Sure of You (10 page)

“He bought her a Phantom jet for her birthday,” said Father Paddy.

“Really?”

The priest nodded, widening his eyes. “Not a shabby little giftie, eh?”

“No,” she replied, almost mesmerized by the miraculous synchronism of those two shining faces. What must it be like to present such a picture of unity to the world? To share with someone else a life in which work and play are so artfully interwoven?

Why had she ever settled for less than that? Didn’t she deserve the same thing? How had this happened to her?

“Let’s go say hello,” said Father Paddy. “It looks like there’s an opening.”

“I think I’ll wait.” The last thing she wanted was to face the Couple of the Year in the company of this gossipy old auntie. “You go ahead.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, smiling. Then he clasped his hands across his stomach and glided off majestically, eyes on the horizon, like a wise man in search of a star.

She watched from several different places in the room as the priest bent their ear—and it did seem like one ear. Among the excited throng she spotted Lia Belli, several Aliotos, and the clownishly made up Frannie Halcyon Manigault, pushing seventy from the other side. She had half expected to see DeDe and D’orotltea there—hadn’t D’or once modeled for Russell Rand?—but the couple was nowhere in sight.

When the Rands were finally free of Father Paddy, she waited a moment before moving into their line of sight. As luck would have it, Chloe locked eyes with her almost immediately and gave her a sisterly smile.

“Hi,” said Mary Ann, extending her hand. “I’m Mary Ann Singleton.”

Chloe took her hand cordially. “Chloe Rand. And this is Russell.” Looking to her husband, she saw that he’d been set upon by someone else, so she gave Mary Ann a wide-eyed shrug and said: “I think we lost him.” It came off as pleasant and schoolchummy.

“You must be exhausted,” said Mary Ann.

Chloe smiled without showing her teeth. “It’s been busy.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Have we met before?”

Mary Ann shook her head and smiled.

“You look really familiar somehow. I guess I should know you, huh?”

“Not really. I know how many faces you see.”

“I know, but…”

“I host the morning talk show here.”

Chloe nodded. “Right. Of course. We watched you on our last trip here.”

“Really?” She tried to sound pleased without getting gushy about it. Behave like a peer and they’ll treat you like one. This was the first law of survival.

“It’s a great show,” said Chloe.

She ducked her head graciously. “Thanks.”

“Russell,” said Chloe, taking her husband’s arm in such a way as to effect his escape. “I hate to pull you away, but this is Mary Ann Singletary.”

“Singleton,” said Mary Ann.

“Oh, hell.” Chloe buried her elegant nose in her palm.

“It’s O.K.,” she replied, shaking the designer’s hand, reassuring Chloe with a look.

Russell Rand gave her a world-weary smile. “It’s been one of those days, if you know what I mean.” Like Chloe, he was making a gallant effort to draw her into their circle of intimacy.

Mary Ann wanted him to know that she sympathized, that she had a public every bit as demanding as his. “I know exactly what you mean,” she said.

“Mary Ann has a talk show,” said Chloe. “
People Are Talking,
right?”

“No, actually. That’s the other one.”

“We’ve seen you, though,” said Russell Rand. “I remember your face.”

“Which one are you?” asked Chloe.

“
Mary Ann in the Morning.
”

“Of course. How stupid.”

“You’ve got a partner,” said the designer, nodding. “Ross something.”

Mary Ann wished he would just drop it. “That’s
People Are Talking.
”

“Right, right. Your partner’s name is…?”

“I work alone.”

“Sure. Of course.” He nodded authoritatively, as if he’d known that all along.

“I remember the show, though,” said Chloe. “It was Cheryl Thingy…you know, Lana Turner’s daughter.”

“Cheryl Crane,” said Mary Ann.

“Was that you?”

“That was me.” It wasn’t, it was
People Are Talking,
but why not spare everybody the embarrassment? “How long are you here for?” she asked, turning to the designer.

“Just a day or so, I’m afraid. We’re doing an AIDS benefit in L.A.”

“It’s sort of spur-of-the-moment,” said Chloe, “but Elizabeth asked us.”

Elizabeth. Just plain Elizabeth. As if Chloe and Mary Ann both knew the woman much too well to bother with her last name. Mary Ann felt worldly beyond belief. “She’s doing great work,” she said.

“She’s the best,” said Russell Rand.

“I don’t suppose,” said Mary Ann carefully, “you’re doing any press while you’re here.”

“Not really.” Chloe looked sweetly apologetic.

“Well, I certainly understand.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Russell knowingly.

“If you wanna get away…I mean, just for some quiet time…we have a place at The Summit, and I cook a mean rack of lamb.”

“Isn’t that nice?” said Chloe. “I’m afraid we haven’t got a single free moment.”

“Well, I understand, of course.” She felt herself blushing hideously. Why had she even tried? They could have gone on talking about Elizabeth. All that was left for her now was a graceful retreat.

“Next time, for sure,” said Chloe, “when our schedule’s less hectic.”

“Great,” said Mary Ann.

“It was lovely meeting you,” said Russell.

“Same here,” said Mary Ann, backing away into the pressing throng.

As she had feared, Prue cornered her before she could make it out the door.

“Did you meet them?” asked the hostess, looking preposterous in her “oldest Russell Rand”—a navy wool suit with a huge kelly-green bow across the bosom.

“Oh, yes.”

“Aren’t they dear?” bubbled Prue.

“Very.”

“And so real.”

“Mmm.”

“They met at Betty Ford, you know. She was a counselor or therapist or something, and she just turned his life around. It’s really the most romantic story.”

Mary Ann edged toward the door before Prue could regurgitate the entire
Vanity Fair
article. “I’m afraid I’ve gotta dash,” she said. “My little girl’s waiting to be picked up at Presidio Hill.”

“Well, I’m glad you could make it.”

“Me too,” said Mary Ann.

“I didn’t want you to miss out,” said Prue, making damn sure she got credit for the coup.

On her way out the door, Mary Ann caught a final glimpse of the famous couple as they exchanged another look of excruciating intimacy. Their love was like an aura that surrounded them, protecting them from the crush of the crowd.
This is possible, they seemed to be telling her. You can have what we have if you refuse to settle for less.

She knew in that instant what she would have to do.

A Picnic

A
T NOON THE NEXT DAY BRIAN AND THACK TOOK A
bag lunch to the top of Strawberry Hill, the island in the middle of Stow Lake. (Typically, a hassle with the nursery suppliers in Half Moon Bay had caused Michael to drop out at the last minute.) As Brian looked out over the dusty greenery of the park, Thack ripped open the Velcro closure of his wallet and produced a joint.

“Hey,” said Brian. “My man.”

Huddling under his Levi’s jacket against the wind, Thack lit the joint, took a drag, and handed it over.

“Boy,” said Brian. “It’s been a while.”

“Has it?”

“Yeah. Mary Ann doesn’t do this anymore.”

Thack shrugged. “Why should that stop you?”

“Well, it gets in the furniture, she says. People can smell it.”

Thack nodded dourly, his wheat-straw hair whipping in the wind, his gaze fixed on a distant flotilla of pedal boats as they rounded the bend into view.

Brian knew what Thack was thinking. “She’s got a point,” he added, trying to explain himself. “She’s kind of a public figure.”

No reaction.

Brian found a flat rock and sat on it. Thack joined him, handing him the joint. He took another toke and said: “She’s not as bad as you think. You don’t see the side of her I do.”

“Hey…” Thack held up his hands as if to say: Leave me out of it.

“I know how you feel about her, though.”

Thack said: “I really don’t have an opinion one way or the other.”

“Bullshit.”

“I don’t. How could I? We don’t see her that much.”

To Brian this sounded a lot like an accusation. “Yeah. I guess so.”

“I didn’t mean we expect you to…”

“She gets wrapped up in things. I don’t see her that much myself.”

“I know.”

“She’s missed you both. She told me so last night. That’s why tonight is so important to her.”

Thack seemed puzzled.

“Dinner at our house.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” A sheepish smile.

“That’s O.K. I don’t remember that kinda shit either.”

“What’s the story on this guy?”

“Oh…” He took another toke. “Mary Ann used to date him.”

“Date?”

“O.K., fuck…if you wanna get technical.”

Thack chuckled.

“He lives in New York now. He’s in town doing research on an AIDS story.”

“Oh, yeah? As a reporter?”

“Producer,” said Brian. “TV.”

Thack nodded.

“I’ve been your basic basket case, of course.”

“Why?”

He shrugged.

“When did she last see him?”

“Eleven years ago.”

Thack smiled. “Nothing is the same after eleven years.”

“I guess not. Plus he’s got a wife and two kids and a little dick…”

“Whoa,” said Thack. “Who told you that?”

“Mary Ann.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

He laughed. “You asked her…?”

“She volunteered it, O.K.?”

“Just out of the blue, huh?”

Brian saw Thack’s lip flicker slightly. “You think she said that just to make me feel better?”

“’Threw you a bone, so to speak?”

Brian laughed.

“I think you’re being paranoid.”

“Yeah. I guess so. As usual, huh?”

Thack smiled, then twisted off the tops of the ciders and unwrapped the sandwiches. “This is the one with mustard,” he said, handing Brian a sandwich. “If you want more, there are some packets in that bag there.”

“This looks fine.”

“We can fight over who gets Michael’s Yoplait.”

“We’re not gonna fight over his sandwich?”

“Nope. All yours.” Thack munched away for a moment, then said: “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“I’m not,” said Brian.

They left the park at one-thirty and took a bus up Twenty-fifth Avenue to the nursery. Thack would walk from there to a house off Geary he was assessing for the preservation people. When the bus stopped at Balboa, a pair of teenagers boarded with noisy ceremony. Some gut instinct told Brian to brace himself for trouble.

“Better not be,” he heard one of them say.

“Yeah,” said his much shorter sidekick. They were both overacting for their captive audience.

Brian glanced at Thack, who sat stock-still, cocking his head like a forest creature listening for alien footfall.

The tall teenager dumped his fare into the slot. “Better not be…cuz I ain’t gettin’ AIDS.”

“Shit, no,” said the short one.

“You catch AIDS and die like a fuckin’ dog.” He was moving toward the back now, brandishing the acronym like a switchblade. “Whatcha think? Any faggots on this bus?”

There was a moment of excruciating silence before Thack did the predictable and piped up. “Yeah,” he said, “over here.” He was raising his hand with the kind of bored assurance a schoolkid gives off when he knows he’s got the right answer.

Brian looked back at the teenagers, who stood slack-mouthed and silent, clearly at a loss for what to do next.

“There’s one over here too.” This from a stout young black woman across the aisle.

“There you go,” said Thack, addressing the boys.

“Back here.” Two older guys in the back of the bus raised their hands.

“Yo,” called someone else.

Then came laughter, uncertain at first but growing to volcanic dimensions, rumbling from one end of the bus to the other. The short kid was the first to feel the heat, taking cover in the first available seat. The tall one muttered a half-assed “Shit” and scanned the crowd desperately for allies. He seemed on the verge of rebuttal when his buddy grabbed his belt and yanked him down into a seat.

Grinning, Brian turned back to Thack. “You’re a crazy man.”

“Don’t try it in New Jersey,” said Thack.

“New jersey, hell. You could get killed doing that.”

“That’s what Michael says.” Thack turned and looked out the window as the bus lurched down the avenue. “Fuck it. I’m tired of this shit.”

Parlor Games

Archibald Anson Gidde, a prominent San Francisco realtor and social leader, died Tuesday at his home in Sea Cliff after a bout with liver cancer. He was 42.

Mr. Gidde was a witty and flamboyant figure who distinguished himself by spearheading some of the City’s most notable real estate transactions, among them the recent $10 million sale of the Stonecypher mansion to the Sultan of Adar.

A member of the Bohemian Club, he was active on the boards of the San Francisco Ballet, the San Francisco Opera, and the American Conservatory Theatre.

Mr. Gidde is survived by his parents, Eleanor and Clinton Gidde of Ross and La Jolla, and a sister, Charlotte Reinhart, of Aspen, Colo.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Michael looked up from the the
Examiner
just as his lover emerged from the bathroom.