Chapter 20 Absent Hosts #2
Edwin looked around, as if trying to spot the other teenagers. But Margaret knew he wouldn’t find them. Given her personality
and the short duration of her residency in Concordia, Denise didn’t have many friends. Besides, this party wasn’t really about
Denise. It was, as Viv had observed, a business expense.
Margaret saw Howard, dressed in a light gray suit, standing near the bars. He was schmoozing with clients, flirting with women,
working the crowd. He hadn’t said hello to any of them. Though he wasn’t home much, he’d met the Bettys a couple of times.
But Charlotte’s friends were obviously of less interest to him than paying customers. Margaret turned toward Edwin, who was
still scanning the party in hopes of spotting Denise.
“Her grandparents gave her a very nice camera for graduation,” Margaret told him. “I bet she’s off taking pictures.”
Edwin nodded. There was another brief but awkward silence as people sipped their drinks. Then Tony—one of the nicest, most affable men Margaret had ever met—picked up the thread of dropped conversation, turning to Walt with a beaming smile.
“Viv tells me that Margaret’s magazine column is a big success. You must be awfully proud,” he said, tossing a wink in Margaret’s
direction, “having a celebrity writer in the family.”
Walt twirled his highball glass, making the ice clink. “I mean, I don’t think you can quite call her a celebrity. But it keeps
her busy. Gives her a little pin money too. As long as it doesn’t take away from the time she spends with the kids, I’ve got
no problem with my wife having a jobette.”
Margaret blinked and gave her head a shake. She surely hadn’t heard that right.
“I’m sorry—what?”
Walt clinked his ice again, shifted his eyes deliberately away from hers. He spoke to Tony as if she wasn’t there, as if Tony
had asked the question instead of Margaret.
“Jobette. You know, a little job. A hobby that pays.” He grinned. “So far, all she’s been able to buy is a typewriter. So
if you think about it, it’s kind of a wash.”
Margaret took in a short, shocked breath and held it, the way one might in the wake of an unexpected slap. And it did feel
like a slap, the kind of blow the teenage Margaret had once received from her mother, sharp and cracking, an intentional humiliation.
Margaret had never breached her private promise to never slap her own children. But oh, how powerful was the urge to strike
her husband at that moment!
The fact that she couldn’t because they were at a party only served to make her angrier. He had belittled her in a setting
that made it impossible for her to respond.
She could only bite her tongue and seethe.
Viv, who was standing on the opposite side of the circle, gazed at Margaret with a look that suggested she knew exactly what her friend was thinking.
Viv clapped her hands and said, “On second thought, I think I’d like to try a Dubonnet after all.
Margaret, come help me. You too, Bitsy.” She slipped her arm around Bitsy’s waist.
“It’s so warm. You’d better take off that beautiful corsage and put it in some water before it wilts. Then we can hit the
ladies’ room and look for Charlotte. She must be around here somewhere.”
* * *
Charlotte was still upstairs.
She’d been on the telephone extension in her bedroom, talking to Lawrence Ahlgren in soft whispers and low laughter, pretending
not to understand the context of his leading questions, flirting for all she was worth.
Ahlgren was coming to town in a few weeks. The Washington Gallery of Modern Art would be mounting a new exhibit that winter,
and the curator wanted to discuss which of his pieces to include. Lawrence proposed he and Charlotte meet for dinner and a
night on the town after the meeting. Charlotte countered with lunch, which seemed safer. Then, as if the idea had just come
to her, she suggested this might be an ideal opportunity for him to introduce her to the curator, and possibly recommend her
work.
The negotiations were reaching a critical stage when Charlotte’s mother, Patricia, a white-haired, rail-thin woman in her
midsixties, whom no one ever dared to refer to as Pat, opened the door and gave her daughter a hard stare.
“Hang up the phone.”
Charlotte did.
Her assurances that Ahlgren was simply a friend, not quite true, and that nothing had happened between them, which was true,
held no sway with her mother.
“We’re not fools, Charlotte. Your father knows what’s going on, and so do I. We’ve seen the photographs of you and this artist”—Patricia wrinkled her nose, as if encountering a bad smell—“this bohemian, during your last trip to the city.”
“Photographs? Daddy had me followed? How could he! And how could you allow it?” Charlotte squared her shoulders. “This is
a gross invasion of my—”
“Don’t flare your nostrils. It makes you look like a camel. And don’t strike attitudes—you’re making yourself ridiculous.
We had no choice, Charlotte. You brought this on yourself, as you always have.”
“Mother, nothing is going on between me and Lawrence Ahlgren.”
“The issue is how things look. Your father wants his position made clear. He will not stand idly by and allow you to embarrass
yourself or the family. Neither will I.”
“Daddy’s worried that my behavior will stain the family honor?” Charlotte coughed out a laugh as she reached to the nightstand for her cigarettes.
“Well, that’s rich. Howard has at least two mistresses that I know of and has banged every cocktail waitress on the Eastern
Seaboard. If Dad is worried about infidelities, maybe he should talk to my husband. Or perhaps look in the mirror? No one
would know better than you. Am I right, Mother?”
Charlotte flicked open a silver lighter and ignited her cigarette. If her words stung, Patricia gave no sign of it.
“It’s a man’s world, Charlotte. If you could simply learn to accept that, as I have, perhaps you would finally become content
to enjoy the highly privileged position you occupy within it.”
Charlotte inhaled. “Oh, please.”
Patricia inhaled too, then exhaled slowly, signaling the end of her patience.
“Whatever ill feelings you may harbor against your husband, justified or not, your father likes him. Howard is poised to take over the firm when the time comes. But make no mistake, Charlotte. If you embarrass the family with a scandal or divorce, you will lose everything—your reputation, your money, and your children. I doubt a judge will see someone with your history of instability as a fit mother.”
“What?” Charlotte said in a voice that was more like a gasp. “You can’t be serious. You’d take Howard’s side over mine in
a custody battle? What kind of parents are you?”
“The kind who will do what they must to keep their reckless, disappointing daughter from destroying the family.”
Patricia crossed the room, passing so closely that Charlotte thought she intended to touch her. Instead, she picked Charlotte’s
martini up off the nightstand and drained the glass, then pulled a tissue from a box that sat on the dressing table.
“Wipe off that lipstick. That shade is terrible with your coloring.”
Charlotte crumpled the tissue into her fist. Patricia turned to face her daughter once more before making her exit.
“Charlotte, you have guests. Pull yourself together and come downstairs, or people will start to talk. And where is Denise?
This is her party, after all.”