In fact, Cordelia felt that she could not appreciate anything anymore and that there was nothing to look forward to. It was a strange time. The boys were growing up, Morgan’s work was becoming more distracting, charity balls were less interesting: it seemed that life was winding down. She thought about how empty she felt as she distractedly played with her fork. She pushed all of her food to one side of the plate—she had eaten practically nothing at all—and looked down at the delicate rose pattern on the Tiffany china. It was her wedding china. She ran her finger along the gold rim. It had seemed so fancy and elegant when she had registered for it with her mother. Now it had become mere everyday dinner china, nothing special. Funny how things change. Suddenly—she didn’t know why—she recalled the words from a song that one of the boys had played over and over again when he was in prep school: “I have become comfortably numb.” That said it all.
Meanwhile, across the sixteen-room apartment, Morgan was anything but numb as he clutched the phone in his study. His blood pressure was boiling, and sweat was sliding down his forehead past his graying temples, settling in a pool in his glasses.
“Maria, Maria, just calm down,” he whispered into the phone. He glanced nervously through the crack of the door to make sure no one was eavesdropping.
“You want me to fucking calm down?” yelled Maria in her thick Mexican accent. She was calling from the Central Park South apartment that Morgan had recently sublet for her. “Don’t you tell me to calm down, mister. My water just broke and I’m here alone! YOU calm your own ass down.”
“Maria, what do you expect me to do?”
“I just called the car. It is coming in fifteen minutes to take me to New York Hospital. You get your fucking ass down there as soon as possible or I cut off your balls!”
“I can’t, Maria. It’s not a good time.”
“This baby is coming out of my vagina right now and she doesn’t care if it’s a good time. You get your fucking ass down there NOW!” screamed Maria, slamming down the phone.
Morgan was now turning pale, and his hand was aching from gripping the phone so tightly. Okay, deep breaths, he reminded himself. He walked down the long hall back into the dining room. Cordelia was staring at her china, a dazed look on her face.
“Everything okay, darling?” asked Morgan. He walked over to his seat and took a large swig from his tumbler of whiskey.
“Sure. Who was that?”
“It was work. Something’s come up—our deal with Japan, you know, they’re on a different time zone, they don’t get it—so I, uh, have to go to the office for a bit,” said Morgan, not looking his wife in the eye. He took another gulp of his drink.
“Okay.”
“Don’t wait up—it might be a late night. You know those Japanese. They work really hard,” added Morgan. “Plus, it’s tomorrow there, morning—”
“Okay.”
Morgan stared at his wife of twenty-eight years and felt an enormous rush of guilt.
“What are your plans for tomorrow?” he asked.
“I’m leaving early to go shopping with Jerome.”
“Fantastic!” said Morgan, with an overabundance of enthusiasm. “Buy yourself something special.”
“Okay.”
Morgan walked over to give his wife a kiss good-bye. “Oh, and it’s Wednesday! Your favorite show is on!”
“Law and Order,” said Cordelia, nodding.
“So you won’t miss me!” said Morgan, putting his hand on his wife’s shoulder before walking out of the room. On his way to the elevator, he glanced back at her from the hallway. She was still sitting at the table, languidly staring into space. She looked almost sedated.
The scene was much different at the hospital, where Morgan would have given his eyeteeth to have had Maria tranquilized, as piercing shrieks could be heard from the elevator banks. Every movie, every prime-time season finale, every Learning Channel birthing video, was Little League next to Maria’s over-the-top drama. Move over, Demi Moore and Jennifer Aniston: their birth scenes had nothing on this spawn expulsion. Maria Garcia was the new queen of scream.
“AAAAAAAAAAGH! This fucking thing is going to rip me in fucking half!” screamed Maria.
“Calm down,” scolded Morgan.
“AAAAAAH! Don’t tell me to calm down, you fucking asshole!” shouted Maria. She was clenching his hand so hard he thought it would fall off. Six hours of this torture, and still no baby, Morgan thought with misery. And why did he have to actually be in the room with her? Cordelia had allowed—insisted, even—that he sit in the waiting room and not see her or the babies until they had been demucused, bathed, and wrapped with a blue blankie. It was correct that way, thought Morgan. I’m not a hippie—I’m a businessman. I don’t need to see blood and shit being squeezed out of a woman who isn’t even my wife.
“FUCKING SON OF A BITCH!”
“Let’s discuss names, that should distract you. How about Juanita?”
“Aaaaaaaaagh!”
“Lupe?”
“Aaaaaaaaaagh!”
“It’s a lovely name. My aunt had a nurse named Lupe.”
“Fuck, no!”
“Concepción?”
“AAAAH! Don’t you give me those fucking names!”
“I thought you’d want names to reflect your heritage. Ones that go well with Garcia,” said Morgan, trying to remain calm.
“You mean that goes with Vance. Fuck if she doesn’t kill me first!”
What? Morgan was freaking out. And now the doctor’s hands disappeared deeper into Maria’s genital area. Morgan thought he was going to pass out right there.
“You’re doing great, Maria. Just one more push,” said the doctor.
“One more fucking push?”
The baby is going to be called Vance? Over my dead body, thought Morgan. He’d have to talk her into a Spanish name, one that would sound ridiculous with Vance. “How about Josefina?” he offered.
“I want a fancy name—Tiffany or Tristan or Schuyler!”
Suddenly there was a wail. “It’s a beautiful baby girl!” boomed the doctor, holding up the blood-drenched child.
Maria collapsed back in her bed. “Schuyler. Schuyler Vance,” she announced.
Morgan fainted.
chapter 3
Several floors below the Vances’ apartment, another phone rang during another dinner. Mr. Guffey, the Korns’ butler, raised his eyebrows at the kitchen staff. The cook, the maid, and the housekeeper all knew what he was thinking. What ghastly human would call at this hour? Doesn’t everyone know that civilized people eat at eight? But what they knew best of all was that Mr. Guffey was furious to be interrupted during his own dinner, so before he threw down his napkin and huffed to the phone, Juanita the maid leapt to answer it. Minutes later, Juanita entered the dining room.
“What is it, Juanita?” asked Arthur.
“I’m sorry, Meeses Korn: they say it urgent,” said Juanita sheepishly. She was not in the mood to endure her boss’s reproaches, but the man on the phone had been insistent.
Melanie sighed deeply and scraped back her chair. “All right,” she said. She knew that if Mr. Guffey had allowed Juanita to interrupt her, it must be serious. Mr. Guffey was very strict about those sorts of things, and no one would dare risk his ire. Even Melanie, despite the fact that she was his employer.
Melanie walked down the foyer to the closest phone, which was perched on a drop-leaf table in the den.
“Hello?”
“Melanie Sartomsky?”
“Yes . . .” sputtered Melanie, surprised. She’d dropped her maiden names years ago, even before she was married. “It’s Melanie Korn, now.”
“Are you Cal Sartomsky’s daughter?”
Was this a prank? Was someone having a goof on her? “Maybe . . .” she said tentatively.
“Yes or no?” the gruff voice on the other end of the phone demanded.
“Yes,” she said reluctantly. It wasn’t her fault she was his daughter. He’d banged her m
other thirty-five years ago, then would come back periodically for money to blow at the bar or casino. When a four-year-old Melanie had her arms outstretched for a hug, yelling, “Daddy!” he walked right by her to check what was in the fridge.
“Well, then, Melanie Sartomsky, I regret to inform you that your father, Cal Sartomsky, passed away last evening in his cell at Faudon State Prison. We send you and your family our deepest condolences at this difficult time. We do offer plots on the grounds free of charge, or you may send someone to pick up the body and make your own arrangements.”
Melanie was in shock. Her father . . . dead. It had to happen, she hadn’t spoken to him in years, and yet she felt a tsunami of sadness wash over her. She gulped down the rising lump in her throat to try to answer.
“M-m-my husband is in the life transition business,” she stuttered. “We’ll take care of it. We have our own caskets . . .” was all Melanie could think to utter before putting down the receiver and returning to the dining room.
“What is it?” asked Arthur, alarmed at his wife’s face.
Melanie resumed her seat, put her napkin on her lap, and took a sip of water.
“My father died,” she said finally.
“Oh, honey,” Arthur said, reaching over and patting her head softly. “I’m so sorry. I’ll take care of everything.”
She looked at him with her wide blue eyes. She had a beautiful face, and though Botox had been able to conceal most of her expressions, her eyes reflected her grief. Not over his death, but over his life—which had never included her.
“We’ll get him the nicest coffin, baby, top of the line: the DX5000, with the beautiful mahogany wood and the imported Chinese silk lining. We’ll get the one with the CD player inside . . .” Arthur trailed off as Melanie remained motionless.
“Sounds good,” she said vaguely.
Arthur watched his gorgeous blond wife as she folded and refolded her napkin on her lap. She was always so strong and assertive, and for the first time in a long while, she seemed confused. He waited before he spoke again, wanting to feel her out. Minutes passed, and he dared not eat.
“I’m okay, sweetie. Seriously, I’m fine,” she said, wiping one errant tear.
Arthur leaned over and kissed her. Boy, was his wife a winner: so strong, so self-assured. This was a woman who was going places. He’d known that the second he met her.
“Are you sure? You’re probably in shock.”
“No, no,” insisted Melanie, wiping a hair off her forehead. “I am no longer Melanie Sartomsky. I can’t cry over the past; it’s behind me. I am Mrs. Arthur Korn of Park Avenue. Next case,” she said, cutting into her steak. And when Melanie said “next case,” it always meant that the topic was done and never to be discussed again.
One thing you could say about Melanie was that she was resilient. And she had to be: her climb to Park Avenue had not been easy. She was born in a triple-wide motor home on the outskirts of Cashmere, Washington (the heart of apple country), but spent most of her teenage years near Tallahassee, Florida, after her mother’s death in a drunk-driving accident when she was fourteen. It was the classic white trash–ascent story that makes America what it is. Mom dead, dad boozed up and drifting in and out of work, little snot-nosed siblings to look after. And like Shania Twain, nothing was going to hold her back. Even with her mullet and feathered bangs, acid-washed jeans, and varsity cheerleading jacket, it was obvious from the start that this gangly teen who developed early was destined for greener pastures. Her mom used to say, “Don’t marry for money. But it don’t hurt to hang around where it’s at.” Melanie had always been headstrong and determined, and her ambition to get out of her town fueled her sojourn into the world, and she never looked back. Maybe money didn’t buy happiness. But it helped.
After stints as a hotel concierge at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas, a hostess in Palm Springs, and a personal assistant to the wife of the producer of Hollywood Squares, Melanie made what proved to be the most prudent decision of her life. She became a flight attendant. She excelled at her job and was lucky enough to work her way into serving United Airlines’ first-class passengers. And after a bumpy flight from Miami one cold winter Sunday two years ago, the friendly skies got even friendlier when she met multimillionaire Arthur Korn, who was on his way to visit his eighty-two-year-old mother, whom he had recently installed in a beachfront condo with full-time help.
“Pretzels or peanuts?” Melanie asked in a seductive whisper. Arthur lowered his Wall Street Journal and came face first to Melanie’s ample chest, which was bursting out of her blue uniform.
“Both,” said Arthur, entranced by her breasts, without even thinking. Then he flushed, turned a deep crimson, and quickly tried to recover. Melanie smiled. There was something about this middle-aged man with a protruding paunch that seemed, well . . . nice. He also seemed a bit wounded in the same way she was, and the more they spent time together, the more they both seemed to heal. Arthur extended his trip first by days, then by months, and when Melanie was on layovers they danced the night away in Miami’s nightclubs and dined at quirky restaurants off the beaten path. It was a whirlwind courtship.
And ultimately, although Arthur may have saved Melanie from removing foil from chipped beef, she saved him right back. When they met, he was extremely vulnerable as a result of his recent divorce. He had been married to Diandra Chrysler, the New York socialite, whom he’d met when both were vacationing at Canyon Ranch (she was there celebrating her second divorce—he should have seen the warning flags then). And although Arthur was born and raised in New York City, he had spent most of his life living in the outer boroughs—Queens and Brooklyn to be exact—so he was not really considered a native son by the current company he kept. It had been only through Diandra that he was able to gain entrée into this discriminating and prestigious world. She was a complete insider and had set them up in the glamorous life, full of Page Six parties and yachting jaunts with ambiguously gay fashion designers. When it was all over, after four short years, he was stripped of fifty million dollars, all of their antique furniture, and worst of all, his self-esteem.
Arthur had been very depressed, planning on hiding out at his mother’s until the New York press was done with its field day with his personal life. He was so morose that everything seemed opaque, as if under water. That is, until Melanie came along. When she flew into his life it didn’t matter that she was distributing honey-roasted peanuts at a cruising altitude of thirty thousand feet; it was if he had been reborn. She was funny, exciting, tenacious, and refreshing—someone who spoke frankly and honestly. And it all truly happened like a fairy tale. Just two months after their airborne meeting, Arthur and Melanie wed in Florida.
When Arthur carried Melanie over the threshold of his Park Avenue pad, she was slack-jawed. She knew Arthur had money, but she was completely in the dark about the depth and breadth of it. Their entire courtship had been a magical bubble in the sultry Florida heat, and arriving on the Upper East Side made Melanie feel as if a storm cloud had burst over her head. When she realized what she had married into, regardless of her enormous love for her Arty, she felt . . . nauseous. Her youth and beauty immediately inspired the wrath of the ladies who lunch, and Melanie knew she was in over her head. She wanted to grab Arthur and run for the hills, but he seemed happy in this world.
So Melanie settled in as the dutiful wife and tried to make her husband proud. It was a feat as daunting as Oprah’s weight battle. Every time she seemed to make progress, she was thrust back into her outsider place. Arthur was always supportive, but there was one nagging fact of his life that haunted her: Diandra. Never had she heard a name uttered with more reverence than the first Mrs. Korn’s. Everyone was always ready to hand out accolades to this mystery lady, who was incredibly present for someone who didn’t even live in New York. She had become a thorn in Melanie’s side. Worst of all, Arthur refused to discuss her, so great was his grief over their rumored catastrophic breakup.
chapter 4
“To die for.”
“Tell that to the Himalayan mountain elks!”
In a kaleidoscope of vibrant colors—raspberries, fevered pinks, lemons, turquoise, mustards, scarlets, and lilacs—throngs of couture-clad ladies were nibbling tea sandwiches and throwing their heads back in orgasmic fits of shopper’s delight.
It was the first semiclandestine shahtoosh party of the season, held in a glittering, cathedral-ceilinged suite at the Pierre Hotel. The upper ranks of Manhattan’s wealthy Roman numeral set had gathered at this Tupperware party–like fete to buy highly coveted—and, incidentally, illegal—shawls. Shahtooshes are spun from a much softer form of cashmere, taken from the neck of what turned out to be an endangered species, not that anyone gave a shit. In the gilded suite, the plight of the Asian deer that had sacrificed themselves for fashion happily seemed light-years away to the platinum card–toting matrons whose abodes were candied penthouses west of Lexington. The $3,000 price tags were of no more concern to the women shopping that day than the dwindling number of deer. If anything, the contraband wraps had more appeal because of the difficulty procuring them, and the result was a champagne-kissed buzz of naughty flirting with the law.
Wendy Marshall’s joined-at-the-hip cohort, Joan Coddington, had yet to arrive, and Wendy was increasingly concerned. Not because their standing lunch reservation at La Goulue on Madison was in twenty minutes—James the maître d’ simply did not like to be kept waiting no matter who you were—but because the best hues were being snapped up by the multitudes of manicured hands.
The Right Address Page 2
