by Nancy Martin
Jamison suddenly got interested in a pair of passing art lovers who sipped wine and frowned contemplatively at the meat. The woman wore a street-smart combo of ragged chiffon under a leather jacket. Jamison studied her feet for a long moment—she teetered on sky-high ankle boots—then he lifted his camera and snapped a surreptitious photo.
“For your collage?” I asked. “What’s your theme this week?”
“Boots,” he said. “See the cut of her heel? Very fashion-forward. Biker-meets-Balanchine.”
“And waterproof,” I added. Jamison might have been the observant type when it came to fashion, but sometimes he missed the practical. To regain his attention, I said, “Jamie, did you know Pippi, too?”
“Pippi, the housekeeper?”
“Yes. Where did she fit into this story? Where did she come from?”
“Russia, I think. The Soviet Union then. Just after Reagan knocked on the Berlin Wall and supposedly started detente single-handed.” He let go of his camera again and turned to me. “Pippi was the daughter of one of Madeleine’s men friends—very hush-hush. I don’t remember him. But after his wife died, he wanted his daughter here in the U.S., so Madeleine went and got her. She sailed over and back in her husband’s yacht, the story went, and orchestrated some kind of dramatic rescue. Action-movie stuff.”
I couldn’t contain my surprise and set my wine down on a nearby chair. “Madeleine rescued Pippi?”
“Well, not like a puppy from the pound, but something like that. Madeleine always had mysterious people around. I never knew the whole story, but they each probably had a tall tale attached.” Jamison picked up my glass and finished off the remaining wine. He crossed one leg over the other. “Who’s going to inherit that crazy trip of a house?”
I caught a glimpse of knowingness in the back of his eyes. “My sisters and me. But you knew that. More gossip?”
“Yes,” he admitted without a blush. “Why not her own stepson? The yacht gigolo?”
“I have no idea why Madeleine skipped Sutherland. The will came as a complete surprise to us.”
“Madeleine was mercurial.” He shook his head with admiration. “The Cold War spy? She ditched him when he took ill with cancer. Suddenly she had no time for him at all. She was easily capable of disowning her stepson for being useless.”
“Or maybe,” I said lightly, “she simply loved us more.”
Jamison’s gaze twinkled again. “What’s not to love? I hope you enjoy the spoils, darling.”
We chatted just a little longer after that, but I circled back to something he’d said about Madeleine. About her not having children. I said, “Did you make a conscious decision not to have a family, Jamison, or did it just happen that way?”
“Conscious decision, darling. And I never looked back. It’s not like I don’t have family, of course. I have two sisters and loads of pals, so I’m the fun uncle to their children. I’ve had my share of taking kiddies to the zoo, and it’s not to be missed. But I have a very fulfilling life.” He patted my hand. “You will, too. I have an instinct about these things.”
I don’t know whether his suggestion that I might be childless forever offended me most, or whether the hand pat felt patronizing, but I knew it was time to get back to my job.
For my column, I quickly asked Jamison for the facts and figures about the gallery show. He told me more about the meat-loving artist, then took me over and introduced me to a rather grubby, inarticulate young man who looked at my breasts, not my face. If he intended to make a meaningful statement with his meat, the concept hadn’t quite reached his own brain. He invited me for a beer later. I declined.
When the artist wandered off, I noted to Jamison that the guests were mainly people I didn’t know.
“Sad, isn’t it? Our crowd,” Jamison said, “comes around only when they want to learn something or to buy something. But you can’t really hang meat over your pre-Revolutionary mantel, can you? Let’s face it, Nora, families like yours and mine are a vanishing breed. It’s the fast cash that counts now. Buy low, sell high—that’s the prevailing attitude. Those of us who really love art and fashion and the good things in life, we’re getting to be dinosaurs.”
I checked my watch and realized I had allowed our talk to distract me from my schedule. I made my apologies, kissed Jamie good-bye and dashed outside. Running late, and with Reed dismissed until I was ready to go home, I had no choice but to grab a cab.
As the driver whisked me across town, I thought about Aunt Madeleine. To me, she had seemed a mysterious but prickly woman, but clearly I hadn’t understood her at all. I found myself wondering why she had chosen to reward my sisters and me—relatives who barely knew her. She might have left her fortune to a ballet company or to another good cause. But no, she had excluded all philanthropic possibilities as well as her stepson . . . in favor of three nieces whose names she could hardly remember.
Puzzled, I stared at the passing scenery without really seeing it. What had caused her to make such a choice?
Upon arriving at a large city hotel, I ducked into the ladies’ room to check my face. I touched up my lipstick and powdered my nose. Then I took off my Dior coat and unwound the black pashmina. I draped it over one shoulder and let it swing sari-like down one side of me. Suddenly my lace pants suit looked almost sedate—but a little exotic, too. Perfect. I left my large bag at the coat check and took out an evening clutch to hold my pen, notebook and camera phone.
Ready for action, I headed for the welcome table.
I showed my invitation to the cheerfully inept girls who were checking the guest list, and then I proceeded to the security station, where a woman in uniform wanded me for weapons. As I joined the line to get into the ballroom, I bumped into a familiar couple—Anahita and George Fareez. Anahita and I exchanged hugs while George looked on, smiling. He rarely spoke—whether out of shyness or a still-rudimentary grasp of English I couldn’t tell—but his smile was always broad.
“Ana, those are killer shoes!”
“Nordstrom Rack,” she confessed, displaying one silver-clad foot for my admiration. “Great, right? You look smashing, as always. Your granny’s duds?”
“Yes, of course. Without her, I’d be dressed by H&M. Now, tell me quick before someone drags you off to take a glamour shot. Are you still on the board of the Mid-East Women’s Association?”
She rolled her beautiful dark eyes at the mention of the organization that was throwing tonight’s bash. “I used to be. But what a headache! I gladly gave up my MEWA seat to someone who has more time to put up with all the phone calls.”
“What kind of phone calls?”
“Every time something awful happens to a Muslim woman, I’d get a call asking for a statement for the press. Sorry, Nora. I know you work for a newspaper and you’re friends with reporters, and I mean no disrespect. But I just want to live my own life for a while, not feel like the spokesperson for every woman in a hijab.”
“I understand. I was so pleased to be invited tonight,” I said as we finally slipped into the ballroom. “I assumed I had you to thank for including me.”
She shook her head. “Oh, heavens, it wasn’t me. You’re getting to be so well known, Nora. Of course you’d be invited to an event like this.”
In the last year, I’d come to recognize my own rising star. Unlike regular reporters, who were often held at arm’s length, I had a strange sort of insider access to the movers and shakers. I was welcomed into ballrooms and living rooms—perhaps because of my family name, but also because of the job I’d created for myself. All kinds of people and organizations wanted access to my column.
Still, this evening’s event was a very big deal, and I had been a little surprised to be included. Honored, too.
Walking into the ballroom with the beautiful Anahita didn’t hurt, either. Many heads turned our way. Anahita’s husband, who had taken the Western name of George years ago when he first began teaching at a local university, looked very proud to be seen with his beauti
ful wife.
From circling waiters, we accepted glasses of fruit juice and nibbled on the vegetarian hors d’oeuvres. Anahita introduced me to several board members, all of whom spoke to me about the organization, which raised awareness for causes affecting women in Middle Eastern countries. Everyone was beautifully dressed. A few women wore headscarves, but not many. Most wore exotic jewelry and very high-end fashion. A string quartet provided Western music. No belly dancing, I noticed. It was a sophisticated, cross-cultural crowd.
After the reception hour, we split up to find our assigned tables and sat down to a sumptuous meal that featured savory lamb with fresh mint, rice pilaf with almonds and raisins—all delicious and beautifully styled on our plates. Conversation at my table ranged over many topics—none of them frivolous.
After dinner, a former secretary of state stood up, and she made a surprisingly detailed speech concerning current issues in the Middle East. After-dinner remarks were rarely so lofty, in my experience. My table companions nodded vigorously during her talk and afterward stood up to applaud.
The speaker waved from the podium, then took her place at the center of the receiving line.
Fortunately, the Intelligencer had sent a real photographer to take pictures at this event, so I made sure all the key players were snapped together. I was pleased to be introduced and shake the former secretary’s hand.
“Oh, I knew your aunt!” She lit up when she heard my name. “Madeleine Blackbird, right? She was quite a character. And a great patriot. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” I managed to say despite being in awe. I didn’t usually get tongue-tied, but she had caught me by surprise. “So many people are affected by the volcano. I hear the relief funds are growing steadily.”
“Yes, yes. Is someone in the family going to write a book about Madeleine? I know I’d read a page-turner like that. We should talk.”
I had not a second to ask a follow-up question because someone from her staff eased me along to keep the line moving. But I was astonished.
Madeleine had known the secretary of state? Maybe the State Department was more of a party crowd than I had realized.
I reclaimed my coat and bag and slipped out a few minutes ahead of the rest of the still-animated crowd, who had remained behind for strong coffee and more talk. But I was anxious to get home.
Outside, I maneuvered through a group of Secret Service agents posted at the front of the hotel. The Philadelphia police were out in full force, too. I smiled at the officers and wended my way around the temporary barriers.
The night was chilly, but clear. The bustle of police and pedestrians made me feel safe, even on a block that sometimes was a little iffy late at night. At the next corner, though, a young woman stepped out from an empty doorway.
“Miss?” she said.
I paused, assuming I should know her.
But she wasn’t familiar to me. Petite, with a dark face and black eyes that looked frightened from beneath a headscarf, she wore a heavy coat over long, loose trousers and cheap flat shoes.
“Miss, are you a reporter? Can you help me?”
I realized I still had my press credentials around my neck. “Do you need a cab?” I assumed she hadn’t seen the line of vehicles parked alongside the hotel rather than in plain sight. I turned to point. “They’re over—”
“No,” she said. “It’s my sister.” She handed me a printed card with a woman’s face on it. Half the text appeared to be in Arabic, the other half in English. Hastily, she said, “My sister is in Syria. Her husband won’t let her come back to the United States to see our mother, who is ill. My sister was born here. So was I. But our parents encouraged us to marry men in our homeland. The Syrian government, though, won’t help her come home. Can you help us?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “This isn’t something I know anything about.”
The disappointment on her face was painful to see.
“Look,” I said, “maybe this isn’t the right place for you to be tonight. The police are surely checking everyone for blocks, and if—”
“Yes, they have chased me away already. They threatened to arrest me. But I must try, you see. My sister—”
“Yes, of course,” I said. “I have sisters, too.”
Hope bloomed on her round features. “Then you understand what I must do! That I must make a great effort.”
I felt a tug in my heart. “I wish I could help. But I have no idea what I could possibly accomplish.”
“The power of the press,” she said. “Maybe you could write something for us?”
“I’m not that kind of reporter.” I was beginning to feel helpless. “I’m just the social page. But here. Take my card—”
From behind me, a male voice gave a shout, and the two of us turned to see a uniformed police officer marching toward us. He waved at the young woman and used an authoritative but almost fatherly voice. “Hey, didn’t I say you should get out of here, young lady? Run along now. Stop making trouble and go home!”
I stood my ground. “I don’t think she’s making trouble.”
He wasn’t belligerent, and he pulled an exasperated face, not an angry one. “Don’t you start with me, too, honey. We’ve got our hands full here tonight. Just go home, will you? Scat!”
“It’s all right,” my new friend said quietly. “Go. I don’t want to get anyone else into a predicament.”
“Here,” I said, pressing my card into her hand. “Let’s stay in touch.”
She accepted it eagerly.
The cop chivvied me down the block, and I reluctantly obeyed. I turned to look over my shoulder and saw her walking in the opposite direction. As I tucked the young woman’s printed card into my bag and went looking for Reed, I acknowledged that there were women who had worse problems than inheriting big houses from their eccentric relatives.
I spotted Reed, and before he could get out from behind the driver’s seat, I opened the rear door of the SUV myself. I frowned at the backseat. It might as well have been Mount Kilimanjaro—insurmountable in my snug lace pants suit.
Reed abandoned the book he’d been reading and clambered out of the vehicle. He brought the milking stool to the rear passenger door. With a flourish, he plunked it onto the pavement. “There. Step up.”
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered, accepting his helping hand. “You couldn’t have found another town car? What’s the use of a vehicle if it takes a stepladder to get inside?”
“It’s no ladder, it’s just one little step.”
I put my foot on the wobbly wooden stool and endeavored to get myself up onto the seat. But suddenly we heard the rip of fabric. I felt a cool breeze and blushed at the thought of what Reed must have seen as I struggled the rest of the way onto the slippery leather seat.
“Dammit, Reed! This suit is worth a fortune!” I felt like wailing at the damage done to such a nice outfit.
“You just ate too much dinner,” he said, slamming the door on my further outrage.
By the time he got behind the wheel, I had gathered my dignity. “Drive around the block, will you, please? There’s someone I’d like to find.”
He obeyed, and we trolled several blocks without any luck. By streetlight, I checked the card to look for her name and found it. Zareen Aboudi. An e-mail address was listed below her name. At least I had a way of reaching her.
“Where to?” Reed asked when we gave up the search.
Lately, I’d been finishing off my work nights by stopping at a bar for drinks with friends—anything to avoid going back to my house alone. But tonight I fastened my seat belt and decided to forget about my ripped seam. I could have it repaired by a seamstress, after all. I had something good waiting for me back at Blackbird Farm.
With my spirits rising, I said, “Home, please.”
I turned on my laptop in the backseat and wrote up a quick summary of my stop at Lynnette’s lingerie store and the art gallery. The dinner took a longer time to write about, and I too
k care to do a good job. I could e-mail my column from home.
When we arrived at the farm, Reed lowered his window and spoke to the men who were still camped out at the entrance to my driveway. I could smell their coffee, but they didn’t lean into the vehicle to speak to me. Reed rolled up his window and drove to the house.
At the end of the driveway by the barn, I tucked my laptop into my bag and shouldered it, then pulled the bottle of wine out from under the backseat and slid to the ground as if on a sliding board. I wrapped my pashmina around my waist to hide the damage to my pants and bade Reed good night.
The ponies had gone off to sleep in the barn, I noticed, but the pig remained vigilant at the fence.
“Go to bed, Ralphie,” I told him.
He gave a forlorn grunt and stayed where he was, looking lonesome.
Letting myself in the back door, I found Emma eating a bowl of cereal in the kitchen while a gawky, very young man I didn’t know knelt on the floor in front of her. I stopped short at the sight of him. I was used to discovering Emma alone with attractive men, but this one had a thicket of brown hair and puppy eyes that made him look as if he was barely out of school.
Emma waved to me with her spoon. “Hey, Sis. How was your night?”
I stared at the young man, who blinked placidly back at me, unimpressed by my Pakradooni suit. I said, “Fine, thanks. What’s going on?”
My little sister took another mouthful of cereal and spoke around it. “Mick’s working in the library. Some of his guys brought a computer and a bunch of stuff, so he’s got a regular office going on in there. He looks like a captain of industry, sitting in Granddad’s chair.”
“That’s not what I mean. Who’s this?”
“Oh. This is Duncan O’Keefe. He works at Thomasina Silk’s barn. You know—she specializes in Hanover jumpers, but she’s got a pair of ponies ready for the international show at the van Vincent place next week. I think she’s going to do really well.”
Duncan O’Keefe didn’t look like a Hanover jumper to me. I shook his hand. “I’m Emma’s sister Nora. How do you do?”