Too Damn Rich (67 page)

Zandra nodded.

"Do you love Heinzie?"

"Jesus, shit, Kenzie. Hell kind of question
is that?"

"The honest kind that requires an honest
answer."

Zandra sighed. "Well, if you must know, at
times I actually think I do."

"And at others?"

Zandra pinched her slip here and there and
pulled it straight. "At others, I'm not quite sure."

"But he did say he loved you?"

"He told me so." Zandra gave an assessing
frown. "Yes."

"But you're still not sure?"

"Kenzie," Zandra said. "Whatever powers do
you attribute to me? I'm not clairvoyant, you know."

"I know that. But it's not too late to change
your mind."

"Yes, but I won't."

Now that her physical upheaval had lessened,
Zandra wiped her eyes and peered around, as if to orient herself.
With her fingers, she brushed back a tangle of marmalade hair which
had fallen over one eye. Then, seeing her reflection, she braced
herself like steel.

"God. That's me? How could I ever have made
such a mess of my makeup! Hand me a tissue, darling, would
you?"

Kenzie pulled out a handful.

"Oh, good. Now, if you'll help me repair the
damage, I'd walk through hot coals for you."

"I take this to mean you're going through
with it?"

"Of course. Told you. For richer, for poorer;
for better, for worse. Yes."

"You really want to?"

Zandra held her gaze. Her pallor had receded,
and some of the color had returned to her face. "Yes, Kenzie," she
said quietly. "I do."

"There's no shame—"

"Oh, do stop it. Darling, it was only a case
of the last-minute jitters. You know. A bride is entitled to an
anxiety attack, isn't she? I feel better now. Tons better."

"Prenuptial anxiety? You're sure that's all
it was?"

"Yes. And I needed a good cry. Thanks for the
shoulder. And for being here. For everything, actually."

"Remember, I'll always be there if you need
me."

Zandra took Kenzie's hands and squeezed
them.

"I know. And I do appreciate it, darling.
Really I do."

She smiled tentatively and Kenzie smiled
back.

"Now, before we both get misty-eyed, please.
Help me get presentable! There's the makeup to do, and—shit! I'm
not even dressed!"

They both got busy.

Ten minutes later, Zandra was ready to face
the world. The transformation that had been wrought was
remarkable.

The uncertain woman who had locked herself in
the bathroom had been pale and ill and red-eyed. The one who gazed
into the full-length mirror at herself was self-assured and ready
to do a cover shoot for Brides magazine.

"My God," Kenzie whispered. "You look
incredible!"

Zandra hugged her.

"Well? What do you think, darling? Shall we
put Grafin Fuchswalder and Baroness Frohlichhasen out of their
misery?"

The square in front of the cathedral wore a
festive air. Bells pealed from high in the Gothic spires, and
sidewalk vendors were doing a brisk business. The crowd which had
gathered included many whose own ancestors had, over the centuries,
stood here to watch von und zu Engelwiesens arriving in gilded
coaches and carriages for their nuptials.

This being the last half of the last decade
of the twentieth century, tabloid photographers were out in full
force, and video crews from various countries had come to capture
the rich, the famous, and the titled for television.

A roar rose from the crowd as a motorcycle
escort in green and white Polizei uniforms turned the corner,
leading the cavalcade to the cathedral. Behind them came a train of
stately Daimlers and Mercedes limousines carrying the bride and
groom's closest relatives, the best man, the bridesmaids, and the
flower girls.

Next came a group of mounted horsemen who
rode two abreast in perfect cadence, their nineteenth-century
uniforms exquisite, with polished boots trimmed in gold lace and
ceremonial swords in filigreed scabbards.

Behind them, inside a gilded horse-drawn
carriage emblazoned with the von und zu Engelwiesen coat of arms,
rode Karl-Heinz.

The crowd's cheers intensified as he waved
from inside.

His carriage was followed by another group of
mounted horsemen, and then came a second, even more elaborate
horse-drawn coach.

Now the crowd truly roared, for inside sat
Aunt Josephine and, across from her, veiled in white lace, the
bride everyone had turned out to see. Zandra turned from left to
right, waving at the crowds on both sides.

When she emerged from the coach in front of
the cathedral, the crowd went wild. The photographers pushed and
shoved, and it was all the phalanx of policemen could do to keep
the spectators back.

Baroness Frolichhasen, who had been rushed to
the cathedral ahead of time, came hurrying down the stone
steps.

"Oh,
danke Gott!
" she prattled
nervously. "We are late! The guests are all seated and the cardinal
is waiting! As you already know, tradition dictates that the bride
must remain hidden in the choir loft until the Mass is over."

She hustled Zandra and Aunt Josephine up the
front steps and through the arched portals.

Inside the cathedral, the mighty pipe organ
drifted ecclesiastic chords over the swell of murmurs and the
rustling of guests.

As soon as the bride and her party were
settled, the chords segued into a hymn and the boys' choir rose in
unearthly song.

Kenzie, seated on Zandra's left, glanced
around.

Lady Josephine, on Zandra's right, sat erect
as an old-fashioned headmistress; next to her, Lady Cressida was
smiling into the distance.

And Lady Alexandra, bless her octogenarian
heart, beamed happily throughout—aided, no doubt, by the silver
flask from which she took occasional swigs.

Eight decades of family weddings, each
preceded by a lengthy Mass, had obviously taught her to come
prepared.

After the wedding ceremony, the eight hundred
guests were shuttled to Lake Engelwiesen by a fleet of limousines
and chartered tour buses. There, a flotilla of speedboats ferried
them out to the island castle.

In the Hall of Mirrors—Schloss Engelwiesen,
like so many palaces built in its day was a direct, if somewhat
smaller, imitation of Versailles— the newlyweds received their
guests, each of whom was formally announced by a footman.

Becky, on the arm of Lord Rosenkrantz, swept
from one ornate room to another, admiring the painted ceilings
here, giving a critique of the ceramics there.

The children of Zandra's cousins Emily,
Elodene, Francesca, Adrian, Timothy, and Christopher, a veritable
army of pretty little girls and miniature gentlemen, happily forgot
their manners and played tag, screaming and racing around the
guests until they switched to less strenuous, and far more
suspenseful, games of hide-and-seek.

Princess Sofia, dressed in black mourning,
marched around dourly, her stinging glares and rebuking frowns
expressing disapproval of this invasion.

Erwein, wisely, had made himself scarce.

Dina floated around in a state of
enchantment, wondering how best to approach Robert about buying her
a castle, preferably in France, and not too far from Paris. Lady
Alexandra fell asleep in a chair, which two footmen lifted and
carried upstairs, where they laid her in bed. Kenzie met Zandra's
dashing, newly divorced cousin, Adrian, who plied her with
champagne in hopes of taking her to bed, efforts she easily
resisted.

The receiving line continued for nearly an
hour and a half, and Karl- Heinz's hand was sore from
congratulatory handshakes. Zandra, as radiant as ever, wondered how
much more hand-kissing she would have to endure from the men; how
many more women would kiss her flushed cheeks.

At last, the guests were shepherded to the
sit-down dinner, for which one hundred round tables, each seating
eight, were set up in an enfilade of ten adjoining rooms, each of
which had its own string quartet and one footman for every four
guests.

Finally, the twelve-tier, fourteen-foot-high
fantasy of a wedding cake, decorated with lacy spun sugar and one
thousand white sugar roses, was wheeled into the Hall of
Mirrors.

The bride and groom cut the first slice, and
more magnums of champagne were popped. A dance orchestra played
waltzes and fox-trots.

Kenzie, watching the newlyweds dance the
first waltz beneath the candlelit chandeliers, tried to discern
Zandra's true feelings. Whether her friend was still haunted by
doubts, or whether she truly was the happy bride she outwardly
appeared to be, was impossible to tell.

Later, a million-dollar fireworks
extravaganza drew the guests to the windows, after which the
newlyweds made their getaway in a waiting executive helicopter.

All in all, the fairy-tale wedding had done
Grafin Fuchswalder and Baroness Frohlichhasen proud. The majority
of the guests lingered and drank too much. The children dropped
from exhaustion. Sofia stalked the premises in search of
Erwein.

And Kenzie, who had caught the bridal bouquet
of miniature white roses and lilies of the valley, sat in a window
seat in one of the empty rooms, dreamily wondering who would walk
her down the aisle— —and when.

Kenzie flew back to New York the following
day. The magic of Zandra's wedding was behind her, and she felt
curiously out of sorts. It wasn't at all the way it had been during
the flight over to Europe.

She and Zandra had flown together, and they'd
made it into a midair party, gulping glassfuls of champagne and
vowing eternal friendship, no matter what. They'd reminisced and
laughed and cried.

Now, returning by herself, Kenzie was hit by
an aching loneliness which was intensified when she let herself
into her apartment.

It seemed eerily quiet.

I miss Zandra, dammit! she thought, walking
around and opening the windows to air out the stuffy rooms. She was
the sister I never had, the best friend I could tell anything. And
now she's up and married.

There would be no more late-night gab fests.
No more waiting turns to use the bathroom. No more sharing of
makeup and secrets or of rushing off to work together.

Living by herself again would take getting
used to.

She unpacked her suitcase and hung away her
maid of honor gown.

"The reason I chose this particular one,"
Zandra had confided, "is because it's absolutely appropriate for
just about any formal occasion. I mean, why just wear it the
once?"

The words echoed in Kenzie's head, brought
home just how empty and purposeless and devoid of meaning her life
really was.

I'm twenty-eight years old and still single.
I've devoted seven years to musty old paintings and foxed drawings.
And what do I have to show for it? Two boy toys, neither of whom is
ready for a real relationship.

She sighed to herself. What it came down to
was that she had nobody.

Might as well face it, Kenz, she told
herself. There's no house with a picket fence in your future.

She finished unpacking, put her suitcase
away, and went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of Earl Grey
tea, another legacy from Zandra. While it steeped, she checked her
answering machine.

The LED display indicated six messages. She
punched the playback button.

Charley: "Hey-a you hot-a mama! It's-a me—"
Fast-forward.

Hannes: "Kenzie, it is me. I was wondering—"
Fast-forward.

Mr. Spotts: "Hello, Kenzie. This is A.
Dietrich Spotts. I'm soaking up the rays down here in the Sunshine
State, and just got through talking to somebody who talked to
somebody ... well, to make a long story short, I heard there's an
opening in the department. I know of a young woman named Annalisa
Barabino who trained under Fiorentino at the Ambrosiana, and then
worked at the Uffizi. I told her to contact you." Beep.

Woman with a thick accent: "Hello? Ms.
Turner? This is Annalisa Barabino. I'm sorry to call you at home.
Mr. Spotts said he would contact you—" I'll listen later.
Fast-forward.

Voice from home: "Hi, sweetheart. It's Dad.
How's my little girl? Just calling to wish you a happy
birthday—"

Kenzie punched the pause button and frowned.
What's with this happy birthday—?

And then she suddenly remembered. He was
right.

Today was her birthday. She'd turned
twenty-nine.

"The answerin' machine. The fuckin' telephone
answerin' machine!" Charley steamed, angrily returning from the pay
phone at Live Bait, on East Twenty-third Street. "All I get's the
fuckin' telephone answerin' machine!"

He threw himself into his chair, took a swig
from his beer, slammed the mug down, and glared broodingly at the
gaggle of leggy young models clustered in front of the bar.

"You know what I'd like?"

"No," Hannes said, in an attempt to humor
him. "What?"

"To go back in time." Charley nodded. "That's
right. Just like in The Time Machine. Or Back to the Future."

"But why should you want do do that?" Hannes
sipped his own beer slowly.

"Because that way I could get my hands on the
dipshit who invented that infernal machine! I'd be able to strangle
the livin' daylights out of him before he can invent it!"

Charley gulped beer and wiped his mouth on
his sleeve.

"Come to think of it, same goes for the
inventor of the car alarm. Yeah. How many times has their racket
kept you awake? Huh?" He didn't wait for a reply. "Justifiable
homicide," he growled, "that's what it would be. Isn't a jury in
the country wouldn't acquit me!"

He finished off his beer and signaled the
waitress for another.

"Why don't we leave," Hannes suggested. "It's
late, and we've both had enough to drink."