Arm Candy (14 page)

“Both, you know, keeping options open. Plus, Eden and I are from the boonies. School for us was all metal lockers and linoleum floors, so I don’t really care all that much.”

“Uh-huh,” Jess said, trying to relate (she couldn’t). “Well, I’ll see you on the open house circuit, then! And give a squeeze to that cute little Sasha! She is such a bruiser!”

Jessica spied her food arriving a few tables away.

“Oh no!” she whined with utter dismay. “I said egg whites only!”

“Barf,” said Allison, rolling her eyes, as Jessica sprinted off with a distraught urgency usually reserved for buildings on fire. “What does
bruiser
mean, anyway? That she causes bruises?”

“It means she’s fat,” said Eden with a shrug.

“Real nice. She’s your godchild.”

“Alli, she’s two. She’s supposed to be a chunky muffin. What do you want, a waifish two-year-old? Don’t listen to that crazy woman.”

“You must be thrilled that Cole is eighteen and you’re out of the mommy loop. It’s such a pressure cooker now.”

“Who is that woman, anyway?” asked Eden. “She stresses me out.”

“Her husband’s some big private equity guy. I bet they have one of Otto’s paintings—all those guys want these days is a marquee artist on their wall as a badge of honor to show they still got juice.”

“Intense. How is Kate, anyway? Please do not tell me you are seriously going to stress about schools?” asked Eden, who sent Cole to Friends downtown. “You have nothing to worry about!”

“Please. I love my kid, but instead of Sanders, her middle name should be Trouble. She does stripteases! Seriously, I’m like, where’s the pole? She wears those clear Cinderella heels you gave her and looks like a tranny!” she said, shaking her head. “She’s four-going-on-whore.”

Eden cackled in her trademark guffaw. “It’s just a phase, don’t worry.”

“I hope . . . ’cause I swear, this kid is one strut away from Scores. One grind away from Girls Gone Wild! I found her raiding my makeup while I was on the phone. She had full JonBenét red lipstick and blue eye shadow. The horror.”

Eden laughed and ordered another round of fries from the waiter, who was practically falling over himself to refill her water after each sip.

“Sheesh, Eden, how do you stay so goddamn thin? I can’t believe you didn’t outgrow our white-trash eating habits. You still chow like a fucking truck driver! Are you sure you’re not on the Two Finger Diet?”

“Please. I could never pull the trigger and make myself chunder. I have a thyroid disease, you know that.”

“How do I get it?”

“Shut up. It’s not good. You can get heart problems.”

“But no one can see your heart.” Allison shrugged.

 

 

After lunch, the pair left Three Jews and walked down Madison, surveying the windows and armies of Stokke-pushing MILFs.

“I can’t believe I let you convince me to move uptown,” Eden said. “I don’t belong here. I think I should be down in Tribeca or Brooklyn. Somewhere else. I feel like a fucking alien.”

“Come on,” Allison, said, putting a hot-pink manicured hand through her platinum bob. “Look at me! I’m the most punk rock mom at Carnegie! It’s actually retro-chic to live here. Uptown is the new downtown. Plus, honey, you need to break away from The Studio, if you know what I mean.”

Eden knew her friend was right. She still hung around Clyde’s circle of friends, cooking dinner, seeing plays, visiting galleries. By Clyde’s side she was Eden, the model, The Muse, but alone, sixty blocks north, she was . . . Eden.

“So, the million dollar question,” said Allison. “When are you going to date again? It’s been a while now. I don’t think you’ve ever gone this long without a guy. Thoughts?”

“You’re right. But I don’t know. I still love Otto, you know.”

“He loves you, too—he’s mad with jealousy at the thought of you with someone else.”

“Yeah, well, tough. Not that there is anyone else on the horizon but . . . We’re friends, and true friends let each other go.”

“So maybe you should cut the cord a little bit,” Allison offered.

“I’m trying! That’s why I moved up here,” she sighed.

“You’re not trying hard enough! I think you should sever all ties. At least for a while. Otherwise, how can you figure out what you want? Who you want to be with?”

“Maybe I don’t want to be with anyone. You were always spending your twenties partying and hooking up in the Hamptons trying to find your husband, but I was raising Cole and missed out on all that fun you got to enjoy.”

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, trust me,” attested Allison, hand to gawd. “That Hamptons house was a shithole overflowing with Eurotrash, which is one step beneath even us. Townies are not just an American phenomenon, you know.”

Eden smiled, remembering Allison’s stories of beach bonfires and beers under the stars while Eden’s life was more about being preggers than hitting keggers.

“The truth is, you didn’t miss a thing,” Allison promised. “It’s way more fun to be in a serious relationship than out there. You know that more than anyone. Weren’t you the one who said you want a committed, monogamous relationship? Marriage vows?”

“Of course,” Eden admitted. “I would love that, you know that. But I’m not in a rush. I probably wouldn’t even be able to settle down if I did meet that guy. The wounds are all too fresh; he wouldn’t stand a chance. I want to live for the moment, all that Dead Poets’ shit.”

“So I can’t fix you up with Gerard, Andrew’s half brother? He’s fifty but really young at heart. Just like Otto.”

“If and when I meet someone, I want someone totally different from Otto.”

“So jump on the strapping young buck bandwagon!” suggested Allison. “Oh my God, we have this new young hot Latino gardener in Sagaponack.”

“No, gracias,” said Eden. “No offense to Callie and Sara, but doesn’t that stuff kind of gross you out?”

“No, why? Madonna’s doing it! It’s hot,” said Allison, eyes ablaze. “Plus, you’re prettier than all those twentysomethings. They all would die to look like you! You could totally cougar out with Sara and Callie.”

“Yuck, I hate that term,” Eden squealed as they passed by the Whitney, surveying the hip art kids lining up for the biennial. “It’s a little creepy how they eat those guys for breakfast.”

“Midnight snack is more like it.”

“Whatever. It’s not for me.”

“Why? Cougars are hot! They’re all the rage. Anyway, you’re technically still in your thirties, so you’re not a full cougar yet. You’re a puma.”

“There are subdivisions of feline female predators now?”

“Yeah. Cougars are in their forties. Pumas are in their thirties, which you still are, I might add.”

“Don’t remind me,” Eden said, shaking her head in sorrow. “We’re clinging on for dear life.”

“Forty isn’t so bad.”

“Yeah, when you’re married!”

“No, I mean in general,” attested Allison. “It’s not what it used to be!”

“Liar.”

“Women look better than ever, they have longer life expectancies. Forty’s the new thirty and fifty’s the new forty. Susan Sarandon, Goldie Hawn, all older! It’s your brazen cougary sexuality that keeps them wrapped around your finger. Or claw, I should say. Your cougar cub awaits.”

“You know why I loathe that word? Because there is no male equivalent. It is sexist and crass. It’s like saying ‘slut.’ What’s the male equal of that? There is none. Men have been dating younger women since they lived in caves, and there’s no term for it. It’s offensive and I don’t want to think of myself as some trashy wild animal who preys on someone else’s young.”

“Whatever, I just thought since Otto’s so much older and you don’t want older, maybe the pendulum could swing the other direction this time. I think it’s a great idea.”

“Honestly, I just want to meet someone who I can love, who loves me. Not this second, maybe, but in general. I don’t need to have ‘fun.’ I did that with Otto for so long. I’m over partying!”

“Of course! I know you would rather fall in love and be swept off your feet, and I agree, you deserve to find true love! I’m just saying while you’re waiting, enjoy some rumpus rather than trying to fast-forward to a relationship. Fill the void now! What better way to live in the moment than to roll with a young stud?”

The pals walked in silence for a minute. Then Eden smiled to herself.

“What?” Allison asked, intrigued by the beguiling grin on Eden’s lips.

“There is this one guy I met,” Eden said, raising an eyebrow carefully.

“I knew it, you slut!”

“Shut up! I’m not. Anyway, it’s too embarrassing to even entertain. I have never felt so old. I met him on the street and then saw him again last week at that Waldorf testicles benefit. He’s with some girl, I think. I was probably going to first base already when she was born!”

“Oh, who are you kidding? You went right to sex, you lying trollop.”

“He was incredibly charming and Old World. I actually have never met any guys who are chivalrous and old school like that. Except Wes. You know, who I used to date before Otto.”

“Of course I remember Wes!”

Eden suddenly envisioned a hazy, distant image of her young self with Wes, like a grainy black-and-white photo in a slide show, a staticky Super 8 film, or a tattered postcard. Worn-out media that hardly boasted the high-def sharpness of today but that somehow captured soul so much more.

“So who is this young guy?” Allison asked, snapping Eden back to Madison Avenue from Avenue B.

“Oh, I don’t even know him. I just saw him staring at me through most of that benefit at the Waldorf.”

“Honey, everyone stares at you. When I first met you in grade school, I thought I might be a lesbian.”

“Shut up.”

“Kidding. I love you, but not that much. Okay, I gotta pull an Usain Bolt and pick up Kate. I’m telling you, E, don’t be afraid to cougar out! If Madge can do it, so can you!”

“Meow,” Eden deadpanned, doing an air scratch with a mimed paw.

—Charles M. Schultz

 

 

 

“W
hat’s on your mind, darling?” Liesel asked, lying across Chase’s chest, touching his cheek with her Mademoiselle-manicured index finger.

“I don’t know, I’m just sad about my grandmother.”

“She was a wonderful woman,” Liesel said, her long lashes looking down at the Frette linens for a beat of silence. “I just don’t want you to be so depressed. You’ve always been the strong, silent type, but your grandmother wouldn’t want you to mope over her.”

Liesel’s words made Chase ache; she had no idea what Ruthie would have wanted. And, yes, maybe it was true, she wouldn’t want him mourning, but she
just
died! He couldn’t just sweep away his grief and frolic down the street as if nothing had radically changed. Chase feared, correctly, that Liesel was secretly selfishly bummed at the timing of Ruthie’s passing, because Chase’s deep sadness would stave off a possible engagement. When one is down, it’s hardly the moment to pop Champs corks and celebrate the future; Chase was too bereaved.

“You know,” said Liesel, kissing his chest, “my lease is up next month.”

“Already? I feel like you just moved in there.”

“No, it’s been a year, can you believe it?”

“Mm-mm.”

Liesel drew breath to fill her lungs with courage. She had to tread delicately. “I was thinking I shouldn’t re-sign the lease, right? I mean, I’m here so often that it’s basically just a five thousand dollar locker for my stuff, but Mummy obviously would never allow me to let my own place go until . . . things were . . . settled.”

“Well, it is a great apartment. And you’ve made it lovely. I wouldn’t let it go.”

“Oh,” she replied, disappointed. “Okay, then.”

The next day, further heightening the mounting pressures, Chase met with his family’s lawyer and chief of staff, Laughlin Wilton Taft, at the Family Office, which housed their money managers, DuPree Capital and Lydon Partners as well as the DuP/L Family Foundation. The philanthropic arm was chaired by Brooke, who had just come from an endowment grants meeting when she met Chase and his brothers in the large conference room on Central Park South, overlooking the sweeping vista of a sparkling rectangle of green trees.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Mrs. Lydon,” started Mr. Taft. “I have here the last Will of Mrs. Ruth Weatherly DuPree.”

After he read the particulars—where the Monet, the Picassos, and the Gauguin were going, who would inherit the various pieces of furniture and how the assets would be dispersed to the foundation and various museums—the group got up to leave. But before the somber Chase could make his way to the door, Mr. Taft asked him to remain.

“Whatever for, Laughlin?” asked Brooke, surprised.

“Mrs. Lydon, I do apologize, but I’m . . . afraid that is between me and your son, Chase,” replied Taft.

“I beg your pardon? That is preposterous! There is nothing my mother would leave Chase without telling me. She wouldn’t mind if I were here. . . .”

“It’s not an object, just a letter. A private message to Chase. And as executor of her estate, it is my duty to see that he gets it alone. Again, I am quite sorry, Mrs. Lydon.”

In a huff, Brooke exited, her eyes boring a hole through the manila envelope that Laughlin held.

“Chase, your grandmother insisted that no one else give this to you but me. Have a seat.”

“All right.” Chase nervously opened the envelope.

“Take your time,” Laughlin said, exiting the room, closing the door delicately behind him.

As the trees swayed forty-four floors below and three miles in front of him, Chase unfolded the note, written in his grandmother’s trademark tiny handwriting. A growing pressure ballooned in his chest. As always, she began writing his name large across the top of the page, each letter made out of small
x
’s that pieced together his name. He ran his finger over the
CHASE
made out of kisses and read on.