The Jane Austen Marriage Manual (15 page)

“You’ve had too much to drink, sir,” Bernardo said politely. He was obviously accustomed to dealing with the massive egos of the very rich. “You should stay here. I will see she gets home.”

Bernardo grabbed my hand and, giving Binky a reassuring pat on the shoulder, led me away. Sure, Bernardo wasn’t rich but it proved one thing. I may be homeless, broke, and unemployed, but I wasn’t desperate. I still wanted the whole package—and so far that meant one man: Scott Madewell. But until I could wrestle him away from Tatiana, Bernardo was a nice distraction.

I spent the next three nights with my Brazilian. Fawn was exasperated and couldn’t fathom why I would waste time on a fling when I should be focusing on Scott.

“But he’s with Tatiana,” I whined.

“And he’s going to stay with Tatiana unless you start showing your face more,” Fawn scolded me. “Really, besides sex, what could you possible have in common with Bernardo?”

It was true, Bernardo and I had nothing in common, but the sex was unbelievable. Although we also talked a lot; in fact, I learned about Brazil, about the village he came from and how poor his family was. His father had been a racehorse trainer and had taught him everything he knew about horses, but then his father was killed in a car accident and Bernardo had quit high school to provide for his family. He loved
horses and polo and was apparently a great player, but lacked the money to own ponies, so had accepted this job to be close to the animals he loved. I told him nothing of my situation. He was the one person in Palm Beach who I didn’t have to impress.

The Breakers, however, was impressed with my blog for
Haute
. It was going so well that the hotel not only offered to extend my stay an extra week, they moved me to my own private beach bungalow. Jennifer loved the blog, too. I simply avoided answering any direct questions about how my experiment in finding a wealthy bachelor was going. The fewer people who knew about Bernardo the better.

It was our fourth night together and as the smell of Brazilian steak wafted in from the patio, I gathered up the appetizers Bernardo had made and carried them outside. He stood there in his white tank top and dark denim jeans and poured us two glasses of pinot grigio from a frosty green bottle.

“You like my new digs?” I asked proudly.

“Dig?” he repeated.

I waved my arms around, taking in the bungalow and the view. “My bungalow.”

“You bought it?”

“The hotel gave it to me,” I said. “Because I was a good girl.”

He grabbed me by the waist and pulled me inside his massive arms. “And why shouldn’t the hotel treat you this way? They are lucky to have someone of your class here. This is how it should be.”

I grinned. “I suppose you’re right. Lady Katie deserves a house of her own.” We burst out laughing.

Later that night the sex was as great as ever, but when we were finished Bernardo sat up and stared out the patio door into the darkness. I wanted to cuddle, so I reached for his arm and tried to make him hold me but he wouldn’t touch me.

“Are you okay?” I asked, wide awake with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“I shouldn’t say,” he spoke softly. “It’s hard to discuss with a woman like you.”

My curiosity went into overdrive. There’s nothing more titillating than a gorgeous naked man with a secret.

“You can tell me anything,” I prodded.

“I want to ask you something but I’m afraid of your answer,” he said without looking at me.

I turned his head toward me so that I could see into his eyes. He looked longingly at me and we kissed. But as his lips pressed mine I had a horrible sinking feeling that I was about to receive a marriage proposal.

He pulled away and smiled. “I shouldn’t be ashamed to ask, we are practically in love.”

Ashamed? In love? What the fuck was “practically”? I decided to try to stop him before it became embarrassing. I could only imagine Fawn’s reaction.

“Bernardo, look,” I said warmly and touched his thigh. “I’ve loved our time together but I’m not looking for a commitment.”

Without missing a beat he smiled and said, “Neither am I. I need money.”

I snatched my hand from his thigh as if it were on fire. “Money?” I stammered. “How much money?”

“Not much for you, Lady Katie,” he said swiftly, beaming those white teeth at me the way he did that night at Orietta’s dinner party. “I want to buy a string of polo ponies; I know of an Argentinean player who needs money and will sell to me dirt cheap. You can be a sponsor, if you like.”

“If I like?” I snapped. “What makes you think I have enough money to buy a string of horses? I don’t even
like
horses!”

“But Lady Katie,” he continued. “You don’t understand because you are rich. When you are rich and an aristocrat, people give you things, like this bungalow. But when you are poor, people try and keep you that way. I want to be a player and I deserve it.”

The tables had turned. I was sleeping with a man who was a gold digger. He wasn’t interested in me. He wanted my money. He had taken me literally when I said the hotel had
given
me the bungalow. This stable boy was better at gold digging than I was. I was suddenly horrified by the thought that maybe he was sleeping with someone he didn’t find attractive because he needed the money and that someone was
me
. Just the possibility felt a whole lot worse than when Chris left
me for that other, younger woman. I’d never felt so used. I was hurt and livid, and yes, a hypocrite.

“I can’t help you,” I said at last.

His demeanor changed at once and he got up from the bed and began dressing in the dark, muttering in Portuguese.

“What are you saying?” I asked, knowing as I watched him dress it would be the last time I’d ever see him.

“You don’t want to know!” he shouted.

“I wish you weren’t angry,” I said quietly. There was no way I was going to confess my situation to him. I couldn’t risk it.

“Don’t tell me how to feel!” he continued to shout. “You used me!”

I laughed out loud. “You’re the one who wants the cash!” But I stopped myself there. I wanted cash, too. “Bernardo, I can’t explain, but trust me I don’t have the money you want.”

“Trust me,” he growled, now fully dressed and poised in the doorframe. “You are no lady.”

And with that he stormed off.

“Ain’t that the truth,” I said to the empty room.

With a deep breath, I climbed out of bed and stood staring at the ocean for what seemed like forever. I had wasted precious time on a fling. Enough was enough. I had to get serious. No more Bernardos. I strolled onto the veranda and poured the leftover pinot grigio into my glass. It was no longer chilled so I tossed in a fading ice cube for good measure and took a sip, feeling as leftover and lukewarm as the wine, alone and forgotten, waiting to be tossed out after the party was over.

C
hristmas came and went exactly as I had imagined. I had flown back from Palm Beach on Christmas Eve and spent the night tossing about on Ann’s blue sofa, missing my king-size bed at The Breakers.

In the morning we opened presents, a ritual that no longer seemed right without my grandmother. But we tried to keep our spirits up. I had splurged on Ann and picked up a beautiful gold-and-turquoise silk beach caftan on Worth Avenue. She adored it and immediately pulled it over her flannel nightgown.

“It’s gorgeous! It looks like it was spun from turquoise and gold dust.” She beamed and twirled around like a music box dancer. “I’m wearing it all day.”

“Over your flannel nightie? That’s a look I’ve never seen before,” Iris cracked.

“I don’t care,” Ann retorted. “It’s mine and I’ll wear it anyway I please.”

“Exactly,” I said, slightly irritated by my mother’s tone. She had avoided me since I’d come home. Ann said she’d caught Iris at a bingo hall more than once since I’d left. I would talk to her about it later but Christmas morning was not the time.

Ann handed me a thin, gold rectangular box tied with a green grosgrain ribbon. I gently untied the ribbon and tore the gold wrapping
as neatly as I could, too neatly, for Ann rolled her eyes impatiently.

“Good God, Kate, you used to rip gifts to shreds,” she said playfully.

I laughed and yanked off the paper, revealing a blue box. I held it to my ear and gently gave it a shake. As children we had done this with all our presents, hoping that a muffled rattle would reveal all. It rarely did. I heard nothing, which made Ann giggle.

“Knew you’d do that,” she said, remembering our childhood game. “It’s shake proof.”

The box had a hinge; I opened the lid slowly until it snapped back. What was inside made me gasp. It was a string of pearls the size of marbles in shades of pink, black, sand, and white, each pearl separated by a couple of inches of fine gold chain.

“Ann,” I spoke softly. “These are unbelievable.”

“Try them on,” she coaxed.

“How did you afford those?” Iris asked jealously.

“They’re not new,” Ann explained. “I got them at a pawn shop. This recession has them hopping. The owner said that tons of people come to him for a quick loan instead of a bank. No one claimed these so I picked them up. I thought you might need them …”

We exchanged knowing glances. A string of real pearls would add luster to my role as Lady Kate. I stood barefoot in front of Ann’s full-length mirror in the black slip I always slept in and did up the clasp. They really were exquisite. For a brief moment, I felt sympathy for the woman out there who was spending Christmas missing her pearls, having lost them through circumstances beyond her control. But only briefly did I entertain such thoughts because whatever misfortune had befallen its previous owner, the strand of pearls looked made for me, a muted rainbow of gumballs that I hoped would lead to a pot of gold.

“Isn’t that your grandmother’s slip?” Iris asked suddenly as if I’d stolen it. “It is,” I answered solemnly. Nana had bought it in the 1940s and had given it to me because she knew how much I loved vintage clothes.

“Ann, these are stunning. You have awesome taste.” I grinned,
ignoring Iris’s glare. “I never thought I’d own real pearls. And such large ones!”

“Your grandmother used to say that pearls meant tears,” Iris muttered loudly enough for all to hear.

“Nana was very superstitious,” I snapped.

“Pearls mean tears?” Ann repeated softly, a hint of anxiety in her voice. She had always followed my grandmother’s superstitions to the letter.

Acting blissfully unaware of Iris’s warning, I stroked my pearls as if they were a Himalayan cat.

“Just like you can’t give a knife as a gift because it cuts the friendship,” my mother continued. “Or leave a hat on the table.”

“Hat on a
bed
,” I corrected her and then felt a fool for letting myself fall into her trap. “Never leave
shoes
on a table.” Then I spun around and, as joyously as I could, glided across the parquet floor twirling my pearls.

“You don’t have to keep them,” Ann offered shakily. “I can take them back.”

I halted my dance abruptly at the edge of the Christmas tree, my arm accidentally brushing its branches, causing the glass ornaments to rattle and twinkle. It sounded like music, but as it faded I turned back to my mother.

“Not on your life!” I answered defiantly. “I don’t believe in superstitions.”

“The woman who owned them before must have had bad luck to lose them,” Ann pointed out cryptically.

“Ann’s right,” Iris announced triumphantly at having ruined my gift.

“You can’t be serious?” I continued, my voice rattling like the shaken ornaments. “If you think that I could cry any more than I have these past few months, you’re mistaken.” As I spoke, I wound the strand of pearls tighter and tighter around my wrist until I felt the sting of the chain cutting into my flesh. “And you know what else? I cried all of those tears without a single pearl in my possession.”

“So, you’re keeping them, then?” Iris said sarcastically.

“I am,” I answered and forced a smile even though I was shaking.
“Ann is going to wear her caftan over her flannel all day, I will wear my pearls over my slip all day.”

“And what am I going to wear?” Iris asked sulkily.

“Try this,” I said and grabbed a large pink box from under the tree. It was from Florida. I knew Iris and my grandmother had always longed to winter there, but it was the best I could manage for now. She opened the box and unfolded the pink tissue paper to reveal the long pink-and-white sarong with matching one-piece swimsuit beneath it. Her eyes widened in excitement and tears swelled up momentarily, but she was quick to wipe them away.

“I love it!” she gushed. “Straight from Florida.”

“From Palm Beach,” I corrected. “The best part of the state.”

“I’m going to try it on,” she shouted and fled the room.

Ann looked up at me and smiled. “That was nice of you.”

I shrugged. “We all have to have some sun and warmth in our lives.”

I used to love Christmas. I had always been able to look past the tacky shop decor and the bombardment of ads hawking giant televisions. I loved the spirit of the holiday, albeit not in a religious way. Baking, decorating the tree, roasting turkey, my grandmother had taught me everything, but this year I didn’t have it in me. For Ann’s sake, I put on my best game face as she struggled to keep the mood light. The three of us stayed indoors all day wearing our presents. Iris had not bought us anything. We had asked her to save her money for her debt. Instead, she had made us gingerbread cookies. This being Iris, they were a bit burned, but we ate them anyway. I knew I had to discuss the gambling with Iris, but it was tough to talk seriously about anything when she was wearing only a swimsuit and sarong.

“Ann said you were still gambling?” I asked pointedly.

“No!” she snapped. “Bingo is all. I haven’t gone once to the casino since your grandmother died.”