Trust Fund Babies

by Jean Stone

  Gabrielle carefully wrapped tissue around the aqua tea dress that she’d bought in town. She folded it gently to fit into the suitcase Nikki had let her borrow, because hers was too small for New York. Not for New York, exactly, but for the change of shoes, clothes, and bags that she’d want for two days and two nights in the city, two days and two nights with what was left of the Atkinsons in the place where she’d once lived from September through May.

  She checked the shine on the aqua leather pumps and slipped them into felt bags.

  Two days with her family. She wished Rosa were there, wished she could show off her daughter so that Aunt Dorothy would know that Gabrielle had turned out fine despite all her troubles.

  That was, of course, why she’d become obsessed with the notion that she needed to look great, as great and as rich and as … worthy, as surely Aunt Dorothy thought they still were.

  In the early years, she had thought of this reunion often, her return to the family that had once cast her aside. As a child, she had dreamed of meeting Aunt Margaret, of knocking a cup of hot tea into her lap. She had dreamed of yelling at Nikki and Mary Beth, shouting how dare you and who needs you, anyway. She had dreamed of someone—any one of them—wrapping their arms around her and giving her a hug and telling her everything was okay, now that she was home.

  That was in the early years. As Gabrielle became a teenager, then was out on her own, it became increasingly clear that she was not welcome. “The pain is too great,” Aunt Margaret said in her quarterly correspondence, “but we’ll try to get to England this summer for a visit.” But it was only Aunt Dorothy who had come. The visits from the others never happened, and more years passed and then Aunt Margaret died and Gabrielle moved on to Paris and hardly dreamed anymore, at least not about them.

  Except, of course, her father. Many times she had wanted to ask Aunt Margaret if she knew why he’d disappeared, but she never did. She must have learned at a young age that the question would not be welcome, the way one knows not to walk out into traffic but does not remember being taught.

  She’d almost asked Aunt Dorothy once, but was afraid if she did she’d lose her, too. And if it weren’t for Aunt Dorothy, Gabrielle would have felt completely abandoned.

  But now she was going to see her, to thank her. So why did it seem overwhelming?

  Nikki walked into the room. “Ready?”

  Gabrielle wrung her hands. “I don’t know why I’m nervous.”

  “It won’t be easy to see her, especially if she has no idea who you are.”

  “It isn’t that. It’s me. I feel like a girl fresh out of the country. I don’t know if I’m ready to go back into the city.”

  “It’s only a city. It’s where you were born.”

  “I have fonder memories of the Vineyard than I do of New York.”

  “That’s because on the Vineyard there was space. Space and fresh air. In the city we were squished together—Grandfather, my mother, me, you and your parents …”

  Gabrielle nodded. “In that beautiful old brownstone. You’d think I’d have loved it.” She remembered a huge stained-glass window on the wall of the staircase; she remembered the hand-stenciled moldings that encircled each of the downstairs, velvet-curtained rooms. She remembered those things, but little else.

  “The air in there was always too tense,” Nikki said. “It was because my mother lived there.”

  Gabrielle sighed and sat down on the bed. Why was she putting herself through this? Why didn’t she just go back to Stefano, and pretend none of this had ever happened? But a small voice within her said No, not yet. “I do want to see Aunt Dorothy,” she replied. “And your daughter, if she’s around. And Mary Beth’s.”

  Nikki sat down beside her. “Wow. All the Atkinson females at the same time. Maybe Mary Beth could arrange a spa day for us.”

  She laughed. “Nikki, you are so cynical.”

  “I know. I can’t help it.” Nikki stood up and picked up the suitcase. “Just remember, we’re family, Gabrielle. The past is the past and today is today.” She leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Now come on, country girl, we’ve got a ferry to catch.”

  Gabrielle stood up and shook out her hair. “That’s countess, to you,” she replied with a smile and followed Nikki down the narrow spiral staircase and out into the world where she once had belonged.

  On the way to the ferry they stopped at the camp. Alice seemed to have everything under control. “Stay forever, if you like,” she jested to Nikki. “I have two new assistants and they’re a lot less trouble.” She pointed to the office, where Carla sorted name tags for the next group of campers. Molly was helping.

  “I thought Carla was going to help us find Lester!” Nikki laughed.

  “Help is help,” Alice replied. “We get it where we can; you taught me that.”

  Nikki shook her head. “Well, for now I’m headed to New York to try to get some help by selling artwork.”

  Alice gave her a thumbs-up and Gabrielle bent down and gave Molly a long, wonderful hug, then a kiss on the cheek. Nikki watched with awe, sensing that her cousin had such a loving nature, when of the three Atkinsons, she would have been the one justified in not getting close to anyone, in never being able to open up her heart.

  But would kindly, loving Gabrielle forgive Nikki if she learned of her relationship with Mack? And would she forgive Mack?

  They said their good-byes and went back to the car.

  “She’ll be all right,” Gabrielle said, startling Nikki. “Molly,” she continued. “I just have a feeling that she’ll be all right.”

  Nikki wondered if Gabrielle recognized a survivor because she’d been one, too.

  18

  She had forgotten it was summer, the worst time to try to escape from the damn island. Mary Beth glanced around the small, crowded airport and hoped the wedding guests had already made their transportation arrangements, as she had recommended back in February. Most, of course, would come in private planes, but, nonetheless, arrangements had to be made.

  Strutting to the ticket counter, she thought about Nikki. She couldn’t believe Nikki wanted to drive to New York, which would take hours, when all she needed was to hop on a plane. If Gabrielle had the cash to put them up at the Plaza, they damn well could have flown with Mary Beth, who was going to put the airline ticket on her American Express now that Carla said she had no limit.

  She supposed they hadn’t wanted to fly because Nikki would want her car to traipse around Manhattan and come and go as she pleased without having to depend on taxicabs or planes or subway schedules. Did Nikki know that about herself, that she hated committing herself—hated being beholden—to anyone or anything?

  And why the hell was Mary Beth concerned about that now?

  Maybe Nikki simply detested the puddle-jumper, eight-or-so-passenger planes. Well, the truth was, Mary Beth didn’t like them, either, but each time she needed to fly off-island she reminded herself of their safety record and the fact that the silly planes often flew when the ferries would not run, like in forty-mile-an-hour winds, which, thankfully, were not an issue that day.

  What was an issue was that she had a wedding in less than two weeks and a houseful of antiques to sell off before then.

  At least Sotheby’s was doing her a special favor by getting there this afternoon. At least it shouldn’t take too long, then she could get back to the business that really was important, like returning to the Vineyard for the final wedding push.

  When, at last, she made it to the front of the line, Mary Beth announced, “One-way to New York.” No sense making a commitment for the return trip.

  Commitment? Ha! She thought of Nikki once again, who had not sustained a marriage because she’d felt so “trapped,” who had not seemed to have a relationship, good, bad, or even just for sex in the years since her divorce. While the ticket agent scrolled through her computer, Mary Beth tapped her fingernail on the counter and tried not to wonder about the word divorce, and if Eric had returned to h
is senses yet and if he’d moved back home.

  “Sorry,” said the ticket agent. “We’re all sold out today.”

  Mary Beth did not move. “You can’t be sold out. You’re never sold out.”

  The agent was a young girl in a turquoise polo shirt and jeans who obviously didn’t know a thing about either the Vineyard or life. She shrugged.

  Mary Beth leaned across the counter. “Put on another plane,” she said. “I must get to New York.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, that’s not my job.”

  “Then find someone whose job it is. And I suggest you find that person now.” She tried, she really tried, to keep her voice under control, to keep her growing rage from shooting out across the counter in a spray of angry spit.

  The girl looked at her, then turned her eyes to the door that led out to the tarmac. The door had opened; a small stream of people sauntered into the terminal. They wore sunglasses and carried tote bags. Among them were two dogs, one black and one golden Labrador retriever.

  “Excuse me,” the ticket girl said. “I have to attend to these passengers first.” She hopped off her stool before Mary Beth could make a lunge for her scrawny neck. “Check back with me in fifteen minutes.”

  Standing there alone, it took a moment for Mary Beth to realize that she had been abandoned. Perhaps the girl did not know the Atkinson name, or that their money had helped support this island for over half a century.

  She slung her bag over her shoulder and looked around for a place to sit and wait out her quarter-hour. But all the chairs were taken by others wanting to escape, and the floor was strewn with baggage, carry-ons and otherwise. She headed out the front door to remove herself from the relaxed vacationers and to have a quiet smoke.

  Outside on the sidewalk, she stood and smoked, cursing herself for not anticipating this hold-up and for not riding with Nikki and Gabrielle, who might get there before she did at this rate.

  What if she missed Sotheby’s? Could they come back tomorrow? Did she have another day to waste?

  Ohhh, she thought, with a long, mournful exhale, how she hated the drama that her life had become.

  Just then the sound of a young man’s voice drew her attention. He seemed to struggle with his English as he talked with a taxi driver; his clothes did not resemble anything from L.L. Bean. Clearly he was neither an American nor a tourist; clearly he did not know where he was.

  She watched with the idle curiosity of those with nothing else to do, until she distinctly heard the words, “Atkinson. Martha’s Vineyard.”

  Mary Beth knew she should go to the man, but who knew who he was? One of her creditors, perhaps? She dug her sunglasses from her purse, put them on, and turned her head away.

  Then she heard him say “Italy, yes. From Tuscany.” And then she knew. It must be Gabrielle’s husband.

  “Good Lord,” she said aloud, then crushed out her cigarette and approached him. “You must be Stefano.” She extended her hand and removed her glasses. “I’m Mary Beth Atkinson. Gabrielle’s cousin.”

  He had a wide smile that flashed beautiful white teeth. His skin was lightly tinged with the color of the earth and blended with the bronze light of the sun. He shook her hand.

  “Stefano,” he said. “Bonelli.”

  It was easy to see what had attracted Gabrielle. But aside from his good looks, Stefano seemed charged with energy, bursting with life. His hand was rough, a laborer’s hand, one of strength and countless hours of toil. Gabrielle would like that. Nikki would, too. As for Mary Beth, she preferred the softer touch of a man who didn’t work, lucky for her.

  “Martha’s Vineyard must be small,” he said. “I did not expect to meet my wife’s relative at the airport.”

  She laughed. “Oh, it’s not so small. But I’m afraid you’ve missed your wife.”

  He frowned.

  “She left by car this morning. She’s gone to New York City with her other cousin, Nikki.”

  “How far is New York City?”

  Mary Beth considered saying he could fly there with her, when the young ticket agent quickly came out the door. “We have one empty seat, ma’am,” she said hurriedly. “But the plane is leaving now.”

  Quickly, Mary Beth scrawled “Camp4Kids” on the back of Stefano’s used boarding pass. She thrust it at the taxi driver. “Get him there,” she said. “It’s in Oak Bluffs.” She turned and headed toward the tarmac. “Gabrielle will be back in two days. They’ll take care of you until then.”

  She had no idea if Alice would be pissed off or not, but Mary Beth had no time to make other arrangements. Sotheby’s, after all, was doing her a favor by showing up so fast. She could not risk letting this opportunity pass by.

  Carla sat at the computer, partly tending to her work, partly thinking about the twelve new campers whose packets she’d help Alice put together, kids with names like Sean Goddard, Marissa Juarez, Moses Thomas. Kids who hadn’t been as lucky as her Donnie and her Vincent, even though her boys hadn’t been raised like Atkinsons or even like Lester Markham.

  Good old Lester. Her thoughts turned to him again, as she heard Sam across the room, talking on the phone with the head of the association at the co-op where Lester had lived, asking when had he last seen him and had Lester been doing anything out of the ordinary? Like what? She wondered. Like carrying a satchel full of money—small bills, not in sequence, like in the old movies she and her mother had loved watching together?

  In the old movies, it wasn’t hard to find someone, given ninety minutes and two reels of film. But Carla knew it wasn’t true in real life. Take her former husband (please!) she thought, and was glad she could now muster a smile at the thought of him. Carla had bought the baby food and the diapers, the school uniforms and the baseball gloves and hockey sticks. Carla had been the one who put both her boys through parochial school and Donnie through community college, no thanks to the rat bastard who had left almost as quickly as he had come. Pardon the pun, she told herself with a chuckle that she always chuckled when she remembered that her first baby was born nine months after they had met, and that he’d left right after she became pregnant with the next.

  Suddenly, Carla wondered what would happen if she used Sam Oliver’s special police-database software to track down the bum, and if she could find him and sue for back child support. She hadn’t tried finding him before, because there was some pride in raising the boys herself, and some self-protection in the thought that if he’d paid no money, he could have no claim on them.

  It would almost be worth it now, if not for the money, then to see the look on his ugly face.

  Still, as the search engine whirred to life, she could not bring herself to type in her ex’s name; the reality was that she still hurt because she had been dumped.

  And so she typed in: Lester Markham. New York City.

  Folding her arms, she waited for the magic to happen, for the little people who lived inside the computer to scurry about, opening and closing one file drawer after another, frantically trying to find some hint, some shred of Lester.

  Stats popped onto the screen. Quickly, Carla scanned them. His home address, the office. Both locations had been vacated more than a month. Someone, however, had not notified cyberspace.

  Delete the city.

  Whirr. Whirr.

  Your search has found one match. Only that same Lester Markham of New York City, as if there were only one Lester in the world.

  Well, to her, that had been true.

  She pondered that a moment, then entered something else: Stanislaus Markham, the name of Lester’s cat.

  Whirrrrrrrrr.

  There are no matches for your search.

  This was hopeless. She had worked for the man, practically lived with the man, for twenty-six years. All those years of being like his wife … She’d ordered his food from the market, his airline tickets, his damn theater tickets! She’d R.S.V.P.’d his invitations! She’d—OH, GOD, she thought, as the answer came like a bolt from above that shot her
upright on the rickety old chair and nearly knocked her off her butt onto the floor.

  How could she have forgotten? She had ordered everything for Lester. By phone, online, and she’d paid his bills—all his personal bills—the same way she’d transferred the money to the cousins each month. The trusted, do-it-all Girl Friday she’d once been called, before sexist terms had gone out of style.

  She closed her eyes and tried to slow her excitement to a professional pace. For Carla now knew one piece of information that would endear her to the Atkinsons, and secure her room at the big house, a welcome guest, now and forever more.

  “Sam,” she said quietly, as soon as he was off the phone. “I have a lead for you. I just remembered: I know three of Lester’s credit card numbers and their expiration dates.”

  “Dee, it’s Mom. I’m here at the Plaza with my cousin from Italy. She surprised us with a visit. We’d love to get together and all have lunch or dinner tomorrow … Do you know if Shauna and Jason are around? Mary Beth should be back now, too. Give me a call. Room six-twelve.”

  She hung up and smiled at Gabrielle. “No expectations that she’ll call back.”

  Gabrielle smiled. “I hope she does. In the meantime, let’s go to Times Square. Maybe we can get tickets to a Broadway show.”

  Mary Beth moved from room to room, making frantic notes on a yellow lined pad of this item and that, the material trinkets of a lifetime, proof that a family had lived and that it had lived well.

  A family including Eric, scumbag of all time, whose presence apparently had not found its way back to the West Side of Central Park.

  The good news was that Shauna was absent, too, so her daughter would not have to witness the piece-by-piece Atkinson demise. Hopefully, she would not burst through the door at any minute.

  But Mary Beth had no time to think of family stuff right now: Sotheby’s would arrive in half an hour. She returned to her yellow lined pad and made hurried additions.

  And then the call came from Jonathan, the doorman: Ms. Marta Hendersen was there.