Shades of Fortune (27 page)

“But what about when your nice boy from Choate helps you into your coat after dinner? If he sees this hole, what will he think of us? He'll think we're as poor as Job's turkey!”

“I'm sure he won't notice. Here, let me take out the rest of the stitches.” She saw that her mother's hands were trembling.

“No, no. I've just got a few more to go. Oh, Mimi, are you sure he won't notice? This is such an important night for you!”

“I'm positive he won't notice. He's not the noticing sort.”

“Thank goodness it's a little way down inside the sleeve.” Working with her nail scissors at the stitches, she went on, “It was years ago, when he took me to the Rainbow Room. It was before you were born, Mimi—before you were even born—when you were no more than a twinkle in your father's eye!” And Mimi watched as, with one hand, her mother brushed a tear from her own eye. “Your father has always been kind to me, I have to give him credit for that. He's never been guilty of an act of”—she worried at the stitches with her scissors tip—“deliberate … unkindness.… I have many happy … memories. They photographed us there that night, and on Sunday our picture was in the Rotogravure.… The Magnificent Myersons, they called us.…”

“I'll have my usual, Scotch and soda,” Michael said, and the captain, who really did seem to know him, nodded. Michael was always good with headwaiters, was always authoritative, and always tipped them well.

The captain looked at Mimi, who took a deep breath and said, “I'll have a dry martini.”

“Excuse me,” the captain said, “but may I see the young lady's ID?”

“
What?
” Michael cried in outrage. “Don't you know who this young lady is? This is my twin sister, my fraternal twin sister, who is actually three minutes older than I am! This is an insult, asking my twin sister for her ID!”

“Certainly, Mr. Horowitz,” the captain said. “I do apologize, Mr. Horowitz.”

“My twin sister has ordered a dry martini. Now get us our drinks.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“You have to show them who's boss,” Michael said, after the headwaiter had left them. “By the way, how old are you?”

“Nineteen,” she said, adding a few months for good measure.

“That's old enough. But I guess you do look younger. I'm a few years older than you. I'm twenty-five. You're shy, aren't you.”

“Yes, I guess, a little.”

“Some people say shyness is a form of selfishness. Do you agree with that?”

“I don't know. I've never thought about it.”

“I don't agree. Because I think shyness can be cured by practicing the art of self-esteem—so shyness is the opposite of selfishness, don't you think? I used to be shy. Or at least I was considered a shy little kid. Then I read a book called
How to Win Friends and Influence People
by Mr. Dale Carnegie. It changed my life. I'll give you that book to read, if you'd like. It could change your life, the way it changed mine.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I've heard of the book.”

“And so,” he said, grinning at her, “aside from those little differences—our ages, and the shyness thing—what do you think of my plan?”

“What plan?”

“For us to get married, of course!”

“But Michael, I hardly know you!”

“Plenty of time for that. I didn't mean get married
tomorrow
, for Chrissakes. How about June? There's a song—‘It was just a wedding in June …'”

“But Michael,” she said a little wildly, “don't I have to love you? Isn't love supposed to be a part of it? I mean, I'm not even sure I even
like
you!”

Their drinks arrived just then, and when the waiter had left, Michael touched his glass to hers. “You may never like me,” he said, looking straight into her eyes. “But I'll tell you this much, kiddo. You may never like me, but at least you'll never forget me.”

He had been right about that.

12

Mrs. Richard Bernhardt is a thirtyish housewife in Scarsdale, and she comes to the door of her pleasant, Tudor-style house on Rockinghorse Lane to greet her visitor. “What a great pleasure,” she says as she offers him her hand. “Your reputation, as they say, precedes you, sir!”

“That could be taken two ways, of course,” he says.

She laughs easily and leads him across the wide entrance hall and into her sunny living room, which is decorated with floral Clarence House chintz and overlooks the sparkling backyard pool. “Can I get you something?” Louise Bernhardt asks. “Iced tea? Lemonade? A drink?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

They seat themselves on the sofa in front of the fireplace, the opening of which is filled with a hand-painted paper fan, for summer. Arrayed on the mantel is a handsome collection of polished pewter tankards. Louise Bernhardt has a certain reputation as a housekeeper and, in her living room, it shows.

“Needless to say, I'm consumed with curiosity as to why you called and wanted to see me,” she says.

“I'll come right to the point,” he says. “If you know my reputation, you know I'm not the kind of guy who likes to beat around the bush.”

“Good,” she says. “Neither am I.”

“I'm interested in you because you're a member of the Myerson family.”

She hesitates. “My grandfather was Leopold Myerson, that's true,” she says. “He was an early partner of Adolph Myerson's. But other than that—”

“And you are a stockholder in the Miray Corporation.”

“Yes. All of us are. There are six—no, seven—grandchildren.”

“Eight, actually.”

“Eight?”

“Esther's three children.”

“Did Aunt Esther have three? Oh, you're counting Norman. Poor Norman is … retarded, you know. We don't usually count poor Norman.”

“Norman Stein is still a shareholder.”

“Well, yes, I suppose he is. His brother Gil handles his affairs for him. Gil is a darling. Norman is in Shady Hill.”

“I know all that.”

“Well,” she says brightly, “you've certainly done your homework on the family. Why this interest in us?”

“I'm interested in buying your Miray stock, Mrs. Bernhardt,” he says.

“All of it?”

“All.”

She rises and fishes a cigarette out of a gleaming silver box on the coffee table. “I hope you don't mind if I smoke,” she says. “Really, we're the last persecuted minority in America, we smokers!” She lights her cigarette with a heavy silver table lighter, of the variety that usually does not work. In Louise Bernhardt's house, however, everything works, including the lighter.

“When I left Manhattan this morning, Miray shares were trading at sixty-nine and a half. I'm willing to offer you seventy-five and a quarter, Mrs. Bernhardt. That's nearly ten percent above the current market.”

“Mmm,” she says into the cigarette smoke. “Well, I should tell you that my grandfather used to say that we should never sell our Miray stock, no matter what. He was really quite adamant—even rabid—on the subject. He made my father, Nathan Myerson, promise never to sell. He was simply rabid on the subject.”

“I understand that, Mrs. Bernhardt.”

“My grandfather made all of his children and grandchildren promise—”

“I understand that, too.”

“It's a very hard thing you're asking me to do, to break a solemn promise I made to my grandfather.”

“Let me say that I'd consider offering you seventy-seven and a half. That's slightly more than ten percent over the market.”

“Yes,” she says, picking an invisible piece of lint from the front of her white silk slacks. “Well, I'm sure you don't expect a decision from me this afternoon. I'd like to consult my brothers, Sam and Joe.”

“I'll be speaking to them as well.”

“And my husband, Dick. And I think I'd also like to consult my children. They should be a part of this, too, since this represents part of their inheritance. I must say, Miray has always been very good to us—at least since Adolph's granddaughter took the company over. They've never skipped a dividend, and, as you know, there've been two splits.”

“I know that.”

“Will you be speaking with Mimi Myerson, too?”

“On a somewhat different basis, yes.”

“I don't know her. We've never met, though she must be a very clever lady. There was some sort of family falling out years ago between my grandfather and his brother. I've never known what it was about, but it does seem silly, doesn't it, after all these years? Two branches of the family which refuse to have anything to do with one another?”

“These things happen, in families.”

“Alas, yes. Is Mimi's son in the business now? I think I read—”

“He's the one I'm after.”

“
After?
” She laughs. “Goodness, you make it all sound rather sinister!”

“I meant that … in the abstract,” he says.

“I see. Business talk.”

“So,” he says, rising from the sofa, “here's my card where I can always be reached. You talk it over with your husband, your brothers, your kids. And let me know.”

“I'll do that.”

“All I can say is that, in today's market, I don't think you'll find a better offer, kiddo.”

She starts toward the front door with him, then hesitates. “If you're interested in the family, and the company, Mr. Horowitz, there's something that you might like to see.…”

To say that Nonie Myerson was astonished by her brother's invitation to his house for dinner tonight would be an understatement. At their last meeting, she had thought he was going to hit her, and that only an extraordinary exercise in self-will had prevented him from doing just that. Knowing Edwee's pattern of lengthy sulks after any sort of family disagreement, she had expected that it would be weeks, even months, before she heard from him again. And yet, this very morning, there he had been on the telephone, all jolly-voiced and cajoling, murmuring something about burying the hatchet, and calling her “dear girl,” and begging her to come to dinner.

“I'm going to be cooking,” he said, “and there may be one or two others. Also, there's a small bit of family business we need to discuss. Come at seven, dear girl.”

And so, with that hint about family business, she had accepted. It was likely that Edwee's plan to place their mother in a nursing home had struck some sort of legal snag that even forty lawyers from Dewey, Ballantine had been unable to sort out without Nonie's cooperation. And, since she was revising her thinking about the nursing home notion as it might affect her dealings with her mother, Nonie had decided that it would be useful to her cause to find out what, exactly, was on Edwee's mind.

Now she has been ushered into Edwee's office on Sutton Square by Edwee's Filipino butler, and Edwee has closed the door conspiratorially behind them. He is still wearing his full white apron and tall chef's bonnet, which, with his long silver hair flowing out beneath it, makes him look more than a little ridiculous, she thinks.

“We're having a salmon and sea-scallop tart, vermicelli with caviar and
sauce aux truffes
, veal paillard with sorrel sauce, cold chestnut soufflé, and a mango mousse,” he announces. “I'm particularly pleased with the mousse. Will you have a glass of Perrier?”

Nonie nods. Perrier is the only liquid that Edwee permits his guests to drink before one of his little dinners. Anything stronger, he insists, would dull the palate to the flavors of his dishes and their accompanying wines.

“Sit down, dear girl,” he says, uncapping the little green bottles and emptying them into champagne flutes. “I asked you to come a little early, because there is a matter of some delicacy that I need to discuss with you. And Gloria is—”

“How is darling little Gloria?”

“Gloria is … indisposed. Poor Gloria won't be joining us tonight. She's having something light sent up to her on a tray.” He hands Nonie a glass and suddenly winks at her. “The fact is, we think we're pregnant.”

“Pregnant! For the first time in her life, do you think?”

“Yes. We've been experiencing a little morning sickness for the last few days, and we're twelve days late getting our period.”

“You
both
are? This will make medical history, Edwee!”

“Yes! Isn't that extraordinary? Oh, not the late period, of course, but I've been experiencing the morning sickness
too
. Doctor Katz tells me that this often happens with the husband. It's called a sympathetic pregnancy. Do you suppose I'm going to start swelling up like a balloon? Doctor Katz says I just
might
. Anyway, we won't know for sure until tomorrow, when we have our appointment with the OB-GYN.”

“Really, Edwee. It's too … mind-boggling.” She does not voice the question that immediately flew into her mind: how the sort of sexual gymnastics Edwee described to her earlier could possibly have led to a pregnancy.

“Exciting, isn't it? And you're the first to know, because we're really quite, quite sure. Aren't you pleased? Won't it be nice to have a new little nephew, or a new little niece who'll be a bit more
simpatico
than our crass and calculating Mimi?”

“I didn't know that you found Mimi crass and calculating, Edwee.”

“Mimi's only interested in money; that's all she's ever cared about. The finer things in life have always escaped her. All she sees are dollar signs. It's tragic, really, but that's the way she's always been—a life single-mindedly dedicated to the almighty dollar. I pity people like Mimi, who've never let their souls be lifted by art, music, poetry, the dance, the higher forms of love or beauty, even
haute cuisine
, and who care about nothing but money.”