Today I was wearing a lightweight wool jacket in black, cut to resemble a bush jacket, a style I loved, a white silk man-tailored shirt, and black gabardine slacks. I wore high-heeled black boots under the pants and carried a dark green Kelly bag Jake had given me for Christmas. As usual, my only pieces of jewelry were pearl earrings and a watch, a lovely old Cartier timepiece. This had been my grandmother’s favorite and she had left it to me when she died.
I thought of the unique and very loving Cecelia Denning, whom I so physically resembled, as I walked along. Without her, and Grandpa, of course, I would have been a real mess, neurotic and damaged beyond repair, I’ve no doubt. And it was Grandmother who had introduced me to my closest friend, Muffie Potter, who had become my ally and sparring partner fifteen years earlier.
Muffie was a couple of years older than me, and she had lived in Washington, D.C., when we were teenagers, but we saw each other whenever she came to visit her grandparents, who lived in Scarsdale. They were friends of my Denning grandparents, and they also happened to be acquainted with Aunt Isobel, and so our friendship had everyone’s stamp of approval.
We had remained friends ever since our teen years, even though our lives had gone in different directions. While I struggled with my camera on the front lines, shooting wars, Muffie had a high-powered job as an executive at Van Cleef & Arpels, the famous French jewelers on Fifth Avenue.
She had recently married Sherrell Aston, the renowned plastic surgeon; unfortunately, much to my disappointment, I hadn’t been able to attend their wedding, since I’d been stuck in some hellhole in a misbegotten corner of the world, taking pictures of yet more human suffering.
Over the years we had always stayed in touch with each other by letter, card, fax, and telephone, and whenever we were in the same city, we met for dinner, lunch, or drinks, whatever we could manage. It was nice for me to have such a loyal best friend, and Muffie felt the same, I know.
There was something very special about her. The golden girl, I called her, because she was golden, inside as well as out, but especially in her nature. She was filled with sunshine and lightheartedness, so it seemed to me anyway.
Muffie was blond, blue-eyed, and very pretty. She had a serious side and was much wiser than most of the other people I knew, had a trenchant way of telling you what she thought about everything. Including your own life, if you were smart enough to ask for her advice.
But only if you sought her opinion. No gratuitous comments from her. She was far too smart for that.
I had called her yesterday to let her know we’d arrived and to make the date for lunch today. And then last night, when she got home, she called me, so that we could have a longer chat, catch up with each other’s news.
After I’d returned to Paris from Belgrade, I’d called Muffie in New York to tell her about Tony’s death. And so she knew all about my grief, and also how I felt later, following the nightmare of the memorial service in London. After listening to my outpourings over the transatlantic wire, she had agreed with me about Tony Hampton’s extraordinary behavior. And then she told me to put the past behind me and move on.
When Jake and I had become involved romantically in the South of France, I phoned Muffie from Les Roches Fleuries to tell her about our budding relationship and to confide that our friendship had moved to a different plane.
I had wanted her to know that I had done as she had suggested, put the past behind me, buried the dead, and moved forward.
She was pleased I had taken her advice and delighted about Jake and me, because they had hit it off when they’d first met two years earlier. She had liked him enormously, and was approving of this new turn of events in my life.
And so for a while last evening we talked about Jake, my feelings for him, and the future he and I might have together.
III
It was ages since I’d spent time with my best friend, and I was really looking forward to seeing Muffie. As I went into the Carlyle Hotel and through the lobby to the restaurant, I realized how much I’d missed her.
I was there first, but only by a few minutes.
I had just been shown to my seat, when Muffie floated in right behind me on a cloud of perfume, dispensing happy smiles, looking stunning in a suit of soft bluish-gray.
After we had hugged, exchanged loving greetings, and settled down finally on the banquette, she looked at me intently, her expression appraising.
After a second or two of this close scrutiny of me, she exclaimed, “You look fantastic, Val! I knew Jake would be good for you.”
“Yes, he is. And he always has been, you know, looking back. He was never very far away when we were on assignment, looking out for me, protecting me, keeping me out of harm’s way. Apparently he was in love with me then . . .” I left my sentence unfinished, simply gave her a long, knowing look and lifted a brow.
Muffie laughed. “Men,” she said, shaking her head. “If only he’d told you sooner, you wouldn’t have become involved with Tony, and you’d have avoided all that awful heartache about him.”
“Only too true. And listen, you look great yourself.”
“A happy marriage works wonders,” she murmured, smiling at me. Leaning closer across the table, she continued. “Do you remember what I once told you?”
“You’ve told me a lot over the years, Muffie. Which thing in particular?”
“That life can turn on a dime, that no one knows what’s going to happen. Ever. Sometimes it’s the bad stuff, but not always. Sometimes it’s the wonderful stuff. Look at you. When you got back to Paris from London after the memorial service, you were miserable, downhearted, and angry. Now you’re beautiful, blooming, in great spirits, and no longer angry.”
“I am still a bit angry, Muffie. Inside.”
“Oh, don’t be, Val,” she said very softly, getting hold of my hand, squeezing it. “It’s just not worth it. Let it go. Anger’s good only when you can express it, get it out. And you certainly can’t do that, since you’ve nobody to express it to—Tony’s dead.”
“I know. And I think you’re right. But—” I stopped when I saw the look on her face. I knew there was no point in continuing; also, she had a knack of making me feel as if I were whining in the way that Donald whined. I detested whiners, so why should I become one myself? I kept my thoughts to myself for once.
We ordered bottled water and sipped it while we looked at the menus. We decided on our food, choosing the same dishes, as we had so often in the past. We both settled on asparagus vinaigrette, grilled sole, and green beans. No potatoes, no bread, and no wine.
“I’ve got to lose weight,” I said to her, grinning, and continuing to sip the water. “Jake loves food, and he’s been fattening me up. Or so it seems to me. When we’re on assignment, there’s usually nothing very good to eat, and anyway, we don’t have time to put much in our mouths.”
“You don’t look fat, you look . . . divine.”
“Spoken like a true best friend, Muffie.”
We talked for a while about our lives and how different they were. And then quite unexpectedly, out of the blue, Muffie said, “It’s the oddest thing, Val, but I’ve been running into your brother lately.”
“Donald!” I exclaimed, staring at her.
She nodded. “Donald the Great, as you used to call him. He always comes over and says hello, makes a point of it, actually, which is weird since I know you two aren’t exactly close.”
“To say the least!”
Muffie nodded, then laughed. “But he’s turned out to be quite good-looking, and he usually has this beautiful girl on his arm. From what I hear, he’s doing well at the magazine.”
I let out a long sigh. “He’s in his element, gossip columnist to the stars. Donald’s in pig heaven, what do you bet? Yep, that’s one thing I’m certain of, he’s got the job of his dreams.”
“When did you last see him?”
“When he was in Paris about seven years ago. Actually, that’s not correct. I saw him after that,
at Grandfather’s funeral, and he was positively awful, Muffie, don’t you remember how he was going on about the will, for God’s sake?”
“I do remember, and I also remember your mother that day. My mother always said there’s less to Margot Denning than meets the eye. But actually, I think she’s wrong. There’s a lot more to Margot Denning, and that’s at the root of your problem with her.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, my brows drawing together in a frown, my eyes riveted on her face.
“I’ve thought a lot about your mother since the day of the funeral, Val, which is when I last saw her. I think she has a past.”
“How could she have a past? She married my father when she was twenty-three, and I was born when she was twenty-five.”
“Well, perhaps a past is the wrong phrase. What I really meant is that she has something to hide.” Muffie’s expression became thoughtful, and her blue eyes narrowed slightly as she said slowly, “My parents and most other people think your mother’s shallow, but I don’t believe that’s the truth at all. Yes, she is concerned about her looks and clothes and jewelry and all that stuff, but there’s a lot of depth there as well.”
I gaped at her. “I’m sure you’re the only person who believes that! My mother, so called, is as shallow as they come, and as cold as ice. You know Grandfather used to call her Iceberg Aggie, and the Ice Queen.”
“She’s a cold woman, no question about that. But by no means stupid. Margot Scott Denning is nobody’s fool. Are you going to see her while you’re here?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I heard she’d had a stroke, no, a heart attack, that was it. My parents told me.”
“Two heart attacks, according to Donald.”
“But she’s not that old.”
“No, she’s fifty-six, actually.”
“Is she really ill?”
“Donald thinks she’s about to kick the bucket, but perhaps he’s being overly dramatic, which is his normal way of behaving, if you recollect.”
“Yes, he was always like that, full of histrionics. How old is he now? About twenty-five?”
“Twenty-six. Going on four. Very infantile.”
She laughed.
And so did I. She always had that effect on me, brought out the lighter side of Valentine Denning, the not-so-serious side. I loved that about Muffie—her uplifting effect on me.
“Are you going to see her?” Muffie asked, her head tilted to one side. “I know how you feel about her, but I just wondered . . .” Her voice petered out, probably because she’d taken note of the dour expression settling on my face.
“Donald says she wants to see me, but I don’t know that I will succumb to his blandishments.”
Muffie threw back her head and roared, “Blandishments, what a wonderful word, Val, really wonderful!”
I grinned at her. “I guess it does sound a bit old-fashioned, and the phrase just jumped into my head. Muffie?”
“Yes?”
“I want to ask you something. . . .”
“Go ahead, you know very well you can ask me anything, and if I can answer you, I will.”
“Were you trying to say that Margot Denning is more complex than most people think?”
“Exactly. I believe she’s a sick woman as well. Mentally sick. And all of their married life I think your father was an enabler. Whatever it was that troubled her, disturbed her, your father aided and abetted her. Because he didn’t have the strength or the willpower to fight her. To oppose her, that’s what I mean.”
“That could be. My grandmother always thought he was weak-kneed. That was the word she used constantly to describe her son. And Grandfather was disgusted with him all the time—Aunt Isobel, as well. They thought he was under my mother’s thumb, and he was. I know that for a fact.”
Muffie nodded. “I saw it too, with my own eyes, Val, you don’t have to convince me. And of course he worked for her at Lowell’s.” She wrinkled her nose. “That was a sort of odd situation, come to think of it now. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes. But he liked it. My father had a cushy life in that sense. I don’t think he was all that bright when it came to business, and my mother provided him with a great job. Vice president of Lowell’s Cosmetics, founded in 1898, a hundred years ago this year. My grandmother, Violet Scott, was the chairman, if you remember. She ran a tight ship, and so does my mother now.”
I took a breath, let out a long sigh, went on. “When I had that huge row with my mother eight years ago, I told her I’d never speak to her again. But I did, at Grandfather’s funeral. However, I barely exchanged a word with her, even though she tried to patch things up. I don’t know why she wanted to do that.”
“I witnessed that scene,” Muffie exclaimed with acidity.
“There’s something else, Muffie. When Aunt Isobel came to Paris about a year and a half ago, she said something about the Scott women being tyrants. And she made a catty remark about Violet Scott.”
“What did she say?”
“That my grandmother Violet Scott was a hard bitch, and added that my mother took after her. You know how outspoken Isobel is.”
Muffie grinned. “Don’t I just.” After a moment she became serious. “Look, Val, you don’t have to listen to your brother. If you don’t want to see your mother, then don’t. For heaven’s sake, she’s never done anything for you. Not to my knowledge.”
“She’s given me nothing, nada, zilch.” I threw Muffie a knowing look. “Don’t you think it would be a bit hypocritical on my part—seeing her, I mean?”
Muffie thought for a moment. “Well, yes, I guess so.” She took a sip of water and asked, “Why are you even considering it? Because of the heart attacks?”
“Not really. How can I have any feelings for her? A woman who has never shown the slightest interest in me ever. Look, she knew I was shot in Kosovo . . . there was a lot in the newspapers about Tony’s death and the fact that Jake and I were both injured at the same time. On television too. She never once got in touch with me to see how I was. But that’s her. No interest whatsoever. It’s Jake, actually, who’s after me to see her.”
“Jake? But why, Val?” Muffie sounded surprised.
“He thinks I ought to confront her once and for all, ask her why she’s treated me the way she has, and most especially when I was a child.”
“You won’t find anything out,” Muffie said in an authoritative voice. “She’ll never confide in you. If there’s anything to confide.”
“But you said you thought she had a past.”
“Yes, I do think there’s something there, something in her background that caused her to behave the way she did, and with your father’s acquiescence. But so what? It can’t possibly have anything to do with you, can it? It may have made her behave peculiarly, but you’re not the cause. How could you be?”
“I don’t suppose I could.”
“Don’t expose yourself to her, to more pain. She broke your heart when you were a child. And you can be so tenderhearted, I know you.”
“Not about her! I don’t have any real feelings for her!” I exclaimed. “In a sense, she’s like a stranger. She made herself a stranger to me when I was growing up.”
Muffie nodded but made no further comment, since a waiter was placing a plate of asparagus in front of her. He brought my plate, and we began to eat. Automatically, our conversation turned away from my mother and Donald. As I said to Muffie, we had better fish to fry.
But later, I was to wish I’d encouraged Muffie to rattle on, express her thoughts more fully, because to be forewarned is to be forearmed. I should have also listened to her about not seeing my mother. But I didn’t. Regrettably so, as it turned out.
Chapter 19
I
“Who’s the Kevin Costner look-alike?” my brother Donald asked as he followed me into the sitting room of the Beekman Place apartment.
Without turning around, I answered, “That’s my best friend, Jake Newberg. You’ll meet him
later. He’s a photojournalist. We work a lot together.”
“And sleep a lot together, I bet,” Donald shot back.
I swung around and exclaimed irately, “You’re already irritating me, Donald, and you’ve been here only a couple of minutes! Let’s not forget that you’ve not come to discuss my relationships, but yours with your mother.”
“She’s your mother too, Val,” he responded, then continued swiftly, almost apologetically. “And there’s no need to be annoyed. I caught a glimpse of him as I walked past the study, and he does look like Costner.”
I sighed, sat down in the chair, and made no comment.
Donald lowered himself onto the sofa and sat staring at me across the coffee table, not speaking either, just scrutinizing me intently as if he’d never seen me before.
I stared back.
Muffie was right. My brother had turned into a very good-looking young man. He took after my mother, had her black hair, the beautifully sculpted looks, the same perfect nose, high cheekbones, and smooth, high brow plus her light green eyes. But he wasn’t tall and willowy as she was; it was I who had inherited those particular characteristics from her. But that was the only physical resemblance we shared. I was a Denning through and through.
It was Donald who was a Scott, her male clone, her spitting image right down to the widow’s peak that was such a prominent and striking feature in them both. He was not built like her though; rather, he resembled my father in physique. Donald was not very tall, and he was small-boned, as my father had been.
Donald was studying me so closely, I began to feel uncomfortable, and I said, “What is it? Why are you looking me over in this way? You seem to be memorizing every detail of my face.”
He grinned at me, flashing those perfect pearly white teeth I’d always envied. “I haven’t seen you for a long time . . . but I don’t have to memorize your face, I know it well. . . .” He let out a long sigh and said in a low, almost inaudible voice, “You used to love me once, Val, when I was little.”
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