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  He told Nell Slack about the field trip the seven little girls went on, guess where, to Vienna! She began to laugh that soft way again and he stole glances at her face in the mirror.

  He told her how Invictus had assigned a book called My Dancing White Horse—all seven little girls were crazy about horses—and after they read the book they were flown to see the famous white Lipizzaners and the site of the Spanish Riding School of Vienna, mentioned in the book.

  “When I was a child,” she said, “I loved horses, too. But of course I never owned one. I never dreamed of owning one. I just read about them.”

  “Deanie can’t read enough horse stories,” he said. “Naturally she’s got her own pony. This man named Edward Candle gave it to her.”

  There was no reaction to his name. Last summer Candle has been arrested as a horse killer. It was in all the newspapers.

  She began talking about My Friend Flicka. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually listened to a woman, unless it was Lara Lasher giving him directions, or complaining about some petty disturbance the rich could always find to keep their lives from being perfect.

  As he headed into LaGuardia she said, “My return flight is on Delta tomorrow night, nine o’clock from Richmond.”

  “Got it. Another fast trip, hmmm?”

  “Yes. I hate these overnighters. One department store looks like another. I even forget what state I’m in sometimes. I like to think you’ll be there when I get back.”

  She didn’t have to say that.

  “I look forward to it, too,” he managed, his heart pounding suddenly. When he helped her out of the van and handed her garment bag to her she looked all over his face. “Until tomorrow night, Mario.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You can call me Nell.”

  “I’ll be waiting . . . Nell.”

  THREE

  Nell Slack wheeled her garment bag into the terminal. She went past the Delta check-in and turned right to go down the escalator where incoming baggage was collected.

  Liam was by the Rent-A-Car desk, frowning and pacing, even though she was early. When he looked up and saw her, he grinned and held out his arms.

  If one had to guess, just by looking, who the Italian was—Mario or Liam—hands down, Liam would get the vote.

  Mario had a small nose, light blue eyes and straight brown hair, but Liam Yeats had dark eyes and olive skin, curly black hair and a crooked nose.

  Unlike Mario Rome, there was nothing soft about Liam, not in his eyes nor in his body, no paunch predictable in his future—he was too restless and high-strung. He had a suspicious, jealous nature, which was why he was familiar with most tranquilizers. Before his new affiliation with Affirm, an organization for positive thinkers, he had flirted with Scientology, astrology, and Buddhism.

  His dark eyes lit up at the sight of Nell.

  As he embraced her he said, “I can’t wait for your hair to grow back. That’s what I miss: that silky red hair!”

  “Give it time, love. Take it step by step.”

  “How’d you do?” Liam asked.

  “I know a litde more about the houseman. His name is Delroy Davenport. I can’t ask too many questions at one time.”

  Liam wheeled the garment bag. “The car’s across the way. Section B. Anything we can use?”

  “He wanted to talk a lot about Delroy this trip. I let him. He did tell me Deanie loves horse stories and has her own pony.”

  “I checked out Invictus,” said Liam. “There are a fleet of workers over there already putting up Christmas decorations.”

  “Outside? I thought they didn’t want any attention called to the place.”

  “The decorations are inside. Tomorrow see if Rome takes the same route to school every day. Can you do that?”

  “Probably.”

  “See if he picks up and drops off the girls in the same order daily.” Nell Slack said, “Save it for now, sweetheart. I’m tired.”

  They ran through traffic to the underground garage while he said, “I’ve got us a nice room for the night at the Hyatt. Let’s hurry. The luggage is heavy. ”

  “That little garment bag is heavy?”

  “My luggage,” he said.

  “Oh, that luggage. That luggage is always heavy.” She reached for his free hand, swung it, and laughed with him.

  FOUR

  “Del? I’m going into the village for a few hours to Christmas-shop.”

  “Yes, Missus.” Delroy Davenport was sitting in his nook (once a closet) outside the master bedroom, reading a copy of Patricia Highsmith’s This Sweet Sickness. He read and reread her novels. Lara Lasher had no clue why. “When Mr. Lasher wakes up, tell him I’ll be back at four.”

  “I will, Missus.”

  Lara would never get used to male help in the upstairs, a few feet from the bedroom she used to share with Len. She had moved down the hall to the guest room, at his suggestion. He needed too much help now and he couldn’t count on his bladder or his bowels.

  Len did not want the hospital bed in the downstairs. He preferred to be out of sight to everyone except Delroy and the nurses. He was cautious about word of his condition spreading before the merger was set and signed. MS could explain some of what was happening to him, but he did not have MS. He had amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, commonly called Lou Gehrig’s disease. There was no way to live long with ALS. There would have been no merger with Standard Broadcasting if it had been known that Len would not be around to run things.

  Delroy had been sworn to secrecy. He was the only member of the household staff who knew the truth. Was that what made him sit there cracking his knuckles sometimes? He used to knit, but Deanie had hurt his feelings when he’d made her a scarf with a horse’s head on it, and misspelled the name of Deanie’s pony.

  “You can’t even spell Pecheresse!” she’d scolded him.

  “I’ve never learned any French,” he’d answered, red-faced, pained by her rudeness. “And I don’t know what it means!”

  “It means ‘sinner’! I’m six years old and I know what it means!” (That little outburst was the last time Len had spanked Deanie.)

  Edward Candle had named the pony. Who knew why he would call it that? Everything Candle did was a mystery to the Lashers. Since the revelation of his insurance scam Lara would not even allow Deanie to go to the Candles’ house and play with Candace Candle.

  Obviously Delroy needed something to do with his hands! He chewed his nails, too. Her drove Lara up the walls: always present like some giant, restless jungle animal.

  Lara escaped into East Hampton Village a lot. In her thirty-seven years she had never imagined being tested this way. A short, thin brunette, she had not been a true beauty but she had always maintained that certain look women have who can afford top haircutters, designers, and personal trainers. She had a relaxed manner that came from a lifetime of knowing Daddy would take care of it. Then Len would. There had always been someone to take care of it . . . until now. Now, except for her therapist, there were only the servants, who didn’t know Len’s illness was not MS, but the fatal ALS.

  She had told Dr. Mannerheim, “It’s not just Len’s death I can’t imagine. I can’t imagine not having anyone to count on. Lately, all I think about is what needs to be done.”

  Before she left for the village that day, there were a few more instructions, things to do Delroy knew enough to do without being reminded, but that was her way now: she gave the orders. Save for the petty details Delroy handled, she supervised everything. By the time she drove the white Range Rover into town, she would know Martha was in the kitchen preparing dinner, Andy was in the package room wrapping gifts that had to be mailed before die tenth of December, Deanie was with her friends at a matinee ending at four ten when Mario would pick her up in his van. Delroy would be with Len, bathing him when he awakened, dressing him in the dark suit she had laid out on the chaise: the suit, the underwear, dark socks, white shirt with the striped silk tie from Polo, white Belg
ium linen handkerchief, and handmade John Lobb shoes.

  “Delroy?” she said. “Anything I can get you from the village? Do you have enough to read?”

  “Thank you, Missus. I do.”

  “Oh, and Del? Tell Mr. Lasher that Mario is free tomorrow to drive him around to stores.” She flashed a smile at Delroy. “Mr. Lasher likes to do his own Christmas shopping. He’ll tell you what he wants, and you can bring it out to the car for him to see.”

  “On Sunday, Missus?”

  “I know. You never miss church. But stores like Eileen Fisher are open now Sunday afternoons, and some I’ll call. They’ll open for Mr. Lasher.”

  “I could drive him in the Jeep myself, Missus.”

  “No, you’ll need Mario.” She rarely let Delroy take the Jeep. He had too many privileges as it was.

  “Fine, Missus.”

  Not really fine. Delroy was always pushing to drive the Jeep, and he disliked sharing his care of Len with anyone.

  But Len took to Mario because Deanie did. Deanie said Mario could do impressions, talk just like Daddy, whose r’s were w's (a slight flaw that had always endeared Len to Lara). Mario could pull dimes out of his ears, too. He made Deanie laugh.

  So never mind that Delroy would rather be the only one to take Len shopping. At this stage in Len’s illness, there needed to be two men along in the car anyway, one to sit beside Len: Delroy, who was younger and stronger. And Mario, who drove better.

  “Missus?”

  “What?”

  “Won’t Mario notice the Mister’s speech? It’s got worse.”

  “Good point! Call the Hampton Jitney limo instead. That has a window between the driver and the passengers. The driver can wait outside while you bring the merchandise to Mr. Lasher. Thank you for calling that to my attention.”

  “It’s my job to protect the Mister, Missus.”

  “Yes, and you’re good at it, Del.”

  “I am. I know I am, Missus. That’s all I think about.”

  “Well, toodle-loo, toodle-loo,” Lara called out, remembering how Len had loved her saying that, how early in their courtship he had said, “Who says ‘toodle-loo’ anymore? Only you do and I love that farewell of yours! It’s rare.”

  She’d laughed and said, “Only you say it’s ‘ware.’”

  FIVE

  Delroy was still thinking about something that had happened over a month ago. On a rare night off on Thanksgiving, Delroy saw her in a bar on the waterfront at Hampton Bays.

  Hampton Bays wasn’t really the Hamptons, which was why Delroy liked it. People didn’t know him there. None of the locals there had known him when he was a zero called “Needles.” Back then he was this outcast whose Amish parents had disowned him, a nerd living with his aunt, knitting dog sweaters, busing tables, driving carts down the greens, always on the fringe of life.

  His favorite place in Hampton Bays was where fisherman and truck drivers hung out, open every day of the year, even Christmas. The owner sold bait and gas out back.

  Women didn’t often go into By The Bay, and those who did never looked like this one. She was no movie star, but she had a certain bold style. She was dramatic, throwing her head back and letting go this loud laugh. Silky blond hair held back with a red scarf, long, slender legs, the nose just a bit long, the mouth wide with straight white teeth. She wasn’t a local, for sure, and the young fellow she was with got proofed before the bartender would serve him.

  At first Delroy figured it was her son. He’d arrived before her: watching the door, waiting for her, then jumping up to embrace her.

  “You’re late, Scotti!”

  “No, Max, you’re early. You’re always early. You’re compulsive!” chucking him under the chin, a good foot taller than he was.

  But as Delroy watched them, he knew they weren’t related. They were too involved, always touching and grinning at each other. As he studied them in the bar mirror he wondered if they were lovers. They laughed a lot and drank a lot, and got stared at by the lone losers drinking there on a holiday night.

  Forbidden love intrigued Delroy. He imagined they had sneaked away to be together: this kid with the slick black hair, wearing a navy blazer, white shirt, and red bow tie. Her with a skirt showing her knees.

  Delroy was fascinated by them, and when they finally left the place, so did he.

  The kid got into a 1940s-style station wagon, the kind with real wood sides. She had a black Saturn. The kid gave a toot to his horn, backed out, and headed west, while she sat behind the wheel for a moment. Then she started the engine and drove straight into a post in front of the place.

  Delroy walked across to her car, motioned for her to roll down the window, and said, “Where are you going?”

  “Eas Hampin.” Too drunk to pronounce it, but she had this deep, sexy voice. Marlene Dietrich in that old movie Delroy had seen on tape, when she’d sung, “See what the boys in the back room Mall have—”

  “I’m going to East Hampton myself. You better leave your car and let me drive you there. If the cops get you on a DWI you’ll be sorry.”

  He had to help her. Pour her into the front seat of the Lashers’ Jeep, 011 one of the few times he had permission to drive it. Lara Lasher knew Delroy had no Thanksgiving invitation. She felt sorry for Mm, and guilty that they occupied so much of his free time. How could he have any friends?

  “Thank you, cherithe woman said.

  “I had an aunt who drove drunk. These people let her. She got into an accident and died.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  He snapped on the radio.

  She said, “I owe you big for this.”

  “You don’t owe me anything.”

  He glanced at her. Even drunk she had a classy way and an authority to her voice when she wasn’t slurring.

  “My name is Delroy Davenport.”

  “I’m Scotti.”

  “Have you got a last name?”

  “Not right now.” She chuckled. “But I’m glad you came along.” She put her long fingers on his knee. “I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers,” another husky chuckle.

  “Thanks, Leroy.” Her hand went back to her lap.

  “Delroy, not Leroy. Was that your boyfriend?”

  “Max? Nooooo.”

  “I thought maybe you were robbing the cradle.”

  “He’s my dear old pal.” Slurring, thick-tongued.

  “Where in East Hampton?” he asked, fearing she would pass out before she could tell him the address.

  “Springs. You know Springs?”

  “Sure.”

  She hummed along with the song on the radio, and then her head fell against his shoulder.

  He let her sleep. Southampton. Bridgehampton. He waited until they had left East Hampton Village and were near Springs Fireplace Road. “Where do you live in Springs?” he shouted at her.

  She sat up straight. “I have to go,” she said. “Wee wee.”

  He pulled over where there was an empty field.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll wait for you.”

  She opened the door of the Jeep and sat there. He realized she probably couldn’t get down without help so he told her he’d come around and offer a hand.

  “Don’t!”

  “You’ll fall,” he said.

  “I can manage,” she said.

  “I’ll help you find a place,” he said. “I won’t look.”

  The moon was full and bright, and he could see clearly as he jumped down from the Jeep and went around to her side, in time to see her peeing.

  “Oh, my God!”

  She said, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She brushed her hair back with her hand, the hand that wasn’t holding a tiny, fat penis, her skirt hiked up, legs apart, high heels dangling.

  He got back into the driver’s seat and waited for her to shut her door. He was perspiring, his heart thumping.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said again.

  “Did you finish pe
eing?”

  “Yes,” and she pulled the door shut.

  After he started the car he said, “Did you have something done or were you born that way?”

  “I’m a transsexual,” she said. “I’m a work in progress.”

  She pronounced it “pwog gwess,” sounding like the Mister.

  Delroy said, “I can’t believe this!”

  “I gathered as much.”

  “My God!”

  “Cork it,” she snapped.

  “I just never had something like this happen.”

  “Neither did I, Leroy. Neither did I.”

  “Delroy.”

  “What difference does it make? Leave me on the corner of Accabonac Road and Old Stone Highway.”

  “On the corner? You can hardly walk.”

  “I’m sobering up. Fast.”

  “You know it doesn’t matter to me.”

  “That I’m sobering up?”

  “I mean what you are. It doesn’t matter to me that you’re a transvestite.” “I’m not a transvestite. I’m a transsexual.”

  “Whatever you are. That’s your business.”

  “Do you know the corner of Acabonac and Old Stone?”

  “Of course.”

  “Let me off there, please, thank you.”

  They drove in silence for a while. She lived somewhere near Green River Cemetery, where many artists were buried. That was where Mr. Lasher wanted to be buried. Delroy was arranging things there for him. When Mr. Lasher could still get about he’d bought a half acre behind Jackson Pollock’s grave.

  Delroy glanced across at her. She was staring straight ahead. At School Street she said, “Turn right.”

  “I know the way.”

  She sighed and he said, “Well, they did a good job on you. You would have fooled me except—”

  “All right. Enough.”

  He stopped where she’d said to and with a little effort she got the door open and jumped down. She turned around.

  “This never happened,” she said.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”

  “We’re never going to see each other again.”

  “I was just doing you a favor. I don’t care about any of it. It’s not my business.”