“I don’t have time to work,” Beth said. “When you’re married to one of these guys” — she indicated the men — “it’s a full-time job.”
“Oh, but it’s the kids, really,” Connie said. “You don’t want to miss a minute.”
At nine o’clock, they were ushered in to dinner. They were served by a young man and woman dressed in black — college students earning extra money on their summer break. Annalisa was seated between Billy Litchfield and Sandy Brewer, occupying the place of honor next to the host. “Have you ever been to the Andes?” Sandy asked her. Beth, seated across from her, jumped in, prompting a lively discussion with Sandy about how the Andes were the “new” New Zealand. The conversation turned to the Bilbao art fair, a charity event to which Sandy had pledged a million dollars, and the best wine auction in the world. After dinner, there was an endless game of pool in a paneled library. Sandy and the other men smoked cigars. They were tipsy on fine wine and champagne, and during a match between Billy and Paul, Billy’s voice carried across the room. “You’ll make a ton of money,” Billy was saying, “bags and bags, more than you could ever imagine — and it won’t make a bit of difference.
Because you’ll be working as hard as you were before, maybe harder, and you won’t be able to stop, and one day you’ll look up and realize the only thing that’s changed in your life is your location. And you’ll wonder why the hell you spent your whole life doing it ...”
All conversation went dead. Into the silence, like the bell in a lighthouse, came the voice of Connie Brewer: “Well,” she said breathlessly, “you know what they say. It’s all about location. Location, location, location.”
The guests breathed a sigh of relief. The time was noted and exclaimed upon: It was two A.M. Everyone went upstairs to bed.
“What do you think got into that guy?” Paul said, taking off his pants.
“Billy Litchfield?” Annalisa asked. “Probably too much alcohol.” The air conditioner was turned up high, and she snuggled under the down comforter. “Anyway, I like him.”
“That’s good,” Paul said, getting into bed.
“Do you think they liked us?” she asked.
“Why wouldn’t they?”
“I don’t know. The women are so different.”
“They seemed nice enough.”
“Oh, they’re perfectly nice,” Annalisa said.
“What’s wrong?” Paul said, yawning loudly. “You sound insecure.
That’s not like you.”
“I’m not insecure,” she said. “Just curious.” After a moment, she said,
“What if Billy Litchfield is right, Paul? About the money thing?”
But Paul was asleep.
The next morning at breakfast, Annalisa learned that they were expected to play tennis in a small tournament with some of the guests from the night before. Paul, who was not athletic, was eliminated in the first match against Sandy. Annalisa sat in the bleachers, watching. She’d been a high school champion. Her competitive nature rose to the fore. I’m going to win this, she thought.
The tournament went on for five hours. The sun came out and the temperature rose. Annalisa won four matches in a row and was faced with Sandy in the final. As she stood on the baseline, bouncing the ball, she assessed her opponent. His playing style indicated that he’d had a lot of lessons, and his aggression made up for his lack of skill. But he didn’t have a natural ability for tennis. She could win if she kept him off balance.
You might be rich, but I can still beat you, she thought, tossing the ball into the air. She brought her racket up behind her and, just before the moment of contact, flicked her wrist so the ball sliced across the net and bounced right on the sideline.
“Ace!” Billy Litchfield shouted.
Thirty minutes later, it was over. As they clustered around her, congratulating her, Annalisa thought, You can do this. You can really do this. You can succeed here as well.
“Good job,” Paul said. He hugged her distractedly, with one eye on Sandy.
They all headed back to the house.
“Your wife moves well,” Sandy said.
“She’s good,” Paul ventured.
“Yeah,” Sandy said. “She’d be great in a war.”
Billy Litchfield, who was strolling behind them, shuddered a little on hearing their conversation. At that moment, Annalisa stopped and turned, waiting for the group to catch up. She looked unabashedly triumphant.
Billy took her arm. “Well done,” he said. And then, apprising her of the age-old rule at house parties, said, “Of course, it’s always a good idea to let the host win.”
She stopped. “But that would be cheating. I could never do that.”
“No, my dear,” he said, steering her along the path. “I can see that you’re the kind of girl who plays by her own rules. It’s wonderful, and you must never change. But it’s always wise to know what the rules are before you break them.”
4
Billy Litchfield arrived back in the city at six o’clock on Sunday evening. Taking a taxi to his apartment, he was content, having had an unexpectedly fruitful weekend. Connie Brewer had agreed to buy a small Diebenkorn for three hundred thousand dollars, from which he would take a 2 percent commission. Mostly, though, he was thinking about Annalisa Rice. A girl like her rarely came along these days —
she was a true original, from her auburn ponytail and light gray eyes to her keen mind. Feeling a little rush of excitement, Billy guessed that with his guidance, she might even become one of the greats.
Billy’s apartment was located on Fifth Avenue between Eleventh and Twelfth Streets; his narrow brown building, a former residence for single ladies, was dwarfed into invisibility by the fine redbrick buildings on either side. His building had no doorman, although a porter could be summoned with a buzzer. Billy collected his mail and climbed the stairs to his apartment on the fourth floor.
In this building, every floor and every apartment were the same. There were four apartments per floor, and each apartment was a one-bedroom of approximately six hundred square feet. Billy liked to joke that it was an early-retirement home for spinsters such as himself. His apartment was comfortably cluttered, furnished with the castoffs of wealthy ladies.
For the past ten years, he’d been telling himself that he would redecorate and find himself a lover, but he never seemed to be able to get around to either, and time passed and it mattered less and less. Billy had had no visitors for years.
He began opening his mail as a matter of course. There were several invitations and a couple of glossy magazines, a bill for his MasterCard, and a legal-size envelope that was hand-addressed, which Billy put aside.
He picked out the most promising invitation, and instantly recognizing the heavy cream stationery, turned it over. The address on the back was One Fifth Avenue. The stationery came from Mrs. Strong’s, and there was only one person he knew who still used it — Mrs. Louise Houghton. He opened the envelope and extracted a card on which was printed PRIVATE MEMORIAL SERVICE FOR MRS. LOUISE HOUGHTON, ST. AMBROSE CHURCH, with the date, Wednesday, July 12, written in calligraphy below. It was so Louise, Billy thought, to have planned out her memorial service in advance, down to the guest list.
He put the card in a place of honor on the narrow mantelpiece above the small fireplace. Then he sat down to the rest of his mail. Picking up the legal-size envelope, he saw that the return address was that of his building’s management company. With growing dread, Billy opened it.
“We’re happy to inform you ... a deal has been closed ... building will go co-op as of July 1, 2009 ... you may purchase your apartment for market value ... those not purchasing their apartments will be expected to vacate by the closing date ...” A dull throb started up in his jaw. Where would he go? The market value of his apartment was at least eight hundred thousand dollars. He’d need two or three hundred thousand as a down payment, and then he’d have a mortgage payment and a maintenance fee. It would add up to several thousand a month. He paid only eleven hundred dollars a month in rent. The thought of finding another apartment and packing up and moving overwhelmed him. He was fifty-four. Not old, he reminded himself, but old enough to no longer have the energy for such things.