ALSO BY GIGI LEVANGIE GRAZER
Rescue Me
Maneater
The Starter Wife
SIMON & SCHUSTER
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Last Punch Productions, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication
Data Grazer, Gigi Levangie.
Queen takes king: a novel / Gigi Levangie Grazer.—1st Simon & Schuster hardcover ed.
p. cm.
1. Rich people—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 2. Socialites—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 3. Adultery—Fiction. 4. New York
(N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3557.R2913Q84 2009
813'.54—dc22 2009002295
ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-9876-6
ISBN-10: 0-7432-9876-4
Visit us on the Web:
http://www.SimonandSchuster.com
To my children, Thomas and Patrick
CONTENTS
PART ONE SEPTEMBER 2007
1 THE QUEEN
2 THE KING
3 THE KING’S MISTRESS
4 GATHER THE PAWNS
5 IT’S WAR. WHAT SHOULD I WEAR?
6 CONNECTED PAWNS
7 THE KING MAKER
8 QUEEN’S COUNSEL
9 THE KING’S OPENING MOVE
10 THE GOOD BISHOP: ZORBA THE THERAPIST
11 THE KING’S COUNSEL
12 PLAYING THE BOARD
13 THE KING’S PAWN
14 CRITICAL POSITION
15 A RARE ENGAGEMENT
16 HEAVY HANGS THE HEAD…
17 MIDDLE GAME: WEEK ONE
18 MIDDLE GAME: WEEK TWO
PART TWO TWO WEEKS LATER
19 THE PAWN IS ROOKED
20 PASSED PAWN
21 KINGS FIGHT FOR EMPIRES, MADMEN FOR APPLAUSE
22 KEEP YOUR GAME FACE ON
23 THE QUEEN AS WING-MOM
24 QUEEN’S GAMBIT
25 NICE PIECE OF…THE NAKED AND THE DAMP
26 KING’S GAMBIT
27 THOUGHTS FROM A KNIGHT ON THE TOWN
28 ISOLATED PAWN
29 YOU-BOOB: PATZER MOVE
30 PROMOTED POISONED PAWN
31 GAME ON
32 BISHOP’S ADVANCE
33 STUDYING THE BOARD
34 OPENING PREPARATION
35 OUTSIDE PASSED PAWN
36 OVEREXTENDED PAWN
37 FORCED MOVE
PART THREE
38 UNSEALED MOVES
39 CASTLING KINGSIDE AND QUEENSIDE
40 DRAWING LINE
41 QUEEN TAKES PAWN
42 RECESS
43 THE GOOD BISHOP’S FINAL MOVE
44 OUTFLANKING
45 THE WOOING OF A QUEEN
46 MARRIAGE REHAB: KING ROOKED
47 THE QUEEN EATS CAKE
48 TOURNAMENT PLAY
49 THE CORNERED KING: CHECK
50 ENDGAME
51 A ROYAL REUNION
52 QUEEN TAKES KING
53 SOME TIME LATER
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PART ONE
SEPTEMBER 2007
1
THE QUEEN
CYNTHIA HUNSAKER Power stood shivering in her kitchen, a silk robe wrapped around her sylphlike body, and wondered whom she’d have to fuck or fire to get a diet Red Bull. Her doe eyes, accentuated by last night’s false eyelashes, blinked at the challenge. She flicked her straight black ponytail faded only slightly by age, and smirked. Cynthia’s delicate mouth was stained, her beloved Chanel Red No. 5 intensifying her pale skin. Reality check, Cynthia, she thought, when was the last time you did either?
The chef wouldn’t arrive until daybreak, the French butler was still asleep, and the housekeepers and drivers and trainers hadn’t even tasted their first sip of coffee before hopping the train into Manhattan. Cynthia was alone in the kitchen, something she hadn’t been since Vivienne was a baby. Had it really been almost twenty-five years?
She’d been jostled awake by a recurring dream.
“Snakes,” Cynthia said out loud. “Even my nightmares are clichés.” She imagined her therapist Dr. Gold’s reaction: “Don’t waste my time, bubule. I’m a very busy man. I’ve got a full day of undersexed neurotics.”
Now. Find that Red Bull. The industrial-size refrigerator revealed nothing. There were no other clues. Her designer had prohibited appliances, declaring them aesthetically offensive. The kitchen looked like a morgue.
Open, close, open, open, slam, drawers upon drawers upon cabinets. No luck. Cynthia was sweating in her Hanros when she finally discovered a black machine with sleek lines; could this be a coffeemaker? It bore no resemblance to the dented aluminum percolator her mother had used back in Aurora, Missouri. She squinted, trying to make sense of the buttons and the timers and the vents. Cynthia refused to acknowledge the slow submerging of the printed word into a gray blur. Reading glasses? Forget it. Next, people would be whispering: “She was a real beauty in her twenties.”
Even if Cynthia could bring Darth Vader to life, where was the coffee? She set the machine down.
And where were her Gitanes?
Caffeine and cigarettes, the breakfast of champions for ballerinas, even long-retired ones. What started out decades ago as a six-pack-a-day Diet Coke habit had morphed into almost a case a day of high-octane diet Red Bull as her metabolism slowed. Cynthia was Sleeping Beauty without her fix. And to make matters worse, Esme, her personal maid, had hidden the cigs from her, instructed to ration five a day—7:30, 10:30, 2:30, 6:30, 10:30—unless otherwise notified in times of crisis. Cynthia knew better than to bother anyone about her blessed unfiltereds at this hour.
Cynthia looked past the custom Bonnet stove she’d never used to the white Carrara marble countertop she’d used once, for a photo spread. The Town & Country layout had been featured several bright springs ago—Cynthia sitting sideways on the cold marble, her black mane freshly blown out by John Barrett, her red mouth open in silent laughter (behold the bliss of the wealthy Upper East Side wife, the inside joke of the Park Avenue Princess). She could see her dancer’s torso curved backward, one long leg emerging from the slit in her Armani, ending days later in the arch of her bare foot. The caption: “Cynthia Power, patroness of the New York Ballet Theater, feels as at home in her Baron Waxfield–designed kitchen as onstage in a pas de deux.”
Cynthia the Perfectionist was known for being meticulous in her performances, onstage and off. Case in point: last night’s pas de deux at the Waldorf. Two years to plan her twenty-fifth wedding anniversary party and it was over in four hours. But what a four hours: five hundred of their closest and dearest, including the mayor, the governor, Barbara, Julian, Peter, Anna, Donald, the De Niros, Marc, Harvey, Rupert, Charlie, Woody, Diane, Liz, Nieporent, and the Schwarzmans, feigned obliviousness to the paparazzi penned in on the north side of Fifty-first Street. Once inside, they were ush
ered into a ballroom, completely overhauled in homage to Versailles’s Hall of Mirrors. Gargantuan reflective panes had been installed on one side; faux “windows” had been painted on the facing wall to replicate the intricate gardens. There were twinkling chandeliers and a ceiling painstakingly repainted as per the Sun King’s original specifications. There was consensus among the people who mattered: New York hadn’t seen a party like this since the Steinberg-Tisch wedding/merger at the Met back in the eighties.
If only her husband, Jackson Xavier Power, had seen fit to show up on time.
“Now what?” she asked herself. She had a full two hours before her Pilates instructor rang, but without a schedule and without her Red Bull, she wasn’t sure exactly what to do. She could boot up her social calendar for the upcoming fall season or go through last season’s closet and decide which dresses to donate to charity.
On a whim, she decided to go out and get the newspapers. Excited about getting the papers—this was her life. Cynthia didn’t fear running into anyone in the elevators at 740—they were perpetually empty. Still, she decided to take the stairs. The eighteen-room apartment (six bedrooms, eight baths) commanded the penthouse of the seventeen-story limestone building, a trek, but Cynthia needed to get her blood moving. She cinched the robe tightly around her waist and walked out the service door into the darkened hallway.
Five minutes later, Cynthia was back in the kitchen, the Post spread open on the Pedini island. Her reflection hovered at its edges—forehead pinched, cheeks flushed, mouth agape. She played a game with herself, shutting her eyes, then forcing them open again. The photo remained unchanged.
Screw the Red Bull. Sleeping Beauty was wide awake.
2
THE KING
JACKSON POWER grunted as he rolled over in his Pratesi sheets. “Cynthia?” Jacks reached his long arm out for her. Nothing. His wife was already gone. What the hell time was it? Two things Jacks didn’t like—waking up alone, and going to bed alone. He sat up, his barrel chest bare over his pajama bottoms, and ran his blunt, manicured fingertips through his famously full, deep brown mane. He glanced at his pillow, checking for hair loss—not a man left behind. Jacks Power versus Father Time? Another TKO. But enough. Where was Cynthia? Pacing in the living room? The gallery? The library? (Not the kitchen—never the kitchen.) Fussing over lunch plans? Shopping expeditions? The season’s big society event? How would his wife top last night’s extravaganza? He couldn’t imagine—but knowing Cynthia, she’d figure it out. He glanced at the Louis XV giltwood stool, beneath last night’s tux and Cynthia’s beaded ivory gown, all of it crumpled and spent. Valentino, Cynthia told him, not that he gave a shit. The dress was expensive and Cynthia looked expensive wearing it. That was all that mattered. Would Cynthia ever wear it again? Probably not. But imagine his triumph when the dress found an eventual home—tax deductible of course—in the Met’s costume exhibit.
Life was good.
Jackson Power was the top developer in New York—translated, The World (not according to his critics).
Jackson Power was the biggest single developer of multifamily housing in the United States (a lie so complete it seemed almost true).
Jackson Power was worth six billion (according to the Forbes 500 list—notoriously full of lies).
Jackson Power didn’t give a rat’s ass, like some of his colleagues, about affordable housing. Manhattan, in his view, was not supposed to be affordable. Let New Jersey be affordable; let Queens be affordable. Manhattan was the Powers’ province (inarguably).
Jackson Power was the only developer in New York who was a recognizable face (inarguably).
Jackson Power, in a stroke of genius, had given himself (inarguable, this) his own moniker—The People’s Billionaire.
Jackson Power stood for luxury, stood for style, and if you didn’t agree with him, well, what did you know? You were obviously a poor person of little consequence utterly lacking in style, “and that’s a fact”—Jacks’s oft-quoted period at the end of every sentence.
Last night’s party was for the charmed inner circle, joining in Jackson’s favorite kind of celebration: a celebration of himself. The center table alone held six of the world’s most powerful Gargoyles—“Gargoyle,” his secret moniker for other Captains of Industry, billionaires whose lifelong trench warfare had carved their faces to resemble stone goblins straight off the spires of Notre Dame. (So far, Jacks’s rugged good looks had escaped unscathed.)
The orchestra played Sinatra as Jackson Power and his raven-haired wife of twenty-five years danced, spinning graceful circles on the gleaming parquet floor, but his arm felt stiff and foreign around her waist.
Their reflection bounced off the giant mirrors, Cynthia the very picture of beauty steeped long enough in money to become elegant, and Jackson the perfect leading man, all height and shoulders and hair and that famous “I’ve Got the Power” grin. Screw George Clooney and that shrimpy James Bond actor. Next to Jacks Power in a tux, they look like Girl Scouts.
The teeming, glittering well-wishers, draped in their best Ungaros and Valentinos, their shiniest Harrys and Van Cleefs dangerously circling their necks—mellowed by Krug Clos du Mesnil, watched and smiled and sighed and swayed where they stood, buoying the handsome couple along.
Jackson and Cynthia had moved as one, spinning past the giant floral arrangement in the center of the room. Yellow roses. Cynthia’s favorite.
“Happy anniversary, sweetheart,” he’d murmured into her ear.
Cynthia’s smile tightened imperceptibly at the corners. “You are such an ass. Darling.”
“Now, now,” he cautioned, as he led her past the Gargoyle table, winking as he sped away, “your fans are watching.”
“How could you be late to our anniversary party, Jackson?” she’d hissed.
“You throw eight parties a week,” Jackson replied, his voice the same temperature as the swan ice sculpture holding court near the stage. “Not including charity luncheons, teas, those very, very important ladies’ breakfasts—”
“You were supposed to be throwing this party for me,” Cynthia said, “remember? I told you starting a year ago. Damn it, Jackson, I faxed you memo after memo—”
“When do you eat, darling?” Jackson had asked. “Surely, they serve food at all your events.” He could feel each of her ribs beneath her gown, hand-stitched onto her body by the doll-like fingers of the ancient Italian designer; he remembered when she hadn’t felt like bone. He recalled the lush contours of his girlfriend, who regarded exercise as an acceptable alternative only when one ran out of options. Like fucking. Or something straight up with a twist.
Cynthia’s head jerked back, but the sudden twitch in her neck remained imperceptible to their audience; her body appeared as controlled as when she’d danced onstage so long ago. The song was almost over: “The Best Is Yet to Come.” Jacks tried to remember her favorite things, even more so now that he was no longer interested; he considered it mental gymnastics, like the Sunday Times crossword.
10 Down, Cynthia Power’s favorite perfume.
12 Across, Cynthia Power’s favorite couturier.
23 Down, Cynthia Power’s favorite sexual position…
(Ha. Can’t remember. Is there one?)
25 Down, Cynthia’s favorite song.
Wait till your charms are right for these arms to surround
You think you’ve flown before, but baby, you ain’t left the ground
The song had been played at their wedding, their first dance. Jackson held Cynthia tight as a flash flood of guilt washed over him.
“Do you like the roses?” he’d asked, hearing the softness in his voice as though it belonged to someone else. Yellow ones were her favorite (24 Down). From the first day. From the first apartment. From the first baby.
“I knew you’d get them for me, Jacks,” Cynthia said, her jaw clenched. She had an angular bone structure that would prevent her face from falling but aged her with its aggressive geography.
Th
e happy couple’s eyes met for the briefest moment. What did she see? Jackson wondered. Did she see everything? Did she see how he kissed his girlfriend? Did she see how he stared into the gray-green eyes of another woman?
He ran a single finger softly down her spine, knowing he could still make her tremble.
As the orchestra hit the final note, Jackson spun his wife around once more, then curved her body back. Her pale arm reached high over her head; her still-lithe body flowed like a river.
She’d stolen the breath of every person standing in that room. The Gargoyles and their wives clapped.
“And do you love the song?” he’d asked.
“Yes,” she’d said, looking past his shoulder. “I knew you would,” he’d said, gazing at her beauty as though she were a painting he’d bought years ago and forgotten why on earth he’d purchased it.
NORMALLY, Jacks would have been up at 5:30, working out for the requisite thirty-five minutes of diminishing returns in his personal gym with Petre, his trainer. He’d be on that elliptical thing for twenty minutes, watching MSNBC and monitoring his BlackBerry, his pulse, and his blood pressure before moving on to quads, trunk, delts, and whatever else the unabashedly Aryan Petre had on his cursed mind.
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