New Money

by Lorraine Zago Rosenthal

  She sniffed and covered the ashtray with her magazine, and I pretended I didn’t notice. She looked so sad that I had to forgive her for smoking this time.

  “I didn’t know you were bringing company home,” she said, wiping a damp streak of mascara from her cheek.

  “You remember Alex from the gala,” I said.

  She forced a smile. “You work with Kyle.”

  Alex nodded and smiled back. “He mentioned you two have been dating.”

  “Oh,” she said with her husky laugh, “that must’ve been before he stood me up.”

  I looked at the coffee table and a plate of untouched Ritz crackers covered with pimento cheese. Maybe when I told Kyle not to do Tina wrong I should have threatened death or disfigurement. Maybe he didn’t know how rotten it was to let a girl slave over a stove and spend an hour choosing her best outfit for nothing. She was putting on her I-don’t-care act, but I didn’t buy it. Alex didn’t seem to, either, because his smile faded as I took a seat beside Tina.

  “I’m sorry,” seemed the best thing to say.

  “Not even a phone call,” she said, and then turned toward Alex, who was standing in the glow of a lamp. “Can you please explain to me why men are such jerks?”

  “Well,” he said in his smooth voice, “not all of us are. But whenever you get rid of a guy who is, you get closer to somebody who isn’t. You’re clearing the way.”

  I wanted to hug him, but I didn’t. I also didn’t remind Tina that men like Kyle wouldn’t hurt her this much if she didn’t let them get so close too soon. She made the same mistake constantly and kept expecting a different result, and that infuriated me. But now wasn’t the time to bring it up.

  “I have so much food in the kitchen,” Tina said, and looked at Alex. “I reckon you don’t like southern cooking, do you? I’ll give you some to take home if you want to give it a try.”

  His lips parted into a wide smile that brought out the most charming crinkles around his eyes. “I like all cooking,” he said, and then Tina went into the kitchen and he sat next to me.

  “Thanks,” I said. “It was sweet of you to tell her that … about men, I mean.”

  He leaned forward, resting his wrists on his knees. “I meant it. I used to tell my little sister the same thing after her high school heartbreaks. Now she’s engaged to a great guy.”

  “So you have a sister … and you mentioned three brothers. Is that the whole family?”

  “Other than my father,” he said. “Mom passed away two years ago. I also have nieces and nephews … and everybody’s getting together at my grandma’s house for a barbecue tomorrow afternoon to welcome her home from the hospital. I’m going to invite Tony and his family, too. It’ll be a comedown compared to the Hamptons, but if you’d like to join us…”

  “It’ll be a step up,” I said. “I’d be happy to join you.”

  Someone rapped on the front door; I opened it and found Tony standing in the hallway. He came inside and threw up his arms. “Does it take fifteen minutes to swallow two aspirin?”

  We’d been so occupied with Tina that we’d forgotten all about him, not to mention the aspirin. I rushed into the bathroom to get it, and when I came back Tina was standing in the living room, holding aluminum trays covered in foil and gazing at Tony.

  “What’s the matter with you, Savannah?” she said playfully. “You don’t expect Alex to knock those things back dry, do you?”

  I supposed not. But now that Kyle wasn’t a distraction, leaving her unattended in such close proximity to Tony made me nervous. So I dashed into the kitchen and quickly returned with a Dasani that I gave to Alex along with the aspirin.

  “Thanks,” he said as I listened to Tina chatting with Tony about what lovely weather we were having. “So can I pick you up at noon tomorrow?” Alex asked, and after I nodded he leaned across the space between us, squeezed my shoulder, and kissed my cheek.

  It weakened my knees. “I enjoyed seeing you tonight,” I told him.

  “And I enjoyed seeing you, Tony,” Tina said. “I hope it happens again real soon.”

  He smiled politely as Tina gave Alex the trays. Then the guys left, and I wondered if I was the only one who’d noticed that the smile on Tina’s face was much more than polite.

  *

  Tina woke me the next morning by shaking my shoulder and shoving an envelope in my face. “Somebody must’ve slipped this under the door last night,” she said, sitting on the edge of my bed as I rubbed my eyes and then tore open the envelope. It held a note card with the initials FS printed on the front in raised gold letters, and inside the card was handwriting in tidy script:

  I did my best to find the right words. ♥ Fabian

  I sprang out of bed and raced to my office down the hall as Tina chased after me, asking what was wrong. I didn’t answer; I just sat in front of the computer and pulled up Nocturnal with its blinking silver stars. Splashed across the screen was the picture Fabian’s photographer had taken last night when I stepped into the tent. My eyes held a hint of surprise, my mouth was slightly open, my hair looked blonder on film than in reality, and the flash had been so bright that it gave me an ethereal glow. It was my best picture ever and I looked completely Photoshopped.

  Tina was standing beside me.

  “Recent South Carolina transplant Savannah Morgan, daughter of the late media mogul Edward Stone,”

  she read off the screen,

  “absolutely wowed the Hamptons last night with her Charleston charm. She’s a delightful southern belle with beauty that’s matched only by her brains, and my opinion is that she’s going to be an amazing addition to New York’s social scene. Welcome, Savannah … we’re all so happy you’re here.”

  I exhaled a shaky sigh. There were lots of anonymous comments below the post, and aside from a few lewd ones, most of what had been written was flattering, like

  She’s beautiful and What a cute dress and Can I get her number?

  “Wow,” Tina said, “I hardly even recognized you.”

  *

  I sat on a lawn chair beside Alex in his grandmother’s backyard. It was the first day of August, the sky was clear, the sun was shining, and the air smelled like the burgers roasting on a grill at the other side of the yard. Alex’s family was sitting on the patio, strolling in and out of the house, talking and laughing beneath a tree while they gulped Budweiser. Tony was there with Allison and Marjorie, who raced toward me across the grass. Tony chased after his daughter, but she was too quick. She grabbed my knees and lifted herself onto my lap.

  “Sorry,” Tony said when he reached us.

  “No need to be,” I told him, stroking Marjorie’s red hair as it flowed in the cool breeze. “Go spend some time with your wife … I’ll take care of this little doll.”

  He smiled and rejoined Allison on the patio, where he put his arm around her and kissed her cheek. They were even cuter in real life than they were in their wedding picture.

  Alex turned toward me. “You want one of these someday?” he asked, tickling Marjorie.

  I wasn’t sure if that was a rhetorical question or if he was offering to someday give me one of these. But I liked it either way. I liked that he was direct. Other than Jamie and Jack, the few guys I’d dated had never asked a more serious question than Are your boobs real?

  “Sure do,” I said, listening to kids jump into a pool next door. “But I’d like to accomplish a few things first. You know … simple goals like writing a New York Times bestselling novel.”

  He grinned as the breeze swept through his dark hair. “I’d settle for getting published.”

  Alex’s grandmother crept up behind him and patted his back. She was a frail white-haired lady in her late eighties dressed in a polka-dotted housecoat. “Alex,” she said, “I hate to bother you since you’ve done so much to keep my place up while I was gone … but the light in my bathroom isn’t working and that electrician did such a shabby job last time.…”

  “You’re not bothering me, Gr
andma Frances,” Alex said. “I’ll fix it before I leave.”

  I smiled as she tousled his hair. Then she headed toward the patio, and I turned to Alex.

  “How cute,” I said as Marjorie reached down and yanked a dandelion from the grass “The way you call her Grandma Frances, I mean.”

  Alex shrugged. “I started doing that when I was a kid … so I wouldn’t get my grandmas mixed up.” He turned his eyes to Marjorie, who was offering him the dandelion. He took it, and then gave her a big smile and a soft pinch on her cheek. “Thank you, honey,” he said before looking back at me. “So what do people call grandmothers in the South?”

  “Mimaw,” I said.

  He laughed. “That’s cute, too.”

  “I know. But I never got to say it. I didn’t have any grandmothers.”

  “Oh,” Alex said after a moment.“Well … then you can share mine.”

  “Hey,” a gravelly voice boomed from across the yard. “The food’s ready.”

  It was Alex’s father, who sat opposite me at a crowded picnic table a few minutes later. He was short and stocky, with gray hair and ruddy skin. USMC was tattooed on his forearm, a claddagh ring circled one of his fingers, and he wore a T-shirt printed with Adair Plumbing of Staten Island.

  “So you’re from the South,” he said as I bit into a hamburger.

  I swallowed. “Yes, sir … I was born and raised in Charleston.”

  “‘Yes, sir,’” he echoed, nudging Tony beside him. “You see the good manners people have outside New York? And good looks, too,” he said, giving me a wink. “I’ve never met a real southern belle before.”

  I’d been getting compliments since Alex and I arrived in his Honda. His family treated me as if I was something different, something special, like a rare antique they admired but didn’t dare touch. “I’m not really a southern belle. I’m just an editor’s assistant and a wannabe writer.”

  Mr. Adair wiped mustard off his mouth. “Writing’s a nice thing for girls. My wife liked to write. She was a big reader, too … we’d go out to Jones Beach during the summer and she’d spend all day under an umbrella, reading those Danielle Steel novels and scribbling her own stories into notebooks.” His voice trailed off and he gazed into the distance as if he could still see his wife sitting under that umbrella. He blinked and cleared his throat. “Anyway … this one right here,” he said, pointing toward Alex next to me, “picked up that habit.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying,” Tony cut in. “Writing isn’t a habit … it’s a talent.”

  Mr. Adair took a swig of Budweiser. “It’s a talent if it earns you a living. Otherwise it’s a waste of time. But the thing is, my wife … may she rest in peace,” he said, lifting his hand to bless himself, “indulged Alex too much. I wanted him to join the family business, but she was all for him going to college. I would’ve backed him on that if he’d studied something practical … something that’d get him a solid job. But what does he major in? Acting. Writing. It was just money in the garbage.”

  Alex put down his hamburger. Grandma Frances rubbed his hand.

  “Oh, stop it,” she said, turning to Mr. Adair. “He’s a wonderful boy.”

  “That’s exactly what my wife used to say. Babying him was her biggest mistake.”

  “At least she supported me,” Alex muttered. “Someone had to.”

  Mr. Adair leaned forward. “I never supported you? How much time did I spend with you in the gym? You were a talented fighter. You could’ve had a future. But what did you do? You quit. You gave up the only thing you’re good at.”

  I heard nothing but bees buzzing over a cluster of dandelions on the lawn. Everyone at the table had stopped talking and eating, and they were all staring at Alex, who kept his eyes on his father before he folded his napkin and tossed it on his plate.

  Tony and I looked at each other. I got the feeling that Mr. Adair hadn’t meant to blurt so much out, but he’d had a few beers and there it was, echoing in the air. I shifted my attention to Alex, who glanced at his sisters and his brothers and his nieces and nephews, smiling the way Tina did when she was pretending to be made of iron.

  “Grandma Frances,” he said, standing up, “I think I’ll fix that light now.”

  *

  The house was quiet except for the racket Alex was making—it sounded like he was rummaging through a toolbox. I followed the noise past the plastic-coated furniture, and then I walked down a narrow hallway and into a bathroom that had pink tiles and smelled of aerosol air freshener. Alex was sitting on the floor below an open window, dissembling a lighting fixture that looked as if it had been around since the Nixon administration.

  “It’s beyond repair,” he said as he fiddled with wires. “I’ll have to buy a new one.”

  I crouched down, thinking that he reminded me of a dedicated doctor in one of those medical shows who keeps shocking a patient’s heart even when the patient is graveyard dead. I watched him for a while, and then I gently pulled his fingers from the light.

  His hair was rumpled. There was a strip of sunburn across his nose and a smear of barbecue sauce on his chin that I rubbed off with my thumb.

  “I’m sure,” I said, “fighting isn’t the only thing you’re good at.”

  He looked at me, moving his blue eyes around my face—focusing on every part of it like something new he wanted to explore. Then he leaned his forehead against mine and we stayed on the tiles for a while with our arms wrapped around each other, listening to kids giggling and birds chirping and people splashing in the pool next door.

  Sixteen

  The air-conditioning in Alex’s car was busted, so we rode back to Manhattan with the windows open. But that was okay, because it would’ve been a shame not to feel a night like this. August had broken July’s stifling mugginess, bringing a premature hint of fall to the air that caressed my face as I watched the sun dip behind the skyline.

  We were back at 15 Central Park West much too soon. I glanced out the window at the entrance, wanting to invite Alex inside but deciding against it. Things were unfolding slowly and it was best to keep it that way, to stretch out all the moments of newness and make them last.

  He leaned over from his seat and wrapped his arms around me, resting his hands on the small of my back. My face fit perfectly in the crook of his neck, and his skin felt smooth against my cheek. He smelled like charcoal and fresh air.

  “The submission you mentioned,” I said, remembering his latest literary letdown, “I’d love to read it.”

  He leaned backward, keeping his arms around me. “Why?” he asked.

  “Tina’s always been my best editor,” I said. “Maybe I can be yours.”

  He cocked his head to one side, mulling that over. “Okay,” he answered finally, which made me all sorts of happy. He must have trusted me if he’d let me read something that had already been beaten with a red pen. “Text me your e-mail and I’ll send it by tomorrow morning.”

  I nodded, pulled out my phone, and shot him my work address.

  “Done,” I said, shoving the phone back into my purse as my gaze stuck to his face. I wanted to look at him forever, to absorb all the details I hadn’t noticed before—the yellowish-gold ring around his pupils, a tiny mole on his jaw, a thin scar below his right eyebrow that was probably another leftover from his fighting career. Everything was so beautiful that I wanted to feel it, so I reached out, rested my hand against the side of his face, and gently touched his scar with my thumb.

  Alex moved my hand toward his mouth. He turned it over and pressed his lips against the center of my palm, giving it a kiss that made me breathe heavier. Then he lifted his head and leaned toward my face, lingering there for a moment as warm waves of anticipation flowed through me. He finally pulled me closer to him and kissed me—a gentle, sweet, slow kiss that tingled everything all the way down to my toes.

  “Good night,” I whispered afterward.

  His forehead was pressed against mine. “Now it is,” he said.

&nb
sp; I had to force myself out of that car. Then I stood on the sidewalk, watched him drive away, and licked my lips in the elevator, still feeling Alex there. A few minutes later I was inside my apartment and I found Tina in the kitchen with a mixing bowl in her hands. I walked toward where she stood by the counter, stepping on an eggshell and crushing it beneath my sandals. Raw noodles were still scattered everywhere, the stove was greasier than ever, and trash spilled from the garbage pail onto the floor.

  “Your lipstick is on your chin,” she said dryly as she stirred batter. “And your face is red. Just a little hint: Check a mirror after you let a guy ram his tongue down your throat.”

  I ignored that crude remark. And what had just happened with Alex wasn’t cheap and meaningless like she was making it sound, so I decided not to share it with her. “What have you been doing?” I asked as I rubbed my chin.

  “Baking for the shelter,” she said, pointing to cupcakes in neat rows on the table. “And I thought I’d give some of my delicacies to Tony.”

  I wasn’t sure if she meant the cupcakes. “Don’t give him anything.”

  She slammed down her bowl. “Don’t boss me. And I was just trying to be productive. How else am I supposed to fill my weekend when you’re out with your boyfriend?”

  “Oh, I don’t know … maybe you could start by cleaning this filthy mess.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “If you want your apartment cleaned, hire a maid. You sure can afford it now, can’t you?”

  I plopped into a chair at the table, thinking she was right. But it just seemed like wastefulness and sloth to pay somebody for what we could do ourselves. Still, I shouldn’t have gotten snippy, especially after she’d been ditched by Kyle and I’d left her alone to think about it.

  “Okay, Tina. I’ll hire one as soon as I get a chance.”

  “Fine,” she said testily. She crossed the room, pulled out a chair, sat opposite me, and leaned her face on her left palm. She drummed the fingers on her right hand against the table, staring into space like a bored housewife who’d spent all day with measuring cups and flour and had absolutely nothing to say.