“Have you told her about the boat?” Charlie asked him. Adam was flying to St. Barts to meet Charlie on the boat on December 26, as he did every year, after he spent Christmas with his kids.

Adam shook his head, trying to look unconcerned. “I thought I'd tell her after this weekend.” He was hoping that she'd be so thrilled after the weekend that she wouldn't make a fuss about the boat. “I can't change everything. We've been doing that trip for ten years. Have you told Carole?”

“No, but I will. I don't do holidays,” Charlie said firmly.

“I don't do kids,” Gray said just as firmly.

“Do you want to come to St. Barts with us?” Charlie suggested. “If you're not going to be with Sylvia over the holidays, you might as well.”

“I don't do the Caribbean either,” he said sheepishly, and then laughed at himself. “Christ, among the three of us, we have enough baggage to start an airline.” But you didn't get to where they were in life, and come the long, hard road they had, without paying a price for it. They had all paid their dues.

“I don't do marriage,” Adam added with a grin.

“Tell me that this time next year,” Charlie said, laughing at him. “Shit, you're the last person on the planet I would have expected to be living with a woman. What happened to all the others that you always juggle so expertly?” He was curious about it. Adam had never had less than four women going at once, often five, sometimes six in a good week. And once, seven.

“I gave them up for her.” He looked sheepish. “I didn't want her doing the same thing to me. I thought she was. It turned out she was going to college. I thought there was another guy. To be honest, it nearly drove me insane. And then I realized I was in love with her. I like living with her.”

“I'm only staying with Sylvia,” Gray informed them. “I'm still not living with her.” He sounded proud that he hadn't given in.

“That just means that your clothes are all over the city and you never have the right shoes in the right apartment,” Adam translated for him. “And you're not going to be 'staying' with her either, if you don't meet her kids. Or at least that's my guess. I think that's a biggie for her. It would be for me too. I would have a fit if the woman in my life refused to meet my kids. It would be a deal-breaker for me.” It was insight for Gray, but he still shook his head.

“Have your kids met Maggie?” Charlie asked Adam with interest.

“Not yet. But they will. Probably before the holidays. I don't do mothers anymore either, by the way. Or at least I didn't on Thanksgiving. I went out to my parents', and I was sitting there listening to all the same bullshit getting dumped on me. I got up and walked out before lunch. I thought my mother would have a stroke if I ever did that, but she didn't. Actually, she's been very polite since then, whenever I call.”

“What did your father say?” Gray asked.

“He fell asleep.”

The rest of their dinner was uneventful. They talked politics, business, investments, art for Gray's sake. He was having a show in April, but they had already sold three of his paintings that they'd hung in the gallery in the meantime. Sylvia had done a wonderful thing when she opened that door for him, and he was grateful to her, but not grateful enough to meet her kids. Some things he just couldn't do. And Adam and Charlie talked about how excited they were about spending two weeks on the Blue Moon. They encouraged Gray again to join them, but he wouldn't. He said he had a lot of work to do to get ready for his show.

As usual, they were the last to leave the restaurant, and had had a fair amount to drink. None of them drank unduly on his own, but once together, all bets were off, and they let it rip.

Gray went back to his apartment that night. Maggie was asleep when Adam got in, and Charlie went home, smiling to himself thinking about the weeks he was about to spend on his boat. He was leaving four days before Christmas. It was the perfect way for him to pretend that Christmas did not exist.





21


ADAM TOLD MAGGIE ABOUT THE WEEKEND IN LAS Vegas the following morning, and she was thrilled. She had the weekend off from work anyway, and she had to do a paper, but she said she'd take her books with her and do it there whenever Adam was busy. She threw her arms around his neck and couldn't believe her good fortune. They were flying there on his plane.

And then she turned to him with a look of panic.

“What'll I wear?” Now that she was living with him, she no longer had access to her roommates' wardrobes, but they wouldn't have had anything appropriate anyway. Adam had already thought of it, smiled, and tossed a credit card at her.

“Go shopping,” he said generously, and she stood staring at it for a minute, and then handed it back to him.

“I can't do that,” she said sadly. “I may be poor, but I'm not cheap.” She knew that other women had done that to him before her, and no matter what happened, she knew she never would. She'd make her own money one day. And in the meantime, she managed on what she had, which was the salary and tips she earned at Pier 92. “Thanks, sweetheart. I'll figure out something.” He knew she would, but his heart always ached for her. Her life was so much harder than his, and always had been. He wanted to help her more than he did, and she never let him. But he respected her for it. She was an entirely different breed from any of the women he had known.

They were leaving for Vegas on Friday afternoon, and she was so excited she could hardly stand it. She threw her arms around his neck, and thanked him. He loved doing things like that for her. He was looking forward to showing her around, and making it special for her. He wanted to make up to her for all the hard times she'd had, and she was always grateful to him, and never took anything for granted. The following weekend, after the trip to Las Vegas, he told her he wanted her to celebrate Chanukah with him and his kids. He told his mother they wouldn't be there. Times had finally changed.

When Charlie picked Carole up to go to the debutante cotillion, she was dressed and waiting for him. She took his breath away when he saw her walking toward him. She was wearing a pink satin dress and silver high-heeled sandals, with her hair in an elegant French twist. She had borrowed a white mink jacket from her mother, and bought the dress at Bergdorf's. She hadn't been there in years. She was wearing diamond earrings and a diamond bracelet that had been her grandmother's, and she carried a small silver purse and long white kid gloves.

For a long, long moment, Charlie just stood there and stared. He was wearing white tie and tails. They made a spectacular-looking couple. Carole looked like a cross between Grace Kelly and Uma Thurman, with a dash of Michelle Pfeiffer thrown in. And Charlie was somewhere between Gary Cooper and Cary Grant.

Heads turned as they walked into the ballroom at the Waldorf-Astoria, and Carole looked absolutely regal. It was a far cry from the woman he'd met in blue jeans and Nikes at the center, or the green face and wig on Halloween. But the best part was that he loved all three sides of her. It was fun being out with her in public, and seeing her all dressed up.

They went through the receiving line and met all the debs, and Carole reminisced sotto voce about her own presentation there. She said she had been scared to death, but had fun in the end, in spite of herself.

“I'll bet you were gorgeous,” he said with an admiring look. “But even more so now. You look absolutely beautiful tonight,” he said, and meant it, as he whirled her around the dance floor in a slow waltz. He was an exquisite dancer, and so was she. All their early life and training showed its colors at moments like that, dancing school, deb parties, all the things that Carole shunned and tried to forget now. But tonight she was back in her old world, though just for a brief visit. Charlie knew he wouldn't get her to do things like that often, and he didn't mind. He was somewhat tired of them himself. He just liked having the option to do them now and then.

They ran into her parents shortly before dinner. Carole pointed them out to him, and they made their way politely to her parents' table. They were sitting among the scions of New York, and her father stood up as soon as he saw them. He was a tall distinguished man and looked a lot like Carole. He held out a hand to Charlie when she introduced them, and his face looked as though it had been carved from ice. Charlie had met him years before, but he doubted that the older man recalled.

“I knew your father,” Arthur Van Horn said grimly. “We were at Andover together. I was very sorry to hear about what happened. It was a tragic loss.” It was not a happy topic for Charlie, and Carole tried to get him off the subject. Her father had a way of casting a pall on everything, it was just the way he was. She also introduced him to her mother, who sat in glacial silence, shook his hand, nodded, and turned around. And that was it. Carole and Charlie went back to their table and then danced some more before they sat down.

“Well, that was a little daunting,” Charlie admitted, as Carole laughed. Their greeting had been typical of her parents, and had nothing to do with him.

“For them, that was warm.” They were caricatures of the upper class to which they belonged. “I don't think my mother ever hugged or kissed me. She always walked into the nursery, as she referred to it, looking as though she was visiting animals in the zoo, and was afraid she'd be attacked if she stuck around, so she didn't. I never saw her for more than five minutes. If I ever have kids, I'm going to lie on the floor with them, get dirty, and hug and kiss them till they scream.”

“My mother was like that, the way you just described wanting to be with yours.” It made it that much harder for him when she died. She had always told him how much she loved him, as did Ellen. His father had been his mentor and best friend until he died. His hero. It had been a lot to lose. His whole world, in fact. He remembered his father as a happy, debonair man who looked like Clark Gable, and loved yachts. It was probably why Charlie had bought one in honor of him, when they died. He wanted to have boats that his father would have approved of, and commented to Carole how odd it was that those things followed one into adulthood, in fact all one's life.

“I guess we never get over wanting to please our parents,” he said as they sat down for dinner.

The evening was fun for both of them, the girls were pretty, the moments tender to watch. The girls danced first with their fathers, holding their bouquets, and wearing elaborate white gowns. It was almost like a wedding, and once upon a time it had been the precursor to that. Debutantes had been presented to society in order to find husbands. Now the girls just had fun, and at the end of the evening changed into miniskirts and went to discos with their friends.

“Technically, I disapprove of it,” Carole admitted to him, “and everything it stands for. But the truth is, it doesn't mean much, it doesn't hurt anyone. It's not PC, but the kids seem to have a good time. So why not?” He was relieved that she saw it that way, and he looked at her again with pleasure, as they drove back to her house afterward in the limo he had rented for the occasion. The evening had been very grand, and they had both enjoyed it. “Thank you for taking me.” She smiled at him, as he leaned over and kissed her. He thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, and he was proud to be with her, although he'd been slightly horrified by her parents. He couldn't imagine growing up with two people like that. It amazed him that she was normal, and grateful that she was not like them. She was warm and kind and compassionate, gentle where they were stiff, and easy to be with. She was smiling at him happily as they approached her house. “I can hardly wait to spend Christmas with you.” She smiled at him. “I love the holidays. I thought I'd buy my tree tomorrow, and we can decorate it.” He looked at her then as though he had been slapped, and there was a strange awkward moment between them. He knew he had to say something now. If he didn't, he was a liar. He had to tell her the truth, just as he had told her, when they got back together, that he expected it of her.

His voice was very sad and soft as he spoke. “I won't be here.”

“Tomorrow?” She looked startled, and he looked chagrined.

“No. For Christmas,” he said carefully. “I hate the holidays, every moment of them, everything about them. I don't do Christmas anymore. It's too hard for me. I spend it on my boat every year. I'll be gone for three weeks.” There was a long silence between them as she stared at him, as though she found it hard to believe.