New Money

by Lorraine Zago Rosenthal

  Jack’s lips spread into a grin. His teeth weren’t perfect like Alex’s—they were crowded close together in his mouth—but his smile was still charming. “I’m just a regular guy, Savannah. And this is a great restaurant. But I have to admit,” he said, lowering his voice like he was sharing a dark secret, “Nobu is my favorite place for Japanese food … and I go there a lot, even though it’s not as trendy as it used to be.”

  I almost laughed. He was so far from being a regular guy, and his trendiness concern was adorable. “I wouldn’t know the difference. I’ve never eaten Japanese food before,” I said, glancing around at other tables. “Why doesn’t anyone have a menu?”

  “There isn’t one. We’re subject to the chef’s whims.”

  He said that lightly, like it was amusing and exciting. But it made me nervous. And when the food came, I stared at plates filled with seafood that I couldn’t name.

  “Sorry,” I said, hoping Jack wouldn’t think I was crass and ignorant and ungrateful. “This is all so fancy, but … I guess I’m used to common, American food. My favorite restaurant in Charleston is the Hominy Grill.”

  “The Hominy Grill,” he said with a smile. “And what’s on the menu there?”

  “Oh, you know … simple things like fried chicken and shrimp Creole. Personally, I’m addicted to the grits.”

  “I’ve never actually had grits,” Jack said as he sipped sake. “Maybe you can introduce me to them sometime. But for now … a new experience is waiting for you right here.”

  I got the point. I was holding on to grits because I feared bluefin tuna tartare and fried fugu. But I shouldn’t have been so narrow-minded, because everything turned out to be interesting and delicious and excitingly new.

  “Tell me more about yourself,” Jack said when we were finished with dinner and eating grapefruit granité. “You haven’t given much away about what brought you to New York. I know you’re a writer and you’re working at a magazine, but—”

  “That’s all there is to it,” I said. I didn’t want to spoil tonight with talk of Virginia and Ned and Caroline and my illegitimate birth. “Have you lived here your whole life?”

  He nodded, circling the rim of a teacup with his finger. “The Upper East Side, the Hamptons … same monotonous routine for thirty-one long years. But now,” he said staring at me as his blondish-brown hair skimmed his brow, “I’m looking for something unique.”

  *

  Jack paid the bill at Masa with a thick wad of cash he took out of a leather wallet that looked ready to burst. Then we rode in a taxi to a jazz club inside an old building all the way down on Murray Street. It had a bar, brick walls, and a singer with a dulcet voice. Her face was sweaty and strained while she sang about something tragic and lost that tied my stomach in knots.

  Jack bent toward me as we sat at a small table in the back. “Do you like it?”

  I nodded, slipping out of my blazer. The singer switched to a happier tune and Jack ordered a single malt, neat. I kept away from the booze because I was still recovering from the previous night, and I’d just asked the waitress for a virgin piña colada when a guy in a suit came by and spoke to Jack. Jack introduced me, and he had to do it more than five times because men and women kept stopping at our table to shake Jack’s hand or to give him a hug or a kiss or a slap on the back. The proud way he showed me off to everyone and the envious looks I got from lots of ladies made me feel like something special. And the music reminded me of the glamorous F. Scott Fitzgerald novels I’d read in high school. I felt like I was sitting next to Jay Gatsby.

  A woman stopped at the table. She was gracefully tall and incredibly thin, dressed in jeans and a red halter that showcased her toned arms and her glowing skin. Her side-parted hair was long and black and shiny, and a section of it cascaded over her left eye.

  “Bonsoir,” she said.

  She and Jack started speaking French. I was clueless as to what they were saying, but his curt replies gave me the feeling that he didn’t want her around. I wondered why, since she was exotic and exquisite and seemed very friendly.

  “Angelique,” he said, “this is Savannah.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she said in an enchanting accent. She exchanged a few more words with Jack, and soon she walked away to join a crowded table at the other side of the room.

  “Who was that?” I asked. “She’s stunning.”

  Jack finished off his scotch. “She’s my ex-girlfriend who I asked to marry me a few months ago. I’d already bought a house for us … I guess I was too confident about the whole thing. All I ended up with is an overpriced engagement ring.”

  He slammed down his glass and called the waitress over so he could order another drink. Then he swigged Scotch with one hand and drummed his fingers against his knee with the other as he stared at the stage where the singer was crooning.

  I touched the cuff of Jack’s crisp white shirt and leaned toward him. “Just because she turned you down doesn’t mean she didn’t love you. Maybe it wasn’t the right time.”

  He slowly turned toward me. “How do you know?”

  “From experience,” I said, and told him just a few facts about Jamie.

  “Well,” he said when I was done, “I think Angelique had other reasons, and our situation was very different … but I’m glad you shared yours. I’ve had the feeling that you were holding something back.”

  That was true. I hadn’t even told him who I really was. “I should be more honest. But my story has some ugly parts that don’t belong in a beautiful night like this.”

  He cupped my chin in his hand. “I’m sorry you’ve ever had to go through anything ugly.”

  His thumb moved back and forth across my skin, sending a spark from my feet through my stomach and into my head. “I like the way you speak French,” I said.

  “And I like the way you speak South Carolina.”

  I laughed, settled into my chair, listened to the music, and chatted with Jack until I glanced at my watch, shocked that it was after midnight.

  “I hate to leave,” I said, “but I have to work in the morning.”

  He nodded, reached into his pocket, and pulled more cash out of his wallet. He tossed the money onto the table, and then we left the club and were back on Murray Street, where the air was strangely still and silent. All I heard was a muffled saxophone and a car alarm screeching in the distance.

  “I know you want to get going,” Jack said as we stood by the curb to hail a taxi. “But if you don’t mind a quick detour, I’d love to show you my home.”

  A cab stopped. Jack walked toward it, but I stayed where I was, thinking that during the past two years in Charleston I’d never gone to a man’s house after a date. I’d been invited, but I’d known what those guys were expecting and I had no interest in giving it to them, especially after a night of beer and discount onion rings. I wondered if Jack felt entitled to something since he’d spent lots of cash and gotten me into an exclusive restaurant without a reservation. Maybe there was a price for going to the front of the line.

  He opened the cab door and turned toward me. “I had the place renovated and decorated … but I’m not sure if I got my money’s worth. Angelique never saw it, and I need a woman’s opinion.”

  Was that really what he needed? But if it was something else, he could get it from beautiful, lanky women who spoke fluent French. And I didn’t want this night to end, so I took a chance and slipped into the cab.

  Eleven

  The taxi driver took us to a quiet neighborhood on the Upper East Side with elegant four-story brownstone homes and expensive cars lining the street. Then I was inside Jack’s house, which had classy furniture, high ceilings, huge windows, and gleaming wood floors. After Jack gave me a full tour, we stood in the hallway on the second level, where he leaned against the spindle railing that framed a curving staircase. He’d taken off his jacket and his tie, unbuttoned the top of his shirt, and rolled up his sleeves.

  “It’s perfect,” I said. “This
house is a dream.”

  He gently latched his fingers around my wrist. “So are you.”

  I smiled as I studied his straight nose and the crescent-moon dimples that formed at each side of his mouth when he smiled back at me. Without thinking, I lifted my free hand and traced one of them with my finger.

  He pulled me close to him, ran his fingers through my hair, and kissed me. I tasted cinnamon and Scotch, and it had been so long since I’d felt soft lips and strong hands that I thought I might dissolve into the carpet.

  He started walking, guiding me backward, kissing me all the way into a room decorated simply, with dark walls and a king-size bed that was neatly made with fresh white linens. Matching pillows were lined up against a headboard covered in black silk, and a lamp in the corner lit the room with a soft, silvery glow. I glanced at everything quickly, then closed my eyes again, wrapped my arms around Jack, and went on kissing as he guided me down to the bed, where my back pressed against the sheets and my hair fanned out across the pillows. It felt cool and soft there and I didn’t want this to stop, but I was afraid to keep going. I was rusty. Jamie was all I knew. And I wanted to be sure Jack cared about me before I did something that would make me care too much about him. So I opened my eyes and moved my mouth away from his.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked as he leaned over me. His eyes were shimmering.

  He was gorgeous, and I was embarrassed. He was probably accustomed to women who’d fling their G-strings onto this bed and swing naked from the crystal chandelier downstairs. I doubted he’d ever met a twenty-four-year-old with only one name on her list of conquests. I pushed my hair out of my face and hoped sweat stains weren’t spreading all over my shirt.

  “I don’t want you to think that just because I came here tonight, I’m … I mean, I…”

  I stopped. He stared at me for a moment, like he wasn’t used to women holding back. But then he reached for my hand and squeezed my fingers in his. “I understand,” he said. “You’re a lady. And I’m a gentleman. So we’ll get to know each other and take things slow.”

  That was what I wanted to hear, and it made him even hotter. “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Don’t worry, Savannah. I’ll be a good boy.”

  I smiled. He kissed me again, and he was very good. He also kept his word to take things slow—his kisses were careful and deep and lingering, and they left me craving what we might do right here in this bed as long as I was sure it wouldn’t be a onetime thing.

  “Hey,” Jack said softly.

  My eyes opened. I loved the sound of his breathy voice. I knew we’d been caught up in each other for a while, but I was surprised at how long it had been when I glanced at the clock on his night table. “Hmm?” I said dreamily. My entire body was so relaxed that it was hard to talk.

  He smiled down at me. His rapt attention felt like sunshine on my face. “We’d better go downstairs … or I might not be able to keep my promise.”

  I gave him a knowing grin. Jack straightened up, sat at the edge of the bed, and moved his eyes to my hair spread across the pillow. He picked up a section of it and ran it through his fingers, sending a warm quiver through me. “Want to watch TV?” he asked, his voice still low and whispery. “I bought a gigantic flat screen, and I’ve only turned it on twice.”

  I laughed. “You spend too much time at the office.”

  He shifted his eyes back to my face. “Maybe you can help me break that habit. I think you have the power to distract me.”

  *

  I sat on a leather couch in Jack’s living room, listening to a microwave beep in the kitchen. I smelled something burning, and then Jack sat beside me and put a glass bowl filled with popcorn on the coffee table.

  I chuckled at the burnt kernels at the bottom of the bowl. “Do you eat out a lot?”

  “I eat out or order in every single night. I’m useless in the kitchen.”

  “Then I admire your effort. I’ll have to reciprocate by making you grits for breakfast,” I said as I picked out a few kernels of popcorn that had avoided getting scorched and shoved them into my mouth.

  He raised an eyebrow. My face went hot and I choked on the popcorn. I’d sounded as if I was planning to spend the night, even though I’d already gone to so much trouble establishing that we weren’t going to wake up next to each other in the morning.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” I said between coughs. “I meant … if I ever come over for breakfast … like on a Sunday … then I can…”

  He headed for the kitchen, came back with a glass of ice water, and stuck it in my hand as he crouched in front of me and reached around to pat my back. “I know what you meant,” he said with a beguiled grin while I drank and coughed. “You’re cute when you blush.”

  I leaned into the couch, cleared my throat, and gathered my hair into a knot at the nape of my sweaty neck. “You make me nervous,” I admitted.

  He got up and sat beside me. “Why’s that?”

  I pointed to the abstract art on the walls, the fine lamps, the Ferrari key chain on the coffee table. There was even a framed photo of him in climbing gear as he stood on a mountain’s snowy peak, surrounded by clouds. “Look at all this stuff. Look at you. You speak French.”

  He opened the second button on his shirt, and I tried not to stare at his smooth, tan skin. “It isn’t all that impressive. I never even wanted to learn … but my mother demanded I start studying when I was six years old. She even used to make me wear a suit for my lessons. It was so fucking humiliating.” He held up his hand. “Sorry. Excuse the language.”

  More proof that he was a gentleman. “Go on,” I said.

  He snatched a cushion from the couch and shoved it behind his back. “As if the suit wasn’t enough agony, the lessons were on Saturday afternoons. For ten years, I had to go to this spooky old apartment in the Village and sit for hours with a sour old lady who’d scream at me and force me to write vocabulary words a hundred times if my pronunciation didn’t meet with her approval.”

  “That’s plain evil,” I said, my heart aching at the thought.

  “I know.” He twisted his watch. “Anyway … one time I was coming home on the subway after one of her torture sessions … I was twelve … and I got my ass kicked by a gang of kids from the Bronx who thought it’d be fun to beat up some little wimp in a designer suit and shiny shoes. One of them was a girl. Can you imagine?”

  I held my hand over my mouth, horrified at the image of a well-dressed blond boy getting punched and kicked and degraded on the floor of a dirty subway car.

  “That’s terrible,” I said. “Did you tell your mother?”

  He shrugged. “I just pretended I fell down the steps at the station.”

  He was still fiddling with his watch, and his eyes were on his wrist. I reached out and smoothed his hair, wanting to ask why he’d pretended. But it just felt like I shouldn’t.

  “The lessons paid off,” I said. “I’m very impressed by your French.”

  He looked at me and smiled. His dimples were so deep. “Hey,” he said as he stood up, “want to watch a movie? I’ve got an extensive collection of old films.” He walked to a cabinet beside the TV, opened it, and started reciting titles—Ghost, Father of the Bride, Sleepless in Seattle.

  I never expected him to have an array of chick flicks. “Those are yours?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said sheepishly. “Actually, they belonged to one of my babysitters when I was a kid. She’d bring movies over to watch while my parents were out, and she’d leave them with me afterward. She knew I spent a lot of time in front of the TV.” He stopped and raked his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Savannah. I must be boring you. You’re probably not into old movies anyway, right?”

  He closed the cabinet. I walked over and opened it again. The shelves inside were filled with DVDs and old VHS tapes and I’d never seen Ghost, so I slid the tape out and stuck it in his hand. “You’re not boring me,” I said. “Give me another n
ew experience.”

  *

  There were footsteps over my head. Water rushed through pipes. I opened my eyes and looked at my purse on the floor, a bowl filled with leftover popcorn, and sunlight streaming through blinds on a bay window.

  It took me a second to figure out that I was at Jack’s house, stretched out on his couch and covered with a soft flannel blanket. I lifted the blanket, dreading the sight of my underwear or complete and total nudity, but I was still in my pants and my tank top.

  Of course I hadn’t done anything. I hadn’t been drunk last night. And unless I was a poor judge of character, Jack wasn’t the type of guy to slip me a Roofie. But my mind was filled with fogginess, and I struggled to remember what had happened after I handed him that movie.

  I slung my legs over the couch and sat up just as the water stopped running. I rubbed the blurriness out of my eyes, remembering that Ghost had been one of the saddest and most romantic flicks I’d ever seen and I’d bitten my lip to keep from crying. The last thing I remembered was the credits, so I’d probably fallen asleep after that and Jack must have taken off my shoes and covered me with the blanket.

  I dashed across the hardwood floor and ducked into a bathroom, where I shut the door behind me and flipped on a light. I avoided the mirror because I didn’t need confirmation that I looked like a leftover from last Halloween. I grabbed a Listerine bottle, poured some into my hand, swished it around my mouth, and spit into the sink. Then I cracked open the door and stepped into the living room and crashed right into Jack.

  He was dressed in a shorts and a T-shirt that clung to his broad shoulders and his flat stomach. He had a just-out-of-the shower smell—soap and shampoo and shaving cream. His hair was wet and slicked back, and there was a patch of razor burn on his jaw.

  I rubbed it gently with one finger to ease the sting. “Thanks for the blanket.”