Not the greatest part of Greater Chicago, Blue had recalled. “I’m buying a paper. The recruiters run ads,” she said, needing to demonstrate she wasn’t crazy.
“I think we might have a newspaper laying around.”
Blue considered this. “I could save the fifty cents.”
“Right.” Marcy steered her toward the door. “Maybe put it toward your share of the rent after you move in with us.”
“Yeah?”
“There’s room. You look like you could use a change of scenery. But you’ll have to call me Bat. It’s what I go by now. Cool, right? It’s because I’m mostly a night flier.”
Marcy. Even then she’d been genuine, unfettered; not a candle in the dark, a colorfully lighted Christmas tree. It wasn’t Marcy’s fault that, once free of rules of any kind, even those Blue imposed on herself, Blue had swung way out past caution and reason. Marcy hadn’t pushed her to do anything except let go of the grief she had declined to explain. If Blue chose a chemical method to help rid herself of Mitch, if she jumped right into bed with Will, a guy whose greatest ambition in life was to ride his motorcycle around the entire perimeter of North America (as if that were possible) well, that was her business. They were nineteen. In their live-and-let-live world, being of age was a springboard into full adulthood. They’d seen it in their earlier lives: anything goes.
At the end of that first day, she’d handed Marcy two quarters. “Here you go, Bat. I’ll get you the rest after the bank opens tomorrow.”
Now her net worth was closing in on seven hundred million dollars. That fifty cents, for all that today it represented a single droplet in an ocean of money, had bought her some really good times. Yes, trouble, too, but before then, she’d had fun. The real thing. Craziness and laughter and camaraderie, the intoxicating pleasures of unabashed, uncomplicated sex. It had not been all bad. Now? Seven hundred million was an uncountable number, a long row of zeros that added up to precisely nothing.
Peep stood, arched his back, then jumped down and trotted to the kitchen. At the base of the refrigerator he sat down and mewed once, a request.
She looked at her watch: 6:40. “You’re early—but I’m about to be late. Here,” she set out his food and poured a splash of milk into a saucer for him. “No Froot Loops leftovers tonight, I’m afraid.”
Watching him lap up the little bit of milk, she thought how lovely it must be to live this cat’s life. Some would say that she was just as spoiled, what with her staff, her housekeepers, her business manager—and Marcy, God love her—plus all the freebies people sent in hopes she might give them the slightest public mention. If the public thought her life an endless series of spa visits and shopping, interrupted for a brief hour to do her TV broadcast, they were hugely mistaken. Excepting her visit to the Simonton Street gallery, she hadn’t been shopping since one mad-dash afternoon just before Christmas. As for spas, the closest she’d been to visiting any lately was when perusing them late at night on the Internet. Actually going was a low priority, a pleasant daydream she could squeeze in between meetings and galas and other mandatory social events.
Now, though, she had Key West to dream of. Who needed a spa visit when they had such a house to return to between engagements?
“You’re going to like it at our new place,” she told Peep. “Good sunlight, and lizards to chase!—or watch.” She stroked his head, noting his graying whiskers. What a comfort he was; she really ought to give him more attention. A bit of milk was a poor substitute for hours together on the couch. There must be a good bookstore in Key West; when she got back there, she’d stock up for the summer. Peep would see so much of her he’d think he’d gotten a new keeper.
“What do you think? We’ll drink out of coconut shells, and our lemons—make that my lemons, or what a sourpuss you’d be, ha—get it? Sour puss?”
Peep looked at her, licking milk away from his mouth.
“My lemons will come straight off the tree.” Not out of a top-end stainless steel refrigerator like this one. She didn’t even know the name of the person—the woman? the man?—who shopped for her lemons, who arranged them so neatly in a hand-glazed bowl, which some other nameless, genderless person had purchased.
Suppose that tonight she and Mitch did pick up where they’d left off so long ago. Suppose they could spend the upcoming summer together, lazing in lounge chairs on her patio, reading aloud from whatever book of stories he loved these days. She’d bet a good chunk of what was in her bank accounts that he’d be willing—maybe even happy, to watch Pride and Prejudice with her. And they could invite Daniel and Lynn to dinner once a week, catch up on the latest Key West residents’ dramas—maybe Daniel would be able to manage his boat again by then, and they’d do sunset cruises around the mangrove islands.
“I can think of worse things,” she said.
itch waited in the lobby holding a bouquet. “Flowers!” Blue said. “How thoughtful of you, thanks.” She held them to her nose. “They smell heavenly.”
“They do. You can’t imagine what I went through to get them,” he said.
“Oh?”
He shook his head and didn’t elaborate.
As they drove to their destination, a North Shore estate that, when she was small, she’d thought was a castle, Mitch talked about how well the Lions pilot had turned out. She listened and was pleased, but was also distracted, by a familiar musky aroma that wasn’t the flowers, and wasn’t her hair spray. She was just about to ask him to identify it when it struck her how she knew it: it was Julian’s scent.
Never mind.
She left the bouquet behind in the car when they stepped out onto the pale cobblestone drive, then climbed wide stone steps between carved stone balustrades, entering the house through a doorway that could accommodate a small yacht. The hosts’ house was as she’d described to Mitch, the huge marble foyer filled with the sounds of conversation and orchestral dance music. A twelve-foot-wide crystal chandelier dappled light down onto everyone beneath it. Mitch shook his head and said, “People live like this?”
“Probably they use three rooms at the end of one wing,” Blue said, nodding to anyone who caught her eye as they made their way inside.
By sight she knew few of the people they encountered, though when introduced their names were all familiar. Real estate, she briefed Mitch, sotto voce. Hotels. In contrast, everyone recognized her. Blue! So lovely to see you. Loved your Jimmy Buffett interview! She always used this contrast to her advantage; in conversation, it was safe to assume that the people she spoke with believed they knew all about her, so she made the discussion all about them. Are you a Buffett fan? Which song is your favorite? I’ll be sure to tell him. They felt flattered and important, and she revealed nothing—except tonight, when she revealed a man in her life, “my old friend, Dr. Mitch Forrester.”
“You must feel so conspicuous,” Mitch said when they’d made it into the ballroom.
A waiter stopped and offered champagne. They each took a glass, and Blue said, “No, but I’ll bet you do.”
“Lord yes. How can you not?”
“I’m used to it,” she said. This satisfied him. The real answer was more complicated. She didn’t feel conspicuous in such a crowd because she understood that when people saw her, they almost never saw her. She was a sort of tourist attraction that everyone wanted to stand by and have their picture taken with, hardly taking notice of the attraction itself. If this made her feel a little empty sometimes, devalued, it also made her feel safe.
Mitch seemed to be holding his own nicely with this crowd so far, which was promising. As past companions had noted, it wasn’t easy to be Blue’s sidekick. Four times Mitch was asked, “And what do you do?” as though he might confess to being her tennis instructor. He had returned the volleys with aplomb: “I’m an English professor and Hemingway scholar. You must have missed seeing me on the show.”
She said, “How are your dancing skills these days?”
“Passable, I’d guess, though it’s
been a while. Would you like to dance?”
“Let’s finish our champagne first. If I’m not mistaken, it’s Louis Roederer, Cristal.”
“It’s wonderful—and expensive, no doubt.”
“They could fund a dozen college scholarships with what they’ve spent on it tonight.”
“But if it gets guests to part with their money for the museum …”
“We would anyway. Most of us already have. In fact, most of us were unaware of how much we gave until someone briefed us on it, in some cases right before we got here.” She hadn’t known until this morning. A half-million.
“So this is mostly an excuse to have a party,” Mitch said.
No museum fund-raising gala was complete without a bevy of society photographers, all hand-picked for their skill at knowing the hierarchies of who must be photographed, then who should be, then who shouldn’t be, and finally, who should be encouraged to be photographed with whom. The tiny bursts of flashes while she and Mitch moved, better than passably, over the polished dance floor were no surprise. The surprise came several dances—and glasses of champagne—later: Mitch’s kiss, at the end of one beautiful waltz.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks—since you showed up at Mom and Dad’s for dinner.”
“Have you, now?”
“Well, I’m not saying I knew it at the time …”
“How does Julian feel about your being here?”
Mitch sighed. “He’s worried about my mixing business with pleasure. Whereas Brenda thinks I’m throwing her over just so I can go dancing in billionaires’ homes with America’s Favorite Talk-show Host—all caps; that’s Julian’s expression for you, not mine.”
“Oh?” This was deflating; Julian thought so little of her?
“It’s not really a sneer—I know it sounds like one, but he’s just that way, you know?”
“He can be any way he wants,” she said, taking a fresh glass of champagne. “I’m more concerned about Brenda. Are you ‘throwing her over,’ then?” Oddly, the thought made her sad for the woman, who she’d genuinely liked.
“I wouldn’t put it in those terms … but, suppose I was?” he asked, just as the announcement came that seating for dinner had begun.
“We’ll have to talk more later.”
He proved popular with the other partygoers. She took every opportunity to introduce him as both a long-time friend and a likely biopic host, ensuring Literary Lions would get its start—though he seemed unaware of the scope of the game being played. She coached him along: “That woman in the white silk is on the Tribune’s board, and helps organize the Printers Row Book Fair. Very well-read.” And, “The man by the window to your left is a major patron to Northwestern’s Alice Kaplan Institute for the Humanities—new, since you left there. I’ve heard he likes John Dos Passos; I’ve also heard he likes boys.”
In many ways it was nice to have a date like Mitch, who was a novelty among this kind of crowd. If there was another person on the estate (staff excluded) who earned less than a million dollars a year, she’d be surprised. In this fishbowl, Mitch was a pretty striped minnow, holding still enough that everyone could admire him.
Yet when she pulled him aside at ten minutes to eleven and said they’d be leaving on the hour, her main feeling was relief that the evening was ending. The night was not quite turning out to be the replay she’d envisioned yesterday. She was distracted. The atmosphere was different. Snow was not falling, flashbulbs were not the equivalent of twinkling light strings, and she was not… seeking. Or, possibly, not seeking Mitch.
The fantasy she’d been entertaining when she invited him along tonight was exactly that: a fantasy. This was no magical New Year’s Eve, for all that it was imbued with auld lang syne. Yes, she’d danced with Mitch and enjoyed his company. He was handsome and funny and as interesting as ever. When dessert was being served (mixed spring berries, mint leaves, imported cream), he’d enthralled the group at their table with the tale of Hemingway’s Montana car accident and resulting broken arm, surgically repaired with kangaroo tendon. The resulting pain and recovery time led, Mitch said, to several brilliant short stories but was, he thought, “the beginning of the end.”
The difference was that even with dancing and dinner, she in a pretty dress and Mitch in a tux, much of what she’d done this evening was work. The difference—and it was to be expected, after all, and was not necessarily a problem—was that she was not nineteen, and not in love.
redictably, the media didn’t care about Blue’s current age or emotional truth. The following morning even the Trib ran the photo in color: Mitch kissing her in a way that, when captured on film, looked much more significant than it was. She studied it. It could be real. She could let it be real.
Marcy called at seven. “Good morning. ‘Spring Fling for Beautiful Blue?’ You do look beautiful. Killer dress.”
That wasn’t the Tribune’s headline. “What are you looking at?”
“I’m online. This is TMZ, but you and the ‘Noted Hemingway Scholar’ are everywhere. Here’s another one: ‘A Blue Clue: Is It Love?’ Peter’s loving it, I know that; he said now no one will be thinking about the crying thing. Things must be improving fast.”
“It looks that way, doesn’t it?”
“It looks very sweet, in this photo. Do you have time to fill me in on what came after?” Marcy asked, a leer in her voice.
“Yes,” Blue said. She took a bowl of grapes from the refrigerator and sat down at the counter.
“Well?”
“Nothing. That’s what happened. We left at eleven, did a kind of play-by-play roundup on the ride to Julian’s, where he’s staying, I dropped him off without going in, and then I came home and went to bed.”
“That’s it?”
“If you want to talk porn, call your boyfriend.”
“He’s right here. Boyfriend,” Marcy said, “Blue’s story is boring. You got anything better?”
“I’m hanging up,” Blue said.
Her phone rang again a few minutes later. Mitch.
“Good morning,” he said. “I hope it’s not too early. I left Julian sleeping—he has a long day ahead of him—”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s off to Iraq today. When I got in last night, he was waiting up to say they asked him to come sooner—so really, the timing of things has all worked out perfectly for him. Anyway, I’m out getting coffee and the paper—have you seen it?”
“It’s right here on my counter.” Next to the coffee she’d made, which was not as good as the Cuban, but necessary today.
“What do you think? Romantic, isn’t it? I felt like Prince Charming at the ball last night.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. Listen, pictures are all over the place. If you haven’t prepared Brenda for this, you’d better call her soon.”
“It’s all right. We spoke Thursday night.”
“And?”
“And … she said she already had a sense this might happen, and she wishes us good luck.”
“Surely not as kindly as that—and who could blame her?”
Mitch said, “Blue, I’m a pretty easygoing guy … I don’t mean to avoid all conflict, exactly, but I sure don’t court it. It’s time I was a little more … deliberate in my choices, and I have to say, it seems like we have a shot here.”
Despite her misgivings, it did seem that way. Last night was not a fiasco; she’d had as nice a time as she ever did at those sorts of events.
Could restarting their romance be this easy, then? A coincidental meeting in Key West after twenty-three years, a dress-up date, a kiss, a photo, and public approbation? Was this strange bubble of calm she felt surrounding her what fate felt like when you knew the moment it was happening?
“Blue?”
“Can you hold on a second?”
She pressed the phone against her thigh and looked again at the photo. His words hung before her like ripe fruit she could reach out and pick, if she was hungry enoug
h. Too much emotion made things murky and unpredictable, made people behave inadvisably. This was straightforward and clean and easy. Mature.
She could do this. It was a perfect setup, the nearest to a sure thing that she could ask for. She put the phone to her ear again. “Sorry about that, my doorman was buzzing me—my mom’s here to talk about plans for the shower I’m throwing her next weekend.”
His voice was soft when he said, “You must think I’m a fool—who but a fool would have let you get away the first time?”
“If only there were glasses for hindsight.”
“I’d buy those. Life is complicated, isn’t it?” he said.
“To say the least.”
“Consider this my attempt to simplify matters. The media already thinks we’re serious, so why not?”
What would it mean to open her mouth and let her wishes, all of them, escape into the care of someone else whose singular goal was to see her happy? Was that what he was offering? Was that what she wanted from him?
With far less certainty than she would ever show him, she said, “Why not.”
“All right then,” Mitch said. “All right. So I’ll call you tonight, after I get home.”
Right after she hung up the doorman did buzz, letting her know that her mother was on her way up. For the first time since her mother had declared her intention to marry Calvin, Blue got a whiff of their excitement and liked the smell. She wasn’t going to kid herself; what she felt for Mitch wasn’t what her mother felt for Calvin. The dynamics of the two relationships were as different as she was from her mother. She liked the idea of being settled, though, and who better to be settled with than a man like Mitch? She was excited for her mother, and hopeful that the feeling would bleed over into her new romance, given a chance.
She had plenty to feel good about in the meantime. Hiatus was coming. Her house in Key West was waiting.
23
ith all of what mattered packed into his two bags, Julian walked through his apartment shutting off lights, double-checking the thermostat, locking the windows, shutting off the water main so that the dripping bathroom faucet didn’t waste a village-worth’s supply of water while he was gone.
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