The LeBaron Secret Page 8

  (But it might happen again. That would show Eric again.)

  But Eric will not forgive her, ever, and in his rage he will kill Peeper, and now that familiar feeling of disorientation and anomie settles upon her, as the rest of the dreary scenario plays itself out, a feeling of cockroaches crawling around her heart.

  Now Peeper is dead, and Eric has divorced her. She has gotten to keep the house, an arrangement that is almost standard in these cases. Eric has given her custody of the girls, and a large financial settlement. But what future does a thirty-six-year-old divorced woman with two teenage daughters have in a place like Burlingame—while Eric has gone off and married whoever she is?

  But wait. Eric will be in prison. But perhaps not. A sympathetic judge—male, of course—will acquit him of the murder of his brother, or recommend leniency. Eric was the wronged party, it was a crime of passion. Temporary insanity. Gentlemen of the jury, I charge you that the defendant is an upstanding member of this community, a pillar of his church, with no previous record of criminality. Standing before you is a decent, God-fearing citizen, driven to a murderous rage by the lustful, willful actions of his former wife. I therefore recommend …

  And so Eric will go off and marry whoever it is, and she will be left all alone in a big house in Burlingame, a divorced woman with two grown daughters, invited nowhere, a social pariah whom no man except a common gold digger will want to marry. She will lose her membership in the Burlingame Country Club. This is also standard in these cases. The club wants no single or divorced women. The widows of deceased members are bad enough. The club is obligated to keep those women on. But to single women and divorcees there is no such obligation. The Francisca Club will drop her, too, for during the divorce and murder trial the scandal of her adulterous behavior will have made headlines in all the papers. Ex-DEB BEDDED DOWN BROTHER-IN-LAW! SOCIALITE SEDUCED HUBBY’S TWIN! And so she will end up all alone, hovering somewhere at the brink of middle age, friendless and clubless in an affluent country-club suburb of married couples, while he …

  She will consider moving to the city, as others in her situation have done, and where they find the situation exactly the same. And where they find each other. And so they travel together, take cruises together, these lonely, untethered, aging women, looking in vain for husbands. They have their faces lifted, they color their hair. In the end, they may marry their hairdresser, and let his boyfriend move in with them.

  But still. But still. Perhaps she will have an affair with Peeper, and not let Eric find out. But where would be the fun—where would be the sweet taste of revenge—in that?

  “Hi, honey.” His voice from the next bedroom interrupts her lubricious reverie and its dispiriting aftermath, and the ivory-handled hairbrush slides from her lap and lands on the white carpet with a soft plop.

  “Darling, you’re late! People are due here any minute.”

  “Sorry—got tied up on the phone.”

  “Well, hurry and get yourself guapo. I’ll see you downstairs.”

  His head appears in her dressing-room door. He is tying his tie. “I forget,” he says. “Did we invite Melissa tonight?”

  “Darling, you know we agreed not to. We agreed that even if she is your sister, an extra single woman is a drag”—telling him exactly what she has been telling herself.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Herb Caen wants to write this party up. We don’t want it to be a drag.” Privately, she is thinking that she cannot stand Melissa. She is also thinking: He didn’t use to forget who we invited to our parties.

  She rises now, in front of her mirror, adjusts the thin shoulder straps of her new Dior, and smooths the front of the dress. There is a slight feeling of wetness between her legs, but there is no time to change now, and besides, this is the dress she told Herb she would be wearing. She mists her hair and earlobes with a few more dashes of L’Air du Temps, and prepares to go downstairs and be the delightful, gracious, beautiful, and always popular Peninsula hostess that Herb Caen will tell his thousands of Chronicle readers that she is.

  Half an hour later, the Eric LeBarons’ cocktail party is in full swing.

  “Darling, you look gorgeous!”

  “Darling, so do you!”

  “… And then we go to Acapulco for two weeks, and from there we fly directly to Cancun …”

  “How old is Ann, anyway? Thirty-eight? Thirty-nine?”

  “I love your hair.”

  “There’s a new little man at Magnin’s, who …”

  “And so I said to her, ‘If you’re going to do this in a tent …’”

  “Who’s that man standing by the piano, talking to Molly Tobin?”

  “My dear, I’ve no idea!”

  “He looks slightly—windblown, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, a little too blow-dried.”

  “… The minute you get to Las Brisas, you should call …”

  “Alix, darling, how cute of you to have your two little girls helping to pass things!”

  “Seriously, I think it’s important for them to learn how to run a cocktail party.”

  “Is that her own hair, or a wig?”

  “Her! Why, that little tramp has been down on everything except the Titanic!”

  “I love it!”

  “And so I said to my product manager, ‘You can’t just put that red horse up there on the roof and have it sitting there, flapping its wings. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t say anything.’”

  “This is what Alix calls her ‘A Group.’”

  “Hmm.”

  “I sold mine at thirty-three and five-eighths, but now—”

  “Her doctor told her that whenever she had a craving for a cigarette she should have a drink, and now look at her!”

  “It’s a wig. Her hair was short when I saw her last week at the club.”

  “Just how rich are the LeBarons, anyway?”

  “You’ve heard the story of how Peter Powell LeBaron got his middle name—”

  “They call the Washington Street house the Dago’s Palace.”

  “… a barrel of wine in the portrait gallery …”

  “Wasn’t that a riot about Assaria LeBaron in her jet?”

  “Just took the controls, and—whoosh, under the bridge!”

  “She must be quite bonkers.”

  “They say that if you cross her she’ll chew you up and spit out the pieces.”

  “Where did she come from—does anyone know?”

  “Well, her maiden name was Latham, which means nothing to anyone. Anywhere.”

  “I’ve heard that she was some sort of dancer, or show girl, and that Peter Powell LeBaron had to marry her.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard that too, for years. They went off to Europe on their honeymoon, and came home with—”

  “Melissa. Five months later.”

  “Oh, I think it was longer than that—a year, maybe, but still. At the time, everybody thought it was awfully peculiar. I mean, getting pregnant on your honeymoon is one thing, but then doesn’t one usually come home to have the baby? I mean, to make it an American citizen and all that.”

  “Poor Melissa.”

  “Actually, I like Melissa, but …”

  “Yes, I know what you mean.”

  “They say that for years Assaria LeBaron has been having an affair with Gabe Pollack. Who owns the Gazette.”

  “But isn’t he a little—minty, as they say?”

  “Minty?”

  “Hush, darling—Alix is coming toward us. Alix, darling, how lovely you look!”

  And so on. And so on.

  The young man with the windblown-looking hair has approached Eric with his hand outstretched. “My host,” he says. “Hi, I’m Archie McPherson.”

  “Eric LeBaron,” Eric says. “Good to meet you, Archie.”

  “Nice of you and your wife to let me tag along,” he says. “You have a beautiful home, and this is a swell party.” A pause, and then, “Actually, I knew you and your brother at Yale.”r />
  Eric studies the young man’s face, trying to connect it with some face from the past. “We knew each other at New Haven? I’m sorry, but …”

  “Oh, you didn’t know me,” Archie says. “But I knew you. Everybody knew the LeBaron twins. You both ran with the Choate and Hotchkiss set. You were both Zeta Psi and Skull and Bones. I was just a scholarship kid from a public high school in Willimantic, Connecticut, so I didn’t run with the right crowd. You and your friends used to look right through guys like me when we passed each other on the Quad.”

  “I see,” Eric says, put off and annoyed. “You came with the Tobins tonight, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, you’re running with the right crowd now.” He tries to keep his tone pleasant, and yet somehow the remark comes out sounding nasty, snotty. But it is too late to retract it now, and so, smiling slightly, he moves away from Archie McPherson.

  “Peeper, darling,” Alix is saying. “You look a little sad tonight. Withdrawn.”

  “Sad? Withdrawn? On the contrary, Allie, I feel just great. Good party.”

  “Did you come alone, or bring a date?”

  “Alone tonight,” he says. “Right now, I’m between dancing partners.”

  “Ah, that’s sad. You know, I sometimes worry about you, Peeper. With girls, you seem to go from pillar to post.”

  “Maybe that’s sort of the way I like it, Allie.”

  “But wouldn’t you like, someday, to have a really lasting, loving relationship with some special someone?”

  “Get married, you mean?”

  “Well, either that, or …”

  He winks at her. “I say, why buy a cow when milk is so cheap?”

  “Peeper, don’t be common!”

  “Is my Italian-immigrant background beginning to show, Allie?”

  “No, but I just mean—aren’t there times when you’re all alone at night, in your apartment on Telegraph Hill, that you feel a little … well, a little lonely and neglected, and would like—”

  “Got someone special in mind, Allie?”

  “No, of course not, but—”

  But a departing guest has cut into their conversation.

  “Alix, it was a perfectly lovely party,” the guest says. “You always do things in such a super way …”

  And when Alix has turned away from this leave-taking, Peeper has disappeared.

  Finding his brother, Peeper nudges Eric into a quiet corner of the living room. “Had a little chat with Mother today,” he says.

  “Really, Peep? What about?”

  “Well, I was really pleased,” he says. “It looks as though she’s finally going to give me some real clout in the company—not just managing the goddamned Sonoma ranch.”

  “Really? What’s she offering you?”

  “She’s talking of making me co–marketing director, along with you. Won’t that be neat? We’ll handle marketing together—as a team. Isn’t that a neat idea, Facsi?” Sometimes, in playful moods, the brothers call each other “Facsi,” which is short for “Facsimile.”

  But Eric is not in a playful mood now. He is appalled at this news, and he takes a short step backward. He is appalled, and aghast, and stunned, and more hurt than he has ever imagined he could feel, hurt and betrayed. What she is talking about is nothing short of cutting his own job in half. Worse is the fact that she has made not one single mention, not given a single hint, of this proposed change in the directorship of marketing to him. She has gone behind his back, and offered her proposition to his twin without so much as consulting the man whose sole bailiwick marketing of Baronet supposedly is. Eric’s head is suddenly so hot with anger and insult and resentment that he cannot speak, and making it even worse is having to look at his twin brother’s happy, excited, expectant face. This horse’s ass is standing here waiting for me to congratulate him, he thinks. This horse’s ass!

  “Won’t that be neat, Facsi?” Peeper says. “Best thing is, I won’t have that goddamned commute to Sonoma every day. I’ll be working right downtown with you!”

  Still Eric cannot speak. How is it possible that his twin cannot be sensitive enough, intelligent enough, to understand how Eric feels?

  From across the room, Alix sees the stunned and stricken look on her husband’s face and, touching her father’s sleeve, she says, “Daddy, do you think Eric’s cheating on me?”

  “Why, Buttercup, whatever makes you think a thing like that?” Harry Tillinghast asks.

  “I don’t know. Just a feeling. Call it woman’s intuition, or whatever.”

  “Hasn’t he been—treating you well, honey?”

  “It’s not that. It’s just—just the way he’s been acting lately.”

  “Well, honey,” her father says, “I don’t think he’s cheating on you. If he ever did, he’d need to have his head examined.” Then he says, “But I do know there’s another woman in his life.”

  “Oh? Who?”

  “His mother,” Harry Tillinghast says.

  “Oh,” she says, disappointed. “Oh, that.”

  “What Eric needs now, more than anything, at this particular point in time, is to be given his head. He needs to take over that company—run it himself.” He squeezes his daughter’s arm. “And, Buttercup, your old daddy’s gonna help him do it. Wait and see.”

  More guests are departing now, and there are more thank-yous and farewells and see-you-at-the-clubs. Standing beside Alix, sharing the hostly duties of accepting thanks for their hospitality, Eric says to her, almost absently, “By the way, I have to go to New York tomorrow.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Business.”

  “May I go with you?”

  He shrugs. “Sure, if you’d like. It’ll only be a couple of days. I’ll be in meetings most of the time, but you can shop, I guess, or—”

  “Well,” she says, almost petulantly, “as a matter of fact I can’t go with you. Sally Carrington is having a bridge luncheon at the club, and I accepted a month ago.”

  “Well, then—”

  “Not that you care a bit whether I go with you or not!”

  Looking sadly, not at her, but at some point in the distance over her left shoulder, Eric says, “Aw, honey …”

  By nine o’clock, all the guests have gone, or nearly all. Alix LeBaron has stalked upstairs without saying good night, the help is in the kitchen cleaning up, and the girls are in the den watching television. Harry Tillinghast, who lives just down the road—actually in Burlingame, in fact—has stayed on, and he finds his son-in-law in the library, alone, hunched in one of the big leather chairs, nursing a brandy.

  “Mind if I join you for a nightcap, Eric?”

  “Sure, Pop.” He gestures toward the bar.

  Harry Tillinghast goes to the bar, fills a glass with ice, splashes in a healthy dollop of Scotch, and fills the glass with soda from the silver siphon. Then he takes a seat in a chair opposite his son-in-law. “Well, son,” he says, “that was a real nice party.”

  “Thank you, Pop. Glad you could be here.”

  “I thought my little Buttercup looked beautiful, and your two little angels are turning into regular little ladies.”

  “Yes.”

  “My. How time goes by. I can remember bouncing those two little angels on my knee.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve been a good father, Eric, and a good husband to my little girl. It’s been a good marriage, hasn’t it? Everything is—good between you, isn’t it?”

  “I hope so,” Eric says.

  “Good,” Harry Tillinghast says. “Good. Glad to hear it.” The two men sit in silence for a few moments. Then, “How are things at Baronet?” Harry asks.

  “Business is—okay,” Eric says.

  “Good,” Harry says. “I hear by the grapevine—no pun intended—that Pepsi-Cola is after Baronet again.”

  Eric shrugs. “They’ve been after us for years.”

  “So I understand,” he says, and chuckles. “Now that I’m o
ne of your stockholders, they’ve even sent out some feelers in my direction. I told them I was just small potatoes in Baronet, very small potatoes.” He pauses, and then, “I don’t suppose you’d ever think of selling.”

  “No way.”

  Harry Tillinghast extracts a long cigar from his jacket pocket, and carefully trims it with a gold cigar clipper, then places the cigar in his mouth and lights it with a matching gold lighter. The flash of gold is everywhere about Harry’s person—his cuff links, his big signet ring, even a gold belt buckle. “Assaria wouldn’t stand for it, I suppose,” he says around the cigar.

  “That’s right.”

  “How are you and your mother getting along these days, son?”

  “Oh, about the same as usual,” Eric says. “We have our ups and downs.” She is now trying to strip me of half my job responsibilities, he thinks. But he cannot bring himself to tell his father-in-law this. The insult is too fresh, the humiliation too new.

  “Mustn’t let her shove you around, boy,” Harry says. “I know your mother, and I know she has a tendency to shove people around.”

  Eric says nothing.

  Puffing on his cigar, Harry says, “You know, I’ve been thinking quite a bit lately about Baronet—about the future of Baronet. It’s not just because I’ve recently become a stockholder. I’ve been thinking about your future. What’s going to happen to the company, Eric, when you mother goes? She’s not young, Eric, and none of us are getting any younger.”

  “Mother is immortal.” He is feeling a little drunk.

  “Well, nobody is immortal, boy,” Harry says. “And when your mother goes, with all that stock she owns, her estate could be in for some very heavy taxes. Very heavy. Which her heirs would have to pay. Why, you could lose the company just like that,” and he snaps his fingers.

  “Mother says if she ever sells, it’ll only be for cash. And she says there’s not enough cash in the world to make her sell.”

  “Very foolish of her, isn’t it,” Harry says. “Very foolish. All the cash she gets will just be gobbled up by taxes—you know that.”

  “Try explaining that to Mother.”

  “Any woman in her position would—if she were well advised—sell Baronet for stock. Either to Pepsi, or to someone else. If she were well advised.”