by Jill Kargman
Eden cackled in her trademark guffaw. “It’s just a phase, don’t worry.”
“I hope . . . ’cause I swear, this kid is one strut away from Scores. One grind away from Girls Gone Wild! I found her raiding my makeup while I was on the phone. She had full JonBenét red lipstick and blue eye shadow. The horror.”
Eden laughed and ordered another round of fries from the waiter, who was practically falling over himself to refill her water after each sip.
“Sheesh, Eden, how do you stay so goddamn thin? I can’t believe you didn’t outgrow our white-trash eating habits. You still chow like a fucking truck driver! Are you sure you’re not on the Two Finger Diet?”
“Please. I could never pull the trigger and make myself chunder. I have a thyroid disease, you know that.”
“How do I get it?”
“Shut up. It’s not good. You can get heart problems.”
“But no one can see your heart.” Allison shrugged.
After lunch, the pair left Three Jews and walked down Madison, surveying the windows and armies of Stokke-pushing MILFs.
“I can’t believe I let you convince me to move uptown,” Eden said. “I don’t belong here. I think I should be down in Tribeca or Brooklyn. Somewhere else. I feel like a fucking alien.”
“Come on,” Allison, said, putting a hot-pink manicured hand through her platinum bob. “Look at me! I’m the most punk rock mom at Carnegie! It’s actually retro-chic to live here. Uptown is the new downtown. Plus, honey, you need to break away from The Studio, if you know what I mean.”
Eden knew her friend was right. She still hung around Clyde’s circle of friends, cooking dinner, seeing plays, visiting galleries. By Clyde’s side she was Eden, the model, The Muse, but alone, sixty blocks north, she was . . . Eden.
“So, the million dollar question,” said Allison. “When are you going to date again? It’s been a while now. I don’t think you’ve ever gone this long without a guy. Thoughts?”
“You’re right. But I don’t know. I still love Otto, you know.”
“He loves you, too—he’s mad with jealousy at the thought of you with someone else.”
“Yeah, well, tough. Not that there is anyone else on the horizon but . . . We’re friends, and true friends let each other go.”
“So maybe you should cut the cord a little bit,” Allison offered.
“I’m trying! That’s why I moved up here,” she sighed.
“You’re not trying hard enough! I think you should sever all ties. At least for a while. Otherwise, how can you figure out what you want? Who you want to be with?”
“Maybe I don’t want to be with anyone. You were always spending your twenties partying and hooking up in the Hamptons trying to find your husband, but I was raising Cole and missed out on all that fun you got to enjoy.”
“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, trust me,” attested Allison, hand to gawd. “That Hamptons house was a shithole overflowing with Eurotrash, which is one step beneath even us. Townies are not just an American phenomenon, you know.”
Eden smiled, remembering Allison’s stories of beach bonfires and beers under the stars while Eden’s life was more about being preggers than hitting keggers.
“The truth is, you didn’t miss a thing,” Allison promised. “It’s way more fun to be in a serious relationship than out there. You know that more than anyone. Weren’t you the one who said you want a committed, monogamous relationship? Marriage vows?”
“Of course,” Eden admitted. “I would love that, you know that. But I’m not in a rush. I probably wouldn’t even be able to settle down if I did meet that guy. The wounds are all too fresh; he wouldn’t stand a chance. I want to live for the moment, all that Dead Poets’ shit.”
“So I can’t fix you up with Gerard, Andrew’s half brother? He’s fifty but really young at heart. Just like Otto.”
“If and when I meet someone, I want someone totally different from Otto.”
“So jump on the strapping young buck bandwagon!” suggested Allison. “Oh my God, we have this new young hot Latino gardener in Sagaponack.”
“No, gracias,” said Eden. “No offense to Callie and Sara, but doesn’t that stuff kind of gross you out?”
“No, why? Madonna’s doing it! It’s hot,” said Allison, eyes ablaze. “Plus, you’re prettier than all those twentysomethings. They all would die to look like you! You could totally cougar out with Sara and Callie.”
“Yuck, I hate that term,” Eden squealed as they passed by the Whitney, surveying the hip art kids lining up for the biennial. “It’s a little creepy how they eat those guys for breakfast.”
“Midnight snack is more like it.”
“Whatever. It’s not for me.”
“Why? Cougars are hot! They’re all the rage. Anyway, you’re technically still in your thirties, so you’re not a full cougar yet. You’re a puma.”
“There are subdivisions of feline female predators now?”
“Yeah. Cougars are in their forties. Pumas are in their thirties, which you still are, I might add.”
“Don’t remind me,” Eden said, shaking her head in sorrow. “We’re clinging on for dear life.”
“Forty isn’t so bad.”
“Yeah, when you’re married!”
“No, I mean in general,” attested Allison. “It’s not what it used to be!”
“Liar.”
“Women look better than ever, they have longer life expectancies. Forty’s the new thirty and fifty’s the new forty. Susan Sarandon, Goldie Hawn, all older! It’s your brazen cougary sexuality that keeps them wrapped around your finger. Or claw, I should say. Your cougar cub awaits.”
“You know why I loathe that word? Because there is no male equivalent. It is sexist and crass. It’s like saying ‘slut.’ What’s the male equal of that? There is none. Men have been dating younger women since they lived in caves, and there’s no term for it. It’s offensive and I don’t want to think of myself as some trashy wild animal who preys on someone else’s young.”
“Whatever, I just thought since Otto’s so much older and you don’t want older, maybe the pendulum could swing the other direction this time. I think it’s a great idea.”
“Honestly, I just want to meet someone who I can love, who loves me. Not this second, maybe, but in general. I don’t need to have ‘fun.’ I did that with Otto for so long. I’m over partying!”
“Of course! I know you would rather fall in love and be swept off your feet, and I agree, you deserve to find true love! I’m just saying while you’re waiting, enjoy some rumpus rather than trying to fast-forward to a relationship. Fill the void now! What better way to live in the moment than to roll with a young stud?”
The pals walked in silence for a minute. Then Eden smiled to herself.
“What?” Allison asked, intrigued by the beguiling grin on Eden’s lips.
“There is this one guy I met,” Eden said, raising an eyebrow carefully.
“I knew it, you slut!”
“Shut up! I’m not. Anyway, it’s too embarrassing to even entertain. I have never felt so old. I met him on the street and then saw him again last week at that Waldorf testicles benefit. He’s with some girl, I think. I was probably going to first base already when she was born!”
“Oh, who are you kidding? You went right to sex, you lying trollop.”
“He was incredibly charming and Old World. I actually have never met any guys who are chivalrous and old school like that. Except Wes. You know, who I used to date before Otto.”
“Of course I remember Wes!”
Eden suddenly envisioned a hazy, distant image of her young self with Wes, like a grainy black-and-white photo in a slide show, a staticky Super 8 film, or a tattered postcard. Worn-out media that hardly boasted the high-def sharpness of today but that somehow captured soul so much more.
“So who is this young guy?” Allison asked, snapping Eden back to Madison Avenue from Avenue B.
“Oh, I don’t even kno
w him. I just saw him staring at me through most of that benefit at the Waldorf.”
“Honey, everyone stares at you. When I first met you in grade school, I thought I might be a lesbian.”
“Shut up.”
“Kidding. I love you, but not that much. Okay, I gotta pull an Usain Bolt and pick up Kate. I’m telling you, E, don’t be afraid to cougar out! If Madge can do it, so can you!”
“Meow,” Eden deadpanned, doing an air scratch with a mimed paw.
23
Just remember, once you’re over the hill you begin to pick up speed.
—Charles M. Schultz
“What’s on your mind, darling?” Liesel asked, lying across Chase’s chest, touching his cheek with her Mademoiselle-manicured index finger.
“I don’t know, I’m just sad about my grandmother.”
“She was a wonderful woman,” Liesel said, her long lashes looking down at the Frette linens for a beat of silence. “I just don’t want you to be so depressed. You’ve always been the strong, silent type, but your grandmother wouldn’t want you to mope over her.”
Liesel’s words made Chase ache; she had no idea what Ruthie would have wanted. And, yes, maybe it was true, she wouldn’t want him mourning, but she just died! He couldn’t just sweep away his grief and frolic down the street as if nothing had radically changed. Chase feared, correctly, that Liesel was secretly selfishly bummed at the timing of Ruthie’s passing, because Chase’s deep sadness would stave off a possible engagement. When one is down, it’s hardly the moment to pop Champs corks and celebrate the future; Chase was too bereaved.
“You know,” said Liesel, kissing his chest, “my lease is up next month.”
“Already? I feel like you just moved in there.”
“No, it’s been a year, can you believe it?”
“Mm-mm.”
Liesel drew breath to fill her lungs with courage. She had to tread delicately. “I was thinking I shouldn’t re-sign the lease, right? I mean, I’m here so often that it’s basically just a five thousand dollar locker for my stuff, but Mummy obviously would never allow me to let my own place go until . . . things were . . . settled.”
“Well, it is a great apartment. And you’ve made it lovely. I wouldn’t let it go.”
“Oh,” she replied, disappointed. “Okay, then.”
The next day, further heightening the mounting pressures, Chase met with his family’s lawyer and chief of staff, Laughlin Wilton Taft, at the Family Office, which housed their money managers, DuPree Capital and Lydon Partners as well as the DuP/L Family Foundation. The philanthropic arm was chaired by Brooke, who had just come from an endowment grants meeting when she met Chase and his brothers in the large conference room on Central Park South, overlooking the sweeping vista of a sparkling rectangle of green trees.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Mrs. Lydon,” started Mr. Taft. “I have here the last Will of Mrs. Ruth Weatherly DuPree.”
After he read the particulars—where the Monet, the Picassos, and the Gauguin were going, who would inherit the various pieces of furniture and how the assets would be dispersed to the foundation and various museums—the group got up to leave. But before the somber Chase could make his way to the door, Mr. Taft asked him to remain.
“Whatever for, Laughlin?” asked Brooke, surprised.
“Mrs. Lydon, I do apologize, but I’m . . . afraid that is between me and your son, Chase,” replied Taft.
“I beg your pardon? That is preposterous! There is nothing my mother would leave Chase without telling me. She wouldn’t mind if I were here. . . .”
“It’s not an object, just a letter. A private message to Chase. And as executor of her estate, it is my duty to see that he gets it alone. Again, I am quite sorry, Mrs. Lydon.”
In a huff, Brooke exited, her eyes boring a hole through the manila envelope that Laughlin held.
“Chase, your grandmother insisted that no one else give this to you but me. Have a seat.”
“All right.” Chase nervously opened the envelope.
“Take your time,” Laughlin said, exiting the room, closing the door delicately behind him.
As the trees swayed forty-four floors below and three miles in front of him, Chase unfolded the note, written in his grandmother’s trademark tiny handwriting. A growing pressure ballooned in his chest. As always, she began writing his name large across the top of the page, each letter made out of small x’s that pieced together his name. He ran his finger over the CHASE made out of kisses and read on.
I know I’m not supposed to pick favorites. And of course you know I love and adore all three of you boys, but, dear Chase, you know you have always had a special place in my heart, sweet thing. There is something about you, beyond your devotion—your phone calls, flowers for my birthdays, or notes for no reason. It’s that you have a depth and a soul that goes beyond your generation. Like your late grandfather, whom I cherished, you care deeply about the world and helping people, making everything better. But, darling, do me this one last favor: Live a little. You’re so serious. The line in your brow is too creased for your tender age. Take the wind in your sails and go places, anywhere, head off the rails Brookie has laid down for you so carefully. Jump the tracks, boy! Break a rule! You’ve been the good one all your life, taking your marching orders from every which way, and I beg you, for me, to let go.
Mr. Taft is giving you a key. It’s for a safety deposit box at The Bank of New York on Madison and Sixty-second Street. Mr. Leroy Jones there will assist you. In it is my engagement ring from your grandfather, designed for us in Paris. If you love Liesel, who is a nice girl, then by all means, put it on her finger. But, sweetheart, if you’re in doubt, even the tiniest bit, then please do not. I know she fits just perfectly with Brookie’s wishes for you, the dream addition to the Lydon family portrait, but I suspect she won’t release you the way you need to be set free. By her side, you’ll continue to march those set paces, to follow the same road you always have, to repeat your pristine record all over again. And so I say this: Breathe deeply. Fill your lungs with possibilities. We only go around once, dear boy, and for you, Chase, so rich with emotion in your heart, you must uncork to be truly be happy. If it’s Liesel that can do this, then you have my blessing. But there may be someone out there to help you soar. To help you see the world in new colors, brighter and bolder than before. Someone who sees in you what I see. The saddest part for me of leaving this life is leaving you. You are beyond my pride and joy. You are the light in my life and I know that in your future you will grow to shine with even more radiance. With all the love in the world as I depart, I send you my kisses, and your name will be inscribed in little x’s forever in my heart.
Chase was not wired to cry. He simply couldn’t. Always the stoic, he was used to being everyone’s rock, and he wasn’t about to collapse now. He locked his emotions even deeper and swallowed the horse pill of grief, dry and choking.
24
Life begins at forty.
—W. B. Pitkin
“Honey, tilt your head a bit to the left, would you?” asked Otto. Eden obliged, though she felt a tiny hint of annoyance; he was micromanaging her more than normal. “The light there is fantastic. You are aglow, lamb.”
Eden was posed with her back to the canvas, looking over her shoulder Odalisque-style, minus the fatness.
“So when is this show due?” Eden asked, looking out the enormous studio windows at the rooftops dotted with water towers.
“Lyle needs only this last one, but I think it could be the image for all the press and marketing, so I need to finish it soon, like three or four weeks. You’re coming to Venice, of course?”
This was the first she was hearing of it. “Oh, I . . . didn’t know you wanted me there.”
“Honey, you are the magnet! They want you, you’re the star! We are still a team, no?”
“But this would be our first opening since we’ve split up. I mean, you don’t really need me there, do you?”
“Are you suggesting that I need you there any less because we don’t share a bed? We still are partners, we still talk, we still go out to parties,” he scoffed.
“I’ll think about it,” Eden said casually, counting the water towers in the distance, which she’d always done from her post in the studio, the same spot where she had posed in various states of undress for the better part of twenty years.
“You’ll think about it? No. Eden, you’re coming. You’re part of the package, honey!”
Eden remained quiet, drifting into her thoughts as Otto painted her. Honey, honey, honey. Suddenly the faintest of memories, like tracks of a cirrus cloud, blew across her brain. She smiled to herself as she posed, remembering how Wes used to call her Maple or sometimes Mapes. Over time, Otto’s commonplace nickname grew sickly sweet. Since their split, it had become like aspartame—you can taste the fakeness.
“What are you thinking with that twinkle in your eye?” Otto probed.
“Oh, nothing,” Eden said. “Just daydreaming.”
The door opened and in walked Mary, Otto’s gal pal. She was so Iowan, you could smell the corn on her.
“Hi there, Mary,” Eden said. She was barely two years older than their son, Cole. “I got some great stuff, from Kipp,” Mary told Otto, excitedly. “It’s insane, so pure.”
The sweet Midwesterner proceeded to cut perfect lines of coke with her Metrocard, the white-line-maker of choice for nose-candy-happy New Yorkers. Credit cards were so Less Than Zero. Otto stared at Eden’s silhouetted breast as he mixed just the right ivory to paint the teardrop slope, then casually put down his brush, walked over to Mary, patted her ass, then bent down for a line. Barf. Otto obviously would never grow up. Eden was so glad she was the hell out of there. Her perpetual Peter Pan ex had found his new fairy-dust partner to keep him flying, Hugh Hefner-style, until Social Security kicked in.
