“Please, please, bear with me for another moment. I have one more important announcement to make. The board has named Sara Nash interim head of The School, effective immediately. I wish you all a very happy holiday. Thank you.”
Michael squeezed Helen’s hand, surprised to find it shaking and slightly moist. The audience offered a smattering of weak applause, some as a congratulatory gesture, some as an expression of relief, others because they had no idea what else to do. As the elementary chorus returned to the stage to sing a somber version of “Auld Lang Syne,” a few parents stood in place and joined in. But the majority were out the door fast, anxious to find their friends in the lobby and participate in the postmortem. This would surely go down as the most talked-about Holiday Festival in The School’s history.
JANUARY
“Funereal” was the word that came to mind whenever Sara looked back on the two weeks she spent alone at The School during the winter break. The fact that it was the dead of winter contributed to the gloom, but it also felt spooky to be in a place that was normally teeming with life and not encounter a soul. The void created by Pamela’s departure was filled with the oppressive stench of death, and Sara’s impulse was to embark on a psychic housecleaning in order to restore The School to a state of well-being. Unfortunately, even the janitorial staff was away for the holidays.
Even though she really needed to collect and review numerous documents that were presumably filed in Pamela’s office, Sara had been avoiding the chore, haunted by a childish fear that the ghost of Rothschild would jump out from behind the door and strangle her. By the second week, when she finally got up enough courage to enter, she was disheartened to discover that the office was more chaotic than a ten-year-old’s bedroom after a twelve-kid slumber party. Drawers and shelves were cleared, with every reference book, directory, manual, file, letter, or disk that might in any way be useful to Sara either torn to shreds, dumped on a heap, or stuffed in a ten-gallon garbage can. Pamela had left the office in a “fuck you” state, making good on her promise to do everything in her power to undermine her successor, including, to Sara’s vast amusement and relief, prying that ludicrous plaque from the office door.
On the Friday of the Holiday Festival, Sara had made a point of stopping by Pamela’s office to say goodbye and wish her the best of luck on her new endeavor (which she knew was fictitious but acknowledged nonetheless). As Sara extended her hand for a collegial shake, Pamela recoiled and hissed, “I hope you’re satisfied now. You may think that your clever plot to overthrow me has worked, but you will never be made head of The School. You know nothing about education. The faculty refers to the admissions department as the den of inequality and sees you as the glad-hander that you are. When it comes to finance, bah, I bet the only thing you’ve ever balanced is your chakras. And just wait, when the auction is a bust, the board will see you’re a complete amateur when it comes to fund-raising. And when the rejection letters roll in, every eighth-grade parent will be begging for me to come to their rescue. By the end of February, you’ll wish you never set foot in The School, let alone tried to run it.”
The blows to Sara’s Achilles’ heel were dealt with such devastating accuracy that it took her the better part of the winter break to recobble her self-confidence. Plagued with insecurity about the new position to begin with, this articulation of her weaknesses, even by someone for whom she had no respect, was not easy to ignore.
Before departing for their winter holidays, the board had established a new committee, aptly named the transition team, to provide Sara with some guidance in the upcoming months. The committee had decreed that Sara’s first priority during the month of January should be admissions, both in and out, followed by an exhaustive review of every department and faculty member, a new budget for the upcoming year, and everything else that they discovered had fallen through the cracks during the last years of the Rothschild regime. The challenges Sara faced as the newly appointed interim head were truly Herculean, and she prepared by spending every waking hour, including Christmas Day, at The School, in a self-taught crash course on school management.
By January 2, Sara finally began to gain a little confidence in her understanding of the big picture and had made considerable headway in laying the groundwork for tackling each assignment. In addition to her board-mandated responsibilities, she had drawn up a list of six projects she hoped to initiate before the end of the school year:
1. Establish an equitable compensation plan for faculty and administration, including the head
2. Establish a bona fide admissions policy, including a statement regarding sibling admissions
3. Schedule a symposium on teenage sexuality for parents and students
4. Schedule a symposium on eating disorders for parents and students
5. Provide a SAPS preparation course for next year’s eighth-grade students
6. Discuss dress code with Felicity Cozette
There were moments when her plans and lists seemed overly ambitious and she became discouraged and pessimistic about the prospect of succeeding on any front. But then there were the breakthrough moments, like the day she completed all the letters of recommendation, or the day she received a call informing her that The School was left a substantial bequest from a recently deceased alumna, when her optimism was renewed. On those days she believed that with hard work, support from the board, and a little luck, she might just be able to pull this off.
One morning near the end of the break, she logged on to her computer and was delighted to have received an e-mail from Helen.
Sara-
Happy New Year! I’m back from a fantastic week at the spa. I feel great. Pilates everyday, salt scrubs, body wraps, massages. I shouldn’t rub it in. LOL. I even lost the five pounds that Michael will surely gain in France. He and Zoe get back on the 4th.
I’m off today to an “interesting” lunch. How about getting together tonight? I can’t wait to hear how your week went. Hope it was productive.
I also want to make a date to take you to lunch before school starts. How about Friday?
Love, Helen.
Helen,
There is nothing I would like better than seeing you tonight. Look forward to hearing all. Eight o’clock at the Bistro?
Also, Friday sounds perfect. I need to get out of here for a few days before the deluge.
Sara
Sara,
Great. See you tonight.
Upon her return from the spa, Helen had called Phillip Cashin, who was in the process of evaluating another significant painting for another one of his high-worth clients. Saying he was delighted to hear from her, he repeated his enticing offer: lunch in exchange for her “invaluable expert opinion.” This time she graciously accepted. Still bristling at the idea of Michael cavorting in Provence during the holidays, she had no trouble convincing herself that a thinly disguised professional visit to Phillip’s office, and lunch, were perfectly justifiable.
Where else would the offices of the Cashin Group be located than on the forty-eighth floor of one of Manhattan’s most notable modern skyscrapers? Helen observed as she rode the elevator up to the tastefully understated suite. An untrained eye would have found the décor dated and institutional, but Helen immediately recognized the significance of his rare vintage modern furniture and art. However, she was less impressed with his client’s painting and gave him five good reasons why she was certain it was a fake.
“Really? Are you sure?” he said with concern. “But now that you’ve pointed it out, I see you’re right. The brushstrokes are rather thick. And the signature does look a bit shaky,” he agreed, and as he leaned in to examine the surface, he brushed his hand across her back.
As she turned to face him, he took her in his arms and whispered, “Your mind turns me on as much as your body. I find the combination devastating.” She thought that his warm breath in her ear was pretty devastating, too.
She broke the spell by suggesting lunch, and they de
scended to the ground floor and entered Quattro Stagione, the elegant midtown power restaurant that also functioned as a temple for those who worshipped modernity. The maitre d’ greeted Phillip by name and led them to his regular table, adjacent to the serene pond that dominated the center of the room. When the extravagantly expensive lunch arrived, Helen was underwhelmed; it was one of those towering vertical presentations that made her feel like a child knocking over a stack of blocks every time she tried to take a bite. But she didn’t care, in part because she had eaten so little while at the spa that she had lost her appetite, but also because being with Phillip turned her insides to mush. Throughout the lunch, difficult as it was, they refrained from touching, both concerned that there were likely to be people they both knew at the restaurant. Their frustration having intensified their desire, they ended the meal abruptly and went to his house, where they spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening on his living room couch.
“I understand your reasons for not wanting to go to bed with me,” he said not at all convincingly as he languidly stroked her hair.
“Thank you for understanding. This is very hard for me,” she murmured as his hand moved slowly down her neck. She felt like she did when she was seventeen, trying to hold on to her virginity, but at this stage in her life she wasn’t altogether sure what she was holding on to.
“These are lovely earrings,” he said, fondling her mother’s precious garnets.
“I’m the third generation of women in my family to own them. They’re very dear to me,” she said as she removed the gems from her ears and gently toyed with them.
He took them out of her hands, placed them on the table, and nuzzled her neck some more. As his hands traveled lightly across her shoulders and in the direction of her waist, he whispered, “You’re absolutely bewitching.” She caught his hand before it slipped beneath her blouse, and glanced at his watch.
“Oh, no! Look at the time. I’ve got to pull myself together and get across town in twenty minutes,” she said, and then quickly tucked in her blouse and searched the floor for her shoes.
As he walked her to the door, Helen noticed a slight hint of defeat in his gait, an attitude she was certain Phillip Cashin rarely exhibited.
“I’m really disappointed to see you leave,” he confessed sadly.
“I think it’s for the best,” she responded philosophically, anxious to depart lest he renew his seduction. She wasn’t sure she could resist it again, and was glad she had made the date with Sara, if for no other reason than that it prevented her from doing what, she knew deep down, was out of the question.
Even though it had been less than two weeks since they had seen each other, Helen and Sara embraced enthusiastically. Having spent so much of the intervening time alone, they both craved the relaxed intimacy that only the closest of friends could provide. Their last real contact had been the evening in December when Sara called Helen to task on her neurotic behavior, so they both sought reassurance that any rift that might have existed between them was patched up. No sooner had they sat down and ordered drinks than Sara said, “You first. How were your holidays?”
“Considering I spent them alone at the spa, I would have to say, strange, but very pleasant. Zoe has e-mailed me a few times from Cuba and is having a fantastic experience. But she misses Max and is ready to come home. Michael called last night and also has had a good trip.”
“Remind me, why did he go to France?”
“Oh, some business thing,” Helen answered vaguely.
“Business! Over the holidays? That seems weird.”
“It shouldn’t seem weird to someone else who worked her ass off during her vacation,” Helen teased.
“That’s true. But that can wait. What was the lunch you so provocatively alluded to? I want to hear about that.”
“I’m not sure where to begin. I guess I should just come out with it and then work backwards. Are you ready?”
“I’m all ears.”
“Okay,” Helen said, and paused to take a deep breath. “I’m sort of having an affair.”
“You’re kidding!” Sara gasped with exaggeratedly wide eyes. “What does ‘sort of’ mean?”
“It means we haven’t slept together but we’re acting like we’re lovers. And I feel as guilty as if I were cheating on my husband, even though technically I’m not.”
“Can I ask who your ‘sort of’ lover is?” Sara asked, praying it was not another father in The School.
“Of course you may,” Helen answered giddily. She had looked forward to finally being able to talk about Phillip and poured out a detailed account of how they met, what he looked like, and almost everything that had happened between them.
“And his wife?”
“She was some sort of Swedish socialite. She died last June. He just told me today, it was suicide,” she explained in an appropriately somber tone.
“Oh, how awful. That will leave some deep scars. How has his daughter handled the death?”
“As well as could be expected. She seems like a really solid kid. Slightly lost but highly functional.”
“Where does she go to school?”
“That Shaker school. I think it’s called The Community School?”
“Quaker,” Sara corrected with a chuckle.
“Same thing,” Helen answered.
“No, it’s not,” Sara argued.
“Oh, whatever.”
“Helen, this is really dangerous, that is, if you intend to stay married to Michael. He would be devastated if he ever found out.”
“And so would Zoe.”
“I don’t want to sound like Miss Family Values, but why on earth are you doing this?” Sara said.
“I don’t know. All I can tell you is that I haven’t felt this way since I first started dating Michael twenty years ago. Remember that tingle you get when you’re about to see a man you’re incredibly attracted to? Or you get just thinking about him?”
“Barely. It’s been a while, but, yeah, I vaguely recall feeling something like that with Steve,” Sara agreed, referring to the last man she dated, more than four years ago. “In my case it’s a distant memory. It’s practically ancient history.”
“Well, it was for me, too. Until Phillip. He’s stirred up emotions I’ve barely felt for years. The stuff that’s lost after years of marriage. It’s not about sex or love. That’s taken care of with Michael. It’s desire, passion, romance. It’s the ferocious chemistry that I’m finding so exciting. It’s so powerful that I sometimes feel dizzy thinking about him. If I thought I could control myself, I would love to see more of him.”
“Can you?”
“I don’t think so. Sooner or later he’s going to insist we go to bed together, and my resistance will break down. We got pretty close to that point today. I can understand his need. He’s not getting laid. I am,” Helen explained with a shade of disappointment.
“I have to admit, I’m envious of the romantic part. It sounds . . . so hot,” Sara said, searching for the appropriate word and coming up with one she’d heard the kids use. “But the emotional aspect sounds extremely complicated. I don’t think I could handle it. It would make me mashikana.”
“Meshuggener, with a ‘G,’” Helen corrected. “I’m not sure I can, either. I’m glad Michael and Zoe will be back in two days. I need a reality check. Being with them will remind me why I shouldn’t sleep with Phillip.”
“Will you see him again?” Sara asked with an inflection that conveyed more than just a hint of disapproval.
Helen didn’t answer right away. “I know I shouldn’t, but . . . we’ll see.”
Sara certainly understood Helen’s temptation but absolutely could not fathom why she would ever put her marriage at risk in pursuit of it. In her mind, Michael was a pretty terrific husband, and she thought Helen was being selfish for even entertaining the possibility of hurting him. But after coming down so heavily on her friend the last time they were together, she was reluctant to speak so candidly a
gain.
“You’re not really looking for me to give you a go-ahead, are you?”
“No, not really,” Helen confessed. “I knew you wouldn’t approve even before I decided to tell you. But I had to tell you anyway.”
“It means a lot to me that you told me, knowing how I would respond. And I have to admit, he does sound pretty wonderful. But be careful. I don’t want to see my best friends get hurt.”
“Neither do I. But enough about me. Tell me about your so-called winter break. Not much of a break, was it?”
“You mean my ten days of solitary confinement? It was an amazing time. Sometimes terrifying, like the day I first set foot in Pamela’s office and thought, ‘Holy shit, there’s no way I can deal with this mess, or the day I reviewed the budget and couldn’t remember which was the desirable scenario—being in the red or being in the black.”
“I can never remember which is which,” Helen laughed.
“But as time went on and I crossed chores off of my list, I started to feel a little better. And then there were definitely some highs, like when Vince Gargano returned my call and invited me to come up to The Bucolic Campus School to tour the campus and discuss our four applicants,” Sara said proudly.
“Good for you,” Helen commended neutrally.
“And the day I finished the last of the eighth-grade letters of recommendation. That felt like a major accomplishment. And I have to tell you, I got particular pleasure out of writing Zoe’s. I went on and on about how she’s a spectacular musical talent, has just hit her stride academically, provides a moral compass for her peers, yadayadayada.”
“That sounds great. And of course you mentioned how much her fabulous parents have contributed to The School community,” Helen joked, and then added, “and I don’t mean dollar amount . . . although you might have mentioned that, too.”
“Of course.” Sara smiled and then declared in flawless Rothschild-speak, “You’re referring to the two-million-dollar pledge Michael made at the Capital Campaign cocktail party last month, chéri?”
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