Name Dropping

by Jane Heller

  “Very deep, in other words.”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass. What I was trying to say is that, for me, New Year’s is a time when I remind myself that instead of bitching about the things I don’t have, I should appreciate the things I do have, give thanks for the things I do have.”

  “Isn’t that what Thanksgiving is for?”

  “Yes, but you don’t get to make resolutions at Thanksgiving.”

  “True.”

  “So my resolution this year is, I will be grateful for small blessings. And frankly, Nance, in view of your fiasco with the other Nancy Stern, I would make it my resolution too, if I were you.”

  “Point taken. There will be no more yearning to live other peoples’ lives,” I pledged.

  “Right,” said Janice. “No more envying people we assume have it better than we do.”

  “Amen.”

  “From now on, we’ll feel good about who we are.”

  “And view problems as growth experiences.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Okay. Let the party begin,” I said. “We’ll eat and drink and watch the ball drop in Times Square and then we’ll go cruising cyberspace for a couple of hot dates.”

  Janice shook her head. “We’ll eat and drink and watch the ball drop in Times Square but there won’t be any cyberdates. My computer’s down.”

  “Your computer’s down again?”

  “Yeah, but my ice bucket’s full, talk about small blessings. Carl Pinder’s parents gave me a bottle of Dom Perignon for Christmas. What’d they give you, Nance?”

  My Christmas presents! I’d forgotten all about the shopping bags full of gifts that I’d lugged home the last day of school and stuffed in my hall closet. What with the other Nancy Stern’s murder and the police’s investigation and, of course, Bill’s appearance at my door, the gifts had completely slipped my mind.

  “I don’t know what they gave me,” I said. “I haven’t opened my presents yet.”

  “No?”

  “No, but I’ll open them tomorrow. It’ll give me something to look forward to.”

  Janice and I ate and drank and watched the ball drop and toasted the New Year with the Pinders’ champagne. It wasn’t the most exciting evening of either of our lives, but we were grateful for it and said so noisily, as per our resolutions.

  The next morning, I retrieved the bags of Christmas presents from my closet, brought them to the sofa, and proceeded to unwrap all my goodies.

  Oh, boy, I thought as I opened the first gift. Let’s see what Santa’s brought me this year.

  Lindsay Greenblatt’s parents gave me a ticket to a Broadway show—one ticket. I guess they assumed I wasn’t dating anyone; it was hard to be insulted by this, as they were correct in their assumption.

  Todd Delafield’s parents gave me a lucite pepper mill. My hunch here was that the Delafields had themselves been given the pepper mill as a gift, hadn’t liked it, and thus decided to rewrap it and pawn it off on their son’s teacher.

  Melyssa Deaver’s parents gave me a canned ham. The Deavers were in the canned ham business and gave all the teachers canned hams, even Nick Spada, who was a vegetarian.

  Alexis Shuler’s mother, the Martha Stewart mother, made me a gift, naturally. It was a pretty little needlepoint pillow with a floral background and an inscription that read, I Love My Teacher. I was very flattered, but I couldn’t help wondering if Mrs. Shuler had handcrafted similar pillows for the other service people in her daughter’s life and altered the inscriptions slightly (I Love My Computer Tutor, I Love My Speech Therapist, I Love the Lady Who Cuts My Hair, etc.).

  James Woolsey’s stepmother, the twenty-one-year-old who was formerly his au pair, gave me a beautiful sterling silver pen with initials on it—hers. (And they say today’s young people are self-absorbed.)

  Carl Pinder’s parents gave me a bottle of Dom Perignon, just as they’d given Janice. Joshua Eisen’s parents gave me a lovely silk scarf—the same one they’d given me the year before when I’d had Joshua’s sister in my class. Zachary Sinclair’s parents gave me Calvin Klein’s Obsession—the perfume, the body lotion, even the deodorant.

  And so on and so forth.

  When I reached the bottom of the shopping bag, I found Fischer Levin’s gift. I say Fischer Levin’s gift as opposed to Fischer Levin’s parents’ gift because he’d told me he’d picked it out and wrapped it himself, using the paper we’d made in the classroom out of newspaper and gold glitter.

  He did a good job, too, I thought, grimacing as I nearly tore my rotator cuff trying to open the damn package. (Fischer had gone a little heavy on the Scotch tape. What’s more, he had wrapped and rewrapped and triple-wrapped whatever was inside, making it an adventure to get to the gift.)

  But I did get to it eventually, peeling off the layers of paper until I came upon my prize: a gaudy, glittery pin in the shape of a flower—a tacky piece of costume jewelry of the sort that’s one step up from the stuff you get inside a Cracker Jack box or a gum ball machine.

  I held the pin in my hand and examined it, and the longer I did the more I considered the possibility that it wasn’t quite as cheesy as I’d first thought. As a matter of fact, the petals of the flower could very well be cubic zirconia, I decided, not just slivers of glass glued together. The same was true for the enormous, round, yellow crystal that was set in the flower’s center; it, too, could have been not colored glass, but one of those fake gemstones that sell for about twenty bucks.

  I laughed. The Levins were rolling in money, and Gretchen Levin wouldn’t be caught dead wearing such a hunk of junk. They probably sent Olga, the Latvian caregiver, out with Fischer to buy me a gift and never bothered to ask what he had chosen.

  I pictured Olga hoisting her chubby charge onto a stool at the jewelry counter of some discount store and saying, “Okay, dumpling. Pick something nice for dat teacher,” and then Fischer pointing to the biggest, shiniest object and yelling, “I want that for Miss Stern!”

  Ah, Fischer, I thought. He was a handful but he was a good boy. Never mind that the pin was grotesquely large and screamingly cheap. It represented his expression of affection for me and I was touched by it in a way that the Pinders’ hundred-dollar bottle of Dom Perignon couldn’t begin to match.

  I fastened the pin to the collar of my flannel nightgown and modeled it in the bathroom mirror. God, it was ugly. Really garish. Jewelry only a hooker would wear, or, at the very least, someone with truly trashy taste. Still, I would wear it with pride, on the first day back at school, I resolved.

  It was after I’d just used the word resolved that I remembered the New Year’s resolution Janice and I had made, about being grateful for small blessings.

  It occurred to me at that moment that I had stumbled on a small blessing for which it wouldn’t be a stretch to be grateful. You see, the piece of “jewelry” that Fischer Levin had bought me for Christmas was, I fervently hoped, my way back to Bill.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The first day back at school was a veritable Furby convention—Furby being the year’s it toy, the year’s Tickle Me Elmo, the year’s must-have Christmas gift. A bizarre-looking interactive stuffed animal, Furby had been on every single kid’s wish list, and even though there had been much ado in the press about its being impossible to find, the parents of the children at Small Blessings had managed to find it.

  “Dah o-loh u-tye,” said Fischer Levin’s Furby as he shoved the hairy thing in my face. (Furby speaks a nonsense language called Furbish, and the nonsensical words Fischer’s Furby had just spoken meant “Good morning.”)

  “Good morning to you too,” I said to the toy, then turned to Fischer and pointed to the collar of my blouse, to which I had fastened his Christmas pin. “It’s beautiful, honey, just beautiful.” I hugged him. “Thank you for making me feel so special.” Special indeed. All Fischer had gotten Janice was a rabbit’s foot keychain.

  “I knew you’d like it,” he said excitedly, clapping his hands together. “I
t’s shiny, right?”

  “The shiniest,” I agreed.

  “Big, too.”

  “Oh, is it ever big.”

  “And I picked it out by myself.”

  “I’ll treasure it always.”

  “Yeah, because it came from a box full of buried treasure.” He puffed his chest out. “My dad was real proud of me when I told him about it on the airplane.”

  “I’m sure he’s proud because you’ve been such a good boy lately.” The reference to Mr. Levin inspired me to ask Fischer about his vacation in London. He said that his father was on the phone a lot and that his mother was out shopping a lot, but that he had fun with Olga, who let him race her up and down the halls of the hotel and stay up later than his usual bedtime.

  Thank God for Olga, I thought, glad that somebody in the Levin household paid any attention to Fischer.

  When school was over that day, I immediately grabbed my coat and gloves and said good-bye to Janice.

  “Hey, where are you off to in such a hurry?” she asked.

  “You see this pin?” I said, referring to Fischer’s gift.

  “How could I miss it?” She laughed. “That yellow boulder in the middle of it is blinding me. Who buys crap like that anyway? Except for little boys on little budgets.”

  “Who buys it? Women with no taste. Women with no money. Women who want people to think they’re rich.”

  “Why would people think they’re rich? Jewelry like that doesn’t fool anybody, just like fake eyelashes don’t fool anybody, just like fake nails don’t fool anybody, just like fake boobs don’t fool anybody—”

  “Janice,” I interrupted. She was obsessed with fake boobs, I decided. “Isn’t it possible that somebody might mistake this pin for a real piece of jewelry?”

  “Like who?” she scoffed.

  “Like me,” I said.

  “You? I don’t get it.”

  “Okay. You asked me why I’m leaving in such a hurry this afternoon. The reason is, I’m going to find out if this pin could be a real piece of jewelry.”

  “But that’s crazy,” said Janice. “You know damn well it isn’t.”

  “Yes and no. Yes, I know it’s not real. No, I’m not giving up on Bill Harris.”

  “Run that by me again?”

  I took a breath, trying to calm myself. “I spent most of the holidays wracking my brain for an excuse to see Bill again, Janice, and when I opened Fischer’s present I finally came up with one.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’m going to take this pin over to him at Denham and Villier and ask him to analyze it, appraise it, whatever it is jewelers do. So what if the thing’s fake? The point is, it’ll get me in the door. It’ll give me a reason to be in Bill’s company again. It’ll allow me to reopen the lines of communication between us because I’ll be in the store on business. I won’t have to walk in there with my tail between my legs and beg him to forgive me for pretending I was the other Nancy Stern. I’ll simply be a customer, asking him if he wouldn’t mind sharing his expertise.”

  “His expertise.” Janice nodded approvingly. “Not bad.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Men love that shit. They can’t resist playing Mr. Know-It-All. It flatters them. It makes them feel important. It puts them in touch with their manhood.”

  I rolled my eyes. The manhood thing again. “What I plan to do is take this pin to him and say, ‘I know how busy you are, Bill, and I also know you’re not my biggest fan at the moment, but I was given this pin for Christmas and I was wondering if it’s real or a piece of junk. Since you’re the most knowledgeable person I’ve ever met on the subject of jewelry, I thought I’d come to you for help.’ What do you think?”

  “I like it,” said Janice. “The ‘I thought I’d come to you for help’ is a nice touch. It places him in the role of the hero, and he probably has fantasies of playing the hero. They all do, except the dirtbags who have fantasies of playing the heel. Those are the ones I end up with.”

  “Poor baby.”

  “There is one little problem with your scenario though. Bill will take one look at the pin and figure out what you’re up to.”

  “Why?”

  “Nance, the pin isn’t real and anybody with eyes can see that.”

  “Not necessarily. The first night Bill and I went out, he told me that jewelry is a blind item—and that’s a direct quote. He said it’s almost impossible for the average consumer to detect real gems from fakes because there are such variations in quality and clarity and setting. He said that’s why people are always getting ripped off when they buy jewelry. He said it’s key to find a jeweler or gemologist you can trust and then get him or her to evaluate the piece. Well, that’s what I’ll be doing, right? Getting him to evaluate this piece of you-know-what.”

  She smiled. “I’ve got to hand it to you. You’ve changed a lot since all this Bill stuff started. You used to be so passive about men, so who cares, so if-it-happens-it-happens. And now here you are, for the first time in all the years I’ve known you, really pursuing a guy.”

  “Maybe I finally found someone worth pursuing,” I said.

  I stopped at the apartment before heading over to Denham and Villier so I could change clothes, fix my hair, and apply a little makeup. I was rushing into the building, waving hello to the doorman, when there, standing in the lobby along with a half-dozen more cops, was Detective Burt Reynolds.

  “Hey, Detective. How’s it going?” I asked.

  “It’s going,” he said.

  I got the distinct impression that he didn’t remember me, so I volunteered, “I’m the other Nancy Stern, the one who wasn’t murdered.” How could he not remember me? I thought. He had practically accused me of killing Nancy and actually went so far as to contact Janice to confirm my alibi.

  “Oh, right. I remember now,” he said without much passion one way or the other.

  “Anything new in the investigation?” I asked. “I assume that’s why you’re here.”

  “We’ve been here every day since the homicide,” he said. “We’re interviewing the tenants, the doormen, the super, everybody—plus the forensics people are still working the crime scene.”

  “But according to the media, you have a number of suspects already, some of whom I believe I was helpful in bringing to your attention.” I wasn’t looking for a pat on the back, exactly; a brusque “thanks” would have done the trick.

  “I can’t comment on that except to say that the investigation is ongoing. It won’t be long before we have our man in custody and your building will be back to normal.”

  “You said man. Does that mean you’ve ruled out Nancy’s—”

  “Can’t comment.”

  “What about the burglary thing? Have you ruled that out?”

  “Can’t comment.”

  “Did you have a nice Christmas or can’t you comment on that either?” Boy, was he withholding, as Janice would say.

  “I can comment, but I don’t want to,” he said and moved past me, out the door.

  Denham and Villier’s flagship store was on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-fifth Street, a stone’s throw from Tiffany and Cartier and Van Cleef & Arpels. Its interior was decorated in an Old World, European style, with crystal chandeliers on the ceiling and silk tapestries on the wall and thick, ankle-deep carpeting on the floors of the landmark two-story building. Whenever I wandered around the store, which wasn’t often given my salary, I always felt as if I were in Prague or Paris or some other grand capital abroad, but my sense of awe was usually reduced when I reminded myself that Mr. Denham and Mr. Villier were just a couple of good ol’ boys from Shreveport, Louisiana.

  “Excuse me,” I said, flagging down a sales clerk. “Would you mind directing me to the store manager’s office?”

  He pointed me toward the elevator and told me to take it to the second floor, make a right turn, walk all the way past the sterling silver department, past the fine china department, past the repairs de
sk, and there it would be.

  I thanked him and strode toward the elevator, as if I wasn’t the slightest bit nervous.

  Once on the second floor, I followed the salesman’s directions and found the manager’s office with no trouble at all. I hoped the meeting with Bill would go half as smoothly.

  There was no secretary outside his office, no gatekeeper, and the door to the office was wide open, so I simply stuck my head in.

  But it wasn’t Bill who was standing at the desk with his back to me, talking on the phone; it was a short blond man with a Germanic accent.

  I ducked out and waited in the hall while I considered the situation. Perhaps this man was a client of Bill’s who had asked to use the office to call his own office. Perhaps he was the store’s assistant manager who shared the office with Bill for budgetary reasons. Perhaps he was one of Denham and Villier’s European managers who was occupying the office while he was in town. Lots of possibilities.

  When I heard the man finish his conversation, I stuck my head back in. “Hello,” I said. He turned to face me. “I’m here to see Bill Harris. Is he around, by any chance?”

  “Yes, yes. He’s around but not—”

  We were interrupted by Bill himself, looking fabulously debonair in his navy blue suit and red tie. I was struck once again by the enormous attraction I felt toward him, struck by the fact that a mere glimpse of him could produce such a physical reaction in me.

  “Bill!” I said. “I hope I haven’t come at a bad time.”

  He stopped in his tracks when he saw who his visitor was, his expression stunned but unrevealing; I couldn’t tell whether I was a welcome surprise or a bummer.

  “I’ll just need a few minutes with you,” I promised, walking straight into the office and sitting down, before he could cast me out.

  The blond man seemed perturbed by my presence, but Bill took him aside, had a few words with him, and he left us alone.