The Right Address

by Carrie Karasyov

  “Besides, that Ginny is too flashy,” said Joan, attempting to whisper but incapable. “She also wouldn’t be attractive if she didn’t have blond hair. That face only a mother could love.”

  At that moment, Wendy watched Joan watch Ginny stand up and prance across the restaurant to the restroom.

  “Not at all pretty,” said Joan confidently.

  Several minutes later, neither Tom nor Ginny had returned from downstairs. Joan was in the throes of her favorite topic: Melanie Korn. It had become almost a parlor game for her to conjecture where Melanie was spending her expulsion from society.

  “I’ve heard lots of things, lots of things. But what I can tell you both is that with this level of ostracism, there’s just no recovery. None whatsoever. She’s over, ruined.” Joan was about to continue, but she noticed Tom and Ginny walking up the stairs, laughing and appearing as if they were enjoying a secret joke. They gave each other a sideways glance and then both sat down at their tables.

  Wendy shifted uncomfortably. This was embarrassing! This guy wasn’t even that attractive. He was just loaded and single. Pathetic. She hated having to compete with people half her age.

  “Ran into some friends downstairs,” said Tom apologetically.

  “Really? ’Cause we thought you fell in! We were about to send for the Coast Guard to fish you out,” said Joan, angry on behalf of her friend.

  Tom gave a half smile. “So, Phillip, tell me what’s going on in the Scottish Historical Society these days.”

  And that was it. Once someone got Phillip on that, his favorite topic, the rest of the night was over. Joan kept interjecting what she thought were subtle barbs at Tom, such as “Oh, now you’ve got money, so you’re trying to get into New York society” and even the desperate “You Connecticut folk are so provincial,” but they only fell flat and made her seem bitchy and drunk. And anyway, every time Joan said anything, Phillip just talked over her in his loud, nasal voice. For someone so completely taciturn in most aspects of social interaction, the man was positively loquacious on the topic of his society.

  Wendy, meanwhile, couldn’t wait until the dinner was over. She was completely mortified, but more than that, profoundly sad. Was this it? She would end up alone, always tagging along with Joan and Phillip to some dinner or interminable event. It would be better to be like Joan—in a loveless marriage but at least with a companion—than to be a single middle-aged woman in New York. That was for sure.

  chapter 44

  Cordelia, for all her usual sedated calm, was in a state of sheer mania. There was a looming task at hand, a project in which it was time to get knee deep. She would have to roll up her cashmere sleeves, take a deep breath, and follow careful procedure. When the phone rang, she answered with a nerves-charged “Hello?” and dismissed the caller, a lunch pal from the Colony Club, with great haste.

  “I’m so sorry, Candace,” she said, looking at her watch. “I am simply crazed today; it’s my son John’s birthday and I have to bake a cake.” Yes, unlike many Park Avenue matrons whose assistants put in a call to Fauchon to have a gleaming personalized birthday cake sent right over, Mrs. Vance was determined to do it herself. She was not like those cold, high-maintenance moms who took no care in their family members’ special day—she was hands on, and she would bake all her love into the confection.

  She walked into the kitchen, nodding to her staff, who were busy cleaning, chopping vegetables for the evening’s supper, and assisting the Poland Spring man with his new delivery of water.

  After signing for the new shipment, Madge came over and guided Cordelia into the pantry. There, laid out with such perfection that one would think cameras from the Food Network were soon to swoop in, were all the ingredients in their measuring cups and spoons, next to a shiny, big red mixing bowl. Cordelia surveyed the immaculate vessels and looked at all the different textures—flour, oil, chocolate: they were so beautiful in their simplicity. She looked nervously to Madge, who nodded, and Cord slowly reached for the first glass cup and dumped it into the bowl. Relieved, she smiled, looking at Madge for a thumbs up. She kept going, daintily dumping each of the ingredients from container to bowl. Madge then transferred the contents into the mixer, and when the batter was finished, Cordelia held the bowl as Madge poured it into the cake pan.

  Cordelia was hypnotized by the ribbons of chocolatey mixture that fell cascading into the pan. She felt so whole, so back to the olden days when time was spent by the hearth and home.

  “I love cooking,” she said.

  Downstairs, Tom and Eddie were in a similar state of calm, as foot traffic was slow due to the threatening charcoal clouds overhead.

  “God forbid these people get their fuckin’ hair wet,” said Tom. “It’s like they think it’s acid falling from the sky!”

  “Tell me about it,” replied Eddie. “Especially Miss Weston; I don’t think I’ve ever seen her go out if it’s not crystal blue skies out there.”

  “I wonder what’s going down with Mrs. Korn. You think she’s still cooped up in there?”

  “Naw. After she hid out in the Hamptons, she came back. Luca said she’s even been going out now.”

  “Damn, she still is a foxy bitch, though. Maybe since she was so disgraced with all her fancy people she wouldn’t mind a shag from the old porter, huh?”

  Tom laughed as Eddie punched him teasingly.

  “Dream on, buddy,” he said, kidding, slash not. “Dream on.”

  chapter 45

  Joan and Wendy were walking on East Eighty-sixth Street, sidestepping street fashion vendors, hot dog hockers, and a clogged strip of pavement coursing with thousands of weary worker bees and boom box–toting, rowdy “yutes.”

  “Ugh, I’m allergic to Eighty-sixth Street. East of Lex, you might as well be south of the border,” said Wendy, fanning herself as if to make room between her and the unseemly pedestrians in oversize parkas and flashy gold jewelry.

  “I know—second to Canal, it’s the most hellish street on the island,” added Joan as she was shoved out of the way by a pack of young Hispanic teens.

  The two had been on East Eighty-fifth Street and York in a quiet shop near the mayor’s residence at Gracie Mansion. It was out of the way, yes, but the old Italian proprietor sold the best mantels in the city, and Wendy was looking for a new decorative marble piece for her living room. Blocks later, after much huffing and puffing and bitching about their less-than-pristine company on the sidewalk (“Not to mention all these grungy junk shops!” said Joan), Wendy stopped and grabbed her pal’s fur-covered arm.

  “Oh! look . . .” Wendy was gazing across the street.

  There, as Joan followed the point of Wendy’s gloved finger across the street, was the most famous recluse of recent weeks, Melanie Korn. In sunglasses and a long, trenchlike camel coat, Mr. Crispin’s human voodoo doll was coming toward them.

  “Hi, Joan. Hi, Wendy,” said Melanie calmly.

  They were silent for a moment. Joan had no idea what to say. Wendy paused to follow Joan’s lead.

  “Mel! What are you doing here on Eighty-sixth Street?” asked Joan.

  “Oh, errands and stuff. How are you guys?”

  “Oh, fine,” said Joan tentatively. “How about you?”

  Melanie knew they were tiptoeing around the elephant that was the profile, and she didn’t care. Bring it on, she thought. “Well, since the article I’ve been holing up a little. You know on the ‘D.L.,’ as the kids are saying . . .”

  “What?” asked Joan.

  “The down low,” explained Wendy. “Ghetto speak.”

  “Oh.”

  “Well, nice to see you two,” said Melanie politely, with a new, serene, “I don’t give a shit” confidence that she never had before. Her openness about the article’s aftermath disarmed her two biggest critics and piqued their interest even more.

  “Where are you off to?” asked Wendy, thirsting for more, for amusement and curiosity’s sake. “Would you like to join us for lunch? We were just
going to have a bite at Demarchelier . . .”

  “Oh, please do join us,” added Joan courteously.

  Melanie paused. Why were these two being nice to her? Was it a trick? Should she bolt? She was hungry, though. What the hell.

  “Well, okay. I am starvatious,” said Melanie.

  “Great!”

  “Fabulous!”

  The unlikely trio walked another two blocks west to the famed Parisian bistro. Plates of steamed artichokes and moules marinières floated by on the lifted hands of aproned French waiters, as Wendy’s mouth watered when a platter of pomme frites sailed by and landed on the adjacent table.

  “Ooooh, look at those fries!” she said, her hand on her chest. “I’d better not.”

  “Why not?” said Melanie. “Life’s short.” She summoned the waiter, who took their order for three salades Niçoise and an order of french fries.

  “So,” ventured Wendy, “you said you were ‘holed up’?”

  “Oh, yeah. I’ve been, you know, in recovery. Don’t worry, I’m not popping pills Melanie Griffith–style. It wasn’t a meltdown or anything, but I was, well, dragged through the mud a little and now I’m all cleaned up.”

  “Wow, you’re taking this all so well,” said Joan, impressed.

  Melanie knew she was playing the trauma way down, but despite her not caring as much anymore, she still had her guard up. These two may have been all smiles, but they were still vultures stuffed into Givenchy suits.

  “Oh, you know. As I said, life’s just too short to worry about all that nonsense. As Arthur says, we’ll all be dead in forty years, so what does it matter anyway, right?” She laughed casually as she sipped her glass of chardonnay.

  “You’re amazing!” said Wendy. She knew if she was decimated in print like that she’d be in shatters, having to be spatulaed up off the floor. And that caricature? Get the noose ready.

  “No, not amazing. I just listened to my husband,” said Melanie. “He said, ‘Honey, you’ve gotta have a little more Fuck You in you,’ so I took a little of his these last few weeks. It’s all just meaningless social stuff, you know. So much matters more.”

  Joan and Wendy were thrilled that they had asked their former archenemy to join them. When the salads were through, Melanie left some cash (enough for everyone’s lunch) and said she had to dart off to a doctor’s appointment. Joan and Wendy, who were staying for dessert (“Oooh, that tarte tatin looks so good I can’t help myself!” cried Wendy), watched Melanie walk out. As soon as she turned and was out of sight, they rolled up their sleeves and launched. But this time, it was with a newfound . . . almost . . . respect. Not respect, exactly, but a loathing dulled by the new humility of their former punching bag.

  “Metamorphosis,” pronounced Wendy. “Sheer transformation.”

  “Forget Jeff Goldblum in The Fly.”

  “Did you see how calm she was? It was like a new human. She always used to try so fucking hard. She didn’t name-drop once—did you notice?”

  “Or money-drop.”

  “Exactly! It was like this whole debacle brought her back down to earth. Maybe this was what she really needed, a little shake.”

  “A smack in the face,” added Joan.

  “Yes! It’s like she was drunk on all this new money and lavishness and drugged on vanity and clothes and jewelry, and this whole episode just sobered her right the hell up.”

  “True. True.”

  The pair ate dessert and stopped talking for a moment. Wendy thought about how much she had loved to loathe Melanie Korn. And today, that big brassy rottweiler was a perfectly friendly puppy. Now that Melanie wouldn’t be their hate magnet, who would be? And if she wasn’t scandalized anymore by the article, could they still be? Something new needed to go down.

  chapter 46

  “Adorable! Really great structure, and you can tell this one will age well,” said Jerome, flipping through the look-book. He looked at his pal Cord for thoughts.

  “Beautiful,” she answered. She was sincere but in a daze.

  The woman sitting across from Jerome and Cordelia stared in astonishment. She was speechless.

  “Oh! Now what a unique look. I haven’t seen that before,” added Jerome, on to a new page. “Wow, this is really going to be difficult to decide.”

  “Um, I think you really have to be sure,” said the woman.

  “Oh, I know. It’s not something to be taken lightly,” said Jerome.

  “Right . . .”

  “Should we go with white or brown?” Jerome asked.

  “I can’t really answer that for you.”

  “What do you think, Cord?”

  “I’m not quite sure.”

  “I know, I know. I mean, white is more practical, of course,” Jerome thought aloud. “More natural. But then brown is tempting, different. I have serious inclinations toward brown, but am I too radical? Let’s face it, white is more appropriate for your country club. They’re not very modern.”

  “I don’t think that should really be the deciding factor,” the woman said.

  Jerome continued his flipping through the book as Cordelia looked on dreamily. “Ooooh, I think we have a winner!” he said at last, showing Cordelia his find. “This one is so cute, perfection!” he said, pointing to a picture. “What do you think?”

  “Could work,” said Cordelia, looking on.

  “I think this might not be a good idea,” said the woman, snatching back the book. “You should not rush into this! This is very serious.” What were this people thinking? These were not shoes. These were living, breathing human beings!

  “We here at the Spence-Chapin adoption center are committed to finding the best families possible for our children, and we will not allow one of our babies to enter into a home based on a bored, rich housewife’s capricious fits. I suggest that you adopt a dog, not a child.”

  And with that, Jerome and Cordelia were shown the door. Cordelia did feel bad—Jerome seemed to be making a fashion statement out of the adoption, as if she were acquiring an accessory, but that really wasn’t the point. She truly wanted to be a mother again. She wanted to feel loved and needed and relied on. She wanted to feel relevant. Perhaps Jerome wasn’t the best person to advise her on this front.

  While his wife was toying with the fate of a helpless bambino, Morgan was at his home office, determined to make his situation less helpless. The instructions from the man as to how to proceed had been strict, concise, and professional. Now all Morgan had to do was to call Maria.

  “Where have you been?” whined Maria when she heard his voice. “I called you three times. I was going to call your house!”

  “I had a meeting. Listen,” began Morgan quickly, so he wouldn’t lose his nerve. “Let’s meet on Friday night. There’s a new restaurant I read about in New York magazine. Now, it’s in Brooklyn, but it has been getting incredible reviews. And Shirley Rockefeller told me I had to go,” he added the last part, a lie, because he knew that Maria would be suspicious about his taking her to Brooklyn. There was no Shirley Rockefeller, but she wouldn’t know that.

  “It’s about time you take me out. You never take me anywhere nice. I need some time away from that brat.”

  Could she have a better attitude? Schuyler was just a baby. But he didn’t want to argue, and he wouldn’t need to after Friday. “Well, this place is supposed to be really nice.”

  “Yeah, I’ll go,” she said, as if doing Morgan a favor. “Why don’t you ask the Rockefellers to come with us? I wanna meet your friends. We’ll have fun!”

  Yeah, right. “I’ll ring Shirley and see if she’s free.”

  “I’ll wear my Versace. They’ll love me—watch out!”

  Uh-huh. “So, I’ll have my driver pick you up at seven. It won’t be my usual guy—he’s on vacation. But this one knows where to go.” And you’ll go straight to hell, baby.

  Morgan heard Cordelia enter the apartment, so he quickly hung up the phone and went out to the front hall to greet her.

 
; “What are you doing home so early?” asked Cordelia, putting down her shopping bags.

  “The boys were coming for dinner, and I feel like I’ve been completely preoccupied with work lately, so I wanted to spend more time with all of you,” said Morgan quickly, pecking her on the forehead.

  Cordelia was touched, so she reached out and clasped Morgan’s hand. “Speaking of family, there’s something I want to talk to you about. It’s very serious,” she said solemnly.

  The color immediately drained from Morgan’s face. “What’s that?” he asked nervously.

  “Let’s go in the living room,” said Cordelia, leading the way.

  The living room? Shit, this must be bad. Could she have found out about Maria? Morgan felt sick.

  After Morgan was seated, he patiently waited for Cordelia to straighten a painting she insisted was askew, run her finger across the Steinway to check for dust, and rearrange the jade cocks on the mantel before she would tell him what was on her mind. He grew more and more nauseous as she stalled. Finally, she turned to him.

  “I’ve decided that I want to adopt a baby girl. I’ve always wanted a daughter. And in China they leave them on bridges and things . . .”

  Morgan was both confused and relieved. “This is new. I’ve never heard you say that.”

  Cordelia played with her pearls. “I’ve had a hole in my heart for some time now, and I’ve thought about why. Finally I realized what it was, and now I know that it’s something I truly want.”

  “It’s not like shopping, Cordelia. You don’t just decide one day that you want a kid and then just give it to Goodwill when it goes out of fashion.”

  “I wouldn’t do that! I don’t return things.”

  John and Drew came noisily bursting into the room, banging open the doors behind them.

  Morgan turned to them. “Boys, your mother’s gone crazy. She wants a daughter.”

  John and Drew looked at their parents and realized they had entered at the wrong moment. “Cool,” muttered John.

  But Drew was not pleased. “What? A sister? Damn.”