The Family Fortune
Page 17
“It’s from a man. I can tell from the writing.”
I took a knife and slit the envelope open. Inside was a note from Guy Callow. He was staying at the Four Seasons and he wanted to see me.
“Well,” Priscilla said.
“Well, what?”
“Who’s it from?”
“Guy Callow.”
“Miranda’s Guy Callow?” Pris asked.
“The very same.”
“What on earth does he want?”
“Strange as it may seem, he wants to see me.”
“But that makes no sense.”
“Of course it doesn’t.” I turned to walk away. Priscilla came after me. She grabbed onto the cloth of my shirt with her right hand and I shook her off. “Please don’t grab at me, Priscilla.”
She pulled her hand away and looked at it as if she wasn’t sure how it had sprung up on the end of her wrist.
“I’m sorry, but I have to know what this is all about,” she said.
“No you don’t.”
I disappeared into the guest room and closed the door. I called the Four Seasons and asked for Guy, but he had just checked out.
Chapter 25
Hope Bliss Investigations
“I don’t know if you remember me,” I said when Hope Bliss answered the phone.
“Of course I do, Jane. Why wouldn’t I remember you?” You could hardly tell a person that you thought yourself unmemorable, so I shrugged, a useless gesture since I was on the phone.
“I saw your name in the yellow pages and I’m looking for an investigator to help me find someone.”
I explained my quest for Jack Reilly and she said it seemed like a simple enough problem for a professional investigator. I told her what I had done to find him so far, and she said that no matter how far off the grid someone seemed to be, they were still somewhere, you could always find them, and these days with computers it usually didn’t take too long.
Before we hung up she asked if I’d like to get together, and it occurred to me only then that this was the second reason for my call. I wanted to see Hope, to reconnect with someone from my past.
We met at Durgin Park in Faneuil Hall Marketplace. It wasn’t far from Hope’s office in the North End. We didn’t choose the restaurant only for the convenient location, but because, for us, it was nostalgic. When we were in school, our class was taken there on a field trip every year. I remembered watching bins of garbage being pulled past the window on pulleys. It was one of those places where rude waitresses in hair-nets were a form of entertainment. I never found impropriety or impolite behavior particularly entertaining, but then I’ve grown up to be as straight as an architect’s ruler, and sometimes just as exciting. Hope told me that she went to Durgin Park at least once a week. She thought the place was hilarious.
I recognized Hope Bliss immediately. If anything, she was fatter than the last time I’d seen her. She probably weighed about two hundred and fifty pounds, but she was one of those women who, despite, or maybe because of, their weight, dressed meticulously. She walked with a light tread, as if she didn’t know she could tip the scale on a longshoreman. She broke into a smile when she saw me and I tried to remember why we had fallen out of touch. She rushed toward me and gave me an enveloping hug.
We were seated upstairs and placed our orders with a recalcitrant waitress. She made it clear that she was doing us a favor by deigning to wait on us. Hope thought it was boisterously entertaining. I, on the other hand, like waitstaff to be somewhat deferential.
“It makes the whole dining experience more tranquil,” I said.
“Tranquillity is overrated,” Hope said. I didn’t think so. For years I’d been seeking tranquillity like an obsessive lover, tracking it, stalking it, forcing it to live with me long after our relationship was over.
Hope had been a private investigator for ten years. She had been a lawyer first, in a small suburban firm, and she found herself doing the investigative work not only for herself but for the other lawyers as well. She liked moving behind the scenes and hated going to court because she didn’t like the way people looked at her. Weight on a woman was no advantage in a courtroom, she explained.
“A fat P.I. can get away with a lot,” she said. “Especially a woman. People generally think fat people are benign.”
The food came and Hope dug into her Yankee pot roast. I had a clam chowder that was so thick I was in danger of instant cardiac arrest.
Hope’s mother was now living with Hope.
“My dad divorced her, not that I blame him. Unfortunately, he didn’t leave her well provided for. By the time they divorced, she had brought him so low he was barely making any money. She made her own bed, as they say. Unfortunately, I have to lie in it with her. The irony is that as soon as he got free of her harping he met a nice woman, married her, and together they started an online dating service for dog breeders, and with all the merchandise tie-ins and advertising they’re doing very well.”
“Who’s getting fixed up, the dogs or the people?”
“The people, for now, but we’ll see. So my mother lives with me and I take care of her financially. My father helps a little. And guess what she has to do for me? One thing. She is not allowed to say or do anything about my weight. One word and she’s out the door. It’s like divine retribution. Do you remember what she was like?”
“I do,” I said. When we were young, her mother never missed an opportunity to harp about Hope’s weight. Hope’s choice of afternoon snack was severely monitored. And even with all the nagging and all the policing, Hope kept getting fatter.
Hope chewed on a large piece of meat.
“Eating slowly is very important,” she said between chews. “I have all kinds of health problems because of my weight, but I don’t let that stop me. I’m a ballroom dancer, a gourmet chef, and I’m taking Hebrew in a continuing education course. I’m also studying Kabbalah.”
How would she have time to look for Jack Reilly?
“I know all about you,” Hope said. “I Googled you.”
“You what?”
“I looked you up on the Internet. Do you know that you are mentioned on no less than one hundred and thirty-two sites?”
“That’s impossible.”
“It’s true.” She choked on a piece of meat and started to cough. She wasn’t shy about it, but instead coughed as if the food were caught somewhere between her knees instead of in her throat. Hope drank her water and then sucked down all of mine.
“Well,” she said. “I’m going to find your Jack Reilly.” I liked the way that sounded. My Jack Reilly. “And probably sooner than you think.”
I gave her my friend Isabelle’s address on Martha’s Vineyard. I had decided to leave as soon as possible. All I had to do was give my speech at Wellesley and I could go.
There was no way I was going to spend the winter with Priscilla and the karate kid.
I considered Palm Beach, but after one phone call with Miranda and Teddy I gave up that plan. They were thoroughly ensconced, doing the rounds, a party almost every night. Miranda said that Dolores was invaluable. I’m sure Miranda counted on her to do the things I always did—to make the coffee in the morning, to take care of the laundry, see to the food shopping.
They obviously didn’t need me, so I called Isabelle on the island. She told me to come right out, that she knew someone who had been looking for a tenant for one of the gingerbread cottages in Oak Bluffs. It would be perfect for me.
I paid the bill and Hope and I walked out onto the street.
“I’m so glad you called me, Jane.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure, anything.” She picked at her back teeth with a toothpick.
“How did we lose touch?”
“I don’t know exactly. I guess it was when we went to different high schools. Also, my mother liked you, and at the time, that was a good reason for me to avoid you.”
I didn’t remember Hope Bliss avoiding me. It
wasn’t like she had so many friends that she could afford to avoid one. She was fat and eccentric and it took a person who could see past that to befriend her.
“Do you think I’ve changed?” I asked Hope.
“Not at all. What about me?”
“You’ve become impressive.” That appeared to please Hope, since when we were children she could in no way have been called impressive. She spent her childhood in a constant battle with her weight and her mother.
Though Hope was still fat, she somehow seemed to have won the battle with both.
Chapter 26
Men in briefs
The evening of my speech, I met the dean of the Wellesley College English Department, Lydia McKay, in her office and together we walked across the frozen campus. Dean Lydia was young, in her forties, and she hadn’t been at Wellesley when I was there.
I thought Dean Lydia was taking me to an ordinary classroom in one of the Gothic-style buildings I had loved so much when I was a student. Instead, she led me to one of the large auditoriums on campus that were meant to accommodate an audience of several hundred. These types of lectures were rare here (or at least they had been in my time). I was daunted by the size of the room and asked Lydia if this was the only room she could get. Wouldn’t a smaller one be more appropriate?
She scratched the side of her nose, pushed up her glasses, and looked at me as if I were a puzzle she couldn’t quite figure out.
“Appropriate, Jane? I don’t know what you mean.”
“I just think this room is a little big, but that’s okay, we can have everyone sit up front so it won’t seem so cavernous.”
“But I chose this room because I think we’re going to need all of these seats. We announced your talk in the Boston Globe.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said. The idea of several hundred people showing up on a Thursday night in late January to see me was not only frightening but also preposterous.
I was wearing my green suit and I’d gone to Mr. Marco so he could trim and tint my hair. My index cards were in my left pocket and I must have looked like someone competent, but I felt like a puddle.
“Anyway,” Dean McKay said, “I wanted you to see the venue. We’re early so we can grab a cup of coffee in the student union.”
We walked back across campus. I poured myself a decaf from one of the huge urns I remembered so well from the all-nighters of my college days. The dean waved me past the cashier and wouldn’t let me pay.
As we walked to the only open table we could find at that hour, girls called out to “Dean Lydia.” A girl with tortoiseshell glasses and blue-tipped hair approached us. She had a stack of Euphemia Reviews in her arms.
“Miss Fortune, I’m a huge fan of yours. You’re one of the reasons I came to Wellesley. I’d like to be an editor someday. Could you sign these?”
“Jane, this is Sarah Mulcaster,” Dean Lydia said, “your biggest fan.” I smiled at her. “Sarah, Miss Fortune will be signing after her talk. You can speak to her then.”
“Signing?” I asked.
“Some people want you to sign the Review,” she said. “So we’ve set up a table in the lobby.”
“But I didn’t write any of the work in the Review. I really shouldn’t sign it.”
“Why not? It’s your Review.”
“And Evan Bentley’s.”
“Yes, of course,” she said.
When we entered the hall it was almost full and people were still pouring in. I was appalled. I thought I was going to be speaking to a group of about twenty-five girls, not to men and women from God-only-knows-where.
My pile of index cards felt weightless and I had to touch them to make sure they were still in my pocket. Was there a way I could get out of this—feign sickness—or maybe death?
Just as I was beginning to feel like I might vomit (thereby making feigning sickness unnecessary), I looked up and saw Tad sitting in the front row. He smiled and waved. I jumped off the stage to greet him.
“I can’t believe you came,” I said.
“Wouldn’t have missed it,” he said. “Even for a hockey game, which, I might add, I had tickets to. You look very nice.”
“That’s high praise coming from you,” I said.
“You ready?”
“For this? I don’t think so. I thought I’d be in a little classroom talking to a few girls.”
“Oh, Jane, you just don’t know.”
“Know what?”
“All these girls want to be like you.”
“I doubt that very much. Little girls say that they want to be princesses, nurses, sometimes doctors and lawyers, but they hardly ever say that ‘when I grow up I want to be a desiccated old maid.’”
“That’s only because they don’t know what desiccated means.”
Dean Lydia beckoned to me and I got back onto the stage by way of the stairs. She indicated a chair for me to sit on while I was being introduced, and as I was about to sit down, I was both surprised and delighted to see Bentley and Melody come through the door. It warmed my heart to think that they would show up just for me. They must have seen the notice in the Globe.
Finally, Dean Lydia went to the podium. She tapped the microphone, unable to get it to work at first. Wasn’t this always the case? It took a student well versed in audiovisual equipment to mount the stage and press the right buttons to get the thing going. Lydia’s voice went from a whisper to a bellow and I thought about how I’d have to modulate my voice to keep from sounding too overwrought.
Just as Lydia was saying, “Generally known as one of the best things to happen to the short story in the last twenty years,” the door opened and a man came in. I looked up, registered mild appreciation, as you sometimes do with excessive beauty. Then, as he came closer, I realized it was Guy Callow. What on earth was he doing here? I didn’t know he had an interest in literature. “And so I introduce one of our most accomplished alumnae, Jane Fortune.”
I couldn’t feel my legs, but somehow I got to the lectern. I tapped the microphone as Lydia had done, which made a big popping sound like a gunshot, and everyone broke into nervous laughter.
“Thank you, Dean McKay,” I said. “I am Jane Fortune.” They knew that already. I took my cards from my pocket and they slipped out of my hand and fluttered to the floor. I stooped to pick them up. Now they’d be out of order. I felt sweat under my arms, between my shoulder blades, and even on my forehead. Okay, Jane. Pull yourself together. I stood up and gripped the podium.
“First, I want to tell you about Euphemia Fortune, after whom the Review is named. She was my great-grandmother. How many of you have heard of Isabella Stewart Gardner?” I asked. About nine-tenths of the room raised their hands. In a different audience it would have been fewer, but we were at Wellesley College. These people were bound to know about Isabella. “Well,” I said, “my great-grandmother hated her.” I paused for the laughter that came pouring toward me. This feeling of making a room laugh was a new one. I took the cards from the podium and tossed them into the audience. “I don’t need these,” I said. This elicited another terrific response.
I knew the story I wanted to tell. I told about Euphemia’s frustration with Isabella, how Euphemia would have liked to be more like her, but short of that, she wanted to create, like Isabella, a monument to her own good taste.
“When I took over the foundation and read Euphemia’s journals, I tried to do what she had done. Euphemia had established a fellowship, a place and time for a writer to work. That had fallen by the wayside by the time I took over, so the first thing I did was reestablish it.”
I talked until I looked at the clock and my time was almost up. I ended by thanking Tad and Bentley and making them stand and take a bow. I hardly knew what I had said, but whatever it was earned me a standing ovation.
I turned to sit down, but Dean Lydia got up, moved me back to the podium, and said it was time for questions.
The first was from the girl Sarah. She had looked so respectful in the st
udent union, despite her blue hair, but when she stood her voice boomed out with a snide confidence.
“I read somewhere”—she pulled on her tweed skirt and tossed her hair—“that you and Max Wellman were like together at one point.”
“The question?” Dean Lydia was obviously annoyed. The girl behind the wholesome sweater set and granny glasses had ambushed us—or me. That whole incident still embarrassed me somewhat in that I’d gone on to make such a success of the Review and the fellowship, yet falling for the first recipient—especially since it hadn’t worked out—made me look like a dilettante even now, just as I’d been afraid it would.
“Is it true?”
“It was a long time ago,” I said. I felt like my dignity was draining through a crack in my voice.
“And what’s your relationship now?” she asked.
“Friends,” I said.
I thought of him holding my hand at the hospital, his face pale and moist.
“Anyone have a more literary question?” Dean Lydia asked.
After the speech and after I had reluctantly signed some copies of the Review, Tad, Bentley, and Melody said that we had to celebrate. So long as eating was involved, I was fine with that. I hadn’t eaten anything before the talk for fear it would make me sick.
Guy Callow approached and tried to hug me, but I put him off by holding out my hand. He shook it and told me I was marvelous, and frankly, for the first time in a long time, I felt marvelous.
Bentley invited Guy to join us at the Figtree Café down the street, and the four of us walked through the stone gates of the college and out onto Central Street. The Figtree was a generic type of suburban restaurant—not high end, not low end, sort of Italian, sort of nothing. It had large paintings of fruit hanging on its brick walls and the tables were a plain blond wood.
Guy looked good enough to dip in chocolate. Still, there was something about him I didn’t trust. As soon as we sat down, Guy, though he could in no way be considered the host of the party, ordered several bottles of expensive wine. We also ordered three large gourmet pizzas, and I was so relieved that my talk hadn’t been a complete disaster, I drank and ate with the enthusiasm of eight hungry truck drivers.