One Fifth Avenue (32 page)

“Sam?” she said. “Can I trust you? If I gave you my keys—to keep, just while we’re away, in case something happens—could you keep it a secret? Not tell your mother or anyone? Unless there was a real emergency.

My husband’s a little paranoid . . .”

“I get it,” Sam said. “I’ll guard the keys with my life.”

And moments later, he was headed downstairs with the keys to the magnificent apartment hanging heavy in the pocket of his jeans.

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Later, at the house in Windsor Pines, Beetelle sat at the vanity in her powder room and rubbed the last of the La Mer cream into her face.

Cem, she knew, would be hiding in the entertainment center, where he now spent all his time. Ever since the foreclosure notice had come from the bank two weeks ago, Cem had taken to spending the night on the couch, falling asleep in front of the giant flat-screen TV. Lola, Beetelle imagined, was in her room, trying to digest the reality of the situation.

But how could Lola understand when Beetelle could barely comprehend it herself?

Beetelle dug out the last of the precious cream with her manicured fingernail. When had the trouble started? Six months ago? She’d known Cem wasn’t happy at his company. He’d never said so specifically—Cem kept his thoughts to himself—and although she’d sensed something was wrong, she’d ignored her feelings, convincing herself instead that, thanks to the cell-phone alert system Cem had invented, they were about to become very rich. But three months ago, Cem had come home unexpectedly early from work. “Are you sick?” she’d asked. “I quit,” he’d said. He had his pride, he said. A man could take only so much. “So much of what?” she cried.

“Disrespect.” Eventually, she got it out of him: He’d quit because his boss was claiming Cem’s invention as his own. The boss claimed the company owned the patent, and Cem wouldn’t get a penny. Beetelle and Cem had hired a patent lawyer from Atlanta who came highly recommended, but he was no use at all. The lawyer, Beetelle discovered, was oily—and not only because his skin glistened against his navy blue pin-striped suit and red tie. Their one-hour meeting had cost them seven hundred dollars. Then the lawyer supposedly looked over the case. “There’s no evidence that Cem developed this on his own,” he said over the phone. “But he did. I saw him working on it,” Beetelle protested. “How?” the lawyer asked. “On his computer.” “I’m afraid that doesn’t give us much of a case, Mrs. Fabrikant. You can proceed, if you’d like, but it’ll cost you hundreds of thousands of dollars to take this to court. And you’ll probably lose.” Hanging up the phone, Beetelle suspected Cem had been lying to her all along. The cell-phone alert wasn’t solely his invention; it was merely something he’d worked on with other people. But why would he lie? To please her, she guessed, to make himself more important in her eyes. She was such a dy-220

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namo, perhaps he’d felt emasculated and lied to make himself look better. He made a good salary, three hundred and fifty thousand a year, but after the first week of Cem’s unemployment, she realized his salary was only more smoke and mirrors: They were living paycheck to paycheck and had three mortgages on the house, the last one taken out six months ago to enable Lola to move to New York. They owed over a million dollars.

They might have survived by selling the house, but the market had dropped. The house that was worth one point two million a year ago was now worth only seven hundred thousand. “So you see,” the banker had said while she and Cem sat trembling before him, “you actually owe three hundred thirty-three thousand dollars. And forty-two cents,” he added.

Three hundred thirty-three thousand dollars. And forty-two cents, she repeated in her head. She’d said it over and over so many times it no longer had any effect. It was just a number, unattached to real life.

New York, Beetelle thought with a pang. If only circumstances had been different. What a life she’d have now, free from the horror of penury. Lucky Lola had moved to New York with every advantage, not the way Beetelle had when she’d gotten her first job as a medical technician at Columbia Hospital, making twelve thousand dollars a year.

She’d lived in a run-down two-bedroom apartment with three other girls, and she’d loved every minute. But it didn’t last long. After three happy months, she’d met Cem at the old convention hall on Colum-bus Circle, where there was now a fancy office tower with a mall. It hadn’t been fancy then. Aisle after aisle of booths constructed of plasterboard sold everything from ball bearings for heart valves to magnets that would cure anything. Back then technology was only a little more advanced than witchcraft and sorcery. And so, in between the valves made of titanium and the magnets to reverse cancer, she’d found Cem.

He’d asked her for directions to the exit, and the next thing she knew, they were going out for coffee. The afternoon stretched into the early evening, and they meandered into the bar at the Empire Hotel, where he was staying. They were full of youth and career aspirations and New York City, drinking tequila sunrises while they looked at the view of Lincoln Center. It was spring, and the fountain was going, gushing great glittery streams of water.

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they didn’t know better. Her breasts were heavy and full, the type of breasts that sagged almost immediately but had one season of ripeness with which to attract, and what she attracted was Cem.

He was sexy then. Or he was to her untested mind. She had had no experience, and the fact that Cem was interested in her thrilled her. For the first time, she was living life—a secret, unexplored, forbidden life. The next morning, feeling free and modern, she woke up expecting never to see Cem again. He was going back to Atlanta in the afternoon. But for days afterward, he pursued her, sending flowers, calling, even writing a postcard. She tucked them away, but by then she’d met another man and fallen in love, and she stopped responding to Cem’s entreaties.

The man was a doctor. For the next few weeks, she did everything to keep him interested. Made a fool of herself playing tennis. Cleaned his kitchen. Showed up at his office with a sandwich. She managed to only let him kiss her (and then go to second and third base) for six weeks.

And then she gave in. The next morning, he told her he was engaged to someone else.

She was confused and, when he wouldn’t take her calls, devastated.

A week later, during a routine visit to the gynecologist, she discovered she was pregnant. She should have known, but she’d confused her nausea with the giddiness that comes from being in love. At first she thought the baby was the doctor’s, and she constructed scenes in her head of when and how she would inform him, after which he would realize she was the one for him after all and would marry her. They’d have to do it quickly, before anyone suspected. But when the pregnancy test came in, the gynecologist informed her that she was almost three months pregnant.

Beetelle counted backward, feeling her entire life switch into reverse. It wasn’t the doctor’s child. It was Cem’s. The doctor said she ought to have it, as she was nearly too far gone for an abortion.

Beetelle cried and then called Cem. Over the phone, she told him she was pregnant. He was ecstatic and flew to New York for the weekend; he took a hotel room at the Carlyle (setting a pattern for spending money he didn’t have) and took her to romantic restaurants. He bought her a half-carat diamond ring at Tiffany’s, claiming he only ever wanted her to have the best. Two months later, they were married by a justice of the peace at her parents’ house in Grand Rapids. After the ceremony, they 222

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went to dinner at the country club. And then Lola was born, and Beetelle understood it had all happened for a reason.

How she loved Lola. And naturally, while Beetelle no longer harbored feelings for the doctor, there were times when, seeing Lola so beautiful and bright, a curious sensation overcame her. A tiny part of her still believed, still hoped, that somewhere a mistake had been made, and Lola actually was the child of Leonard Pierce, a famous oncologist.

Beetelle got up from the vanity and went into the bedroom, standing before the bay window that looked out over the golf course. What would become of her and Lola now? There were times in the past when she’d considered what she would do if something happened to Cem. When he was late or driving home from Florida on his yearly pilgrimage to visit his mother, the thought crossed her mind that he could be killed in an accident with a tractor trailer. She pictured herself in mourning in Windsor Pines, dressed in black with a black pillbox hat and veil, although no one wore hats or veils anymore, holding a memorial service for Cem at the big nondenominational church to which everyone in their set belonged. She would never marry again. But along with the loss was a little fantasy.

She would sell the house and be free to do with her life as she pleased.

She might move to Italy, like that girl who wrote
Under the Tuscan Sun
.

But that was possible only if the house was worth something. Bank-ruptcy was not part of the bargain, and there were moments now, terrible moments, when she wondered if she wouldn’t be better off without Cem. It had crossed her mind that if she did leave, she could move to New York and live with Lola in that sweet little apartment on Eleventh Street.

But there wasn’t even enough money for that. They could no longer afford the apartment, and somehow, Lola had to be told this as well.

Beetelle was startled by the sudden presence of Lola in the room. “I’ve been thinking things over, Mother,” she said, seating herself carefully on the edge of the bed. A quick survey of the house had revealed that things were worse than she’d thought—in the refrigerator was supermarket cheese instead of gourmet; the wireless Internet service had been canceled and their cable plan reduced to basic. “I don’t have to work for Philip. I could get a real job, I suppose. Maybe do something in fashion. Or I could take acting classes. Philip knows everyone—he’ll know the best teacher.

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hard at all. Or I could try out for a reality show. Philip says they’re shooting more and more reality in New York. And doing a reality show doesn’t take any talent at all.”

“Lola, darling,” Beetelle said, overcome by her daughter’s desire to help out, “that would all be wonderful. If only we could afford to keep you in New York.”

Lola’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?” she asked.

Beetelle shook her head. “We can’t afford the apartment anymore. I’ve been dreading telling you this, but we’ve already told the management company. They’re going to let us out of the lease at the end of January.”

Lola gasped. “You got rid of my apartment behind my back?”

“I didn’t want to upset you,” Beetelle said.

“How could you do such a thing?” Lola demanded.

“Darling, please. I didn’t have a choice. As it is, both Mercedes are going to be repossessed in January . . .”

“How could you let this happen, Mother?”

“I don’t know,” Beetelle wailed. “I trusted your father. And this is what he does to us. And now we’ll all have to live in a condo someplace—

where no one knows us—and I guess we’ll try to start over . . .”

Lola gave a harsh laugh. “You expect me to live in a condo? With you and Daddy? No, Mother,” she said firmly. “I can’t do that. I won’t leave New York. Not when I’ve made so much progress. Our only hope is for me to stay in New York.”

“But where will you live?” Beetelle cried. “You can’t survive on the streets.”

“I’ll live with Philip,” Lola said. “I practically live with him anyway.”

“Oh, Lola,” Beetelle said. “Living with a man? Before you’re married?

What will people think?”

“We don’t have any choice, Mother. And when Philip and I get married, no one will remember that we lived together. And Philip has loads of money now. He just got paid a million dollars to write a screenplay.

And once we’re married”—Lola looked over at her mother—“we’ll figure something out. He probably would have asked me to marry him by now if it weren’t for his aunt. She’s always around, checking up on him.

Thank God she’s old. Maybe she’ll get cancer or something and have to give up her apartment. Then you and Daddy could move in.”

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“Oh, darling,” Beetelle said, and tried to hug her. Lola moved away.

If her mother touched her, Lola knew she would fall apart herself and start crying. Now was not the time to be weak. And seeming to channel some of her mother’s former legendary strength in the face of adversity, she stood up.

“Come on, Mother,” she said. “Let’s go to the mall. We may not have money, but that doesn’t mean I can let myself go. You must have some credit left on your MasterCard.”

12

Billy Litchfield was on the train to Springfield, Massachusetts, when he got the call from his sister informing him that their mother had fallen down and broken her hip and was in the hospital. She’d been carrying groceries when she slipped on a patch of ice. She would live, but her pelvis was shattered. The surgeons would put the pelvis back together with metal plates, but it would take a long time to heal, and she could be in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. She was only eighty-three; she might easily live for another ten or fifteen years. “I don’t have time to take care of her,” Billy’s sister, Laura, wailed on the phone. Laura was a corporate lawyer and single mom, twice divorced with two children, eighteen and twelve. “And I can’t afford to put her in a nursing home. Jacob’s going to college next year. It’s too much.”

“It’ll be fine,” Billy said. He was taking the news more calmly than he would have expected.

“How can it be fine?” his sister said. “Once something like this happens, it’s downhill all the way.”

“She must have some money,” Billy said.

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