Too Damn Rich (77 page)

She glared at both guards, then spun around
and stalked back out. Hurrying down the block to the entrance of
Auction Towers, she could feel her face burning with humiliation.
She could already hear the girls in The Club dissecting her.
Yak-yak-yaking and picking her to pieces while going
brush-brush-brush with mascara. Did you hear about Bambs? Wonder
what the story behind that is!

Thank God she hadn't run into one of them!
She'd as soon have died!

As soon as Bambi was gone, a security guard
called Sheldon D. Fairey. "The doorman served Ms. Parker with the
notice, sir." "Thank you. Was there a problem?" "No, sir."

"Good. If she returns, you know what to do."
"Yes, sir."

"Hopefully it won't come to that." "Hopefully
not, sir." "Keep me informed."

Sheldon D. Fairey pressed the intercom
button. "Miss Botkin, please call Ms. Turner. Tell her I wish to
see her at once."

For Kenzie, the day had begun like any Monday
morning. Her alarm clock had jolted her awake. She had showered,
put on makeup, and gotten dressed. Had rushed to work wearing super
comfy Mephistos (bye-bye, Reeboks), and along the way picked up a
container of takeout coffee.

At Burghley's, she and Arnold exchanged
stories about their respective weekends, tried to get Annalisa to
join in—a hopeless task—and was soon immersed in work.

Then Ms. Botkin called.

Now, heading to Sheldon D. Fairey's office,
she felt a wormlike sense of apprehension twisting in her
stomach.

Something had to be amiss. Why else would she
have been summoned?

Miss Botkin was her usual unsmiling self.

"Please have a seat, Miss Turner," she
sniffed, indicating a chair. "Mr. Fairey will be with you
shortly."

Kenzie thanked her and sat down. Five minutes
later, the intercom buzzed and Miss Botkin showed her into the
inner sanctum.

Sheldon D. Fairey was standing at the window
behind his massive uncluttered desk, his back turned, looking
out.

"It's a grand day, Ms. Turner, wouldn't you
say?" he said in that rich plummy voice of his.

Kenzie, approaching the desk, looked out. The
sky was gray and overcast, an April showers kind of day.

"It looks like rain, sir," she said.

He turned around, a distant, slightly chilly
smile on his lips. "Grand days," he said, "don't necessarily have
to mean nice weather, do they?"

Kenzie frowned, wondering what on earth he
was getting at. "No, sir," she said. "Not if you like May
flowers."

He waved a long-fingered hand at a chair.
"Please, Ms. Turner. Do have a seat."

"Thank you, sir."

She pulled up one of the Anglo-Indian, carved
ebony armchairs and he took a seat in the executive swivel chair
behind his giant, ivory-inlaid calamander, thuya, and ebony desk.
Lacing his hands, he tilted back his chair and regarded the
ceiling, the wintry smile still hovering on his lips.

"Tell me, Ms. Turner," he said, "do you
believe in miracles?"

"I suppose that would depend upon the
definition of a miracle, sir."

He nodded, abruptly tilted his chair forward,
and stared intently at her.

"What would you say," he asked gravely, "if I
told you we've had our very own miracle right here at
Burghley's?"

"Then I'd have to ask you what it is and
judge it for myself."

"Ah. Cautious as ever, I see." He looked
mildly pleased and flipped the switch on his intercom. "Miss
Botkin?"

"Sir?" came the crisp, disembodied reply.

"About the memorandums. They can be
distributed now."

"Yes, sir."

He sat back, elbows resting on the arms of
his chair, and tapped his fingertips together in slow motion.

"If it were in my power to grant you one
wish, Ms. Turner, what would you ask for?"

"I'm afraid you've caught me completely
unawares, sir. I'd really have to think on it."

"Come, come, Ms. Turner! You needn't be so
tactful. What does anyone here want? Power. Position. Promotions
... meaning a hefty raise, of course."

Kenzie smiled. "I suppose that brings us back
to the subject of miracles, doesn't it, sir?"

"Miracles," he said softly, "have been known
to happen." She was silent.

He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment,
then pulled open a desk drawer and slid a sheet of paper across to
her.

"Even as we speak, copies of this are being
distributed throughout the various departments," he said.

She picked up the piece of letterhead with
its impressively embossed, intagliolike seal and read:

BURGHLEY'S

FOUNDED 1719

April 3, 1995

TO: All In-House Staff FROM: Sheldon D. Fairey

Although we regret the sudden resignation of Ms.
Barbara (Bambi) Parker from the Old Masters department, we are
pleased to announce the promotion of Ms. MacKenzie Turner to the
post of director, Old Masters Paintings and Drawings.

This promotion is to take effect immediately.

On behalf of our entire staff, I want to be the first
to congratulate Ms. Turner, and know you will all enjoy working
closely with her.

Sheldon D. Fairey

Kenzie sat there, stunned. "Well, mercy," she
whispered, and glanced over at him. "Has Bambi resigned?"

"Renews one's faith in the human race, eh?"
he said, with a rare chuckle.

"Yes, sir. I suppose it does."

"Well, I'm sure you'll have your hands full
moving into Mr. Spotts's old office and all."

He rose to his feet, indicating that the
meeting was over, and came around from behind his desk.

"Please accept my congratulations, Ms.
Turner," he said in diapason tones, shaking her hand warmly and
walking her to the door. "You see, miracles do sometimes
occur."

"Yes, sir." She held his gaze. "It does seem
that way."

It did not escape her that he'd neatly
sidestepped the issue of Bambi's "resignation."

No sooner was Bambi in her apartment than she
charged straight for the phone and punched Robert's private
line.

A recorded message informed her that the
number she was calling had been changed. She waited, but no new
number was forthcoming.

Wrong number, she thought, and punched
again.

Same message.

Frowning uneasily, she called
information.

"I'm sorry," the operator told her, "it's an
unlisted number."

"But this is an emer—"

The operator hung up.

Frantic, Bambi tried the switchboard at
Robert's office.

She got as far as his secretary. "I'm sorry,
ma'am, but Mr. Goldsmith is unavailable. If you'd like to leave a
message—"

She couldn't believe it.

I've been dumped, she thought, and without so
much as a good-bye.

"The chickenshit!" Her eyes were hot with
tears. "He could have had the decency to tell me in person!"

With that, she flung the phone across the
room.

Dina started off with a black-and-white
Chanel suit. Too businesslike.

Changed to a ruffled pink silk minidress from
Valentino. Too flirty.

A white silk shantung dress with a snappy
Pompeiian red jacket from Saint Laurent. I'm not going to
lunch.

A lantern-shaped, pleated silk dress in
carnival colors from Issey Miyake. Great for South of the
Border.

An oversize brown velvet top with floppy
batik trousers from Lacroix. Too casual.

Nothing suited.

Finally, gazing at her Boldinis for
inspiration, Dina decided upon the yellow silk morning gown. With
its translucent muslin overgown and lavish trim of yellow silk
bows, it was a couture fantasy of a fin de siecle housedress.
Perfect.

She wore a minimum of makeup. Even more
perfect.

Sweeping into the living room, she struck a
Tissot pose on the duchess brisee: lounging sideways with one leg
up and one down, and only the tips of her slippers peeking out from
under two layers of extravagantly ruffled hems. She looked
languidly, supremely, confidently at ease, the slim volume of
poetry on her lap adding the crowning touch.

Julio cleared his throat. "Mr. Goldsmith is
here, madam."

"Thank you, Julio. Please show him in." She
picked up the little book of poems and pretended to read.

Two days and three nights had passed since
Dina had insisted upon the trial separation, and she'd had plenty
of time to take stock of the plusses and minuses of remaining
married.

On the plus side were wealth, power,
position, and unlimited charge accounts.

On the minus, everything boiled down to
basically one thing—an unattractive, uncouth philanderer with
peculiar sexual appetites.

Which wasn't exactly a revelation.

And, although in the beginning she had
married Robert solely for his money, over time, and despite all his
faults, Dina had to admit that she really had grown rather fond of
him.

Besides which, the fact remained that she'd
worked hard—damn hard!—to reach her social position. She'd
literally invested years—nearly a decade, to get where she was.

Did she want to throw all that away? And for
Bambi Parker?

No, she'd decided. I'd sooner slit my
wrists.

And besides. She and Robert didn't have a
prenuptial agreement. That put him over a barrel and her in the
driver's seat.

And he damn well knew it.

"Scram, Tinkerbell! I can find my own goddamn
way!" Dina heard from out in the foyer, and then Robert came
charging into the living room, puffing tycoonlike on one of his
Flor de F. Farach Extras.

"Charming as ever, I see," Dina observed with
a glimmer of a smile.

"Goddamn twinkletoes!"

Robert squinted balefully in the direction of
the foyer.

"Who's he think he is, keepin' me waitin' out
in the hall? The public hall! An' I pay the rent on this
place."

"But I," Dina reminded him sweetly, "happen
to live here. Now, why don't you calm down and fix yourself a nice
drink?"

"Why?" he asked edgily, although he was
already at the bar. "Am I gonna need one?"

"That depends," Dina said vaguely.

He poured himself a drink, downed some, and
paced the room impatiently, glass in hand.

"Well?" he scowled. "You wanted me here, an'
I'm here."

As if that wasn't obvious.

"So. What's up?"

"Will you sit down? Really, sweetie. You are
making me dizzy."

He looked wounded. "This the way I get
welcomed home?"

She clarified one point. "I wouldn't exactly
call this a homecoming, Robert. I called you so we could discuss
matters."

"So? Let's discuss." He sank into the couch
across from her. "Whatcha decide?"

"Always to the point," she sighed.

"That's 'cause I'm busy."

"Sweetie, you'll be a lot busier and a whole
lot poorer if I want a divorce."

That silenced him—as she knew it would—and
she took a moment to regard him closely. On the surface he was the
same old Robert. Grouchy, demanding, and a pain in the behind. But
under the blunt bull-in-a-china- shop bluster, she detected
something different about him.

But what?

And then she knew.

There was an undercurrent of wariness and
unease she hadn't noticed before.

"I have," she said, "given us a lot of
thought. Not only in regard to this particular situation, but to
our entire relationship."

"Yeah, yeah." He nodded impatiently and
rolled the cigar around in his mouth. "An'?"

"And, the old saying goes that a leopard does
not change its spots."

He glowered. "Yeah, but leopards ain't
people."

"You know very well what I mean, Robert."

"C'mon, Dina." His gruffness abruptly
gentled. "We have a good thing goin', don't we?"

"I thought so. Until it was ruined by a
certain affair with a certain young lady."

"Yeah, but she's history."

"She may be. But what about other young
ladies down the road?"

"Aw, Christ!" he blurted. "Gimme a break,
Dina, will ya?"

He pushed himself to his feet and clumped
back and forth across the room, reminding her of a man dying to
take a leak.

"Look, I did everythin' you asked for," he
growled. "I got her fired. She'll be outta Auction Towers. An', I'm
cleanin' up my act."

He churned up humongous, lavish clouds of
blue smoke.

"What more d'ya want?"

"Reassurance would be nice," she said.

"Okay. Okay."

He scratched the back of his head as he
paced.

"Look. I'm not exactly proud about what I've
done," he said miserably. "An' I'm not tryin' to wheedle out of it,
either. Believe it or not, I feel guilty as all hell!"

He shot her a pleading look. "That satisfy
ya?" he asked.

"Well, it's certainly a step in the right
direction."

"A step! Look, I'm tryin' ta tell ya that I
missed ya!"

He stopped pacing, took the cigar out of his
mouth, and jabbed it in her direction.

"Yeah, you! I missed you!" His voice abruptly
softened. "An' I'm sorry, Dina. Really I am. Last thing I wanna do
is hurt ya, 'cause ..."

He sighed heavily, shifted position, and
looked down at his feet in obvious embarrassment.

"... 'cause I love ya," he said so quietly
she could barely hear.

Dina looked at him in amazement. "I love
you." He'd actually said, "I love you!" And now he was blushing and
glancing shyly over at her like a schoolchild!

Surprise, surprise! she thought. Good
heavens!

If memory served her correctly—and it had
never failed her yet— this was the first time he'd ever uttered
those three magic little words. And, however clumsy and inept the
delivery, she couldn't help but be touched.

She found her anger and harshness dissipate,
and smiled at him slowly.