The Auerbach Will

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The Auerbach Will

A New York Times Bestseller

“Has the magic word ‘bestseller' written all over it … Birmingham's narrative drive never falters and his characters are utterly convincing.” —John Barkham Reviews

“Delicious secrets—scandals, blackmail, affairs, adultery … the gossipy Uptown/Downtown milieu Birmingham knows so well.” —
Kirkus Reviews

“An engrossing family saga.” —
USA Today

“Colorful, riveting, bubbling like champagne.” —
The Philadelphia Inquirer

“Poignant and engrossing … Has all the ingredients for a bestseller.” —
Publishers Weekly

The Rest of Us

A New York Times Bestseller

“Breezy and entertaining, full of gossip and spice!” —
The Washington Post

“Rich anecdotal and dramatic material … Prime social-vaudeville entertainment.” —
Kirkus Reviews

“Wonderful stories … All are interesting and many are truly inspirational.” —
The Dallas Morning News

“Entertaining from first page to last … Those who read it will be better for the experience.” —
Chattanooga Times Free Press

“Birmingham writes with a deft pen and insightful researcher's eye.” —
The Cincinnati Enquirer

“Mixing facts, gossip, and insight … The narrative is engaging.” —
Library Journal

“Immensely readable … Told with a narrative flair certain to win many readers.” —
Publishers Weekly

The Right People

A New York Times Bestseller

“Platinum mounted … The mind boggles.” —
San Francisco Examiner

“To those who say society is dead, Stephen Birmingham offers evidence that it is alive and well.” —
Newsweek

“The games some people play … manners among the moneyed WASPs of America … The best book of its kind.” —
Look

“The beautiful people of
le beau monde
… Mrs. Adolf Spreckels with her twenty-five bathrooms … Dorothy Spreckels Munn's chinchilla bedspread … the ‘St. Grottlesex Set' of the New England prep schools, sockless in blazers … the clubs … the social sports … love and marriage—which seem to be the only aspect which might get grubbier. It's all entertaining.” —
Kirkus Reviews

“It glitters and sparkles.… You'll love
The Right People
.” —
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

“A ‘fun' book about America's snobocracy … Rich in curiosa … More entertaining than
Our Crowd
… Stephen Birmingham has done a masterly job.” —
Saturday Review

“Take a look at some of his topics: the right prep schools, the coming out party, the social rankings of the various colleges, the Junior League, the ultra-exclusive clubs, the places to live, the places to play, why the rich marry the rich, how they raise their children.… This is an ‘inside' book.” —
The Washington Star

“All the creamy people … The taboo delight of a hidden American aristocracy with all its camouflages stripped away.” —Tom Wolfe,
Chicago Sun-Times

The Wrong Kind of Money

“Fast and wonderful. Something for everyone.” —
The Cincinnati Enquirer

“Dark doings in Manhattan castles, done with juicy excess. A titillating novel that reads like a dream. Stunning.” —
Kirkus Reviews

“Birmingham … certainly keeps the pages turning. Fans will feel at home.” —
The Baltimore Sun

The Auerbach Will

A Novel

Stephen Birmingham

For Ed Lahniers

The

BOOK

of

ESTHER

One

“People used to say I was an absolute ringer for Gene Tierney,” Joan is saying, standing in front of the long mirror of the entrance hall. “An absolute ringer.” She fingers her throat. “Do you like this necklace, Mother? It's by Kenny Jay Lane. The stones aren't real, and neither is the gold, but I think it's an amusing fake.”

“I'd be nervous about wearing real stones these days,” Essie says. “Mrs. Perlman, downstairs, had a diamond and sapphire clip ripped off her jacket by a man on the street, right here on Park Avenue.” Essie is thinking how well Joan has kept her figure, that extraordinary thinness. Most women, when they reach a certain age, tend to thicken around the middle like—well, like Essie Auerbach herself—but not Joan. Oh, of course Essie knows how Joan does it. She never eats. Oh, sometimes an asparagus spear, a little bit of fish, a mouthful of spinach. But otherwise she just pushes the food about on her plate, pretending to eat. She lets her wineglass be filled, but just pretends to sip at it. She helps herself to the dessert, spoons the raspberry sauce over it, but doesn't touch it. Before dinner, she always asks for a bourbon old-fashioned, but just pretends to drink it. Essie Auerbach has long since given up trying to tell her daughter that she needs to eat to stay healthy. After all, Joan is never sick.

Seeing Joan, still a perfect size four, walking toward you on a crowded street, or across a softly lighted room, you might think for a moment that this was the body of a trim teenager, her glossy reddish-brown hair—thanks to the ministrations of her hairdresser—bouncing slightly. Only at close range would you discover that Joan is … well, that Joan is Joan. Has Joan had her face lifted? Essie would never dare to ask that question of her oldest daughter, but there was that long, unexplained trip to Argentina just before Joan married Richard, and when she came back everyone had remarked on how “rested” Joan looked. And Essie had noticed that the small mole on Joan's chin was gone. And so the answer to that question, Essie thinks, is probably.

Standing before the glass, Joan straightens the shoulder strap on her black lace dress and turns to her mother. “Before we go in, I want to ask you to do something for me, Mother. I want you to speak to Richard. He's got this idiotic idea of going to South Africa to research a book he wants to write on race relations, or some idiotic thing. I can't afford to let him go. I need him to edit the paper. I want you to tell him that this is not the time for him to go, that I need him here, that you personally oppose it.”

“Richard's your husband, Joan.”

“Ha! That's just the thing. He won't listen to me.
Your
word will have more weight.”

“And aren't you also his—well, employer?”

“That's the rest of it. How can I threaten to fire my own husband? Think of the story the
Times
would make of that one. Besides, he has a contract. Richard's no slouch.”

“Well, then that's easy. If he has a contract, he has to stay.”

“Unfortunately, he doesn't. Stupidly, I agreed that he could have a six-month sabbatical every two years. He wants to exercise that option now. So please do as I ask, Mother. The paper's at a crucial point right now. He's damn good at his job, and it's crucial that I have him here.”

Essie hesitates. “Joan, has that newspaper of yours ever made any money?”

Joan's dark eyes flash angrily, and Essie knows that it is not wise to trespass any further into this danger-ridden territory. Joan's temper is legendary. When, Essie thinks, did the flighty debutante turn into the strident female executive, when did thinness turn to brittleness?
Stop the presses!
she can hear Joan commanding.
Start them again!
—all in the exercising of Joan's managerial power. Did Gene Tierney ever play Lady Macbeth? “Never mind,” Essie says.

“Of course it's made money!” Joan says. “And right now it's at a
crucial
turning point, into the really big money. We have new advertisers all lined up. That's why it's so important.”

Essie does not say that she has heard this sort of thing often before from Joan. New advertisers have always been “lined up.” Essie envisions them in a long queue, single-file, portfolios in hand, bulging attaché cases, outside her daughter's walnut-paneled office door downtown. But the line does not move. It just stands there, blocked at the gates of power, foundering, uncertain—afraid, perhaps, to tap on the door of the thin, stylish woman who sits at her Chippendale desk inside, twirling a gold pencil. Whenever Essie has read of her daughter's enterprise it seems to have been in terms of the word “foundering”: “The foundering New York
Express
, still fueled by the Auerbach millions, etc., etc.”

“Don't forget you're a stockholder in the paper, too, Mother. Will you do as I ask?”

“I'll do my best,” Essie says. They start together across the wide foyer and into the paneled library where Richard, looking fit in a hacking jacket, stands at the bar fixing drinks.

“Good evening, Richard,” Essie says.

“Hi, Nana. Merry Christmas.” He steps toward her, takes both her hands in his, and gives her a peck on the cheek.

Richard McAllister is the fourth of Joan's husbands, and perhaps the nicest. At least Essie thinks so. Of the others—well, the less said of them the better, since they are all gone now. Gone, each with a certain share of Joan's money, of course. Richard has always seemed, to Essie at least, to be less interested in the money, more interested in turning Joan's newspaper into something profitable and worthwhile and not, as it had once seemed to Essie, just another expensive hobby of Joan's. Richard, at least, had been listed (“journalist, author”) in
Who's Who in America
when Joan married him, whereas the others … but forget about them. When Joan had told Essie that she was marrying a
goy
, that she was fed up with Jewish husbands, Essie was more than a little apprehensive. “Oil and water don't mix,” as Essie's own mother used to say. Mama had been full of little homilies like that (“Too many cooks spoil the stew,” “The early bird catches the worm”), picked up, Essie supposed, as Mama had learned her new language. But as far as Richard was concerned, Essie kept her own counsel, as she usually did when it came to the things Joan wanted. And the marriage seems to have worked out well, better than the others, God knows. Joan and Richard have been married now—how long?—eight years, at least, longer than the others. And as far as Essie knows Richard has never physically abused her daughter, which was more ancient history. And he seems to get along well with Joan's daughter, Karen. Seeing him tonight, Essie thinks he looks very fine, distinguished even, with his full head of sandy hair, blue eyes and that good, straight nose. Essie has always been certain that Richard is several years younger than Joan, but she has never brought up that matter, either.