maybe Michael Bublé? “I’m Getting Myself Ready for You.” He was so over feeling and looking like a loser. Maybe he was unemployed, but now all of a sudden he was rich, unequivocally so, and it was time to look like it.
“All right,” Sheila said, materializing again with yet another garment on a hanger. “With your physique? This unstructured cashmere blazer would look
fabulous
.”
The butler brought a second flute of Champagne, and Rick took it with a crooked smile. This was a nice life. He could get used to it.
On his way out, clutching a couple of chocolate-brown Marco garment bags and a large brown cloth shopping bag, he heard someone calling his name.
“Rick? Is that you?”
It was Mort Ostrow, entering the store as Rick was going out. Ostrow drew back and gave Rick a gimlet-eyed appraising look. “Doing a little clothes shopping?”
With a polite smile, Rick said, “Hi, Mort.”
Ostrow actually stroked one of the garment bags as if it were a cherished pet. “Well, you certainly seem to have landed on your feet.”
“I’m doing okay.” Rick was suddenly at a loss for words. His brain had frozen.
“Quite a bit better than okay, I’d say.”
Rick shrugged, felt his cheeks get hot.
Ostrow smiled thinly. “Looks like someone’s paying you too much, and I don’t think it’s us.” He gave a jovial chortle, or at least his idea of a jovial chortle, but his jocularity sounded forced, and something in his tone struck Rick as almost ominous.
10
T he town car pulled into the driveway in front of Andrea’s house, a handsome classic colonial on Fayerweather Street, buttery yellow with glossy black shutters, slate roof, and dormers. Rick rang the bell, and she came right out as if she’d been sitting there, waiting. He almost gasped when he saw her. She was transformed. Stunning. No more puffy white down parka. Under a black pea coat she wore a red dress with an asymmetrical plunging neckline. Now she had makeup on—very red lipstick that matched her dress—and understated jewelry, pearl earrings and a gold chain around her neck so dainty it nearly disappeared. Her hair was up.
“You look great,” he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek.
“Thank you. Nice jacket.” She looked over his shoulder at the black sedan. “Uh, what’s this?”
“I didn’t feel like driving into Boston.”
“So . . . I mean . . . wow.” She turned around and yelled into the house, “Evan, come kiss mommy good-bye! . . . Evan?” To Rick, she said, “He was upset I was going out, so I let him watch
SpongeBob,
and now he can’t tear himself away from the TV.” She turned back and yelled again, “Good night, sweetheart—Mommy’s leaving!” She waited a moment, ear cocked. “I think I should escape while I can.”
As they walked to the town car, he said, “Lived here long?” It was a step up from her parents’ three-decker on Huron Ave where she’d lived in high school.
“Since I moved back.”
They sat in the spacious back of the sedan as it purred through the Cambridge streets. “I don’t think I’ve been in a town car since Goldman,” she said. “Look at this. And you actually got a reservation at
Madrigal
? You must know someone.”
Rick shrugged modestly.
“Of course you do. You know everyone in town.” She said it with a level gaze, in a lightly mocking tone.
Madrigal’s interior was dramatic and industrial-chic—it was located on the site of an old factory—with the obligatory exposed brick, vaulted ceiling, and rustic beams. It had cast-iron chairs, a poured concrete bar, scarred dark wood factory floor, and big rusted chains and gears and rigging placed here and there as decoration. The menus were heavy, fashioned from large copper sheets, and the edges threatened to slice off your fingertips if you weren’t careful. The lights were so low, the pinpoint lights so sparse, they could barely read the menu anyway.
While they were deciding what to order, their
“All right,” Sheila said, materializing again with yet another garment on a hanger. “With your physique? This unstructured cashmere blazer would look
fabulous
.”
The butler brought a second flute of Champagne, and Rick took it with a crooked smile. This was a nice life. He could get used to it.
On his way out, clutching a couple of chocolate-brown Marco garment bags and a large brown cloth shopping bag, he heard someone calling his name.
“Rick? Is that you?”
It was Mort Ostrow, entering the store as Rick was going out. Ostrow drew back and gave Rick a gimlet-eyed appraising look. “Doing a little clothes shopping?”
With a polite smile, Rick said, “Hi, Mort.”
Ostrow actually stroked one of the garment bags as if it were a cherished pet. “Well, you certainly seem to have landed on your feet.”
“I’m doing okay.” Rick was suddenly at a loss for words. His brain had frozen.
“Quite a bit better than okay, I’d say.”
Rick shrugged, felt his cheeks get hot.
Ostrow smiled thinly. “Looks like someone’s paying you too much, and I don’t think it’s us.” He gave a jovial chortle, or at least his idea of a jovial chortle, but his jocularity sounded forced, and something in his tone struck Rick as almost ominous.
10
T he town car pulled into the driveway in front of Andrea’s house, a handsome classic colonial on Fayerweather Street, buttery yellow with glossy black shutters, slate roof, and dormers. Rick rang the bell, and she came right out as if she’d been sitting there, waiting. He almost gasped when he saw her. She was transformed. Stunning. No more puffy white down parka. Under a black pea coat she wore a red dress with an asymmetrical plunging neckline. Now she had makeup on—very red lipstick that matched her dress—and understated jewelry, pearl earrings and a gold chain around her neck so dainty it nearly disappeared. Her hair was up.
“You look great,” he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek.
“Thank you. Nice jacket.” She looked over his shoulder at the black sedan. “Uh, what’s this?”
“I didn’t feel like driving into Boston.”
“So . . . I mean . . . wow.” She turned around and yelled into the house, “Evan, come kiss mommy good-bye! . . . Evan?” To Rick, she said, “He was upset I was going out, so I let him watch
SpongeBob,
and now he can’t tear himself away from the TV.” She turned back and yelled again, “Good night, sweetheart—Mommy’s leaving!” She waited a moment, ear cocked. “I think I should escape while I can.”
As they walked to the town car, he said, “Lived here long?” It was a step up from her parents’ three-decker on Huron Ave where she’d lived in high school.
“Since I moved back.”
They sat in the spacious back of the sedan as it purred through the Cambridge streets. “I don’t think I’ve been in a town car since Goldman,” she said. “Look at this. And you actually got a reservation at
Madrigal
? You must know someone.”
Rick shrugged modestly.
“Of course you do. You know everyone in town.” She said it with a level gaze, in a lightly mocking tone.
Madrigal’s interior was dramatic and industrial-chic—it was located on the site of an old factory—with the obligatory exposed brick, vaulted ceiling, and rustic beams. It had cast-iron chairs, a poured concrete bar, scarred dark wood factory floor, and big rusted chains and gears and rigging placed here and there as decoration. The menus were heavy, fashioned from large copper sheets, and the edges threatened to slice off your fingertips if you weren’t careful. The lights were so low, the pinpoint lights so sparse, they could barely read the menu anyway.
While they were deciding what to order, their
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