by Abby Drake
“In that case, you might want to help out Carleen. Have you seen that quilted thing she’s toting around?”
“Maybe she can’t afford to buy her clothes. We really don’t know much about her life, do we?” Babe couldn’t believe that her irritation with Amanda had resulted in her defending Carleen.
Amanda elevated an eyebrow. “We know she’s returned to the scene of many of her crimes, Poughkeepsie notwithstanding. By the way, do you know your old boyfriend is on the guest list? Ray Williams? Wasn’t that his name?”
Babe slow-motioned her gaze from Amanda back toward Wes. But he had moved his performance to the girl with the ribbons, who now seemed as enrapt as the rest.
“Excuse me,” Babe said, then walked away, Amanda’s smugness casting a dark shadow behind her.
Chapter Twenty-one
Okay, so it was mean. But Amanda was sick to death of this weekend and of trying to put on the show of all shows. Besides, seeing Ray’s name on the clipboard had been too juicy not to share, first with Carleen, then with Babe.
That would teach them both to think Amanda wasn’t on top of the real things that mattered.
She stayed by the roses now, trying to determine where, and with whom, her time would be best spent.
From here she could see her boys, both working to get the golden Statue of Liberty to flinch. She could intervene but did not have the interest.
Heather and the boyfriend were not in sight. Hopefully they were not fornicating in clear view of the crowd assembled under the tent. Just because the two lovebirds had showered and changed did not mean they were fit for society, even Edward’s.
Amanda’s gaze trailed down the hill toward the dock and the boathouse. Jonathan still had not made his way back in the stolen rowboat. Maybe he and Edward had both gone over the falls and Amanda would stand to inherit.
A third (a quarter?) of Edward’s estate.
The two-million-dollar life insurance policy the firm had on Jonathan.
A trace of a smile flitted over her lips. Did she dare wish for such a glorious outcome to this asinine weekend? Resolution to her debt, a new fiscal future free from a cad of a husband?
If Jonathan died, would she be obligated to notify the back-waxer?
“Amanda, darling, whatever are you doing over there in the bushes?” The woman who called out looked vaguely familiar. She wore a great deal of what looked like peacock feathers, including a few in her shock of white hair. Her thin lips were painted too red and her rouge (yes, rouge, not blush) seemed to have been extracted from the same pot. She sat in a cluster of wide-eyed ladies. “Come tell us if it’s true that Carleen was invited.” She patted the eggshell-colored, padded fabric that covered the plastic folding chair and was supposed to look like upholstery. “She worked for my sister in Boston, you know. Mostly stitching ready-to-wear.”
That’s when Amanda realized the woman was Nola, the costume designer who’d been known for her gossip as well as her getups. Amanda hadn’t known (or cared) that Nola had a sister in Boston where Carleen had apparently worked. No doubt Edward secured her the job.
And now the ladies-in-waiting wanted to dish about the decadent sister.
Why the hell not? Amanda trotted to the champagne table and snatched a bottle. Chitchat would be more fun than pondering her mess of a life.
Besides, she thought, as an added attraction she could ice the gossip cake with a tidbit about Babe’s old boyfriend who might make an appearance—wouldn’t that be a hoot?
Babe had no idea what to do, where to hide, and if, in fact, hiding was what she wanted to do.
Ray.
She stole her way to the path that led to his house because it was safe, or at least it always had been. She supposed, on a subconscious level, that she hoped he’d once again step into her reflection and into her heart.
You are not a teenager, she reminded herself as she slipped through the overgrowth, further from the party. And you are married. Your life is not here.
That, of course, was from her sensible-self sitting on her right shoulder, whispering in her right ear. On her left side, however, was her emotional-self, who now said, But wouldn’t it be wonderful to feel love again?
And then she found her special place. She sat on the ground, not caring if it ruined her dress.
When she’d first gone to Hollywood, thoughts of Ray had been the catalyst for each performance: maybe he would hear she had a part in a movie, maybe he would see it, maybe he would realize he was still in love with her and had to be with her. Maybe he would go to California and rescue Babe from herself.
One film, then another, and another. Her star rose high; surely he’d learned what she was doing. But he didn’t come. After several films, several years, she tucked his memory away. She married, divorced, married again. She was nominated for an Oscar. Still, he didn’t come.
Looking into the water, Babe started to cry. Slowly, at first, the way she’d cried for so long after the baby, after Ray. She sat there, a grown woman, an international film star, her dress getting soiled, her cheeks streaking mascara, not knowing what to do next, yet knowing the fairy tale had ended long ago and Ray’s reflection would not appear again.
Carleen sat on the steps that led to the back porch at Ray Williams’s house. She pulled up her knees and gathered her long skirt around her ankles. There had been no answer when she’d knocked on the screen door, but the inside door was open, so someone must have been around. Waiting was better than going back to Edward’s house, back to the party, where she wasn’t wanted.
She didn’t have to wait long.
A young boy about twelve lumbered up the hill from a pontoon boat that was tied up at a pier next to a boathouse. He carried a blanket, a bottle of Gatorade, and what looked like a walkie-talkie. Beside him, a chocolate Lab pranced.
“May I help you?” the boy called.
It was nice to see he had manners. Carleen stood up and laughed at herself for thinking as Amanda would have.
A few hours back in Amanda’s aura was clearly not good for her brain!
“Are you Ray Williams’s boy?”
As he grew closer, Carleen realized she hadn’t needed to ask. He looked so much like the boy she remembered, with thick, black hair and Irish blue eyes and freckles scattered across his nose.
“Kevin Williams,” he said, though he did not set down his things and offer to shake hands. “Ray’s my dad.”
Carleen nodded. “You look like him. Is he home?”
“He’s working.”
“On a Saturday afternoon?”
“His office is here.”
“I knocked.”
“He probably didn’t hear you. He turns on his music sometimes.” The whole time they stood there, Kevin was sizing her up like a cop working a suspect. “Maybe I can help you. My dad’s busy this time of year.”
If she told him who she was, the kid would go inside and tell Ray, who would probably instruct him to lock all the windows and doors. Carleen smiled and said, “Thanks, but I really need to talk directly to him.”
A small scowl appeared. “Can I at least tell him your name?” Just then his walkie-talkie started to crackle. A gravelly, distant voice came through the speaker and asked, “Kevin?” The boy flicked his eyes from Carleen to the phone, back to Carleen, back to the phone. He fumbled a second, then flipped a switch. The static was cut off. “Look,” he said, “I’m kind of in a hurry.”
She decided he left her no choice. “I’m sorry to bother you. But please tell your father that Carleen is here.”
The boy eyed her another quick moment, then went onto the porch, the screen door slapping behind him, the dog left sitting, watching her.
She listened but couldn’t hear anything.
Looking back toward the lake, Carleen wondered why Edward had invited Ray. Had he wanted Babe and Ray to reunite? As far as Carleen knew, Edward had not known that Babe had been pregnant. The sisters had all known, not the adults. She’d been so careful when s
he’d brought Babe back to Edward’s after the procedure. She’d told him Babe had cramps—a word guaranteed to make Edward vanish, to not expect Babe for dinner, to not inquire about details of her condition. So Babe had stayed in her room. The sisters took turns bringing her tea and chicken noodle soup, though she wouldn’t eat, and she wouldn’t drink. For the first time in Carleen’s life, she’d been afraid. She did not fear her parents, or that they’d learn about the abortion. No. Carleen had been afraid that Babe would die and it would be her fault.
Which was the real reason why, three days later, she left for Poughkeepsie in search of her birth certificate so she could elope with Earl and run away from the rest.
But Edward had no way of knowing that Babe was not merely suffering from cramps. Did he?
Was Ray’s invitation to today’s party merely a coincidence?
“Carleen.”
She laughed and turned back to the porch. “I never need to use my last name. I just say ‘Carleen,’ and everyone seems to know who I am. Especially around here.” He looked pretty good for a guy who, as she remembered, was the same age as she was, three years older than Babe. His hair was still dark, though his freckles seemed muted. He wore jeans and a brown T-shirt that had a picture of a tree with a caption that read Every Day is Earth Day. He didn’t look dressed for a party.
“You look well,” Ray said.
“We thought we might see you next door.”
He smiled. “I could lie and say I’m too busy.”
“But?”
“But the truth is, I’ve only seen Edward a handful of times over the years. I didn’t think that warranted being part of his celebration.” He scratched the dog’s left ear, then the right.
“Babe is here.” She blurted it out so quickly that she startled herself.
“I wondered if she would be.”
“It’s her first time back.”
“And?”
“And I thought it might be nice if you saw each other again. I always felt there was unfinished business between the two of you. That maybe you needed closure or something.”
He folded his arms, concealing the line about Earth Day. “You’re kidding, right? I mean, Jesus, Carleen, we were kids back then.”
“Not really,” she said. “You weren’t kids, not really.”
He frowned. “Did she send you over?”
Carleen shook her head. “As far as I know, she doesn’t know you still live here.”
Looking past her, then down toward the lake, to the shore, then across the water, Ray said, “Come on, Carleen. She’s a big-time movie star. I’m sure I’m the last person she wants to see.”
“It was my fault,” Carleen suddenly said, as she lowered her voice, her eyes, her chin. “The abortion. It was my fault. I convinced her not to tell our parents. After I came over here and told your father that Babe was pregnant, well, I made all the arrangements.”
Ray narrowed his eyes. His hands grasped her arms. “What abortion, Carleen? What the hell do you mean, you told my father?”"
Chapter Twenty-two
“Well?” David Goldsmith quizzed Ellie, who stood by Martina, overseeing the removal of the entrée chafing dishes. The guests seemed to have had their fill of barbecue; it was time for desserts—birthday cake, ice cream, brownies, more all-American food for this odd-American group. “Where is he?”
Ellie smiled, as if she had no idea to whom David was referring. But he carried a half-smoked stogie in one hand, and his seersucker had started to wilt. It was only two o’clock, but it was apparent this party would not last into the night the way Edward’s parties had once done.
The guests were older, after all. Wiser. More sensible.
Ellie felt older, too, from keeping up appearances.
She spotted Amanda chatting with the costume designer and her cronies. At least Amanda seemed content.
Carleen was nowhere to be seen; neither was Babe. Hopefully they were not somewhere together, scratching at each other’s eyes.
“You don’t know where he is, do you?” the former playwright asked.
Ellie shook her head. “I haven’t got a clue. He left yesterday morning.” Relief washed over her. Saying the words out loud—to someone other than the family—seemed somehow cathartic.
“Good for him,” David responded. “When I turn seventy-five, I hope I have the balls to disappear, too.”
With his wrinkled face and his saggy jacket, he looked older than Edward. She had a fleeting thought about how quickly Edward would age once the cancer really took hold. “It would be nice to tell someone you’re going, though,” she said quietly. “It isn’t right to deliberately cause your family worry.”
He puffed on his cigar. “He didn’t leave a note?”
“Nothing. Henry and I figured out he took his iPod and his binoculars and Oliver Twist.”
“Henry. Ah, yes, that little man.”
“Excuse me?”
David puffed again and chuckled. “Before you blame Edward, you might be wise to do a background check on Henry. You might learn this isn’t the first time one of his lovers has disappeared.”
Two pastry chefs arrived, carrying a three-layer sheet cake decorated like Times Square—not the one with Toys “R” Us and the Virgin Megastore but the old Broadway district, with marquees for the Shubert and the Biltmore and the Booth; for Cabaret, The Odd Couple, and Edward’s Central Park. Mini LED lights blinked and flashed and cast a happy glow; guests from every table rose from their chairs and wove around one another for a closer look. If Edward had been present, he would have blown out the single candle that stood atop One Times Square, home of the New Year’s Eve ball. In view of Edward’s absence, Ellie quickly extinguished the flame.
A tenor in the crowd began to sing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” Perhaps he didn’t realize the birthday boy wasn’t there. Still, almost everyone joined in halfway through the stanza, including David Goldsmith, as if he hadn’t just presented a frightening thought.
Henry?
Had Henry done something to Edward?
The singing abated, and Ellie said everyone should please return to their tables, that the waitstaff would cut the cake and deliver generous pieces. As David turned to leave, she grabbed his shoulder.
“What did you mean?” she asked. “Henry is harmless and quiet. You must have him confused with someone else.”
David bent to the ground, where he tamped out his Havana. “All these years,” he said. “Did you think we no longer came here because Edward didn’t want us? Or because of that unfortunate incident with your sister Carleen?”
Ellie didn’t know what to say. Of course she’d thought the parties had ended because of Carleen. Because Uncle Edward had left the theater because of the fire and the trial and the scandal.
“No, child. Edward stopped entertaining because of Henry. None of us wanted to be around the little twit. He had such a disagreeable side. He enjoyed butting into other people’s business. Like the way he intervened when your mother wanted to leave your father. Oh, I see I’ve said too much.”
Ellie felt herself pale. She stared at David, her eyes unblinking. As far as she knew, Henry had not known her parents. What on earth did David mean? But just as she started to ask for details, a whip-whip of helicopter blades sliced through the air.
Voices gasped.
Necks swiveled toward the sky.
Hands elevated to visor the sun.
“It must be Edward!” someone cried. “He’s here at last!”
Thank God, Ellie thought, dabbing her brow with Babe’s scarf. Thank God.
The enormous metal insect dipped and bent toward them without attempting to alight. Then, from one of the aircraft’s open doors, a man in fatigues thrust a long-lensed camera and pointed it directly at the crowd.
Ellie followed the invisible line of sight that led straight to the photographer’s subject: Wes McCall.
So Edward had not returned, after all.
Amanda assumed
her creditors had flown in to capture her, that the camera was an automatic weapon, and the man behind the trigger had her in his crosshairs. Who knew what collection agencies would resort to these days?
She supposed it would serve her right for wearing the cherry-colored sundress when she should have planned something less conspicuous.
But, alas, the shooter seemed more interested in Babe’s husband than in a run-of-the-mill deadbeat like her.
With a hasty excuse to the costume lady and her friends (whose interest had been diverted by the helicopter before Amanda had had the chance to snitch about Babe’s carnal teen years), Amanda clambered over to Ellie. “I suppose this is a standard Hollywood party occurrence,” she griped.
“I thought it was him, Amanda-Belle. I thought it was Uncle Edward.”
“I do believe the old coot has abandoned us. It looks, however, as if we’ll be featured in a celebrity rag.” As soon as she’d said it, she wondered if her creditors stooped to reading the rags. If so, they might see her picture and project that, as Edward Dalton’s niece, she had access to the means to pay them off.
Oh, no! They would expose her to the world! She never could show face on Park Avenue again!
She slapped her hands over her face as if she were Britney Spears or the late Michael Jackson. Peeking through her fingers, she saw the man in fatigues change equipment, then arm himself with a video camera, a big one, like television stations used. The Insider. Celeb. Hot Gossip.
Argh! She’d be on cable as well as in print! YouTube wouldn’t be far behind!
The cameraman took aim in one direction after another while the deafening metal beast dove in for a close-up.
That’s when all hell broke loose.
The cyclone from the blades whirled the paper tablecloths and the padded chair covers.
Ladies whooped and grabbed their hats and hemlines.
Men held on to their toupees.
Ellie waved and waved, as if she could shoo the thing away. “Wes must be behind this!” she shouted to Amanda. “He needs to stop them!” She stumbled through the wind and the flying paper debris until she reached the celebrity in question, who stood, calmly gazing around, his sunglasses perched in place, a tiny smile revealing hints of his trademark dimples.
