by Marti Green
“And for dessert, mademoiselle?”
“Tarte Caramélisée à l’Ananas. Glace à la Noix de Coco au Rhum.” Caramelized pineapple tart with rum coconut ice cream.
The waiter turned to Adam, who told him, “I’ll have the mushroom and truffle soufflé, the Chateaubriand, and for dessert, the assortment of mini soufflés.”
“Very good.” The waiter gathered up the menus, then left.
Once again, I looked around the restaurant, each table filled with customers. They reeked of money, I thought, eyeing the ultrathin women who were all draped in expensive jewels, and dressed in silks and linens that looked like they’d come straight from a designer’s showroom. Although I looked forward to my meal, I preferred the warmth of Trattoria Ricciardi, where the diners looked like real people.
I turned back to Adam. “So, tell me about your family.”
As he spoke, I half listened. The other half of my brain kept returning to that gallery on Eleventh Avenue, and the woman inside who looked like my twin.
CHAPTER 5
Ben walked into Crown Fitness with just five minutes to spare. Every Tuesday he skipped lunch and played two rounds of racquetball with his oldest friend. He’d been best friends with Graham Deaver ever since they’d both lived in the Electchester housing development in South Flushing. Ben was three when they’d met; Graham, four. Electchester consisted of a group of low-rent apartments mostly occupied by members of the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers union. Both of their families had moved to their own homes by the time Ben was seven, but they still had remained friends over the years.
Ben flashed his membership card at the front desk, then headed into the locker room to change. Crown Fitness was one of the top gyms in the city, with a membership initiation fee of $100,000. Inside were all the bells and whistles expected—a massive open space with rows and rows of machines, an indoor swimming pool, racquetball and basketball courts, fully stocked private rooms for personal training, larger rooms for fitness classes, and, of course, sauna and steam rooms. A nursery was set up for parents to drop off their toddlers when they weren’t with their nannies or in nursery school. A small café served sandwiches and drinks.
When Ben reached the racquetball court he’d reserved, Graham was already there, hitting balls against the wall. Graham, an advertising copywriter, couldn’t afford this gym. He was there each week as Ben’s guest.
“I was starting to think you wouldn’t make it,” Graham said as he turned around.
“Yeah, I got stuck on a phone call with a nervous client.”
“Need to loosen up first?”
“Nah. Let’s just start. I can whoop your ass even coming in cold.”
They began their first game, fast-paced and aggressive. They’d always been competitive with each other, hungry to be the best. Ben loved the sport, loved the sound of the ball bouncing off the walls, the sweat he worked up rushing to return each volley. When he played, he forgot about his job; he forgot about his marriage. It was just him and the ball. He won the first game, beating Graham by four points.
Graham plopped down on the bench, catching his breath. “You’re on fire today.”
“Yeah, well, I’m picturing my father-in-law’s head as the ball.”
“He still riding you?”
“Not anymore. He’s sick. Liver cancer. He’s been working from home.”
“I keep telling you, leave there.”
Ben just bowed his head and said quietly, “That’s not going to happen.” He knew Graham would never stay in a job he hated just because he feared what would happen if he walked away. Even as a young child, Graham had always been a risk-taker, willing to take chances and live with the consequences. Ben had always admired him for that.
Ben felt a push on his shoulder and looked up.
“Are you off in dreamland?” Graham asked. “Aren’t you up for another game?”
Ben smiled. “Sure. Ten bucks says I beat you again.”
They played two more games, Ben winning both. When finished, they headed to the locker room. Ben was chatting with Graham about the stock market when he turned the corner and bumped into a leggy redhead. He looked up and winced, then quickly caught himself. “Hi, Caryn.”
“Oh, God, you’re here. I should have asked to see the membership rolls before I signed up.”
“Been coming here for years. If you don’t want to run into me, stay away at lunchtimes.”
Caryn harrumphed, then stormed away.
“What was that all about?” Graham asked.
“Just someone on the side before I met Lisa. A real bitch. She wasn’t too happy when I dumped her.”
Graham just shook his head.
After they showered and changed, they stopped at the gym’s café and each ordered a smoothie, then sat down at a table.
Graham handed Ben ten dollars. “Something’s up with you. I haven’t seen you this intense in a long time.”
Ben sighed deeply. “It’s Charly. We haven’t been getting along lately.”
Graham smirked. “Gee, you think maybe it’s because you’re screwing another woman?”
“You’re the only one who knows about Lisa.”
“You sure?”
Was he? Charly had been cool to him for a while, but he’d assumed it was due to the demands of the gallery. She’d just opened it less than three years ago, and because of her father’s connections, it had done well. But it wasn’t just the hours at the gallery. There were the seemingly endless social events to build relationships with clientele, the dinners spent wooing artists, the travel to art fairs nationally and internationally. It seemed he hardly saw her anymore, and when he did, she was petered out. Still, he’d been careful about his trysts with Lisa. They were never together in public, not even at small restaurants near Lisa’s apartment, where he was unlikely to run into Charly’s crowd. There simply was no way for his wife to know.
“I’m sure.”
Graham leaned back in his seat and was quiet while he finished his smoothie. When done, he said, “We’ve been friends for a long time, and I’ve never seen you this unhappy. Why can’t you chuck it all? Leave Charly, leave your job, go to law school, which is what you’d always planned on. There aren’t any kids holding you back.”
How could Ben explain to Graham that marriage to Charly had changed him? He’d been brought into a world of wealth that had been foreign to him. It wasn’t just the money; it was the access money bought. Access to gala openings at the Met, prime seats at the theaters, dinners with mayors and governors and senators, black-tie charity events, parties at the homes of New York’s wealthiest families. As much as he complained about being dragged to the social events Charly needed to attend for the gallery, he was making invaluable connections if he ever went into politics. He couldn’t walk away from that. No matter how much he wanted to.
CHAPTER 6
The following Tuesday, I headed to the Met. I often visited one of the many museums in the city before my art class began, but I was particularly excited today. The Metropolitan Museum of Art was exhibiting the work of Valentin de Boulogne. Relatively unknown to the casual museum visitor, the seventeenth-century artist was much admired for his naturalistic painting. Once I arrived at the massive Gothic Revival–style building on East Eighty-Second Street and Fifth Avenue, I paid the suggested fee and placed the sticker I was handed on my blouse. The museum, one of the largest in the world, contained more than two million works of art from antiquities to modern, gathered from every part of the world. Today, though, my only interest was de Boulogne. I headed to the rooms containing his paintings and slowly walked past each one, spending extra time at the portraits, studying his technique. After I’d walked past each one twice, I picked a spot, then sat down and began sketching. The hours flew by, and soon it was time to head downtown to art class.
We had finished with the elderly female model yesterday, and now a strapping man, shirtless, with bulging chest muscles and dressed in the pants an
d cap of a police officer, was in her place. The class had started out with nude models, focusing on learning to draw the contours of the human body, before moving on to clothed models. Now, the teacher wanted the students to gain experience utilizing both skills.
Five minutes later, Professor Greenblatt entered the classroom and walked to the center, next to the model. “Good afternoon, everyone. Clara’s grandson, Detective Saldinger, has offered to sit for us.”
There was a chorus of muted giggles around the room. “Yes, ladies, he really is a police officer. He didn’t dress this way just to titillate you.” The teacher cast his eyes around the room, glancing at each of the fourteen students standing in front of their easels. “Today, we’re going to concentrate on the male upper body. I want you to focus on the definition in his muscles, and using light and shadow to delineate its three dimensionalities.”
I studied the man before picking up my pencil. The sides of his brown hair that peeked outside his cap were clipped close to the scalp, causing his bushy eyebrows to pop. He had a slim face, with a nose a bit too large, and full lips. I didn’t consider him handsome, but his face seemed welcoming. I suspected his muscles came from long workouts at a gym. I began sketching him. As with all our live models, after twenty minutes of sitting motionless, Saldinger took a break. He’d be off for ten minutes, then on again for another twenty.
I continued to work on my sketch until I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see Clara, her grandson by her side.
“Mallory, I wanted to introduce you to my grandson, Kevin.”
I shook his hand. “Thanks for doing this for us. It’s nice once in a while to get a real person, not a model.”
“My grandmother insisted. She didn’t give me a choice.”
“Well, dear, I wanted you to meet him, and I know you wouldn’t allow me to set you up.”
Saldinger’s face turned red. “Grandma!”
“What? You’re divorced; she’s single. You both need to get out.”
I laughed. I gave Clara a quick hug, then looked at Saldinger. “Your grandmother’s right. I wouldn’t have allowed it. I’m sure you’re very nice, but I’m off the market.”
He smiled at me. “Well, that’s a loss for the market.” He scowled at his grandmother, then said, “Break’s up. I’ve got to get back.”
After he left, Clara shrugged. “You can’t blame me for trying. He’s such a nice boy, and you know what they say. All work and no play makes—”
“Makes me a better artist. I meant it when I told you I’m not interested in dating.”
“Pshaw! I’m ninety years young. You think I’m going to listen to you?” She shoved a business card into my hand. “In case you change your mind.”
I saw it had her grandson’s name and the phone number and address of his precinct. I turned it over, and on the back was handwritten his cell phone number. “Clara, really, I’m not interested.”
She started to return to her easel, then turned back and winked. “You know, I have other grandchildren. I’ll find someone for you yet.”
I had mulled it over for seven days, going back and forth. Did I want to speak to the woman at the art gallery? The thought frightened me. What if, somehow, we were related? My parents’ pasts were a mystery to me. It was possible I had a cousin somewhere that I didn’t know about. A cousin who bore an eerie resemblance. I welcomed that idea. With my mother gone, I had no family. But—the big but that held me back—what if she was more than a cousin? What if she was my sister? That would mean my mother had lied to me. And if that were true, maybe she’d lied about other things as well. Maybe she’d lied about my father.
I decided to go back and speak to the woman. As soon as class ended, I gathered up my belongings and headed over to Eleventh Avenue. As I neared the building, I saw it was dark inside. I glanced at my watch: 8:25 p.m. It was supposed to be open until 9:00 p.m. I had checked the gallery hours online earlier today. Open until nine on Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday. My heart was beating rapidly. It had taken all my courage to return. I wasn’t sure I could summon it again on another day.
I pulled out my cell phone and clicked on Safari, then typed in the website for Switchboard.com. When it opened, I typed the name Charlotte Jensen Gordon. Seconds later, a list of people popped up. Below each name were names of people each Charlotte Gordon knew. The second Charlotte Gordon knew a Ben Gordon, the man Findly had mentioned. It had to be her. I clicked on the name and a phone number, and an address on East Sixty-Second Street came up. I knew it was wrong to bother this woman at home. Maybe the closed studio was a sign I should walk away, go home, and forget about her. I also knew, if I did, I’d likely never come back. I tucked my phone back in my purse and started walking to the subway.
CHAPTER 7
It took a while for someone to answer the doorbell, and when the door finally opened, a tall man with brown hair and an athlete’s body stood before me. He was dressed in neatly pressed jeans and a Knicks jersey. “Is this the home of Charlotte Gordon, the owner of Jensen Gallery?”
The man stood mute, his face drained of color. When he finally spoke, he said, “Who are you?”
I understood his reaction. It was the same feeling I’d experienced a week earlier when I’d first laid eyes on Charlotte. “My name is Mallory Holcolm.”
“Are you related to Charly?”
“I don’t know.” I fidgeted with my fingers. I felt just as uncomfortable as the man standing before me looked.
He hesitated, then opened the door wider. “Charly’s not home now. That’s what everyone calls her. Not Charlotte. My name is Ben. I’m her husband. Why don’t you come in?” He led me inside a marble-floored foyer, then into the den, and gestured for me to take a seat. The room was bigger than my whole apartment back in Scranton. The largest television I had ever seen was affixed to one wall, with a basketball game paused. Ben picked up the remote and turned off the TV. He sat down, then asked, once again, “Who are you? I mean, not your name. But you look so much like my wife, it’s uncanny.”
“I know. I work at a restaurant, and a few weeks ago, a guy—he said his name was Matt Findly—confused me for your wife. He told me about her gallery, and I passed by it last week. I thought I was looking at myself.”
“Matt went to college with us. Did you talk to Charly? What was her reaction?”
I shook my head. “I was so startled, I walked away. Well, ran is more accurate. It frightened me.”
“Charly was adopted. Were you?”
All this past week, when I’d run through possible explanations, that was the thing that had terrified me most: the possibility that my whole life had been a lie. That the mother I’d known hadn’t given birth to me. “I don’t think so. At least, my mother never told me I was.”
Ben stood up. “I’m going to get a glass of wine. Would you like one?”
I nodded. It was exactly what I needed right now. Ben disappeared into what I assumed was the kitchen, then returned a few minutes later with two wineglasses, filled to the top. He handed one to me.
“Has Charly ever tried searching for her birth parents?”
Ben shook his head. “She’s never seemed to be interested in that.”
That surprised me. If it were me, I’d want to know. I’d want my family to be as big and inclusive as possible. I took a sip of wine, then glanced around the room. “You have a beautiful home.”
“Would you like a tour?”
“Sure.”
Ben took me from the den into an even larger room. The ceilings in each room were twelve feet high. “Our living room. More like a museum, if you ask me.”
Although the furnishings were appealing and, I assumed, expensive, my eyes were drawn to the paintings hanging on the walls. Ben was right. It was like being in a museum. Most were contemporary or modern style, and all were breathtaking. I didn’t need to look at the signatures on the paintings. I recognized the work of Gerhard Richter, Jasper Johns, and Richard Prince. Others I was less famili
ar with but were just as exquisite. I wondered what it must be like to have such masters at one’s fingertips, to be able to gaze upon their beauty every day. I briefly felt a pang of jealousy, then pushed it away.
“Ready to see the rest of the apartment?”
I tore myself away from the paintings and followed Ben into the dining room, where more artwork hung than in the kitchen. It was bigger than the kitchen at Trattoria Ricciardi, with off-white cabinets, the top names in stainless-steel appliances, and a grayish-black soapstone countertop. The light wood floors in the other rooms continued into the kitchen. I had learned to cook out of necessity—when my mother worked, she often wasn’t home to prepare dinner, and later, when she became ill, she was too weak to cook. At first, I popped frozen dinners into the oven but quickly grew tired of them. I began by making simple foods—scrambled eggs, hamburgers, spaghetti. But gradually, I started to experiment. When I had time, I watched the cooking shows on cable TV and soon became quite proficient. I missed cooking. There was no opportunity for it, living in one room in a boardinghouse. Cooking in a kitchen like this would be a dream.
Ben took me into the other rooms: three bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, and an office. When finished, we returned to the den.
“What was your home like, growing up?” Ben asked.
A hard laugh escaped. “Imagine the opposite of this.”
“You were poor?”
“I had a roof over my head, food to eat, and clothes to wear, so I wouldn’t say I was poor. But we always scraped for money. My mom was always behind on the bills. I’d wear the same clothes long after I’d outgrown them because we couldn’t afford new ones. Instead, my mother would undo the seams and sew them back up a little longer, a little looser. Just shoes—they were always new. She didn’t want my feet to become deformed by squeezing them into ones too tight.”
