The school I chose, part of the Washington National Cathedral, was solid and established, and most of his friends from preschool were starting there, too. I felt confident it would bolster him, make him feel safe. It attracted parents who were typical of Washington’s comfortable and powerful “haves”—politicians, lobbyists, lawyers, journalists. Most of them were there that first day, too. I wasn’t sure if I still fit in with those glossy, mannered mothers and fathers, or even if I wanted to, but it didn’t matter. Spencer was happy to be there with his friends.
Parents stood around outside, chatting in small groups. Everybody looked good and spoke politely and was on their best parental behavior. I milled around in my jeans and blazer, saying hello to a few people I knew. I could tell from his exuberant mood that Spencer was reveling in having this time with me, making him like every other kid whose parents were there, and making us altogether more normal than whatever it was we’d become. Seeing his happy face, his confidence, I knew I had done the right thing in not taking off for London and leaving him to start school alone.
“Hey, Mom, look at this,” Spencer said, pulling at my arm, pointing to a big green tube slide. “This is so cool.” He jumped in and disappeared. From down at the bottom I heard a faint voice cry, “Come on, Mom, you do it, too.”
I looked around self-consciously, making sure no other parents were watching, and climbed in. Before I could register what was happening, Whoosh!, I was speeding down the chute at top speed. It swerved to the left, then swerved to the right before shooting me out at the end. Wham! Bam! Butt on the ground, feet in the air, splat in the sandy dirt. Not a particularly glamorous arrival but Spencer was delighted. He jumped up and down, laughing and clapping. The parents standing at the bottom of the slide looked down at me with a slightly puzzled expression. I got up, dusted off my jeans and jacket, smiled, and stuck out my hand.
“Hi, I’m Carol Joynt,” I said. “Spencer’s mom.” We shook hands all around.
“Nice to meet you.”
Spencer beamed. I was behaving, in his eyes, like a parent. Yes, for an instant, we were like everyone else, Carol and Spencer Normal.
Chapter 23
THE NEWS BUSINESS covers “real” people every day, and every day people in the news business think they understand the real world so they can tell us about it. In fact, some of them believe they’re authorities on it; very few of them are. They do travel to a lot of places most people don’t get to go and see a lot of things most people never see except on television—and they do it on somebody else’s dime. (Actually dollars, and lots of them.) But the truth is, most of those in the present-day mainstream news business live sheltered, privileged lives, far removed from the reality most people face. Maturity and authentic life experience are not prerequisites for the job. How you look tends to matter more than what you are and what you know. Of course there are exceptions. They prove the rule.
Everybody likes to be pampered. The news business, particularly television, pampered me as much as Howard did, maybe more. Every day’s mail brought a pile of new books from publishers. I took that for granted. We all did. Broadway publicists sold me the best house seats for the hot new shows. Nothing not to like about that. Every day was a little bit of Christmas. I was invited to important dinners with important people and got a good seat at a good table.
The grittier parts of the job were also touched with fairy dust. When Charlie Rose and I flew to San Francisco to interview Charles Manson, he was the one behind the bars, not us. We could walk in and out of the prison. We could view San Francisco Bay at will. A day spent with a paralyzed and wheelchair-bound Christopher Reeve, in the process of a taping for Larry King Live, was humbling but also a privilege few could experience. It was tedious waiting for Elizabeth Taylor to come down from her hotel room, get in the limo, and ride to the studio for an interview with Larry, but on the other hand, how many people get to spend an entire afternoon with Elizabeth Taylor? My son got to meet some heroes, such as actor Bill Murray, who got goofy with him in makeup, and Titanic explorer Robert Ballard, who posed with him for a picture. Spencer; his new live-in babysitter, Erica Hart; and I were guests of Disney for the perk-heavy VIP maiden voyage of their new cruise ship.
Certainly my life at CNN was interesting and sometimes glamorous, but it was about as close to the real world as the Washington media’s annual self-promoting lovefest—the White House Correspondents’ Association dinner—where the “journalists” get dressed up in their finest duds to tell one another how great they are and to count the celebrity notches in their belts. When I was introduced as a producer for CNN, people would ask me about serious world issues or events in Washington, assuming I knew. After all, I was a producer for CNN. I had to know what was going on. You can get used to people assuming you know what’s going on. They’ll even grant you gravitas. Look at George Will, the poster child for gravitas. Almost anyone who’s on television in Washington is granted the assumption of authority.
It was fun to live in that bubble of faux importance where it’s so easy to believe it’s all about you. It’s not. People who forget that can find themselves quite alone when, voluntarily or forcibly, they leave the bubble for the chilly world outside. I’ve lived it both ways. Once I gave up the news business, and became only a saloon owner, nobody asked me about the world again. Ironically, owning a small business, being a solo parent, battling the IRS, I knew more about the world than ever before, but if I wasn’t working for a network or a newspaper, what could I possibly know? That’s life out in the cold. It’s tough. I understood and didn’t fault anyone.
After spending the day dealing with a recalcitrant general manager at the business I had inherited, or preparing my son for school, or listening to lawyers explain the latest restrictions put on me by the IRS, I would spend the evening reconciling my real and shrinking bank balance. That’s why it became difficult to show up at Larry King Live with a smile and to take seriously whether I did or didn’t have a home phone number for Tom Cruise. I didn’t blame Wendy. She had a job to do. She wanted me to be the person she’d hired, doing the job she’d hired me to do. From CNN to Nathans, people wanted life to be the way it was when Howard was alive. I did, too, but I knew that was gone forever. I’d learned my lawyer talk: You can’t unring the bell.
Of all the precious things Howard’s death cost me, the worst was my faith in him, but what hurt the most at that moment was the way it set me up to fail at Larry King Live. I didn’t actually quit the show for another year, but after Diana died I was a falling star who checked in, did what she could, and checked out. I played my hand. They knew my limits. I’d like to say I flamed out but no, there was nothing spectacular about the way my career faded away. Just a slow fizzle.
In the meantime, I loved being in the bubble when I could. I used any excuse for a trip to New York. The babysitter, Erica, was excellent and also the apple of Spencer’s eye. She’d just graduated from Georgetown University and was taking a chill year. Nobody had to push me to go, and I could leave without guilt. I called Spencer in the morning, again after school, and at bedtime. Of course I missed him but I knew he would enjoy my good mood when I brought it back home. Sometimes, when the trip butted against a weekend and it was practical, I took him with me. We’d see family friends, wander in Central Park, tour museums, eat and play, and generally have a great time in the greatest of cities.
When I went alone, the trip was usually no more than two nights. I often spent one of those nights seeing Paolo. If it was a one-night trip, the night usually belonged to him. Everybody has a selfish pleasure and he was mine. I should have felt guilty, but I didn’t. Not in an overt way. I had no overarching designs on the man. I didn’t want him that way—happily ever after. I wanted him this way—here and now. I didn’t want to upset his world, nor did he. We went to cafés and held hands under the table, we flirted, we talked endlessly. I loved his voice, his accent. We called room service for midnight meals in my room. We watched television. We made
out on the hotel room floor, but when it came to sex, we were well matched in our restraint. In a world where sex was everywhere, we were in no hurry. Me because I still felt married. It was too soon. Paulo because he sensed my hesitation and had his own old-school and endearing moral code. We were in the same place and we liked it. We loved playing at being in love.
Sometimes when I was in New York I didn’t see or talk to him. Other times I felt I needed him. One of those times came after the September 8, 1997, memorial service for fashion designer Gianni Versace at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The service was moving and sad. The Temple of Dendur was adorned with astonishingly beautiful white flowers, Andrea Bocelli’s voice soared to the glass rafters, the grief on the faces of Donatella Versace and her brother Santo was palpably real. My own heartbreak overtook and surprised me like a rogue wave and, as Whitney Houston sang, I cried like everyone else. The service had become more than a tribute to a great designer, more than a collection of boldface names. It enflamed my own wounds, and my own grief poured out, even though it had been months since Howard died. My LKL colleague, Dean Sicoli held my hand, realizing, he told me later, that a funeral was probably not the smartest place for me to be.
I had not told Paolo I would be in town, but when the service ended and after I said good-bye to Dean, I hopped in a cab and headed downtown to his restaurant. It was closed during the between-meal break, but the front door was open. I tore through the dining room, past waiters polishing glassware, arranging silver, and freshening flowers, and charged boldly into the kitchen. Paolo’s face told me I was the last person he’d expected to see. But he smiled, stopped what he was doing, and came around the large stove area. He seemed embarrassed to be in grubby kitchen clothes rather than his starched whites, but he looked good to me.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just had to see you. I thought it would be a day trip but now I have to stay for a meeting tomorrow morning. I was at Versace’s memorial service and I’m sad and I missed you.”
“I don’t know what I can do tonight. I have two big parties late.” Paolo sighed and rubbed his hand across the stubble on his chin.
I leaned close, kissed him on the cheek, and placed my room key in the palm of his hand. “I know. I understand. But you know where to find me.” And then I was gone, back in a cab and headed uptown.
Late that night, in bed, I heard a rustling at my door, a faint knock. I stirred from my sleep and dashed to the door. I unhooked the chain and turned the lock as I finished pulling on the hotel’s terry cloth bathrobe over my silk night slip. I pulled the door open to see his smile. If nothing else I was seduced by his smile.
“I can’t stay long,” he said.
“Well, stay for a minute,” I said.
“A minute,” he said.
He looked irresistibly handsome. He was in his sexy professor mode in a dark suit, dark polo shirt, and wire-rimmed glasses. His hair was floppy on his head, wet at the ends, like he’d taken a shower.
“I’ll order some tea from room service,” I said.
“Chamomile, please. With lemon.” It was two in the morning. The room was dark. I found some of the small votive candles the hotel provided for emergencies and lit them.
“Really, I’m not staying,” he said. “I am so tired. I have a medical checkup first thing tomorrow, and we were so busy tonight and I just couldn’t get out of there.”
“Just sit down,” I said, getting back in bed and pulling the covers over me. Often the hotel gave me this same room. I liked it because it was on the seventh floor and had two huge windows that looked out on the city. I would sleep with them open because I liked the street sounds of Manhattan—sirens wailing up Madison, trucks grinding their gears, taxi drivers laying a heavy hand on the horn. To me they were familiar, comforting sounds, and more soothing than silence.
Room service arrived quickly. Paolo took the tray from the waiter, placed it on the desk, and poured two cups of tea. He set them on the bedside table, sat down on the edge of the bed, and looked at me.
“Come over here,” he said, patting the space beside him. He grabbed a couple of pillows and fluffed them up. “Come here and get comfortable.” I slid across the bed and curled up beside him. He handed me a cup. We sipped our tea.
“It’s nice of you to come see me,” I said, “and tuck me in.”
“How could I resist? If a beautiful woman gives you her room key you do not stand her up.”
“Oh, that’s your French half talking.”
He shrugged. “You never know. Could be my Italian, too.”
I sighed. He sighed, took my cup, and put it next to his on the bedside table. He turned back, leaned over, and kissed me. Slowly he eased the terry cloth robe off my shoulders. He kissed my neck, my shoulder, and then down my arm to my fingers. I closed my eyes and gave in to the rush. I reached for his chin and brought his face up to mine and kissed him deeply. I moved my hands through his hair and down his back and across his chest. I kissed his face and his neck and danced my tongue in his ear, nibbling on his earlobe. We kissed again. I clutched his head to my chest, rocking him, my fingers playing in his hair.
“I want to know something, Paolo. Are you afraid of falling in love with me?”
Candles flickered in the light breeze from the window. “I think perhaps I’ve done that already,” he said, with an air of resignation in his voice.
“Don’t be afraid,” I said. “Don’t be afraid of me. I don’t want anything from you but the times we have together, times like this. They sustain me. You make me float when everything else is pulling me down. But I can’t forget that you’re married. Not ever. I just can’t. I really, really don’t want to disturb your marriage. I’ve been there. I’ve done that.” I was thinking about Howard, about how when we first met he was married, though I had believed he was in the midst of a divorce. It didn’t make any difference. An affair was one thing, but I did not want any man leaving his wife for me ever again. That road was tawdry and definitely not romantic.
Paolo leaned over and kissed my belly through the brown silk slip.
I sighed. “You like that part, don’t you?”
“I like all your parts. Even the ones I haven’t seen.” He sighed and rolled over on his back. He rested his wrist on his forehead and stared at the ceiling.
“Don’t worry about my marriage,” he said. “It just is what it is. We all make peace with certain arrangements, and I’ve made peace with my marriage. I’m not guilty, not that guilty.” He smiled impishly. “You shouldn’t be.”
I put my hand on his chest, and walked my fingers toward his chin. “You know, I like your parts, too. Particularly your neck right here.” I touched him just under his ear. He pulled me down and we kissed softly and slowly.
“Should we make love?” I whispered.
“Yes, we should.” But we didn’t.
The next morning I was up early for a vigorous run in Central Park. It was sunny and cool, a beautiful autumn morning in New York. I ran around the reservoir and felt revived. I was part of the world. I was among the living. And I was relieved that the night before with Paolo we hadn’t done anything to complicate things further. It had been romantic and intense and I felt like Cinderella before the coach turned into a pumpkin. Fairy tales have their own reality. My relationship with Paolo was as real as that, and as satisfying.
As I ran, my mind was spinning. I adored Paolo. I was probably in love with him. He was like an addiction. I would arrive from Washington beaten by forces beyond my control—the government, Nathans, the show—with my self-esteem and confidence in the ditch. Then, after a dose of Paolo, I would feel good about myself again. I stood taller and welcomed the challenges ahead.
Maybe our liaisons did the same for him. I couldn’t cast spells over the government or my work, but I could make Paolo smile.
BACK AT THE hotel I showered and dressed quickly. I was late for a meeting with a man from Christie’s to discuss the best time to sell the antiques that Howard had inher
ited and were now thankfully mine and not the government’s. It was a dreary occasion because I had thought these pieces would always be ours and would eventually pass to Spencer. Since he wasn’t a named heir to the Joynt trust, at least he’d have something from the family. That wasn’t an option anymore. We needed cash.
When I returned to the hotel room the phone was ringing. “What are you doing right now?” Paolo asked, purring into my ear.
“I just finished breakfast.”
“Don’t ask any questions. Put on some jeans and meet me in front of your hotel in fifteen minutes. Okay? Can you do that for me? Wear something warm.”
“Okay. I will do that.”
There under the awning at the hotel’s entrance was Paolo on his motorcycle, the engine idling. He wore a light sweater, leather jacket, and jeans. He held out a helmet.
“I can’t do this,” I said.
“Yes, you can. Put on the helmet. We’re going for a ride. You trust me, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” I said. “But I’m an only parent. I can’t take chances.”
“You’re wasting time,” he said sweetly. “Get on.”
I pulled the helmet over my head and wrapped my arms tightly around his middle. Paolo gunned it and we were off—up Park Avenue, a right turn on Ninety-Sixth Street, an easy merge onto the FDR Drive. I took a deep breath and gave in to the ride.
We zoomed along the Merritt Parkway and into the beautiful New York and Connecticut countryside. I loved holding on to him for dear life. My fear was overtaken by the sheer exhilaration of freedom. Paolo was strong and confident and made all the right choices. We rode for hours through woods and by lakes, passing rock walls and open fields—and then we were back in Manhattan.
Innocent Spouse Page 17
