Katie was twenty-five now, though with her blonde hair tightly pulled back, and wearing her chef’s outfit, he reckoned she looked more like eighteen, and adorable. It went without saying that whenever they needed catering, he and Maggie called upon her services.
Not that they entertained a lot. The occasional party. Once in a while, a sit-down dinner. Bella’s cooking was fine, but not up to a formal dinner party, and they hadn’t anyone to serve really, so like most people they knew, they used caterers for these occasions.
They’d be ten at dinner tonight, and Katie would produce a four-course meal. She had one full-time employee, Kent, supplemented by two young actors to serve and wash up afterward. Including his own wine, Gorham reckoned the entire evening would cost a little over a thousand dollars, which was less than you’d have to pay for ten people in a fancy restaurant.
But first he must deal with the wine.
Gorham didn’t have a large wine cellar, but he knew quite a bit, and was proud of his modest collection. The storage cages down in the building’s basement were about ninety-five degrees, so he kept his wine up at the country house, and for an occasion like this, he’d collect what he wanted from there and bring it down to the apartment, where he had a temperature-controlled unit. After the menu had been chosen last week, he’d selected some bottles of a French Chablis, an excellent Californian Pinot Noir he could trust, and a wonderful dessert wine, made in small quantities by a winery he’d discovered that was owned by a rich dentist in San Francisco.
He had some nice decanters that had come originally from the old family house in Gramercy Park and he liked to use them. But one had to be careful with Pinot Noir and not decant it too early. Kent had a considerable knowledge of wines himself, so the two of them had an enjoyable five minutes discussing the wines and agreeing on the arrangements for serving them.
Then he turned to have a few words with Katie.
On the outside, especially when she was working, Katie seemed such a serious little person, everything neatly in place, her face scrubbed. She was as perfect as a Meissen doll. Yet underneath was a bright girl with a wicked sense of humor. He talked to her while she was unwrapping the hors d’oeuvres. She gave him a smile.
“Can I tell you something?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“You’re in my way.”
“Sorry.” He moved to one side. “How’s Rick?” The boyfriend. The fiancé, now—they were getting married next year.
“He’s fine. We’ve found a house.”
“Where?”
“New Jersey.”
“That’s great.”
“It is. If we can find the money.”
“Think you can?”
“Probably. If my business goes well. And if…”
“What?”
“You get out of my way.”
He laughed. “I’m off,” he said. Young Rick, in his opinion, was a lucky man.
As he wanted to look in himself, he took a taxi with the boys to the party, rather than waste time parking the car. The party was in a big Midtown hotel, so it only took a few minutes to get there. A sign in the lobby directed them to a large elevator down a passage, and moments later they were emerging on an upper floor and entering the wonderful world of Greg Cohen’s bar mitzvah party.
Mrs. Cohen had clearly decided she wanted this to be a very special occasion. She had chosen a theme, and even hired a designer who, by the look of things, had brought in an army of decorators, flower arrangers and scenery-makers. And so it was, this evening, that this vast Midtown hotel ballroom had been transformed, as though by magic, into a tropical island. Along the right-hand wall was a sandy beach, fringed with seagrass and even, here and there, a palm tree. On the left side was the dance floor, complete with DJ and professional dancers. There were fairground booths of every kind, offering prizes that you could take away too, in addition to the bag of party favors you’d get at the end. Still more impressive, the whole of the back of the room was filled with a reconstruction of a roller coaster. And in the center of everything, in pride of place and serving now, was a hot-dog stand.
“Wow,” said the boys.
The girls in their Betsey Johnson dresses were already gathering in a big group. Gorham, Jr., Richard and Lee went to join the boys’ group. It was funny how, in seventh and eighth grades, these modern kids still segregated themselves into single-sex groups at parties. One of the jobs of the professional dancers was to try to get them to dance together. By eleventh and twelfth grade that would have changed. Big time. When it came to his daughter, he wasn’t sure he wanted to think about that. But for now, the girls just danced with each other, pretty much.
What had it cost? Gorham wondered. At least a quarter-million dollars. He’d been to parties that cost more. Over the top, in his opinion. Nothing like the old guard, that was for sure.
Or was it? As he gazed at the splendid scene, it suddenly struck Gorham that he was completely wrong. When the grand old New York plutocrats of the gilded age gave their magnificent parties, like the fellow who had about twenty gentlemen all dine on horseback, were they actually doing anything different? He knew a little history. What about the great parties of Edwardian England, or Versailles, or Elizabethan England, or medieval France, or the Roman Empire? They were all recorded in paintings and in literature. The identical story. Conspicuous consumption and display.
It had always been that way in New York, right back to the days when his ancestors had come here. The people who ran the city, whether they bribed an English governor or raised all the money for good causes, were always the rich. Astors, Vanderbilts, whoever, they all had their turn. He knew a fellow who’d started life driving a truck, and who lived in a thirty-thousand-square-foot mansion in Alpine, New Jersey, now. Gave great parties, too …
As for people like his own family, he thought, you know what they say: old money, no money. Old money was genteel and had nice manners, and he liked those things. It was fine to talk the talk; but at the end of the day, if you couldn’t walk the walk, what were you? A little pretentious, perhaps, if the truth were told.
He caught sight of another parent, Mrs. Blum. Her daughter was at the party and she had promised Maggie that she’d give the boys a ride home with her. He went over, thanked her, and confirmed the ride.
That just left the Cohens. He saw them standing near the entrance. David Cohen, the father, was a nice guy. He liked to go deep-sea fishing in Florida.
“Congratulations. A terrific party.”
“It was all Cindy’s doing,” said David with a smile, indicating his wife.
“You did an amazing job,” Gorham said to Cindy.
“I had a great designer,” said Cindy.
A gray-haired couple were standing beside them.
“Gorham, do you know my parents, Michael and Sarah?”
Gorham shook hands. David’s mother seemed to be studying him.
“I didn’t catch your name,” she said.
“Gorham Master.”
“Sarah Adler Cohen.”
A signal. She was telling him she had a professional name. He thought quickly. She saved him.
“I have the Sarah Adler Art Gallery. And would you be the son of Charlie Master, who had the Keller photography collection?”
“Yes, I am.”
And then he remembered, with a feeling of sinking horror. This was the lady he was supposed to deliver the Motherwell to. The drawing that still graced the living room in the apartment. Was she expecting it? Did she know that his father had told him to go and see her? A terrible feeling of guilt overcame him.
But the old lady was chatting to him quite happily. What was she saying?
“Well, when I was young, before I had my own place, your father came to the gallery where I worked and arranged a show of Theodore Keller’s work there. And I was put in charge of it. The first show I ever did. So I got to meet your father. I was very sorry to hear he died.”
“I never knew that. I’m
so delighted to meet you,” he stammered. She must be in her seventies, he supposed. She had a nice face, intelligent. She glanced at her husband and son, but they had been distracted by other guests.
“You like this party?” she asked.
“Of course. Don’t you?”
She shrugged. “Too much conspicuous consumption for my taste.” She looked at him thoughtfully, rather in the way, he supposed, that she might look at a painting she was appraising. “You should come by the gallery some time,” she said. “I’m there most afternoons. Monday the gallery’s closed, but I work there alone all day. Monday is a good day to call on me.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a card. She glanced at her husband, but he was talking to someone else. “Actually,” she said to Gorham quietly, “I have something of your father’s I want to give you. Would you call me on Monday?”
“I’ll do that,” he promised, then saw the time. “I’m really sorry, I have to go—we have a dinner party.”
“In that case, you’re probably late already.” Sarah Adler smiled. “Go. Go.” But just before he turned, she added: “Promise to call me, Monday.”
She was right. He was late. He got an exasperated look from Maggie on his return. But fortunately only one of the couples had arrived, and these two were his favorites, Herbert and Mary Humblay. Herbert was a retired clergyman, and they lived in a nice old co-op on Sutton Place. The Humblays were good people to have at a dinner party. Their circle of friends in the city was huge, they had wide interests, and if there were any latent tensions between the dinner guests, their kindly presence seemed miraculously to defuse them.
So when he arrived, the Humblays were just asking to see Emma to say hello, and Mary Humblay was saying, “Now I hope you haven’t made her get all dressed up just because we’re here, because that would be a shame,” and Herbert was remarking that it was as much as anyone could do to get their own granddaughter to clean up even to go to church. And Gorham felt himself relax, and was glad that it was the Humblays and not the Vorpals who’d arrived first, to set the tone of the evening.
Anyway, Emma came in with her friend Jane, who was there for a sleepover, and they were wearing similar dresses in pink and blue and looking very sweet. They brought the puppy with them.
Until a year ago the co-op had been a “no pets” building. Gorham couldn’t remember why, but it had always been that way. Then Mrs. Vorpal had wanted to have a dog, so Vorpal had persuaded the board to change the rules.
The two girls had just started to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Humblay when the Vorpals arrived. Kent let them in and smoothly took their drink orders before ushering them into the living room. Mrs. Vorpal wanted a vodka martini; Vorpal took Scotch on the rocks.
“Well, good evening, Emma,” said Vorpal, who pretended he liked children.
“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Vorpal,” said Emma.
Gorham introduced the Vorpals to the Humblays.
“We were just looking at this fine puppy,” said Herbert.
The puppy, it had to be said, was cute. A tiny, fluffy white ball, peeping out with large eyes from beside Emma’s cheek.
“You should thank Mr. Vorpal,” said Maggie. “It’s because of him that you’re allowed to have a puppy.”
“Thank you, Mr. Vorpal,” said Emma.
Vorpal’s sword-like face broke into a smile. “It was my pleasure. I just think it’s nice for the children in the building to be able to have a pet.”
“That’s so nice,” said Mary Humblay.
“Have to agree with you there,” said Herbert.
“Okay, girls,” said Maggie, “you can go if you want. But mind the noise, please.”
The waiters brought the canapés round. The next guests, the O’Sullivans, arrived. He was a partner at a big law firm, quiet, judicious, but always good company; his wife Maeve was a slim, strikingly elegant Irishwoman who ran her own small brokerage house. Lastly came Liz Rabinovich and her boyfriend Juan. Liz was a speechwriter. She’d worked for some big-name politicians, though she had mostly corporate clients at present. But you never knew with Liz—she was something of a free spirit. As for Juan, he was a bit of a mystery man. Liz said he was Cuban. He’d once told Gorham that his mother’s family was Venezuelan, but that their money was in Switzerland. Juan lived with Liz when he was in New York, but Liz said he had a spectacular apartment in Paris. Gorham didn’t trust Juan. “Liz only likes men she doesn’t trust,” Maggie told him.
The dinner went well. Liz, who always had plenty of Washington gossip, had been seated next to O’Sullivan. O’Sullivan was discreet, but well informed, and he seemed to be enjoying Liz’s company. Vorpal wanted to discover Juan’s business, and Gorham enjoyed watching him get more and more frustrated. At one point, when they were discussing real estate, old Herbert Humblay explained to them how the ancient endowments of Trinity worked. Not only had the Trinity vestry been able, down the centuries, to found one church after another out of its huge rents, but to help the work of other churches all over the world. The value of its real estate holdings in the Financial District was absolutely huge. As Vorpal listened intently to what Humblay was saying, and calculating the numbers, he began to look at the clergyman with a new respect.
And then, of course, there was Maggie. Gorham gazed down the table toward her. His wife was looking stunning tonight—her red hair had been beautifully cut that afternoon, and she’d had a manicure as well. As she smiled down the table at him, only the faintest glint in her eye gave a hint of the quarrel they’d had last night.
It was his fault, he supposed. Perhaps if he’d shared more information with her, the conversation might have been different. But then again, it might not.
He’d never told her he’d gone to see the headhunter at the start of the year. Maybe because he felt that it was an admission that he wasn’t reconciled to his life, even an admission of failure. Also, no doubt, because he was pretty sure she’d have told him to stick with the bank where he was and leave the headhunter alone. If he heard of any job he seriously wanted to consider, that would be the time to talk to Maggie about it.
Whatever the reason, Maggie had known nothing. She also did not know, therefore, that for nearly eight months, the headhunter had failed to come up with a single opportunity.
He knew the guy was good at what he did, when he called him from time to time, just to check in, he was always told the same thing.
“You have to be patient, Gorham. We’re not talking about some middle-management position here. We are looking for a really significant opportunity, a top position, and a good fit. These things only come along once in a while.”
Intellectually, Gorham understood. But he could not escape the feeling that nothing was happening, that nobody wanted him. He felt worse than ever. And his fraying temper had shown in countless small ways, mostly in a general moroseness, and occasional flashes of irritation with Maggie or the children.
So when, on Friday night, she had quietly sat him down and made her suggestion, it had come at the wrong time, and produced an unfortunate result.
“Honey,” she’d said, “I really feel you’re unhappy. And maybe it’s your marriage, but I think it’s your job.”
“Everything’s fine,” he’d snapped.
“No it isn’t, Gorham. Don’t say that. You’re not in good shape.”
“Thank you so much.”
“I just want to help, honey.”
“In what way?”
“I just don’t think you like what you do any more.”
“And?”
“With what you’ve already saved, your stock and all that, plus what I make now, we really don’t have to worry. You could quit if you want to and do something you really liked. You’re a wonderful husband and a great father. We could have a perfect family life if you were just doing something that made you happy.”
“You’re telling me to retire?”
“No, I’m just saying why not do something you enjoy? The money isn’t a problem.”
; So that was it. She didn’t even need his income any more. He’d watched Maggie with admiration as she organized her career, the household, the kids’ play dates, everything. Now it seemed she was planning to organize him as well. The final indignity. First he’d failed. Now he was going to be neutered.
“Go to hell,” he’d said.
“That’s not a fair response.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting. You run your life, I’ll run mine.”
“We share our lives, Gorham.”
“Some things we share, some things we don’t. Get used to it.”
They hadn’t spoken any more that night.
In Gorham’s experience, at any dinner party, there was usually one thing somebody said that stuck in your mind afterward. This evening, it was Maeve O’Sullivan who provided it.
Gorham admired Maeve. By day she managed money, and did it brilliantly, but she didn’t find it satisfied her intellect. She spoke four languages. She played the piano seriously well. And she read books. Lots of them.
They were discussing the long hours the young kids worked in the Financial District.
“You know,” Maeve said, “I was reading Virginia Woolf the other day, and she remarked that at one period of her life, she was able to get so much done because she had three uninterrupted hours to work in every day. And I thought, what on earth is she talking about? Only three hours a day? And then I looked around the office at all the people working their fourteen-hour days, and I thought, how many of you actually spend three hours in real, creative, intellectual activity in a day? And I reckoned, probably not one.” She smiled. “And there’s Virginia Woolf achieving more than they ever will in their lives, on three hours a day. It makes you think. They might do better if they worked less.”
“Mind you, she killed herself,” said John Vorpal, and everybody laughed.
But Maeve was right, all the same. It was something to think about.
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