The Family Fortune

by Laurie Horowitz

  “I can do that,” I said.

  If possible, I was happier at that moment than I had been fifteen years ago. There was no ambivalence. Not for an instant did I think I might be doing the wrong thing. There is great comfort in being sure of something. And I was sure of Max.

  Chapter 37

  Miranda Fortune is off her game

  I floated into the house. Miranda was sitting at the kitchen table going over the list for the party and supervising Bethany’s dinner preparation.

  “That bee-a-utiful Max Wellman came by looking for you,” she said. “Very convenient for me. I gave him an invitation to the party. He’s just the kind of person you want at a party—handsome, single, a celebrity. Did he have some literary business to discuss with you or something?”

  “Or something,” I said.

  Max wanted to announce our engagement at Miranda’s party. He thought it would be the perfect place—with the family all around. I agreed. Miranda’s party would be the perfect place to announce my engagement to Max Wellman.

  We had stayed at the beach as long as we could, but at three o’clock I couldn’t put off going home a minute longer. Priscilla would be livid at being left alone with Teddy, Miranda, and Dolores all day.

  When I mentioned Priscilla’s name, Max pulled away. He knew she had a hand in my decision all those years ago.

  “Priscilla’s not so bad,” I said. “She gave me the wrong advice about you, but it’s no crime to be wrong. And I didn’t have to listen to her.”

  He nuzzled my neck.

  “I’ll try to open my mind to Priscilla.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’m not sure I was completely wrong to listen to Priscilla. I thought she was standing in for my mother. She tried, but my mother was a nicer woman. It took me a while to figure that out.”

  Max walked me to the end of our driveway. He started to kiss me goodbye, but I pulled away. I didn’t want anyone to see us. I wanted to keep our feelings private, at least until the party.

  “Let’s keep this a secret until tomorrow night,” I said.

  “Come out for dinner tonight,” he said.

  “I can’t. We’re having a family dinner. Why don’t you join us?”

  “I think it would be hard to keep our secret,” he said. He reached out and touched me on the arm with his fingertips.

  “Come for dessert, then,” I said. “Nine o’clock. Bring Duke. If we made it through all these years, we can make it through dessert.”

  He reached over, took a strand of my hair, and twisted it gently between his thumb and forefinger. Then he let go, turned, and walked down the street.

  Priscilla, as I predicted, was annoyed with me for staying out all day. My absence, though, had given her an opportunity to warm up to Guy, who had spent the day with the family. Fortunately, by the time I got home, he was gone. Priscilla was up in her room. Miranda warned me that she was in a snit.

  “I’ve invited Max Wellman and Duke Franklin to join us for dessert tonight,” I told Miranda.

  “I wish you had said something,” Miranda said. She spoke as if she were doing the cooking herself, but it was Bethany who was up to her elbows in bread crumbs and flour.

  “I’m saying something now.”

  “I didn’t know you and Max Wellman were such good friends. I guess it’s okay, but we’re already having Guy and Priscilla, Charlie and Winnie. I didn’t buy enough cheesecake.”

  “I’ll go pick something up.”

  “You can’t leave again. You just got here. I’ve been trying to entertain Priscilla for the last three hours.”

  Though I appreciated her efforts, I couldn’t picture Miranda entertaining anyone, least of all Priscilla.

  “I’ll just go get some extra dessert. I’ll be right back.”

  My feelings were too big for the house. In the car, I played love songs as loud as I could and sang with the radio at the top of my lungs. It was ridiculous—and thrilling.

  I pulled up in front of Isabelle’s and went inside. Isabelle still had the last traces of her cold, but she was back at work.

  “I need something for tonight,” I said.

  “I thought the Fortune family party was tomorrow night,” she said. “I have the order right here.” She pulled a paper from a sharp peg.

  “Yes, but I need a little something extra for tonight.” I was breathing very fast.

  “Have you been running?”

  “No.” I paused. “Isabelle, I want you to come to the party tomorrow night.”

  “Me?”

  “Of course. You’re my friend, aren’t you? You’re one of my best friends. And isn’t it fair that I get to invite some of my friends to the party?”

  “Miranda won’t like it.”

  “I couldn’t care less.”

  “Jane, you seem a little strange.” Isabelle came around to the front of the counter. “Why don’t you sit down and catch your breath. I’ll get you a cup of coffee.” I sat, but I could barely stay still. Isabelle put the back of her hand on my forehead as if checking for a fever.

  “Sit down, Isabelle, I have something important to tell you,” I said.

  She sat, put her hands together on the table, and waited.

  “Max Wellman and I are getting married,” I said. She just sat there, staring at me. Of course, it must have come as a shock to her. She hadn’t known anything about it, but then, neither had I. “It’s a secret. We’re going to announce it at Miranda’s party. That’s why you have to be there.”

  “Where did this all come from?”

  I tried to explain as best I could, and when I was finished she continued to stare. I stood up. She went back behind the counter and put together a box of cookies.

  “Now, promise not to tell anyone,” I said in a sober voice. “Isabelle.” I snapped my fingers at her. She was stunned. “You okay?”

  “Of course. Congratulations.”

  “The party starts at six. Cocktails and desserts. That’s Miranda’s idea of elegant but not expensive. I hope there’ll be enough food. I think Miranda is a little off her game.”

  Isabelle handed over the box of cookies and I pulled out my wallet.

  “On the house,” she said. At the door, I turned around and Isabelle was still staring.

  Guy didn’t seem too happy when Max and Duke arrived after dinner. They pulled chairs up to the decimated dinner table and Guy had to scoot over to make room for them.

  “Tell us everything about your new book,” Miranda said. She leaned toward Max in the pose she used to show off her minimal cleavage.

  “The best way to know about my book is to read it,” Max said. He leaned his torso away from her. “I’d be happy to drop off a copy.”

  Duke looked at Max and smiled. Both of them were obviously used to this type of professed interest from people who didn’t read.

  “Guy,” I said, “there’s a rumor that you’re writing a book.” He looked around with a surprised expression. He pointed to his chest with his thumbs and said, “Me?” with feigned innocence. His blush, however, seemed genuine.

  “I don’t know where you heard that, Jane. But the fact is, it’s true.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked.

  “I didn’t want you to think I was trying to take advantage of you,” he said.

  “Advantage? Of me? What kind of advantage could you take?”

  “What’s the book about, Guy?” Max asked.

  “I don’t know if I should let the cat out of the bag,” Guy said. If that phrase hinted at the style of his prose, we shouldn’t expect much.

  “Tell us, Guy,” Dolores said.

  “Well”—he paused—“okay.” He held back as if he needed more encouragement.

  “Come on, Guy,” I said.

  He took a sip of his coffee and bit into a vanilla cookie. “It’s autobiographical. It’s about a man who marries a supermodel. The style is kind of F. Scott Fitzgerald meets Sidney Sheldon.”

  I didn’t know what
to say about that particular marriage of literary lions.

  “Sounds commercial,” Duke said.

  “You really think so?” Guy asked.

  “Sure.”

  “There’s only one problem,” Max said. He sipped his coffee.

  “What’s that?” Guy’s tone was hostile. It wasn’t the same tone he used with Duke.

  “It’s already been written,” Max said.

  “What has?” Guy asked.

  “Your book, by Jay McInerney.”

  “Who?”

  “You know. The guy who wrote Bright Lights, Big City.”

  Guy gave Max a blank stare. Then he said, “But you don’t understand. Mine’s true.”

  “So was his. At least that’s what they say.”

  “Ah,” Duke said, leaning back, “a wish-fulfillment fantasy. Perfect for today’s market.”

  “But it’s true. Don’t you understand? It’s based on fact. I was married to a supermodel. It’s based on my actual experience.”

  Duke shrugged. “That’s nice,” he said.

  “I was going to ask you to read it, Jane, but I didn’t want to impose. I didn’t want you to think that my motives weren’t completely pure.” His tongue played around at the corner of his mouth.

  “Jane would never think that, would you, Jane?” Pris said.

  “Of course not.” I was holding my lips together to keep from smiling. How wrong Priscilla was about everything.

  “So, Jane, will you read it?” Guy asked. Guy’s tongue disappeared back into its cavern.

  “Of course, Guy. You only had to ask me.”

  “I have it out in the car.”

  “I don’t think I can do it tonight,” I said.

  “What if I bring it in and put it on your night table?” He gave me a significant look and I shrugged.

  “You can if you like,” I said.

  He went out to the car.

  “I didn’t know Guy was a writer,” Teddy said. “I thought he went to law school. Why can’t people make a decision and stick to it?”

  “Not these days,” Priscilla said.

  “It seems like everyone around here is a writer or wants to be one,” Miranda said in a bored voice. She bit into a cookie.

  “I made a decision and stuck to it,” Max said.

  That night, I went up to my small room under the eaves. There was no manuscript on my night table. I looked all around, but nothing. Guy had definitely gone out to the car to get it. I wondered where he’d left it. I pretended to go to bed, but then slipped back out and went to the inn where Max was staying.

  We sat on the porch in white rockers and held hands.

  “Max,” I said, “what about your book tour? Don’t you have places to be?”

  “I canceled the next five dates,” he said, and squeezed my hand.

  I dressed for the party in the outfit I bought when I was with Winnie. It was both elegant and comfortable. I guess that summed up how I wanted to look at my best. I also wore something I hardly ever wore but always carried with me, my mother’s pearls, a large double strand that glowed against my tan.

  Though the party was called for six o’clock, by seven no one had shown up—it was fashionable to be late. I was wishing that Miranda had ordered more than appetizers and dessert, since the party was at the dinner hour, when Jimmy arrived with three large platters of cold cuts and several plastic bags of rolls and handed them over.

  “Mom said you might be needing this,” he said. I would have hugged him if my hands weren’t so full.

  “You’re staying, aren’t you?” I called over my shoulder on my way into the kitchen.

  “No thanks. Places to go and people to see. Mom’s coming, though. She bought a new dress.”

  I smiled. It warmed my heart to think that Isabelle would buy a new dress for this. Like me, she hardly ever bought new clothes.

  When Miranda saw the platters in the kitchen, she was not pleased.

  “Cold cuts. Oh my God. You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “They were a gift,” I said. “We have to put them out. It’s the polite thing to do.”

  “I suppose, but it’s not my idea of food.”

  “Miranda, your idea of food was not to serve any.”

  “Jane, stick to your lit-er-a-ture and leave the parties to me. It’s what I do.” She stomped out of the room in a new silk shift that made her look so skinny she could easily have been lost behind a potted plant.

  When the Buffingtons arrived, Teddy rushed up to Veronica, took her by the arm, and led her to what he considered the seat of honor, a camelback chair in a prominent place before the unlit fireplace. From there, a person could hold court. Almost everyone at the party would eventually have to pass that chair. Veronica had given up the sour expression she had favored when she was married to Michael. She wore a simple cream cotton-knit suit, one black pearl around her neck, and diamond earrings, each of which was bigger than the diamond Basil had given Duke to have reset.

  Dolores offered Veronica a drink. When Dolores felt threatened, she took on the role of hostess, bending over backward to be gracious. Dolores played hostess often, but Vee (as my father called her) got the full treatment just so she would know where Dolores stood in our house. I thought the very presence of Vee made Dolores’s position precarious.

  Glenda did bring someone to the party, but if she had been battered there were no signs of it. Glenda’s friend August was a petite black woman with a beautiful round face and cornrows falling down her back.

  In the kitchen, Bethany worked with a friend of hers we had hired from the bakery. Miranda supervised the arrangement of trays.

  “Can you believe that Glenda?” Miranda asked. “I swear she has more nerve than a Jew in an Arab bazaar. Why doesn’t she just invite the whole female prison population of Massachusetts?”

  Bethany, though hassled by Miranda’s badgering, had that amused look on her face that made me think she considered the Fortune family to be the height of entertainment.

  Miranda stamped out, holding a tray of canapés, and to her credit, the first people she offered them to were Glenda and August.

  Max appeared just when I told him to arrive. It was eight o’clock and the sun was still up but fading toward dusk. When he appeared in the doorway I could hardly catch my breath. He wore a white oxford shirt, a blue blazer, and chinos. His hair was freshly cut and he looked like a lawn I couldn’t wait to roll around on.

  Miranda rushed to the door to greet him and hooked her arm through his. He turned to look at me, but I smiled and watched while Miranda moved toward Glenda and August. Miranda leaned toward him.

  “I’m so glad you could come, Max. I was really looking forward to seeing you tonight.” Her hair, when she swung it, shifted in a blond curtain away from her face, then back again.

  “Hello, Max,” Glenda said as they approached her.

  “So you two know each other,” Miranda said. Her nasal voice became even more so when she felt uneasy, and she was well on her way to sounding like a kazoo.

  “And this is August,” Glenda said.

  “One of Glenda’s battered women,” Miranda said.

  It was like watching a train derail. I don’t know if Miranda had intended to dismiss or impress, but something had gone terribly wrong.

  “Battered woman? What are you talking about, Miranda? This is August Leigh, the poet,” Glenda said.

  Max took August’s hand in both of his.

  “I’ve read all your work,” he said.

  “And I yours.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Miranda said.

  “It could have happened to anyone,” August said. “That’s what a black woman gets for just busting in on a fancy white party.” August’s voice was melodious, and though her smile was not unkind, Miranda shrank several inches.

  “It could not have happened to anyone,” Glenda said. She was huffy, angry, and embarrassed. “It would never have happened to Jane.”

  “And where is Jane?”
August asked. “I came here to meet her.”

  “She’s over there.” Max nodded toward me. I had been close enough to hear every word, but I pretended to busy myself with the arrangement of the buffet table.

  Miranda pulled Max away. “I hope this little faux pas won’t make you think any the less of me. People really should warn you when they’re bringing guests,” Miranda said. Max lifted her fingernails from his arm.

  “Excuse me,” he said. Miranda stomped her foot. It was a small gesture and would probably have gone unnoticed by anyone who didn’t know her well.

  Max returned to August, then brought her over to me and introduced us.

  “This is Jane,” he said.

  “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” she said.

  Miranda was still looking at Max, but eventually she had to turn away. She had guests. And for an inveterate party-giver, having guests was more important than any other concern.

  Priscilla came over to us.

  “Jane dear, I haven’t seen you all day. I wanted to tell you that last night when I went up to bed there was a huge manuscript on my nightstand.”

  Oh God. Guy’s book. I had forgotten all about it. In fact, I had forgotten all about Guy. He didn’t know that I’d changed rooms, so, of course, he left his manuscript in the room he thought was mine.

  “Well,” Priscilla went on, “I had nothing to read so I started to read it, and I have to say, it’s absolutely dreadful. Pornographic, really. I couldn’t find a cover page. Whose is it? Do you know? Do people often sneak pornographic material into your room?”

  “It’s Guy’s book, Priscilla.”

  She looked confused.

  “Guy Callow’s,” I said.

  “That nice man has all that rubbish lurking inside him. I’m horrified. Really horrified. And I’m no prude, as you well know.” She smiled at Max so he would know too.

  Guy appeared from across the living room. He must have just arrived. He came over to where we were standing and put his arm around my shoulders.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that, Guy,” I said.

  “Do what?” he asked, all innocent.

  “Put your arm around me like that—act like we have some kind of special relationship. We don’t. I should have made it clear long ago, and I blame myself, but I was just trying to be polite. Really, though, you shouldn’t paw at me. I don’t like it.”