We kissed once more. Tom cradled my face in his hands. I could see my reflection in his hazel eyes. “And you enjoy the—well, no, I suppose that would be wildly inappropriate. See you Monday, my love.”
I drank in his body—tall and fit in his fleece jacket, the boyish blue backpack, the curls that flopped over his forehead and refused all attempts at taming, his sweet, off-center smile—and mouthed the words “I can’t wait.”
“It’s a big day, Marty. At least you could dress like a man.” Marty deMarley’s wife, Linda, was smoothing a pair of twenty-eight-dollar pantyhose over her freshly waxed legs. “Take off the stupid jersey and put on a suit, for Chrissakes. The lightweight navy pinstripe. At least you look like a grown-up in that one.”
Who is this harpie and why did I marry her? Marty wondered, yanking the Bronx Cheers shirt over his head and folding it reverentially before placing it in a dresser drawer. “I thought,” he said, trying very hard to pitch his voice in a tone that his wife wouldn’t consider whining, “that I would honor Uncle Augie by wearing the team jersey.”
Linda emitted an exasperated sigh. “Not to a funeral. Have a little respect.”
“I thought that’s what I was having.”
She gave a little snort. It was a personal habit of hers that Marty detested. In fact it set his teeth on edge. “No class, Marty. No class,” Linda scolded, without a trace of irony. “You can have all the money in the universe, and still have no class.” Marty was a wealthy Chihuahua of a bond trader, who more than anything had wanted to become an athlete. But given a naturally scrawny build that all the Wheaties in the world couldn’t improve upon, and his complete lack of hand-eye coordination, Marty couldn’t have followed his bliss with a divining rod. And once upon a time, about ten years ago, he’d considered himself very lucky to have married the tanned, toned, highlighted and lipo’ed Linda Buddinsky. She had all the elegance of a racehorse, was always the best-dressed among their set, and took care of her body the way their gardener Emmanuel tended to their prize orchid collection.
What Linda got out of it was the opportunity to change her surname to something that screamed WASP breeding, a generous allowance, and a man she could push around like a wheelbarrow. Neither one of them had wanted children, which suited Linda just fine because half the time Marty behaved like more than enough of a child for her to handle.
“You never know who you’re liable to run into,” Linda continued to carp. “Your uncle Augie was quite the philanthropist. The mayor could be there…Donald Trump. The press. People know about this event; it’s been in the papers. You need to prepare yourself for the spotlight.”
“For God’s sake, Linda, it’s a memorial service, not a tickertape parade.” Marty took the freshly pressed blue suit from his closet. He was still upset about his wife’s nixing of the baseball jersey. “I have to dress like this every day,” he muttered.
Linda chose to ignore him, turning her attention to Rosebud, her Yorkie, which she carried everywhere in her monogrammed Prada bowling bag. “You never give me any trouble,” she cooed to the dog’s liquid brown eyes and wet nose. She opened a drawer filled with carefully organized accessories and removed a black satin bow, murmuring inanities as she affixed it to a topknot of hair.
“You…you aren’t bringing her to Campbell’s…are you?” Marty asked his wife.
Linda’s expression managed to blend both pout and sneer. “She calms my nerves. You know how I get at funerals.”
“It’s not a funeral, it’s a memorial. There won’t be a body. Just a bunch of people making nice speeches,” Marty insisted. “And under the circumstances, I think it’s inappropriate to bring the dog. Can’t you leave her home just once?”
“She has a delicate constitution. You know she throws up when we leave her alone for too long.” Linda meticulously folded her black pashmina, and used it to carefully line the inside of the Prada bag. “Are you going to clean up the mess?”
The limos lined Madison Avenue outside the Frank E. Campbell funeral home. Frankly, I was surprised that so many people had turned out to say good-bye to Augie deMiser. I didn’t know any of them, though the folks from the Bronx Cheers organization wore lapel pins with the team logo, a biplane dropping a baseball. I always hated the logo, but I guess someone thought it was clever, since the image suggests the venerated New York Yankees—affectionately known as the Bronx Bombers. Actually, it was pretty funny when the players burst into “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” and tossed boxes of Cracker Jack to the mourners sitting oh-so-respectfully amid Campbell’s staid, faux-eighteenth-century decor.
“You ever wonder why they’re called Cracker Jacks when there’s no crackers in them?” whispered my cousin Marty to his wife, Linda.
“No, Marty,” I haven’t,” she hissed back. “Now look respectful.”
There were several “civilians” in attendance, including a tall young woman who nervously played with her brown ponytail and hung by the wall looking distinctly uncomfortable. After a second glance at her, I briefly wondered whether Dad had committed a little indiscretion somewhere along the way, but I wasn’t in the mood to chitchat, let alone condole, so I didn’t approach her—or anyone else for that matter. I was there out of obligation, not out of love—or even curiosity.
The Times obit had mentioned Dad’s philanthropy, so I suppose a lot of beneficiaries decided to pay their last respects. In our household, charity didn’t begin at home, so it pleased me that at least someone—several someones by my head count of dark suits—had derived more than a clean engine from deMarley Motor Oil.
“Were you invited to the distribution, Livy?” Linda deMarley, my cousin-in-law, whispered jealously. We’d never particularly seen eye to eye, especially since hers tended to be right at my chest level. At forty-three, Linda was perfectly toned, though entirely lacking when it came to curves. My cousin Marty, however, had a bit of a beer gut, despite his resemblance otherwise to the ninety-pound weakling in the old Charles Atlas ads. Linda always reminded me of a whip with a human face. Not just because of her too-rich-and-too-thinness, but because at any moment, she looked like she might crack and unleash a helluva sting.
The “distribution” meant the reading of Dad’s will, and to my surprise, I had in fact been invited. Casper “Cap” Gaines, Dad’s lawyer—whose nickname had been deliberately bestowed—had e-mailed me about the 2:00 p.m. postmemorial appointment in his office. I wondered what sort of a gathering it would turn out to be.
I’d expected to be no more than a spectator at that shindig, asked to attend out of courtesy, given that I was Dad’s only child. So I tried not to express any astonishment when a black leather chair was pulled out for me in a most gentlemanly fashion by Cap Gaines. His conference table was about the size of a football field, dominating a multiwindowed room high over Wall Street with an enviable three-way vista. The August heat visibly shimmered off the rivers. Even through the summer haze, you could see all the way east to Coney Island, catch the Statue of Liberty in mid-wave to the south, and glance north to glimpse the House that Ruth built. These are my Rocky Mountains, I thought, my lips curling into a faint smile, which I quickly suppressed by covering my mouth with the back of my hand. I slid into the chair and slipped off my slingbacks, hoping no one would notice. As it was, in my four-inch heels I’d towered over everyone at the memorial service. Though my height had been somewhat intimidating, truth told, it masked the incredible insecurity I’d felt—worried I’d seem such a phony—that after all these years The Daughter only showed up once her difficult dad was safely resting for all eternity in a brass urn.
There was my cousin Marty, who had changed into his Bronx Cheers shirt, wearing the custom-made number 0, which I found rather amusing, since it pretty much summed up my opinion of him.
My keenest memory of Marty is when he tried to feel me up outside the wood shed during a family reunion somewhere on Martha’s Vineyard, back when we were teens. I wondered if he still had a crush on me.
A
s far as I know, Marty has no legal interest in the ball club, but plenty of it from a personal one. His eager expression had all the look of the heir-apparent about it. Linda sat beside him, in an elegant black ensemble dominated by a wide-brimmed hat better suited to Royal Ascot than a minor league ballpark. She flipped through the current issue of Town and Country as she waited for the proceedings to commence. Among the suits were Peter Argent and Dick Fernando, who introduced themselves as the limited partners of the Bronx Cheers, the Cheers’ General Manager, Barry Weed—whom I immediately nicknamed “Mr. Slick”—and the team’s manager, Dusty Fredericks. Dusty had scrounged up a herringbone tweed sport-coat and a knitted tie for the occasion. Clearly, he was a guy who didn’t own much in the way of civvies. Though the conference room was chilly as an igloo, he must have sweltered out on the pavement. Baseball players, managers, and coaches look so different to me when they’re in mufti—almost like grown-ups.
The tall young woman I’d spotted at the funeral home was there, too. I noticed she’d taken a chair on the sidelines.
“Well, I think we all know what we’re here for,” Cap Gaines said. His voice had a certain heaviness to it, and his eyelids were red-rimmed and swollen. Had he been crying for my father? All these people seemed to know a different man than I had. They murmured among themselves and didn’t bother to speak to me, though I caught some sidelong glances, mostly at my chest or my bare legs or my mane of flame-red hair. I’d left it long and loose, since the tasteful chignon-thing wasn’t my style, anyway, and it had seemed hypocritical to dress in deep mourning for a man who for years considered me dead to him; it was a part I wasn’t suited to play.
Cousin Marty stopped glad-handing the Cheers investors when Linda tugged conspicuously on his team jersey.
We began with another moment of silence for my dad, led by Cap, and then the lawyer got down to business.
“Now, in case any of you are operating under a misapprehension, this is theater this afternoon. What I mean by that is that this is an informal reading of August deMarley’s will, after which time it will be offered for probate. In front of each of you is a Consent to Probate form, which I am requesting you to sign before you leave the room today.”
There was a shifting in seats and a scratching of pens. The lawyer waited for everyone to return their undivided attention.
“Most of this is pretty straightforward,” Cap said. “The bulk of his fortune goes to philanthropic bequests that don’t concern any of you; furniture and personal effects donated to charity to raise additional funds for the Bronx Cheers community outreach programs.” He waited for a reaction, and receiving nothing but grim-lipped silence, pressed on. “To his nephew, Martin deMarley and his wife Linda Buddinsky deMarley, he left the 1999 Leroy Neiman painting of Cheers center fielder Carlos Esquivel sliding into home plate. The artwork has been appraised at half a million dollars.”
Linda looked smug. I could almost smell her gears grinding as she wondered what she could get for it at auction. She had as much interest in baseball as she had in a tailgate party at a NASCAR rally. Marty, on the other hand, looked disappointed. “That’s it? I mean, that’s all I get?”
Actually, he got more than that. He got a sharp elbow in the ribs from Linda. “Shhsst! Marty!”
“I’m not entirely sure what we’re here for.” Peter Argent glanced over at Dick Fernando, who nodded in agreement. Argent checked his watch. “I’ve got a 4:00 p.m. uptown.”
“August deMarley’s will is very specific about the future of the Bronx Cheers,” Cap replied. “He loved the team more than anyone, but he was also fully aware that they’d been called the ‘Jeers’ more often than not in the past few seasons. Face it, guys, the team batting average has been well under the Mendoza line, and their fielding’s been compared to Charlie Brown’s skills on a good day.”
Dusty Fredericks looked grimmer than anyone. I felt sorry for the guy. I know squat about managing a ball club, but maybe he was hamstrung by some executive decisions. I looked over at Dick and Peter, who appeared unfazed somehow by the attorney’s reminder of how pathetically their team had been performing. You didn’t have to be a total sports fanatic—just listen to a few games on TV—to know that a reference to the “Mendoza line,” named for the legendarily lousy hitter Mario Mendoza, was not a compliment!
“Augie’s final wishes were that some changes should be made.” Now the suits squirmed visibly. “But his stipulation came with caveats.” Everyone hung on Cap’s words. As a trial attorney, Cap Gaines knew how to build the drama. “According to his will, August deMarley left the controlling interest of the Bronx Cheers solely to his only surviving issue, his daughter, Olivia—”
The collective gasp sounded like the deflating immolation of the Hindenburg.
“Provided she—and this is the exact wording of his will—‘closes the circle.’”
The silence was deafening. After several stunned moments, I said, “Pardon my French, but what the fuck does that mean?”
“It means your uncle Augie was a raving nut job, Marty!” Linda exclaimed.
“Venus deMarley—the stripper—owns the Bronx Cheers?” Peter Argent’s face couldn’t have been redder, his body language more apoplectic. I was certain he would burst.
“Former stripper, I believe,” muttered Dusty. “Not that it makes any difference.”
“It was burlesque,” I said, sick of hauling out the explanation. “Not stripping. There’s actually quite a distinction.” I began to enumerate the differences, but my clarification didn’t matter. No one had paid attention to a word of it.
Dick Fernando couldn’t have looked more flabbergasted. Speaking as though I wasn’t in the room, he said, “She may have been very good at what she did—I think I still have one of her old calendars somewhere. But I never in a million years imagined that a pinup would be calling the shots here! I’m with Linda. I don’t believe Augie was of sound mind when he made his will. He must have had dementia!”
Cousin Marty exploded. Bouncing out of his chair he shouted, “Excuse me—with all due respect—Venus—I mean Livy—knows shit about baseball! Why didn’t he give her the fucking painting for her fancy duplex, and give me the fucking team?!”
“Apparently your uncle had his reasons,” Cap said smoothly. “Damned if I know what they were, though. I’m a lawyer, not a mind reader.”
And me? I was in shock. “I—I just got engaged…to a man with a family business in Colorado…and I’m in the process of moving out there to live with him.” This drew Linda’s attention to the sparkling cushion-cut diamond on my left hand. “I’ve put my ‘fancy duplex’ up for sale, Marty.” Shit—what a mess! After I hit the big four-oh, lightning struck and I met the greatest guy in the world, a man who wants to marry me despite what some people might view as my dubious past. So I once fan danced for a living! His family is as cool with it as the Colorado weather. The Elliotts couldn’t give a rat’s ass what people did, or do; it’s who they are that’s important to them. I couldn’t ask for more in a man, or in a pride of in-laws. And now—when I have a terrifically happy love life?! What sort of woo-woo stipulation is “close the circle,” and what am I supposed to do about it? Does this mean I have to stay in New York? I’m not even sure I want to inherit his silly baseball team. This is a curveball I certainly never anticipated. I feel like Cap Gaines just dumped a garbage can filled with ice-cold Gatorade over my head while I’m wearing a silk dress and suede heels.
“And if I somehow decode my dad’s esoteric stipulation and then do something about it, when would I get the team?” What the hell am I going to do with a baseball team? Actually, glancing around the table at the Cheers’ unsuccessful current management, I thought about what to break, but I hadn’t a clue how to fix it afterward.
Cap waved his hand for silence. “I also have in my possession a sealed letter which is not to be opened until six months after Mr. deMarley’s death. According to the decedent’s instructions and explanations, the letter expla
ins what he meant by the phrase ‘close the circle.’”
“Is this b.s. legally binding?” Barry Weed, the GM, wanted to know.
Cap Gaines nodded. “Grant it, I’ll be damned if I know what he meant when he wrote ‘close the circle,’ but August deMarley did. He was of sound mind and body when he signed this will. If you gentlemen want my free legal advice, I’d caution you against contesting it. And as the attorney for the estate, I will be representing Ms. deMarley in any legal action that might be brought against her as a result of the will’s contents.” Cap smiled like a crocodile. “You may have a few issues with your new boss, the lovely Ms. deMarley, but I don’t think you boys want to play hardball with me. In addition—” the attorney smiled again. “In addition, there is a paragraph contained in this will which states that anyone who contests the will loses what was left to them in it. And there’s nothing unusual or irregular about that language, gentlemen.”
“Jesus! Why did we all rush to sign those consent forms before he read the will?!” exclaimed Dick Argent.
“Lemmings! We acted like lemmings!” added Barry Weed. “Fernando signed his, and then we all followed suit!”
My legs felt like jelly even though I was sitting down. Whoa. Gaines had given me a helluva lot to consider. At least I could eliminate money from the equation. I’d invested my earnings well and didn’t need a job. I danced my tootsies off (and a few other parts as well) for years and had a nice nest egg to show for it. After all, I’d always assumed my only legacy from Dad was self-reliance. What did I need this crazy bargain for? Three-fourths of a business degree from Harvard, natural-born rhythm, and years of dance lessons, plus a killer body, had always been all the tools I needed in my personal arsenal. My life was my own. And I’d just committed to sharing it with an amazing, kind, generous, and loving man. Now I was about to owe it to a dead father. It might have been Shakespearean, had the Bard given a fig for minor league baseball.
Choosing Sophie Page 2
