Mrs. Hemingway knocked once and opened the door. “Your mother said yes to dinner. You have a reservation for two at eight at the Blue Water Grill.”
“The Blue Water Grill?”
“Yes, sir. It’s in Union Square.”
“I know where it is. Why there? I said the Four Seasons.”
“Your mother lunched at the Four Seasons and requested a change of venue. I thought the Blue Water Grill would be satisfactory. Shall I have the car brought around at seven-thirty?”
Since the restaurant was thirty blocks away, it would probably take only fifteen minutes to get there. But traffic in Manhattan was always unpredictable. If he arrived early, he’d have a drink at the bar. “Yes, seven-thirty. Thank you, Mrs. Hemingway.”
“My pleasure, sir.” She closed the door silently behind her, leaving Cole alone with his thoughts. He wanted to call Eva and invite her out for dinner tomorrow night but resisted the urge. It was too soon. Their lunch had ended less than three hours ago. Still, the desire to hear her voice was stronand disconcerting. This was a new experience for Cole and an uncomfortable one, and rather than figure out what it meant, he looked through the stack of files on his desk to find something equally consuming to distract him.
***
When Cole arrived at the Blue Water Grill ten minutes late, his mother was already sipping white wine at a table by the window. She was staring at the park with a look of consternation on her face, but when he greeted her with an affectionate kiss on the cheek, her expression lightened. Taking the seat across from her, he examined the restaurant, which was known throughout the city for its delectable seafood. It was nestled in a building that used to be a bank, and Cole liked the high ceilings and bustling atmosphere. Too often he sat down to eat in rarified interiors that were elegant but stifling.
“Mrs. Hemingway chose well,” he said, as he unfolded his napkin. The smells emanating from the kitchen were divine and for the first time in hours he felt his stomach grumble.
His mother handed him the drink menu. “Mrs. Hemingway is a jewel.”
“That’s what Dad used to say.”
“Did he?” she smiled fondly as she remembered her late husband. “I wondered why it sounded familiar.”
Once he’d ordered a scotch on the rocks from the waiter, who promised to return shortly to rattle off a list of specials, Cole leaned back and examined his mother. Dressed simply in black slacks and silk blouse, she was the epitome of stylish sophistication. This was what Loretta Hammond was known for and she had packaged her product well. Throughout the years she had been featured in magazines as diverse as Vogue, Town & Country, Forbes, New York and Ladies Home Journal. Style X had been her idea and for many years she toiled as its editor-in-chief. Now she had one of those honorary titles like editor emeritus that let her drop in whenever the mood moved her. It was the perfect arrangement and in the year since her husband lost his long battle with colon cancer, it had served as the perfect distraction.
“You’re looking well,” he said honestly. Loretta hadn’t rebounded from her husband’s death. Although she tried not to let others notice, she’d been wallowing in her grief for months. It was easier than facing life without her dear Coleman.
“I’ve been busy,” she said. “It would seem that activity is good for my complexion.”
“How are arrangements for the Fashion Ball progressing?” he said, asking about the annual charity event his mother hosted to raise money for colon cancer research and education. A huge affair that drew socialites and celebrities alike, it was no small feat to pull it together.
“As vexing as ever. I’ve yet to meet a caterer who can follow instructions. I say canapés with cheese and he says canapés with caviar. I’m adamantly against caviar. It’s so cliché. There’s this persistent assumption that rich people eat caviar all the time, as though we put it on top of French fries or ice cream. I can’t remember the last time I had it. I much prefer ketchup on my French fries.” She paused and smiled at her son. “I must be boring you.”
“Not at all,” he assured her, pleased by the healthy flush vexation brought to her cheeks. “Tell me more. How is the florist this year?” He had been on the planning end of events like this one for many years and knew the trouble spots like the back of his hand.
“Already warning me that she can’t get Rhyncholaelia digbyana, which she promised me four months ago. She said something about an early frost in Bahia this year. I didn’t quite follow her conversation because she speaks so quickly. Tomorrow we’re meeting to discuss other orchids that might do in the arrangements. It’s a shame, of course, since I had my heart set on the Rhyncholaelia digbyana. It was your father’s favorite flower and I’d like to have them this year especially.”
This was the first Hammond Foundation Fashion Ball to be thrown without the Hammond patriarch. He searched his mind for another problem spot to remove the forlorn look from his mother’s eyes. “Are the designers behaving?”
“They’re like disorderly schoolchildren, as usual. We are engaged in the timeless battle of arranging the order of the fashion show. Every designer wants to go first. If they can’t go first, they want to go last. Nobody wants to be in the awful middle. I don’t see what all the fuss is about. A Gucci dress in the middle of the show raises just as much money as a Gucci dress at the beginning. It’s the same for a Celine corset or a Michael Kors skirt. And I have the numbers to prove it, since we’ve been holding this event for five years.”
“And the photographer?”
“I don’t know why we use the same firm every year. They’re so—” She broke off and laughed at the situation. She would rail off complaints about everyone involved in the fundraiser if he let her. “You’re like a straight man feeding me lines, aren’t you? You know exactly what to say to set me off. Enough of that. Now why don’t you tell me what this dinner is about?”
The waiter appeared suddenly at their side with Cole’s cocktail. “We have several excellent specials today,” he said, before reciting them with his eyes partially closed as if the list were printed on the insides of his eyelids.
After the waiter disappeared, Loretta took a sip of her wine and examined her son. “You were saying…”
“What makes you assume this dinner is about anything? Can’t I have a meal with my mother without having an ulterior motive?”
“Of course. But we did that on Sunday. Now, Cole, what’s on your mind?”
“The Hammond collection.”
“Ah,” she said knowingly. She was well aware that her son wanted her to hold on to the paintings. He believed that her selling them off and giving the proceeds to the Hammond Foundation was rash. He feared that in a few years she would regret her actions. They had talked about this all before, and she was surprised he would bring it up again. As far as Loretta was concerned, it was a done deal. All that was left was the bidding.
“It’s not what you think. It’s not my intention to try to talk you out of it,” he stated quickly. “Unless, of course, you’re having doubts. In that case, I’m willing to take another crack at it.”
“No, my mind is quite made up. Your father is not in those paintings. They’re merely inanimate objects that have to be dusted with alarming regularity.”
“Dad loved those paintings,” he said softly.
“Which is why I think he’d be very pleased to know that his cherished paintings were going to help find a cure for colon cancer.”
Cole bit back a response. Even though she raised millions and millions of dollars each year, Loretta Hammond didn’t think she did enough. She would never think she did enough. “It really wasn’t my intention to discuss this, Mother. I wanted to talk about the auction end.”
“All right. Talk away.”
“I met with a woman from Wyndham’s this afternoon and—”
“Wyndham’s called you? How strange. I thought I told them to have their representative get in touch with me. I’m sorry they bothered you with this.”
&nbs
p; He recalled the image of Eva holding out a felt-tipped pen to Mrs. Hemingway. “I assure you it was no bother.”
She saw the look in her son’s eye. “Really? How remarkable.”
He was unaware that he revealed anything remarkable. “What?”
“Nothing. Go on. You met with a woman from Wyndham’s today.”
“Yes, she presented their case to me and I thought what she said was worth discussing further. This was her first presentation, but she pulled it off very well. Her facts and figures made sense.”
“This gets stranger and stranger,” she said thoughtfully. “I wonder why Wyndham’s would send a neophyte to court such an important sale. I was expecting a call from Mr. Wyndham or from his son at the very least.” She paused for a moment. “I believe I’m almost insulted.”
“I don’t know what they were thinking—perhaps they recognized her talent—but as I said, she did an excellent job. I don’t think Mr. Wyndham or his son Ethan could have been more convincing.”
Loretta knew Cole was not the sort to have his head turned by a pretty face. Yes, he dated the Lucys of the world, beautiful women who seemed jaded to her, but they were also intelligent people who could hold a reasonable conversation or tell an entertaining story. For this reason, she wondered about the woman from Wyndham’s. Could she have caught her son’s eye? Was that why they were having this discussion?
“All right,” she said, opening her menu. She didn’t want Cole to know how very interested she was. “Fill me in.”
He opened his menu and glanced at it, quickly deciding that he was in the mood for salmon. Then he ran through the proposal Eva had made over lunch, pausing to explain in depth her theories on touring the collection and the strategic importance of Nashville. “She was insistent that she could create more public awareness and woo more customers.”
“She sounds like a very good saleswoman,” Loretta said unimpressed. She had met many good saleswomen in her life. That didn’t say anything, however, about the quality of the product.
“That’s what I thought. But then she mentioned figures. According to her, Wyndham’s would be willing to take a ten percent seller’s commission.”
She closed her menu. “Ten percent?”
“Ten percent.”
“But that’s five percent less than Davidge’s or Brooks’s.”
“I know.”
Loretta took a sip of wine and did some fast calculating in her head. “That could mean the difference of hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
“It’s worth looking into,” he said, indicating to the waiter that they were ready to order.
Within seconds the man was at their table with a cordial smile on his face. “What can I get you today, ma’am?”
It took only a moment for the Hammonds to place their orders. After the waiter was moved on to the next table, Cole returned to business. “You haven’t signed anything yet, have you?”
“No, no, we’re not that far along yet. Mr. Cartwright and I are still discussing terms, although I do think he has certain expectations. Naturally, this proposal raises some interesting possibilities. Mr. Cartwright told me that the commission rates were nonnegotiable and Mr. Kimble from Brooks’s said the same thing.”
“Wyndham’s is smaller and they’re trying to get a more significant piece of the pie. They have to work with smaller profit margins until they establish themselves in the big leagues.”
Loretta nodded. “I wonder if Mr. Cartwright will be open to negotiation now. Nothing like the threat of good healthy competition to get a vendor to bring down his price. Vive le capitalism.”
“But you will meet with Wyndham’s?” he asked, trying not to sound as if the decision mattered to him. “I assured Ms. Butler that nothing had been finalized yet. She had a strong case, Mother. Hear her out.”
Cole rarely made requests of her. “I’ve got Kimble from Brooks’s tomorrow and a million meetings for the Fashion Ball. It will have to be sometime next week. Is that all right?”
He nodded. “She’s sending a formal proposal over tomorrow. I’ve told Philip to take a look at it before passing it along to you. Like I said, I think you’ll find the contents very interesting.”
“Unless, of course, I invite her to the Fashion Ball,” she said, looking at her son carefully to gauge his reaction. She didn’t miss the flicker of interest in his eyes. “But I suppose I wouldn’t really get a chance to talk with her, what with my hosting duties and all. No, perhaps I should just wait until next week. I’ll have Cassandra set something up soon. What do you think, Cole?”
He thought having Eva at the Fashion Ball was a wonderful idea, one that he was going to put forth himself, but now he shrugged indifferently. He didn’t want to overplay his hand. He could tell that his mother was on a fishing expedition. Since his father died, she had become like more conventional mothers, worrying about her son’s future and longing for grandchildren. This was not about the future or grandchildren, and he didn’t want her to get her hopes up. “Will Davidge’s and Brooks’s be there?”
“Of course. They’re courting my goodwill, and giving money to the Hammond Foundation is the best way to do that.”
“Then perhaps, for the foundation’s sake, you should invite Eva.”
“Eva?”
“Ms. Butler, the representative from Wyndham’s.”
“It’s a persuasive argument and I’ll take it under consideration. I’ll be sure to let you know my decision.”
He shrugged as if bored with the topic. “It makes no difference to me.”
Loretta fought a smirk. Clearly, it made all the difference in the world to him, and in order to torture him a little longer, she decided she wouldn’t send out the invitation until Friday. She had only one son and needed to get all the joy she could out of him. “Still, I’ll have Cassandra call you as soon as the invite goes out, assuming it does.”
“That’s not necessary,” he assured her, as the waiter brought out their first course. He put mesclun greens with sherry vinaigrette in front of Loretta and pan-fried scallop salad in front of Cole. He then hovered for several seconds with a fresh pepper grinder. Cole accepted a few turns while his mother waved the waiter off.
“All right,” she said, deciding that it was only fair that he not be warned. After all, poor Ms. Eva Butler was only getting twenty-four hours to prepare for the social event of the New York season. Most women had four weeks to get ready, and Loretta knew that they needed every one of them.
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Cole realized that he’d protested too much. His mother was an extremely clever woman and had obviously figured out that he was very interested in the movements of Ms. Butler. For that reason, he refused to follow up on her invite. Although he would be tempted to ask Cassandra what the final decision was, he would withstand the urge. There wasn’t any way he could find out now without tipping off his mother. Even a request from Philip for the guest list would be treated as suspect.
“This is very good,” he said, changing the subject completely. “The scallops are delicate and tender. How’s your salad?”
Although the bland conversation didn’t fool her, she went along with it willingly. “Excellent. Mrs. Hemingway gets points for food quality and atmosphere.”
“She is a jewel.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Eva was perusing the final draft of her cover letter for the third time when Devorah tapped on her desk.
It took Eva a moment to register the interruption. After a delay of a second or two, she stopped reading and looked up. “Yes?”
“Ben would like to see you in his office,” said an impatient Devorah. “He has ten minutes before he goes into a meeting.”
Eva looked at the clock. It was ten minutes to ten. All she had left to do was slide the letter into the envelope with the other elements of her proposal and call the mailroom. “All right. Tell him I’ll be right there.”
Her announcement, which was distracted and carelessly tosse
d off, didn’t fool Devorah. “I said he has only ten minutes before he goes into a meeting. He’ll be in meetings most of the day. If you don’t see him now, you won’t see him at all today, and then tomorrow when I come around here telling you Ben wants to see you, I’ll be handing you a cardboard box as well.”
Eva signed the letter. “All right. Be there in a second.” Although she heard Devorah’s warning, it didn’t bother her. Devorah was always threatening to hand coworkers a cardboard box, but these threats were baseless. Devorah could no more fire a Wyndham employee than she could afford to buy one of the artifacts the auction house sold.
She sealed the package and addressed it quickly in her scratchy handwriting. Then she looked around the room. Her coworkers were sitting at their desks, all seemingly engrossed in their own projects. This was what it was always like at Wyndham’s. The staff, made up almost entirely of Ivy League graduates and the offspring of British aristocrats, were friendly enough in a Tiffany’s salesperson way, but they weren’t outgoing and they were rarely inclined to do you a favor—especially not for a junior associate who’d recently been promoted to senior associate. They were a cutthroat bunch who would sell their mothers to get one over on a colleague.
Her gaze traveled to her neighbor. Except David. He didn’t fit the mold. He had the proper pedigree—son of a viscount, grandson of a former Home Secretary—but not the attitude. He was gregarious and outgoing and loved to chat: The more information he gathered, the more information he could spread. At the moment, David was drinking his first cup of coffee of the day, which meant he would soon start reading Buzzfeed, which would be followed by Gawker, Vox and the AV Squad. Eva had observed his morning routine enough times to know he was still thirty minutes away from doing any actual work.
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