The Family Fortune

by Laurie Horowitz

  “You could get someone to help you,” Basil said. He put his hand on my leg and leaned toward me. He was closer than I liked strangers to be.

  “I could,” I said, “but I always thought I’d do better if I concentrated on one thing.”

  “That’s interesting,” Winnie said.

  “What is?” I asked.

  “I never imagined you gave it so much thought. It’s like the family foundation is a profession or something.”

  “You’ve given grants to artists before,” Basil said, ignoring Winnie.

  “Usually for memorials and things like that. We gave a grant to Muriel Spiking, who did an AIDS memorial for the median strip on Commonwealth Avenue.”

  “Muriel Spiking’s a hack,” Basil said.

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. Even if he didn’t like her work, it was rather impolitic of him to say so when he knew I had given her a grant.

  “Bronze boxes. That’s all she does. Bronze boxes of every shape and size. Bronze boxes. Bronze boxes.”

  “You see, then, why I don’t often give grants to artists. I don’t trust my taste.”

  “Jane, your taste has always been impeccable,” Max said.

  Lindsay gave him a quizzical look. I glanced at him and he smiled at me. Friends. We were friends now.

  Basil took his hand from my leg and put it back on his own. He began to tap his fingers as if an imaginary piano had suddenly appeared on his knee.

  “A person of intelligence, such as yourself, can always learn discernment,” he said. “I’d like to show you some of my work.”

  “And I’d like to see it,” I said. Basil Funk amused me. I didn’t know why exactly. Perhaps I needed to be fawned over. He wasn’t bad-looking, except for his hair, which was cut in a monkish style and hung in fringes just above his eyebrows.

  “Tomorrow night when you all come to dinner,” he said.

  “I’ll look forward to it,” I said. He reached out and took my hand. I saw that Max was looking at us. I was too warm and it wasn’t from the fire. I got up to get another glass of wine. I offered drinks to the party and everyone accepted, so I spent a few minutes filling orders. Max came over to help me.

  “You look flushed,” he said. He touched my cheek with the back of his hand.

  “I’m a little warm,” I said.

  I could profess my intention to be “just friends” with Max from now until the end of days, but that wouldn’t keep my temperature from rising when he was near.

  “Basil seems to like you,” Max said.

  I glanced over my shoulder to see if Basil could hear us. He was staring into the fire with a inconsolable look.

  “Don’t be silly,” I said.

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Jane,” Max said.

  “Let’s make a deal. I won’t sell myself short if you don’t try to sell me off.”

  Max frowned and chewed at his bottom lip. “Deal,” he said.

  We passed the drinks around and Max perched on the arm of Lindsay’s chair. He bent his head toward her and said something I couldn’t hear, but it made her laugh. For a minute I thought they might be laughing at me. Then Inga called us in to dinner.

  While we were eating, Max’s cell phone rang. When he answered it, he looked flustered. He excused himself and left the room.

  We were all quiet for an awkward moment.

  “Pass the spaghetti, please,” Charlie said.

  “I’ll have the garlic bread,” Duke said.

  “This is really delicious. Wonderful, Inga,” I called toward the kitchen. I went in to see if she needed any help—or at least I told myself that’s what I was doing. Max was in the kitchen.

  “I told you,” he said into the phone, “I won’t be back until after New Year’s. And please don’t call me on this number.” There was a pause while he listened. “Yes, me too.” He looked up at me and put the phone in his pocket.

  We looked at each other.

  “It doesn’t matter to me what you do,” I said in a low voice, “but you should at least be kind to Lindsay.”

  He looked toward Inga, grabbed my upper arm, and pulled me toward the mudroom outside the kitchen. “Not that it has anything to do with you, but if you have to know, it’s old business,” he said. “I’m trying to put an end to it.”

  “You don’t have to explain it to me.”

  “I know, but for some reason I feel as if I do.” His words were clipped. “Please don’t say anything to Lindsay.”

  I looked at the stone floor.

  “You must know me better than that—even after all these years,” I said.

  He shook his head. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “God,” I said, “I haven’t changed that much.”

  “You haven’t really changed at all,” he said in a quiet voice.

  I must have changed in some ways if, when he first saw me, he said he wouldn’t have recognized me, but this probably wasn’t the time to bring that up.

  “Have you changed, Max?” I asked. I had convinced myself that reports about him were exaggerated, but it looked like he had become the type of man who kept bunches of women like weeds in flowerpots.

  “Of course I have. Everyone does.”

  “You said I hadn’t.”

  “But don’t you see. Most people do. My life is much different now than when you first knew me.”

  “Mine isn’t so different.”

  “I know that.”

  “All change is not necessarily a good thing,” I said.

  “You talking about something in particular?”

  “You must know your reputation.”

  “I don’t read my own press.”

  “Now you’re being disingenuous.”

  “We should go back.”

  I touched his arm. “Max?” He turned toward me.

  “Try not to hurt Lindsay.”

  “That’s interesting coming from you.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Aren’t you the girl who left me a note and crept away like a thief?”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “Not really a defense. But don’t worry, I have no intention of hurting Lindsay. In fact, I’m thinking of marrying her.”

  I thought I might not be able to get out of the mudroom before my face melted and revealed my feelings, but I had to, because that was one of the things that defined me. I always behaved properly in every situation (maybe I could have done better when I left Max the note), and to behave properly in this one, I’d have to wear a smile as I followed Max back out to the dining room.

  “Don’t you think it’s a little soon?” I asked. He wouldn’t catch my eye.

  “I never had any trouble figuring out what I wanted. Time was never an issue with me.”

  “But it’s only been a couple of weeks.”

  “When you know, you know.”

  “What if you make a mistake?” I asked.

  “Mistakes aren’t the end of the world,” he said. “They don’t kill you.” Finally he looked at me.

  “Do me a favor—one I know I have no right to ask—give it a little more time.”

  “Ah, Jane, sensible, practical, levelheaded Jane,” he said.

  “You used to like that about me.”

  “That was before I knew what the consequences would be.” He turned and left the room.

  On the way back to the dining room, I stopped in the kitchen to pick up a bowl of extra meatballs. I didn’t know how I was going to make it through the rest of the evening, but I pasted a smile on my face and joined the party.

  Chapter 21

  Miss Fortune skis as a single

  At midnight when I arrived at the Inn at Long Last, it was like a tomb. I didn’t see anyone at the front desk. I stood there for a moment, then knocked on the counter. A boy came out from a back room.

  “Do I have any messages?” I asked. “Jane Fortune.”

  He handed over a slip of paper and yawned. I took it and went up
to my room.

  The paper said, “He’s gone and good riddance. You might find him at the Butterfly Museum. Last time I saw him he was working there. Good luck. Maureen Mackey.” The Butterfly Museum? I sat there staring at the note, then started to laugh. My bad-boy Jack Reilly was at the Butterfly Museum?

  The next morning when I arrived at the ski house only Heather and Lindsay were downstairs. Eventually, Winnie joined us. She sat at the head of the table in a blue quilted bathrobe that made her look like she was eighty years old.

  “I have the sniffles,” she said, looking sour. “It’s so unfair. I really wanted to go skiing.”

  “You don’t seem very sick,” Heather said. “You could still go if you wanted to.” Heather folded a linen napkin into squares and placed it under a fork.

  “And get pneumonia? I don’t think so. I really don’t. I’ll just stay here in front of the fire.”

  “Lazy cow,” Heather said under her breath.

  “What did you say?” Winnie asked.

  “Nothing.” Lindsay and Heather gave each other a look.

  Max and Charlie came down. Both were freshly shaven and showered. Max smelled faintly of Old Spice.

  Because Winnie wasn’t going with us, we were only five and were able to squeeze into one car. I love everything about an early morning on a mountain, from lugging the skis to buying the tickets.

  We decided to ski together, which meant that since we were five, one of us wouldn’t have a partner for the chairlift. Everyone protested weakly that they would be happy to be “single,” but in the end I was the one who skied off to the separate line. I was four from the front when I was paired with another skier. In his hat and goggles, I didn’t immediately recognize him. It wasn’t until we had been scooped into the air that he turned toward me.

  “I know you,” he said.

  The sun was behind him and I squinted into his face.

  “You do?”

  “Aren’t you staying at the Inn at Long Last?”

  He was the man from the stairs, the soap-opera-star man, the man who had looked familiar.

  “I’m Guy Callow,” he said, and extended a leather glove.

  “Jane Fortune.” There couldn’t be too many Guy Callows in the world. This must be Miranda’s Guy. I had met him only once, and briefly.

  “Are you related to Miranda Fortune?” he asked.

  “She’s my sister.”

  “So you are that Jane Fortune,” he said.

  We reached the top of the slope and were deposited onto the mountain. We skied away from the lift and toward a clump of trees. I pulled to a stop beneath some firs to wait for the others. Guy Callow pulled up beside me.

  Since the family mythology regarding Guy Callow was so unpleasant, I was guarded, but then I remembered that the story had come from Teddy and Miranda.

  “How is Miranda?” Guy asked.

  “She’s great. She’s in Palm Beach with my father.” Even at this late date, I wanted him to think that she’d gone on happily without him. I wished I could have said that she was married to some politician or captain of industry, but Palm Beach was the best I could do.

  “Are you here alone?” he asked.

  “No,” I said, which was technically true, but not in the way he meant it.

  “Of course, why would you be?”

  I could think of plenty of reasons but was flattered anyway.

  Charlie and Heather finally came off the chairlift. Max and Lindsay would be next. Charlie waved at me as he skied toward us.

  “Well, maybe we’ll see each other around,” Guy said.

  I nodded. Guy Callow skied away, down an expert slope. I was envious of his freedom to take whatever run he wanted. We were stuck with Heather and Lindsay, who were only beginners. Charlie swooshed up beside me, followed by Heather, who ran over my skis. Both Charlie and I had to catch her to steady her.

  “Who was that?” Heather said. “I feel like I’ve seen him on TV. Is he a weatherman or something?”

  “He’s an old friend of the family,” I said.

  “Why didn’t he stick around?” Charlie asked.

  “We could use another man,” Heather added. She pulled out a lip gloss and slathered it on her lips.

  “I don’t know,” I said. I could have asked him to join us, but I wasn’t in the habit of doing things like that. And I didn’t think I should be too receptive after what he did to Miranda—whatever it was, and no one really knew. There was such a thing as family loyalty.

  Max and Lindsay skied over to us.

  “Who was that?” Max asked.

  “Old friend of the Fortune family,” Heather answered for me.

  “Coincidence,” Max said. He leaned against one of his ski poles.

  “Oh, that sort of thing always happens on mountains,” I said in a flirtatious voice.

  “It does?” Max asked.

  “To me.” I kept my voice light.

  Maybe Max was going to marry Lindsay, but this was my chance to let him see me as something more than terminally single, so I took it.

  Jack Reilly wasn’t at the Butterfly Museum.

  The woman in the office said he had been one of the best employees they’d ever had, except that three weeks ago he left without giving notice. He didn’t even leave a forwarding address for his last paycheck.

  “If you find him, can you give him this?” She looked up through large red bifocals. She was neither young nor old: she was of indeterminate age—somewhere between thirty and fifty. She gave me a note written on violet stationery. This wasn’t an official missive, unless the Butterfly Museum used purple paper. “He’s something, that Jack Reilly,” she said. “You don’t meet many men like him.”

  How many men had she met at her post at the Butterfly Museum? In a way, she was too much like me, hidden away, single, and of no definite age. No wonder Jack Reilly had made such an impression on her.

  “I’ll give this to him if I see him, but I may never find him,” I said.

  “I hope you do. He left so quickly. I never had a chance to say goodbye.” Her light blue eyes were watery and distant as she stood by the inner door gazing out. Did I look like her, vague and dreamy and completely out of touch with reality?

  “What does he look like?” I asked.

  “Oh, he’s lovely.” She smiled. Even the thought of Jack Reilly made her glow.

  “Yes,” I said, “but what does he look like?”

  She cocked her head to one side, licked her lips, and worried the edge of her Peter Pan collar with unkempt fingernails.

  “I suppose he isn’t a conventional beauty,” she said, “but I like to think of him as a tiger swallowtail.”

  Her eyes misted over.

  I assumed a tiger swallowtail was a type of butterfly—at least I hoped it was. Of course, this description was of no help whatsoever, but then Jack Reilly’s looks were not important.

  “Could I see a picture of one?”

  “One what?” the vague woman asked.

  “A tiger swallowtail?”

  “Oh, of course.” She went back to her desk and shuffled through a deck of cards. She pulled one out and handed it over. “You can keep that,” she said.

  I thanked her. The butterfly—and it was a butterfly—was large and striped, yellow and black. It was a glorious thing.

  I tucked the violet letter and the card into my coat pocket. I was tempted to read the letter, but I would never do that, if for no other reason than that it would be very bad manners. I put my hand in my pocket and fingered the card with the butterfly picture on it like a worry stone, rubbing my thumb and forefinger against it over and over.

  The Franklins’ estate covered ten acres of prime Vermont real estate. Nora took us on a tour of the main house. It was spacious and modern with many windows.

  “We struggled for so long. Book after book. Tiny apartment after tiny apartment. I never even had a dishwasher until we came here. All that time, though, I knew Duke would make it. I always believed
in him.”

  Nora had worked in restaurants and Laundromats. And after all these years, she and Duke were still together. She had the courage I hadn’t had. She was willing to throw her lot in with Duke no matter what. It was no wonder that Max still resented me.

  All the women—Lindsay, Heather, Winnie, and I—followed Nora outside and down a path to another house. Duke’s studio was in a building that sat high on the property with a view that stretched toward the lights of the town below. There were four workstations. One table held an old manual typewriter, another an IBM Selectric, and still another held a computer. The old oak desk was empty except for a sheaf of paper and a fountain pen. Piles of different-colored papers were stacked against one wall. Nora explained that these were “the drafts.” She said it with a reverence usually reserved for objects of devotion.

  When we returned to the main house, Duke was ladling mulled wine from a pot on the stove.

  “It’s got vodka in it,” he warned. “Wine and vodka. A lethal combination. It’s an old Scandinavian recipe.” He looked at his wife.

  “Scandinavian—my sweet ass,” she said.

  “And it is, dear.” Duke gave her a pat on the behind.

  “He made it up. The alcoholic brew. Don’t blame it on the Swedes.”

  “Your mother gave me the recipe when we were first married.”

  “So you say.” She took a mug from the counter and lifted it toward her husband. Duke poured more wine and vodka into the pot. He used no discernible measurements but instead poured with abandon, first from one bottle, then the other.

  Basil came in through the back door. He didn’t knock.

  “Basil,” Duke accosted him with a ladle full of wine, “have a drink.”

  “I think he needs a cup,” I said. Duke put the ladle back into the pot.

  “Good thinking, Jane. Sensible girl.” Duke looked at Max as if he were somehow responsible for my good sense. That was reasonable, I supposed, since all of us were attached to Max in some way or we wouldn’t be there.

  Basil took the cup Duke offered and warmed his hands with it.

  “It’s cold out there,” he said, “but it’s supposed to be clear tomorrow.”