by Jean Stone
She’d been in Canada selling her jewelry. The weeklong international crafts show was being held in the old part of the city, which was attempting to be as European as Quebec. A young woman in the canvas-tented booth next to Sarah sold exquisite pottery. She told Sarah she dated a bass player in a band and they were having a concert that night at the arena. Would Sarah like to go?
Sometimes life changes just that fast, she thought now as she stared at the poster, at the memories of that meeting, which were as crisp and clear as if they’d happened in a dream last night.
“Sarah, this is Jason. Jason, Sarah.”
She’d supposed Glisi would have said Yolda—that all things were as they should be, planned by the Great Spirit. At best, Sarah would have admitted perhaps it had been love at first sight.
They had so much in common: They were both still in their twenties (!) yet were on their own, Sarah by circumstance, Jason because his straitlaced father wanted his son to be a lawyer, not a singer, and his mother was terrified that her only child would start taking drugs.
“Sarah,” he’d said. “Wow, you’re beautiful.” They stood eye-to-eye, his chocolate-brown ones lost somewhere in her coal-black ones, a tenderness revealed by the blush that rose in his Irish cheeks, a smile that displayed a secret emotion, something of a cross between euphoria and alarm.
She lost her ability to speak.
“If you think she’s beautiful, you should see her jewelry,” the young pottery-woman said, then drifted away, her arm linked through the drummer’s.
“I’d like that,” Jason said to no one but Sarah. “If you’d like to show me.”
Other than Red Elk, Sarah had never had a real boyfriend, not the kind who lasted beyond a month or two, beyond the stage of getting-to-know-each-other that, once partially complete, left her feeling unfulfilled and untrusting and not wanting to spend another day or night in the company of the guy. It was not that way with Jason. They walked through the old city, then drove to Mount Royal, where they climbed up to the lookout and watched the lights of Montreal until the dawn arrived over the horizon of the famed St. Lawrence River. Soon after, he moved into the log cabin that she rented outside West Hope. A year later they bought the place from the landlord, and the next year Burch was born. They’d never gotten married, because there was that independence thing: a need, perhaps on his end, a barrier on hers, she knew, to avoid getting too close, in case he left her as the other people she’d loved had. When Burch was still an infant, Jason’s upper-middle class, prim and proper parents had finally come around, having chosen to accept their lives instead of losing Jason completely.
Despite the lengthy time-and-travel separations, Sarah had thought that they’d grow cliché-ingly old together. She never thought that they’d be loving each other from separate homes. Then again, she never thought her mother was alive either.
The clock on Jason’s nightstand, which, like the other furnishings, was new, said nine thirty-four. Sarah decided that between now and when she went to the studio, she would go to Lily’s apartment—she knew the location from their many years of September “Girls’ Weekends” in the city. They hadn’t made concrete plans to get together. The others might be at the apartment, or they might be at Irene’s, or they might be shopping for wedding-planning ideas. She didn’t know the phone number of Lily’s apartment; she didn’t know any of their cell phone numbers because she’d never bothered to get one of her own. Being available 24/7 might be convenient, but it represented stress that Sarah felt the world simply didn’t need. She closed her eyes and sighed. No matter what, she’d go to Lily’s so she could at least say she had tried to connect.
Maybe Laura Carrington lived near Lily’s in a brownstone next door or around the corner.
No. She laughed. Too coincidental.
And yet, maybe Lily knew, maybe Lily had heard, where the old film star lived. Sarah could ask. But did she want Lily involved?
She flipped from one side to the other. In Hollywood there were tour buses that drove the paying customers to see the mansions of one star after another. New York, however, would be way too refined for that.
Opening her eyes again, she tried to think of an alternative. She could check the Internet, but she didn’t really know how. Too many years living as a recluse. Too many years living with her hands in the earth and not in cyberspace.
And then Sarah thought about the library, the New York Public Library, whose main branch served as guardian of Fifth Avenue, whose regal lions and long flight of stone stairs promised all who entered vast access to knowledge.
The library. Of course.
Without a blink of hesitation, Sarah bolted from Jason’s bed. She wondered how long it would take to shower, dry her hair, then get a cab from East Greenwich Village to Midtown.
They stepped into the elevator that led to the Benson penthouse after Lily told the doorman that she was Lily Beckwith, Andrew Kennedy’s business partner. The doorman had called up to the thirty-seventh floor and Andrew said to send her up, because what else would he have said? He did not know Elaine and Jo were with her.
Lily pushed the button that read PH as if she went there every day. “This will be fine, you’ll see,” she said.
Jo was not as certain.
The elevator doors closed and the car began its quick ascent.
Jo looked over at Elaine, who gripped a glass ichibana vase that held three tiny yellow orchids. Lily had insisted that her favorite florist create it in time for them to bring it to Irene. “Just a small, thinking-of-you gift,” Lily had said. She chose yellow, not white, because white would be too much like the flowers from the wedding.
For a reason Jo could not explain, she felt unsettled, an unexpected guest at a private party. Andrew had said he’d lived in this building as a boy—he must have ridden this same elevator countless times. Jo thought that the first time she went there, it should at least be at his request.
It was, however, too late to change her mind. The elevator slowed, rose up, then down, then stopped. The shiny brass doors opened, and Andrew was standing there.
“Lily,” he said. Then he noticed them. “Elaine.” His eyes moved over to her. “Jo.” He laughed a small, short laugh. “Hey, what the heck are you guys doing here?”
“We’ve come to offer our condolences,” Lily announced, stepping from the car and into the hall. “And our friendship. It’s not as if at least one of us hasn’t been through this kind of horror.”
Jo—the one who everyone knew had been through the closest thing to “this kind of horror” and certainly most recently—lingered in the background as if she were no one special, as if she were merely another acquaintance. She pushed the elevator button that signaled the doors to stay ajar.
“I’m sorry I haven’t called,” he said to everyone, though his eyes were fixed on Jo. “I’ve been so busy. Tending to John’s things.”
Jo offered a half smile. She didn’t want him to think she was pressuring him.
“Is she here?” Lily continued. “Irene?”
“Sorry. She’s resting.” He did not invite them into the penthouse, the door to which was open, less than twenty feet from them.
“How is she feeling?” Lily asked.
“All right. She’s strong.”
“And Cassie?”
“Cassie is good. Irene’s been helping her with her French. Plus she’s polished all the silver and is downstairs right now ironing linen napkins.”
The word that was unspoken was, decidedly, intrusion. “Perhaps we should have called,” Jo said.
“It wouldn’t have mattered,” he replied. “Irene really isn’t up to seeing anyone.”
Jo nodded. She remembered the feeling that crawled inside your belly when a man just up and left, the feeling that someone, indeed, had died. She remembered the feeling of wishing he had, because it would have been so much easier to rationalize, so much less embarrassing.
Lily remained in place.
Elaine held out the
ichibana vase. “Please, Andrew. Give these to Irene. Tell her we were thinking of her.”
He took the flowers.
“Perhaps we can help,” Lily said. “At a time like this, a woman needs all the friends she can get.”
He shook his head. “She’s fine. Really.”
“Well, we all know that friends of couples often wait a while to see whose side they should take. You know, should they feel sorry for her or stand by him?” Lily pressed on, oblivious to Andrew’s obvious dilemma about what to say or do next.
Jo couldn’t stand another minute of this ridiculous scene. “Lily,” she said, “get back on the elevator. We have bridal shops to visit, remember?”
“Ah,” Andrew said. “That sounds like a good idea. What with business booming…” He tried to smile a soft, Andrew smile, but Jo noticed that behind his eyes something was wrong.
Lily took a step back, as if finally understanding that they were not wanted.
Andrew examined the yellow blossoms. “I’m sorry. I never dreamed you’d come. Any of you. Not with the business so busy and all…”
“If it hadn’t been for John and Irene, we wouldn’t be busy, now, would we?” Lily said, then kiss-kissed his cheek and tucked one of her personal calling cards into his hand. “We’ll be at my apartment if you need us. We’re not going back until Saturday. We only came to the city to check out a few shops and pick up Elaine’s father.” She pointed to the card that she’d just given him, to the gold foil-embossed “B” for Beckwith, naturally. “That’s my address and phone. Please don’t hesitate.” She blew another smiling kiss, stepped back onto the elevator, and pushed the CLOSE DOORS button as if leaving had been her idea.
“Was that a visitor?” Irene asked when Andrew went back inside the penthouse and closed the door behind him. She swished up to him in a lavender chiffon caftan, her eyes sparkling not from tears but from the champagne in the mimosas she’d insisted Elsa prepare for breakfast, though she’d hardly eaten. “Has Barry arrived so early?”
Barry Franklin had scheduled a full day with Andrew to review the duties that Andrew hadn’t asked for and didn’t think he wanted. So far he’d learned that selling the Benson Group was going to involve a dumpsterful of paper and more meetings than the pope gave blessings in any given year. He’d tried—to no avail so far—to let Barry and Irene know that he was a journalist at heart, that he was no Donald Trump.
“It was just a flower delivery,” Andrew said, setting the vase on the sideboard in the foyer. “From the women at Second Chances.”
She eyed the orchids, then quickly turned away. “Well, isn’t that sweet,” she said. “Alms for the bereaved.”
“The women are in town,” he said. “They’re staying at Lily’s apartment.”
She went into the living room and poured another mimosa from the long bar by the windows. “Well, they’ll have to get used to life without you now. But it isn’t as if that wedding business was a real job for you.”
They hadn’t spoken about it further, about his life and Irene’s life and what would or should happen next. He hadn’t brought up the subject this morning, because he did not know what to do after reading the contents of John’s letter that she’d dropped on him last night.
“I like working with the women, Irene. They’re my friends.”
One perfectly waxed eyebrow lifted. She could have mentioned the great number of years that she and John had been his friends, but Irene was too much a lady to do that. All of which, of course, made him feel even more like crap.
She handed him a mimosa; he said no thanks and sat down on the sofa.
“Irene,” he said. “I had no problem coming down here, even though you didn’t show up when you said you would. I’ve had no problem playing dodge ’em for the press or being the official greeter for your friends. But as for me handling John’s business affairs, well, you—or he—might have considered asking first.”
Her forehead flattened. “I don’t understand you, Andrew. You know how much he—we need you. You’re the only one John trusts. He’s giving you a broadcast station. He’s giving you control of Buzz. Isn’t that enough compensation for this one teeny favor?”
“It’s not about compensation, Irene. And it’s not a ‘teeny favor.’ It’s an enormous responsibility to keep the Benson Group running well until John decides either to sell it or return to his mind.” Irene began to pace. He wished he hadn’t added the part about John’s mind.
“But it’s my future as well as John’s. I don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t do this without you, Andrew. I simply can’t, that’s all.”
He wanted to provide a reassuring hand on her shoulder or her arm, but Irene was in motion now and seemingly not going to stop. “Irene, please,” he said. “It isn’t about you. I said I’d do what I can. But Cassie and I have a life we love. I have a woman I care about. All of that is in West Hope. It isn’t here.” He felt tired, depressed, angry at himself for getting caught up in his guilt.
Irene said nothing but suddenly stopped pacing. She stared out at the cityscape, then turned to Andrew, her eyelids lowered, her voice emitting a new softness. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Andrew,” she said. “Please understand it was not my idea for John to desert me. And you’re right, he should not have entangled you in his business affairs, or in our personal matters, without asking in advance. It seems as if his stupidity has affected more than me.” She went back to the bar and set down her glass. “Feel free to go back to your life. You’ll understand if I don’t say good-bye to Cassie.”
She left the room, her footsteps slow, her sorrow trailing behind her.
Andrew tipped back his head and closed his eyes. Then, with an exasperated sigh, he stood up and followed her out of the room, calling, “Irene,” until she stopped in the gallery and turned around and he said, “Irene, please, I’m sure we can work something out.”
27
The awning over the door was teal, not the deep maroon that Sarah had seen in a photo in an old Movie Star magazine, which had captured Laura Carrington emerging from her newly acquired Central Park West apartment. The issue was dated May 1983. The accompanying article Sarah had unearthed in the library did not mention that by 1983 Laura’s stardom years had waned. Nor did it mention that the daughter she’d abandoned, who’d turned out to be her only child, was by then at college in New England, had lost her father, and had outgrown her buffalo-grass doll.
But if Glisi had taught Sarah anything, it was tolerance, patience for the mystical workings of the Circle of Life, where all is for a purpose, where all things—man, animals, plants, trees—are one in harmony and balance.
She did not feel particularly in balance as she crossed West 82nd Street for a better view. Instead, she felt wobbly, unsteady, and totally unsure as her heart thumped quickly in her throat.
From the opposite sidewalk, she felt a little safer, a little more calm.
It wasn’t a tall building by the standards of New York. She tipped back her head, counting the floors, all of which had large, imposing windows that peered over the pavement and the concrete walks to the lushness of the park.
She wondered which windows were Laura’s, and how often the woman looked out of them, and if she might be doing that right now.
Would she notice Sarah?
If Sarah were more confident, more in balance, she supposed, she might march up to the front door and have herself announced.
Sarah Duncan, she would say to the doorman. Here to see Ms. Carrington.
The doorman could say Ms. Carrington was not in, a probable bogus message used to pacify unwanted guests or old Hollywood hangers-on who’d learned her New York address the way Sarah had.
He could say that no one lived there by that name, because Laura might call herself something else now, a name she’d confided only to her closest friends.
Or he could say, Just a moment, I’ll call upstairs for you.
No, Sarah thought, she was not that much in balance.
/> And then a drapery stirred at the front window up on the fourth floor. Sarah held herself still, wondering if it had been her imagination, wondering why her gaze had landed there just as the motion had occurred. Was it a sign from Glisi? Was it where Sarah’s mother lived?
“Move, lady!” a man’s voice shouted at her.
She snapped around and saw a clean-shaven, middle-aged man who wore an old gray hooded sweatshirt and a knit cap pulled down around his ears. His cheeks were puffed and red; his thick, dark eyebrows were knitted into one. He clutched the handle of a large vending cart that he obviously wanted to steer around her. “Please,” he added, with a weary testament to the new, people-friendly New York.
Sarah stepped aside.
A small gust of wind eddied around her. She clutched her long, cloth coat, wishing she’d worn something warmer. She checked her watch. It was just past noon. Maybe the others would be at Lily’s apartment. Maybe she’d be better off to go there after all and stop standing on the sidewalk, where she was in the way.
It was a sunny, crisp January day, the weather no excuse for Laura to have skipped her morning walk in the park with Karl, the man who’d been “keeping her company” for ten or twelve years. But the best part of growing older, Laura reasoned, was that you didn’t always have to explain why you wanted—or didn’t want—what you wanted or didn’t want, that you could just say, “No,” without feeling remorse.
Besides, she didn’t even know why she’d canceled their plans today. For some unknown, unexpected reason, it had seemed like a better idea to stay at home, to look out at the park that she loved so much, to watch the predictable, ceaseless motion of comings and goings of dog-walkers and nannies and bright Yellow Cabs.
With a last, cheerful look, Laura stepped from the draperies at her front window and decided a cup of tea would taste really good now.
28
It’s insulting, that’s what it is,” Lily was saying to Elaine as Jo led Sarah into the living room. “After all we did for Irene, she can’t even invite us in?”
