“You’re right, of course. Sorry, Johnny. The question just came out wrong. You have to admit that it’s all been rather sudden.”
“I guess.”
John remained silent for several seconds, rubbing his forehead as if considering some weighty matter.
“Johnny,” his father said at last, “God’s ways are beyond knowing. They’re not
our
ways. Events in our lives can be extremely painful sometimes.” He paused as he withdrew a manila envelope from the writing desk. “I want you to look at something.”
Johnny was growing frustrated. There was something on his father’s mind, and he wished he would just blurt it out.
“What are you getting at, Dad? I really need to get going.”
“Just a little business, son. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“Okay, but it will have to be quick. I’ll read it more carefully later.” He looked up at his father. “I could do this at the office, you know.”
Johnny opened the clasp of the legal-sized envelope, removed a sheaf of papers, and studied them for several moments. John paced the room as his son looked at the documents. Johnny’s interest was suddenly piqued as he read several papers a second time. At the end of ten minutes, he looked up, obviously disturbed.
“This can’t be right,” he said, disbelief straining his usually calm voice. “These numbers just don’t add up. This financial report makes no sense at all, and yet my name’s on these documents. What should I do?”
“What should
we
do, Johnny. We’re family, and we rely on each other, but the first thing we do is pray.”
Johnny stood. “Yeah, whatever. May I take these with me?” he asked, returning the financial report to the envelope. “I’ll bring them to work on Monday.”
“Sure, Johnny. Take time to study them. If you need to talk, just call me.”
Johnny, his face pale, left his father’s suite without bothering to say goodbye.
John sat on the edge of his bed and looked at a picture of Lena that he kept on the nightstand. He’d weathered the storm of her death two years earlier, and he’d weather this one as well. He wasn’t so sure about Johnny, however. He suspected it was going to be a tough few weeks.
“Pray for Johnny, Lena.” He picked up the picture, kissed it, and returned it to the nightstand.
“It’s up to you, Lord,” he said. “It always is.”
P
atti and Jack Hartlen, together with Jack’s parents, were also staying at the Sherry-Netherland Whistling a tune from Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon,” Jack was donning a gray business suit while his wife looked at apartment listings supplied by their realtor.
Jack was a tall, lanky man in his early thirties with slightly thinning brown hair and angular cheekbones. His laidback manner matched his pale blue eyes and measured speech that had the barest hint of a Texas accent.
“Where are you off to?” Patti asked, her index finger running down the listings.
“I’m going downtown to see Patrick Denner,” he replied while slipping on the coat of his gray Brooks Brothers suit.
“I thought your meeting with Patrick was next week.”
“It is, but we thought we’d get together today and tie up a few loose ends. It’s been a hectic few months, hasn’t it? Are you getting used to New York, honey?”
Patti sighed as she brushed away strands of hair from her forehead. “I can’t deny that I’ll miss Houston. We have so many wonderful friends there, but I’m sure we’ll make new ones. Yes, New York is growing on me after making so many trips here with your parents. I can’t wait until we get an apartment though.”
Jack worked for his father, Ralph Hartlen, the CEO of Hartlen Oil. The company was opening an office in New York City after the first of the year. Rumors of an impending oil shortage were rampant in the business community, and there was even talk of an oil embargo by certain Arab states that would stop the flow of oil from the Mideast to the United States and Great Britain. Ralph had decided it was time to better position his company if foreign oil production was going to tighten up in the foreseeable future, although Hartlen Oil also had several subsidiary companies. The main subsidiary, Hartlen Response, was run by Jack, who had taken the lead in laying the groundwork for opening an office in Manhattan. Jack’s company had certain techniques and equipment—cutting edge technology—not utilized by any other oil company, and Ralph thought that the equipment was going to be needed soon if the movement of oil around the globe was going to strategically change in the next year or two. The techniques and hardware were a well-guarded secret in the oil community, and Ralph had naturally deemed it necessary to obtain first-rate legal representation as a natural part of the move north. Competitors would almost surely attempt to copy the proprietary technology.
Jack picked up his black leather briefcase and headed for the door when Patti spoke up.
“Hold on a minute, Jack.” Her tone sounded foreboding.
Jack turned and saw Patti approaching, a worried look on her face. “Is something the matter?” he asked.
Patti drew near, her penetrating violet eyes examining Jack’s face and then his shirt collar. Her right hand reached for his tie and straightened the knot. “There,” she said, patting her husband on the chest. “It’s perfect.”
“Nothing gets past you,” he said with a grin. “What would I do without you?”
“You won’t ever have to find out,” she replied. “You’re stuck with me.”
“Which is my good fortune.” He kissed her on the lips and started again for the door.
“Jack?”
He turned around a second time. “Yes?”
Patti was about to speak but stopped, closing her red, sensuous lips. “Nothing. Have a good meeting with Patrick.”
Jack gave his wife a second kiss and this time made it through the door.
Patti walked to the window and looked at the crowded city that would soon be her home. She had considered calling Cheshire Cheese to get the phone number of Brett and Dana McGarry since they seemed like the logical place to begin in forming new friendships in New York City. But she’d noticed something unusual in her exchange with Brett at Saks earlier that afternoon. He had obviously been shopping, but not with his wife, which is what she had almost mentioned to her husband moments earlier. As Jack had pointed out, nothing got past her.
Patti walked to the sitting area of the suite, poured herself a cup of tea she’d ordered from room service, and sat in a wingback chair. She hadn’t completely adjusted to New York yet, and maybe she was being paranoid. Regardless, Brett was a virtual stranger, and his activities weren’t any of her business.
On Fifth Avenue, Jack glanced quickly at his wristwatch and then at the nearest street corner. The offices of Davis, Konen and Wright were downtown. He then pivoted, rapidly walking towards Madison Avenue, looking for a taxi to take him north.
T
hanks to a call Andrew had made from the Inn at Phillips Mill while Dana was touring the guestrooms, the round table and its base were waiting in the lobby of 77 Park Avenue when Andrew and Dana returned from the country. Nina had awakened with a clear head and driven off into the heavy holiday traffic, leaving Andrew to carry the tree inside and ride up to Dana’s apartment with the table via the freight elevator.
Andrew stood the tree upright in the living room and told Dana, who was holding Wills, to step back in order to render her opinion. “So what do you think?” he asked. “Did Nina pick a winning tree?”
Dana nodded. “We’ve never had a tree that was this perfect from every angle. I think Brett will love it.”
“Then let’s get it in the stand,” he said. “But I’m warning you—I can put a window display together far easier than I can get a Christmas tree to remain straight in a stand. Darn things have given me trouble ever since I was a kid.”
Five minutes later, Andrew and Dana laughed heartily as the tree tilted left and right each time Andrew tightened the wing nuts of the stand.
“Never fails,” Andrew said. “You would think that a five-foot tree wouldn’t be so much trouble.”
“It’s
supposed
to be trouble,” Dana commented. “It’s high up on the list of things that contribute to Christmas stress, like last minute shopping, tipsy relatives, and assembling a kid’s bike on Christmas Eve.”
Andrew raised his eyebrows and shot Dana a look, which she interpreted immediately.
“Yes,” she said, “I hope that one day in a few years Brett will be sitting on the floor with a hundred bicycle parts scattered beneath a Christmas tree. He’ll try to read the Chinese directions unsuccessfully and then muddle through as best he can.”
“And this will all happen in Bedford, right?”
“That’s the blueprint,” she said. “Dream big or don’t dream at all.”
“Uncle Andrew will be there if Brett needs a helping hand,” he said, lifting the tree onto the table, where Dana had draped her grandmother’s green and gold Fortuny tablecloth. “I wouldn’t mind playing Santa’s helper for your kids. Meanwhile, I’ve got to run some quick errands. Meet you at Lenôtre in two hours?”
“Two it is,” Dana said.
Andrew left, and Dana stood back even farther to admire the Concolor fir. She thought it was probably the prettiest tree to ever grace their apartment. Its beauty more than compensated for its small size. Nina’s VW had been a blessing in disguise. It had forced Dana to think outside the box, and now she had the perfect Christmas tree in her home, freshly cut from the pastures of Bucks County.
Dana felt that it was going to be a good week. In fact, she was certain of it.
• • •
Chateau France, also called Lenôtre, was a dimly lit patisserie with a rich patina on its paneled walls. The small restaurant had brightly lit display cases to highlight delicate pastries, and the European setting was inviting to busy New Yorkers who enjoyed lingering over coffee and an afternoon sweet.
“Did you get your chores done?” Dana asked as she spotted Andrew upon entering the patisserie.
“It was a productive afternoon,” Andrew replied.
“You’re happy as a clam, Andrew Ricci. You’re a man in love.”
“And you, Dana McGarry, have your eyes on a country home and taking care of rug rats. Just make sure the rugs come from B. Altman’s carpet section on the fifth floor.”
“That’s a given. Now what shall we select for the Christmas party? I was thinking of a mousseline of lobster, a truffled pate, salmon trout tartare, and assorted tartes flambées.”
“It’s a good thing you asked me to come along and help. First, what about quiche? Are you having a Christmas party or a clambake?”
“A dreadful oversight,” Dana said with fake dramatic flair. “Brett hates it, but if he’s going to buy a house in Bedford, then he can handle the quiche as well.”
“Next, he’ll be baking bread and attending Lamaze classes,” Andrew joked. “But back to the matter at hand. You have to include gougeres with blue cheese. I insist.”
Dana put her hands on her hips and shook her head. “The runner has stumbled. Gougeres with gruyere or nothing at all,” she said emphatically.
“Very well,” said Andrew. “Boring, boring, boring.”
The two friends burst into laughter at the imagined gravity of their conversation.
“We haven’t done that in a long time,” Andrew observed.
“
Too
long,” Dana agreed. “Maybe it’s because we’re both in good spirits today.”
Andrew looked around the patisserie while Dana placed her order. He supposed she was right. He was indeed happy, but he also knew that sometimes happiness came with a price. He wondered if Dana had learned that lesson yet.
Dana rejoined him and they were about to leave Lenôtre when Andrew took his friend’s hand and halted. “Come over here for a minute,” he told Dana. “I want you to meet a friend of mine. I hired him as a consultant for the installation of the store’s American Designer’s Gallery.”
They walked to a table in the corner where Andrew’s friend was sitting with a woman with her back to them. The man looked up, smiled, and stood. “Andrew Ricci! How are you?”
“Great,” Andrew said. “Max, this is Dana McGarry. Dana, this is Max Helm, Curator of American Decorative Arts at the Metropolitan Museum.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dana,” Max said. “I’d like you both to meet my friend, Rosamond Bernier.”
Bernier turned in her chair, smiled, and shook their hands. Dana’s heart skipped a beat as she stood inches away from one of New York’s most glamorous and adored women.
Rosamond Bernier was a world-renowned art lecturer who was a close friend of some of the most important artists of the twentieth century. When Henri Matisse, for example, was bedridden, he invited Rosamond to his home to show her his new creations from miniature cut-outs. Picasso had urged her to travel to Barcelona and report on a collection of his early work. Her interviews regularly appeared on television, and in 1955 she co-founded the art magazine
L’OEIL
, which featured the works of the masters of the School of Paris. Leonard Bernstein had proclaimed that she had a gift for instant communication, and she had lectured at the Louvre in Paris. She’d begun a career as a lecturer in 1971 and gave yearly sold-out lectures at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Andrew and Dana had attended her series without fail for the past three years, hanging on her every word. Though seated, she was a tall slender woman. She had a pretty, oval face, an aquiline nose, and a broad, welcoming smile.
“It’s an honor, Ms. Bernier,” Dana said. “Andrew and I never miss your lectures, and we loved your talk last week on Picasso. And I absolutely adored the Balenciaga that you were wearing—my favorite this season.”
“How very kind of you to say so,” Bernier said in her inimitable and cultivated voice. “I never tire of talking about Picasso. He helped launch our magazine with his Albrecht Altdorfer drawings based on
The Body of St. Sebastian Recovered from the Water
. What I always found so interesting is that he had no interest in flowers, unlike Matisse,” she said with all of the ease she exhibited while lecturing.
“Didn’t his dark moods ever intimidate you?” Andrew asked.