The Adored (13 page)

And on the eve of her departure, Santa Alba took Edward Wheelwright to her hotel room, and they made love until it was light. They collapsed in exhaustion.

Wheelwright returned to New York on the fourth day from when they met, and he called Santa Alba. And now over a year later they were inseparable.

She was in love, and her ambition in design had finally taken second place.

He was in love, and his desire to catch up in his financially driven world was in a tie with Santa Alba. She could win, but it was not yet determined. What was determined was his intention to make his fortune. The Brunswick Fund was that vehicle.

And now, after three months together, they decided the best way to handle the time constraints between his living in Greenwich was for them to move in together. They found a larger apartment on Central Park West. He left his home for the first time; she left the rental condo.

Work in the city, live in the city. Anything else fritted away precious moments that could never be recovered.

Chapter 19

They met with Sebastian Ball and Parker Barnes, after the play, at Dario’s, a bar on Christopher Street in New York.

“My father treated us to the show and dinner,” Edward March Wheelwright was telling Ball.

“You said that when we talked, where did you eat?” Sebastian asked.

“At AOC, on Bleeker,”added Santa Alba, Wheelwright’s lover, “Light French and very reasonable.”

“Yes, I’ve been there. I agree,” Sebastian added, “And you saw
Our Town
? How was that Edward, remind you of our days at Brunswick. “Is there much drinking in Grover’s Corners, the citizen asked the professor,” laughed Ball.

“There was much drinking in Grover’s Corners, as I remember our little play. This was actually quite good. Updated, the sentimentality gone. Really nicely contemporized,” Edward said.

“Over there at the Barrow Street Theater,” Ball pointed out the window to the sign on the corner of Barrow St.”

“Yes, but I didn’t get it,” Santa said.

“The play?” Edward asked.

“No, the rude guy.”

“Oh him, what a jerk!”

Here Santa reinforced Edward, “They said we could go to our seats. The crowd was funneling in through the door, and here was this guy standing in the middle of everyone and he’s facing us. He wouldn’t get out of the way. He was waiting for, looking for someone.”

Wheelwright laughed, “Don’t tell that!”

“What?” asked Ball.

Santa continued, “Well, Edward said, ‘Excuse me,’ and the guy never acknowledged it. Edward was right in his face, with people on both sides, sort of crushing in. So Edward got just slightly beside him, looked back to take my hand, and leaned into him, knocking him down. Edward gave him a hand up and the guy was sputtering, but he moved to the side of the crowd.”

Edward March Wheelwright stood up next to Santa Alba, excused himself, and went to the men’s room. As he smiled at Santa, the smile was higher on one side. He had brown wavy hair, brushed back, not a bed head that a lot of young men are fond of today. He had a long, angular jaw line. His charcoal suit was well tailored and showed a fit man with no bulges in the wrong places. The red pocket handkerchief matched his tie, and as he wove his way through tables, other men and women noticed him. In the men’s room, he glanced down. His black shoes had a bright shine to them, a trick his Navy Seal friend, Tray Johnson, taught him.

“You take a cotton ball, dip it in a little cold water, then get some black shoe polish on the cotton ball where it’s wet. Then you apply it to your shoe by spreading the polish in circles until it gleams. Then when you put your shoes on you walk tall and think of me out among the hordes protecting you.” Wheelwright smiled at the memory of them laughing over Edward’s shoeshine lesson. He was glad his friend would soon be home from Afghanistan for their mutual friend Winston’s wedding.

Edward rejoined the table with a smile.

“What’s amusing?” Sebastian asked.

“The guy I bumped into at the play. He was pretty ugly and arrogant, but his girlfriend was even uglier. And as I looked around I noticed that most of the theater goers were not very pleasant looking.”

“That’s true,” Santa Alba chimed in.

As the waiter took an order of drinks, Edward continued. “I think the best looking guy in the place resembled the Senator, Harry Reid; that’s how bad it was.

At that moment, Gideon Bridge, looking rather dapper in his cream colored bow tie with blue shirt and plaid suit arrived. “Hey guys,” he greeted the three friends.

“Glad you could make it, Gid,” Sebastian smiled, rising to hug his lifelong friend.

“I’ll do anything for a ride home,” said the former editor of the Harvard Law Review and newest partner in the Bridge Law firm, started fifty-five years earlier by his grandfather.

“What’s been going on,” Edward asked Bridge as he also hugged him. Now they were partly complete. Four of seven lifelong friends, all still together, all still living in the area, ready to attend the wedding of the first of them to marry and partnering in business investments to build their own wealth, just as their parents had.

“Law’s not all it’s cracked up to be. The hours are pitiful. Occasionally, there are wonderful, interesting cases, but mostly it’s boring,” Bridge said, reaching up and signaling for the waiter as he sat down.

“Well you arrived just in time, “Sebastian said, “Edward is giving us a little insight into the ugly people at the theater tonight.”

“Sounds like a lawsuit,” Bridge said as the waiter arrived. “I’ll have a glass of chardonnay, please. Anyone else?”

“I’m OK,” Sebastian said, Santa nodded agreement.

“I’ll have another,” Edward said.

“Yes, sir,” the waiter said, glancing at Gideon, who glanced back. Sebastian noticed, as did Edward, and they both burst out laughing. Gideon smiled knowingly, adding, “Edward, please continue with your story.”

“Exactly, Gideon, Edward was getting to the interesting part of how he came to see people as less beautiful,” Ball added with a dig.

“Don’t go there, Sebastian.”

“I’m confused, sweetie,” Santa said, “Why are we still talking about them?”

“You want to talk ugly, how about Lloyd Blankfein, the CEO over at Goldman Sachs. Did you hear what Blankfein said at a congressional hearing the other day, that he was doing God’s work. Now that’s ugly.”

“Gideon, you’re an idiot,” Parker said laughing.

“It is true; he did say it,” said Edward. “That’s part of the arrogance. They get caught with their hands in the cookie jar, and they make statements like that. That’s part of what my father shared with me. A few years ago we sat down in the library one night after dinner. He needed to talk, to get it out. We had a few drinks, and it came pouring out. My father played by the rules. He knew what they were, why they existed, and he knew what exceptions could be made. But these guys he worked with at the bank—so arrogant. To make statements like that.”

“And?” Gideon chirped in.

Edward leaned forward, “Dad said that what started to push him over the edge was the abuse of shareholders. These guys are taking too much money for themselves. One of the guys at Blackrock made over a billion dollars last year.

Ball, the billionaire’s son, roared at that. “You are wacked, Eddie. You’re part of that crowd with Obama that wants to play Robin Hood.” Gideon was giggling, and Santa even managed a smile.

Edward looked irritated that he was the cause of this unintended merriment.

“I think it’s OK to make as much as you can,” Santa added.

“I like the way you think,” Ball added, as if noticing Santa Alba for the first time.

With understanding sinking in, Edward leaned back, put his arm around Santa and said, “How did we get from some ugly people at the theater to crooks all over New York?” He laughed.

“Well, you are right when they make statements like Blankfein made and then take that much money for pay. They should just shut up and keep a low profile,” Sebastian added.

“You’re right. Everyone outside of the New York community sees that.” Wheelwright paused as the waiter came by. They all passed, with the waiter and Gideon again exchanging glances.

“Gideon, you are hopeless,” Santa said, gently slapping him on the arm.

“By the way,” Gideon began, “I don’t suppose any of you saw Obama’s State of the Union tonight?”

“No,” Sebastian said, looking at Edward and Santa, who shook their heads.

“What did we miss?” Santa said.

“Well to start with it looked like he was addressing the College of Cardinals with all that white hair and a bunch of black women in yellow dresses,” Gideon smiled as the others laughed at the imagery.

And another discussion began about another topic of the day, that of the dysfunction in Washington.

The five friends drank and laughed until midnight when Sebastian saw his driver enter.

“OK boys and girl, let’s pack it in. I’ve got carfare to the west side and back to Greenwich,” Ball said, “and by the way, particularly you Gideon, it’s all set. Winston’s bachelor party is the ninth of next month, Intercontinental, San Juan. We’re going down on the seventh and coming back on the eleventh or maybe the twelfth if we haven’t found everyone by the eleventh. Tray said he’ll be there. And you better be there,” he concluded pointing a mocking finger at Gideon.

“I’m ready,” Gideon said. “How long is Tray back for. “

Rising and putting an arm around Gideon, Ball said, “the whole month. And everyone can make the wedding in Greenwich on the sixteenth. So let’s get this show on the road.”

“Umm, I’ll be staying in the city tonight,” Gideon said, glancing in the direction of the waiter.

Gideon grabbed Edward’s arm, “Give us a minute,” he said to the others, and guided Wheelwright to a quiet corner. “Eddie, I went along with you there, but you have to stop this stuff with the hate you have and the contempt for the bankers. You’re talking about it all the time lately.”

“What have you become, the champion of the money lender?” Wheelwright shot back.

“What the hell’s wrong with you? They have a pass. They take all the risks in that business and sometimes things don’t work out right.”

“You mean like the great fucking recession?” Wheelwright snapped.

“Yes, but you more than anyone understand that world. I know what you’re saying—but you say it to more and more people. There is a distinction between some banker in Podunk, Idaho, and the financial capital of the world. They take more risks, open up more new markets—for the whole country.”

“Damn Gideon, I’m not talking about all bankers, just the crooks.”

“Well you just put them all in the same pot. I know what your father went through. You’ve told us that. I can see it eating at you. Get above it. Got it asshole,” he finished with a smile.

“Got it, Gid. I understand. Go see your boyfriend,” Wheelwright nodded in the direction of the waiter. And they laughed.

“One last thing, Eddie. Something wrong with Parker?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“He didn’t say a word while we were here,” Gideon, always the observant one, said.

“Probably just a long day.”

“Probably.”

Sebastian, Parker, Eddie, and Santa tried one last time to get Gideon to come with them, but he resisted. They paid up, said their goodnights, and left. They settled comfortably in the back of the Ball family Bentley. The wealth, the privileged life, the close association with an almost sacred group of friends who had known each other since pre-school made Santa tingle. The outsider, the beauty queen of Coamo, longed to be part of this, longed to be Mrs. Edward March Wheelwright. Mr. Edward March Wheelwright had one thought on his mind—Miss Santa Alba and what was to come when they arrived at their apartment on the upper west side.

Chapter 20

The Second Baptist Church sits on one of four corners at the intersection of faith and hopelessness. Pacific and Henry Streets in Stamford display the south end in all its glory and horror. The Baptist Church, a playground basketball court, a demolished lock making factory, and a bodega with a large flat roof and a pit bull patrolling atop it complete the four corners. The basketball court is a refuge for scores of young black men, although across the street in front of the bodega on three benches sit an older generation of black men, talking all day, brown paper bags in hand concealing whatever bottle they can afford. These bench men talk with their friends who did not escape the neighborhood. Trapped here now that the path to middle class jobs that once existed in the lock factory have moved, gone to China. And on Sunday all the black women of the neighborhood in their finest dresses, with delicate, beautiful hats, come to the Baptist Church to pray to God, to ask Jesus not to let their sons and grandsons who are playing on the basketball court suffer the same fate as their husbands and brothers who sit in front of the bodega sipping from their brown bags as the pit bull keeps a watchful eye.