Two for One-Relatively Speaking (The Two for One series)

by Sean David Wright

  “I can see why you’re such a tough customer at that bank of yours,” he said, and then, “What about your mother, Dani?”

  “Forget about Mom, okay? You fucked that one up too much.” Danielle swirled the meatballs in her soup again. “You ought to just thank your lucky stars that you still have a pot to piss in. Now, if you promise not to talk about Mom, Sloane, Cora or the question of whether or not I forgive you I’ll stay and enjoy dinner; otherwise I’ll get up right this second and walk out.”

  Again, Harold had no option but to nod acceptance of the terms. After tasting his soup and proclaiming it delicious he said, “So, spring training is about to start; what does Max think of Yankees’ chances this year?”

  ***

  When she arrived home after parting with her father outside the restaurant Danielle discovered Katie and Max in the salon. They were watching Annie Hall on TV; Max was sitting up on the couch but Katie was reclining, her head in his lap.

  “You two look cozy,” Danielle said leaning against the salon’s door jamb. “Should I be concerned?”

  Katie smiled at her and then looked up at Max.

  “We’ve been found out, honey,” she said to the writer. “Our little love affair is no longer secret.” Then to Danielle she continued with, “Since I’ve never had sex with a man I just had to know what it was like. Turns out it was just as disgusting as I imagined it would be. No!” she screamed as Max began tickling her, rendering her a mass of arms and legs as she tried to loose his wriggling fingers from her belly.

  Danielle came over to the couch and sat on Max’s other side.

  “You seem to be in a good mood tonight,” she remarked to Max.

  “Katie made me,” he admitted. “She said you’d be in a fragile state when you got home and that I’d better be nice.”

  “So where is everybody?” asked Danielle. “Sloane, for instance.”

  “Taking a shower,” Katie answered. She was still catching her breath from the tickle torture. “I’m sure she’ll be down soon. Remember, she leaves tomorrow and so I’m sure she’ll want to spend some more time with you. Anyway, she hung out with your mom again today.”

  “You’d be proud of me, my love,” Max said. “Out of the kindness of my heart and without the use of any mind-altering drugs I took Sloane out for dinner this evening. We went to that new American place on the High Street. I had the penne and roast chicken; she had everything else.”

  “God, I don’t feel like being bothered with her tonight,” Danielle said with a sigh. “I’m not up for it and quite frankly I’ll be glad when she’s gone.”

  “You’ve hardly spent any time with her,” Katie rebuked.

  “So? I warned her the other night that she shouldn’t expect us to be like Jan and Marcia Brady; under the circumstances I think I’ve been quite accommodating.”

  She sighed and then said somewhat contritely:

  “Look, maybe I’ll drive her to the airport myself tomorrow instead of having Penry do it so we can say our goodbyes. And where’s Mom?”

  “Out with her blushing bride to be,” Max replied. “When I got back home this afternoon she told me that she was hoping you’d go wedding shopping with them this evening but I told her you were planning on working very late. I made up some story about the Nikkei crashing and you being the only one who could put it back together. She bought it.”

  “So she still has no idea Dad is in town? Good.”

  “How’d it go, sweetie?” Katie inquired.

  “Honestly? It was more painful seeing Max cut up my Harrod’s card,” Danielle said. She then spent several minutes recapping her dinner with Harold in precise detail. After she was done she looked from one of her spouses to the other and then asked, “So what do you guys think?”

  “I think you were very smart,” Katie declared taking hold of Danielle’s hand. “Time is definitely what you need, and hopefully, one day, you’ll be able to patch things up with your father and put this all behind you.”

  “Max?”

  “Ditto. The guy seems to be under some misconception that forgiveness is an easy thing to mete out. This’ll make him go back home and get some perspective.”

  “I don’t know,” Danielle said, “maybe when I’m in New York in June for the shareholders meeting I’ll make a side trip to Arizona to visit him. Despite everything I am a little worried about him because I know the divorce settlement reamed him good. Who knows, I may end up needing to support him.”

  “Not here you’re not,” Max said. “Buy him a condo in Phoenix and mail him a monthly allowance but whatever you do keep him on that side of the Atlantic. Scotland, Danielle…my folks think we live in Scotland.”

  Chapter 33

  The Rivers Foundation, which employed Katie, was the parent entity of a conglomeration of several non-profit entities, each charged with one particular area of philanthropy. There was, for instance, Rivers Education, whose aim was to give financial and material support to schools in low-income neighborhoods; Rivers Medical, which operated a number of free clinics throughout the U.K. and Ireland; Rivers Senior, providing elder care and hospice services for indigent people; and Rivers Environmental, a research and development institution concerned mainly with addressing global warming and seeking practical alternative fuel options.

  Rivers Haven was yet another arm of the Foundation—Katie’s arm. It occupied an entire floor in the gleaming Rivers Tower, the SoHo headquarters of the Foundation. Katie was Rivers Haven’s president and thus the one in charge of fulfilling its mission of providing succor and aid to homeless individuals. And as president it was not unusual for her to be summoned at a moment’s notice to meet with the Sisters for any number of reasons; so, when Katie arrived at work on Wednesday, the day after Max gave her his story, it was not unusual that the instant she unlocked her office door and stepped inside the phone rang and it was Priscilla Chu, the Sisters’ majordomo.

  Would Katie come upstairs to forty-nine, please?, was the gist of Priscilla’s call.

  Of course Katie would; what’s more, she knew exactly what this would be about.

  Priscilla was waiting outside the elevator’s door when it opened to deposit Katie on forty-nine. Priscilla reminded Katie of a Bond girl: she was an Amazon of a woman, Japanese by descent, very beautiful and very fit—rumor had it that she was a former runway model—and always attired in the kind of couture Danielle would have given one of her breasts for. She was the sole point of contact for the Sisters and no one reached them without first going through Priscilla.

  “They are in Ms. Lyndsay’s office,” Priscilla said by way of greeting. “Right this way, please.” And she gave Katie that smile; that smile which made Katie wonder again if Priscilla were gay—a tantalizing possibility which Katie allowed to enrich her fantasy life every now and then even though she surmised that it was probably part of Priscilla’s job to make everyone, regardless of gender, feel as though she’d have sex with them.

  “Hello, Katie!” Cassiana Lyndsay said when Priscilla ushered the so named woman into an enormous office decorated with Egyptian artifacts. She was a tall brunette of about forty, attired in an eclectic and quite artsy ensemble.

  “Hello, Dame Cassiana; nice to see you again,” Katie said, leaning in to accept a kiss on the cheek from this woman. “And Dame Addison, it’s nice to see you, too.” The kissing ritual was repeated, this time with the younger sister, Addison Rivers, a redhead with green eyes whose fashion sense was decidedly more couture. These two siblings, scions of one of England’s oldest families, had inherited their father’s immense fortune upon his death some years back. Combined, the two women were the country’s second wealthiest entity after the Queen and had dedicated their lives to continuing the philanthropic works their father had begun, creating a charitable empire that was starting to branch out into other parts of Europe and into Africa. So successful was the Rivers Foundation at helping others that last year both sisters were awarded by the Queen with damehoods for services r
endered to the realm, and there was already talk that the as yet nascent efforts of Rivers Peace in Africa to bring an end to that continent’s bloodiest civil war would earn the Rivers sisters a Nobel nomination.

  “I’ve told you before, Katie, do please continue calling me Cassiana,” Dame Cassiana said. “That ‘dame’ stuff gets rather tiresome.”

  “I rather like the ‘dame’ stuff, Cassie,” Dame Addison opined. “I feel it sounds distinguished.”

  “Distinguished? It makes us sound old, Addi. Judi Dench and Maggie Smith are dames and they are both frightfully old. Priscilla, bring Katie her usual,” Dame Cassiana instructed, at which Priscilla nodded and left. “Katie, let’s have a seat.”

  “Now, Katie,” Dame Addison began when they were all seated in chairs before a fireplace, “that book of yours seems to be proceeding nicely.”

  “Right,” Dame Cassiana added, “stories already from the two biggest authors on your list, quite impressive.”

  “Well, we got lucky in that regard,” Katie replied. “As you know, Max and I are family and Diego is a friend. They both did this as a favor to me.”

  “Diego was our guest at a dinner party last week,” Dame Addison reported, “and he spoke very highly of you.”

  Katie smiled.

  “We’d like to talk to you about Mr. Bland’s story, however,” the older sister said.

  “I figured you would.” Like a phantom Priscilla suddenly reappeared and Katie paused to accept the mug of amaretto cappuccino being offered to her. Then the Asian woman shimmered out again. “Fire away,” Katie said.

  “It’s a fabulous story,” Dame Addison said.

  “Right, and I hope you’ll convey that to him,” her sister included.

  “Please do; it was very well-written.”

  “Just what we’d expect from Max Bland.”

  “And we’re ever so grateful to him for writing it.”

  “Oh yes! As you know he’s one of my favorite authors.”

  “Mine too, Cassie, mine too.”

  Katie knew this could go on for quite some time so she cut in.

  “But I suspect you were both surprised that he submitted a comedy?”

  The sisters both nodded.

  “Quite,” Dame Cassiana said.

  “Rather,” Dame Addison replied.

  “Though it is a good comedy.”

  “Brilliantly written.”

  “Smashingly funny.”

  “But we’re just not sure a comedy sets the right tone.”

  “Homelessness shouldn’t be funny.”

  “We certainly don’t think it is.”

  “Quite.”

  “Rather.”

  Katie took a deep breath and then explained to the Sisters that she, too, had been surprised and had already spoken to Max about it; she also gave them his stance on the matter, being sure to emphasize the fact that he did not care if his story were included in the upcoming anthology.

  “Unfortunately,” she began by way of conclusion, “we really have no leverage here, do we? I mean, we didn’t pay him to write this story for us, and there was no contract signed stating that his story had to be of one particular genre or another.”

  “True,” Dame Cassiana said.

  “Rather,” her sister concurred.

  “But do you think he could be persuaded to change his mind?” Dame Cassiana inquired.

  “It would be nice to receive a dramatic story from Mr. Bland,” Dame Addison added.

  “He’s quite good at drama.”

  “A very powerful dramatic writer.”

  “And heart-wrenching stories certainly have a place in this world.”

  “Helps remind people how lucky they are.”

  “Also helps make them more charitable.”

  “Which is certainly a hard thing to do.”

  “Quite.”

  “Rather.”

  Katie sighed. This was going to be a tough battle.

  “Ladies,” she began cautiously, “I appreciate your desire to have our book be the epitome of drama but with respect I don’t think you understand something. Remember when I told you that Max doesn’t care if you decide to include his story in the anthology? Well, trust me, when Max Bland doesn’t care about something he really doesn’t care about it. So if you’re planning on asking me to ask him to rewrite his story then I’m afraid we may be faced with not having a Max Bland story in the book. I’m sorry.”

  “But we must have a Max Bland story!” Dame Cassiana insisted.

  “Absolutely must,” Dame Addison agreed.

  “Having Diego Montrose is certainly good.”

  “But having Diego Montrose and Max Bland is better.”

  “Quite.”

  “Rather.”

  “Yes, but—” Katie started to say.

  “What if we paid him?”

  “We could do that.”

  “How much would you suggest, Katie?”

  Katie told the other women that offering to pay Max wouldn’t work. That Max, being already quite wealthy, could afford to turn down monetary offers when it suited him, and she knew that this occasion would indeed suit him. She left out that the reason it would suit him is because it would piss him off that two spoiled heiresses (charitable-minded though they may be) could presume to get him to change his story simply by dangling a check in front of him as if he were some hack ghostwriter.

  “There must be something we could do,” Dame Cassiana asserted.

  “A little gesture of esteem,” Dame Addison appended.

  “But we haven’t offered to pay any of the other authors,” Katie pointed out. “It would be a dangerous game to play to compensate only Max.”

  Surprisingly, the eldest sister waved away that concern.

  “That’s a mere matter of discretion,” she said.

  “And we trust Mr. Bland to be quite discreet. Now, back to the matter at hand…”

  “What if we bought him something?”

  “A present.”

  “Perhaps a car?”

  “Too cliché, Cassie. How about a boat? And by ‘boat’ I of course mean ‘yacht’.”

  “Max isn’t really much of a sailor,” Katie warned.

  “Can you suggest something, then?” Dame Cassiana asked. “Perhaps some art for his collection?”

  “We have several da Vinci drawings in our collection,” Dame Addison added. “We’d happily make present of them to him.”

  Katie, who had minored in art history in college, was momentarily breathless at the prospect of living in the same house with authentic da Vinci drawings. Her heart was actually beating rapidly. Before she could reply, however, Dame Cassiana suddenly said:

  “What about that American baseball team everyone knows he’s a fan of; the one that appears in all of his novels.”

  “That would make a nice gift,” Dame Addison concurred.

  “Quite.”

  “Rather.”

  Katie was so shocked she almost spat out the sip of amaretto cappuccino she had just then taken.

  “The Yankees?” she sputtered. “Are you talking about buying him the New York Yankees?”

  “It’s just an idea.”

  “Off the tops of our heads.”

  “It’s actually a great idea,” Katie was forced to agree.

  “Would that do it, do you think?”

  “These Yankees for a dramatic story?”

  Katie thought for a moment, in awe of being in the presence of two women for whom the purchase of a Major League baseball team or the giving of da Vinci drawings could be discussed in the same manner as the purchase of a new toaster. After a moment, however, she said, “No, it’s probably a bad idea. Max would just arm the team with semi-automatic rifles and have them invade Boston.”

  “Well then what?”

  “Real estate?”

  “One of our country estates?”

  “Not Chatterley Downs, though; I’m quite fond of that one.”

  “As am I.”
/>   “Ooh!”

  “Ooh, what?”

  Dame Addison looked at Katie with a smile.

  “I have an idea,” she stated.

  ***

  The bi-weekly lunch.

  This time it was held at a new sandwich shop that had opened in SoHo, and Max and Katie had decided to arrive at one-thirty, when the restaurant was mercifully less crowded following the lunch rush.

  It had taken all of Katie’s self-control to wait until now to speak with Max about her meeting with the Sisters but it was, she felt, a discussion best had in person if only because the expressions on Max’s face would be priceless. Turns out she was right, for the look the novelist gave her as soon as she brought up the gist of the matter was one for the books.

  “I’m sorry,” Max said, his face emoting stunned perplexity, “they want to do what?”

  “Make you a lord.”

  “A lord.”

  “Yeah, can you believe that?”

  “No.”

  “Well it’s true.”

  “They can do that?”

  “Max, these are the Rivers sisters. Do you have any idea how powerful they are? Do you have any idea who their father, Frederick Rivers, was? I mean, I know you think they’re just two silver-spooned biddies who won the genetic lottery but their family is one of the oldest in Britain. Apparently one of their ancestors helped draft the Magna Carta. The Magna Carta, Max!”

  “Ah, so what,” Max scoffed. “One of my ancestors was responsible for establishing the first softball league in the borough of the Bronx. Now, you pick any kid at random in the Bronx and ask him, or her, what they’d rather do: play softball or read the Magna Carta.”

  Briefly, Katie was tempted to make a wisecrack about whether or not kids in the Bronx even know what the Magna Carta is. But doing so would seriously derail this conversation and cause Max to launch a vehement and endless defense of the intelligence of Bronx citizens that would eventually culminate in him insulting everything about her home state of Nebraska. So she kept her mouth shut.

  “So what exactly would I be lord of?” Max then asked.