Birthday Girls

by Jean Stone

  She did not do well in Seattle. After a bumpy ferry trip and an even more challenging taxi ride, finally Abigail located Hawthorne’s. From the looks of the exterior, the people inside would hardly know what to do with jewels such as hers. She told the driver to go to the Best Western. Maybe someone there could help.

  If the desk clerk remembered her, he did not say so. He did, however, give her the names of three “upscale, of course,” jewelry stores.

  “We don’t purchase estate jewelry,” the first told her.

  “The man who handles our appraisals is only in on Thursdays,” said the second.

  She got out of the cab at the third, her hopes faded, her nerves as raw as the biting, wet wind. She was down to only a few thousand dollars—this woman who, until only weeks ago, had a net worth of many millions. There was some consolation in the fact that Larry, her betrayer, might be in worse financial shape. The one difference was that he could easily get employment. And if selling her jewels didn’t work, Abigail too would be seeking a job. A job, with no identification, no Social Security number. Cursing herself for being too proud to call on Kris’s friend, she pulled open the brass-handled door of the shop.

  Mr. Watkins was red-faced and portly, with squinty-small eyes that had obviously spent too much time looking through a jeweler’s glass.

  From her handbag Abigail extracted the diamond earrings first. The brooch and bracelet would come only if there was hope.

  He studied the earrings, umming and ahhing.

  Abigail’s eyes darted around the posh store as she tried to stand perfectly still, as she tried not to show her nervousness. The less attention she attracted, the better.

  “Lovely,” the old gent finally said. “Of course, you know, the market for stones such as these is not very large.”

  “Yes,” she said. “But surely they are superior quality.”

  “Superior, yes. Marketable? Not highly. Perhaps in Manhattan or London …”

  “I have matching pieces as well,” she said quickly and dug the velvet case from her bag.

  After what seemed like an eon, Mr. Watkins spoke again. “I would only be able to come close to their value if I took them on consignment.”

  Consignment would not help her a damn. She could not wait a month, or even the year, it might take to sell them.

  “I’d prefer not to wait,” she said, and began to gather up the items. Then she thought about a job and about her only other alternative—going back to New York, going back to her former life. She squeezed her eyes shut. “How much would you give me for them? Not on consignment?”

  He studied them again, his eyes squinting. “One hundred thousand.”

  Abigail’s pulse quickened. “That’s absurd. That’s less than one-tenth their value.”

  Mr. Watkins nodded. “I know that. I’m sorry. These are truly beautiful pieces …”

  She stared at the glass case filled with emeralds and rubies and diamonds that would adorn the fortunate few. The fortunate few, as she had once been. She sucked in her cheeks and bit down on her molars. “I’ll take the money,” she said quietly.

  One hundred thousand dollars would not be enough for her to buy a cottage with a fireplace and a dog, a secondhand four-times-four vehicle or whatever they were called, and an entire new life. She had no idea what to do next.

  • • •

  Back at the bed and breakfast, Abigail returned the umbrella to its rack and headed toward the stairs. When she reached the landing, Joel McKenna called out from below.

  “Sarah,” he said, “I left a note on your door.”

  She stopped and turned around.

  “Right after you went out,” he continued, “you had a phone call. There was no message, but the caller said you’d know who it was.”

  “Good God, girl, don’t you believe in returning phone calls?” Maddie asked as she stepped inside the door of Kris’s Trump Tower penthouse. She was surprised to see that Kris wore no makeup and was dressed only in an oversized shirt. A quick check revealed that her friend’s usually long, vivid acrylic nails had been reduced to pale, unpainted stubs. If this was how Kris looked when she worked, it was no wonder she’d never married.

  Married, Maddie thought, then unbuttoned the buttons of her new deep-brown coat that was trimmed with brown leather—a surprise gift from Parker last week.

  “I’ve been busy,” Kris responded, and shuffled off toward a room filled with papers and books where a computer sat on a dust-covered desk. The computer was not, Maddie noted, turned on.

  “It’s been three weeks since I’ve heard from you,” Maddie said. “Not since that cryptic message you gave my mother about going to Phoenix.” She knew she could have—probably should have—been more persistent about reaching Kris, but there had been the Howard Stem shot, and there had been Parker. She wouldn’t even be in the city now if Parker hadn’t insisted, if he hadn’t alluded to another “surprise.” Maddie knew it was now only a matter of time before he told her he wanted her back. Once that was done, she fully intended to hang up her pumps and return to her sneakers. Being someone she wasn’t was becoming more and more painful each day, though she did like her new hairstyle; she would definitely keep the hairstyle. The hardest parts were ignoring the persistent messages from Cody on her answering machine and driving to the next town to pick up her supplies and avoid seeing him face to face, avoid having to explain about Parker.

  Kris slumped into the chair in front of the dark screen of the computer. “My trip was uneventful. I hoped Louisa might know where our bottle of wishes was. I thought if I could produce Abigail’s wish, the police would get off Edmund’s case. She said she had no idea what Abigail had done with it.”

  “How is Edmund?”

  “Bearing up, I suppose. Sondra had her baby, though. A little boy. And she’s going to be there for Edmund, so I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

  Maddie glanced at the mess in the room. “Better than you, I expect.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “When was the last time you wrote anything?”

  “I’m doing research.”

  Maddie gestured toward the window. “Of the view of Central Park?”

  Kris flung her legs over the arm of the chair. “You don’t know the first thing about it, Maddie.”

  “I know a couple of things. I know you’re a mess. And I know the last time I saw you, I think you had fallen in love with Edmund.” She watched as Kris lowered her eyes.

  “I wasn’t in love with Edmund, Maddie. He was good in bed, that’s all.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Kris. How many times over these last months did you let me know you thought I was an ass for trying to win Parker back? For letting my life revolve around a man?”

  Kris didn’t answer.

  “You’ve got a life, too. A great life. I suggest you get it together before it’s too late.”

  Kris snickered. “Before we turn fifty?”

  “Before you turn into a bigger pile of shit than you already appear to have done.” Maddie turned and took a step toward the door. Kris could behave any way she wanted, but Maddie had an appointment, a life, and a wish that was coming true.

  Because though she’d never admit it to Kris, letting her life revolve around a man was simply more comfortable for Maddie Daniels. More comfortable, like her broken-in sneakers and long dirndl skirt.

  They came into his office armed with briefcases and a large cardboard box.

  Larry looked up from the notes he was compiling for the book about Abigail. He’d been working on a chapter about the night of the Emmy awards, the night when Abigail—not Larry—had strutted to the stage to receive the statue, when Abigail—not Larry—had won the applause. The night that his world had fallen apart. But now the humiliation was about to pay off. He didn’t need Sondra; he didn’t need anyone. Larry could come out a winner all on his own.

  “Gentlemen?” h
e asked as the three men entered without knocking. One he recognized as Murray Cooper, legal counsel for Hardy Enterprises. “Did we have an appointment?”

  “Effective immediately,” Murray Cooper announced, “your services are no longer required.”

  Larry leaned back in his chair and laughed. “Really, Murray, don’t you have people to sue or something?”

  “This isn’t a joke, Larry. The board has unanimously agreed. You have been ousted.”

  Sweat began to ooze from his armpits. “This is impossible. The company can’t run without me.”

  “The corporation is being dissolved. Abigail Hardy is dead. Her stepdaughter has rescinded her decision to take her place.”

  He jumped from his chair and leaned over his desk. “You … can’t … do … this …”

  Murray slapped down a paper in front of him. “I haven’t done anything, Larry. They have. These gentlemen have come to help you clear out your things and escort you from the offices.”

  Deep in his stomach, a bowling ball rolled. “I’ll sue,” he said flatly.

  Murray laughed. “Sorry. No one will be left to sue. It’s over, Larry. Pack up.”

  The villa in Spain danced before his eyes. The villa. Grady. The millions. The debts. He glanced down at the notes on his desk. “I’m writing a book …” he stammered.

  “We know about the book. I suggest you forget it. No one will want to hear gossip about Abigail. Especially if the world were to learn the methods you tried to use to capitalize on her death.”

  “I’m not the one who had a seedy affair; Edmund did!”

  The men stared but did not respond.

  “And … and if you ask me,” he stammered, his breath shallow, an ache crawling through his chest and tightening his rib cage like an old woman’s corset, “he killed her, too.”

  The men stared.

  The corset tightened.

  Larry wondered if he was having a heart attack. Wasn’t he too young to have a heart attack?

  He looked at the men. He wanted to ask if he was pale, or red-faced, or dying.

  But the men stood like statues. Waiting.

  Statues. Like the Emmy. The Emmy that was rightfully his.

  He opened his desk drawer. He stared inside at the collection of clippings and photos and mementos of ten years as Abigail’s slave.

  He closed the drawer. “There is something I need from Abigail’s office. An award … it was mine …” He sounded as if he were pleading. Begging. The way he used to beg to Abigail. “Please …” he said in a voice that was barely a whisper.

  Murray looked at the men. “It’s all right, Larry. We’ll wait here. Get the award. Bring it right back.”

  He slipped past them and crossed the hall. The hall he had crossed so many times. Back and forth. Back and forth. The slave at her beck and call.

  Her office was empty, as quiet as Abigail in her grave in the sludge of the Hudson. Larry went to the statue; it stood there alone, dusty now, alone. He read the inscription: “Best Network Special. Abigail Hardy.” Not Larry Kaminski.

  He picked up the brass statue and silently whispered, “Mother. Oh, Mother. I did this! for you.”

  Then he walked toward the French doors, went out onto the terrace, and with the Emmy in hand, climbed up on the railing and stepped into the air, twenty-eight flights above the pavement where his body was about to come to a splattering halt.

  Kris meandered down Fifth Avenue, huddled in her warm coat, staring aimlessly into the shop windows that were dressed in red hearts, lace, and cupids for the fast-approaching Valentine’s Day. The day of love.

  She wondered if Maddie was right. Had she fallen in love with Abigail’s husband? Was that her problem?

  There was no doubt this was depression. It was a new feeling for Kris to not want to work, not want to go out, not want to be part of life. After Maddie had left, Kris remained in the same chair for over an hour, not moving, not caring, not … anything.

  She stopped now at Carrier’s display window and gazed at the rubies waterfalling on velvet, as though the sparkling jewels held an answer, as though their color and facets could Prozac her mind.

  You’re a mess, Maddie had said. And, damn, she was right. She’d let her life be turned upside down and inside out. And Maddie was right about one more thing: it was because of a man; it was because of Edmund.

  Abigail, she whispered into the reflection of the mess of a woman she barely recognized. Abigail, what the hell have you done to me?

  Suddenly Kris felt someone’s eyes on her. She flinched and looked up. The doorman was staring with unfriendly eyes. Move along, he seemed to say.

  She glanced back at the window. Yes, Maddie was right. She was a mess. She looked like a homeless person. Not like Kris Kensington. The Kris Kensington who had been happy, loving life and having it all.

  Quickly she turned and marched back up Fifth Avenue. This was not going to happen to her. She was not going to allow herself to be destroyed by her feelings for any man.

  They shared a wonderful lunch of fresh pasta with basil and oil. Maddie didn’t say much; she was too busy studying Parker as he went on and on about the boys, about Bobby’s enthusiasm for everything, about Timmy’s quiet talent for photography. But when he talked about Our World, a vise gripped her heart.

  “For years we’ve been succeeding with the original format,” he said.

  She sipped her espresso and tried not to comment that the original format, of course, had been her idea.

  “And it’s been great,” he continued. “But I think it’s time for something new, something fresh. I’m thinking of including a section on grand estates of the world.”

  “Grand estates?” Maddie asked.

  Parker winked. “Something to give our readers goals to aspire to. And something to keep those big-bucks advertisers from jumping ship.”

  “Is the magazine having problems?”

  “None that I can’t handle.”

  When they left the restaurant, he took her arm and guided her down 43rd Street.

  “Have I told you how wonderful you’re looking these days?” he asked.

  A tingle spread through her. “A few times.”

  Parker smiled. “I’d like to stop by the office. Will you come?”

  Maddie felt herself gasp. “To Our World?”

  He laughed. “Yeah. Remember that place?”

  She grinned to conceal the churning within her stomach.

  They greeted her warmly, as though Parker had let the staff know in advance that his ex-wife, the founder of Our World and the person responsible for them having jobs, was going to accompany him. Despite their efforts, Maddie stood a few feet behind her ex-husband feeling like an interloper.

  “Come down the hall,” he said. “There’s something I want to show you.”

  She followed him down the long corridor, with walls displaying photos snapped all over the world by freelance photographers whom Parker paid handsomely. Maddie recognized every shot. In fact, she could almost remember each issue of every magazine in which they had appeared, she had studied them so often in the privacy of her studio.

  They passed the editorial room, where dozens of small cubicles hummed with chatter and the clack-clack of keyboards. She tried to quiet the soft thumping of her heart and told herself this was real, that she was really here, back where life had been good.

  It was, of course, much larger. Parker had expanded the office suite many times over the years. She tried not to let herself think about the fact he’d spared no expense, while she was struggling to keep the boys, and herself, financially afloat.

  “In here,” Parker said, opening an office door.

  It was, thankfully, not the office that Maddie had once occupied, not the place where she’d nourished her dream only to watch it fall apart. It was a corner office with a twelfth-floor view of the bustle of the city. It was large and bright and completely empty.

  “Do you like it?” Parker asked.

  “We
ll, it could use a little decorating.”

  He laughed. “However you’d like. It’s yours, Maddie. I want you to come back to Our World.”

  She grew weak. Lightheaded and weak. She stepped back and leaned against the wall.

  “Creative Director,” he continued. “Vice President, Creative Director.”

  She could not think; she could not speak. That now-too-familiar ache began at the base of her skull.

  Parker stepped toward her and wrapped his arms around her. “I thought you could start by doing a spread on Abigail’s estate. Part of my new idea. It would be a great kick-off for the new approach.”

  Maddie frowned. “Abigail’s house?”

  “Yeah. What’s it called? Windsor-at-Hudson?”

  Standing very still, Maddie replied, “On-Hudson. Windsor-on-Hudson.”

  “Whatever. You can do it, Maddie. You’re probably the only photographer on earth today who can gain entrance to the estate.”

  Her lips went dry; a small taste of pesto rose from her tongue. “Oh, Parker, I don’t think …”

  His gray eyes remained on her, his mouth curved into a smile. “I need you, Maddie,” he said, pulling her closer. “Please say yes. Say yes and all this will be ours once again.”

  “Can you trust him?” Cody asked, moving about his apartment with quick-jerk motions, picking up newspapers strewn on the sofa, straightening pictures that did not need straightening.

  Maddie had come here directly from the train. The camera shop had closed for the night, but she needed to tell Cody why she hadn’t returned his calls; she needed to tell him the truth, and she needed to tell him now. Before she lost her nerve.

  “Of course I trust him,” she said weakly. “I was married to him for ten years. He’s the father of my boys.”

  Cody nodded. He pulled the cushions from the sofa and beat them into shape.

  “I’m sorry if I hurt you, Cody,” she said. “I never meant to do that.”

  “You expected I’d be the one to hurt you, didn’t you? You expected the young boy wouldn’t stay with an older woman.”