Riverside Park

by Laura Van Wormer

  “Rachel said you would never get out of bed if she didn’t wake you up.”

  Celia shrugged. “I work long hours. I get tired.”

  “And she says your room is impassable.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Celia said. “Rach is such a neat freak. I got that storage space and put half of my stuff in there. I don’t know what she’s complaining about, she’s got this useless boyfriend lying around.”

  “She wasn’t complaining, Celia,” her mother said, putting an arm around her. “And I’m very glad she called us. Because we think we might have an idea about what’s going on.”

  “Something like this happened to your mother,” her father said.

  “When I stopped smoking,” her mother added.

  Celia’s eyes flew wide open. “You smoked?”

  She nodded, smiling apologetically. “I hid it from you children as best I could. I finally stopped when you were around, I don’t know, eight?” The last was said to her father.

  “But she chewed nicotine gum for a while after that, too. Four or five years. So it wasn’t just smoking cigarettes, your mother was addicted to nicotine.”

  “But you’re like a health nut,” Celia said incredulously.

  “I am now.”

  “The point is, Ceil,” her father said, “your mother went into a downward spiral after she stopped chewing the nicotine gum. She got very depressed.”

  “I remember that gum,” Celia said. “It was horrible, but we kept trying to chew it anyway.”

  “I gained weight,” her mother said, “because I was eating sugar and carbohydrates night and day. And coffee, I drank a lot of coffee. Because I always felt like I was dragging, Celia, that’s the only way I can explain it. It was like dragging a hundred pound sack of cement behind me. And I don’t mean physically, but mentally. I couldn’t cope.”

  “I remember when you locked yourself in the bathroom once,” Celia said. “You wouldn’t let us in.” She looked at her father. “We were all fighting about something. You were away, Dad, and—” She looked at her mother in wonderment. “You said you couldn’t take it anymore.”

  “I don’t remember, lovey,” her mother said. “But I do remember feeling like that a lot.”

  Celia felt like hiding most of the time, too.

  “Your father made me get a physical and Dr. Stringer told me I was eating too much sugar and drinking too much caffeine. So I went on a diet and lost some weight and drank decaffeinated coffee. And I did feel a little better.”

  “But she was still crying at long distance commercials,” her father added. “And anything with a child or an animal or an abused woman in it, which is to say just about everything on TV.” He looked at Celia’s mother. “We couldn’t have people over, either. We used to entertain, but we stopped.”

  “I felt so overwhelmed,” her mother said. “I just could not get organized.”

  “With three kids, Mom—”

  “No, it was more than that, Celia,” she said quickly. “I was emotionally exhausted all the time and there didn’t seem to be any reason why.” She bit her bottom lip for a moment. “Except when I had a few drinks. Then I felt better. Which made me wonder what was wrong.”

  “That’s when Dr. Stringer sent her to a psychiatrist. He suspected your mother had some form of chemical depression.”

  “You can imagine how well that went over with me,” her mother laughed. “Oh, I was mortified, Celia! A psychiatrist! But we went through the list. I had stopped sugar, I was exercising, I was getting at least seven hours of sleep, I was getting plenty of light and plenty of fresh air…” She dropped her hands in her lap. “And I still felt like I was on the outside looking in. While everybody else was having a great life, I felt like I was looking at everybody through a glass window, trying to drag my cement bag along with me, trying to find a way to get into that space so I could feel happy, too.”

  “That’s exactly it,” Celia said quietly. “You can see everybody, but you can’t find a way in.”

  Her mother’s mouth pressed into a line and her eyes began to tear. “I know, angel. That’s why I’m upset that I didn’t put it together before.”

  “Depression can run in families,” her father said. “And you were such a go-getter kid we never worried about you.”

  “And then as soon as Rachel started telling us why she was worried,” her mother said, “we knew. We just knew.”

  “But we’re not doctors,” her father added.

  “Which is why you need to see one, Celia. And we want you to stay overnight because I’ve made arrangements for you to see my doctor at eight-thirty tomorrow morning. He’s coming in especially to see you, because he knows how important it is to me.”

  “This guy’s a shrink?”

  She nodded. “He put me on an antidepressant, Prozac, nearly thirteen years ago. I’m on something else now, but the point is, Celia, it saved my life.” She glanced at Celia’s father. “And probably my marriage.”

  “What your mother is taking isn’t addictive in any way. It’s not a narcotic, or a tranquilizer—”

  “In other words, it’s no fun,” Celia joked.

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” her father said.

  “If your brain chemistry doesn’t need an antidepressant,” her mother said, “then the drug doesn’t do anything. It’s only when there is a chemical deficiency that it works. But let’s wait to see what the doctor says after you see him.”

  “Right. Wonder if nothing’s wrong with me,” Celia said, “except I’m a basket case?”

  “That’s exactly how I felt, Celia.”

  “And something else, Celia,” her father said. “Your brother wanted to come down tonight—not just because he wanted to see you, which he did, but because he was having similar problems.”

  “Three years ago,” Celia’s mother said. “He’d been having the same kind of feelings that we’ve been talking about. And it turned out, yes, he also has a problem with depression.”

  Celia was astonished. Her oldest brother was like Mr. Perfect. She never really saw him much anymore but no one had ever let on anything was wrong.

  There was something to what her parents were saying, but Celia was almost scared to hope they were right.

  30

  The Autobiography of Georgiana Hamilton-Ayres

  FIRST SHE COULD meet him and then she couldn’t. Then she might be able to squeeze him in but then she called back to say she was sorry, she had to reschedule. Trying to meet with Georgiana Hamilton-Ayres while she was in New York was like chasing down a cat who wanted to be loved but not caught.

  “Howard?” Gretchen said from the doorway of his office. “It’s Georgiana Hamilton-Ayres again.”

  He picked up.

  “I promise you, Howard, I am trying my best,” the actress said in her British accent. “I have a fitting uptown at two and I should be able to see you at four. No, wait, then there’s travel time.”

  “Wherever, whenever,” he said. “Where is your fitting?”

  “West Seventieth.”

  Howard named a few places where they could meet. “I know at this point you must believe me to be the most tiresome of all creatures,” the actress said, “but is it possible we could meet somewhere a little less public?”

  “My house,” he said without hesitation. “And I’ll shock you because my wife has trained me to serve a proper tea.”

  “Splendid! But a little less proper, please, Howard, because I’m only wearing slacks and a sweater.”

  He gave her their address, adding that she should take her time and he would expect her when he saw her. He hung up the phone and looked at his watch.

  Of all the times he would finally get to see Georgiana Hamilton-Ayres it had to be the day Amanda was coming in. He had wanted to go over to Emma Goldblum’s with her. If Mrs. Goldblum was half as bad as Rosanne had described it was going to be a terrible blow to Amanda. Mrs. Goldblum had been a surrogate mother to his wife for years and ye
ars, able to give Amanda the kind of practical advice she could never get from her own mother.

  So it was going to be a very bad few days ahead. There was the situation with Mrs. Goldblum and then there was the situation with their finances he absolutely had to tell Amanda about. He had to tell her because at this point it appeared taking a mortgage out on the apartment was all that could save him.

  She would be shocked. Of all the problems he could have brought home to their marriage, money was the one he had always assured her she need never fear. She was already upset with him and she didn’t even know the story yet.

  What if she told him no, she wouldn’t take out a mortgage on the apartment? What then? He didn’t have the slightest idea. The Hillingses were looking at the agency books now, but without Amanda’s help in two weeks there would be no paychecks and the secret would be out—that Howard Stewart had run the once thriving Hillings & Hillings literary agency into the ground.

  It was already getting dark outside. There was another storm forecast to move in tonight from the northeast—a direction that was never good. He wished Amanda was getting an earlier start but the snowfall in Woodbury last night had closed the schools this morning and Amanda said she needed to get things organized for her absence. She was an excellent driver, though, and the Navigator was as good a bodily protection as any other vehicle around.

  “The super’s coming up to see you, Howard,” Gretchen told him, sticking her head into his office.

  Damn. He’d forgotten about him. He’d been ducking him all through the holidays. The super was no doubt looking for his yearly extortion payment to keep the heat on in the winter, the air-conditioning on in the summer and to free up the freight elevator when needed, to say nothing of letting the electrician or painter or carpenter or computer guy in the building, and, of course, for not making the johns overflow into his office if Howard didn’t pay up. A Rambo super was one of the unspoken business expenses every Manhattan businessperson had to deal with.

  Howard needed three thousand in cash. He took his glasses off and cleaned them to give himself time to think. He didn’t have three thousand dollars in cash. “Gretchen, tell him I need to run over to the bank and then will stop down in the basement to see him.”

  “Oh, good, then maybe he won’t shut the elevator down again,” Gretchen said. She swore he had purposely trapped three of them in one of the elevators their first day back after the holidays.

  Howard took his wallet out of his back pocket and opened it. There was only one credit card left. It was the one in both his and Amanda’s name, the one he swore he would never use.

  Howard left the office and went to a large bank where he did not have an account. He walked up to the manager’s desk and explained he needed three thousand dollars for an unexpected expense and could she please get it for him using this card. She looked at him, then at the card and then back at him in such a way as to make Howard wonder just how many stories like this she had heard from crooks.

  “Do you have an account with us, sir?” she said.

  “No. Here’s my driver’s license.”

  Reluctantly she took the card from him and excused herself. She needed to make a call. When she returned she was all smiles. “You have a fifty thousand dollar credit limit on this card, Mr. Stewart, are you sure three thousand will be enough?”

  Howard could remember when, as a little boy, he had been taught that banks were in the business of investing. They used their depositors’ money to build things, that was how they made their money. So when, exactly, had the business of banking become loan-sharking? He was both disgusted and relieved he could get the money, and he took an extra two thousand to put in their checking account.

  He returned to the office building and took the elevator down to the basement. It was a pretty creepy place, where one could easily imagine a variety of crimes involving steamy heat and dark, dank concrete. Howard felt perspiration break out on him immediately. “Luis?” he called, walking to an area that reminded Howard of the bowels of an ancient warship.

  Luis was busy in his dark and cramped workshop space. He was listening to his cell phone, with a dirty finger stuck in his ear to hear better. He kicked his head up in what Howard assumed was a greeting and Howard took a little walk around, wondering why he put up with the ridiculous rent in this “landmark” office building.

  Sometimes he wished he’d just chuck it. Let someone else worry about the rent and the insurance and the payroll and the clients and the books and who could have vacation when and—

  “Ehhh, Howard!” Luis said, coming out. “Sorrybuttahearwifeyouknow,” he confided, elbowing Howard in the side.

  “I wanted to thank you for all your help and hard work over the year, Luis,” Howard said, slapping the thick bank envelope of fifties into Luis’s hand and shaking it.

  “Soallrightsallright,” Luis assured him under his breath.

  “I hear our friend may be trying to sell the building,” Howard said, rocking back on his heels, jingling the change in his pants pocket.

  “Sallreadysold,” Luis said. “Ileafnextweek.”

  “Excuse me?” Howard said.

  “Fired.” He drew a finger across his neck. “Cantellyouhowneedthis, mafamily,” he said, holding up the envelope. “Savemylifethanks, youtheman.”

  Amanda called the apartment from the road at three-forty and Howard told her about his meeting with Georgiana. “I’ll go straight over to Mrs. Goldblum’s then,” she said, sounding like a space alien on the car speakerphone. “I think it’s probably better if I go alone anyway, until I know what condition she’s in.” He could imagine Amanda flicking her hair over her shoulder, trying to change tracks of her mind so she would not get upset while driving. “You are going to use the tea cart, aren’t you?”

  He turned around in their kitchen. “I’m looking at it this very moment.”

  Amanda had a sterling silver tea cart her grandmother’s butler used to roll out. It was pretty handy, actually, and carried the teapot and cups and saucers and plates, food, napkins—everything.

  “Don’t put tea bags on the cart,” she said, as if she could see the box on the cart from where she was. “Use loose Earl Grey in the ball, put it in the pot.”

  “Okay,” he said, removing the box of tea bags from the cart.

  “Bring the water to a boil and then turn it down to low. When she arrives turn it back up to high. Show her into the living room, then pour the hot water in and roll the cart out to her. She’ll offer to pour and you might as well let her.”

  He smiled. How he loved Amanda.

  He had to make this deal between Georgiana and Bennett, Fitzallen & Coe work. If he could get it done with that jumbo hunk of cash attached to the signing of the contract, then it wouldn’t be nearly so bad telling Amanda about everything. A hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar commission would be a huge help.

  “And what food do you have?” Amanda asked.

  “I went to Zabar’s and they made me those little—you know.”

  “Quiches?”

  “Yeah, I got a couple of those, but I mean, you know, the little sandwiches, with the crusts cut off.”

  “What kind?”

  “Water cress—”

  “Excellent. She may not like them but it’s always nice to show you made the effort.”

  “Cream cheese and some kind of peppers, or pepper—”

  “Red or green?”

  “Red.”

  “Pepper jelly, then, probably.”

  “That’s the one. Um, and I got razor-thin Black Forest ham. And then I think cucumber and something, the lady said to trust her, it was really good.”

  “What about sweets?”

  “Those little things. Little éclair, cheesecake, napoleon, chocolate-covered strawberries—”

  “That’s a lot of food, Howard.”

  “I know but I thought maybe we could have a picnic or something. Tonight. Later. Build a fire.” He swallowed. “If you felt like it. Just to
talk and stuff.”

  After a long moment, Amanda said, “Sometimes you are the dearest man in all the world, Howard.”

  Dearest and the poorest if he didn’t pull this deal off, he thought.

  After the concierge announced the actress’s arrival, Howard slipped on his suit jacket and straightened his tie in the front hall mirror. He’d already put a couple of Listerine strips in his mouth. He opened the door and stood next to the elevator to wait.

  Nervous.

  It was a lot of money.

  The elevator arrived and Georgiana Hamilton-Ayres emerged, draped in fur. God she was gorgeous.

  “Howard,” she said, offering a dazzling smile while extending her hand. She kissed him on the cheek. He showed her into the apartment and took her fur coat and hat while she tugged off her gloves and shook out her blond hair.

  “Gorgeous coat,” he said, using a heavy wood hanger.

  “It’s not real,” she said, handing him her gloves and turning to walk down the hall. “I think they must sew lead into it to make it feel like it.” She was wearing jeans that had to be size four and a cashmere sweater that left very little to the imagination. Her boots with a spiked heel sounded surprisingly loud on the hall runner. “This is some apartment, Howard,” she said admiringly.

  The kettle started to shriek and he apologized, laughing a little, explaining he messed up the order of what his wife had instructed him to do. She went into the kitchen with him and helped him make the tea. “I love your wife’s book,” the actress said, sneaking a sandwich off the cart and taking a bite. “It’s still under option, isn’t it?”

  He nodded.

  “Then tell whoever has the option I want to play her. Catherine the Great.”

  He looked at her. “Really?”

  She swallowed the rest of the sandwich quarter and plucked a napkin from the cart. “Really,” she confirmed, touching it to her mouth.

  Huh. Wait until he told Amanda. That would be something, wouldn’t it? If a movie or miniseries finally did get made after all these years.

  He showed her into the living room. “There are a lot of eighteenth-century costumes and sets and props and things lying idle all over Europe these days,” she said. “The industry went through that streak of period films so now it wouldn’t be nearly so expensive to do a film like this.” She chose the early Victorian settee to sit on, which Howard always thought was uncomfortable but evidently Georgiana, like his wife, did not. The actress spread her arms along the back of the settee for a moment (Now where does she expect me to look? Howard thought) but then jumped up to pour the tea as Amanda said she probably would. “And there are tons of places in Eastern Europe to shoot,” she added.