by Sara Celi
The next morning, as the elevator rode closer to the seventieth floor of Van der Loon Tower, I smoothed my green midi skirt and raked a hand through my flyaway strands of hair. Examining my lipstick in the glossy mirrored doors, I frowned. New York City’s unusually warm fall had done nothing for my looks. All through late September and early October, we’d seen nothing but days full of sun and abnormal heat. And I must have pissed off god before I was born; he’d doomed me to a lifetime of being too pale, too freckled, and far too uncomfortable when the temperature soared above eighty degrees.
Plus, I was the only redheaded woman in a family full of tall, strapping, Norwegian blonds. Excuse me, the only auburn-haired woman. I had Gregor at Bergdorf’s salon and a weekly blowout to thank for that. Gregor managed to tame my locks when no other stylist in Manhattan could. Without him, I might have stayed the unsightly, redheaded menace of the family.
“Mr. Van der Loon is waiting for you, dear,” Jayne said when I stepped off the elevator. She stood from the long, white-marbled reception desk and pushed the button behind the counter to signal that I’d arrived. “Would you like some water before you head inside?”
“No, thank you.”
“He says he has twenty minutes.” She smoothed her nape near the twist of her bun and cleared her throat. “And he’s had a very busy morning, so just be aware. Derek Jones of Hamilton Capital just left here in quite a huff. It didn’t sound like that meeting went very well.”
“Thank you. I’ll take note of that.”
Good grief. My father in a foul mood was the last thing I needed. I stifled the urge to add other commentary about it, though Instead, I tossed her a meaningful look, holding her gaze a half-step longer than usual as I passed her desk. A smile pulled at Jayne’s tight lips, and I could guess her thoughts. She’d been with my father’s company for almost thirteen years. She knew things. She got it.
“How are you, honey?” Daddy asked as I entered his office. He turned his chair from the desktop and regarded me from behind a pair of wireless bifocals. “Is Tribeca treating you well?”
“Of course. Couldn’t be better.”
I took a few more steps toward his desk, ready to embrace him, but then I stopped short. My father hadn’t stood up from his desk. Not good. Just as Jayne said, The Hamilton Capital meeting must not have gone very well at all, and that meant this meeting wouldn’t be pleasant, either. A small chill danced up my spine.
“Sit down, Kathryn.” Daddy nodded at one of the maroon suede chairs positioned in front of his large mahogany desk.
I followed his orders, sat in the left chair without crossing my legs, and dropped my Prada tote bag on the floor next to me.
“Tell me about the new apartment,” Daddy said, referencing the penthouse I’d moved into at the end of July, one on the top floor of Van der Loon Place, the company’s newest real estate venture in Tribeca. The building had fifteen floors, a four-star restaurant called Chaser, a bank of boutiques on the bottom floor, a health club, and a private rooftop pool. Efficiency apartments with less than 800 square feet started at four grand a month. My three thousand square foot penthouse went for twelve.
“I love it. Absolutely love it.” I made sure to sound chipper and upbeat, hoping to smooth over his prickly mood. “And the rest of the tenants seem happy, especially about the cocktails at Chaser. Happy hour on Fridays is very popular.”
“Excellent.” My father grunted. “And your brother says you’ve been putting in a lot of effort the last few months in planning the foundation’s gala.”
“We’re hoping for 875 people at The Standard. Speaking of which, I was at a committee meeting for it this morning at New York Athletic, and we think we’ll sell it out. Looks like Lancôme is on board as the presenting sponsor.”
I gave Daddy the same grin I’d given the photographer from Harper’s Bazaar three weeks before, when we shot the photos for an article on “America’s New Social Elite.” I didn’t have the top slot, but I’d made the top ten. Number seven. I’d even beaten a Kennedy—she was number nine. Daddy hadn’t said anything about this achievement.
“Very good. I’ll be looking to hear about your progress. Keep me informed,” my father said, using his trademark phrase, which always signaled he knew enough and wanted to change the subject. He placed his hands on his desk. “But that’s not why you set up this meeting, is it?”
I straightened and pressed my back against the chair. “No, it isn’t.”
“If you’re interrupting the middle of my work day, I expect that it’s very important.” My father removed his glasses and regarded me for a beat. “But I’m sure if I tried, I could guess what it’s about.”
“There have been some…developments on our efforts from this last winter.”
I swallowed, remembering once again the ugly episodes of that February and the way I’d behaved during Patrick Blanco’s run for the South Carolina primary. I’d played hardball with him—some very hard ball—and it had taken a toll on me. Faking a relationship with him had turned into nothing more than a mess, and I went back and forth about how I felt about the fallout. Sometimes I was fine with what I’d done, and other times, I regretted it.
Still, I’d done it for family. Family above all. My father, who had very clear expectations of me, my older brother, Seth, and my stepmother, Valentina, a woman who also happened to be his third wife. Family loyalty meant sacrifice. We all knew that.
“What kind of developments are you talking about, Kathryn?” Daddy asked.
My tongue still felt thick and dry. I swallowed again. “As you know, we’re looking at furthering our influence in politics. And while Seth is looking into the idea of a congressional run for New York’s twelfth, it’s better for us to wait until Congressman Hopewell retires in four.”
Daddy nodded. “Your brother is very serious about laying the groundwork for that seat now.”
“But I think there are still ways we can be relevant during this election.”
“A little bit late for that, don’t you think?”
My attention drifted to the view behind my father. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed off a large part of Lower Manhattan and a small bit of the Hudson River. Sunlight glistened on the twisted metal and corrugated steel. By anyone’s imagination, we dominated New York just by owning some of the best real estate in the city. But New York was one thing, and DC was another.
“Daddy, I’ve taken a long look at the other races that exist this cycle, and I’ve hit on something big.” I paused for effect. “You’re going to like this.”
He cleared his throat and sipped San Pellegrino from a small glass he picked up off his desk. As usual, his desk featured too much paperwork and very little space. Visitors to Van der Loon Tower never saw it, though. He always had them ushered into the marble-covered conference room down the hall. “I’m listening,” he said.
“Well, if we play this right—if I play this right—this has the potential to be something that will get things done faster than we want.”
“Opportunity. Hmm.” My father opened a manila file folder and flipped through a few pages of paper. “That’s interesting. I heard that word a short time ago when I was in the meeting with Hamilton Capital.”
“I’m sure they meant it in a different way than I do.” When my father gave me his attention again, I widened my smile, hoping to put him at ease.
“I’ve been thinking that perhaps we aimed too high earlier this year. Went for the jugular too quickly.” Daddy gazed at me from underneath hooded eyes. “We won’t make that mistake again.”
“No, we won’t. Not this time.” I shifted on the seat and leaned closer to him. “Do you remember a classmate of mine at Choate named Landon Marsh? He won all the scholarships. Something of a superstar.”
“Marsh?” Daddy put down the paper and rubbed the lower part of his bearded jaw. “Sounds a bit familiar.”
“He’s done very well for himself, and his family is prominent. Father is on the board of the family business, Ma
rsh Wealth Management. Silent partner, non-voting. His dad preferred to run the Marsh Oncology Center at the University of Cincinnati Medical Center. Anyway, Landon studied at Choate with me, then headed to Stanford. Business school. He followed that up with Harvard Law.” I folded my hands and locked my gaze with my father's. “Now he has a leading law firm, and he serves in the Army Reserves. Spotless.”
“Sounds like half the people who graduated with you from that school.” He nodded a few times, seeming to mull it over. “And you know I have a soft spot for veterans.”
“Of course. And here’s the rub—Landon is running for US Senate this time around as a Republican.” I pointed at the long bank of muted televisions on the opposite wall from my father’s desk. I glanced back, and as usual, he’d turned on CNN, FOX News, MSNBC, BBC, CNBC, and Bloomberg. “Speaking of which, the presidential race is going to be close. Doesn’t look good for the Democrats, or for Howard Sayers, by the way. He’s not doing well in Ohio, and Michigan is in play. Michigan, for Christ sakes.”
“Michigan? Wow. The country really is turning red again.” My father stood from his chair and walked around the desk. He sat down in the other chair.
“Just in time for a fellow like Landon Marsh to come on the scene. He’s been a state rep for a few years. Time to aim higher.”
“Where is Landon running for senate?” Daddy reached over to take the resume off his desk again.
I put a hand on his arm. “Ohio.” I paused. “He’s running for Patrick Blanco’s seat.”
My father stiffened. “Really? Why am I just now hearing about this?”
“I had a feeling you’d say that. I want to fly to Cincinnati and make the pitch. Tell him how we can help out his efforts. And if something else comes up…” I waved a hand and looked away from him. “Then that’s what happens. Like I said. We all benefit.”
“Very interesting. You’re right, we’ve had a rough year. We could use this boost. And I’m sure Mr. Marsh won’t mind it so much, either.”
He gazed out the window. I could practically see the wheels turning in his head. Finally, he spoke. “After you get back from the Hamptons for Columbus Day, I want you to fly out to Ohio and meet up with Landon. A simple weekend dinner meeting. A proposal. It doesn’t have to be anything official. But this is our way—this is how we’ll do it. Help Landon get to the Senate, and then in four years…”
“The presidency.”
“Exactly.”
Daddy smiled. “This kind of thing takes time, of course, but it’s worth the wait. Worth the effort. Landon’s got a future in all this. I can feel it.”
“You said the same thing about Patrick Blanco.”
“Well, I was wrong about that.” Daddy tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Patrick’s weaker than he knows. Too young. And anyway, he hasn’t done much as the junior senator from Ohio, except lay the groundwork for that silly campaign of his. He’s vulnerable. And you know what Van der Loons do when people are weak.”
“We strike.”
My father and brother needed the jet for a week-long business trip to Toronto the week after Columbus Day, so that left me flying commercial to Cincinnati. At least the Delta jet had first class with unlimited alcohol. I sucked down two drinks before takeoff and another one just after the captain turned off the fasten seatbelt sign. Then I clicked open my iPad and scrolled through the final PDF Jayne sent over about Landon Marsh.
The file included several pictures of him. He was handsome in an awkward, studious way. He still wore his trademark glasses, and flecks of gray dotted his dark-brown hair, but he’d maintained the fit body of a distance runner, and the camera liked him. I saw photos of him at various charity events around Ohio, giving a speech at the Cincinnati Athletic Club, golfing with Chris Collinsworth, and shaking the governor’s hand during his swearing in at the state house. I read over Landon’s resume a few more times and tried to memorize it—lots of awards and board service. In fact, everything Landon had done for the last ten years seemed like calculated chess moves to help him get this chance at the Senate.
I had just finished page three when the woman next to me cleared her throat. I turned to her.
“Are you…? I hate to ask this…but are you…?”
“A red-haired Ivanka Trump?” I grinned.
“Kathryn Van der Loon?” The woman twisted in her seat, and the skin around her eyes crinkled as she studied me. “You are, aren’t you? You hosted that show…it was—” She snapped her fingers. “The one on Lifetime, and Ivanka did it, too.”
“Make Your Mark.”
“Was that it?” She smiled. “I couldn’t remember the name, but I did watch it a few times. I liked the makeover segment.”
“Thank you.” I laughed to put the woman at ease. “I think you’re the only person in the country who watched it.”
She raised her Bloody Mary and I clinked my glass with hers. “Well, l liked it, so cheers to that.”
“Cheers.”
I didn’t add the awful truth about the show—that once I took over hosting duties from Ivanka, the show nosedived faster than a 747 after a bird strike. I shot one season before being summarily fired, and the show got placed on “permanent hiatus.” Make Your Mark was supposed to be my big break, distinguish me from my brother, and help me launch a global brand I’d planned to build around shoes and handbags. Instead, the show had turned me into a basic cable laughingstock.
“What’s bringing you to Cincinnati?” The woman’s gaze floated down to my iPad, and on instinct, I flipped the device cover shut.
“I’m only in town for a few days. Through the weekend at the most. We’re hoping to make a few deals here for Van der Loon Global. Typical stuff.”
“So exciting. Are you buying a building in town? You know, downtown Cincinnati has really undergone a huge renovation in the last ten years or so.”
“I’ve heard that.” I hadn’t.
“And of course there’s a huge opportunity now that we have the streetcar. It’s really going to change things.”
“I’m sure it is,” I said, and settled into a familiar, polite cadence that so often happened on airplanes, the kind of rhythm where I made it sound like I was listening to the other person but in reality, I couldn’t have been further away. I caught a few things here and there as she advocated for this or that about the city, but most of it passed by me with no real acknowledgement.
Then, just after the flight attendant and captain announced we’d be landing soon, the woman recoiled as if she’d just thought of something. “Wait a minute. This is a little awkward. I just realized—”
“What?”
“Well, it’s—” She waved her hand, laughed once, and took a sudden interest in her manicured fingernails. “Never mind. None of my business.”
I moved my tray to the upright position and locked it in place. “Come on, you can tell me. We just shared a whole plane ride together.”
She sucked in a deep breath. “Didn’t you date Senator Blanco last winter?”
“I did.” The words tasted bitter in my mouth. “I just—”
The woman glanced up the aisle. “I shouldn’t get involved. It doesn’t concern me. I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“Don’t apologize.” When she looked back at me, I cocked an eyebrow and gave her my best “tell me” expression.
“I just find it funny that you’re in town the same time as Patrick Blanco.” She fished her phone out of her knockoff Coach bag and unlocked it. “See this?” She turned the phone so I could see an article on the screen. The writer’s words framed a handsome but arrogant picture of Patrick, one clearly meant to stroke his ego. I pressed a hand to my stomach. It made me sick, but also reaffirmed how much better off I was not mixed up with him. “He’s having a huge fundraiser downtown tomorrow night at the Hilton. Some dinner. One thousand bucks a head.”
“Funny,” I said. “That’s the same hotel where I’m staying.”
Five hours later, I strolled throug
h the red door of Boca Restaurant wearing a black cape over a moss-green dress, black boots, a long gold necklace, and shiny dark-pink lipstick that gave my sallow skin an extra boost.
“I’m meeting someone,” I told the skinny hostess when I arrived at her podium. I took the cape off my shoulders and folded it across my forearm. “Landon Marsh. Has he arrived?”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Marsh.” Her eyes brightened. “Right this way; I seated him a few moments ago.”
She sashayed through the crowded tables, and I followed her lead, taking in what was, no doubt, Cincinnati’s elite, dozens of whom sat sampling plates of exotic appetizers and drinking overpriced cocktails in a restaurant that seemed to specialize in low lighting. While moving through the main part of the room, I made eye contact with a few of the men, and more than one woman; I wondered if they recognized me from the tabloids or the TV show. Half of me didn’t care. The other half cared too much.
“Enjoy your dinner,” the hostess said once we arrived at a circular corner table. She gestured to Landon and he stood as I laid eyes on him for the first time since high school graduation.
“Good evening, Miss Van der Loon.” He moved around the table and pulled out my chair. As he did, I got a whiff of his rustic, woodland-spiced cologne. When Landon turned to me, I had to take a step backward.
Wow. Gorgeous.
“It’s nice to see you again,” I managed. “And call me Kathryn, please.”
“Kathryn.” He motioned at the table. “I ordered a bottle of wine. Do you like pinot noir? I hope that’s alright.”
“Excellent. I’m sure you have great taste.”
I slid into the chair he offered, and he resumed his own spot across from me. Small talk passed between us, but I didn’t focus on any of it. He just seemed so overwhelming and so much more than the memories I had in my head from Choate of a plastic and calculating overachiever. Landon Marsh had presence. No wonder he’d been elected to the state house, and no wonder he wanted to run for the Senate. This guy had politics written all over him. Photographs didn’t showcase that, but seeing him in person made it undeniable. Maybe this trip to Ohio wasn’t going to be wasted after all.
