School of Fortune

by Amanda Brown

  “Yes. I swear on a stack of King James Bibles.” Easy for Sheldon to say: he was Jewish.

  “That is such a relief. I feel like a huge rock has been lifted off my heart.”

  “One reason I came here was to tell you that relatively good news.” Sheldon opened his briefcase. “We also have a few legal matters to discuss.”

  His tone of voice did not bode well. Pippa brought the tea and sat opposite Sheldon at the kitchen table. “You must understand that your mother is not quite herself,” he began. “That said, she is mentally alert enough to have had papers drawn up this morning.”

  Pippa tried to remember what all those lawyers on the talk shows had been jawing about. “Is she suing me for breach of contract?”

  “No, dear. She intends to disown you.”

  Pippa trembled. What a cruel word! “What does that mean?”

  “That means you will no longer be considered her daughter. Her fortune will not be passed on to you. You will no longer be able to consider Fleur-de-Lis your home. Legally, you should consider yourself an orphan, like David Copperfield.”

  “What about my father?” Pippa croaked. “Does he want to disown me, too?”

  “As of yesterday, he was playing golf in Morocco. Your mother ran him out of the house with an antique candelabra. He feared for his life.”

  “I have to call him,” Pippa said. “He’d never agree to this.”

  Sheldon’s silence suggested that this could be a misassumption. “Pippa, some decisions are very difficult to understand. You are no longer a child. You must assume responsibility for your actions. Thanks to you, Thayne is in a precarious social position, perhaps for the rest of her life. You can hardly expect her not to be furious and a little vengeful.”

  “You call disowning me a little vengeful?” Pippa shrieked. She dropped her head into her hands. “I’m sorry, Sheldon. This is a bit of a shock.” Out on the streets! No college degree. No roof over her head. No allowance. No professional skills. Pippa didn’t even know if she was capable of operating the cash register at Taco Bell. “How will I survive?”

  Sheldon somberly sipped his tea. “Destiny works in strange ways. Your grandfather always believed you had great potential. He encouraged you to follow your dreams, be it making movies in Prague or marrying a Henderson.” Sheldon tactfully refrained from mentioning that neither of these endeavors had amounted to a hill of beans. “He always wanted the best for you, but he wanted you to earn it. To that end he put a trust fund in place, effective upon his death.” Sheldon took a few papers from his briefcase and donned a pair of reading glasses. “You will receive an allowance of sixty thousand dollars each month.”

  “Thank God!”

  “There’s a catch. ‘This trust shall provide for you so long as you are in school.’“

  “What kind of school?”

  “That is your choice.” Sheldon continued reading. “‘If and when you earn your diploma, you will receive the remainder of the trust.’ Since that’s somewhere in the neighborhood of a billion dollars, I suggest you try to pass final exams.”

  “How can I go back to school? I’m infamous.”

  “The wording is ironclad. You’ve inherited most of Anson’s estate, Pippa. He has left a mere pittance, fifty million or so, to your father. Which is why Thayne may have attempted to kill him with that candelabra.”

  “I don’t understand! Why did Robert get barely anything?”

  “We can’t question the dead. I suspect Anson feared your mother would fritter away the Walker fortune. Her lavish tastes are well documented. Whereas he had complete faith that you would do something more meaningful with the money.” Sheldon removed his glasses. “Any questions?”

  “Sorry. I’m in shock.”

  “I’m afraid we all are. Would you mind if I made one suggestion that might make life easier for everyone? Change your name immediately. Go to school and begin a new life.”

  “That’s three suggestions.”

  “Just change your name then. I can draw up the paperwork immediately.” Sheldon uncapped his Montblanc pen. “Henceforth, you would like to be known as . . . ?”

  “How am I supposed to know? It’s not as if I’ve been thinking about this for the last few years.”

  “Yes, of course.” He put a business card on the table. “That’s my private line. Call anytime, day or night. There are more cookies in the bag.”

  Pippa stopped him at the door. “Do you think Thayne will ever speak to me again?”

  “You’ve got to give it some time, child. You have inflicted a deep wound.”

  “But there’s more to the story. I haven’t told her everything.”

  Sheldon shuddered. “I’m not sure her constitution can withstand any more revelations. Goodbye, dear. Think about that new name. And where you might like to live, not necessarily Dallas.”

  After he left, Pippa poured herself a good shot of scotch, her first strong drink since the wedding. She would soon be rich beyond her wildest dreams, at the price of losing her family and reputation. That was not a good bargain. Pippa would gladly have traded every last cent for the chance to turn back the clock to Saturday afternoon, shortly before five. If money couldn’t do that for her, what good was it?

  Nevertheless, for Sheldon’s benefit, she began paging through Ginny’s Town & Country magazines in search of a suitable alias. How about Starlene? Bertha? Binky? Each was worse than the last. How about last names? Pippa rearranged the letters in Walker: Krelwa. Lawrek. Wrakel. Everything sounded like a Latvian terrorist. Forget names, how about a new place to live? New York. San Francisco. Paris. Shanghai. Maybe she should stick to Texas, hide out in Hico or Flato-nia, someplace so dusty and lifeless that no one would ever think to look for her there. She could lie on a couch, tube out, and nosh all day like Gilbert Grape’s mother.

  That was beneath a Walker’s dignity, so Pippa tried to figure out what she might like to study. Shopping 101 was not offered at any university. Media studies? She was great at watching television. Once upon a time Pippa had wanted to teach kindergarten. A month’s internship, dealing with irrational parents, had changed her mind. After Prague she had no further interest in making movies. Law, science, business, medicine: way too cutthroat. Back to square one.

  As she finished the tin of lemon snaps, Pippa listed her strong points: listens well, kind person, neat appearance. Sighing, she put down her pencil. To be completely honest she did have a career, and that was Daughter of Thayne. That’s what she truly excelled at. Where she felt at home. She wistfully toyed with the gold chain around her ankle. Her mother had given it to her for the wedding so that she would be wearing something borrowed. It was all she had left of her now.

  Once again Pippa collapsed in tears on the couch. She would never again walk in the garden at Fleur-de-Lis, never wake up in her canopied bed to the aroma of fresh coffee, all because she had tried to help a condemned man. Where the hell was he now? Where was his mother? Anybody? The walls were closing in on her. Pippa had to get out before she slit her wrists in Ginny’s Hydro Spa. Neiman’s to the rescue!

  Pippa shot to her feet. After a fairly violent scrubbing in the shower, she faced the problem of what to wear on her excursion. None of Ginny’s clothing fit, nor did she have much of a mascara collection. Pippa couldn’t possibly go out in that camouflage T-shirt and white Blahniks. Defeated before she had even begun, she slumped into the chaise longue by the cathedral window.

  A hard cushion lodged against the small of her back. It turned out to be her rolled-up wedding gown. Sight of her lovely dress now wrinkled and abandoned almost precipitated a fresh fit of sobbing; then Pippa realized she was holding the only clothing here that was her size. She found a pair of scissors and snipped three feet of material off the hem, turning her Vera Wang gown into a strapless frock with a short but extremely full skirt. Pippa located her Lipo in a Box and her four-inch Blahnik heels under the bed. She had never taken her engagement ring off. Now she added the yellow diamond earr
ings Lance had sent her the morning of the wedding and the diamond choker her grandfather had given her as an engagement gift. She looked in the mirror. There stood a young woman wearing a fortune in gems, an abused dress, and six-hundred-dollar shoes: perfect Texan shopping attire!

  Ginny was a fan of huge sunglasses and safari hats. Pippa borrowed the least offensive of these from the walk-in closet. Locating a small beaded purse with the price tag still on, she stuffed it with cash from her father. She doused herself with the Thayne perfume on Ginny’s dresser then slipped the flacon into her purse. It would go everywhere with her from now on. On the way out she folded Sheldon’s business card into the wad of bills in case she happened to come up with a new name, a place to live, a school to attend, or a path in life.

  The automatic garage door opened. Pippa backed Ginny’s Lexus SUV out the driveway. Fresh air! Sunshine! Movement! Drunk with freedom, Pippa couldn’t resist taking the huge vehicle on the highway for a spin. She turned the CD player up full blast and, singing along with Josh Groban, motored around Dallas. Near the end of the CD, somewhere on Route 75, Pippa glanced into her rarely used rearview mirror and was surprised to see flashing blue lights directly behind her. She put the music in pause and opened her window a crack.

  “YOU! PULL OFF THE HIGHWAY NOW! LAST WARNING!”

  So that was the strange noise she had been hearing for twenty minutes. The man sounded incredibly angry. Pippa veered across three lanes of traffic and pulled onto the shoulder. She waited nervously as the patrol car phoned in Ginny’s license plate. In her sideview mirror she watched a stony-faced Goliath of a policeman stride toward her window.

  “Yes, Officer?” she asked meekly.

  “I’ve been following you for twenty miles. You’ve been speeding for all twenty of them.”

  “I’m sorry. You just tap the gas on this thing and it goes forward.”

  “Do you know what a rearview mirror is for?”

  Putting on lipstick, obviously. Pippa didn’t think the officer would relate to that. “For seeing what’s behind you?”

  “Right! License and registration, please.”

  Pippa found Ginny’s registration in the glove compartment. “This is my friend’s car. She’s in Costa Rica. I’m staying at her house. I’m afraid I’ve left my license at home. I only have a little bit of money in my purse. Well, Ginny’s purse. My father gave me the money when I tried to go home the other day. My mother won’t let me home because I’m an orphan now so I’m staying at Ginny’s while she’s in the jungle studying nesting habits of the—”

  “Get out of the car. Pop the trunk.” He found nothing inside but a gigantic striped top hat.

  “That’s Ginny’s Mad Hatter hat! Isn’t it sweet?”

  His lips didn’t move. “Name and address, please.”

  “Pippa Walker,” she whispered. “I live at Fleur-de-Lis on Royal Lane. Used to live, anyway.”

  The officer’s eyebrows rose half an inch. The butchered dress, the diamonds and white shoes, the bright yellow sunglasses were beginning to make a little more sense now. He recognized the face that had been dominating news broadcasts for the last few days. “You just had a wedding.”

  Her face fell. “Sort of.”

  Poor kid looked like a ghost. Last thing Balker Walker needed was more public trauma. Still, he had sworn to uphold the law. The officer began filling out a triplicate form. “You’ll have to appear in traffic court and pay a fine for speeding. Bring your license, if you can find it.”

  “Court? With lawyers and police? Photographers?”

  She looked about ready to lunge into oncoming traffic. He felt sorry for her. She was so outrageously cute, even in that nutty safari hat. “Or you can go to traffic school.”

  Pippa stood absolutely still for a long moment. Then she asked, “Could I make one eensie little phone call? Please, it’s a matter of life or death.”

  She found a little card in her beaded purse. “Sheldon! Does traffic school count as school?” Hardly breathing, Pippa listened to the answer. Life and color returned to her face. “I’ll go to traffic school, Officer,” she said, nearly giddy with excitement. One would think he had just presented her with a flying carpet. “Thank you so much!”

  Nine

  Unaware of the road rage she was creating in her wake, Pippa drove at a rock-solid thirty miles per hour to Neiman Marcus as she talked with Sheldon on her cell phone. He promised to look into the driving school schedule and get some electronic funds transfers going once Pippa was officially enrolled. “You won’t be using your given name, will you?” he asked. “One media circus is enough for the time being.”

  “I’m still thinking about an alias. It’s harder than you think.”

  After parking in a remote corner of the lot, Pippa took the escalator to American Designers, a department she could navigate blindfolded. She was only halfway through the Zac Posen rack when a nearby voice drawled, “That is not your style, Katherine.”

  “Give me a break, Mum. What would you know about my style?”

  Pippa cringed to see Mrs. Bingo Buntz IV not ten feet away. Her daughter was modeling a white gown that only accentuated her Rubenesque contours. “You are not wearing that to the cotillion. It is extremely tacky.”

  “But it’s seven thousand dollars!”

  Mrs. Buntz inspected the price tag. “I suppose it’s a possibility.

  There has to be something on this floor for at least ten. Miss! Could you help us?”

  Pippa took the opportunity to slink to a far-off rack containing loud pinks and turquoises by Lilly Pulitzer. She was pawing through that when who should emerge from a nearby dressing room but Leah and Cora, her erstwhile bridesmaids. In a panic Pippa dropped to her knees and began crawling to the far corner of the American Designers department.

  “May I help you, ma’am?” a voice asked as she was trying to break through a clot of floor-length gypsy skirts.

  Pippa glanced up at a pair of shins. “I seem to have lost my contact lens.”

  The salesgirl was too polite to ask how that could occur if Pippa was wearing huge sunglasses. Instead she knelt beside her. “What color was it?”

  “Listen,” Pippa whispered. “Forget the contact lens. I’m sure it’s crushed. I want you to bring me everything you’ve got in Zac Posen size six.” When the girl merely stared at her, Pippa added, “I’ve got agoraphobia. It’s a miracle I made it this far. And don’t tell anyone I’m here!”

  The diamonds convinced the salesgirl that Pippa, though insane, had disposable income. “Stay calm. I’ll be right back.”

  The girl quickly returned with an armful of dresses. “Fine,” Pippa said. “Can you bring me a couple of Laundry skirts and tops? Also a dozen panties and some 34C La Perla underwire bras? A little leather jacket by Andrew Marc would be good. I need a pair of sneakers, white sandals, and black flats. Size eight. Ferragamo if they’re not too pointy.”

  “I don’t think Ferragamo makes sneakers.”

  “Whatever.” Pippa handed over an inch of hundred-dollar bills. “Here’s some cash.”

  As soon as the girl left, Pippa wriggled out of her nonwedding half-gown. She chewed the price tag off a ruffly red dress and was sliding it over her head when she heard Mrs. Bingo Buntz IV say, “Look at those nice long skirts, Katherine.”

  Seeing two pairs of approaching shoes, Pippa rolled behind a rack of DKNY trousers just in the nick of time. “You can’t be serious, Mum,” the daughter said, removing a gypsy skirt for inspection.

  “These are so Woodstock.” Pippa watched in horror as Katherine lifted her wedding dress off the floor. “Hey, this is kind of cute.”

  “Never pick something off the floor! Look at that hem. This has been seriously vandalized.”

  “But I love the bodice. We can get a seamstress to fix the bottom, can’t we?”

  “Miss! Can you help us? We’d like to purchase this dress.”

  Pippa saw a third pair of shoes join the Buntzes’ clodhoppers. After
a moment the salesgirl asked, “Where did you find this?”

  “Right here, mixed in with the gypsy skirts.”

  “It doesn’t seem to be in salable condition. I’m not sure this is one of our gowns.”

  “Of course it is. Look at the label. You do have a Vera Wang boutique, don’t you?”

  “Let’s take a look.” Three pairs of shoes, and the wedding dress, went away.

  Pippa bit her own hand so that she wouldn’t scream. She counted to one hundred as she rocked back and forth. After another eon she heard a voice.

  “Ma’am?” Her salesgirl was squatting beside her. “I think I’ve got everything.”

  “Not quite! Go to the La Prairie counter and get me foundation, sunscreen, blush, eyeliner, shadow, mascara, foam cleanser, exfoliator, antiwrinkle cream, and three lipsticks. My color is three point four. Then meet me with everything in sports memorabilia.” No female Pippa knew would ever go there. She handed over the chewed-off price tag of the ruffly dress she was wearing. “Add this to the bill. Wait! Do you see two blondes with big hair anywhere?”

  The salesgirl stood up. “There are about twenty of them duking it out at the Moschino sale. Don’t worry, no one’s looking over here.”

  Pippa scuttled downstairs as rapidly as dignity allowed. Every few steps, it seemed, one of her friends, or Thayne’s friends, or someone who looked like a wedding guest, or a musician from the Dallas Symphony, stepped in her path. She put one foot ahead of the other until she stood in front of a glass case containing autographed baseballs, boxing gloves, and hockey sticks. A few weeks ago, at this very counter, she had bought Lance a signed photograph of Roger Staubach’s “Hail Mary” pass to Drew Pearson.

  “May I help you, ma’am?” the salesman asked.

  “Did you sell that autographed picture of Lance Henderson?” Pippa asked, trying to kill time. “I saw it here a while back.”

  “We’re totally sold out. Every girl in Texas wants a picture of him now that he’s back in circulation.” The salesman had no sooner spoken than two girls came to the counter asking for a Lance Henderson picture, preferably from the rear in football tights.