Fresh drink in hand, I resumed my position at the window. Fleur emerged from somewhere in the apartment and jumped onto my lap. I found some comfort in stroking my Siamese’s silky coat, some solace in the rhythm of her purr. Outside, the lake was a vast ebony expanse broken only by the pearls of the breakwater lights and the soft glow of the offshore pumping station. A solitary boat came into view and disappeared into the lonely black. Spring could bring quick changes on Lake Michigan and the water was dangerously cold. Boats overturned and people died of hypothermia. Whoever was out there was either foolhardy or a devoted boater.
I was reminded how Ethan had always wanted a boat. It was one of his greatest desires. He claimed the passion was born during his summers in Newport as a youth and nurtured during his adult years in Puerto Rico. In a way, my friendship with Ethan was owed to his fondness for boats. Years ago, when Ethan had spent a winter in Palm Beach doing research for the Gloria book, he happened to meet my good friend and former Radcliffe roommate, Sandy St. Clair, disembarking her ninety-foot Hatteras, The Sandy Saint. They struck up a conversation, and when she learned he wrote biographies about famous women, she took him under her wing. That entire social season she squired him around town and introduced him to everyone. When the lease on the apartment he was renting ran out, she installed him as a resident guest on the Hatteras.
Ethan always spoke fondly of Sandy. But when he spoke of The Sandy Saint his dark eyes enlarged in their sockets and a glow came over him as if he were in a trance. In fact, he was enamored of most things involving the trappings of wealth, from fine dining and wine to expensive clothes, exotic locales and grand estates. Though he had little money himself—his two books made far less than one might expect—he was obsessed with the rich and the glamour associated with them. At times he reminded me of a shoeless waif with his face pressed to a candy store window, seeing his heart’s desire right there in front of him but beyond his reach just the same. He had confided in me once that he felt entitled to more and hoped to attain it through his writing. Though that hardly seemed likely considering his lack of discipline and disdain for deadlines.
When Ethan left Palm Beach to come back up north, Sandy St. Clair insisted he look me up “the very moment you set foot in Chicago.” And so he called me the very day he returned. I shall never forget the sound of his voice the first time I heard it. It had a captivating quality as if some grand secret lingered beneath the deep resonant tones. He invited me to lunch, and naturally I accepted, adding that “any friend of Sandy’s is a friend of mine.”
The day we were to meet for the first time, I primped as if I were going to be featured on the cover of Town and Country. I worried more about what to wear that day than I did when Princess Diana visited Chicago. The potential of a new male acquaintance, especially one with Palm Beach connections, could not be looked upon lightly. As any single woman over the age of forty can attest, the dearth of quality men available in the mature age bracket is deplorable. Those who aren’t married or aren’t with women half their age either have one foot in the grave or some crippling emotional disorder—the ones with decent portfolios that is. I wouldn’t have a clue about the others, though I suspect it’s the same. Ethan had to be taken seriously as a possible suitor or, at the very least, a suitable escort for a fundraiser or two.
Eager to set eyes upon the face that accompanied the enticing voice, I arrived at the Cape Cod Room a mere fifteen minutes late, wearing a moss-colored Chanel suit that really accentuated my eyes. Michel escorted me to the table, and my lofty hopes for romance deflated as I laid eyes on my new friend for the first time. The voice that had so enchanted me on the telephone was in direct contrast to the man who rose to greet me. Slight and frail looking with pockmarked skin, his narrow face tapered off into a pointed chin. Though he appeared to be around sixty, the long strands of hair combed over his pate were an unnaturally deep brown. He was meticulously dressed, however, his tweed jacket of good quality, his white shirt starched, and his red tie such a good Hermès knock-off it very nearly fooled me.
“Hello, dear lady.” He greeted me with a yellow-toothed smile and an ebullience that suggested we were the oldest of acquaintances reuniting after a long interval. He kissed me on both cheeks in the European style as if no well-bred person ever met without doing so. Then he extended his hand and I took it. It was cool and slightly damp with short manicured fingers. My smile was pasted on lest it drop and my disappointment show on my face. I wondered why I hadn’t had the presence of mind to call Sandy and get the low-down on Ethan before meeting him. But then his magical voice poured forth, causing me to nearly overlook his less than comely appearance. “Sandy told me you were a beautiful woman, but I had no idea you were this stunning.”
“How kind of you to say so,” I replied, always receptive to a compliment. Hardly as honest or as frequent as when I was younger, it made them all the more pleasurable. His words rang with such heartfelt sincerity, it’s possible I may have even blushed. It was then I realized that Michel was still holding my chair out, so I took my seat and Ethan took his.
“How are things with Sandy?” I asked him. “I want to hear all about her.”
“Well, she was very busy when I last saw her. With the end of the season nearing, she was preparing to close the house and cruise The Sandy Saint up to Newport.”
“Lovely boat, isn’t it?”
“First-rate,” he said, his eyes glazing over briefly.
“Was Mark with her in Palm Beach?” I pried.
“Not while I was there. I understand his business kept him in New York for most of the winter this year.”
“Of course. Mark St. Clair is a very busy man,” I said, knowing fully well what kind of business had prevented Mark St. Clair from migrating south for the winter—monkey business. He had been having an affair with a department store clerk from the cosmetic counter at Bloomingdale’s for the last year, putting her up in a tony flat in the east nineties. Everyone in New York knew about it, including Sandy, though she would never admit to it. Denial was the safest avenue. To acknowledge her husband’s philandering would mean taking some kind of action, and that might jeopardize her status as Mrs. Mark St. Clair, not to mention risk installing her rival in her own position. Sandy was more than happy simply to turn her head to her husband’s illicit liaison and spend her winter unencumbered by him in Palm Beach.
Ethan knew of this dalliance as well, and we found ourselves exchanging none too subtle knowing looks. We connected in that moment and our friendship was sealed. The afternoon flew past in a heartbeat. Ethan updated me on the most select gossip coming out of Palm Beach, about Pilar Zenda leaving her husband’s dead body on ice for three months so that she wouldn’t have to miss out on any of the social season, about Pug Witherspoon’s looming fraud indictment for overselling memberships in his golf developments, of the personal secretary who was having an affair with both her employer and his wife. Ethan seemed to know everything about everybody.
And that included me—information gleaned from Sandy, no doubt. He knew all about Henry’s death twelve years prior, and he made several references to my matriarchal grandmother. He was polite enough not to mention my father’s side of the family or my mother’s disinheritance. But for some reason I didn’t find any of his knowledge about me threatening. He already felt like a dearest friend, and it only seemed fitting that such a friend should know all about me.
“You know, I’m just finishing up a book about Gloria Guinness,” he said with pride evident in his voice. “Sandy told me that your mother knew Gloria. Did you ever meet her?”
“Once—in New York at Grandmother’s Park Avenue apartment,” I told him, the memory coming back to me vividly. “It was a summer day and Gloria would have been, well, about my age now. As I recall she was dressed entirely in white. She literally floated across the room smoking a cigarette from a long cigarette holder. I was barely a teenager at the time, but I was struck how everything about her personified beauty and elegance.
She projected a style one rarely finds these days. My own mother appeared almost dowdy next to her.”
“Did your mother ever tell you any interesting stories about her?” he probed, always eager for another anecdote to add to the biography.
“Not really, aside from the fact that she had a mouth like a sailor. Mother wasn’t terribly fond of Gloria, and she was disturbed because I was awestruck by her. I suspect my mother was jealous because even though Gloria had come from humble beginnings, she had managed to catapult herself to the top, while Mother, coming from all the advantages, always struggled to make ends meet. She said that Gloria claimed her father was a Mexican diplomat when in reality he was little more than a peasant, and her mother a seamstress. Mother also told me Gloria was a spy for the wrong side during World War II. Is that true?”
“According to my research there’s some truth in it. She was married to von Furstenberg at the time.”
“Anyhow, Mother said Gloria was a pro at rewriting history and a pro at reinventing herself.”
Ethan’s black eyes gleamed as he leaned back in his chair digesting my words. “I like what your mother said—about Gloria reinventing herself. That she did indeed. Imagine essentially being born in the gutter and rising to move in the smartest circles in the world. Then end up marrying one of the world’s wealthiest men? Most people never even had a clue as to her actual history; she veiled it so well.
“I have a great appreciation for those who are able to scale the walls of their pasts. Though when they get to the other side they forget their yesterdays, I find them some of the most interesting people of all.”
“Well then, Ethan, I suppose you will find me rather dull, because I’ve never reinvented myself and wouldn’t even think of it. I am who I am and the devil to anyone who doesn’t care for me this way.”
“Then you are a rarity, Pauline,” he said, his tone of whimsy turning into one of utmost sincerity. “Have you any faults?”
“Just two. The first is insatiable curiosity. The second shall remain nameless.”
We ruminated over the latest issues: Ivana Trump peddling clothes on television, Miglin’s murder and the subsequent murder of Versace by the same sociopath, and the recent death of a well-known socialite from a botched liposuction. Before I knew it the afternoon had slipped away and I had to rush off to get ready for the theater. But before parting, we arranged to meet the following Wednesday, and the tradition was established.
Over time our friendship continued to blossom. Before long, we were talking on the phone every day at least once, sometimes several times. Ethan was great company, attentive and fawning, and had a way of making one feel elevated when in his presence. He had such a good eye for fashion that I seldom made a major purchase without his approval. He was a wonderful escort who carried himself in a manner that transcended both his unseemly looks and his sometimes tired sartorial appearance, a presence I attributed to his aristocratic pedigree. We attended the symphony and opera together, the latest art gallery openings, the fashion shows, the Lincoln Park Zoo Ball, parties at the Casino Club, and countless other events. All at my expense, of course. But having Ethan was like having a really best girlfriend that one never had to compete with in any way.
Ethan had already lived in Chicago for years before I met him, working on the Berthe Palmer book, but hadn’t established himself in the best circles. After the Gloria book was published, and made several bestseller lists, his status changed overnight. Suddenly he was embraced by the social elite, was invited to speak in their clubs and attend their parties. Rarely was there a night or a lunch that he didn’t have some kind of an engagement. As his popularity grew, so did his entourage of women friends, and many afternoons he could be found holding court at high tea at the Drake.
Personally, I avoided those sessions like the plague, having only so much tolerance for my own gender. Though I must confess to appreciating the morsels of the gossip Ethan gleaned from his tea parties and shared with me later.
The phone rang and once again I let the answering machine do its job. In my misery, the last thing I wanted to do was talk. My thoughts reverted back to Sean and the mindless pleasure of his strong arms around me. After all, I was only human, and humans seek comfort in their misery. My resolve against calling him wilted with the last ice cubes in my Scotch. I looked skyward to ask for Ethan’s understanding. I got up and called Sean at work.
“Bertucci’s.” A nasal female voice fought to be heard over background noise that sounded like the Las Vegas prizefight Henry took me to the year after we were married. He had some business interest there at the time. The roar of the crowd had been deafening as two shiny, sweaty black men pummeled each other in a most savage manner while blood and sweat rained upon us in the first row like Paris drizzle. My new suit was ruined. It was my first and last fight.
I asked for Sean and heard the woman scream over the din. “Romero, it’s for you.” I held the receiver away from my ear until his unmistakably masculine voice came on the line. It never failed to appeal to my carnal side.
“This is Sean speaking.”
“Sean, dear, it’s Pauline.”
His mouth moved closer to the phone, and his tone turned attentive. “Pauline, I’ve missed you.”
“Sean, I’m feeling a bit blue. I wondered if you might stop over after work.” There was no reason to tell him about Ethan yet. It could wait.
“I sure can. I’ll be finished about ten-thirty. Is that all right?”
“That’s lovely. I’ll tell Jeffrey to expect you.”
I hung up and went into the bathroom. The image that stared back at me from the mirror was frightening. Red, swollen eyes and a face blown up like a balloon. Thank God Sean wasn’t expected for a couple of hours. I hoped that would be enough time to pull myself together. Then I laughed aloud at my own audacity. Time wasn’t the answer. Time was the enemy. There wasn’t enough of it left in eternity for a forty-nine-year-old woman to hide nature’s ravages from a thirty-year-old man. To feel secure, older women should be with older men, preferably ones with plenty of money and diminishing eyesight.
Insecure or not, the relationship with Sean filled a void in my life—the one involving my second fault. My biological clock may have been winding down, but it hadn’t given any indication of being in its final hour yet. In fact, it was just the opposite. It’s my understanding that as estrogen levels drop in pre-menopausal women, there is a surge of testosterone that fuels sexual desire. If this is the case, I was no exception to the rule. My carnal desires were stronger than ever. Maybe playing doctor with this man-child was ludicrous, but it worked well for me. And tonight my needs flared stronger than ever. I needed the cushion of human flesh to soften the sharp pain of loss.
I put a cold towel to my face to reduce the swelling.
When the elevator door opened, I awaited in the foyer, wearing a silk dressing gown over a bustier and garter belt. Without even saying “hello,” he picked me up in those Herculean, supple-skinned, muscular arms and carried me directly into my bedroom. He practically tore my undergarments off and buried himself inside me. All was forgotten save the exquisite realm of mortal pleasure.
Only later, as we lay in exhaustion on sweat-soaked sheets, beneath the canopy of my four-poster bed, did I tell him about Ethan.
4
No Good News
The sun dawned brightly again the next morning, but I was not party to it. Fortuitously, my bedroom faces west so the morning sun never intrudes. The combination of the Scotch and the stamina of a young lover left me in need of extra sleep. Besides, I have no great affinity for the morning. It’s a pleasant time for coffee and a piece of dry toast, but serves no purpose that I can see other than that. I far prefer the other side of the clock. After Henry died, I found it difficult to sleep, so I started reading and answering correspondence into the wee hours. The habit stuck. Now I seldom even think of going to sleep before midnight.
It was after ten when I awakened. Sean was gone. He
had an early morning shoot and knew better than to disturb me. Looking over to the crumpled sheets on his side of the bed, I took a selfish moment to luxuriate in the memory of the night before. A note was propped up on his nightstand next to the Trojan wrapper, an indispensable prerequisite to intimacy in these days of disease. Sean was, after all, an aspiring model. I turned on my bedside lamp and read what he had written. You were sleeping so soundly I didn’t want to wake you up. I’ll call you later. I’m sorry about Ethan. So very Sean. Simple and to the point.
The reminder of Ethan brought a feeling to my stomach like that of an undigested meal in a third-world country. Past experience told me it would get worse before it got better. When one is first confronted with death, the numbing shock basically gets one through the initial days. But it’s the ensuing weeks and months and even years after the death that prove far more difficult, when the totality of the passing settles in. Death is in the times the phone doesn’t ring, the day one doesn’t have to seek out a birthday gift or send a postcard from abroad, the emptiness of unlocking the door to a lifeless home. The wasted thought, Henry/Mother/Grandmother, would love this place/dress/vase. That was where death affected me the most, in the staggering weight of the small details rather than the grand.
That day I wouldn’t wonder where Ethan was because my mind told me he was gone. I knew that I wouldn’t be picking up the phone to talk to him. I knew I wouldn’t clip out a juicy bit from the newspaper to share with him. His death would hit hardest when something nice occurred in the future and I realized he wasn’t there to hear about it. There was to be no more idle gossip between us. I would never hear the rare magic of his musical voice again. Ethan left a gaping hole that a thousand Seans could never fill. Like a schoolgirl mourning the loss of her first love, I turned onto my stomach and cried into my empty pillow.
Well Bred and Dead Page 4