Perfect Little Ladies (7 page)

“Do you have the picture?” Yolanda asked.

“You already asked her that,” Alice said. Sometimes, for a hairstylist, Yolanda could be pushy.

“I have the picture,” Poppy said and plucked the yellow envelope from her Miu Miu handbag, which was quite big and too heavy looking for her. She’d bought it on a whim one day when she and Alice had been in town for lunch and they’d seen Duane with a woman.

“Darling,” he’d said when they’d approached his table at Gramercy Tavern, where they’d gone because Poppy had an appointment at her lawyer’s in Union Square, which she’d said had something to do with her trust fund and her mother’s private companions. “Do you know Mandy Gibbons? From the Gibbons-Gibbons firm?”

Well, of course Poppy hadn’t known her, had never heard of Gibbons-Gibbons, which Duane probably made up on the spot.

“I’m trying to convince her to take part in next month’s charity ball in New Falls.”

Duane’s choice of words had been nearly as ridiculous as the spandex worn by Mandy Gibbons that clung to every pore and was not exactly office attire even for someone who was twenty-five, give or take a few.

But Poppy had been her social self and said hello-how-nice-to-meet-you, then after lunch she’d dragged Alice into one shop then another, buying the Miu Miu and scores of other things she did not need and were neither appropriate for her wardrobe or suited to her taste.

Pulling up to the canopy at the Lord Winslow now, Alice pushed away the reminder of Duane’s no doubt delicious
penis.
God
, she thought,
I must need a shrink, or at least hormone replacement therapy.
“Okay,” she said with a small sigh, “let’s get this over with.”

The doorman approached and opened the curbside door.

The reception desk was actually a counter, long and dark and gleaming, reminiscent of a hunt club or other good old boys’ gathering place where brandy and cigars and perhaps a rendezvous or two were neither unexpected nor discouraged. Atop the desk sat an old-fashioned leather blotter, a classic fountain pen, and a dome-shaped silver call bell.

Alice decided to speak for them because Poppy’s hand quivered as it touched the bell.

Ding-ding.

A young man came around a corner and took his place behind the counter. He was about the same age as Jonas, but he was thin and pretty.

“Hello. My name is Alice Richardson,” she lied. Yolanda had recommended they not give their real last names. Using their first names, however, would help avoid slipups.

“How may I help you, Ms. Richardson?” His skin was shiny and dark, his accent lightly Caribbean.

She smiled her best smile, the one she saved for meeting the strangers in the other towns. “Larry?” she’d say. “How nice to meet you.” Or, “Parker? Why, you’re as enchanting as your e-mails.” And the next one in Orlando, “Bud? Oh, my. You don’t look like a theme-park magician.”

Of course, there would be no Bud in Orlando if Kiley Kate backed out. Alice frowned and turned back to the business at hand.

“I am a friend of Elinor Harding,” she said, as Poppy nudged the photograph toward her. “She was here last week. Thursday. Perhaps you remember her?” She showed the picture to the young man, whose nametag read Javier.

He smiled back, which was good. “I am sorry,” he replied. “I see so many faces. We have so many guests.” He didn’t ask if there had been a problem.

“She stayed in room four-o-two,” Alice said. “She overslept and packed in a hurry. She had a flight to catch.” Alice made up that last part because she thought it added to the believability. It was not unlike the fabrications she’d become so adept at telling, such as, “I’m from Topeka,” where she’d never been but liked the sound of. Middle America. Middle class. Middle everything. A few good talking points but not worth the bother after she left town. Before her first encounter, she’d researched Topeka online and learned about its Jayhawk “Air Refrigerated” Theatre and its wheat farms and tornadoes and the fact that Annette Bening hailed from there. (She’d later bragged that they’d been in the same high school class. What the heck, Alice had figured, once you’d told one fib, why not keep going?)

Javier looked at her blankly, his smile still in place.

Alice shifted on one foot and refrained from fanning her face with her hand. “Our friend left a few things behind. She asked if we’d collect them.”

He glanced at Poppy, then back to Alice. “Perhaps you’d like the lost and found.”

Alice pushed the photo toward him. “It would be easier if you remembered her.”

He looked down at the picture, picked it up, and squinted. “I am sorry,” he repeated. “We have so many guests.”

“And we have so little time,” Poppy suddenly spoke up and slid a bill across the counter. It might have been a ten or a twenty or a fifty, even. “Perhaps your manager can help us?”

Alice went on smiling because she didn’t know what else to do.

“I am the manager,” he said. “I’m called the night manager, though I work from midnight until noon. If you’d care to leave your friend’s phone number, I will check with housekeeping and will be in touch.”

They could hardly leave Elinor’s phone number, so Alice related hers with two digits transposed. If he’d been a little older, and not so aloof, she might have turned on the charm. Instead, she picked up the picture, ignored the bill on the counter, then marched across the lobby without waiting for Poppy to catch up.

Twelve

“Well, that was a waste of time,” Alice said to
Yolanda when they climbed into the Esplanade, traded places, turned the corner, and headed toward Amsterdam, then the West Side Highway. “The desk clerk—oh, excuse me, the
night manager
—wouldn’t give us one iota of information. ‘We have so many guests,’” she mimicked him. “And my friend here,” she said, pointing to the back where Poppy had landed, “tried to buy him off. As if he were a maitre d’ and the Lord Winslow was a trendy restaurant.”

“Duane does it all the time,” Poppy noted, which certainly explained it.

“Maybe it wasn’t such a waste,” Yolanda offered. “If the desk clerk is in on the blackmail, at least he knows something is happening. That Elinor is not going to take this lying down.”

Lying down.

Ha.

“Well,” Alice said, “I can’t see what good will come of it. Personally, if I were Elinor, I’d tell my husband and keep the half million.”

“But you’re not Elinor,” Poppy said. “And neither am I, and I’m not going to be the one to tell her what I think she should do. She’s always been nice to Momma and me.” Yolanda did not ask for details. “Besides,” Poppy continued, “I have an idea. While we were standing at the reception desk, I noticed a security camera. Do you think the hotel has lots of cameras? Do you think one is aimed at the alley, near where the Dumpster is?”

Alice was about to comment on Poppy’s brilliance when she heard a muffled
ding-ding.
Poppy, no doubt, had swiped the shiny silver bell from the reception desk at the hotel.

Staring out the windshield, Alice suspected this adventure was about to become an ordeal.

Elinor had no idea how—or if—she’d make it through the next hour, day, or week. She’d spent the morning e-mailing back and forth with Betts Perry, arranging and rearranging the seating chart for the engagement party (would the Republican from Idaho be welcomed by the Democrat from New Jersey?) and counting her blessings that Remy and the esteemed
second lady
would be seated on the opposite side of the room, away from the family, but with the House Speaker, who was rumored to speak very little in public.

It was even more tedious to help Betts make last-minute adjustments to the way-too-gourmet menu.

Grilled foie gras with Ceylon cinnamon and cider vinegar jus.

Ceasar of green asparagus.

Bhutanese red rice and caramelized Brussels sprouts.

Quail eggs, crab cakes, escabesche of diver scallops, fricassee of freaking wild mushrooms.

As if any of it mattered.

Elinor wondered what would happen if the blackmailer arrived at the Washington Fairmont demanding the ransom drop when the dessert cart arrived.

Raspberry chocolate pot du crème?

Profiteroles with Madagascar vanilla bean ice cream?

Half-million-dollar cheesecake, anyone?

She stared at the computer screen, grateful that Malcolm was back in Washington, preparing for what she deemed the “new year”—the post-Labor Day return to normalcy. It was a holdover from her upbringing, when all seasons had been defined by the McCready calendar: Classes Begin, Midterms, Finals, Christmas Break, which no doubt was now called “Holiday Break” in keeping with political correctness.

Life had order then. It had rules that were unspoken, such as when to wear white and when to not, and certain expectations, such as who would sit with whom at the engagement party for the offspring of a senior congressman and a longtime lobbyist. Such as what the food should be and if it really had to hail from a hundred different nations.

Elinor knew that, unlike her sister, she did much better when there were rules, when her days and nights, her weeks and months and years, had uniformity. Order. She did not do well feeling as if everything around her was collapsing. The way she felt now.

She propped her elbows on the keyboard tray and stared at the tiny dots on the screen. Not even CJ knew the pressures Elinor felt, had always felt. Not even CJ knew how hard it was
always trying to be perfect, and always coming up second best in their father’s eyes.

Oh, sure, Elinor was the one Father had turned to for advice. Elinor, after all, had learned to be like him: pragmatic, stern. He had taught her well.

But just once before he’d died she would have loved to have seen Father look at her the way he’d looked at CJ: his eyes warm with laughter, his outer shell a little softer.

“You’re not as appealing as your sister,” Father had told Elinor one afternoon at that god-awful lake house that CJ had insisted on keeping. “But you are clever, and you carry yourself well. Still, we’ll need to find you the right man—a man with power and intelligence that will translate into privilege. A man like the fathers of your classmates.”
A man with money
, Elinor, even at age thirteen, had understood he had meant.

When Elinor was in college, he’d found Malcolm for her.

Later, after Janice was born and Elinor had the hysterectomy, Father was alarmed. “A man needs a son,” he said, apparently forgetting he was speaking to one of his only two children, both of whom were girls. She sensed he was more concerned that Malcolm would leave her if she only had one child. Having two children made leaving more difficult. Maybe that’s why Father and Mother had stayed together all those years; maybe if Elinor and CJ had only been Elinor, or, better yet, had only been CJ, one child would not have been enough to keep the marriage glued.

Jonas had been Father’s idea.

“Let’s have them think the idea came from you, though,” he had said. “It will be better that way.”

So CJ and Malcolm thought the proposal was Elinor’s concept, Elinor’s coercion. Because it was what Father had wanted.

The mantra of her life was
Father Knows Best
.

Would he forgive me for not being as perfect as him,
she wondered now
if he were still alive
?

Snapping off the computer, Elinor sat back in her chair and let the tears spill from her eyes.

CJ was out in her studio, pretending to be painting but thinking instead about what to pack, as if she was going on vacation and not merely to Elinor’s. The batik sundress and matching shrug? The white swimsuit and hardly modest cover-up? Her favorite capris and crop top that made her feel sexy and young again? Certainly, a thick cardigan in case the air chilled at night.

She should be ashamed, she knew, for picking out the things she would like Malcolm to see her in.

She should be ashamed, but she was not. It was as if Elinor’s infidelity had instilled a new twist on the rules.

What would their mother have advised?

“Do you love him?” Dianne Harding had asked CJ when CJ was heavy with a pregnant belly. Dianne had walked into the greenhouse at Elinor and Malcolm’s new house in Washington and caught Malcolm and CJ in a kiss. Not just any kiss, but a breathless, tongue-touching, lip-melting kiss. Oh, and Malcolm’s zipper was undone and CJ just happened to be holding his throbbing member in her hand, or at least that’s the way Dianne Harding described it after Malcolm had zipped and CJ had turned red and they had pulled apart.

His throbbing member,
CJ thought now with a hint of a smile. Her mother had sounded more like Poppy’s, as if CJ and Mac had been in the middle of a romance novel and not a real-life family drama.

“Yes,” CJ had answered. “I love him very much.”

Dianne had paced the narrow rows of the aptly called “hothouse” that smelled of earth and dampness and of Malcolm and CJ and family betrayal.

“It must be your hormones,” Dianne said. “When I was pregnant with you girls, I wanted to jump the mailman.”

Their mother always had tried to be more contemporary than their father. (“The world is changing, Franklin. If CJ wants to study at the Sorbonne, perhaps that’s where she belongs.”) Still, this was the first CJ had heard that their mother had even known what hormones were. CJ had not, however, had the heart to tell her mother that her feelings for Malcolm—indeed, their feelings for each other—had begun that first night they had attempted to conceive, when they’d “been one” according to Elinor’s plan and CJ’s ovulating schedule.

Dianne had stopped and turned and looked back at the lovers, at Mac, who was as frozen as the small statue of Saint Francis of Assisi that he’d bought to watch over the shoots and roots and buds of the offspring in the greenhouse.

“I love her, too,” he’d said before Dianne had a chance to ask.

She stood quietly for a moment, or maybe it was a year. Then she said, “Well, we can’t have this, can we?”

She had not reminded them that Elinor was fragile, that she’d been through so much, that she
trusted
her husband and her sister with her life and, good heavens, with her child. She had not had to tell CJ that the headmaster would never allow it.