Mortal Friends (6 page)

“Well, say they’re married to an important man, or they hold some
big job, they have to tread cautiously. Don’t forget this is Washington. Anything you say will be repeated and held against you. That’s why so many people act like they’re on a job interview or in front of a camera…. Take my word for it, Grider’s smitten with you. And he’s a powerful man. I was getting a little jealous.”

“That’s funny, because I was getting a little jealous of you and Cynthia. You looked like you couldn’t take your eyes off her.”

Bob chuckled. “That’s because I was in disbelief. I never met a woman who sounded more like she was running for office with no office in sight. No…she’s a ball-buster, but that figures. Shy women don’t make fortunes, believe me.”

It was nice to think that Bob had been watching me as much as I’d been watching him. I couldn’t wait to tell Violet that the seating had worked out so well, since Bob was turned on by Grider’s attentions to me.

We pulled up to my house. Maxwell came around and opened the door for us, and Bob walked me up to my front door. I let him kiss me good night, and I have to say that he took my breath away. Still, I didn’t ask him in.

“What are you doing for dinner?” he asked.

“When?”

“How about for the foreseeable future?”

I thought he was kidding.

H
e wasn’t…. For the next month, Bob Poll gilded me with so much attention I was practically glowing in the dark. I’m talking about bright gold glittery attention the likes of which I hadn’t received since I was a luscious babe in my twenties. Roses every day, dinners every night, evenings at the Kennedy Center, receptions at the National Gallery, the Phillips, the Corcoran, the Smithsonian, the National Portrait Gallery.

Bob didn’t enjoy the cultural part of the evenings as much as he did the social part. He was much more interested in the intermissions than in the shows. He liked to mix and mingle and be seen. He actually looked forward to the big gala dinners most people dreaded. I was just the opposite. I loved the shows far more than the socializing. It was such a treat seeing Claudio Piccere and Norma Jessup sing
Aïda
at the opening night of the Washington National Opera. Although when Bob leaned in and whispered to me, “I wish they’d shut up and die already. I’m famished,” it kind of broke the spell.

However, when Bob saw how much I loved the arts, he made an effort to discuss the productions we saw rather than treating them as tiresome preludes to a party. My efforts to get him to appreciate culture were not always successful. I caught him nodding off during the Bolshoi’s splendid production of
La Bayadère
—but the minute I gently nudged him, he roused himself, grabbed my hand, and kissed it gently, as if to thank me.

For the first time in what seemed like an eon, I was having fun. I’d forgotten what it was like to get all dressed up and go somewhere
glamorous on the arm of an attractive and important man. The juices were flowing. I was basking in the fun. If I wanted to see a certain production or exhibition, I merely had to mention it to Bob, and that night we had tickets. Bang—just like that!

Every time Maxwell drove us up to the front of the Kennedy Center or the National Gallery or just about any place, people stopped and stared at that fabulous hunter green Rolls and then at us as we got out. We always had the best seats in the house and the best tables at gala dinners. We were photographed and written up in the columns. The number of “important” people who suddenly took an interest in me was staggering. People who barely knew me, people who wouldn’t have spit on me before, now made beelines across crowded rooms “just to say hello.” All because I was dating Bob.

I told Violet how much I liked Bob and how my status in life had suddenly changed because I was seeing him. She said wisely: “Listen, Rev, when there’s a new queen on the horizon, people want to jump on her golden coach so she won’t forget them if she makes it to the throne. And you may make it. Just don’t sleep with him.”

In between the obligations of this hectic social life, Bob and I managed to wedge in a few cozy dinners at good restaurants where we swapped heavily edited versions of our life stories. I knew the unexpurgated versions would come later when we got to know each other better. Bob’s thumbnail sketch was that he’d been married once and had two grown children, a boy and girl, of whom he was obviously fond and proud. The boy owned a large organic farm in Kentucky; the girl was a dermatologist in California. He was loath to talk about his first wife. When I asked him why he’d gotten divorced, he simply said, “We were married young and grew apart”—a safe, stock answer upon which he refused to elaborate.

Another taboo was Melody. When I broached the subject, he absolutely refused to talk about her—which Violet assured me was a good sign.

“When they talk about the exes, it means they’re not over them,” she said confidently.

Bob asked me quite a bit about my own life, which was a novelty right there. Most of the men I’d dated in Washington were only interested in talking about themselves—what Violet and I dubbed the “I-I-I” syndrome, pronounced
Aiyaiyai
. I could call Violet after a date
and say simply, “Aiyaiyai!” and she’d know exactly how the evening went.

I glossed over the topic of my ex-husband, putting a humorous cast on our doomed marriage. “I thought he had talent. He thought I had money. We were both wrong.” Enough said.

Bob seemed very interested in the fact that Grant had been an old beau of mine, and that I’d actually introduced him to Violet.

“Grant’s a rich, good-looking guy. How come you didn’t grab him?” he asked me.

I explained that talking to Grant was like playing tennis against a backboard. I always felt like I was getting my own shot back. I refrained from telling him about a sexual encounter I had with Grant, much as I would have liked to, as it explained a lot.

One night not too long after we started dating, Grant had invited me back to his house after dinner. In the midst of some hot and heavy petting on the couch, he got up and excused himself. I sat in the living room, flushed with passion, I admit, anxious for him to return. Half an hour later with no sign of him, I went searching for him. I went upstairs and found his bedroom. The scent of pine air freshener filled the room. The bed was neatly turned down. A wrapped condom lay atop a pillow. Grant’s suit and tie were hanging on a silent butler stand in the corner, his shoes and socks placed neatly underneath. I heard tap water running and called out to him. Grant emerged from the steamy bathroom, toothbrush in hand, all showered and combed, wearing pajamas and slippers. He said, “Your turn. I ran you a bath.”

Well, that just kind of killed the mood, if you know what I mean.

Whenever I thought I’d missed an opportunity by not snagging Grant, I consoled myself with the memory of that night. But deep down, I knew that Grant never would have married me under any circumstances. I was much too outspoken and willful to accommodate the never-ending social ambitions of the Bolton family. The truth is, I didn’t care all that much about social life, unlike Violet, who helped cement Grant’s social status at every turn. Besides, Rainy didn’t care for me. She thought me frivolous and flighty. That fact alone was the kiss of death for any hopes I might have entertained.

Ignoring Violet’s sage advice, I slept with Bob about two weeks into our
dating frenzy. I won’t go into detail. Let’s just say he was competent, and Rosina asked me if I was using different makeup. After that, we always made love at my house, not his. He clearly didn’t want his space invaded, although he was very proud of that oversize glass box overlooking the Potomac. He never failed to drop the name of the award-winning architect who had designed it, which was completely lost on me.

His house reminded me of an airport terminal. The decoration was modern and minimal, with lots of leather, steel, and Plexiglas furniture and a few obsessively chosen knickknacks—like the twisty, rainbow-colored Chihuly glass sculpture on the coffee table in the living room and the brass sculpture of a rhinoceros on the mantelpiece in his bedroom. He had four Warhol soup can silk screens in the dining room, plus some other contemporary art I didn’t quite appreciate. The whole place was cold, not cozy. And much too neat. Bob loved order. The first time I went there, I threw my coat on one of the two clear Plexiglas hall chairs, and he immediately hung it up. The house wasn’t my style, but it was stylish in its arctic way and certainly an anomaly for Washington, which is still mired in mahogany for the most part.

Like any best friend, Violet was eager for my happiness. She wanted me to find true love and settle down like she had. While I knew she disapproved of me sleeping with Bob so soon, I also knew she was rooting for me. Over the years, she’d fixed me up with several candidates, none of whom ever seemed to work out. But that didn’t stop her from trying. The minute I told her Bob was courting me in such a big way, she was thrilled. “He’s ready. You’re ready. You’re perfect for each other. It’s all perfect!” she said.

While I appreciated her optimism, I felt it was slightly suspect. When Bob was dating Melody, Violet used to say things like, “I pity that poor girl. Bob’s never going to marry her. Plus he’s kinda weird, dontcha think?” In the past she’d often referred to him as “Kinky Bob” because of the rumors about his “dark side.” But the rumors weren’t that specific. They were just free-floating, run-of-the-gossip-mill rumors. Then when Bob started dating me, Violet completely changed her tune about him. She obviously didn’t want to put a damper on things, unlike Rosina, who made the unwelcome observation that Bob was a little
too
attentive.

“Like he is trying to forget someone else,” were Rosina’s exact words.

I paid no attention. I teased her that she was just jealous because I got to ride in Bob’s Rolls Royce, and I knew how much she loved that car. Rosina used to stand and stare out the window like a starstruck fan whenever Maxwell pulled up in front of the shop.

“Before he breaks up with you, will you ask him to give me a ride?” she asked me.

I countered: “After I
marry
him and you’re my maid of honor, I’ll
buy
you a Rolls of your very own.”

That shut her up.

Rosina’s skepticism notwithstanding, I was in heaven—floating on top of the universe, enjoying every second of this unexpected midlife romance. I remember sitting in my office having just ordered the fabric for the curtains in Cynthia’s dining room, thinking how well things were going for a change. I had a fabulous new man, a great new project, and I was feeling really good about myself and about life in general. Of course, that’s just the time you know you’re gonna fall and break your neck…or someone’s gonna break it for you.

T
he media frenzy over the murder in Montrose Park had finally died down. That didn’t mean Violet’s passion for the subject abated. She scoured the Internet and obscure publications for scraps about the murder. Finally, she announced to me in dismay, “I think the case has gone cold.” She wasn’t the only one. I’d seen Gunner earlier in the week, and he seemed disheartened as well. I tried to amuse him with funny social stories, but he was clearly brooding about the case.

“It’s like waiting for a personal terrorist attack,” he said. “It’s gonna happen. We just don’t know how or when.”

Everyone was on edge. There were still warnings posted to avoid jogging or walking alone in Montrose Park. Only Violet was ready to brave the woods again. I forbade her to go alone. We took little forays into the forest on our jogs, but we were cautious. Even Violet turned around before we got in too deep.

The next big thing that happened was that Cynthia flew Violet and Grant down to Acapulco on her private plane for a “Rinehart Retreat,” which Cynthia described in the press as “a conference to discuss global giving.” Apparently, it was more productive to talk about world poverty in a rich resort.

I was surprised Violet and Grant went. The Bolton family was usually much more low key, preferring to keep their philanthropic efforts private. Violet came back from the three-day trip raving about all the famous people she’d met. It sounded like a mighty impressive group—including former heads of state, Nobel Prize winners, and plenty of what Violet called “celebrity tinsel.”

That Saturday, a big article appeared in the
Washington Post
, entitled, “Charitable Trailblazer: Cynthia Rinehart and the New Philanthropy.” A large color picture of Cynthia took up nearly the entire front page of the Style section. She was standing in front of the Kennedy Center with her arms outstretched like she was inviting the world into her own private house. It was a puff piece, describing the origins of Cynthia’s fortune and her philanthropic plans.

What I found most interesting was how Cynthia arrived on the scene out of nowhere with scads of money, and everyone just took it for granted that she was on the up-and-up. Like Violet, people had only the vaguest idea how she made her fortune. No one in Washington seemed to care that much where Cynthia’s money was from—only that there was a ton of it, and that she was giving it away.

When that article came out, we learned how brilliant she was. Violet had told me that Cynthia made all her money in the insurance business. But it was
how
she made it that was so interesting. Her chief claim to fame was the invention of a specialized policy that defrayed the cost of hospice care, allowing the children or close relatives of a dying patient to take out a loan secured by the patient’s estate.

Although I didn’t particularly like Cynthia, after I read that article, I have to admit that I admired her. According to the piece, she had grown up dirt-poor in a tiny little town in North Carolina and worked her way up from scratch. She described how her dad got cancer and lingered for months in a hospice facility. His illness wiped out the family’s savings. She called it the “formative experience” of her youth.

After graduating from college with a degree in accounting, she went to work for a big insurance company in Charlotte, where she dealt with other families who had also been devastated by the prolonged illness of a loved one. She then created a specialized insurance plan specifically designed to cover only hospice care, and formed her very own company. I didn’t understand all the technical aspects, but clearly it was a brilliant and innovative idea. The fact that she figured out a way to save families from the extra burden of being financially ruined by an emotionally debilitating situation was particularly impressive. This niche market turned out to be a bonanza. Her little company expanded and became extremely profitable. She sold it to one of the big insurance carriers for a few hundred mil, which she immediately put into a foundation. A real American rags-to-riches success story.

The piece went on to describe Cynthia’s budding “philanthropic empire,” which included her Rinehart Retreats, her unprecedented one-hundred-million-dollar bequest to the Kennedy Center, and her bequest to the Folger, as well as several “smaller but significant” bequests to other charities and institutions around town. It mentioned that she had bought Gay Harding’s house and that she was quickly establishing herself as “a queenpin” in the charity world, as well as in Washington society.

Cynthia was quoted throughout, but the gist of all her comments was summed up at the end of the piece when she told the reporter:

Violet called to ask if I’d seen the article.

“How could I avoid it? Tell me something: You think Gay Harding ever called herself a trailblazer?” I asked her.

“I doubt even Daniel Boone ever called himself a trailblazer,” Violet said testily. “It’s just ridiculous. People should never talk to the press unless they have to.”

“Is Cynthia upset with the piece?”

“Are you kidding? She’s
thrilled
. I just talked to her. She just forges ahead. That’s what I love about her. She’s so positive about everything. And she sent me a gorgeous shawl from Pianissimo.”

“How come?”

“To thank me for all I’ve done for her. I mean, I’ve introduced her to everybody. Senator Pomador’s going on her board, thanks to me. And you know he’s going to bring some heavy hitters with him. I got you to do her house. And, to be honest, not only have I seen to it she’s in the right hands, I saved her from some really clunky clutches.”

Violet saw herself as a kind of puppet mistress and a power behind the scenes. She liked to think that if anyone wanted to make it socially in Washington, they had to pass muster with her first. Though she pretended to loathe publicity because the Bolton family ostentatiously
cultivated a low-key image, she never missed a chance to promote herself as one of Washington’s younger doyennes.

There were certainly splashier, more exciting hostesses in town, like Nouria Sahala, the gregarious wife of the Otanni ambassador, and Corinna Huff. But Violet set embassy social life apart from what she thought of as “real” social life, run by “cave dwellers” like herself—in other words, those whose fates and fortunes were as fixed as the sun and unaffected by a change of political power. Corinna Huff was in a class all by herself because she was married to the grand old man of the Senate, Barkley Huff, and they had the best house in Washington as well as the widest circle of influential friends in both politics and the media. Violet was a good deal younger than Corinna, and her group was less glitzy. But she could produce stars at her table—particularly philanthropic and political stars. Being married to the president of the Potomac Bank gave her a lot of clout. The influential Senator Pomador, chairman of the Appropriations Committee, was a case in point.

I have to admit that Violet’s friendship with Cynthia irked me on a number of levels, the chief being that she didn’t seem to see the Cynthia I saw. Cynthia treated Violet very differently from the way she treated me. Of course, Violet wasn’t working for Cynthia, and I was. However, even when you work for someone, they shouldn’t treat you rudely. Just the opposite, in fact.

Any time I made a date with Cynthia to meet me at the house to show her a piece of furniture I’d had especially carted in for her approval, either she would keep me waiting for two hours, or else she wouldn’t show up at all. It was impossible to pin her down. When I asked her what color she wanted the library, she said firmly, “Red.” “Any particular shade of red?” I said, and she replied, “That’s what I’m paying you for.” So I chose a warm red with a little blue in it, so it didn’t veer into orange. When she saw it, she had a fit, insisting that she hated red libraries and had specifically instructed me to paint it green. There was no point arguing with her, so I had it painted over. Then she screamed about the green being the wrong color. She constantly found fault and ignored what turned out well. She never paid her bills on time. It was a trial working for her.

In short, Violet didn’t see the tantrums and the dismissiveness and the contradictions. There was also Cynthia’s irritating refusal to talk to me in person, instead making me deal with her crisp-voiced secretary,
Ms. Fisk. But I’ve found that when a close friend gets involved with a new person, it’s best not to interfere or make derogatory comments. Let them find out for themselves if the friendship is or isn’t worth pursuing. My theory has always been, what they do to one they will do to another. I just decided to sit back and wait.

Bob invited me to be his date at the new British ambassador’s “Dinner for Friends,” the quaint name given to a dinner where many of the people were strangers to the recently arrived couple. I knew that Violet was going too, and I suggested we have lunch so she could fill me in on the new ambassador and we could discuss what we were going to wear and all that sort of thing. It was always fun for us to be invited to the same events—even more fun now that I was with Bob and not scrounging around for a date or going as an extra girl.

Unfortunately, at the last minute she called to cancel our lunch because of some emergency committee meeting. Violet was an eleemosynary workhorse, serving on numerous boards and always at the beck and call of all kinds of charities and worthy causes.

“Then I’m going home to collapse before the dinner,” she announced just before she hung up.

I decided to go over and do some work at Cynthia’s house to fill the time. At noon, I was in the dining room, trying to decide between the three orange stripe samples the painter had left, when I heard the front door open and shut. It was the weekend, and no one was supposed to be there. I went on the alert, in no small part because the house was so near Montrose Park. Everyone in Georgetown was wary. I suddenly had a terrible feeling that I was in danger—due, I’m sure, to the fact that Violet had instilled in me a great fear of the stealthy ways of serial killers.

“They hunt for human game,” she said. “If they’re clever, and they target you, you’re dead, believe me.”

With Violet’s words ringing in my ears, I stood very still, listening closely while planning my escape. Needless to say, I was vastly relieved when I heard a peal of laughter and recognized Cynthia’s voice. I figured she was there showing off the place to yet another person she wanted to impress. What luck, I thought. I can finally grab her to come take a look at the paint samples in person, rather than having to
arrange an appointment through Ms. Fisk—or worse, facing a repeat of the library fiasco.

I was on my way to say hi when I heard the other voice more distinctly. It was Grant. I knew that mid-Atlantic accent and scratchy drawl of his anywhere. I don’t know why, but something told me not to let on that I was there. I paused and listened to their insinuating sonatina laughter, which quickly segued into a fugue of low moans. Tiptoeing down the corridor, I peered around the corner into the front hall. I could hardly believe my eyes.

Grant—totem-pole, steel-rod-up-his-you-know-what, mega-WASP, withholding cheapskate Bolton—had morphed into an undulating porn star! His pants were down, Cynthia’s skirt was up, and the two of them were on the floor, going at it like a couple of ferrets. Seeing Grant make such passionate love was like watching a science fiction movie. In fact, I was so shocked that all I could think was what a good thing it was that I’d just had the place steam-cleaned, or else they would have been fucking in a sea of dust.

I slipped quietly out the back door, praying to God they wouldn’t hear me. When I hit the street, my mind felt like a railroad station with trains pulling in and going out on fifty tracks. How was I supposed to handle this? Violet was my best friend. She and Grant had been married, what? fifteen years? They had the “perfect” marriage. And now, suddenly, in waltzed Morgan le Fay to wreck the whole thing—and
I’m
the one who had to find out about it? It wasn’t fair. I don’t want to know this, I thought. But how could I un-know it? How could I erase that terrible image and all its implications from my mind?

I walked back home in a stupor, wondering how long their affair had been going on. I pictured the four of us standing together at the Symphony Ball. Had it started back then? Before then? Was it a new development? Had Cynthia ordered those lightproof shutters for Grant?

One thing I was pretty sure of was that Cynthia had set her cap for Grant, rather than the other way around. I sincerely doubted that Mr. Unexcitement would have dared to make the first move. But how was that mummy of a man going to resist Cleopatra? However it started was ancient history; it was now going great guns, if that floor show was any indication.

To blab or not to blab, that was the question. Do I tell my best friend that her husband is an unfaithful bastard? Forget the fact that Grant was having an affair with Cynthia, my financial savior, who now owed me a ton of money? I couldn’t even begin to focus on that aspect of the situation, although I have to admit the thought crossed my mind. The thing I really had to examine was my relationship with Violet.

I loved Violet like a sister, perhaps even more so because there was no sibling rivalry between us—just pure, unadulterated friendship. The bonds of adolescence never entirely dissolve. When she and I were together, we felt young again and laughed a lot, in that schoolgirls-at-heart sort of way that magically erases the passage of time. We were lifelines to each other’s youth, guardians of our shared memories. We filled in each other’s blanks and spoke the shorthand of true friendship, which takes up where it left off, no matter how long the gap in between, and is always bigger than the sum of its parts. I couldn’t bear to see her hurt.