“Maybe even this weekend,” Marina said. “Maybe Saturday.”
“Maybe Saturday! We would love that. Look at the train schedule and call me anytime darling. Oh! I have to go now. Murray’s just thrown up all over kitchen floor. Murray!” And then she was gone, and Marina was alone in Brooklyn.
Over dinner, the conversation quickly turned to the declining state of the magazine industry and, more generally, the world. To Marina’s left was a perfectly chiseled man named Franklin who she at first assumed was gay. His silk button-down shirt was open one button too many, revealing a slice of muscled pectoral. As it turned out, Franklin was living with Isabelle, the exquisitely fair woman at the far end of the table. Both were photographers. Franklin was from Trinidad and had the slightest lilt of an accent. When he laughed, it sounded honey coated. He looked Marina directly in the eye when they spoke, as if mentally taking a picture her.
Marina ate little but drank heavily. As she drifted into drunkenness, she began to find Franklin deeply attractive. His teeth were perfect, Hollywood white against his clean dark skin. He spoke about things foreign to her: contemporary Caribbean fiction, his brother’s recent wedding in Mumbai. He had baked the bread for tonight’s dinner himself. It was being passed around in a wicker basket, slightly misshapen and enticingly sweet and wrapped in a paper napkin. It was served with mango chutney, which a number of guests were smearing on the turkey in lieu of cranberry sauce. Marina took seconds, even though she usually made a point of staying away from bread.
The dinner was haphazardly constructed. George had tasked her guests somewhat whimsically and had lost track of who was bringing what. There were three kinds of potatoes (mashed sweet, mashed Yukon, scalloped Russet), but only one vegetable (candied beets). Marina had brought the only pie, not enough for all sixteen guests. A bearded writer named Tom had brought three dozen gluten-free sugar cookies that had crumbled on their journey from Astoria. And instead of salad, Isabelle had brought an offering of pureed pumpkin (delicious) and a crimson amaryllis, which stood at the center of the table, its petals opened like trumpets.
Soon, Marina was leaning in, her thigh pressed against Franklin’s, she could feel the thick fabric of his jeans brushing against her tights, and she pushed her hair back from her shoulders to expose her clavicle. He was polite but declined to engage with her flirtation. As the dinner wore on he glanced more often at Isabelle. Marina had never before been attracted to a black man, and she had never openly hit on another woman’s boyfriend. But the steady flow of wine emboldened her, everything she thought she knew was dissolving, and the world felt raw, as if its skin had been turned inside out. Today felt like a day for firsts.
“Marina would never move to Brooklyn!” George was exclaiming across the table. “Never. But I might! I like it out here. I thought you would have to drag me feet first from the Village, but I’ve reconsidered. Anything’s possible.” She smiled coyly at Max, who downed a glass of wine and dropped his hand into her lap.
“Uh-oh, Max,” Franklin said. He shook his head, chortling. “Manhattan may lose its It Girl thanks to you. What will happen next?”
George rolled her eyes, but Marina could see that she was reveling in her coronation as Manhattan’s It Girl. She picked up a bottle of merlot and began to refill the empty glasses. She thinks she wants to marry him, Marina thought bitterly. She thinks he’ll marry her because he’s thirty-six and probably wants to get on with it.
“Nothing to do with Max,” George said grandly. The bottle in her hand was kicked. She stood behind him as he opened another, and stroked his cheek with the back of her hand. “Really, I’ve fallen for Brooklyn. Or maybe I’ve just fallen out of love with Manhattan.” She began to pour again.
“Oh George, no you haven’t!” Marina said. She was aware of a slight slur in her voice.
“Don’t you find it so depressing? All the restaurants are empty. All the good stores are closing. I hate it.”
Isabelle laughed. “I thought it was depressing until I went into Barney’s last weekend. Everything is like forty percent off! It’s the first time I have ever been able to afford anything there.”
“Any price tag that says forty percent off should have a disclaimer that reminds you that your 401(k) is forty percent off, too,” said Malcolm. Malcolm was a lawyer, the only corporate type present. Laughter rippled down the table, bouncing off the double-height ceilings, the faint shadows of treetops discernible through the darkening wall of glass windows. “And no one’s getting a year-end bonus, either.”
“None of us expected to, counselor,” Franklin said, smiling without a trace of resentment. “We’re all artists and writers, remember?”
“Or self-employed,” Max said. He raised his glass. “If anyone sees my boss, tell him I deserve a raise!”
Everyone was merry, clinking glasses and toasting their sorry fate. Marina found this vein of humor surprisingly refreshing. All of Tanner’s friends were hedge funders or trust funders, and they were taking the downturn seriously indeed. It was an oft-discussed topic at dinner parties. Trips to Aspen were being canceled; summer homes were on the market; there were fewer holiday parties than ever before.
“I have trouble feeling sorry for the bankers in your neighborhood, George,” Isabelle said. “Yes, their hedge funds are closing and they’re getting laid off. But the same thing’s happening in the magazine industry.”
“And they were responsible for what’s going on. There’s a big difference between an ailing magazine and Lehman Brothers. Lehman deserves to go under. They created the problem,” a writer named Elise offered. The mood was turning somber. Brows furrowed around the table and more than one person nodded in consent.
“I’m not sure that’s entirely fair,” Marina countered cautiously. “I mean, an analyst at Lehman is no more at fault than an editor at Press. They aren’t making the high-level decisions. They’re just doing what they’re told. Sure, some of them were getting paid too much. But why turn it down if it’s being offered?” What she was saying might not be well received by liberal company, but the alcohol had eroded her judgment. Her head was spinning slightly, and the dim candlelight and brightly painted walls made her feel vaguely as though she were trapped in the middle of Mardi Gras. She was, she realized, dead drunk. Through the fog, she heard a distant ringing.
“I think your purse is calling you,” Franklin said gently into her ear. He reached behind her and unhooked her handbag from the back of her chair.
“Thanks,” Marina muttered, embarrassed. She stood up abruptly and fumbled for her phone, which had found its way to some hidden corner of her bag. No one noticed as she slipped through the nearest doorway, away from the din of the party. She closed the door behind her. Glancing around, she realized she was standing in Max’s home office. Unsure of whether it was okay for her to be there, she stood awkwardly in the center of the space, lights still off.
She didn’t recognize the number. It was from area code 212, a Manhattan landline. For a fleeting second, her heart fluttered. It was Tanner, calling from his parents’ apartment.
“Hello?” she said. She tried to sound as casual as possible. For a second, she thought to reopen the door, letting in the ambient noise of the party.
“Marina? It’s Duncan.” He paused and the line went silent.
Marina’s heart stopped. Duncan. What on earth could he want?
Unable to speak, she simply remained, phone pressed to her ear, her lips slightly parted.
“So, happy Thanksgiving,” he said. He cleared his throat. He sounded nervous. “Hello? Did I lose you?”
“No, I’m here,” Marina said hoarsely. “Happy Thanksgiving to you as well. I’m sorry. I’m out in Brooklyn and the reception isn’t very good.”
“Brooklyn! Why? You don’t live out there, do you?”
“No,” Marina said quickly. “Just at a friend’s for Thanksgiving dinner.”
She thought: if he’s calling to ask me to do something, I’m going to quit on t
he spot. “Can I do something for you?”
“Oh goodness, you’re in the middle of dinner. Terribly sorry. I shouldn’t keep you.” He sounded uncharacteristically chastened, and Marina instantly regretted the sharpness of her voice. He didn’t want anything; he was calling to wish her a happy Thanksgiving. Of course. It was so thoughtful of him to think of her, and here she was snapping at him.
You’re becoming a bitch, she thought. And you’re drunk.
“There is actually something I need from you. Now that you mention it.”
Marina was silent.
“It doesn’t have to be done today, just when you get the chance. Maybe tomorrow.”
There were few turns of phrase Marina hated as much as “when you get the chance.” Duncan employed it often, tacking it onto any request that he had otherwise indicated as urgent or time sensitive.
“Certainly. Happy to.”
“Can you pull the interview I did with Jane Hewitt this summer, as well as any notes, et cetera that I used to prep for it? I also want to see my schedule from the day she came in; you can pull that off my Outlook. I’m thinking of doing a sort of follow-up piece on her, so I want you to get me the names and general hierarchy of the SEC. Don’t rely on the one we created this summer; it’s out of date.”
Marina had begun to cry. Tears slipped silently down her face, but they were thick and fast and she knew that soon she would be outright sobbing. She cupped her hand around lower half of the phone in an attempt to muffle it, wiping her nose on the back of her hand as she did. Through the wall, she could hear the muted roar of laughter and the sound of someone clinking a fork against a glass as if in preparation for a toast.
“That sounds interesting,” she said. It was the best she could manage for someone who was being dictated to in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner.
“Oh and pull what you can on Morton Reis and his firm RCM and also Delphic—that’s Carter Darling’s firm.” After a half-step pause, he exclaimed, “My dear. Are you crying?”
She had thought she had been quiet, but it was possible she had let out a small whimper.
She sniffled. “I’m sorry,” she said. She felt reckless and numb and like she had nothing left to lose. “I am crying. I know that’s terribly inappropriate. It’s just that my boyfriend broke up with me yesterday, and I had already canceled Thanksgiving with my family to spend it with him, so I’m at a friend’s instead. And now I’m working. Anyway, I’m sorry.”
A silence ensued. Marina tapped one foot nervously against the plush carpet.
“Well, nothing like a little wanton honesty,” Duncan said, finally. He chuckled, his strange little nervous chuckle that had an unusually high pitch. “What’s the name? Your boyfriend?”
“Tanner,” Marina said. She now felt very sorry to have brought it up. “Tanner Morgenson.”
“Well. Marina. I know a lot of people and I have to say I consider myself a good judge of them. This may be out of line—but hell, I think we lost sight of the line a few minutes ago—Tanner Morgenson sounds like an absolute idiot. You’re beautiful and clever, and poised for someone your age. You’re going to do well here, Marina, I’m sure of it. Not many people can put up with me, you know. You’ve got a certain confidence and thickness of the skin, which are absolute necessities in this town.”
“Thank you. That really means a lot to me. Especially from you.”
“Well,” he said, and she imagined him turning slightly pinkish, “I think you should see this as a blessing. A release from a lifetime of mediocrity. No doubt you outshine this young man in most every way. He isn’t the grandson of William, son of Bill, is he? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Yes.” Though she imagined he was about to let loose some scathing criticism about the Morgensons, Marina felt a blush of pride to be affiliated with so grand a family. She might go up a half tick in Duncan’s social register.
“Well, Marina, I’m going to tell you a little secret now, which is perhaps a poorly kept secret, but most of them are, anyway. The Morgensons are absolutely, completely, and utterly bankrupt. Have been for quite some time. I have it on the very best authority.”
Marina’s eyes grew wide as pumpkins. “No. That can’t be! I’ve been to their home—to several of their homes! Just last night, in fact. Their apartment’s beautiful.”
“Well, that may be true, but young Tanner has another thing coming if he expects to get a dime. His grandfather made a killing, but gave most of it to charity and what was left he split between four children. Tanner’s father’s a complete moron. Bill Morgenson’s never worked a day in his life, except getting himself tangled up in the occasional get-rich-quick real estate investment. He reduced his small fortune to virtually nothing over the years, and has gotten a bit desperate. Eighteen months ago, at the height of the market, he sank whatever he had left into that big glass building in midtown—you know the one I’m talking about, the name will come to me in a minute—which was a complete bust. I have a very dear friend who happens to be close to the deal who told me the three main investors—Morgenson being one—personally guaranteed it. Which of course is absolute idiocy. So really, the family’s in the ground. It’s only a matter of time until Tanner’s tending bar.”
“But the mother!” Marina said. “Doesn’t Grace have money? That’s what everybody says.”
“Oh no, none at all. Her father couldn’t stand Bill. Didn’t go to their wedding, I’m told. Cut her off entirely.”
“Amazing.” Marina was stunned. “They certainly put on a good show.”
“That they do. Now what do you say you finish your dinner and then you help me do some research on Jane Hewitt. And Morton Reis. And Carter Darling. And after that, we will see who really holds the cards.”
“Happy to,” she said. She grabbed a pad off Max’s desk and wrote down the names as quickly as she could.
“Call Owen Barry at the Wall Street Journal, too. Tell him I need to talk to him and it’s urgent and I’ll be in touch shortly. Give him those three names. He knows everything about everyone. Also, see if you can track down the contact information for Scott Stevens. He used to work at the SEC down in D.C., and at one time oversaw an investigation into RCM. My understanding is that he left there rather abruptly—in late 2006, I think—and the investigation was shut down after that. It would be interesting to speak to him.”
“Owen Barry. Scott Stevens. Okay. Is there anything else I can do?”
“Not for the moment. If I think of something, I’ll ring you. This will be a fun little project for us, Marina. Think of it as vigilante justice.”
“Do you want me to call him, maybe? Scott Stevens?”
Duncan paused. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Just the contact information will be fine.”
She bit her lip. “All right,” she said. “Let me know if I can be of help with research or anything. This is the kind of thing I really like to do.”
After she hung up the phone, she took a look around Max’s home office and smiled. Here was someone who had actually done something, despite having been born privileged. His desk was overflowing with papers, and his computer glowed in the semidarkness, as though alive with ideas. Suddenly, she found herself liking Max immensely. As she slipped back into the party, her hand instinctively brushed her cheek; it was now dry. She had stopped crying.
THURSDAY, 6:02 P.M.
“Let’s all sit,” Carter said as he ushered everyone into the dining room. Carmela was standing nervously at the back, waiting for instructions. The table was perfect; soft candlelight lit up the peach-colored walls. The china sparkled. Stomachs began to growl, mouths moistened as everyone took their seats. Outside, the wind had picked up, setting the porch lamps swinging in the night air.
When everyone had found his place, Carmela said to Carter, “Everything’s ready. Do you want me to serve?” They both glanced at the sideboard. A feast had been laid out. Carrots glazed in brown butter; steaming mashed potatoes; roasted autumn vegetables
shimmering with olive oil; Carmela’s famous stuffing—all presented in terra-cotta serving dishes, a symphony of fall color. In the center was a perfect, plump turkey. Whenever Carter gave the word, Carmela would whisk the turkey back into the kitchen for John to carve. Then Carter would serve it, placing pieces delicately on the plates with silver tongs, and everyone would tell him how beautiful it looked this year.
“Not yet,” Carter said brusquely. “Just make sure everyone has a drink.” Carmela nodded and began to pour the wine.
Sol turned his glass over before Carmela reached him. “Just water for me,” he said. “Or whatever he’s drinking.” He pointed to Carter’s ginger ale.
“Of course. Would you care for some?” Carmela said quietly, holding out the bottle for Marion’s approval.
“Oh yes, please. This is beautiful,” Marion said apologetically, gesturing at the spread. “You always do such a lovely job.”
Carmela nodded in acknowledgment and then glanced around, as if unsure the compliment was rightly hers. As soon as the glasses were full, she disappeared into the kitchen. The table fell back into an awkward lull. From behind the swinging door came the sound of pots banging on the stove. A strain of classical music wafted through and then stopped abruptly; Carmela had switched off the radio.
Adrian yawned loudly, breaking the silence. He reached forward and took a roll out of the breadbasket. He nudged Lily for the butter. She glared at him as she passed it, her ears flushing red with annoyance. Adrian pretended not to notice and began slathering his bread.
“Do we think she’s coming down soon?” Merrill said to her father.
Carter’s jaw tightened. “I imagine so.” To the table, he announced loudly, “Let’s talk about something.” He was trying to keep things light, but it had come out wrong and he sounded angry. Merrill looked down at the floor like a reprimanded child.
The Darlings Page 21
