“Cristina, what’s going on?” Anna asked sharply.
“Come, come,” she said, bringing Villson by his arm into the office, beaming with pride. “You won’t believe!” she said by way of introduction. Max took an immediate interest in their blond super of the manly hands and easy smile. Villson wasn’t used to so much attention, and with all eyes on him after Cristina’s bold introduction, he could only rub his palms together, abashed. Finally, she clapped him on the back. “Say!”
“Mrs. Forstbacher agrees to construction starting now,” Villson said quietly.
These words were so unexpected that it took Anna a full three seconds to comprehend their meaning. “I don’t believe it!” she finally exclaimed. Julie’s mouth hung open. Cristina broke into applause.
Max, inured by ignorance to this sledgehammer of extraordinary news, stared at Villson in consternation. “Who,” he said, “are you?”
“How?” Anna said.
“I have my ways,” Villson said, and he winked. Max practically swooned.
“He brought cookies every day!” Cristina said. “Homemade!”
“Your wife made them?” Anna asked.
“No!” Cristina snapped, instantly furious with Anna for suggesting such a vile person existed.
“Baking relaxes me,” he said, smiling at Cristina.
“This is your new super!” Max suddenly exclaimed, awestruck.
“Anyway, I heard she liked cookies. From my father. Who was her super at her last building when I was just a boy.”
“No! No! No!” Cristina said, again, totally delighted with this man.
“How’s her hip?” Anna asked.
“Eh,” Villson said, shrugging off his apparent irresistibility. “She’s just a sweet old lady who is a little lonely.”
Anna squinted at him for a moment—was this guy for real?—before moving on to the implications of Villson’s accomplishment. “So we can start tomorrow. Call the Silver Fox,” Anna said to Julie.
“Who’s the Silver Fox?” Max demanded. “What else have you girls been hiding from me?” He batted his gelled lashes at Villson, and Cristina moved to stand between them, flashing Max her evil eye.
“Special delivery!” Barclay called from the back door. He carried an enormous explosion of pink flowers, the only nonorchid to have appeared in the deluge of floral offerings. Cristina had to move a large planter to the floor so it could find a place on the counter.
“Who are those from?” Max said.
“It’s not who they’re from. It’s who they’re for! I was told to hand you this personally,” Barclay said to Anna, proffering an ivory envelope. For a few seconds, Anna hoped they were from Adrian. She had been sort of pining for him since their one brief phone call, but she didn’t want to go back before her own self-imposed deadline. A small part of her still wasn’t ready to admit whatever she would have to admit in order to return to her relationship.
And happily, it had turned out like a strangely ameliorative experience to stay at Lindsay’s. Before washing up on her sister’s doormat like that, Anna had forgotten what an extraordinary time this was, the last precious months before the baby. The sisters were hanging out like they hadn’t in years. All this time, they had been separated only by a subway ride, but Anna had gotten hung up on the idea that they inhabited two entirely separate worlds. Lindsay had been gently nudging Anna to reconsider what Adrian had said from a different—more secure—point of view. He was right; it wasn’t fair to expect so much from him when he himself was going through a transition that she hadn’t bothered to wonder about. She hoped he had read her mind and sent these flowers to jump-start the conversation.
But no, the return address said GAFRUCCI with embossed silver fireworks on either side. Somehow he always knew when the Mrs. was out—today at the gym and then to the spa. Anna slipped the thick card out of the silver-lined envelope.
Dear Anna,
Fingers crossed! Just kidding. Don’t worry. It’s gonna be great.
Ernesto Gafrucci
PS You should probably burn this card. Just in case. Kidding!
Anna laughed. The anniversary was the very next day. Gafrucci’s card made her feel better, maybe? Anna looked up and found all eyes on her, each lung in the room on pause, waiting for her to tell them who the flowers were from.
“They’re from the fireworks guy. At ease,” she said, confusing everyone even further. As Cristina showed Barclay and Villson out, she heard the super ask her in Polish, “Fajerwerki?”
Max eyed the enormous pink bouquet and asked, “How much are you paying him?”
“More exciting news, you guys,” Julie interrupted. “Prince Valdobianno was photographed landing at JFK with a mystery woman last night!” She held up Page Six of the Post. He was smiling amiably at the camera on his way into the back of a town car. This was a relief, in that it confirmed he would bring a guest, thus answering one lingering question. But when Julie and Anna looked to Max for his response, they found him totally absorbed in his phone.
“Max?” Anna said.
“It’s out,” Max breathed.
“I need a little more information.”
“The STT piece. It’s out, up, whatever.”
At a glance, Anna found nothing unusual about the length of the lead piece on the Park and Fifth site or the pictures, which were largely taken from the white carpet before the luncheon shenanigans. STT was a creature of society, after all. He would never embarrass the women who buttered his bread. “I don’t exactly love the headline,” Max said.
“I AM A JEWESS”
Fair to say most didn’t know Kissy Von Bizmark was Jewish. After storming the city from the shores of the Gold Coast, she quickly rose to “It Girl” status, joined forces with none other than the ascendant Peter Von Bizmark, and promptly began checking off the usual list of socialite to-dos: Junior League, Cosmopolitan Club, the Union. She found her cause—the New York City Opera, no less—and worked tirelessly on the institution’s behalf, raising tens of millions of dollars in the last decade alone to finally arrive here, the belle of none other than the Opera Ball. Bambi Von Bizmark positively defines New York Society at this particular moment. The Von Bizmarks’ embracing a Bronx gifted-and-talented public school as well as Bambi’s colorful ethnic past mark a break with the old . . .
“I don’t think it’s so bad . . . ,” Anna said, intending to calm Max down. His index finger twitched over the article. The Von Bizmark phones started going; Julie hopped from one line to the next.
“Anna, it’s Avi for you,” Julie interrupted. “He seems . . . annoyed.”
“What’s this I’m reading here?” their persnickety lawyer chirped in Anna’s ear.
“Yeah, I’m going to need a little more information.”
“Anna, is she OK?”
“What do you mean?”
“This article . . . she sounds . . . out there.” He sounded unusually flustered.
“She’s fine, Avi! Come on!”
“I’m just saying, we don’t need any more negative attention right now.”
“OK, Avi, I’ll let our publicist know.”