by Bridie Clark
Thanks to an overdue electricity bill, she didn't have basic cable as a distraction--or light, for that matter, besides the jumbo flashlight she'd borrowed from the overgrown frat boys across the hall. Even before her public debacle at Nola's show, Lucy Jo had been living on the financial edge, waiting for her big, salary-raising break, juggling bills so she could pay the rent on her overpriced and pitiful studio, which she'd chosen because she wanted to live in the center of things.
Her cell phone rang--it was the one bill she'd paid since Nola's--and she lunged across the futon for it, idiotically hoping it was a potential employer. Calling at midnight.
"Will you accept a collect call from Rita Ellis?" asked the operator.
Lucy Jo inwardly groaned. Her mother. "Of course," she said. "Hi, Rita. How are you?"
There was a pause at the other end of the line. "I won't lie to you," said her mother, her voice gruff. "Been better. I had to take Faye Dunaway in for surgery the other day." Here comes the windup, thought Lucy Jo. Faye was one of Rita's six beloved cats, all of whom had been named after her mother's obsession: movie stars. "I knew something was wrong when she wouldn't touch her Iams," Rita went on. "That's not like Faye."
One time, just one time, she could call to see how I'm doing, or to wish me a happy birthday.
"Just be glad you're living the good life in New York City, Lucy Jo, and not trying to earn an honest living in Dayville."
"Trust me, Rita," Lucy Jo said, holding the NyQuil bottle upside down for the last drops. She'd never been able to convince Rita that her income didn't go far in New York. "I'm not living the good life."
"Well, it beats inhaling nail glue, day in and day out."
Lucy Jo felt an involuntary pang of guilt. Each month, she sent her mother as much money as she could--and each month, she wished it could be more. Although Rita's employment as a manicurist had always been sporadic at best, she'd managed to keep a roof over their heads during Lucy Jo's childhood. So what if she'd already used the excuse of Faye's surgery twice before. Maybe the cat really had been under the knife more times than its namesake.
"And then this surgery comes up, out of the blue--well, I had to use all the money I'd saved for my prototype."
"Your prototype?"
"I told you about my celeb-inspired acrylic nails! My nail art, baby! I've got a set with Brangelina and their kids, one with the cast of Dallas . I'll send you a handful"--she giggled at her bad pun--"as soon as they're ready. Then we'll be in business."
"We?" The prospect of eating out of restaurant Dumpsters was more appealing than going into business with her mother. "How much do you need?" She wanted to help, of course, but felt a bit queasy at the prospect of emptying out her meager savings account.
"Two hundred ought to do it, hon."
That would leave Lucy Jo with $100 to her name. She'd need some money to print out more resumes, to keep her cell phone turned on . . . God willing, she'd be able to line up something before rent was due.
"Would a hundred and fifty be okay?" Lucy Jo asked, biting her lip. She thought briefly about telling her mother she'd been sacked, but then Rita would try to persuade her to come home to Dayville. She couldn't handle that.
"I won't lie," Rita said. "Two hundred would be a much bigger help."
Lucy Jo sighed. "I'll send it in the morning."
"You're a good girl. Overnight the check, if you don't mind."
11:59 . . . midnight.
Staring at the ceiling stain, Lucy Jo decided to take an inventory of things that could be worse. The fallout from her public debacle at Nola's show hadn't been nearly as bad as she'd expected. A few photos--none of which showed her entire face, miraculously--had popped up on blogs, but she'd managed to remain anonymous. Even the aftermath at Nola Sinclair had seemed strangely devoid of drama--the next morning, a messenger had returned the few personal belongings she'd kept at work. A few of her former coworkers had called to check in; her friend Doreen, a single mother and expert seamstress, had even offered up some contacts. But by day two of her sudden unemployment, the phone had stopped ringing.
In the past two weeks, she had spent her days hustling back and forth between the FedEx office, the post office, and the local library with free Internet--a gray triangle of fluorescent lights and disgruntled workers--trying to rummage up a job lead. So far, nothing. Worst time of year to look for a job, she was incessantly reminded. A teetering economy didn't help, since most companies had imposed a hiring freeze or were shedding staff. She hadn't gotten any severance from Nola, needless to say, and although she'd signed up for unemployment, the first check--which wouldn't even cover her rent--had yet to arrive.
The clock released another minute it'd been holding hostage. Maybe I'm ridiculous for thinking I could make something of myself. She couldn't afford denial much longer. Maybe I should just move back home, get it over with. The thought hit Lucy Jo like a gut punch.
There was one other option, one that had been creeping its way to the front of her mind more and more often with each passing day. Wyatt Hayes IV.
Snow was expected; the air was crisp and begging for mink. Just the sort of day Lillian Edgell would have requested for her funeral, remarked Dorothea Hayes to her son Wyatt when they entered St. James Church. Dottie, as she was known, had flown in from Palm Beach to pay her respects and demanded that a recalcitrant Wyatt escort her.
Lillian Edgell, a grand dame who'd stayed on top of her game until her death at age ninety-three, had planned her own funeral years earlier--from the elaborate floral arrangements (white lilacs, ranunculus, snowball viburnum, lady's slipper orchids, sweet peas, and Dutch fringed tulips) to the guest list (two hundred hand-selected friends, not a nose more). In her final years, it had pained her to imagine a funereal sendout planned by one of her bumbling sons or, worse, her overeager daughters-in-law, so she'd taken matters into her own hands.
It was December 16, and although many of Lillian's friends had already departed for sun or ski, the church was still packed with those who'd stayed in New York for the glittery merry-go-round of holiday parties. After so much champagne and revelry, it was almost refreshing to attend a somber event.
"There's Courtney Lennert," Dottie Hayes said to Wyatt. They were seated in the sixth pew, as usual. "She ought to wear a name tag. All that work has made her virtually unrecognizable."
"Mmm," answered her son.
"You're not listening to me."
"No," Wyatt agreed. He was thinking about Lillian Edgell, which he suspected put him in the minority. She had lived the kind of life that ended with a full-page obit in the New York Times, and she was a throwback to a time that seemed to be slipping out of grasp, when the so-called Four Hundred reigned over New York society and contributed generously to the public good. After her husband's early death, Lillian had never remarried, choosing to focus on philanthropy. She'd donated a wing to the Met and championed several other organizations vital to the city's culture. A life well spent, Wyatt had always thought. He too was a philanthropist, doing his share of good--each year he wrote as large a check to the Vanderbilt and the Museum of American Heritage as his accountants would allow--yet something was still missing. Something he couldn't quite articulate. Maybe it was a unique feeling of purpose. Anyone could write a million dollar check--well, almost anyone--but sometimes Wyatt craved the feeling that he had accomplished something only he could.
"What is it with you?" his mother whispered. "You've been so gloomy all day. It's Cornelia, isn't it?"
"It's a funeral, Mother."
There was nothing in his life to be unhappy about, but in the two weeks since he'd been blown off by Cornelia, he'd been feeling less and less inclined to drag himself out of bed every morning. One of the liabilities of being a deep thinker, Wyatt mused, was that it left him vulnerable to existential crises.
"You should come back to Florida with me, darling," Dottie suggested. She brushed imaginary lint off her flawlessly tailored black Bill Blass suit. "Some sun would d
o you good. I don't see why you'd choose to stay here in freezing Manhattan."
Like many of her wealth and pedigree, Wyatt's mother was a conformist, frequenting only the art dealers, interior decorators, restaurants, salons, clubs, manicurists, and clothing designers preferred by her circle of friends. Winter invariably meant three months in Palm Beach and a week skiing in Switzerland. Spring and fall were spent in Manhattan, punctuated by weeklong jaunts to London (fall) and Paris (spring). On Memorial Day, she and her pack traveled two hours east to their eight-bedroom cottages on the beach in Southampton, where they met daily for tennis at the Meadow Club. In Dottie's life, only the chintz ever changed. It was a lifestyle that had been passed down and perfected over generations.
"I'll be down next week for Christmas." Wyatt raked a hand impatiently through his hair. He knew his mother had ulterior motives.
She didn't waste time in revealing them. "I heard Cornelia was at the Beach & Tennis yesterday for lunch, looking radiant. Have you considered giving her a second chance, dear? I really don't understand why you're being so stubborn."
"Please, Mother, we've been through this. She's an insufferable--"
"Fine, fine." Dottie waved her hand. "No need to get worked up."
"No need to get worked up? Did you read Page Six?" He'd gotten at least twenty e-mails teasing him about the not-so-blind item: "WE HEAR . . . a certain wealthy anthropologist got a red carpet heave-ho from his young socialite girlfriend, a ravishing blonde whose star seems very much on the rise. . . ."
"Oh, that's silly. You can't blame Cornelia for that--"
"Her publicist probably didn't fight it much, since it was flattering to Cornelia. 'Star on the rise' my ass."
"Wyatt, language." Then Dottie registered what her son had said. "Her what?"
"You heard me. Her publicist."
Dottie, looking stricken, turned in the pew to face him. It was as though Wyatt had announced that his ex had a dope dealer on Ninth Avenue. "Why would Cornelia Rockman have a . . . a publicist?" she asked.
"How quaint of you." Wyatt sat back, relishing the moment. "Cornelia's got a publicist, a stylist, and an image consultant. She's a career socialite."
Shocked, Dottie Hayes turned to face the altar. "What is our world coming to?" she murmured. "A publicist! In my time, a respectable young lady's name appeared in the papers--"
"At birth, marriage, and death." Wyatt smiled. It was one of his mother's favorite adages. "Times have changed. Today's socialites hope to see their names three times a week. That's why Cornelia will show up to the opening of an envelope, as long as there'll be some press there."
"What do her parents say?"
"Who knows." Wyatt decided to nail down the coffin, so to speak. "I've heard Cornelia's in talks to star in her own reality TV show. She wants to conquer the music industry, the media, Hollywood--"
"You were right to part ways," Dottie said firmly. She shook her head. "I had no idea. Not the girl for you, Wyatt."
"That's what I've been telling you." There were times when Wyatt appreciated the predictability of his mother's disapproval, and that she was as horrified as he was by the ways the world around them was changing. They sat in silence for a moment, eyes trained on the closed casket.
"Courtney Lennert's daughter is quite the beauty. Takes after her father's side."
Wyatt rolled his eyes. "She's a snore; all she talks about is horses."
"Serena Simmons?"
"Half the members of the Racquet Club recommend her."
"Fernanda Fairchild?"
"Gold-digger. Not cute. And best friends with Cornelia, to boot."
"Aren't there any nice girls in New York?" asked Dottie incredulously. "No one like Trip's lovely Eloise?"
"Not as far as I can tell."
"You're too picky, that's the problem. No girl will ever measure up to your impossible standards."
Wyatt looked at her. As annoying as her meddling and matchmaking could be, he could see that his mother was genuinely worried about his happiness. Marriage had brought her enormous contentment, and she hoped that the same would be true for her son. He reached over and patted her arm. "Maybe so. But Dad was picky, too, and it served him well."
"Sometimes you surprise me." Dottie smiled. She folded her hands gracefully in her lap and looked toward the altar, where the rector had just appeared. "I just wish you'd surprise me by finding a nice girl and settling down."
10
What is life but a series of inspired follies?
--George Bernard Shaw, Pygmalion
Lucy Jo squinted through the elaborate wrought-iron leaves covering the front door of Wyatt Hayes's Fifth Avenue building. She didn't know which was more intimidating--the gargoyles snarling down from the gray-stone facade, or the white-gloved doormen guarding the soft-lit marble lobby. With thudding heart and desperate resolve, she pressed the doorbell.
"I'm here to see Wyatt Hayes, please," she told the doorman. She hoped he couldn't smell her fear. Breathe, she reminded herself. What's the worst that can happen?
And then her mind, without her consent, answered the question: He's as arrogant as he seemed and you're humiliated and forced to move back to live with your mother and her six cats. You spend the rest of your life gluing on tips and double "dating" passing vacuum salesmen with Rita. Or Wyatt turns out to be some perverted wackadoo who drugs you and sells you into human bondage, like on that Dateline special--
Lucy Jo struggled to regain her composure. Okay, just breathe. Forget thinking. Thinking makes breathing a lot harder.
"Is he expecting you?" the doorman asked.
"No, not exactly," she said. "But he gave me his card." Lucy Jo flashed it as if it were a security badge. The paper was soft from being overhandled.
Breathe, Lucy Jo. It's easy. You've been doing brave things your whole life.
Moving to New York had taken guts, no doubt about it. But taking the subway thirty blocks uptown and walking to the address listed on Wyatt's card had required deep drilling into reserves of courage she never knew she had.
"I'll call upstairs. Your name, please?"
"Lucy Jo Ellis. Thank you."
"Wyatt?" Margaret, the broad Irish woman who'd cared for Wyatt since he was in diapers, popped her head into the dining room where he and Trip had just finished dinner. "There's a girl downstairs in the lobby to see you."
Wyatt groaned, mainly for Trip's benefit. "Cornelia! She's relentless. Phone calls, e-mails--and now she's taken to just 'dropping by' the building."
"So? Are you thinking about taking her back?" Trip asked.
"Why should I? Nothing's changed."
"It isn't Cornelia," Margaret interrupted. "It's a young woman named Lucy Jo Ellis."
Wyatt frowned, trying to place the name. Trip found it faster. "Hey, isn't that the girl we met during that downpour? The one who walloped you? You don't think she's here to take you up on that crazy proposition--"
"That horrible girl?" Wyatt shot up from his chair. "So she shows up here with her tail between her legs! Well, maybe she's smarter than she seemed."
"She slapped you?" Margaret didn't ask why. "And what proposition did you make, Wyatt? Are you sure you want her--"
"Yes! By all means, have Harold send her up," Wyatt said. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt genuinely curious about what would happen next.
Wyatt watched intently as Margaret ushered the nervous, flush-faced girl into the dining room and then reluctantly excused herself. The only eye contact this Lucy Jo Ellis person could make was with the Alex Katz portrait hanging in the corner. Wyatt stepped closer. Even in the generous cast of the chandelier, she was more of a fixer-upper than he'd initially realized. Maybe he'd been overconfident. At the bar that night he had been overserved, and the two were famously correlated.
"So what brings you here?" he asked, after Trip had risen from his seat to shake the girl's hand.
The simple question seemed to heighten her terror. Lucy Jo stood te
nsed in the doorway, as if bracing for an earthquake. He could see beads of sweat crystallize above her upper lip. "You said you could transform my life," she managed to say. "I--I'm just here to find out more."
Wyatt couldn't help feeling flattered by both her interest and her nervousness. It almost made him forgive her initial rudeness on that rainy night two weeks earlier, but not quite. If she was here to appeal for the same opportunity she'd previously found insulting, he saw no reason to make it any easier. "Sit down," he told her, gesturing toward an empty chair.
Lucy Jo did as he instructed, hurdling her way across the long dining room. She moved with a complete absence of grace, Wyatt noticed, her hips swiveling and arms pumping more vigorously than was necessary. Fixable. He'd dated enough models to know that walking gracefully was more of learned skill than one might think. When she did plop down in the chair, the girl still looked ill at ease. A three-tiered silver tray of chocolates and Laduree macaroons rested in front of her on the table, classical music tinkled softly in the background--but judging by the expression on her face, you would've guessed she was facing an interrogation lamp and a hostile cop.