The One That Got Away (24 page)

Suddenly it dawned on me. “Do the Brindles want Ariel for their building?”

“Of course,” he said. “Why else would he give me one hundred thousand dollars for my campaign?”

One hundred thousand dollars? That was a lot of money, even for the Brindles. Even for a godparent. The car quieted as it stopped at a traffic light, the only sound Sam chewing on his stuffed giraffe. Alex turned to me and spoke in a low voice: “Don’t judge me, Abbey. I feel sick about it. But there is nothing I can do.”

“Sure you can. You cannot give in to the Brindles. They’ll find other tenants. Their building is in Center City. But East Falls really
needs
this.”

Alex turned angry. “Why do you care all of a sudden? You certainly didn’t feel bad about East Falls last week when you were in the Brindles’ box at the symphony. Or when we borrowed their private plane to go to Vail.”

I realized then that I, too, was culpable in this mess.

“Seriously, Abbey,” said Alex, repentant. “You know I don’t like this. I’d rather it go to East Falls too. But I never promised Wallace it was a done deal. I only said I’d
try
.” He sighed and cocked his head, then added, “And you know what they say: ‘Don’t hate the playa… hate the game.’”

He seemed to expect me to laugh, but I just stared at him. Once again, he was joking his way out of an uncomfortable situation.

“It’s Jay Z,” he explained. Then he rapped the line again.

I continued to stare, cringing inside. He smiled and corrected himself: “Oh, that’s right. It’s Ice T. I always forget now that he’s on
Law and Order
—”

“Whatever, Alex; that is not what’s important. Quit trying to change the subject!”

I touched his arm, not willing to let the conversation end, but the car arrived at the apartment and Oscar ran around and opened my door, the kids’ and my cue to get out. As I watched him drive away, I thought about what other false promises he might feel the need to make.

I walked the kids into the wide, elegant lobby of our building, past the uniformed doorman, smiling and courteous even on a Sunday, and I realized that for Alex, at least in part, this campaign
was
a game. For rich folks like him—and now me—things like economic development and tax hikes and gas prices were just talking points. Losing out on Ariel, and the jobs that could transform William Wallace’s neighborhood for good, would have no effect whatsoever on our quality of life or that of our friends. It was just one of many spins in this colorful game of political Life.

And even though Alex professed he couldn’t do anything about it, I couldn’t help but think he could. The real truth? He just couldn’t be bothered.

As for me, I couldn’t get William Wallace out of my mind. I knew Alex thought it was only a sin of omission, but I could see it for what it really was—lying. He wasn’t trying to get William Wallace what he wanted; he darn well knew which way the chips would fall. But I
did believe him when he told me he felt bad about it, and that gave me some comfort.

Up in the apartment, I turned on lights and some music to try to make the monotone space more fun and, as a special treat, figured I’d order the kids some pizzas. I searched for take-out menus but, finding none, called down to the front desk for suggestions. They obliged, and after double-checking that the place would take credit cards, I ordered two larges: a meat-lovers supreme for Sam and a plain for Gloria and me.

I turned to tell her, then jumped, not knowing she was behind me. All day, she had clung to me like a little shadow.

“They are going to bring the pizza here?” she asked, confused.

“Yeah, that’s how it works,” I told her, surprised that the van Holts had never ordered pizza before.

“That’s so cool! Is it coming now?”

“They have to make it first. But it should be here in thirty minutes or less. Or we get it free.”

“How long has it been?”

“Thirty seconds. So twenty-nine minutes and thirty seconds to go. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight…” Her eyes flew open in excitement; then she turned and ran into the family room to find the computer and its clock. She sat staring at it until finally, with just seconds to spare, the intercom system buzzed, letting us know someone was coming up. Gloria grabbed Sam and they ran out the apartment door toward the elevator.

When it opened, Gloria cheered. “You made it with one minute to spare!”

He laughed, handed us the pizzas, and, more graciously than he should have, accepted a tip of three dollars in change. (Tomorrow morning I would
have
to get this bank card situation sorted out.)

After a hearty lunch, and Sam in a sausage-induced snooze, I
returned to put away the leftover pizza. I then sat down in front of the computer to check my e-mails. There were still none from Roberta, so I e-mailed her again.

Then I started to compose an e-mail to Jules. First, I tried inviting her to the animal rescue benefit next week. (Since it was “BYOP”—bring your own pet—there was a chance she would come.) But when I imagined her surrounded by society types and their little shih tzus, I reconsidered. I tried a peppy lunch invite but deleted it with a sigh. I composed a chatty e-mail about the kids, but that, too, seemed fake. Finally, I settled on just three words in the subject line: “I miss you.” I hit “send” and watched it take off toward her in-box with a
whoosh
and a silent prayer.

I then checked the
Philadelphia Inquirer
for election news. There was none, but my eye did catch a Larry Liebman story on city worker pensions. I pictured her typing away or on the phone, the closest Philly would ever get to having its own Lois Lane.

Gloria walked in carrying a red T-shirt and black leggings, wanting to play “pizza deliverer.” I laughed as I pulled off her church clothes and helped her slip on her “uniform.” As I pulled up her pants, I noticed her underwear had little mermaids all over it. Little Ariels, to be exact.

Ariel. Larry.
Inquirer
.

An idea began to form.

I finished helping Gloria, even tying back her hair and drawing on a little mustache, and watched her run off to deliver the two empty pizza boxes around the apartment. Then I turned back to my computer, anxious to learn more about Ariel.com. Apparently, the company offered a traveling Wi-Fi device that worked all over the world and was one of last year’s hottest American tech firms. It was named not for
The Little Mermaid
but for Ariel Morganstern, the company’s founder, who just happened to be a University of Pennsylvania
graduate, class of 1998. Same as Alex. So that’s how he would use his influence. He and Ariel were friends. And the Brindles knew it.

I went back to the
Inquirer
’s home page and searched for Ariel.com, sure that some reporter would be tracking the developments. But strangely, there was nothing about Ariel or Morganstern. Not one mention.

It would seem that the deal would be negotiated over the phone, at private dinners, and behind closed doors. And the press wouldn’t know about it until the deal was signed. Unless…

I opened up Gmail and set up the most anonymous e-mail account I could think of: “[email protected].” Then, using the new address, I typed a message: “Did you know Ariel.com is looking to move their headquarters to Philly, specifically East Falls? Could mean great things for the community. Find William Wallace at the Baptist church for details.” I signed it: “A concerned citizen.”

I then addressed it to [email protected].

If Larry bit, and I was pretty sure she would, the headline alone could get everyone in this city thinking Ariel and East Falls. Then if the Brindles subsequently made their own play for the lease, they’d look unsporting, trying to woo away jobs from a black preacher trying to build a community. Rather than risk the bad press, or the fight, they would most likely back down and maybe not even bid at all. But more important, Alex could face the Brindles with a clear conscience, himself having no idea who’d tipped off the
Inquirer
. A win-win for all.

God, I loved it when public relations actually worked for the public. I hit “send.”

Feeling a surge of energy, I turned my attention to the apartment. May had been gone only twenty-four hours but already the place was a mess. How had she ever cleaned this place
and
watched the
kids
and
cooked those elaborate meals? I felt myself getting angry again, especially when I pictured Mirabelle’s smug face, and began shoving dishes in the dishwasher in a fury. When I saw Gloria slink into the family room and click on the television, I barked at her.

“Not so fast, hot stuff.”

“What, Mommy?”

“I need your help.”

“But I
always
watch cartoons while Van’s napping.”

“I don’t care. I need your help. We have work to do.”

“What do you mean ‘work’?”

“Chores.”

Her eyes widened. “You mean together? You and me?”

“Yep. You and me.”

She put down the remote and ran over, excited. I kneeled down and grabbed her hands.

“Hey, GloWorm,” I said in my super-duper mommy voice. “Think you could drive a vacuum?”

Her eyes grew even wider and her mouth dropped, as if I had just offered her a ride on Space Mountain.

“Really?”

“Really,” I said. “But first you’ll have to show me where it is.”

And so, the world’s first millionaire mother-daughter cleaning service got to work, starting with the master suite in an effort to not wake the baby. I wiped counters, watered plants, folded towels, scrubbed the toilet, sprayed down the shower, and shoved dirty clothes and towels into tall hampers. Gloria followed behind me with the Dyson, and even though it was taller than she was, she didn’t do a half-bad job.

I was gathering some of Alex’s clothes in the bedroom closet when something that slipped out of a pair of dress pants caught my eye.

Scribbled on a crumpled cocktail napkin was the name “Jennifer.” And a phone number. I stared at the white square, slowly beginning to comprehend. I then checked the rest of his clothes and the trash and came up with two more notes and three business cards, all from women. One even included a pink lipstick kiss. Really?

My confusion turned to fury. The thought of all these women propositioning Alex—even
thinking
he could be theirs—was maddening. I was tempted to call every number and announce that Alexander van Holt was a happily married man who adored his wife and two small children.

It was admittedly some small consolation that the cards and notes were left in pockets or in the trash, discarded or absentmindedly forgotten. But still it gave me pause: How long would he be able to resist these women? Especially if he won the election and spent long weeks in DC without me? And what about before… had he ever succumbed? Just
how
happily married was my husband?

These were questions any reasonably aware married woman could answer. But of course, most women had known their husbands for longer than seven days.

Gloria walked in and announced that her brother was up. Together, we went to retrieve him, enlisting his help for our next challenge, the living room. Sensing Gloria was losing interest, I tied Swiffers to her and Sam’s feet with rubber bands and handed them each a feather duster. As they skated around the floors giggling, I tried to join in on the fun, but my mind kept rereading the tawdry notes.

I moved to the windows and looked down at the sidewalks below. As Alex traversed the city, jumping for event to event, did he pass any restaurants or bars or a park bench—our “special spots”—and think of me? When he saw young children, did he miss us and long to be home? Was he still “in love” with me?

And did he ever feel jealousy—like I was feeling now? It was a strange emotion, and one that left me scared and vulnerable. A feeling I’d
never
felt with Jimmy. Not once.

“Mama,” said a tiny voice from below. It was Sam, already wanting a snack.

I walked to the kitchen pantry and scanned the shelves for something easy. I reached down for some crackers, and in a corner, I saw a Drexel University tote bag stuffed with books and clothes—May’s. I carried it to the kitchen and plopped it down on the large island.

Inside was a blue sweatshirt, a pair of black plastic sunglasses, an umbrella, some diapers, a notebook, some highlighters, and a sippy cup. Also two textbooks, one on biology and one a review of American literature from 1920 to 1968. I stared at it and felt a rush of guilt. In getting Sam to the hospital, she must have left her things. And now was too scared or mad to retrieve them.

Gloria ran into the kitchen, demanding to know what was taking so long. I shoved the books back in the bag, and before she could say anything else, I grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around toward the door.

“Get your shoes on,” I told her. “We’re going out.”

It was the second time the taxicab passed the same antiques store. And the third time it passed the old man walking the beagle in an argyle sweater. And the umpteenth time we bounced along the uneven bricks along Jewelers Row.

“Are you sure it’s this street?” I asked my daughter again. “Maybe it’s one farther that way?”

I pointed south toward Washington Square, but she just shook her head and continued to scan the streetscape. I was beginning
to think Gloria was just toying with me, and that despite her loud avowals otherwise, she had no idea where May lived.

“I know it has lots of shops,” she said, her brow crinkling in concentration. “And signs like that one.” She pointed to a pink neon scrawl: “We Buy Gold.”

Shops and signs.
Well, that narrowed it down to just about every city street on the East Coast.

We had spent the last thirty minutes driving around under Gloria’s direction. The Russian taxi driver seemed confused but not especially irritated; I think he was enjoying the hunt as much as Gloria. Me, not so much. I was losing patience. And feeling carsick. I told the cabbie to pull over.

“Think, Gloria. What else is on the street? A restaurant? Or a park? It’s very important. Only you can find her.”