The Season (22 page)

She spoke so earnestly I nearly cried.
I was so wrong about you, Ashley—you're much more than a basic blonde.

“That is incredibly sweet and generous of you,” I said.

“I mean it,” Ashley said firmly. “And I'm so glad you came. Please, enjoy yourselves.”

“Thank you,” I said, and really meant it.

“We will,” Hank said.

“Okay, through the first wicket,” I whispered to Hank as we moved on. “Just hope everyone is that nice.”

We went through more curtains and out into the backyard. The entire space had been tented and temperature controlled, so the November evening was a balmy seventy degrees. Tables of all different sizes covered the lawn. The settings were teacups and saucers and small plates of every dimension and color. The wooden chairs were all different shapes and sizes, some small enough for a child, and the centerpieces were unique to each table. Many were clocks or timepieces, but one table featured a hookah and another a croquet set. The pool had been covered with a checkerboard dance floor, purposely warped and uneven, which made standing difficult, and dancing for those brave enough an adventure. Costumed characters from the books formed the band—the March Hare played the trumpet, the Cheshire Cat the violin, Tweedledum the piano, and Tweedledee the drums.

“This is unreal,” I said as we looked around.

We got a drink and walked around, still admiring the detail, and while I could feel a current of whispers and stares as guests noticed me, I simply ignored it. The few times someone asked directly about Julia, I offered a line about “taking strength and perspective from my ancestors,
who conquered the prairie.” It was a genius answer—like opening up a can of Texas whoopass, and one older man who heard me say it patted my shoulder and said, “Damn straight.”

I did have one errand to run that night, and when I saw Lauren chatting with Ashley Two, I went over and waited patiently while she finished a wonderfully exciting story about just where she found the tortoiseshell combs for her hair.

“Hi, Lauren,” I said.

“Megan! Oh, I'm just so shocked—shocked and sad about Julia. How is she?” Her voice dripped ersatz sympathy. Ashley Two stood by, hoping for gory details.

“She's well, thanks for asking.”

“I just can't believe it. My mother told me she's the first girl kicked out in more than fifty years!”

“Actually she withdrew voluntarily,” I said.

“Well . . . was she really
arrested
?” Internally I seethed, but I just nodded calmly. I was determined not to give her the satisfaction of seeing me lose it.

“She was trying to help an old friend who was clearly disturbed, and she had no idea how bad off he was and just got caught up in a scary and horrible situation. But it's all going to come out okay.”

“I'm just glad she's all right.”

“Me too.”

“Hi,” Hank said, stepping into our little group. “I
don't think we've been introduced, but I'm Hank Waterhouse.” Lauren had no choice but to shake his hand.

“So nice to finally meet you,” she said in the same fakey tone. “I've heard so much about you.” Lauren looked at him like he was her gardener, and I felt my spine stiffen and my fist clench.

“I'm sorry I missed your party,” Hank said evenly.

“Not as sorry as Megan,” Ashley Two said, giggling. “She was so
prepared.
Weren't you, Megan?
Prepared?
” Ashley Two giggled again and bumped Lauren as if to say, “Remember?”

“Well, I heard it was great,” Hank said evenly, ignoring the jibe.

“So listen, have you seen Zach?” I asked Lauren now, my voice a tad edgy.

“Of course—he's my brother.”

“Lately, I mean? As in, is he here?”

“Here? No, he's in New York. Didn't you know?”

“New York? No, I, Julia hasn't spoken to him since . . . that day. She called him right away, texted . . .”

“
Really?
” she asked, and then chewed slowly on this savory morsel, enjoying the obvious pain and duress his silence had caused.

“Really,” I said.

“Well, it was all rush-rush. He and Andrew have this very important deal, and they had to go. Still, I'm surprised he didn't call her.” She paused now, as if considering whether
to say more. “I probably shouldn't tell you this, but Zach”—and here she leaned in conspiratorially—“Zach puts a lot of faith in Andrew's judgment.”

“So you're telling me that Zach hasn't called Julia because Andrew told him not to, and took him to New York?”

Lauren shrugged. “You can see the awful position I'm in,” she purred. “You know Andrew and I are, well—and Zach is my brother. Honestly, I'm mad for Julia and if there was
anything
I could do to help . . .”

“I'm sure.”

“Give her my best?” Lauren said, overdoing the sad smile.

“Of course.”

“That bitch,” I seethed, once twenty feet away. “That whole business thing, it's total B.S. Andrew took Zach away on purpose.”

“That's his M.O.,” Hank said. “He just cuts people off, and I can see him telling Zach what to do.”

“It's just what he did to you,” I said. “What a dick—off with his head!” Hank could only nod in agreement.

Abby came over and gave me a real hug.

“How are you?”

“Good. Okay, mad.”

“About what?” Abby asked.

“Ashley Two and Lauren and their fake sympathy over Julia getting the boot. They're
oh so sad
about it.”

“Ignore them.”

“I'm trying, but it's hard. Zach is ghosting Julia.”

“You're kidding.”

“I wish I was. Not a word since her arrest—no calls, no texts, nada.”

“I'm sorry she can't go to New York with us,” Abby said.

“Why can't she go?”

“Dad told me she can't leave the state of Texas while she's under indictment.”

“Is there no end to the bad news?” I asked.

I took a sip of my drink. Abby left and I thought about our New York trip. The truth was, I'd completely forgotten about it with everything that was going on. Aunt Camille had planned it months ago—she, Mom, Abby, Julia, and I were supposed to spend Thanksgiving weekend there. It was a girls' trip to see shows and shop for debut gowns. Without Julia, and probably without Mom, it didn't sound like much fun, but this dark cloud had a silver lining.

I'm going to New York City next week and that's where Zach is.

Twenty-Two

In Which Megan Hatches Plan B

I STOOD LOOKING OUT MY WINDOW HIGH UP IN THE P
laza Hotel. Outside snow fell in heavy white flakes as dense as leaves, and the people bustling along Fifth Avenue looked as though their hats and shoulders had been frosted. Five inches already, and the forecast said snow until morning, maybe a foot in all. I wiped away steam and peered down. I could see the corner of Bergdorf's, and closer a band of Peruvian pipers on the small square of cement adjacent to the hotel entrance. I put my ear to the window and could just hear them—trilling whistles above and deeper tones below, the latter so plaintive they could have been blown through a conch shell.

So far, the trip had been as advertised. My suite was fabulous—an upper-floor corner with a full living room, a monstrous bedroom, and a bathroom larger than a good many Manhattan apartments. Last night I had luxuriated in sixty gallons of hot water infused with lavender and Japanese
bath salts. The food was delicious, the shopping successful. Abby and I had both chosen to adapt Vera Wang wedding dresses, and all the fittings were done. We saw the Christmas tree lit in Rockefeller Center and went to
Wicked
at the Gershwin. We took in the Museum of Natural History, MoMA, and an Andrew Wyeth exhibition at the Whitney, my new favorite museum.

Was I happy? Not by a long shot.

“The answer is no.” The night before I'd left, Julia had been emphatic.

“But why not? It's the perfect opportunity.”

“I won't chase him, Megan.”

“I'm not asking you to chase him—I'm asking you to let
me
chase him for you!”

She crossed her arms and set her chin down and to the left. This was “resolve,” which she only adopted in serious situations.

“I called him. I texted him. He did not reply.”

I paused over my open suitcase.

“But if he just heard your side of the story.”

“He's done with me, and I don't blame him—I'm radioactive.”

Her calm and logical reply didn't fool me. I knew she cared about Zach, that his complete silence added insult to what was already a painful injury. But she never gave in, and I left for New York with Abby and Aunt Camille. Mom canceled to focus on Julia's troubles and our Venetian Masquerade party, which had ballooned so big I cheekily
suggested it would be cheaper just to fly everyone to Venice.
They already have the canals and the gondolas!
She told me to decide on a charity “yesterday” because I had a hundred and fifty tables to sell.

Each day in New York I thought about calling Zach. I was in New York City, for God's sake, and so was he! I had to corner him, explain the situation. Everywhere we went I searched the throngs for him, hoping against all reason I would bump into him by chance.
Good luck with that, Megan—there's only twelve million people here.

I even pondered trying to “bump into him” not so accidentally. I Googled the Gage Group for their address. It was down on Wall Street, quite a distance from Central Park, and it seemed unlikely I could convince Julia I'd been in the area for any other reason. But tomorrow was my last day, and opportunity was slipping away.

In the window I had unconsciously doodled a large question mark in the steam.
What is my question?
I wondered.
How to get around Julia, of course
. She had forbidden me to contact Zach. Okay. But she had not forbidden me to contact Andrew Gage. It wasn't quite as good, but the idea of explaining her situation to him while giving him a piece of my mind was a close second. It would have to do.

The next morning I pleaded exhaustion, and Aunt Camille took pity on me. She told me to rest, go to the spa, and they would check in later. I yawned for added measure, but as
soon as they left I quickly showered and dressed. Bundled up in a cashmere Burberry trench and looking every bit the young lady of consequence, I went downstairs, where the doorman whistled up a cab and instructed the driver to take me to 14 South William Street. Driving downtown, I imagined the building where Andrew Gage would house his offices. It would be one of the soaring phallic skyscrapers I could see in the distance—a giant dick, just like him.

But South William Street, while in the shadow of Wall Street's behemoths, turned out to be a spindly interior street of low-level, historic-looking buildings. And number 14 was a church. As I approached the door, I wondered if I had the address wrong, and checked my phone. There was no sign, just the plaque with the number 14 and a plain wooden door with a wrought-iron handle. No gate, no heavy security, no elevators, no hustle, and zero bustle. Puzzled, and still thinking I must have gotten it wrong, I nevertheless climbed the three stone steps and tried the right door. It was locked. I looked about for a buzzer, an intercom, but found only the original bell pull. Feeling faintly ridiculous, I yanked it, heard it ring inside. While pondering just what I should say to the elderly priest sure to open the door, I was surprised to hear a voice instead.

“Gage Group, how may I help you?”

I could see no speakers, nor any wire—nothing electronic anywhere on the door or in the framing. But going on the assumption that if they could speak to me I could speak to them . . .

“Um, hi. I'm here to see Andrew Gage, please.”

“Who's calling?”

“Megan McKnight.”

A pause, and the door buzzed, though I still couldn't see how, but when I pushed, it swung open, whisper silent. I entered, and it swung closed.

I passed through the vestibule and into the space beyond. Once a rather intimate church, built in the classic cruciform, it was now an offbeat, one-of-a-kind office building that delicately straddled the past and the present. Much of the original church remained—the stone floor, the central corridor, columns, two spiral staircases, and the vaulted ceiling with frescoes.

But in the nave the pews had been removed, and offices framed with antique paneling—three on each side—lined both sides of the central walkway. Ancient stained-glass windows with religious motifs were set into the walls, and the bright office lights within set off prism bursts of light and color all down the central corridor. In a warm touch, worn padded pews, obviously scavenged, were placed here and there as benches. Staircases to my right and left led to the choir, home to more offices with the same paneling and more stained-glass windows. These upper offices glowed like fish tanks at night.

Two more offices lived in the north and south transepts, but across the altar a stone wall had been built. The tumbled bricks, pinkish and weathered, matched the building's exterior.
Looks like they framed a courtyard at one time
, I thought.
Set in the wall and barring the way to the apse and the vestry beyond were two very old doors—how old I couldn't tell, but very old, even ancient.

I thought back to my conversation with Andrew in the barn. What had he said? “You wouldn't believe what gets thrown away.”
Was this church abandoned?
I wondered.

The door to the south transept office opened, and a young African American woman came toward me. She wore jeans and a crisp white linen shirt—very business casual.

“I'm Gracie,” she said, extending her hand. “Andrew's assistant. I apologize, but he isn't here just now.”

“Oh, um—is Zach here?”

“No, I'm sorry,” Gracie said, shaking her head. “He's taking care of some business upstate today. I did leave Andrew a message, and he should call back in a few minutes. Would you care to wait?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Please, sit.” She indicated a pew. “Would you care for a coffee?”

“Um, sure. Just milk.”

“Regular coffee or would you prefer a cappuccino, or a latte?” What was she gonna do, make a Starbucks run?

“Don't trouble yourself, please.”

“It's no trouble,” she replied, and she meant it.

I thought of the cold and slush outside, the brisk wind off the Hudson that blew so hard it made the buildings tremble.

“A latte would be fantastic.”

She nodded and left. I sat on the pew. It was comfy.

When she returned she handed me a latte in an Illy ceramic cup and saucer with two tiny sugar cubes and a platinum demitasse spoon. As I stirred I wondered why she had called Andrew and where had she gotten this perfect latte anyway—had she made it, or was there an Italian coffee shop tucked back there in the vestry with the robes and chalices?

“Thank you so much.”

“You're very welcome.” She sat beside me. “Are you visiting from Dallas then?”

“I am. How did you know?”

“I recognized your name—and your accent.” She smiled, a lovely smile full of warmth—the most genuine one I'd received since arriving in New York, I realized. “Can I show you around while we wait for him to return?”

“Sure.” I carried my coffee, took a sip. It tasted even more delicious than it smelled.

“The building is Dutch,” she said, gesturing up and around, “and dates to the mid-sixteen hundreds. It was a neighborhood church for centuries, but eventually fell vacant, and then into a bit of a shambles.”

We stood now in the central aisle, and she pointed up to the domed cupola.

“The dome and roof partially caved in, and it became a roost for pigeons and squatters, and eventually the city condemned it. It was sold to a hotel developer who planned to tear it down. A few people, scholars mainly, protested—they said it was of real historic significance. But the developer had friends at City Hall, and the demolition was scheduled
when Andrew brought a last-minute injunction.”

We had climbed the steps now, and walked along past the upstairs offices and stopped in a small alcove. Inlaid in the curved wall was a mosaic, thousands and thousands of tiny gold tiles arranged to show a humble Christ on a donkey, his disciples trailing behind him. Without thinking I reached a hand out, and nearly touched it before drawing back. As a very small girl I had once, innocently, touched a lily in a Monet at a museum, horrifying my mother and leading to a lesson I could never forget.

“That is—it's just . . .”

“Right?” Gracie said. “This was a wonderful surprise. It had been plastered over at some point—all of them were.” She pointed to these upper alcoves, each with a finely detailed tile mosaic.

“Plastered over?” I was shocked.
What moron would plaster over centuries-old gold mosaics?

“Andrew brought in experts from Holland who attested to its heritage, and with some work on the political side he forced an about-face—the building was designated a historical landmark, and Andrew agreed to buy the developer out. He was ridiculed in the press—you know, he was an idealistic but foolish young guy with too much money and too little experience—but he was determined to save the building. He found a contractor in Missoula who specialized in old Western buildings, and he reinforced the existing walls with a skeleton of timber and steel. Each layer was carefully scraped back by hand, in case something was
behind it. Much of the stained glass you see was found in the basement windows, blacked out with spray paint. Materials came from Pennsylvania, Tennessee, Latvia—he found the front doors in a village in Argentina. He had a vision for what it could be.”

“It's remarkable.” And I meant it. It was a masterpiece—easily the most unusual, most beautiful office building I'd ever seen.

She led me downstairs, along the central corridor past the transverse and up the steps to the stone wall and those ancient doors.
This would be Andrew's office
,
the inner sanctum, home to the high priest of business
. Gracie opened the door. It was surprisingly spare—formal, for sure, but in the best way. Stacks of papers, a set of blueprints on the desk, a green Moleskine calendar book, a jar of pens, and some knickknacks. The chair behind the desk was an old leather high-back on swivels; it was senatorial, but lived in, well used.