Morning Noon & Night (9 page)

He turned to Julia. “There’s a delicatessen down the block. I’ll have a corned beef sandwich on rye with mustard, potato salad, and a Danish.”

“Oh.”
So much for “They’re inviting me to lunch.”

Tolkin said, “I’ll have a pastrami and some chicken soup.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bob Eastman spoke up. “I’ll have the pot roast platter and a soft drink.”

“Oh, make sure the corned beef is lean,” Al Peters told her.

“Lean corned beef.”

Max Tolkin said, “Make sure that the soup is hot.”

“Right. Soup hot.”

Bob Eastman said, “Make my soft drink a diet cola.”

“Diet cola.”

“Here’s some money.” Al Peters handed her a twenty-dollar bill.

Ten minutes later, Julia was in the delicatessen, talking to the man behind the counter. “I want one lean corned beef sandwich on rye with mustard, potato salad, and a Danish. A pastrami sandwich and very hot chicken soup. And a pot roast platter and diet cola.”

The man nodded. “You work for Peters, Eastman, and Tolkin, huh?”

Julia and Sally moved into the apartment in Overland Park the following week. The apartment consisted of two small bedrooms, a living room with furniture that had seen too many tenants, a kitchenette, dinette, and a bathroom.
They’ll never confuse this place with The Ritz
, Julia thought.

“We’ll take turns at cooking,” Sally suggested.

“Fine.”

Sally prepared the first meal, and it was delicious.

The next night was Julia’s turn. Sally took one bite of the dish that Julia had made and said, “Julia, I don’t have a lot
of life insurance. Why don’t I do the cooking and you do the cleaning?”

The two roommates got along well. On weekends, they would go to see movies at the Glenwood 4, and shop at the Bannister Mall. They bought their clothes at the Super Flea Discount House. One night a week they went out to an inexpensive restaurant for dinner—Stephenson’s Old Apple Farm or the Café Max for Mediterranean specialties. When they could afford it, they would drop in at Charlie Charlies to hear jazz.

Julia enjoyed working for Peters, Eastman & Tolkin. To say that the firm was not doing well was an understatement. Clients were scarce. Julia felt that she wasn’t doing much to help build the skyline of the city, but she enjoyed being around her three bosses. They were like a surrogate family, and each one confided his problems to Julia. She was capable and efficient, and she very quickly reorganized the office.

Julia decided to do something about the lack of clients. But what? She soon had the answer. There was an item in the
Kansas City Star
about a luncheon for a new executive women’s
organization. The chairperson was Susan Bandy.

The following day, at noon, Julia said to Al Peters, “I may be a little late coming back from lunch.”

He smiled. “No problem, Julia.” He thought how lucky they were to have her.

Julia arrived at the Plaza Inn and went to the room where the luncheon was being given. The woman seated at the table near the door said, “May I help you?”

“Yes. I’m here for the Executive Women’s luncheon.”

“Your name?”

“Julia Stanford.”

The woman looked at the list in front of her. “I’m afraid I don’t see your—”

Julia smiled. “Isn’t that just like Susan? I’ll have to have a talk with her. I’m the executive secretary with Peters, Eastman, and Tolkin.”

The woman looked uncertain. “Well…”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll just go in and find Susan.”

In the banquet room was a group of well-dressed women chatting among themselves. Julia approached one of them. “Which one is Susan Bandy?”

“She’s over there.” She indicated a tall, striking-looking woman in her forties.

Julia went up to her. “Hi. I’m Julia Stanford.”

“Hello.”

“I’m with Peters, Eastman, and Tolkin. I’m sure you’ve heard of them.”

“Well, I…”

“They’re the fastest growing architectural firm in Kansas City.”

“I see.”

“I don’t have a lot of time to spare, but I would like to contribute whatever I can to the organization.”

“Well, that’s very kind of you, Miss…?”

“Stanford.”

That was the beginning.

The Executive Women’s organization represented most of the top firms in Kansas City, and in no time at all, Julia was networking with them. She had lunch with one or more of the individual members at least once a week.

“Our company is going to put up a new building in Olathe.”

And Julia would immediately report back to her bosses.

“Mr. Hanley wants to build a summer home in Tonganoxie.”

And before anyone else found out about it, Peters, Eastman & Tolkin had the jobs.

Bob Eastman called Julia in one day and said, “You deserve a raise, Julia. You’re doing a great job. You’re one hell of a secretary!”

“Would you do me a favor?” Julia asked.

“Sure.

“Call me an executive secretary. It will help my credibility.”

From time to time, Julia would read newspaper articles about her father, or watch him being interviewed on television. She never mentioned him to Sally or to any of her employers.

When Julia was younger, one of her daydreams had been that, like Dorothy, she would one day be whisked away from Kansas to some beautiful, magical place. It would be a place filled with yachts and private planes and palaces. But now, with the news of her father’s death, that dream was ended forever.
Well, I got the Kansas part right
, she thought wryly.

I have no family left. But I do
, Julia corrected herself.
I have two half brothers and a half sister. They’re family. Should I go visit them? Good idea? Bad idea? I wonder how we would feel about one another?

Her decision turned out to be a matter of life or death.

I
t was the gathering of a clan of strangers. It had been years since they had seen or communicated with one another.

Judge Tyler Stanford arrived in Boston by plane.

Kendall Stanford Renaud flew in from Paris. Marc Renaud took the train from New York.

Woody Stanford and Peggy drove up from Hobe Sound.

The heirs had been notified that the funeral services would take place at King’s Chapel. The street outside the church was barricaded, and there were policemen to hold back the crowd that had gathered to watch the dignitaries arrive. The vice president of the United States was there, as well as senators and ambassadors and statesmen from as far away as Turkey and Saudi Arabia. During his lifetime, Harry Stanford had cast a large shadow, and all seven hundred seats in the chapel would be occupied.

Tyler and Woody and Kendall, with their spouses, met inside the vestry. It was an awkward meeting. They were alien to one another, and the only thing they had in common was the body of the man in the hearse outside the church.

“This is my husband, Marc,” Kendall said.

“This is my wife, Peggy. Peggy, my sister, Kendall, and my brother, Tyler.”

There were polite exchanges of hellos. They stood there, uncomfortably studying one another, until an usher came up to the group.

“Excuse me,” he said in a hushed voice. “The services are about to begin. Would you follow me, please?”

He led them to a reserved pew at the front of the chapel. They took their seats and waited, each preoccupied with his or her own thoughts.

To Tyler, it felt strange to be back in Boston. The only good memories he had of it were when his mother and Rosemary were alive. When he was eleven, Tyler had seen a print of the famous Goya painting
Saturn Devouring His Son
, and he had always identified it with his father.

And now, Tyler, looking over at his father’s coffin as it was carried into the church by the pallbearers, thought,
Saturn is dead
.

“I know your dirty little secret.”

The minister stepped into the chapel’s historic wineglass-shaped pulpit.

“Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.”

Woody was feeling exhilarated. He had taken a hit of heroin before coming to the church, and it had not worn off yet. He glanced over at his brother and sister.
Tyler has put on weight. He looks like a judge. Kendall has turned into a beauty, but she seems to be under a strain. I wonder if it’s because Father died? No. She hated him as much as I did
. He looked at his wife, seated next to him.
I’m sorry I didn’t get to show her off to the old man. He would have died of a heart attack
.

The minister was speaking.

“Like as a father pitieth
his
children,
so
the Lord pitieth them that fear him. For he knoweth our frame; he remembereth that we are dust.”

Kendall was not listening to the service. She was thinking about the red dress. Her father had telephoned her in New York one afternoon.

“So you’ve become a big-shot designer, have you? Well, let’s see how good you are. I’m taking my new girlfriend to a charity ball Saturday night. She’s your size. I want you to design a dress for her.”

“By Saturday? I can’t, Father. I…”

“You’ll do it.”

And she had designed the ugliest dress she could conceive of. It had a large black bow in front and yards of ribbons and lace. It was a monstrosity. She had sent it to her father, and he had telephoned her again.

“I got the dress. By the way, my girlfriend can’t make it Saturday, so you’re going to be my date, and you’re going to wear that dress.”

“No!”

And then the terrible phrase:
“You don’t want to disappoint me, do you?”

And she had gone, not daring to change the dress, and had spent the most humiliating evening of her life.

“For we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.

“The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord!”

Peggy Stanford was uncomfortable. She was awed by the splendor of the huge church and the elegant-looking people
in it. She had never been to Boston before, and to her it meant the world of Stanfords, with all its pomp and glory. These people were so much better than she was. She took her husband’s hand.

“All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field…The grass withereth, the flower fad-eth; but the word of our God shall stand forever.”

Marc was thinking about the blackmail letter that his wife had received. It had been worded very carefully, very cleverly. It would be impossible to find out who was behind it. He looked at Kendall, seated next to him, pale and tense.
How much more can she take?
he wondered. He moved closer to her.

“…Unto God’s gracious mercy and protection we commit you. The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious unto you. The Lord lift up the light of his countenance upon you and give you peace, now and for ever. Amen.”

With the service finished, the minister announced, “The burial services will be private—family members only.”

Tyler looked at the coffin and thought about the body inside. Last night, before the casket was sealed, he had gone straight from Boston’s Logan International Airport to the viewing at the funeral home.

He wanted to see his father dead.

Woody watched as the coffin was carried out of the church past the staring mourners, and he smiled:
Give the people what they want
.

The graveside ceremony at the old Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge was brief. The family watched Harry Stanford’s body being lowered to its final resting place, and as the dirt was being thrown onto the casket, the minister said, “There’s no need for you to stay any longer if you don’t wish to.”

Woody nodded. “Right.” The effect of the heroin was beginning to wear off, and he was starting to feel jittery. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Marc said, “Where are we going?”

Tyler turned to the group. “We’re staying at Rose Hill. It’s all been arranged. We’ll stay there until the estate is settled.”

A few minutes later, they were in limousines on their way to the house.

Boston had a strict social hierarchy. The nouveau riche lived on Commonwealth Avenue, and the social climbers on Newbury Street. Less-affluent old families lived on Marlborough Street. Back Bay was the city’s newest and most prestigious address, but Beacon Hill was still the citadel for Boston’s oldest and wealthiest families. It was a rich mixture of Victorian town houses and brownstones, old churches, and chic shopping areas.

Rose Hill, the Stanford estate, was a beautiful old Victorian house that stood amid three acres of land on Beacon Hill. The house that the Stanford children had grown up in was filled with unpleasant memories. When the limousines arrived in front of the house, the passengers got out and stared up at the old mansion.

“I can’t believe Father isn’t going to be inside, waiting for us,” Kendall said.

Woody grinned. “He’s too busy trying to run things in hell.”

Tyler took a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

As they approached the front door, it opened, and Clark, the butler, stood there. He was in his seventies, a dignified, capable servant who had worked at Rose Hill for more than thirty years. He had watched the children grow up, and had lived through all the scandals.

Clark’s face lit up as he saw the group. “Good afternoon!”

Kendall gave him a warm hug. “Clark, it’s so good to see you again.”

“It’s been a long time, Miss Kendall.”

“It’s Mrs. Renaud now. This is my husband, Marc.”

“How do you do, sir?”

“My wife has told me a great deal about you.”

“Nothing too terrible I hope, sir.”

“On the contrary. She has only fond memories of you.”

“Thank you, sir.” Clark turned to Tyler. “Good afternoon, Judge Stanford.”

“Hello, Clark.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you, sir.”

“Thank you. You’re looking very well.”

“So are you, sir. I’m so sorry about what has happened.”

“Thank you. Are you set up here to take care of all of us?”

“Oh, yes. I think we can make everyone comfortable.”

“Am I in my old room?”

Clark smiled. “That’s right.” He turned to Woody. “I’m pleased to see you, Mr. Woodrow. I want to—”

Woody grabbed Peggy’s arm. “Come on,” he said curtly. “I want to get freshened up.”

The others watched as Woody pushed past them and took Peggy upstairs.

The rest of the group walked into the huge drawing room. The room was dominated by a pair of massive Louis XIV armoires. Scattered around the room were a giltwood console table with a molded marble top, and an array of exquisite period chairs and couches. An ormolu chandelier hung from the high ceiling. On the walls were dark medieval paintings.

Clark turned to Tyler. “Judge Stanford, I have a message for you. Mr. Simon Fitzgerald would like you to telephone him to tell him when it would be convenient to arrange a meeting with the family.”

“Who is Simon Fitzgerald?” Marc asked.

Kendall replied. “He’s the family attorney. Father has been with him forever but we’ve never met him.”

“I presume he wants to discuss the disposition of the estate,” Tyler said. He turned to the others. “If it’s all right with all of you, I’ll arrange for him to meet us here tomorrow morning.”

“That will be fine,” Kendall said.

“The chef is preparing dinner,” Clark told them. “Will eight o’clock be satisfactory?”

“Yes,” Tyler said. “Thank you.”

“Eva and Millie will show you to your rooms.”

Tyler turned to his sister and her husband. “We’ll meet down here at eight, shall we?”

As Woody and Peggy entered their bedroom upstairs, Peggy asked, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Woody snapped. “Leave me alone.”

She watched him go into the bathroom and slam the door shut. She stood there, waiting.

Ten minutes later, Woody came out. He was smiling. “Hi, baby.”

“Hi.”

“Well, how do you like the old house?”

“It’s…it’s enormous.”

“It’s a monstrosity.” He walked over to the bed and put his arms around Peggy. “This is my old room. These walls were covered with sports posters—the Bruins, the Celtics, the Red Sox. I wanted to be an athlete. I had big dreams. In my senior year in boarding school, I was captain of the football team. I got offers of admission from half a dozen college coaches.”

“Which one did you take?”

He shook his head. “None of them. My father said they were only interested in the Stanford name, that they just wanted money from him. He sent me to an engineering school where they didn’t play football.” He was silent for a moment. Then he mumbled, “I could’a been a contenda…”

She looked at him puzzled. “What?”

He looked up. “Didn’t you ever see
On the Waterfront
?”

“No.”

“It was a line that Marlon Brando said. It means we both got screwed.”

“Your father must have been tough.”

Woody gave a short, derisive laugh. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said about him. I remember when I was just a kid, I fell off a horse. I wanted to get back on and ride again. My father wouldn’t let me. ‘You’ll never be a rider,’ he said. ‘You’re too clumsy.’” Woody looked up at her. “That’s why I became a nine-goal polo player.”

They came together at the dinner table, strangers to one another, seated in an uncomfortable silence, their only connection, childhood traumas.

Kendall looked around the room. Terrible memories mingled with an appreciation for its beauty. The dining table was classical French, an early Louis XV, surrounded by Directoire walnut chairs. In one corner was a blue-and-cream painted French provincial corner armoire. On the walls were drawings by Watteau and Fragonard.

Kendall turned to Tyler. “I read about your decision in the
Fiorello
case. He deserved what you gave him.”

“It must be exciting being a judge,” Peggy said.

“Sometimes it is.”

“What kind of cases do you handle?” Marc inquired.

“Criminal cases—rapes, drugs, murder.”

Kendall turned pale and started to say something, and Marc grabbed her hand and squeezed it as a warning.

Tyler said politely to Kendall, “You’ve become a successful designer.”

Kendall was finding it hard to breathe. “Yes.”

“She’s fantastic,” Marc said.

“And Marc, what do you do?”

“I’m with a brokerage house.”

“Oh, you’re one of those young Wall Street millionaires.”

“Well, not exactly, Judge. I’m really just getting started.”

Tyler gave Marc a patronizing look. “I guess it’s lucky you have a successful wife.”

Kendall blushed and whispered in Marc’s ear, “Pay no attention. Remember I love you.”

Woody was beginning to feel the effect of the drug. He turned to look at his wife. “Peggy could use some decent clothes,” he said. “But she doesn’t care how she looks. Do you, angel?”

Peggy sat there, embarrassed, not knowing what to say.

“Maybe a little waitress costume?” Woody suggested.

Peggy said, “Excuse me.” She got up from the table and fled upstairs.

They were all staring at Woody.

He grinned. “She’s oversensitive. So, we’re having a discussion about the will tomorrow, eh?”

“That’s right,” Tyler said.

“I’ll make you a bet the old man didn’t leave us one dime.”

Marc said, “But there’s so much money in the estate…”

Woody snorted. “You didn’t know our father. He probably left us his old jackets and a box of cigars. He liked to use his money to control us. His favorite line was ‘You don’t want to disappoint me, do you?’ And we all behaved like good little children because, as you said, there was so much money. Well, I’ll bet the old man found a way to take it with him.”

Tyler said, “We’ll know tomorrow, won’t we?”