The Chocolate Money (31 page)

“Anyway,” Cape continues, “that night at the YC, I ran into Anna. A girl I dated for two years who ultimately dumped me because she said I wasn’t intellectual enough. I tried reading Virginia Woolf and Faulkner, but she still wouldn’t take me back. When she graduated, she took off for Tibet and did whatever Yale graduates do there.

“That night at the party when I saw her, she looked fresh as ever: no makeup, simple blue dress. I figured she was there to approach potential donors for whatever cause she was currently interested in. I walked up to her and asked her to dinner that night. I wasn’t hungry, just wanted a chance to spend more time with her.

“We were two of the last ones to leave the party. I had had too much to drink and had to grab her elbow to steady myself. I hailed a cab for us, and our legs touched as we crawled in.”

I’m getting bored with this story and can’t figure out why he wants to tell it to me, of all people. Was this run-in today an accident or did he call my job and some stupid intern told him where I might be? I want to say
Speed the fuck up,
but he seems determined to include all the details.

“When we were in the cab, I tried to put my arms around her, give her a hug, just like I did when we were twenty. I was still buzzed, so I missed and kissed her on the lips. She kissed me back and we started making out in the cab.”

“And . . . ?” I ask as he reaches into the bread basket for a roll and starts to butter it.

“That’s it. I took her to her place and got out of the cab so I could walk a bit and clear my head on the way home. When I got there, Lolly was sitting on the couch in my Brooks Brothers pajamas and finalizing the guest list for the wedding. I almost took her wrists and told her what had just happened, but instead I went to take a shower.”

“So what do you want me to do? It was only a kiss and technically, you were still single.” I want to laugh at his earnestness, at what he perceived as the gravity of the situation.

“I want your advice, Bettina. You have always been one of the smartest girls I know. You also know about my father’s affair. I want your opinion: Am I like him?”

Slowly I say, “If you were like Mack, you never would have told me. You don’t bring third parties into affairs—which you did not have—by the way, unless you want to get caught. Don’t tell Lolly. One mistake is not worth ruining a marriage for.”

“But what if I have more slips?”

“If you’re so worried about it, do the right thing and divorce her before you have kids. But I know you won’t do it again. I just do.”

Cape looks relieved. Like he really believes I have all the right answers.

“What about you, Bettina? Aren’t you worried you will turn into Babs?”

Even though this is my biggest fear, I say confidently, “You can’t
turn into
people, Cape. Even if I make all the same mistakes she did, I will still be me.”

He takes this in, says nothing at first. Then:

“What about the pennies? Do you still have them?”

So after all these years, he hasn’t forgotten about the two fucking cents he gave me.

I don’t want to tell him how angry I was that day, what I did with them.

“I’ll look into it. They must be around somewhere.”

“You promised me you wouldn’t lose them, remember? And I gave you your medallion back. By the way, did you ever track your dad down?”

“Um, yes. He was dead after all.” It’s not worth going into with Cape, I decide. If he has married someone called Lolly, I somehow know we will never be close friends. That this lunch is probably it: the last time I will see him.

“I’m sorry, Bettina.”

We eat spaghetti with clams and talk about his honeymoon. They went to Bali. The bill comes and Cape pays for both of us. I say thank you and lean in for a kiss. Some part of me hopes he will kiss me back, just like he did with Anna. I too am a girl he once slept with. But then I remember we never dated.

We get up from our table and walk outside.

“Goodbye, Bettina,” he says. And once again, he’s walking away. “Call me if you ever find my pennies.”

“Sure,” I say, not adding
Drag the Cardiss river.

I hesitate before turning and watch as Cape disappears up Madison Avenue. As I stand there, I imagine the sidewalk turning from concrete into grass, extending itself into a huge lawn. Cape is no longer a man in a blazer but an eleven-year-old boy wearing white shorts, a white polo shirt, and the plaid hat I saw in the foyer of Tea House so many years ago. He turns toward me, standing there in my pink-and-white sundress, and then breaks into a run. He knocks me over when he reaches me, and we roll about the lawn, wrestling like puppies. We don’t look but can feel the presence of our mothers sitting on the porch talking and laughing, drinking iced tea, perhaps. Finally, we’re done with our roughhousing, and he takes my hand and pulls me up, wiping the dirt off his knees, then draping his arm casually about my shoulders.

But quickly, I snap back to the present. I can still see Cape walking up the sidewalk, getting smaller and smaller as he goes. He does not take notice of the stores, just dodges people as if he were navigating traffic in a car. Not once does he look back at me. See a girl just standing there, alone.

But Cape is just another one of those things that Babs took away from me, something I might have had.

My husband, Alex, and our three chickens, Alexander, Vanessa, and Camilla. Our nanny, Katie Nicolas, who holds it all together in our nest.

My immediate family: Abra, Jeremy, Peter, and Madison; Anthony, Eve, and Lucille Mia; Jonny, who will always be missed. Christina. Jim Wilkin and Pamela Sherrod Anderson. The Norton clan (I apologize for all the profanity).

The best friends I am so lucky to have: Lola Vautrin, Betty Wang, Jean McMahon, Rebecca Stedman, Brooks Brown, Kristen Smyth, Elizabeth Cutler, Meredith Rollins, Kathleen Seward, Carrie Karasyov, Kate Hope, Christine Frissora, Scott McCormack, and Rick Fiscina.

Phillips Exeter Academy, for providing much of the inspiration for this book as well as the first writing coach I ever had, David R. Weber. Andrew McKinnon, for loaning me his middle name and his superlative looks (perhaps unwittingly).

Dr. Barbara Gerson, Dr. Michael Teitelman, and Dr. Lee Cohen, who pulled me from the abyss, and all those who carried me and my family during that dark time. Lisa Brown, who understands and is perhaps the coolest person I know.

Adrienne Brodeur, my amazing editor, who believed in
The Chocolate Money
enough to buy it and never lost enthusiasm for the project. Her gentle touch on the page and attentiveness carried me gracefully over the finish line. Stephen Simons, Tracy Roe, who worked miracles with my face and my prose, respectively.

Bill Clegg, Bill Clegg, Bill Clegg. Without him, there would be no book. Thanks as well to his assistant Shaun Dolan, who answered all of my rookie questions with thoroughness and care.

The Blécon family, who taught me much of what I needed to know.

Finally, to the rooms.