a photographer approached, his camera ready. She quickly clamped down on her teeth, smiled, and lifted her chin slightly, all too aware that this very picture would appear in the Style section of the
New York Times
on Sunday. As the lens flashed brightly, she prayed for a flattering shot—even though an unflattering shot was rare.

Of the Hamilton triplets, Madison looked most like their mother. Venturina Baci, famed actress of stage and screen, had been a top model in her teens and early twenties. A lean, leggy Italian with wild dark hair and the face of an angel, Venturina made her theatrical debut in London's West End; a year later, while shooting her first movie in New York, she spent a single night partying at a trendy nightclub and fell in love. Venturina was twenty-six. Trevor Hamilton was thirty-two. Their romance had been chronicled in all the major tabloids of the day: the rising star and the ambitious, handsome entrepreneur. They married a few months later and Venturina became pregnant with triplets. But the marriage didn't last. When Madison, Park, and Lex were all of three, Venturina moved back to Italy to jump-start her European film career. And Trevor, already a billionaire, wouldn't hear of his famous girls leaving New York, the city that adored them.

There was never a time when Madison resented being compared to her mother. Venturina Baci was beautiful and accomplished, a European treasure. Her movies were not of the blockbuster variety, but works of cinematic art. All the high-profile directors loved her: Almodóvar, Jeunet, Zhang. Over the years, Madison, Park, and Lex had traveled to the Cannes and Venice film festivals to cheer Venturina on. They shared a special relationship with their mother, a
bond that transcended the four thousand miles separating them. Venturina wasn't around to share in all the small, meaningful moments of their lives— shopping on Fifth, vacationing in the Hamptons— but she was always there when her girls needed her.