Independently Wealthy: A Novel

by Lorraine Zago Rosenthal

  He didn’t look beat. He looked gorgeous. His thick crop of short hair was longish in front, and sections of it stood up from his scalp and hung down on his forehead in arbitrary directions. His eyes were large but not too much so, and his brows were full yet not at all bushy. And he had a face that was manly but had kept the cutest aspects of boyhood. I stared at him, feeling guilty for it until I remembered there was no reason to. I was unattached now.

  “Was that where we met?” he said.

  I couldn’t mention Senator Caldwell. He might ask how I knew her, and I had to dodge that subject. The only choice was to play along.

  “Probably,” I said so confidently that it surprised me. “The holidays are a blur to me, too.”

  He grinned. He had the sweetest smile and the whitest teeth, and his cologne smelled woodsy with a trace of ginger. “And now we’re both here,” he said, nodding toward the room I’d just left. “Are you a guest of the bride or the groom?”

  More questions. I clutched my purse and tried to stall. “Who are you a guest of?”

  “The bride. So are you a friend or a relative or—”

  “Neither,” I said, suddenly stricken with a plausible and halfway-true story. “I’m in town for a conference, and … well, I don’t have anything to do tonight and I don’t know anybody in D.C. so I thought I’d crash the party.” I whispered the last part and gave him a coy wink, and when he didn’t run away I kept going. “Security’s tight, though. I guess I’ll have to settle for TV and room service.”

  He looked amused and intrigued. “I can’t let that happen,” he said. “I have to admit I was insulted when my date canceled ten minutes before the party started … but now I’m glad. She unwittingly rescued you from a dull night. That is … if you want to take her place.”

  It was a crazy stroke of luck for me that he’d been ditched. He could be my ticket in—but I still didn’t want to infringe on anyone else’s territory. “So was this date your girlfriend, or…?”

  He shook his head. “I’m sans girlfriend at the moment. She’s a woman I barely know and won’t ask out again. I have zero tolerance for the last-minute thing … it’s just bad manners.” He smiled again. “So would you like to join me? Gavin Chambliss will be upset if he finds out that I didn’t help one of his friends.”

  My stomach coiled into another spasm. Handsome Stranger appeared to be a nice guy, and it didn’t seem right to use him as a means to achieve my ends. But he wouldn’t know I was using him, and it wasn’t like I had no interest in spending a few hours with such a fine sample of the male sex. Besides, I hadn’t come all this way to chicken out now.

  “Well,” I said finally, “we can’t upset Gavin Chambliss.”

  “Definitely not,” he agreed. “I’m Wes, by the way.”

  “I’m Savannah.”

  We walked toward the lady at the entrance. She seemed to recognize Wes, because she broke out in a big grin and let us into the room without checking her list.

  “You must be a regular,” I remarked as we headed to our table.

  “Nah,” he said modestly. “I’ve just been here a few times for work-related stuff.”

  “What do you do?” I asked, scanning the view outside the windows. The White House was lit up in the dark, and so was the Washington Monument.

  “I’m an attorney at the Legal Aid Society here in D.C.”

  “Oh,” I said. We were at the table now, and he pulled out my chair for me. “I assumed you lived in New York.”

  “I’m from New York,” he said as I sat down. “But I graduated from Georgetown Law two years ago, and I decided to stay here.” He took the seat beside me and spread a napkin across his lap. The cocktail hour was breaking up, and tuxedo-clad waiters were bringing around lobster bisque. “I guess you live in New York … but judging by your accent, it’s obvious you’re not a native.” He squinted at me like he was searching for clues. “So let me guess … Atlanta, Georgia?”

  “Charleston, South Carolina,” I said as a waiter placed a bowl in front of me. “I live in Manhattan now.”

  “Whereabouts?” he asked.

  “The Upper West Side,” I said. “I have an apartment near Central Park. Where in New York are you from?”

  The waiter gave Wes his bisque. He reached over it for a glass of sparkling water. “My parents and I have always split our time between the city and the Hamptons and Westchester.”

  So did the Stones. It seemed to be the standard in their exclusive circle. And because Wes was obviously part of that world, it impressed me that he’d work for Legal Aid instead of some private firm where he’d earn a fatter paycheck.

  I picked up my spoon. “What made you trade New York for D.C.?” I asked, and then glanced through the windows before looking back at him. “Not that it isn’t equally incredible here. I could stare at this view all night.”

  He sipped his drink. “I’d like to work in politics someday … so D.C. is the place to start.”

  I nodded, stirring my soup. “Do you enjoy your job now?”

  “A lot,” he said as he set down his glass across from a vase erupting with calla lilies. “So many of my classmates from Georgetown went straight into private practice … but I didn’t want to. I figured that out when I was a summer clerk at Chamberlain and Roth. Handling business deals for Fortune 500 companies was so unsatisfying … and deathly boring. I didn’t feel like I was really helping anyone. But working at Legal Aid … I do.”

  “What type of cases do you deal with there?”

  He combed his fingers through his hair, smoothing the wayward strands. “I work in the domestic violence division. I help women find emergency housing, take deadbeat fathers to court for not paying child support, file restraining orders against husbands and boyfriends … that sort of thing.” He twisted toward me and slung his arm over the back of his chair. “I did an internship at Legal Aid when I was in law school … that’s when I found my niche. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing … women who came into the office with split lips and broken ribs and no money to feed their kids. I was disgusted by how wrong it is.”

  “So many things are wrong,” I said. “But at least you’re doing something about this one.”

  “I’m trying. It’s frustrating, though. The cases keep pouring in because the crimes don’t stop. Some of my colleagues have become desensitized to it … but I never will.”

  I abandoned my spoon. He was more appetizing than the bisque.

  “Before my internship,” he said, “I’d only heard about abuse like that. But seeing it firsthand was different. Maybe it hit me so hard because my upbringing was sheltered … and I was used to a stable family. My parents were together back then.”

  I nodded as I wondered why his parents’ relationship was past tense.

  Wes’s face had turned serious while he was talking, but now it relaxed. “I’m blabbering too much about myself … which is a gross violation of dating etiquette.” He paused and looked embarrassed, like he’d broken another rule. “I didn’t mean to imply this is a date. I know you’re only here to avoid room service.”

  I glanced at the father of the bride. He was the real reason I was in this hotel, and I felt bad again for fooling Wes, but not all that much. Terrence Miller wasn’t the only thing keeping me here. “That isn’t true,” I said, thinking about how adorable it was that Wes’s mouth curled up higher on one side than the other when he smiled.

  “I’m sorry anyway … because it was presumptuous. Will an angry boyfriend tackle me on Pennsylvania Avenue when I leave here tonight?”

  “Until recently, that would’ve been possible. But now … you’re completely safe.”

  His eyes lingered on my face. “Then I guess some poor guy is missing out.”

  The waiters returned with salads. We’d been talking so much that our soup had turned cold, so we let it be taken away.

  “What do you do for a living?” Wes asked.

  “I work at a magazine,” I said as I pierced baby field
greens with my fork. “I’m an editorial assistant … and a writer. Sort of, anyway … I’ve only had one short story published. But I have an idea for a novel … and I’ll write it if I can ever find the time.”

  “That’s impressive, Savannah. I couldn’t write a story if my life depended on it.”

  I sipped my water, watching him eat his salad. “It’s not that hard.”

  “Maybe not for you,” he said. “So where was your story published?”

  “It was in Femme … and that’s where I work.”

  He rested his fork on a gold-rimmed plate. “Really? One of my colleagues reads that magazine. She loves it … she even has a subscription. Now I’m even more impressed.”

  “You’ve impressed me, too, Wes. You’re doing such important work … and it’s great that you’re helping single mothers.”

  “I do my best,” he said. “It isn’t easy for them.”

  “I know. I was raised by a single mom.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “Well,” he said after a moment, “she must’ve done her job well. You’re obviously an intelligent and accomplished woman. She has to be proud of having such a beautiful daughter.”

  I wasn’t sure if the flattery was heating me up or if it was because we were so close that the edges of our thighs touched. Or maybe it had something to do with that sexy curve in his upper lip. He’d just pressed his napkin against it to dry a shimmery spot of vinaigrette.

  “She is proud of me. And thanks for the compliment,” I said.

  The waiters returned to clear our plates before the entrée was served. Wes asked where I’d gone to college and he told me that he’d graduated from Dartmouth, he was twenty-seven, and lived outside the city—in a section of Northern Virginia called Old Town, Alexandria.

  “Have you seen any ghosts around?” he asked, giving me a wink. “They claim there’s one here at the Hay-Adams … a socialite who died in 1885. She supposedly shows up on the fourth floor.”

  “Fabulous,” I said with a laugh. “I’m staying on the fourth floor.”

  “I guess she has good taste in hotels. Don’t worry, though … Old Town is rumored to be completely haunted, too, but the tables in my house have never levitated or anything,” he said, and I laughed again. “Have you ever been to Old Town?”

  I shook my head. “This is my first time in D.C.”

  “Is it? Then I’d love to show you around. But you’re probably too busy for the tourist stuff since you’re here for a conference.”

  His offer was tempting, but it didn’t seem right to see him again. I just couldn’t go on deceiving him. So I forced myself to nod, and we went back to conversation and dinner. After that, a wedding cake was rolled out and I heard someone saying the cake had vanilla buttercream frosting and a filling made of almond marzipan and raspberry preserves. Then Terrence Miller rose from his chair, walked to the bride, and escorted her to the middle of the room.

  The band struck its first chord for the father-daughter dance and the lead singer began to croon “I Loved Her First.” The bride gazed adoringly at her father and he beamed at her, and all the guests watched and smiled. But I couldn’t smile, and I had to force myself to watch. I kept thinking I wouldn’t have a dance like that at my wedding reception, and Terrence Miller’s company was partly to blame. Amicus had started this mess, and Edward wasn’t the one who’d let toxic chemicals seep into a lake. And it wasn’t right that some men got to escort their daughters down the aisle and give them weddings and watch their lives unfold when other men would never be able to see their daughters do anything.

  Wes leaned toward me. “This is sweet, isn’t it?”

  A swell of nausea rose from my stomach. “Excuse me,” I said. “I need some air.”

  I stood up and headed for the French doors. Then I was out on the balcony, leaning against the railing and not feeling the cold. I was warm and shaky, and my breath came in short spurts. I tried to calm myself down as I stared at the view—the White House and the city lights that stretched far into the distance.

  I heard the door open behind me and the band playing “Love and Marriage.” When the door clicked shut, everything was quiet again until Wes joined me at the railing.

  “Savannah,” he said, “don’t you want to come back inside? They’re cutting the cake.”

  Almond marzipan and raspberry preserves sounded delicious before, but now the thought of them nearly made me vomit. I shook my head and fixed my gaze on the triangular tip of the Washington Monument. There were lights embedded in it that blinked like two red eyes.

  “Are you okay?” Wes asked. “Did I say something wrong? I’ve been tripping up constantly tonight.”

  I turned toward him, feeling awful that he’d think he was the one who’d done something wrong. “No … you’ve been nothing but charming. I just … I’m not feeling well,” I said, which wasn’t totally dishonest.

  “You should come inside and sit down. Do you think it’s something you ate? I can ask a waiter to bring you a glass of seltzer. That usually helps for—”

  “No,” I said again, turning my head to look through the glass panes on the doors. I saw Terrence Miller visiting the tables, jovially checking up on his guests while waiters distributed cake on plates. My mood dipped as I decided it had been a mistake to come to the reception, because I’d never get a chance to corner him about Edward. This wasn’t the time or the place. His daughter must have been dreaming of today forever, and it had probably been amazing, and I couldn’t spoil that. “It wasn’t something I ate. And I think I better leave.”

  “Okay,” Wes said slowly. “But can I at least walk you to your room?”

  “That isn’t necessary. You should enjoy the rest of the party.”

  He shrugged as he glanced inside and then back at me. “You’re more interesting than the party. You also need someone to protect you from that ghost.”

  I laughed even though I hadn’t expected to. Wes smiled, and a few minutes later we were on the fourth floor and heading to my room.

  “Well,” I said when we reached the door, “thanks for shielding me from the evil spirit.”

  He brushed away a few strands of hair that had flopped onto his forehead. “I don’t think she’s evil. She’s just a poor depressed aristocrat who killed herself. Unfortunately, you’re still not safe … they say she comes around at night and brings the scent of mimosa.”

  I wondered if that was trivia or a ploy to get into my room. “I guess I won’t mind if she pays me a visit,” I said, “since she smells nice.”

  “So do you.”

  His smile hooked up to the left again. He was looking at me with those translucent blue eyes, and I was such a sucker for blue eyes. I felt my cheeks flush as I opened my purse and searched inside for my room key.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked. “You might have a fever … your face is red.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, but he didn’t seem to believe that. He pressed his palm against my forehead.

  “You don’t feel hot,” he said finally, dropping his hand to his side.

  That’s what you think.

  “So,” he went on, “are you sure you can’t play hooky from your conference and let me give you a tour of D.C.? I’m busy tomorrow, but I could take the day off on Monday.”

  It seemed wrong to keep misleading him about the real reason I was here. But I had all week to get to Terrence Miller, and I might not see results anyway, and it would be a shame to let this visit go to waste.

  “I suppose I could skip a day of the conference,” I said. “But I don’t think I can traipse around D.C. with you until I know your full name.”

  “Didn’t I give it to you when we met tonight?” he asked, and I shook my head. “Jeez, I really am burned out from the holidays. I apologize for not properly introducing myself.”

  “That’s okay. I didn’t, either. But you go first.”

  “All right,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Wesley Caldwell.”

&
nbsp; Seventeen

  My breath caught in my chest. I left his hand lingering between us as my mind raced with things he’d said tonight—he’d spent time in Westchester, he aspired to work in politics, and his parents weren’t together. And I remembered W. Caldwell listed as a relative when I researched the Senator online.

  “Are you,” I began, but the words stuck in my throat. I swallowed and tried again. “Are you Senator Caldwell’s son?”

  He smiled and nodded. “Did Gavin tell you that?”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Gavin,” he said, looking at me like I’d gone senile. “We met at his party … remember?”

  Maybe Ned had been right. Maybe I shouldn’t have tried to become a sleuth, because I was embarrassingly incompetent. It was impossible to keep all the lies straight.

  I sighed as a maid passed by, carrying a stack of fresh towels. “Wes,” I said, “we didn’t meet at Gavin’s party. I don’t even know who Gavin is. The truth is we met at your mother’s house in Larchmont before Christmas … I was leaving and you were on your way in.”

  He paused and moved his eyes around the hallway. “That’s right,” he said finally, snapping his fingers and shifting his eyes back to me. “I remember now. But … why didn’t you just say that in the first place?”

  “Because,” I said, “I’m Savannah Morgan.”

  I thought that would be the easiest way to explain. I thought he’d understand, but he just stared at me blankly as confusion clouded his eyes.

  “What does that mean?” he asked. “Are you famous or something?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “I just thought you might’ve heard of me online or—”

  “I don’t surf the Web much. My work keeps me too busy for that.”

  I nodded, feeling stupid. Of course he didn’t know me. He was occupied with important things like protecting women from violent exes and making sure that children of deadbeat fathers were clothed and fed. He had no time to waste on a slimy gossip rag like Nocturnal. And I doubted his mother would ever bring up my name.

  I should have ended the conversation the second I found out who he was. I didn’t want to talk trash about his parents and Amicus, because the things they’d done weren’t his fault. And even though I hadn’t known who Wes was a few hours ago, I shouldn’t have used him as a pawn in my game. Maybe the slimy feeling I had now was my reward for that.