Riverside Park (21 page)

CELIA WAS NOT
even up yet when Rachel came into her bedroom and woke her up.

“Ceil, Ceil,” she said, shaking her shoulder.

Celia raised herself up to look at the clock and then collapsed facedown in the sheets again, pulling a pillow protectively over her head.

“Damn it, Celia,” Rachel said, yanking down the covers, “wake up. There's a cop at the door.”

“A cop?” Celia mumbled.

“With some pissed-off lady. The cop wants to see you.”

Now Celia rolled over and sat up. She tried to think. Yes, she'd had a few drinks after hours at Captain Cook's last night and then she and Jimmy the waiter had shared a joint on the walk home. But she didn't have any blackouts or anything; she hadn't done anything except come home, strip her clothes off and go to bed.

Rachel had her wardrobe open. “Where's your robe?”

“Somewhere,” Celia said, surveying the piles of clothes around the room.

“Celia, come
on
. It's a cop!”

She got up and slipped on the closest pair of jeans lying on the floor, pulled a T-shirt over her head and headed for the door.

“You can't go out there like that!” Rachel whispered, frantic.

“Watch me,” Celia said, walking out into the hallway. She yawned and covered her mouth. “Excuse me,” she said to the uniformed officer and a short lady who were standing just outside the open door. “I work nights so I'm not really awake. What may I do for you, officer?”

“Are you Celia Cavanaugh?”

“Yes.” The short lady was looking her up and down as if she was some kind of nasty garbage. “And you are?”

“Never mind who I am. You'll find out soon enough,” the woman snapped.

“Officer Kellaher, New York Police Department,” the officer said. “This lady has made a complaint against you concerning the sexual assault of a minor.”

“I'm calling your father,” Celia heard Rachel say from behind her.

“No, Rach,” she said quickly, turning around. She turned back. “Officer, I have not the slightest idea what you're talking about.”

“Having sex with a minor is against the law. Arrest her!” the woman instructed the cop.

Celia's elderly neighbor had opened her door just in time to hear that.

Celia was awake now. “I'm sorry, there has to be some kind of mistake.”

“I'm Jason DiSantos' mother,” fumed the short woman.
“Do you
still
think there's a mistake? Since you forced my son to have sex with you in order to keep his job?”

Celia tried to push down the fear. “Forced?” She shook her head and looked at the cop. “Officer, I'm a bartender at Captain Cook's, over on Columbus.”

The space cadet neighbor on the other side of them had now come out of his apartment to ask if Celia needed any help.

“She's being arrested for the sexual assault of a minor,” the old lady neighbor from the other side explained to the space cadet.

“I am not,” Celia told her neighbor.

“You are, too!” Jason's mother said, stamping her foot. “And you'll rot in jail if I have my way. What kind of freak are you?”

“What I was trying to say, Officer,” Celia sputtered, “is that her son works at Captain Cook's, too, as a busboy.”

“He
used
to work there. That's where she raped him!”

Celia tried to ignore her. “You have to be at least eighteen to work in a restaurant that serves liquor. That's the law. You know it and I know it. Otherwise Jason couldn't work there. So I don't know what this is all about. He's an adult. He's a legal adult!” she shouted at her old lady neighbor.

The police officer looked at Jason's mother, who seemed to have lost some steam. Jason was probably only seventeen. Still, a seventeen-year-old boy was not considered a sexual minor.

“What the hell's the matter with you that you have to go after high school boys?” Jason's mother said to her. “Why did you have to sink your claws into Jason? He's a sweet kid and you raped him and then you dumped him and you hurt him. I've got half a mind to deck you, you smug little bitch—”

Celia stepped back, using the door as a shield, but the police officer got a hold of the woman. “Dammit, Rosanne,” he said, grabbing her arms, “cut it out.”

That was a weird thing for him to say.

“I'll just get her out of here now, Miss Cavanaugh,” the cop said, dragging Jason's mother toward the elevator.

“You're a sick woman!” Mrs. DiSantos yelled as Celia slammed the door.

“What the hell was
that
about?” Celia cried to the ceiling on her way to the kitchen.

Rachel was just hanging up the phone. “Your dad's on his way,” she said breathlessly.

“My what? Rach, I told you not to—” Celia dove for the address book and quickly dialed her father's cell phone. She got flipped over to voice mail. “Dad, forget whatever Rachel told you, it was a gag from someone at the restaurant. Call me.” She hung up. Moments later the phone rang.

“A gag?” her father said. “Molesting a child's a gag?”

“That was the joke. There's this eighteen-year-old that has a crush on me.”

“That's a pretty sick joke, Ceil.” Pause. “So you're all right?”

“I'm fine,” she said, going over to make coffee. She looked over her shoulder to see Rachel's new boyfriend standing in the doorway, looking at her as if she was a freak.

“I could run up anyway, Ceil. Take you to lunch.”

Her father's love and concern only depressed her for some reason. “Thanks for offering, Dad, but I'm fine.”

“Celia,” her father said, “honey, listen, your mother and I are serious about you coming out for a couple of days. Just to talk about things.”

“What things?”

“How you're doing.”

“I'm doing fine,” she said, spooning the coffee in, flipping the filter into place and turning the machine on.

“For your mother's sake, then. And mine.” Pause. “Does it
ever occur to you that we'd just like to see you and spend some time with you sometimes?”

“To talk about how I'm doing,” she repeated, getting three mugs down from the cabinet on the assumption Rachel and the boyfriend would want some coffee, too.

“To spend time with you,” he said. “Check at work, will you?”

“I don't know, it's really busy.”

“It's important, honey.”

She promised she'd try (and wondered if she would) and got off the telephone.

“They were going to arrest you for the molestation of a minor?” the new boyfriend said. He was working on a doctorate in the English department. Something about Richard Brinsley Sheridan and
Masterpiece Theatre
.

“He's eighteen,” Celia said, looking over at him. “Didn't you have sex when you were eighteen?”

“No,” he said.

Celia poured coffee and held the mug out to him. “Do you think you would have wanted to have sex with me when you were eighteen?”

He reached for the carton of milk on the counter a little wide-eyed. “I'll say.”

“I rest my case,” Celia said, picking up a mug for Rachel.

“And if you look at her like that again,” Rachel told her boyfriend, “my father will break your legs.”

ROSANNE STORMED PAST
the concierge and the doorman out to the street.

“It was a misunderstanding,” Randy explained to the concierge. “I apologized for barging in.”

“I'm glad it was mistake,” the concierge told him. “Miss Cavanaugh's a nice tenant.”

“What did you say to them?” Rosanne demanded of Randy when he emerged from the building.

“I apologized for making any disturbance.”

“What disturbance? You didn't do anything! You should have at least cuffed her or something—throw a scare into her.”

“I think you're enough to scare anyone, Rosanne,” he said, steering her by the elbow toward his patrol car, double-parked in front of the building. “If that girl reports my badge number, Rosanne, I'm toast. I'm supposed to be at 156th Street and that's where I'm goin' now.”

“Well, thanks for nothing!” she said. Then she relented,
watching him open the patrol car door. “Randy. I'm sorry. I'm just angry, that's all. Thanks for doing what you could.”

“Hi, Rosanne, hi, Randy,” Howard Stewart called, coming down the sidewalk. He was in one of his natty suits and the black dress coat Rosanne thought made him look like he owned New York. Or ought to.

“Hey, Howard,” Randy said. “I gotta get back to work.” He kissed Rosanne on the forehead and got into the patrol car.

Howard waited for Rosanne to come over to the sidewalk. “Everything all right?”

After a moment she shook her head. Then she walked between the parked cars to reach him.

“What's wrong?” he said quietly, leaning slightly to see her face.

“Everything.”

“Like what?”

She looked up at him. “Like that whore bartender in your building seduced my son and broke his heart and made him lose his job and taught him love is something painful and horrible.”

Howard, behind his glasses, blanched.

“Yeah,” she told him.

“You can't mean Celia.”

“Oh, yes, I do. Celia the whack-job bartender whore-slut.” The last she said through gritted teeth, her eyes moving past Howard.

“Rosanne, there's got to be some sort of misunderstanding here.”

“No misunderstanding, Howie.” Her eyes, when she brought them back to him, had a deep sadness in them. “There's something else. Something I gotta tell Amanda.” She looked up at him. “It's bad news and it can't wait anymore.”

“What kind of bad news?”

“Mrs. G's dyin', Howie. She's got cancer. It's happening fast. She wants to stay at home until—” Tears sprang into her eyes and Howard put his briefcase down on the sidewalk to put his arms around her.

JACKSON STOPPED IN
to pick Cassy up. She was so pressed for time she had to change in her office for the American Trust Foundation dinner. She was high as a kite, though, just back from San Francisco where she had held her brand-new little granddaughter and namesake, Catherine, in her arms.

Cassy was almost ready, but still pulling herself together in her office bathroom, the door slightly ajar.

“So what's the little gal like?”

“She's pretty, Jack, very pretty. And has dark hair and dark eyes. She's beautifully formed. She looks a lot like Maria's mother.”

“How much did she weigh?”

“Six pounds nine ounces.”

“That's a good size. And how's Maria?”

“Maria's amazing. Of course she's younger than springtime, which always helps.” Cassy inspected herself in the mirror on the back of the door. She was wearing a pale gray silk gown Alexandra had had made for her, which made the most of what
Cassy had (and downplayed that which was leaving or was never there to begin with). The strapless bodysuit she wore under it simultaneously smoothed her body, pumped up her bosom and made sure everything that should be softly rounded out was. Her tan was sprayed on but was nonetheless effective, making her eyes look bluer than blue and her smile very bright.

She was wearing Jack's mother's diamond necklace and earrings, which would eventually go to Lydia. Cassy turned her head to examine the positioning of the diamond piece in her hair that Jack had given to her for her fiftieth birthday.

Diamonds were a crucial prop in the Darenbrook family image.

“So what are they going to call this kid?”

“Catherine,” she answered, coming out. “The whole nine yards. Not Cassy, not Cathy, but Catherine.”

Jackson let out a low whistle when he saw her. “Creepin' crickets, lady, they're all just gonna roll over and die—” this came out sounding like
dah
“—when they see you.”

“You look very handsome, Jack,” she told him, straightening the bow tie of his tux. “And you got a good haircut. Chi Chi?” she called.

Her administrative assistant appeared and appropriately complimented them on their appearance. “Doesn't she look amazin'?” Jack said, taking Cassy into his arms to kiss her. This was one of the games he liked to play, to see how far he could go with Cassy in public before she pulled away.

“Now you have lipstick on.” Cassy moved to her desk for a tissue to wipe his mouth. “Chi Chi, could you give Cleo a call and tell her we're on our way down? I need a last-minute check and—” she squinted at Jack's face “—my husband needs something to cover the dissipations of the town.”

“Madame, your dissipated husband is ready to escort you,” he said, offering his arm. She retrieved her evening bag and walked out with him.

“Either you're going to get skin cancer,” Cleo told Jackson as she applied some makeup under his eyes, “or someone's gonna mistake you for an old piece of luggage and put wheels on you.”

“I'm probably gonna need wheels,” he laughed, flashing his brilliant smile at the DBS hair and makeup person in the mirror.

“I'm serious,” Cleo said. “Mr. Darenbrook, you have to wear sunblock, a hat and zinc on your nose in that boat.”

Once Cleo had all but perfected them Jackson and Cassy headed out to the driveway where several limos were waiting. They walked to the lead car and as they passed the others, windows came down and employees shouted greetings. Everybody was in particularly high spirits since everyone except Jackson knew about the award he would be receiving tonight.

Langley and Belinda Peterson were already waiting in the lead car for them so the procession set off immediately. The dinner was being held at the Mandarin Hotel, scarcely a few blocks away, but the traffic was tricky in the evening around Columbus Circle and there was some waiting before being dropped off at the entrance.

Jackson hopped out first and helped Cassy out while a few photographers took pictures. The Darenbrooks waited for Belinda and Langley and then went inside, crossing the hotel lobby to ride up to the thirty-sixth floor.

The ballroom was lovely, with soft lighting and wonderful flower arrangements on the tables. The podium was set up on the dais in the front and behind it tremendous glass windows looked out over Central Park South. There would not be a
cocktail hour at this function tonight, essentially in an attempt to make more money on it as a fund-raiser, and to keep the journalists more sober than they usually tended to be at dinners like this. The American Trust Foundation dinner was to be a straightforward gathering of one's two hundred and sixty closest industry friends.

Cassy had created the seating chart for their table of ten. She made a point of seating Will Rafferty on her left and Jackson on her right so that Jackson and Alexandra (the latter sitting on the other side of Will) could not see each other unless they leaned forward over the table.

When Will and Alexandra came to the table, Jack stood up until Alexandra had taken her seat. “I like your new haircut,” Alexandra told him.

“Thank you,” he said with a slight bow. “I intend to win favor with my gorgeous wife so I may ravish her at the conclusion of these lofty proceedings.” Alexandra politely half smiled, as did the others around the table.

The DBS table was rounded out with the morning news anchors, Sally Harrington and Emmett Phelps, and the British anchors of the DBS-INS international news hour, Ronald Law and Leona Thistle. They talked about nothing over dinner, as they always did at dinners like this, and occasionally someone from another TV or radio network or newspaper or magazine came over to say hello. Every time someone did, the men put down their napkins and stood up, so it took longer for them to eat.

When coffee and dessert were being served Cassy excused herself to use the powder room. (One never knew how long the night might drag on.) Alexandra and Belinda went with her. There was a line of spacious lavatories with slatted doors and Cassy headed for the far one. She carefully minded her
dress and heard Alexandra call, “Anyone else having wardrobe issues?”

There was laughter. In dresses like these there always were. Alexandra looked as though she had been poured into her gown.

“Hang on,” Cassy called. She came out to wash her hands and then went over to where Alexandra was standing.

“In here, quick please,” the anchorwoman said. “I can't fall out of my dress on the stage.” Cassy slipped into the stall and Alexandra closed the door behind them. “If you could just fasten that part, that would be great,” she said, which was utter nonsense since what she did was kiss her. “That's it,” she said after a moment. “Thank you. That's much, much better, thank you.” She smiled, cleared her throat. “I can take it from here,” she said, stepping back to open the door for Cassy.

“Wardrobe malfunction,” Cassy explained to a waiting woman.

This was insane, she thought, returning to the table. And yet this was her life. This is where she was, with a husband and a lover both determined to stake territory on her.

Jackson stood up and held out her chair for her. “Where did you get that?” she asked him, nodding to the brandy snifter at his place setting.

“I've got connections, lady,” he whispered. “Why, do you want one?”

She shook her head. Jackson stood up again because Alexandra and Belinda had returned. Not long after the lights of the ballroom dimmed and the program began.

The master of ceremonies was terrible. As he droned on and on Cassy was sure everyone must be fighting sleep as much as she was. And then it suddenly got very, very cold in the ballroom.

“To keep us awake, no doubt,” Jackson whispered. He offered her his coat. She wanted it but said no because she knew he was soon going to be called to the stage. Mercifully the awards segment finally began, which Cassy enjoyed if for no other reason than to see what the winners were wearing. The heat came back on, too. Jack was bored, though, and started practicing his disappearing coin trick.

When they announced DBS News had won for best broadcast television coverage of domestic news, Alexandra and Will went up to the stage to accept the award. There was a very good round of applause but Cassy knew how few outside of DBS were happy about them receiving this award. Somehow it didn't seem fair that while the old dinosaurs staggered around (buckling under the onslaught of cable and online news) DBS News was almost embarrassingly unencumbered with overhead.

Cassy stood up as Alexandra and Will climbed onto the dais.

Alexandra moved across the stage with an elegance and grace that made Cassy smile. Alexandra was only forty-one. (
Better keep stretching, Old Girl
, she told herself.)

“By DBS winning this award,” Alexandra said into the microphone, “the news divisions of CBS, NBC, ABC and PBS also win this award because it was their decades of dedication and commitment to a standard of higher journalism that lay the groundwork for DBS News to be created on. So we thank the American Trust Foundation for this honor, we pledge to try even harder in our quest for fair and balanced news coverage, and we salute our industry colleagues for making it possible.”

The crowd liked that and this time everyone stood up to applaud.

“Can we get out of here now?” Jack whispered when Alexandra and Will were led away.

“Just a little while longer,” she whispered.

Jack straightened up in his chair and then leaned toward her again. “Can't I just go? I'll take a cab and leave the car for you.”

“No,” she told him. She frowned because he was loosening his bow tie. She reached over to retie it with Jackson squirming like a child.

“Can I at least go to the men's room?”

“No.”

“Geez Louise,” he said through clenched teeth. “This is torture.”

“Ten more minutes, that's all I ask,” she whispered.

When the emcee was announcing the next category, the lifetime achievement award, Cassy saw that Jackson was practicing his coin trick again and she took the coin away from him.

“What is your
problem?
” he whispered.

A huge screen had descended from the ceiling, the lights were turned down very low, and the retrospective on the life and career of Jackson Darenbrook began. It was only when Jackson saw his own face ten feet high in the front of the room that he snapped to attention. The DBS documentary group had put this together, with Alexandra narrating the story of “one person who has contributed so much to so many in the field of journalism.”

There were pictures from his childhood, working at the paper with his mother and father, pictures of him growing up with his siblings and older half siblings, his college days, his marriage to Barbara, the birth of his children, his working partnership with a gawky young Langley Peterson. It showed the long list of newspaper acquisitions Jackson had made, the
printing plants he built, the launching of the Darenbrook satellite, the expansion into magazines and then textbook publishing and then into electronic information systems and then, most recently, on the Web.

When the lights came up Jackson was coming out of shock, blinking back tears, and then he saw that standing across the dais were all of his siblings, applauding him; Elrod, Cordelia, Norbert, Noreen, Beau and Belinda. Cordelia stepped up to the microphone to read the inscription on the award.

“The American Trust Foundation names Jackson Darenbrook recipient of its Lifetime Achievement Award for advocating journalistic excellence in the fields of newspaper, magazine and book publishing, broadcast television and Web-casting.” She looked up. “Well, come on up here, Jackie, and get
yor awahd!
” Everyone laughed and Jackson, hastily wiping his eyes with a handkerchief, kissed Cassy and made his way up to the stage. He kissed his siblings and then took the microphone.

“I was sittin' there tellin' mah wife I wanted to get outta here. She's tellin' me to sit still and I'm tellin her, ‘What is your problem, lady?'” He grinned. “I guess now I know.” People laughed.

His acceptance speech was wonderful and Jackson demonstrated why his employees loved him when he reeled off names of key employees from the past thirty years he thought deserved to share this award with him. He then looked up to thank his mother and father in heaven, which made his sisters start to cry, and the crowd was utterly charmed.

They stayed on for a while after the ceremony, going to the press area with Jackson's family for a few pictures. It was nearly eleven when Jackson's siblings allowed him to leave and only then on the promise they would all have dinner tomorrow.
They left Langley and Belinda behind with the rest of the family and went out to the car.

“We need to get this polished,” Cassy said about the plaque. “It's got everybody's fingerprints on it. I think you should put it up in the lobby so people can see it when they come into work in the morning.”

“I want to polish
you
,” he said, pulling her to him. He kissed her, his hands starting to roam. He must have felt her stiffen. “Come on, Cass,” he murmured, sinking his mouth into her neck. “Come on, darlin'.” His hand slid down her thigh.