“Can I check in with my friend and let you know?” Dylan asked.
“Of course. I know it’s last minute but I am so not a planner. You’ll learn that about me before too
long.”
“Well, why don’t I call you later this evening to let you know,” Dylan continued. “What time
would you be cooking out tomorrow?”
“Say around noon till four or so? I have to get my kids ready for school on Monday so nothing
past six in any event. And I understand you work still so you won’t have to worry about being out too
late.”
You work still, she’d said. Dylan blinked. What the heck did that mean?
Dylan ended the call and looked at Ava who was practically jumping out of her seat with
excitement.
“We have to go,” she said. “There is no way I’m passing this up.”
“You sure?” Dylan asked. “It might be a little stuffy.”
“Who cares? Is it at Ray Hernandez’ place? I saw pictures in Us Weekly and it is insane. Sure, it’s a
little over the top and a little tacky . . .”
“Yes, it’s at his place.”
“Seven bedrooms, Dylan. In the middle of New York City. I wonder if she’ll give you the tour.” “God I hope not. I would hate to have to pretend to like seven bedrooms worth of tacky.” Ava laughed. “Okay, let’s go shopping. I have to help you buy an outfit for tomorrow. You have
to look the part of Mark Acosta’s fiancée.”
Dylan leaned back. “I am the part of Mark Acosta’s fiancée. So I only need to look like me.” “Yes, yes Dylan. But a new and improved you,” Ava said gently as though speaking to a two-year
old.
The Hernandez apartment was two entire floors at the top of an exclusive building on W. 54th Street and the only way to get to it was in a private elevator that had to be sent down especially to pick them up. Dylan had permitted Ava to dress her for the occasion, in black skinny pant, a casually chic white shirt and pointy-toed black boots. She’d drawn the line at having her hair French-braided and instead consented to having it tied back with a black scarf. Ava was wearing dark wash jeans and a Chanel-esque jacket with pearl-drop earrings. Dylan was convinced they would be overdressed until the elevator door opened and she saw Cindy Hernandez.
She was stunning; not quite pretty because she had really big teeth, eyes too close together and hair that was one shade too blonde for her complexion—but stunning nevertheless. Everything about her seemed to have been carefully orchestrated. Every strand of hair looked as though it had been placed very carefully where it was to create a casual, tousled look. Her skin was perfectly smooth, her make-up flawlessly applied and her eyebrows were so symmetrical they looked stenciled on. And as for her outfit; though only a pair of skinny jeans and a bejeweled tank top, topped by a mohair sweater, it all came together to look like something on a Bryant Park runway. The fact that she was Manhattan-socialite-thin, thinner than Ava even, was only accentuated by the ultra-high spike-heeled boots she wore.
“Dylan,” she said extending a hand as they stepped off the elevator. She leaned in for a cheekbrush and Dylan’s nostrils filled with a rich scent, reminiscent of green tea.
“This is my friend, Ava,” Dylan said.
“Ava,” Cindy leaned in and brushed Ava’s cheek as well.
“Well, everyone’s here. We’re upstairs. And don’t worry, we’re under a heated tent—wouldn’t want you telling Mark I froze you half to death on a Manhattan rooftop.” She laughed her delicate laugh and rested a hand on Dylan’s back to guide her through the apartment.
It was every bit as overdone as Ava had warned, in rococo style—gilding and chintz everywhere. They passed through a parlor into a more private sitting room in which a fire blazed in a six-foot high fireplace. Off to one side of the room, almost hidden was a winding staircase that led to the second floor and eventually out to the roof. When Dylan looked over her shoulder at Ava who was following close behind, the look on her friend’s face was a mixture of fascination and repulsion.
The rooftop deck appeared to have been completely covered for the winter in a greenhouse-like structure. At the far end, tables were set up as though for a garden party with floral arrangements at every table. A bar, staffed by two bartenders and a grill manned by a chef in full dress were nearby. At the tables were three other women and children were running about, squealing and chasing each other. As they approached, the women suspended their conversation and looked up. Dylan immediately felt appraised.
They were all dressed similarly to Cindy Hernandez, with a clever balance of opulence and casual, managing to look as though they hadn’t tried too hard to look wealthy, but just did. One of the first things Dylan noticed was the jewelry—they all seemed to have enormous rings that glinted in the light at their slightest movement. She and Mark had chosen simple platinum wedding bands and Dylan’s only diamond was her four-carat engagement solitaire which before today had seemed enormous to her. Dylan noted that none of these women had been at Pedro Lima’s house, and something told her it wasn’t just because they weren’t Dominican. Something told her that this was the A-Team of Mets wives and that being invited here had catapulted her to the major leagues, no pun intended.
“Everyone, this is Dylan Sanger, Mark Acosta’s soon-to-be-wife,” Cindy said, squeezing Dylan’s shoulder. “And her friend, Ava.”
The women regarded them coolly and eventually one of them said ‘hello’.
“This is Marjorie King . . .” another blonde whose color was a little off, slightly heavy with a round cherubic face, “Lori Santos . . .” very pretty, and slender with a mass of long, curly hair that looked like spun taffy and green eyes, “. . . and Stephanie Alfieri.”
Stephanie had jet-black, pin-straight hair that fell like a curtain to her waist and a golden tan that looked to have been accomplished the old-fashioned way rather than in a tanning booth. She was the only one who gave Dylan a genuine smile and was the first to extend her hand.
“My kids are four of the little wild animals you see running around here,” Cindy said. “You’ll meet them sooner or later. Two of them are Steph’s, there are Marjorie’s two and Lori’s baby is asleep downstairs.”
“Gosh,” Ava said. “Had we known we needed to bring kids, we would have picked some up at the store.”
Stephanie Alfieri laughed but no one else registered a reaction.
“Welcome, Dylan,” Marjorie King raised her glass. “People have been waiting with bated breath to meet you.”
“And no one more so than you, Marjorie,” Cindy said with a hint of strain in her voice.
“Our husbands, I mean Mark and my husband, play the same position,” Marjorie said. “So they’ll spend a lot of time together at camp.”
“We’re not going to talk baseball, are we?” Stephanie Alfieri said wearily.
“No. We are not,” Cindy Hernandez said with finality. “Dylan, you and Ava sit. What would you like to drink?”
“Well, what’s good?” Dylan asked.
“Mango daiquiris,” Stephanie said. “Reminds me of the islands.”
“Stephanie, I swear if we have to hear one more time about your trip to Mauritius I’m going to throw up,” Lori Santos said.
“Don’t hate on me because you’re afraid to fly,” Stephanie said.
“Girls, we want to hear about Dylan,” Cindy said. “But first let’s get those drinks. Ava? What’ll you have?”
“I’m game for the mango daiquiri,” Ava said.
“Good.”
Cindy motioned for one of the bartenders and ordered two mango daiquiris for Dylan and Ava before Dylan realized that she hadn’t actually said what she wanted to drink. Dylan and Ava sat at a table with Cindy Hernandez who seemed to be watching the bartenders do their work, as though concerned they might skimp on the alcohol. Ava was looking about like a kid in a candy store, clearly still hungrily taking everything in. But know
ing Ava, there was no way she was actually impressed by it all—more likely she was gathering information for their confab later when she would rip to shreds the conspicuous consumption.
“So how’re you handling all of this?” Stephanie Alfieri asked, leaning toward Dylan.
She seemed genuinely curious, and in a kind-hearted rather than voyeuristic way.
“It’s been fine,” Dylan said, clearing her throat. “Mark’s only been gone a few nights and of course, before that we’ve been together almost every day, so . . .”
“I hope you soaked it all in,” Lori Santos said. “I remember Jason’s rookie season. It felt like it was two years before we spent any quality time together again once he got started.”
“It’ll be worse for Dylan,” Marjorie said, taking a sip of her drink. “Mark is already a way bigger star than Jason ever was.”
Lori looked at her levelly. “Or your husband, Margie. In fact, it remains to be seen whether he’ll even . . .”
“So I heard you work in a law firm,” Stephanie said to Dylan, pointedly cutting the other women off. “I used to be a paralegal before I got married. I still kind of miss it.”
“Dylan’s just killing time before law school,” Ava said.
“Well . . . I’m doing more than killing time,” Dylan said. “I like the work. And I think it’ll make me a better lawyer once I get around to it.”
“Hmm,” Marjorie said. “That’s very dedicated of you. To want to study the law still.” Dylan blinked. There was that word again.
“We have lots of food,” Cindy Hernandez broke in. “Ava, Dylan, you want to go over and take a look?”
Next to the grill, a buffet table was laid out. Dylan rose, grateful for a reason to get away from the women for a moment. Ava followed and they walked over to browse the culinary selections. There was smoked salmon, shrimp cocktail, roasted chicken breast sliced perfectly and grilled vegetables. Still on the grill were lamb chops and a few very fine looking steaks.
“Oh my god, this is everything I’d hoped for,” Ava whispered. “Can you believe these women?”
“Stephanie seems nice,” Dylan said.
“Yes, but that Marjorie one wants to go for your throat. You know why, right?”
Dylan looked at her. “No. Why?”
“You really ought to start reading the Sports pages, Dylan. Mark is taking her husband’s job. Or at least taking the limelight from him.”
“But Ray Hernandez has the limelight.”
“Oh Dylan, keep up will you? Ray and Mark don’t play the same position and there’s room for two superstars on a baseball team. Ever since Strawberry and Gooden. But only two. If one star is Ray Hernandez and the other is Mark Acosta . . . oops, no room for Craig King, get it?”
Dylan looked at her. “But I don’t have anything to do with that!”
“Envy is not based on reason, sweetie. When all those advertisers come looking for a Mets player, they’re only going to have two flavors on their menu—Hernandez and Acosta.”
10
Fidgeting with her necklace, Dylan surveyed the room and realized that she only knew a handful of the people who were in attendance. Mark’s brothers and Ava, and some of the Mets wives. But just about everyone else was known to her only on television or from the newspapers. If this were really a party for her, one would have thought that Cindy Hernandez would have asked her for a guest list, but she hadn’t. Instead, she had announced that she and Ray wanted to have a “little celebration” for her and Mark a couple days before the wedding, but that she needn’t worry about a single thing. Dylan had been forced to accept because she and Mark had invited no one from the Mets to the wedding itself.
And so Dylan hadn’t worried about it. She thought only about what to wear and Ava had helped with that, taking her to Saks where they browsed items that she would have been afraid to even touch just a few months ago. Her shoes alone had cost eleven hundred dollars; the dress another eighteenhundred, and her hair, which she’d blown out for the occasion and had professionally done, four hundred. She’d fretted over the amount she spent until Stephanie Alfieri had called her and mentioned in passing what she was wearing for the party, a designer whose collection Ava said had “low-end pieces” that cost somewhere in the neighborhood of six thousand dollars.
And when she tried to discuss it with Mark, he’d lost interest immediately when he realized her angst was about clothing and told her he was sure she would do whatever was best. At least one of them was sure.
Looking about the room of high-profile New York personalities, Dylan spotted a couple of local channel sportscasters, more than one of the NY Jets players, an actress who was currently on Broadway in a Tony-winning production and three young sitcom stars. When Cindy had introduced her, they all greeted her as though she was a friend, immediately familiar as though had been inducted into some secret society.
Mark was talking mostly to other athletes, a beer in hand, looking as comfortable as he was during Sunday dinner at his parents’ house. Though she wanted to, Dylan resisted the urge to cling to him for safety. She’d noticed when they entered the Hernandez’ apartment that he hadn’t reacted one way or another to the opulence. He almost seemed not to notice things like that. But Dylan took it all in, inventorying what she would do the same way, and what she would do differently, studying everything for future reference.
If she was to enter this new world, she would have to pay attention. Some day she might have to arrange her own “little celebration” for someone and Cindy Hernandez set the standard everyone else seemed to want to emulate. She remembered all too well how much weight had been given to the fact that Cindy did not attend Vanessa Lima’s party. It was no small thing that somehow Mark and—by association—she had been vaulted to the top of the heap, so much so that Cindy was hosting on an event their behalf. Ray was still back in Florida at spring training but even while he was away, his wife was fortifying his stock, maintaining his stature by throwing parties like this one. It was something Dylan would never think to do, so she decided to pay attention and learn from Cindy.
“Pre-wedding jitters?”
Dylan turned to face the hostess, fixing a smile on her face. “Not at all,” she said. “Just general party jitters.”
“No need,” Cindy said, looping an arm through hers. “We’re all just faking it, Dylan. All of us, all of the time.”
Dylan smiled. “You too? I find that difficult to believe somehow.”
“Oh of course me too, but thankfully not only me,” Cindy said. She pointed out a woman across the room in a sapphire-red dress. “You see her?”
Dylan nodded.
“That’s Giselle Barton. Her husband is in the NFL and she’s known for having the biggest and best parties of the summer at her mansion in Southampton. But I happen to know that she can barely manage to keep the lights on in her home in the city because her husband gambles all their money away. . .” and pointing to a man in a dark grey suit. “Frank Lawson. Award-winning architect, with a drinking problem so severe that he can’t draw a single line without the aid of a good scotch . . .”
For the next half hour, Cindy stood next to Dylan, dissecting the people in the room, telling all of their dirty little secrets.
“No one here is better than you,” Cindy said. “They just have a little more practice with building a façade. So have some more champagne, smile at everyone, share a few laughs and then go home to sleep a peaceful sleep with the man you’re about to marry.”
Dylan smiled. Sounded like good advice to her. She would need both the champagne and the laughs tonight because the next day her mother would be flying in.
Dylan circled the arrival terminal at LaGuardia in the Jeep, waiting for Mark to emerge with her mother. She fidgeted with the dials on the radio and tried to calm herself. He had insisted on going in even though before leaving the condo Dylan pointed out quite reasonably that her mother may not even recognize him, having only met him that one brief time in Arizona. Mar
k had held up an 8.5 x 11” poster board on which he’d written ‘Leslie Sanger’ in block letters.
“People will mob you in the terminal,” Dylan had said, trying another approach. “Hat, glasses,” Mark said.
“That’s not a disguise, Mark. And why do you want to go in anyway?”
“I want to be the one to greet her,” he said.
Dylan heaved a deep sigh. “Mark, she’s not like your family. You might not get the response you think.”
“It doesn’t matter. Relax, baby.”
Dylan wished she could relax. She circled the airport terminal three times before she spotted Mark’s baseball cap, almost a head taller than most other people at the curb. He was speaking animatedly to someone and soon spotted the Jeep and waved her over. Dylan pulled up to the curb and got out to greet her mother. She was wearing jeans and a beige floral short-sleeved blouse and was actually smiling. Dylan hugged her awkwardly.
“Mom, you look great,” she said.
It was true. Since she’d moved to Arizona her mother almost seemed to have reverse-aged. She looked fresh faced and calm, probably from all that yoga, meditation and Reiki practice. A part of Dylan was hurt by this transformation wondering whether raising her been the stressor that had made her mother look so much more harried when she was in New York.
“You too.” She touched the side of Dylan’s face then reached down to take her hand and look at the engagement ring, her eyes widening at the size of it. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you. Are you tired?”
Mark was putting her bags into the back of the Jeep and had taken the keys from Dylan.
“A little.”
“Hungry?”
“A lot.”
Dylan laughed. “We’ll take care of that right away.”
During dinner, Mark did most of the talking, filling her mother in on their plans for the wedding that weekend. Dylan watched her mother sizing him up. Mark ate a lot, as he always did but Dylan could barely manage a bite. He thought it would be a good idea for them to sleep apart while her mother was there so they decided that she would stay at Dylan’s old apartment since it hadn’t been sublet yet, and Dylan would stay there with her until after the wedding.
The Seduction of Dylan Acosta Page 15
