THAT TUESDAY MORNING back in August we had been living on the Main Line less than two months, so I didn't entirely understand why I was putting on my best summer skirt outfit and high-heeled sandals at eleven AM.
"Do I really have to go?” I asked Rip, who was around the corner fixing his tie at the bathroom sink. “I’d like to be here when the plumber looks into that leak.”
“Jacob can talk to the plumber. And you should come to lunch because Michael D’Avanzo specifically invited you.” Rip had returned to our bedroom looking especially sexy with his hair combed wet and his cheeks glowing with fresh aftershave. Unfortunately, I would have to hold that thought till later.
I proceeded to put in some tastefully dressy “midday” earrings, little gold shells that just showed under my acorn mop of hair. “Who is this guy anyway?”
“Grandfather of a student. Wealthy.”
“So we’re schmoozing?”
Rip shrugged into his maize summer blazer. I knew the color because I had just cut the cardboard label off the sleeve. “We’re schmoozing,” he agreed. “Get used to it.”
“Bet I was invited so you won’t be able to talk business for the whole meal.”
“Maybe. Maybe the guy wants to show off his restaurant. Maybe he likes women. Maybe he just wants you to get out of the kitchen. I know I do.”
Rip referred both to my dubious cooking skills and the fact that he’d been entertaining groups of three and four guests at our house for lunch three times a week beginning five days after we moved in. Most were for the admissions people of other nearby private schools and, if possible, their heads as well.
Rip needed to familiarize his peers with Bryn Derwyn's program and who it was designed to help. That way, if his school appeared to be a better match for an applicant, the other admissions people could make an informed recommendation.
Although the lunches were a little like applying for the same job over and over, Rip seemed energized by them. Me, I was feeling a little worn–and I didn't even have to sit in. Being pampered by an older gentleman actually sounded wonderful.
La Firenze looked like a plantation on an immaculate rolling lawn. The foyer floor consisted of an intricate inlaid marble pattern depicting a lion and a guy with a sword and a gold shield. Chamber music whispered in our ears and so did the maitre d’. Dining was going on in all of the several rooms on the ground floor, and judging by the waiter laboring up the broad staircase with a loaded tray, more diners were accommodated upstairs.
We were shown to an intimate little cubicle about twelve by fifteen containing one rectangular table, our host, and Richard Wharton.
Before entering, Rip breathed deeply, preparing to conduct himself well in front of a man he knew primarily by his formidable reputation and another whose behavior he had begun to question.
Both men rose as we approached the table. Wharton shook Rip’s hand in greeting while leering at me like a cat eyeing a captive mouse. When Michael D’Avanzo leaned forward to kiss my hand, I quickly scowled a reprimand at the school lawyer. Wharton’s smile actually widened, confirming my first impression. The guy was a jerk.
“Welcome,” D’Avanzo told us as he swept behind me to help with my chair. He was a beautifully fit man of about sixty, immaculate white hair above a perfectly tanned square face with broad black eyebrows. He wore a flattering navy blue suit, a smooth white shirt and a plain red tie. In his breast pocket a matching silk handkerchief folded into two peaks completed the look.
When he bent down to ease my chair in behind me, I inhaled an interesting masculine fragrance dominated by lime. It smelled so good I involuntarily turned toward it, only to meet Michael D’Avanzo’s smile. In contrast to the cockiness exhibited by the school’s attorney, D’Avanzo’s expression was warm and appreciative. Since I’d been spending much of my time elbow-deep in moving boxes, soapy water, and paint, I responded with every feminine fiber I owned. Every platonic fiber, of course. I could easily believe I was invited for every reason Rip had guessed, including the one about getting me out of the kitchen.
“Thank you for inviting me, Mr. D’Avanzo,” I told him. Let the schmoozing begin.
He beamed behind his clasped hands. In place of the usual wedding band was a roughly tooled gold ring enclosing a diamond three times–make that six times–the size of my engagement ring.
“My pleasure,” he schmoozed right back. “And, please. Call me Michael. I’m not really such an old man.”
I raised an eyebrow, thinking, “I believe it.” Michael’s grin broadened as if he had read my mind.
Meanwhile, Richard Wharton waved to the waiter who stood by the doorway. “May I treat us to a bottle of wine?”
“Oh, no no no,” D’Avanzo complained. “You are in my restaurant. You are my guests. But, please. Order whatever you want.”
Wharton began a murmured conversation with the wine steward. Briefly, our host observed his original guest with a penetrating expression of cold calculation, which he replaced almost instantly with a smile.
He turned his attention to Rip. "So I finally get to meet the well-respected Robert Ripley Barnes,” he said, as if it had taken years to arrange rather than days. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you.”
“Thank you,” Rip replied. From a minuscule stiffness in his shoulders, I knew he was thinking he should have met D’Avanzo back in May when the philanthropist was first approached about helping to fund a new gym. Another waiter set a water glass in front of my husband, and he reached out to touch it.
“Ah, I see that you are concerned, possibly annoyed about my little gesture toward your school.”
Rip’s alarm was restrained, but clear.
D’Avanzo patted the table twice and looked over Rip’s shoulder. “You are quite right, of course. You should have been consulted.” He leaned forward on his elbows and met Rip’s gaze. “But I assure you my little gesture will grow on you, as they say. Your Bryn Derwyn will be better off. And yes”–here he leaned toward me and stated–“please pardon my honesty...and yes, my grandson will have an arena in which to exhibit his athletic ability...” Again, to me: “We lost our older daughter and her husband–Nicky’s parents–three years ago. Terrible car accident. Terrible. Nicky lives with me now, and I’m afraid I dote on him like the worst of parents...”
He paused a moment before concluding with Rip: “And yes, it’s true. Building the gym will benefit our surviving daughter’s husband. God knows, married to our Tina he needs all the help he can get.”
If any of my discomfort over being present while the men conducted business remained, this exchange erased it. Michael D’Avanzo was quite skilled at holding two or more private conversations simultaneously. Rip’s at business level, mine at the confidential personal level, and others I was certain at will, although he seemed to merely tolerate Richard Wharton.
To the waiter, D’Avanzo nodded and said, “We begin.” Menus were passed around. Mine was without prices, as I supposed the others were.
I settled on something involving artichoke hearts and parmesan cheese then set the menu aside, glancing toward our waiting host to indicate that we could pick up the conversation.
“My younger daughter,” he continued smoothly, “is rather headstrong. Spoiled." He spread his hands. "My fault, I’m sure. Her mother, rest her soul, did her best to control our Tina, but I could never bring myself to punish such a treasure. Now? Now is too late and we must do the best we can.
“Her husband, Edwin, does excellent work, but there must be work before a man can do it. You see?”
I nodded and sipped the crisp white wine that had just been poured. Rip had waved his away, as had the restaurateur. More for Richard Wharton—and me, if I wanted it.
We paused to order, Richard choosing a full heavy meal, Rip a pasta dish with scallops and cream. Our host limited himself to an oyster hors d’oeuvre and a salad. Catching my surprise, he filled his chest with air and winked as he ran his hand down his tie. I returned a rather giddy smile. It had been some time since anybody flattered me with such genteel flirtation.
D'Avanzo now addressed Wharton, who sat close beside me. "Is the wine to your satisfaction?" he asked his guest. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I felt that D'Avanzo was asking as a matter of form, including the attorney in the conversation as any host would include every guest, whether or not they were in favor.
Wharton seized the opportunity to rave about the vintage, explain why he preferred it to another, and generally show off. I plastered on my polite smile and stopped listening, observing instead every visible detail about Richard Wharton plus a few invisible ones. I already knew my husband both disliked and distrusted him.
His age: about forty. He was deeply tanned, nothing unusual for August, but this tan suggested that the owner might not spend quite as much time in the office as my husband, for a handy example. Odd, because I always thought people who charged by the minute considered a billable minute the only one well spent. So Richard Wharton either had unusual priorities for a lawyer, or he owned a sunlamp.
He had a nice jaw with a hint of beard; I'd have bet he kept an electric razor in his top right-hand desk drawer. His nose was perfectly straight, his eyebrows sun-bleached and full, but flat and unobtrusive, positioned just right above his dark-lashed eyes.
The man's eyes were beautiful. The irises were a golden brown edged in deep brown, the whites whiter than his shirt, his teeth whiter than his eyes. And naturally his hair was a wavy dark taupe with coppery highlights from boating or whatever. Probably boating because his tie was covered with those colorful signal flags flapping on a navy background. He wore a plain old navy blazer and tan Salty Dog pants you usually expect to see without socks.
There was no trace of deference toward D'Avanzo, which meant Wharton either considered himself financially equal to the restaurateur, or sufficiently prominent in his field that he didn't have to kiss anybody's...ring. I was just beginning to wonder why he bothered with Bryn Derwyn, which must have been comparable to charity work to him, when he noticed my stare and raised one of those eyebrows a fraction.
"Ah," D'Avanzo said when the waiter delivered my plate. "Let us eat."
Between bites Rip began to discuss locker rooms. "I studied the blueprints, and I think we could use more space for the girls, maybe eliminate that extra set of rest rooms in the vestibule."
"Perhaps you are right, Mr. Barnes," D'Avanzo addressed Rip formally, another form of sexist flattery but respectful in its intention. "Why don't you meet with my son-in-law personally and describe any concerns you may have. The drawings are preliminary, of course."
Rip nodded, and then engaged D'Avanzo in a discussion of the timetable for the project.
That's when Richard Wharton put his hand on my knee. It was his left hand, so the extracurricular activity didn't affect his ability to feed himself. Neither did it appear to diminish his intense interest in what the other men were saying.
What to do? While I chewed and pretended nothing awkward was going on, I realized that the folds of the tablecloths–there were two, a long and a short—prevented Rip and D'Avanzo from noticing anything. For all they could see, Richard Wharton's hand rested on his own knee.
"Could I please have some more wine?" I asked, thinking the stretch would force the creep to let go long enough to let me shift my chair. Or else the intoxicant would give me some of the nerve it had obviously given Richard Wharton.
Any other time I would have slapped the offending paw a stinging blow and verbally cut the guy off at the knees. But Wharton also happened to be the chairman of the fundraising committee and responsible for soliciting from the heavy hitters, most of whom he probably knew personally. I couldn't afford to offend him.
That's why I lifted his hand by his shirt cuff up to eye level and said, "Pardon me, but I think you dropped this."
Captured red-handed, so to speak, Richard Wharton chose to burst into laughter. Some of the fancy white wine he had just sipped went up his nose, too, because he did a double-take and snorted and went for his handkerchief. Rip smiled with painful good-sportsmanship. Our host chuckled his polite appreciation of my reprimand while aiming cold oyster eyes at Richard.
Thereafter, I was always "Mrs. Barnes" to the attorney with ironic emphasis on the "Mrs."
Unfortunately, Rip's quarrel with Richard predated mine and contained far more substance.
And that was the thought the police interrupted when they wailed into the school driveway.