by Warren Adler
"In a minute," Larry snapped.
The three of them appeared to be intensely involved in some momentous decision. She could hear them mentioning names and subject matter that she had never heard before.
"Please," she said firmly. "You can talk over dinner."
"Jenny, this is important," Larry said. "The dinner can wait."
"No, it can't," Jenny said. Her throat had constricted and her voice had tightened to a whisper. She felt miserable. In desperation she sat down at her place at the table and gulped some wine.
"I still don't think so, Larry," she heard Vince say, the words bouncing without meaning in her mind.
"Why don't you guys cool it," Connie said. "Rome wasn't built in a day."
"Clay Barnes is a schmuck, and Milton Hines is a company loyalist. One of those 'my shit don't stink' guys. I don't trust him," Larry said. "I've seen his memos. He's a back stabber."
"There's nothing worse than cold fettuccine Alfredo," Jenny cried, finding her voice again. She was sitting alone at the table. She poured herself another glass of wine and took a deep gulp.
"In a minute," Larry said, raising his voice.
"Well then." Jenny shrugged. "Forewarned is forearmed." She poured herself more wine, then began to eat the fettuccine. "Not bad," she told herself, washing it down with another heavy draft of white wine. She was nearly finished with the fettuccine when they came to the table. Larry gave her a look of disapproval as they took their seats.
Jenny watched as Connie tasted the fettuccine. "Wonderful," she said, playing with it with her fork but eating little.
"A little on the cold side," Larry said.
"Not bad," Vince said, but he too was playing with it with his fork.
They began to talk among themselves, only now they didn't even give her the courtesy of an occasional glance. Their conversation was growing increasingly distant, as if they were talking a foreign language.
She dutifully poured the wine into their glasses, then collected the plates and went into the kitchen to put together the main dish. Although she was beginning to feel light-headed, she still had the presence of mind to keep the meal on schedule. Timing was crucial.
Larry came into the kitchen to fetch another bottle of wine from the refrigerator. As he uncorked it, he whispered his criticism through clenched teeth.
"The pasta was too cold and too damned rich. People don't eat rich food in New York these days, in case you hadn't noticed."
"I thought it would be festive," she said, hoping she was hiding the heaviness in her tongue.
He opened the oven, in which the chicken Kiev was baking.
"That also looks too damned rich," he snapped.
"If you think that's rich, wait until they have the dessert. It's strawberries Romanoff."
He studied her with disapproval and shook his head. "You've got a lot to learn, Jenny," he said with a sigh.
"Better get back to your crew," she said. "They could hire someone while your back is turned." Larry glared at her and flushed deep red. She was surprised at her own tone. Dutch courage, she decided, feeling a giggle rise in her chest.
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked. But she had turned away, busying herself with the chicken Kiev. She felt him watching her as she arranged the portions on plates.
"We'll discuss this later," he told her ominously when she did not respond. She heard him move out of the kitchen.
"Yes, we will," she whispered to herself as she picked up two plates and brought them to the table, repeating the operation, then seating herself.
"Super," Connie said, picking at the chicken Kiev. Jenny again noted that she was playing with her food, moving it around without appetite. Connie ate a tiny bit of the chicken and one asparagus spear but didn't touch the potatoes au gratin.
"You're one helluva cook ... uh, Jamie," Vince said.
"Jenny," Jenny said politely.
Larry also ate sparingly, occasionally glancing at her with a mad look. Jenny forced herself to finish everything on her plate. Just because they were on diets didn't mean that she couldn't enjoy what she prepared. The fact was that she didn't enjoy it at all. It was merely a way to seem busy while they talked about things she didn't understand, and it did mitigate to some extent the effects of the wine.
They paid little attention when she rose to clear the dishes, although Connie did make a disinterested offer to help.
"You're my guest, Connie," Jenny responded, and Connie, looking relieved, quickly returned her attention to the others.
When Jenny came out of the kitchen with the strawberries Romanoff, the others were completely absorbed in their discussion and totally ignored her presentation. But by then she had sufficiently reined in her frustration. She knew she was still slightly drunk but felt she was carrying out a good imitation of sobriety. Besides, what would it matter if her tongue was heavy? She wouldn't be saying anything that they cared to listen to.
"There's no way we can get the loan without personal signatures," Larry said as Jenny spooned the strawberries Romanoff onto their plates. It was quite obvious that they couldn't have cared less. "Mine and Jenny's signatures and yours and Connie's. I've explored every avenue, interviewed other bankers. It's our only option."
"Doesn't mean I have to like it," Connie said.
"It's a business risk," Vince said. "With that kind of line, they'd be crazy if they didn't ask for all our signatures."
"Mine, too?" Jenny piped. She was surprised to have heard her name mentioned in a business context.
"Of course yours, too," Larry said with irritation, glaring at her and shaking his head as if he were embarrassed by her sudden intrusion. His words sounded like a stage aside, which the others had barely noticed, and he quickly resumed his conversation.
"Must I?" she interrupted.
"Must you what?" Larry asked impatiently.
"Sign something," Jenny said.
Larry sighed. "Of course you must."
"What exactly will I be signing?"
"Jenny, will you please keep out of this?" Larry snapped. He turned to Vince and Connie. "Believe me, we'll find the bank. Trust me on this."
"Without the loan, we're kaput," Connie said.
"Listen," Larry continued. "Even in this climate, banks have to make some loans, and it won't be long before we have the cash flow to keep it rolling over."
"Would really throw a crimp into things if the banks turned it down," Vince said.
"Let me handle that," Larry said.
"I'd like to know—" Jenny had wanted this business of her signature explained, if only to make herself part of the discussion; but at that moment Larry rose and reached for the champagne bottle that was cooling in a bucket beside the table. They all watched in silence as he popped the cork and carefully poured the champagne into the fluted glasses.
"I just love Dom Pérignon," Connie said, watching the bubbles settle in her glass.
"The perfect stuff to launch our ship," Vince said. "And if we're lucky, there will be plenty more where that came from."
When Larry had filled all the glasses, he picked his from the table and remained standing.
"This calls for a special toast." He raised his glass in the direction of Vince and Connie. "To the success of our venture."
"Here here," Vince said, touching his glass first with Larry's. Jenny had lifted hers, but when she saw that no one intended to touch hers she brought it up to her lips and drank. But Vince wasn't through. He turned toward his wife. "And to Connie for pushing me into this craziness. For better or for worse, kiddo." Connie touched glasses with Vince and then with Larry. If there was any intention to include her, it was aborted by the sound of the buzzer.
"I'll get it," Larry said. He went into the foyer, where the intercom was located. She heard a voice come over the intercom, then Larry's response. A few moments later the buzzer to the apartment sounded and she heard the door opening and closing.
"A package for you, Jenny," Larry said, bringing wit
h him a fairly substantial-looking package. "The messenger was all contrition. Some foul-up with the address. Anyway, it's addressed to you." Jenny had forgotten. It was Myrna's package. She hadn't expected to be confronted with this situation, and her panicky reaction cleared her head instantly.
"Just some clothes I ordered," Jenny said.
"Henri Bendel," Larry said, reading the letters on the box.
"Bendel's?" Connie exclaimed, her head cocked as if in disbelief.
"A little on the pricey side," Vince volunteered.
"What is it?" Larry asked, inspecting the box. He looked genuinely puzzled as his eyes met Jenny's.
"Just a little something," Jenny said with mock cheerfulness, hoping she was appearing calm. Beneath the calm she was seething. It was none of their business.
"Like what?" Larry pressed. He looked at her suspiciously, knowing that it was totally out of character for her to buy anything at Bendel's. Besides, her allowance wouldn't cover it.
"Come on, Jenny. I'm dying to see it," Connie trilled as if it were a challenge.
"I'd rather not. I'm not sure that it fits."
"Well, try it on and we'll see," Connie pressed.
"No," Jenny said firmly.
"No harm in opening it," Larry said.
"I said no. Absolutely no."
She got up, walked around the table, and took hold of the box. Larry continued to hold one end of it, and for a moment a tug-of-war ensued.
"Oh, don't be a shit, Larry," Connie said. "It could be a surprise. You know, something that she bought for your eyes only." She winked. "Something sexy."
"Is it that, Jenny?" Larry asked. His lips were pressed together, and she knew he was holding back his anger.
"I don't want to show it," she said, forcing herself to remain calm. "Anyway, it's coffee time in the living room."
"Really, Larry," Vince said. "You should respect her wishes. If she doesn't want us to see it, that's her right."
"Damn straight," Connie said. "Stick to your guns." Jenny could detect their patronizing tones.
At that point Larry released his grip on the box and Jenny quickly took it to the bedroom and slid it under the bed, out of sight. She felt awful, as if she had betrayed Myrna, even though she hadn't. Nor would she, except under duress. The only glimmer of hope was that Larry might forget about it until tomorrow and by that time she would have brought it upstairs. Then she'd tell Larry that she had sent it back to Bendel's. It occurred to her that this was a real lie, but she dismissed it as necessary to keep her word to Myrna.
They moved into the living room, and she served them coffee in demitasse cups.
"Is it espresso?" Connie asked.
"Afraid it's good old American decaf."
Larry glared at her. His look said: I'll attend to you later.
She noted that after one sip they all put the cups aside. But even as the coffee grew cold, they continued to discuss the matter between them. Since they didn't include her in the conversation, she made no effort to decipher what they were saying. Her mind was more engaged with the matter of the package lying under the bed in their bedroom, hardly a hiding place. It was, she decided, too late for that.
After a while Vince and Connie stood up.
"We've got to go," Connie said. She turned toward Jenny. "It was a perfectly wonderful dinner, wasn't it, Vince?"
"You've got quite a little lady there," Vince said. "Connie can't boil water."
"But there are some things I do exceedingly well," Connie said, winking toward Jenny. It occurred to Jenny that most everything that Connie said to her was accompanied by a wink.
Larry shook hands with Vince and kissed Connie on the cheek as they edged toward the door.
"Don't forget," Vince said. "Early tomorrow morning at my place. There's lots of decisions to be made."
"I'll buy the bagels and make the coffee," Connie said.
"No. I'll make the coffee," Vince said. They all laughed.
Since she didn't seem to be invited to this last-minute tête-á-tête, not to mention not being invited to tomorrow's early-morning meeting, Jenny headed for the kitchen, where she began to scrape the dishes and load the dishwasher. The rush of water from the sink faucet drowned out any other sounds in the apartment.
She forced herself to concentrate on the process of scraping the dishes, loading them, and, after a while, washing the stemware, which she would not trust to the dishwasher. Such attention to detail crowded out any postmortems about the dinner. What did it matter? She knew that she would soon undergo a plethora of postmortems.
Looking at her watch, she noted that it was much too late to call her mother. She needed to do that, to touch those people who kept her, as they say, in the loop. There was another reason as well. She'd have to break the news that she couldn't be with the family on the Fourth of July. Larry had nixed it. Too crucial a time in their life, he had told her.
After picking up the phone, she hung it up again. It would be eleven in Indiana. Her parents were always asleep by ten. No need to upset them.
"Who are you calling at this hour?" Larry bellowed. He stood at the entrance to the kitchen, holding out a spectacular fur coat.
"I was thinking of calling my mother," Jenny said.
"And how would you explain"—he lifted the coat by the collar and shook it—"this?"
"You had no right to open that," Jenny cried.
"No right? It was addressed to my wife."
"That's right. To me."
"We are husband and wife. There are no secrets between husbands and wives." He was speaking slowly, articulating each syllable for emphasis.
"Oh, yes, husbands and wives. Only your rule is that only wives should inform their husbands, not vice versa."
"What the hell are you talking about, Jenny?" Larry asked.
"The new business. You've told me nothing and Connie knows all about it."
"I knew it. One meeting and you're already suspicious of her. The fact is that she's a lawyer, and because of that Vince clued her in."
"And me?"
"You're evading the issue, Jenny. Who gave you this goddamned coat? It probably cost a bundle."
She considered a number of answers, none of which would be satisfactory to him. Besides, they would be more lies.
"I can't say."
"Of course you can't," Larry fumed.
"It's not what you think," Jenny said. "You've got to trust me on this."
"Trust you?"
"You say that all the time. Isn't that the basis of all contracts, especially marriage contracts?"
"I used to think so," he snarled.
"Would you believe me if I told you it was delivered to me but isn't really mine?"
"Now I've heard everything."
"It's the truth."
"Some truth. What do you take me for? The message is coming through loud and clear. All the time my thinking I had married this sweet little thing from Indiana, my true mate, my goody-goody homemaker. Who sends a coat this expensive to a housewife, for chrissakes? Then to stand there and say it wasn't meant for you. Maybe you think I'm one of your Indiana deadheads, stupid enough to swallow that story. And here I was out there working my tail off for our future, and what were you doing? Come on, Jenny, who was the lucky fucker?"
She inspected his face, appalled by his suspicions, hoping he might be joking. He wasn't. Then, looking at the beautiful coat, she softened and forced herself to give him the benefit of the doubt. It could, indeed, seem like a tall story. But the point was that it was the true story, even by virtue of who was telling it. Just who she was in relation to him should be all he needed to believe her.
"Your imagination is running away with you, Larry," she said, determined to remain calm. It seemed to enrage him still more.
"I want to know who he is, Jenny," he fumed. "How could you, living under the roof I pay for, eating the food I pay for? I can't believe it. I guess you got bored with all that time on your hands." When he had first confronted her
, she had been carefully wiping the stemware. Turning her back on him, she returned to her task.
"I told you the truth," she said as if addressing the glass she was wiping. "It was only delivered to me, not meant for me. And you should know better than to accuse me of ... of that."
She felt a sudden yank at her right shoulder, which caused her to drop the glass she was working on. It fell to the floor and shattered.
"Waterford, Larry," she said, sighing.
"So what? What did you know about Waterford before I married you? Besides, I paid for it. Now I want you to tell me about this coat."
"I can't." Jenny turned to face him again. She felt her lips trembling. "And I don't want you to ask me. Can't you just trust me?"
"I've heard that before," Larry snickered. Without another word he took a box of safety matches from a shelf above the stove, took one out, and scraped it against the wall. The match burst into flame.
With his left hand he held up the coat. With his right he held the match. His objective was unmistakable as he brought the flame toward the coat.
"You wouldn't," Jenny cried.
"Doesn't matter to me. I didn't pay for it."
"It has nothing to do with you," Jenny pleaded.
He brought the match closer. She watched it, peering into the yellow flame, mesmerized for a moment. When it burned too close to his fingers, he shook it out, then scraped another one into flame.
"Who is it from?" Larry asked.
"I can't say. I promised. It wasn't for me." She felt a tightness in her chest that seemed to drown her words.
He brought the match closer. It was merely inches away from the fur.
"I think it's even better than mink. Sable. I think it's sable."
"Larry, please. I gave my word."
"Of course you did."
He brought the flame closer. Her nostrils quivered at the first faint aroma of singed fur. Reaching out, she slapped the hand that held the match.
"All right," she said.
"Well. Well. So who is the lucky fellow?"
"It's not a fellow," she whispered, watching his face. His lips were curled into a snarl, his eyes blazing and unforgiving. Obviously he expected the worst. "No, nothing like that." She wished she had it in her to be more aggressive in her own defense. But how could she have allowed him to burn the coat? "It belongs to Myrna Davis from upstairs. And I feel awful telling you about it because I promised I wouldn't."
