Lily White (70 page)

“It’s fairly cosmic.”

“You’re feeling old?”

“I’m ten years older than you, kid. Keep that in mind.”

“But you don’t show your age the way we do.”

“Which ‘you’ is this?” Will asked. “Blacks or gays?”

“I was thinking of blacks, but now that you mention it …” He shifted his weight from one foot to another, then back again. “What’s with you?” Lee asked. “Is something wrong? You’re acting strange. Nervous.”

“Will you marry me?” Lee’s head whipped around as if looking for someone to ask: Can you
believe
this? But they were alone. All the gladsome Democrats were still inside. She turned back to him. “I’m serious,” Will said.

“I’m sorry. I just can’t believe it.” She hesitated, then added: “It’s one thing to switch parties for an election. But to switch your sexual orientation?”

“Please! Do you think I’m harboring an illusion of some elaborate conversion ceremony to heterosexuality? A notch on my foreskin and a Master Mechanic wrench set? Come on. I asked you a question: Will you marry me? I deserve an answer.” There
was no wind, but it was a chilly night. She looked to see if he was shivering. No. If his hands were in his pockets. No. “There are no better friends in the world than we are,” he added.

“I know,” she said.

“Neither of us is really the mushy sort, but we do love each other.” She nodded. “Lee, you can say ‘yes.’ It’s not binding.”

“Yes, of course we love each other. I said it. Are you happy?”

He moved from the car and stood in front of her. “Not yet.”

“I don’t think you’re going to be.”

“We speak to each other first thing in the morning, last thing at night.” Lee had watched him trying cases so many times. Will was a great planner. He believed in rehearsals. But in court he would stop, think, talk, then stop again. So he didn’t trip up. So he didn’t look slick. His performances always worked. Judges, juries, court reporters: They all believed Will Stewart was thinking as he talked, and talking right to them. From the heart. This time, though, there were no hesitations. Will being Will, she knew he had thought out everything he was saying. But he had not rehearsed. This time, there was not a single prearranged stumble, not one practiced pause. He was allowing his heart to be as articulate as it could be. “We’re a unit. There are no decisions—other than about sex—that we don’t make in consultation with each other.”

“‘Other than about sex’? That’s one of the main reasons people get married, Will. For sex.”

“What about the other reasons? For companionship. For fun. For love. For family. For a mutuality of interests. For security. For the social convenience. We have every single one of those reasons in our relationship. We’ve never had sex and we never will. But doesn’t it mean something that every holiday we’re together? Doesn’t it mean something that when we win or lose a case, or we read about a new attachment for the KitchenAid, or we hear there’s a new Sondheim show opening, we call each
other? We’re together five or six nights a week. I hold your wool when you wind it. You go to Mets games with me. Do you realize both of us got private lines in our office three or four years ago? How come? It wasn’t to facilitate our sex lives. Those guys still have to go through our secretaries. It’s because we both felt more natural making and getting—what is it?—seven, eight calls a day right to one another. ‘Hi. It’s me. I just got back from State Supreme in Suffolk County and I found wonderful bread-and-butter corn at a farm stand.’”

“So why can’t we just continue the way we are?” she asked.

“Because it’s later than either one of us thought. Because I don’t want to be alone anymore. Because I hate it every time I have to leave. Every damn time. And so do you.”

Will was facing her, so he did not see the doors open and a few celebrants emerge from the victory party and head toward their cars. “We would only hurt each other,” Lee told him.

“How? I know all about Terry. You know I go to the city one or two nights a week. Would you be standing by the door with a rolling pin in your hand when I got home?”

Lee rested her head against the cold glass of the car’s window. “What if one of us met the man of our dreams?” she asked. “An
available
man of our dreams.”

“I’ve thought of that. Quite a bit, because I’ve wanted to have this discussion since right after the whole Torkelson business. When it was over and you were thanking me, do you remember what you said?”

“I guess so.” She remembered nattering on and on, but could not think of exactly what statement he was alluding to.

“You said the reason you loved me for what I did wasn’t that I was brilliant and got Mary out of jail—although that hadn’t hurt. It was that I knew my place was at your side, even when the shit hit the fan.
Especially
when the shit hit the fan. So my answer is this: I truly do not believe I could betray you or you could
betray me. I love you. I would be your husband. That means for better for worse, for—”

“I’m acquainted with the language.”

“Lee, you were conned by a couple of pros. You got hurt. Haven’t you learned anything from that? Don’t you know by now what’s false and what’s the real thing?”

“But it wouldn’t be a true marriage.”

“It wouldn’t be a marriage with sex. And to the extent that it would provide a cover for me, that I could parade around as the Happy Hetero, it’s pretense. But what’s between you and me is real and true. And you know it.” He held her face in his hands. “That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have an affair with a dream man. That doesn’t mean it wouldn’t break my heart if he said goodbye. Not if. When. But this is the bottom line: I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” He put down his hands. “I want a
home.
I’ve never had one. I was a black kid in a white world, a gay man in a straight world. When I’m in your house, with you, with all of them, I feel what I’ve never felt before. I belong here. This is my home. Now tell me your bottom line about me.”

Her face still felt warm from his holding it. She wished he would put his hands back. “All right. My bottom line: I love being with you. There’s nothing I do that isn’t better with you along.” She hesitated. “Except one thing.” She waited for him to pat her head, amused. Or kiss her cheek. But he did not, so she stood on tiptoes and kissed his. “Don’t take that as encouragement.”

“I want you to ask: What’s in it for me,” Will told her. “Go ahead, ask.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Family.”

“I have a family. Do you feel you need one to pass or something all of a sudden?”

“
Need one?
No. People accept that I’m a bachelor. I don’t have
to say: ‘This is my wife.’ I’m not talking about the pretense of family. I’m talking about the real thing.” He heard sounds and turned away from her. When he saw the people spilling out of the party, heard the car doors starting to slam, he turned back. “You know how important Val and Kent are in my life.”

“And you in theirs.”

“But they’re adults. You’re not the kind of woman who thrives on an empty nest. Everything I know about you—and I know a lot—tells me you would love to be a mother again.” She knew he was waiting to see if she would deny his assertion. She could not. Will continued: “And all my life, I’ve wanted a child of my own.”

“To have—”

“We could go to the lab together, hold each other’s hands.”

“While you’re whacking off into a test tube? No way!”

“If you don’t want to get pregnant, or if it’s too late for it to be a healthy proposition, we could adopt.”

“You could adopt as a single parent.”

“But I want the child to have a mother. And more, I want you to be my wife.”

Headlights came on. “You just want to go out and buy a Dress Stewart receiving blanket.”

“You guessed it. And have it embroidered with the Weissberg family crest. Well, Lee? What do you say?”

She was not able to say anything, for at that moment, Holly Nuñez, trailed by her press secretary and two campaign aides, was upon them. “Hi!” Holly chirped. “God, you’re still here! Hope I didn’t interrupt anything. Did I thank you enough? The two of you!
So
great. I thought you left ages ago. How come you’re still hanging around? It is
cold
out. You weren’t standing here plotting my overthrow, were you?”

Will shook his head. “Not at all. We were planning your next campaign, Governor.”

“Senator,” Holly replied.

“I have no doubt we’ll get to that,” Lee told her. “But do you know what Will and I were planning just now?”

“What?”

“Our wedding.”

As soon as they were finished with Holly’s hugs and the press secretary’s mazel tov and the campaign aides’ Hey, fantastic! and waved goodbye, Lee put her hand into that of her future husband. “I have something to confess.”

“What?”

“It never occurred to me that a black gay guy would turn out to be the love of my life.”

“I always knew.”

“You did?”

“Of course. Way back when, when I was this amazing stud with muscles on my muscles and the best Afro north of Niger, I always knew I was going to wind up with a middle-aged female lawyer.”

“Go ahead. Tell me,” Lee said. “It was written on the stars.”

“It was. But most people can’t read that kind of writing until they’re old enough for bifocals. It’s the fine print.”

And as it turned out, the way it often does with choices made with wide-open eyes and wise hearts, it was fine. Not what they had dreamed of when they dreamed, mind you. But very, very fine.

L
ily White had the first word but she cannot have the last.

There is only this to add about the Torkelson case. On a Thursday in March 1996, a night when Lee White and Will Stewart, husband and wife, were hearing
Un ballo in maschera
at the Metropolitan Opera with a group of friends, Carolee Eckhart of Portland, Oregon, went to the police to report that her fiancé, Douglas Wallace, had been missing for forty-eight hours. Ms. Eckhart was fearful he might be hurt. Or worse. His ex-wife was an unbalanced woman, hateful, wanted to see him ruined. No, she had never seen the ex-wife, but she’d overheard her once when she left a message on Doug’s answering machine. Terrible, vile, crazy.

Ted Sato, the detective who took down the information, was new to Missing Persons and quite an eager beaver. He fired question after question. Following nearly an hour of polite interrogation,
he discovered that in addition to Mr. Wallace, seventy-five thousand dollars in bearer bonds that had been left to Ms. Eckhart by her grandfather were also missing.

It took Detective Sato only seven minutes on his computer to discover that Douglas Wallace’s modus operandi matched that of Norman Torkelson, and another fifteen seconds to learn that, like Norman, Douglas was six feet five with blue eyes, and knew all the words to “Bright College Years,” the Yale alma mater. Subsequently, Sato had a chat with Detective Sergeant Sam Franklin on Long Island, who predicted, accurately, that the Portland police would never find the bonds, that Douglas Wallace was long gone—and that Carolee should be thankful she was still alive. Some people never learn.

Some people do.

In researching
Lily White,
I spent time in the library, in jail and in court. I also sought help and information from the people listed below. Being a novelist and not a reporter, however, I did not hesitate to twist their facts to serve the needs of my fiction. I thank them for their kindness and apologize for my inaccuracies:

Robert Anderson, Frank Argano, Jim Bartell, Brian Bochicchio, Joan Brenner, Thomas DiNapoli, Jonathan Dolger, Janet Franzese, Eric Gould, Cara Nash Iason, Lawrence Iason, Leonard Klein, Edward M. Lane, Judith Lane, Anthony Lepsis, Ellen Markowski, Susie Miller, Henry Putzel III, Ralph Smith, Sheila Riesel, Cynthia Scott, George Stofsky, Andrea Vizcarrando, Paul Vizcarrando, Claire Weinberg, Mina Weiner, John R. Wing, Jay Zises, Justin Zises and Susan Zises.

Additionally, I am especially grateful for the generosity and incredible patience of three fine lawyers: Arnold Abramowitz, Linda Fairstein and Sara Moss. (And thanks for lunch.)

I thank my assistant, AnneMarie Palmer, for her hard work, her good humor and her commendable equanimity.

The interior designer, Susan Lawton, answered every question I had about antiques, furnishings and architecture with her usual authority and awesome wit.

I appreciate the aid of the librarians at the New York and the Port Washington (N.Y.) Public Libraries.

This is the sixth book for me and my editor, Larry Ashmead. For me, it has been a joyous collaboration. I thank him for his guidance, for the mail, the books, the early-morning jokes—and for giving me all the time I needed to finish the novel as I wanted it finished.

My agent, Owen Laster, has been a fount of wisdom, a rock of strength and a wonderful guy.

I thank my wonderful children, Andrew and Elizabeth Abramowitz, and my daughter-in-law, Leslie Stern, for their love, support and fine editorial advice.

Lastly, my eternal love and gratitude to my own in-house counsel, Elkan Abramowitz. He is (and I’m being objective here) the best person in the world.

SUSAN ISAACS
has written eleven novels, including her latest,
Past Perfect.
Her other bestselling books include
After All These Years, Compromising Positions, Shining Through, Magic Hour, Close Relations, Almost Paradise, and Lily White. She lives on Long Island.

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This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.