The Pact (5 page)

Yet all her insecurities seemed to melt away under the sheer force of Richard’s initial onslaught. In the early days of their relationship he romanced her aggressively. He deluged her with flowers and chocolates, intimate dinners, weekends in the country and extravagant gifts, and Emma was overwhelmed. For several months she was glowingly happy, and I was eager to believe that he was on the up and up, at least as far as Emma was concerned. I even tried to be nice to him when I saw him, which wasn’t easy.

Even before they were engaged, however, he rapidly downshifted into taking her for granted. He’d cancel arrangements with her at the last minute or arrive late without an apology, let alone an excuse. There were no more flowers or chocolates, although he did seem to take a fastidious interest in the gifts they registered for at Tiffany’s. Instead of intimate dinners, or weekends in the country, Richard turned his attention to the types of events covered by the society pages, displaying Emma on his arm like a trophy. It was around then that I started to avoid making plans to see them together and would instead arrange to have lunch or dinner with Emma alone. But when I did see Emma, she seemed despondent, and the radiant excitement she’d once shown when she spoke of him had dulled.

I’d tentatively tried to broach the subject with her a few months after they announced their engagement. We’d met for a late dinner at a quiet restaurant near her loft, and after I’d had a glass of wine I worked up the courage to ask her if everything was all right between Richard and her. Up until that point our conversation had skipped easily from a movie that we’d both seen to a discussion of my work and then of her work. Emma had her first gallery show when she was only twenty-one, and although there were more than a few disgruntled followers of the New York art scene who complained that Emma’s father had smoothed her way, few could dispute her artistic talent. Whereas her father’s work was still entirely abstract, Emma focused on landscapes and portraits that inspired comparisons to Edward Hopper and John Singer Sargent. The first show as well as the ones that followed in the ensuing years met with great critical acclaim. Now, however, she seemed worried. “I think I have the artist’s equivalent of writer’s block,” she confided. “I can’t get anything done.”

It was then that I asked her about Richard, thinking that the question would seem like a natural part of the discussion. I had hoped that she would open up a bit and allow me the opportunity to voice my concerns. Instead, it seemed as if an invisible wall suddenly went up around her. “Oh, Richard’s just fine,” she answered quickly, and then she abruptly changed the subject.

The rest of our conversation that night was stilted, and I went home wondering if I should have forced the issue but hesitant lest I should alienate her. Her response had felt like a warning to me, a clear sign that she did not want to talk about her relationship with Richard. And, except for the occasional glancing reference, we didn’t talk about him in the months that followed. It was awkward maintaining a friendship when there was such a large and obvious topic that we danced around without discussing.

This wasn’t the first time that I’d been upset by how Emma let herself be treated like a doormat by a boyfriend. But this time was serious; it was marriage.

I hoped she knew what she was doing. I sure didn’t.

I
t was easy to lose one’s way on the twisting roads that led to the Furlongs’ house. Streetlights and signposts were kept to a bare minimum, and the trees effectively blocked out the sky. I suspected the families who had houses in the area preferred it that way—the last thing they wanted was to point out their tranquil country refuge to strangers.

Yuppies from Manhattan and Boston had already descended upon old-money enclaves in the Hamptons and Cape Cod. From Water Mill to Osterville, and even on Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket, they were busily buying up modest summer cottages for exorbitant prices, tearing them down and replacing them with sprawling mansions. Their slick German luxury sedans and Land Rovers clogged the country roads and vied for parking spaces with the battered Buicks and Lincolns favored by WASP holdouts.

By comparison, the Furlongs’ corner of the Adirondacks had remained pristine. The general store in town continued to do a healthy trade in Wonder bread and domestic beer. If you were looking for goat cheese, Chilean sea bass, or imported mineral water, you were definitely in the wrong place.

It was so dark that Jane nearly missed the turn for the Furlongs’ house. The stone pillars on either side of the gate were almost completely hidden by bramble, and ivy draped over a faded sign that read Quail Lake. Luisa dug the slip of paper on which she’d written the gate code out of her purse, and Jane rolled down her window and punched the numbers into the keypad. The wrought iron panels slid soundlessly apart and then closed shut behind us.

The house itself was nearly a mile from the road, and we were quiet as Jane carefully steered along the narrow drive. I listened to our wheels crunching on the loose gravel. The thick woods on either side contributed to a sense of isolation that had always felt peaceful when I’d visited before. The crisp northern air with its scent of pine brought to mind unbidden memories of long-ago evenings as a child at summer camp, an unfortunate experiment initiated by my parents in the vain hope of instilling in me a love of nature.

We rounded the last turn and the house came into view. From this angle it looked deceptively modest. Every time I came here I wondered how Mrs. Furlong managed to maintain the wooden shingles in exactly the same state of shabbiness, not quite dilapidated but dangerously close. In this case, however, looks were completely deceiving. There were five bedrooms in the house, along with a number of rooms for sitting and lounging, all luxuriously appointed in a manner that was so discreetly expensive that only the most finely trained eyes could appreciate the value of the well-worn rugs, the graceful lines of the Early American antique furnishings, and the sheer scale of investment required to maintain such a lavish household in this simple but elegant comfort.

Light spilled from an upstairs window onto the wide circle before the house. Jane parked the truck next to the line of cars that had accumulated in the clearing along the edge of the drive. I recognized Mrs. Furlong’s aged Mercedes convertible, Mr. Furlong’s even older Volvo, Richard’s spanking new BMW, and Matthew’s battered Saab. Only family members and family equivalents were staying at the house tonight.

The front door was unlatched—the gate at the drive and the high fence around the property made locks unnecessary—and we passed through it single file just in time to catch Lily Furlong ascending the stairs to the second floor. Hearing us come in, she paused and turned to greet us, stifling a ladylike yawn in a delicate fist.

“Oh, there you are, girls,” she said, giving us all a warm smile. “We were getting worried that you’d gotten lost. The roads up here can be so confusing. Did you all have a nice time at the dinner? And, Rachel, what a lovely toast you gave! It was very charming, dear. I know Emma was touched by it.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” I said. Somehow, even when I knew I was saying the right thing, Mrs. Furlong always made me feel gauche.

“Well, I was just about to turn in. We have such a big day ahead of us tomorrow. I think the boys are all sitting out by the pool having a nightcap if you want to join them. The seamstress is coming early in the morning to put some final touches on Emma’s dress, and the poor child was exhausted, so I sent her to bed.” I was sad to hear this; I was impatient for some time alone with Emma before she became Mrs. Richard Mallory. I toyed with the idea of following Mrs. Furlong upstairs and waking Emma up but resolved instead that I would sit her down for a long talk in the morning, seamstress notwithstanding. Besides, I doubted if Mrs. Furlong would appreciate my interfering with Emma’s mandated beauty sleep.

Lily smiled tiredly in our direction. “You all know which rooms you’re staying in, don’t you?” We nodded our acquiescence. “Good, good. Well, don’t stay up too much longer,” she called over her shoulder. “I don’t want any of you ladies dozing off tomorrow during the ceremony. Everything must be perfect for Emma’s big day.”

We bid her good-night, and I led the way toward the back of the house. I’d spent so many summer vacations as a guest here that I knew nobody would begrudge us taking a bottle of champagne from the kitchen refrigerator and borrowing four plastic tumblers from a cupboard.

We’d decided in the car that some private time was in order, so we let ourselves out the kitchen door and tiptoed down the path that led to the lake. I could hear the low rumble of male voices from around the corner of the house, but we continued toward the dock. One by one we removed our shoes and padded out along the planks that stretched over the water.

We lowered ourselves down to sit side by side at the end of the dock, dangling our legs over the edge. The icy water was soothing, and I waggled my toes with pleasure; my feet had had a rough evening, between the three-inch heels I’d worn and the damage Emma’s great-aunt had inflicted. A promising lump was beginning to rise on my instep. I peeled the foil off the top of the champagne bottle and gently worked the cork free. It came loose with a subdued but satisfying pop, and I poured some of the sparkling wine into each of our glasses and passed them down the row.

“Should we toast?” I asked when everyone had a drink in hand.

“Toast what?” asked Hilary. “The wedding?” She made no effort to disguise the sulky tone in her voice.

“No, I’m definitely not in the mood for that,” said Jane. Things were bleak indeed if even Jane couldn’t find a way to put a positive spin on the situation.

Luisa didn’t say anything, but I heard the familiar sounds of her cigarette case opening and the swoosh of her lighter. I wondered idly how many cigarettes she’d smoked that day. Her cigarette case seemed, magically, to be always full of imported Gauloises.

“God,” said Hilary, taking a big gulp of her drink. “I can’t believe Emma’s actually going through with this. If only there were some way to talk her out of it.”

Jane had stretched out on her back to observe the night sky, but now she struggled back up into a sitting position and turned to face us. “You know, I’ve tried to talk to Emma about Richard and the wedding and everything. More than once. I thought that coming from me, since I’ve already been married for such a long time and everything, it might have some weight. But she shuts down as soon as you try to talk to her about him. She just gets really tense and says that everything’s fine and then changes the subject.”

“It’s true, Hil. I’ve tried to talk to her, too,” I said. “And it’s pretty much a guaranteed way to end a conversation of any depth with Emma. I don’t understand it at all. I mean, it seems so obvious that she’s not really happy with him. She’s clearly not eating enough or sleeping well, and she can’t get any work done. But she also seems determined to go through with this.” The argument she’d had with her father had made that all too clear.

“I know all that,” answered Hilary, exasperated. “The last time I was in New York I kept her up half the night haranguing her about all the rumors I’d heard about Dicky when we both lived in Los Angeles, after college. All of the sleazy business deals and random affairs. He was notorious when he was there, he really was. And Emma didn’t bother to deny any of it, or to defend him. In fact, she didn’t even get upset. I sort of thought it would piss her off, my saying all of those things. But she just nodded her head and didn’t say anything except that she’d be fine and not to worry about it. It was like talking to a wall.”

Luisa exhaled an impatient stream of smoke. “Look, Hilary, I’ve spoken to Emma about Richard as well. When she came to me about the prenuptial agreement—”

“What? Emma signed a prenup? Why? She’s the one with all of the money!” Hilary was incredulous. So was I. This was the first I’d heard of a prenuptial agreement.

“
Mierda.
I thought you all knew. Forget I mentioned it.”

“The cat’s out of the bag on this one, Luisa. You might as well tell us the whole thing now,” said Jane.

“Did Emma’s parents make them sign one? To protect her in some way from Richard?” I asked. That would have been a relief.

“No, no. Nothing like that. It was all Richard’s idea. Apparently he insisted on it.”

“Richard’s idea?” I repeated. “I don’t get it.” Emma’s family could buy and sell Richard a hundred times over. I doubted that they had any interest whatsoever in his assets, whatever they might be.

“But,” protested Hilary, “isn’t the point of a prenup to make sure that the person with the money gets to keep it in case of a divorce?”

“Usually,” said Luisa, lighting another cigarette.

“Well, what does the prenup say?” I asked.

“I don’t know—I never read it. As far as I could tell, it was already a done deal when Emma came to me. Richard and his lawyers had prepared it, but Emma needed to review it with independent counsel before she signed it, and she wanted me to help her find someone. I had to send her to another firm, of course. We focus on international commerce, not New York State law, let alone domestic affairs.”

“Why didn’t she go to her family attorney?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine that people as wealthy as the Furlongs didn’t have an entire battalion of lawyers at a discreet midtown firm, watching out for their interests and billing for every six minutes of service.

“She did. But for whatever reason they suggested that she get someone else to represent her. It seems hard to believe, but perhaps their firm doesn’t have a department that handles marital law.” Luisa sounded skeptical. Or, I thought, reading into what she’d left unsaid, they couldn’t advise Emma, in good faith, to sign it.

“I don’t get it. Why would Richard insist on a prenup? I mean, if Emma’s the one with all the…” Jane’s voice trailed off. She was too well brought up to remark explicitly on Emma’s extraordinary wealth.

“Ugh. God only knows what goes on in Richard’s slimy little mind. He probably had some slimy reason of his own,” said Hilary.

“Maybe he was trying to prove that he didn’t have any slimy reasons,” Jane ventured. She insisted on looking for the good in everyone, even when there was none to be found.

“Oh, Richard’s all about slime and slimy reasons,” said Hilary. “I don’t trust his motives one bit. I bet he can’t wait to get his hands on Emma’s money.”

“From what I’ve heard, he already has,” I said. “There are rumors in New York that the Furlongs are the silent partners backing Richard’s new agency. They’re only rumors, but where there’s smoke there tends to be fire in situations like these. I don’t know where else he could possibly have gotten the money. The offices are gorgeous, and the launch party he had must have cost a fortune.”

“You’re kidding,” said Jane in disbelief.

“I wish,” I replied.

“What a skunk,” said Hilary. “You’d think he could at least wait until after the wedding to start raiding Emma’s bank account.”

“The money’s certainly attractive to him, but I think he’s even more excited about all of the other advantages that come with being part of the Furlong family,” said Luisa.

“What do you mean?” Jane asked.

Hilary snorted. “Come on, Jane. Money can buy some things, but not everything. Talk about a name that opens doors! Emma’s father is literally world-famous and has all of these incredible art world connections. And Emma’s mother is related to half of American history, what with all of the Winthrops and Mathers and Jeffersons in her family tree.”

“And let’s not forget the Astors and Rockefellers and Du Ponts,” I added.

“Plus all of the things that money can’t really buy,” Hilary continued. “All the Social Register bullshit and seats on philanthropic boards and photos in
W
and
Vogue.
Oh, and did I mention club memberships? Dicky’s probably drooling over the prospect of his own locker at the Racquet Club.”

“Okay, okay, I get the point,” said Jane. “But if this is all so clear to us, why isn’t it clear to Emma? What is she thinking?”

In the moonlight I saw Luisa arch one thin dark brow. “I wish I knew. It’s as if she’s sleepwalking through the entire thing.”

“Maybe there’s something to Richard that we can’t see,” Jane said.

“Like what?” Hilary challenged. “He loves animals? He’s kind to his mother?”

“I don’t think even that’s true,” said Luisa dryly.

“Emma’s not stupid,” Jane answered. “And while her taste in men has always—” she struggled to put it delicately “—left something to be desired, she’s always figured it out in the end. There must be something good in him.” She was clearly hoping that if she said it enough times she would start to believe it.