The White Rose (5 page)

Vaguely, and from a not unwelcome distance, she watches them, the two of them, fanning their mutual flame.
Sophie Klein! Daughter of Mort Klein! As in Kaplan Klein!
She hears Barton tell again the story of his meeting with Klein père at The Retreat,
c. 1830,
and his now distinctly offensive appraisal of his future father-in-law's accent. She is happy for them to take up these minutes with their exchange. Minutes spent on each other are minutes Oliver will be forgotten—or in Valerie's case, undiscovered—and minutes that will lend legitimacy when she kicks them out, a prospect now tantalizingly near. Idly, discreetly enough not to break their spell, she nudges the teetering stack of mail with her foot, toppling a cascade of shiny opulence onto the Aubusson—Bloomingdale's, Neiman Marcus, Tiffany. Beneath these is a large envelope from none other than Kaplan Klein, and then the charitable appeals: first the mass mailings with their computer-generated pseudo-handwriting, which she can safely ignore, then the more exclusive supplications, addressed in cool script, for the New York City Ballet, Goddard-Riverside, and Women in Need, to which she will inevitably respond.

“He's not a well man, you know,” her cousin says.

“No,” Valerie coos, rapt. “I didn't know.”

Marian closes her eyes. When she was a child, the solicitations her Irish nanny received daily made even this cacophony of requests seem muted by comparison. Every Catholic mission from Korea to Zimbabwe had had Mary's address, and appeals arrived continually from around the globe, each and every one of them to be answered with a crisp one dollar bill. Marian smiles, remembering the afternoon routine of letter opener, coil of stamps, and stack of bills. How much of Mary's salary had gone into those envelopes? Marian wonders. How many Park Avenue nannies had blown it all that way, between their left-behind siblings in Cavan or Monaghan and those little brown babies, lining up for a shot and a school uniform? Where were those brown babies now, and where were the nannies?

“Marian?”

She looks up. “Hmm?”

“I said,” Valerie says, enunciating carefully, “have you?”

“Have I what?” Marian says.

“Been to the Steiner mansion.”

“Oh. No.”

“No?” says Valerie with disbelief. “You mean, in all this time?”

Marian feels addled. She must have missed something significant amid the superficial nattering on the opposite sofa. “Time since…?”

“Since the restoration. Mort is so generous with the house. I've been to many events there,” she says, smugly.

With one pocket full of purloined Beluga and the other hiding a tape recorder,
Marian thinks, but she assembles her most gracious smile.

“Oh, you're lucky. I've never been. Is it lovely?”

Valerie turns back to Barton, since this is a question which evidently needn't be answered.

“Now what's happening tonight?” she asks.

He shrugs his meaty shoulders. “Haven't the faintest. Some sort of family dinner. They have it every Friday. But Sophie and I have an appointment tomorrow with an attorney for the prenuptial.”

“Ooh…” Surprisingly, Valerie has found room to lean back still farther. Any more and she'll be supine, Marian thinks. “Aren't you smart. We all have to be so careful today. It's extremely wise to settle financial matters before a marriage.”

Oh Barton,
thinks Marian,
the time has come to
shut up now.

“I couldn't agree more,” he says with a nod. “Where there are assets, there must be clarity. For example, when Mort was last with me at The Retreat, I was telling him about all the work that the estate still requires. There is a significant problem with the original molding on the ground floor, which we are going to have to replace. Now I don't need to tell you that this is fantastically expensive. You've got to find someone who can mill wood on the old machines, and with the kind of intricate original we've got there, this makes the thing doubly challenging. But Mort said at the time, he said to me, ‘Barton, this is preservation work of the highest order, and it must be done right. We cannot take the chance of having it bungled, it's too important!' ”

“Sure.” Valerie nods.

“So clearly he intends to make some contribution to this effort. Not that I'm surprised, given his interest in early architecture, not to mention New York history and the part my family has played in it. Soon to be his daughter's family, I should add. But I do think we will all be more comfortable once these intentions are down in black and white.” He finishes with a nod.

Marian looks at him blankly. Does he mean to bill Mort Klein for his restoration costs?

“Barton,” Marian says. She can't stop herself. “You're not intending to make your repair bills part of your prenuptial agreement.”

He looks at her as if she is mad. “Not at all! Not at all! I mean for it to be a separate matter. Entirely separate.”

“Oh.” She is relieved. “Well, good.”

“A separate document. Quite apart from any arrangements we might make regarding the marriage. If Mort wishes to contribute to the restoration of an important American home, and he has given every indication that he wishes to do so, then I see no reason we shouldn't put that in writing.”

Marian looks at Valerie. Valerie is beaming. Valerie must be wild to get to her laptop, her cell phone.

Barton, misunderstanding, leans forward conspiratorially. “After all, I am making my own gifts in this arrangement, am I not? Over the years I've had many opportunities to marry. I mean, within my own social group. I say this not as a snob, mind you! Marian can tell you that I am a very humble person. I do not call attention to myself or demand special favors because of our family, do I, Marian?”

Oh leave me out of it, she thinks wearily.

“But I do recognize that my family, like any other American family, has always moved in a circle of like-minded people, people with the kind of common history that makes us all feel…” He ponders. He is having an actual reflective moment, Marian thinks. “Comfortable!” Barton says, triumphantly. “Now I am bringing someone into that circle, do you see? And while that is far from an impossible thing—this is America, after all—it is not simple, either. I am, so to speak, standing up for this person. I am vouching for this person, and uniting my own fortunes with those of this person.”

Marian wonders whether “this person” refers to his future wife or to Mort Klein. She imagines the two men, for a moment, standing staunchly side by side, with her cousin's great hand around Klein's shoulder. There is, it occurs to Marian, even a slight resemblance between them, notwithstanding the “famous” Warburg chin: a high crown and strong nose, and that certain satisfaction arising from a life lived by principle, even if it is a lousy principle. They're a pair. They are, truly, she sees, made for each other. And isn't it a pity Barton can't marry the father?

Valerie, for once, is speechless.

Barton, Marian thinks, deserves everything the Celebrant is going to do to him.

“You know,” she hears herself say, “this is horrible, but I'm going to have to leave you. I need to get ready.”

They both look at her.

Ready for what? she knows they are thinking.

She wishes she had taken a moment to answer this question, herself, before speaking up.

“Ready for what?” Valerie asks, as though she is only now noticing Marian as a creature of any independent interest whatsoever.

“Dinner. I'm having dinner with one of my graduate students. A woman,” she adds, unnecessarily. “She's in trouble with her thesis. She's writing about the bluestockings, and she hasn't been able to get focused. I said I would take her out to Nicola's and we would talk about it away from the office. It might help,” she finishes lamely.

Valerie looks quizzical. “Blue stockings? I didn't know they wore blue stockings in the eighteenth century.”

“Oh,” says Marian with a hopeful nod. “But they did. And there is so much material.”

“Well, it's fine with me,” Barton says, plunking down his tumbler on the end table. “Only I could use some advice from you ladies, since I want to send flowers to Sophie. I went into one poky little place on Lexington and all the flowers looked half dead. I couldn't send those.”

Valerie shakes her head in mock horror. “Naturally, you couldn't.”

“I don't have time to look around. Just tell me where one goes. Who does the best flowers now?” He peers, suddenly, past Marian. To the bar? No—of course, to the flowers. “Who did those?”

Valerie turns, too. The white roses with their strange pink tips, so open, nearly baroque, Marian thinks. Like a still life:
White Roses in Silver Vase with Manhattan Skyline.

She bites her lip. “The White Rose.”

“Ooh!” Valerie gives a little chirp. “Yes! That's it!”

“I can see it's a white rose,” Barton says impatiently.

“No, it's the shop,” Valerie says. “The shop is called the White Rose. It's a darling place in the Village.”

“That's too far,” he says dismissively. “I'm hardly going to go all the way down there just for flowers.”

“But you needn't,” Valerie reassures him. “Just call them. Tell them what you want and how much you want to spend. They'll do something beautiful. Their flowers are so lovely,
everyone
uses them.”

Her emphasis on “everyone” has its intended effect. Barton looks back at the flowers, frowning. “What's the name again?” he says.

Marian smiles. Despite her anxiety, she is pleased to hear Oliver's flowers praised. “It's called the White Rose.”

And here, quite suddenly, and quite unaccountably, Barton grins with apparent delight. “Yes,” says Barton. “That'll do. She'll find that amusing. Do you have the number?” He gets to his feet.

Marian, thrilled at this development, gets to her feet, too.

“No,” she lies.

“Perhaps Olivia does. I'd like to say good-bye to her, anyway.”

“Good-bye?” Valerie stands, too, but she is not ready to depart just yet. “You mean someone else is here?”

“Just my assistant,” Marian says. “Working back in the office. We were working”—
when you interrupted us,
she had been about to say—“earlier this afternoon. Marshall is in Nova Scotia this weekend on one of his board retreats. I try to keep the decks clear when he's away. I usually get a great deal accomplished.”

“Well, I'm sorry we've interrupted,” Valerie offers, apparently speaking for Barton as well and not sounding sorry at all.

“No, it's fine.” It's fine
now,
Marian is thinking. Now it's almost over.

“Where is Olivia?” Barton insists. “I want to say good-bye.” He looks knowingly at Valerie. “Absolutely charming girl. Well,” he says with a smirk, “not actually a girl, you know.”

Valerie, who cannot bear not knowing anything that might precede the phrase “you know,” perks right up. “What do you mean?”

“My lips,” he says gravely, “are sealed.” But he looks at Marian with a pleading expression.

My God, thinks Marian. This man must never be allowed in public.

Valerie looks at Marian. “Well? What is it? You've got a hermaphrodite assistant?”

“No, no,” says Marian. “Nothing like that. Just, you know, a cross-dresser. She's one of my students, actually.”

Oddly, this comment seems to make all the difference. “Academia!” declares Valerie, giving Barton a conspiratorial glance. “Where would all the oddballs go if we didn't have universities to put them in?”

Marian resists responding. This comment may be the broadest of unbased slanders, but she would rather take it than prolong the visit.

“I'll look up the phone number for you,” Marian says. “No need to trouble Olivia.”

“But I insist,” says Barton. “I must say good-bye. I will not leave without doing that.”

“Yes, let's have a look at her,” Valerie says, looking around. “Is she a pretty girl at least or one of those bad jokes with a beard?”

“Adorable,” Barton says.

“Oh please,” Marian says, pleading. “Please don't say anything in front of her. She's very sensitive. She doesn't want people paying attention to her. Just,” she looks at Valerie, “try to pretend you don't notice. Promise me, Valerie.”

Valerie puts up her hands. “Sweetheart! Of course! You know how good I am at pretending not to know things.”

Marian looks from one to the other. Her nerves are shot, she realizes, and there is no fortitude she can summon for another round of Olivia the transvestite assistant, not with Valerie Annis figured into the equation. The Celebrant is no Barton Ochstein, tenant and restorer of The Retreat and prime oaf. The Celebrant wields a scalpel in New York society and holds allegiance to herself, alone. She will take one look at beautiful Oliver in his cashmere turtleneck and pumps, his skirt and wig, and understand that Marian is in love with her oldest friend's twenty-six-year-old son, who is the proprietor of the aforementioned White Rose, and who happens to be in drag. Tasteful drag. Understated drag. But drag.

But what can she do? She wants them out, and then she wants a brandy.

Marian goes to the living room phone and dials her office. It rings in the distance, once, twice.

“Yes?” says Oliver softly.

“Oh…
Olivia,
Mr. Ochstein needs to leave and wants to say good-bye to you. He's also asked me to recommend a good place for flowers to send to his fiancée. Can you find the number of that place I like in the Village?”

There is a pause. “Marian,” he warns, his voice low, “are you sure about that?”

“Do you remember what it's called?” she says tersely. “The White Rose? I think I may have their card somewhere. It came with one of the arrangements.”