A Very Good Life

by Lynn Steward

  Dana’s parents, on the other hand, had modeled a very personal brand of achievement. Her father, for example, was truly great in her eyes, and yet achievement for him had been represented by loyalty to his employer and devotion to family. Greatness, it turned out, was a relative term. Some people wanted fame, while others sought success closer to home. Some reveled in details, while others appreciated what Kim termed the big picture.

  For Dana, so much had coalesced around the events of the day. She felt that each life was itself a work of art, and she agreed with Kim Sullivan’s perspective: finding a big picture that was both beautiful and simple seemed to be the one worth pursuing. Putting a teen makeup counter in an alcove had turned out to be an easy solution to her problem at B. Altman, and yet the politics of her job—having to mince words with Helen, Bea, or Bob—suddenly seemed annoying. Dana was a disciplined woman who knew what she wanted and, more importantly, how to get it. Sometimes, however, life pushed back. It certainly had with Toulouse-Lautrec, and forces were currently pushing against Kim Sullivan, who didn’t want to follow in her parents’ footsteps. In Dana’s personal life, the question came down to whether or not Brett would “push back.” Since their dinner at Cheshire Cheese, she’d thought that he was again sharing her long-term goals—the big picture for the next phase of their lives together. But was he so immersed in concerns of his career that he would forever be a man who could only address his advancement with the firm? She didn’t begrudge his success, but did he have the ability, like her father, to leave work behind at the end of the day to enjoy his family? Would he lend moral support when she was worried about the children, or would he dismiss her concerns as he had done in recent years?

  She refocused her attention on Toulouse-Lautrec and his tragic death. He had concealed alcohol in his walking cane so that his next drink was always available. Was there anything Brett was concealing?

  • • •

  Café des Artistes was located in the lobby of Hotel des Artistes at One West 67th Street, a part Gothic, part Tudor revival co-op building that originally opened as artists’ studios. The restaurant, opening in 1917, had been a favorite of many artists of all genres, from Marcel Duchamp to Isadora Duncan. Dana entered the restaurant and was getting a glass of wine when Max Helm approached her with his wife, recognizing her from the day they’d met at Lenôtre.

  “And where is Andrew?” Max asked. “He’s coming, isn’t he?”

  “His father had a heart attack today,” Dana answered. “I’m afraid he won’t be joining us.”

  “That’s terrible news,” Max said. “I’ll have to give him a call tomorrow. I hope everything turns out okay.”

  As Max and his wife walked Dana around the small bistro, discussing the history of the enchanting Howard Chandler Christy murals—thirty six flirtatious nudes inspired by the all-American Gibson Girl of the 1900s—he introduced her to many of the guests. Dana made a mental note to tell Andrew the following day about the fascinating people she was meeting.

  Dimly lit and cozy, Dana thought that Café des Artistes was the perfect place to be on this wintery December evening. After her various epiphanies during the lecture, she found that she was not star-struck to be around such illustrious company, but rather grateful that she was learning more and more about how to live life on her own terms. She was thrilled, of course, to be in the company of Rosamond Bernier—that hadn’t changed—but her definition of greatness had been modified. She realized that her personal satisfaction for creative ideas and a job well done was more important than approval from colleagues and senior executives. She loved the city, with its vibrant pace and cultural richness, but she would also enjoy watching a star-filled sky from a country home. Greatness didn’t have to result from tragic circumstances or an obsession with one’s career.

  Noting that Bernier was talking to only two people, Dana approached while carrying a small arrangement of tuberoses and a thank you card to express her appreciation at being invited to the after-party. Before she could get close enough, however, a woman dashed over to Rosamond with raised, outstretched arms, breathlessly declaring, “The lecture was divine! Dee-vine!”

  The woman was Diana Vreeland, the high priestess of fashion and legendary fashion editor of Harper’s Bazaar and editor-in-chief of Vogue.

  Dana paused, eyes wide. Well, perhaps she was a bit star-struck after all. During her forty-year career, Vreeland had revolutionized fashion and publishing with her innovation, vision, and style. She discovered Lauren Bacall and became fashion advisor and mentor to Jacqueline Kennedy. Her list of famous friends, from Cole Porter to Warren Beatty, was endless. In 1971, at the age of seventy, her talents were center stage in the newly-created position of special consultant to the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, revitalizing the institute with lavish, three-dimensional exhibits that drew blockbuster crowds.

  From behind, Max’s hand gripped Dana’s elbow and guided her closer to Rosamond Bernier. “Get in there and say hi,” Max whispered. “Don’t be shy.”

  “Dana, how wonderful that you could make it!” Bernier said. “I hope you enjoyed the lecture.”

  Dana was flattered that Bernier remembered her name, and she offered her the flowers. “I enjoyed it more than you’ll ever know. Thank you very much for inviting me.”

  “You’re welcome,” Bernier said, turning to Diana Vreeland. “Diana, I think you should consider having Dana join your volunteers at the Costume Institute to work on next year’s American Women of Style exhibit. I think she would be perfect.”

  “I agree,” Max volunteered. “Andrew Ricci thinks she can walk on water.”

  “And what do you do?” asked Vreeland, examining Dana with piercing x-ray eyes.

  “I’m public relations and special events coordinator for B. Altman,” Dana replied.

  Diana Vreeland’s expression lit up immediately. “What a coincidence! I just heard that Tony is having his show at B. Altman next year? Is it true?”

  “Yes,” Dana said. “B. Altman is underwriting Lord Snowdon’s photographic retrospective for the benefit of the Association Residence for the Aged.”

  Tony was none other than Antony Armstrong-Jones, first earl of Snowdon.

  “What a coup!” Vreeland said. “He’s such a fabulous man.”

  “We learned of Lord Snowdon’s interest in aging in the TV documentary ’Don’t Count the Candles,’” Dana said.

  Diana Vreeland laughed and said, “That, my dear, is the first rule of living happily ever after. Don’t count the candles! And I’d love to have you join me at the Costume Institute.”

  Dana smiled and thanked Vreeland. She was beaming, but she also realized that her personal theme of the night had surfaced yet again in the saying “don’t count the candles.” That, too, was an expression of the big picture—not to look at a single year or event, but at the totality of one’s life. As Kim might have said, why count individual stars when there was an entire night sky that comprised the Milky Way? Wanting to advance her career was all well and good, as was becoming a partner in a prestigious law firm. Both pursuits, however, were part of a larger tapestry.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Dana arrived home in a pleasant mood thanks to her unexpected introduction to Diana Vreeland. Working at the Costume Institute at the Met would be enjoyable, not to mention another impressive achievement for her resume. She had not forgotten the conversation she needed to have with her husband, however, one she had been dreading for most of the day. Brett was sitting in the living room, eating a bowl of ice cream.

  “How was the lecture?” he asked nonchalantly. “Did you have a good time?”

  Not bothering to answer the question, Dana sat in a nearby chair and decided to ask her questions directly, with no preface as to the subject she was going to broach. “Speaking of having a good time, did you and Janice have a good time picking out a new wardrobe?”

  Brett rolled his eyes. “No. It was miserable. The woman is incorrigible.” He co
ntinued to eat his ice cream, not bothering to look at Dana.

  “Brett, what in the world were you doing buying that woman clothes? Don’t you think I deserve some kind of explanation?”

  “Huh?” Brett looked at Dana for the first time since she’d entered the room. “Clothes? Oh, the trip to Saks on Saturday. Richard asked me a few weeks ago to pick out a professional wardrobe for Janice. The partners are cringing when she wears miniskirts to the office or court. I tell you, it’s downright embarrassing.”

  “How come you never mentioned it to me?”

  Brett shrugged. “I guess it never crossed my mind. It’s just something that needed to get done. Why? Is something wrong?”

  “A lot of things are wrong, Brett. If this woman needed to get a new wardrobe, don’t you think I would have been the logical person to pick it out? I do, after all, work in a department store, and I’m more than aware of what kind of apparel is suitable for lawyers, male or female. I think it was inappropriate for you to go with her to buy clothes.” Dana folded her arms and waited for a reply.

  “Inappropriate? I sat in a chair while a saleswoman selected business suits and such. I was the one with the company credit card. I was ready to pick up the wine journals after the meeting at Rockefeller Center, but Janice suggested we purchase the wardrobe since Saks was right across the street. It seemed as good a time as any.”

  Feeling a headache coming on, Dana rubbed her temples with the first two fingers of each hand. “Let’s talk about the wine journals. Why was she with you when you picked them up?”

  Brett put the bowl of ice cream on the table beside the sofa, leaned forward, and clasped his hands. “She tagged along after I left Saks. I think she was walking to a subway stop, and she simply followed me into Mrs. John L. Strong.” Brett shook his head and started laughing. “You would have thought the woman had never been into a stationery store. I don’t think she had the slightest clue as to what wine journals are. I couldn’t wait to get out of there!”

  Dana couldn’t hold back her tears any longer. “Do you realize what this woman did at the neighborhood association meeting? She practically gave a lecture advocating prostitution! We got nothing accomplished. She was rude and insulted many of the people who’d come to sign the petition.”

  Brett nodded. “I was afraid something like that might happen as soon as she left for the meeting. She told me this afternoon what happened and seemed pretty contrite. She thought I might be really angry with her.”

  “And were you?” Dana asked, raising her voice. “If not, you should have been.”

  “It wasn’t my place. She didn’t go to the meeting on behalf of the firm. But not to worry. I called the association and scheduled a date for a new meeting in January. I’m terribly sorry, Dana. It must have been really hard listening to Janice. She rarely censors what comes out of her mouth except in the courtroom, and sometimes not even then. That’s what’s so frustrating. She obviously can talk the talk when she’s focused, but that California mindset—whew! What a handful she is.”

  “Brett, I don’t like you being around her. She’s nothing but trouble.”

  Brett’s expression turned to one of consternation. “You mean you don’t trust me with silly old Janice?”

  “It’s Janice I don’t trust! And she’s not old. She may be too flashy for my taste, but she’s attractive.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Brett said.

  “Come on!” Dana exclaimed. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed her!”

  “She’s pretty, I guess, but it’s not something I really pay attention to since I’m with her several hours a day sometimes. Whether at court or at the office, my mind is on work. I have to admit that she’s a damn good litigator, and that’s all I really care about.”

  Dana was now openly sobbing. “She was so sarcastic this morning. And I felt that she was somehow trying to convey that she has her sights set on you. When she mentioned picking up the wine journals with you, it was as if she were rubbing it in my face.”

  Brett rose from the sofa, took Dana by the hand, lifted her from the chair, and put his arms around her. “Like I said, Janice isn’t terribly diplomatic on a personal level, and she’s even been known to cause judges to raise their eyebrows. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about, although I can understand why you’re upset. Meeting Janice for the first time without being prepared for the culture shock can be disorienting.”

  Dana felt foolish. Brett’s responses were perfectly reasonable. The small voice in her mind representing her father had been correct: she’d been borrowing trouble all day, but everything had had a simple explanation. Her head resting on Brett’s shoulder, Dana nevertheless wondered why her instincts had been on alert for the past several hours. She had fully expected to catch Brett in a lie and to learn that he had allowed himself to fall into a compromising situation.

  A compromising situation? Who am I kidding, Dana thought. I was sure he was having an affair. But I was right earlier when I thought that Janice was a troublemaker and not to be trusted. She was toying with me.

  “Why don’t you go up to bed?” Brett suggested. “I’ll clean up down here and be up in a few minutes. Okay?”

  Dana climbed the stairs to their bedroom, tired from a long, emotionally draining day. So much had happened since the meeting at Mary Elizabeth’s. She’d gone to Kenneth’s, worked with Kim for much of the afternoon, and then attended the lecture at the Met before going to Café des Artistes. Through it all, she’d suspected that her marriage was hanging in the balance. Her headache was getting worse, and she was in bed and asleep within ten minutes.

  • • •

  Brett rinsed his ice cream bowl and put it into the dishwasher. He then leaned against the counter, his arms folded, as he thought of his exchange with Dana. He had dodged the proverbial bullet. In actuality, Janice had mentioned nothing about causing confusion at the meeting, although in retrospect he shouldn’t have been surprised that she’d been vocal on her true feelings about the proposed legislation to move prostitutes away from the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. But mentioning the wardrobe selection to Dana, as well as their joint foray to Mrs. John L. Strong—that was perplexing. Why would Janice give Dana anything to be concerned about? After a moment of reflection, he thought of several reasons.

  The first possibility was that it was Janice being Janice. She liked pushing people’s buttons, and Brett was aware that Janice regarded Dana with disdain. Dana represented a traditional way of doing things, which was anathema to the California transplant.

  The second possibility was that Janice had been intentionally honest with Dana so as to prevent further suspicion in the future. Why not simply tell Dana the truth instead of creating lies that might haunt them both somewhere down the line? Wasn’t it always the little white lie that came back to expose an affair? Telling the truth was sound strategy from a lawyer who knew strategy like the back of her hand.

  The third possibility was a bit more unsettling. Maybe it had indeed been strategy, although not of the benign kind. What if Janice had, to use Dana’s own words, rubbed her time spent with Brett directly into Dana’s face, knowing that the prim and proper Mrs. McGarry would surely demand explanations from her husband? If this were the case, it might be a way of sending Brett a clear signal that she wielded the power in their clandestine relationship. Knowing that Brett could explain their Saturday activities without a great deal of trouble, Janice might nevertheless be telling Brett that she had many cards to play if he didn’t do everything asked of him.

  He would speak to her about the matter, but he didn’t foresee any problems. They had struck a bargain in what was a quid pro quo affair. Tonight had been a minor bump in the road that he had handled deftly. He was confident that things would go smoothly from here on out.

  He went upstairs and got into bed, glad that Dana had fallen asleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Johnny Cirone sat in Brett’s office, nervous but hopeful that Dana’s husband
could help extricate him from all affiliations with a company that was using him as a front man for illegal activities. Brett sat behind his desk, shuffled through some pages, and then handed Johnny a document to sign.

  “This tenders your resignation from the company as of today,” Brett explained. “Once you’ve signed your letter of resignation, we’ll walk down the hall and have it notarized. I’ve arranged for it to be hand delivered to the company’s main office later today.”

  “Why hand delivered?” asked Johnny.

  “We’re giving them a one-two punch,” Brett answered. “I want the resignation and stock sale to hit them simultaneously. They were able to make you CEO of a subsidiary by virtue of your majority holdings. I want to make sure that the company officers don’t try to reinstate you with further trickery. On your behalf, I’ll relay the sell order to my broker for your shares the moment I’ve been informed that the letter of resignation has been delivered. After that, you’re a free man.”

  Johnny shook his head and grinned. “Wow, Brett. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Glad to help,” Brett said. “As insurance, I’ve made a discreet call to people I know with the Securities and Exchange Commission, as well as the IRS, to let them know that they should look into the company’s finances. As your counsel of record, my notification will demonstrate good faith in your not wishing to be part of any illegal activities. Otherwise, the company might just say you got out because you got cold feet or had perhaps already made a profit and stashed some money offshore.”

  “You think of everything,” Johnny said.

  “The people who got you into this mess, of course, won’t be very pleased,” Brett said.

  “I’m counting on it, Brett. I’m counting on it.”

  • • •

  Johnny had been gone for thirty minutes when Brett received the call he’d been waiting for from Jack Hartlen.