by Ellen Hart
Shortly after eight, Jane pulled the Ridgeline into the circular drive in front of Cordelia’s Kenwood mansion. Cordelia lovingly referred to the place as Thornfield Hall, christening it, as she put it, “with the full Charlotte Brontë.” Snow had blanketed the city two nights before and the walking, even on shoveled sidewalks, wasn’t good. Jane let her father out, waiting as he entered the house, then went in search of a parking spot. She found one on the next block over and picked her way carefully through the side streets back to the house.
Once inside, she was met by a meaty Marlon Brando lookalike in a leather jacket and jeans, aviator shades, and a cotton canvas cap, straight out of the fifties flick, The Wild One. He was probably meant to be the bouncer.
“You got an invite?” he asked. His Brooklyn accent sounded fake.
“I do,” said Jane. She pegged him as an actor, someone Cordelia had hired as a joke. Not that a little muscle at the front door was unwarranted.
“Good. Mind your p’s and q’s, otherwise, me and you, we gonna have a problem.”
That was friendly, she thought as she stepped past him. He was clearly enjoying his role, creating it one threat at a time.
Inside, the party was in full progress. As she stood in the hall looking around, Hattie, Cordelia’s eleven-year-old niece, followed by four kids about the same age, surged out of the dining room, each holding a plate stacked high with cake.
“Janey,” cried Hattie, rushing over to give her a squeeze.
Jane couldn’t believe that Hattie was getting so big. Sixth grade. Where had the time gone? “Are you having a good time?”
“Cake first,” whispered Hattie, giving Jane a serious look and then another grin.
“Where’s your auntie?”
“Who knows?” She glanced back at her posse, giving them a thumbs up.
“You go,” said Jane. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Okay. But … did you bring Mouse and Gimlet?”
Hattie adored Jane’s dogs. Much to Cordelia’s continuing frustration, Hattie adored all nature, including bugs.
“No, they’re having their own party over at Evelyn Bratrude’s house.” Evelyn was a retired neighbor who often took care of the dogs when Jane was gone for the evening.
As Hattie raced back to her buddies, her blond curly hair bouncing, Jane turned her attention to the great room. Julia had texted her about an hour ago, saying that Carol, a retired nurse administrator who was now her assistant, would drop her off. The house was so huge that it could easily swallow up several hundred people with room to spare. Jane nodded to a man who looked so much like Armistead Maupin that she did a double take—could it be? As she turned, the crowd in front of her parted ever so briefly, allowing her a glimpse of a woman in a glittery pink T-shirt and matching hair. She stood on a low platform directly under a gothic tryptic of stately stained-glass windows. In front of her was a table filled with electronic equipment.
Jane recalled now that Cordelia had said she intended to hire a DJ for the evening. For the moment, a mixture of sixties oldies blared from four strategically placed loudspeakers. Cordelia had planned the music down to the second. There would be a short David Bowie retrospective; Broadway show tunes, most going back decades; a Lady Gaga set; some techno-pop and other dance electronica; an hour of big bands, swing, and old standards; seventies rock; a periodic novelty, such as the original “Here Comes Peter Cottontail” sung by Gene Autry, one of Cordelia’s all-time favorites; and finally, lots of doo-wop generously stirred in.
Jane said hello to a few of the revelers but didn’t allow herself to get dragged into any conversations. Her main objective was to find Julia.
As she stretched her neck, trying to see over a knot of tall football linemen types, she thought she caught sight of the back of a familiar head. “Peter?” she whispered. She snaked her way through the throng, pushing past a crowd gathered around the mayor, and escaped to the base of the stairway that led up to the open second-floor mezzanine. Midway up the steps she stopped. From this vantage, she had a better view. He could be anywhere in the house by now. And then she saw him. He was talking to Fiona McGuy, the stage manager at Cordelia’s theater. Much to Jane’s disappointment, it wasn’t her brother. It seemed likely that she would see him everywhere until he turned up.
Glancing around at the sound of applause, she watched Cordelia make a grand entrance into the great room wearing the gold-and-black headdress of an Egyptian pharaoh and a gold-lamé gown. With her height and girth, even in normal clothes, it was impossible for her to “blend,” as she called it. Waving a fan made of faux black feathers in front of her face, she proffered a hand to her minions, bestowed a few air kisses, fluttered here and there spreading her New Year’s cheer. The heavy makeup she wore was straight out of a King Tut playbook. Jane waved and caught her eye. Cordelia nodded, winked, and made her way toward the stairway. They met on the second-floor landing.
“You made it,” said Cordelia, eyeing Jane’s less-than-thrilling costume. “A navy blazer, a red cotton shirt, and jeans? Really, Jane? Really?”
“I came directly from work. I would have gone home and changed, but Dad’s car is in the shop and he needed a ride, so I invited him to stay the night at my place and—”
“Enough.” Cordelia held up her hand for silence. “At least your father can pass for an aging Perry Mason.”
The music changed to the Beatles’ “Come Together.” As the bass notes pumped through the air around them, Jane asked, “Have you seen Julia?”
“She’s upstairs in the Redgrave bedroom. When she arrived she said she wanted to lie down.”
How anyone could nap through this noise was difficult to comprehend. “Did she seem—”
“Just tired,” said Cordelia.
When it came to Julia, worrying was a great part of what Jane did these days. “I think I’ll go check on her.”
“Did you bring the champagne?”
“Of course. I’ll go bring my truck around if you need it.”
“Good woman.” As Cordelia floated regally back down the stairs into the throng, Jane headed into a broad hall. All the bedrooms in the house had been named after famous actresses, with one exception: Hattie insisted on naming her bedroom for the originator of quantum theory, Max Planck. Cordelia didn’t much like such a strange idea, but because it was Hattie, she gave in. Cordelia’s room was, of course, the Hepburn bedroom. Other bedrooms included the Gloria Swanson, the Bette Davis, the Claudette Colbert, and the Olivia de Havilland. Octavia Thorn-Lester, Cordelia’s sister, when she was in town, always stayed in the Meryl Streep. And Jane, on occasion, used the Kathleen Turner.
Jane found Julia asleep in the middle of an ornate French chestnut bed, a pillow pressed to each ear. Sitting down next to her, all Jane wanted was to enjoy the moment. Julia’s face seemed so peaceful, so serious.
Dr. Julia Martinsen, an internationally prominent oncologist, had been diagnosed last spring with a rare tumor, an optic-nerve glioma. In children, tumors on the optic nerve were common, usually slow-growing and benign. In adults, they were more often cancerous and aggressive. Late in the summer, Julia had confided the facts to Jane, admitting that her greatest fear was living through it—or dying—alone. Meaning, without Jane in her life. In a moment of weakness, Jane had promised to be there for her.
When Julia’s sight began to worsen, she’d moved into Jane’s home. And from there, even though Jane had set boundaries for herself, she’d allowed Julia into her life again—and into her bed. Through it all, she kept asking herself: What was the harm? What was the worst that could happen? Julia was ill, probably gravely so. She likely didn’t have long to live. Jane had no illusions about who she was. She’d entered the relationship—for a second time—with her eyes wide open.
Julia turned on her side. Smiling up at Jane, she said, “Hi.”
“Hi, yourself. How are you feeling?”
“Just a little tired.”
“What about the pain?”
“Manageable.”
Jane took her hand and held it to her lips. “You want to go downstairs? You feel up to it?”
“What time is it?”
“Around eight thirty.”
“Lie down with me for a few minutes. It’s a long time until midnight.”
“And what’s happening at midnight?” asked Jane, stretching out on the bed and drawing Julia into her arms.
“I’m going to kiss the woman I love.”
“Does she have to wait that long?”
Nuzzling Jane’s hair, Julia said, “That’s a good question. Why don’t we discuss it?”
5
George worked at the kitchen counter, wiping the marble down, making sure it would be clean for the morning. He’d just finished the dinner dishes. Marlo was upstairs taking her nightly bath. They had a routine, one that varied only slightly even on New Year’s Eve. Since Marlo didn’t like to cook and George did, and because his job at a men’s clothing store had regular hours, he would arrive home around six, shower, change into something more casual, pour himself a glass of wine, and begin preparing the evening meal. It was his form of meditation. Soothing. Understandable. Something the world often refused to be.
As he poured himself another glass of Viognier, the landline rang. Scooping it up off the counter, he said hello.
“George? Is that you?”
“Who’s calling please?”
“It’s Chuck Atchison.”
Chuck was Marlo’s cousin. George found him dull. Not that it mattered. He was family now. “Nice to hear from you. Marlo tells me you’re going to stay with us for a week or so. Flying in from Fort Lauderdale on Friday, yes?”
“A change of plans,” said Chuck. “I’m here a little early, hope that’s not a problem. I booked a room at one of the downtown hotels for tonight. I’m wondering if I could come by tomorrow. If it’s not convenient—”
“It’s fine,” said George, picking up the bottle of wine and holding it up to see how much was left. “I’ll tell Marlo.”
“Great, great. Well, I look forward to seeing you.”
George spoke to him for another few seconds, settling on a time. He didn’t want Chuck arriving too early, since both he and Marlo were planning on sleeping in tomorrow. After hanging up, he carried his glass into the media room and sat down on the leather couch facing the TV.
Very little had changed in the condo since the days when Marlo’s father had owned it. George had been surprised when Marlo suggested they move in. If his father had been found murdered in the first-floor bathroom’s vintage claw-foot tub, he would have unloaded the place immediately. When it came to domestic affairs, however, Marlo usually went for what was easy. Along with cooking, she didn’t much like cleaning or decorating. They both knew they wanted out of their town house. Marlo had thus concluded that it was better to try to forget that one awful night than it was to sell the condo, look for another property, organize a move, etc.
The condo was in a converted commercial building built in the early twenties. Their top-floor, twenty-three-hundred-square-foot unit was a two-story, brick-and-concrete inner-city penthouse with a state-of-the-art kitchen; deep, oversized windows with views of midtown; and a long gallery wall of paintings. The furniture was functional and uncluttered, with a kind of mid-century, cool-jazz vibe that could easily have served as a set for the TV show Mad Men. While it wasn’t George’s taste, he didn’t feel it was his place to suggest a wholesale redecoration.
Picking up the remote, he turned on the TV. The idea was to watch a movie and then go to bed early. He’d made a light dinner so they’d have room for popcorn while they watched.
George had always craved comfort, the kind he couldn’t afford. His parents had emigrated from Kharkov to Israel when he was a baby. They’d only stayed a few years before moving to the UK, where his father had taken a position teaching biochemistry at the University of Cambridge. It didn’t pay very well, though both George and his older brother had gone to good schools, and for that he was grateful.
They’d moved again thirteen years later, when his father took a teaching position at the University of Minnesota. George had just turned sixteen. Minnesota was a culture shock, one he wasn’t prepared for. By then, he thought of himself as thoroughly British. He didn’t like the swagger and aggressive braggadocio he saw in so many of his new American friends. The flat, thudding Minnesota accent was thoroughly distasteful, as were the inflated comments he kept hearing about American exceptionalism. Rather quickly, the US began to feel like a circus, a sideshow on every corner. By his senior year, George had concluded that much of life was, simply put, absurd.
George’s brother viewed the world more flat on, more practically, which allowed him to fit in far better. He’d gone on to distinguish himself in college, becoming a business major and eventually going to work for a prestigious financial firm in New York. But not even his brother could afford a place like this. The irony never failed to amuse.
“So,” said Marlo, coming into the room wearing her favorite flannel bathrobe. She carried her own glass of wine along with the bottle. “Have you thought about a film?” she asked, sitting down next to George on the couch.
He put his arm around her. “You smell wonderful.” He sniffed her hair. She looked lovely, too, skin all pink from her bath. “What about watching an oldie? Vertigo? Or perhaps All About Eve?”
“Vertigo would be great. Haven’t seen that in ages.” She touched his brow, tracing his hairline. “You know, I realize you hate to hear it, but you and Hugh Grant could have been separated at birth.”
The only thing he could see that he and Grant had in common was the English accent. Even though George’s had faded over the years, most Americans still pegged him as British.
Halfway through the movie, Marlo reminded him about their “snack.” If it had been up to her, they would be eating out of one of those godawful microwave bags. He couldn’t abide the taste or the smell. When he brought out a big bowl of fresh popcorn drenched in just the right amount of butter, she purred. He loved that. Cooking for her was a pleasure because she was such an appreciative audience.
When the movie was over, he switched to the local news.
“Wait, wait,” said Marlo, sitting up and leaning forward. “Don’t change the channel. I know that guy. Him,” she said, pointing. “The black guy.”
Two men sat opposite each other in what looked like the living room of a family home. George thought the man seemed familiar, though he couldn’t place him.
“That’s Rashad May’s brother,” said Marlo. “I think he’s talking about my dad.”
They both listened as the man explained that he’d found proof that Rashad was innocent, that he should never have been convicted of Gideon Wise’s murder.
“What on earth is he talking about?” demanded Marlo. “Everyone knows Rashad murdered my dad. How can he go on TV saying things like that?”
“Quiet down,” said George, straining to hear over his wife’s protestations. The man was saying he’d found new evidence. The interviewer asked if he’d retained an attorney.
“Raymond Lawless,” he said without missing a beat. “He knows the case backward and forward. He never believed my brother was guilty. Now we’re going to prove it.”
“Interesting,” said George, resting his elbows on his knees.
The man continued, “If anyone out there has even the smallest scrap of information that could help my brother, please, please, contact Raymond Lawless.”
“This is crazy,” said Marlo. She stiffened and pushed off the couch, pacing in front of the screen.
George switched it off. “Calm down.”
“How can I? He outright lied.”
“They’re a long way from reopening the case. If it happens, we’ll have to live with it.”
“Maybe you can, but I can’t go through that again. The whole thing was torture, waiting for the verdict, thinking Rashad might get off. That man is in prison fo
r a reason. He was unfaithful. He was seeing someone behind my dad’s back. He wanted out of the marriage without losing his cash cow. That’s all my dad was to him. Rashad broke up my parent’s marriage, you know. It’s why my mother died such an early death.”
“Your mom died of kidney disease.”
“Made worse because of the divorce. I hate that man. He’s right where he belongs.”
George had heard the same litany of grievances dozens of times. Rashad was guilty and that was the end of the story. “Your father was gay, Marlo. His marriage to your mother was bound to come apart. If it hadn’t been Rashad, it would have been someone else.” George didn’t enjoy defending Gideon Wise. He’d found the man pompous, with a rich man’s view of the world. Gideon had done everything in his power to force his daughter to cut George out of her life. When Marlo announced, out of the blue—and much to George’s surprise—that they were engaged, Gideon had pitched a fit, threatening to disinherit her. At times, they were like two bulls, pawing the dust, grunting and snarling, eyeing each other with blood in their eyes.
What truly amazed George was that Marlo had never come to terms with her dad’s sexuality. She wasn’t an unreasonable woman. There were no religious issues. She did, however, have a tendency to see only the parts of people she wanted to see. And when it came to men—which likely included her father—she could be willingly blind. George wasn’t about to examine that part of her personality too closely because he’d been a major beneficiary of that blindness.
“Come sit down,” said George. He patted the couch.
