Bad Girls of the Bible Part 13

A FAULT.

That money talks I'll not deny,

I heard it once: It said, "Goodbye."

RICHARD ARMOUR.

Sofia opened the creamy white envelope with a single slice of her grandmother's heavy bra.s.s letter opener. A cherished and valuable item on her writing desk, it featured an intricately carved handle and sleek, polished blade. Quite the thing to use whenever she had an audience. At the moment only her husband, Aidan, was nearby, absorbed in a book, giving little thought to the morning mail.

No matter. That would change in ten seconds.

Her hands trembled as she slid out the embossed card inside. The first few lines launched her heart on a merry dance. Finally! It was an invitation they'd waited years to receive. Sofia's lips pursed in a satisfied bow, as if she'd just tasted a bite of tangy lemon pie.

"Aidan, it's here." She waved the invitation at her husband of two dozen summers, pleased to see a smile crease his handsome face when the card came into focus. Aidan understood what this meant to her, what it would mean for both of them.

"Read it to me, darling." He tossed his book aside, offering her his undivided attention.

She cleared her throat with a drama that suited the occasion, then began to read aloud: "The Three Rivers Philanthropic Society requests your presence at their 100th annual awards dinner. Black tie only, please." Sofia practiced her most sophisticated laugh. "Naturally. Who would dare appear in anything else?"

Noting the request for a response, she reached for the phone, then paused. Too eager, Sofia. After waiting this long to be included among the notable attendees, she'd hate to ruin her chances for future invitations with near-desperate enthusiasm. She would wait until tomorrow at least. In the afternoon. Perfect.

A dozen details flitted through her mind, demanding immediate consideration. Her dress would have to be elegant, conservative. Haute couture, of course. Preferably European. If it complemented her emerald necklace and earrings-the ones that matched the deep green of her eyes-so much the better. Aidan's formal wear, freshly returned from the cleaners, would never do. Something updated and understated would be more apropos. Would a corsage for her be over the top? Should they rent a limo and driver for the night? Oh, but that would be overdoing it.

Aidan's deep voice penetrated her reverie. "Don't spend all our money on appearances, beloved." His smile a.s.sured her he was only teasing, though he added, "Your eyes are filled with shopping bags. Expensive ones. We're supposed to be giving our money away, remember?"

Sofia pushed out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout which never failed to amuse her husband and loosen his hold on her purse strings. "I simply want us to present ourselves to this group in the most flattering light possible."

He shook his head, clearly not convinced. "It isn't fancy attire that will impress them, dear. It's an exceedingly generous check to the foundation that will win their approval." He tipped his silver-streaked head, a.s.sessing her. "It is their approval you're after, isn't it, Sofia?"

No point arguing. Aidan had her there, and she knew it. Ever since they'd relocated to Pittsburgh twenty years earlier-struggling newlyweds on their way up financially and socially-Sofia had eyed the altruistic elite from a distance. Theirs was a quiet dignity that reeked of money, but even more, of respectability. As Aidan's business ac.u.men in the Golden Triangle grew, so did Sofia's desire to be part of the city's old money. Not for her the circle of young movers and shakers, spending their hard-earned dollars on exorbitant trappings. It was the established families, living off wise investments, that appealed to some place deep inside her.

Andrew Carnegie had set the pace in 1900 when the Three Rivers Philanthropic Society was established. Along with Carnegie, Andrew Mellon used his wealth and personal art collection to enrich the city, as did industrial magnates like Henry Phipps and Henry Clay Frick.

In jest, Aidan whispered privately about "keeping up with the Andrews."

"Or with the Henrys," Sofia reminded him with a wink, though she knew it was the Mellon family that garnered the most respect these days.

Such names filled the Pittsburgh phone directory: The Carnegie Museum of Art, Carnegie Science Center, Carnegie-Mellon University, Phipps Conservatory, the Frick Art Museum.

Sofia and Aidan were prepared to wait their turn. It might be another decade before the two of them managed to donate the sort of funds that would put their name on a building. In the meantime they had moved to an impressive home in Fox Chapel, made investments that involved both higher risk and higher profit, and finally had enough tucked away to offer a donation of some merit at the awards dinner.

That was the point of the evening. Each couple or individual was expected to contribute at least one million dollars to the foundation. It was never stated as such-heavens, no!-but the two dozen players knew their appointed roles for the evening and came prepared to present a seven-figure check for a worthy cause.

Aidan had earned his money by investing other people's resources, and now the couple was poised for their ascent into the rarefied air at the summit of the city's steel-girded social strata.

A million dollars. Gone with a few strokes of the pen.

The power and prestige of it left Sofia near to fainting.

She responded affirmatively the following afternoon, secretly pleased at how easily she'd handled the phone call to one of the grande dames of Pittsburgh. They would fit in. They would; she was certain now.

Sofia was scanning the New York Times later that evening, looking for some hint of an upcoming Manhattan runway show where she might find a suitable gown, when Aidan arrived home later than usual. She glanced up; then the newspaper slid to her feet, forgotten.

"Aidan?"

He was hunched over the wing chair, his skin deathly pale, his breathing erratic.

She shivered, as if a breeze had skittered through the room. "Aidan, what is it?"

It took a full minute before he could say the words. "We're...broke."

"We're what?" It was inconceivable. "Aidan, really!"

He yanked his tie off with a noisy sigh and tossed the length of silk in the direction of her oak secretary. "Sorry to be so direct, darling. If you spent as much time reading the business section as you do the fashion pages, you'd understand."

"Understand what?" She heard the terror in her voice, the discouragement in his. "Start at the beginning, Aidan. What has happened to all our money?"

He quickly lost her in a barrage of stock-market information that confused her further, but he clarified one thing beyond doubt: There would be no million-dollar contribution to the foundation, no dinner, and no new gown, not even from a dress rack at Kaufmanns.

"What are we going to do?" Sofia sank into the plump cushions of her pale-striped love seat, her hands dropping next to her, limp. "I can't bear to think of giving up our beautiful home."

"Now, now, my little Fia."

He hadn't called her that since they'd moved to Pittsburgh, but she was too distraught to appreciate the endearment. He squeezed next to her, slipping a comforting arm around her sagging shoulders, a bit of color returning to his face. "It's not as bad as all that. When I said we were broke, I meant our discretionary income has dried up. We won't lose our house or our cars. But mind me, wife." He shook his finger at her with mock severity. "No more shopping."

"And no more Philanthropic Society?" She knew she was whining but couldn't seem to stop herself.

Aidan slowly shook his head, his lips tightening in a frown. "Not this year."

"But they won't ask us again!" she wailed, smacking the love seat and his knee with equal fervor. "It's our only chance!"

Sighing heavily, he stood and paced in front of her. "Sofia, the only way we could manage such a donation would be to sell our property in West Palm Beach."

"Not our vacation house!" she moaned.

"It's the only thing we own that's not mortgaged to the hilt."

His confession pressed her back against the throw pillows. "Are you serious?"

"I'm always serious about money. You know that." He dropped to his haunches, the fabric of his fine suit stretched across his knees. "Look. Let me make a few calls, ask a few questions."

"They all have homes down there," she cautioned. "Remember? That's why we bought a house in West Palm, to hobn.o.b over the winter months with the Old Guard. If we put it on the market, they'll all know where we got our million."

"But wouldn't selling that property and willingly donating all the proceeds show them how serious we are about philanthropy?"

Sofia shrugged, seeing the wisdom of it even as she saw her precious second home on the nicest street in West Palm slipping through her hands.

He patted her knee, then stood. "I promise to be beyond discreet. Besides, when our bank account is bulging once more, we'll buy another one. A bigger one." He tugged at her ear with a playful pull. "You fret too much, Fia. Let me worry about where the money comes from, all right? Your job is to find the most head-turning gown our limited resources can buy. Are we in agreement then?"

The man was utterly charming. She couldn't possibly refuse him. "I promise, husband of mine. I'll handle the cachet; you handle the cash."

Three months later she found herself slipping into a slim satin dress of deepest jade that matched the exquisite jewels dangling from her ears and draped around her neck. "This dress does things for those bewitching green eyes of yours," Aidan murmured, fastening the necklace clasp, then nibbling briefly at the back of her bare neck.

"No time for that," she scolded, slipping her brand-new faux mink coat around her shoulders. She'd sighed over the real furs but knew full well that in this social circle animal fur was frowned upon. Her imitation was the best of its kind, more expensive than many of the genuine furs. It was full length and a perfect fit. With her hair swept up in a becoming French twist, Sofia almost didn't recognize herself in the mirror, so thorough was the transformation.

She watched Aidan check his pocket for the fourth time, patting the envelope there for a.s.surance. One million, no more, no less. They'd promised the Society-in writing-that they'd donate all the proceeds, then placed their Florida house on the market with a one-million-dollar price tag. Clever Aidan reminded her that if it sold for less than a million, they'd still be admitted to the society, having given more sacrificially than most.

How could they have foreseen that a developer would come along and offer them more than their asking price just to close the deal in a hurry? When Aidan confessed to Sofia that they had "a little more than expected," they agreed there was no need to add it to their contribution.

Wasn't a million dollars enough?

It was surely providential that they had pocketed a nice profit. Except it wasn't in their pockets; it was on Sofia's back and in their driveway. A mink and a Mercedes seemed quite the thing for their premiere in Pittsburgh society.

They arrived at the dinner precisely at seven, noticing how shiny and showroom-new their Mercedes looked next to the properly aged BMWs and Lincolns parked along the curb. Theirs would look used soon enough. Handing the keys to the valet, Aidan escorted Sofia up the steps to the club and steered her toward the first-floor salon where the women gathered while the men convened in the second-floor smoking room.

So it had been for a century, and so it would be tonight.

For that, Sofia was elated. She wanted everything to be exactly the same as it'd been in Carnegie's day, with one important addition: her. And Aidan, of course. They wouldn't be there without his keen financial mind. He'd been especially free spirited with their unexpected windfall the last few days, which had delighted her to no end.

From the doorway of the salon she admired his broad shoulders as he made his way up the carpeted staircase to the second floor. He turned to give her a confident wink, and she felt the heat rise to her cheeks. How handsome he looked this evening! His formal attire fit him like the proverbial glove, and his expensive haircut from Philip Pelusi was clearly worth the investment. The man looked every inch a millionaire. For a brief moment he would be one, before their check purchased their entree into a whole new world.

Feeling giddy, she pursed her lips in a swift, invisible kiss, which he returned before disappearing at the curve of the landing.

Sofia spun around and floated into the salon, the corners of her mouth turned upward-not too much!-and her hands empty, prepared to receive a gla.s.s, a handshake, or whatever might be offered. A matronly sort approached her, slipped her arm through the crook of Sofia's elbow, and guided her along a bank of seated women as if they were flowers in a formal garden being identified by genus and species.

"This is Mrs. Randolph McCormick." Her tone was starched lace. "And Mrs. Daniel Stevenson."

Pittsburgh Steel. Sofia nodded politely. Pittsburgh Plate Gla.s.s. She smiled and bobbed her head past the dozen women with whom she would be sharing not only an evening but-the fates willing-the rest of her life. She and Aidan had produced no children, just money. Their immortality, then, could come only from using those dollars to make a name for themselves.

She couldn't help but notice how plainly the women were dressed. Their gowns were of a good cut but simple and hardly the latest styles. Jewelry was limited to pearls or a tiny diamond necklace. Well! Her striking green gown and glistening emeralds felt ever so slightly out of place, though Sofia a.s.sured herself that she'd dressed properly. It was they who were out of step with fashion, not her.

Grandmother had taught her to hold her tongue whenever she found herself in an unfamiliar setting, so she merely listened at the matron's elbow as the women discussed their various charity projects. How odd. No mention of trips abroad or shopping excursions. None of the usual subtle games of one-upmanship she'd seen in her own, lesser circles of influence.

These wives were genuine. Nice, even. And so generous with their time for community efforts, which could hardly have earned them much praise, let alone money.

When a strange thump sounded above them, as if a heavy object had been dropped on the floor, the women jumped, then stared at the ceiling. After several seconds of awkward silence, the Stevenson woman quipped, "Daniel must have dropped his wallet," which started a nervous t.i.tter of relief around the parlor.

Moments later a balding man in a bad toupee charged through the parlor doorway, his desperate gaze immediately landing on Sofia. "Are you Aidan's wife?"

She nodded, her lips suddenly glued shut, and stepped toward him, feeling slightly dizzy. Grabbing her elbow, he practically dragged her toward the staircase. "If you would, please, join us upstairs."

The gasps from the women behind her told her all she cared to know: This was not done, not ever. Something was very wrong.

Before she could take one good breath, Sofia and her escort reached the second floor, where a pair of opulent mahogany doors hung open and a circle of men stood waiting, ringed by cigar smoke and a shared expression of distress.

Aidan was nowhere to be seen.

"Aidan?" She started forward, but the balding man pulled her back with a gentle tug. "What's happened?" She s.n.a.t.c.hed her elbow from his grasp. "Where is my husband?"

The circle of men parted to reveal Aidan's inert body in a heap on the thick carpet.

"Aidan!" Her hands turned to ice, and her knees felt wobbly.

There was no doubt. Aidan was dead. His color, the odd position of his limbs, the absolute stillness of his chest told her more than she could absorb. Had it been a heart attack? Some terrible accident? She had no answers, only questions spinning through her shattered mind like broken gla.s.s.

Dead. Oh Aidan...

An ancient man stepped into her line of vision. He looked vaguely familiar, perhaps from decades of having his photo in the newspaper. "We're truly sorry, my dear. It seems the shock of our confrontation was too much for your husband."

Somewhere in the distance an ambulance siren wailed.

The octogenarian spoke again. "Randolph here called 9-1-1."

It was then she noticed the envelope in the man's hands, the same envelope Aidan had carried in his pocket. "Is that...our money?"

His laugh was humorless. "Ah...well, it was your money. Your...er, late husband agreed, in writing, to contribute to the Society the entire proceeds from the sale of your property in West Palm Beach. Is that correct?"

She tried to swallow, but her mouth was as dry as Florida sand. "Ah...yes, that's right."

He held out the envelope for her inspection. For a fleeting moment she wished she had her priceless bra.s.s letter opener to use, if only to bolster her confidence. Instead, she accepted the envelope with a shaking hand and, realizing it was already open, slipped out the check.

Forcing a smile to her face, she said brightly, "One million dollars. That was the asking price for our property."

His voice was low but firm. "Yes, but not the selling price, was it, Mrs.-?"

She cut him off with a frustrated groan. "It most certainly was! What does this have to do with my...my...husband? Oh, Aidan!" She stared at her beloved's body, shaking her head in denial. No, Aidan. Not this!

The ambulance was out front now. She heard doors slamming and m.u.f.fled voices shouting, neither of which offered the slightest bit of comfort. Dazed, she murmured to no one in particular, "What were you saying about the selling price?"

"This is hardly the time, Mrs....er...well. If you must know, James here owns the Florida real-estate agency involved. We knew the precise selling price and made our charitable commitments to various recipients based on that complete figure. But your husband's check was only..." He cleared his throat with an awkward harrumph.

"I see." She saw almost nothing, so hazy were the lights circling her head. They know. She was motionless, numb to her fingertips. It's over. All over. All she'd waited for, hoped for. Her life with Aidan. Her future in society. Over. Over. Over.

Her head fell back with a sickening snap. The medallions on the ceiling began to spin, followed by the corners of the room, as she felt her legs give way. The plush carpet beside her husband's body rose to catch her in its velvet embrace...