As she walked down the hall into the paneled den, Morgan came out and closed the double doors behind him.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” he said, kissing her cheek.
“Hello, my darling. Merry Christmas,” she said. They embraced and Morgan looked at his wife with tears in his eyes.
“Cordelia, you are as beautiful today as the day I married you, you know that?”
“Oh, Morgan . . .”
“Listen. I have a wonderful surprise for you.”
“Oh?”
“It’s your Christmas present.”
“Don’t tell me—does it come in a red box with white writing?”
“No. No, it doesn’t come in a box.”
“Really? Does it come with a parking space?”
“No. But . . . you will need a car seat.”
“What?”
Morgan took his wife’s hand and opened the den doors. He led her into the room, and on the couch sat a nanny holding a baby in a pink blanket, sleeping soundly.
“My darling, meet Schuyler Vance.”
“Oh, Morgan!” she said, throwing her arms around him with glee. “You didn’t! You knew it was what I truly wanted!”
“I took care of all the adoption papers. She’s all yours.”
“This is a dream,” she said, rushing to relieve the English nanny of her duties so she could hold her new daughter in her arms.
“It will be wonderful to start again with you. In so many ways.” He put his arms around Cordelia and the baby. Tears streamed down Cordelia’s chiseled cheeks.
“Oh, Morgan! We’re a family again!”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
As Morgan watched his wife nuzzle their new daughter, he gulped and almost looked skyward as a thank-you to the gods that had rescued him. He had truly dodged a bullet and was graced with a second chance. And he swore he would be the best husband and father he could be this time around.
Everything was confirmed for Cordelia as soon as she heard Morgan utter the name “Schuyler.” She had heard that name before. God bless Morgan for not even having the foresight to change it, but then, he would never have known she’d heard it at Tiffany’s. It was nice to see him relaxed, not squirming anymore. There was something to be said for those TAG maniacs.
chapter 62
Melanie rounded the corner of Seventieth Street with a giant Burger King bag in her hand. She had a hankering, and as she knew that Arty loved Whoppers, she had gone out to get some for dinner. Mr. Guffey, who had become a lot mellower now that his “madam” had stepped off her social-climbing ladder, offered to whip up fried candy bars for dessert, a favorite from his early years in Brighton. It was going to be a fun night; Melanie and Arthur had a date to watch one of their favorite movies, Three Men and a Baby. Melanie ran toward the elevator just in time to climb aboard with her neighbor, Olivia Weston, who clearly was annoyed to have to share the small space with her.
“Hi, Olivia,” said Melanie, in a chipper tone. “Happy New Year.”
“Same to you” was her chilly reply.
“Did you do anything fun for the holidays?” asked Melanie warmly.
“Antigua,” she replied, without even looking at Melanie.
“Oh, I hear it’s beautiful there.”
“Yes” came her terse response.
Normally Melanie would have continued kissing this bitch’s ass, but why should she? Olivia was a total snob, and for all her fancy education had no manners if she treated people this way. Melanie noticed she didn’t even say hi to the doormen.
“You know, Olivia—I finished your book. It was very interesting.”
“Oh, thanks,” she said, sort of smugly. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“Yes—what I found particularly intriguing was the similarity of your pill-popping heroine named Keely to the pill-popping lush named Neely in Jacqueline Susann’s Valley of the Dolls.”
“I—” Olivia was stunned.
“You might want to check out the copyright laws now that you’re having this big reprint. Someone might pick up on it, and you could run into some hot water.”
The elevator slowed to Olivia’s floor and the door glided open. She didn’t move. Holland! She must’ve done this on purpose!
“This is you,” said Melanie.
Olivia nervously exited, looking back coldly.
“Plagiarism is no small offense,” said Melanie as the door was closing.
When she arrived upstairs, Arthur was reading the paper in the den by a roaring fire, feet up.
“Hiya honey,” he said, truly happy to see her.
“I just rode up in the ’vator with your former flame Olivia Weston.”
“What?”
“Oh, come on, sweetie, you can scratch the babe-in-the-woods routine with me! I knew about your little crush on her. Don’t worry. I always had her number.”
“What crush?” Arthur said, guiltily laughing. How cool was his wife? She didn’t seem to give a shit.
“Arty, it’s okay! You’re married, not dead.”
“Do . . . you have crushes?”
“I have a crush on you,” she said, pulling his sweater so he’d come closer. She kissed him passionately.
“We make a good team, you and me,” said Arthur, touching her face.
“We do. I knew you’d come to your senses. Plus, that chick couldn’t suck a dick to save her life.”
He laughed heartily. “These people,” he said. “They all seem like this big force, but it’s crap. I know that now.”
“Screw society. They’re all a bunch of gossiping hags. And Olivia and her group of little Coddingtons-in-training . . . please. You think I don’t know what they’re saying about me? I don’t care.”
“They think they’ve got you pegged, but they don’t.”
“They’re very sad, sad women. Joan has to live with the most boring man in the world, who whittles away his time in a club and lives off of his wife’s dime. And Wendy, well, she’s just alone. Alone with her insecurities. That’s why they’re so angry and unhappy.”
“You’re right.”
“And what do I care if they say things about me? It used to bother me, because I wanted their validation so much. But now that I know who and what they are, I couldn’t care less what they think. I’ve got something better than all their fancy friends and little clubs.”
“What’s that?”
“You.”
Arthur kissed his wife.
“And there’s another reason why I can’t relate to Olivia,” said Melanie with a smile.
“What’s that?”
“Well, aside from the fact that Olivia is a closet binge eater, I happen to know that she never wants kids.”
“Really?”
“Really. Just like Diandra.”
“Diandra? Mel, honey, what are you talking about?”
“Well, both of those women didn’t want children. And I . . . well, Arty . . .” she trailed off nervously. “I’m pregnant.”
A shocked expression flashed across Arthur’s face as Melanie bit her lip. She felt a pit. She knew Diandra had said “they” didn’t want kids, but she had hoped . . .
The look of shock on Arthur’s face morphed into the biggest smile his wife had ever seen. “Babe, that’s the greatest news I ever heard!” said Arthur ecstatically, pulling her into an all-engulfing embrace.
“Are you sure?” she asked, tears welling up.
“What do you mean, am I sure?” he said, pulling back and looking her in the eye. He brushed a stray hair from her forehead. He was charged with unbounded joy and love for her. “I would love to be a father. And I want you to be a mother.”
“But I thought you didn’t want kids.”
“Where’d you get that idea?”
“Diandra.”
“No! Diandra never wanted kids. That’s one of the reasons we didn’t work out.”
“Seriously?” asked Melanie, surprised.
�
��One of the many, many reasons. Diandra was a cold, selfish, evil woman.”
“But I thought she broke your heart.”
“Broke my heart? No, just my bank account. You’re the love of my life, sweetie.”
“But you once said there was no comparison between me and Diandra. I thought you were pining for her . . .”
Arthur hugged Melanie tight. “There is no comparison. You’re the best. You win game, set, and match against Diandra. And I can’t wait for the baby. I just hope it gets your looks!” He kissed her passionately as he shook with awe.
All that time wasted to try to live up to Diandra, and she didn’t even mean jack to Arthur? What a waste! But Melanie was beyond relieved, and she breathed a long sigh of relaxed bliss. She and Arthur could relax and finally live happily ever after, the way they were meant to.
Arthur picked Melanie up and twirled her around the room. That night they rocked to the sounds of Arthur’s Rao’s Restaurant CD, the soft swoon of Tony Bennett’s voice framed against the crackle of the logs in the fireplace. Their lavish apartment was the biggest either of them had ever lived in, but in that moment, they never felt cozier.
Epilogue
Two Baccarat champagne flutes clinked like little bells as Joan and Wendy, dressed for friends and flashbulbs, ushered in the new social season at the Winter Antiques Show’s opening-night benefit. It was the post–St. Bart’s and Aspen see-and-be-seen extravaganza that had the social set falling over themselves (literally, as they often had to travel through a fog of sleet, hail, and snow) to get to the Sixty-seventh Street Armory on time. Next to old master vanitas paintings, antique suits of armor, medieval books of hours, and Chippendale furniture, cheeks were air-kissed, hair complimented, and outfits looked over. There were the fake-interested questions about how the vacation was (the holidays were a complete shutdown uptown; Park Avenue was so empty you’d think an H-bomb had been dropped on it).
Wendy and Joan, who had fortunately been able to get the charges against them dropped if they promised to be good girls, were determined not to suffer any social setbacks due to a small “misunderstanding.” They’d talked of lawsuits against the city and how they had been set up and then quietly dropped the matter, hoping that everyone else would as well. So, with determination and confidence, they strutted into Leigh Keno’s booth, where, after thirty-five minutes of being open for business, there were already red dots on half the loot. Joan drank in the scene; there were aggressive shoppers anxious to fill their new co-ops with top-of-the-line pieces, trophy wives scoping vintage jewels, and people who didn’t give a shit about art but didn’t want to miss a photo op.
Wendy looked at the crowd as it poured in. She had been nervous about showing her face around town after the embarrassing shahtooshgate at the Powells’, but Joan had shrugged it off. They told everyone how Mimi had used them as patsies when she struck a deal so she wouldn’t be arrested for her own party. It shifted the blame and would have made Mimi temporarily a social leper, but, hey, it was Mimi. Soon the whole matter was dropped.
“The usual suspects,” said Wendy, her tone ho-hum.
“It’s getting tiresome, isn’t it? We need some fresh blood,” mused Joan.
“Oh, there’s that godawful Tom Fairbanks with Ginny what’s-her-name,” said Joan.
Wendy felt herself redden as she watched them stop and examine a grandfather clock. They were holding hands.
“I can’t believe I ever thought he was right for you. He’s so immature, and tacky, tacky, tacky. Those two belong together.”
“Yes,” murmured Wendy softly. She took a sip of her champagne to hide her quivering lower lip. That could be me, she thought.
Billy Crispin walked in and posed with two ladies who were flanking his Zegna sleeves.
“I see the ladies have adopted Billy Crispin as the new walker of choice,” said Joan, eager to change the topic.
“Well, it’s a natural choice,” said Wendy. “They’re almost guaranteed to have their picture in Women’s Wear tomorrow.”
Olivia Weston sauntered in, her blue eyes wide as she scanned the foyer. Her two friends—Lila and Rosemary—rushed up and greeted her immediately. She was never one to have to stand alone in a crowd.
“Hmm, Olivia Weston,” said Joan.
“She’s over,” stated Wendy.
“Ugh, and Melanie Korn.” Wendy sighed deeply. “She must have nine lives.”
“How everyone seemed to have Alzheimer’s regarding that Observer article is beyond me.”
Arthur and Melanie were chatting with a couple in an Oriental rug dealer’s booth about where to get the best nursery furniture when Olivia walked up to the bar beside them. At first the sight of her gave Arthur a mini-jolt, but it simmered and died after a millisecond. Yeah, she was a looker, but now that he knew the truth, she didn’t do it for him anymore.
Patrick McMullan snapped her smiling coyly as Arthur looked on, but now, instead of watching her with admiration, he studied her at a scientific distance. As she posed like a model for the other shutterbugs who danced around the light of her smile, Arthur realized this species really did exist just in photographs. A party picture, like the girl had said. Funny, Arthur had thought her to be so confident and comfortable in her own skin. Now he looked at her and saw a spoiled, shallow girl who never had to work for anything—all this was handed to her because she was in the lucky sperm club.
Arthur turned to look at his wife and the barely there bump of their growing baby. Seeing her throw back her head in casual laughter made his heart warm. Oh, Melanie, you gotta love her. With her, what you see is what you get, thought Arthur. Sure, she’d tried to get in with all those society broads, but she was always, sometimes to her detriment, unabashedly herself. But thank god. All these people around—they were the phonies. Melanie was the real thing. Arthur took his wife’s hand in his and gave it a loving squeeze. This whole shindig wasn’t just about art and charity: it was a masquerade. And in a packed gilded hall, she was the only one without a mask. And he loved her for it.
Across the crimson-carpeted, cavernous room, Joan and Wendy were yakking away, still installed in their omniscient corner, when they spied Morgan and Cordelia walking in hand in hand.
“Hmph,” snorted Joan. “Cordelia’s quite lucky that everyone was so sympathetic to her plight that they overlooked that she was a jewel thief! They almost applauded her, thinking it was chic.”
“It sure got Morgan’s attention,” said Wendy, staring at them as Morgan delicately put his hand on the small of his wife’s back and brushed a lock of blond hair out of her face. “I thought he was having something on the side, but that must be history—look at them! They’re all over each other.”
“Even if he did have something on the side, no one would ever know. That man was born under the right stars,” said Joan. “He’s one lucky bastard.”
“Some people just get everything.”
“Such is life.”
Morgan kissed Cordelia’s cheek, and they held hands and marveled at the art around them. Since her arrest and the arrival of Schuyler, Cordelia had felt as if a two-ton weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She felt like she was truthful for the first time in ages. She and Morgan had spent a lot of time over the past few weeks just talking and getting to know each other again, and they actually began to look at their lives together with some perspective.
They had come to the conclusion, with the help of the top therapist at Columbia Presbyterian, that perhaps she had stolen to get the attention she so craved at home. She had been desperately unhappy and yet she had everything, so she was creating problems and putting herself in danger. Now, she no longer felt the need. Morgan had become more than attentive—really a better husband. And little, precious Schuyler had brought back worth and meaning into her life. After all, wasn’t that what it was all about? Taking care of another life? She felt as if her family had been given a second chance, and she wasn’t going to waste it.
And, strangely
, although she would never admit it to anyone other than Morgan, Cordelia sometimes felt a kind of relief not having Jerome around. She would have been horrified to think that previously, but in retrospect, his malicious and constant gossip had depressed her. When people focus so much on the negative and other people’s shortcomings, life becomes so petty and irrelevant; but she had needed his love so badly, and he had always given it to her and stood by her side. But now, with her baby’s love and her husband’s newfound affections, all those compliments about perfect outfits and stunning hair would not have packed the punch they once did. It’s so easy to say something mean, thought Cordelia. But it’s so exhilarating to think and say something nice. It makes you know you are happy and latching on to what makes life worth living.
As Morgan kissed his wife’s hand, Wendy’s spying eyes squinted.
“I heard they were just in Lyford having a second honeymoon,” she whispered to her comrade in the gossip trenches.
“I think second honeymoons are kind of tacky,” pronounced Joan.
“They are, aren’t they?”
“Well, whatever floats your boat, I suppose. I mean, I never thought shoulder pads would come back into style.”
“I’m always amazed at how you can get used to things,” agreed Wendy.
They glanced around the capacious atrium, their eyes gliding past the Vances, Olivia, old Mrs. Cockpurse, who was wearing a miniskirt with no stockings. Their eyes finally landing on the Korns.
“You know, Arthur and Melanie just sold their apartment at 741,” said Wendy, as if the couple had just let go of the Holy Grail. “Can you believe that they’re moving to the West Side? I heard they just bought a place on Riverside Drive!”
“I haven’t been there in years, and I don’t plan on going anytime soon,” said Joan with a snort, as if they were relocating to Abu Dhabi and would need vaccinations.
“But you know what?” continued Wendy. “We’re all going to be lying dead in a Korn casket in forty years, so we might as well live it up while we can.”
“Oh, Wendy,” squealed Joan, laughing, “you are too much.”
The Right Address Page 33