A Very Good Life

by Lynn Steward

  Brett tried to hold back laughter but couldn’t. “I guess that would be simpler, wouldn’t it.”

  “Absolutely! They can drink single malt and then sing the Yale Whiffenpoof Song before doing the deed.”

  Heads in the shop were turning, and Brett had to lower his gaze and bite his lip to keep from laughing further. Janice’s remarks had conjured up several entertaining images in his mind, and he found her humor not so much irreverent as just plain funny.

  “Here’s your order,” Mr. Stiles said, bringing out Dana’s order from the rear of the store. “Everything is gift wrapped just as Mrs. McGarry requested. Please don’t hesitate to call if you have any questions.”

  “Excellent,” Brett said. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Stiles.”

  “And to you and Mrs. McGarry.” Mr. Stiles took notice of Janice but his demeanor remained entirely professional. At Mrs. John L. Strong, all customers were considered above reproach and were treated accordingly. The shop dealt in quality and service, and an inquisitive look from an employee would have been beneath the establishment’s standards.

  Brett and Janice left the stationers and stood on the street.

  “Let’s go to the Polo Lounge for a drink,” she said. “We have a few things to discuss in private.”

  “Why the Polo?” Brett asked.

  “Because it’s expensive and you’re paying.”

  Brett took a deep breath. “If you insist.”

  “I most certainly do.”

  Brett glanced at his watch and decided he could spare a few minutes to listen to whatever Janice deemed to be so urgent. He presumed the matter involved running into Patti Hartlen.

  • • •

  Brett and Janice sat at a table in the rear of the Polo Lounge at the Westbury Hotel on Madison Avenue and 69th Street.

  “I’ll have a glass of house cabernet,” Janice told their waiter.

  “Just coffee for me,” Brett said, his arms folded defensively.

  “I’d rather have a Georges de la Tour cab, private reserve,” Janice declared, “but what’s the point if we’re not sharing a bottle.”

  Brett’s jaw dropped.

  “Don’t act so surprised, Mr. Landmark. I know more than people give me credit for. It’s just that I don’t place a lot of stock in facades and traditions. Consider the wine journals, for example. They’re part of yet another tradition, one that I’m sure will be carried on until you retire from the firm. It’s just more preservation. Preserve your precious wine labels and then preserve your routines until you turn into stone. Is this really how you want to live your life? I mean, it’s all well and good for some people, I suppose, but as a lifestyle, it would leave me cold, as in dead. If that makes me a bad girl from the West Coast with no breeding or social amenities, then so be it.”

  “I get what you’re saying about turning into a landmark,” Brett said, looking across the table at his colleague’s deep blue eyes. “But even partners at law firms have skeletons in their closets. Nobody’s a Boy Scout. Why did you imply back at Saks that my life is going to radically change?”

  “Because Patti Hartlen is a very astute observer, and women have been known to gossip.”

  Brett shook his head as the waiter brought a glass of cabernet and a cup of coffee to the table.

  “I’ve been thinking about that little run-in with Patti. Dana and I don’t even know those people. The meeting at Saks was awkward, but there’s no harm done.”

  “What if I told you that Jack Hartlen has a meeting with Patrick Denner next week?”

  Brett cocked his head and frowned. Patrick Denner was a corporate associate at Davis, Konen and Wright and a friend of Brett’s. “I haven’t heard anything about such a meeting,” he countered, sounding nonplussed. “You’ve heard of the Hartlens?”

  “It’s just a tidbit I picked up,” said Janice. “Ears to the ground, as they say. I don’t know any particulars, but if the Hartlens plan on retaining the firm’s services, then sooner or later they’re going to see you or me, possibly together. Whether or not Patti will draw any conclusions is anybody’s guess. We were leaving the ladies department together. Makes for interesting speculation.”

  “There aren’t any conclusions to draw.”

  “That’s irrelevant when it comes to gossip, and nothing will sink the chances of a partnership faster than salacious gossip. You also might not be picking up any more wine journals for Dana if Patti’s the kind to talk.” Janice raised her eyebrows seductively as she spoke slowly and deliberately. “But I can provide some cover, shall we say, to prevent any scandal.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Brett said. “Do whatever you can.”

  “Ah, my dear Brett, you can be so naïve. Everything comes with a price tag.”

  Brett narrowed his eyes. “Which is?”

  “I want you. In the short term, that is. No kids or picket fences for me. Just a little innocent fun. And don’t tell me that you’re not attracted to me, or you wouldn’t be sitting here. I saw the way you laughed at my remarks back at Mrs. John Q. Whatever’s shop.”

  “You’re an opportunistic woman. This is blackmail.”

  “Is it? You want me with every fiber of your being.”

  Brett sipped his coffee and thought of the years he’d positioned himself to make partner. He also thought of Dana and how she trusted him. If the Hartlens became suspicious, then his career and marriage might well be in jeopardy. Janice’s scenario was a bit far-fetched, but Dana had bumped into Jack, and he had just bumped into Patti. What were the odds? He’d seen more than one career falter due to innuendo or even an ill-timed remark. Should he do what Janice wanted for a month or two to preserve his home and career? Would it really hurt anything as long as he was discreet?

  “What kind of protection are you offering?” he asked, hardly believing that the conversation had progressed this far.

  “I can get men’s attention rather easily. If I’m rumored to be dating someone other than you, people will learn about it and you’ll be in the clear. Since we work together, we can schedule a little time for ourselves once in a while without suspicion. Call it a little romantic sleight of hand.”

  Brett took a deep breath as Janice sipped her cabernet. “It’s a no-win situation.”

  “No, it’s just the opposite. You get to have your cake and eat it, too. At heart, that’s what Brett McGarry wants out of life. You want it all.”

  Brett looked sideways and exhaled slowly. “I need to think about this.”

  Brett excused himself to go to the restroom. He’d broken out in a cold sweat and needed to rinse his face and dry off. A few hours earlier, he’d been happy and confident, content to eat his honey buns and read the Times. Now a chance encounter with a virtual stranger had changed everything. Exactly how far was he willing to go to save his career and spare Dana a lot of nasty rumors that she might be inclined to believe?

  He exited the restroom to find Janice standing in the dim lights of the dressing room area, empty except for them. She put her arms around his neck and pressed her lips softly against his. He made no attempt to pull away.

  “Was that so bad?” Janice asked, stroking Brett’s cheek.

  “I need to get home,” he said, clearing his throat nervously. “I’ll leave first. We can’t be seen leaving together.”

  Brett left as Janice smiled broadly. “He’s already got the vocabulary down,” she said.

  Chapter Nine

  Nina steered her VW into the gravel parking area on the side of an ivy-covered stone edifice that, when it was built in 1750, had been nothing more than a barn with an adjoining piggery. The three B. Altman employees had arrived at the Inn at Phillips Mill. The pre-Revolutionary War estate in Bucks County was now a charming inn with period rooms and fine French dining.

  “It’s beautiful scenery,” Nina remarked, “but give me the city on a day-to-day basis. Or a foreign country with a bustling population and hundreds of side streets lined with shops, stalls, and artisans. I like to f
eel the pulse of what’s going on in the world. I need color, movement, variety.”

  “What I need now,” said Andrew, “is a nice meal and a glass of wine.”

  “The wine’s on me,” Nina said. “I was introduced to some lovely vintages last year when I visited the Alsace region.”

  The trio was escorted to a private dining room with a stone fireplace and a roaring fire. Nina ordered poached salmon, Andrew the baked cod, and Dana the crab salad. Nina ordered a bottle of chardonnay to go with the seafood.

  “Nineteen seventy-five has been designated as International Women’s Year,” Nina said, moving straight from the menu to the topic of feminism. “It’s going to be our year, Dana. Thank God New York will soon have a woman as Lieutenant Governor. Mary Anne Krupsak is fabulous! She has already taken a stand for us. She won’t attend the Democratic Party’s mid-term convention because there won’t be enough women and minorities in attendance, nor will there be balanced geographical representation. She’ll be working closely with Bella Abzug, my congressional representative on the West Side. I know her well, and, of course, Betty Friedan. Betty started the whole idea of an international conference when she met with Kurt Waldheim at the UN last January. The topics we’re going to take on will be all-encompassing: equality in the workplace, voting rights, marriage equality, and reproductive rights, to name just a few. We’re shaking things up!”

  The wine had arrived, and Nina raised her glass in a toast. “To women everywhere!”

  “Indeed,” said Andrew, lifting his glass.

  “This place has an almost hypnotic charm,” Dana remarked after the toast. “I think I’m going to ask for a tour when we finish lunch. I bet the rooms are adorable.”

  “We’ve already made great strides, thanks to the UN report last year on sexist attitudes around the world,” Nina continued without missing a beat. “The report found that the universal image of women was either that of a sex idol needing masculine approval or a merry homemaker fussing over dust mops and laundry. And who do we have to thank for that? The ad men of Madison Avenue! Now that we have all this good information, we can develop a plan of action! We won’t be second-class citizens any longer!”

  Lunch arrived, and Nina continued to talk about Betty Friedan, her idol and a woman who many considered to be the founder of the modern women’s movement.

  “Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique should be given to every college freshman woman!” Nina said, her voice growing louder with each sip of chardonnay. “They’ll quickly learn that the Mrs. degree they are frantically working towards is not all it’s cracked up to be!”

  Andrew smiled, looking at Dana and then at Nina. “We’re behind you, Nina. It’s good to get these things off your chest, but maybe we should speak a little lower. I think the waiter has been giving us the eye for the past few minutes.”

  “I’ll tell you what I got off my chest today, Andrew. Clothing! I’m not wearing a bra! What a symbol of oppression, as if women need to wear harnesses. Pour me another glass of wine please.”

  “I think I’ll go to the ladies room,” Dana said, whispering to Andrew. “She’s all yours.”

  Andrew winked, indicating that he’d try to calm the indefatigable and slightly tipsy Ms. Bramen.

  Dana smiled at Nina’s passion as she asked the waiter if someone were available to give her a tour of the guest rooms. Brett’s birthday was in January, and Dana thought she would surprise him by booking a romantic weekend getaway. It would be a harbinger of good things to come and an excellent way to ease into spending time away from the city. The country life was growing on Dana by the hour. It was exactly what she and Brett needed on a regular basis: some quiet time when neither the store nor the firm could impinge on their life together.

  Dana thought that the rooms were irresistible. Her favorite had a brass bed, a colonial writing desk, a window seat with a view of the river, and a ceiling covered with tiny print fabric to give a canopied effect. It was cozy, warm, and romantic. She dreamed of a snowbound Sunday morning in January and breakfast in bed with her husband.

  Back at the desk, she learned that the inn was near the James A. Michener Museum and the Peddler’s Village, which had seventy specialty shops. Hot air balloon rides were also available just a few miles away. Before returning to the dining room, Dana asked the proprietress if she would please translate the writing over the fireplace. A quotation by the Roman poet Horace, it read, “Ille terrarum mihi praeter omnes angulus ridet.” Moved when she heard the meaning—”This corner of earth smiles for me beyond all others”—Dana knew she had found the idyllic getaway and booked the weekend in January without hesitation.

  Dana rejoined Andrew and Nina, who were waiting at the front desk of the inn. Andrew had paid the check and convinced Nina to surrender the keys to the Beetle.

  “I feel perfectly capable of driving,” Nina declared. “The brisk air outside will clear my head immediately. I once drank my fill of rice wine in Burma and then traveled ten miles through the jungle on an elephant.”

  Andrew didn’t doubt Nina’s Burma adventure for one second, but he still thought it best that he drive back to Manhattan. Five minutes later, they were once more inside the VW, Nina already sleeping in the backseat, her head tilted against the small side window. Andrew put the Bug into reverse, eased it away from the other parked cars, and then pulled onto River Road.

  “Did you reserve a room?” he asked Dana.

  “How did you know I was going to do that?”

  “Because I’m Andrew. You didn’t take that tour for nothing. A weekend here will be bait to get Brett to commit to the country.”

  “Hey, he was the one who brought up the idea of having a retreat in Bedford,” Dana conceded. “I’m just trying to give him a nudge towards domesticity.”

  She turned around in her seat before the first bend in the road, taking a final look at the Inn at Phillips Mill before it disappeared from view. January couldn’t arrive fast enough, she thought.

  “One step at a time,” Andrew said, as if reading her mind. “We’ve got a tree to get in the stand today before we go to Lenôtre to select the hors d’oeuvres for your Christmas party.”

  “So we do,” Dana said, facing forward again.

  For the first time in many months, that’s exactly what Dana was doing: facing forward.

  Chapter Ten

  John Cirone and his son Johnny entered the opulent marble lobby of the Sherry-Netherland a thirty-eight-story brick and limestone hotel located on the corner of Fifth Avenue and East 59th Street. Johnny was a tall, handsome man who loved to work out and play sports whenever he had the chance. Touch football, squash, tennis, swimming—he loved to work up a sweat, compete, or just have fun, and his muscular, well-defined physique showed it.

  “Dad,” Johnny said as they stepped into the elevator, “we must have looked at a dozen apartments today. Did any of them appeal to you at all? You find fault with nearly every one. This search for the perfect digs could go on for weeks.”

  John shrugged nonchalantly. “A few seemed okay. Maybe I’ll have a second look at some in a day or two.”

  “Do you really need to move to the city? You’re less than forty-five minutes away as it is.”

  “I need to be near my beloved opera house,” John said as they exited the elevator and entered his suite. “The situation at the Met is dire. At last week’s directors meeting, some members suggested we cut the length of next season. I almost had a heart attack. We’re expecting a nine-million-dollar deficit this year, and union contracts run out in July. If there was a single room for me at the Metropolitan Opera, that’s where I would live until this mess is straightened out.”

  Johnny knew that the real reason his father was looking at apartments in Manhattan was because he’d grown increasingly lonely in the large family house on Long Island. He’d never completely gotten over the death of Johnny’s mother, but he was ambivalent about moving from the family home and hence his lukewarm assessment of the apartments
they’d seen. Johnny couldn’t blame him because he, too, had not been able to completely overcome the grief of losing his mother. She’d been the glue that held the Cirone family together, a strong, loving woman who always had the right words for any situation. His sister Phoebe, who had a more stoic disposition, had been the only one to heal completely, and Johnny suspected that her ability to do so came from her absorption in the demanding cardiology fellowship.

  “You have your work cut out, Dad, but I know you’ll turn things around. The Met has an impressive board, and if there’s anyone who will know how to negotiate with the unions, it’s you. As for the apartment, however, everything we’ve looked at is near St. Thomas More Church. Maybe we should expand the search a little.”

  St. Thomas More was on East 89th Street, between Madison Avenue and Park Avenue.

  “That’s the church I like, Johnny. The priests there give sermons that speak to my heart, and we always should listen to our hearts. That’s where true wisdom resides.”

  “Are you trying to tell me something?” Johnny asked with a grin. He knew his father was attempting to broach a subject, either about his impending wedding or his lapsed church attendance.

  “Perhaps. Where was your heart when you were growing up, Johnny?”

  “With you and Mom and Phoebe.”

  “And?”

  “Okay, I get it. With God.”

  “But where is it now?”

  Johnny hesitated as he walked to the window of his father’s room. “God let Mom die,” he answered, his tone now somber. “I find that hard to accept even now.”