Knitting Under the Influence (15 page)

IV

K
athleen settled on a cocktail-length, thin-strapped, body-hugging black dress for the fund-raising event that night. “Wow,” Kevin said when she slid into his car. “You look amazing.” He leaned over and kissed her hard on her open mouth. Lingered there a moment. He sat back and took a deep breath. “Maybe we should run upstairs. Think I could leave the car here?”

“Not without getting towed.” She pulled the seatbelt across her body.

He drove away from the curb with a good-natured sigh of acceptance. He glanced at her a couple of times as he drove along Wilshire. “You have truly beautiful breasts, you know that?”

“They do what they need to.”

“Except … something's missing.”

She looked down at herself. “One. Two. Same as always.”

“Dress like that needs a necklace. And I know where to get one.” And, with those words, Kevin Porter drove straight to Rodeo Drive and Tiffany & Co., where he bought Kathleen a beautiful and delicate necklace that was, admittedly, sterling silver and not diamond-encrusted, but still cost several hundred dollars and was, for a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing, a touching gesture.

Kathleen was pleased. The only tiny—minuscule really—jarring note for her was that Kevin had chosen to take her to Tiffany, which was where Jackson Porter bought all the gifts for his mistresses. The man actually kept a cache of filled small blue boxes in a locked drawer in his office for ready access.

And that nagged at her. Surely there were other decent jewelry stores in Los Angeles.

When they arrived at the fund-raiser—held in the biggest ballroom Kathleen had ever seen, in one of the swankiest hotels in Beverly Hills—Kevin led her to where his family stood in a knot. They all said hello and then ignored her.

Which left Kathleen free to sip some decent champagne and absorb everything that was going on around her. She and Kevin were among the youngest people at the event. No surprise there, since the honoree that evening was Jackson Porter, who was nearing seventy, and most of the guests were his contemporaries. Besides, a single ticket cost five hundred dollars, and a table went for five thousand, and Kathleen couldn't think of a lot of people her age who could afford to spring for something like that, even for a good cause.

Assuming tonight's charity
was
one, of course. She still didn't know what it was. The signs that hung around the room all read, “In a Parallel Universe …” which didn't enlighten her at all.

Kevin's two sisters-in-law were gorgeously turned out that evening, one in Armani black, the other in Prada crimson. Their dresses were almost severe in their simplicity, but tailored and draped beautifully, and the extravagance of the jewelry they wore complemented the spare lines of their dresses. In the past, Kathleen had thought both women were too thin—scrawny, really—but tonight their evening finery made the prominence of their bones seem elegant rather than sickly.

While she was standing there, she heard the sister-in-law in black say to the sister-in-law in red, “You are so brave to wear that color. You know—this year, when no one else is.”

The other narrowed her eyes and said, “Oh, I just grabbed what I could. The kids don't give me a second to get ready. I’m
sure
you'll understand someday. I mean, I
hope
so.” From this, Kathleen inferred the one in black was having fertility problems.

Kevin's brothers greeted him with pleasant enough claps on the shoulder and then immediately took their father aside and started whispering to him, freezing Kevin out of the discussion. Kevin just smiled affably at their backs and made some comment to his mother about the turnout. She dipped her head an inch—a nod of agreement, Kathleen assumed. That done, Caro Porter retreated back to silence, smiling vaguely at some distant object while she clutched her champagne glass to her chest with one bony hand.

The fog in her dull blue eyes and her halting speech hinted at artificial sedation. Kathleen, who waved goodbye to Jackson Porter every day as he strode out of the office at noon, reeking of cologne and often tucking one of those small blue boxes into his breast pocket, had nothing but sympathy for Caro's choice to reject clarity.

After an hour or so of this standing around and drinking, someone flashed the lights in the room. None of the guests paid any attention to it. The lights flashed again. This time, there was a subde murmur throughout the crowd—which then went back to talking and drinking. A waiter refilled Kathleen's glass.

Then someone—hotel staff, Kathleen assumed—called out a personal appeal for people to move toward the dining room. He was ignored, but a little while after that a guest with a booming voice called out that they were already way behind schedule and wouldn't be out before midnight at this rate, and the threat of that finally got people moving.

When they reached their table, Kevin and Kathleen sat down, but Kevin's brothers waited, standing, until their father joined them, and then they maneuvered him into a seat between the two of them. Caro sat down on Kathleen's empty side and the two wives sat next to their husbands. Wine was poured and Caro raised her glass.

“To the poor children,” she said wearily, and they all drank.

Kathleen thought Caro meant her own kids for a second, and then realized that she was referring to the recipients of that evening's fund-raising efforts.

Kathleen had been to many social events in her life, but never one that reeked of wealth the way this one did. There were at least three waiters to every table and they were always hovering, refilling glasses and clearing and bringing plates. The room was decorated with wreaths of flowers and candles that cast a flattering warm glow and made the ropes of jewels on the women all around her sparkle brightly.

Cinderella was at the ball.

Funny thing—so was the fairy godmother.

There was a steady stream of tuxedoed men paying their respects to Jackson all during dinner, so at first Kathleen didn't even look up when one more came—and then she heard his voice. And there was Sam Kaplan, clasping Jackson's hand and saying something she couldn't quite catch that had Jackson shaking his head with a rueful smile.

Kathleen was surprised and a little annoyed. Sam hadn't told her he was coming, even after she'd mentioned the event that morning.

Kevin had once said something to her about how his father admired Sam, and there seemed to be some truth to it: Jackson had risen to his feet and was listening intently to whatever Sam was saying. He nodded his head in agreement at the end. They did that guy thing of shaking hands while clapping each other's upper arm, and then Jackson gave him a little salute and sat back down between his older sons.

Sam greeted the rest of the family as he circled around the table, kissing the air close to all the women's cheeks and shaking all the men's hands. “Just wanted to say hello,” he said when he reached Kathleen and Kevin. He and Kevin shook hands. “Kathleen,” he said with a nod of greeting. Apparently she didn't rate an air kiss.

“Oh, right,” Kevin said, leaning back in his seat to include them both. “I forgot—you two already know each other. You're how we
got
Kathleen.”

“I’m how she came to work at Porter and Wachtell,” Sam said. “You got her all on your own, buddy.”

Kevin smiled.

Sam said, “You must be proud of your father this evening.” Kathleen was so used to his armchair insults that it was a surprise to realize he could actually be as polished as the next guy when he was out at a social function.

“I am,” Kevin said. “I absolutely am.”

Sam raised his hand. “Have fun, kids,” he said and walked away. He shook a couple more hands and cuffed a few more shoulders before returning to Table Eight, where he sat down next to a young woman with roughly cropped hair that was dyed a bright copper orange. The girl immediately leaned over and whispered in his ear.

Kathleen stared at them. She had been living under Sam's apartment for several months but had never once seen a female go in or out—and here he was at a major social event with a total babe.

A waiter placed a salad in front of her, blocking her view. She quickly devoured the small salad, and then noticed that none of the other women at her table had eaten theirs.

She felt Kevin's hand on her leg under the table and smiled at him. He turned and said, “Hey, Mom, did you know that Kathleen's a triplet and her two sisters are movie stars?”

“How nice,” Caro said, and raised her wineglass to her lips.

“Yeah,” Kevin said. “Christa and Kelly Winters. They're huge.”

“Really?” Caro said. “How interesting.”

From her other side, the sister-in-law in red said, “I’ve heard of them.”

“Have you?” Kathleen said.

“Yes. My little girl made me take her to one of their movies once.” One eyebrow was crooked derisively, daring Kathleen to ask her whether she liked it, but Kathleen knew better and was silent.

The waiters cleared the salad plates. Kathleen shifted restlessly in her seat. She looked over at Sam's table. He was saying something to the girl next to him. She tilted her head in consideration, and long, heavy earrings flashed at her neck. A few minutes later, Sam rose to his feet and moved across the room. He stopped at a table to talk to someone.

Kathleen pushed her own chair back abruptly. “I need to go to the ladies’ room,” she said.

“Do you know where it is?” Kevin said.

“I’ll find it.”

He rose as she stood up. He was polite that way.

She said, “Excuse me,” to the rest of the table, but no one seemed to notice.

She made her way across the room, and after Sam had finished chatting with the people at Table Twenty-seven, she darted forward and cut him off before he could go back to his own seat.

“Kathleen,” he said and gave her a quick up and down look. “Nice dress.”

“Why didn't you just tell me you were coming to this, you jerk?”

“You didn't ask. Are you having a good time?”

“It's okay. You let me go on and on this morning—”

“How much wine have you had?” he asked.

“I don't know. A glass or two.” Or three or four. “Why?”

“You look drunk. Your face is red.”

“Whatever,” she said.
“You
certainly look like you're enjoying yourself.”

“Do I?”

“Who's the girl at your table?”

“The girl?”

“Sitting next to you. With the bright orange hair—she's kind of hard to miss.”

“Oh, her. Beautiful, isn't she? She usually comes with me to these kinds of things. Takes pity on an old man.”

“What's her name?”

“Joanna,” he said and Kathleen could have kicked him. Or herself. Joanna was his daughter. She had seen a couple of photos of her around his apartment, but they were all at least several years old, and most of them were of her as a little girl. And she didn't have copper hair in any of them. Kathleen had stupidly assumed she was still an adolescent with undyed hair.

She glared at him. “Why didn't you just say that in the first place?”

“And ruin your excitement? You were so sure you had discovered some hidden scandal in my life—ancient Sam with his little thing-on-the-side.”

“You're not married,” Kathleen said. “You can't have a thing-on-the-side.”

“Whatever,” he said, just like she'd said it a few seconds earlier. Making fun of her.

“Can I meet her?”

“If you like.” He led the way back to his table.

Up close, Kathleen could see a tiny bit of a resemblance—her nose was long, like his, and she was thin like him, too. She was prettier, though, than you would have expected Sam's daughter to be—not that he wasn't a handsome-enough man in his own hawky, severe way, but she had a delicacy about her features that definitely came from some other source.

Sam introduced Kathleen, and Joanna said, “Oh, the girl who's staying downstairs.” Her eyes were light blue—another surprise, since Sam's were so dark—and heavily made up in shades of bright green. Her ears were pierced in four different places. The tarty look suited her, made her look oddly more innocent underneath it all. It helped that she was so young. She gestured at the room. “This is nice, isn't it?”

“Kathleen is here because she cares so deeply about the cause,” Sam said. “Have you figured out what it is yet, Kathleen?”

She shrugged. “Something about poor kids.”

‘”Something about poor kids’?” he repeated with a snort.

“Don't let him get to you,” Joanna said. “He's always trying to make me feel like a moron, too.”

A woman on the other side of Sam's chair cleared her throat, and he stepped back to include her. “Oh, excuse me. Kathleen Winters, Patricia Kaplan.”

“Also known as my mother,” Joanna put in helpfully.

Patricia held out a beautifully manicured hand, and Kathleen shook it, a little surprised. She hadn't realized Sam still saw his ex-wife socially. “How nice to meet you,” Patricia said. She was a handsome woman, an older version of Joanna, really, with a smaller build and a more elegant presentation. She wore her honey-blond hair in a simple twist at the back of her neck. “Sam was just telling us about your apartment.”