“Well, nobody’s going anywhere for a while, anyway,” John E. said. “Now my birthday celebration is complete.”
The Spillers were heading down the stairs, followed by the Kelleys and the rest.
Les nudged John E. “Hey, did you realize it’s Friday the thirteenth?”
“Yeah,” John E. said, tired of explaining this was a good luck day for him. “Let the good times roll.”
***
Margo Martin Rinaldi shivered inside her sable jacket. She stamped her leather-booted feet on the entry hall rug, trying to lose the snow. It wasn’t the weather that was making her cold, though. She needed to get her quivering under control immediately, before she faced Preston. The forty years since their last interaction melted away in remembered emotions. The conflicting feelings churned inside her belly like fire and ice. Love and hate.
I shouldn’t have come, she thought, almost saying this aloud. How did I ever think I could bear to see Preston again?
Libby grabbed her older sister’s hand. Margo lifted her youthful-looking chin, exerting the strong will that was a Martin family trait. Libby’s right. I’m going to make Preston Phillips regret the choice he made all those years ago. If I get my way, he’ll be very sorry indeed.
As Margo entered the family room, Julia and Kitty rushed to greet her, and the men rose to their feet. A shift in atmosphere, an electrical jolt, shook the dynamics of the group. The flash of Margo’s magnetic asymmetrical grin and the careless toss of her auburn locks covered her insecurities. On with the show, she thought bravely.
On the opposite side of the room, Preston looked as though his insides were curling. “Hello, Margo,” he managed to say, when she finally made eye contact with him.
“Why, Preston,” Margo replied with more aplomb than she felt. “You finally show up, after all these years.”
Dammit, she thought. He still has those piercing eyes and that thick dark hair. And those dimples. She couldn’t bear to hold his gaze for one more second. She turned to Nicole, whose arm was draped behind the chair where Preston had been sitting, and extended her hand. “I’m Margo Rinaldi.”
“Nicole Phillips,” said Preston’s young wife.
Oh, no, groaned Margo to herself. If I didn’t know better, I would think this girl is Preston’s granddaughter, not his wife. It was all Margo could do to nod and smile at Nicole and glide over to the tray of dirty martinis on the sofa table. “After all the traveling in snow and ice, I think a drink is just what I need,” she announced to no one in particular. “Cheers, everybody!”
Just then, the butler sounded the golden notes of the dinner chime, and Caro beckoned everyone into the dining room. “Dinner is served. Sit wherever you’d like tonight--no place cards.”
Chapter 6
Preston remained quiet as the birthday toasts began. He wasn’t feeling the jolly mood, and he could tell Nicole wasn’t either.
“Here’s to us,” John E. exclaimed, raising his wine glass high from the head of the long dining table. “We’ve earned it, we’ve got it, so let’s enjoy it while we can.”
“Happy birthday, John E.,” came the reply of several voices, male and female.
The Batard Montrachet 1992 flowed in an endless stream, bottle after bottle, as the birthday celebrants smiled and ate and talked about old times. The osso bucco was perfect, tender and with just the right amount of garlic and rosemary.
“First speech.” Stan Baker rose at his place. His age, combined with the large amount of wine he had imbibed, made him unsteady. Still, he was a commanding presence among this group. In many ways, educators like Stan had paved the way for all of their careers. “I’ve known John E. since he was a young, innocent guy, taking on his first classroom at Princeton. He’s a good man, colleague, and friend. I couldn’t care more for him if he were my own son. Many happy returns, my man.”
“Hear, hear.” The sound of wine glasses being touched punctuated Stan’s words. Everyone took another sip.
John E. nodded thanks to Stan and smiled at Andrea, who seemed unusually quiet.
Marshall looked around before standing up. “I guess I’ll go next. Well, John E., we’ve come a long way since the cheese business, and I’m glad we’ve come out on top, despite certain setbacks.” He paused to glare at Preston. “It’s been a great ride, Buddy. Here’s wishing you sixty-five more good years. And, oh, yeah, thanks to Caro, too, for treating us to this fabulous weekend in your world.”
Kitty leaned over to whisper to Gerald, revealing cleavage impossibly suntanned for the season. Gerald nodded and patted her on the shoulder. She stood up in a single, fluid motion, moving her napkin from her lap to the right of her plate. “Well, John E.,” she began, “this shouldn’t be an all-male tribute to you. I’ve known you at least as long as Stan and Marshall. I met you freshman year when you were dating Caro, and I--” She paused a moment to look around the room, her eyes landing fleetingly on Preston. “--I was Caro’s pledge sister. I must say, you and Caro were the perfect couple then, as now. Gerald and I wish you a happy birthday, and we brought you a little something as a token of our good wishes.” Kitty handed over a small package wrapped in bronze paper and bow.
John E. opened the box and laughed. He held up the Sterling silver money clip for everyone to admire. “Thanks, guys. I hope I’ll always keep it full.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Les, rising from his seat as Kitty took hers. “I think I’m the newcomer in this group,” he said, looking around and perhaps realizing that, in fact, Nicole Phillips was. “But my respect and friendship for you, John E., is no less. You were the best teacher I ever had, and the best mentor, too. If it hadn’t been for your guidance, I never would have gone so far in my career, and I wouldn’t have met Libby, either.” He touched Libby’s elbow to encourage her to stand by his side, which she did. “This has probably made me more sentimental than normal, but I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for all you have done for Libby and me.” Libby nodded, her eyes glistening in the candlelight. “I hope we will be together for many more of your birthdays, all of us.”
Libby added, “And Les and I have an announcement to make. We are expecting a baby in July. It took us awhile to embrace the idea of parenting, but we’re excited. Another thing that would never have happened if you hadn’t introduced us, John E.”
“Hey,” Preston interjected, misunderstanding Libby’s remark and leering at his host. “I thought you were a little old to be responsible for baby-making, John E.”
Libby glared at Preston, ignoring his joke. Her look may have said that he was a little old to be marrying a young kid like Nicole.
John E. congratulated Libby and Les. “How nice that the Blooms are blooming. Let’s drink to a happy and healthy baby.” Only then did he notice Libby was drinking only water.
All eyes turned toward Vicki and Leon. Vicki was picking at her dinner, her eyes glazed, and eyelids half closed. She was in no condition for speech-making. Leon ran his fingers through his still-thick salt-and-pepper hair and stood at his place. “Vicki and I are saving our toast for tomorrow night. Our gift, too. It’s something specially made for everyone to enjoy. Meanwhile, cheers to you, John E.”
“Good idea, Leon,” Preston called out more loudly than necessary. “I’ll save my speech for tomorrow night, too.”
To be honest, Preston was starting to feel really uncomfortable, staring at Margo’s timeless beauty and thinking of how things might have been different if he hadn’t been so stupid as to get involved with her best friend before their wedding. He was almost too distracted to follow the conversation. As he looked around the table and listened to the heartfelt tributes to his host, he realized that aside from Cousin Caro and Wife Nicole, there was no one whom he could call “friend.”
John E. interrupted by raising an issue near and dear to the hearts of everyone at the table. “Well, we have quite a financial think tank here. What do you folks think about the politicians’ talk? First, we had Occupy Wall Stre
et then income inequality and now dynastic wealth.”
Everyone started to talk at once, words and phrases of indignation, fury, and outrage competing for dominance in staccato.
At last, there was something it seemed everyone could agree on.
***
While Marshall and Gerald were expounding upon the largely unappreciated contributions the wealthy had made to this country, Margo quietly excused herself from the table. She headed for the second floor, where she could escape from the very personal tension she was feeling from being in the room with Preston. Was it her imagination, or had Preston been staring at her? As much as she told herself she hated his guts, she couldn’t help thinking of how she had once adored him, had wanted nothing more than to feel his strong body next to hers. I must stop thinking this way, she reprimanded herself. Preston is evil, and I won’t be fooled by his charisma ever again! Besides, he is married, married, married--to that little girl with puppy-dog eyes.
***
Preston saw this opportunity to have a moment alone with Margo and wondered whether he should risk it. He wasn’t so worried about Nicole. She was so enamored of him, he doubted she would even notice, or if she did, she would be too afraid to disrupt the fragile balance of their barely established marital rhythm. He wasn’t worried about what the guys would think. He didn’t care a whit about any of them anyway, and he knew the feeling was mutual. No, the person he was most afraid of was Margo, herself. He knew he had wounded her deeply, and he couldn’t predict what her reaction would be if he confronted her alone, even to apologize. His eyes had been drawn all night to Margo’s face and body, her demeanor. Her attractiveness had only multiplied with age. His desire to tell her how much he regretted having hurt her welled up inside of him like a bitter syrup, heated to a slow boil. Hell, he thought, if I don’t go speak to her, I’ll never forgive myself.
“Excuse me,” Preston mumbled a few minutes after Margo left the room. “I’ve got to get my pills. Be right back.”
He squeezed Nicole’s thigh as he rose from the table. It felt good to stand up after sitting so long. He headed for the staircase, ignoring the warnings from his right knee and his left brain.
***
Nicole remained at the table, an artificially cheerful smile glued to her face. She flicked her hair between her fingers, mentally counting the minutes Preston and that Rinaldi woman were away from the table. She might be young, but she wasn’t inexperienced in the ways of men and women, and there had been some serious eye exchanges between Margo and Preston all night. Not that it was flirting--it was more worrisome than that. The two of them looked as though they were both miserable. Whether it was with love or hate, she wasn’t sure, but the intensity of their feelings was all too apparent, and alarms were clanging in her head. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that old woman get between my husband and me, Nicole said silently. I’ve worked too hard to become Mrs. Preston Phillips, and Mrs. Preston Phillips I will stay!
Chapter 7
It was a huge relief to adjourn the dinner party after hours of food and drink and sometimes tense conversation. Andrea and Stan left for their neighboring farm, and, one by one, couples thanked their hosts and trudged upstairs to their assigned accommodations. As the party guests settled into their rooms and suites, the internal and external dialogue was intense. The very air in the house crackled. The long evening of toasts and conversation, instead of relaxing everyone, had seemed to spark annoyances and petty arguments, along with jealousies and worries. The sweet-smelling toiletries and plush downy bed coverings did nothing to assuage these.
Gerald, for example, was really annoyed with Kitty. “What is it with you, anyway, Kitty?” he muttered, as he rinsed his mouth of toothpaste. “I saw you looking at Preston all night. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you have a crush on him, just like every other female in America.”
Kitty put down her moisturizer and glowered. “Don’t be ridiculous, Gerald.” Her voice was low and even. “I think you just haven’t gotten over Preston’s acing you out of your dream job. Not that I blame you for resenting that.”
She patted the fluffy comforter next to her. “Let’s go to bed. I’m sure you’ll feel better tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll never feel better about Preston Phillips. He is a hundred percent slimeball. I won’t feel better about him until he is six feet under.”
“Keep your voice down, Gerald. Margo is right next to us.”
“I don’t give a damn if she hears me. She has an even better reason to hate the guy.” With this, Gerald slipped, naked, into the queen-sized bed and put his arm over Kitty’s silk-covered hip. “What d’you say we forget about Preston and concentrate on us?”
Kitty raised her negligee and slipped it over her head then snuggled into Gerald’s embrace. Her soft reply was only one word, “Meow.”
***
Like the Kelleys, the Winthrops were having a fretful conversation. “That Preston,” Marshall ranted, careful to modulate his baritone voice so only Julia could hear. “Did you see how that asshole throws around his money and power? All he talks about is money this, money that! I can’t wait for him to be out of my life once and for all.”
“We’ll never get back all of those sleepless nights when he had your parents’ money tied up out of reach,” Julia replied.
“Screwing me out of my parents’ money. I’ll never forgive him.”
“Nor should you. Preston is the type of guy who will shake your hand and leave you with no fingers. It’s time he paid for what he’s done to you, to us, to Margo, and how about the poor Spillers?”
“Speaking of paying, where did you put the cigars?” Marshall whispered.
“Locked in the portable humidor.”
“Good thinking, Julia.” Marshall leaned over to kiss his wife on the lips. “Tomorrow should be a very eventful day. Let’s see if we can get some sleep.”
“No amyl nitrate tonight, dear?” Julia asked.
“No, let’s save it for tomorrow night. I’m tired.”
“Okay, I have a little headache, anyway.”
Then as if on cue, Julia and Marshall turned toward the night tables on either side of the bed and donned their CPAP machine masks, and Marshall clicked off the lamp.
***
In the bedroom next to the Winthrops, Leon was helping Vicki undress for bed. Propped against the headboard, Vicki slumped, muttering four-letter epithets. Leon pulled on Vicki’s sleeves, one at a time, until her elbows escaped the confines of her soft sweater. “I hate him. Hate, hate him.” Her head shook drunkenly from side to side, perspiration glistening on her forehead.
“I know you do,” Leon said, gently taking the sweater over her head. “But no amount of hate is going to bring Tony back.”
“Don’t tell me yer havin’ second thoughts.” Vicki smeared her mascara as she rubbed her eyes.
“No, Vicki. I hate him as much as you do. Maybe more.” Leon considered his feelings, as he said this. He blamed Preston for the loss of his son, just as Vicki did, but he also blamed him for changing Vicki, and their lives, forever.
“That’s good.” And with that, Vicki passed out on the soft down comforter, leaving Leon alone with his dark thoughts.
***
Although Libby had not had any alcoholic drinks, her pregnancy at age forty-two was making her extraordinarily tired, and a little crabby, to boot. She didn’t want to spoil the party for Les, Margo, or especially Caro and John E., but it wasn’t easy listening to all of the one-percenters and their egotistical banter. She and Margo had always been rich. Their grandfather, Sterling Martin the first, had founded what had become the largest private banking enterprise in the country. Libby knew people envied her name, her wealth, her place in society, but few knew of the downsides that she had suffered from all three. Even as a young child, her life had never been hers to live. She was forced into friendships with “the right people,” events she “must attend,” clothes and accessories that “made the right sta
tement,” and the list went on and on. The baby of the family by many years, she was raised by nannies and given all of the material things she could dream of. Her sister Margo was at Princeton and hanging around with Caro, Julia, and Kitty when she was born. I’ve had a bellyful of rich people, she thought. With all of the intelligence and wisdom at the dining table tonight, these people could join forces and save the world, but what do they talk about? Themselves!
“What’s the matter, Libby?” Les asked. “I can tell by the set of your eyebrows you’re upset.”
“Nothing, really. It’s just hard for me to sit through one night of these old farts. I don’t know if I can stand a whole weekend. And, I’m really worried about Margo. It’s putting a big strain on her to be around Preston, and I can tell it’s getting to her. Maybe we shouldn’t have come.”
“Come on, Libby. We’ve talked about this a hundred times. We owe it to John E. and Caro to be here for his birthday. You don’t have to put up with anything you don’t want to. This is a big farm. We can just excuse ourselves and go for a walk any time you feel overwhelmed. You don’t want to upset the baby by working yourself up. Let’s just try to get some sleep now.”
“Okay, Les, but promise me one thing. That we won’t become as arrogant and selfish as these guys when we’re their age.”
Murder in the One Percent Page 4
