Two of a Kind

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  Bill gave her coat to a maid, made noises about her dress, and then was distracted by the arrival of another couple. Andy snagged them each a glass of wine from the waiter who was circling the room with a tray. Christina sipped her drink as Andy led her around the living room, introducing her to one colleague after another. Most of the names blended into one another—Hershkowitz, Meyerson, Schaffer, Shengold, Kornblatt, Klotz, Shapiro, and the noticeable outcasts, Ko and Sullivan. The women mostly wore short cocktail dresses and lots of jewelry, though she did notice a gaunt woman with a pixie cut in a pair of flowing silk palazzo pants.

  Christina shook hands and smiled but did not attempt to join the noisy group gathered around their host. One of the guests was telling a joke that had something to do with a young woman’s breasts; the punch line was, “Of course they’re mine; I paid for them!” Although Andy laughed, Christina backed away and turned her focus to the room, which was less the product of intentional decoration than one of organic evolution. One wall was covered, floor to ceiling, with bookshelves. An upright piano dominated another. An oil portrait of two little girls hung next to a series of framed black-and-white photographs; the portrait made her think of the Sargent painting and of Derrick, who had mysteriously disappeared. But she would not let her worry about him ruin her evening, and she forced herself to focus on the wall’s other painting, which was all stick figures and primary colors—the work, no doubt, of a beloved child. The furniture was an eclectic mix—a chesterfield sofa, assorted club and wing chairs, a marble-topped coffee table. The rugs too were a hodgepodge—kilims, Persians, and one that might have been an Aubusson. Even with its imperfections, there was something so pleasing about a room like this; it had a soul. She walked over to the windows in the living room. Though it was dark outside, she could make out a view of the Hudson River, and beyond that, the Palisades.

  Another burst of laughter erupted behind her, but she had no desire to be in on the joke. This seemed like a raucous crowd, not her sort of people at all. But as Andy had promised, they would have their own private celebration later on. Ida was spending the night at Andy’s apartment with Oliver, and Jordan was with Alexis, so they had the whole evening—and next morning—together. She planned to wear the peach satin nightgown Andy had given her for her birthday—just thinking about it excited her.

  Christina turned away from the window and wandered into the dining room. A long table in the middle of the room offered a staggering assortment of food and the sideboard held platters of sweets. Directly above were shelves crammed with decorative porcelain and china. Christina went straight over to see them better. A stunning collection of yellowware bowls far surpassed her own. There were also pieces of Bennington, with its distinctive splatter glaze, as well as Rockingham, with the drippy brown glaze that resembled maple syrup. Her gaze traveled over sleek and surprisingly modern-looking white ironstone pitchers, iridescent lusterware creamers, and cookie jars shaped, respectively, like an owl, a pelican, and the face of a clown. What an assortment; whoever had assembled them had a great eye.

  “So you like the tchotchkes too?”

  Christina turned to see an elegant woman with a gray pageboy and a cluster of amber beads gleaming on the front of her black dress.

  “Excuse me?” Christina did not know what she was talking about.

  “Tchotchkes? Bric-a-brac?”

  “I certainly do,” Christina said, enlightened now. “This is your collection?”

  “It’s more of a work in progress. I’m always looking for the next big find. Whenever I bring home a new piece, Bill says, ‘Jane, not again.’ In the end, he always indulges me, though.”

  “It’s like an addiction, isn’t it? The collecting, I mean.”

  “Or an obsession.”

  “A magnificent obsession,” Christina said.

  “Exactly! For some of us, it’s not about stuff. It’s about the hunt. And the hunt is just a portal to the past.”

  “I know what you mean,” Christina said, warming to her. It would be fun to go “hunting” with this woman.

  The woman smiled. “I’m sorry—I didn’t even introduce myself. I’m Jane Gottlieb.”

  “I assumed,” said Christina. Jane must have been elsewhere when she and Andy came in.

  “And you are . . . ?”

  “Christina Connelly; I came with Andy Stern.”

  “Oh, you’re Andy’s new lady friend!” Jane seemed delighted. “I can’t tell you how glad we are to meet you. We’ve known Andy for years and when Rachel died . . .” She paused. “Well, let’s just say it was a bad patch. So we were thrilled when he told us he was bringing you tonight.”

  “Are you a doctor too?” asked Christina.

  “Lord, no! I couldn’t stomach the sight of blood; even getting an injection makes me woozy. The thought of administering one . . . No, I’m in public relations and marketing. I have my own firm. And you?”

  When Christina told her, Jane said, “Didn’t you do Angelica Silverstein’s apartment?”

  “I did,” said Christina.

  “I adore her place; you did a fabulous job!” Jane reached out to touch the arm of the woman in the palazzo pants. “Flora, this is the decorator who did Angelica Silverstein’s place.” For the next twenty minutes, Christina felt quite the star; it seemed that her work had been noticed—and admired—more widely than she knew. One of the more flashily dressed women in the group—strapless red satin, triple strand of pearls, four-inch red patent leather heels—asked for her card. The woman studied it and then extended her hand. “Ginny Valentine. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Are you that Ginny Valentine? The ballerina?”

  “Former ballerina, but yes, that’s me.”

  “I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to meet you! I’ve seen you in so many things—The Four Temperaments, Concerto Barocco—”

  “You do know your Balanchine, don’t you?” said Ginny.

  “I’m a balletomane from way back,” Christina said. “And my daughter’s studying at SAB now; she’s fifteen. Wait until she hears I’ve met you!”

  “Fifteen!” breathed Ginny. “Oh, to be fifteen again, and have it all ahead of you—instead of behind.”

  “What’s your connection to the host?” Christina asked. Obviously she wasn’t a doctor.

  “My husband works at the hospital. I’m the token ‘artist’ in the room. Or retired artist anyway.” She tipped her head back to finish the wine in her glass. “How about you? You’re not one of them either.”

  “I’m with Andy Stern,” said Christina. She couldn’t decide whether Ginny sounded wistful, bitter, or both. But dancers had short careers and Ginny Valentine’s had been longer and more illustrious than most. Was this the best Jordan could hope for?

  “Ah, Andy,” said Ginny. She signaled to a waiter for a refill. “He treated me, you know.”

  “I didn’t, actually.”

  “Oh yes. I had a couple of miscarriages and everyone said, If you want a baby, he’s the one who can help you.”

  “I see.” Andy had never mentioned that a former ballerina from the NYCB had been his patient. But then, he was very discreet, even protective of the women he saw.

  “He was . . . magnificent,” said Ginny. The waiter had poured her a refill and she began to make her way through it quickly. “But it was no use. I was just too old and I kept losing them, one after the other. I decided to stop trying.” She drained the glass.

  “I’m sorry,” murmured Christina. How sad. She could imagine Andy as having been . . . magnificent . . . even if Ginny had not ended up with a baby.

  “Don’t be! I would have made a terrible mother anyway. I had my career and it was a damned good one. You don’t get to have everything, do you? No one does.” She looked steadily at Christina. “Didn’t you say you had a daughter at SAB? What if I give you an autograph for her? Do you think she’d lik
e that? What’s her name?” Without waiting for a reply, Ginny set down her glass and rummaged through her red satin evening purse for a pen; she wrote her name with a bold flourish on a paper cocktail napkin and handed it to Christina just as the other guests began filing into the room.

  Christina spotted Jane as she made her way toward the brass menorah on the sideboard; Christina had been so busy first admiring her collections and then talking to Ginny that she hadn’t noticed it before. It was a beautiful, singular-looking object, ornately worked with a pair of lions flanking either end. Christina guessed it was from the early nineteenth or even late eighteenth century. Jane Gottlieb knew her—what was the word?—tchotchkes. Right now, she was saying a prayer as she lit each candle and when all eight were ablaze, the effect was dazzling.

  Then covers came off the chafing dishes and people began lining up to fill their plates. Christina saw carved meat and a noodle dish—brisket and kugel according to Andy. A group of waiters began filing in, each with a silver tray held aloft. They carried platters of something that looked fried and golden. “Latkes—potato pancakes,” said Andy.

  “Oh—right,” she said. She had never actually tasted one. When she did, it was delicious—the contrast of the salty pancake and the sweet applesauce was just perfect.

  “We’ll have dinner here but dessert back at the hotel,” Andy said. “How does that sound?”

  “Lovely,” she said, thinking of the peach nightgown. “But I’m going to have one more pancake. They are so good.” She signaled to the waiter, who approached with the tray. Someone must have bumped him from behind, though, because suddenly, the tray was upended and Christina was covered in a cascade of latkes.

  “Oh no!” she cried. She could feel the warmth of the oily latkes through her dress and she prayed the velvet would not stain.

  “Jesus, that’s the second time your dress gets ruined when you’re with me,” Andy said, brushing the latkes to the floor, where the mortified waiter, babbling apologies, knelt to clean them up.

  “What happened?” Jane Gottlieb hurried over. “Are you all right?”

  “Perfectly fine,” Christina said with a smile. “I hope this doesn’t deplete your latke supply, though.”

  “Aren’t you a dear!” Jane exclaimed. “Of course I’ll pay for the cleaning of your dress; I’ll even replace it!”

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Christina said. She did not want to tell Jane—or anyone else—that one of the latkes had actually slipped down the scoop neck of the Chanel and was now lodged somewhere between the bottom of her bra and the top of her slip. “But I’d love to wash up; can you point me toward the bathroom?”

  Once safely behind the closed door, Christina fished out the offending latke. Now what? There was a painted tin wastebasket—empty of course—in one corner; it seemed somehow wrong to deposit the latke there. So she broke it into tiny pieces and flushed it down the toilet. When she emerged, Andy and Jane were waiting.

  “Everything all right?” said Jane anxiously.

  “Just fine—you can’t even see a mark on the dress.” She hoped this was true; velvet spotted so easily.

  “Well, there’s still the smell. You’ll have it cleaned and send the bill to me.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Christina said. “No harm done.”

  Jane turned to Andy. “This one is a keeper!”

  After dinner, the guests meandered back into the living room, where Bill sat down at the piano. Christina was not familiar with most of the music—folk songs, some in Yiddish—but she had to love Bill, pounding the keys with abandon as the guests sang along.

  It wasn’t until they had said their good-byes and were out on the street that Christina told Andy about the latke in her dress. He started to laugh and then she laughed too—it really was funny. “Thanks for being such a good sport,” he said. “It means a lot to me that the Gottliebs like you.”

  “I like them,” Christina said. “Maybe we’ll all have dinner together sometime.” She did not mention Ginny Valentine but experienced a private rush of, what—pleasure? Pride even?—when she remembered her praise. Could this night, and others like it, become familiar parts of her life’s pattern? She reached for Andy’s hand and held it tightly; at this moment, she ardently hoped so.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Andy had no trouble hailing a taxi to take them across town and to the Carlyle Hotel. There was very little traffic and the cab sped through the darkened park and downtown, but when they reached Fifth Avenue and Seventy-eighth Street, they were suddenly stalled by a tangle of cars. Horns blared and honked; the driver stuck his head out the window to see what was going on. “Accident,” he said when he pulled his head back in. “Who knows how long we’ll be stuck here?”

  “We can just get out and walk,” Andy said as he paid the driver. “It’s only a few blocks.” They continued east on Seventy-second Street to Madison Avenue and then turned south. The shop windows were filled with bright, holiday displays. “Look at that,” Christina said. Eager as she was to get to the hotel, she couldn’t help but notice the large cameo in the simple gold oval and she had to stop. “Isn’t it lovely?” What had she said to Jane? Addiction? Obsession? The cameo was suspended from a braided gold chain and showed a woman in profile. Tiny grapes were carved into her flowing curls; her lips were parted in a smile.

  “You like that?” Andy asked.

  “You seem surprised.”

  “It seems kind of plain to me. Don’t most women prefer something with more bling?”

  “Do I strike you as being like most women?”

  “Hardly,” he said, and when he pulled her close for a kiss in the nearly empty street, she surrendered to it completely.

  They were at the hotel in minutes. Like the first time they had come here, Andy had dropped off their luggage in advance, but this time he used his real name to register. “I want people to know about us,” he said. “I want everyone to know.” When they got upstairs, she was ready to slip into the bathroom to change into the new nightgown, but he stopped her. “Didn’t you want to have dessert?” he asked.

  “Well, yes, but I don’t see any reason—” She stopped when she heard a knock at the door. “Who could that be?” she asked.

  “Room service,” he said. He opened the door and a busboy rolled in a cart and then began to arrange things, including a covered pot with a Bunsen burner, on the table. Christina was silent until Andy had tipped him and locked the door behind him. Then he motioned for her to come over. “Chocolate fondue,” he said, lifting the cover.

  “That looks delicious,” she said as the aroma of the heated chocolate wafted toward her. She was glad she had avoided the jelly doughnuts at the Gottliebs’.

  “Oh, it will be,” he said. “We can put it on any of this—” He uncovered a platter of sliced fruit and pound cake. “Or we can put it other places. . . .” He slid a finger in the chocolate and held it up to her lips. “Happy birthday, darling.” Christina leaned closer and was just about to take his finger in her mouth when the sound of his phone fractured the mood.

  “Damn,” he said. He licked the chocolate from his own finger and answered. For a few seconds he listened quietly. Then he said, “How much blood?” Another silence. “Okay,” he said. “Try to stay calm. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He clicked off.

  “Who was that?” she said, but she didn’t have to ask; she knew. Andy had given his cell phone number to that famous singer; she had called him before when they were together. The first or second time it happened, Christina teased him about having a crush on her; he got so red-faced and flustered that she realized she had struck a nerve. She stopped teasing him—and started resenting the singer instead.

  “Xiomara,” he said, and went into the bathroom to rinse his finger. “She’s staining and she’s a wreck. I’m just going to meet her at the hospital and get her settled. Then I’ll be
right back—back to you.” He came over and leaned down for a kiss, but she turned her face away. “Christina, don’t be like that. I don’t want to leave you, but this is an emergency.”

  “You’re not on call tonight,” she said. “You told me that.”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “And it’s my birthday! Doesn’t she understand that you have a life? That you’re not at her beck and call twenty-four/seven?”

  “Who said anything about being at her beck and call? She’s very anxious; you can understand that, can’t you?”

  “What I understand is that you’re choosing her over me. Again.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” He crossed his arms defensively over his chest.

  “This isn’t the first time she’s called and this isn’t the first time you’ve dropped everything for her.”

  “I take my work—and my patients—very seriously.”

  “Yes. And some patients more seriously than others. Xiomara is the only one who has your private cell phone number. The only one!”

  “She’s a special case for all kinds of reasons.” When Christina didn’t reply, he added, “Rachel never complained.”

  “Maybe Rachel was a doormat.”

  “That’s low. Really low.” He picked up his coat. “I wouldn’t have expected that from you, Christina.”

  This was a cue to apologize, but she wasn’t taking it; she was too angry. “So you’re really going?”

  “I told you I’d be back as soon as I can.”

  “Don’t count on my being here,” she said.

  He shook his head. “You are blowing this totally out of proportion. But I don’t have time to fight with you now.” And then he was gone.

  Christina stared at the door after he’d closed it. Should she make good on her threat and leave? She was certainly angry enough. But when she started gathering up her things, she saw the peach nightgown and sank down on the bed. More than angry, she was disappointed. Was this what it would be like with him? There would always be a Xiomara—or her equivalent. Just a little while ago, she could see them as a unit, their two lives woven seamlessly together. Now she wasn’t so sure.