He had the soft face of a boy raised on donuts and chocolate milk. There was a sweetness about him, as if he were recalling the residue of a treat.
She looked at his feet.
He wore black velvet slippers. Embroidered multicolored garlands were visible beneath the cuffs of his trousers.
Didn’t take him long, she thought, smiling.
When he had first appeared in town, an unknown, his jocular, swarthy good looks waylaid fears, apprehensions.
Palm Beach was a haven for newcomers.
She had seen them all.
Some stayed, some moved on.
There were always more.
But this man, (she judged him to be in his early forties) had a quality that disarmed her.
He told stories with ease and familiarity.
He said that he was of Portugue se ancestry.
Haven't seen any Portuguese since the Red Cross Ball, she thought..
“Yes,” he said. “I think we were Jews”
“Don’t you know?” she countered.
“No, people forgot.”
“Well, there are websites.”
“There are? I’ll have to look it up.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve heard it said in my family."
“Really?”
“I’d like it. I always felt different.”
From time to time, she would hear his name mentioned, see his photographs in the society pages.
He h ad attended this party, that party.
Always an open-faced smile, bonhomie.
She would see him at galas.
They would embrace.
He seemed excited to see her.
She watched him from afar. She followed20him move seamlessly from group to group. Polite. Reserved.
He didn’t hover around the elderly women, draped in outsized jewels and wearing a perpetually startled look, their heavily penciled eyebrows recalling another era, another fashion.
From time to time, one of the women would die and announcements would be placed.
The decedent was said to have been seventy-two.
She remembered attending an event in the woman’s home. She stood at the entrance to her mansion, greeting the guests. When she turned, her spine, tightly bound by her silvery sheath was misaligned and deformed with age.
“She hasn’t seen seventy for twenty-five years,” her hairdresser announced, looking over her shoulder as she read the newspaper.
“How can someone control facts from the grave?”
“Money,” he said as he ran his fingers through her hair.
“I wonder what’s going to happen to her boyfriend.”
“He already has someone else”
“He does?” she asked, feigning disinterest.
“A tin heiress from Peru. They are going to live here in season and travel.”
“No.”
“Yes. You’re done!”
“How old is she?”
"Still breathing."
She rose.
“You do the greatest color. So natural.”
“Less expensive than a psychoanalyst.”
They walked to the reception area.
“Are you going to Animal Rescue League party with Glenn?” she asked.
“No.”
“Umberto said he would meet me there. He left me an email.”
“Umberto?”
“That new guy.”
“Are you dating him?”
“I don’t date.”
“Right.. Sweetie, you don’t have to marry them.”
“I know.”
“What is his story?”
She shrugged.
They were silent.
“Can’t get my finger on him,” he said.
“No, he’s nice.”
“You said that about your ex-husband.”
They embraced and she left, smiling, looking at her reflection in the salon’s mirrors.
She entered the ballroom.
She straightened her bearing.
She saw his barrel-like figure across the room.
He was talking to two middle aged women. One wore a black dress that resembled tightly woven bandages. Thick, lifeless ash-blonde hair framed her face. She wondered if she was wearing a wig. The other woman’s backless dress revealed her skeletal posterior ribcage. The parallel shadows resembled Micronesian tattoos. Maori.
"Look, who's here!” he said, turning to her. “You look lovely this evening.”
“Thank you.”
“Ladies, do you know Mariana Blank?”
“Yes, we know each other,” she said.
“I imagine,” he said. “You know everyone.”
“Not really.”
“Did you get my email?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“There’s a barbeque at the Rolling Hills Stables tomorrow. Benefit for Joel Hitchcock. The Manger House.”
“How do you know everything, everyone? You’ve only been here a few months.”
“Oh, Umberto is incredible,” said the woman with the pale hair.
He smiled.
“People send me things.”
A waiter strolled by with a tray of canapés.
She waived him on.
“Excuse me, ladies,” Umberto said as he guided her from the group.
He sipped his drink.
“Can I get you something?” he asked.
“No, I’m all right. Still nursing this one.”
“I just wanted to thank you.”
“For what?”
“I heard that you told Watterbury of Prime Bank that you knew me.”
“Yes, but that’s about all.”
“I have some funds. About two million. I get income. I don’t have to work. I would like to put it someplace safe.”
“Oh, you have to be very careful,” she said. “Palm Beach is full of crooks. Don't sign anything. Don’t do anything without professional advice.”
“Don’t worry. I have a great team.”
“You really have to stay on top of it. Examine those statements every month.”
He smiled.
“You should create a trust.”
“That’s why I am going to meet with Atterbury.”
“Watterbury.”
He smiled tightly.
“Thanks.”
They paused.
She wondered if he was going to ask her for anything.
She was well-known. She supported many charities. She was generous.
“Are you sure that I can’t get you anything?” he asked.
“No, I’m all right.”
She felt something between them. A maternal feeling, she concluded.
A man tapped him on his burly shoulder.
He leaned over and listened. He did not introduce them to each other.
They walked away.
A short while later, she heard the sharp ping of a metal gong. Dinner was announced. She looked around the room, but she had lost sight of him.
A few weeks later, she saw him in the market. He rushed in, dressed in a tuxedo, silk cravat trailing over his shoulder. He was animated, enthused. He looked handsome.
They kissed.
“You’ve lost weight!” she said.
He grinned.
“You noticed!”
“You look good.”
“Thanks.”
“What’s new?”
“I am going to a party on the island. I came in for a bottle of champagne. What do you recommend?”
“They have a sommelier in the wine department.”
“This late?” he asked, looking at his watch. It was a thin, silvery-looking timepiece. She wondered if it were real.
“Probably not. Just get something expensive. How is everything?”
“Great. And you?”
"Fine.”
“I’ve gotten involved in politics.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Yes, this is a small town. You are fundraising for the Governor.”
“Right!”
“Did you ever meet with Watterbury?”
He looked confused.
“Prime Bank?”
“Oh, no. I am taking my time. I am exploring several options. I may buy some lots for redevelopment .”
“Remember. Be careful.”
“I am.”
“Well , great seeing you.”
“Gotta run.”
He turned and walked away.
He was wearing the velvet shoes.
Do birds fly? she asked herself.
Of course, birds fly.
Not all birds fly. Penguins don’t fly. He was a penguin. He was rotund. He wore a black suit. A white shirt. Stiff. Little ebony dots studded his chest. He didn’t have orange feet. He had black shoes.
She lowered the newspaper.
She had gone out on the driveway, early, before the joggers, down, down, the long curving driveway leading away from her house and picked up the plastic wrapped paper, folded in=2 0thirds. As was her habit, she read the headlines as she returned to the house. The carbon letters screamed “Man Kills Self in Palm Beach.”
Thirty-two years old, she read.
Profession. None. Creditors. Debt. Fraud. Conviction. Girlfriend. Murder.
Girlfriend? she thought wildly. Murder?
“He stepped off the tenth floor of an oceanfront balcony,” the paper reported.
He tried to fly and he couldn’t fly, she thought.
Her cell phone rang. She fumbled in the pocket of her robe.
“Did you see it coming?”
“I saw nothing.”
“People said that he had a temper.”
“I saw nothing,” she repeated.
“Are you coming in for a touch-up today?” she heard her caller ask.
***