The Family Fortune (27 page)

Miranda rushed to the door to greet him and hooked her arm through his. He turned to look at me, but I smiled and watched while Miranda moved toward Glenda and August. Miranda leaned toward him.

“I'm so glad you could come, Max. I was really looking forward to seeing you tonight.” Her hair, when she swung it, shifted in a blond curtain away from her face, then back again.

“Hello, Max,” Glenda said as they approached her.

“So you two know each other,” Miranda said. Her nasal voice became even more so when she felt uneasy, and she was well on her way to sounding like a kazoo.

“And this is August,” Glenda said.

“One of Glenda's battered women,” Miranda said.

It was like watching a train derail. I don't know if Miranda had intended to dismiss or impress, but something had gone terribly wrong.

“Battered woman? What are you talking about, Miranda? This is August Leigh, the poet,” Glenda said.

Max took August's hand in both of his.

“I've read all your work,” he said.

“And I yours.”

“I'm so sorry,” Miranda said.

“It could have happened to anyone,” August said. “That's what a black woman gets for just busting in on a fancy white party.” August's voice was melodious, and though her smile was not unkind, Miranda shrank several inches.

“It could
not
have happened to anyone,” Glenda said. She was huffy, angry, and embarrassed. “It would never have happened to Jane.”

“And where is Jane?” August asked. “I came here to meet her.”

“She's over there.” Max nodded toward me. I had been close enough to hear every word, but I pretended to busy myself with the arrangement of the buffet table.

Miranda pulled Max away. “I hope this little faux pas won't make you
think any the less of me. People really should warn you when they're bringing guests,” Miranda said. Max lifted her fingernails from his arm.

“Excuse me,” he said. Miranda stomped her foot. It was a small gesture and would probably have gone unnoticed by anyone who didn't know her well.

Max returned to August, then brought her over to me and introduced us.

“This is Jane,” he said.

“I've been looking forward to meeting you,” she said.

Miranda was still looking at Max, but eventually she had to turn away. She had guests. And for an inveterate party-giver, having guests was more important than any other concern.

Priscilla came over to us.

“Jane dear, I haven't seen you all day. I wanted to tell you that last night when I went up to bed there was a huge manuscript on my nightstand.”

Oh God. Guy's book. I had forgotten all about it. In fact, I had forgotten all about Guy. He didn't know that I'd changed rooms, so, of course, he left his manuscript in the room he thought was mine.

“Well,” Priscilla went on, “I had nothing to read so I started to read it, and I have to say, it's absolutely dreadful. Pornographic, really. I couldn't find a cover page. Whose is it? Do you know? Do people often sneak pornographic material into your room?”

“It's Guy's book, Priscilla.”

She looked confused.

“Guy Callow's,” I said.

“That nice man has all that rubbish lurking inside him. I'm horrified. Really horrified. And I'm no prude, as you well know.” She smiled at Max so he would know too.

Guy appeared from across the living room. He must have just arrived. He came over to where we were standing and put his arm around my shoulders.

“I wish you wouldn't do that, Guy,” I said.

“Do what?” he asked, all innocent.

“Put your arm around me like that—act like we have some kind of
special relationship. We don't. I should have made it clear long ago, and I blame myself, but I was just trying to be polite. Really, though, you shouldn't paw at me. I don't like it.”

Guy took his arm away but seemed otherwise undaunted.

“Could we go somewhere and talk in private?” he asked.

“It's not convenient.” I never intended to have a private talk with him, so I was still just being polite. When does civility stop being a good thing and become a way of never saying what you mean?

He leaned in toward me without touching.

“So did you read the book?” he asked.

“I read it,” Priscilla broke in. “You left it in my room, not Jane's. I read as much of it as I could stomach.”

Guy stood very straight.

“I don't know what you mean,” he said.

“You, young man, have a filthy mind. And I was just beginning to warm to you. You have lovely manners and you can be very ingratiating, but something prurient lies beneath the surface—I can tell you that.”

“I can see where an old lady might think so,” Guy said. His veneer was crumbling. Priscilla didn't say a word. “Jane will have to read it. It's Jane's opinion I wanted, not yours. Everyone knows that you're a negative old bitch with very little nice to say about anyone. I wouldn't be inclined to listen to you.”

I thought Priscilla might fall over. She wasn't used to being talked to that way. Guy, after delivering his speech, seemed at a loss. In our antiquated little hothouse atmosphere, our manners held everything together. We all stood for a moment, saying nothing.

Then Isabelle appeared at the door. Her thick dark hair was pinned up and she was wearing a wraparound dress that emphasized her curves.

“What's she doing here?” Guy asked.

“You know her?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

“I knew her. A long time ago.”

Miranda came over to us.

“Who's that?” she asked. “I didn't invite her.”

“That's Isabelle,” I said.

“The baker?”

“The baker.”

“Who invited her?”

“I did.”

“Why on earth?” Miranda asked.

“Because I wanted her here.”

When I turned around, Guy was gone.

“Was I ever wrong about him!” Priscilla said, and moved away toward Teddy and Vee.

When Isabelle walked across the room, every male eye was on her. She smiled and kissed me. I introduced her to Max.

After a few more minutes, Max turned to me. “You ready?”

I nodded. I'd been ready for longer than I cared to think about.

Max led me toward the center of the room where Teddy, Vee, Priscilla, Duke, Winnie, Charlie, and Dolores had congregated. I didn't see Guy, but I knew he was hovering somewhere, maybe watching from the upstairs landing.

Max laced his fingers through mine.

“Everyone,” he said, “we have an announcement.”

So that's the end of the story.

I can't tell you that I lived happily ever after, because I'm still waiting to find out, but I have great faith that I might.

The fallout from the announcement of my engagement to Max was gratifying. Because we made it in the middle of the party, everyone, even those who felt otherwise, had to pretend they were happy for us. That was one benefit of our social structure, and though it might be crumbling, it had yet to collapse entirely.

In Miranda's dash to be the first to hug me, she came at me with such force she knocked me into Max and the two of us
would have toppled into the fireplace had Isabelle not put out a steadying hand.

Guy disappeared from the party and we have never seen him again. I did take a look at his manuscript and I didn't mind the pornographic parts so much, but the book was poorly written. I had Tad mail it back to him with a short note.

After the party, just before bed, Priscilla knocked on the door to my room. She sat on the edge of my bed and took my hand.

“Jane dear, I think you are making a mistake. You hardly know this man. Do you know that in New York literary circles he's known as a chronic womanizer?”

“I've heard,” I said.

“Listen, I think the best thing would be for you to come home with me. You can give this thing some thought. It's so sudden.”

“Priscilla, it's the furthest thing from sudden. It's taken fifteen years.”

Priscilla pulled her flowery peignoir close around her body. The negligee was too young for her, but in her mind, it wouldn't be right to wear something dowdy when she was visiting.

“It's just that you know so little about men. You've always been so incompetent in that department.”

“Priscilla, listen to me. I am not incompetent when it comes to men or anything else. I never want to hear that again. Do you understand?”

She pulled back.

“I didn't mean…” she stammered.

“Do you understand?”

“Well, yes,” she said.

“You were wrong about Guy,” I said. “He wasn't the man you thought he was.”

“No, he wasn't,” she said. “I admit it. I was wrong. I worry about you, Jane. You're like my own daughter.”

Later, as I was falling asleep, I thought that perhaps it was best that Priscilla had never had children.

 

Guy and Dolores disappeared from the island. Neither of them said goodbye to anyone. Later we heard from Littleton that they were living together in an apartment in the South End. Dolores wanted Guy to marry her. She told her father that she was fiercely in love with Guy, but Guy keeps telling her that she isn't the one.

Guy is often seen at “literary events” around Boston. Now that I'm with Max, we spend more time out and about, but we have yet to run into Guy. I wouldn't be surprised if he was avoiding us. I haven't seen Guy's novel in print, nor do I expect to. Still, anything can happen.

Dolores gave up the pursuit of my father for true love, which I think is the most admirable thing she did the whole time I knew her.

Miranda felt betrayed.

“I don't know how I ever let that vile woman into our lives. I was so nice to her. It just goes to show you,” Miranda said.

“Show you what?” I asked.

“You can take the girl out of the gutter, but you can't take the gutter out of the girl.”

Not long after that, my father fired Littleton. Our new adviser handles the Fortune family money so skillfully that we are well on our way to having our principal restored.

 

At the end of the summer Miranda and Teddy went back to Palm Beach. Miranda called to complain that it was too hot and too early in the season for Florida. They no longer had Dolores to fetch and carry for them. Also, without Dolores, they had no one to whom they could feel superior, and this was a great loss to them. It is not nearly as satisfying to feel superior when you don't have someone inferior around. It is so much more difficult to feel superior in a vacuum.

Winnie and Charlie went into couples therapy after they returned
from the Vineyard. From what I know about therapy, which isn't much, therapists usually work on both parties. Problems in relationships don't come from just one. In Winnie's case, it was different.

“Dr. Mangeles says I'm ninety-nine-point-nine percent to blame,” Winnie told me over the phone. “I hardly think that's possible. Do you think that's possible, Jane? That's almost one hundred percent.”

“Listen to the doctor,” I said. “Just do what she says.”

“Do you think it's all my fault?” Winnie pressed.

“I don't know,” I said.

“All I wanted was a straight answer,” Winnie said, and she hung up. Winnie deserved a straight answer. Maybe I would have been a better sister if I had given her one.

 

Jack Reilly finished his novel and found an agent. I wouldn't be surprised if it's published by next year. He has also established his organization—Good Out-of-Season Homes for the Homeless (GOSHH). He says he'll fund it with the proceeds of his book.

 

Max and I had a small wedding on the beach in Hull at the end of the summer. The only guests were the Goldmans, Isabelle, and Jack Reilly. Isabelle was my maid of honor and wore a slim blue silk dress that accentuated everything good about her figure. Jack couldn't stop looking at her. He wore jeans and a dinner jacket. I think Isabelle got a kick out of him.

 

As for Max's house, the house of his dreams, with its stream and its swing and all that other bucolic stuff, we sold it. Yes, I know, if I loved Max, I should have loved his house—on principle—but I wanted a home of my own, something we chose together.

We bought an apartment on Commonwealth Avenue, two blocks from the Public Garden. I've given it a classic contemporary look. It's
new, clean, and uncluttered and very different from the house where I grew up. Max, as it turns out, is not as interested in his environment as that
Vanity Fair
article led me to believe. He was more than happy to give up the farmhouse so that I didn't have to squeeze into his dream.

Sometimes we meet Charlie and Winnie for dinner and I often go to visit the boys, but otherwise we stay away from the Maples as much as we can. There's still a little tension about Lindsay. I'm not sure why, except that things didn't turn out as well for her as she might have hoped. She left Wheaton and is finishing college at Keene State in New Hampshire. She and Basil got married and the Maples rented a white clapboard house for them on a tree-lined street near the center of town. Charlie says that Lindsay is pressuring Basil to get a job, but Basil says it wouldn't be good for his art. I guess the lesson there is that you should never fall in love when you are suffering from a head injury.

 

Glenda Buffington and I have started a writing program for battered women. That, in addition to my other foundation work, keeps me very busy. Joe Goldman is threatening to do a documentary about us, but so far we've been able to put him off. I still shun the limelight—perhaps more than I should. Glenda came into the office one day and gave me one of those hideous bookmarks with a quotation on it. It said: “A ship in the harbor is safe, but that's not what ships are built for.”

Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. I get it.

You don't have to hit me over the head.

Well, maybe you do.

I started reading
Post
on the beach the day Max asked me to marry him. After that, I got distracted, but I finally finished it. It's a very good book and I applaud Max for taking on such a challenging subject. Still, I'll always have a special place in my heart for
Duet for One
.

Max is almost finished with his new book and he is dedicating it to me.

And all I can say about that is—it's about time.