For Better Or Worse. Jill Amy Rosenblatt
Elizabeth gave a disgusted laugh, and headed back to the dressing room.
“Liz, you can’t judge all artists by Josh and certainly not by William,” Emily said, trailing after her, Karen close behind.
“I do not judge all artists. I simply have an intimate understanding of their basic nature.”
“Which you use to judge them,” Emily persisted as they entered the dressing room.
“Whatever.”
Emily held out her hands to draw them into a circle. “Now, my dearest friends, this is it. This is Act Two of our lives.” She held up Karen’s hand, with its glittering diamond ring. “We’ve all found our soul mates.”
Karen’s eyes darkened with concern.
“Now, don’t fret, your wedding will be perfect,” Emily said. “Lots of people have crazy parents. Who is that philosopher you study?”
“Lao-tzu. Taoism teaches stillness, and giving up fear, anxiety, and control so all things flow naturally to the right ending,” Karen said.
“Oh, I love that,” Emily squeaked. She turned to Elizabeth. “After Karen and Robert are married, you and Nick will be next. You two are my crowning triumph, a perfect match—and Nick knows it.”
“It’s only been six months.”
“He told Parker you were the one after the first date.”
Elizabeth smiled. He knows it, and I know it too. She glanced at Karen and caught her friend’s look of doubt.
The wedding planner, flanked by her team, blew into the room. They whisked Emily away, all the while clucking at Elizabeth and Karen to take their places.
“How are you, really?” Elizabeth whispered to Karen as they fell into line for the processional.
Karen sighed. “Did you see Page Six? My parents are at it again. Divorced for ten years and they don’t see that as a reason to stop fighting. The Tao says troubles are like rocks in the middle of a stream. The rocks try to interrupt the water’s calm flow, but they can’t. My parents aren’t rocks, they’re boulders.”
“You haven’t told them you’re engaged, have you?”
“I couldn’t. She’s in Europe, on a book tour, but still found time to give a satellite-radio interview. The subject? My father’s plagiarism. She quoted chapter and verse from his solo works, claiming it was stuff she wrote when they were married. She can’t prove it. She can never prove it. You know when they created audioconferencing, I don’t think this is what they had in mind.” She sighed. “Twenty years of marriage, twelve books together, and this is how it ends. Actually it doesn’t end, it just keeps going.”
“What about your father? Did you tell him you were getting married?”
“He’s been too busy.”
“Is he finishing a new book?”
“No, his fifth marriage.”
“Oh.”
“I need to remain calm, be still, and it will all work out. The Tao says be flexible and learn to let go of the most important issues. Then they work out by themselves.”
If only it were that easy, Elizabeth thought.
The first bars of music began; there was a palpable rustle as the crowd turned in unison toward the door.
Elizabeth counted silently to five before taking her first step. Making her way down the aisle, feeling the eyes of the crowd on her, brought back a flood of memories; the steps she had taken to the altar. Up ahead she saw Parker, the groom-to-be, whispering something to the minister. For a second he became Josh, her Josh, pulling her aside and whispering that he couldn’t go through with it. He was sorry; he didn’t mean to hurt her.
It seemed a lifetime ago and yet still fresh as yesterday. She gave herself a mental shake and focused straight ahead. That was almost fifteen years ago. I’m almost thirty-five years old. I’m a grown woman. Why think about the past?
She caught a glimpse of Ian MacKay as she passed by; those deep, blue eyes, the hint of baby-smooth skin peeking out from the corners of his beard. Her eyes rested on him a second too long; she shook off any thought of him, scanning the crowd until she found Nick.
Chapter 2
Ian turned away from the Rainbow Room’s windows and the majestic view of the kingdom that was New York City. Champagne corks popped, glasses clinked, the orchestra played. Like the Titanic, the band playing as the ship was sinking, he thought, as this marriage will sink. Wandering back into the crowd, he caught sight of a woman looking him over. She gave him a smile of invitation. He imagined her a nice girl with a pretty face and a busy life. They would fall into something easy and convenient. She would come and go until realizing he would give nothing more. After a time she would drift away on her own. If it even lasted that long. He lingered a moment, then turned away from her.
He scanned the room, settling on a woman in an expensive sequined gown. He could tell by the way she held herself she was maintained, but not a pedigree. She was on the arm of a debonair man, with unruly long hair tucked behind his ears, a long angular face; a European. The money was his, not hers. This was the kind of man Michele had left him for, someone able to give her everything she wanted: money, travel, ease. All of the things that weren’t coming fast enough being married to me, Ian thought. The art shows weren’t big enough, he wasn’t the rising star she expected, the enfant terrible she hoped for.
Ian’s attention returned to studying the woman. She couldn’t compare to Michele. Michele was exquisite, skin like porcelain and azure eyes that cut through you. One look at her and there was no going back. She could have any man she wanted. And there had been several, he found out. Michele had tried them out first, in secret, to see if they had enough to please her before finally making her choice.
Ian could feel his anger rising when a hand settled on his shoulder.
“Let’s get a drink,” Robert said.
Ian nodded. It was the least they could do to salvage the evening. When they passed Parker, the groom had a glass in one hand, its contents splashing over the side as he waved his arm, describing his real estate empire.
“Thirty thousand square feet,” he was saying. “The front entrance will be all marble. Italian. And that’s just the main house. I’m putting in a one-thousand-square-foot pool house.”
The men clicked glasses and drank to the pool house.
“You know, one of my guys quit last month. I had him on debt acquisition. I buy fifty million in debt from some shithole country—whose name I can’t pronounce—for pennies on the dollar. When they default, I send Nick to court, he sues, we win, and that shithole country has to pay me the whole fifty, maybe more.”
One of the men spoke up. “In what century will you collect?”
“Any dollar comes into that country, I get first. This guy’s whining to me about our moral obligation, aren’t we victimizing impoverished nations. I told him, if I wanted to, I could make a few currency bets and change that country’s economy in a heartbeat.”
He took another swallow of his drink, then laughed, talking almost to himself. “He says we should be safeguarding the economy. I am the economy, asshole. I’m moving the value of currency. He couldn’t take the pressure, dickless wonder. You know where he is now? Putting in eighty hours a week at some plain-vanilla mutual fund for a shit bonus check. Good luck with your fiscal responsibility, shithead. I’ll be at my compound in Greenwich, stepping out the door to the helipad to bring me to Manhattan.”
“To Parker Davis,” they said, raising their glasses.
Shaking his head, Ian hunkered down next to Robert at the bar, watching the bartender set up glasses and pour. Taking