ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON, RYAN ENTERED THE GILDED AGE.
Ryan was at the themed political fund-raiser at Marble House for Brandon Lomax as the personal guest of none other than PawSox owner Connie Garrisen. If he squinted, however, Ryan could well imagine that an engraved invitation had come from Alva Vanderbilt herself, and that today he was among Newport society for a champagne toast to woman suffrage, the exploitation of the masses, or some other robber-baron cause du jour.
Built as a summer “cottage” at a nineteenth-century cost of eleven million dollars, Marble House stands on the Atlantic shore as a monument to an era when industrialists got insanely rich and architects went completely wild. Railroad baron William K. Vanderbilt spared no expense, drawing on the talents of Richard Morris Hunt, architect of New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art and the pedestal for the Statue of Liberty, to design a neoclassical masterpiece that mimicked the great palaces of Europe. The cottage’s half-million cubic feet of marble, its ballroom covered in twenty-two-karat gold leaf, and four years of handiwork by more than three hundred European artisans made it the most lavish house in America when it opened in 1892.
That afternoon it was filled with Brandon Lomax’s most loyal and generous supporters—and there was none more loyal, or generous, than Connie Garrisen.
“Ryan, so glad you came,” said Garrisen, upon seeing him.
“Thanks for inviting me.”
Garrisen shook Ryan’s hand and put his left arm around him in a friendly half embrace. “It’s the least I can do for my returning third baseman.”
Ryan smiled, but at lunch the previous day he’d been all jitters. He’d managed to set the date up through Connie’s secretary without saying what it was about, but the venue should have been Connie’s first clue. Of all the great lunch spots in Boston, Ryan chose a sandwich shop on the corner of Huntington Avenue and Forsyth Street—diagonally across the street from the original home of the Boston Red Sox. Before Fenway Park, it was Huntington Grounds that had brought baseball fans the first World Series, the first modern perfect game, the first (and last) major-league ballpark with a tool shed in deep center that was actually in the field of play.
“I’m asking for a tryout,” Ryan had told him. “I understand I have to earn my spot on the roster, no guarantees. I’m just looking for another shot.”
“I have just one thing to say about that,” the PawSox owner had replied. “I’ll be pulling for you.”
With that, it was settled. Ryan would get his shot, and he’d give it his all—even if tonight’s champagne was a break in training.
Garrisen said, “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been telling everyone about our talk yesterday. It’s very exciting news for the PawSox family.”
“That’s great,” said Ryan, though part of him wished Connie weren’t spreading the word so freely. Lots of things could happen between September and April, and many of them not so good.
“Let me introduce you to some folks,” said Garrisen.
“I’m fine,” said Ryan. “There must be plenty of people you need to talk to without me tagging along. Enjoy yourself.”
Garrisen gave him another smile and a friendly punch to the biceps. “See you around, number eleven.”
Ryan offered a mock salute and watched him disappear into the crowd. The hors d’oeuvres were being passed, and Ryan tried to snag something that didn’t involve fish eggs and wouldn’t make him look like Tom Hanks spitting out his caviar in
Big
.
Strangers. I’m in a roomful of total strangers.
A woman across the room looked vaguely familiar, though she was standing with her back to him, and he caught only glimpses of her profile as she spoke to her circle of conversation. She was wearing a black spaghetti-strapped cocktail dress, and her hair was up in a twist to show the curve of her slender neck. He watched her for a minute. Finally, she turned around, and Ryan got a good look at her.
It was Emma.
And she was gorgeous.
“Champagne?” said the waiter. Emma took a flute from the silver tray and thanked him.
The bubbly was surprisingly drinkable. The violin player was a nice touch, too. Lomax fund-raisers were rarely this exquisite. It was easier to be a man of the people among Boy Scouts at a pancake breakfast or at the obligatory Rhode Island “fundraiza” at Lombardi’s 1025 Club. But every politician in a statewide, multimillion-dollar campaign had to show his appreciation for the way the other one half of 1 percent lived—and for their check-writing abilities. Smart politics dictated no tuxedos until
after
the election, but the semiformal attire seemed at odds with the excesses of old Newport. Alva Vanderbilt’s fascination with Louis XIV of France was evident everywhere in Marble House—from a grand entranceway defined by massive Corinthian columns and ten tons of bronze and crystal to hallways made entirely of yellow Sienna marble to palatial rooms with eighteen-foot ceilings reminiscent of Petit Trianon at Versailles.
Moments like these made Emma wonder about her decision to live on a government salary.
Doug returned with her drink. “Oh, you already have one.”
She accepted his and placed hers on a passing tray. “Thank you for being so thoughtful.”
Emma was a guest of Brandon Lomax’s daughter. Jenny and Emma had been inseparable as schoolgirls, right up until Jenny had married and moved to New York after college. They tried to keep in touch, but as the years passed and Jenny became a stay-at-home mother of three, it seemed that she had less and less to talk about with Emma, the single career woman.
“Find Jenny yet?” asked Brandon Lomax, walking up to Emma and Doug. Connie Garrisen was with him.
Emma smiled. “No, not yet.”
“I know she’s eager to see you. Who’s your friend?”
Before Emma could make the introduction, Doug was already shaking hands with Lomax, seeming to make a point of introducing himself as “Doug Wells,
Action News
.”
“No wonder you looked familiar,” said Lomax, eyeing him.
“I don’t typically do political events,” said Doug. “I cover the courthouse. That’s how Emma and I met.”
“Doug is here
off
duty,” said Emma, reeling him in. “Right, Doug?”
“Uh, sure,” he said, but Emma could tell that he was already in reporter mode. His radar was fixed on the candidate. “So, Mr. Lomax, any truth to the rumors that Dr. Garrisen will be the next U.S. surgeon general if you’re elected to the Senate?”
Lomax chuckled. “Not that he isn’t qualified, but where did you hear that?”
Doug smiled thinly. “It’s no secret that Rhode Island is one of the key states the president needs to gain a friendly majority in the Senate. I imagine he’d be quite grateful to Dr. Garrisen for all the support he’s given your campaign.”
“Talk like that is very premature. You know how unreliable rumors are.”
Doug next trained his sights on Connie Garrisen. “Speaking of rumors, I heard some guys at the bar talking about Ryan James coming back to the PawSox.”
Connie smiled. “Now
that
rumor is actually true.”
“Really?” said Emma.
Doug looked at Emma, his face alight with an idea. “Hey, maybe we can tie that into the segment we’re airing.”
“Segment?” said Lomax.
“Yeah,” Doug said. “Emma wants more media coverage on the Chelsea James case, to encourage her anonymous tipster to come forward. Yesterday we shot a short piece on her three-year pursuit of the drunk who ran Chelsea off the road. It’ll air tonight. We could follow up with something about Ryan James and his comeback.”
“That could work well,” said Garrisen.
“Yeah,” Lomax said flatly, “that all sounds great. Good luck with that. Enjoy the party.”
Lomax abruptly turned and left, taking Garrisen with him.
“What was that about?” said Doug.
“What was what about?” said Emma.
“The brush-off Lomax just gave me. From the get-go, he seemed terrified that you were with a reporter. Then when I mentioned the Chelsea James case, he was actually perturbed.”
“I’m sure he just has a lot on his mind. Would you mind getting me more champagne?”
“You have a full glass.”
Emma guzzled it. “Not anymore.”
He smiled, took her empty flute, and headed back toward the bar.
Once alone, Emma surveyed the distinguished guests and spotted Jenny Lomax speaking to a retired congressman across the ballroom. Emma didn’t rush over. Doug had been right on target about the negative energy coming from Brandon Lomax. As eager as she was to see Jenny, Emma worried that the chill would carry over to the candidate’s daughter.
Emma stepped outside to the canopied terrace. Night had not yet fallen, and the setting sun’s afterglow cast a magnificent magenta hue on the Chinese Tea House at the foot of the lawn. Beyond was the Atlantic Ocean, and Emma watched and listened to the waves break against the rocky seashore. A server brought her another glass of champagne, and as she turned to reenter the ballroom, she ran straight into Ryan James—literally.
His shirt and tie were soaked with her champagne.
“Oh, my God!” she said.
“It’s all right,” he said.
She took her cocktail napkin and started dabbing.
“Ow,” he said.
“Sorry. Did that hurt?”
“I did about a thousand sit-ups today. I’m back in training.”
She handed him her napkin. “Training? Oh, yes. I just heard about the comeback. Congratulations.”
A server brought him a cloth napkin, but Ryan had already given up trying to dry himself. It was futile. Emma needed to make him laugh—fast.
“Some house, huh? Did you know that this was a present from William Vanderbilt to his wife on her thirty-ninth birthday?”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, and three years later she divorced him, married the neighbor, and moved into the Belmont mansion down the street. Men just don’t get it: if it doesn’t sparkle, it’s not a gift. Go with jewelry.”
“I’ll try to remember that,” said Ryan, smiling now.
The awkwardness had passed. “Are you here with anyone?” he asked.
In the three years she’d known him, it was the closest he’d come to inquiring about her “status.”
“I’m here with Doug Wells. The
Action News
reporter.”
“Oh, yeah. I still watch the Providence stations every now and then.”
“How about you?” she said.
“Just me and Asti Spumante,” he said, joking about the spill.
She could have pointed out that they were serving champagne and that Asti was actually a sparkling wine, but to his soaked shirt it was a distinction without a difference.
“There’s Doug now,” she said, thankful for another distraction. “Let me introduce you.”
“No, that’s okay. I actually need to be on my way back to Boston. Babysitter has a hot date. Early night for me.”
Emma wasn’t sure if her read was correct, but Ryan seemed almost nervous. She wondered if he would have darted off so quickly if she’d been without a date.
“Well, it was good to…
run into you
again,” she said with a smile.
He smiled, they said good night, and she watched him disappear into the crowd.
Now, where the heck did Doug go?
The music stopped, the crowd fell quiet, and Connie Garrisen was making a toast that would have made the average State of the Union address seem terse. The candidate was at his side, his jacket off in signature Lomax style. Every speech was a photo op, and he wasn’t going to lose his roll-up-the-shirtsleeves-and-get-to-work look—at least not this close to the election.
Emma slipped away but stopped halfway down the hall at the entrance to the Gothic Room. It was a private area set up as a staging room of sorts for the candidate and his entourage. But it was empty now, all of his supporters out listening to the speech.
Emma noticed a blue blazer draped over a chair—where Lomax had placed it before the speech—and the wheels began to turn in her head.
Emma had been given no choice but to accept the division chief’s decision not to subpoena Lomax and force him to submit to a DNA test. But Emma feared that both she and, to an even greater extent, Glenda Garrisen were letting personal feelings stand in the way of prosecutorial objectivity. To Emma, a comparison of Lomax’s DNA to the DNA found at the scene of the accident made sense, even though she might not like the answer.
And Doug had been absolutely right: Lomax
did
seem agitated at the mere mention of added publicity for the Chelsea James case.
Emma entered the room and walked toward the jacket. She had an idea in her head, but with each step it became clearer that no matter how strong her feelings, she would never find the nerve to reach inside Lomax’s jacket and remove his comb. But then she spotted it, right on the table with the rest of Lomax’s things: a hairbrush.
It would require only a few silver hairs to know the scientific truth. She plucked several strands from the bristles and tucked them into her handbag.
“Emma?”
She turned with a start, her heart in her throat.
It was Jenny Lomax.
Before Emma could even begin to wonder whether her old friend had seen anything, Jenny hurried over and gave her a huge hug. Obviously, she had nothing to worry about. Jenny pulled a flask from her sparkling evening bag and filled Emma’s glass.
“Vodka and cranberry,” she said. “Somebody has to get this party off the ground.”
Emma laughed as memory flashed of two rebellious teenagers drinking themselves silly on the lawn at Tanglewood after Jenny had sneaked too much of her father’s bourbon into their cherry Cokes.
“Cheers,” said Jenny.
“I can use it,” said Emma, her hands still shaking.
Arm in arm, the two old friends stepped out onto the terrace to join the crowd and give their enthusiastic applause for “the next United States senator from the great state of Rhode Island.”
The guests were gone by ten o’clock. Brandon Lomax was in the Gothic Room, resting in the Louis XIV–style armchair. His campaign manager was still too wound up to sit.