Mortal Friends Read online

  People usually laugh with me. Not Cynthia. She furrowed her brow, like she disapproved. It was the first time I’d ever gotten such a reaction. I was a little disconcerted.

  “Family joke,” I muttered.

  “Such a pretty name…,” she mused. “That is, if you don’t know what it means.”

  “Oh,” I said, rather at a loss for words.

  “See now, like rêve, in French, means ‘dream,’” Cynthia went on. “So here’s a thought: Why not tell people you were a dream-come-true instead of a goof?”

  I looked at Violet. Violet looked at me and raised her eyebrows.

  “But you like being a goof, don’t you, Rev?” Violet said with mock seriousness.

  “Definitely. And you like being goofy, don’t you, Violet?”

  “Love it!”

  We burst out laughing like the demented schoolgirls we were at heart.

  Cynthia stared at us like we were nuts. When it was clear we didn’t give a damn what she thought, she attempted to laugh with us. But Violet and I go back such a long time and we have so many private jokes that it’s a closed shop, if you know what I mean. We had that conspiratorial thing between us that only old and dear friends can have. You can’t beat time and history for friendship, particularly after a concert when Violet was in a mood to laugh at anything and nothing. Her laughter was infectious. Finally, we shut up, whereupon Cynthia pointed a red-nailed finger at me and declared imperiously: “I like you.” It had the ring of a royal decree.

  “Gosh, that means the world to me,” I said with an absolutely straight face. I could feel Violet trying desperately not to start laughing again.

  Cynthia went on: “I’m buying a house, and I’m gonna need a lot of stuff. You have a card?”

  “Not with me.”

  Cynthia opened her diamond-studded clutch, took out a card, and handed it to me. “First rule of business: Always carry a card.”

  “I forget to on social occasions,” I said.

  Cynthia looked around the room. “Oh, honey, this is no social occasion. I betcha there’s more business getting done here in this room tonight than’ll get done in the whole of Congress next week!”

  “How about next decade?” Violet said. “They’re so pathetic, poor old Congress. All they can pass is wind!”

  I laughed. Cynthia didn’t crack a smile. Apparently she had no sense of humor. Of course, my father used to say that people are only taken as seriously as they take themselves and that a woman with a sense of humor will never get as far as a woman without one. But people without a sense of humor aren’t much fun to be around, no matter how far they’ve gotten. Violet had a wicked sense of humor. It was the first thing that drew me to her back in the day. I couldn’t imagine why she liked this woman and, more to the point, why she thought I’d like her.

  When we went off to find our tables, I asked Violet point-blank, “Why do you find that person amusing, pray tell?”

  “Cynthia? First of all, she’s doing a great deal of good for the community.”

  “Oh, puh-leeze…It’s me. Hellooo! You sound like a politician!”

  I knew Violet well enough to know what a line of B.S. that was. Violet couldn’t have cared less if someone was doing “good for the community.” There were many socialites who did a lot of “good for the community” who Violet avoided like the plague because they were heavier than cheese fondues.

  I stared at her, and she finally owned up. “Okay, well, her foundation is doing a lot of business with Grant’s bank.”

  “Aha!”

  “And Miss Cynical, I’m thinking of you,” she quickly added. “Wouldn’t it be nice if Cynthia bought a house and wanted you to decorate it? Last time I heard you could use the business. So just like her and zip it for your own good!”

  As I watched her trip off to her table, confident in her own quiet way that she was in complete control of her world, I thought—not for the first time—how lucky I was to have Violet for a friend.

  But that was the last night when all was what it seemed to be.

  Chapter 2

  At dinner I found myself seated between an empty chair and Bob Poll. Bob was one of those ageless rakes with thick salt-and-pepper hair, a military bearing, and a decade-defying face with a lot of traction on it. He could have been forty; he could have been sixty. It was impossible to tell. But judging from his success and the length of time he’d been a prominent figure in Washington, he was probably closer to sixty. Poll had made a fortune in local real estate, then parlayed his wealth into high social standing by donating often and generously to the city’s most prestigious institutions. He was on the board of the Kennedy Center and the opera, but he also advised and funded other, less well-known charities, which made people inclined to respect him. He was good company, and he had a smooth way about him. The rumors of a dark side made him even more intriguing.

  “What a nice surprise,” Bob said as I sat down, giving me a whiff of his musky whisky breath.

  Bob passed for an eligible bachelor even though he’d been involved for a number of years with Melody Hartford, an attractive lobbyist. Everyone assumed that Bob and Melody would eventually marry, but that didn’t prevent him from flirting with other women, and occasionally stepping out with them.

  “Hey, Bob, how’re you doing?”

  “Actually, better than expected.” He paused to unfurl his napkin.

  “Oh? What’s wrong?”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, I’ve been involved with a woman for a while…” He said this like I was the only person in the Western world who didn’t know who he was dating.

  “Melody Hartford,” I interjected.

  “Right. I forget that everybody knows everybody’s business here.”

  “No, just everybody’s pleasure,” I said with an insincere smile.

  “Well, my pleasure and I just broke up.”

  “You broke up with Melody?” I was genuinely surprised. “But she’s here tonight. I saw her.”

  “Not with me.”

  “Wow. You guys were together a long time.”

  “On and off.”

  “You’ll get back together,” I said with conviction.

  He looked at me askance. “What makes you say that?”

  “How many times have you broken up before?”

  “Too many.”

  “People always break up more than once. In fact, a lot of people break up right before they decide to get married,” I said.

  “Right. And those are the people who get married when they should get divorced. We got divorced first and saved ourselves a prenup.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” I was actually being quite earnest.

  “Don’t be too sorry,” he said.

  I could see why Bob was catnip to women. He was flirtatious. Yet he gave the impression of always being slightly amused, as if he understood it was all a game and he was inviting me to play.

  He glanced over to my right, where there was an empty seat. “Who’s your date?”

  I handed him the place card. “Senator Grider. He’s not my date.”

  “Zack Grider. Powerful man.”

  “Is he? I don’t know him. But then, I’m so pathetically apolitical.”

  “Grider’s chairman of the Finance Committee.”

  “That’s nice. What does the Finance Committee do?”

  Bob looked at me askance. I couldn’t figure out whether he found my naïveté charming or just plain stupid.

  “It’s basically like the Ways and Means Committee—maybe a little less powerful.” I stared at him blankly, waiting for him to elaborate. “It looks after tax, trade, and health policies.”

  “I see.”

  “Boring, right?”

  “Doesn’t thrill me,” I said.

  He paused, staring deep into my eyes. “So what does thrill you, Reven Lynch?”

  “Questions like that,” I replied sweetly, lying through my teeth. The corn was high and ripe. But at least he was interested en
ough to actually ask me a question about myself, as opposed to a lot of the men in Washington, whose idea of getting to know you is talking about themselves and then asking you what you think of them.

  “What thrills you?” I said.

  He thought for a moment. “Serious answer?”

  “Please.”

  “Danger,” he said with a teasing grin.

  “Interesting. Are we talking physical danger, skirting-the-law danger, or just any old kind of danger?”

  Bob leaned back in his chair and tapped a fist to his stomach—meant, I supposed, to show that underneath the dress shirt and cummerbund were six-pack abs. “Anything that causes this hard old gut to contract.”

  “And when’s the last time that happened?” I asked him.

  “When you sat down beside me,” he said in a low, suggestive voice.

  I managed to keep somewhat of a straight face, thinking what utter and complete bullshit.

  “That’s quite a line,” I said.

  “You like it? I’ve got more.”

  I couldn’t quite figure him out. Was he toying with me, flirting with me, teasing me, what? It had been so long since a man had appeared interested in me that I was flattered. Bob was very attractive in an over-the-hill-movie-star sort of way. He was one of those men who present a challenge. They’re like mercury. Just when you think you have them pinned down, they scatter in a thousand directions. I was intrigued.

  We batted the whiffle ball of inane conversation back and forth straight through the appetizer. Senator Grider obviously wasn’t coming. That’s so typical Washington. You invite senators and congressmen at your own peril because they don’t show up half the time. They use Congress as an excuse. But then nothing ever seems to get done in Congress. You tell me.

  Bob got antsy way before dessert. Many high-powered men can’t sit still for long. They come, they see, they conquer—not necessarily in that order. He wanted to move on. Halfway into the entrée, he asked me if I wanted to “cut out” of the party. I said sure. Why not? I found Violet to tell her I didn’t need a ride home, that Bob was taking me.

  “Where’s Melody?” she whispered.

  “They broke up.”

  Her eyes brightened. “Go for it,” she said.

  As Bob and I walked out of the hall together, I caught sight of Melody Hartford, who looked quite a stunner in a low-cut red sequined dress. She stood staring at us from a distance, quivering like a flame. Bob acknowledged her with a slight nod of his head. She didn’t flinch. We walked on.

  “Um, I think your former girlfriend is watching us,” I said.

  Bob seemed unfazed. “That’s her choice.”

  “Are you sure she knows you’ve broken up?”

  “Oh, she knows.”

  Bob Poll’s hunter green vintage Rolls Royce was idling outside the center. A thuggish-looking driver in a heavy black overcoat and chauffeur’s cap got out of the car and lumbered around the front to open the door for us. His face was pockmarked, his neck thick as a tree trunk.

  “Maxwell, this is Miss Lynch,” Bob said.

  “Mrs. Lynch,” I corrected him. “I’ve been married.”

  Maxwell may have looked like a rutabaga, but he had a nice warm smile. He tipped his hat to me and said, “Mrs. Lynch,” as he helped me into the car. Bob and I settled into the plushy back seat. Bob threw a dark green mink and cashmere throw over our legs.

  “Very chic,” I said, stroking the luxurious blanket.

  “I had it dyed to match the car.”

  “Where to, Boss?” Maxwell asked, eyeing me in the rearview mirror. I bet he’d seen quite a few women in my seat.

  “Just a minute. You tired?” Bob asked me.

  “Not particularly. No.”

  “Want to go for a drive?”

  “Sure.”

  “Drive around, Maxwell,” he said without elaboration.

  We sped along the parkway next to the darkly glistening Potomac River. As we passed the Jefferson Memorial, glowing like a big iridescent pearl against the midnight sky, Bob took hold of my hand and said, “Beautiful city, Washington.”

  “Yes, indeed. Pierre L’Enfant did a great job.” His hand was warm.

  “So, Reven, you’re one of those people I know but don’t really know…and I’d like to know a lot better,” he added.

  “How many times have you said that to women in the back of this car?”

  He punched his chest and feigned hurt. “Oof! You got me! But you can’t deny we’ve been flirting with each other for years.”

  “You flirt with everyone. It’s part of your mystique.”

  “My mystique? I have a mystique, do I?” he said like he knew full well he did.

  “Yes. You know that.”

  “Not really, no. What is my mystique?”

  “Oh, that you’re flirtatious and you like beautiful women and you’re good company and…”

  “And…?”

  “That you have a dark side.”

  “A dark side,” he said, amused. “That’s good to hear. I sound interesting.”

  “Yes, you do…. So what happened with you and Melody? Why’d you two really break up?”

  “Honest answer? Mel’s a great girl. But there are certain things about me she couldn’t or wouldn’t understand. And I need a woman who will understand those things.”

  “Like what kinds of things?”

  He squeezed my hand. “What say you and I get to know each other a little better? Then I’ll tell you, if you’re still interested.”

  Well, I was definitely interested—which was a really bad sign. If I’m interested in a guy, trust me, he’s a bounder-in-waiting no matter how good he looks at first. My mother always told me I was a “bad picker.” And once I had this shrink who said to me: “Reven, when all your bells go off for a guy, don’t run, gallop in the other direction!” A freaking shrink told me this—that’s what a bad track record I have.

  It was a typical first date, filled with flirtation and falsity. Long ago, I figured out that dating is like campaigning: you don’t reveal who you really are or what you’re really up to until you get elected. But that night I could feel myself being inexorably drawn to Bob Poll. Don’t you love the way that sounds? Being inexorably drawn to someone. God help me, I’m such a romantic. I’m sure that’s what a lot of women say just before some guy bashes their skull in.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning Violet called me at the crack of dawn to dish the party and to find out how things had gone with Bob Poll. I told her nothing much had happened and that he’d dropped me off at my house.

  “He was a perfect gentleman…unfortunately,” I said.

  “Did he ask you out again?”

  “No.”

  “He will. Mark my words.”

  Although Violet had lived like a nun before she met Grant, there was something about being happily married that made her think she knew everything there was to know about relationships. She and Grant had been married for fifteen years. They had one child, a towheaded boy named Grant Bolton III, called “Tee” for the third, so he wouldn’t be confused with his father or his grandfather. When Tee was a baby, Violet constantly showed him off as if he were an accessory: Tee on one arm, designer bag on the other. Sometimes I felt she acted like the boy was the proof of her legitimacy, rather than the other way around. But she was justly proud of her little “nuclear family,” as she referred to it. And like any good friend, she wanted me to settle down and be as happy as she was. She was always trying to fix me up or advise me on my relationships.

  Violet suggested we go for a jog and talk about a “game plan” to get Mr. Poll more interested. We agreed to meet at our usual starting point: the entrance to Montrose Park. I made myself a cup of coffee and checked out the newspaper before heading outside. Cynthia Rinehart’s one-hundred-million-dollar bequest to the Kennedy Center had made the front page of the Washington Post. In the Style section was an account of the Symphony Ball along with several pictures of
the attendees, including a picture of Cynthia in conversation with Violet (I was visible in the background), and one of me and Bob Poll in a tête-à-tête at dinner. I cut that one out to save.

  Georgetown is like a little gingerbread village with its colorful row houses, narrow streets, stately shade trees, and postage-stamp front gardens. Everything’s within walking distance, but nearly everyone has a car, so parking’s a bitch unless you have a garage. I don’t. I’d rather rent a car than give up a parking space. I live in a narrow yellow row house on P Street between Twenty-ninth and Thirtieth. It’s only a few blocks away from my shop on Wisconsin. I bought it years ago, right after my husband and I got divorced and before the real estate market took off, and it’s now mortgaged to the hilt. It’s a cozy little place, painted in bright colors, furnished with comfy sofas and chairs, plus what’s left of the antiques and paintings from my parents’ estate. Over the years, I’ve been forced to sell off most of the best pieces to keep afloat. But I try not to dwell on the past.

  That morning, the sun was out, the sky was blue, the air was crisp, and the leaves were fire-licked with brilliant autumn colors. It was a gorgeous fall day. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was overcast. Maybe I just thought it was gorgeous because, let’s face it, nothing beats the prospect of a new romance for lifting one’s mood. And I was thinking about Bob Poll.

  Sure, I knew his reputation. Who didn’t? It was almost a joke. Violet once said Bob was like the Washington Monument: “A big phallic symbol you can visit but you can’t move into.” He was a lady-killer. So what? I mean, we all love lady-killers because they’re such a challenge. You always think you’re gonna be the one to tame him. It usually doesn’t work out that way. But, hey, you gotta have hope.

  I walked up Thirty-first with a new spring in my step. At R Street, police cars were racing up and down the block, lights flashing. I wondered if some political bigwig was in the neighborhood, or if there’d been an accident. The possibility of a terrorist attack crossed my mind because terror was at the back of all our minds these days. When I turned the corner, a chaotic scene of police cars, officers, and spectators greeted me. Judging from the grim faces, I figured something horrible had happened. I asked a guy walking his dog if he knew what was going on.