The One That Got Away (11 page)

“Where’s Alley?” she said with eyes only half open. “I thought he was coming.”

“He’ll be here,” I said brightly, smiling at her and her young man. “He’s just running late.”

“Oh.”

“You look lovely, by the way.”

She ignored my compliment, then flicked her gloved hand toward her escort, looked up at the ceiling in boredom, and gave a perfunctory “You remember Kipper?”

“Sure,” I lied, shaking his hand. “Nice to see you again.”

“Likewise,” he said, a weak smile on his lips.

As we exchanged hellos, I felt her critical gaze fall on my dress, my hair, and my shoes, and suddenly I felt self-conscious, silly. But I decided not to let her intimidate me. I forced myself to stand up straighter and imitated her tilting chin, her bored expression.

Her eyes narrowed and her voice lowered as she looked at my ears. “If my grandmother saw you in those earrings, she would roll over in her grave. Our people never wear diamonds before eight o’clock.”

“Oh,” I said, my hands moving to the dangling diamonds in fright. “I didn’t know… I mean, I just thought they were pretty.” The Baccos had plucked them out of a worn velvet case, declaring them “dazzling.” I’d had no idea they were real.

“Just be careful,” she added. “They’ve been in my family forever.” Then she turned to Kipper, who was busy staring into his bourbon, and pulled him away by the sleeve.

“C’mon,” she said. “I see the Cresheims. They must have just gotten back from Longport.” She walked off without saying good-bye.

What the hell was her problem? Why did I always seem to say the wrong thing? And why did I suddenly feel like Meg in
Little Women
, looking pretty and polished but not fooling anyone?

I needed a drink. I followed the crowds toward the main reception room and stood in line at the bar. I took a few deep breaths, hoping my blotchy neck—the aftermath of my run-in with Aubyn—would return to a normal shade. I ordered champagne and took a sip. Touched and smoothed my hair. Counted the portraits on the walls. Checked my phone again. Watched silver-haired society matrons and their portly, red-faced escorts mill around. Admired the few mavericks who wore red or yellow or silver in the sea of dark gowns.

A young couple approached and asked me about “the club.” I talked about how terrible I was at putting before realizing they meant the Racquet Club. I stuck out my hand and introduced myself to a stately older gentleman, only to find out he knew me
very
well, having delivered both my children (“exceptionally quick both times—and no epidural!”). And I agreed to a Saturday playdate for Gloria, even though I had no idea who the tall blonde proposing it was, where she lived, or if Gloria even liked her kid.

I had been at this ball for a mere twenty minutes, and already I was mentally drained. Who knew that simple conversations, and being able to respond quickly and with confidence to a question, would be such an elusive treat? Would life as Mrs. van Holt ever get any easier?

Sighing, I placed my half-drunk glass of champagne on a passing tray and maneuvered through the crowd back to the hallway. I looked around for the restroom and found it without too much trouble. Unlike the hidden one at Bloemveld, this door was marked with a thick brass plaque and a cursive “Ladies.”

After an epic battle of woman–versus–ball gown in the bathroom
stall, I washed my hands and checked my voice mail. Still nothing from Alex. I leaned against the tiled wall, letting the cool quiet of the room still my nerves. Finally, after some small talk with the ancient bathroom attendant, and glancing at my reflection one last time, I worked up the courage to exit.

In burst two beautiful yet brittle-looking women, cackling as they rushed toward the mirror. I saw them before they saw me: Betsy Claiborne wearing a creamy silk confection that set off her black bob, and Ellen Hadley, in emerald green satin that matched the emerald ring blazing on her right hand. I felt the same rush of dread and humiliation that I’d felt when I—er, Abbey Lahey—spotted them Saturday in Nordstrom. I froze, praying they wouldn’t notice me.

But they did, spying me in the mirror, then snapping around like velociraptors scenting prey. I braced for impact—and insults. But instead, I was hit with a mix of smiles and awe, followed by a lot of giddy hopping and finger clapping.

“Abbey!” exclaimed Betsy. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

“You look
stunning
,” said Ellen, emphasizing the last word with closed eyes. “I just knew you were going to wear navy. You look so good in blue. Doesn’t she, Bets?”

“Beyond. You’re just beyond,” replied Betsy. “But then you always look
parfait
.”

Ha!
I thought, how times had changed.

Before I could respond, or return a compliment, Betsy leaned closer and whispered, “Nobody good is here yet, just the mayor and his cronies.”

“Yeah, and your sister-in-law and her boring horsey set,” added Ellen. “She leads that poor boy Kipper around like a Shetland pony.”

“I know,” I said. “What’s his story?”

“Who cares? I’d rather talk about that gorgeous husband of
yours,” said Betsy, her voice dropping to a feline growl. “Please tell me he’s coming. And please tell me he’s planning on coming to our little fund-raiser next week. It would be so nice to have a
congressman
there.”

“He’s not a congressman yet,” I snapped. “But don’t worry. He’ll be there. Here, I mean.”

“At least he has a good excuse for being late,” added Ellen. “We had to drag Bill and Robbie here kicking and screaming. The only reason they agreed to come is because of the auction. Y’know, any chance to gamble.”

They used the rest of the primp session to dissect the outfits, rumored affairs, and recent plastic surgery of the other ball-goers, and to reapply lipstick and smooth hair that didn’t need it. As they headed for the door, they turned back to me in unison.

“Aren’t you coming, Ab?” said Betsy. “We’re going to miss the intro!”

I realized that they expected me to come with them, and, more shockingly, that they considered me a friend. A good friend. It felt so odd and unnatural, and I wanted to ignore them altogether in payback for a thousand previous slights. But right now they were among the few people in the building I could positively identify, so I followed them.

“Can you introduce me to Kelley Radomile?” whispered Betsy as we made our way down the hall back to the reception area. “You know I would just love to have a Radomile on the benefit committee next year.”

“Uh, sure,” I said. “Just point her out when you see her.”

“Oh, Abbey, you’re so wicked,” said Betsy, putting a hand to her mouth and snickering. “All that stuff about him being a cross-dresser is just a rumor.”

Their cackles ricocheted off the marble walls like gunfire.

We separated to our assigned tables but promised to meet up after the dinner, and I was glad to be rid of my fair-weather friends. I found my table up front near the emcee and auction tables and sat down with a sigh. I looked around for Alex, hoping he’d get here soon. I checked my phone one more time and then silenced the ringer in irritation. I scanned the crowd taking their seats and noticed the Phillies’ most recent star pitcher, one of our high-profile restaurateurs (and newly crowned Iron Chef), and a billionaire real estate developer and his much younger girlfriend of the month, among the rest of the doctors, lawyers, and CEOs. To my relief, Aubyn and Kipper, followed by a few other matriarchs and titans in training, headed toward a table in the back. I was just pulling apart a roll when a flurry of activity surrounded my table.

Across from me, taking their seats, were a handsome older couple and a mountainous black man who didn’t make eye contact and inadvertently revealed a badge and gun holster as he unbuttoned his jacket and sat down. Then, to my left, first pulling out the chair for his wife, and then settling down with a sigh, was the mayor.

The mayor of Philadelphia. The fifth-largest city in the United States. Inches from me. Once again, my neck turned blotchy and hot with nerves.

“Good evening, everyone,” he said, nodding all around.

“Good evening,” I whispered back in disbelief.

“Nice to see you, Mrs. van Holt,” he said as he turned to me. “Your husband running late?”

“Yeah,” I stammered. “You know Alex…”

“Well, he’ll fit in really well in Congress,” he said with a guffaw.

The lights flickered, then dimmed, and a spotlight illuminated the podium. The crowd hushed as the evening’s emcee, a veteran
local TV anchor named Wally McNamara, took the stage. He opened with some jokes about the Eagles’ running game and my heart returned to its normal speed. With all these surprises taxing my little ticker, I was going to need a doctor by dessert. But looking around at the well-dressed crowd, I figured that wouldn’t be a problem. There must be a cardiologist or two in this group.

I perused the program, flipping absentmindedly through the Flyers tickets, Tiffany bracelets, and Kimmel Center seats before finding one item that held my interest. It was a vintage Cartier tank watch that once belonged to Sarah Lippincott Biddle, a Philadelphia name so old and esteemed it made even the van Holts sound like white trash. Made in 1917, the watch was one of the first of this style, said to reflect Louis Cartier’s fascination with World War I tanks. I had always loved them, ever since I saw a photo of Princess Diana wearing one. I wished I could have bid on it.

Then I realized I could. The van Holts certainly had the money, and we were there to support this cause. In fact, we were probably
expected
to bid on something. I waited in anticipation for Wally to get to Lot 22.

When he did, indicating a minimum bid of five hundred dollars, I raised my paddle timidly. Someone else raised theirs. Eight hundred dollars. I raised mine again. One thousand. We continued to do paddle battle, the price increasing faster and faster, until it was my move again at six thousand dollars. Wally and the entire crowd looked at me with anticipation, but I couldn’t do it. Outside these doors, in the real world, six thousand dollars was a lot of money. Three mortgage payments. Almost a year of groceries. A new roof. I shook my head and dropped my hand, and the bidding continued without me. A couple near the back finally won it for twelve thousand.

I sighed and picked at my salad, deflated. And not because I’d lost the watch. Because here I was at an honest-to-goodness ball, and I
wasn’t having much fun. But then a waiter touched my shoulder and handed me a note. I unfolded a white-and-gold Union League napkin. Scrawled in blue ink was a message:

Meet me in the lobby? AVH

Alex! He was finally here.

As a cheer went up for a ten-thousand-dollar bid on a date with the Fox traffic girl, I quietly grabbed my purse and excused myself. A few people waved at me as I tiptoed among the tables, but I ignored them, my eyes searching for the nearest door.

Out in the hall, my high-heeled sandals clicked on the checkerboard marble floor as I hurried toward the lobby area and looked around—but it was empty. I poked my head into the library but found only a couple of hedge-funders puffing on cigars. Then I heard a long, low whistle and someone clearing his throat.

He was waiting at the other end of the hallway, leaning against a fluted column casually, with his hands in his pockets, but with a serious gaze fixed on me. Not checking e-mails, not talking with voters, not surrounded by his entourage, just him in a perfectly tailored tuxedo with French cuffs exposing a glint of golden cuff links. His hair smooth and almost black with pomade, making his eyes the bluest blue, even from far away. So handsome, like a Tanqueray ad come to life.

I was overjoyed to see him. Other than Sam, and occasionally Gloria, he was the only person in this new world who seemed to genuinely like me. As I moved down the hall, I couldn’t help breaking into a run. When I got close enough, I threw myself into his arms. He laughed, surprised at my enthusiasm, then lowered me to the ground.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he whispered into my hair, his strong arms circling me. “Where have you been all my life?”

If you only knew,
I wanted to tell him. But I stayed silent, looking
away, embarrassed that I’d almost tackled him into a potted plant. He tilted my face up to his, then leaned in for a kiss.

His lips on mine felt strange, and my first instinct was to stop him, not only because it felt unnatural to kiss someone other than Jimmy but because someone might see me. But then I remembered that in this world, this man
was
my husband, and it would be much more alarming to be seen kissing a landscaper from Grange Hill. Still, out of guilt or shyness or nervousness, I didn’t respond, my lips impassive and my torso leaning slightly away from his.

Then his hand moved around my waist and his lips moved down my neck, sending a tingle from my throat down to someplace lower. Thoughts of Jimmy—of anyone else—floated away. When his lips moved back to mine, I kissed him back. Hard.

“Brought out the big guns, huh?” he said, breaking away and noticing my earrings.

“Yeah, why not?” I replied.

“Yeah, why not, why not,” he repeated softly, back to kissing me. When a woman passed, he stopped, then moved us back farther into the shadows and took both my hands in his.

“Don’t be mad…” He looked at me, sheepish, and I understood now the reason for all the sweetness, the kissing. He was buttering me up.

“But I’m not staying,” he continued. “I’m tired, and frankly, I know these people are going to vote for me. Maybe the
only
votes I can count on right now. But I don’t want to ruin your night. Go have fun.” He looked down, as if bracing for my response.

“If you’re going, I’m going too.” I smiled, happy to have the chance to get away from here. Happy to save myself from hundreds more epic conversation fails.

His head snapped up. “Really? Are you sure? This is your big night.”

“It’s not as fun as I thought it would be. Honestly, I’d rather be with you.”

He looked at me in surprise, then grinned. “Oscar’s waiting outside.”