Everybody Rise (27 page)

“Scipio High,” Dale said. “I was on the baseball team. The Raiders. All of the mill towns had them then. Older folks' leagues, too. They'd hire a foreman just because he was a great shortstop.” He looked at her, searching for something he did not locate, then flipped the yearbook to a page that the book easily opened to. It was a photo of her father, with knee socks and a self-assured grin and a flattop haircut, leading a group of swaggering boys across a field. His eyes were trained on the camera even as he shouted something to the pack with sly parted lips.

“I was the baseball captain. I was pretty good. That's Jimmy Happabee there behind me. He was a hell of a catcher. We used to drive around town like a couple of crazy men in his dad's truck on Saturday night. That was the one night we didn't have to work.” He pulled the book back, then closed it. “Another world, I guess. The old folks said it then, and damned if I haven't turned into one of them.” He looked at her. “You're happy, aren't you? You liked Sheffield and Davidson?”

“Yeah, Dad, I did.”

“You've got good friends. You've got money. Plenty of money.”

She took a sip of coffee. Was that why he'd done this, if he'd done it? To provide for his family? Or was it to provide for himself? Whatever it was, it wasn't enough. She didn't know exactly how much money her family had, but estimated it was at least several million, given the big sums her father had won balanced against the often excessive way her parents spent. Her father probably thought those millions were enough to gain instant entry into New York society, when several million was what a mediocre hedge-fund manager made in a single year.

“I'm doing fine, Dad,” she said.

His hand trembled as he replaced the book on his desk. “That's good. That's good to hear. I'll put this back. It'll just be on the shelf over there. You can look at it if you like.”

“Yeah.”

“I want you to know, Evelyn, that even if the grand jury finds something, all right, that the law means everything to me, and I would never have, never did, cross it.”

She didn't quite believe him. Her father had always managed to line up ambition and the law, and this was an instance where it was ambition versus the law. She was pretty sure what side he would have chosen. You never think you're going to get caught, she thought, until you get caught. “Okay,” she finally said. “Dad, if you're on leave, what about the Luminaries?”

“The what?” He shook his head. “Oh, your friend's dinner. You'd best cancel.”

“I'd best cancel? I was the one who told you not to do it in the first place.”

“What does it matter, Evelyn? It's one dinner.”

“She's signed you up. She's going to kill me if you drop out. And what about the money?”

“What money?”

“The donation? That you have to give? She signed you up for twenty-five thousand.”

“You never mentioned a twenty-five-thousand-dollar donation.”

“I'm positive I did.” She knew she hadn't.

“You said there was
a
donation, Evelyn, not one that's more than the yearly salary of many Americans. Promising that I'll give twenty-five thousand dollars to a cause of your friend's? What were you thinking?” He stared at her, unblinking.

“I didn't make the promise. You were the one that wanted to go.”

“Evelyn, I do not think anything will happen with the investigation, but if it does, and frankly, even if it doesn't, do you know how unseemly it would be for me to be giving such a large donation to one of your friends right now?”

“What am I supposed to tell her?”

He smiled and picked up the yearbook again. “Lord, Evelyn, tell her I can't go.”

“It's not as easy as that.”

He wasn't listening anymore, though. He had again opened the yearbook again, to the same page. He was tracing his finger over the caption; Evelyn could only read the first part, “BASEBALL BOYS BREAK TIME, captain D. Beegan…”

He did not look up when Evelyn slid her unfinished bourbon toward him and left.

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Security Questions

The sharp ring of the Petit Trianon apartment phone startled Evelyn awake. What was it? Where was she supposed to go? It was dark; was it today or tomorrow?

Another ring and she lifted herself off the couch. “Hello? Yes?”

“Miss Evelyn, Miss Charlotte is coming up.”

“What—what time is it?”

“Eight oh-five, miss.”

It took Evelyn a couple of seconds to place herself in the evening. She'd left PLU early to go to Equinox for a vinyasa class, trying to quiet her mind, reverberating with worry about her father and her money situation and the Luminaries dinner, but it didn't work. In the locker room after class, Evelyn got dressed again, not wanting the other girls putting on heels and skirts and makeup in preparation for nights out to think she had no plans for the evening. She joined a blonde blow-drying her hair in front of the long primping mirror and gave her a knowing smile as Evelyn smoothed her own hair. Evelyn's look lasted long enough to take in the ring pressed against the girl's hair dryer: princess cut, platinum, the ring a banker would bestow.

She was pretty sure, lately, that if she dropped enough hints, she could get a ring like that from Scot. Wedding rings were everywhere, and Evelyn didn't want to be the pitied single girl forever. But what was the point in extracting a ring from Scot? If you were going to marry and not feel much for your husband, that husband should at least give you the life you wanted. Sarah Leitch, whose husband was squat and boring but had made $20 million last year, was redecorating her Napa winery right now.

Standing at the mirror, Evelyn, too, had blown her hair dry, patted concealer around her eyes, stroked mascara onto her eyelashes, added lip balm, and put on her Jimmy Choos. She'd then twisted a gold-set ruby ring on backward on the fourth finger of her left hand so it resembled a wedding band. She'd walked to the lobby of the gym looking the very picture of a married girl off to a social event, for anyone who was looking.

“Can you tell her I'm not here?” she said to the doorman.

“I'm sorry, Miss Evelyn, she is a regular guest so I let her up already. It is policy.” She had not seen Charlotte much lately. Charlotte was always going to museums with names like the American-Jewish Museum of the West African Diaspora and making a point of how much she learned there and how much more instructive it was than what Evelyn was doing with her time. Evelyn knew that her life sounded ridiculous to Charlotte—Charlotte had said that much directly. What Charlotte couldn't know was how addictive it was.

There was a knock on the door. Evelyn switched the ring to her right hand and tried to sound surprised: “Yes? Who is it?”

“Charlotte.”

“Oh! Char! Coming! Sorry, they didn't call up.”

She opened the door to a tired-looking Charlotte wearing a smart gray suit, pulled together, no doubt, by the Saks personal shopper she'd hired who specialized in lady bankers. On her feet were L.L. Bean duck boots, slushy from the outside world.

“Do you have any beer? I could use some.”

“What are you doing in the neighborhood? And out of work at eight?”

“I'm not staffed on a deal for the first time in ages. Also, sorry, you're asking me what I'm doing here? When you're the one that's basically dropped off the face of the earth? Seriously, do you have a beer?”

“Just wine.”

“You always have beer.”

“Just wine, Char.”

Charlotte plopped on the couch and took the wineglass Evelyn offered. “You look dressed up. Are you heading out?”

“No, I had an event. After work,” Evelyn said. Yoga could sort of be counted as an event. “So what are you doing up here?”

Charlotte made a weird air sound with her cheeks. “Date. Bad one. I feel like I just scream ‘lesbian' to everyone I meet.”

“Did you wear the duck boots?”

“Evelyn—” Charlotte started to get up.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry!” Evelyn held her hands up.

“No, I didn't wear the duck boots. Thanks for asking.”

“I just meant—” Evelyn poured wine into Charlotte's glass. “I'm sorry about the date. You're such a catch. Look at you. You're going to be running Graystone sooner or later.”

“In my duck boots?”

“Honest opinion? Not in the duck boots.”

Charlotte let out an angry laugh. “Graystone. Yeah, I'm a woman. That's not going to happen. I just can't play the New York game. If I get out of work at a reasonable hour, by the time I go to the gym and get home it's time to go to bed. Rinse, repeat for seven days straight. When, exactly, am I supposed to meet someone? Then I meet this guy, at a freaking work event, by the way, and he tells me I'm too intense for him because of my job?”

“Char, Char. It's crazy. He's crazy.” Evelyn sat down next to her friend and awkwardly patted her knee.

“Oh, look, Evelyn Beegan's offering physical solace. It must be bad.”

Evelyn smiled.

“I remember the two times at Sheffield you hugged me,” Charlotte continued. “Graduation and when my uncle John died.”

“It seemed called for.”

“The Babs still has never hugged me, after all these years. A firm handshake is all I get. You were trained by the best.”

With her finger Evelyn stopped a trickle of red wine that was escaping from the bottle. “You could say that.”

“How's work?”

“It's so annoying, Char. They're all about boosting membership numbers. I get that, but that's not the site's brand. The world doesn't need an also-ran MySpace. The high-end idea makes sense, and we're getting members and creating influence, and they basically want to throw that away to show big membership growth.”

“That does seem strange. I think the brand works. I mean, it's not my bag, but advertisers must love having access to the Camilla Rutherfords of the world.”

“Exactly. But the site has essentially shunted me and that strategy off to the side. One of the co-CEOs, Jin-ho, has taken over some of the membership and marketing and he has no idea how to appeal to these people. It's cray-cray.”

“You say ‘cray-cray' now?”

“I've always said it.”

“Okay, Camilla. So do you want to tell me where you've been these last few months, if you haven't been throwing yourself into work? Did you and Camilla get a domestic-partnership license and go on your Fiji honeymoon?”

“I haven't been anywhere. I've been in New York, mostly. Aspen, too, Bridgehampton, obvs. Oh, Newport. Quogue, which is beautiful in winter.”

“You can stop there. Who would've thought the girl who wore pleated khakis in the Sheffield senior photo would become such a social butterfly?”

“They weren't pleated.”

“They were so pleated.”

Evelyn was giggling now, settling back into the couch.

“Ev,” Charlotte said softly. “The stuff with your father—”

“What stuff?” Evelyn sat up, on guard.

“The stuff with his firm.” Charlotte groped for the words. “If you want to talk—”

“I don't want to talk. I don't know how you know about it, but it's not your business. It's not a big deal, nothing's going to happen, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention it to anyone,” Evelyn said, hitting the consonants hard.

“God forbid Camilla finds out?”

“Camilla knows, in fact, Charlotte.”

“Of course she does. Number one confidante.” After a few moments, Charlotte breathed out heavily. “What about Pres? Have you seen much of him?”

“Pres? Sure. We were supposed to have dinner last week but ended up going to the River Club with Camilla instead. On Sutton Place? There's the most fun club downstairs. You wouldn't believe who I saw.”

“About Pres,” Charlotte said pointedly. “I went out with him on Tuesday to get drinks, which, in my mind, was like a drink or two, and he ended up blacked out. He texted me at one
A.M
. from the King Cole Bar, and then wandered over to Eleventh Avenue. I'm surprised he wasn't mugged.”

“So funny. I was at King Cole on Tuesday but I didn't see him. It was earlier, because Nick and Camilla and Bridie Harley wanted to meet after—”

“Evelyn. Pay attention. Preston. I'm worried about him. He's drinking a lot more than usual.”

“Sorry. Sorry. I haven't noticed it. I suppose I'm not that worried. It's winter and it's bleak outside so everyone's drinking more than usual, and Pres has such a high tolerance. He's coming to my birthday dinner at the Colony in a week and I promise I will watch him. I'm so sorry you'll be in Indianapolis for it. Did I tell you Camilla's doing a tropical theme? It sounds wild.”

Charlotte looked upset. “Yeah, I'm sure it will be. Oh, right. He gave this to me to give to you. I guess he thought I'd see you before he did, which, obviously not. That's why I came by tonight. I've been carrying this around for weeks.” Charlotte pulled something out of her bag. “Your Whiffenpoofs CD.”

“The Poofs! I've been waiting for its safe return for months. Will you play it? My computer's on.”

“Yeah.” Charlotte walked to the sideboard, where Evelyn's desktop sat tethered to the Internet at an awkward height, flanked on each side by an upright Slim Aarons photography book. Charlotte shoved over one of the books and placed the CD in the drive. As it whirred and the Yale men sang “Rainbow Connection,” she picked up Evelyn's checkbook lying face down on the sideboard. “Evelyn Beegan, don't tell me you still use checks.”

Evelyn had no idea how long the checkbook had been there. Weeks? When was the last bill she had paid?

“You don't do online banking?” Charlotte asked.