The Golden Girl

by Erica Orloff

  “Well, we didn’t really talk about it. Bing was the oldest, and I doubt he remembers much either—other than he once said he remembered being assigned bodyguards. Off-duty cops. But, your grandmother had a nervous breakdown, and it was just understood that it wasn’t something to talk about. At least not in front of her.”

  “The man who did it…he always said he was innocent.”

  “Yeah.” Her father nodded. “He was a Russian immigrant. He swore his confession was both coerced and without the benefit of an interpreter.”

  “Was it?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, there was overwhelming evidence against him, Madison. The ransom money. Baby William’s clothes buried in his backyard.”

  She nodded. Looking at her father closely, she didn’t detect any nervousness. But, like her, he was used to staring down enemies across the negotiating table. Never let ’em see you sweat was his mantra.

  “Okay. I was just curious.”

  “Now I have a question for you.”

  “What?”

  “Do you have any plans to introduce me to your boyfriend?”

  Madison flushed for a minute. “How would you know about that?”

  “My tailor, dear. You women have your hairstylists, we have our tailors.”

  “Damn,” she muttered. “Who knew there was a tailor code of honor?”

  “More like a fatherly one. Morris has a daughter around your age.”

  “Great,” Madison said unenthusiastically.

  “Well? Who is he?”

  “Let’s drop it. You won’t approve.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one thing, he’s poor.”

  “So? I’ve met enough rich assholes for one lifetime. It takes more than money to impress me. What does he do?”

  “There’s the other thing. He’s a teacher, not a captain of industry.”

  “So what do you like about him?”

  “I can’t believe we’re having an honest conversation here.”

  “Well, if Claire’s death taught me anything, it’s that life is short. So what do you like about him, Madison?”

  “It’s hard to put into words. He’s honest and principled. He’s more concerned with making a difference than just…things. You know, money. Whatever. He didn’t let his upbringing—poverty, gangs, all of it—define him. He’s different, Dad.”

  “Gangs?” Her father arched an eyebrow. “Well, I’ll form my own opinion. Maybe the three of us could have dinner sometime.”

  “Um…sure. I figured you’d be against the relationship because of the difference in our backgrounds.”

  “I have a little more integrity than that, Madison. Give me a little more credit. And give me a chance.”

  “I’m sorry. His name is John Hernandez. And when I’m with him, the whole world seems very far away.”

  Jack’s eyes grew moist.

  “What, Dad?”

  “Eh…Madison, I never had that—except with Claire—and that was marred by knowing I had hurt you. Your mother and I…we never should have married. You know that. We were like oil and water. And I regret that we dragged you through the divorce of the century. I guess I thought, because you’re such a workaholic like your old man, that we’d ruined you as far as love was concerned. I guess I’m just gratified that love found you anyway.”

  Madison reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “I guess it did.”

  If Madison thought the sight of John in her bed drove her mad, the sight of him in a tuxedo left her breathless.

  “Well?” He cocked an eyebrow at her as he stood in her doorway.

  “Oh, my God, you’re so handsome, John.”

  He smiled and stepped into the foyer, sweeping her into his arms and kissing her. “And you look stunning.”

  “This old thing?” she joked, stepping away from him and twirling around in her Dolce & Gabbana. A rich emerald color, she bought the dress because she knew she would stand out in the sea of black—and it matched her eyes. It clung to every curve, and the back dipped down to the small of her spine, revealing her creamy complexion, smooth and perfect.

  “Can we skip this thing and just stay home?” John asked.

  “Afraid not. It would be in very bad form.”

  “All right then, I guess our carriage awaits us, fair lady.”

  He presented the crook of his arm, and she linked arms with him, feeling light, despite the confusion swirling around in her life. Madison realized what she’d told her father was true. When she was around John, she forgot the rest of the world.

  Downstairs, Charlie waited with the limousine. He gave her a mischievous look, a playful wink that said he approved of her handsome date.

  “John Hernandez, this is Charlie, my protector and driver and all-around friend.”

  John shook hands with Charlie. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you. It’s good to see Madison out at this hour, instead of me driving to the office to pick her up from a fourteen-hour day. Not to mention she usually has a briefcase full of papers anyway.”

  Madison and John climbed into the limousine. Charlie slid behind the wheel, and soon they were easing out into traffic and heading to the Waldorf-Astoria. The ballroom had been reserved for the senator’s fund-raiser. A long line of limousines snaked along the street, waiting to discharge the glittering and glamorous guests. Paparazzi had staked out a spot to snap pictures as everyone who was anyone in Manhattan disembarked on the sidewalk. However, they were hoping for a shot of Kiki or someone willing to play into their search for sex and scandal. Madison was starting to be old news, a fact she was grateful for.

  When Madison and John finally arrived at the entrance, they stepped out of the limousine and entered the venerable hotel and New York institution.

  Around Thanksgiving, most of the hotels, the Fifth Avenue stores and the city as a whole started ringing in the holiday season. An infectious holiday mood arrived along with the Muzak of “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire.” The city embraced the holiday season with everything from wreaths suspended from light poles and hotel awnings, to holiday displays in every storefront window.

  The Waldorf was no exception. A tall tree rose two stories high in the lobby, decorated with Victorian-themed Christmas ornaments. It shined and gleamed, with an assortment of colorful wrapped presents beneath it.

  A smaller tree—also Victorian themed—had an entire feather motif, and was festooned with decorations mimicking ones from Victorian times made from ornate bird feathers, from peacocks to egrets.

  “Wow,” John whispered. “I usually have a Charlie Brown tree from the lot down the street.”

  “You’re one up on me. I never have a tree. Too busy at work to even enjoy it, let alone remember to water it. Last year, I worked Christmas Day.”

  “Not this year, angel. We’re spending it together.”

  Madison smiled at the thought. John smiled, too.

  “See, the decorations make you feel like a kid again, don’t they?” Madison said.

  “Not really. When I was a kid, we didn’t have anything like this. Ever. But it does get you into the spirit of things.”

  They made their way to the ballroom. It was arrayed before them like a postcard. The centerpieces on each table were miniature evergreen topiaries decorated in silver Christmas ornaments. Silver and gold festooned the room. The chairs were draped with white silk cloth and tied with gold sashes. Crystal goblets glistened under the immense chandelier, and the band was playing background music—a Cole Porter song.

  Couples mingled in the area reserved for cocktails. Men in tuxedos and women in their finest clutched flutes of champagne and martini and wine glasses.

  John clutched her hand at the sight of the vice president’s wife, Anne Kelly, a fiery redhead with green eyes, who was charmingly outspoken and had enlivened the Washington, D.C., social scene. She waved to Madison.

  “You know her?” he whispered.

  “Anne? Yeah. She and Vice President Kelly
own an apartment on the twelfth floor of my building. Lovely. They have a cute Jack Russell terrier named Barney. I sometimes walk him in the park—borrow him on Saturdays when I feel like I need a little fresh air.”

  “Man, do I feel out of place. Anne Kelly. I wish she’d run for president. I feel like…everyone knows I don’t belong. Bet I’m the only guy here with a tattoo covering his entire upper biceps.”

  Madison turned to face him. “Bet you’re the only guy here with biceps that look sexy enough to have that tattoo.” She lowered her voice and whispered in his ear, “I also bet no one else is as good in bed as you are…or has the kind soul you have. So screw them all and let’s have a good time, then go home and make love all night long.” She leaned back to look him in the eye, winked at him and hoped he would relax. She was rewarded with a grin.

  “Anything for you, angel. I aim to please.”

  “And you do, darling. You do…. Well, time to meet and greet,” Madison said. They approached the receiving line, and waited patiently to say hello to Senator Richardson, who was solo this evening. Her husband, a departmental political-science chair from Colombia University, was keynoting at a United Nations function. Senator Richardson was dressed in a black ball gown with a sweeping train. She was older, with honey-blonde hair tinged with frosted highlights, but her figure was still petite and trim.

  “Madison, dear,” Ellie greeted her.

  “Hello, Senator…. I’d like you to meet John Hernandez.”

  “John, a pleasure.”

  John extended a hand.

  “Are you from the Palm Beach Hernandez family?”

  “No.” He grinned sardonically. “I’m from the Spanish Harlem and Bronx Hernandez family.”

  The senator, a consummate politician, didn’t bat an eye or miss a beat. “Good…I carried those districts in the election, you know.”

  John nodded. “I was one of the people who voted for you…. But I won’t again unless education funding goes up.” He winked at her, and she laughed.

  “Madison, seems I have a constituent to appease.”

  “Yes, ma’am. And he’s a tough customer. A teacher at the Harlem Charter School for Excellence.”

  “I’ve heard of it. We’ll have to talk, John. And I’ll have to do my best to see school funding isn’t shortchanged by the Washington bureaucrats. And Madison, please give your father my regards.”

  “Of course.”

  Madison and John moved away from the senator, passing her security detail, who all had on earpieces.

  “Look,” John squeezed Madison’s hand, “there’s CeCe Goldberg and Cara Phillips.”

  CeCe was a major anchor/producer for a network newsmagazine. Cara was another on-air talent, a blonde with a penchant for sleeping her way to the top—at least that was the rumor Ash and the Gotham Roses had whispered on to Maddie.

  “Let’s avoid CeCe, if you don’t mind. Her show is planning on doing a segment on Claire’s murder. I really don’t need her pumping me for quotes. She’s a bit of a shark.”

  “Too late.”

  CeCe was charging straight at them, her perfectly coiffed brown hair not even moving a strand. Sixty, she was dressed in a dignified Oscar de la Renta red gown—befitting the start of the holiday season—and plenty of diamonds.

  “Think she has enough bling-bling?” John whispered just as she reached them and stuck out her hand.

  “Madison Taylor-Pruitt…congratulations on the CEO announcement. You’re a mover and a shaker, that’s for sure.”

  “Thank you, CeCe.”

  “So tell me, how is your father holding up?”

  “Holding up?”

  “I hear a grand jury may be convened as early as next week.”

  “My father isn’t the sort to worry about maybes and innuendo, CeCe. He’s far too busy for that. And you can quote me on that.”

  Madison smiled, but made sure her eyes were cold and unfriendly. She took John’s hand and moved along without saying goodbye.

  “Man…”

  “What?”

  “Now I know why you run that company of yours—you’re not somebody to mess with. I sure hope you never look at me the way you looked at CeCe Goldberg.”

  “That old battle-ax? CeCe thrives on scandal, and on making people cry on camera. You learn really fast not to give people like that an opening.”

  “And I thought the mean streets were tough.”

  Madison stood on tiptoe and pecked him on the cheek. “We are from two different worlds of toughness. I’m glad I have you to be…myself with. We don’t have to be tough with each other.”

  The two of them continued to “work the room,” as Madison called it. They even greeted Jane Kimball, the second-in-command at the CIA. Madison knew her from a Democratic Party fund-raiser she’d attended over the summer. Jane was utterly brilliant, and one of a new wave of CIA who was fluent in Arabic—and Swahili. She was an army brat who’d lived all over the world. Madison felt a special kinship with the woman now that she herself was an agent working for the United States government. Of course, Kimball didn’t know that…or did she? Madison mused.

  Madison also saw several acquaintances from the Gotham Roses. They were all assigned to Renee’s table. Before John and Madison could make their way there for the first course, though, Madison saw, with dread, that Fluffy Peters was making her way toward them.

  “Oh, no…”

  “What?”

  “See this woman heading straight toward us?”

  “The older woman in the tiara?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Isn’t a tiara a bit much?”

  “Not for Fluffy.”

  “That’s a cat’s name.”

  “It’s also the name of the most vicious Palm Beach socialite of them all. She winters down there, but unfortunately doesn’t leave until December 10 every year, just so she can make the first round of Christmas balls in NewYork. Brace yourself.”

  Fluffy, her skin so stretched from plastic surgery that no emotion registered on her face, thrust out her hand.

  “Madison, dahling,” she said, accentuating her syllables in an affected form of speech.

  “Fluffy.” Madison smiled.

  “You look smashing, dear. Simply smashing.”

  “Thank you, Fluffy.”

  “And who is your gentleman friend?”

  “May I introduce John Hernandez.” Madison patted his arm in a gesture of affection.

  “Ohhhhh, how lovely. Of the Palm Beach Hernandezes? I know them quite well.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Well, then where? Where would I know you from? The Puerto Rican sugar family? I met some of them last winter at the Breakers in West Palm. We were both there for a wedding.”

  “No. I’m actually from New York.”

  “New York? There are no Hernandezes in the social registry from New York that I know of.”

  “He’s not in the social registry, Fluffy dear…Do tell, who designed your dress?”

  Fluffy looked down, as if she couldn’t remember what gown she had worn. “Oh…this? Carolina Herrera…I’m always loyal to Carolina. Now, go back. Where do you know each other from?”

  “He’s a schoolteacher, Fluffy. I met him through my work with the Gotham Roses.”

  “Oh…” She managed a wan smile, though not a single crease appeared on her Botoxed brow. “I see…I misunderstood that he was associated with your charity. I thought he was your date.”

  Madison decided she had had quite enough of Fluffy Peters.

  “He is, darling. Why, we’re ever so serious. In fact, my father can’t wait to meet him. And if I could tell you the way this man drives me wild in bed…but, really, we must be getting to our table.”

  Madison linked her elbow through John’s arm and giggled as they walked through the crowded ballroom.

  “You are really naughty, Madison. Why would you do that to that poor old woman?”

  “That pompous old snob? She deserved it. You can’t ever
use the word poor associated with Fluffy. Trust me.”

  Madison expertly steered them to their table—set for twelve—all Gotham Roses and their dates—including Ashley, accompanied by a male-model friend of hers she knew from Chic.

  Madison sat next to Ashley and introduced her to John. Ashley introduced her date, who went by the one-name moniker Tryce.

  “Nice to meet you, John.” Ashley smiled as handshakes were exchanged. She was wearing a Richard Tyler gown in a rich chocolate brown, and her hair was set in pin curls, like an old-fashioned flapper.

  “Your hair looks great, Ash,” Madison offered.

  “You like it?”

  Madison nodded. “It’s so different. Bet you anything you’re copied, and at the next function a half-dozen women do their hair like yours.” It wouldn’t be the first time Ashley set off a chain reaction with her sense of style.

  Their waiter came over and Madison placed her drink order—champagne. While John was ordering his drink—a cold Heineken—Ashley whispered in Madison’s ear, “Forget what I said about slumming it. He’s delicious. Positively edible.”

  Soon, their table was full, and Renee had joined them. Madison was amazed at how she greeted those at her table, not revealing in the slightest that she was anything more than the woman behind a charitable organization—certainly not a woman with a veritable mini-Quantico beneath her town home. She smiled at Madison warmly, not a single look or even a blink letting on that they were up to their necks in a dangerous case, or that Madison and Troy had nearly met their end in the Caymans.

  Renee’s “date” was her daughter, Haley. A pretty, blond high-schooler, she often accompanied her mother since Preston was sent to prison. Renee had once expressed to Madison that she worried for her daughter and wanted to be there for her in her father’s absence. That included never scheduling more than two evenings out in the same week. During the busy social season, that was difficult, but Renee’s savvy solution was to take Haley along and introduce her to the cream of society, letting Haley meet dignitaries and politicians. Consequently, Haley was as poised as any adult in the room.

  The evening progressed happily. At one point, though, when Madison went to the ladies room, Princess Chloe St. John—another Rose, and an agent—accompanied her. When they were out in the hallway, Chloe, her thick blond hair in an updo, and wearing a stunning Richard Tyler off-the-shoulder amber silk chiffon gown, took her by the elbow.