Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway (15 page)

In all these years, I’ve never heard this story. “Which one?”

“ ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand.’ ” She smiles at the memory. “Your father, now he could dance.”

I bet he still can. But now if he takes to the dance floor, he’s squiring Maggie Lindvig, and that is a name I do not care to bring up.

My mother does it for me. “Your father didn’t propose to that Maggie on Christmas and he didn’t propose to her on New Year’s. If he did, she’d have taken out an ad in the newspaper to let everybody know. Anyway.” She eyes me with the kind of penetration I typically get from Shanelle. “Could be he’s planning to pop the question on Valentine’s Day. Even though that’s the day the two of us should be celebrating our golden wedding anniversary.”

“I don’t think he’d do that, Mom. I really don’t think so.”

“You’re so sure?”

I hesitate a beat too long because in truth I’m not a hundred percent sure.

She slaps the table so hard our coffees jump. “See? You’re not sure, either.”

“I really don’t think he would, Mom. That would be so insensitive of him and”—I raise my voice over her objection—“he may have his moments, but Pop is not that insensitive.”

At least I hope he’s not, because if Pop proposes to Maggie on that day he will break my mother’s heart all over again. Actually, mine, too. And sometimes, I have noticed, my father makes a show of how far he’s moved on from my mother. I’m not convinced he has, but I believe that every once in a while he does something merely to make a point. I am worried Valentine’s Day will be one of those occasions.

Bennie rejoins us. “They have lots of ginsu knives, but they’re cheaper back home.”

“You’ve got to expect that,” my mother tells him. “Everything is more expensive here.”

“What do you two have planned for the day?” I inquire.

Bennie looks away. “We’re going to check out a few places on Long Island.”

From my mother’s expression, I’m guessing he doesn’t mean they’ll be lunching and antiquing in the Hamptons. She pushes herself to her feet. “Thank God those used-car dealerships are closed Sundays or I’d be doing this tomorrow, too.”

“You might learn something new!” Bennie cries. “You might pick up a few tips we can try out at home!”

“I’ll tell you something. I bet
I
could teach these car dealers around here a thing or two. And just so you know,” she informs Bennie, “I will go with you this morning, but I’ve got my own plans for this afternoon.”

“A woman of mystery!” Bennie roars. “With a mind of her own!”

Bennie might be amused, but as we exit the Chelsea Market I wonder what my mother is up to. No good, is what I’m guessing.

A few hours later, Trixie, Shanelle, and I leave the apartment for the celebration of Lisette’s life to be held at her father’s Midtown digs, which I’m guessing are pretty swanky. “I’m glad I happened to bring something white with me,” Trixie says as she shuts the door behind us. “But it sure feels weird going to a funeral dressed like this.”

“This is no funeral, girl,” Shanelle says.

I push the down button at the elevator bank. “And since Oliver said we all have to follow Warren Longley’s instructions, no one will be wearing black. Only white is allowed.”

That directive necessitated an emergency shopping trip this morning by Trixie and Shanelle, who picked up two of the exact same dress for Shanelle and me. In January, there is a very limited selection in white unless you’re in the market for a bridal gown. Fortunately they found something cute and relatively cheap: a white shift with lace insets and a popover top. I’ll be happy to wear it again.

I nudge Shanelle. “It’s bizarre wearing the exact same thing. I feel like we’ll show up in ‘Who Wore It Best’.”

“You’ll win that competition,” Shanelle says as we exit the building and make for the subway. Now the sun is out, though it’s still cold. “I feel like a sausage squeezed into this thing. I eat when I worry.”

“You look wonderful,” Trixie says. “By the way, Happy, Shanelle did call her mother this morning.”

“She said we can talk tomorrow after church,” Shanelle says. “It does not reassure me that she needs to pray beforehand.”

I rub Shanelle’s back. “It’s good that you’ll finally get some answers.”

“And whatever your mom tells you,” Trixie says, “we’ll be here to help.”

“So let’s review our marching orders from Enzo,” I suggest once we’re standing on a crowded subway train clinging to hanging straps. “Rule one. Do not discuss how much the book and lyrics for
Dream Angel
have been rewritten since Lisette died. Rule two. Do discuss how much
Dream Angel
is Lisette’s legacy.”

“Is it my imagination,” Shanelle says, “or is Oliver trying darn hard to keep Warren Longley happy?”

“So he doesn’t pull his money from
Dream Angel
,” Trixie breathes. “I hope he doesn’t. It’s much better than it was when Lisette was alive.”

“Rule three,” Shanelle says. “Keep that observation to yourself.”

Minutes later we’re standing on West 57
th
Street leaning our heads back to gaze up at a shockingly thin blue-mirror-glass skyscraper that looks as if it’s trying to poke a hole in the sky.

I can’t tear my eyes away. “I guess in New York City, it’s true what they say. You can’t be too thin or too rich.”

Since I did a little research beforehand, I know that One57 is an uber luxurious apartment building that rises a thousand feet high. For a few months it was the tallest residential structure in Manhattan until a pesky neighbor a half-mile away beat it by four hundred feet and started calling itself the tallest residential structure in the Western Hemisphere.

“Do you know the penthouse set a record for the most expensive home sale ever in the Big Apple?” Shanelle says. “A hundred million dollars.”

“No wonder Lisette’s father could put up the money for
Dream Angel
,” Trixie says. “He’s got to be really rich if he lives here.”

“It’s nicknamed the Billionaire Building,” Shanelle goes on. “The bottom twenty-five stories are a five-star hotel that charges a thousand bucks a night for the cheap rooms. I read that the underwater pool speakers run a playlist put together at Carnegie Hall.”

Which is right near here, just like Central Park.

I struggle to grasp these astonishing factoids as I dig out my compact to do a last-minute check of my face. I’m returning it to my handbag when it slips from my grasp and crashes to the sidewalk.

Trixie grabs my arm. “Oh, my Lord, I hope the mirror didn’t crack.” She lowers her voice. “That would be seven years bad luck.”

I am well aware. I bend down to pick up the compact and am very relieved to see that the glass remains intact.

“You dodged a bullet, Happy,” Trixie says. “Did you know it was the Romans who invented glass mirrors? And they thought that if you broke a mirror, you broke your soul, and it would take seven years for your body to renew itself. So until then evildoers could basically have their way with you.”

That would not be good. I feel like I’m in enough trouble already.

We make our way into One57, past a doorman who could do double duty as a Secret Service agent: he’s sporting both an earpiece and a microphone on his sleeve. Our heels are clicking across a luxuriously sleek lobby when a severe-looking young woman dressed in black and wielding a clipboard waylays us. There are three more just like her staking out the area.

Ours gives us a rapid once-over and delivers her assessment. “You’re theater people here for the Longley event.” It’s clear Clipboard Girl considers that no compliment. She whips out a plastic bag and holds it open. “Allow me to take your mobile phones.”

“We can’t take them up there?” I say.

“Under whose name shall I tag them?” she inquires.

I take it there will be no further discussion of that topic.

We submit to inspections of our handbags, and our persons, by a no-nonsense man with a security wand. Then we’re back in Clipboard Girl’s hands. “Follow me,” she orders, then ushers us inside an elevator and presses the button for Floor 45. The doors whoosh shut and we commence ascending.

“We’re slumming it going only halfway up this tower,” Shanelle says. “And who do they have all up in there that we have to go through security?”

“I wish I knew.” Trixie furrows her brow. “I hate to say it, but I sort of wish we didn’t have to attend this thing. I was already nervous and then that woman made me feel about as welcome as a skunk on a picnic table.”

“She’s a New Yorker,” I say. “That’s their stock in trade.” Though in truth I’m jittery, too. Somehow I expect these guests to be like Mr. Cantwell’s lawyers: people who regard beauty queens as beneath contempt. Despite our God-given physical attributes—which we polish to the best of our ability—
and
our accomplishments,
and
our unfailingly upbeat outlook on life, to them we’re dim-witted promoters of a despicably sexist, low-class tradition. As far as they’re concerned, we’re no better than an aging Honey Boo Boo.

I will admit that from the moment I stepped inside this tower of elitism, my old insecurities have come flooding back. I’m sure Clipboard Girl could tell that my plum-colored Melton wool coat is a knockoff. She’d be horrified if she knew that the dress beneath it costs less than a hundred bucks. Still, I’m glad to be here. I think it’s important to face my fears; plus, I’m hoping to learn more about Lisette. I try to buck up my peeps. “It’ll be an experience. Think of the stories we’ll be able to tell.”

The last word barely leaves my lips when the elevator doors slide open to reveal the Longley abode. A woman wearing a dove gray housekeeper’s uniform relieves us of our coats as we walk across the high-sheen white marble floor of the foyer. Soon an extraordinary living room comes into view. And while I don’t mean to pause before throwing myself into the social fray, I must take a moment to gather myself.

“Oh, my Lord,” Trixie murmurs beside me.

“My feelings exactly,” I whisper.

Picture an expansive living room with windows on three sides that rise all the way up to a 20-foot-high ceiling. If you can tear your eyes from the jaw-dropping view—particularly of Central Park, which spreads out beneath you like your own private playground—you see that not only are the guests dressed all in white, everything else is white, too: from the few walls that aren’t glass to the minimalist furniture to the plush area rugs. Even the huge video wall to our right is running panoramas of snow-covered mountains, in Switzerland or Nepal or wherever, that are as white as can be. And everything is so pristine, I bet you could do heart surgery on the crystal coffee table.

Then there are the guests. Gorgeously outfitted, perfectly groomed, and striking poses against this breathtaking backdrop, they remind me of a Dolce & Gabbana ad, a multigenerational slice of life featuring the world’s most privileged individuals. Since I recognize several faces, now I understand why we had to undergo a security screening. There’s David Muir, the primetime anchor for ABC News. I spy an Indian doctor I saw on
CBS This Morning
promoting his bestselling book. And taking a break from the gridiron is Antonio Cromartie, who plays for the New York Jets.

Shanelle clutches my arm. “OMG, over there at two o’clock. Bradley Cooper.”

“Yes! He’s on Broadway now,” Trixie hisses, “in
Elephant Man
. He’s very dashing in his white suit, isn’t he? But look! He’s on his cell phone.”

“I guess they only took those away from plebes like us,” I murmur. “They were probably afraid we’d tweet.” Which indeed I would be tempted to do. My Ms. America followers would love the inside scoop on this powwow. “Do we see anybody we know?”

“Bradley Cooper,” Trixie says.

“I mean somebody who knows us, too.”

“To our left way over there,” Shanelle says, “that husky man holding a glass of white wine. Isn’t that Kimberly’s Uncle Jerry?”

Indeed it is. His niece was excused from this event, but he wasn’t.

“Let’s go get us some vino,” Shanelle suggests.

I rarely refuse that offer and have no desire to do so now. As we wend our way through the crowd, I keep my eyes peeled for Damian Paganos. I see no sign of him. I don’t know what to make of that, since I would think the man Lisette was seeing would show up at the celebration of her life.

In short order we position ourselves at a lush buffet. My mouth waters just looking at it: watermelon salad with feta, served in crystal glasses; sushi cones; slabs of prime rib; and mini soufflés that I bet are still warm from the oven.

Beside the buffet on a low table towers the most elaborate chocolate fountain I’ve ever seen. Not only does it look like it’s made of sterling silver, it’s five feet tall. It has a protruding ring around the middle that catches the melted chocolate that burbles from an opening in the fountain’s top. The ring spins very slowly and features beautifully curved spouts through which the chocolate flows, finally to cascade into a seashell-shaped pool. I bet the chocolate is utterly delicious. And set amidst the alabaster glamour of this apartment, the fountain looks just smashing.