Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway (20 page)

“Girl, you’re looking for trouble,” she tells me.

The question is will I find it.

My real-estate assignation with Mario affords me my first glimpse of the Upper East Side. Even though the brown-brick corner building where I find myself waiting for him is on Park Avenue, it’s not the snazziest Manhattan building I’ve seen, which may mean that in just a few days Cleveland resident Happy Pennington has gotten jaded. But the area as a whole is scary swanky. I read online that years ago it was known as the Silk Stocking District. Not only are many museums and consulates here, oodles of famous people have lived on the Upper East Side, from Jackie O to Madonna to philanthropist Brooke Astor.

At 5 p.m. it’s already dark and snowflakes are tumbling from the black sky like little bits of fairy dust. Even bundled in my plum-colored wool coat, I’ll be shivering if I have to stand outside much longer. I’m about to pull out my compact to see if my nose has turned red yet from the cold when Mario appears at my side.

He’s wearing his camel-colored overcoat over a classic Burberry check scarf, but the fact that he’s decked out in cashmere is the least of it. Being Mario, he looks insanely sexy and handsome. And it doesn’t matter if he’s in Minnesota or Manhattan: he always seems at ease. I guess he’d be the same in Timbuktu.

Both of us say hi and grin. His dimples flash and the night air carries to my nostrils a whiff of his marvelous cologne. I try to rein in my silly smile and don’t allow myself to brush the snowflakes from his dark hair. He glances away as if he’s keenly interested in Park Avenue’s six lanes of traffic and then a moment later returns his eyes to mine. I get the idea he’s about to say something.

“It’s always so wonderful to see you,” he murmurs. “Every time.”

I don’t bother to lie. There’s only so good I can be. “I feel the same way.”

We gaze at each other. As usual with Mario, I could do that until the cows come home. But I’m forced to look away by the bustling arrival of the broker, a 50-something blonde with no-nonsense eyeglasses, a warm smile, and an apology for leaving us out in the cold.

Mario makes the introductions. I learn that the broker’s name is Dina. She is told that I’m Mario’s friend “who happens to be in town this weekend.” I can tell by her friendly but assessing glance that she thinks there’s more to that story.

“This is the Carnegie Hill neighborhood,” Dina says as she ushers us toward the building’s entryway, “named for the Andrew Carnegie Mansion on Fifth and 91
st
.

“And I call this a white-glove building,” she goes on as she leads us into an Old World-style lobby with a black-and-white checkerboard marble floor, white tin ceiling, and doorman (who indeed is wearing white gloves) who races to summon an elevator. I’ve only been inside ten seconds, but already I realize I grossly misjudged the building.

“Did you notice the hush the moment we walked inside?” Dina murmurs as an elegant elevator carries us skyward. “It’s as if we’ve gone back in time to a much more gracious era. Pre-war,” she assures Mario.

“I appreciate you taking the time to do the showing,” he replies.

I wonder if Mario is at all serious about this apartment or if we’re here only because Dina promised to dish the dirt about the unit Lisette wanted in the Belfer. Either way, it’s very fun to tour a snazzy Manhattan pied-à-terre that I soon learn is listed for two and a half million dollars.

I nearly topple off my stilettos when Dina informs us that two-point-five mil gets you two bedrooms and two baths in these parts. She enters the apartment ahead of us and flicks on lights. I walk into a stunning living room—in which almost all the décor is white because everything in Manhattan seems to be, at least until I’m done with it—and try not to gape as Dina natters on about 10-foot ceilings, south and east exposures, exquisite trim and crown moldings, and high-end finishes.

Even more than usual, I am keenly aware of Mario behind me. It’s very intimate, this looking at a home for sale: it’s something couples do. You don’t tour real estate with a man you barely know. I know that, and so does Dina, which is no doubt why her eyes fix on my face when we halt at the large paned windows in the living room to take in the glittering Park Avenue view. She’s trying to figure out the nature of my relationship with Mario. Little does she know that I am, too.

“This apartment is stupendous at night,” she tells me, “but I so wish you could see it during the day. Then you would understand how the natural light enhances the scale and beauty.”

I’m flattered that she’s trying to win me over. She must think I could influence Mario’s purchase decision, and maybe I could.

He pipes up with a question, delivered with a laugh. “So, Dina, you think the board of this building would approve me?”

“I believe they would.” She’s all seriousness as again she turns to me. “If you want a pre-war, you pretty much have to go co-op rather than condo. In the city these days it’s about seventy-five percent co-op, but condos are on the rise.”

“That’s because all you have to do is pay for a condo,” Mario says. “You don’t have to be vetted by a board like you do for a co-op.”

“With a co-op there are any number of restrictions,” Dina allows. “Some of the more exclusive buildings don’t even allow financing. And of course once you’re in, you have to abide by the rules.”

I wonder how good Lisette would’ve been at that.

“I’ll think about this place,” Mario tells Dina, “though as I said on the phone, I’m not in the market.”

She winks at him. “Well, I couldn’t let you leave New York without showing you this exceptional opportunity. And I won’t keep you in suspense any longer about the apartment in the Belfer. It turns out that by the time the board was ready to make a decision, there was only one other potential buyer. Violet Honeycutt.”

“
The
Violet Honeycutt?” I blurt. Any American woman who’s remotely fashion-oriented knows the name of the formidable magazine editor who for decades has presided over
Mode
, which I too consider my style bible even though I have to buy the knock-offs.

“The very same,” Dina says. “No one ever thought she’d leave her townhouse in Greenwich Village, but such is the lure of the Belfer.”

“Would Violet Honeycutt have known Lisette Longley was her only rival for the apartment?” I ask.

Dina must think the walls have ears because she leans close and lowers her voice. “Oh, both parties were well aware. According to my source, the Belfer is not above pitting buyers against one another to drive up the price.”

So the board of the Belfer is not only snooty. It’s sly.

“You’ve been very helpful, Dina,” Mario tells her as we exit the apartment, and I must agree.

Back on the sidewalk, with snow now falling in earnest, we say hasty farewells to Dina. I find myself in no hurry, however, to bid adieu to Mario.

Apparently he feels the same. “I know the perfect cocktail for this weather,” he tells me. “Do you have time?”

Is the name Przybyszewski Polish? “I have to be Midtown at 7:30,” I warn him. Knowing me as she does, Shanelle backended my Mario rendezvous with a dinner reservation.

“You’ll get there in plenty of time.” Mario offers me his arm. I take it not because the sidewalk is slippery, but because I can’t resist.

We leave Park Avenue for a narrow tree-lined street with brick apartment buildings rising on both sides. Millions of hearts are beating in this city, but the snow seems to have chased them all inside. So while I’m eager to discuss the Violet Honeycutt revelation, for the moment I’m completely content to do nothing more than walk alone with Mario arm-in-arm down this deserted street.

Eventually he breaks the spell. “Did you see that the autopsy results are in for Lisette Longley? She died of multiple blunt force trauma.”

“I didn’t see that. I haven’t seen the news all day.” I process this information, recalling Lisette’s fall, her blood, everyone’s shock and horror.

“The coroner ruled the death accidental,” Mario adds as we make room on the sidewalk for the first pedestrian we’ve seen, a stylish woman walking two black poodles with spindly legs, fancy haircuts, and matching red plaid doggie coats.

I speak again once we’re back in step. “You must think I’m crazy spending any time thinking Lisette might’ve been murdered.”

Mario gives me a squeeze. “Lots of adjectives leap to mind when I think of you, Happy. Crazy isn’t one of them.”

When I think of you, Happy.
I like the sound of that. “It’s not like I
want
her to have been murdered. At least I don’t think so.” If I wanted that, I
would
be crazy.

“It’s that you can’t shake the idea. You’ve got a gut feeling.” He stops to pull open a door I hadn’t even noticed. It opens onto a small, utterly charming bar that I would’ve marched right past.

I lead us to a tiny table, past chic people speaking in low tones. On the yellow walls are delicate illustrations and gently glowing vintage sconces. Again Mario has brought me to a special hideaway.

We shed our coats and sit. Mario leans across the table and smiles, the flame from our votive candle reflected in his dark eyes. “So basically you’re telling me you’ve got a golden gut. What is it telling you about me?”

That you’re a wonderful man I’ll never forget, no matter how hard I try. And that deep inside you feel the same way about me.
But since I’ve got no business saying anything along those lines, I keep it light. “Oh, that you need a third property. So you’re going to make Dina really happy by bidding on that apartment.”

“It would be my fourth property, actually. I also bought my mom a place in L.A. But no, I’m not going to be making any offers.”

Just as I’m thinking, man, Mario is
really
a great guy to have bought his mom a place, too, his shoulders slump and his smile fades and I realize that I managed to say the wrong thing.

A server stops at our table. Mario rallies to ask me if I’ll have what he’s having and we all know there’s only one answer to that question. When the server leaves, I speak up. “I didn’t mean to pry into your business, Mario. I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “You weren’t prying. It’s just that”—he hesitates—“I’m as stretched as I want to be right now. I hate to say it, but the show’s ratings aren’t exactly raging.”

I’m so taken aback I can’t speak. I would think that any show Mario Suave hosted would be a gigantic hit.

“It’s not that the ratings are bad,” he goes on. “It’s just that all of a sudden we’ve got tougher competition in our time slot. I’m worried the network will move us to another night.”

“And that would be bad because—”

“Your audience is used to finding you at a certain time. If you move, they have to look for you.”

This is a first for me. Mario is revealing the kind of vulnerability I see in Jason or myself or other mere mortals among my acquaintance. It makes me realize the extent to which he is not a flesh-and-blood man, but a fantasy in my mind. I never associate him with mundane concerns like having to make money or keeping his job. Granted, Mr. Owns Three Homes would hardly starve if
America’s Scariest Ghost Stories
got cancelled, but it would certainly be a blow.

“
I’m
in your audience and
I
would look for you,” I tell him.

“You’re special, Happy. Nobody else is quite like you. Believe me”—he pauses to give me a smoldering look—“I know.”

Thank God the server sashays up to our table because my better judgment would probably lie down and play dead if I shared too long a moment like that one with Mario. This time she’s bearing two pink concoctions in tall glasses, each with cranberries across the top on a fancy skewer.

I lighten the mood by holding my cocktail aloft and making my voice extra jolly. “I think there’s snow on my glass!”

“There’s snow
inside
your glass, too.” Mario winks at me. “Snow, vodka, and grenadine. I told you I’d get you the perfect cocktail for a wintry night.” He clinks his glass against mine. “Bottoms up.”

Will wonders never cease: a cocktail made with snow. I limit myself to a dainty sip for starters. “Well, as the unofficial president of the Mario Suave fan club, I will email your network telling them that the best thing about Tuesday night is your show.”

“You do that. Otherwise everything could go poof with Esperanza, too.”

I eye Mario over my cocktail. He certainly seems to be in a confessional mood this evening. Trust me, I like that he’s choosing to confide in yours truly. “What do you mean?”

“She likes being the It couple a little too much. So I have to keep up my side. Or else.”

Interesting. That’s not the sort of thing you expect a man to say about his lady love. I know it’s mean of me, but I’m feeling cheerier by the second.

Yet I do recognize this is delicate territory. I can’t be too snarky about Esperanza, but there’s no question Mario has opened the door to mild criticism. I think for a moment, then: “I’m sure Esperanza is smart enough to realize that you being a show host is only one of many wonderful things about you.”