Let Me Whisper in Your Ear (4 page)

Gwyneth knew herself. She knew that she would not be good at the give-and-take, the compromising and the patience that marriage took. She didn't really regret not having married. But she did regret not having a child.

You could have, you know. Adoption, one of the lovers along the way, even the sperm bank. But admit it: you just didn't want to take the time. Didn't want to put in the effort. Didn't want to be distracted. Face it: you wouldn't have been a good mother.

Gwyneth watched as Laura's tall, angular body turned from the telescope to come back inside. The younger woman smiled when she realized Gwyneth was looking at her.

What was it about Laura, Gwyneth asked herself as she stepped into the living room and took a seat on the plush sofa, what was it that had struck such a chord in her? Gwyneth Gilpatric, usually so matter-of-fact, very often hard, always calculating, had an intense interest in Laura Walsh.

Gwyneth knew the answer to her own question. But she did not want to think about that, as she raised her right hand to massage the back of her neck.

Delia was hovering again.

“Yes, Delia? What is it?” Gwyneth was obviously annoyed.

“Dr. Costello is on the phone, Ms. Gilpatric,” the maid announced nervously.

Another interruption. Gwyneth winced. She did not want to talk to her plastic surgeon. She knew she had taken the easy way out, canceling her surgery with a phone call to Costello's nurse, Camille Bruno. But it was easier telling Camille than facing Leonard. She didn't want to have to explain why.

Over the years, as she had gone for one relatively simple procedure after another to reverse the toll of aging, Leonard had become her friend. Gwyneth had done her research well. Leonard Costello's name was high on everyone's list of the best plastic surgeons in New York.

When no amount of careful lip lining kept her lipstick from bleeding, she started with collagen injections to fill in the fine lines that had developed around her mouth. The next year, at Leonard's suggestion, she had a blepharoplasty, removing the fatty tissue from her upper and lower eyelids. Then came the neck lift, which ensured that her television profile was well defined and youthful.

She had been putting off the full face-lift as long as she could. But now the stopgap procedures were not enough. Gwyneth's appearance was an essential part of her livelihood. While she supposed even the men on television worried about aging, they could get away with being mature and distinguished-looking. Women agonized about looking old. Though the network brass paid lip service to a non–age discrimination policy, how many older women did you actually see in television news?

She had talked it over with Joel, and she was somewhat hurt but not really surprised when he said he thought it was a good idea. All Joel seemed to care about was that Gwyneth be ready to appear before the
KEY News
cameras again in February for sweeps. When she assured him that, with carefully applied makeup, she would, Joel was all for the surgery. In fact, he'd had the audacity to suggest that they do a segment on her plastic surgery and recovery. Gwyneth had quickly quashed that idea.

Gwyneth went ahead and scheduled a full facial lift with CO
2
and erbium lasers for the first week of January, comforted in knowing that she would be in Leonard Costello's talented hands.

But her confidence had turned to terror when she found out. Leonard Costello had Parkinson's disease.

She thanked her lucky stars that she had befriended Camille Bruno. Gwyneth had liked the friendly nurse immediately upon meeting her and had many conversations with her over the years as she went for her quarterly collagen injections. Each Christmas, Gwyneth remembered the nurse with a gift. She had arranged tours of the Broadcast Center for Camille's family and out-of-town guests, gotten her tickets for the heated and catered
KEY News
Columbus Circle reviewing stand for the Thanksgiving Day Parade and written college letters of recommendation for each of Camille's three daughters. They had all been admitted to the universities of their choice. While Gwyneth had her doubts that the letters had made any difference, Camille was convinced that they had.

When Gwyneth called in mid-December to confirm the details for her upcoming surgery, she sensed the distress in Camille's voice.

“What's wrong, Camille?”

“I think I should tell you something.”

“What?”

“Not now,” she had whispered. “Can you call me at home? Tonight?”

Gwyneth made the nocturnal call.

“I feel so disloyal to Dr. Costello by telling you this, but you've been so good to me and my girls. Dr. Costello would fire me in a second if he knew that I told anyone.” Camille's voice quavered.

“Told anyone
what?
” Gwyneth urged.

“You can't tell him that you know. You can't tell him that I told you.”

“I won't. I promise. Now, what is it?”

Camille explained that the Parkinson's was in the early stages, controllable with medication. Dr. Costello was careful to take his medication before any sort of surgery, making sure it had time to kick in before he lifted his scalpel.

“He told you he has Parkinson's?” Gwyneth asked.

“No. He doesn't know that I know. I've noticed his hand tremoring from time to time, but never in surgery. But a few weeks ago, he put off a scheduled surgery though we were all ready to go. I saw him take a pill. He just waited in his office for forty-five minutes before he started the procedure. That's so unlike him, you know. He's such a stickler for keeping to his schedule.”

“That doesn't mean he has Parkinson's disease, Camille.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

“Camille?”

“I am so ashamed.” The nurse exhaled deeply.

“Go on. Please, Camille.”

“I went into his drawer later and checked the prescription bottle,” she had admitted. “It was for Sinemet, the drug to treat Parkinson's.”

Now, Leonard was on the phone, wanting an explanation for the canceled surgery. She owed him that. And she might as well get it over with.

“Excuse me, Laura, dear.” Gwyneth frowned at her guest and hoped Laura didn't recognize the name of the well-known plastic surgeon. She didn't want Laura, or anyone else, knowing that she had face-work done. “I really must take this call, though I wish I didn't have to. I'll be right back. I promise this will be our last interruption.”

She walked quickly down the hallway to her office and closed the door behind her. She took a deep breath as she lifted the receiver from its cradle.

“Leonard! How are you? I'm so looking forward to seeing you and Anne on New Year's Eve,” she faked jovially.

“I'm just fine, Gwyneth, but I'm troubled. Camille tells me you canceled your procedure.”

“Yes.”

“May I ask why?”

“I'm a coward,” Gwyneth lied. “I've chickened out, Leonard. I'm afraid to go ahead with it. I'm worried I won't look like myself anymore.”

“We've gone over all that, Gwyneth. Many times.” She could tell he was trying very hard to sound patient.

“I know we have, Leonard. I'm sorry. But I'm just not ready.”

“All right, Gwyneth. Why don't we reschedule in the spring, then?” She could hear him flipping the pages of his calendar.

“No, Leonard. I don't think so.” Gwyneth was firm. “I'll let you know when I'm ready.”

7

A
CROSS
C
ENTRAL
P
ARK
, Kitzi Malcolm dressed for the fourth dinner party of the week as she waited for her husband to come home from
KEY News.
Her hands trembled as she struggled to fasten the clasp of her pearl necklace, an anniversary gift from Joel. Her beloved husband.

She clumped the perfectly matched pearls in a ball and slammed them on the dressing table. She reached up behind her shoulder blades, trying to find the zipper of the blond sleeveless cashmere tank, but she could not reach it.
Damn that Joel.
If he didn't make it home in time, the matching cardigan with dyed Norwegian fox trim would hide the open zipper until someone in the ladies' room could zip it up for her.

She was sick to death of being Mrs. Joel Malcolm—and she had no one but herself to blame! She had chosen it.

She should have divorced Joel years ago—she knew that—but there was one problem: she still loved him.

He was dashing and passionate and funny. He could be warm and loving and understanding. And he was repeatedly unfaithful.

Not that any of them really mattered to him,
Kitzi told herself as she expertly applied the thin line of pencil to her lower eyelid. No, they were just diversions.

All except one.

Kitzi made sure Joel didn't know that she watched him. So many, many times. Watched as he stood on their terrace high above Fifth Avenue, his eyes glued to the eyepiece of his telescope, pointed west, trained on Gwyneth's apartment.

8

S
OPHISTICATED
G
WYNETH
G
ILPATRIC
tore open the bright green Christmas wrapping paper from the Saks Fifth Avenue box like an excited child and let out a squeal.

“Oh, Laura, I love it!”

“You don't have it?” Laura asked uncertainly.

“Oh, darling, no. No, I don't have this one. He's charming.”

In her red-nailed hands, Gwyneth held up a Christmas ornament, three inches high. A little blond boy, with shiny green pants, blew a golden trumpet. In his other hand he held a hand-painted clock that read five minutes to midnight.

“It's called ‘Ringing in the New Year,'” volunteered Laura. “I know you like the Christopher Radkos. I was praying you didn't have this one.”

Gwyneth went over to Laura and gave her a hug. “You're right. I adore the Radkos, ever since I saw the White House tree decorated with his ornaments a few years ago. Do you know his story?”

Laura shook her head.

“It's such a wonderful success story, really—we did a piece on him for
Hourglass
some time ago,” Gwyneth began, turning the ornament gently in her hand and inspecting the delicate workmanship. “Christopher Radko was working in the mailroom somewhere, not having any real success in moving up the corporate ladder, when over the holidays he accidentally knocked over the family Christmas tree. All the family ornaments, handmade in Europe and collected over years and years, crashed and broke. Radko's grandmother told him he had ruined Christmas forever.”

“How horrible,” Laura said, imagining how she would feel if she destroyed family heirlooms. Not that she had any.

“Don't be sad, dear. Obviously it has a happy ending.”

Gwyneth stopped to elegantly light a cigarette. She closed her eyes as she exhaled.

“Radko went to Poland on his Easter vacation and found an old glassblower who made ornaments in his garage. Radko sketched out some icicles, comets and stars and, when he returned to the U.S. two weeks later, he carried with him over two dozen baubles. When he showed a few of the ornaments to his co-workers, they asked if they could buy some, too.

“So he set up a tiny business in his garage and started importing a few cartons of ornaments, and then more and more. Each ornament takes seven days to make. The glass is heated and blown into a mold, then the new ornament is painted on the inside with sterling silver. The hand painting and lacquering and detailing is done over the final days. As you can see, the Radko concept has caught on. Bottom line is, the last I heard, he had sixteen factories in Europe and employs more than two thousand people in New York alone. He has a Christmas line, a Hanukkah line and ornaments for Halloween, Easter and the Fourth of July.”

“What a great story!” Laura smiled approvingly. “I didn't know Radko's history, but I did love looking at all his ornaments at Saks. I found the perfect one for my father … a beautiful silver roller coaster.”

The smile faded from Gwyneth's face.

“What I love about this story—and I've seen it in my own life—” said Gwyneth as she handed Laura a gleaming gold package, “many times, a seeming tragedy can end up leading to something more wonderful than you would have ever imagined.”

9

N
ANCY
S
CHULTZ HURRIEDLY
poured a box of macaroni into the pot of boiling water. As the pasta cooked, she threw three place mats on the kitchen table and slapped down plates, silverware and paper napkins. Then she poured three tall glasses of milk.

She hated feeding the children this way, she thought, as she drained the pasta elbows and stirred in the milk, butter and orange powder that would magically transform into macaroni and cheese. She forced herself to look at the nutrition information on the side of the blue box that packaged her children's dinner. High fat, high sodium, high calories. Wonderful.

What am I doing?
she asked herself as she spooned the mounds onto the kids' plates.
Probably what many mothers in America are doing tonight,
she thought, answering her own question. Mothers who had been working all day in underpaid jobs in offices or restaurants or hospitals or supermarkets. Mothers who had been out battling the crowds and traffic, trying to get holiday shopping done—of course, not getting paid for that. Mothers all, who had too much to do and not enough time to do it in; and, like Nancy, tonight were just too damned tired to stop at the A&P on the way home for easily the sixtieth or seventieth time this year. Couldn't face figuring out another dinner. Couldn't deal with cooking it. Over three hundred dinners cooked this year—well over. Enough was enough.

“Aaron. Brian. Lauren. Dinner's ready.”

She heard the hurried stampede of feet as her children ran up from the playroom. She watched their facial expressions to see if they resented what was being presented as “dinner.”