“I don’t and I can’t,” I reply, already dreading what I’m going to have to miracle up for Kassie’s next party. Do I even have any more favors to call in? I bet half the reason everyone’s paying me in swag now is because I opened that door myself. I took nice things in trade because I didn’t want to tell my kids we couldn’t afford the newest/latest/greatest.
Maybe Kassie would like some kind of Keurig-themed event?
“This bag is why the whole country’s going to hell on a Handi Wipe,” she says, causing Kassie to burst out with fresh peals of laughter. “Everybody’s greedy and they gotta make a splash, so they cut corners to make more money and they don’t follow the rules. Saw it with the Savings and Loan crisis back in the eighties and nineties and the aughts are still reeling from the subprime mortgage market. What kinda moron takes out a million-dollar mortgage when they know they can’t afford it?”
I glance back at her. “You’d be surprised.”
“Insanity, that’s what it is. Plain old insanity. Personally, I never worried about keeping up with the Joneses. Don’t give a flying f—”
I cut her off. “Fig. A flying fig about the Joneses.”
She nods, pleased that I seem to agree with her. “Goddamned right.”
While Nana Baba’s lack of pretension is refreshing, I wonder if appearances are now so important to Dr. K having grown up without them. He was Captain Credit Card in college, dressing in as much Polo and Hilfiger as the rest of his fraternity brothers, so I never even realized he came from a more working class beginning until well into our relationship.
Kassie lays a small hand on Baba’s arm. “Nana Baba, will you take me to Superdawg tonight? I didn’t eat anything at the party and I’m hungry.” Brooke had the event catered by a two Michelin-starred molecular gastronomy chef best known for his ability to turn any flavor pairing into a gelatinous, foam-covered cube. “All the food looked like Jell-O. Yuck.”
Baba pokes me in the shoulder. “There may be hope for this one.”
I sigh and think, Well, at least there’s that.
CHAPTER TWELVE
North Shore, Illinois
Wednesday
“Nice panty hose,” Kitty whispers under her breath to me. “You hoping to fail at sorority rush again?”
Why am I stunned that she’s starting with me?
“You’re un-be-fucking-lievable,” I hiss back. “Show some decorum! God! What is wrong with you?”
We’re halfway between the funeral home and Steeplechase, protected from the light drizzle by the broad canopy of the old-growth oak trees in Sars’s neighborhood. Those of us at the house beforehand opted to walk to and from services earlier when it was still sunny. Harris Brothers is only about half a mile away from Sars’s home. With so many expected mourners, we didn’t want to take up additional parking spaces.
I was secretly relieved to see the discreet presence of well-dressed security guards at the funeral home, looking like every other attendee, only bigger, beefier, and wearing sidearms. The only thing that could have made today worse for Sars would have been confrontations with angry investors or any member of the media who didn’t fiercely love Sars.
Even now as we walk back to Steeplechase, the guards flank us to the front and rear, which is why I won’t call attention to whatever asshattery Kitty has in mind. She’d be on the ground with an ex-SEAL’s knee on her spine before she could say “flipping.”
When we left Harris Brothers, Kitty and I had been walking on either side of Sars. Somehow along the way, we were elbowed away by her low-rent cousins Cilla and Gracie and now the three of them are a few paces back. I’m grateful Sars’s parents aren’t seeing this; they’d be so hurt and disappointed to witness her greedy relatives circling, assuming there will be some potential opportunity for financial gain. I’m sure these vultures haven’t the first clue as to how trusts and estates law work. There’s no way the whole shooting match isn’t earmarked for Sars. However, as the SEC scandal won’t break until Sunday, everyone believes there’s cash in play.
I hope these bottom-feeders are still there for her after.
But I doubt it.
“I was paying you a compliment,” Kitty says, thrusting out her lower lip, pretending to seem hurt. “I assumed you’d show up here in jungle boots. But look at you, all tailored and chic. I’m touched you made the effort; I know it’s super-hard for you, being a she-male and all.”
The only reason I don’t scream, “She has a gun!” is because I don’t want to make a scene with Sars so close behind us.
She is right that I made an effort. Terry insisted on buying an appropriate funeral outfit for me, so I’m wearing a dress that’s black and fitted, with some kind of gauzy floof around the waist. But it has pockets, so I like it, even though the pantsuit I keep at the house would have been perfectly serviceable. Terry claimed he had to take over dressing me because I looked like “a state senator from Asswater, Iowa, ready to crown the winning hog at the county fair.”
Fine. It’s not a great suit.
Terry found me a pair of pumps with heels I could manage and appropriately sized nylons, so I’m fixed up like everyone else at the funeral. I appreciate Terry mothering me, even if he did mention something about ritually burning my suit to excise the ghost of 1992’s Hillary Clinton.
With as much calm as I can muster, I whisper, “Go fuck yourself, Carricoe.” I try to calm my nerves, so on edge from a night spent compulsively trying to verify my hunch about Trip. Simon’s confirmed the SEC has a real case and they’re in the final stages before indictments are passed down.
The more I dig, the more “convenient” Trip’s death seems. I’d wager he took the money and ran to some country without US extradition. With that kind of cake, he could buy his own island and private military force.
Even Bobby believes me now.
Of particular concern is Ingrid, Trip’s personal assistant for the past three years. She came to him fresh out of college, so I wonder exactly what duties she was qualified to fulfill in his employ. As I scanned the Internet for photos of Trip, I noticed she was perpetually in the background, so it’s clear she rarely strayed from his side. Then . . . where is she today? Why wouldn’t she attend the service? No one’s seen her and I find her absence highly suspect.
“Go flip myself? Why don’t you go flip Sean?” Kitty replies, every word full of venom.
I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. “For Christ’s sake, are you still beating the flipping drum? You’re almost forty, Kitty. Say fuck if you’d like. No one cares. Truly.”
She stops next to me. As we stare each other down, a couple of the mourners have to step around us and I notice one of the guards giving us the eye. I return his look with a discreet shake of my head and he moves on.
“I am not in the mood for your crap today, Sasquatch. We’re here for Betsy.”
“Yes,” I agree. “We are here for Sars.”
She grits her teeth. “Today is about supporting Betsy, you complete and total waste of newspaper ink.”
I take a slow, even breath. “I will not stoop to your level. And I know Sars appreciates our efforts.”
Kitty grabs my wrist with her bony hand, so I spin around and take ahold of her other wrist. We look like we’re about to square dance. Then she pulls in very close to me and says, “You are on thin flipping ice, Bouvier,” taunting me with my hated middle name. “I will cut you. For real.” Her words are slow and deliberate, and so close I can smell her breath. Honestly, I was expecting notes of creosote, not Wrigley’s Doublemint Gum.
The wind begins to pick up because foul weather’s blowing in from the north. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess the gathering clouds and graying skies were Kitty working her crazy witch magic.
But I’m not afraid.
I stand up to my full height, push my shoulders back, and reply, “Yeah? Then you
should throw another margarita glass at me. Crystal, if you have one.”
Thunder rumbles in the distance. I’m sure if I were a witch, I’d be more powerful than she is, because good always conquers evil in fairy tales. As if on my cue, I see a lightning bolt slash the darkening sky over the lake. The thunder grows more persistent.
Her eyes are blazing and she’s as stiff as a cobra about to strike. “Are you implying that I can’t afford crystal? Ooh, don’t you know everything, Jackass Bouvier Jordan, girl reporter. Being temporarily overextended is not the same as broke!”
“Yes, I—wait. What’d you say?”
Before she can respond, Sars comes upon the two of us, throwing her arms wide and bringing us into a three-way hug. “The only thing that’s keeping me from shattering into a million tiny pieces right now is seeing the two of you get along. Thank you. I understand the depth and breadth of this sacrifice. I love you both so much. Now let’s hurry home before the rain hits.”
• • •
After the most awkward three-way hug in recorded history, Kitty and I both exercise heroic self-control, largely by staying as far away from each other as possible at Steeplechase. Avoidance is made easier given the buffers of Teddy, Bobby, Dad, and all the available square footage. Bobby even goes so far as to engage Kitty in conversation. (What did they discuss? How to hide zucchini in an edible?) I wonder why Kitty’s husband didn’t come with her. Surely he could have closed his office early—tooth bleaching isn’t exactly a life or death matter. Plus, I thought both couples were close. Even if Trip and Ken weren’t friendly, he should be here for his wife. Personally, I had to insist Terry not join us because I hated for him to lose an entire baking day at the height of Wedding Cake Season. (John made noise about coming, but no one wanted that.)
I’m proud that for the first time in the twenty years since our initial falling-out, nothing goes awry between the two of us. This feels somehow historic. We don’t snipe or glower at each other. We neither posture nor pose. No one is slapped with a slab of smoked salmon and all the canapés remain gravity-bound on their silver serving platters. I can actually leave a party without a ruined outfit or an earful of chocolate. What a shame that Mr. and Mrs. Martin’s final memories of the two of us are our being separated by busboys.
As I wander through the somber crowd (who aren’t so despondent they can’t gobble up the caviar blini or Kobe tenderloin), I view Steeplechase in a different light. Financial success has never been important to me, so I’m often oblivious to the trappings of wealth. In a world where running water feels decadent, a Japanese toilet seat that warms, washes, and dries is practically beyond my comprehension. Teddy, who’s never seen Steeplechase in person, was agog at some of Sars’s and Trip’s possessions, such as the Matisse in the library or the Georgian Chippendale sofa in the solarium. From my days on the Home beat, I recognized the curves and the carving, but had no clue this item could cost anywhere from fifty thousand to one million dollars.
One million dollars.
For a couch slowly fading in the sun.
Viewing this home through Teddy’s eyes, I finally recognize the extent of the opulence. I never discussed dollars and cents with Sars, but it’s well-publicized that Trip’s father follows Warren Buffett’s inheritance philosophy: “I want to give my kids just enough so that they would feel that they could do anything, but not so much that they would feel like doing nothing.” About ten years ago, Trip’s parents set up a foundation similar to that of Bill and Melinda Gates, tirelessly giving away the family fortune to worthy causes.
Could Trip have perpetrated such a fraud because he felt he was denied his birthright? Was he furious that the Chandler riches flowed like water through so many generations, only to go dry when it was his turn at the tap?
Finally confident that I won’t act out, Dad and my brothers leave together before the worst of the rain begins to fall. They’re heading south for dinner in the city with Terry and with Dad’s lovely long-term girlfriend, Gloria. He sold the old place in Evanston after we all finished college (or claimed to have finished) and bought a modern, open-concept loft on the Gold Coast. Said condo contains no flatulent dogs nor guest rooms. This omission is not by accident. He’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him, probably because Gloria dotes on him and he’s no longer forced to drink his Dewar’s out of old mustard jars.
Cilla and Gracie are staying here with Sars, so I’m comfortable leaving her and heading back to Andersonville. I was invited to dinner, but I visited Dad and Gloria two days ago and I’m anxious to continue my sleuthing, starting with Ingrid’s whereabouts. Maybe I didn’t protect Sars before, but if that man is still somehow walking the earth, I’ll find him. And I won’t tell Sars anything until I have hard, fast proof. Trip was a scoundrel, but he was her scoundrel and I want her to hold on to the good memories for as long as possible, even if that peace lasts only until the Sunday news cycle.
I will not let my best friend down again.
Sars and I are saying our good-byes under the grand portico, waiting for a valet to bring my car from the parking area by the helicopter pad. We’re midembrace when there’s a mighty flash and a huge crack.
For a second, everything goes white.
When the smoke clears, we see that one of the massive old oaks on the periphery of the property has been struck by lightning and a limb the size of a Subaru is strewn across the driveway, blocking the gate. No one’s hurt, but someone will have to be called to clear the area, so we return indoors.
Ever the compassionate soul, Sars says, “You want to get out of that ‘monkey suit,’ don’t you, Jack? Go up to Great Meadow and look in the closet. Trip’s sister keeps some things here and she’s about your size. Please help yourself.”
Even at her nadir, Sars is sterling. “Aw, Sars, you will always be my Goose.”
I kick off my shoes before sprinting up one of the two grand staircases that lead to a bridge that connects one side of the second floor to the other. Because Steeplechase is so large, Sars gave each guest room equine-related names, to honor the home’s past as the Sausage King of Chicago’s weekend horse farm.
I turn down the hall to the right, having to stop and read each placard, passing Breeder’s Cup and Saratoga. I find Great Meadow across from an open gallery between wings where oil paintings of each generation of Chandler are displayed.
After I change into sneakers, yoga pants, and a snug yet stretchy black hoodie, I exit the guest room, dress in hand, when I notice Kitty stepping into the gallery. I lunge back into the room, hiding behind the door so she doesn’t see me. I’m determined to leave here before we have an incident, so I’ll simply wait her out.
She inspects Trip’s portrait with great reverence. He’s standing on the prow of The Lone Shark, peach sweater casually draped around his shoulders, face raised to the light, as though the sun shines only on him. Never have I seen smug so perfectly captured in oil.
She runs a neatly manicured finger along the scalloped gold frame, likely paying homage. Of course this ninny would consider Trip’s death a telling blow, a tragic loss for society, a dreadful—
“Rest in peace, motherfucker,” she snarls. “Rest in peace.”
So . . .
Kitty and I may share a sliver of common ground after all.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
NEW POST ON SECRETSQUASH.COM
Who Wants Lemonade? Kassie Does, Kassie Does!
Is there anything more adorable than a Little running a lemonade stand at the end of the driveway? Survey says . . . no! And how proud does sweet Kassie look here in her pinafore-apron? One, please!
There’s sooooo much to love about setting up a lemonade stand with your kids this summer! A few of the many benefits include:
*Developing a work ethic
*Gaining an understanding of planning and budgeting
*Exercising creativity and fine motor skills i
n building and decorating a booth
*Appreciating the value of earning a dollar
*Learning to give charitably by donating a portion of the sales
*Crafting a quality product full of fresh, wholesome ingredients
Basically? A lemonade stand’s a win/win for everyone!
To begin our project, Kassie and I sketched out what her dream stand might look like and—MORE AFTER THE PAGE JUMP
North Shore, Illinois
Wednesday
Okay, here’s my chance. I’ve been psyching myself up for this since last night. Operation Be Nice to Jack starts now.
With my gold-medal, ten-out-of-ten-dentists-approve grin, I lean in and say, “Your dress is to die! Mean it. That peplum? Love. And I so admire how polished and pulled together you are, right down to the stockings.” I speak to her using my most loving, mommy’s-tucking-you-in-now whisper. “You’d kill at rush right now. You should be really proud of yourself. What a lovely woman you’ve become.”
“Fuck you in the fucking eye, you fucking fuck,” Jack retorts, practically shoving me in her haste to distance herself. We’re on our way down Betsy’s street, coming back to her house after the funeral for the WASP version of sitting Shiva. Betsy’s about fifty paces behind us, what with her cousins swooping in to surround her, then clinging like a couple of barnacles or kids who refuse to get into the bath. Cilla and Gracie’s profound displays of grief feel self-serving to me. I’m not sure I trust their intentions.
To Jack, I say, “I wish you’d take the compliment. I’m absolutely sincere. You really are radiant. Your hair! Your skin! You’re still such a Phoebe Cates!”
The Best of Enemies Page 17