A Palm Beach Scandal--A Novel

by Susannah Marren

Until today, my father has never invited me out for breakfast, alone together at a table. Yet this morning he is meeting me at Java, in the Setai South Beach. Another early-morning plan after yesterday on the Lake Trail. At least my parents are both beauty seekers; neither would waste time in an ordinary space. The courtyard facing the ocean is dreamlike. The breeze lifts the hem of my tie-dyed midi skirt. I tug at the strap of my camisole and walk with purpose toward the maître d’. Beyond him my father is already seated, sipping black coffee, on his iPhone. My father is allegedly in Miami for his new building west of the beaches. Yet it’s rare that he personally checks a property; someone else from his office usually does it.

  “Aubrey!”

  He stands up, “a gentleman with fine features,” Mom always says. His hair is salt-and-pepper, thick in front, with that patch of scalp that men get at the crown. Still, he’s a father who has broad shoulders, no stomach. When I was at Bard, my roommates called him “an affairable father”—it was over ten years ago, he was even more dashing then. I was upset—I wanted a paunchy father who took you to dinner in Red Hook, while Elodie laughed it off. “He’s ‘a Palm Beach father,’” she said. “They look good, they work at it.”

  “Dad, what are you doing in South Beach on a golf day?” I ask.

  Today he does a sort of airbrushed half hug and kiss. Probably my father has always been like this and I haven’t been in enough therapy to figure it out. Mom would comment he can be “far off.” Beyond that, only air-kisses are allowed in public. He’s always on my side, and I love that. No matter what I do or don’t do. While Elodie and my mother are judging, my father is steady, loyal when I dip in and out of work and responsibility. He says nothing when I drop out of courses, freelance assignments, full-time employment. Although I might want to finish my master’s in musicology, I’ve started other master’s programs. One for social work right after college, and three years later I left an MFA program in photography and art when I was midway through.

  “I don’t remember the last time I was in Miami,” my father says.

  “Wow, quite something to have you visit,” I say.

  I slide into my chair and adjust my Panama hat. The sun flits through the open space; a few tourists file in. I smell bacon, and it’s making me mildly nauseous. Against my will, I estimate what it would be like to be pregnant for Elodie and smell bacon. A server—slim, buff, with purple highlights at his hairline and a man bun—hovers over us, holding a coffeepot in his right hand.

  “Coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” I say.

  “Tea, latte, cappuccino?” His voice is quite deep; I bet he is an actor. L.A. would be better for that, but I’m sure he’s found some venues in South Florida. He could be here for family, secretly glued to a sister or his mother, who are only a ride north or south on the I-95. Sort of how South Beach works for music and for me. The seventy-five miles are close and far, although Elodie and Mom don’t quite get why I’m here. I’d like to say to him, Stick to your plan. Keep the distance.

  “A latte,” I say.

  A crew sets up lounge chairs around the pool area—hushed and uninhabited by guests at nine A.M. The Art Deco building, originally a Dempsey-Vanderbilt Hotel back in the thirties, is Tyler’s spot. He’ll come here for a lunch or drinks meeting and comment on the crowd, the atmosphere. Which puzzles me a bit, since the hotel calls itself “bespoke” and rooms with views of the ocean are pricey and exclusive. Not Palm Beach–style luxury, but luxury all the same.

  A text bings and my father glances at his iPhone, then scowls beneath his square-frame glasses—prescription glasses that turn darker in the sunlight. He texts back like older people do, his right hand flying, forefinger punching. I shuffle around in my chair, watching the waitstaff. When I’m at a place like this, I make a deal with myself about how I’ll get through and be independent. Had Tyler not offered me a partnership, I’d be that way now. I’d be telling myself that if I didn’t place enough musicians in the next six months, I could work at a hotel part-time. My family would hate it; they’d make excuses, tell lies in Palm Beach about my “career.” I’d do it anyway and try not to ask for anything. Except today I’m thinking instead about a band I’ll place called Arnsdale, a female vocalist and her backup, and then another and another. Already we are soaring with Dirk O selling out nightly at Pascha’s. That’s why it’s empty for breakfast; guests who came to hear him last night are sleeping in.

  The man bun reappears with my latte. I haven’t eaten so early in the day in years. Did I ever? Looking cuter than before, he hands us our menus. It’s nice to notice without its being anything more. Life is all Tyler.

  “Thank you, perfect.” I try to sound light.

  “I’ll have whole-wheat toast, dry, and scrambled egg whites.” My father hands the menu over without saying please. Or thank you. Maybe in Palm Beach it isn’t done. At Longreens, the Harbor Club, Mar-a-Lago, or Trump International, my parents know the staff. They ask about their families—Mom tried to help some of the women who work in the locker room at Longreens through the charity she founded, Mothers and Children. Her goal was access to scholarship money for local colleges for their kids. Two of the younger children had autism and she could help with experts and classes. Then another member heard the conversations and complained that Mom was too intimate with employees. Mom helped anyway.

  “Aubrey? What will you order?”

  “Pancakes with blueberries and walnuts, please.” I hand over my menu and smile.

  My father watches our server exit toward the kitchen, making certain he’s gone. The wind kicks up, flaps around our chairs.

  “You do know why I’m here,” he says.

  “I’m not sure.” My chest wall feels thin; every second my heart taps an extra beat.

  “About Elodie. I know what she is asking you to do for her, Aubrey. Your mother has told me.”

  Who can trust my mother and father not to trade secrets, including their daughters’ secrets? I’m only dumbfounded that my father would drive to South Beach about it.

  “Are you considering this for Elodie? Carrying her child, your child, literally.” My father’s voice isn’t often this droning.

  “Yeah, well, I’ve gone over the ways to define a baby I’d carry—impregnated by my sister’s husband. Someone who is sort of a big brother to me. It’s grotesque, isn’t it?”

  “Your sister has no right to ask this of you.” He keeps scowling.

  “She can ask me anything she wants. It’s that I don’t know what to say.”

  “Then your answer is no. Is that correct?” Now my father sounds like he needs a cough drop or at least a sip of water. He doesn’t move, waiting for my answer. Who knew it mattered to him? Most conversations are with my mother; most problems are snuffed out by her.

  “I feel pressured by her request. I wish she’d never asked. I mean, I finally have a life. I’m in Miami, I’m with Tyler, we’re booking good performers. I get to be in the music world. A mini music world.”

  “All the more reason to refuse her. To remind her there are many other surrogates to choose from.”

  “Wow, Dad, I’m not sure what Mom said. What did she tell you? Why are you against it?”

  “I believe that for one thing, Elodie isn’t considering you, Aubrey. Your relationship with Elodie after this, with James, too. You will be the aunt and the biological mother.”

  “I know, I know.” The last few days have been an out-of-body experience. I sip my latte, tempted to pour in a sweetener. Maybe I’d better do a real sugar; it’s healthier.

  “I find it outlandish,” he says. “With real repercussions.”

  “Dad, what is it? Is there something more to this? I looked it up, googled it, it is natural in some ways for sisters to do this. In the nineties it was really popular. There were these stories in a book I found, where one of the sisters was the ‘oven’—y’know, she carried the baby, but it was her sister’s egg. Then there was this article about a sister who had three kids
of her own and felt guilty about her sister. They used her egg and her brother-in-law’s sperm.”

  “I view it as abnormal.” My father’s tone reminds me of when we were small and he’d be on a business call at home. That steely, dismissive voice.

  Abnormal? Before I can argue, say he’s biased, he continues.

  “Your mother and sister have not thought it through—it’s a fantasy for them. They haven’t considered what people will say, what they’ll whisper through the clubs, up and down Worth Avenue.”

  “Worth Avenue?”

  “Anywhere and everywhere, they’ll talk,” he says. “Mom won’t like it. Mimi won’t be happy. This might hurt Elodie’s work.”

  “Then Mom will figure it out. She’ll find a way with Mimi, what to say. Is that what matters? We’re not some divided family, like it’s them against us. It’s about Elodie. Remember how she was when she miscarried? It was horrible.”

  The server comes with our food, and although he is well trained, he clanks about our table. We say nothing until he is gone. I wish he could finish the meal with us, be a third person at the table. He could deflect talk of our family.

  My father begins to eat quickly, jabbing at the eggs with his fork. He hasn’t eaten so fast before, his bites sharp and angled. “Your mother is pleased that you drive up so much. She loves knowing you are nearby. How is Tyler’s work going?”

  “Great.” I pour syrup on my pancakes. I keep squeezing the back of the bottle and moving my hand in circles. Were Mom with us, she would say, “Enough, that’s enough syrup, Aubrey!”

  Dad is inhaling his eggs. “You know, I’ve always found the music business interesting, rather seductive. When I was younger, I listened to the Beatles, Roy Orbison, the Beach Boys.”

  “I know that. Elodie and I were raised on the Beatles and the Stones. Mostly your choices, not Mom’s.”

  “No, your mother favors Judy Collins, Carly Simon.”

  “Dad, you taught me about music first, and later, when I was at the Academy, Elodie did.”

  “In the army, music could get you through. Creedence Clearwater Revival, the Animals, Jimi Hendrix.” Dad is almost plaintive.

  “I’m sure,” I say.

  “And you’re now in ‘the business’ with Tyler. Booking a lot of bands, is he?” he asks, remembering his purpose for our breakfast.

  “Well, yes, he is. I do it, too, Dad. We get bands—not so well known, with lots of talent and potential—into venues in the area.” That’s my pitch, the one I give to promoters and managers all day long. I breathe in. Why is my father visiting me? I always drive north to him, to my mother. I was there yesterday. With Mom and Elodie, at the Literary Society, after the Lake Trail. He could have been with me then. He’s always too busy with his buildings and his cards, his golf and his tennis. I like it better when he is.

  “I understand.” Dad puts his fork and knife to the side of his plate and begins his fruit salad. I smell the mango—too pungent, too smushed in the center among pineapple and papaya. Overripe. Even at the Setai, this is possible.

  “This Tyler, is he the man you are interested in, Aubrey, someone you are serious about?”

  “He is.”

  I’d like to explain that we are becoming business partners, plus how Tyler loves me, but Dad keeps speaking. “He seems to have a solid business, but if he needs something more stable, I have that building out on South Beach Drive, one property in Miami, one in Lauderdale.”

  “Really?” I am surprised, because my father has not mentioned building management to me before. Is it because I’m with Tyler and he doesn’t understand our business? Is it that I’m over thirty and only beginning to settle into work I care about?

  “I’d like that, Dad. I mean, Tyler and I are both pretty busy with the music bookings and finding talent, yet it would be more money and that would be useful.”

  “Absolutely another source of income. However, it does require time. It is a day job, of course,” Dad says. “Could that be done?”

  I’m not sure what his implication is—isn’t my father presenting an opportunity to me? I would like the extra income. Maybe I could manage the building if Tyler hasn’t the time. I’m feeling unpredictably industrious.

  “Yeah, so it could work. I think we could juggle the building with the bookings.”

  “Aubrey, we don’t know that the offer would appeal to Tyler. And then there can be complications in any pregnancy; you or he might not feel up to this amount of responsibility.”

  “You mean this is only available to either of us if I do not carry Elodie and James’s baby?” The restaurant begins to smother me. “Dad, is that what you’re saying?”

  “It wouldn’t be James and Elodie’s baby, Aubrey, it would be yours and James’s, with Elodie posturing as the mother.”

  Okay, so he’s become preoccupied with the baby situation, slightly obsessed. He is not getting what he wants with Elodie’s plan; he’s being mean.

  “That’s harsh, Dad, that’s not how surrogacy works, how it is interpreted. I’m not hesitating because of that. It’s more about superficial things, like it will ruin my body, that Tyler and I will be traveling for work. We have gigs nightly, a relationship to grow. More profound reasons, like it will change everything. I’d be giving up my identity, losing myself. My sister’s baby in my womb would have to be at the center of my life, wouldn’t it?”

  “Isn’t that enough to say no, Aubrey?”

  “Maybe, although I understand why James wants it, why Elodie would want it,” I say.

  “Listen to me. What I propose is that.…” My father sits up, sips his water, and stops speaking. His gaze moves toward the front of the restaurant.

  Exhausted guests under thirty have begun to fill up the room. They sashay as they’re led to their tables. I notice a second maître d’ has been brought on. She wears a lemon color minidress too bright for breakfast, her lipstick too dark; her arms are between a ballet dancer’s and strands of spaghetti. Oddly, she is leading my mother’s friends Priscilla and Mrs. A. to the table beside us. Our privacy ends; a feel-good greeting is required.

  “Hello, hello!” Mrs. A. drawls. “Simon, what brings you to this part of the world?” She rearranges her Gucci beige rectangular frames, smooths her khaki capris, and pats her chrysanthemum scarf. Priscilla is dressed similarly to Mrs. A., except her scarf is a cornflower blue and her sunglasses are the Prada oval rimless style that Elodie and I tried on at Saks. Priscilla fusses with how her scarf is draped, as if anyone cares about her understated “Palm Beach before noon” effect.

  Mrs. A. takes in the diners. “What a unique crowd, Simon,” she says. “Are they hotel guests? How would you describe them, Priscilla?”

  “Eclectic.” Priscilla does what Mom calls the “stuck smile”—broad and suspicious. She primps more, maybe realizing she and Mrs. A. are inconspicuous at the Setai, except to us.

  “We know you are down south, Aubrey,” Mrs. A. says. “Veronica is always saying where you live. How she misses you. Why, she said so last Thursday night—at the opening dance at Longreens.”

  “How was the dance?” I ask. I’m trying to guess their ages. Priscilla must be a chunk older than my sister. And Mrs. A. is older than Mom, that’s for sure. Mom always says it isn’t how old you are in Palm Beach, but that you follow the rules—many rules, to stay in the game. That must include Elodie and her friends—they are becoming part of the ever-present machine.

  “The dance was unremarkable.” Priscilla sounds disappointed. “I mean the decor, the guests, the menu—of course, that was fine. There were no histrionics of any kind.”

  “You like it like that, right, Dad?”

  “It’s my preference.” He’s impatient; he didn’t expect this sort of interruption. With his black American Express card in his hand, he waves to our server, who rushes over.

  “We only came to South Beach today for Priscilla’s decorator’s meeting,” Mrs. A. says. “You know that Priscilla is becoming quite the i
nterior designer. We left to drive here at the crack of dawn. We’re going to the Michael Smith showroom.”

  My father yawns.

  I say, “That should be cool; he has a showroom in L.A., too.”

  “Why, here we are and meet you,” Priscilla says. “Alas, all of us missing your sister’s breakfast.”

  “Elodie always has a great event going on. I was there with my mom yesterday. I go when I can.”

  “That she does.”

  My father pays the bill fast, like he has my whole life when he has something on his mind. He would leave family dinners abruptly. We weren’t to disturb him; our mother was available and he wasn’t back then. He scrawls his name across the receipt and stands up. “Shall we, Aubrey?”

  “Good to see you,” I say to Priscilla and Mrs. A.

  “Simon, lovely.” Priscilla waves. Mrs. A. checks out my cheapie skirt and how my hair is braided. I know we will fuel their gossip tank within minutes.

  My father takes my elbow, as Tyler did only a matter of hours ago. He guides us into the lobby, where we stand in a corner. While we wait for the valets to bring around his new “light gray satin” Bentley and my car—meaning my mother’s old white BMW X3, which they’ve given to me—he lowers his voice. “You should not be obligated, Aubrey.”

  “Dad, I’m not.”

  “I’d like you to think about what it will do to this family.”

  The valet, heady from his short drive in my father’s car, comes up first. I see annoyance cross my father’s face—he’s exasperated with me because I promise to not help Elodie. He is too angry to make it about little things, to find fault with the valet or try to control where his car is garaged at the Setai. After Dad leaves, kissing me quickly, I’m shakier than I’ve been since I was seventeen and hoping my parents would support my plan for a gap year between high school and college.

  The morning crowd grows thicker. Beyond the single blond babes and buff young guys, a mother and her three children cross into the lobby. The daughter looks about eight and is on an iPhone—it might be hers or her mother’s. Next a son about five, in bathing trunks and a black T-shirt with KING KONG and a photo of the giant gorilla emblazoned on it, is on a mini iPad. All for the mother to be able to hold her infant, swaddled in a thin pink blanket and wearing the smallest pink cotton cap. Not that I can calculate the age, but I suspect she must be about four weeks old.