The Ladies' Man (22 page)

Cynthia is wearing new black velvet trousers and a black short-sleeved chenille sweater with a boat neck, accessorized by a long rope of grape-sized faux pearls. Her shoes are black patent leather with a Cuban heel and a thin gold bar across the instep. As for Nash, he and Cynthia reasoned that a Boston audience would respond favorably to both tradition and approachability. Accordingly, he wears a starched blue oxford shirt, cuffs rolled up, dark green gabardine trousers, and loafers made by a manufacturer of boat shoes. Cynthia thinks the preppy look on Nash is heaven.

It has not occurred to Cynthia that she may have invited future rivals for Nash's attentions until the first guest arrives, alone, in a Lycra spandex dress the color of raw frankfurters and green lizard high heels: the unexpectedly attractive, tall, platinum-big-haired Olive Boudreaux, whose dowdy name on the letter of complaint certainly did not conjure this beauty contestant. Her hands offer
no clues: no obvious gold wedding band, but silver-and-brass-inlaid ethnic rings on many manicured fingers. Nash grins and shakes the new guest's hand for several long seconds. “Just you? No husband tonight?”

“No husband, period,” she says.

“Would you like to choose a seat?” says Cynthia. “You have first choice.”

“What's the hurry?” asks Nash. “Let's get your guest a drink. Champagne?”

Cynthia has a rigid outline for the evening, and champagne is scheduled after the question-and-answer period. Nash sees Cynthia hesitate and says, “Oh, why not? We've got plenty. That is, if Ms. Boudreaux—”

“Olive,” corrects Olive.

The doorbell rings again, and it is Cynthia's unhappy job to leave Nash alone with Olive and answer it. It is the Glovers from across the hall, Susan and Charles, who don't work, who have sons at boarding school, who are tall and lean and are rumored to have trust funds. “We wondered if ‘Evening with Nash' was some kind of tribute to Ogden Nash,” Mrs. Glover asks as Cynthia shakes her hand. “A poetry reading or some such.”

“It's a kind of poetry,” says Cynthia. “Only this is words and music by Nash Harvey, the composer. Live and in person.”

“Do I know his work?” asks Charles.

“Charles is an audiophile,” his wife explains.

“Aficionado,” Charles corrects. “Not that I know every living composer.”

“Nash!” Cynthia calls. “The Glovers are here!”

Nash returns to the foyer with Olive, and shakes the hands of the severe, graying-blond neighbors. “So glad you could make it,” he says.

“We almost didn't,” says Susan.

“They thought it might be a poetry reading,” explains Cynthia.

“No, parents' weekend,” says Charles.

“Saint Paul's,” says his wife.

“You skipped parents' weekend for
this
?” Nash asks. “I'm flattered.”

“Ducked out early,” says the husband. “We've been to so damn many that we hit the games and skip the assemblies.”

“How many kids do you have?” asks Olive.

The Glovers look surprised that someone in the building wouldn't have heard about the academic and athletic accomplishments of their Jamie and Will. “Two boys.”

“Do you know Olive Boudreaux?” asks Cynthia.

“I'm new,” says Olive, who looks brassy next to Susan Glover's navy blue linen, her careless knot of hair, and her small gold hoops.

“This is my social debut in Harbor Arms,” says Olive. “No one's invited me to anything before.”

“How long have you lived here?” asks Susan Glover.

“Since the beginning of the year.”

“Moved from …?” Charles asks.

“Atlanta, Georgia.”

“You know, I
thought
I heard the hint of a drawl,” says Nash.

“What brought you to Boston?” asks Cynthia.

“A job.”

“Which is?” asks Charles.

“Lexuses, Porsches, and Audis. I sell them.”

The men's lips part and their pupils dilate. “For whom?” asks Charles.

“Flagg Lexus in Wakefield.”

“You sell cars?” asks Susan Glover.

“I have an A-Six,” says Charles.

“Silver with onyx leather?” says Olive. “I've seen it.”

Susan says, “He loves cars. He subscribes to car magazines and watches car shows on television and goes into chat rooms about cars—and I mean this is a man who is utterly cerebral in every other area of his life.”

Olive smiles and says to Mr. Glover, “You're not alone. We get doctors, lawyers, dentists, stockbrokers, bankers. Serious people who get a little silly over what they drive. I'm the same way.”

“I'm from California,” Nash volunteers. “Need I say more?”

“About what?” asks Mrs. Glover.

“Cars!”

“Models and makes we've never even seen on the East Coast,”
says Charles. “I was there over Christmas and I saw, one right after the other, an old Lamborghini Countach and a Bentley Turbo R.”

“Unbelievable,” says Olive.

Olive asks Nash where in California he lives, and Cynthia listens hard for what verb tense he will employ.

“South of L.A. Newport Beach.”

“You sail?” asks Charles.

“No time,” says Nash.

“Are the Brandts coming tonight by any chance?” asks Susan.

“I certainly invited them,” says Cynthia. She checks her watch. “I could give them a call.”

“Or just rap on the wall like they do,” says Nash.

“I love going to a party in my own building and not having to worry about the weather or parking,” says Olive, “or whether I've sprayed silicone on my shoes.”

Nash brightens at
silicone
. “Did you say you're just below us?” he asks.

“I'm in Seventeen-H.”

He lowers his voice and raises his eyebrows. “You wouldn't be the one banging the broom handle against your ceiling?”

“Tennis racquet,” she says. “And I've got a nice gouge in the plaster to prove it.”

As Nash is saying it would only be right if he spackled whatever damage he'd caused, there is another knock on the door. Cynthia doesn't want to stop monitoring Nash's conduct, but she excuses herself. She'll post Philip at the door when he arrives if he hasn't brought his less-than-charming law student boyfriend.

It is not Philip but Lorenz and his date, an attractive and sweet-looking redhead who Cynthia knows she knows. She is distracted by the date's vintage spring coat of yellow bouclé wool with big black novelty buttons.

“You know Kathleen Dobbin,” says Lorenz, “from The Other Woman? Downstairs?”

“Of course!
That's
why you look familiar.”

Cynthia is smiling and being gracious, but at the same time she is noting what this development says about Lorenz. He is dating someone not unlike Cynthia herself: not a teenager. Someone refined,
self-employed, a likely college graduate, worldly if her shopwares and darling coat are any barometer. It is unsettling because Cynthia had wondered about Lorenz, about his marital status, his sexual orientation, his ethnicity; had thought about him for herself, fleetingly, on the nights she collected her takeout at what seemed to be the end of his shift. She shakes it off. Preposterous. Besides, she has Nash now.

Lorenz is helping Kathleen off with her coat, and they are exchanging fond smiles over nothing more than that. Cynthia asks, “Did you two meet on the job? Or do you know each other outside work?”

“We met here,” Lorenz says.

“Of course, for months it was a very formal ‘Good morning, Lorenz.' ‘Good morning, Miss Dobbin,' ” says Kathleen.

Cynthia's brain stalls at
Dobbin
at the same time the hostess imperative directs her to say, “Let me introduce you to everyone. You must know the Glovers? And Olive Boudreaux?”

“I own The Other Woman,” Kathleen tells Mrs. Glover, then leans in to confide with just the right degree of humor and girl-friendship, “I'm the one who's been punching your Bra Club card all these months.”

Mrs. Glover laughs, causing Mr. Glover to ask, “What, darling?”

“I'll tell you later,” she says.

“Did the Brandts say they could make it?” Mrs. Glover asks again. “They love music. They go to everything.”

“I saw the Brandts leave as we were arriving,” Lorenz says.

“Oh,” says Cynthia. She forces a smile and says, “
Please
. Come meet our guest of honor. Or should I say, the evening's entertainment.”

When Kathleen gasps, Cynthia thinks she is just another appreciative guest reacting to the pitch of the cathedral ceiling and the gorgeous view of the harbor lights.

Nash glances over and says easily, “Hey, look who's here: Red!”

“You know each other?” asks Cynthia.

“Sure we do. So do you,” says Nash. “She's Adele's sister.”

“You're Adele Dobbin's sister?” asks Cynthia.

“Why does that name sound familiar?” asks Susan Glover.

“She's on television sometimes,” says Lorenz. “She raises money for Channel Two.”

“This is very awkward,” says Kathleen. “I had no idea.”

“You knew I was staying in the Arms,” says Nash. “We discussed it that day in your shop.”

“We didn't make the connection, though,” Lorenz says quietly. “Not to Cynthia's party.”

“A little ancient history,” Nash explains to the others. “A long time ago I was as good as engaged to Kathleen's big sister.”

“
And?”
asks Olive after no one responds.

“We broke up. We never actually made it official. We were kids, and this one here was a mere babe.” He takes Lorenz's hand and pumps it. “You, my man. I knew you were coming but I never put two and two together.”

“It's my fault,” says Kathleen. “Lorenz knew you as ‘Nash' and I always referred to you as ‘Harvey.' ”

“Is it ‘Harvey' or is it ‘Nash'?” asks Lorenz.

“Nash. Harvey was my childhood name.”

“Childhood and beyond,” says Kathleen.

Nash smiles and tries to engage Kathleen in a toast of forgiveness. “ ‘Longest adolescence on record,' I think is what you're getting at.”

“How far back did you date her sister?” asks Olive.

“It ended in March of nineteen sixty-seven,” says Kathleen.

“I was born that year!” says Olive. “June of sixty-seven.”

“I assume your sister subsequently married?” asks Mrs. Glover. And to Olive: “She's so attractive.”

“Let me answer that, Kathleen,” says Nash. “No, she did not marry. Which is something I feel I bear responsibility for.”

“Why?” asks Olive.

Nash sits down on the nearest bridge chair and hands his glass to Cynthia for safekeeping. “I'm sensing that I poisoned her view of men and I doubt whether she was able to trust anyone again.”

Kathleen says, “I don't think my sister would like to be the subject of our cocktail conversation.”

“You're absolutely right. Forgive me.”

Lorenz is wearing a troubled look that says, I'm merely the doorman and you're the doorman's date, and I didn't know you'd be picking a fight with the guest of honor.

“Small-world department,” says Mr. Glover.

“We have a 'GBH umbrella
and
a tote bag,” says his wife. She turns to Cynthia and asks cheerfully, “Where did you and Nash meet?”

Cynthia smiles, her turn at last. “It was a flight from L.A. to Boston. We talked the whole way, and subsequently had dinner.”

“That same night?” asks Mrs. Glover.

“I know how that sounds, but, after all, we'd just had a five-hour conversation, which is twice as long as most first dates.”

“I think it's nice,” says Mrs. Glover. “I never have interesting conversations on planes.”

“Once in a while I do,” says Olive, “but I think the whole dating-game thing on planes is overrated. Mostly I get seated next to old ladies who can't hear.”

“And then she told you about an opening in her building?” asks Kathleen.

“Actually, an opening right here. Cynthia loves company, and I hate hotels.” He turns to Olive and says, “You must have the same layout—two bedrooms, two and a half baths?”

There is a cocky knock on the door and then a male voice calling, “Anybody home?”

“It's Philip,” says Cynthia. “My secretary. Don't discuss anything interesting while I'm gone.”

Kathleen waits until Cynthia is out of range before saying, “Weren't
you
on the right plane at the right time.”

“How so?”

“To meet someone who lets you move in after one cross-country conversation and one date.”

“You could've been married with a couple of kids,” says Olive.

“Or a psychopath,” says Kathleen.

“Or a confidence man,” says Lorenz.

“When all I am is a humble jingle composer without a place to hang my hat.”

“What do you mean, ‘jingle'?” says Olive.

“That's your line?” asks Mr. Glover.

“That's the noise I've been making over here: yours truly in the jingle-making process.”

“This is Philip, everyone!” announces Cynthia. “Nash, Olive, Susan, Charles, Lorenz, and Miss Dobbin.”

Philip is tall and dark, wearing a painted flamingo tie, and grinning. “Neighbors, right? So you've probably heard so many nice things about me.”

“Not me,” says Olive. “I just met everyone tonight. Except Lorenz, who I know from the front door.”

“Miss Boudreaux sells luxury cars,” says Nash, “and Miss Dobbin sells ladies' undergarments.”

“Cool,” says Philip.

“Actually, we have cars for every budget,” says Olive.

“When I'm not tending to my family, I'm a literacy volunteer,” says Mrs. Glover.

“Wonderful!” says Nash. “One of those thousand points of light.”