Accelerated (17 page)

She laughed. It was a nice laugh. “So you’re not from around these parts.”

“God no. I went to public school in Troy, New York. This is all … very different.”

“Westerly, Rhode Island for me,” Jess said. “Public school all the way. Then I taught at the school I went to.”

She looked at her watch. “Whoa.” She motioned for the check. “I had no idea how late it was.”

He wasn’t tired anymore. He picked up the check. “Let me get this.”

She was shaking her head and reaching into her bag. “No. Really. Here.” She handed him ten bucks.

“Moral high ground,” he said. “I forgot.”

“Exactly.” She got up and put on her down jacket. “I feel significantly better than I did a few hours ago. Thanks.”

“Me too.” Would it be tacky, he wondered, to ask her out, given the circumstances?

“See you back at school,” she said, and turned to go.

The idea hit him just in time. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

“Oh, I’ve … I’ve got a bunch of things to do tomorrow.”

“Because I’ve been invited to a dinner party at Art Crandall’s,” he said. “You’d really be helping me out if you’d come as my plus-one.” Did it sound like he was inviting her on a date? Was he inviting her on a date? “As friends.”

By the expression on her face, he knew he had her. But he might as well put the icing on the cake. “It’s at the Townhouse.”

“Seriously?” she said.

A nod was all it took for her other plans to evaporate.

E
LEVEN YEARS IN
N
EW
Y
ORK AND
S
EAN HAD NEVER ONCE BEEN TO
Sutton Place. Probably because there was nothing here except private cul de sacs, private mansions, private signs, private everything. He was sure someone was going to stop him and ask what he was doing here. But there was no one around. No through traffic, no noise. Only a thin layer of snow and the crunch of his footsteps. On this block, right now, it was impossible to imagine the noisy, crowded New York everyone else had to live in. He found the right building, looked once more at the killer view of the East River, and pulled at the brass claw mounted on Art Crandall’s front door. It cracked once against the backplate and a truck of a man in a dark suit pulled it open.

“Welcome to the Townhouse,” he rumbled. “Name please?”

“Benning. Sean Benning.” The guy was so pumped his seams looked like they were about to burst.

“Someone’s looking for you.” The man pointed into the foyer with his chin.

Jess was leaning against the curved wooden banister that led up to the main floor. He almost didn’t recognize her. The woman standing in front of him—sleek, elegant, and totally hot—looked nothing like a third-grade teacher. Her hair was twisted loosely and pinned above her neck, revealing a deep V of pale skin where her dress dipped in the back.

“You look amazing,” he said. You could compliment a friend. He was sure that was okay.

“I never wear stuff like this. But I figured …” Her hand went nervously to her dress.

“The
Townhouse
, I know.” He pulled at his tie. He hated them in general and made it a point never to wear one unless absolutely necessary. “Shall we?” he gestured up the stairs.

“Hold up,” the doorman said, and pulled two sheets from the back of his clipboard. He handed Sean a pen. “I need you both to sign these. They say you promise not to repeat anything that happens here tonight. In other words, it’s all off the record. Makes people more comfortable letting their hair down, if you know what I mean.”

Signing things always made Sean nervous. “I don’t know …”

“House rules,” the guy said. “Sign or see ya later.”

Sean looked to Jess. She shrugged and took the pen. “Why not?” she said.

Why not
seemed like it might work for tonight. He took the pen and signed.

“Enjoy,” the guy said with a wink.

Sean let Jess lead the way upstairs and wondered how bad it would be if he did, say, brush his hand along her back accidentally.

The party in progress upstairs gave him a queasy flashback to the parent social. The room was filled with grownups. What would he say to them? He’d been an idiot to think this party would be any different. Art Crandall was a rich guy with rich friends. What was fun about that?

Then he noticed the Picasso hanging a foot away from him. Jess was already standing in front of it, mouth gaping slightly.

He’d never been this close to one and fought the urge to reach out and trace the form with his finger. The old woman in the painting looked into the distance with tired eyes. Her life had been drained away like the color in the monochromatic palette. He thought he’d seen most of Picasso’s work from the Blue Period—not only had he studied Picasso in art school, he’d gone through an embarrassing copycat period in his early twenties—but he’d never seen this one. It was spectacular. Apparently Crandall knew something about art, and that fact, though Sean was loathe to admit it, raised the man at least a little bit in his esteem. “I could stand here all night,” Jess said.

“Do you think it would be considered anti-social?”

A cute waitress with a pixie cut slid over to them carrying a tray of champagne. “Dom?”

He took two glasses and handed one to Jess, who accepted it as if someone handed her expensive champagne all the time. When the waitress moved on, Jess turned to him and mouthed
Dom
.

“Shall we?” He led her through the crowd. The crystal chandelier threw off an inhumanly flattering glow. Then again, this group would look just as beautiful and successful in flickering fluorescent.

A big, ruddy-faced man wearing an ascot and velvet smoking jacket blustered into the room. He threw up his hands in greeting. “Welcome, welcome!! Thank you all for coming to my little soirée!” He zeroed in on Sean. “Art Crandall,” he announced, aiming his outstretched hand in Sean’s direction. “You must be Sean Benning. Glad to meet you. Brilliant stuff! Brilliant!” Art Crandall had that polished look of success and an overall glow of wealth Sean wasn’t used to seeing in person except at Bradley. He was also unprepared for Crandall’s aggressive graciousness.

“Mr. Crandall.” Sean offered his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Mr. Crandall! Hah! You’re a guest in my house tonight. It’s Art! All my friends call me Art. And I think we’re going to be good friends.” He turned to Jess and gave an approving nod. “And who might this lovely peach be?”

In a million years, Sean would never describe anyone, much less Jess, as a peach. Peaches were sweet and fuzzy. Jess was sexy and sharp.

“Art Crandall,” he said, “meet Jess Harper.”

Art looked at her as if she were a dessert smothered in whipped cream, then took her hand and kissed it with a dramatic flourish. “A pleasure.”

“Uh, same here.” Her eyes darted nervously to Sean. In a seamless recovery, she withdrew her hand as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “I love your home,” she said, using that same hand to take in the room.

“Ah yes, the Townhouse.” Art sighed for emphasis. “Lots of good times here. Come, let me introduce you two around.”

He steered them through the sitting room, slapping Sean on the back, his new best friend. The room was a blur of conversations and introductions to people Sean would never see again. He shook their hands. Their names slid by him. Nothing was sticking except for the fact that Jess was inches from him. He was lightheaded and he was sure it had nothing to do with the Dom. No one had made him feel this way in years, since the early days with Ellie. Just being near Jess triggered an onslaught of what felt like tiny geothermal events inside him—tremors, eruptions, floods—nothing as tame as the butterflies people talked about.

When a waiter passed with a tray of lettuce leaves, Art got excited. “You’ve got to try these,” he said. “Endive boats. I dream about them.” He popped one in his mouth. “Mmmm,” he groaned.

Jess tried one and before she was finished chewing, she was talking. “Oh my God, this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.” Art gestured to the tray, encouraging her to take another before he walked across the room with his arms outstretched to greet another guest.

Sean wasn’t going to dream about the boats, but they
were
good. “As Toby would say, these
rock.”

“They rock hard,” Jess said in pitch-perfect eight-year-old. “I can’t believe we’re here.” Not only could she pull off licking her fingers in a cocktail dress, she looked amazing doing it.

“Sorry, I thought it would be more, you know, fun.”

“Think of it as an anthropological study,” she said, looking around the room. “We’ll compare notes afterward.”

He was elated at the concept of
afterward
. This might be the moment to touch her back. But she was pulling him toward the bay window where an Indian woman wearing something that looked like see-through sequined drapes had set up a fortune-telling table.

Before they reached their destination, though, Rick Hollingsworth had spotted them, and Sean re-routed them to say hello. Rick spread his arms in greeting. “Benning,” he said, beaming as he took in the surroundings. “I do believe we’ve arrived.” He was wearing one of his trademark bland beige suits. Tonight, though, it had been pressed and his shirt was buttoned to his flabby neck. The bright red tie clashed with his usually morose personality.

“Rick,” he said. “I’d like to introduce you to Jess Harper.” He knew more explanation was required. “A friend of mine.”

“A pleasure,” he said, shaking Jess’s hand but not removing his other one from the waist of the gorgeous woman he’d brought along. Sean wondered how much she was charging for the evening.

“Hi.” He extended his hand to Rick’s date. “Sean.”

“Sammi.” She nuzzled closer to Rick. “With an
i
. Rick says you work together.”

“Best boss ever,” Sean said, knowing the compliment would embarrass Rick.

“Aw come on,” Rick said modestly. “Sean makes my job easy.”

Jess snuck a peak at the fortune teller. “Have you had your fortune told yet?” she asked Sammi.

Sammi’s eyes widened. “It’s freaky.”
Freeeky
. She pretended to shudder. “She
knew
things.”

Rick gave a discreet eye-roll. “I’m going to be rich beyond my wildest dreams.”

Sammi swatted at him like a real girlfriend might. “What about that thing she said about your son?”

“Okay, it was a little freaky,” he admitted.

“I can’t help it,” Jess said. “I’m curious.”

“You guys should go,” Sammi said, eagerly. “But come back and tell us what she says.”

Sean let Jess lead him to the fortune-teller as Rick mouthed
You dog
.

“You first,” Jess said, when they were standing in front of the purple velvet tablecloth.

“No way.” He pulled out the chair for her. “I mean, ladies first.”

She sat and the woman took her hand. “Do you read palms?”

“Not exactly,” the woman said, and closed her eyes. Despite the perky body he could make out under the getup, her expression made her seemed older. She sat with her eyes closed holding Jess’s hands for a long time. Sean stood next to them, waiting for something to happen. He watched the woman hold Jess’s hands. Then he realized: Jess wasn’t wearing her engagement ring. Maybe she knew the ring was crap and was embarrassed to wear it to the Townhouse. Or maybe they’d broken up for good.

Trying not to move her head too much, Jess found Sean with her eyes. It did seem like the fortune-teller had fallen asleep.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the fortune-teller beat him to it.

“There’s someone here. A woman. Your mother.”

Jess stared at the woman. “My mother?”

“She died this year.” The woman nodded to herself. “You miss her.”

This caught Jess off guard. “Is there … what’s she … what else …”

“She wants to tell you she’s proud of you.”

Jess opened her mouth to say something but nothing came out.

“She’s getting fainter. She’s gone now. But she seemed at peace.”

Jess looked dazed. She sat, waiting for more. But there wasn’t more. “What did she look like? I mean, did she seem lonely? Is there anything else you can you tell me?”

The woman shook her head. She had nothing. Then, almost as an afterthought added, “You will have a long life. Despite many hardships you will find truth.” She let go of Jess’s hand, now finished with her, and beckoned a twitchy guy in Gucci shoes to sit next.

“Weird,” Jess said. She was a little shaky, which gave Sean the opportunity he’d been waiting for. He put his arm around her shoulder.

“Dinner is served,” Art was bellowing.

M
ELISSA
M
ORRISSEY SAT TO
S
EAN
’
S RIGHT, BUT FOR SOME REASON
he didn’t care. So what if he’d seen her naked in half a dozen movies? Or that he’d had a phase after college during which she’d starred in a disproportionate percentage of his sexual fantasies? Jess was all the way across the table charming Bill Clinton, who’d sauntered in during the appetizer course. “I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by,” he’d said, with that Yale-edged Arkansas thing he did. He’d pulled up a chair at Art’s urging.

Now, he was directing his election-winning charisma at Jess. “I’m impressed with your knowledge of education policy,” he was saying. “For someone so young, you really get it.”

Sean stabbed at his filet mignon. There was no way to compete with the former president of the United States. He slouched in his seat. Melissa Morrissey turned to face him. Her eyes didn’t seem to be able to focus very well. She tilted her head to one side, like she did in the movies. “You remind me of Jude Law,” she said. “I just finished shooting a film with him. What a sweetheart.”

“What movie?”

“It’s a thriller where I play a prostitute who stumbles across a top-level government secret. It’s gritty.” Her bosom heaved as she said
gritty
. He wondered if that was part of her method.

“You’re wondering if they’re real.”

“What?”

Melissa Morrissey took his hand and placed it on one of the most viewed breasts in the history of non-porn cinema. She held it there, waiting. “So?”