Well Bred and Dead

by Catherine O'Connell

  But I considered it fair trade, because I was using him, too. Physically. Here I was, a victim of my body’s last surges of estrogen, and there he was with that which I really needed. Not only was he prodigiously attentive in the carnal way, he was tireless, unlike the rich old dinosaurs I dated from time to time. With Sean, I was enjoying sex more than I had for a long time.

  In a strange way, I met Sean because of Ethan. Three months ago Ethan and I were to attend the opening of a Balthus exhibit at the Evol Gallery, and he suggested we meet beforehand at an establishment called Bertucci’s, right around the corner from the gallery. For some reason that escapes me, I arrived on time for a change, and equally as unfathomable, Ethan was late. The instant I walked into the dimly lit establishment, I had a sense of having stumbled onto the set of a gangster movie. The room was full of dark-haired men in expensive suits and thick gold bracelets who greeted each other with kisses on both cheeks. They were accompanied by gum-chewing women half their age with teased blond hair and long red fingernails. Cigarettes burned in just about every ashtray next to piles of cash laid out on the bar, presumably for the drinks and not the girls. Pictures of Frank Sinatra lined the walls and his music played in the background. I seated myself on a bar stool wondering what on planet Earth possessed Ethan to select this outpost of criminality for our rendezvous. Perhaps it was his idea of a joke.

  I was absorbed in the floor show, the people were actually quite interesting to watch, when I realized that someone was speaking to me. I turned my head and there behind the bar stood a most glorious specimen of youthful testosterone. With chiseled cheeks and a well-defined jaw, chestnut eyes ringed in thick black lashes and smooth olive skin, he was one of the sexiest creatures I had ever laid eyes upon. Even with his ponytail and pierced ear. He smiled at me with raw simian insolence, two dimples carving perfect parentheses into his cheeks.

  “I’m sorry, did you say something?” I stammered.

  “I asked if you wanted a drink, miss?”

  Suddenly alive in a physical sort of way I hadn’t considered for a while, I mindlessly ordered a glass of Chardonnay. Watching him reach over to get the bottle, I found myself admiring his muscular physique the same way middle-aged men drool over young female flesh. He put the wine in front of me and I took a sip. It would have caused any self-respecting Burgundian to slit his throat. Though it mattered little to me as he warmed me with another personal smile.

  “I haven’t seen you here before,” he said.

  Hardly, I thought. “No, you haven’t.”

  “You live nearby?”

  “I live along the lake.”

  “A Gold Coaster. I could tell the second you walked in.”

  I was intrigued. “Really? How is that?”

  “Oh, you stand out in here.” He leaned closer and I felt myself drawn into the chestnut-colored eyes. “You’re way different from those bimbos over there.”

  “Is that any way to speak of your clientele?”

  He laughed. “They know they’re bimbos. They’re proud of it. They make it an art form.”

  At that point someone named Mr. J. called him from the other end of the bar. “Aay, Sean.” He quickly attended to Mr. J., pouring for him from a chilled bottle of vodka and lighting his cigarette. Mr. J. unearthed what must have been a company payroll and peeled off a bill. He gave it to Sean and waved him off with his diamond-encrusted pinky ring. “Keep da change.” Sean was back with me a moment later.

  “You know, I’m only doing this on the side,” he said, indicating the bar and therefore his occupation. “I’m a model. Been trying to break into it for a while now. I’ve had a little success, you know, catalogues, Sunday paper, but I just haven’t gotten the big break. I figure I’m going to give it another year and if nothing clicks, it’s time to move on. I mean, I’m a college graduate and all. I don’t plan on standing behind a bar forever.”

  For the life of me, I will never fully comprehend what I did next or why I did it, but I heard my own voice saying, “I’ve got a rather close acquaintance who owns an agency. Her name is Jacquie Washington. Have you heard of her?”

  “Heard of her? I’ve been trying to get an appointment with her for months. She doesn’t even take my calls.”

  “Well, call her tomorrow and tell her that Pauline Cook referred you. I’m certain she will take your call.” The grateful look on his face warmed me to the heart, so much so that I reached into my bag and withdrew one of my personal calling cards. “And if she still won’t speak with you, contact me and I will see to it personally that she does.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “It’s nothing,” I said.

  At that point a wind-whipped and disheveled Ethan made his appearance, looking as if he had run the entire way from Rogers Park. “I’m sorry to be late, Pauline,” he said, combing his hair back over the top of his head. “There was an accident on Lake Shore Drive and they were rerouting all the traffic.”

  “That’s quite all right. I’ve been speaking with Mr…. Mr….”

  “Romero. Sean Romero.”

  “Mr. Romero here. He has kept me well entertained,” I said in all honesty. My glass was empty and we were running late for the opening, so I asked for the check. Sean would have nothing of it.

  “That’s on me,” he insisted.

  I thanked him and he gave me a very personal wink of his right eye. I coolly slid off the bar stool and walked to the door with a slightly exaggerated sway of my hips. Ethan noticed my theatrics and asked me about it the moment we were outside.

  “What was going on with you and that bartender?”

  “Nothing, I assure you. Though I don’t know that I would rail against the possibility.”

  “Please, Pauline,” he nearly shrieked. “Do not ever think of lowering yourself like some kind of desperate woman. It’s so unbecoming.”

  Throughout the entire exhibit, my thoughts kept looping back to the very sexy Sean Romero. But Balthus’s depictions of pubescent girls, and the strong sexual undertones his work carried, served to remind me of the great age difference between myself and the young bartender. Just the same, I phoned Jacquie the next morning and told her to expect his call. She said she would try and fit him in seeing he was such a good friend of mine. And though the flirtation had been a pleasant distraction, I figured that was that. By the end of the day, he was little more than an afterthought.

  Three days later, he called to tell me he had gotten an interview with Jacquie’s agency and asked if he might buy me dinner to show his gratitude. Since I had no plans for that evening, I couldn’t find any harm in it. I didn’t mention it to Ethan, thinking there was no sense in getting him all worked up over what would be a one-time encounter. When Sean arrived to pick me up, he was wearing a fitted Italian sport coat that only served to magnify the perfection of his body. He took me to an off-the-beaten-path restaurant in Buck-town that served a combination of Indian and Thai food. Not only was I the oldest woman in the establishment, but certainly the best-dressed. But the spicy food was sumptuous, Sean turned out to be pleasant company, and I was surprised at how quickly the evening passed.

  I was even more surprised when our date ended up in my bedroom.

  We had been seeing each other ever since. It was a fairly straightforward relationship. We would dine somewhere where I was fairly certain I wouldn’t see anyone I knew, and afterward spend several delirious hours in my bed. Or elsewhere in my apartment. Ethan insisted that Sean would hurt me in the end, but I assured Ethan I was old enough to look out for myself. I didn’t fool myself that Sean didn’t have other women in his life. Which was just as well as far as I was concerned. I certainly didn’t expect any kind of commitment from this young man, and the truth be told, no matter how good he made me feel in my bedroom, there was little room for him in my world outside of it. The differences were simply too great.

  Now an ocean away from Sean, he may as well have been on another planet. I tossed and turned, unable to
get Terrance Sullivan off my mind. At first glance, he was everything I could ever want in a man. He was my age, had money, was single, had money, was good-looking and charming. And had money. I thought about his words to me, the ones that left me so unsettled. Do you believe in fate? Henry said the same thing to me at that party in the Hamptons so many years ago. And there was one other similarity between the two men. Just like me, Henry had been a redhead, too.

  I thought about Terrance sleeping alone in the bedroom down the hall. My imagination carried me to his door where my gentle knock is answered by him wearing a loosely tied robe. Upon seeing me he smiles and pulls me into the dark with him. The robe slips away…

  Then I remembered the way Charmian had looked at him, and I doubted he was either sleeping or alone.

  9

  Burial Grounds

  After a restless night, I awoke and rang for the house servant to bring me coffee and a pastry in my room. I needed to shower and dress quickly in order to catch my train. Charmian knew I had an early departure, exempting me from a copious breakfast of eggs, bacon, potatoes, kippers, toast, and whatever other deadly foods start the day for the British. It’s a miracle they don’t drop dead in waves in the streets considering the extraordinary challenges presented to their arteries. I put on my makeup while I drank my coffee and ate my “biscuit.” I dressed sensibly in a beige cashmere sweater and black designer jeans for trudging about the countryside. Then I packed a small overnight bag with a change of underwear and toiletry items in case I missed the last train back to London and had to spend the night in Bury St. Edmunds.

  When I went downstairs, I was surprised to see Terrance Sullivan sitting in the salon, reading the Monday morning edition of The London Times. Lord David had already gone to his office, and Lady Charmian was nowhere in sight. When he saw me, Terrance folded his newspaper and stood up immediately. He was dressed in casual slacks and a hunter green pullover, and I noticed that his blue eyes of yesterday were now a deep green.

  “And here you are,” he said. “I wondered if you were ever comin’ down.”

  “Good morning,” I acknowledged him nervously. “I’d love to chat, but I’m rather pressed for time. My train leaves in thirty minutes.”

  “No need for a train,” he said. “Lord Grace has generously offered us use of his motor car. We can drive up to Bury St. Edmunds.”

  “We?” I hadn’t forgotten his offer of the night before, but I had already filed it away under idle chatter, especially after the vibes Charmian had been emanating.

  “Of course ‘we.’ I can’t let an opportunity to know you better get past. Don’t tell me you’d be preferring the services of an engineer over your own personal driver.”

  I might have told him he was wrong on that point. I loved the British rail system, and would have been fully content to sit back on a train indulging in a good book while the countryside glided past with a clickety-clack. But the thought of having a car at my disposal presented a great advantage. If I needed to explore outside of the town of Bury St. Edmunds itself, I wouldn’t have to hire a cab. And the guidebook I had said that Bury St. Edmunds was a small town, so for all I knew, taxis could be at a premium. Also, there was one other factor to take into consideration. Despite Lady Grace’s apparent interest in Terrance Sullivan, he still remained fair game. The chance to have his undivided attention had its appeal.

  “Well, then,” I acquiesced. “If you are serious…”

  “Of course I’m serious,” he echoed. “Then we’re off. The car’s just out front.”

  I decided not to make an issue of his presumption in having the car ready. After all he was a high-powered businessman, most likely accustomed to doing things expeditiously. Like a child being taken on holiday, I followed him blithely out the door where Lord Grace’s navy blue Bentley awaited us. He opened the passenger’s door for me.

  “Your chariot, madame,” he said.

  I slipped my overnight bag into the back seat before realizing it wouldn’t be needed now. With a car at our disposal, we could drive back at any hour so there was no worry about missing the last train. As we pulled away from the townhouse, I was glad that he was the one at the wheel. Though I love the taxis, I have no fondness for driving myself in England. With everything being on the opposite side, including the steering wheel, I never seem to be able to get a proper perspective for where I am on the road. Of course, this was no problem for Terrance who was from Ireland where the same rules applied. He negotiated his way through the Monday morning traffic and put us onto the carriageway to Bury St. Edmunds without ever consulting a map. I was flattered that he had gone so far as to get directions ahead of time, but I wondered how he could have been so sure I would take him up on his offer.

  “Charmian tells me you’re a merry widow,” he said before I had a chance to think about it any further.

  “I am widowed,” I replied curtly. “I wouldn’t say merrily.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean offense. Charmian said it’s been more than ten years since your husband’s passing. I’m an insensitive clod. Please forgive me.”

  “You’re forgiven. Actually, I’m really not sensitive to it. It has been a long time.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t remarried.”

  “Henry and I were the best of friends. I don’t know if I could ever find anyone to fill his shoes.”

  “But you’ve dated since?”

  “My husband died, not I…if that’s what you are implying.”

  He laughed that low, deep-throated chuckle of his and smiled at me. The look on his face reminded me of our first meeting the night before, giving me the sense that I might just as well be sitting naked in the passenger seat. “So tell me about this friend of yours we’re hunting up?” he asked.

  “What would you like to know?”

  “For starters, what was his name?”

  “That’s what I’m not quite sure about.” I went on to share Ethan’s entire history with him, how we met, his death and subsequent suicide note, the birth certificates found in his apartment. The only thing I omitted was Ethan’s reference to some terrible deed. I didn’t think it necessary. “It’s so hard to believe he’s gone,” I said. “He was so full of life. He just loved being the center of attention. Half the women in Chicago fussed over him. Of course, a lot of them had ulterior motives. Ethan wrote an annual article for Pipeline about Chicago women and who he thought had class, the ones who were best dressed, whose party invitations were the most coveted. Every woman in the city wanted to see her name on those lists and being a good friend of Ethan’s sure increased the odds.”

  Ethan had reveled in the power that occasional column brought him. I could never forget how the first time it appeared, Sunny’s name hadn’t even been mentioned. After that shun she made it her business to get close to him, inviting him for dinner, calling on him for advice. Her ploy worked because the next time the column ran her name was mentioned several times.

  “So, where did you rank on his lists?” he asked.

  “Now what would you think?” Of course Ethan always featured me prominently. I turned my head and stared at the passing countryside. “I still find it so hard to believe.”

  “That he’s dead.”

  “No. That he killed himself.”

  The two-hour drive flew past in no time at all. I learned we had a lot in common as we talked of favorite places and found we shared a love for Capri, Auckland, and Hong Kong, not to mention Paris. We were also partial to Brahms piano concertos and Italian opera. He told me he saw La Traviata at La Fenice opera house in Venice the very night the Mafia burned it down. He was also a fan of James Joyce, Fitzgerald, and Yeats. We differed on Shakespeare, his favorite play being The Taming of the Shrew, mine Antony and Cleopatra.

  Before I knew it we had left the motorway and were pulling into the small village of Bury St. Edmunds. With its cobblestone streets and ancient buildings, the town had the feel of a place bypassed by time. We drove into th
e town center where the ruins of a stone tower sat amid the dewey green of a large park. Terrance pulled the Bentley to the side and stopped.

  “Would you know where Bury St. Edmunds got its name?” he queried.

  “You’ll have to let me plead ignorance on that one.”

  “King Edmund of East Anglia was buried here way back in the tenth century.”

  “Thank you for enlightening me.”

  “So I don’t suppose you know what this abbey’s important for?”

  “I majored in English literature, not history, I’m afraid.”

  “One of the greatest turning points in civilization took place in there. In 1214, King John’s barons put their heads together in that very building and came up with a little piece of paper outlining some liberties they forced King John to accept. They called it ‘The Magna Carta.’”

  “Now, that I have heard of.”

  “The tower’s been sacked by the town’s people a couple of times over the centuries. Once as a protest against monastic control, another in a peasants’ revolt in 1327. It’s lain in ruins ever since.”

  “You’re a virtual encyclopedia, Mr. Sullivan,” I said.

  “See, now, aren’t you glad you didn’t take the train? You would’ve missed out on this fantastic lecture,” he laughed. “So what would you like to do now, Inspector Cook?”

  “Well, first I’d like to get a map.”

  He pointed to one of the ubiquitous blue i’s denoting an information center and a British Rail sign with an arrow pointing up the road. “How about the train station? I imagine you could get one there.”

  We pulled up to the station just as the train from London pulled in. A few people got off. If not for Terrance, I would have been one of them. We went inside the small stone building, but as luck would have it, the information booth was deserted. I asked a man sitting behind the ticket window when the booth would be reopening.

  “Not until June,” he replied with a ruddy-faced smile. “But maybe I can help you with something.”