CHAPTER 16
DEAN
New York, 1986
I arrived at the Hamilton residence fifteen minutes early but waited from a distance, across the street, a block away, so as not to appear too eager. Looking up at the tall building in the light of the setting sun, I wondered how many of the top floors the Hamilton family occupied. There were terraces with greenery spilling over the railings on three levels. At street level, a doorman in a smart-looking uniform stood under a maroon awning. He greeted an older couple who stepped out of a black limousine and entered the building. The woman wore a fur coat, even though it was a comfortably warm evening.
I checked my watch continuously, and when I saw Caroline step out of a yellow cab with her husband and enter the building, I decided it was time to make my entrance as well. I walked to the intersection, crossed over, and approached the doorman.
“Hi. I’m here for dinner with the Hamiltons. Do I just go inside or . . .”
“What’s your name, sir?”
“Dean Robinson.”
“Yes. Good evening, Dr. Robinson. They’re expecting you. Right this way, please.”
He held the glass door open for me, and I walked into a wide, white-marble foyer the size of a ballroom. A circular upholstered settee was positioned directly below an enormous crystal chandelier, and at the sight of all that wealth, I had to resist the urge to turn around and leave on the grounds that I didn’t belong there.
My stomach tightened with nervous knots as the doorman spoke to the man seated at the concierge desk. “This is Dr. Robinson for the Hamiltons.”
The concierge stood. “Welcome, sir. The elevator is just there.”
“Thank you.” I walked stiffly to the open elevator and stepped inside. It was luxurious with a clean red carpet, a shiny brass rail, and brass buttons. The doors closed in front of me, and up I went, all the way to the top.
When the bell dinged and the doors opened, I stepped off, into a huge private vestibule with black-and-white marble walls, a large vase of roses on an enormous display table, and only one door in front of me. I swallowed nervously, then approached and rang the bell. The door opened, and a man in a black-and-white tuxedo greeted me.
“Good evening,” he said. “You must be Dr. Robinson. May I take your coat?”
I slipped out of it, handed it over, and tried not to look dazed as I took in the wide entrance hall with fresh flowers on two matching mahogany tables to my left and right. Directly in front of me, an ornate stone staircase led to another floor, and classical music played from speakers that were hidden from view.
An attractive blonde woman approached me. She wore a fashionable broad-shouldered magenta dress and a pearl choker at her neck. She came clicking across the floor in high-heeled shoes, smiling broadly. “Hello, Dr. Robinson. Welcome. I’m Liz. Olivia’s mother. We are so pleased you could join us.”
“I appreciate the invitation. But please call me Dean.”
“I will. Come with me, this way.”
She linked her arm through mine and led me through a large living room with Victorian furnishings, then into a smaller parlor with an enormous fireplace and cozy groupings of sofas and chairs. There were about ten people standing around with drinks in hand, chatting casually. I saw Caroline, and she nodded at me. I looked around for Olivia, but I seemed to be the youngest person in the room.
“Let me introduce you to a few people,” Liz said. “You obviously know Dr. Weaver and her husband.” She led me to another group of two couples, who turned out to be family members. One woman was a child from Oscar Hamilton’s first marriage. “This is Olivia’s half sister, Sarah, and her husband, Leon. And this is my brother, James, and his wife, Jan. They’re visiting us from Miami.”
I shook everyone’s hands and discovered that Liz had grown up in Miami. Her father was a renowned architect who designed glass skyscrapers and was responsible for half the city’s modern skyline of hotels and condominiums.
Liz asked me what I’d like to drink, and I requested a Coca-Cola. It arrived in a crystal tumbler with ice and a slice of lemon, brought to me on a sterling-silver tray by a young man in a tuxedo and white gloves. I thanked him, and he said, “You’re very welcome, sir.”
While the others chatted, I couldn’t help but glance discreetly at the spectacular view of Central Park in the fading evening light. I found my mind wandering to the image of Olivia throwing the ball into the lake and the sound of Ziggy’s thunderous splash as he chased after it. I thought of her stopping to kneel on the path and feed him what was left of her ice cream cone.
Where was she tonight? Not dining at home, obviously. My disappointment was palpable.
My attention then turned to the arrival of another person, Mr. Hamilton. He was older than I’d expected. Quite elderly looking, in fact. Liz hurried to kiss him on the cheek and whisper something in his ear. Then she led him to Caroline and her husband, while I took a moment to straighten my tie and try to relax. After a moment, Mr. Hamilton turned to me and said, “You must be Dr. Robinson.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
We made small talk for a few minutes. Then a servant entered the room and announced that supper was served.
As a group, we strolled into the formal dining room, which was lit by gentle wall sconces and silver candelabras on a white-clothed table. It was at that moment Olivia appeared in the doorway, out of breath and pulling a silk scarf from around her neck. “I’m so sorry. Am I too late? I’m not dressed.”
Everyone froze before taking their seats, including Mr. Hamilton, who regarded her with a look of censure.
“You’re not too late, sweetheart,” her mother replied. “Go and get changed. We’ll wait for you. Hurry up now.”
Olivia dashed off.
“Young people these days,” Mr. Hamilton said, and everyone chuckled nervously and agreed.
We sat down, and conversation resumed while we waited for Olivia to return. When she finally walked into the room, I nearly lost my breath at the sight of her in a slim-fitting, off-the-shoulder white cocktail dress. She sat beside me and apologized again for being late, and everyone was riveted and entertained by her excuse, which involved some heavy edits of footage of a psychic medium who claimed to speak to the dead.
“It’s a good thing I have Dr. Robinson’s brilliant interview to keep me from being categorized as a horror film,” she said, charmingly.
Everyone laughed, and the first course arrived.
When coffee was served with dessert, Olivia turned to me and spoke quietly. “Do you have plans later?”
“I’m not sure,” I replied. “What usually happens after dinner at your parents’ house? Are the gentlemen expected to smoke cigars together while the ladies retire to the drawing room for tea?”
She chuckled softly. “Thankfully, no. My father will want to go to bed early. He’s not as young as he used to be.”
“How old is he?” I whispered.
“Just turned eighty,” she whispered back, “but my mother is only fifty-five, so she tires him out.”
I refrained from asking any more questions about that.
“Dad is usually accommodating on weekends,” Olivia continued, “when I want to take off and go somewhere. Do you like jazz?”