Chapter 14
Get set, Edmund. Operation Honeypot is about to commence. I wear a vintage, figure-hugging, midnight-blue dress to John’s fundraiser. We have a gig starting at 8:00 p.m., and this way I won’t have to change. As I put on my sunglasses, I feel armored. Game on.
I climb the steps up to the front door of my mother’s brownstone in the West Village, and the door opens. A man dressed in the typical catering staff uniform of white shirt and black pants welcomes me. The double French doors leading to the parlor room are open, and the swell of conversation trickles out to the foyer.
I pause on the threshold and remove my sunglasses.
The place is crowded with well-dressed, older people. The only color in Mom’s living room is white. No paintings and no personal effects disrupt the sterility. When we were growing up, we didn’t spend much time in here because it had to be kept pristine for entertaining visitors. We gathered in the TV room downstairs. That still has family photos and even some framed artwork by both Annabelle and me from high school.
I’ve given my mother paintings, but she has only hung one in her home office next to a framed Wall Street Journal clipping covering Annabelle’s litigation. The rest are in a closet. Whenever I give her one, she always says, “These are your father’s genes.” John actually hung the painting I gave him in his official work office when he was borough president.
“Miranda,” a male voice exclaims near me. It’s my friend Max. We know each other from college.
He gives me a kiss on each cheek. “Full rock star mode, huh?”
“You clean up well too,” I say.
A glass bowl with floating white roses stands on the white, enamel sideboard next to me. A small bar has been set up in the corner of the room.
“At least now you’re here; there’s only so long I can do the polite thing alone with my parents’ friends,” Max says.
“I thought you had to work late,” I say.
“I finished earlier than expected. I figured I’d get bonus points for coming early, and then I’d have you to entertain me.”
I snort.
We order drinks at the bar and then retreat with our glasses to the corner by one of the floor-to-ceiling bay windows. Outside, it’s dark. Edmund is talking to an older couple in the middle of the room. I have to wait for him to approach me. He knows I would not initiate contact. But he’ll come over if I talk to Annabelle.
“Plus, now both Audrey and Eve are shacked up,” Max says. “I barely saw them before, what with their jobs, but now I’m definitely playing second fiddle to their men. And I think Jake is about to propose.” Jake is Audrey’s boyfriend.
“You always have the best gossip,” I say. “How do you know?”
“I was joking about being an uncle to their kids, and Jake got that half-panicked, half-determined look on his face that other friends have had right before they’ve proposed.”
“Do you think Audrey knows?”
“I didn’t tell her.”
“They’re good together,” I say. “Time to get yourself your own girlfriend.”
“Harder than it seems.”
“It is.” I smile at Max. I’m tempted to tell him about William.
Max shakes his head. “Two o’clock, parents approaching.”
“My bet is they try to push our getting together from the get-go,” I say.
“I give it five minutes of catch-up,” Max says. “Dinner is the prize.”
“A home-cooked dinner. Finances are fragile.”
John and my mom reach us first.
John says, “Glad you could make it, Miranda. You’re looking in good form. Chin up, as I always say.”
Max’s mother, Anya, joins us.
“But then we expected you a bit earlier, to help out. I’m glad Max was able to get out of work early,” my mom says. “You two make such a stunning couple. Don’t they, Anya?”
“Yes, of course they do.” Anya beams.
I shoot Max a gloating smile. “And Max is such a good cook.” I pinch his cheek.
“Ouch,” Max says. “That’s my cue to feed Miranda. She gets grumpy if she’s not fed.”
“You know me so well,” I say. “It looks like a good crowd.”
John says, “Thanks to Anya for inviting so many of her friends.”
“You always throw a good party.” Anya sips her wine. “Miranda, you should talk to the woman in the purple dress by the bar. But wait until she’s got a few drinks in her. She held a book club meeting at her apartment, and it was filled with abstract art.”
“Thanks so much, Anya. I will.”
“Did you talk to Takashi about pursuing an IT career?” my mom asks.
“Not yet,” I say. “Right now, we’re focused on figuring out who stole the paintings.”
My mom purses her lips, and an awkward silence takes over.
A server asks if we’d like a chicken satay. We all take a skewer and a napkin.
“The food looks delicious,” Max says. “I didn’t have dinner yet.”
“You should eat up,” my mom says.
Max and I make our escape and head over to the table of hors d’oeuvres.
“That’s crazy about your painting being stolen,” Max says. “A friend is coming tonight who is looking to build up her collection. I suggested she take a look at your work. Maybe you can sell a painting to her.”
“That would be amazing.”
I hold the glasses while Max loads up two plates for us. We retreat with our appetizer hauls to two chairs against the wall and happily eat.
“How’d you know your mom was going to skip the preliminaries?” Max asks.
“My mom has always liked having a man in her life. And given that my career has stalled, she’s focusing on the man aspect,” I say. “You’re her favorite of the candidates.”
“Your mom has good taste,” Max says.
“Don’t take it too personally. You’re up against Rex and Peter and her fear that I’ll marry another artist.”
“You do know how to damage a guy’s ego,” Max says. “Wanted for my law degree.”
“Aw. I also like your cooking.” I sip my wine.
“Maybe I’ll poison you this time,” Max says. “Annabelle came with Edmund. Doesn’t David get annoyed by Edmund always hanging around?”
“David and Annabelle are divorcing.”
“They are? Surprising.”
“Isn’t it? I’m shocked. And a bit sad. David is a good guy. And I thought Annabelle liked being married to him. It must have been pretty bad.”
“I don’t know,” Max says. “I can see her cutting her losses quickly. You’re more of the type to try to hold on.”
“Maybe,” I say. “I should find her and say hello.” We’ve both finished our plates of food.
“Any suspects so far?” Max asks.
“Three, one of whom is Annabelle,” I say slowly. My sister is across the room, dressed in her usual black pantsuit, typing on her phone. “But she couldn’t have done it.”
“You sound like you have your doubts.”
“Not in my heart.” I look at Max. “But if I separate myself from my emotions and look at it logically, she did leave with two paintings. We haven’t been close for a while now.”
“If you look at it logically, stealing your paintings doesn’t benefit her at all,” Max says. “Let’s say hello. I’ll give you my take.” We hand our empty plates to a server returning to the kitchen.
“Yes, let’s. Then we can reward ourselves with the dessert table.”
“The desserts look good,” Max says. “I checked them out when I arrived.”
“Do your law partners know that you have the soul of a five-year-old?”
“No, so don’t tell them,” Max says. “Maybe you could have made it as a law partner.”
“I’m not as good at hiding my inner five-year-old,” I say.
As we walk over to say hello to Annabelle, Max gets waylaid by some of his parents’ friends. I continue on and sit next to Annabelle, who mutters that she’s finishing a work email as she types on her telephone.
“Quite the grand entrance,” Annabelle says.
“If there’s one thing John and Mom taught me, it’s to make your entrance count.”
Annabelle snorts—elegantly. “You need to stop defining yourself by them.”
“I don’t.”
Annabelle shakes her head.
“You’re one to talk,” I say. “It’s easy for you to make them happy. You like being a lawyer.”
“Not always.” Annabelle twists a ruby ring that has replaced her engagement ring.
“I’m sorry about David. I’m really surprised.”
“Why? Fifty percent of marriages end in divorce.”
“I didn’t think yours would,” I say.
“Did you like David that much?” she asks. “I got the impression he was not your type.”
“I think he’s a good guy. I just can’t believe he cheated.”
Annabelle’s eyes widen and then shutter. She’s more upset about it than her words suggest.
“My friends saw him.” She stares straight ahead.
“They saw him with another woman?” I ask. “She’s probably just a friend.”
“They saw him kissing her.”
“Maybe she kissed him, like when Rex’s fan kissed him.”
“David’s not a rock star,” she says.
“He’s a hedge fund trader. That qualifies as a rock star in some New York circles. And he doesn’t wear a wedding ring,” I say. “What did he say when you confronted him?”
“He said that she kissed him, and he acted all affronted that I thought he would cheat,” Annabelle says.
“But you don’t believe him?” I ask.
“We’ve been growing apart for a while now. I’ve focused on making partner at my law firm, and he’s focused on being promoted to managing director. It’s over.” Her finality stops any further discussion. “By the way, can you walk Pepper next week? David and I are both traveling. I was going to ask Edmund, but that won’t go over well with David. And I am trying to keep things amicable.”
“Sure,” I say. “Does Edmund still have a key to your place?”
“No. David said no to that,” she says. “Also, if you see the guy selling art on Third Avenue under the scaffolding and he has his dog, you need to take Pepper for a walk toward Second Avenue. Pepper doesn’t get along with that guy’s dog.”
“Okay. Do you still have the key to Edmund’s place?” I ask.
“Yes.”
Max joins us, handing me a chocolate chip cookie wrapped in a napkin from the dessert table. We stand.
“Annabelle.” He offers her a cookie. “Here’s one for you, if you want.”
“No, thanks,” she says. “Do I have something on my face? You’re staring at me oddly.”
Subtlety is not Max’s forte.
“No, nothing,” Max says. A waiter asks us if we would like some shrimp. Max and I say no, since we’ve moved on to dessert. Annabelle takes one.
“Can I get you a drink?” Max asks.
“No, Edmund is getting me a seltzer,” she says. “Although I think he got detained politicking.” Edmund is chatting to a bunch of people around our parents’ age. He looks like he is enjoying himself. “Congratulations on your recent trial, Max.”
Edmund joins us, handing Annabelle a seltzer as she places the shrimp tail in the cup on the platter.
“What were you talking about?” she asks.
“That Manhattan Gallery forgery case,” Edmund says. “It’s crazy.”
“It’s crazy that they thought they’d get away with it,” Annabelle says.
“They almost did,” Edmund says.
“Forgeries are the worst,” I say. “They’re literally taking your creativity, blood, sweat, and tears and passing them off as their own.”
“How are the olive oil farms?” Max asks. He’s a wine connoisseur. “I heard from a colleague who was just on vacation in Italy that it’s been very dry there this year.”
“They’re fine. Our region has had adequate rainfall.” Edmund does his annoying maneuver where he strokes his chin to look superior. He then covers his mouth with his hand. “In fact, now there’s only more demand for our product.”
Edmund is lying. I have a vivid memory of Edmund—his skinny fingers covering his mouth, insisting that he didn’t take my sketchpad. We were ten. I grabbed his backpack and found my sketchpad in there, defaced with scribbles.
I’d forgotten how he’d destroyed my art in the past.
“Are you still happy with that cleaning service that sends different people each time?” I ask Edmund. “I’m looking for a cleaning service.”
“Yes. They’re very professional, and this way, I don’t have any personal attachments. No Christmas bonuses.”
Edmund is so cheap sometimes.
“Tessa wants to get a cleaning service,” I say. “I don’t think we need one.”
He smiles fully. “I highly recommend them. I just got the Friday slot.”
“Don’t you usually visit Italy around this time of year?” Max asks.
“Yes,” Edmund says. “But I haven’t had time. So much has been happening.” His lips tilt up slightly. “But are you sure you can afford a cleaning service, Miranda?”
“I just got another show,” I say. Time to follow Takashi’s advice.
His brow crinkles.
“That’s great!” Annabelle hugs me. “As good as Vertex?”
“Good enough.” I smile broadly. “Several of my latest paintings. They particularly like a brown one I just finished.” Maybe the thief can steal my mud mishmash.
“I thought you were having trouble painting,” Edmund says.
“I was. But then after our trip to Brooklyn, it clicked again, like a shot of adrenaline to my creativity. I’m really happy about this show. I was rejected for it last year.” My stomach quivers. Don’t go overboard. I don’t want to regret this.
The lady in purple is alone at the dessert table.
“I have to talk to someone. C’mon, Max.” I grab Max’s hand, pulling him along with me. “Great to catch up with you.”
Max and I waylay the lady in the purple dress.
“Hi, I’m Miranda,” I say. “Max’s mom suggested we meet. I hear you are a fan of abstract art. And you probably know Max.”
They nod at each other.
“My late husband was a fan of abstract art,” she says. “Are you a fan too?”
“Yes, but I’m also an artist,” I say. “I’m looking to sell artwork. Sometimes I feel like I should wear a sign: Artist Seeking Patron.”
She laughs. “I like that you’re direct. I’m not as much into collecting as my late husband was, but I liked visiting artists’ studios and getting glimpses into other lives.”
“Miranda’s studio is such a happy place,” Max says. “And seeing her process is fascinating.”
“I’d love you to visit my studio,” I say. “But fair warning—it’s the living room of my apartment on the Upper West Side.”
“Well, at least that will be easy to get to,” she says.
We exchange cards.
Max then takes me to meet his friend who is interested in art, and I chat briefly with her. We exchange cards, and then I excuse myself because I’m due at the venue for our band’s show later tonight.
Max says, “Maybe we’ll come check out your gig after this party.”
“You should,” I say. “Rex wrote some new songs.”
As I walk out of the room, a woman entering stops short and says, “You.”
I glance at her and halt. Kimberly.
“I thought I recognized you, but I couldn’t place you,” she says. “Weeping Willow. Oh, sorry.”
“It’s okay. I guess you’re catering my mom’s party.” And here I thought she’d recognize me from Tony’s parties.
She nods. “I’m sorry. Now I understand why your boyfriend was concerned about discretion. I’d be happy to cater for you guys.”
“It did come off a bit strangely,” I say. “But we already hired Star Catering. Not that he’s my boyfriend.”
“Well, keep me in mind.”
As I grab my coat from the coatrack, my mom joins me. She hands me a binder.
“I found these old clippings. Your father’s early positive reviews. He also thought he’d be a success. It’s not that easy,” she says. “A friend of mine mentioned that her granddaughter’s school is looking for an art teacher. That would give you summers off, and you could paint then.”
“Mom, I know you think I can’t succeed at being an artist, but I can.”
“Very few succeed,” my mom says. “I watched your father try so hard and fail. And I don’t want to see that happen to you too.”
“I’m different from Dad. I’m a lot more driven, and I’m tougher.”
“Tougher? Miranda, you cry all the time.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not tough. I’m not afraid to share my emotions. Maybe that’s a sign of bravery.”
“I guess.” She sounds dubious. “But check out this school art teacher job.”
Normally, I humor my mom. But I’m fed up with her doubt. “Mom, I’m going to succeed at being an artist, but I have to do it full time. It’s not a hobby. I’m not going to check out the teacher job or get some degree in IT. I’m going to find my painting and participate in the Vertex Art Exhibit.” I give her back the binder and put on my coat.
My mom’s eyes widen, but she’s too schooled as a politician’s wife to show any other emotion. “I do want you to find your painting.”
“I appreciate your support.” I close the door behind me.