Never Too Rich

by Judith Gould

  A playwright’s instinct for drama told Anouk she’d said just enough. In the cocooning silence of the gallery, she could almost hear Liz’s tortured mental gears protesting: Scandal . . . sodomy . . . sin . . . scandal. . .

  Anouk reached out and held both of Liz’s hands in her own. “I know you would be there to help Antonio in that case, Liz,” she said softly. “And I believe you will find it in your heart to help him in this one also. You are more than his secretary, you know. You are part of the organization. Almost part of the family.” Tilting her head, she looked beseechingly into Liz’s eyes. “Please, give Antonio another chance before you judge him too harshly, Liz. That is all I ask.”

  There was a long silence. “Well, I suppose the past twelve years count for something” Liz said finally. She heaved a sigh and added quickly, with a wag of a forefinger, “But mind you, if I ever walk into that situation again ...” Her chin was thrust resolutely forward and her eyes were hard.

  “Oh, but you won’t!” Anouk positively purred, the relief in her voice genuine. She embraced Liz and gave her a hug. “I knew I could count on you, Liz! And I know you’ll be discreet, as always. Now, we’d better get back. The others are probably arriving.”

  They went back upstairs together, Anouk smiling and chatting like they were the best of friends. God, she was thinking with a shiver of revulsion, I hate having to suck up to this miserable peasant of a woman!

  And as far as Liz was concerned, Anouk de Riscal was one two-faced, lying bitch.

  “Didn’t that lady behind the jewelry counter who asked me where I got my earrings just freak you out?” Hallelujah asked as she and Edwina breezed out of Bergdorf Goodman, lavender shopping bags in tow. A just-purchased pair of upswept 1930’s-style movie-star sunglasses perched atop Hallelujah’s nose, completely hiding her eyes. “I am too cool.”

  “You are too slow, and we’re going to be late for the memorial service,” Edwina pointed out, her anxious eyes sweeping Fifth Avenue in search of a taxi. She made a mouth of frustrated impatience. Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street was thronged with Christmas shoppers and there wasn’t an empty cab in sight. She glanced back at Hallelujah. “If I hadn’t dragged you out of there, we would still be wandering around on the sixth floor.”

  “Well, I was dying for the Victor Costa stuff,” Hallelujah admitted. “I am in a totally acquisitive mood. Didn’t you think that green number would look great on me?”

  “First of all, it’s intended for someone a little bit older than you,” Edwina said, once again craning her neck for a cab, “and second, I wouldn’t think something that conservative was your . . . ah . . . style.”

  “It would be, with torn lace stockings and a pair of shocking-pink leather gloves . . . or maybe they should be zebra print? I mean, can’t you just see it?”

  With a quick glance at her daughter Edwina said, “Quite truthfully, I can’t.”

  “Ma!” Hallelujah cried, pointing. “A cab!”

  Edwina’s head swiveled back around and she spied the cab sailing toward the curb. Goodwill toward her fellowman was the farthest thing from her mind as she also spied three different cab thieves jumping forward to grab it out from under her. “Oh, no, you don’t!” she snarled, and with the battlefield tactics of the native-born New Yorker, she shouldered them aside and grabbed hold of the opening back door and stood there, her booted feet planted aggressively apart, her eyes flashing their menacing “dare-me” message. It was a fighting stance, one she had learned long ago. The mean city streets were no place for Greer Garson manners.

  Daunted by her ruthlessness, the cab thieves backed off.

  “Way to go, Ma!” Hallelujah said admiringly.

  “It’s Darwinism, kid,” Edwina said in her best Humphrey Bogart voice.

  Hallelujah laughed, and just then a boy her age with short brown hair and Coke-bottle-thick horn-rims jumped out of the cab, nearly knocking the shopping bags out of her hand.

  “Way to go, spaz!” Hallelujah yelled.

  “Sorry,” the boy murmured, blushing and looking away while he waited for the second passenger to settle the fare and get out.

  Half a minute passed, and when the passenger still remained in the cab, Edwina tapped her foot impatiently. “How long does it take to pay a cabbie, anyway?” she demanded of the air just as a rich Bostonian baritone reverberated from inside the vehicle.

  “Goddammit to hell, man, what do you mean, you don’t have change for a twenty? I’m certainly not going to give you twenty dollars for a two-forty fare. What do you take me for? Some out-of-town hick?” Snapping fingers clicked five times. “Come on, cough up the change.”

  “I already told you, I ain’t got change, mister!” the cabbie shouted. “ ‘Sides, you blind? See that decal on the door? The one that says ‘Driver not required to change bills over ten dollars’?”

  “Oh, Christ,” Edwina growled from between clenched teeth. “Just what I need! I get the only available cab in Manhattan, and then what happens?”

  “Hey, Les,” the man called out from inside the cab. “Got any change on you?”

  The kid with the horn-rims beside Hallelujah shook his head. “Just the twenty you gave me this morning, Dad,” he squeaked.

  “Damn.”

  But Edwina had already unslung her shoulder bag and was digging furiously into it. “I’ve got change!” she called out quickly, holding up four fives.

  The passenger ducked out, fished the bills from between her fingers, and handed her the twenty with a flourish. “You’re a lady and a scholar,” he said warmly. A rakish grin electrified his face, saving it from being criminally handsome and giving him a vaguely piratical air. Then his head disappeared back inside the cab, only to slowly reappear, eyelids blinking. “My God,” he said softly under his breath, looking up at Edwina. And then he said louder and more forcefully, “Eds? Eds Robinson? I don’t believe it!”

  Edwina stared down at him as though she was dreaming. It couldn’t be true, she told herself rationally, trying to still her runaway pulse. Bumping smack dab into one’s first love after all these years—and on a street corner—was the stuff of fairy tales, not real life.

  “Well?” he demanded. “Are you just going to stand there staring at me like you’ve seen a ghost? Or are you going to say hello?”

  “Hey, mister, time’s money,” the cabbie was complaining. “Will ya pay me and get out so I can pick up another fare?”

  Like an automaton, the passenger shoved all four five-dollar bills at the cabbie and got dreamily out of the taxi, never once taking his eyes off Edwina.

  From the sidelines, Hallelujah watched her mother and the stranger with an air of bored superiority. She couldn’t believe it. Her mother, who just half a minute earlier had been ready to commit homicide for a cab, had been transformed into a speechless, openmouthed schoolgirl. It just wasn’t like her. Nor was letting two women dash in front of her, jump triumphantly into the cab, and slam the door.

  The vehicle screeched off.

  “I don’t believe this!” Hallelujah exclaimed. “Ma, you let that cab get away!”

  “Cab? What cab?” If Edwina was barely aware of Hellelujah, she was totally impervious to the crowd of pedestrians flowing around the four of them like a school of fish avoiding an underwater wreck. She was in a world inhabited by two. “Well, bless my soul,” she marveled softly. “Unless my eyes deceive me, it’s R. L. Shacklebury in the flesh. How long’s it been, R.L.? Fourteen years?”

  “Fourteen, going on forty,” R. L. Shacklebury said definitely. He flashed Edwina another of his rakish killer grins. He still had great teeth, she could see, all white and even.

  He shook his head. “Imagine running into each other on the street after all these years. It’s unreal.”

  “It is strange,” Edwina agreed. She stared at him, her eyes taking a swift but thorough inventory.

  He was a tall man, slightly over six feet, and slender. His skin was expensively tanned, his thick hair solid pewter. B
ut the gray did not age him. On the contrary, it suited him. Gave him an aura of power and distinction. But then, so did his carriage, his grooming, and his presence.

  And, as if the lily needed gilding, he was unpardonably handsome, in a rugged, solid-jawed, movie-star kind of way. But not too rugged-looking either. His chiseled face was warmed with crinkly laugh lines. Sensuous full lips. Irish-green eyes that forever looked out at the world with ironic amusement.

  “You recognized me right away,” she said huskily. “I’m flattered.”

  “What—you thought I’d forgotten you?” His voice sounded cheerfully shocked.

  “A lot of years have passed,” she reminded him.

  “Have they? You’d have to convince me. Looking at you, I’d say time stopped fourteen years ago. You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “And you’re still the soul of truth.” She laughed.

  He joined her, enjoying the repartee.

  “So. What brings you to town?” she asked more soberly.

  “I live here on and off now. Officially, Boston’s still home, but I keep a place here too. Half a town house, but the decorator insists on calling it a pied-a-terre.”

  Edwina caught Hallelujah eyeing R.L. speculatively, and said, “Hal, your mother wants you to meet someone from her sordid and remote youth. I know you’ve heard me talk about R. L. Shacklebury; well, now you finally have the opportunity to meet the face that goes with all the stories.” Edwina looked blearily, delightedly happy as she made the introductions.

  Hallelujah felt his firm pump of a handshake, and then he placed his hands on the shoulders of the boy with the horn-rims and pushed him forward. “And this is my son, Les.”

  Hallelujah lowered her head so that she could look the kid over from above the dark lenses of her sunglasses.

  “It’s short for Leslie,” the boy said, holding out his hand to Edwina.

  “How do you do, Leslie?” Edwina greeted solemnly, shaking it.

  Les turned and held his hand out to Hallelujah. “Hi,” he said. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Yeah.” She didn’t even try to muster a friendly tone. Maybe his father was handsome enough in a square kind of way, but this little four-eyed geek was one person she’d just as soon have nothing to do with. As far as she was concerned, any kid of twelve or thirteen who tried to look like somebody in a Ralph Lauren ad was definitely weird.

  Edwina looked pointedly at Leslie and then back at R.L. “I take it you’re married, then?”

  “Divorced. And you?”

  “Chalk up another marriage to the free-wheeling eighties.” She laughed. “I’m divorced too.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It was for the best.”

  “So we’re both single again,” he marveled. His startling green eyes seemed to brighten in intensity. “Listen, what do you say we all hop over to the Plaza? We can have a drink for old times’ sake, and the kids can have a malted or whatever it is kids drink nowadays.”

  Edwina shook her head. “I’d love to, but we’ve really got to run. We’re on our way to a friend’s memorial service, and we’re running late as it is.”

  “I understand,” he said, although his expression belied the words. “It just seems such a pity to run into you after all these years and then have to part company right away. We could have dinner later, maybe? I know this great little hole-in-the-wall in Little Italy that’s the best-kept secret in town. What do you say to a frivolous dinner of pappardelle, chicken alla scarpariello, and gelato?”

  “Chicken alla scarpariello—that isn’t an invitation to dinner, R.L., it’s like asking Elizabeth Taylor if she would like a giant diamond.” Edwina sighed wistfully; he was smiling so winsomely it really was hard to resist. “I’d love to . . . but I’m afraid this evening is spoken for too. I’ve got a party to go to—at my boss’s.”

  “Seems like I’m striking out with every bat.”

  “Not through choice,” she assured him. “When Anouk de Riscal’s invitations are delivered by a messenger with a fresh red rose pinned to them, it’s like an imperial summons.”

  “Then I won’t get to see you?” he said in disappointment.

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “I’ve got to head back to Boston tomorrow,” he said gloomily, shaking his head.

  “I see.” She bit down on her lip. “Maybe next time you’re . . .” Her face suddenly took on a look of divine inspiration. “I know! Why don’t you come to the party with me tonight? You can take me.”

  “You’re sure?” he asked joyfully, his eyes lighting up again.

  “Sure, I’m sure.”

  Then the glow faded somewhat as he turned to his son. “You don’t mind, Les, do you? I know we’d planned on just the two of us spending the evening together. But I’ll make it up to you. Dad’s honor.” He held up a palm in the classic pose of a witness being sworn in.

  Les hesitated a moment. “No, that’s all right, Dad. You go on ahead and party. I can throw some food together for myself, and there’s always the TV.” There was no mistaking Leslie’s vast disappointment.

  Edwina had another flash of inspiration. “Listen, I’ve got a live-in housekeeper. Why don’t you bring Leslie over when you pick me up? I’m sure he and Hal will get along famously, and I know Ruby won’t mind cooking for them.”

  “Great!” R.L. cried. “It’s settled, then.”

  “Way to go, Ma,” Hallelujah growled sullenly under her breath.

  “Eight-thirty,” Edwina told him. “I’m at the San Remo. South tower. Oh, and it’s formal.” She glanced at her watch. “And now, Hal and I had better dash.” Her eyes swept up Fifth Avenue and she swore under her breath. “Damn! Not a cab in sight.”

  “Here, let me.” Casually R.L. stepped in front of her, stuck out his hand, and whistled. And out of nowhere an empty cab sailed over to the curb among a cacophony of angry car horns.

  Edwina looked at him with admiration. Not a bad man to have around, she considered—not bad at all.

  He held open the back door for her and gave a mock bow. “Tonight at eight-thirty. I’ll wear rings on my ringers and bells on my toes.”

  “Black tie will do,” Edwina laughed as she jumped into the cab. “Twenty-seventh and Seventh,” she called out to the driver as

  Hallelujah jumped in after her. R.L. shut the door. Twisting around to look out the rear window, Edwina saw him raise his hand in a wave. She blew him an extravagant kiss and then sat back in positive euphoria.

  “Whadda way to go, Ma,” Hallelujah said gloomily. “Did you have to do that? That Leslie geek is totally grody.”

  Edwina barely heard her. As they rode downtown, she sang softly to herself. She was feeling extraordinarily cheerful, vibrantly excited, and was filled with triumphant pleasure—which was exactly the way she had felt a decade and a half earlier, after she’d been asked out for a date by the most popular and seemingly unapproachable dreamboat of a man. Not, of course, that going to the de Riscals’ with R.L. could really count as an old-fashioned date. She knew better than that. It was more like a business obligation to which she could bring an escort—just a social evening she would combine with a trip down memory lane for old times’ sake. Only that and nothing more.

  Why should there be more? The romance she and R.L. had shared before they went their separate ways surely couldn’t be rekindled by a mere chance meeting on the street. She wasn’t that much of a romantic; if anything, she had her feet planted too firmly on the ground.

  Which was just as well. Love wasn’t, after all, the kind of thing you could just take up where you’d left off years before—like riding a bicycle or swimming. Times changed. Emotions changed. People themselves changed.

  “Really, Ma,” Hallelujah scolded severely. “Like we’re going to a memorial service. This is no time for singing, okay?”

  Chapter 13

  When Anouk and Liz came back upstairs, they parted company. Liz headed toward the front of the gal
lery and took a seat in the second row of padded folding chairs. Anouk stood in the back, her head held high, her long gloves in the palm of her hand.

  She glanced around imperiously. She could see that the seats were beginning to fill; another ten minutes and the memorial service would begin. From the looks of it, Rubio Mendez had had quite a lot of friends.

  Spying Klas Claussen—definitely not one of Rubio’s friends—she made a beeline for his third-row seat, tapped him on the arm, and gestured for him to follow.

  He rose at once and, Anouk leading the way, they went out into the lobby. Once there, she frowned; a horde of design students was pouring down the stairs to the “Surrealism in Fashion” exhibit. There would be no privacy there now. “This way,” she said, and, heels clicking sharply, headed in the opposite direction, to the hallway where the toilets and telephones were located.

  She opened the door to the ladies’ room and poked her head inside to see if it was empty. Seeing two women checking their makeup, she tried the men’s room next door.

  “Good. We can talk in here.” She gestured Klas inside.

  He didn’t look at all surprised; but then, nothing Anouk de Riscal did surprised him anymore.

  Klas Claussen was thirty-six years old. He had whitish-blond shoulder-length hair, pale blue eyes with almost invisible lashes, and a strong-jawed face that masculinized what would otherwise have been almost femininely pretty features.

  He was tall, all of six feet and then some. Under his beautifully tailored Italian suit were a lithe, tightly muscled body and broad shoulders, all of which he carried with an air of disdainful superiority.

  Anouk turned to him the instant she closed the door. Tall as she was, he seemed to tower above her. “I told you I have something wonderful in store for you,” she said without preamble, raising her hat-framed face to his. “But then, I have always entertained high hopes for you.” Gone from her voice was any playful cat-and-mouse banter. This was cutthroat casbah bargaining. No leverage was too great, no applied screws too painful. “However, what I offer is conditional.”