Her place at the table was next to Miri who was holding the baby on her lap and rocking back and forth to keep him calm. But he’d spent his entire life thus far in the middle of the organized chaos of the family and the noise didn’t seem to have any effect on him at all. He happily gurgled and played with a strand of his aunt’s hair. Across the table, Matt and Peter had already begun eating until their mother protested loudly that the prayer hadn’t been said. So Mr. Acosta led them in prayer and after everyone made the sign of the cross, the eating and talking began anew.
Dylan helped herself to some of the tossed salad and a piece of chicken and began picking at it. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mr. Acosta watching her. Then the phone rang and the usual debate about whether they should answer it during the meal ensued.
“It could be Mark,” Miri said.
That settled it. Mrs. Acosta went to answer in the kitchen. She was gone only a few minutes before she returned and took her seat.
“Dylan, azúcar,” she said. “Mark for you.”
Dylan almost tripped getting out of her seat and Peter laughed at her. “Easy there,” he said.
Dylan took a deep breath and went into the kitchen to answer the phone.
“Tried you early this morning,” Mark said. “Did you stay over last night?”
“No, I was at the gym.”
“How’s the house coming along?”
“Fine, I guess. I haven’t been up there in awhile. Cindy Hernandez found me a decorator. He charges by the square foot.” Dylan told him the amount and waited for his reaction.
“Is that how that works?” Mark asked. “They charge per square foot to decorate?” “Apparently,” Dylan said. “And the actual stuff is additional of course. So that’s just his fee.” “That’s more than my father ever made a year,” Mark said.
“I know,” Dylan said quickly. “It’s crazy. Maybe I should do this myself.”
“No. Don’t worry about it. This is new territory for both of us, right? So talk to Cindy Hernandez or one of the other wives and make sure it’s reasonable then do what you gotta do.”
“Do you think Cindy Hernandez even remembers what reasonable is? Maybe reasonable is what we say it is.”
“Okay, so offer him what you think is reasonable.”
“If I did that he’d be insulted. And I don’t want to insult him; he’s been really nice to me.”
“It’s his job to be nice to you, Dylan. But listen, it’s up to you. Do what you think is best. So what else is going on?”
He’d lost interest already. It was a conversation that Dylan had dreaded, telling Mark about the exorbitant sum she was thinking of spending on decorating their new house. They were already up in the tens of thousands and she hadn’t even selected one stick of furniture or a single swatch of fabric.
“Well you have to have a number in mind for how much we should spend on the whole project,” Dylan persisted. “I mean, after we pay Stephen, we should think about how much we want to spend on furnishing and there’s the poolhouse as well.”
Mark said nothing.
“Mark, are you there?”
“Yeah I’m here. I don’t care how much you spend on furniture, okay? I’m sure you’ll use your best judgment. I miss you and I want to hear how you are.”
“I’m fine,” she lied. It was the first time she’d ever told him an outright lie.
The truth was she was far from fine.
Last week, she’d gone out to lunch with Stephanie Alfieri and been a little late getting back. She’d dashed up the stairwell and burst into her office to find Claire, the legal assistant coordinator standing over her desk writing her a note on a Post-it pad.
We need to have a conversation, Claire said, folding her arms.
Okay, Dylan had put down her purse and shrugged off her coat. Now’s as good a time as any for me if you’d like.
Claire indicated her chair and Dylan sat before she realized that Claire herself did not intend to sit. So she was standing over her as she spoke.
I’m beginning to think that this job is no longer consistent with your lifestyle, she began. She paused and pursed her thin lips, looking for a moment so much like a prissy schoolmistress that Dylan almost smiled. But it was impossible to smile when she knew what was coming.
What lifestyle is that? Dylan asked.
Dylan, you’re late from lunch more often than not, Patricia said. And you have guests.
The previous week, Stephen had stopped by unannounced with a large book of swatches and caused quite the stir at the reception desk because he was wearing a Kelly green suit, pale yellow shirt and polka dot tie with pointy-toed brown loafers. Stephen was the interior designer Cindy had introduced her to the previous week to decorate the new Westchester County house. It seemed some of the associates, who must not have ever ventured south of Times Square (unless they were going to the Financial District) were fascinated that someone would dress this way who was not in costume.
And so I think you may want to reassess whether this position is in line with your long-term goals.
It’s exactly in line with my goals, Dylan said. I plan to go to law school.
Claire smirked. Really.
Yes, really.
Perhaps that’s your present intention . . .
It is my ultimate intention. Nothing has changed that.
Well, be that as it may. In the meantime, I have to make sure that the work you’re currently doing is up to par, and that you don’t bring any undue disruption to the work of others in the firm.
I don’t think anyone in the firm will say that I’ve brought undue disruption.
You’re wrong, Claire said with satisfaction. Some people have said it.
Dylan leaned back, deflating. Who?
She couldn’t think of a single person other than Claire herself who would even suggest such a thing. She had good relationships with all her peers, and Grant was as much of a champion on her behalf as he had ever been. She searched her memory for anything that could indicate that someone had changed toward her and found nothing.
I’m not at liberty to say.
Am I . . . am I being let go? Dylan asked.
No, Claire said as though she was being magnanimous. But I’m going to give you some time to think about whether you want to remain here. To think about whether that’s the best thing for all concerned.
All whom? The only person ‘concerned’ would be me.
I’m sure it seems that way—that the only person is you— but I assure you . . .
That is not what I meant, Dylan said.
Claire blinked. Well, you give some thought to what I’ve said and let me know.
There’s nothing to think about, Dylan snapped. I’m not prepared to quit my job.
Nevertheless. I’ll give you some time to reconsider. Talk it over with . . . your husband.
She turned on her heel and walked out of the room, leaving Dylan trembling in her seat.
As soon as she’d gotten home after work, she headed straight for the kitchen and opened a bottle of chardonnay, settling onto the sofa with a glass that was more than half full. The first sip caused her to grimace. It was a little too sharp a taste but she took another sip anyway and reached for the phone.
Things had been a little different, that was for sure. Her appearance was different, with her hair and all, and her clothes were definitely of a sharper more polished cut. And she got mani-pedis now and was waxed and buffed and threaded and coiffed at least once a week. But she felt like the same person; she was the same person. Why couldn’t people see that?
Although her urge was to grab a bottle of wine and have her way with it, she instead grabbed her phone. Ava answered right away but sounded distracted and hurried.
I’m still at work, she explained. What’s wrong?
I think I may have to quit my job, Dylan said.
As soon as the words were out, she burst into tears.
And she had quit. The very next day. Grant was p
erplexed and asked a lot of questions that Dylan managed to deflect. Claire looked triumphant. Dylan just felt defeated. She knew she was surrendering, but couldn’t muster up the energy to fight. There were too many balls in the air and something had to be dropped, and she was damned if what dropped would be her duty as Mark’s wife.
And it wasn’t as though she needed to work, she consoled herself later, and she could use all her time to concentrate on other things like taking Miri on a college tour. She could decorate the beautiful new 7,500 square-foot home she and Mark had bought in Westchester. But being without something gainful to do all day on most days was tough to get used to.
She was aching to talk things over with Mark but he was in the thick of the season now, and she didn’t want to burden him with it. As it was, she still hadn’t gotten around to confessing that she’d completely missed the deadline for getting all her paperwork in for law school. If she was set on going there, she would have to wait until the fall to apply again for next year.
“Dylan?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m still here,” she said.
In the next room she heard everyone’s voices amplify and then there was a new female voice greeting everyone. On the other end of the line, Mark seemed to have heard as well.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Someone came in.”
Dylan peeked around the corner and into the dining room where standing on one side of the table, her hand on Wilfredo’s shoulder was Patricia, Mark’s ex-fiancée, dressed in jeans and a yellow parka, her auburn hair pulled back into a messy bun at her nape. Even though she wasn’t wearing any makeup, Dylan recognized her right away from the photo in the paper. She was still very pretty and although by no means fat, she looked like someone who needed to be constantly attentive about her weight, Dylan noted with satisfaction.
Before Dylan had a chance to retreat into the kitchen again, Patricia looked up and their eyes met.
“Dylan. Dylan.” Mark was repeating her name over and over again.
“I’ll call you back,” she said.
“Why? What’s . . ?”
She hung up on him and went out to join the family.
“Hello,” Patricia said stepping forward with an outstretched hand. She seemed a little nervous. “I’m Patricia.”
Pa-TREE-See-AH. She said her name with the Spanish pronunciation, which made it sound beautiful and exotic. Dylan noted that she had large and expressive almond-shaped eyes.
“I’m Dylan.”
“Yes,” Patricia smiled. “I know. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
Dylan tilted her head to one side. “Have you?”
Her tone was combative, surprising even her. Across the dining table, she saw Miri’s eyes open wide.
“Are you here for dinner?” Dylan asked, smiling. “I’m sure we can make room.”
“No,” Patricia blushed. “I’m here for my father, who likes to have two Sunday dinners. And his second one is ready at home, so my mother sent me to get him.”
She walked back to her father’s side and pressed a hand into his shoulder. Dylan resumed her seat at the table and picked up her knife and fork, beginning to eat once again as though Patricia wasn’t there. Around her, everyone else began eating as well. Patricia and Wilfredo stayed only a few minutes more and Dylan joined everyone else in wishing them a cheerful goodbye. Once they were out the door, Miri leaned closer and nudged Dylan in the ribs.
“Way to piss on the fire hydrant, Dylan,” she whispered, sounding impressed.
Dylan said nothing. Marking territory was important, after all.
Even though she was no longer working, there seemed to be almost an endless number of things to do. Dylan started her mornings at the gym, having recently gotten into yoga, followed by a massage and then lunch with her decorator Stephen, Cindy, or Stephanie. Once in awhile, if she wasn’t too busy at work, Ava met her for a quick coffee. And the afternoon was spent working on details for the decorating project. Dylan spent countless hours, driving about the five boroughs with Stephen chasing down an elusive fabric or perfect little coffee table that he said was essential for the look she wanted.
Although it would have been possible in at least some cases to have things shipped, it gave her a sense of purpose to drive to Darien with Stephen just to visit a master craftsman and watch him carve and polish a piece of oak into what would eventually become an elegant side table for her new dining room. She didn’t think about the cost of the project anymore; she knew it was ridiculous. And since Mark was no help, she just figured out a spending ceiling on her own and told Stephen to let her know when they were three-quarters of the way there.
The bitter cold had begun to give way to more fair days, and Dylan waited for her mood to lighten, the way it did every spring. But Mark’s schedule had begun to heat up. He was playing a different team almost every other day, sometimes not calling her for as many as three evenings. And when he did call, he was quieter, distracted and sometimes a little short with her. He was posting great numbers and so far had more than lived up to the expectations people had of him, but still, he was a different, more moody man than she was accustomed to.
On Sundays, Dylan went to the Bronx for the day, arriving just before breakfast and staying well past dinner. Sometimes she fell asleep in Mark’s old bedroom and awoke on Monday morning to the sound of traffic just outside the window and the pleasant noises of the family getting ready for the day. But Mark was her anchor and though his family was wonderful, she felt unmoored without him. Without him to help her make sense of things, she felt like she was making it all up as she went along.
Dylan paced the living room back and forth, chiding herself for her nervousness. Mark was due any moment, having insisted that she wait for him at the apartment rather than coming to meet his flight. His indifference about the press hadn’t subsided, even though they were almost universally complimentary about his performance. So he planned not to do them any favors by giving them any what he called “money shots” of him greeting his new wife, or doing anything remotely associated with his personal life.
All I ever agreed to do was play baseball, he said. For the rest of it, they’ve got Ray Hernandez.
But even Dylan knew that was naïve. While he’d been away, she’d had her share of run-ins with photographers. There were a few who popped up every now and then to get shots of her as she shopped or ate lunch. Most of the pictures never surfaced anywhere, but there had been a couple. The narrative they were beginning to construct was clear—that she was enjoying her new husband’s wealth a little too much. Anyone who knew her knew the truth – that she was decorating their new house and wanted it done by the time Mark got home—but it didn’t matter, the implication that she was a gold-digger still stung.
As soon as he got in they were going to have a quiet dinner alone and then head over to his parents’. That visit was likely to last very late into the evening or even later so they planned to drive up to the Westchester house in the morning. The decorating job was complete and she had arranged for almost all of their stuff to be moved a couple days ago. They would keep the condo as an pied-àterre. Stephen, the decorator’s fee alone had been a whopping seventy-three thousand dollars and since he’d had to sign off on it, Dylan knew Mark was aware of the cost, but so far he hadn’t breathed a word.
In fact, he hadn’t breathed a word about any of the spending she’d done—not the increasingly frequent trips to Bergdorf’s that Cindy talked her into, nor the new trainer, nor the lunches or the obscenely expensive upkeep on her new hairdo. The only time money had come up at all was when he asked her to find out how he would go about paying for Miri’s tuition. She had gotten into Columbia and Mark was so proud of her he wanted to pre-pay her entire four years’ tuition.
The phone startled her and she jumped. It was Ernesto, the doorman. She’d asked him to call up when Mark entered the building. Dylan took a quick look at herself in the mirror. Her hair was a little different s
ince the last time Mark had seen her, in a kinky curl that was a fair approximation of what it had looked like before she straightened it. Except now, it cost three-hundred dollars to look natural. She was wearing jeans and a white tank with a gold choker, deliberately not dressing up this time around. She took a deep breath, wondering why she was so on edge.
When she opened the door, Mark was standing there smiling at her, his huge leather bag at his feet, poised with his keys in hand. Saying nothing, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her, and Dylan felt her earlier trepidation melt away.
“How was the flight?” she asked when he let her go.
Mark kicked his bag inside and shut the door then looked at her, his head tilted to one side, a smile playing about his lips.
“How was the flight?” he repeated. Then he shrugged. “No idea. Long.”
He pulled her close again and began working on the button of her jeans, obviously having no patience for the preliminaries.
“Mark, wait,” Dylan laughed. “We have dinner reservations remember?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Mark said.
“No I’m not kidding. We’re having dinner and then going to the Bronx. Remember I told you I was making a reservation at . . .”
“I remember. But you know my mother’s going to have enough food to feed the whole neighborhood, so . . .” he unfastened the button and began pulling her jeans down and over her hips, “. . . I’d like to make love to my wife. If you don’t mind.”
Dylan looked up at him. There had to be another word for this. ‘Love’ didn’t quite cover it; no one else in the history of womankind had ever felt anything even approaching what she felt for this man.
“I don’t mind,” she said quietly.
The Seduction of Dylan Acosta Page 18