Independently Wealthy: A Novel

by Lorraine Zago Rosenthal

  Maybe I was too touchy. Alex and I had been a steady thing for only a few months, and my last relationship had ended so long before that. Maybe all that time alone had made me forget what it was like to be cared about.

  “Nothing,” I answered, reaching up to touch the aquamarine that hung from my neck.

  Alex came toward me and studied my face. “Hey,” he said softly, “if you’re nervous about going to this party, you shouldn’t be. You’re tough enough to handle the Stones. Just remember I’ll be thinking of you the whole time.”

  He gave me an encouraging hug, and I squeezed my eyes shut as I soaked up his scent, which was clean and fresh because he wasn’t wearing the cologne I didn’t like.

  He took my hand and led me toward the car. The street was framed with stacks of snow that hadn’t yet been sullied by dogs lifting their legs, so the white mounds glistened under the streetlights. A path leading to the curb had been dug through one of the stacks, and Alex kept his hand in mine as I walked in high-heeled Christian Louboutins.

  “Make sure you get her back in one piece,” Alex said, leaning into the car and wagging his finger at Tony when I was in the front seat. “I put my faith in you to take care of her.”

  “You know she’s safe with me,” Tony said. “You think I’d let anything happen to this one? It’s all the OT she’s giving me that’ll pay for my new house.”

  I smirked, and Alex did the same when I looked up at him.

  “Are you sure you don’t want us to drop you at work?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “The party’s only four blocks from here. I like walking in the cold.”

  We said good-bye, Alex slammed the door, and Tony pulled away from the curb. I watched in the mirror outside my window as Alex turned and headed up the street, passing the mountains of snow that glimmered along Central Park West.

  *

  Tony put the sedan into park and turned off his GPS. “Here it is,” he said.

  I pressed a button to lower the fogged-up window, and a blast of cold air struck my face as I looked at a grand Tudor home at the top of a winding drive. The house was set back in trees, and it resembled an old English manor with its steeply pitched roof, arched doorway, and timber beams. The façade was made of stone, lit-up wreaths with red bows were on each window and the front door, and the bare branches on every shrub and tree were covered in dainty white lights.

  “Nice Renaissance detailing,” Tony said.

  I looked at him. “Are you an architecture expert, too?”

  “Nope,” he said. “It’s just another thing I read about.”

  No surprise there. I told Tony I’d call him when I was ready to leave, and then I got out of the car, shut the door behind me, and headed toward the house, passing two fancy lampposts. Up ahead were people in coats who disappeared into the house, and a burly man dressed in a suit and holding a clipboard greeted me at the front door. He looked like a bouncer who’d been gussied up for the occasion.

  “Happy holidays,” he said. “And you are…?”

  “Savannah Morgan,” I told him.

  He scanned the paper stuck to his clipboard, and I hoped Virginia hadn’t conveniently forgotten to add me to the Let-Them-In list. But he checked off my name, ushered me inside, and left me in a foyer where two maids were taking the guests’ coats.

  One of them slipped mine off while I glanced around at the décor—dark wooden walls and heavy furniture and lamps with silk shades. There were oak beams in the ceilings, an elaborate carved-wood staircase that led to the second floor, and a sunken living room to my left. Guests filled the room, talking and drinking while they stood near the fireplace that Caroline had mentioned. I kept my eyes there, listening to burning wood crackle and snap, trying to picture Edward in the same spot. He was always with us for Christmas, Caroline had said.

  I shifted my attention to the holiday decorations, which could have been done by Martha Stewart herself. The mantels and banisters and mirrors were draped with garland made of fresh fir, poinsettias were everywhere, and the house smelled of juniper and cedar and pine. Everything was perfect except the tree in the living room. It was real and full and very tall, but there wasn’t a single decoration on it.

  “There you are.”

  I looked to my right and found Caroline exiting a room where a chandelier hung over a long table. On the table was a row of silver warming trays, and servers dressed in black were scooping out food for a line of guests. Ned was there and Trish was too, and not far away was Heather Schmidt from Stone News, showing off her million-dollar legs in a short skirt and filling her plate from a corner table covered with cold hors d’oeuvres.

  “No problems finding the place?” Caroline asked as she walked toward me in a tailored pants suit. She stopped in front of me just as my eyes shifted to Virginia, who was crossing the foyer with her usual stately strut. Her hair was pinned into a chignon and her dress was made of burgundy wool, and she gave me a smile when our eyes met. It was the kind of smile that said I was lucky she was tolerating my disagreeable presence.

  She stepped down into the living room. I looked at Caroline.

  “No problems at all,” I said. “But I was a little worried that I might not get in … fortunately, your mother remembered to put me on the guest list.”

  “I wrote the guest list. And I’m sorry about that thug at the door … because of our situation, we’re always concerned about security when we have a party at home. So did you have any difficulty heading up the hill?” she asked, leaning toward me and lowering her voice. “Carys Caldwell is hosting a Christmas party tonight, too … a much bigger one than ours … and some of our guests got snarled in her traffic. Mother was furious.”

  “That’s right,” I said, remembering. “You told me she lives down there.”

  “In that Georgian Colonial,” Caroline added disgustedly, like Georgian Colonials offended her to no end. She shook her head, tossing the light-brown hair that skimmed her chin. “Anyway, let’s not dwell on that now. I should get back to mingling, and you need to eat. We’re doing tapas tonight … I caught onto it when I went to Madrid two summers ago. Get some and join us in the kitchen.”

  She turned away and met up with Trish, who was heading toward the kitchen with a plate in her hands. Ned was walking behind her with Heather, and he didn’t notice I was there. Or maybe he was ignoring me. All four of them joined the crowd in the kitchen and I went into the dining room, where I picked up a dish and stood in line.

  “Pinchitos Morunos?” a server said, lifting the lid on a chafing dish.

  I nodded. Someone behind me cleared his throat.

  “Can I take credit for this?” he asked. “You’re more adventurous with food now.”

  The server spooned pork onto the plate I held in my right hand as my left hand curled into a fist. That voice belonged to Jackson Lucas, who had encouraged me to try unfamiliar cuisine during our first date. But months had passed since then and my tastes had broadened and matured, and that had nothing to do with him. And I hadn’t forgotten how he’d deluded me about Alex last summer to keep us apart.

  I didn’t even look at Jack as I moved to the next selection. I could smell him—his spicy cologne and his cinnamon Altoids and the Scotch he’d probably drunk tonight. I just kept my eyes on the server offering chipirones crujientes.

  I heard him sigh. “Savannah,” he said gently, “are you going to hate me forever?”

  I felt a sharp pinch. My fist was so tight that my nails had sliced my skin. “I don’t hate you,” I said, shaking out my fingers as I kept my eyes on my plate being filled with fried squid and roasted peppers. “Hating you would involve thinking about you. And I never do that. I’m completely indifferent to your existence.”

  I stepped over to the next station. Jack chuckled.

  “If you’re so indifferent,” he said, “then why can’t you look at me?”

  I jerked my head in his direction. “I can. There goes your theory.”

  He smiled
. I studied his dimples, his dark-blond hair, and his jade irises with their amber flecks. He wore a suit with all the signs of being absurdly expensive and imported from Italy—the finely woven fabric, the hand-stitching, the perfect fit on his tall frame. He was as handsome as ever, but that had no effect on me because I knew he wasn’t attractive underneath.

  “You look lovely,” he said, like he hadn’t heard my snippy tone, like he’d never done anything to wrong me. “That necklace is very flattering on you.”

  “Do you think so? It’s a Christmas gift from my boyfriend.”

  He seemed to be holding back a flinch.

  “You remember my boyfriend … don’t you, Jack?” I went on, savoring this opportunity to slam him. He should’ve had the sense to stay far, far away. “His name is Alex Adair.”

  “Yes,” Jack said as we reached the last silver tray. “I remember. I’d actually like to talk to you about … what happened.”

  I politely declined the duck quesadillas before turning to Jack. “You’d like to talk to me? Well, that’s too bad … because I’m not interested in anything you have to say.”

  I whirled around to leave the room. He followed me and blocked the doorway.

  “Savannah,” he said steadily, “all I’m asking for is a chance to—”

  “You don’t deserve a chance. I don’t give them to men who deceive and cheat and deliberately hurt other people.”

  He nodded as he tightened his Cartier watch. “I thought you said you didn’t hate me.”

  I glanced up at the rafters more disgustedly than Caroline had when she mentioned the Georgian Colonial. Then I shifted my gaze to Jack’s perfect nose and his bronzed skin. “As I told you before,” I said, “I don’t hate you at all. The truth is … I feel sorry for you.”

  I kept my eyes on his face as he soaked that in. Then I twirled around, stepped out into the foyer, and left him standing alone in the arched doorway.

  Eight

  I went into the kitchen, which had recessed lighting and lots of windows that overlooked acres of grass and trees. There were countertops made of onyx marble, a copper sink, and a double oven. The room had more than enough space to comfortably fit all the guests scattered around—some were eating at a big table, others had put their plates on the island in the center of the kitchen, and the rest were leaning against the walls, drinking from snifters and tumblers.

  I scanned the crowd. Virginia was entertaining a group of guests, Caroline seemed cornered in conversation a few feet away, and Ned wasn’t around.

  I spotted Trish sitting at the table. She caught my eye and waved at me.

  “There’s an empty chair here,” she called across the room, patting the seat beside her.

  I slid into that chair a moment later, and Trish smiled as she pulled an elastic band out of her brown curls. “Isn’t this a lavish kitchen for someone who doesn’t cook?” she asked, giving me a wink and nodding toward Virginia. “She has a full-time chef who travels with her between here, East Hampton, and Manhattan. I don’t think she’s ever boiled her own water for tea.”

  I laughed. “I can’t criticize. She was nice enough to let me come to the party.”

  Trish took a bite of chorizo. “Caroline really wanted you to see the house. I’m sure she told you how much she and her family enjoyed Christmas here when Edward was alive … and I even spent the holidays with them once while Caroline and I were at Harvard. Virginia thought Caroline and I were only friends, of course … but Edward knew better.”

  I leaned toward her, eager as always for every Edward tidbit. “Did Caroline tell him?”

  “He figured it out. And then she told him. He was fine with it.” Trish sipped her martini. “I liked your father, Savannah. He was good to me. I don’t come from this kind of money,” she went on, glancing around the room, “and he didn’t want me to drown in debt after I graduated from college. So he helped with my tuition … and he used his connections to get me a job at the art gallery. Those jobs are hard to find,” she said, and I nodded, remembering Celeste Natali had told me the same thing. “He did a lot for people … without them knowing, if he could avoid it.”

  “I guess he liked being a Secret Santa,” I said, thinking I’d inherited that gene. “He was one for me every year when I was a kid.”

  Trish rubbed the stem of her martini glass. “Caroline mentioned it.”

  I paused, recalling Caroline’s face when I told her where my brooch had come from. “I didn’t mean for that to upset her,” I said.

  “I know you didn’t. And I think she’s doing her best not to let things upset her anymore.”

  That was probably true. It was probably part of the reason I was here.

  A few minutes later, I stood up from the table so I could use the bathroom, which Trish told me was behind a door at the opposite end of the kitchen. “It’s beside the back stairs,” she said. “If it’s occupied, just use the one on the second floor at the end of the hall.”

  When I reached the downstairs bathroom, I found that it was locked and someone was running the faucet inside. I stood there for a moment, looking around at the small alcove and a staircase that was less elaborate than the one in the foyer.

  I started up the steps, which led to a long, dark hallway and seven closed doors. I was walking down the hall when a door up ahead flung open and light flowed out. Heather Schmidt exited, but she wasn’t alone. Her legs were wrapped around Ned’s waist, and he was carrying her as they kissed.

  “That was nice,” she murmured in a kittenish voice.

  TMI, as Ned would say. But at least they were dressed. And Ned wasn’t married anymore. Still, I’d witnessed one of his sexcapades last summer and I didn’t need to see another.

  I spun around and crept toward the staircase, which creaked as my shoe touched it. Then there were Heather’s feet hitting the hardwood and Ned’s deep voice ringing through the silence of the empty second floor.

  “Holy shit,” he said. “Do you have some kind of radar?”

  I sighed as I slowly turned toward him. “Trust me, Ned … if I did, I’d be elsewhere.”

  Heather wasn’t wearing shoes. She leaned into the room they’d just left to snatch up a pair of pumps that she slipped on before smoothing her skirt and her hair. She kissed Ned’s cheek, walked away from him, scooted past me, and clomped down the staircase in her heels. I heard the door at the bottom open and shut.

  I leaned against the banister and looked at Ned standing in a pool of light.

  “Going for cougars now instead of co-eds?” I couldn’t help asking.

  His blazer was off and his tie was loose. He tightened the tie and raked his fingers through his wavy hair. “Cougar is a rather offensive term, isn’t it?”

  I shrugged. “She’s forty-eight, you know. That’s fifteen years older than you.”

  “I can do basic math,” he said.

  “Then don’t you think—”

  “Savannah,” Ned interrupted as he sauntered toward me, “you’re displaying the ignorance of the young … so let me clear things up for you. Putting aside the fact that she’s somewhat cloying and her mascara tends to clump, Heather happens to be a mature, sophisticated, and extremely attractive lady. And I’m a progressive man. I don’t believe in age discrimination. Frankly, I’m surprised you do. Do you honestly believe a woman is washed up once she’s out of her twenties?”

  He had me there. Maybe he was more enlightened than I’d thought. “Well … no, but—”

  “But you were being ignorant,” he said, looking down at me. “Weren’t you?”

  I thought about that as I tried to ignore his obnoxiously superior tone. “Okay. Fine. You’re right. But I still think there’s too much of an age difference for things to work out.”

  He gave me an incredulous scoff. “There’s nothing to work out. Heather and I have no future. She’s divorced, I’m divorced, and this is just … filler. It’s meaningless.”

  His voice faded on the last word. Then it was quiet e
xcept for the muffled party noises downstairs—a Frank Sinatra CD playing, a champagne cork popping, someone making a toast.

  Ned changed the subject. “Have you spoken with Jack tonight?”

  “Jack had the gall to try to speak with me,” I said. “But I cut him right off.”

  “You seem happy with yourself because of that.”

  I shrugged. “He doesn’t deserve my time … after what he did.”

  Ned looked at his cufflinks and twisted them so the emblem carved into the gold was straight. “He told me what he did … and I know he wants to apologize. Can’t you let him?”

  Was that what Jack had wanted? For a second I felt guilty for being so gruff when we were in the dining room. But only for a second. “No,” I said. “I can’t.”

  Ned looked at me again. “That’s very immature of you.”

  I stomped my foot. “In the past three minutes you’ve called me immature and ignorant. The insults can stop now, Scrooge.”

  “Those weren’t insults. They were merely observations … and accurate ones. You are being childish about Jack. You should give him the opportunity to redeem himself.”

  “You would say that. He’s your best friend, so of course you’re on his side.”

  Ned gave me a look like I’d said something straight out of the schoolyard. “I’m not on anybody’s side. If I was as unforgiving as you are … we wouldn’t be talking right now.”

  I wasn’t exactly sure whom he’d forgiven—me for instigating Kitty’s divorce filing or Edward for making me an heiress. “Well—” I said, but Ned cut me off.

  “Just think about what I told you. Now do you care to explain why you’re snooping around my mother’s house?”

  I rolled my eyes. The other night at the pier—when Ned had vaguely expressed appreciation that I’d tried to spare him from running into Kitty and Charlie Beckford—I thought we’d made progress. But maybe I’d been wrong.