Conundrum (4 page)

“The dinner is in a month, on Friday June 4th. Would that work for you? It’s only for 10 people because GSD reunions split up into third-year design studios for the first night. Should I tell Norman that I’ve secured a caterer? Oh, hang on. Maybe I should warn you about these people first. Have you read
‘Lord of the Flies’
? ‘Eat or be eaten’ could be their mantra. You should be out of the direct line of fire, but there could be collateral damage.”

“I only care whether Norman pays his bills. In the restaurant business you have to learn to deal with entitled types. But it sounds like
you
may need a bodyguard.”

“Are you volunteering?” She decided not to mention her own brown belt in karate, however rusty it was.

“Sure. I could decapitate anyone who got out of line with the
canape
tray. I play a mean game of ultimate
frisbee
.”

“Excellent. There will be several heads at the table I’d like to see on a platter.”

Luc grinned, then yawned and shook his head. “Sorry, I was at the market at six this morning. I’m going home to crash for a few hours. Let’s talk later about the catering.” In one fluid movement, he was up and out the door.

Chapter 6

I
ris marched up the hill to Ellie’s house, half a block away, and plopped down at the kitchen table. “I thought we were flirting, but then he turned a switch and vanished. He was probably just being friendly and I scared him off. I’m such a fool.” She grimaced at a nail bitten down to the quick.

“Are you done? Tell me when you’re done,
darlin
’.” Ellie made a show of starting to empty her dishwasher.

Iris sat for a few minutes in silence. “Fine, I’m done. Now you can tell me what an idiot I am.”

Ellie put away some dishes and turned to her. “You’re not an idiot, at least not for that. I think you and Luc would be great together. I’ve been wondering when you were going to notice how hot he is. The younger man thing is very chic these d
ays. But take it slow this time—
enjoy the ride. Flirt with him, keep it light. You’ve been through a lot, honey. Do you want some coffee? I can make some.”

Iris shook her
head.”No
thanks. I’m
overcaffeinated
already. Luc did seem interested in the catering idea though.”

“I thought you already hired
A Dash of Salt
to do the dinner.”

“No, they were going to make us pick between two menus, both of which sounded like church suppers. And the other caterer seemed too crunchy granola. Imagine the flack I’ll get from our classmates if I choose a lousy caterer. Why did I let Norman talk me into taking on this thankless task? He was acting so helpless.”

“Yeah, helpless, except when he’s running a multi-billion-dollar corporation.”

“Right.
I must have sucker written on my forehead.”

Ellie peered at her friend’s face. “Well, look at that. But it sounds like Luc will save your ass with the catering. The food critics have been raving about his cooking. Stop letting these classmates intimidate you, Iris. They’re as insecure as you are.”

“Gee, thanks. That makes me feel all bonded with them. At least I’ll have an excuse to spend some time with Luc.”

“But as his employer—
not such a g
ood dynamic.
remember
my advice—
keep it light and slow.”

“Keep
what
light and slow? I will bow to your wisdom, O Dating Coach.”

Chapter 7

A
dam Lincoln slid the collapsible stool into his duffel, grabbed his ‘old fart’ cap off the hall console, and rested his hand on the doorknob. “I’m going out,” he shouted into the reverberating void of his New York City condo.

“Wait,” Alyssa’s mules scuffled on the parquet. “Where are you going?” She trained her sights on the wooden legs sticking out of his bag and exuded disapproval. “Darling, don’t you think that’s a bit of a time sink?”

“No more so than your book club.”

“Fine.
But be sure to get back in time to clean up before dinner. We’re going out tonight.” She flounced back to the living room where she had been deep into the May issue of Vogue.

Adam hurried along the limestone cavern of West 91st Street, headed south for a block down Central Park West, then cut into the park. He followed a path tracing the northern side of the Reservoir until he came to a slight rise. He slowed down to stretch out the moment before he’d
see it through the trees—
this perfect piece of poetry. It made his skin prickle. Calvert Vaux’s mastery had created a testament to the Gothic Revival movement 150 years ago. Adam had never seen another bridge that could touch it. Well, maybe in Venice. The cinquefoil design on the handrail resembled delicate lace, and the cast iron spandrels somersaulted into an oval vault for the lower level of
bridal
path to pass through. He wandered around searching for the perfect vantage point, one that put the bending tree that echoed the bridge’s arch in the foreground,
then
planted himself on the stool. It was chilly out here for early May. He zipped up his fleece to his chin.

He retrieved his easel and screwed it into a flat position, hooking on his water cup and paint attachment tray. Next, he unrolled the tissue paper around his brushes, Kolinsky Sable all the way from Siberia, the best. Calvert Vaux had been a watercolorist as well as an architect, like him. But Adam could never hope to lay claim to creations like this bridge. Still, stacked up in boxes in his building’s basement storage cage were 214 watercolor paintings of this bridge in different seasons and light conditions. Today the tally would reach 215. He was the J.M.W. Turner of Central Park. That was a laugh. If he could only manage to capture a fraction of the deftness of this bridge he would hang up his brushes.

“Maybe you should just paint and forget trying to be an architect.” Those words were lodged in his brain like a tormenting pebble in a shoe.

***

Alyssa Lincoln listened idly to Adam’s voice cutting through the background jazz at New York City’s fabled Monkey Bar. He was always in such a bad mood after his painting sessions.

“That Norman is such an asshole. He’s having this reunion dinner at his fancy new house just to rub our noses in the fact that he’s loaded and we’re
not. And that bitch, Iris Reid—
how did she get to be his architect? She was never a great designer. Norman didn’t even like her in school.” Adam glared at one of the life-sized jazz figures on the mural facing him.

“Maybe she slept with him. Ugh. No, I can’t imagine her being that desperate for work. Besides, she inherited that fantastic house from her parents, so she probably doesn’t even have a mortgage.” She shrugged as she rooted around her plate for the last bits of lobster.
New York Magazine
is right. They do have the best seafood salad here. “Some people evidently get things handed to them in life.”

“Remind me again why we have to go to this thing.”

“What thing?”

“The reuni
on—
we were just talking about it!”

“I told you, Adam—
I want G.B. to give me a teaching job at GSD next fall. I’m going to go postal if I have to spec one more fabric wall divider at
Fansler
Interiors. G.B. always liked me.”

“He liked me more.”

“Good
. You
get him to give me a job. I want to teach a design studio.” She twirled the ice in her drink with a monkey stirrer. “I can fly home on weekends, or when the twins are home from college. Or you could fly up. I’ll get a cute apartment near Harvard Square.”

“Uh, ‘
Lyssa
, I don’t think people start out teaching at Harvard. I thi
nk you have to work your way up—
unless you’re famous.”

“Darling, when have I ever followed the conventional route to getting ahead?”

***

“Now, tummies on the mat for swimming, ladies.
Oh, and Gill too, sorry,” shouted the sadist-in-
lycra
.

It’s Gilles, not Gill, you twit, thought G.B. He could not believe that th
is was his life, here, in a gym—
or spa, or whatever they called them now. His T.A., Steve, had insisted that Pilates would tighten G.B.’s abs and solve his throbbing back issues. God knew Steve’s abs looked solid enough.

“Okay—
shoulders and legs off the mat as we begin our flutter kick!”

G.B. had picked this class in the Back Bay, a short walk from his Beacon Hill townhouse, so as not to run into anyone he knew. He shot a quick sideways glance at the pony-tailed forty-something next to him energetically waving her feet up and down, toned arms suspended six inches above the mat.
Trophy wife,
natch
.
God, his stomach was burning already. He peeked at his watch.
Merde
—another forty minutes.

“
Gimme
twenty more kicks.
Lookin
’ good!”

The added advantage of going to this class, beyond admiring the tulips carpeting the Boston Garden on his walk over, or cruising the sales at
Bilzerian’s
on Newbury Street afterward, was that it delayed his checking Steve’s blog every morning. He would take this damn class all week and wean himself off its gravitational pull. Who had invented this blogging business anyway? Why woul
d anyone want to expose himself—
chatter away about what he had done the night
before, what movies he was watching, who he was doing things with? It was bizarrely fascinating. But he had already deleted it from his bookmarks bar. And he’d be buff for the reunion next month. Let’s not forget that goal, Gilles Reynard Guillaume Broussard. He might seem like a fossil to his present students, and to Steve, but to his coterie from the class of 1988, he was still their charismatic, brilliant l
eader. And they were all
coming
—
all ten from his third-year design studio. He took it as a personal victory. Of course he’d had to do a bit of nudging.

“Gill, if you’re tired, just
go
into child pose and wait for us. Only do what your body allows. Reflect on your life’s journey.
Five more!”

He’d kill for a cigarette. He’d call Jerry after he got out of here and get him to stay at the townhouse during the reunion. He missed having company.

“Okay, on your backs now for knee-to-alternate-elbows!”

G.B. groaned and rolled over. As he lifted his shoulders slightly, elbow extended tentatively, the
pilates
Nazi strolled over and slipped her cold hand under his lower back.

“Lift from the waist, Gill. Isn’t that better?”

No, it hurts a lot more, actually. He bared his teeth at her. Why hadn’t the
y come back to earlier reunions—
his chickadees, his favorite clas
s? He sighed. It was that party—
the tragedy at that party.
And the poor, sweet boy.
The brilliant, attractive boy.
Why did he have to die?

***

The stylish, late-century Modern offices of Jensen/Dewitt/
Twitty
were located on the twentieth floor of a
Wacker
Drive skyscraper, affording Jerry Jensen a premium view of the Chicago River. He watched a team of rowers. Or were they called scullers? The one facing forward had on a sleeveless shirt.

He jumped as his intercom made its irritating mosquito-buzzing sound, then barked into the box, “Who is it, Meg?”

As usual, this latest assistant side-stepped the relevant information.
“There’s a call on one for you, Mr. Jensen.” Where did his office manager find these ninnies? He slipped into his Aeron chair and punched a button.

A voice purred, “I have been hearing some colorful rumors about you. Tell me that the one in the Apollo Theater was not true.”

Recognizing the voice, Jerry braced himself for a skirmish.
“Things getting boring in Beantown, G.B.?
You need a vicarious thrill by reviewing my antics?”

“I miss our fervent chats. Come visit me.”

Jerry aligned the files on his glass desk. “My, aren’t we waxing nostalgic. I seem to recall a rather unpleasant visit last time.”

“Oh that. You are not going to hold that against me forever, are you? Let me atone.”

Jerry was relishing the present power reversal. He knew how to work a silence.

“I see that you are coming for the reunion in June. You should stay with me.”

Jerry loved forcing G.B.’s cards onto the table so soon. “I’ll be returning to the fold to
rebond
with my fellow narcissistic phonies. I don’t think that I should sequester myself with you. Been there, done that. “