Trust Fund Babies Read online

  “And they will be jealous,” Eric said proudly, as if he, indeed, had selected and paid for the jewels. If he weren’t so damned charming, he might just piss her off.

  Swishing past him with a smile, she retrieved her satin shawl. “Come, darling,” she said as she looped her arm through his. “I want to get there early and have a chat with Lester Markham. I have some delicious gossip I cannot wait to share.”

  “Utter trash,” Roxanne whispered in Mary Beth’s ear as they stood and stared at the edible sculpture before them. Galerie Renard was famous for introducing outrageous artists to society: this one, Harvé Penfield.

  They’d been there almost an hour, and Mary Beth’s mission was as yet unaccomplished. She leaned back, one eye scanning the crowd for Lester, the other seemingly interested in the seven-foot-tall marzipan sculpture that stood before her. It was in the shape of George W. Bush. “Too tall,” she said. “And he smells like almonds.”

  Roxanne swayed closer, nearly spilling her champagne, her fifth glass since she had arrived. “They all smell like almonds,” she whispered. “Tina Turner. Mike Wallace. Oprah. My God, it’s like Madam Tussaud’s Wax Museum Almondine.”

  Harvé Penfield moved within earshot. Mary Beth clutched Roxanne’s elbow and steered her away. She surveyed the marzipanned room again for Lester Markham. Instead, she saw her husband positioned next to a statue of former governor Cuomo. Eric was talking with a blonde who wore more diamonds that she’d ever seen around one swanlike neck.

  He spotted Mary Beth and gave a happy nod. She turned back to Roxanne. “Lester Markham,” she asked. “Where is he?”

  Roxanne sipped from her glass. “I have no idea. Should I? Is he still available?” Lester Markham was single—widowed, which was better than divorced because alimony could not infringe. Though it was well known Roxanne had much more money than Mary Beth, how much was enough had not yet been determined.

  Mary Beth sighed. “He’s not your type,” she said. “He’s a self-feeder.” She did not have to explain to Roxie that that meant Lester worked for a living, earned a real income, had one of those real things called jobs.

  Or at least she’d thought he did.

  Her eyes darted around the room once more. Tension gripped her neck. She’d give anything to get Hank, her personal trainer, to travel in her circle so he’d show up, too. Then both her muscles and her mind would be at peace.

  Lester. Where was he? Nikki, no doubt, would be on the phone to her in the morning, demanding to know what Lester said, demanding …

  Oh, God, Mary Beth thought. Was it just a rotten coincidence that he’d chosen not to show?

  Or …

  “Well, if Lester’s on his way, he’d better hurry,” Roxanne said. Then she reached over, scooped a fingerful of Mike Wallace’s cheek, and popped it into her mouth. “He’d better hurry or the art will be all gone.” Then she strutted off, toward a young man balancing a champagne-laden tray.

  Mary Beth backed away from the sculpture. She did not know if anyone had seen Roxanne’s assault on the journalist. She did not know if anyone would notice the indentation on his jawline, or if the gallery police would stop guests at the door and test their breath for almonds.

  And then a headache crashed against the bottom of her neck. Why couldn’t she be more like Roxanne—loose and carefree instead of rigid and aware, too aware of everything and everyone and every move around her, teetering on the cusp of what was right and what was not? The right way, the Atkinson way. Every other way, the wrong way.

  And Lester Markham knew that. So what the hell had happened? Was the bastard really gone?

  “I barely had time with the Ruddeforths,” Eric commented as their Town Car—a Lincoln, not a Bentley, a Rolls, or even a Mercedes, because they were so tacky when one had a driver—wove its way through the before-midnight streets and headed uptown.

  Mary Beth pressed her finger to her lips to remind her husband not to say anything that could be misconstrued as an argument in front of Charlie, their driver. After all, they shared him with two other families, and God only knew how much he told them, despite the fact that one family was the Lynches who lived mostly on the West Coast and the other was Carlos Diaz from Barcelona who only came to Manhattan in the fall.

  But though Mary Beth and Eric had been married over twenty years, sometimes Eric simply forgot. Finesse, unlike charm, was not learned but a birthright. It was why Mary Beth had opted to forgo live-in help for a per diem, don’t-get-too-close household staff.

  “Let’s invite them to the Vineyard for golf next month,” she said loudly enough so Charlie would be certain to hear.

  Eric winked as if to let her know he finally got it. “When?”

  She was too tired to continue with the game. “We’ll check our calendar when we get home.”

  “Well,” Eric said, “I’m having breakfast with the Brazilians. I can’t confirm my schedule until then.”

  “Whatever,” Mary Beth replied and closed her eyes.

  They fell into common silence, Eric perhaps fantasizing about his South American adventure, while Mary Beth tried to fight off a gnawing obsession about Lester Markham and her financial fate.

  Tomorrow she would call him. Tomorrow. After her session with Hank, after the knots had been untangled from her neck.

  A cool cloud of air stirred the creamy satin sheets, causing Mary Beth to stir before she’d wanted to. She put her hand over her eye mask and waited to feel the warmth of Eric’s body leak to her side of the king-size bed. God, ever since his last birthday, her husband made these early morning trips out of bed to the bathroom. If his prostate didn’t start getting more considerate, she’d have to ask him to sleep in the room down the hall … any room down the hall, because soon Shauna would be married and it would just be the two of them.

  And then what would life be like?

  The cool air between the sheets warmed up again. That’s when she sensed something—a hand? an arm?—move close to her. The urge to cringe came and went quickly as fingers—strong fingers, thick fingers—moved up her side and rested on the rise of her breast that crept out from her nightgown. She smiled. She had not known it was that late.

  Her eye mask still intact, she slowly turned onto her back and stretched her arms above her head. The hands moved up the silk, stopping at the line where her nipples had grown stiff and peeked out from the fabric. He moved the thin strap of her nightgown. Had he done that with his teeth? He tugged the fabric, she heard it tear, he pulled it off. Then he was on her nipple with his lips, his mouth, his tongue. She moaned a tiny moan.

  He moved above her. She felt his big, hard penis flick across her thighs, a mass of uncontrolled heat awaiting entry to her lair.

  His mouth then left her breast and traveled down the hollow of her belly, her taut, tanned, small belly that could have belonged to a twenty-year-old for the firmness of her workouts. With his tongue, he moved aside the narrow strip of hair between her bikini-wax lines. He plunged his big finger into her growing wetness, then nibbled at her throbbing, melting clitoris with those teeth that she knew were big, white, and straight.

  She panted and grabbed his head. She shoved it hard against her and humped his face and his tongue and his teeth in rhythm with the pounding of her heart and the … oh, God, the scream of her orgasm that would not stop.

  She shuddered and shuddered and felt her peak begin to dissipate. Then he grabbed her buttocks and dove at her again until she went limp, weak and wet and heavenly floating and then he let out a moan of his own and grabbed her hand and pressed it to his penis and together their entangled fingers stroked him back and forth, back and forth until his hot liquid shot across her legs, all creamy and wet, all oozing and oh, so fucking good.

  She reached down and smeared his juices over her body, over her own wetness, her own still-throbbing ache. She rubbed herself, her mound, her place of pleasure, hard, harder, harder, harder until … Jesus … God … it was there … again … again … oh, God … />
  … oh,

  … God …

  It must have been a minute that they lay there, maybe more. When the knock came on her bedroom door, Mary Beth had thankfully regained her composure. She pulled off her eye mask and helped Hank roll off the mattress and slide under the bed as Shauna’s voice called, “Mother? Are you awake?”

  Mother was able to get out of bed, slide into her long peach silk robe, and unlatch the door for her daughter without much more than a sliver of concern that the man who had stealthily slipped beneath the bed might be exposed. She’d never felt much guilt about the recent trail of sex men in her life; though she and Eric never, ever discussed it, the physical side of their relationship had long since dwindled into infrequent, unexpected moments that occurred usually after too many martinis on both their parts. Too many martinis and purely physical wants and needs and a feeling of entitlement because they were married, so what the hell.

  She’d always had more sex drive than he did anyway. Just as she’d always had more money.

  “We were out late last night,” Mary Beth said, walking toward her dressing room, steering her daughter from the scene and the scent of her mother’s sins. “I just woke up.”

  Shauna did not seem to care. She sat on a brocade-tufted stool. “Mother,” she said, “you know I love Dee, but she’s going to screw everything up.”

  Mary Beth laughed and stepped into the steam room and set the jets on to heat. She turned back to her daughter. “Your cousin does not have the power to screw anything up, darling,” she said.

  She went to the vanity, brushed out her hair, and snapped a headband around it. Fortunately today was hair day: She was in no condition to appear in public as the glamorous, much-photographed mother-of-the-bride. The thought of photographs reminded Mary Beth that she needed to bring some old photos for her mother before she forgot again.

  “Mother, you don’t understand,” Shauna continued. “She has a chance to go to China, which means she won’t be at my wedding.”

  Shauna, of course, did not know about the supposed disappearances of Lester or the money. She hoped Nikki had had the sense not to mention the situation to Dee, either. “She’ll be at your wedding, darling,” Mary Beth tried to reassure her. “I shall insist.”

  “But if she leaves, what will I do? It’s too late to ask anyone else to stand up for me … and our gowns are almost finished …”

  Mary Beth slapped cleansing cream on her face. “I wouldn’t worry about that, darling. First of all, I can think of at least a dozen girls who would be delighted to be in the limelight at an Atkinson wedding.”

  “I want Dee. She is my cousin. We’ve always been like sisters …”

  The way Mary Beth and Nikki had once been. So long ago, before life directed their pathways toward two different planets.

  “Is she going to the Vineyard this weekend with you and Jason?”

  “She’s supposed to. We’re going Thursday. Maybe I’ll ask Aunt Nikki to talk some sense into her.”

  “Ha!” Mary Beth blurted out. “Your Aunt Nikki has sand in her shoes and salt water in her brain. More than likely she hates the whole idea of this wedding in the first place.” As soon as she’d said it, she wished that she hadn’t.

  Shauna blinked back the hurt and shook her head as if she understood her mother and didn’t take it personally. “It’ll be fine,” she said. “I’ll figure something out.”

  She departed as quickly as she had come.

  Mary Beth sighed and realized that some days the pressure of being an Atkinson was too much even for her. Then she thought about Lester, and how dare he not show up last night because that meant she’d have to call him this morning before “Aunt” Nikki called out the National Guard and the whole family went to hell in one of those dreary Nantucket handbaskets. She took off her robe and stepped into the shower, reminding herself that when she was done, she really must remember that Hank was still under the bed.

  7

  For the first time since she’d been in Italy, Gabrielle felt suffocated by the countryside.

  Who was Carla DiRoma, and was she telling the truth? How had she found her? Had Lester broken his promise? Did her father know where she was? Did her cousins? Would they show up, too?

  And dear God, what if Stefano learned that she’d lied?

  Her thoughts had pressed together, squeezed like the grapes until their life had gone. She knew she must take some action before Stefano came home.

  So she had waited this morning for the postman to trek up the mountain, and she begged for a ride into the village. He said it was against the law for a regular person to ride in the mail car.

  But she was a countess, the Countess Bonelli, did he not remember? She offered him money. She offered him wine.

  At last he agreed to drop her on the edge of town.

  Which was why she walked slowly now, her head high, her gait steady as she tried to look confident so no one would suspect she was trying to hide anything from her husband, the trusting count who’d married the God-forbid-American.

  She carried her basket as if she’d come to shop at the market, not to use the public telephone to call Zurich, a call that could not be traced to the villa.

  She strolled along the limestone brick street, past pale stone houses that were crowded together, past small in-town gardens where big-faced pansies struggled to keep a last grip on spring, where the sounds of children playing mingled with a dog barking, a mother shouting, an old man cursing.

  How Gabrielle loved Tuscany! Her anguish dissipated in the filtered light that rippled through the village street on a dreamlike veil. Aromas of sausage and bread and fresh-picked herbs clung to each delicious breath of air, creating an aphrodisiac that nearly made her forget the reason for her journey.

  Finally she reached the piazza, the center of the village, where the stone fountain splayed mountain water from dragon-headed bronze spigots and where the arched arcade gave shelter to an outdoor coffee shop, the newsstand, and, thank God, the telephone. Gabrielle walked toward it with deliberate unhurriedness, passing an old woman who stood behind a cart of cheese wheels and two men who sat at a square table drinking dark wine, despite that the hour was not yet noon.

  She fumbled in her pocket and withdrew a piece of paper. On it was the number of the bank in Zurich.

  When she reached customer service, she turned from the street and cupped her hand over the receiver. She spoke in English.

  “I need to know when the most recent transfer of money was made into my account,” she said and gave her name.

  “What is your access number?”

  “My what?”

  “Your access number. The one used for the electronic transfer.”

  “I don’t know that. I don’t make the deposits.”

  “I am sorry, I cannot release any information over the phone without your access number.”

  “But I have my account number.”

  “Do you have your last statement?” the woman asked.

  “No,” Gabrielle replied. She had stopped the statements from coming soon after she’d met Stefano. How could she explain that? “I used to have them sent to my address in Paris. On Rue Galilee.”

  “But you don’t have your access number.”

  A woman and a young boy exited the newsstand. The boy was laughing. His mother took his hand and smiled down at him. She asked if he wanted a chocolate bar and they went into the arcade.

  “Please,” Gabrielle said. She set down her basket and rubbed her forehead. “I’ve been told that the man who managed my funds has disappeared. I need to know how much is in my account, when the last deposit was made, or if this is some sort of hoax.” She closed her eyes and fought back tears. “Please help me.”

  “I’m sorry,” the woman repeated. “It’s against regulations.”

  Gabrielle hung her head. “What can I do?”

  “You’ll have to come here,” was the reply. “You’ll have to come to Zurich with proper identificatio
n.”

  One ring. Two.

  Would Carla DiRoma answer the phone?

  Mary Beth tapped her foot.

  Three. Four. No answer, no damn answer.

  Five. Six.

  Not even a goddamn recording.

  She checked her watch. Eight-fifty. Was eight-fifty too early for the office to be open? She had no idea. “Standard” office hours had not concerned Mary Beth. She vaguely remembered that a friend once took a job in an office in order to feel “productive.” But after a few weeks it had interfered with tennis, so she cut her schedule to three days a week, then two, then none. Mary Beth had not known what time the job had started.

  Ring. Ring. How many rings was that?

  She huffed a large huff and banged down the receiver, then grabbed the address book again. Lester Markham. 350 Park Avenue. Suite 2412.

  “Shit,” she said softly, with resigned distaste, because there was only one thing left for her to do.

  Despite her claims that she needed to be with people, that she liked staying in touch with Vineyarders, one on one, Nikki also could admit to herself that the aroma of baking bread contributed greatly to the seduction of her parttime job. She regretted that she’d have to leave the bakery for the duration of camp, but knew plenty of islanders in need of summer work. All of which, for Nikki, was acceptable, she thought as she hauled another sheet of caraway rolls from the oven. Let the others wait on the tourists; she preferred the peace of off-season.

  “That’s odd,” came a voice from in front of the counter, “I expected to see you kneading peasant bread.”

  Nikki adjusted the tray on the rack before facing her one and, thank God, her only. “Dee,” Nikki said with a grin, because in spite of their differences she did love her daughter. She went around the counter and gave her a hug. “It’s good to see you. Do you want a muffin or something?”

  “Alice would kill me. I put on four pounds junking out during finals, and she has to let out the waist on my gown as it is.”