“Do you know what Robin got for me?” Leo asked. “I can’t stand the suspense!”
“But if you know, then there’s no surprise on Christmas morning,” I said, fingering the white velvet bow on my gift. “You know, once when I was a kid, I did sneak a peek. One afternoon while Mom was out, I managed to neatly unwrap and rewrap every package with my name on it. I was like, ten or something, and there were some great gifts that year—I remember a Walkman and a really cool leather jacket. But when Christmas came around, I was so disappointed. There was no surprise. I had burst my own bubble.”
“And let that be a lesson to you, Peeping Thomasina,” Leo warned.
“Oh, I learned my lesson,” I said, shaking the lavender package again.
“Put that down before I’m forced to call the gift police!” Leo called.
With a laugh, I dropped the present back onto the pile. Tomorrow would be soon enough.
With all the nervous jitters of a prom queen, I descended the stairs to a festive houseful of guests, their voices rising over the harmonic song of the carolers Mom had hired to fill the front foyer with Christmas cheer. Dressed in red and black Victorian gowns, the singers nodded cheerfully as I passed by on my way to the kitchen—always the heart of a party. I figured Mom would have a few last-minute chores for me to take care of, especially since Greg wouldn’t be here until later. He needed to attend to the Collins party first, but his people were top-notch caterers.
When I pushed open the kitchen door, I saw that Greg had employed a legion of servers. In fact, they stacked, sorted, and rinsed with such command, I felt like an intruder in a hostile camp.
“You look lovely, princess,” Dad said, handing me a cup of warm spiced cider.
“Thanks, Daddy.” The childish word sort of slipped out, and I hoped no one noticed as he kissed me on the cheek.
“That’s a pretty dress,” he said.
And it cost a heck of a lot more than you’d like to spend, I thought, smiling. Thank God Mom handled the credit card bills now. Upstairs I’d had the panicked realization that my beautiful black sheath with its beaded red jacket was too prissy, too Barbie doll. I’d been tempted to cut a slit in the side, but had compromised by letting my hair hang around my shoulders instead of the twist I usually wrapped it in for formal occasions.
“When you get a chance, there are a few docs outside I’d like you to meet,” Dad said. “Most of the new surgical residents are here.” With that, he pushed past me, making his way to the parlor.
“Great! I’ll catch up with you in a minute.” Lest you think that Dad was trying to hook me up with a doctor, that was simply his way of saying that he wanted to show me off, his offspring, to the guys at work. Because, if you haven’t noticed, for Dad, it’s all about work.
I looked around the kitchen for my mother, but didn’t see her in the small army of white-shirted workers. After a long hit of cider, I ducked a tray of scallops and bacon to pop into the dining room. Wolf and Leo were there, positioned in front of Mom’s display of gold votive candles, which cast an angelic glow from the built-in shelves. The backlighting provided a dramatic mood for my two friends, who seemed to be enjoying each other’s company, as usual.
“You would love my sister,” Wolf was saying. “She’s very goth, very dramatic. My parents thought boarding school would tone her down, but her spirit is unquenchable.”
“Speaking of unquenchable.” I dangled my empty cup in the air. “I need another drink. Wow, that cider goes down easily.”
“Pace yourself, sweetie,” Leo said. “You’ve got all night to get your drunken groove on.”
“I forgot how these parties always make me nervous at first. I’m supposed to go and meet the new fleet of doctors on Dad’s rotation.”
“Ooh, men in white,” Leo cooed. “Mind if I tag along?”
“I dare you,” I teased, ducking into the next room. I knew Leo was afraid of doctors and needles and all things medical, ever since he’d had an AIDS scare a few years ago. Navigating the crowded dining room, I thought back to that rocky time. The catch in Leo’s voice when he asked me to come along to the clinic. The knot of fear in my throat as he shared some of the details about his one-night stand with an “oustandingly gorgeous” guy who later admitted to working as a prostitute in the meat-packing district. Horrors unfolded upon horrors when Leo noticed a dark spot growing on the side of his face. As we waited for the test results, I prayed for a second chance. Please don’t take my friend because of one mistake. Please, please.
If there is a God, he heard me that day. The clinic worker emerged with a smile. Leo got his “do over.” A second chance. How rare is that?
Tucking that memory away, I crossed the front foyer and nearly bumped into Mom’s friend Emily, who was handing her cape to the woman designated as coat taker. She patted her swept-back hairdo, though the gesture was unnecessary, as Emily’s hairdresser must have dumped enough gel to lube a truck.
“Madison!” She spread her arms wide and gave me air kisses. “It’s been so long, dear. How is your mother? Actually, where is your mother?”
“I’m sure she’s around here somewhere,” I said. “But you should be the best barometer of how she is, with all the time you spend together.” Mom had tea or lunch or sherry with Emily nearly every afternoon.
“Oh, no, dear, not anymore. Didn’t she tell you? I have a job now,” Emily announced proudly, her perfectly lined lips parting in a reserved smile. “I’m treasurer of the Ryder Foundation, and the job has taken me off the luncheon circuit.”
What? My radar went wild, blipping and shrieking, but I managed to plaster on a neutral smile as Emily went on about her new position. Okay, so Mom had been lying about her outings with Emily. That meant my mother was spending scads of time doing . . . what? A job search of her own?
I tended to doubt that Mom was trying to get back into the workforce. But the obvious alternative seemed so film noir . . . so unlikely. Robin Greenwood lived by the rules; the woman could be the cover girl for Good Wife magazine.
Tell me I’m in denial. Call me Queen Denial the First. If I was dragging my heels, it was for good reason.
It is just no fun to realize your mother is cheating on your father.
7
In the parlor, I found my father holding court with a group of men near the bar. I recognized two of the men: Dad’s longtime associates from the hospital, his colleagues Dr. Feinstein and Dr. Meuller. As Dad spoke, the men nodded thoughtfully, as if listening to a complicated diagnosis. It struck me how the three surgeons had acquired such similar appearances over the years—three pink-skinned white guys with white hair. It was actually sort of creepy, watching the Stepford Doctors conference in our parlor, knowing my own father was one of them.
I was still a little shaken from getting wind of Mom’s scandal, but I’d swiped another glass of hot cider, and the rum in the mix softened the edges of Mom’s crime. I figured it was best to do the obligatory meet-and-greet with Dad; then I’d be totally free when Greg arrived.
“Merry Christmas, everyone,” I said, waving to Dad’s crew.
“You remember Dr. Meuller and Dr. Feinstein, don’t you?” Dad asked, pulling me into the circle.
“Of course,” I lied. Which one are you? I wondered as I kissed the taller man with the glasses. Feinstein . . . because Feinstein can’t see so fine. And Meuller was always shorter and heavier, like a mule. Don’t ask.
“Madison’s had quite a year,” Dad announced proudly. “Graduated Columbia, then found a job working for Skyscraper magazine. She’s got an office on the twenty-third floor.”
Actually, it was a cubicle, but since the docs weren’t going to fact-check Dad’s story, I figured I’d let it slide.
“Good for you,” Dr. Meuller boomed.
“Do you know Tina Brown?” Dr. Feinstein asked.
“No, actually, she’s at another magazine,” I said.
“But Madison works with Hugh Paddington,” Dad added proudly. “Tel
l them, honey.”
“Tell them, what, Dad?” That I’d been in Hugh’s pants and lived to tell the tale? I swallowed hard. This was going worse than I’d expected.
“She’s taken meetings with Paddington,” Dad bragged.
Why was I surprised that Dad was spreading exaggerated tales of my success? He’d always had trouble dealing with my lack of ambition.
“Is that right?” Dr. Meuller nodded.
“Oh, sure,” I said. “Hugh is a fixture at Skyscraper.” And probably older than some of the fixtures in the building. I wanted to say it, but Dad gazed at me with such hope in his eyes, I took the leap. “When I’ve had dinner with him, you’d be surprised at all the people who stop by the table to say hello.” The last statement was a stretch, but I felt confident that I’d casually upped my cachet (and Hugh’s) in one clever name-drop.
Just then a short man with dark hair leaned into the group and made some comment that elicited laughter from Drs. Meuller and Farsighted. Dad chuckled and clapped the man on the shoulder.
“Dr. Mehta, I’d like you to meet my daughter,” Dad said. I shook hands with Dr. Mehta, whose dark eyes sparkled with mirth.
“You are the daughter who is a famous publisher in New York!” Dr. Mehta said, waving toward someone behind me. “I would like that you should meet my wife, Zara. She is a very gifted storyteller.”
“I’d love to meet her,” I said, “but I’m not actually a publisher. I work for a magazine. Skyscraper magazine.”
“Zara! Come now. There is someone here who would like to talk about your story!”
A shy, dark-haired woman joined us, bowing before me. “I am so happy to meet you!” she said.
“Tell her,” Dr. Mehta prodded. “Tell her your story.”
I felt my facial muscles tense as sweet little Zara tried to speak over the men. I couldn’t hear her, but I could relate. It reminded me of every story-pitch meeting at Skyscraper.
Beside me, my father and the other doctors slipped into a conversation about the performance of the Dow this week. Dr. Meuller joked about mixing up one of the financial indexes with his handicap, which they all found incredibly funny. Then, while Zara and Dr. Mehta tried to pitch a sad book about a child who walks the earth in search of a clean water well, Dad reeled in a few other new residents and flew their names by so quickly, all I could do was nod and shake hands.
By the time Leo appeared in the parlor, I was pinned to the Oriental rug like a butterfly on a board. “Help . . . help . . .” I transmitted desperate brain waves.
The picture of etiquette, Leo came to us, excused himself, and announced that I was needed in the garden.
“Oh, excuse me.” I bowed before Zara, then quickly backed away from the group.
“You looked like you needed saving,” he muttered. “Besides, people have started dancing downstairs and Wolf wants to see if you’ve improved since the prom.”
“God bless you,” I said under my breath as we quickly escaped the room. I needed to find Greg and let him hold me. I wanted to cry all over his solid, hunky shoulder, but so far I hadn’t seen him, so I’d have to dump on Leo instead. I grabbed Leo’s arm and swung him into the corner at the bottom of the staircase. Buffered by the big Christmas tree, we’d have a modicum of privacy in this sea of happy faces. “I am in the middle of a semi freak-out,” I confessed, “and the last thing I need is a bunch of strangers barking in my ear.”
“Oh, no, Tiny Tim. You can’t freak out on Christmas Eve!”
“Wouldn’t you wig if you found out your mother was having an affair?”
Leo’s face stretched in an overblown gasp of shock. “No!”
“Yes. At least, I’m pretty sure.” I told him about Emily’s new job. “And do you remember the other night, when I joked that Dad was having an affair? It really hit Mom, even though she insisted it wasn’t true. But maybe she thought I was on to her, which I totally wasn’t. I actually believed she was spending all that time with her gal pals. I mean, since my father had no time for a home life, I figured she needed something.”
“Well, I’d say she found that something.” Leo pursed his lips. “And I’ll bet his name is Clay Webster.”
“What? Why? How do you know? Have you seen her writing his name in her diary?”
“Hardly.” Leo grinned. “But she introduced Clay to Wolf and me, and I sensed that Robin really, really liked him. I’d say they’ve been doing the horizontal mambo.”
“Eeeuuw.” I winced. “Could we not go there?”
“Just trying to lighten things up a bit, because I think you’re taking this all too seriously. Think about it, Madison. Is it really so awful?”
I yanked him closer and whispered between my teeth, “She’s cheating on my father.”
“Yes, but didn’t Dr. G. abandon Robin years ago? Maybe there wasn’t another woman, but some people use their work as a mistress. Your father has neglected your mother, and you, for a long time. Why is it wrong for your mother to want a companion?”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, okay, maybe I’m overreacting. I just need a little time to absorb.”
“You do that. But at the moment we’ve got to navigate out of this quaint little corner and get our asses downstairs. Wolf is waiting.”
I took a deep breath chock-full of cinnamon and orange and spices and fresh pine, then faced the crowd. Now that most of the guests had arrived, the house was brimming with people—an attractive crowd of men in suits and women in velvets and satins and shimmering jewels. As Leo and I excused our way through the dining room, I recognized a few expensive gowns I’d seen on the untouchable racks—one black Channel, and a fabulous Hermes that would have looked a hell of a lot better on me than on Mrs. Ripole. And by the time I get into the income bracket to buy that gown, I’ll probably be sagging just as much as Mrs. Ripole. Sometimes irony just bites you in the sagging ass that way.
Downstairs, the mood of the party was more mellow. The doors to the garden were propped open, and couples were dancing to a jazz version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”
Someone handed me a drink, and I took a sip. Mmm, a bourbon sour. I took a long drink. When I came up for air, Leo was snapping his fingers in front of my face. He removed the glass from my hand and whisked me onto the impromptu dance floor.
“Wolf is dancing with Robin,” he said, “so I guess I’m stuck with you.”
I took a deep breath. The room was fuzzy, but Leo’s face was in perfect focus. “You look so ... so happy.”
“Oh, please, don’t jinx it,” he said.
The bourbon had begun to work its magic, nipping away at my anxiety. Suddenly, my gown had increased in beauty. I felt happy my mother had found someone. I had fallen in love with Greg Kasami. I realized I was so fucking lucky to have my two best friends here to celebrate Christmas. I leaned forward to hug Leo. “I’m so glad you came here for Christmas.”
He patted my back, a little embarrassed by my display. “What, are you drunk?”
“Hell, no,” I said, stumbling as Leo led me into a turn.
“Now, dip!” he hissed.
I leaned back and let my head tip. I scanned the upside-down room for my mother, but all I saw were two sparkling blobs of gown.
As soon as I was upright, a woman rushed forward and got in my face. “Hi! How are you?” she asked in a hoarse, smoker’s voice.
I blinked. Her face was definitely familiar, but I couldn’t place her. As I made a mental voyage over her sloping nose, olive skin, bottled black hair in a petite beehive do, I wished she’d cue me in. Was she a neighbor or a former teacher? A distant aunt or a member of Mom’s book club? “Merry Christmas,” I said, feeling lame.
She nodded. “I think your boyfriend is here,” she said, shooting a look over my shoulder.
“Oh, finally,” I said, feeling my spirits lift. I turned to find Greg, but he wasn’t there. Instead, Ryan stood watching me, decked out in his uniform like a crisp vanilla milkshake. He waved and smiled. “Oh, no.
” I turned back to the nameless female party guest. “He’s not my boyfriend. Where is my boyfriend?”
But the mystery woman didn’t care. She was busy pouring on the charm as Ryan joined us. She shook hands and introduced herself as Sandra. “I’m so glad to see you here,” she told Ryan. “I want you to know, I for one appreciate everything you guys are doing for this country. God bless America.”
“Thank you,” Ryan said so politely I thought he was going to click his heels together and salute Sergeant Sandra.
“Where are you assigned, young man?” she asked, pointing to his name tag. “Mr. Wilkinson? I think I remember you from years ago.”
“I’m on the Ticonderoga,” Ryan answered. “As for our next mission, I’m really not at liberty to say.”
“Say no more.” She held up her hands, and I flashed to an image of the same woman holding up her hands, trying to get us to stop talking.
Sandra Sonnenberg, the high school librarian. What the hell was she doing here? Mom must have really stretched the guest list this year.
“I completely understand when it’s a matter of national security,” Mrs. Sonnenberg went on. “And I do remember you, young man. You two were quite a couple.”
Past tense . . . way past! I wanted to say. Her sentiments made me want to squirm. Not that I didn’t appreciate our Armed Forces. The problem was Ryan. The mere sight of him made me bristle, sending me back to those old days when he’d been such a gawky goofball. Not that I’d been so experienced either, but some of the things he had said! “I love you so much, it hurts,” he used to mope. Raw, untempered emotion . . . It was such a turnoff!
“Would you like to dance?” Ryan asked me.
“I . . .” I was totally unprepared for this. “You know what? I need to run upstairs for a minute,” I lied. “But . . . why don’t you two dance?” I pried Ryan’s hand from mine and hooked it onto the librarian’s arm. “The music is so perfect down here, isn’t it? Really puts you in a Christmas mood.”
Ghosts of Boyfriends Past Page 9
