Carnegie Hill, page 11
She couldn’t have pinpointed when that plan began to evolve, but it must have started after Lewis and Claudia didn’t respond to her emailed save-the-date, for the Saturday in late June when they were able to book the atrium. Aside from the occasional email exchange with her father, she had communicated with them exclusively through Maisie, who said the subject was being elegantly avoided. When, upon Pepper’s urging, Maisie asked flat out if they were coming, Claudia warned her not to get involved with her sister’s childish grievances.
Pepper had never before felt such rage at her parents as she did in the weeks after Maisie delivered that news. Dr. Riffler asked her why it was so important that her parents show up, and she didn’t have a therapeutically useful answer, except that everybody’s parents showed up to their child’s wedding. Skipping her wedding would be unforgivable.
When she couldn’t stand being angry any longer, she composed a polite email explaining how much their attendance would mean, that two seats would be saved for them, and that if they decided not to show, their absence would be acknowledged during the ceremony. She tried to be nice about it, but not even a cheering squad of emoji could mask her resentment. She reminded herself that this was not her fault. Even if her parents didn’t like their future son-in-law, the least they could do was fake it for one day.
She reread the email draft. It wasn’t convincing enough, somehow. She saw that she had embarrassingly little sway in whether they came or not. So she added, after the word “ceremony” a subordinate clause: “which will be attended by multiple reporters and editors,” even though she hadn’t invited anyone of the sort. Claudia would do anything to prevent a scandal, even if it meant smiling for the cameras at her daughter’s wedding. Pepper sent the email and felt a little better.
Days passed with no response, and Pepper grew angrier and more upset. She didn’t want a whole bunch of news outlets at her wedding, but she didn’t not want them there, so she decided to reinforce her position. She had lunch with Louisa Crispin, a friend of Katt’s who maintained a well-read blog about real estate and society, and told her about the wedding. Louisa was overjoyed and promised to bring her camera. She also offered to reach out to her contact at Town & Country to see if they wanted the official photos.
Now that she had media coming, she saw that her wedding, as planned, needed to be more of an event. She’d never cared what strangers thought of her, but when she imagined Louisa eating a cold chicken-breast sandwich under a tree, she cringed. When she imagined her parents judging her based on the resultant story, she panicked.
So although the contract with the caterer had been signed and the trees had been ordered, she retained an event designer who had planned a wedding for a duchess and a birthday party for Bruce Springsteen, and the character of the wedding changed.
The event designer tried to work with her vision and proposed long farmhouse tables cutting through the pine forest and a menu created by a chef couple who had run a gourmet destination in rural Virginia, where the food was styled to resemble dirt and weeds. He also suggested increasing the number of guests to at least 250. Any fewer than that and the crowd would look sparse, he said. Pepper decided to invite 350 in hopes of getting 300. Now that she saw the whole thing diagrammed out, she was excited at the prospect of a big wedding.
Rick was willing to pay for whatever, but he hated party planning, and she tried not to antagonize him with questions. But it saddened her to imagine a wedding alien to his taste—and she didn’t want him to be surprised by the ballooning cost—so she ran every decision by him. His responses were supportive but curt. Around the same time, he began working late, and at home he spent more time with his phone than with her. He replied to Facebook messages during meals, idled an hour at a time in the bathroom, checked his email in elevators and on cab rides with her, kept his earbuds in when they were relaxing together, and, after turning out the lights at bedtime, when her skin was anticipating his touch, flicked his screen on and watched highlights from ESPN or Saturday Night Live.
Every time he looked at that phone, she felt pushed aside. She tried to joke about it without being a nag: “Your mistress is calling,” she would say if she spotted his phone ringing on the table. Or, “Can it just be us tonight, without our third wheel?” And he would say something like, “I have a demanding mistress,” before skulking into the other room with the phone and closing the door.
At times she wished they had stuck with the anti-wedding, or at least the picnic idea, but she was afraid to admit it to Rick for fear that he would want to scrap all her planning and disinvite everyone. Then it would really look as though she were ashamed of him. Especially because the tabloids had already gotten wind of the event. If she canceled the wedding, they would eviscerate her.
* * *
Pepper had joined the co-op board partly to make positive change in the building, but through four monthly meetings, the bloc of Francis, Birdie, and her had been outvoted on nearly every measure, from approving minority tenants to requiring benefits for domestic help to hiring a decent florist for the lobby arrangements. It was like Congress: with few exceptions—unanimously banning tap dancing, for example, after one shareholder’s daughter took it up—each member voted along party lines. So far, the only change she had instituted was the custom of bringing refreshments to the meetings. After that impossible first meeting, when she realized that Patricia wasn’t going to serve her guests anything, Pepper brought two open bottles of wine, thereby forcing Patricia to put them on the table. The following month, Francis arrived with scones, and Ardith brought cheese and crackers. After that, everyone except Patricia contributed something.
But snacks at board meetings made a negligible improvement in the building, and represented a sad fall from the idealism of her youth, when she hazily believed that she could make a difference. Maybe things would change when Francis became president. Hope for a post-Patricia era was the main thing keeping her from quitting. And when the January meeting rolled around, as she waited with Birdie for Letitia to answer the door, Pepper found herself smiling, imagining the look on Patricia’s face when she lost her precious presidency. Like the Wicked Witch of the West, she’d probably melt on the spot.
Francis arrived with Ardith a few minutes late, looking angry. The closest thing to anger she’d ever seen in him was patient disapproval. She told herself he was just tense with election nerves. They took their seats, and Pepper poured them both some wine, not wanting to ask Letitia for anything, since it still seemed wrong that she had to work at night. Francis kept his eyes low.
“You are an emissary from heaven,” Ardith told her. The dowager raised her glass and took a sip.
“St. Peter wanted me to tell you to drink more wine,” Pepper said.
“Let’s not waste any more time,” Patricia cut in—she seemed to interrupt no one but Pepper. “We have a lot to cover, including finalizing the budget and an interview with the Szymanski family at eight o’clock.”
“Is that the family with all those children?” Birdie asked, her nose wrinkling.
“They have about twenty, don’t they?” Ardith said. “Maybe we should ask them their views on birth control.”
“I’m not getting any younger,” Patricia scolded. Claudia was fond of saying that, generally when Pepper didn’t jump at her every summons. Thinking of her mother, Pepper felt the familiar rage. She wasn’t going to obsess about the wedding, not tonight.
“Clearly,” Ardith muttered.
“Our first order of business is an easy one,” Patricia said. “Board elections. Douglas is again running for treasurer. All in favor?”
Everybody but Dougie raised their hands. Pepper didn’t like voting for him, but she didn’t want to oversee the co-op’s finances, and as Francis told it, the board used to go door-to-door, begging for a treasurer each year until Dougie took on the role.
Patricia smiled. “Congratulations, Douglas. Next, Chess is running for secretary. All in favor?”
Again, every hand except the nominee’s went up. Maybe in a year or two, when she got to know the building a bit better, Pepper would run for secretary. In her mother’s building, where she grew up, the secretary of the board published an entertaining quarterly newsletter that combined financial reports with building news and an interview with a shareholder. All Chess did was email a page of sloppy meeting minutes.
“Excellent,” Patricia said. “Lastly, I am running for president. All in favor?”
Every voter, even Francis, raised a hand. Pepper felt disoriented, as if just waking up from a nap, and didn’t raise hers. Had she misheard? “You’re running unopposed,” she said, hoping to be corrected.
“Does that surprise you, Ms. Bradford?” Patricia asked, removing her glasses as if to get a better look at Pepper.
“No, I just wanted to make sure.”
Francis mouthed, “I’m sorry.” He had promised he would beat Patricia, and now he was voting for her.
She wanted to quit right then: she couldn’t imagine twelve more meetings in Patricia’s dining room, the horrible crone cutting her off every time she tried to speak. But she refused to submit. She would not let herself be bullied ever again.
“Were you planning on voting?” Patricia asked Pepper with a wincing smile. “There aren’t any other candidates.”
Abstaining wouldn’t accomplish anything. Still, she didn’t raise her hand. Her body refused to help Patricia win. “You won the election. There’s no need for me to vote.”
“Are you saying that you don’t think I should be president for another year?” Her eye twitched.
Pepper smiled, feeling a hint of power over Patricia. “I’m not saying that. I just think the effort to raise my hand is unnecessary. Congratulations, you win.”
Francis widened his eyes at her. Birdie stifled a smile.
“Fine, save your energy,” Patricia said.
“Would you like me to mark you as having voted for her or having abstained?” asked Chess, his pen poised above the day’s minutes.
“Abstained,” Pepper said. “But not for any ideological reason.”
Ardith emitted a husky giggle. “I didn’t realize we were dealing with ideologies here.”
Patricia shrugged, and Helen of Troy leaped off Patricia’s lap and bounded into the kitchen, its fluffy pantaloons bouncing up and down. “You are a strange girl. Very well. Thank you all—or most of you, at any rate—for entrusting me to lead the building once more. We serve all the shareholders of the Chelmsford Arms, and I serve you. So I hope you’ll let me know how I can better serve you.”
“Can we move on, please?” Francis snapped.
“For once, Francis wants to hurry the meeting up!” Patricia’s dig garnered a laugh. “Very well, then. Next on the agenda … I have received an anonymous complaint about certain residents lingering in the lobby, occupying the doormen with chatter. As we all know, our doormen have a job to do in keeping us safe. It is not easy work, and they do it very well. They are cordial as a courtesy to us, but we must not abuse that friendliness. Without naming any names, I would simply like to remind everyone that the lobby’s function is a place for welcoming guests, not a venue for social hour.” Everyone must have known she was addressing Francis, as he spent mornings talking with the doormen.
“Who complained, Patricia?” Francis asked, no less angry than before.
“The complaint was anonymous. We are not naming any names—”
“Oh, come off it. Coyness doesn’t become you. It’s not a crime to talk to the doormen, and of course I recede when they need to focus on their work.”
“I thought you wanted to speed this meeting up, Francis,” said Patricia with mock surprise. “But while we’re on the topic of inappropriate relationships with staff members, I would like to remind everyone here—and particularly you—that, except in the case of handymen for minor repairs, we do not invite staff members into our homes. The liabilities are staggering.”
“Nothing untoward was going to happen,” Francis said. “We simply had coffee.” Pepper didn’t know what he was talking about, and from the look on the other faces around the table, no one else knew, either. Except Ardith, who shrugged giddily like a woman in a yogurt commercial.
“Are we referring to that scrumptious new porter?” Ardith asked. “I couldn’t take my eyes off his perky little derriere. I kept inventing chores just to watch him work.”
So Francis had been having coffee with Caleb. It was unusual, but not worth making a stink over. Pepper glanced at Letitia, standing a few feet away, wiping down glassware in Patricia’s dining-room hutch. She wondered how Patricia’s housekeeper felt about Ardith objectifying Caleb. Of course, Letitia didn’t flinch.
“I’m frankly disappointed in both of you,” Patricia said. “If I may quote from the bylaws: ‘Shareholders are not to engage in any relationship, whether personal or financial, with anyone employed by or contracted with the Chelmsford Arms Corporation. This includes, but is not limited to, romantic entanglements and business dealings.’” Pepper was impressed that she had rattled all that off from memory.
Ardith raised her glass. “There is nothing so life-affirming as a romantic entanglement with a working man—preferably one that brings mutual satisfaction.”
Birdie and Dougie laughed at what had to be a joke, as Pepper couldn’t imagine Ardith making love to anyone, much less a reasonably attractive young man. Maybe it had happened a few decades ago.
“It is extremely risky to enter into any kind of relationship with someone you have the power to terminate,” Patricia continued, ignoring Ardith’s joke, “and we must not permit even the appearance of these relationships.”
“We get it,” Francis said.
“I’m not emphasizing these things for my own health, Francis. But fine, I won’t belabor the point. Next on the agenda is a request by our very own Ms. Penelope Bradford,” Patricia said with raised eyebrows. Pepper had submitted the agenda item in advance, hoping to sidestep Patricia’s inevitable objections. And she’d hoped it wouldn’t be discussed until after Francis had become president. Now that she’d gone and irritated the old witch, she dreaded what punishment awaited her. “Something about our preferred vendors?”
“Yes,” Pepper began, quelling a sudden pulse of nerves. She began her practiced speech. “As you all know, we’re required to use the building’s preferred vendors when we renovate. I see the wisdom in this: I wouldn’t want someone coming into our building for weeks or months without a careful vetting process. But as someone whose renovation has recently begun, and who has seen firsthand the limitations of having only three contractors compete for our business…”
“I know what you’re going to propose, Ms. Bradford, and the answer is no.”
She coughed, feeling as if Patricia had reached across the table and grabbed her by the throat. “How do you know what I’m going to say?”
“You want to expand the list of preferred vendors, and I’m telling you it’s not our place. We hire a managing agent to run our building, and we do our level best to get out of their way. They have selected a diversity of companies who are known to do good work in our building at a fair price, and we must defer to their expertise. Do you or I know who the best contractor in New York City might be? Of course not. But they do. They are the experts, not we, so I would suggest you not waste our time second-guessing them.”
Once again, Pepper’s attempt at making positive change was being snuffed out by this gorgon. She made fists of her hands under the table, trying to dispel her rage. Francis looked sympathetic but said nothing. “I don’t know the best one, but I’m pretty sure the three we’re stuck with are close to the worst. Can’t we ask the managing agent to review a few more, using input from the shareholders? They work for us, not the other way around.” She heard herself begging but didn’t know how to regain her authority.
Fatigue softened Patricia’s features, a look that Claudia often adopted, making Pepper feel like an annoying child. “Ms. Bradford, what is it you’re really asking? You want us to change the rules so you can use a different contractor. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: your election to our board does not grant you preferred status in the building. That is not why you are here. You are here to maintain the value and prestige of the Chelmsford Arms. You are here to help residents cohabitate peacefully. You are not here to wheedle special favors. That is what we call corruption, and if you possess half the intelligence you pretend to, you will stop trying to appeal to the board for your personal gain. Do I make myself clear?”
“I am trying to help my neighbors by giving them reasonable contractors for their renovations,” Pepper said through gritted teeth. “That will help increase the value of the building.” She wanted to kick her chair back and leave. But she sat there as Patricia changed the subject and the meeting lumbered on. She couldn’t decide whether that reflected a great deal of maturity or a great deal of cowardice.
* * *
She managed to hide her upset with Rick until an afternoon in mid-February, at the stationery showroom in Chelsea. She and Rick were talking over calligraphic font families with the invitation designer, a plump woman in her fifties with a chest tattoo and a nose ring. Pepper wanted something strong but airy, stately but accessible. She loved Eurydice, with slender crossbars and serifs that looked like Doric capitals. Rick pointed to his favorites and resumed writing text messages.
