Changes of Heart

by Liza Gyllenhaal

  “What did you do?” Janie asked.

  “I waived the rules for the first time in my tenure here,” Henry replied bitterly. “I put them on unofficial probation. They all graduated, top of the class, just as everyone expected.”

  “I think you did the right thing,” Janie told him gently, sensing a dark current of anger and frustration in Henry’s story. Of course it would have been hard for him, Janie reflected, to loosen the reins after all these years. Did he see it, perhaps, as an indication that he was losing his ability to lead? She added kindly, “Sometimes tolerance is better than discipline. I think you should be proud of your decision.”

  “You sound just like Faith,” Henry snapped. “But don’t get me wrong, Jane, I was proud. Very proud and quite pleased with myself.”

  “So?” Jane asked. “You sound … angry.”

  “John died this past summer,” Henry told her abruptly. “He overdosed on cocaine. Official autopsy called it massive heart failure. He was eighteen years old. Two weeks away from orientation at Harvard. Yes, Jane, I am angry.”

  They walked side by side in silence for a full minute as Janie tried to comprehend what Henry had been going through these last months. Anger. Remorse. Guilt.

  “You couldn’t have known…” Janie tried to reason with him, but before her words were even out Henry was shaking his head.

  “It’s no good,” Henry retorted. “I’ve tried to give myself all the familiar excuses, but nothing works. I feel responsible. I let the boy think it was okay. In his mind, I had condoned what he was doing. You see, he had no father. He had no figurehead. I was it, and I let him down.”

  “You showed him compassion,” Janie replied. “You showed him you cared … that you understood him.”

  “Ah, you women,” Henry answered sadly, shaking his head. “You sound just like Faith. That’s exactly what she tried to tell me, Jane. Showing love and feeling love are all very well and good. But listen, Jane, acting on love—even if it hurts, even if it feels like hell—that’s what matters. I let my own feelings get in the way of John’s best interests, don’t you see?”

  “Yes,” Janie said, “but it doesn’t mean that exactly the same thing wouldn’t have happened if you had acted differently.”

  “I know,” Henry said, “but it doesn’t help. I keep looking back and seeing all the blasted mistakes I’ve made in my life. And I … I’ve been trying these past few months to put some of them right.” Henry stopped, resting both hands on the walking stick, and faced her. “That’s why I wanted a moment alone with you to tell you that I’m proud of you … for making your own way … for carving out your own life … without my help. And…” His voice cracked as he looked out over the rugged shoreline and ice-capped sea.

  “Yes?” Janie asked, her heart aching because she knew how difficult this conversation must be for him. He stood erect, like an aging general, his tired gaze not meeting hers.

  “I love you,” he muttered, then turned on his heel, whistled sharply to the dog, and started to march back toward the house.

  Chapter 20

  At first she thought something was wrong with her scale. The morning before the Chanson presentation, Janie stepped off of it, peered down to make sure the arrow was properly adjusted, then stepped on it again. Incredible! Somehow, since leaving D&D, Janie had lost ten pounds. She wiped away the fog that had accumulated on the full-length mirror during her shower and stepped back to regard herself. She was about to drop the towel, then thought better of it.

  “Men will not be swooning over our dear Janie.” Years and years ago, when Janie was still in elementary school, she’d overheard Faith say this to Henry.

  “I don’t know about that, darling,” Henry had replied. “She may be a bit plump now, it’s true, but she has a kind of classic beauty, that sort of haunting sadness so popular during the Italian quattrocento. She may surprise us all.”

  But Faith had been right, of course. Janie had surprised no one. And yet … she turned and stared right into the misted glass … she had been changing.

  It started, now that she thought back on it, after that bizarre night with Zach. He had tried so hard to behave lovingly toward her the next morning, fixing them both a crazy breakfast from leftovers in his refrigerator: omelettes filled with cocktail onions and bottled olives, toast made from frozen pizza rounds. They had laughed a lot that morning, Janie recalled, and she had felt—though she knew even then that it was all an illusion—as buoyant and free as the snow that swirled off the rooftops and swept along the softened streets.

  “You’re not eating,” he had observed at one point as he refilled his mug with camp coffee made from an industrial-strength grind perked with eggshells.

  “Maybe I’m not hungry,” Janie had told him.

  “Maybe it’s terrible,” Zach had countered, “and you’re too polite to tell me.”

  “Polite? To you?” Janie had laughed. “Since when have we observed the common civilities?”

  “You’re right,” Zach had responded promptly. “None of that sort of thing between us. I’d never say, for instance, that I’ve never seen you look quite so ravishing as you do at this moment. That sort of blatant flattery does nothing to you, correct?”

  “I’m totally unmoved,” Janie had told him with a smile. But, in truth, she had been totally unconvinced. And yet, even then, she had felt that his words had somehow triggered something within her. Just by saying it, again and again, as he had that night and the next morning, she was beginning to feel…

  “Beautiful,” he told her as she pulled on her coat, getting ready to leave. “You are, Janie, if only you could see yourself the way I do.”

  “Oh, Zach.” Janie had sighed, turning toward him. “You sound like some guru from the sixties. But thanks for the thought. Thanks … for everything.”

  They hadn’t spoken since, though the next day he sent a huge bouquet of peach-colored roses to her apartment with a note saying, “Call me when you’re ready. Zach.” But ready for what? she wondered. As the weeks flew by, Janie began to think that his parting words had been just an element in one of Zach’s typical defensive maneuvers. She’d spent too many nights advising him on how to painlessly break off this relationship, how to quietly end that one, not to know how he operated. Because Zach couldn’t stand hurting other people, he usually ended up letting them hurt themselves. So Janie didn’t call, and neither did Zach; but then she was so preoccupied with the Chanson presentation that she hadn’t really given the issue much thought.

  Chanson … Bordeaux … the great chateaux … Janie had immersed herself in the literature of wine. Or to be more precise, as Janie freely admitted to herself, she had become fascinated by the history and lore of the great wine-shipping families because she wanted to learn everything she could about one of their most famous scions.

  “Did you know that the Chansons are among the few original Bordeaux shipping families to have remained independently owned?” Janie had asked Melina the morning before their meeting with Alain. They had been reviewing Janie’s final color layout and their strategies for the next day.

  “Can’t say I did,” Melina replied absently, surveying the round conference table. “I think it’s best not to have the designs displayed when he comes in,” Melina continued, glancing from Janie’s work space to the meeting area. “We’ll have coffee here first. A good rich espresso that I know he likes, and some croissants. Damn, I wish I’d kept that sound system, Janie. A little chamber music on a cold winter day is so soothing.”

  “He doesn’t need to be coddled,” Janie replied. “Zach and Michael never did that. He may be rich and sophisticated and all, but he comes from some pretty ruthless stock. After the war the Chansons were just about the only family to see that the old markets were drying up. A lot of people think most of the other old families were shortsighted because they were all so ingrown, so set in their ways.”

  “What the hell are you babbling on abou
t?” Melina demanded. “I want fresh flowers. Tulips, I think. Nice big red ones. Remind me to tell Tina.”

  “I’m talking about the great Bordeaux shipping families,” Janie went on, “who for decades and decades had a stranglehold on the winegrowers. A few families like the Chansons still do, besides owning a number of lucrative vineyards themselves.”

  “Fascinating,” Melina muttered. “My feeling is Alain should be seated here,” she went on, touching the back of a chair that faced out into the room and offered a narrow view of the snowy rooftops and bare trees of Union Square. “I’ll be on this side, and you nearest your work space so that you can get the creative when we’re ready. We’ll start out with the coffee, as I said, and some small talk. You can impress him with your newfound knowledge of vintners, and so forth.”

  “Well, it really is rather interesting, Melina,” Janie went on undaunted. “Because from what I’ve learned these shipping families are all extremely proud … and elitist. The de Luzes, the Cruzes, and the Calvets, though they all intermarried, were all fiercely competitive. And then after the Second World War, when they had to fight over their shrinking domestic market, I guess a lot of blood—and wine—was spilled over who would get what.”

  “I see,” Melina said, “and the dear Family Chanson managed to beat all the others to the punch?”

  “Exactly,” Janie confirmed, “and created a lot of bad feeling in doing so. Ruthless is a word often associated with Chanson business practice. Arrogant is another.”

  “Successful is another,” Melina added with a laugh. “I’ve done a little research, too, Janie. Over the last thirty years, from roughly the time Alain’s father took over, Chanson International has increased net sales by something like two thousand percent. And the U.S. is a relatively new market for them. Think of the annual budgets Alain must be working with! It’s mind-boggling.”

  “And terrifying,” Janie added. “What I can’t figure out, Melina, is why he’s even bothering with us. D&D is handling his multimillion-dollar account with no complaints from him … and our little project is so minuscule compared to what he’s doing with them. Why divide things up in this way? I just … don’t get it.”

  “Ours is not to reason why,” Melina told her demurely, though she had a much better grasp of why Alain was offering them a chance on this project. For a brief moment she allowed her mind to contemplate the night ahead—as usual, she was supposed to be waiting in Alain’s suite when he arrived at the Plaza that evening—and a wave of revulsion swept through her. This all better be worth it, she thought ruefully, shaking away unpleasant memories and turning her attention back to the matter at hand.

  “So now, tell me,” Melina said, glancing at Janie’s baggy wool sweater and faded jeans, “what are you planning to wear tomorrow? I, uh, don’t want our colors to clash or anything.”

  “That’s okay, you can come right out and say it,” Janie told her. “You don’t want me looking like a bag lady, the way I usually do.”

  “Not a bag lady exactly,” Melina countered, “more like a very clean-looking street urchin. Whatever, Janie, I think it might be time to buy something new.”

  “You don’t think the blue dress will do?” Janie asked plaintively. She so hated to shop because it meant having to face herself under bright lights and in front of full-length mirrors.

  “What? The linen one?” Melina retorted. “It’s the middle of winter, for chrissakes, and besides, that dress makes you look like a middle-aged matron. Go buy something, Janie. Something funky, okay? I’m going to wear my new red Krizia suit—you know, the one with the black beaded design?”

  Janie quickly stifled the temptation to say that the Krizia made Melina look like the toy soldier in the Nutcracker: very military and more than a little silly. Instead, she silently nodded her head and conceded to the inevitable. “So I shouldn’t buy orange or pink, right?”

  “Precisely,” Melina confirmed. “Dark blue, perhaps, or green. But remember, Janie, nothing too frumpy, okay?”

  About the same time that evening that Janie was taking the escalator up to Bergdorf’s second floor contemporary women’s wear collection, Melina, less than two blocks away, was waiting for Alain in one of the more expensive corner suites of the Plaza Hotel. She had slipped into one of the diaphanous silk negligees he had purchased for her. This one was black, flimsy as a spider’s web, and she shivered as she made her way over to the window and stared out across Central Park South.

  Though the rest of the city was ankle-deep in slush, the park had managed to retain its picturesque snowy patina. Moonlight or lamplight shimmered across a pale stretch of meadow, and the northern skyline was lit with the city’s pinkish reflected glow. To her right, the rococo facades of upper Fifth Avenue stood sentinel to some of the most expensive blocks of apartment houses in the world. Their residents had old money, real money. God, it all looked so beautiful, Melina thought. Romantic and luxurious, and here she was, a stone’s throw away from it all. And yet it seemed to her sometimes that the closer she got to luxury, the further it slipped from her grasp. Like a mirage in the desert, the glimmer of wealth and freedom that Melina kept crawling toward just never seemed to materialize.

  These days her money worries were bigger than ever. City Slickers wasn’t paying. Ramona, though coming through with vague promises about the home fragrances line, had committed to nothing. In another month, another six weeks if things didn’t change, Bliss & Penrod would be in serious financial trouble. She couldn’t let it happen—she wouldn’t let it happen! Melina swore under her breath, promising herself once again that she would get her fair share of the world no matter what it cost.

  “Oh, here you are, Melina,” Alain called from across the room. He was standing in the doorway, his suit coat slung over his shoulder. “I’m going to take a shower. Order some dinner. A steak for me, but please, not burned to cinders like last time. And come away from that window dressed in barely nothing. You act like a whore.”

  “You bought this for me!” Melina shot back, stung by his condescending tone. “I only wear it because you ask me to.”

  “My, we are combative this evening, no?” Alain replied with a laugh. “Trés bien! I’m ready for a good fight, my dear. It was a hellish week.”

  “I’m sorry, Alain,” Melina hurriedly replied, moving toward the door. “I didn’t mean it, really. I…” But he had already closed the door to the bathroom. She could hear the water rushing as she wearily dialed room service.

  “But I take a size fourteen,” Janie told the beautifully dressed saleswoman who had brought several more dresses into the spacious changing room. The woman eyed Janie critically and shook her head.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “In any case, try this size twelve on for me.” She held out a pale green wool crepe dress. It was gently tailored, knee-length, with a slightly scooped neck that the saleswoman knew beforehand would show off Janie’s substantial bust line to its best effect. It was a challenge dressing larger women, the saleswoman knew, but when they were as lovely and unaffected as this one was it was well worth the extra time.

  “Okay,” Janie agreed with a sigh, “but I’m warning you…”

  “I will come back in five minutes,” the woman replied discreetly, “to see how you are doing.”

  Ah, it was the red hair, the woman decided when she returned to see Janie dressed and smiling a little dazedly into the mirror. Or was it the girl’s creamy skin, now flushed with pleasure? Or perhaps it was the fact that the dress—just as she had predicted—fit like a glove. Not too tight, mind you, no vulgar clinging or overemphasis of the obvious curves. Just perfect. Ladylike … and yet full of allure. Well, whatever, the plump girl was striking. Beautiful, if you didn’t mind the Rubenesque proportions. And, of course, you could see at a glance that the young woman had class. It did not surprise the saleswoman at all to discover the name Penrod on Janie’s credit card. One of the Penrods, no doubt, the woman decided proudly, confi
rming her almost uncanny ability to discern between the millionaires in jeans and the credit risks in minks.

  “That was just lovely, my dear,” Alain murmured in Melina’s ear as she nestled on his chest. She could hear the sure, swift gallop of his heart; his chest hair tickled her cheek. How much closer could you get to another person physically? Melina asked herself. But it didn’t matter. Rarely had she felt so distant from a man. Why? Because he controlled her, she admitted to herself, he manipulated her, when she had always been the one who wielded sexual power. It was awful. She loathed him … and herself. But slowly, each time they met, she gave over more and more of herself to him. She could feel his warm sure hand caressing her buttocks.

  “Turn over, my dear,” he told her. “Now remember what I taught you last time? That’s a good girl,” he added soothingly when with a sigh she began to do exactly as she was told.

  Chapter 21

  Slumming. That’s how Alain thought of it. It was a word and an idea that he had picked up from some of his less presentable polo-playing friends in Paris. But that was indeed what he was doing with Melina Bliss, he told himself; he was satisfying his curiosity about a slum he himself was creating. Just how destitute could his tastes become? He considered the question that morning at the Plaza as he sipped a chilled glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and flipped through the Wall Street Journal and New York Times. He had sent Melina home in a taxi around dawn.

  “I do not care what you do, Alain,” his maman had told him after the Lisbeth debacle, “so long as you manage to keep it to yourself. But now all my friends in Paris, even some of the families at home, are chortling over this most recent escapade. It is extremely sloppy of you. Your father and I are most disappointed.”