Sandy and I meet for the gala in the Hyatt lobby by the Eclipse Bar. I have on a basic black pantsuit with sensible pumps. I look like I’m on my way to a job interview. If I’d had more notice, I could have asked Honey to bring a ball gown over from the thrift store. Sandy, on the other hand—with the help of a hotel sewing kit—has transformed her black business dress into a pure bombshell, unbuttoning it just enough to showcase her impressive cleavage. She seems happier than I have ever seen her, and many heads turn, wondering who this gorgeous woman walking past them is.
“Let’s have some fun, Tanzie,” she says as we stroll through the lobby.
Fort Mason is a converted army base on the northwest side of the San Francisco Bay. It houses a smattering of trendy restaurants and artist studios, and it offers a large closed pavilion for not-for-profit events. On a clear day, the view is breathtaking, but this evening the notorious San Francisco fog has rolled in, obscuring any hint of the Golden Gate Bridge. Our cab joins the parade of cars and limos in the circular drive in front of the main building.
The space is crowded, but I spot Marshall at a cocktail table talking with the archbishop. I’m not sure what I had imagined Archbishop Mauriello to look like, but it certainly was nothing like the gentleman talking to Marshall. I’d only seen one or two archbishops before in my life, but they brought to mind a weathered, gray fellow with the requisite belly that often accompanies powerful men in clergy. This man couldn’t be more than forty-five or fifty years old. He is almost a foot taller than Marshall and has an athletic build, chiseled features, and a mop of black curls. His black cassock, trimmed in red, and matching beanie present a stark contrast to the other men in their tuxedos. He is the listener, as most are when stuck in a conversation with Marshall; but when he laughs, it seems genuine. He’s good, I think. From across the room, with a drink in hand and a Hollywood smile, Mauriello appears more like a highly polished business executive than a man of the cloth.
As we walk across the room, I catch Marshall’s eye, and he gestures for us to come closer.
“Let me introduce you,” Marshall says. “Archbishop Mauriello, this is Sandy DeHart and Tanzie Lewis, visitors from our corporate office in Houston.”
Mauriello gives me a polite handshake, but he’s clearly taken by Sandy. Sandy in heels and big hair is almost the same height as the archbishop. They fit well together, as both are absolutely stunning examples of human beauty.
“I like your necklace,” Sandy gushes. “Are those real rubies?”
Mauriello issues an isn’t she darling grin.
“It’s called a pectoral cross, and yes, they are real rubies. This was a gift from a parishioner when I received my appointment. I’m glad you like it.” The gold cross is as large as my palm and hangs from a thick gold chain around Mauriello’s neck. There is a rounded center ruby of at least two carats and small channel-set diamonds that extend out to rubies at the end points of the cross.
“Is it antique?” I ask.
Mauriello cocks his head.
“The cut of the rubies,” I explain. “Rose cuts usually date to the 1800s, sometimes even earlier.” An appreciation of fine jewelry is one of the few benefits I gained from having been married to Winston Lewis.
“Actually, the stones are vintage,” he says. “The cross was custom-made at Gumps, but the stones were from a family piece belonging to the parishioner.”
“Tanzie has an eye for details,” Sandy interjects.
It is clear that neither Mauriello nor Sandy is interested in a quick course on gemology, however, for they peel off toward the bar and leave Marshall and me by ourselves. Sandy seems to have completely abandoned her plan to interrogate Marshall.
“I didn’t know you knew the archbishop,” I say.
“Of course!” He beams. “We’re pretty good friends, actually. The archbishop and I have lunch a couple times a year. Sometimes we get in a round of golf. Great guy. Absolute saint.” Marshall puts his hands together in prayer and looks to the heavens for emphasis.
I try to pry a little more out of him. How did they meet? How long has Westwind been involved with St. Benedict’s? But Marshall is less interested in that subject and more interested in talking about himself, and I soon realize that I’ve become trapped with one of the most boring individuals I have ever met in my lifetime. It appears that many of the attendees know this, as no one seems at all interested in joining our conversation. None of the usual strategies for gracefully extricating myself seem like viable options at this moment.
Over by the bar, the archbishop appears to be manning some sort of conversion effort on Sandy. Although, from his body language, I’m not entirely sure his end game is Catholicism.
I find myself retreating into my head as Marshall drones on. Truth is, charity events like this one were frequent occurrences back when I was married. Playing the corporate wife meant making small talk with the Marshalls of Winston’s company at least weekly and sometimes nightly. It was part of my job. Some nights were great fun, and others were torture. I decide to just offer it up, smile, and interject little phrases like “incredible!” and “really?” and “I’ve never thought of it that way, but you are so right.”
Marshall fills me in on his new obsession: golf. He’s on the waiting list at a couple of high-end clubs, and he’s working diligently to bring down his thirtyish handicap through weekly lessons and daily practice after work and every weekend.
“We should play sometime,” I tell him, and he immediately perks up.
“You play golf?” he asks.
“I do.” I tell him I belong to a club in Houston and love the game. I do not tell him that I have been club champion several times and currently sport a low single-digit handicap. As boring as he is, I don’t have the heart to make him feel inferior, particularly since I still feel guilty about calling in the fraud that implicated him. No telling what this will do to his career in the long term.
Plus, he likes me. Not that I’m at all attracted to Marshall, but it has been such a long time since a man, any man, has seemed smitten. Yes, there have been a few dates since I returned to Houston, most of them set up by friends or with people I’ve known for years whose wives had died or split. What I’ve found in most cases is that the most attractive thing about me was that I was married to Winston. It’s the dating equivalent to having a Harvard MBA on a resume. Winston is a man’s man, and there is no shortage of men who wish they were just like him. If they can’t be him, then settling for his cast-off wife may be good enough. It’s refreshing and flattering to have someone flirt with me just for being myself. The irony that the person is Marshall is in keeping with my rocky road to redemption. I will be nice to Marshall. If he gets too forward, I can always play the auditor card. Gosh, Marshall, you’re so attractive, but auditors can’t get involved with people in the company, because we need to stay independent. I could get fired. Let’s just be friends.
Marshall is explaining the pros and cons of an interlocking grip when salvation comes in the form of dinner chimes, indicating that we need to find our seats. Westwind’s table is near the front in appreciation of their substantial support, along with other well-known benefactors from the San Francisco area. The mayor is sitting at a table with the district attorney. At another table, there’s a US senator and a couple of other politicians and their wives. I make it a point to score a seat as far from Marshall as possible, which leaves me next to Doug and his wife, Michelle. While the patrons are all dressed to the nines, the décor and table settings are anything but ornate. Centerpieces are arrangements of herbs in six-inch pots, and the dinner entrée is essentially macaroni and cheese that’s been dressed up with a tiny dollop of lobster and finished with truffle oil. In true San Francisco style, the wine makes up for the pauper’s meal, having been donated by a Napa boutique vineyard—possibly the one hosting those notorious retreats. At each place is a handwritten note from either a current or former resident of St. Benedict’s thanking the attendee for their support. Mine is a handprint of a small child and a touching note from the mother. Thanks to my St. Benedict’s family, my boy and I are safe. Much love, Jess.
The evening’s entertainment is a ten-minute film highlighting the program at St. Benedict’s and featuring testimonials from some of the more profound turnaround stories. There is a children’s choir singing “San Francisco, Here I Come,” but the highlight is a duet of “Ave Maria.” All of this hits me hard, and I fight back tears. It’s easy to become cynical about the Catholic Church, with all their scandals and backward views; however, moments like this, when the good work that they do is showcased along with the beautiful music, bring me back to the true meaning of Christianity.
When it is time for the live auction, Archbishop Mauriello gets up and takes center stage. The professional auctioneer defers to him to hawk each item, and I can see why Honey called him egomaniacal. I look at the brochure. Sandwiched between the retreat in Italy and a private dinner for twelve at the French Laundry is a golf outing at the Olympic Club with the archbishop. There are five or six additional items that, back in the old days, would have caused my hand to raise.
“I knew him when we were kids,” Doug says, gesturing to Mauriello. “He doesn’t remember me, though. We went to the same high school in Morristown—St. Andrew’s. I was on the freshman football team, and he was the senior quarterback. Larger-than-life kind of guy but a total asshole.” Michelle pokes Doug and glares. “No, I mean it, Tanzie,” he persists. “He beat the shit out of me one day after practice. Just for fun. He had no beef with me. He did it just because he could.” Doug refills his wine glass for the sixth time since I’ve been sitting with him. “I’d like to see him try it now!”
Michelle bites her lip and kicks Doug under the table. I imagine the ride home will not be much fun.
“Water under the bridge, Tanzie,” he concludes. “Marshall worships the guy, so maybe he turned out all right.”
I find it amazing that both Doug and Marshall know Mauriello, though their opinions certainly couldn’t be more different. “Have you told Marshall about your experience with the archbishop in high school?” A street thug is one thing, but a sadistic predator is another.
Doug shakes his head. “Water under the bridge, Tanzie,” he says, and he gives his attention to the auctioneer. There’s an irony, too, that two kids from Morristown both struck it rich in San Francisco. Maybe whatever satisfaction Doug has from climbing the corporate and economic ladder is eclipsed a bit by having his high school nemesis outdo him so publicly. No matter the reason, I decide that Honey may be right. Mauriello is certainly worth looking into.
When the archbishop announces the golf outing, Marshall beams. Hacks like Marshall rarely play an elite course like the Olympic Club, which has hosted US Opens and boasts one of the most challenging courses in the country. I can tell he wants this badly from the way he purses his lips and shifts in his chair like a twelve-year-old. The bidding starts at $500, and a gentleman two tables over raises his paddle.
“I have $500,” says the auctioneer. “Now $600, now $700. Do I hear $800?”
The way these auctions go, most of the early bids are made by folks who just want to raise the paddle but aren’t serious enough to put up big bucks. Marshall is serious, though, and he joins in at $1,800.
“$1,800 to you, sir.” The auctioneer points to Marshall, and Mauriello forces a smile. He seems less than thrilled about the idea of golf with Marshall. I sense that theirs is a one-sided friendship. Poor old Marshall, thinking that Mauriello is his buddy, when the reality is that the archbishop just has his hand out.
“$1,900 to you,” says the auctioneer, pointing to a portly bald man in the back. The bidding goes on between Marshall and the bald man until Marshall stands up at $8,000.
“Archbishop,” he says in a loud voice. “I’ll bid $25,000 if you’ll agree to play this Friday morning!”
The crowd is silent. The auctioneer turns to Mauriello.
“Of course, Marshall. For a $25,000 donation, I’ll adjust my Friday foursome,” says the archbishop, laughing.
“Then $25,000 it is,” says the auctioneer. “Sir?”
The bald man is caught off guard and doesn’t seem prepared to make that sort of leap. He shakes his head.
Doug is beaming. “I play a little golf, Tanzie,” he says, leaning toward me. “Big hitter, too. I’d love to kick that guy’s skinny ass all over the golf course.”
I find myself wondering which skinny ass he’s talking about: Marshall’s or Mauriello’s.
I look over at a grinning Marshall, who appears to be in heaven. “Sandy? Tanzie? You girls want to be my guests on Friday?” Marshall asks.
“I don’t play,” Sandy replies, “but Tanzie does.”
Doug looks at me.
“Is that all right?” I ask my boss sheepishly.
“I think so. I’ll take one for the team and give you Friday off,” says Sandy, and then she covers her mouth and whispers in my ear. “See what you can find out.”
“How about you, Doug?” asks Marshall.
“Me?” Doug perks up and makes an exaggerated gesture, pointing to himself. “Absolutely, Marshall. Bring your wallet!”
“You think you can beat him?” I whisper.
At that, Doug frowns, as if transported back to a freshman kid crying under the bleachers. His expression then shifts to a sinister smile.
“Water under the fucking bridge, Tanzie,” he says.