Trust Fund Babies

by Jean Stone

  On the way into the foyer, Mary Beth paused at the Federal-period mirror that topped off the list. She straightened her hair and put on her best “I am a very wealthy woman looking for a change” face to eliminate speculation that she might, in fact, be broke. Into her reflection she said a silent prayer that no one in her family would come home right then and there. Then she inhaled a deep inhale and opened the door.

  Marta Hendersen wore a tailored navy suit and a detached expression. Behind her was a young man named William Something-or-other—Mary Beth didn’t quite get his name, but decided it didn’t matter. He seemed to be an assistant to the woman in navy blue.

  They began in the library. Slowly, methodically, so precisely that Mary Beth feared she’d scream Hurry up, for chrissakes. They worked their way through the sitting room, the dining room, the music room. A few things from one room, a few from another, like plucking chocolates from each layer in the box and hoping no one would notice they were gone. The process took three hours.

  By the time they made it to the upstairs study, Mary Beth’s eyes darted from her watch to Marta Hendersen. How much longer could this take? Had the woman’s calculations reached seventy-eight thousand yet, and would she write Mary Beth a check? “I hate to rush you,” Mary Beth said, “but I have an appointment.” It was, of course, not true.

  Marta Hendersen nodded but did not appear to care.

  It was another few minutes before the navy woman peeled the half-glasses from her nose, wiped her forehead, and said, “Of course, it’s too late for the fall catalog.”

  Mary Beth had begun breathing again, apparently too soon. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s almost the end of June. The fall catalog has been done for weeks. If we hurry, we can get your items in the winter collection.”

  “Winter?” Mary Beth asked as if she lived on a desert island and had never heard of such a thing.

  “It’s the best we can do. I wasn’t under the impression you needed to sell the things quickly.”

  No, of course Marta Hendersen had no such impression. Mary Beth made sure she had not conveyed urgency. Many acquaintances in her social circle dealt with Sotheby’s, bought and sold with them regularly. What if any of them found out?

  She checked her watch again. “Winter,” she repeated. “Well, I guess that will be fine.” So much for Phillipe.

  Marta Hendersen arranged for the truck to come tomorrow. Then she and William Something-or-other shook hands with Mary Beth and said good-bye. As they got on the elevator, Shauna was getting off.

  “Mother,” she asked, moving quickly to the front door that was still open, “what the hell is going on?”

  Shauna had been raised better than to swear at her mother, or at anyone for that matter. It was not something an Atkinson woman did, unless provoked beyond reasonable means.

  Mary Beth supposed that thinking her grandmother’s treasures were being sold out from under her might be considered reasonable.

  She smiled at her daughter and said, “The cook’s not here today. I’ll make us tea.” It had to be kitchen tea, because the sterling in the dining room had been cataloged and tagged.

  “Fuck the tea, Mother,” Shauna replied, holding out her hand to stop Mary Beth from escaping to the kitchen and having time to think.

  “Excuse me?” she asked, not because she hadn’t heard her.

  “I think I have a right to know what’s going on,” she said. Her voice trembled now, her cheeks were pink. “I want to know if what Daddy said is true, if you’re selling this apartment because you need the money.”

  Mary Beth did not know what she wanted more: to know how and when and where Shauna had spoken with her father, or what this nonsense was about selling the apartment.

  It did not surprise her that Eric was behind it.

  She went into the library and sat on one of the leather sofas. “You’re right, honey,” she said. “Fuck the tea.” She waited for a half-smile from her daughter that did not appear. Then she patted the cushion next to her. “Come here and tell me what happened.”

  Shauna remained standing as if unsure which way to go.

  “Honey,” Mary Beth repeated, trying to ignore the nerves that were exploding like tiny fireworks inside her heart. She knew that Shauna loved her father: They’d always had a good relationship, despite his errant-husband ways. Quietly she wondered if she were witnessing the tug-of-war that children of divorce endured and if this were a prelude to her future. “Please,” she said, “can’t we talk?”

  Shauna slowly moved into the room. She sat on the edge of the sofa, not quite ready to offer trust. “Daddy said you don’t have any money and that you listed the apartment. He said he heard it from Mrs. Ruddeforth who heard it from Mrs. Clarke who knows someone who handles the estate listings at Guinness and Sloan.”

  Mary Beth sighed. “I have no idea who told them something so preposterous,” she said lightly while wondering, Guinness and Sloan? Didn’t Roxanne’s tennis partner work there from time to time? She made a mental note to call Roxie when she had a chance to see if she had heard the rumor, too. God, Mary Beth thought, as if things aren’t bad enough. “Actually,” she said about the crisis of the moment, “maybe the mix-up came because I’ve just had some people here from Sotheby’s. I decided to redecorate. Freshen things up, you know? Maybe someone mistook that for … Who knows?”

  “Mother—”

  “And we need to talk about your father, darling. I will not allow the fact that he’s moved out to interfere with your wedding.”

  “But Mother—”

  Mary Beth held her index finger to her lips. “I don’t know what he’s told you, and I don’t need to know. But the truth is we’ve been arguing a lot, and though it’s all very silly, we decided to live under separate roofs for a short time, take a breather, you know?” She tried to smile. “It’s really quite civilized. I shouldn’t be saying this on what’s practically the eve of your wedding, but after twenty years, well, sometimes both parties need a little break. Who knows. A teeny separation might help us find that spark again. It doesn’t mean we don’t love each other. And it doesn’t mean we don’t love you.” At least the last sentence was true.

  Shauna nodded, but did look her mother in the eye. “I’m not worried about the wedding, Mother. But what about the money? Have you really lost your money?”

  No matter what, Mary Beth was damned if she was going to worry Shauna. What if Jason’s family learned the truth and canceled the wedding? After all, why would they want their son to marry a girl without a trust fund? A girl who went into a marriage penniless—the way Eric had done?

  No matter what, Mary Beth would not let that happen. And she would not have thought that Eric would do that either, not to Shauna.

  Then again, she would not have thought he’d have the balls to leave this house and not come back.

  “I’ve had a small situation happen with my trust fund administrator,” she said, keeping her tone level and unexcited, a major feat for which she really must remember to thank God. “It’s nothing that can’t be worked out.” She could not tell if Shauna believed her, but she hoped she wouldn’t ask for details.

  Shauna stood up. “Mother,” she said, her lower lip quivering, “I’m going to move in with Jason until we go to the Vineyard for the wedding. I don’t know what’s really going on between you and Daddy, and I don’t care about the money, but I do know I’m getting ready for the rest of my life, and I can’t take the chaos of all this turmoil. I’m sorry.”

  She started for the door, but Mary Beth could not let her leave just yet. “Shauna,” she called out. “Please, honey, can you answer me one question?”

  Shauna stopped but did not turn around.

  “Where is Daddy anyway? Is he living at the club?”

  “I have no idea,” her daughter said, then left.

  And Mary Beth sat there feeling sad about her daughter and angry about Eric, but grateful that Shauna would not be there tomorrow when Sotheb
y’s backed their truck up to the door.

  19

  It was almost as if no one had realized that Carla would be alone in the big house tonight and have the Atkinson estate all to her lonesome self. It hadn’t even dawned on her until after lunch that Mary Beth and Nikki and Gabrielle had all left for New York.

  Carla DiRoma, mistress of the mansion. Wouldn’t her mother have flipped?

  She had helped Sam scan the photos of Lester and e-mail them to police stations all over the country; she had continued her computer search, which had so far turned up nothing, though Sam said he had a couple of leads based on Lester’s credit card information.

  All day, however, Carla thought about how much fun tonight would be, if she would only have the guts to go poking through the house.

  Maybe just peek into those little desk drawers in the drawing room? Would that be considered illegal if somehow she got caught?

  She’d love to scope out Mary Beth’s room. Was her closet packed full of clothes; was her bathroom loaded with expensive makeup and imported perfume; did she have real silk nightgowns and could Carla wear one and pretend to sleep with Lester, to have rich people’s sex under the five-hundred-dollar comforter?

  She was checking the clock and looking forward to leaving camp for the day, when Alice came into the registration office with a dark-haired, gorgeous guy. It was the same guy she’d seen outside with Alice earlier that day; she had no idea who he was.

  “Carla,” Alice said, “this is Stefano Bonelli. Gabrielle’s husband.”

  Gabrielle’s husband? What was he doing there?

  “Obviously there’s been a mix-up and Stefano didn’t realize Gabrielle would be in New York. We’ve been back out to the airport, but he can’t get to the city today, so he might as well wait here for her. Unfortunately, my inn is booked. We’ve checked all over the island, but it’s summer. Our only option is the estate, if you don’t mind.”

  Mind? What right did she have to mind?

  “No,” Carla replied, “of course I don’t mind.” There was, after all, a lock on her door, and she could always sleep in her clothes. So much for her daydream of big-house explorations, which was probably just as well. She went back to work and wondered if she’d ever be able to stop her foolish daydreams and end up with a real life of her own.

  For one night and a morning, Nikki almost forgot that another day had passed and they still had not found Lester, that her remnant funds would soon be scarce and her kids were still in need.

  She and Gabrielle had caught Les Misérables and a late supper: Back at the hotel, a message from Dee awaited—“How about lunch at one o’clock at Dave Girotti’s Pasta Bar on West Forty-eighth?” Dee did not apologize for standing Nikki up on the Vineyard. Still, Nikki smiled at Gabrielle and said, “Hey, you never know. Someday she might like me after all.” She should have known Dee had something else on her mind. The morning was clear and sunny; Gabrielle went off sightseeing while Nikki met with her agent, then the cousins met on West Forty-eighth in time for lunch. Not surprisingly, Dee was half an hour late.

  “Sorry,” she said, without much sincerity. She slid into the booth beside her mother.

  “This is Gabrielle,” Nikki said, “my cousin.”

  Dee shook Gabrielle’s hand. “Wow,” she said, “You’re young.”

  “Just for that, I’m buying lunch,” Gabrielle said, and Nikki knew she had probably intended to all along, what with her having money and what with Nikki not.

  “I know,” Dee said as Gabrielle was watching her. “I don’t look like my mother. I look like my father. Do you know him?”

  Gabrielle shook her head. “I left the States when I was very young.”

  “Gabrielle is a countess,” Nikki said, and she could tell right away Gabrielle wished that she hadn’t. “Can you imagine?” she added, trying to smooth over her bungle, “and we thought Mary Beth was the only royalty in the family.”

  “The only thing royal about Mary Beth is that she’s a pain in the ass,” Dee said, and they all laughed, and Nikki felt comfortable with her daughter and very much liked the feeling.

  Gabrielle then told Dee about the vineyard in Tuscany and the villa that she lived in and about her daughter, Rosa. Nikki was pleased that Dee was behaving in a civil, pleasant manner, asking questions about Italy and the business of wine-making. But then, halfway through the conversation, halfway through the linguine olio, Dee asked Gabrielle, “So you’re Uncle Mack’s daughter?”

  Nikki almost choked. Dee had never seemed to care enough about the odds and ends of the family to pay attention to details; it never crossed her mind that she would mention Mack. Would she reveal that he lived on Martha’s Vineyard?

  Nikki spoke quickly. “Gabrielle and Uncle Mack haven’t seen each other for years. They’ve decided it’s really better if they don’t.” Fortunately Dee was a smart girl.

  “Oh,” was all she said, followed by “Sorry.” Then she added, “Before I forget, Mom, Dad wants to have dinner with you tonight.”

  “Connor?”

  “Yes,” Dee replied, “I believe that’s his name.”

  Nikki ignored her curt response. “I don’t know,” she said. “I have a full afternoon booked with my agent … we have several galleries to visit … tomorrow morning we’re going to visit Aunt Dorothy …”

  Dee shrugged. “He said he’ll pick you up at your hotel at eight o’clock, unless you call him and say no.”

  An awkward silence drifted over the booth, a feeling more familiar to Nikki when she was with Dee. Then Dee dropped the other shoe that she often carried. “And speaking of divorce, I want to ask you a question. Is Uncle Eric screwing another woman, and, if he is, do you think Aunt Mary Beth knows?”

  Nikki dressed in the black pants with the beaded top. Dinner with Connor would seem odd enough: She didn’t want to dress up as if this were a date. It was bad enough Gabrielle had gone out on her own—they’d called Mary Beth, who’d shrieked, “We’re a little busy. Have you checked the calendar?” They mentioned that tomorrow they were going to visit Dorothy before they went back to the Vineyard, to which Mary Beth made no comment, brusque or otherwise.

  If Nikki had had more warning she might have made an excuse about tonight, but Gabrielle convinced her there was no reason to say no. Connor had been invited to Shauna’s wedding; seeing him tonight might make his presence there more comfortable. Besides, he might want to discuss an issue concerning Dee.

  Pinning up her hair so the flecks of silver wouldn’t show, Nikki wondered if Gabrielle had encouraged her because she thought there was a chance Nikki and Connor could get back together. Nikki, of course, had failed to mention she was in love with someone else.

  Was Eric?

  Her thoughts moved to what Dee had said at lunch, that she’d seen Eric at the club, “getting hot with a redhead on the balcony.” She hadn’t gone too close, but she’d known that it was him. Who else left a trail of woodlike musk and wore those queer gray suits in summer?

  Nikki stared into the mirror and wondered if Mary Beth knew. How could she not? Mary Beth made it her business to know everything. But did such ability to control still count when love and trust—and emotion—were figured in the mix?

  She checked the back of her hair. It would be nice to have a pretty hair clip. No, she told herself, this was not a date. Though she and Mack had never said the word “commitment,” it had been implied.

  Unfortunately, despite their differences, she and Connor had always had great sex.

  Unfortunately, a few million of Connor’s dollars would help her life right now. Today her agent had placed another dozen paintings of Nikki’s “kids.” If Nikki found the time to do them—and if the portraits sold—they’d raise around six thousand dollars, maybe seven. Not much to live on for too long, never mind The Rose Foundation and the camp.

  She glanced at her watch. Still an hour until he’d be there. On the Vineyard dinner was at six, not eight. On the Vineyard by now she would have ei
ther climbed to the top of the lighthouse to study her morning’s work, snuggled onto the sofa with an afghan and a book, or retreated to the caretaker’s cottage, where she’d be wrapped up in Mack’s arms and legs and love.

  Instead she sat there, waiting for her former husband, whom, in truth, she might see more often if it wasn’t so disturbing.

  She knew that even at fifty, Connor still looked good. His dark hair had lightened and thinned on the top, his shoulders were a little more narrow, his waist a little thicker. But he still had a dreamy look in those gray-green eyes that belied his corporate savvy and his total power in the boardroom.

  In short, he had the walk and talk and smile and brains that magnetized success. Her mother had seen it when Nikki had first met him at the inaugural ball for Mayor Koch in 1977. She hadn’t wanted to go, but Margaret had insisted: “You never know whom you will meet.” Two years later, she hadn’t wanted to marry Connor, either, but by then he was wrapped up in the business.

  And there was the sex.

  It was one of those rare times in her life when Nikki decided to please her mother and do something conventional.

  It hadn’t been a bad marriage, it just hadn’t been right.

  She tapped her foot and checked her watch again. Only ten minutes had passed. She folded her hands, unfolded them, and touched the back of her hair. Then she stood up, grabbed her purse, and headed for the door. Maybe the shop downstairs had a pretty hair clip, one that didn’t cost the fortune that she’d lost.

  Tuesday evening on Fifth Avenue in midtown Manhattan seemed as deserted as a tomb in the Valley of the Kings. The shops were closed; the buildings locked up; this part of the city was not Paris or London, where real nightlife didn’t start until the wee hours began.

  The only places Gabrielle saw open were a couple of restaurants and the church.

  She hated dining alone, so she sat in the back of St. Patrick’s Cathedral now, waiting until she could return to the Plaza, until Connor would have taken Nikki to dinner.