Twelve Rooms With A View Part 32

"I could kill you for this," Doug continued, pacing in a tight circle in that tiny room. "This was Mom's, everything. This place. And you're just throwing it away! On those-that woman, who Dad let come in here, like it wasn't Mom's. When it was only hers. This place is hers. It was the only thing she really loved." The words hung out there like a curse as soon as he said it. I was embarra.s.sed to have heard it.

Pete shook his head. "You know that's not true. She loved us. I remember how much she loved us. That's what I choose to remember. I make that choice every day."

"That's convenient. Considering what you did to her, what you and Dad-what you did."

Pete didn't answer at first. The whisper of loss was rising around them. Doug looked completely spent. He glanced up at the ceiling for a moment, that old trick of raking your eyes frantically to keep them from betraying you. He looked at that awful painted sunset on the wall and started to shake with a terrible and relentless grief. Pete waited, still, while his brother wept openly for what seemed a long time before he shook himself back into some semblance of control.

"Sorry," Doug finally said, abrupt and ungracious.

Pete nodded, pretending the apology was better than it was. "There was something wrong with her brain," he continued quietly. Doug accepted the facts as Pete recounted them. "We talked to a lot of people. You remember that. The chemicals went bad. It wasn't her fault, but it wasn't his fault either."

"She wasn't well."

"No, she wasn't. We got a lot of opinions, Doug, you know we did what we had to do." The two of them stood there looking at each other, mournfully resting in the end of an argument they had had far too many times. For a long moment they just looked at each other. Pete reached up to touch his brother's shoulder. And Doug slugged him, hard, right across the face.

31.

"THEY'RE KICKING YOU OUT, TINA," FRANK INFORMED ME UNDER his breath when I snuck out past the doorman's station several days later. "They're real mad at you."

I wasn't surprised to hear it.

The pearls I left at Sotheby's. Leonard Rubenstein, the man who looked like a lion, gave me an official estimate of their worth, somewhere in the range of $350,000. The clasp, apparently, was much more valuable than the pearls themselves. He knew of a jeweler who would take the necklace quickly and essentially break it up for parts. He promised to call me by the end of the day with an offer. Then I called one of my friends from the hot tub, Lyle, who had had the foresight to slip his phone number into that little alligator handbag. He suggested he could come by the apartment and price out the rest of the stuff, so I said sure.

"Really?" he said, almost cooing on the other end of the line. "Can I bring Roger? Or Andrew? Or Steve? They'll kill me, they really will, if they find out that I got to see the apartment and they didn't."

"Whoever wants to come see the apartment," I said, "is welcome."

It was a good little party. Andrew brought champagne and foie gras, and Roger and Steve and Edward and Dave came too, and they loved every square inch of the place; they appreciated every strange corner and disastrous choice. They even loved the mustard-colored s.h.a.g rug.

"It's so hideous," Andrew said in an admiring tone. "And who would have thought to use so much? It's a sea of mustard. I think it works, I really do."

"You're insane," said Edward, but he kissed him, so I knew he wasn't in love with Vince anymore, which I thought was definitely a good thing.

"Tina, can I talk to you for a second?" Lyle called from the hallway.

He took me back to the storage room so we could talk business. "All right. A lot of this-everything over here-it's sentimental value, I'm sure, but that's how you need to see it," he explained, waving at a pile of boxes full of old shoes and knitting paraphernalia and wrinkled cotton skirts. "The Salvation Army maybe would take it off your hands if they didn't have to come pick it up. It's not worth anything. Over here, on the other hand, we have some things that probably are worth quite a bit." He stepped back out into the laundry area and led me around the corner toward the TV room. There he pointed toward the doorway of Bill and Mom's bedroom, where he had used the arched pocket doors as a frame for a little fashion show.

"What a lovely presentation," I told him.

"Thank you," he said, smiling. "I think it's important, with beautiful things, to display them properly, so we can decide in an aesthetic way what is the best course of action."

"The only course of action I'm really interested in is money," I said.

"Yes, sweetheart, I'm well aware." He nodded. "You can be a philistine all you want. The rest is for me. Okay. The Balenciaga c.o.c.ktail dress will bring in, conservatively, two thousand dollars."

"Two thousand?" I said, hoping I was hearing this right.

"The alligator bag, I already know who I can take that to, and there's no question he'll pay four. The evening gowns are a little more specific and not quite as cla.s.sic or timeless as the gowns that bring in the big bucks, but they're in good shape, the sea green one is really a beautiful color, we'll stay conservative and estimate another two for both of them."

"So what is that, eight? That's pretty good. How long will it take to sell them?"

"Wait wait wait. First, my darling, first we have to talk about this." He walked over to the display area, reached up against the wall, and presented me with a piece of the ugliest luggage I had ever seen.

"What about it?" I said.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked.

"You can have it, n.o.body wants this stuff," I a.s.sured him.

"You know nothing! Nothing!" he said, incensed with delight at how much I didn't know. "Six pieces-a matched set of Hermes airline luggage from the sixties. I've never seen even one piece before today-you have a whole set! And it's pristine! It's in perfect condition! I don't know what you might get for it. I just don't even know." He was dialing away on his cell phone, he was so excited.

"But do you know anybody who would buy it?" I asked him. "I need the money fast. They're going to kick me out any second. I have to get this stuff out of here."

"We'll buy it, Tina, don't worry," said Andrew, handing me a gla.s.s of champagne.

"You'll buy it," I said. "No no, come on you don't have to, to to-"

"To take care of you?" he asked. "But we want to take care of you. And if Lyle says it's worth something, trust me, it is. I'm sure it's a terrific investment."

"Do not take less than twenty-five, Tina," Lyle warned me while he consulted with someone on the phone.

"Twenty-five," I said. "Thousand?"

Andrew gave me a check right then and there, then went with me to cash it. On the sidewalk outside the bank I called Jennifer on her cell; she was just getting out of school and walking home. "You have to sneak out tonight. Tonight's the night," I told her. "Be at my place at eleven."

"Eleven, like eleven P.M.?" she said, stunned.

"Actually, make it half past ten," I said. "We have a lot to do."

Six hours later there were five gay men waiting for her in the lost room. They helped her climb out of the crawl s.p.a.ce and slip through the darkness into one of the many empty bedrooms, where there was a makeup station, a hair station, party dresses in three different sizes, four evening jackets, and eight pairs of shoes for her to choose from.

"What is this?" she said, laughing.

"It's party time," I told her. "We're going to a club."

She protested, but not too hard. "It's a school night."

"Yeah, you're going to have problems staying awake in history tomorrow," I admitted, picking up a pair of strappy heels, hoping we got the right size.

"What is this you're wearing?" Andrew asked her, a little worried about that plaid skirt.

"It's a uniform, I go to a Catholic school up on Ninety-eighth," she explained, eyeing the party dresses with undisguised hunger.

"Come on," Roger said, his voice drenched in disbelief. "They have Catholic schools in Manhattan?"

We dressed her up and took her out. Edward rented a limo, and we went to three separate clubs. Jennifer danced with everyone in our entourage, and then she danced with a bunch of more appropriate college guys, whom we met up with later at an all-night diner in the Meatpacking District. She flirted outrageously with one of them, and they ended up making out on a street corner until five A.M., at which point I thought I'd better get her home so we could perhaps end the evening without parental discovery and Catholic recriminations and have it just be a wonderful night for her to remember forever.

In the car she threw her arms around me and hugged me with happiness. "Thank you thank you thank you," she said.

"Thank you, Jennifer," I said. "You did as much for me as anyone I've ever known in my whole life."

"I have to tell you something," she whispered, and her hand slipped into mine as she put her head on my shoulder. "My mom voted for you."

"What?" I said, trying to remember what that meant.

"She voted for you. She didn't want them to kick you out. She said you did a good thing, telling the cops about the phony will, that was the right thing to do. And she also said you were really nice and a good babysitter. And she voted for you."

The next day Frank was fired when he told a representative from the co-op board that he would not hire a security firm to help remove me from the building. It didn't matter. I was already out of there, and I had a lot of money in my pocket, which was about to come in very handy.

A month later Julianna Gideon b.u.mped into Frank at a restaurant where she was having lunch with her roommate from Princeton. Frank looked especially handsome; he was wearing an extremely well-cut Armani suit that cost three thousand easily. He explained that he had a new job with a small but well-regarded investment firm that was looking to expand their business in several South American capitals. Julianna's roommate had done her soph.o.m.ore year in Spain, so she and Frank carried on a quick and intelligent conversation in that most romantic of languages. Julianna was even more charmed than before, and without notifying her mother, she agreed to have dinner with Frank the following week. By their third date, Frank felt comfortable enough to invite her back to his apartment, which was small but beautifully furnished. He lived alone, he explained, because his father and brothers had recently come into money and returned to their family home in the Dominican Republic. She spent the night.

Gcina Motufe, an illegal immigrant from Somalia, presented her pet.i.tion for amnesty to the INS later that week. Her extremely clever lawyer convinced the INS that because Gcina was underage, she should be in foster care until her case comes before the courts. She's currently living with a nice, wealthy family out at the Delaware Water Gap.

Vince Masterson was angry that once again his father had dismissed his considered opinion and had voted with the board to have the Finns removed from the Livingston Mansion Apartment. He told his father so, rather more forcefully than usual, which his father took poorly, observing that if Vince didn't like living rent-free in one of the most exclusive buildings in Manhattan, he was welcome to leave. A few months later, Vince did. He moved to Moscow, invested every penny of his trust fund in the Russian banking system, and managed to triple his fortune within four years. Every spring he goes golfing in Dubai.

Five months after I left the Edge, I showed up at the Surrogate's Court in lower Manhattan. After a series of postponements, our probate, or at least the first of a series of hearings on our probate, was finally on the docket. It was a nice morning in mid-April; the warmth of the air seemed mysterious and lively, like something was truly about to be born if we just had the patience to wait for it. Who would go inside on a morning like that?

"Well, look who it is," Lucy said, clipping up the courthouse steps like a warrior, her hair pulled back, severe and businesslike as usual in her gray suit. "I guess I'm not surprised."

"Hi, Lucy," I said. "I'm glad to see you."

"You know, Alison's been worried sick," she informed me crisply. "You could have called. We had no idea whatsoever where you were."

"Neither of you guys really have room for me," I told her. "I needed to take care of myself for a while."

"And you couldn't be bothered to make a phone call?"

"I had a lot of things to take care of, and I needed to think," I told her. "And you know, could you tone this down? I came here to talk, and I don't need you going at me before anybody's even said anything, okay?"

"By all means, Tina, tell me how to behave, since you are such an ideal role model for us all."

"Okay, fine, if that's the way you want it, I guess that's the way things are always going to be," I said. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry we don't understand each other."

"And whose fault is that?" she said in a nasty tone. She didn't even look at me; she was too busy checking her BlackBerry.

"Yours," I said. "I think it's yours."

"Of course you do." She nodded.

"Where's Alison?" I asked, looking around.

"She's not coming, she's too upset. She and Daniel are probably splitting up. And since they were married for ten years, he still expects his share of the apartment, and he thinks Grossman is completely incompetent, so we have a whole extra set of lawyers to deal with now, which is an utter delight."

"Alison and Daniel are splitting up?" I said.

"Yes, Tina, you might have known that if you had been anywhere reachable, which of course as usual you weren't."

"Well," I said. "I'm sorry to hear it."

"You never liked Daniel," Lucy said, dismissing my regret like yesterday's news.

"No, I didn't like Daniel, but I do like Alison," I told her. "So she's not coming today?"

"No," said Lucy. "There's no need. I'm the administratrix. Neither of you needs to be here. As usual, I will do the work." She turned, dismissing me, and headed inside.

"Hey, Lucy," I said. "Count me out. I'm going to walk away from this. Okay? I want nothing to do with it. And you know, honestly-honestly, I think you should do that too."

"What?" she said, like this was the most insane thing she had ever heard.

"There's something wrong with that apartment," I said. "It's like, enchanted. Everything is so beautiful but you know, there's poison in the walls. You should just walk away."

"Well gee, Tina, thanks for the advice. As usual, you're so sensible."

"I'm not kidding, Lucy."

"Good-bye, Tina."

"I'm going to call Alison, okay?" I yelled after her. "Tell her I'm going to call." She disappeared into the courthouse entryway and didn't look back.

Pete didn't have any luck with Doug either. Doug and Lucy, neither of them was built to walk away from a fight, or the past. As it turned out, however, Pete and I were. After six months of wrangling with co-op boards and landlords and mortgage brokers and buildings all over the Upper West Side, we got a place of our own, farther uptown. It's a two-bedroom, with a tiny dining room, tiny living room, tiny kitchen, and a sliver of a view of the river, if you stand against one of the windows and lean over exactly right.

Jennifer White comes over to babysit for us now. And once in a while, Alison comes for dinner. She plays with the baby and then puts her to bed while I try to finish my homework so I can finally get through college. After we're done sharing our lives, she fills us in on all the legal wranglings and what Doug is up to and what Lucy is doing and what clever trick Ira Grossman introduced last week and what new witnesses Doug found who are willing to state definitively that Mom and Bill were unhappy and crazy and why the one will is meaningless and why the other wills-the crazy fake one as well as the ones that never got written-are not. And then we laugh and kiss each other good night.

A year after I moved in and out of the Edgewood, the anthropological botanist Leonard Colbert was found dead in his penthouse. Apparently he had been regularly ingesting rare hallucinogens, which police suspected he was cultivating in his extensive greenhouse. Since it was clear that he had died by his own hand, a full investigation was never conducted. The penthouse apartment of the Edgewood was known to be worth fourteen million dollars easily. He did not leave a will.

Acknowledgments.

My very good agent, Loretta Barrett, informed me two years ago that writing a second novel would most likely be the most difficult challenge of my writing life. She was right. Since then I have had myriad discussions with dozens of writers about this specific nightmare, and while I despaired when Loretta and my excellent editor, Shaye Areheart, urged me to just get on with it, I now know that I could not have done so without their pushy support. I thank them for that, and for their mysterious confidence in me. Thanks also to Georgina Chapel, Abi Fellows, Amy Brownstein, Kate Snodgra.s.s, Laura Heberton, Misha Angrist, Bill Rebeck, Susanna Sonnenberg, and Scott Burkhardt for providing essential pieces to the ongoing puzzle of my life as a novelist. Ira Pearlskin explained the practices of New York inheritance laws over and over, until I barely understood them. David Colman explained the ins and outs of Melo clasps and Balenciaga dresses. Tamara Tunie and Gregory Generet also opened their lives and their home to me in this enterprise in so many st.u.r.dy and tangible ways it would take its own book to describe them.

Marisa Smith is my second reader, and Jess Lynn, my husband, is my first. Their unwavering a.s.surance was bracing and cheering and ultimately the thing that kept me on my path.

Ten years ago, my dear friend Susan David Bernstein invited me to visit her at her aunt Sherry's ten-room apartment overlooking Central Park West. I never forgot it. To Susan and Aunt Sherry, I say thank you for opening the door to the beginning of this book.