6

Liddy

Liddy presses a glass of vodka on the rocks between her palms. She’s standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that stretch across the northwest wall of her kitchen, dining room, and living room, and her eyes follow the sweep of Boston spread out fifty floors below her. The multiple bridges crossing the Charles River as it travels to the ocean. The Public Garden, along with the gleaming gold dome of the State House. The Common, where cows grazed in the seventeenth century. From her bedroom, she can see the harbor and its islands, the ocean beyond.

She lives in luxury at The Tower. Her husband owns one of the largest real estate development companies in New England. Her two children are healthy and happy. Her closets and jewelry boxes overflow, and Boston Globe photographers are always ready to snap her picture at charity functions for the Names column or Party Lines. She’s the epitome of the enviable bold-faced name, a woman of wealth and substance.

Yet some of Liddy’s happiest moments are when she’s curled up with a novel in her favorite reading chair, which is inside a self-storage unit in Cambridge filled with Robin and Scott’s childhood possessions. Possessions Garrett had insisted wouldn’t fit in the condo when they moved out of their house in Weston.

“Who needs all that junk?” he’d asked, nuzzling her neck. “The kids have flown the coop, and now it’s just you and me. Like it used to be. Like it should be.”

Instead of arguing, which she’d learned not to do, she brought the twins’ things to Metropolis without his knowledge, certain the kids would want their mementos. And now she can sit in her unit and be as close to them as a mother can be to children who are thousands of miles away.

The doorman rings to tell her that her limousine has arrived. A crazy gesture, the limo, especially as she’s going only a quarter mile, across the Common, to the Four Seasons Hotel. But Garrett is fond of such gestures, especially if he believes there will be a media presence, which tonight there certainly will be.

She throws back the rest of her drink, sucks on an ice cube for the last vestiges, and places the glass in the sink. Then she ducks into her bathroom to brush the alcohol from her breath and check herself in the mirror. The dress is a deep purple, her best color. It’s cut low, but not plunging, now that she’s crossed the great divide over to forty and has since added another four years. It’s fitted, amplifying her small waist, but not too tight, the silk floating an inch from her skin. The slit in the dress stops at knee level, but her heels are high and stylish, her hair newly highlighted, and she’s wearing Garrett’s early Christmas present, an emerald-and-diamond pendant. She takes the elevator down and glides through the marble lobby.

When Liddy arrives at the hotel, the cameras flash, and despite herself, her spirits rise. She’s always been a sucker for a good party. Tonight is the annual fundraiser for one of her favorite charities, Boston Partners in Education. She and Garrett are major donors to many local nonprofits. Have been for years. The name W. Garrett Haines III graces buildings on the campuses of Boston-area universities, museums, and hospitals.

Although her name never accompanies his, those in the know recognize she’s the impetus behind his generosity, and she’s aware they sometimes refer to her as the East Coast Melinda Gates. To be fair, Garrett’s desire to help others is sincere, which is one of the reasons she fell for him in the first place. But over the years, this caring has shifted from heartfelt giving into more of a PR event for W. G. Haines Companies.

As soon as she steps into the lobby, Liddy is scooped up by Janie Labott, the current president of the charity. Janie is good at her job, but she has no sense of humor, and really, what kind of name is Janie for a grown woman?

“You look fantastic, as always,” Janie fawns, and then draws Liddy close. “Please, here, to the right, the VIP salon.”

“Is there a bar?” Liddy deadpans.

Janie looks blank. “But of course,” she says primly. “Top-shelf.”

Liddy presses her lips together to keep from laughing.

“You don’t want top-shelf? I’m sure I can get you whatever kind of beverage you’d prefer.”

“Top-shelf is fine.”

Janie tips her head, still confused. “Only the best for our major donors.”

Liddy goes straight to the bar and orders a vodka, this one straight up. The bartender pours her a shot of Grey Goose VX. She lifts the glass, toasting him and his top shelf, then takes a stiff hit. She supposes some might call her a functioning alcoholic. Perhaps that’s what she would call herself. But she’s functioning, and if a drink here or there helps her deal, so be it. Plus she’s meeting Sandy in half an hour for even stronger reinforcements.

She’s soon swallowed by a swirl of local bigwigs, including the mayor, the superintendent of schools, and high-ranking members of almost every educational charity in the state, along with the moneyed do-gooders of her social set. There are handshakes and air-kisses and hugs, compliments and bad breath, not to mention a few too many men “accidentally” brushing her breasts. People want to tell her how thankful they are for her support, how wonderful she is, how lucky the city is to have her—and about their own funding needs. This from the politicians as well as from the charities.

Although Liddy recognizes these maneuverings for what they are, she’s enjoying herself. She’s comfortable being the center of attention, holds it naturally. But for almost all her life, it was awarded to her for something she did nothing to deserve: beauty. Bestowed on her through no effort of her own. Now she’s finally being appreciated for something she’s actually done.

Then Garrett is at her elbow, whispering apologies in her ear, kissing her on the lips, holding the kiss for a moment longer than appropriate in a public setting. She smiles at him, and he smiles back. Those who notice the kiss smile also, some a bit snidely. Garrett isn’t a handsome man, and he doesn’t need to be. He carries himself with an air of casual confidence, has a grin that beams across the room, and exudes enough charisma to dazzle the entire city, which is exactly what he’s done. He charmed her the same way.

Liddy’s phone dings. “Be right back,” she says, and makes her escape. In two minutes, she enters a one-seater bathroom hidden in a corner near the caterer’s offices. Sandy is waiting for her. The women hug warmly. They met when their children were in kindergarten and bonded over their mutual dislike for the pretentious Weston mothers. They began drinking wine while the kids played, moved on to smoking pot when the kids were old enough to be on their own, and graduated to cocaine pretty soon thereafter.

Sandy and Gary left Weston for Rockport when their youngest went to boarding school in New Hampshire. They have a lovely bungalow, which Liddy covets, set atop a rocky outcropping with sweeping views of the ocean and a double lighthouse not far from shore. Rockport is an artsy town, small and picturesque, full of painters and writers and nonconformists. There’s also a lot of drug use, and Sandy has access to whatever she might want.

Due to the distance, which isn’t all that long in miles, but is very long in traffic, Liddy and Sandy don’t see each other as much as they used to. But during the fundraiser season, Liddy has Sandy bring her a gram or two of coke when they share a charity event. They both prefer it this way now, meeting in a public place rather than either’s home, which prevents them from diving into the gram and finishing it off in one sitting. There’s also the thrill of the clandestine, of overtly breaking the law, of doing something no one would ever expect of their respectable middle-aged selves.

Envelopes are exchanged, and Sandy warns, “It’s really good. When you do it, take it slow.”

Liddy is amused. “Take it slow? This from you, the woman who can’t say no?”

“See these bags dripping down into my cheeks?” Sandy points to the slightly bruised areas under her eyes that her concealer doesn’t quite cover. “That’s from not being able to say no last night. I’m trying to save you from walking around looking like the living dead.”

“Will do,” Liddy says, although she probably won’t be able to. That’s the problem with cocaine: once you start, it’s almost impossible to stop. She puts the envelope in her purse, pats it affectionately. Garrett is off on a business trip to France in two days. She’ll wait until then.

Sandy leaves first, and Liddy waits a few minutes so they don’t enter the ballroom together. This is completely unnecessary, but the pseudo-drug-dealer game is fun. When she slides into her chair, she glances across the room at Sandy, who winks at her.

The Haineses are seated at the head table, Janie at Garrett’s side and the mayor at Liddy’s. Although she’s to introduce Janie after the mayor introduces her, Liddy orders another vodka.