What is Love? (14 page)

Ellen glanced at her
watch as the elevator climbed to the fourteenth floor penthouse of 920 Fifth
Avenue. She was late, and keeping Mrs. Z waiting would be a social disaster.
She took a deep breath and calmed her nerves. The irony, Ellen believed, was
that had Jonathan actually left her after the gala, had he separated from her,
she would not be riding up this elegant elevator to be part of the Metropolitan
Museum of Art acquisitions committee. Nor would anyone have invited her to any
social event—not that she would have wanted to go, not under those
circumstances.

Now, after three
months of counseling and publicly displaying their mended relationship, most of
the gossip had died down. All the incidents were behind them as they continued
to mend their marriage and support each other. Appearing together at events,
including the opera and the Emmy Awards Gala, certainly quieted most inquiring
minds and stalled the loose tongues. In fact, she had risen to a new level,
certainly higher than she had ever anticipated, given the present circumstances.

The time spent with
Mildred Zeigler in Barbados was crucial in assisting her rise in status. What a
lucky break to have spent that much time with her and receive an invitation to
join her committee planning acquisitions for the new Lila Acheson Wallace Wing
of Twentieth Century Art. Except now. Late. Her heart sped up, causing her silk
blouse to stick to her under the bouclé Chanel jacket. Relax. Relax. Relax.

The bell announced
the arrival to the penthouse floor and Ellen smoothed her hair as the engraved
brass doors opened wide.

“Ellen darling,
where have you been?” Greta called out as she walked across the white Carrare
marble foyer to embrace Ellen. They air kissed each other. “We were getting
worried
 …”

“Not too worried, I
hope.” Ellen forced a grin, masking her concern.

“Relax.” Greta
placed her hand on Ellen’s arm and leaned close. “But we are all on our best
behavior waiting for her. Cocktail?” She signaled a passing waiter.

They sipped their
drinks in the foyer, which opened into a grand-scale living room where
sixteen-foot-high ceilings and elaborate moldings on creamy yellow walls
created an elegant French chateau effect, much like Mrs. Z’s Paris home, which
Ellen read about in French
Vogue
two years ago.

Ellen stepped into
the living room and admired its wall of deep windows overlooking Central Park,
the ten-million-dollar view that everyone who was anyone had. With eighteenth
century parquet de Versailles oak flooring and multiple ornate marble
fireplaces, it was sheer luxury. No expense had been spared when the building
was originally built, prewar of course. Mrs. Z and her husband occupied the
entire fourteenth and fifteenth floors, resulting in eight corners of enviable,
sunny exposure.

Who could compete
with this kind of light-filled square footage? Certainly not anyone on the west
side of Manhattan. Ellen couldn’t even imagine what their other homes were
like. She had seen pictures of the Tuscan villa featured in
Architectural
Digest
and the place in Aspen, but Ellen dreamed of an invitation to one
day view those houses for herself. All that would come.

Ellen surveyed the
room. Each woman was an important philanthropist, and all of them now her
friends. She had earned her way in here, the epicenter of society, and it felt
marvelous.

“So tell me,” Patty
whispered, as she pulled Ellen into a corner for privacy. “How are things?”

“Everything is
better.” Ellen smiled. “Much better. He’s home every night. We talk just like
before, and we are going out again. We have been so busy this past month, going
to every event I choose, no arguments, no complaints.”

“Jonathan?”

“I know.” Ellen
beamed. “It’s amazing to see the change in him. He’s even coming with me to
mass sometimes. I can’t believe I actually filled that absurd prescription. I
should have had more faith in Jonathan.”

“What about the
 …”
Patty leaned in closer. “Passion?
How’s the sex?” She winked.

“Patty!”

“Come on. Is it
better?”

Ellen blushed and
turned away. “Not now, not here, I’ll tell you later.” A knot twisted in her
stomach. She wanted to tell Patty a lie. The truth was, the subject of sex was
so shameful, she couldn’t give it any further thought. Ellen noticed Greta
glide past them and wondered if she overheard anything. The clatter of voices
abruptly halted with the arrival of Mrs. Z.

“Come,” Mrs. Z
clapped her hands several times. “Let’s get this luncheon started.” She
motioned to the dining room, its vast table set for a formal lunch.

Mrs. Z sat at the
head of the table, while all the women filed in, sitting in their respected
places. Ellen was halfway down the table, while Greta sat on Mrs. Z’s right and
Lady Sutherland to her left. Ellen was only four spots away from those coveted
positions.

The oversize formal
dining room emanated timeless splendor with red lacquered walls and gold Rocco
moldings. The table was set with rare Minton china; hand-painted gold embossed
filigree set against deep crimson, fire-glazed enamel. Ellen had seen this
quality on display at the museum, but never had she known anyone to use charger
plates as valuable as these for a formal dinner, let alone a luncheon. Mrs. Z
was truly the epicure of style.

As Ellen sipped her
water, she glanced up at the painting above the buffet—a rare Picasso, sought
by major collectors around the world. She thought of the Sargent in the foyer
and the Monet in the living room. Many consider the Zeigler’s art collection
one of the best in the country. Laurence Zeigler spent the early thirties
amassing his vast collection, while the rest of the world around him went
bankrupt. By the sixties, he had accumulated an enviable collection of
Impressionist and Cubist artwork, with most of their pieces on loan to museums
around the globe.

A pang of envy shot
through Ellen at the abrupt awareness of their inequality. How could she ever
invite Mrs. Z to her house, when the best piece they own is a Tamara de
Lempicka? Most of the other pieces were landscapes that never rose
significantly in value, certainly not the way the Impressionists’ works had.
She wished that Jonathan had shown more interest in art when they were first
married. Back in the fifties and sixties, you could buy a Monet or a Degas for
next to nothing. Art was the great tell-all, silently saying just how deep your
pockets truly were. And at that moment, Ellen was wishing theirs were much
deeper.

Lunch continued with
discussions on the plans for the new wing and the recent acquisitions. When the
last of the dessert plates had been cleared, Ellen wondered how everyone would
perceive her relationship with Jonathan, now that they appeared publicly back
on track. She realized how important it was that Mrs. Z not have any doubts
about her continued status as Mrs. Jonathan Horvath II. The uneasy reflection
of their lack of passion continued to assault her thoughts along with the worry
that others may see through the facade she carefully created.

She leaned over to
Patty and said in a hushed voice, “The passion is back, better than ever. We’ve
never been closer.” Ellen blushed at her deception as Greta raised an arched
eyebrow, pretending not to hear.

Patty gave her hand
a gentle squeeze. “And the girl?”

“A distant memory.”
Ellen lied, hoping that by saying it aloud, it would be true.

Patty picked up her
glass, clinking it with Ellen’s. “Here’s to a bright future.”

“Yes,” Ellen agreed.
“A very bright future.” Ellen smiled.

Greta grinned,
sipping her wine, obviously having missed nothing.

***

Three week had
passed since the luncheon with Mrs. Z. Ellen was busy spending time with
Jonathan and hadn’t had a lot of time for lunches and gossip. When Patty phoned
and said she had some important news, Ellen was more than happy to adjust her
schedule. She could use the fun of a juicy story about someone else’s misery
now that her life was back on track.

Ellen walked past
the maitre’d at ‘21’ on West 52nd Street, nodding in recognition on her way to
join Patty. From the empty glasses in front of her, she knew Patty had already
dipped into several cocktails.

“Starting a tad
early, aren’t we?” Ellen asked as she set her purse and bags on the chair
beside Patty.

“It’s happy hour in
Seattle,” Patty said, flashing a naughty pout.

“At eleven a.m.?”
Ellen leaned over to air kiss Patty’s cheek.

“Okay, London then.”
Ellen took off her coat as Patty pulled out the chair beside her. “Sit close,”
Patty said. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

Ellen sat and
noticed the expression on Patty’s face. “You look so serious,” she said. “Can
it be that bad?”

“Worse. I got it
from a fly on the wall that your hubby has
 …”
Patty sat back and took a deep breath. “He’s started divorce
proceedings.” She reached for her cocktail and took a big sip.

“No, that can’t be.
There must be a mistake.” Ellen shook her head in assurance.

“No mistake—I wish I
were wrong.” Patty pulled the olive stick out of her martini and slid the olive
into her mouth.

“But that’s
impossible. He’s assured me—our counseling has been great. We have dinner
together almost every night and we talk about future plans
 …”
Ellen’s voice trailed as she
picked up the napkin and smoothed it onto her lap. “You’ve seen us, everything
is so good now. And we have a cruise to Australia coming up in a few weeks.
This must be a mistake. Who told you?”

“Let’s just say
someone who owes someone a favor.”

“How does this
someone know anything?”

“She helped draw up
the papers at Roger’s office last week.”

Roger, of course
it would be Roger.
The one and only Roger Baumann helped men in divorces
win more money than any other lawyer in the state. A known womanizer and,
unfortunately for Ellen, a good friend of Jonathan’s. She never did like him
and masterfully avoided inviting him to any of their social events.

“Unbelievable!” She
threw her napkin onto the table and sat for several minutes, then leaned closer
to Patty. “It would be Roger, he’s pushing him,” she whispered. “Of course, he
stands to make a lot of money in legal fees. He’s the one talking about such
nonsense. Jonathan would never—”

“I heard Jonathan
called him and they met two months ago to get it started—”

“Oh, well,” Ellen
said with a smile, sitting back in relief. “That’s all it is then. That was
before all of our counseling and the recent change in him.”

Patty put her hand
on Ellen’s. “I’m sorry, Ellen. He was in last week going over the financials
and putting the final signatures on it. One month from now is the date on the
paper.”

“But we leave for
our cruise in three weeks. He couldn’t possibly be planning—no, it’s not
possible—it’s some kind of mistake.” Ellen turned away, hoping to end the
discussion.

“Listen
 …”
Patty sat back in her chair and
picked up her empty glass. “Where’s the damn waiter?” She turned her head and
motioned for a refill. “Here’s the thing,” she said and leaned closer,
“apparently he has been planning a ruse. He wants you both to be away while
it’s filed, so there won’t be any trouble. Then when you get back, you’ll be
served. He’s been making like everything is sweet and nice but secretly
planning a big coup.”

“That’s—that’s so
callous—I don’t believe it. Besides, he doesn’t want to leave me, he’s assured
me.”

“Yes, but he is. I’m
sorry, it’s not the news I want to deliver.” Patty put her hand on Ellen’s.

“Your source is
wrong. What if she’s lying?”

“Why would she lie?”
Patty shook her head. “She actually feels bad for you.”

“That’s all very
nice, but it doesn’t mean it’s actually going to happen.”

“Why don’t you call
his bluff and phone Roger and get confirmation?”

“I don’t want
confirmation,” Ellen snapped.

“Then call up and
learn that it’s not happening, that it’s a lie.” Patty took a full sip, dabbing
her lips with her napkin. “Either way, at least you’ll know before
 …”
Patty stopped.

“Before?” Ellen went
cold.

“Before your cruise.
At least you’ll know before you waste a month trying to please him, losing
precious time, when he’s already out the door and his bags are packed, and I
mean really packed!”

Ellen looked up at
the toy airplanes and model trains that lined the ceiling of the prestigious
restaurant, noticing suddenly how foolish they seemed. Their historic
significance seemed irrelevant. They were probably extremely dusty. She simmered
for several minutes as Patty sat in silence.

“Here,” Patty said,
reaching into her purse. She handed Ellen two prescription bottles. “I think
you should have these, just in case
 …
”

Ellen recognized the
bottles and knew exactly what they were for. Her dreaded desperation cures. “I
certainly don’t need those.” Ellen pushed them back but Patty slipped them into
her purse.

“I hope I’m wrong. I
really do.” Patty said.

Ellen stood to
leave. “And I will show you just how wrong you are.”

***

Ellen’s driver
pulled the car in front of Tiffany and Co. on Fifth Avenue and stopped in front
of the double stainless steel doors. Above the doors, the nine-foot figure of
Atlas carrying the historic clock on his shoulders displayed one-thirty.
Earlier today, she received a call that her order was ready for pickup. Since
she hadn’t ordered anything recently, this must be a surprise from Jonathan.
Patty was wrong. A ring would be a wonderful reminder of his commitment,
especially before the upcoming voyage.