Dana arrived at the bakery and tearoom at 6 East 37th Street, three blocks from her apartment building, and saw that several dozen people had already gathered, although she did not yet see Brett among the people milling about and talking as they ordered coffee, tea, and pastry. He’d gone into the office early that morning so that he would be able to free up two hours in his schedule to attend the meeting.
Dana walked through the tearoom, thinking that Brett might be in a corner speaking with someone—and, of course, enjoying a honey bun. He was nowhere to be seen. Instead, she was approached by a tall blond wearing tight jeans and a sweater.
“You must be Dana,” the attractive woman said. “I’ve seen your picture in your husband’s office. I’m Janice Conlon.” The woman extended her hand.
“But . . . where’s Brett?” Dana asked, taking the blond’s hand in a tepid gesture. She was confused. Janice Conlon had no connection with the neighborhood association.
Janice cocked her head and gave Dana a forced yet encouraging smile, as if she were breaking bad news to a client. “I’m sorry, but Brett was called to court at the last minute. I told him I’d be happy to stand in for him at your little gathering this morning.”
Little
gathering? The phrase sounded condescending to Dana.
“But Brett has the petition,” Dana said. “He was prepared to explain what steps would be taken after we get enough signatures.”
“I’ve got the petition right here,” Janice said, holding up a legal folder. “He’s outlined the entire matter for me.” She motioned to the people in the tearoom. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to begin. I’ve got a busy afternoon planned.”
Dana was certainly aware that Brett’s schedule was subject to change on any given day, but Janice Conlon was not exhibiting a great deal of interest in the meeting. Judging by her hurried manner, it seemed to be an imposition more than anything else.
Dana moved to the front of the tearoom and motioned for people to give her their attention. “Good morning, everyone,” she began, “and thank you for coming. As most of you know, my name is Dana McGarry, and my husband is Brett McGarry, a lawyer who will be handling this matter for us. Unfortunately, he was not able to make it this morning, so an associate from his firm will walk us through the initial steps we need to take.”
Janice moved through the crowd and stood next to Dana. “I’m Janice Conlon,” she said with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, “and I’m told you wish to submit a petition in the hopes that legislation will be introduced to stop the solicitation by prostitutes of vehicles entering the Queens Tunnel.”
“It’s the Queens-Midtown Tunnel,” Paddy FitzGibbon said politely. He looked at Dana and winked. She was glad to have a friendly face present in the absence of Brett.
“Yes, the entrance to the tunnel,” Janice continued. “Quite simply, you need to get the signatures and submit the petition to the councilman representing that municipal district and then follow up with a phone—”
Janice paused unexpectedly, a troubled look crossing her face as she surveyed her listeners. “Excuse me,” she said, “but may I offer a personal observation?”
“Of course,” said a middle-aged woman. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“Thank you,” Janice said. “Are you really sure you want to go through with this action?”
“Why wouldn’t we?” asked a man in his early thirties.
Janice shifted her weight to one leg and folded her arms. “Do you really think you’re going to curtail prostitution anywhere in New York City? Even if you succeed in shutting down undesirable activity near the tunnel, the streetwalkers will simply relocate to a different neighborhood and become someone else’s problem. What you’re doing here is rather like sweeping the problem under the carpet, but it’s not going to go away.”
The people in Mary Elizabeth’s turned to look at each other in consternation. A few mumbles expressing discontent drifted through the room.
“But it’s what we came here to do,” the middle-aged woman said. “Can we please just move forward?”
“Of course we can,” Janice responded, “but before I instruct you how to go about this, I feel constrained to point out that this proposal of your association is completely regressive in nature. Does anyone here recall that prostitution is the oldest profession on earth? For that matter, is it really your place to tell women how to conduct their sex lives?”
“I wish Brett were here,” Paddy whispered to Dana.
“I think she’s right,” said an attractive twenty-something mother holding a baby. “Now that I think about it, it’s a bit naïve to think we’ll ever stop prostitution. And why should we just pass the buck to a different neighborhood?”
Janice smiled, knowing that she was causing confusion as Little Miss Priss, in her cashmere sweater set, stared at her in disbelief.
Dana leaned close to Janice. “I’d appreciate it if you’d adhere to the association’s agenda,” she said in a no-nonsense voice. “This is not the way Brett would have handled the meeting, and to be quite honest, this matter isn’t any of your business.”
“This is outrageous!” protested the man in his early thirties. “Either help us, Ms. Conlon, or get Brett McGarry down here.”
“No, I want to hear more,” said an older gentleman in the rear. “I think she makes a valid point.”
Tempers were starting to boil over, and a majority of the crowd now voiced their opinion in unison. “We want to sign the petition!”
“I think we should at least have some debate,” said the young mother.
Paddy stepped forward and raised his hands for silence. “I think we may all be a bit tense because of the holiday season. We’re all very busy, and maybe we should reconvene in January, when Brett can be present.” He smiled and held out his hands, waiting for a response.
“I’m going home,” said the middle-aged woman. “This was a waste of time.”
The crowd began to disperse as Dana turned to Paddy. “Thank you,” she said. “Things were getting a bit tense.”
“Blessed are the peacemakers,” Paddy said with his always reassuring smile and thick brogue. “Give my best to your husband. I’m sure he’ll get things straightened out for us in a month or so.”
Dana approached Janice, who, oddly enough, seemed as if she were waiting for Dana to comment on her controversial handling of the brief and ineffective meeting.
“Did Brett know you were going to make these remarks this morning?” Dana asked sharply. “Your . . . performance, shall we call it, was inexcusable. It was not your place to precipitate a debate on prostitution or freedom of sexual expression.”
Janice pursed her lips and looked sideways, as if considering Dana’s harsh words. “You know, I tend to be a plainspoken woman, but I guess I get carried away sometimes. I really owe you an apology. I don’t even live near here, and I allowed my own beliefs to get in the way. Please forgive me. I’ll tell Brett about the mess I made.”
The sudden apology caught Dana completely off guard. She felt as if she’d been watching staged theater—or courtroom theatrics.
“Thank you,” Dana said curtly as she started to leave.
“By the way,” Janice said, “I really love the wine journals you picked out for the partners. You have impeccable taste.” Her voice was suddenly filled with the warmth of a friend, encircling Dana like a genie and stopping her dead in her tracks.
Puzzled, Dana turned around slowly. “Where did you see the wine journals, if I may ask?”
“At Mrs. John L. Strong. Yours, of course, were already wrapped, but I saw many on display. Brett and I stopped there after he purchased my new wardrobe at Saks.”
Dana was speechless. “Yes, of course,” she stammered, not wishing to look as if Janice’s words constituted startling news. “I’m glad you like them.”
“Have a nice day, Dana,” Janice said cheerily. “I’ll be going now.”
Dana made her way to the nearest chair and sat, feeling weak. She’d known that Brett and Janice had scheduled a meeting with a client on Saturday morning, but he hadn’t spoken of buying clothes for Janice or that she had accompanied him to Mrs. John L. Strong. When she’d been upset at his behavior after dinner Saturday night, he had softened her mood by reminding her that he’d saved her time by picking up the wine journals himself. As for choosing Janice’s wardrobe, buying clothes for another woman was not something husbands did.
The weekend had been a rollercoaster, with Dana’s emotions vacillating between hope that her marriage was on the mend and disappointment over Brett’s thoughtless behavior. She’d decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and concentrate on her challenges at B. Altman, which had thus far been met with overwhelming success, buoying her spirits. She was now devastated, however. She could not imagine Brett giving her a satisfactory explanation for spending time with the brassy blond from his office, and yet she would have to broach the subject head-on.
She took a couple of aspirins from her purse and quickly swallowed them with a glass of water. She didn’t believe that having a successful career and marriage should be this difficult. She nevertheless decided to take life one day at a time . . .
. . . or one hour at a time, if need be.
• • •
Janice had accomplished everything she’d set out to do at the meeting upon learning that Brett had been summoned to court at the last minute. Brett’s decision to go after the Hartlens and take a few personal risks in the process was something that had frankly surprised her. And yet she had always sensed a bit of the rebel inside Brett—sensed that he was, to some extent, a man who did not want to be constrained by the buttoned-down existence he’d grown accustomed to. His fear of turning into a stodgy landmark had given her the opening she needed, and she had gotten what she wanted—as she usually did. But now Brett held a greater fascination for her. She didn’t think he was cut out for the institution of marriage, and his boldness was a trait she thought she might be able to cultivate. She now desired a relationship that went beyond a casual fling, and she had therefore intentionally planted a few weeds in the garden of his marriage. And she had relished every minute of the contentious meeting. Women like Dana, with their pearls and pretentious manners, still irritated her just as they had when she was growing up.
She walked to the subway, intending to ride to the Village. She was expecting a visitor at her apartment in the afternoon.
J
ack and Patti Hartlen were already seated when Brett, running late, joined them at their table at Cipriani’s early Tuesday afternoon. He was given a menu and ordered a club soda with lime.
“Good to see you again!” Brett said enthusiastically, as if he’d known the couple for years. “Thanks so much for meeting me today.”
“It’s our pleasure,” Patti said.
After inquiring how the Hartlens’ moving plans were proceeding, Brett informed them, in the manner of an afterthought, that he was a litigator at Davis, Konen and Wright. Perhaps he could be of professional assistance as well. A look of surprise immediately claimed the expressions of both Jack and Patti. Neither, however, volunteered that Hartlen Response had been speaking with the firm.
“To be honest,” Brett said, “one of our junior litigators mentioned that you were meeting with Patrick Denner.”
“Are you here on Patrick’s behalf?” asked a curious Jack Hartlen.
“No,” Brett admitted, “but I thought that since we’ve become acquainted through John Cirone and Dana that you wouldn’t mind if we spoke. And believe me when I say that Dana and I are looking forward to helping you feel at home in any way we can once you’ve finished your relocation.”
“Fair enough,” Jack said. “What’s on your mind?”
“The firm is always interested in obtaining stellar clients such as you, although I was told there was a sticking point regarding Richard’s idea that Hartlen Response become part of a consortium of first responders in the event of an oil spill.”
“True,” said Jack, not willing to commit to any explanation about prior negotiations until he knew exactly what Brett was driving at. In truth, he regarded the lunch meeting to be a little unorthodox, but he had indeed already met Brett and Dana, and John Cirone had been a most welcome and helpful friend after the robbery. He considered John to be above reproach.
“May we speak off the record?” Brett asked.
Patti gave her husband a serious look that was clearly tendered as a warning. Exactly what was Brett’s agenda, she wondered.
“Very well,” Jack said. He had worked tirelessly for months to open the company’s New York office, and if Brett were going to help facilitate matters with Davis, Konen and Wright, he was willing to listen.
“It’s only a matter of time before other companies copy your technology or develop versions of their own,” Brett began. “For that matter, simple news coverage of an oil spill will give the R&D departments of other oil companies a good idea about what you might be doing, and then you’ve got some serious competition.”
“It’s a possibility we’ve considered,” admitted Jack. “Go on.”
“Any member of a possible consortium is going to get good press at a time when oil companies are perceived to be the bad guys. They’ll want to join even if they have to accept a few terms they might normally reject.”
“Which are?”
“Here’s what I propose to take to Richard. Any response to a spill would be led by Hartlen, with limited assistance from other companies. These companies would sign a two-year non-compete clause in case your technology gets some exposure during a crisis. After that, they would have to agree to lease your equipment and become equal partners in any response for the following three years. They would be free to start developing their own response technology, but they couldn’t use it until the three years are up. By that time, Hartlen will have built a solid reputation for being eco-friendly, and that’s going to position Hartlen Oil as a leader in the responsible use of energy. You get to be out front as the good guys, and increased profits for Hartlen Response are assured for five years. Without this arrangement, there’s a huge risk that another company, maybe one already on the verge of developing similar response equipment, might cut into both your profits and image far sooner than it normally would.”