Tony grinned again. “So far,” he said, “you have a pretty good record of making me do things I shouldn’t.”
Yeah, I thought, but we hadn’t actual y done anything yet.
I watched him walk until he was gone. Then I went upstairs to face the fresh horrors that awaited me.
CHAPTER 5
The Storm Settles In
I opened my apartment door and found my mother unpacking her bags. “I thought I asked you not to do that.”
“Don’t be sil y,” my mother said, shaking out a garment bag. “Do you know how hard it is to get wrinkles out of silk?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. But Mom, what are you doing here?”
“I told you. I found out a few days ago that your dad was… involved with that bitch Dottie Kubacki.
There was no way I could stay in the house after that.
I would have kicked him out, but where would he have gone? Dottie’s? I’d cut his legs off, first. I tried to cal and tel you that I was coming, but you never answered my messages.”
“What about Kara?” Kara was my married sister who lived in a big house in New Rochel e. A house with at least two guest bedrooms.
“You know she wouldn’t want me there. Besides, those kids would drive me crazy before too long.”
“‘Too long?’ How long do you plan on staying?”
My mother started opening closets. Wel, closet.
There was only one. “Where’s your ironing board?”
“I don’t have one. And stop going through my things.” I was glad I hid my porn the other night when Tony was coming over, but it wasn’t that wel hidden.
“How can you not have an ironing board?”
“Kara has an ironing board.”
“And five-year-old triplets who should have their vocal cords cut,” my mother answered.
“I only have one bed,” I whined.
“I don’t mind if you sleep on the couch.”
There was no use arguing with my mother. She’s like a force of nature when she gets like this: determined, inevitable, implacable. I’ve found that people are either appal ed or amused by her. I was usual y both.
So I helped her unpack. Tomorrow, I would cal my father and have him get her back. It was inconceivable to me that he was actual y having an affair with anyone, let alone with a woman who needed to have her dresses made at Omar the Tentmaker’s. I was more likely to sleep with Dottie Kubacki than my father. I was sure it was al a big misunderstanding.
After an hour spent turning on the couch, I realized I’d never get to sleep. The heavy snoring from my bedroom assured me that my mother wasn’t having the same problem. But then again, there happens to be a very comfortable bed in there.
Maybe I’d get to use it again someday.
I got out of bed and sat at my computer. I decided to see if I could find out a little more about Al en’s sons before I met them at the reading of the wil tomorrow.
First, the younger one. A Google of his name led to a few relevant links. The first was to the financial firm Ingerson Investing. Paul managed two of their largest mutual funds.
His picture was in the annual report. A handsome man, he was posed standing in front of his desk, arms crossed across his chest. His grim, serious-guy expression was meant to convey gravity and strength. But the slimness of his build, his thin lips, the two-hundred-dol ar haircut, and the perfect tailoring of his suit spoke to a certain effeteness. He seemed more likely to study himself in the mirror than to study financial reports.
I fol owed a few links to his funds, and sure enough, they had underperformed the market. I looked at the stocks he had recently bought for the funds, and some of them were real dogs, companies whose malfeasance or misfortunes had made the front pages. Unlike his father, who had a Midas touch with investing, Paul seemed to have the instincts of a born loser.
Another search led me to an article from the New York Times. Paul and his wife were pictured at a cancer fundraiser at the Ritz Carlton. “Investment fund manager Paul Harrington and wife Alana,” the caption read.
Paul looked even spiffier here. Gucci shoes, a suit that fit him like it was custom made, and a white linen shirt buckled to the col ar, no tie. His wife, Alana, was attractive, but severe looking. Almost as tal as he, with sharp, birdlike features that made her smile look predatory. In a strapless white evening gown, her bony shoulders and prominent col arbone gave her the chic appeal of a bulimic. Lara Flynn Boyle would have to diet to get this skinny. Whoever said you can’t be too rich or too thin never saw this picture.
Next, I searched the name of the older brother, Michael. The first link took me to the Center for Creative Empowerment Therapy. There on the homepage was a picture of Michael, with a caption reading “Founder and Leader.”
Although the picture was just a head and shoulder shot, you could see Michael Harrington was a powerful y built and stunningly good-looking man.
Square jawed, heavily muscled, with sharp cheekbones and electric blue eyes. Although there was some resemblance between Paul and him, Michael seemed to have gotten both brothers’ al otment of testosterone.
Like his brother’s official portrait, Michael’s also showed him unsmiling. With his stern expression and piercing eyes, Michael gave you the feeling that if his “creative empowerment therapy” (whatever that was) didn’t work, he could just beat the neuroses out of you.
Hunky as he was, he could have made a fortune with Mrs. Cherry doing just that.
A click on his picture took you to his bio. I was just about to read more about him when an instant message popped up on my screen.
“Angel, what r u doing up?” Freddy typed.
I wrote him an abbreviated synopsis of my evening, making out with Tony, and my mother’s moving in.
“Just when I thought ur life couldn’t get any more dramatic,” Freddy wrote back. “What tragedy wil befal you next? A plague of locusts? Boils? A new Celine Dion album?
“Speaking of crazy divas,” he continued, “would u say hel o to ur mother for me?
I assured him I would.
“Good. Now go to bed. We have to be beautiful for the reading of the wil tomorrow.”
I looked at the time in the Windows taskbar. 2:45
A.M. Ugh.
I signed off and lay on the couch for another hour until sleep came.
CHAPTER 6
Things Go Worse Than Expected
Three hours later I was awakened by the sound of grenades exploding in my kitchen. “What the hel?” I shouted.
“Honey,” my mother said cheerily. “I was just looking for where you keep the food.”
Welcome, Hurricane Momma. For one blissful moment, I had forgotten about my new roommate.
“I don’t keep any food,” I groaned.
“Toast?”
“Toast is food.”
“Coffee?”
“Nope.”
“How about some tea?”
“I have protein powder, milk, and bananas.”
“Maybe some eggs?”
“Am I going to have to get out of bed?”
“You’re not in bed,” my mother reminded me.
“You’re on the couch. And yes, you have to get up.
Momma’s going to take you out to breakfast at that greasy spoon on the corner. You know, breakfast is a very important meal. The most important of the day, I always say. I don’t know how you can be productive if you don’t start out with a good breakfast
…”
Maybe I should have taken Tony up on that offer to shoot her.
After our breakfast, my mother and I went our separate ways: She to the beauty parlor she runs in Hauppauge, Long Island, I to my apartment to change. I told her that the super would let her in if she got home before I did, but she assured me that he had already given her an extra key. Great.
I put on a pair of tan khakis, a white dress shirt, tan boat shoes, and carried a blue linen blazer, the outfit I wear when a client requests “a nice, clean boy.” I considere
d wearing a tie, but the blistering heat made me decide otherwise. I don’t know how people who have real jobs survive in this city.
I took a cab to the law office where Al en’s wil was to be read. Standing outside was Freddy, looking spectacular in a black suit with a white silk T-shirt underneath. The outfit was just this side of Miami Vice, but Freddy could pul it off.
“What happened to the sequins?” I asked, getting out of the cab.
“I thought, ‘why detract from my natural beauty?’”
Freddy answered. “You look very Lands End, darling.”
“Thanks for coming.” I kissed him on the cheek.
“These people scare me.”
“Wel, Auntie Freddy wil protect you,” he said, ushering me inside. “You know there isn’t a white person in the world who scares me.”
We rode the elevator to the forty-fifth floor, where we entered the offices of Al en’s law firm. I could see why rich people would trust them with their finances.
Everything about the place screamed old money and new tax loopholes. Even the mail clerks were better dressed than me.
Two receptionists sat behind a long mahogany desk. One looked as if she was in her mid-sixties, with silver hair sprayed into a stiff wave seen only in fifties horror movies and Town and Country magazine. Her facelift was pul ed so tight that every time she blinked her hairline moved down an inch.
From the way she was looking at Freddy and me, it was impossible not to imagine she had one hand on the police cal button.
The other woman looked to be in her mid-thirties.
She was attractive, but in a less artificial and frightening way. I told her we were there for the reading of Al en Harrington’s wil.
After checking my name against a printed list, she ushered us to a plush waiting area, where we sank into brown leather armchairs that cost more than I made in a month. And I make a lot in a month. An older man sitting across from us snorted. A passing attorney looked at Freddy and me questioningly.
“May I bring you something?” the nicer, younger receptionist inquired. “Coffee, tea?”
“Valium?” I asked.
“Five or ten mil igrams?” She winked.
“Fifty,” I answered.
The receptionist whispered. “Don’t be intimidated.
Most of them take the train back to Brooklyn just like the rest of us.”
“You’re a dol,” Freddy said to her. Then, to me:
“See? I told you there was nothing to be afraid of. I’m sure everything’s going to go fine. How bad can it be?”
Ten minutes later, the receptionist took Freddy and me to a swank, windowed corner office, where the other invitees were seated at a smal oval conference table.
I recognized the Harrington sons, Michael, the oldest, and Paul. Michael was as handsome and wel — built as he appeared in his picture. His forehead was high and distinguished. Strong cheekbones pointed the way to a perfectly sculpted nose and thick lips.
He had a footbal player’s body. Bulky and dense, with wel — rounded shoulders and biceps that peaked even under his suit jacket. You could have posted a bil board on his expansive chest.
Paul was even more effete than he looked in his picture. He was dressed in true metrosexual style, in a Hugo Boss suit and two-tone Prada shoes that were new for this season.
In person, he was better looking, though. Thinner and less muscular than his brother, he was nonetheless trim and fit. He shared his brother’s handsome features, and although not quite as striking as Michael, his blue eyes and lighter hair made him look less imposing and more approachable.
His wife, Alana, perched at his side. She, too, was perfectly turned out in a charcoal gray Chanel-like suit and an impenetrable mask of Clinique. Even seated, you could see she was tal er than Paul.
She was wearing a sweet perfume that I could smel from across the table. It did little to soften her attractive but harsh features.
There were two other women in the room I didn’t recognize. One was long and skinny, with smal dark eyes and a short-cropped haircut. The other was short and stocky, with an attractive face that looked nervous. Her eyes were red and teary.
Their clothing was sensible and modest. I guessed Banana Republic for the skinny one and Lane Bryant for the other.
No one was speaking.
Alana regarded me and Freddy with narrowed eyes. She whispered something to her husband, who chuckled.
Michael refused to look at us at al.
So far, it was going fabulously.
Freddy and I sat, too.
Freddy looked at Michael and kicked me under the table. “Who’s the hunky one?” he whispered.
I kicked him back harder. “Shhhh!”
Freddy stuck his chin out at Alana and Paul.
“They’re whispering!” he whined.
“I thought you were going to behave yourself,” I hissed.
A door opened at the far end of the office. A tal black woman with strong features and a bald head walked through it. She was impeccably dressed in a man-tailored black suit with a white silk blouse underneath. Two-inch heels provided a percussive accompaniment to her confident stride and increased her already impressive stature.
“Thank you al for coming,” she began, sitting down at the end of the table nearest the Harrington family. “I’m Tamela Steel, Mr. Harrington’s attorney.”
Freddy elbowed me. “ Get Christie Love,” he stage whispered.
Ms. Steel looked at him and raised an eyebrow.
Freddy straightened up in his chair.
“The purpose of our meeting today is to go over the bequests of Mr. Harrington’s wil. Mr. Harrington left specific instructions…”
Paul Harrington interrupted her. “Excuse me, Miss, um, Beals, but is this real y necessary?” He spoke in an irritated, above-it-al sigh. “I’m sure you could handle the disposition of my father’s estate in a more appropriate manner. I don’t know why we have to hear about it in front of” he waved his hand at the four of us who weren’t part of his family “these people.”
The look the lawyer gave him could have melted a brick. “It’s Ms. Steel. And as I was saying, Mr.
Harrington left specific instructions as to how he wanted his wishes conveyed. Everyone in this room is here at his request.”
She leaned forward, getting in Paul’s face. “His last request. I trust you have no problem honoring your father’s last request, Mr. Harrington?”
I never heard anyone harrumph before, but I suppose that was the noise that escaped from Paul’s lips.
“Hey,” Freddy whispered, “did that guy just fart out of his mouth?”
“If there are no more interruptions, then,” Ms. Steel continued, “some time ago, Mr. Harrington taped a video to be played for you al in the event of his death.”
She pressed a button under the table, and a thin, fifty-inch plasma screen descended from the ceiling.
The lights automatical y dimmed and a quiet popping sound signaled the presence of hidden speakers in the wal.
“Cool,” Freddy said aloud. Ms. Steel tried to give him a dirty look, but she couldn’t help smiling. Like I said, Freddy has that way with people.
Although not, I couldn’t help but notice, with the Harringtons. Paul harrumphed again, and Alana looked like she wanted to strangle Freddy with the strap of her Louis Vuitton bag.
The screen came on and there, suddenly, bigger than life, was the understandably serious face of Al en Harrington.
“Thank you for coming,” the familiar voice said. I felt a chil down the back of my neck. “Trust me, I have never been more honest than when I say I only wish I could be there with you today.”
The skinny woman I didn’t know laughed aloud and then, embarrassed, covered her mouth. Her companion, though, took a sharp breath and started to quietly sob. The skinny one put her arm around her. Opposites attract, I thought.
I saw Paul Harrington staring at me, but I wouldn’t return his gaze. Although I did wo
nder why he was looking at me when his father’s last appearance was playing on a screen a few feet away.
“I’m sure this videotape may seem a bit dramatic to you, but every time I tried to write this down, I found myself uncharacteristical y at a loss for words.
So, I thought, why not just tape the damn thing and be done with it?
“First, I’d like to address my sons. Michael, Paul.
What can I say? I can stil remember the day each of you was born; they were among the happiest of my life. For so many years, watching you grow up was what gave shape and meaning to my existence. As hard as I worked, I always believed it was for you, my boys, the lights of my life.
“But you can’t let anyone, even your children, become your life. And for a long time that’s what I did, ignoring parts of myself that I was afraid would take me away from you. Denying the things my soul craved, denying my heart.
“But the heart can only be denied for so long.
“By the time I was ready to face the truth, I was almost dead inside. But I wanted to wait until I thought you boys could deal with my being gay. I wanted to believe that we could stil be a family.”
Al en’s expression turned sad.
“But I was wrong.
“While you were children, I could forgive you. But now you are men, and stil your minds are closed. As are your hearts. I’ve reached out to you both over the years, but each time I’ve been rebuffed.
“What you are doing, Michael, makes me especial y sad.”
I made a mental note-what was Michael doing?
“Stil, I have provided for each of you in my wil.”
I looked at the Harrington boys. Paul’s sudden smile made me think of a vulture finding a particularly tasty corpse on the road. Alana clenched her fist and nodded as if to say “yes!”
Michael stayed stoic.
“Oh, not as much as I could have. And not as much as I know you’re hoping for. But enough for me to go to my grave knowing I did the right thing.
“Even if my boys didn’t.
“Now, to my dear friend Kevin.”
I could feel al the eyes in the room fal on me.
First You Fall Page 6