Gilded Age (13 page)

“What?!” Ellie gasped.

“Look, just listen to me. I suspected this might take a little convincing. You are the type of woman I want, and I’m sick of being a big fish in a small pond. I’m ready to go to New York.”

Ellie furrowed her brow.

“Don’t you miss it? You can’t tell me you don’t miss it. I have more money than I know what to do with. Something tells me you’d know
what to do with it in New York.” He leaned in and kissed her again. “Don’t you want to go back and show them all?”

Ellie was stunned. She sipped her champagne. She’d been expecting a proposition and ended up with a proposal.

Leforte smiled at her and leaned in close. “I reserved a room upstairs. I’m all checked in. Come up with me. Let me convince you how right we are for one another.”

She remembered someone telling her that his nickname was the Persuader. It was, quite literally, his job. Some lawyers advised, some mediated, some resolved, but Leforte’s specialty was big-time litigation when the case was certain for trial. It was then you called the Persuader. She’d thought it implied a slippery finesse, but now she realized it referenced the surprise of a blunt instrument, a sledgehammer of directness, and a complete lack of pretense. No wonder he did so well.

Her head was reeling. “You’ve kind of caught me off guard here,” she said. “You’re going to have to give me a minute.”

Leforte leaned back and glanced quickly at his BlackBerry. Ellie got up and straightened her skirt. “Be right back.”

In the bathroom she dabbed water on her temples, swilled a little Ritz mouthwash and spat it out. A handsome, rich lawyer was offering to marry her, take her back to New York, and let her spend his money situating them in society. If possible it was an even less romantic proposal than that from her first husband, who’d been drunk and panic-sweating.

Yet there was something about Leforte. He was ambitious and hungry for the limelight, and when she thought about it, those things actually appealed to her. He knew what he wanted out of life; he had passion, and he wasn’t afraid to go balls-out to get what he wanted.

But she didn’t love him, and she’d been down that aisle with her first husband. She’d learned that she wanted love, the at-first-sight, toe-curling, can’t-live-without-him—or something closely approximating it—love if she was going to marry again. She wanted that and
the money, because Ellie didn’t think she could live in a hovel on toe curls alone.

She actually did want to go upstairs with Leforte. She hadn’t gotten laid in months, and she was curious about what he’d be like in bed. She’d been looking forward to a blissful afternoon, but it came with strings. How did men do this? How did they sleep with someone who had expectations and then blow them off? Could she do it too?

She sat down next to him again at the bar. He’d had her drink topped off.

“Take your glass,” he said into her ear. “And come upstairs with me.”

She kissed him this time—a long kiss, a searching kiss. She was glad they were the only ones in the bar. And as they parted she smelled his overpowering cologne and detected just a whiff of a stale corn chip smell—the smell of self-tanning lotion.

As she resettled on her seat, out of the corner of her eye she saw two gray-haired women enter the end of the lobby used for afternoon tea. Sparkles flashed in Ellie’s eye as she recognized Betsy Dorset and her diamonds from across the room. Betsy smiled a minute in recognition and sat down with her back to Ellie. Betsy Dorset was no gossip. Ellie could be pretty sure she hadn’t seen the kiss and wouldn’t run around town telling people she’d seen Ellie Hart and Randy Leforte having drinks. I mean, frankly, no one would care. But if Ellie took her champagne and got in an elevator going upstairs with Randy Leforte? Well, even Betsy Dorset would talk about that.

“I can’t today,” Ellie said to Leforte.

“Come on,” he said, leaning in close and running his hand down her arm. “I’m dying for it.”

“I can’t.”

“You knew why I asked you down here in the middle of the day. What did you expect?” he said, testy.

“I didn’t expect a marriage proposal.”

“Don’t be so serious. We’d be great together. And if we’re not …” He shrugged.

“Let me think,” Ellie said.

“You can’t think properly unless I take you upstairs. You won’t have all the information.” He had a wicked gleam in his eye that would have appealed to her a minute ago, but now the lasciviousness looked more like acquisitiveness, and he suddenly became less attractive.

“I can imagine,” she said, getting up. “Let me mull.” She kissed his cheek and went to leave.

“Okay,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward him. “But don’t make me wait too long.”

The Dinner Party

A
few weeks after my lunch with Ellie, I was invited to a dinner party at Julia Trenor’s massive 1920s faux-Tudor pile in town.

It was the same night as Jim’s and my wedding anniversary. We’d agreed to go to Julia’s dinner and tell no one. Since moving back, I’d thought it best to accept all invitations as we established ourselves—especially Julia’s invitations. I didn’t want to miss out on anything.

We’d celebrate together the next night at home with a cozy dinner and going to bed together early, I hoped.

I was upstairs, trying yet again to find something to wear that fit me, when I heard Jim come through the back door.

“Lovely wife,” he called from the kitchen. “Come down here. I’ve got a surprise for you, darlin’.”

Now, I love surprises; I always have. But Jim was an awful gift giver. He knew it too, I think, which is why he’d taken me shopping for an engagement ring and let me pick out exactly what I wanted after he proposed.

We’d agreed no gifts for our anniversary this year as the baby and the ensuing expenses were coming. But I’d figured it’d be okay if I
made him a silly little box that I’d filled with folded notes, each one describing something I loved about him—from the valleys on either side of his hips, to the way he held doors for me, to the way he calmed me, to his agreeing to come live in Cleveland. I planned to give it to him tomorrow night—preferably while naked in bed.

Despite Jim’s gifting track record, I cinched a robe around my ballooning waist and skipped down the stairs as gracefully as I could, hoping for a lovely present.

In the kitchen Jim stood with a shiny red mountain bike with a huge green bow on it.

I raised my eyebrows, shocked and unable to think of anything to say.

“Happy four-year anniversary, shug,” he said.

I felt myself flush, shock and disbelief clouding my thoughts.

He smiled, wary and watching me. “For getting back in shape after the baby. You’ve been talking about that a lot recently.”

I took a deep breath. Jim loved mountain biking. I’d never tried it. Not when we were dating or newlyweds, and not now when I was pregnant. It’d be a while, with a new baby, until I’d have time for anything like that. I’d never even expressed an interest in it.

And the bike looked expensive—glinting and tricked out with shocks and gears—clearly violating the purpose of our no-gift rule.

And I hated that he seemed a little too eager for me to return to my previous size.

I felt like he didn’t know me at all.

And then he asked the question I was dreading, though I suspected he already knew the answer.

“Do you like it?”

I took a deep breath, went to him, and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, sweetheart,” I said.

“I knew it,” he said. “You hate it.” It was more an accusation than a question.

I felt a tremor of annoyance. If he’d known I would hate it, why did he buy it?

“It can go back,” he said. “I made sure at the store.”

“No,” I said. “Don’t take it back.”

And so it started, as it had many times in the past—me begging for a gift I didn’t want so as not to hurt his feelings, him resentful that I didn’t like his offering. I’d long ago told myself that the gift may not be perfect, but since the gift giver was, I would be gracious. However, I was having a hard time holding on to my resolution now.

“We said no gifts, remember?” I said.

“Yes, but I wanted you to have this.”

“Right, you wanted me to have it,” I said, picking at the hem of my sleeve, looking anywhere but at the red bike in the middle of the room.

“What’s that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“It means you don’t want it. I want it,” he said flatly.

“You want it for me.” I tried to sound kind.

“Whatever.”

“Oh, don’t be mad.” I sighed, exasperated, turning from him to the sink with the dirty lunch dishes in it.

“I can’t help it if it hurts my feelings.”

“Well, you’re basically telling me to get my fat ass in shape, so I’m not sure whose feelings should be hurt,” I said, turning on the water, picking up a dish.

“Christ you’re sensitive. You’ve been talking about getting in shape afterward—”

“For the love of Mike, when have you ever seen me ride a bike?”

“Never,” he said quietly. “I thought you’d like a total surprise, something out of our usual routine.”

I didn’t think we were in a usual routine. Everything seemed full of potential as we waited for the baby. “It’s the thought that counts,” I said with a tight smile as I put the dishes in the dishwasher and turned to him.

“It’s going back,” he said, heading toward the stairs, dismissing the bike and me.

I sighed. “We’re due at Julia’s in twenty minutes,” I called after him.

He came back down. “Right. Wouldn’t want to miss spending our anniversary at Julia Trenor’s.” He snarled the last words.

“You said you wanted to.” He’d agreed to go to the party, and now he was going to act like I was dragging him there?

“Only because you suggested it. If you didn’t want to spend our anniversary alone with me—”

“We will, tomorrow night,” I said, growing exasperated.

“It actually matters,” he said, coming close. “The actual day. It matters to me.”

“So now you’re the romantic?” I gestured to the bike and instantly regretted it. He shook his head, turned, and walked up the stairs.

I said nothing, and when I heard the shower turn on I went back up to our bedroom. In the top drawer of my dressing table was the small box I’d made for Jim wrapped in plain butcher paper with a heavy brown satin bow. I couldn’t give it to him now. It’d look like an accusation and would certainly not be taken in the spirit in which I’d made it. I didn’t want to save it; it was now associated for me with another gift exchange gone wrong. I took it downstairs and threw it in the kitchen trash.

Something silly would have been fine, I thought. Or a piece of paper where he’d written “I love you more than anything or anyone.” That would have been ideal. Or even saying that, just now. Not a bike. Not a fight. And I started to wonder, when was the last time he’d told me he loved me?

A
fter a silent drive, a caterer opened the door to Julia Trenor’s paneled Gothic entryway, took our coats, and offered champagne. In Julia’s dark living room, the walls covered in watered green silk, were a few couples I knew and many I did not. Silver bibelots sat tarnishing away on Julia’s early-American tables. The room was trademark Julia style—cultivated to give the impression that these tasteful knickknacks had been Grandmama’s. They’d certainly been someone’s grandmother’s,
just not Julia’s. She’d bought them at antique shows. I’d recently heard her decorating business was picking up. She’d signed some clients who weren’t related to her.

Ellie was seated on a threadbare needlepoint French settee in between a woman I didn’t recognize and Julia’s acupuncturist. Ellie lit up her corner of the room in a shimmering little sequin dress—a perfect sort of dress with a hint of sex at the leg but not revealing too much skin at the neck. In my larger state I wore a velvet Zandra Rhodes dress that I’d once again unearthed from Mother’s closet, more loot from her Gypsy phase in the seventies. Jim absolutely detested it and all the women adored it.

When she saw me, Ellie excused herself, stood up, and came over to kiss me as Jim left to fetch drinks.

“Your mother always was glamorous. You look like a Rossetti.” I blushed at her effusiveness. “This,” she said, gesturing to her leg, “is Steven’s doing. It’s a little hoochie, but I promised I’d wear it tonight.”

“You’re very scrupulous. How would he ever know if you wore something else?”

“He’s here. He’s my date,” she said, pointing.

Steven looked polished in a black tuxedo with a gray shirt open at the neck, no tie or cummerbund. The hoops in his lip glinted as he grinned and leaned slightly forward, listening to our hostess.

I saw Cinco and Corrine Van Alstyne then, holding hands as they chatted with a woman I didn’t know. Their holding hands was almost as suggestive as excusing themselves during their own dinner party. No one did that at Julia’s soirees, where spouses were separated for dinner and not expected to talk to one another until the car ride home, where they could compare notes and share hearsay. I assumed Corrine was terrified of having to make conversation and so clung to his hand. When he saw me, he waved his drink with a little wink.

Jim confidently maneuvered across the room to me, stopping and chatting with just the right people, saying hello to others and moving on quickly, his calculations in this spot-on. His hands were
full with drinks for Ellie and me; his manners were impeccable even when he was pissed off. He’d adapted so well to Cleveland, had been so quickly accepted into the right circles, the right clubs. I’d never wondered if it’d been a strain for him at all. Watching Cinco and Corrine I knew I should feel lucky. My husband always had been a social animal.

Jim came over with sparkling water for both Ellie and me and a beer still in the bottle. I wondered how he’d managed that given the caterers and all.

“He’s considerate, this one,” Ellie said, taking her glass from him and cocking her head in his direction.

“I heard Gus Trenor is handling your money,” Jim said after kissing her cheek.

I elbowed him in the side. I’d told him that in confidence.