by Rozsa Gaston
“No,” Jude corrected himself. She was too full of life to be a private school grad. She hadn’t had all the fire bred out of her.
“Right.” The champagne flute arrived, and she took a sip, delicately holding the thin stem between slim, French-manicured fingers. Jude sensed she was 100 percent studied, a Ph.D. in the school of life. But she was fresh and zingy, too. A fun-loving woman lurked behind all that careful sophistication. It occurred to him that whatever her husband had seen in her might have been something entirely different from whatever impression on him she had thought she was making.
“So you were modeling pink and green fashions at some local event when your future husband spotted you?”
“Actually, I was wearing yellow and orange the first time we met. It was at the car show they run every summer down at the harbor,” she said, referring to Greenwich Harbor.
“The Concours d’Elegance?”
“Right. I got paid by the sponsors to be a car model and by Lilly to wear their line.”
“I assume neither knew the other was paying you, too,” Jude put in.
“Why should they?” Jordan replied briskly, her finely groomed eyebrows pointing into Vs.
Impressive. The woman clearly possessed business instincts.
“What kind of car were you exhibiting when your future husband appeared?” he asked.
“It was one I’d never heard of. A Delahaye. Convertible.”
“Huge?” He’d heard of the French car manufacturer, known for making some of the most beautiful luxury vehicles in the world in the first half of the twentieth century.
“A monster. You wouldn’t want to know how many miles to the gallon.”
Jude thought back to the trim, sleek Jaguar in the parking lot. That was his kind of car. What was his kind of woman?
“So then, what happened?”
“I noticed this guy eyeballing me, then talking to the exhibit manager who’d hired me. Next thing I knew, the manager came over and asked if I wouldn’t mind accompanying his customer for a quick spin in the car.”
“Were you fine on that?”
“I told him it wasn’t part of our agreement. I mean—what if the guy was a wacko or something? I’d been hired to show cars, not ride off in them with total strangers.” Jordan took another sip of her champagne, smiling as she apparently thought back to that first encounter. “The manager let me know the gentleman requesting a test drive was head of one of the largest private equity firms in the country. I had no idea what private equity was, but I knew it involves lots of money. Told him I’d only consent if I got 10 percent of his commission on the sale, if he bought the car.”
“You think on your feet.”
“Yup. Always have. Had to when I was growing up.”
“Why’s that?”
“My mom left my Dad for another guy when I was twelve. They moved to Costa Rica.” Jordan’s face became serious for the first time. “My dad remarried within a year, and my step-mom and I didn’t get along. I was on my own from fifteen on.”
“How’d you manage to finish high school?”
“I was popular. And proud. First I lived with my guidance counselor’s family. Then she found a family for me to board with in town. I worked at the donut shop and managed okay. Had enough credits to graduate after junior year, then took off for New York.”
“New York is no place for a young girl on her own.”
“So I found. I ended up being a nanny for a family that moved to Greenwich when their third child came along. I went with them but after a short time realized I didn’t want to be a member of the serving class in this town.”
“Go on.” Jude knew only too well what her reference points were. He’d straddled the same fine line as a child, crossing over it as an adult. But he never forgot where he came from, which sometimes got in the way of where he aimed to go. It dawned on him that Jordan had some great insights for him, not just on how to marry money.
“It was the ruling class that interested me,” she continued. “I quit the nanny job when I got the Lilly one, but the family liked me, so they let me stay in their gatekeeper’s cottage in exchange for babysitting on the new nanny’s days off. Then I met Charlie. The rest is history—voilà!” She gestured as if displaying a Delahaye car. A thick pink and gold bangle bracelet dangled from the wrist of one slim, tanned arm. Jude recognized the inimitable Lilly brand.
He sat back, admiring her. She was artwork. Self-invented, self-propelled kinetic art. No wonder Charlie had married her.
But she lacked the wound. Even though now he knew she had it. She’d done such a great job of concealing it from everyone that it no longer figured as part of her personality. Even with the story she’d just shared, she didn’t look in the slightest vulnerable. Au contraire.
“I congratulate you,” Jude said, quietly. “You’ve got a lot of balls to be telling me all this. What if I go around the corner and repeat it to someone?”
“Be my guest. I never hid a thing from Charlie about where I come from. I could tell him I kill baby birds for sport, and he’d be fine with it. He told me it was love at first sight and not a thing I said or did after that first car ride together could make him change his mind.”
Was that infatuation or love? Jude knew enough to know he didn’t know the answer himself. Whatever it was, it had worked for Jordan Marshall. Splendidly.
“So how long have you been married?” he continued.
“Five years. Long enough for love at first sight to wear off, in case you were wondering.” She gave him a wry smile.
“What replaced it?”
“Mutual appreciation, mutual interests. I scratch his back, he scratches mine. Also—” She hesitated, cocking her head.
“Also?”
“I love him.” She looked straight into Jude’s eyes.
“Like I said before, congratulations.” He didn’t doubt her. He imagined her version of love might be different from his, but it appeared to work for her, so who was he to question it?
“Ready to look at some flowers?” she asked.
“I’m only interested in rare orchids.”
“I’ll show you some,” she said as she rose from her chair.
“I’ve already seen one,” he replied, enjoying the way her eyes twinkled as she took in his compliment.
Over the next twenty minutes, they toured the gardens to the side of the Field Club. A backdrop of muffled thuds accompanied them—the pleasant thwack of tennis balls lobbed by early evening tennis players. Jude had always liked the sound.
Jordan introduced him to acquaintances here and there, not hesitating to tell each one of them he was soliciting race sponsors for charity. By the end of the evening he’d amassed several more sponsorship pledges for the Lymphoma Society.
Two hours later his brain hummed as he drove home. Jordan had proven a worthy member of the Greenwich Garden Club. She’d planted several ideas in Jude’s head that would get him started on his first chapter. Best of all, they hadn’t been obvious ones.
Jordan had thought what she’d offered to Charlie had been beauty, youth and unerring social-climbing skills. But Jude saw beyond that formula. He had a hunch that Charlie had really gone for Jordan’s chutzpah, street smarts and palpable joie de vivre. Being young and beautiful had helped. But he didn’t think it was everything. He was beginning to think that what it took to marry money wasn’t entirely what most thought. It was something different and much more accessible. Something a person could develop inside him or herself. That would be the premise of his book. He would list the qualities needed, then offer some steps to develop them. It would sell millions of copies. Everyone can dream, can’t they? Even me, he thought, revving up his Ford Taurus to overtake the Jaguar ahead.
SEVEN
Farrah spent a quiet Saturday after getting back from Charlotte, North Carolina the evening before. She’d been on the road non-stop for the past three days, meeting with five of Meredith’s existing clients who hadn’t yet been “r
eached” by Alison and dropping by a few other prospects to introduce herself. Predictably, no one had wanted to see her, so she’d left her business card along with a box of gourmet chocolates in the shape of eyeballs with the office staff at each stop. It was corny, but who could pass up Belgian chocolates? She thanked God she’d spotted them in the Halloween candy aisle at the gift shop in the airport departure terminal.
Dinner with Jude in his neighborhood the following evening danced in her mind. She hoped her dating skills weren’t so rusty she wouldn’t be able to open up in their dinner conversation. And what would happen after dinner?
“It’s not what happens, it’s how you handle it,” had been her father’s motto. Her mother had shown her how that worked. As she thought back to the last year of her mother’s life, her heart swelled.
The lymphoma had progressed quickly. Farrah’s two older brothers both lived in different parts of the country: Mark was married in Denver, Sean finishing up his degree in energy conservation in California. Everyone involved had known it would be a short timetable, so Farrah had put off her first semester of grad school. Instead, she had spent the time in the hallways and waiting rooms of New York Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, driving her mother back and forth to appointments. Then, there were the final few weeks at her bedside, making arrangements for hospice care and beyond.
Beyond had arrived first.
“It’s not what happens, it’s how you handle it,” Farrah intoned, as she checked her e-mails for the second time on her way to the kitchen. Alison Keane flashed into her mind. Maybe it was both what happens and how you handle it; then, how you live with it afterward.
She shuddered, shifting back to lighter topics.
Why had Jude not been available Saturday evening? She hoped he wasn’t a serial dater, someone who had their profile up on so many Internet dating sites that he went out several times a week, each time with a different woman. Thinking of earlier in the week, she realized she’d taken until Tuesday evening to get back to him. Was it possible he’d had his evenings open, but because she’d taken so long to reply, someone else had snapped up his time? Guiltily, she thought about her own split emotions. Crazily, Will had come back into her life. She’d told herself she didn’t want him to. But he’d been her one, true love. Wasn’t it worth feeling a little pain for the chance for it to flower again?
She shifted uneasily. Two and a half years of sickening pain—first sharp, then dull and deadening—didn’t exactly fit the definition of a little pain. If she got back together with him, how could she just turn the page on that chapter and forget it had ever happened?
Back at her computer, she worked on her expense report for the past month while mulling over what she would wear the following evening. The black and white sundress had made an impression on Jude the Friday before, but she couldn’t wear the same outfit twice. There was the burgundy mohair dress from Loehmann’s, the designer warehouse on Broadway in the Bronx that women flocked to from all over New York City; it was the most comfortable yet quietly sexy dress she’d ever owned. But what if Jude was allergic to mohair? She didn’t want him reaching for her, then convulsing in sneezes. The weather was still mild, so a late summer outfit would work best. Getting up to rummage in her closet, a short beep announced another message had come in.
She switched to her personal e-mail account. [email protected] had communicated. She sat down with a thud, unsure if she was ready for whatever news he had.
“Moved out last Monday. Staying with friends on the Upper West Side. Are you free for dinner tomorrow? —Will.”
Slamming shut the cover of her laptop, she opened the window near her desk and leaned out. The inky blackness of the treetops of Van Cortlandt Park waved at her silently. They were telling her something, but what?
Was Will going to pursue her until she broke down and took him back? He knew her so well. He had pursued her relentlessly when they’d first met. She’d let him know she’d been impressed with his determination once they’d dated a few months. But that was then, this was now. What had been impressive then, now seemed less trustworthy. She told herself how lucky she was not to have become his wife. If she had, he might now be e-mailing yet another ex-girlfriend, yearning for something that played no part in the reality of the hand he had dealt himself.
Her only defense was that she knew him as well as he knew her. He loved the chase. He was relentless, determined when he wanted something. Will’s problem began when he actually got what he was pursuing. The game was then over, and he wasn’t interested in the next step. He had been the child of privilege, a spoiled boy who’d kicked around at three different colleges, finally graduating at age twenty-six. Ten years later he’d lost every penny of his inheritance from his father in a real estate deal gone bad. Then he’d tossed away Farrah in just one casual phone conversation.
Rich people were like that, she thought. They threw things out when they tired of them. But now he wanted her back. Did that mean he’d learned his lesson? And what lesson would she have learned, if she went back to him?
Nerves atwitter, she knew what she needed to do. A short, fast, hard run would not only clear her head, but firmly recement her in the present moment. “Be here now” was her next favorite motto after “It’s not what happens, it’s how you handle it.” She needed to think on both those maxims while cold, fresh evening air poured into her lungs and pricked her senses.
Changing into her running clothes, she asked herself if she should really be going out for a run in the dark. She knew most would say no. But her heart said yes. She had to be who she was. All she could do to protect herself was to be prepared.
She scrabbled in a kitchen drawer, reaching way in the back, her fingers finally closing on what she was looking for—dog pepper spray, a form of mace legal in New York State. She’d had it for several years, a gift from her tough-as-nails friend Blanca: a Bronx girl, born and bred.
Soon after Farrah had moved to Riverdale she’d confided to Blanca that she was nervous about running home from Tuesday night workouts, which usually ended sometime after eight.
“Girl, don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t run after dark around here,” Blanca had scoffed. “This neighborhood is as safe as they come. But I’ve got something for you that’s going to make you feel as safe as you really are.”
At their next Tuesday night workout, Blanca handed her a small cylindrical object in a black leather holster.
“I want to see this strapped to your waist when we finish our workouts from now on,” she commanded.
“Is that mace?” Farrah stared doubtfully as her friend snapped it onto her waist pack.
“It’s dog pepper spray, same thing.”
“Is it legal?”
“Yes. They call it dog pepper spray because it’s meant to be used on dirty dogs.” Blanca rolled her eyeballs. “Okay, let’s try it now. Pretend I’m some creep and spray me. Just don’t spray me in the face like you would if this were the real thing. Spray my sneakers instead.”
“Blanca, I can’t do this,” Farrah said. She was curious to know what mace was like, but she didn’t want to hurt her friend. Wasn’t it strong stuff?
“Baby, you shouldn’t live in New York City if you can’t do this. Now, spray me. Go!” Blanca reached out and grabbed at Farrah’s left breast.
“Watch it—hey!” Farrah was shocked, then realized her friend was deliberately goading her. There was only one way to stop her.
She pointed at a spot on the ground about two feet from Blanca’s fluorescent green sneaker and pressed hard on the small white button at the top of the dispenser.
“Argh, ugh, that’s my girl.” Blanca released Farrah’s singlet and backed away, choking. “I didn’t think you’d have the balls to do it,” she complimented her.
“Something about your hand near my chest,” Farrah told her, coughing, too. The spray smelled like pepper alright. Way too much of it. Her eyes were tearing, so she quickly moved from the spot she’d sprayed.
Blanca was a good friend.
Hooking the pepper spray onto her waist pack, she headed out the door, waving to the doorman, who waved back. It was good to have someone watching out for her. It seemed eminently human. Wasn’t there something odd about thousands of people choosing to live alone all over New York City? She wondered if the high demand for doormen buildings in the city was a result of the natural longing for companionship that so many New Yorkers denied themselves in their quest for careers or self-actualization. She thought back to her lonely hotel room chicken Caesar salads. What was the point of the money, the bonuses, if she just ended up eating dinner alone, night after night?
The air felt crisp, clean, and fresh on her skin. Immediately, her mood lifted. She was baffled, still hurt and more than a little curious. But it was the past beckoning to her, and she’d already been there. It hadn’t treated her well. In less than twenty-four hours, she would spend time with a man who might be part of her future. In either direction, new developments loomed.
She sailed into the night air. A few dog walkers were out, along with the usual giggling college students outside An Beal Bocht. She looked forward to her body transporting her to that familiar physiological state of heightened awareness and unexplained bliss that kept her running year after year. Gulping in the sweet, night air, she picked up speed. Soon, she was pumping her arms, running at the maximum pace that being on the street at night allowed. It wasn’t all out, but it was enough to get oxygen flooding into her lungs, then into her blood stream where red blood cells rushed nutrients and fuel to every part of her body.
After three loops around the block, she’d had enough. She stretched in front of her building, watching the doorman watch her. Heels on the ground, her toes up on the bottom of the bicycle rack, she bounced gently, feeling the stretch in her Achilles tendon. By the time she re-entered her building, she was firmly back in the present moment.
Upstairs she showered, then padded back to her computer, refreshed and ready to battle demons of one hour earlier.