The Family Fortune

“Ah,” Duke said, leaning back, “a wish-fulfillment fantasy. Perfect for today’s market.”

“But it’s true. Don’t you understand? It’s based on fact. I was married to a supermodel. It’s based on my actual experience.”

Duke shrugged. “That’s nice,” he said.

“I was going to ask you to read it, Jane, but I didn’t want to impose. I didn’t want you to think that my motives weren’t completely pure.” His tongue played around at the corner of his mouth.

“Jane would never think that, would you, Jane?” Pris said.

“Of course not.” I was holding my lips together to keep from smiling. How wrong Priscilla was about everything.

“So, Jane, will you read it?” Guy asked. Guy’s tongue disappeared back into its cavern.

“Of course, Guy. You only had to ask me.”

“I have it out in the car.”

“I don’t think I can do it tonight,” I said.

“What if I bring it in and put it on your night table?” He gave me a significant look and I shrugged.

“You can if you like,” I said.

He went out to the car.

“I didn’t know Guy was a writer,” Teddy said. “I thought he went to law school. Why can’t people make a decision and stick to it?”

“Not these days,” Priscilla said.

“It seems like everyone around here is a writer or wants to be one,” Miranda said in a bored voice. She bit into a cookie.

“I made a decision and stuck to it,” Max said.

That night, I went up to my small room under the eaves. There was no manuscript on my night table. I looked all around, but nothing. Guy had definitely gone out to the car to get it. I wondered where he’d left it. I pretended to go to bed, but then slipped back out and went to the inn where Max was staying.

We sat on the porch in white rockers and held hands.

“Max,” I said, “what about your book tour? Don’t you have places to be?”

“I canceled the next five dates,” he said, and squeezed my hand.

I dressed for the party in the outfit I bought when I was with Winnie. It was both elegant and comfortable. I guess that summed up how I wanted to look at my best. I also wore something I hardly ever wore but always carried with me, my mother’s pearls, a large double strand that glowed against my tan.

Though the party was called for six o’clock, by seven no one had shown up—it was fashionable to be late. I was wishing that Miranda had ordered more than appetizers and dessert, since the party was at the dinner hour, when Jimmy arrived with three large platters of cold cuts and several plastic bags of rolls and handed them over.

“Mom said you might be needing this,” he said. I would have hugged him if my hands weren’t so full.

“You’re staying, aren’t you?” I called over my shoulder on my way into the kitchen.

“No thanks. Places to go and people to see. Mom’s coming, though. She bought a new dress.”

I smiled. It warmed my heart to think that Isabelle would buy a new dress for this. Like me, she hardly ever bought new clothes.

When Miranda saw the platters in the kitchen, she was not pleased.

“Cold cuts. Oh my God. You’ve got to be kidding.”

“They were a gift,” I said. “We have to put them out. It’s the polite thing to do.”

“I suppose, but it’s not my idea of food.”

“Miranda, your idea of food was not to serve any.”

“Jane, stick to your lit-er-a-ture and leave the parties to me. It’s what I do.” She stomped out of the room in a new silk shift that made her look so skinny she could easily have been lost behind a potted plant.

When the Buffingtons arrived, Teddy rushed up to Veronica, took her by the arm, and led her to what he considered the seat of honor, a camelback chair in a prominent place before the unlit fireplace. From there, a person could hold court. Almost everyone at the party would eventually have to pass that chair. Veronica had given up the sour expression she had favored when she was married to Michael. She wore a simple cream cotton-knit suit, one black pearl around her neck, and diamond earrings, each of which was bigger than the diamond Basil had given Duke to have reset.

Dolores offered Veronica a drink. When Dolores felt threatened, she took on the role of hostess, bending over backward to be gracious. Dolores played hostess often, but Vee (as my father called her) got the full treatment just so she would know where Dolores stood in our house. I thought the very presence of Vee made Dolores’s position precarious.

Glenda did bring someone to the party, but if she had been battered there were no signs of it. Glenda’s friend August was a petite black woman with a beautiful round face and cornrows falling down her back.

In the kitchen, Bethany worked with a friend of hers we had hired from the bakery. Miranda supervised the arrangement of trays.

“Can you believe that Glenda?” Miranda asked. “I swear she has more nerve than a Jew in an Arab bazaar. Why doesn’t she just invite the whole female prison population of Massachusetts?”

Bethany, though hassled by Miranda’s badgering, had that amused look on her face that made me think she considered the Fortune family to be the height of entertainment.

Miranda stamped out, holding a tray of canapés, and to her credit, the first people she offered them to were Glenda and August.

Max appeared just when I told him to arrive. It was eight o’clock and the sun was still up but fading toward dusk. When he appeared in the doorway I could hardly catch my breath. He wore a white oxford shirt, a blue blazer, and chinos. His hair was freshly cut and he looked like a lawn I couldn’t wait to roll around on.

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.