TWENTY-SIX
Ryan
In addition to my writing breakthrough, something else happened while I was in California. The white ring around my finger left behind from my wedding band tanned. There was no longer a trace of it. Upon my return to New York, Willow seamlessly blended into my life like the ring mark had done with my finger. She became a part of it. With her father recovering from his heart attack and spending more and more time with Nurse Hollis, she was more or less living with me. I woke up to her and went to sleep with her. We spent our days as lovers, exploring parts of the city we’d never been to… stopping for long wine-filled lunches…stealing kisses everywhere we could. Sometimes at my loft, she’d make me a wonderful dinner while I wrote on my computer. And night after night, she read all my favorite books to me, stark naked, before we made beautiful love. I couldn’t get enough of her. We’d definitely broken in our new bed.
I now had to face the inevitable. It was time to introduce Willow to my parents. My mother knew about her from my sister and was eager to meet her. The perfect opportunity presented itself the third week of November. My mother was hosting a cocktail party and wanted us to come. It was far better than bringing Willow to a formal sit-down dinner. At least at the cocktail party, we could mingle with other people and escape inconspicuously without either of my parents noticing. My mother, in particular, was more interested in socializing with her highfalutin friends—the who’s who of New York—than with me.
After all these years, my stomach still bubbled as our cab approached my parents’ majestic apartment building on Fifth Avenue. I was already having second thoughts about attending my mother’s event and introducing Willow to my parents. The cab pulled up to the curb, and George, one of the white-gloved doormen, instantly ran to the passenger door to open it. Willow gracefully slipped out, with me following her. George’s face lit up at the sight of me as I wrapped an arm around my stunning date.
“Mr. Madewell, so good to see you again. You’re looking well.” Then, his twinkly eyes flitted to Willow. “And who might this beautiful young lady be?”
With a smile, I introduced Willow to George. She shook his hand.
“I’ve known this young man since he was a toddler,” chuckled George. “Make sure he behaves.”
“I will,” laughed back Willow. “He can be very naughty.”
I felt myself blush. Oh, could I. Well, at least, George had lessened my anxiety and put me in an upbeat mood. I hadn’t been here for over a year. Not since my father’s stroke. This apartment where I’d grown up held no fond memories for me. In fact, it was hard not to think about all the bad memories, especially that horrific dinner where I’d introduced my parents to Allee after which my father vilified her and forbid me to see her. Yeah, I’d forgiven my father for all his asshole acts, but that was one I couldn’t forget. As I ushered Willow into the elegantly appointed lobby toward the elevator, an unsettling feeling again washed over me. A shiver ran through me, the past mingling with the present and an uncertain future.
“I’m nervous about meeting your parents,” Willow said, her eyes glued to the spinning floor dial as the elevator ascended. We were passing the twentieth floor, one floor away from my parents’ penthouse.
I gave her a squeeze. “Don’t be. My mother doesn’t bite and my father is bound to a wheelchair and can barely make himself understood.” Then, I pecked her cheek. “And besides, you look gorgeous. And I’m here with you.”
She twitched a tentative smile as the door pinged open. The elevator took us straight into the grand foyer of my parents’ twenty-room duplex. A white-gloved attendant immediately met us and took our coats. Then another offered us each a glass of champagne and led us into the stately living room where the cocktail party was in full swing. We were fashionably late.
Willow’s eyes grew wide as she sipped her champagne and took in the high-ceilinged art-and-antiques-filled room. It hadn’t changed much since I’d been here last—maybe a few new Old Master paintings, which my parents collected, and new ivory silk drapes, which puddled onto the floor.
“Oh my God, this place is amazing,” murmured Willow.
“It’s okay if you like living in a museum.”
With a laugh, Willow almost choked on her champagne. I loved that she loved my sense of humor. Loosened up a bit, we made our way deeper into the crowd, snagging some delicious hors d’oeuvres along the way, which were being passed around by white-gloved waiters. I recognized several of my mother’s society friends, including her closest friend, Cici Holdsworth. The last time I’d seen her was at the opening for the Madewell Wing at The Met.
Already snockered, the matronly woman greeted with me with open arms and an effusive kiss on each cheek.
“Why, Ryan, darling!! How good to see you! How have you been?”
“I’ve been good.” Less was best.
She brushed her free hand along my stubbled jaw. “I like your new beard.”
I swear she was hitting on me. Then, her eyes shifted to Willow. “And who might your stunning companion be?”
I introduced her to Willow. My friend. With as few words as possible.
“Lovely to meet you, my dear.” She snagged a canapé from a passing waiter and stuffed it into her mouth before returning her attention to me. “Oh, by the way, Ryan, did you hear the news about Charlotte Vanowen?”
My blood froze. “No.”
“Rumor has it she was put in the loony bin. I’m positive that’s the reason her poor parents aren’t here tonight.”
“That’s a shame,” I muttered, wanting to get off the subject of Charlotte. Especially in front of Willow. Fortunately, the gossip-hound excused herself just in time to chase after a waiter who was serving champagne.
“Are your mother’s friends all like that?” Willow asked.
I laughed. “Yeah, they’re all peas from the same pod. Welcome to my world.” I caught myself. “Rather her world.”
My Willow rolled her eyes before they roamed the room full of bejeweled women in designer cocktail gowns and dapper sixty-something men in expensive dark tailored suits and ties. Then, her gaze landed on something, not someone, of interest.
“Oh my God, is that what I think it is?”
My gaze followed hers. Her eyes fixed on the original Degas ballerina oil that hung above the baby grand piano. The very painting that had mesmerized my impressionist-loving Allee. Why should I be surprised? Willow was a ballet dancer. The painting would grab her attention. I trailed her as she waltzed in its direction.
Standing behind her, my arms folded over her shoulders, I told her it was indeed an original Degas. My mother’s favorite painting. Something she’d bought herself at an auction many years ago. She’d paid one hundred thousand dollars for it in 1980. God only knew what it was worth today.
“Well, hello, darling!” came a familiar breathy voice, cutting me short.
I spun around along with Willow. It was none other than my whippet-thin mother, holding an almost drained glass of champagne. As stunning as ever in a vermillion silk sheath, her collection of dazzling diamonds adorning her ears, neck, and hands. Beside her was my silver-haired father in his wheelchair, looking thin and frail in one of his custom-made suits, and with him, his caretaker—our former housekeeper, Maria. Maria’s dark eyes brightened at the sight of me. I adored this big-hearted woman, who had literally raised me. The few grays interspersed through her jet-black hair were the only clue that she was now in her early seventies. Her toffee-colored skin was still as smooth as velvet. Not a line was etched in her face—no easy feat, having worked for my demanding parents for close to four decades. About to give her a hug, I held it back as my mother gave me her customary double-cheeked kiss.
“So glad you could come,” she crooned, already giving Willow the once-over. My arm stayed wrapped around her as I introduced her to my parents.
My mother took another sip of her champagne and hiccupped. “Oh, so you’re named for a tree?”
Inside, I was cringing, but Willow held her own. “Yes, actually, I am. A very special weeping willow.”
At the memory of that indeed very special tree on her grandmother’s property, I relaxed a little, even becoming aroused. My dick stiffened beneath the fabric of my suit.
“And, dear, what might your last name be?” My mother, the society doyenne, paid special attention to lineage.
“Rosenthal,” Willow spouted proudly.
My mother’s brows lifted. “Oh, like in Rosenthal China?”
Willow flashed a confidant smile. “Yes, like in the china.”
I smiled too. So did Maria. Score one for Willow. She knew how to play this connect the dots game. Better yet, she knew how to cheat it.
My mother continued to study her. “You look very familiar to me, my dear. Have we met before? Or perhaps you’ve served on one of my boards?”
Before my Willow could respond, my father opened his mouth. The words took a while to form.
“You’re Jeeeew…ish?” he slurred.
Mortification raced through me. Duffy was right. My bigoted father, who despised blacks, Jews, LGBTs, the homeless, and probably every person in this world who didn’t descend from someone who had stepped off the Mayflower, held Willow in his vulturous eyes. They roamed up and down her sexy, lithe body, and for once, I was glad he was confined to a wheelchair and likely impotent. He deserved his fate.
Willow had read my book. We had discussed my parents before coming here. Her knowledge served her well.
With an air of confidence, she responded. “Yes, Mr. Madewell. I’d say I’m ‘ish.’ So nice to meet you.” She extended her hand. Slowly, my father extended his good one. Okay, progress.
Sparing us from further conversation, one of the help rang a bell. The ping resounded in my ears as my mother made an announcement.
“Everyone, please welcome our guest of honor…”
As he strode into the living room, I heard Willow gasp, “Oh my God.”
I turned to face her. Her complexion had turned ashen. Then, her hand grew cold in mine as my applauding mother tapped her champagne flute. Her voice boomed.
“Mister…”