The One That Got Away (5 page)

I turned back to the living room and the people in it: Alex intently scrolling through messages on his phone; Oscar trying to maneuver the wheelchair back out the door; Gloria untangling her balloons.

Only Sam stood motionless, his big blue-gray eyes fixed on mine and his mouth slightly open. We stared at each other for a few seconds, our eyes locked and knowing. I shrugged and gave him a funny look. He grinned and giggled his baby giggle.

This will do just fine,
he seemed to say.

It had been two days and two nights since I’d last showered, so that became the next order of business. Alex led the kids away, promising them cartoons. When I heard the click of the television and the shrill voice of Dora the Explorer, I walked toward the opposite hall in search of a master bedroom.

It was much like the living room, but in shades of white, gray, and a blue somewhere between slate and robin’s egg. Anchoring the room was a king-sized bed with a smooth, spotless white duvet and four stiffly arranged pillows. The tables and dressers were equally clean and uncluttered—with no car keys or pennies, no dry-cleaning slips, no single socks or errant Lite-Brite pegs. Just wide expanses of polished wood with an occasional silver-framed photograph or ceramic elephant.

The bathroom continued the same white, gray, and blue color palette, but this time in marble. I saw a walk-in shower with a massive showerhead, a double vanity sink, and a huge rectangular soaking tub. Open shelving held stacks of white towels, plush circular rugs dotted the floor, and a separate room housed the toilet. It looked
like a hotel bathroom, the maid having just left, except for a toy boat lying on its side beside the tub’s drain.

Though I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, I turned on every light and began opening the vanity drawers. Little boxes clacked into one another, all solid black or silver and emblazoned with simple monograms: “Chanel,” “Bobbi Brown,” “NARS.” The second drawer held designer face creams and body lotions; the third was full of fancy perfumes and shampoo. I pulled out a pot of Crème de la Mer and touched a tiny bit on my face. It smelled as one would expect—like the sea.

Opposite the shower was a door that opened to a long room anchored by a marble-topped island. On each side hung clothes and coats interrupted every few feet by floor-to-ceiling shelves housing neatly folded clothes, as if for sale in a fancy boutique. At the back, two full-length mirrors faced each other, allowing whoever stepped before them an infinite look at both front and back.

Everything was organized by type and then color, the stacks of blouses, T-shirts, skirts, jeans, sweaters, and dresses creating fabric rainbows around the white room. One section of hanging clothes held an array of black satin, smoke gray velvet, and silver sequins, the most elegant collection of formal wear I’d ever seen in person. Tucked to one side were zippered garment bags, the fabrics underneath too vulnerable to be exposed. At home, there was only one garment awarded a home in plastic—my wedding gown.

But all that paled in comparison to what I saw when I looked up. Perched on a thick shelf that ran all the way around the top of the closet was a cavalcade of leather. Not just bags, but designer purses, all polished and poised for action, their gleaming leather and heavy gold chains begging to be touched.

I reached up and took them down one by one. There was a tasseled gray Balenciaga, a purple-and-black Stella McCartney, a large
white YSL Muse, a straw-and-leather Michael Kors, a pebbled orange Prada, and twin quilted Chanels in cream and black. There was an Alexander Wang tote, a sparkling Anya Hindmarch clutch, a caramel Céline shopper, a boxy Botkier, and a spiked Valentino. It was the Twelve Wonders of the purse world.

I started to put them all back when a large orange box stowed away in a corner caught my eye. I pulled it down, put it on the marble counter, and opened the lid. Inside, underneath silky monogrammed tissue, was the mother of all designer purses, the it bag of it bags, one that outshone all the others like a movie star in a room of civilians.

A bright red Hermès Kelly bag. The leather was dulled with age (read vintage), but in exquisite condition, its handles still stiff and upright, its lock and key shiny and unscratched. It looked like it hadn’t been touched in years.

Inside was some tissue paper and a card that read “Happy 30th Birthday.” I quickly rewrapped it and put it back on the shelf, wondering what kind of person gets a Kelly bag for her birthday and then never uses it.

Standing before the wide mirror in the van Holt bathroom, I began to peel off my clothes. I slipped off my boots and then my jeans and was surprised to find a perfect pedicure. And my soles—usually so cracked and dry—were as smooth and unbroken as the marble they stood on.

Quickly, I pulled off the thick cream sweater I had thrown on during my hasty hospital exit and stood up straight, taking it all in. With a look of disbelief on my face, the same look I imagined one might have when looking at a new Lexus in their driveway on Christmas morning, I saw my body in the mirror. My stomach was flat and smooth, with no droopy skin or love handles, just taut,
firm skin as if pulled across a drum. My legs were free from stretch marks and broken capillaries; instead they were long and lean, and still tan, as if I were just back from the islands.

And my breasts. There was something definitely different about my breasts.

I looked down at them sticking out of my chest, then again in the mirror. I tentatively touched one with the tip of my finger, the way you touch a cake to see if it’s done. I cupped each in a hand, feeling their soft weight. Gorgeous, full, awesome…

And fake.

As boob jobs went, this was peerless work. These were the Cadillacs of implants: pliant, under the muscle, any incision scars artfully concealed.

I stood slack-jawed, wondering what had made Abbey van Holt decide to go under the plastic surgeon’s knife. Especially since I had always claimed I never would. And secretly looked down on women, like my mother, who did. (Breast cancer survivors excepted.)

But, then again, maybe I was against plastic surgery because our financial situation meant I never really had the option. I stepped closer to examine my face and hair and see what other improvements, surgical or otherwise, might have been made.

Where were the two deep grooves in my forehead and the little lines around my eyes? The skin was smooth and poreless, as if someone had blurred it in Photoshop. My hair was shorter and blonder, with a razor-sharp edge that just barely grazed my shoulders. I smiled to reveal straight, alabaster teeth.

“Holy shit,” I mouthed to myself in the mirror.

I was still naked and admiring myself when Alex walked in. I reached down for my towel and covered myself as best I could as he walked to the double sinks and dropped his heavy silver watch on a crystal tray.

“So, I guess we should figure out tonight,” he said, removing his sports coat and unbuttoning his shirt.

“Okay?”

“I know it’s a lot to ask, but if you are feeling up to it, it might be good for you to come. It’ll stop all the rumors, the media barrage.”

“Sure,” I said, stealing glances at him in the mirror.

“But are you feeling well enough?”

“Surprisingly, yes. I feel fine. And you heard the doctors; they said I can go back to my normal life.”

“I know, but still. Why don’t you just stay for a few minutes, shake some hands, get your photo taken, and then Oscar can bring you back,” he said. “If it runs late, I can always just sleep at the house. You know how long-winded the Presbyterian League can be.”

“No kidding,” I said, trying to keep up. “Those Presbyterians are so… so…” My voice trailed off as I watched him step out of his pants.

“Frank thinks that with their endorsement I can pick up more of Montgomery County, maybe some of Bryn Mawr,” he continued. “Important votes.”

I had completely tuned out what he was saying, too distracted by his reflection in the mirror. As he lifted his undershirt, he revealed the muscular arms, hairy chest, and six-pack abs of a
Men’s Health
cover model. When he stepped out of his pale blue boxers and kicked them across the room toward a hamper, my mouth fell open. He walked over to me, his skin looking healthy and tan against the white walls. He wrapped his arms around me and kissed my forehead, not noticing my racing heart and frozen stance.

“I was worried about you,” he said, whispering into my hair. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Except for Jimmy and Sam, I hadn’t seen another naked male in twelve years, let alone had one pressed against me. It felt so strange, so ridiculous, but also exhilarating. I tried to regain some
composure, but when I felt his naked cock pressing against my hip, my heart stopped—and I emitted a little involuntary gasp.

“What?” he said.

“Nothing,” I said. “Just tickled.”

He laughed, then disappeared into the shower.

Our chauffeur, Oscar, opened the door and held my hand as I stepped down from the big Suburban and landed with a crunch on a circular pebbled driveway. Alex followed behind, still talking on the phone. He was speaking to who I presumed was his campaign manager, and together they had dissected poll numbers and voter maps during the entire half-hour ride. I always hated it when Jimmy talked business in the car—hearing just half of a conversation is worse than hearing the whole—but on this ride, I had listened closely, trying to learn anything I could about this man, this life.

Outside, the early evening light was fading, which made the building before me more potent and magical, like a fairy-tale castle from one of Gloria’s storybooks. It was a massive gray stone mansion, covered in ivy, with too many chimneys to count, a gray slate roof, and one rounded turret. The windows glowed golden, lit from within so brightly the interior seemed ablaze. This was Bloemveld, Alex’s childhood home and the family estate for more than a century.

I would learn later that prior to this gray stone mansion there had been a smaller brick version, and before that, a log cabin. The land had been in the family since Alex’s ancestor Alexandre van Hault purchased it from William Penn in the late 1600s. The first van Holt living on American soil had been a farmer and a tender of sheep, but his great-grandson found coal on the land, which led to investments in steel, which eventually led to real estate. The poor, illiterate Dutchman in the log cabin would never have believed that his
descendants now owned a third of Philadelphia, half of the Main Line, and enough of Manhattan to be invited to the Central Park Conservancy gala and the Met Ball every year.

As I started for the front door, Alex caught me by the elbow. Holding the phone in his hand, he whispered, “What are you doing? You know Mother hates it when we use the front door.”

“Right,” I said, abruptly changing course and falling into step behind him. This would be the first of many pivots—both physical and conversational—I’d be making that evening.

It was a warm night for October, almost muggy. I had played it safe with a simple sleeveless black shift and plain gold jewelry. But I couldn’t resist when it came to choosing shoes, picking a pair of crystal-covered Jimmy Choos. They sank past the pebbles into the dirt, but I didn’t care. If these got ruined, there were plenty of other “cocktail” heels back in the apartment: a pair studded with gold, one with little mirrored shards, another topped with a black lace bow so stiff it felt like plastic.

As we crossed in front of tall windows with pencil-thin mullions, I peeked into each room, taking in the overstuffed upholstery, watered-silk wallpaper, and paintings of bright-eyed, pointy-eared stallions in gilded frames. Passing the dining room, I noticed an enormous crystal chandelier lit by candles, not bulbs. I wondered if wax would drip onto the massive table beneath it and whose job it was to snuff the flames each night.

At last, reaching the side of the house, we stepped onto a raised stone terrace covered by a taut green-and-white awning. Alex took my elbow and steered me indoors, into a room abuzz with clanking silverware, harried footsteps, and slamming oven doors.

Actually, it was a series of rooms culled together into one big kitchen, the needs of modern entertaining gobbling up old closets and butlers’ pantries into a massive, noisy ode to all things culinary. A small army of
cooks and maids and servers rushed to and fro, like commuters hurrying for their trains, their arms laden with trays and linens.

Amid the monochromatic tableaux—black-and-white uniforms, stainless steel appliances, and granite countertops—two women stood out like Jordan almonds: one in a pale blue wool suit, the other in a pink sweater set. The middle-aged woman, in blue, inspected a tray of champagne flutes while the younger one, in pink, flipped through a magazine, a bored expression on her face.

When we approached her, she looked up lazily from her magazine and spoke with obvious sarcasm: “Nice of you to join us.”

“Oh, calm down. People aren’t even here yet,” Alex replied, sliding his phone off and slipping it into his chest pocket. “I had a radio interview that went long, and I’m not sure if you heard, but my wife was in the hospital.”

Not knowing her name, I just stood there as she cut her eyes toward me for a moment, then returned to Alex. I thought I should say something, but the best I could come up with was a whispered “Yeah, I was in the hospital.”

She turned back to me and glared. “Yes,
I know
, Abbey. You were in the hospital. We would have visited but Alley told us not to.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I stuttered.

“Whatever. I really don’t even know why I bothered to come to this,” she said, turning back to Alex. “I’m telling you, Alley, this is the last night for me. The old bags better have their checkbooks with them this time.”

“Hey, watch what you say,” said Alex with a glance around the room. “Last thing I need is for that to end up on YouTube.”

“Chiiiiildren,” wailed the older woman in blue as she moved toward us. “Please stop bickering. Let’s get through this as best we can. It’s important for Alex, for all of us.”