The Ten Best Days of My Life (18 page)

“Is it true that you really trashed $55,000 worth of a hotel room at the Plaza?” most of them asked.

I was a minor celebrity at the Dorenfield Building. As a joke, some of the secretaries put a jug in the coffee room, and threw a few pennies in, with a sign that said “Alex Dorenfield Trashed Hotel Fund.” My dad found out about it, though, and he called the entire company into the conference room on the top floor.

“I don't know who among you thought it would be funny to put that jug in the coffee room, but I'm telling you all right now that I'm gonna find out who did it and when I do, you're going to be fired.”

I knew it was a couple of secretaries on the third floor, and rather than get them fired, I did the only logical thing I could do.

“It was me!” I shouted in front of the whole company. “I did it, Dad! I'll have my things out by noon!”

The place erupted into laughter. My dad was so embarrassed that he let the whole thing drop and even though I got a big talking to at home, at the office I was a star. Everyone loved me. I was Bill Dorenfield's devious daughter and they loved it when I got under my dad's skin. I never told him the truth. The secretaries I saved were so grateful, but truthfully I was embarrassed by their gratitude. True, I did it to help them and I did get in trouble for it, but by then I was in so much trouble anyway, it was hardly a sacrifice.

When I look back on the whole experience, even though I got millions of paper cuts, I might have stayed and worked my way up through the company, but fate intervened.

Yeah, I met the guy who I almost married.

Charles Kitteredge didn't work for my dad. He worked for his dad at Kitteredge, Kitteredge, and Kitteredge, his family's law firm. They specialized in real estate and also happened to be my dad's attorneys. Their offices were located in the building next to ours. Charles was only twenty-seven years old, but he had graduated from Harvard Law first in his class and had already won some major legal cases. He had just been made partner in the firm. He wanted no special treatment because he was “the son,” and he didn't get it. He was just so good at what he did that he deserved to make partner. I guess you could say it was a case of opposite attraction.

I didn't know any of this, though, when I first laid eyes on Charles. To me, he was just the gorgeous guy at the salad bar.

See, I had seen Charles a bunch of times on my lunch break. Charles and I were both big fans of the salad place on Fifteenth Street. He was damn fine picking out lettuce and cucumbers for lunch. I even started to time my lunch break to the times I knew he'd be there. Remember, I didn't know he was one of my dad's lawyers, I just thought he was some cute guy. Sometimes I'd even be in the middle of sorting the mail and I'd leave everything where it was (something I was forbidden to do by Tim, who not only dropped off the mail to the middle floors but was also the lead mail boy, but I was Bill Dorenfield's daughter with the underhanded ways so all rules were off) and spend the next half hour primping to make it just in time to run into Charles.

Charles always had on the finest Armani and Hugo Boss suits, and his hair was always neatly combed back. His shirts all came from Hong Kong and all of them were specially tailored for him. Something about the fact that his initials, CGK, were embroidered on the cuffs of his shirts turned me on like you wouldn't believe. I admit it. I've always been a sucker for a guy in a nice suit.

Anyway, after months of “accidentally” running into him at the salad place and little smiles here and little glances there, I was standing next to him, getting my fix of roughage for the day, when he finally spoke to me:

“Alexandra,” he said in this deep, assertive voice, “don't you think it's time that we finally meet?”

Now, it wasn't the nice suit he was wearing, though that was a part of it. It wasn't the way his dark hair was always perfectly in place or the way his blue eyes glistened when he looked at me when he said those words. That was the stuff of a crush. It was the way he said my name in this deep, confident voice: “Alexandra, don't you think it's time that we finally meet?”

Do you get where I'm coming from? I fell for a guy because it was almost exactly the way my dad met my mom.

So I played the part of my grandmother.

“No, I don't think it's time that we finally meet,” I said and took my salad to go while wondering how he knew my name. Who was this guy? He didn't work in my building. Had he been doing some detective work on me?

And then he did something my father didn't do right away. Instead of sending the roses and the perfume and the tickets to concerts, he called my dad and asked if he could take me on a date.

My father was practically doing cartwheels.

“Charlie Kitteredge!” he exclaimed. “What he wants you for, I don't know, but you're gonna goddamned go out with him, that's for sure.”

And, as you can imagine, that was where my passion for Charles ended. It was just my luck that the cute guy from the salad place would be one of my father's lawyers. Of all the men in Philadelphia, I had to get a crush on someone who worked for my dad. That's when my crush was crushed.

Charles, however, was smitten. I guess it was because I couldn't have cared less, you know how that is. Though I hemmed and hawed to my father, “He's not my type, I don't want to go,” he made me. Charles in turn took me to the most amazing places. We went to the best restaurants in town (and got right in without a reservation). We went to opening night of all the new Broadway shows in New York. When Charles wanted to take me away for two weeks to Venice and Rome, I told him I couldn't because of work.

“Forget work,” my father said. “If you're going with Charles Kitteredge, I don't care what happens to the mail.”

Now, I have to admit, I was torn when Dad said to forget work. It wasn't exactly my idea of a good time, sorting mail. And let's face it, a trip to Italy with a gorgeous guy is every girl's dream. But part of me was also starting to like how my dad looked at me now, like he had gotten back some of the respect he had for me because I was showing up to work every day. I liked the fact that everyone in the office said hello. I know it was just mail, but I did feel like I had a place of my own. Then I thought about how my dad would feel if I said I wanted to stay in the mailroom and skip Venice. I knew he'd be disappointed. Wouldn't he? Wouldn't he want me to go with a Kitteredge? That was the choice that would gain his respect back. So, of course I went.

After Rome and Venice, the Kitteredge family rented an island just off the coast of Tahiti and when I told Charles that I really needed to get back to work, my dad said it again:

“I don't think your future is in the mailroom, Alex, it's with Charles Kitteredge. We all know you aren't cut out to be responsible. Charles will take care of you.” My dad's words hurt a little, but by now I was convinced, and, really, who turns down an island for a mailroom?

Charles was a perfectly nice guy and so was his family, even though they were extremely Waspy. I'm not stereotyping when I say that when the clock struck five you never saw a pack of people run off a Tahitian beach so fast to get their evening cocktails. These people were huge drinkers, and I'm sure his family could have raced the Indy 500 perfectly without crashing into any other cars at speeds exceeding 140 mph.

Now, I don't really want to get into all the ins and outs of who Charles was, though the fact that he was referred to as Charles and not Charlie or Chuck should give you a clear picture. I cannot say that he was ever mean to me or, heaven forbid, struck me in any way. On the contrary, he was as nice as he could be. For as clean-cut as he was and as hardworking and Waspy as he was, I did wonder myself what he was doing with a spoiled Jewish princess who trashed a room at the Plaza Hotel. So I asked him.

“Well, you're cute,” he said, kissing me on the cheek. “And we make a really great merger.”

What he meant by that, I didn't ask. Did he mean that we as a couple actually merged well or did he mean that his family's company and my dad's merged well? To this second, if I were a betting girl, I would have to say that it was the latter, but the truth is, the whole thing was making my parents very, very happy and the trashed hotel room was now on its way to becoming history. Most importantly, as my dad put it, “At last you're doing something with your life.”

That's why I really don't want to get into the ins and outs of Charles, and, besides, even though he was the catalyst for my sixth best day, he wasn't the reason for it. I'll get to the sixth best day, but you have to hear this part first.

Charles proposed to me at his parents' house, in front of both of our parents. We had only been dating for about five months, and, to tell you the truth, I had no idea that this was even happening. I just thought the families were getting together for dinner.

It was just after the drinks and the pecan/goat cheese/arugula salad and the beef bourguignonne and flaming baked Alaska, but just before the after-dinner port, when Charles clinked his spoon against his wineglass and said, “Now, if everyone would quiet down for a second, I'd like to make an announcement.”

I still had no idea what was going on. Charles said “announcement, ” he didn't say he needed to ask a question or anything like that.

“As both our parents know,” he started, “Alexandra and I have embarked on a wonderful relationship. I know it's only been a short time, but, as most of you might know, I never make rash decisions. It's just that when you know something is right, you can't help but want to get on with the next step and that is why I've asked you all to meet here tonight.”

And that's when I knew.

“Alexandra,” he said, bending down beside my chair and pulling out a small velvet box from his Zegna suit jacket, “you would make me the happiest man in the world if you would do me the honor of becoming my bride.”

All I could see were his initials, CGK, on his shirt sleeve peeking out from his jacket and this rock of an emerald-cut diamond ring extended toward me.

I wanted to say, “No, this is all too soon. I'm only twenty-three years old! I've got a million things I want to do with my life even if I don't know what they are yet!”

But then I looked at my parents. You never saw a bigger smile on my father's face. My mother was dabbing her eyes with her linen napkin. In that one moment, I'd never seen them more proud that I was their daughter. So I did what I thought was right.

“Yes, Charles, I will marry you,” I eked out.

You would have thought that Philadelphia was getting ready for its own royal wedding. Channel 6 even had it on the local news that we were getting married: “The heir to the Dorenfield dynasty” (what dynasty? I wanted to know) “and one of Philadelphia 's oldest and most influential families has found romance.”

Charles's firm got seventeen new clients the day after the Channel 6 announcement.

Philadelphia
magazine had us on its cover: “Alexandra and Charles—Philadelphia's New Social Elite,” it claimed beside our picture on the cover.

I couldn't go anywhere without being recognized. “Alexandra! ” some old woman shouted as I was leaving Saks one day. She hobbled up to me. “Hearing about you and your intended is keeping me alive.”

At every restaurant we went to, people sent over champagne. “For the happy couple,” the waiter would say as he popped the cork and then pointed at some table of people who'd raise their glasses to us.

Gifts were sent from people we didn't even know and some we didn't even like.

“You are the luckiest guy to get Alex,” one card read. “We've known her since our days at the Friends School. Let's have a little reunion to celebrate this wonderful merger. Tom and Seth Rosso.”

Pen was to be my matron of honor and Kerry Collins, Dana Stanbury, and Olivia Wilson were my bridesmaids. Even though we were scattered across the country, they all flew in for dress fittings. I tried to confide in them:

“What am I doing?” I asked in the dressing room at Vera Wang as Vera herself waited in the store for our fitting.

“Everyone gets scared when they're about to get married,” Kerry replied. “You'll get over it.”

“It's a scary thing,” Olivia added, trying to soothe me, “but it's not something nobody else has done before.”

“What is the worst that can happen?” Dana demanded. “So you'll get a divorce if it doesn't work out.”

“You're sure you love him, right?” Pen asked. Good old reliable Pen.

Here is the sad truth. I wasn't in love with Charles. I didn't want to spend the rest of my life with him. I didn't want to just be a wife, and clearly that's all he wanted me to be. I could have had every material thing I ever wanted and have lived in a big house with servants at my beck and call, but what would have been the cost? That's all my father thought I could be, but I knew deep down that that's not how I wanted my life to be. Still, there were dress fittings to be scheduled and gala benefits to attend. There were invitations to head up charities and even more invitations to raise money for said charities. There were appointments with decorators who wanted to make our Villanova home a calling card and phone calls from
Town & Country
and
Architectural Digest
to photograph us in it. I sometimes felt like all I had to do was sit in a chair and the world would present me with the plans it had for me. I even clocked it once. I sat in a chair for four straight hours as three decorators, one hairstylist, and four members of the Junior League came over to tell me what they were going to do for me. It was heady—all this attention and the illusion of power. But it was all getting to be too much. I knew if I didn't nip this whole thing in the bud soon, I would be sitting in that chair for the rest of my life.