Widow's Row

by Lala Corriere

  Pushing himself off the chair, Dad retrieved his coffee cup and nodded toward two others for Adam and me to help ourselves. By the way he shuffled the cup around, I was certain he’d topped his coffee off with a jigger or two of Jack Daniel’s, a recent habit. Or maybe an old one and I just never knew about it.

  To say he was a jovial host would be an exaggeration, but he was congenial, obviously pleased to see Adam and me back together. Adam was the one to insist we visit my father before his return to Washington.

  “Are we back on for an October...?” Dad’s voice got lost in a bleak sea of frustration. His words came out in slow syllables. Sometimes they got lost altogether somewhere in the confines of his brain, long before they could reach his tongue.

  “...Wedding, Pops,” Adam finished his sentence.

  Dad lit a cigar. At nine in the morning, I grew nauseated by the smell.

  “Not really,” I said. “There’s no need to rush. The press is having a field day playing Adam as the bachelor millionaire with a White House future. Might even hurt his votes if I come back on the scene too early.”

  Dad didn’t look amused. Adam was taking a call.

  “Hell. He might be the guy to reinvent reality TV,” I said.

  “We’re back on for October third,” Adam confirmed, shoving his phone back in his pocket. He fingered the lining of his suede blazer, pulling out an envelope and slipping it into my father’s lap.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Your father is no dummy. He’s got me paying the dowry,” Adam laughed.

  “No, really. What is it?”

  My father let out grave words as he slipped the envelope under his keyboard. “It’s none of your concern.”

  The two of them set out in a more or less private discussion. They argued the potential victories in the new baseball season, agreeing on Adam’s future as the shoe-in senator, and also agreeing that the errant daughter of James Lemay, Breecie Lemay, had her life back on track, under their guidance.

  I did admire Adam’s patience as he waited for my father’s words to arrive. I couldn’t sit still. I walked around the backyard. Made more trips to the bathroom than I needed.

  Two hours later we finally headed for the front door. My dad grabbed his cane to see us to the door.

  “I forgot my purse,” I said, walking back into the kitchen.

  Grabbing the straps of my bag with one hand, I reached under dad’s keyboard with the other.

  Nothing. The envelope had been moved.

  I almost said something to Adam as I climbed into the passenger seat of his rental car but then I noticed Dad’s neighbor, Naomi. She saw us and scurried in the opposite direction.

  “It’s too hot for March. I only brought these damn cashmere sweaters,” Adam complained. He shoved the sleeves up higher on his arms as he turned on the ignition.

  I was still watching Naomi. Something didn’t add up about the woman. She’d lived next door to Dad for years, and she was so sweet to me when we first met. And Kate was certain the woman could be helpful in finding Erin McGinnis.

  Naomi’s dinged-up Toyota sat in her driveway. Its oil leak stains blazed random trails across the concrete toward the street. The car wasn’t old enough to be a collectible. Just right to be an everyday junker.

  As she walked further away, hunched over, all I could see was the ill-fitting coat hanging on her small frame.

  Chinchilla. Naomi wore a chinchilla fur coat. My dad was giving Erin a chinchilla coat. Ari and his chinchillas. A coincidence? His business venture with Baird was too new. But was it new to George Baird? Was Baird the connection?

  I’d seen a similar coat at a charity event at Saks Jandel in Chevy Chase, Washington. Valued at over twenty-five thousand. I figured Naomi’s Toyota was worth about twenty-five hundred to a sucker.

  My legal background continued to eat away at the scene. Something Adam had just said. The weather, being so warm.

  Why the hell was Naomi Gaines wearing the costly fur on a warm spring morning? What was it about this town and chinchillas?

  I was missing something.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Aspen’s Allure

  Adam left for Washington the next morning with strict instructions for me to contact a wedding planner. Instead, for the first time in four days I felt a free flow of creative juices. I plopped down at my computer and finished outlining my non-fiction manuscript, ‘Stained Sheets and Legal Loopholes.’ I would find a wedding planner in the next few days. Plenty of time. I was more excited about contacting a literary agent.

  With my outline complete and a query letter ready to fire off, I called Kate to celebrate. Maybe a quick bite to eat and a movie out, I suggested.

  “Can’t. I have myself a hot date,” Kate said.

  “Someone new?”

  “There’s never someone new in Trinidad. George Baird is back in town for a few days, between Denver and something he has going on down in Mexico.”

  I remembered the night I found Kate passed out in her parlor, after just one evening with Baird. He was new then. “Remember what happened the last time you went out with him,” I said. My scolding didn’t go unnoticed.

  “Who the fuck named you my mother?”

  “Look, I just know you had a...”

  “...A what? A good time for a change? Just because your fancy fiancé’s back doesn’t give you the right to bust my balls over who I see and what I do.”

  I’d never heard her snap at anyone. If something upset Kate Vander Ark, she’d simply toss her head of cropped blonde locks to one side and cackle the crap out of her system.

  “You know,” she seethed, “you’re what gives outsiders a bad name. You come waltzing into town, and the first thing I know some Connie Sellecca look alike who also happens to be a big-city lawyer, commands one of my rooms. I didn’t even want to be there to check you in. I knew before I met you that I didn’t need your city-bull. And now you decide you’re my friend, and all you do is get in my face and expect me to celebrate your next success.”

  I heard her suck on a cigarette.

  I closed my eyes, confused. I’m just terrific at this girlfriend thing. I’d have better luck if she were a child molester I was defending. “Kate, I’m sorry. All I meant to do was ask you to a movie.” I took a risk. “Where’s all the attitude coming from?”

  The phone grew silent except for another slow draw on the cigarette. The anger abated. Kate’s voice became fragile and withdrawn. “Timing. It’s just bad timing. My daughter’s birthday is this weekend.”

  I walked down the entry hall to retrieve my mail when I saw Rudy. His small frame sat hunched over on the front porch, his hands clutched his knees to his chest and a heavy head sank somewhere deep between them. Except for my distinct angle, his oversized straw hat might have obscured the entire scene.

  “What is it, Rudy?”

  His head jerked upward and he wavered to his feet, as if embarrassed I’d caught him loafing around at the main house. Rudy was anything but lazy. “No, Senorita. Nothing. Non niente ma il guasto.” Nothing but trouble.

  “We’re friends. You’ve been good to me. Tell me what’s wrong and maybe I can help,” I said.

  “I worry about my bulls, Senorita Lemay.” He lifted the hat and wiped his arm across the heavy layer of beaded sweat collecting against his eyebrows. “The doctor... the vet,” he corrected himself, “is here almost every day. Ari says is nothing. But it has to be something bad. Why every day, this vet?”

  Back at my apartment, I pulled out the business card and dialed the wedding planner’s number. The assistant promptly informed me that Mrs. French was away for an extended weekend, choreographing a wedding in Barbados, but yes, as fiancé of Mr. Chancellor, I would receive extra special care. They were expecting my call.

  So that’s what it comes down to. Weddings weren’t as much sacred rites of passage and the spiritual uniting of two souls, as they were the works of planned choreographers. Showmanship for the Osca
rs of Nuptials.

  I called Kate. “Pack your bags,” I said.

  “I’m not ready to fish a man out of that Washington pool of yours, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said.

  “And I’m not going to Washington. We’re going to Aspen.”

  “We are?”

  “I have a friend from Madrid who’s up for an award in an international competition. The Aspen Shortfest.”

  “Shortfest?”

  “It’s an annual film festival featuring short works. I guess he didn’t know anyone to invite as his guests when he found out I was in Colorado. We have private reception passes, all the VIP stuff. Rudy already told me he and Rosa would fill in while you’re away, so you have no excuse.”

  “Aspen?”

  “Yes. I’ve never been. I need someone to show me around.”

  “Like I’ve been there,” Kate murmured. It was the same as a ‘yes’.

  I didn’t dare tell Kate what our last minute round-trip fares cost, from Pueblo, Colorado to Aspen. She would have boxed up the tickets and shipped them off to Bosnia, hoping they could cash them in for a year’s worth of food and supplies.

  We registered at the St. Regis Hotel, where I began to think I had seriously misjudged Kate. She adapted to the glamour rather like peanut butter to a celery stick. A unique combination of flavors, and with a high caliber of adherence.

  My Spaniard friend greeted us for the filmmakers’ reception at the Festival Lounge. Rico, agreeable to my bringing a guest, pecked me on the cheek. Seconds later he kissed Kate’s hand, then handed her our tickets to his program at the Wheeler Opera House.

  “They say it is mine, my angel,” Rico said to me, still unwilling to take his eyes off Kate. “I think I will win this Ellen Award. And now, I’m so glad I have someone to share this moment with.”

  I smiled. Rico’s twin brother and I attended law school together. We had little in common except that I was a twin, too. Then he introduced me to his brother, and my entire Earth moved. I fell in love with Rico before I knew for sure how to spell his name. It was with Rico that I went against my daddy’s words and had my first sexual experience.

  “I have dinner reservations for us, then a private party. All of us, of course,” he said.

  After surviving Rico’s five-course gourmet degustation, Kate and I followed his BMW up through the winding roads leading toward the palatial residence in Starwood.

  “This is un-fucking real,” Kate laughed after we settled onto a sofa in the mountain mansion. She’d left her pack of cigarettes on the coffee table when she darted off to the powder room, then returned to find them flared out in a perfect wedge. Matches were similarly turned out.

  “It’s just a game of displaying copious amounts of money, Kate,” I said. I’d been to one too many political parties.

  “You bring me here, and then you have the audacity to shut me down, like I don’t know how the fuck to handle myself?” She sucked on a fresh cigarette, lit by a nearby servant decked out in a white tuxedo. “Maybe it’s you that can’t handle this, big city girl.” She laughed and pulled at my arm, changing her mood faster than I could change lip color. “C’mon. Let’s go meet some of the beautiful people.”

  We engaged in the triviality of cocktail party conversation, mostly not-so illustrious filmmakers telling us how important they were, and how their significant work was going to elevate mankind to a higher level. Lines of cocaine flowed more freely than the Cristal champagne, but not as much as the words ‘I’ll have my people call your people’ circumnavigated the air.

  “You ready to go?” I asked Kate.

  “You kidding? I’m just getting warmed up.” She reached for another glass of champagne from the passing tray making its way through the egos in the room.

  “I’ve about had enough of this charade.”

  “One of the hottest parties in Aspen, and we’re here, and you want to split?”

  “I’m just saying this party and all the people here are an illusion. It’s like some adult Disneyland. Fun for a while, but it’s not real. They’re all trying to impress one another, with no goal because they have no goals. They do it just for the hell of it.”

  “Just for the hell of it, Breeze, tell me what your life as a princess is going to be like? Tell me that this isn’t better than sitting around with your dad and getting threatening notes from someone that wants your snippety butt out of Trinidad?”

  “I know I...”

  “...And while you’re at it, tell, me, just for the hell of it, tell me that it’s okay if I sleep with Rico tonight. You are betrothed, and he’s not yours, right? Never been?”

  My eyes rolled to the ceiling in anticipation of the lie that was going to come out of my mouth. This time I was the lie, not that I ever wanted to start up with Rico again. “He’s all yours,” I said.

  “Good. I’ll get a ride back with Rico.”

  I walked out under the porte-cochere to the valet. Several guests had lined up ahead of me, with many more still arriving. Looking back inside beyond the foyer, I’d lost sight of Kate, but Rico was easy to spot in his red silk shirt. Fluid bare arms pawed at his back. I couldn’t tell where the red shirt ended and the red nail polish began until I steadied myself against a handrail where I could lean over to get a better look.

  Rico was making out hot and heavy with a young girl. A very young girl.

  “Your ticket, Ma’am?” the valet asked.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” I said, slipping back into the crowded entryway to find Kate and take her with me.

  I was on the stairs that separated the foyer from the main room, maneuvering my way through the hordes of glamorous people and thick expensive perfumes, when I saw Kate. She was moving toward her evening prey just as Rico’s hand found its way up the young girl’s sweater. Unfortunately for Kate, she couldn’t really see it until she was right up beside them.

  Rico made the introductions just as I reached to grab Kate’s arm. “M.C., I’d like you to meet Kate. And Kate, this is M.C., my new friend.”

  I remembered it all too well. I was in love. Young. Naïve. And having shared the cherished cherry with Rico. My cherry. Only later did I come to find out Rico loved his women two at a time.

  “Kate. Honey. We need to go back to the hotel. Come with me now,” I pleaded.

  Kate swept her eyes across the girl sucking on a Corona, a cigarette, and Rico’s full lips. I stared at her, too. The girl was even younger than I first thought. Body piercing, tattoos, and Goth makeup didn’t disguise the fact she was probably still in high school.

  Kate refused to go back to the hotel with me.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Mistaken Identity

  The next morning I didn’t ask Kate what time she returned to our hotel room, what she had been doing, and with whom. I introduced her to Rico, and she was a grown woman doing as she pleased. It was none of my business. I was engaged to be married to a future senator, and suddenly nothing else mattered. I would call the wedding planner as soon as we returned to Trinidad. I’d move on toward my future. My destiny.

  Kate and I walked to the historic eatery in Aspen, famous for their decades of visits from celebrity guests. The strained silence allowed us to inhale the breakfast of champions. Our tower of nourishment: a carbohydrate womb of sourdough muffins, the all-essential nitrate layer of Canadian bacon, poached eggs floating on top, and all of it drizzled with buttery rich hollandaise sauce. For the vegetarian, the eggs were topped off with a single sliced black olive.

  Kate took a last bite of the Eggs Benedict, pushed her plate aside, then pulled out the two tickets to Rico’s film showing. She flicked them a couple of times, then held them in front of her for me to see and ripped them in half.

  I laughed, grabbing a napkin to wipe off the sauce now dribbling down my chin. “Not in the mood for a movie?”

  “You don’t even want to know the gory details, honey.”

  I didn’t. Instead, we paid our bill and dizzied our wa
y through one more shopping spree on the cobblestone streets. Just for kicks, I dragged Kate by her purse strap and into one of the larger fur stores on Hyman Avenue.

  I watched as the salesman sized up everything but our pocketbooks. I read his thoughts. Riffraff tourists, or do they have real money? Maybe old family. Sometimes they’re more rough around the edges, but with pockets full of serious money. The stuffy salesman with dun-colored hair and a similarly colored personality would have made a fine lawyer when it came to selecting a jury.