Magdalene (15 page)

“I’m curious,” he murmured. “How did you
arrange your clients’ arrivals and departures with your kids
around?”

“There’s an alley entrance to the servants’
quarters,” I explained. “I made sure all the girls’ bedrooms were
in front, so they never saw any of my clients or lovers. They have
no idea who they are or how many. But mostly my appointments were
during the day when they were at school.”

“Lunchtime rendezvous.”

“Mostly, yes. The rest after bedtime. In
fact, other than Gordon, they’ve never seen me in any kind of
relationship, so maybe that’s why Clarissa’s a little freaked out
right now.”

“Do they know about your business?”

“Oh, yes. Clarissa stabs me with it every
chance she gets. Helene can barely look at me, barely talks to me.
She usually sleeps at the hospital. Olivia takes her cue from
Clarissa, but isn’t as brazen about it, and Paige is too busy to
think about it, much less care.”

“Then how—?”

“Rivington told them. Four years ago, just
after I’d taken my red light down.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He was after me from the minute I married
Gordon, so when he found out how I was making all this money, he
thought I was fair game,” I said, feeling very smug. “He said he’d
tell the girls if I didn’t take his business.”

“So you called his bluff and he made good on
his threat.”

“And that is why he’s cleaning Slurpee
machines far, far away from here.”

“I see.” Mitch’s mouth pursed in thought.
“How, exactly, did you do that?”

“I danced for Herod and requested John the
Baptist’s head.”

He laughed.

“I thought you’d appreciate that.”

“And your father?”

“My parents left on their own after they
declared bankruptcy. They had to find a cheaper place to live.”

“Did you do that, too?”

“Oh, no. My father... He’s trying to make
amends, and I leave them to their self-imposed exile. Not sure what
it would accomplish if I reached out to them.”

“So you had a good childhood?”

“I did,” I said with alacrity, and it felt
nice to reflect on that time. “I learned how to invest from
watching and listening to my father. He did it all, you know. From
home. Stocks, bonds, commodities, derivatives, insurance,
annuities, real estate. There wasn’t an instrument he didn’t
understand, couldn’t trade, couldn’t make money on.” Mitch
nodded.

Yes, he probably would know; my father was a
genius, a generous teacher and mentor. Sebastian had since informed
me that his mother had spent the 1960s and 1970s following Theodore
St. James’s business deals via the
Wall Street Journal
,
reading his articles, and had passed what she’d learned on to
Sebastian. Then Sebastian had done
his
MBA thesis on my
father’s work.

Full circle.

“But,” I went on. “It was my mother who
taught me how to spend it. Here we were on the Upper East Side, in
the most chichi neighborhood, the most expensive home. We had a
tiny patch of yard in the back, maybe fifteen square feet, and she
got incredible produce out of it. Canned it. She designed and sewed
our clothes—we were the envy of the neighborhood because she was so
good. That was before Wal-Mart clothes, before sewing became a
luxury hobby. She made frugal menus and dining out was a real
treat. She did all the housework and taught us how to do everything
she did. They came from poverty, they weren’t ashamed of it, and
they weren’t afraid of it. But they were determined to teach us how
to weather it, and they refused to allow us to become spoiled
brats.”

“So your mother was your father’s true
partner in the business of life.”

I nodded. “And, well... I actually did end
up needing those skills for a long time. When your efforts are
measurable and you’re striving for your next financial goal, it’s
very rewarding. Fun, even. She made it fun. It’s different when
you’re working that hard for so little, depriving yourself of
things you’d like, and watching the savings all go down a
hole.”

Mitch sighed.

“What about your parents?” I asked quickly
to turn the conversation back around, to keep Mitch from going any
farther down my path.

Mitch smiled. “They got an RV and are having
a grand old time somewhere in Florida. I think. Last time they
checked in, anyway.”

“I take it you’re funding their retirement
in style?”

“Least I could do.”

“And your daughters?”

“Lisette,” he drawled, “is about to make me
a grandfather.” I grinned. “In June. And Geneviève—”
jhon-vee-EVV.
Not
JEN-a-veev
. “—got married in
August.”

“Your son. Trevor, right? He’s
seventeen?”

Mitch nodded.

“You trust him alone on the weekends?” I
wouldn’t have trusted Clarissa with the remote control when she was
seventeen.

“It’s an unfortunate fact of Trevor’s life
that I know where he is almost twenty-four-seven.”

“You have him watched?”

“Not deliberately. He works in the mill
thirty hours a week, second shift. He’s in school four hours a day,
in the morning. If he didn’t show up for work, I’d hear about it
and pronto, but that’s never happened. I have to be at church every
Sunday and so I know where he is then, too.” He paused. “But, even
if that weren’t the case, I’d trust him implicitly. He’s a good kid
and I’m proud of him.”

“What does he do in the mill?”

“Anything his foreman tells him to do.”

The seventeen-year-old trust-fund kid of one
multimillionaire worked thirty hours a week in a steel mill, went
to church and school, and wouldn’t trash his house on the
weekends...

The twenty-four-year-old trust-fund kid of
the other multimillionaire took six hours a semester, had never had
a job, and spent her nights clubbing...

“You okay?” Mitch asked with some concern
when I sniffled.

“Allergies.” He handed me his handkerchief.
“Thank you. Does he date? Any kind of social life?”

Mitch drew in a deep breath. “I’m not sure.
That’s one part of his life he’d keep from me, and I respect that.
He has little enough of his own.”

“Does he resent that?”

“I don’t think so. He has his own money he’s
made. His own car. Pays his own bills, what there are of them—I
don’t know those, either. And for the record, I don’t make him work
in the foundry and he doesn’t report to me. He applied like anyone
else—” He barked a laugh. “He was sloppy about filling in his
surname so HR keyed it as ‘Holland.’ He’d been working for a week
before Payroll caught it and all he had to say was, ‘Oh, my
bad.’”

“So he’s as clever as you are.”

“Not quite. Sebastian taught him how to
avoid getting preferential treatment.”

“What are his days off?”

“Sunday and Monday. He gets sick time, but
by the time I find out he’s called in, he’s already taken himself
to the doctor.”

I cleared my throat, embarrassed. “I’m a
little jealous,” I said. “My daughters are— Well, really only
Clarissa... Helene’s self-motivated. The twins are, especially
Paige.”

“The dancer.”

I nodded. “Olivia—the personal trainer—she
needs a little help with the business part of her business, but she
goes to Nigel for that. It’s Clarissa I don’t know how to— Um, I’ve
never known.”

He pulled me closer. “We do the best we can.
We’ll never think it’s enough.”

•

We spent the day together doing nothing in
particular, warm, well fed, a little melancholy, hand in hand. We
hit the museum, pseudotourists, the both of us, and wandered around
looking but not seeing.

Oh, he smelled good, and I buried my nose in
his coat as often as I could.

We revisited Jacques Torres and practiced
far more moderation than we had the night before.

“Open your mouth and close your eyes,” he
murmured, pulling me tight against his body, his arm slanting down
my back, his big hand wrapping around my hip.

I did as ordered, tilting my head back as he
fed me there in the middle of Jacques Torres, people milling about,
brushing past us in the small space.

It was just a cherry cordial, albeit a
gourmet one. I don’t really even like cherry cordials, but
this
cherry cordial...

I sighed as I nipped it off its stem, chewed
carefully, letting the flavors burst over my tongue, feeling his
strong body against mine, inhaling his scent mixed with the tang of
the fruit.

He took me home that evening after we’d
picked up his car from the hotel.

“May I see you Friday?” he whispered in my
ear as he led me up the stairs to my door.

I closed my eyes and nodded, unable to
speak.

“Thank you for a wonderful weekend,
Cassandra. Happy birthday.”

It didn’t occur to me until I’d watched him
drive down my street and disappear into traffic that he still
hadn’t kissed me.

* * * * *

Sweet Valley
High

January 7, 2011

I walked out of the elevator bank on Friday
morning, buzzing with anticipation, feeling fifteen—

And hating myself for it.

Please. Get yourself together, Cass.

I’d had the week to think about it and had
come to realize that it couldn’t last. Clearly, Hollander was not
only
not
repelled by my past, he was fascinated by it.

He’d grow tired of me quickly enough once
I’d seduced him.

If I didn’t tire of him first. Instructing
men was tedious, especially if they had hangups or needed constant
validation—and I was pretty sure Mitch would have some serious
hangups.

And no, I didn’t care what his church or God
or congregation wanted him to do or what they’d think of him. I
wanted to fuck him and I
always
got what I wanted,
morality—questionable or otherwise—be damned.

Oh, what was this? The kid from Payroll was
perched on Susan’s desk, and Susan was practically bouncing in her
seat.

“Cassie!” she squeaked, obviously happy to
have landed her big fish. Stalking must work for some people.

“Morning,” I said with a smile. “Good
morning, Phillip.”

“Good morning, Ms. St. James.”

I walked to my door and Susan followed,
still twitterpated. I looked at her suspiciously. “Something I
should know? Are you pregnant?”

Phillip’s face turned red.

She bit her lip in excitement and hopped on
the balls of her feet. “Open your door.”

So I did.

Oh, my God.

Smack dab in the middle of my desk stood an
enormous vase, chunky cobalt glass, filled with dozens and dozens
of white flowers: daisies, mums, carnations, roses, lilies,
orchids, tulips, hyacinths.

“That bastard,” I whispered.

“Are these from the same guy who sent you
the orange roses and those ugly cookies?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“He must really like you,” Susan said, as
gleeful as if they’d been for her.

Yes, he does.
I crossed the room to
caress the delicate petal of a daisy, allowing my week’s worth of
cold analysis and self-admonitions to dissipate. I opened the
card.

6:30
jeans and earplugs

Wha—? Earplugs?

I dug into the flowers and there, an iPod
Shuffle, a blue that kind of sort of matched the vase. I turned it
on and saw the playlist.

Was he
serious
?

I picked up the phone and dialed. “I refuse
to see ZZ Top,” I said without preamble.

Mitch laughed. “Not a fan?”

“As in, actively loathe.”

“AC/DC?”

“
Hell
, no.”

“All right, then. You pick.”

“My treat.”

“Okay.”

Had I just offered to
pay
for a man?
“And— The flowers are beautiful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, his voice warm
and filled with humor. “A candlelight dinner at your house won’t
work, so don’t try it.”

It was my turn to laugh because it
had
occurred to me, but that would come. I had to ease him
into it, get him used to the idea.

Then I’d pounce.

I hung up and realized that Susan was still
hovering, Phillip not far behind. “Shoo! Phillip, get back to your
department. Now.”

They both scampered.

My phone buzzed. “St. James.”

“What the fuck happened to Clarissa?” Nigel
demanded.

I panicked. “What’s wrong? Is she hurt?”

“No. She’s acting weird. Has been all
week.”

Ah, yes. The
lecture
.

My heart rate went back to normal.

I had made it abundantly clear that if she
spilled Mitch’s name to anyone—
especially
her father and
stepfather—she would have to find new accommodations.

Still stinging from having been thoroughly
intimidated by the first man she’d ever seen me with post-divorce,
a man who was not impressed by gorgeous young women, a man who’d
taken her measure and found her wanting, she’d looked away from me
and muttered, “Fine.”

No, she would not want to acknowledge
Mitch’s existence, even to damage me.

“Weird how?”

“Quiet. Restrained. Almost...” He paused.
“Cowed. But I know
you
didn’t do that.”

That was a chronic discussion, the fact that
I
didn’t do that, and Nigel was of the opinion that I, being
her mother, should. Of course, he, being the stepparent, would
never presume to correct his husband’s children, no matter how much
he wanted to.

“Huh. That’s weird, all right.”

“What are you keeping from me?”

“Nothing. What’d you do last Friday?”

He said nothing for a beat, then said low,
“We forgot your birthday again, didn’t we?”

“Sure did.”

“I’m sorry, Cass. We can—”

“Forget it. Not important.” I didn’t want my
wonderful birthday marred by any lame attempt to make it up to
me.