“Yes, my dear, but usually the female is the May and not the December in the equation,” he jabbed, which was of course the truth. “Aristotle did say that males are best married in their late thirties and women in their late teens.”
“Aristotle didn’t know women who used sunblock or worked out.”
“Touché, darling. And of course no woman is as beautiful as you, so I’m certain he would have amended his views were he to see your gorgeous face, honey. I’m thrilled for you, just thrilled. Truly.”
41
The best years of a woman’s life—the ten years between 39 and 40.
—Anonymous
T
he next night, spurred even more by the world’s thumbs-down and upturned noses, Chase and Eden attacked each other with such ferocity there were Billy Bob and Angelina-era bruises on each other’s bodies, though they skipped the blood vials and tats. It was torture for both to separate in the morning, and their good-bye kiss lingered so long that finally Chase disrobed and made love to Eden again. Then he really did have to go.
A few hours later, the buzzer rang, piercing the sound of the SUMMER ’90 cassette tape Eden was playing. Unable to trash her old mix tapes, the late adopter of CDs and even later user of MP3s couldn’t bear to chuck the audible gems she had so loved through her young life. Even if she iTunesed the exact songs, the well-worn wheels turning, the handcrafted liner notes from friends and lovers, and the time infused in each laborious mix tape was a treasure she cherished.
“Hello?” she said into the ancient intercom.
“Flowers, ma’am.”
She buzzed in the mystery flower delivery, thinking only afterward it could be some scary predator like Chevy Chase’s Land Shark on
Saturday Night Live
.
Caaaaandygram!
She opened the door a crack to find, in fact, the single most gorgeous blossoms she had ever beheld. Seventy-five pink peonies. She knew from her early mornings cruising the flower market for buds for Otto’s paintings that the blooms retailed for about ten dollars a stem, making the arrangement north of seven-fifty with tax and delivery.
Chocolate grosgrain ribbons encircled the chic vase, and fastened by a pearl pin was a vellum envelope and card.
“Don’t bother picking off each petal,” the small card read. “The answer is, he loves me. Chase.”
Eden smiled and flopped on the couch and moved her finger over his words on the vellum. As she breathed a contented sigh, she just hoped their unusual pairing wasn’t a Kenny Loggins-style highway to the danger zone.
42
Women deserve to have more than twelve years between the ages of twenty-eight and forty.
—James Thurber
“T
rust me,” Eden consoled, “the art world is way more accepting than the Upper East Side. If any one of my tattooed friends entered Swifty’s, half the matrons would collapse into their frisée. It’s not like that downtown. Just come with me . . . I need you. Please.”
“How can I go to an Otto Clyde opening with Eden Clyde? Won’t he be upset?”
“Chase, you were the one who told me not to care, so now I’m telling you: It’s fine. Otto is going to have to get over it, and so is everyone else.”
“Okay,” said Chase, exhaling as he leaned to kiss Eden. “I’m almost convinced I’d do anything for you.”
“Great. Then in that case, we’re going shopping.”
“Now?”
“This instant. Cue the
Pretty Woman
makeover montage music. I may be the one who’s eleven years older, but you, my dear, dress like you should be collecting Social Security.”
Chase looked down at his gray suit and looked up, clueless. “Okay, I’m all yours.”
Holding hands the duo boarded—gasp!—rapid transit.
“Amazing, right? A train that goes underground!” Eden teased.
Chase laughed at the jab but knew deep down she was onto something. He only ever took a town car and driver and couldn’t actually tell the green line from the red from the yellow.
He looked at the passengers throttled side to side at each halt, at the thicket of bodies pouring in and out to the musical dingdong of the opening doors, and at the profile of Eden reading the advertisements. He knew then and there that he’d give up all the town cars and tree-lined avenues of his childhood just to ride the subway by her side forever.
On the Lower East Side, the duo walked in and out of several boutiques with hipster sales folk and sleek shoppers. Little by little, the oxford was replaced by a tight tee and the crisp trousers turned to relaxed pants, and Chase went from uptight banker to chilled-out downtowner.
“Wow, I feel like I’ve shaved off ten years already,” he said, kissing her.
“Great, then that makes me two decades older.”
He didn’t go overboard with the messenger bag and sleeved tats, but he definitely blended better than he had with his Thomas Pink and Paul Stuart ensemble. Still, Chase was haunted by his mother’s cruel words about Eden’s reinvention: You can take the girl out of the trailer park but you can’t take the trailer park out of the girl. What if it was the same with him? You could take the boy out of the country club but could you take the country club out of the boy? Would his edgier ensemble fool anyone?
With a shopping bag in one hand and a crêpe from a street vendor in the other, Eden drank in her new creation and then threw her arms around him for a kiss.
“Thanks for the new me,” he said, looking himself over. It was just as Ruthie had written; he’d been fighting to break out, and he just needed someone to unlock those steel gates that took years to fashion. And busting out of them felt better than he’d ever imagined.
43
My Birthday! what a different sound That word had in my youthful ears; And how each time the day comes round, Less and less white its mark appears.
—Thomas Moore
“P
lease tell me you’re joking,” Allison scoffed.
“Why? Why shouldn’t he come with me?”
“Are you mad, girlfren? Otto is so not ready for that. Neither is anyone else, for that matter. I mean, I know I told you to go out and live your lives, but the
gallery
? Why do you need to flaunt it? Keep the relationships separate,” Allison instructed while braiding her daughter Kate’s hair on a park bench.
“Auntie Eden, do you have a boyfriend?”
Allison’s jaw dropped as Eden laughed.
“Where did you get that, miss?” her mother asked.
“Mommy told Daddy that you’re in loooove . . . ,” Eden’s goddaughter cooed.
“Maybe I am,” Eden said with a smile, patting Kate’s hair. “I don’t know yet.”
“Don’t you just
know
?” little Kate responded, conjuring frothy fantasies of Aurora, Ariel, and Cinderella struck at first sight. “That’s what they always say. You just know.”
“Not really. It takes time,” replied Allison. “You don’t just dance in a meadow with some bunny rabbits and bluebirds and fall in love because you can sing well together.”
“You can’t?” Kate said, looking depressed.
“Yes, you can,” Eden corrected, looking at her goddaughter. She then whispered to Allison. “Gee, way to ruin her dreams, you B-I-T-C-H!”
“What does B-I-T-C-H spell?” Kate asked.
“Nothing, honey. Look, E, what do I know? Do what you want, I guess.”
“I need to bring him, Alli. It’s not to show him off or anything even remotely close to that. Otto gets to have his whole swooning entourage; why can’t I just have my one companion?”
“You can. You’re right. You’ve certainly earned it.”
The snap, snap, snap of camera lenses lit up the wet, cobblestoned street outside Otto’s gallery. Hordes of fashion victims swarmed, abuzz with words like “breakthrough,” “stunning,” and “seminal” as they looked in through the huge window at bodies and crisp canvas squares. From the outside, Eden beheld the muted frenzy of sycophants and fancy pants, and squeezed Chase’s hand with a deep breath as they crossed the street. The outside throng of press were facing the cars that pulled up to the curb, guessing who would open the door and step out.
As each door opened, the wide eyes and long lenses were poised to observe the newest connoisseur—would it be an actress? Socialite? Wall Street tycoon? Or another artist who worshipped at the altar of Clyde? Or, ugh, the worst: a Nobody. When some poor anonymous schnook stepped out of an arriving car, there was a disappointed silence. But then, as all the shutterbugs were clicking away at some young heiress who fancied herself a collector, one lone firefly with his black beret spied the Queen Bee crossing over.
“EDEN! EDEN! EDEN!”
The heiress was cast aside instantly as the hordes vied to capture Eden. And who was the good-looking young man on her arm? COULD IT BE? Patrick McMullan, the Kevin Bacon center dot through which all degrees of separation pass, nailed it.
“CHASE LYDON? Chase! Chase! Over here! Chase!”
As the crunch of paparazzi went ballistic, inside the Lyle Spence Gallery, people enraptured by the languid images of reclining Edens caught wind of the fact that the real creature was just outside. The mutters and cacophonous streams filled the cavernous loft space and suddenly died down to a muted murmur as the crowd looked through the window onto the scene on the street. Otto Clyde, who was at the center of the action, realized little by little that the deafening compliments and gaping stares at his work had slowed as more and more heads turned away from the walls and out to the street. His head was the last to turn. And when he saw his former flame leaning on the young and gorgeous scion, he was not pleased.
Eden posed for a moment, clearly a pro, as Chase gave a tight-l ipped smile, just as his mother always had. He realized suddenly that this barrage of images of the new couple would instantly be everywhere, and that Brooke’s BlackBerry would be abuzz with bad, bad, bad vibrations beamed from her magpies. And the only thing that surprised him was the fact that he didn’t care at all. He had the sexiest woman alive by his side. He felt the ninety-block-long leash disintegrate into the night as he freely inhaled the damp air and got ready to enter the packed gallery.
“Thank you,” said Eden sweetly to the photographers, signaling her posing had come to an end. As cries for one more echoed behind them, Chase and Eden took deep breaths and entered the cavernous space. All four hundred eyes were on them, but they squeezed hands and walked in, ready to face the music.
44
Growing old is mandatory; growing up is optional.
—Chili Davis
T
heir nerves dulled a bit as they entered and were instantly engulfed by well-wishing collectors who reveled in the new works.
“Eden, you’re bewitching as always,” Rock McGhee said. “I just bought the one of you by the window.”
As they made their way through the space, more and more people came up to Eden, so Chase took a moment to duck away and fully drink in the images hanging in the packed gallery. He didn’t want to cling to her. Though she had asked him to stay by her side, he wanted to give her space and allow the myriad hangers-on to have their air-kiss moment. He knew the drill from his family, so he filed off quietly to look at the paintings.
Each one was more spectacular than the next. In one, Eden wore a bright red flamenco dress, leaning up against a window frame; in another, she reclined on a shrink’s couch in profile, as if discussing her fantasies. Chase wandered into a small alcove off the large space and found what he instantly believed to be the crown jewel of the show. There was Eden, lying on her stomach, nude, her head dreamily looking at the viewer with a twinkle in her eye, as if she just had sex and was about to fall blissfully asleep with no alarm clock to worry about in the morning. It captured a perfect moment, at once intimate and life-size. He got lost in the folds of the sheets, her leg casually peeking out, her soft back carefully illuminated by a glowing lamplight. It was the most magical painting he had ever beheld. He looked for the label to the lower right of the work. It read, appropriately, BESIDE EDEN. And no sooner had he read the title, a black-clad, waiflike gallerina in a black shift dress strode by in her spike-heeled Brian Atwoods.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said apologetically, batting her lashes as she leaned down in front of the tag. As she rose and smiled at Chase, he caught her flirtatious eye, then looked back at the tag. And beside
Beside Eden
she had placed a small red dot. Sold.
Meanwhile, across the large crowded space, Otto was furious as he felt his control over the woman he “created” was slipping away.
“What do you mean, you’re not coming to the dinner?” Otto asked her in shock. “Darling, don’t be ridiculous! Of course you’re coming. Lyle and Kiki are throwing an amazing party for us in a private room at the Greenwich Hotel. You must come. Bring the boyfriend. Chance or whatever.”
“It’s Chase,” she corrected, annoyed.
“Chance, Chase.”
“I think we’re just going to let you guys have fun. We’ll grab something uptown—”
“Please. Eden, sweetheart, let’s be adults here. Surely I’m not going to get jealous of this boy toy! Trust me, I have a sold-out show. I can handle it.”
Eden fumed. “He’s not a boy toy. And you know his name isn’t Chance. I know what you’re doing, Otto, now cut it out,” she seethed.
“Okay, fine, I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just you are part of this studio. You haven’t missed an opening-night dinner in twenty years. Why start now?”
“If you promise to be kind,” she said, looking for Chase over Otto’s shoulder. “Then I’ll think about it.”
“Okay, I’m sorry, all right? I apologize. I’m just stressed with opening nights, you know that,” he said, running his hand through his gray mane. “Please, Eden? Please come . . .”