(Note to Readers: Once again, profound apologies for the lack of updates. Hopefully, we're back on track now! Thanks for reading. And don't forget, if you're new, start at the oldest entry and work your way forward.)
I didn’t tell anyone about that meeting with Michael Rhodes. As with many things pertaining to Michael, I’m still not sure why, exactly. All I know for sure is that I barely slept for the next two nights, leading up to my meeting with Lila Finley. I told myself it was nerves – Lila Finley is a New York society legend. I knew her only by reputation, and it was a sterling reputation at that. Little was known about her early life. She seemed to appear on the social scene out of nowhere when she married oil tycoon Alistair Finley at the tender age of eighteen. But she had soon made an indelible impression among the Who’s Who of Manhattan with her intelligence, wit and charm. Generous to a fault, she was the patron saint of kids, choreographers and curators. But, by all reports, she was not a woman to be trifled with, and I knew that if I made a bad impression, it could hurt my career in untold ways.
So, that’s what I told myself was the reason for my sleepless nights, - not a pair of intense green eyes, with a disturbing air of disapproval about them, that seemed to appear every time I closed my eyes. No, I refused to believe that Michael Rhodes was having any kind of effect on me. It was a case of the nerves, that was all.
On Saturday morning, I ransacked my closet for something appropriate to wear. It’s not like I hadn’t been to my share of penthouses. Hell, I lived in one until Richard the Bastard took all our money. But I had such butterflies, it was ridiculous. I tried on outfit after outfit. Roxie watched me for a while, but soon grew bored and headed for the living room, leaving me to sift through the growing mountain of suits and dresses. I finally settled on a conservative floral print dress, with a navy-blue cardigan, and my favorite Louboutin strappy sandals (left over from when I had real money). Smart, professional, but approachable.
It was an absolutely gorgeous late Spring day, and as I walked from my apartment on York and 83rd to Lila Finley’s home at Fifth and 87th, I reflected on how much my life had changed in just a few short years. I knew I would be walking past my old building at Fifth and 84th, and it still hurt sometimes to do so. I could have taken a different route, heading North while still further East, but for some perverse reason, I felt compelled to take the same route every time, right past the door I had walked out of more times than I could ever count. The seven avenues and one block that separated my new apartment from my old one may have only equaled about half a mile, but the distance between my new life and my old one was far greater.
With these thoughts running through my mind, I guess I was feeling a bit melancholy by the time I reached Lila Finley’s building. I absently gave my name to the doorman, and he directed me to the concierge, who called up to the penthouse. Within minutes, I was forcing a smile for the elevator operator as he keyed in the code to take me up.
I was feeling a bit ambivalent. I told myself this meeting meant nothing, that it was just one client. But what a client it would be to land! Arranging Lila Finley’s funeral would more or less allow me to write my ticket in Manhattan society. I would be back on top, in a very big way. But, was that what I wanted? I liked my life and I liked my friends. My life was more real than it had ever been. And, yet, walking past my old building . . . I think you get the picture here, right? The truth was, I didn’t want to care, but I did.
I took a deep breath as the elevator came to a halt. I had, for a moment, forgotten how things worked in a building like this, and so I was not quite prepared for the doors to open directly into Lila Finley’s entry foyer. “Miss Frances Fellowes,” the elevator operator intoned, for all the world like he was some stuffy Victorian Era butler. The effect was slightly ruined by the smirk he had on his youthful face when I glanced at him. That smirk grew, and it took me a moment to realize that he was waiting for me to get off the elevator. Great, I thought as I stepped quickly out into the foyer. Now he probably thinks I’m some sort of country mouse who’s never seen a luxury high-rise. I shook my head slightly as the door closed, took another deep breath, and turned to face . . . well, I didn’t know what I was going to face.
My sense of drama is begging me to describe the scene I encountered in the most gothic terms possible: the darkened apartment, with only slivers of light escaping through the cracks of the heavy velvet curtains; inches of dust on the dark, mahogany furniture; the musty smell of years of neglect; and an old, gravelly, disembodied voice calling to me from the shadows to, “Come just a bit closer, my dear.”
Yeah, Lila Finley’s apartment was nothing like that, and Lila Finley was as far from a Miss Havisham as Roxie is from a Rottweiler. When I turned around, I was nearly blinded by the light coming from the 360-degree exposures. The windows had sheers and tasteful Roman Shades; the furniture was an impeccable blend of traditional and modern, without a speck of dust anywhere to be seen; the only smell was a gentle fragrance from the bouquet of fresh Spring flowers on the small round table in the foyer; and Lila Finley’s voice was strong and cheerful as she entered from the living room, a wide smile on her face, saying, “You must be Francie! My word, it’s been 20 years since I’ve seen you. What a lovely young woman you’ve become!”
I gaped. Seriously, I stood there, opening and closing my mouth like a fish. The astute reader will have realized by now that this is not an uncommon look for me, however unflattering it may be. I didn’t know what to say. I had been expecting a frail elderly woman. But Lila Finley was as vibrant and immaculate as her apartment. There was no possible way this woman could be dying. Was there?
The next few minutes were a bit of a blur. Lila (as she quickly insisted I call her) ushered me through the living room, directly out onto the terrace, where a pleasant-looking woman, introduced to me as Elena, was setting out trays of lemonade, cakes and finger sandwiches. Before I knew it, I was reclining in a chaise, gazing out over Central Park, and absently munching a tiny egg salad sandwich.
“I hope you don’t mind being out on the terrace,” Lila began, once we were both settled. “We can sit in the living room, or my office, if you prefer, but it seemed such a shame to waste a beautiful day like this inside.”
“Not at all,” I said, honestly. “It’s lovely.” I took a swig from the lemonade and forced myself to ask the one question to which I really didn’t want an answer: “Will your grandson be joining us?”
“Midge? No, I told him I wanted to see you alone.”
I had been in the process of taking another drink, and choked ever so slightly. “Midge?” I asked, trying to keep a straight face.
Lila laughed to most endearing, musical laugh. “Oh, yes. Don’t ever tell Michael I told you, but he was the tiniest thing growing up – so small for his age. His older brothers called him ‘Midget,’ and somewhere along the line, it got shortened to ‘Midge.’ The name simply stuck, I’m afraid.” Lila shrugged and smiled. “I’ve promised time and again to stop calling him that, but old habits are hard to break.”
I grinned (probably a tad evilly) as I filed this supremely blackmailable fact away for future reference. I assured Lila I would never say a word, and then ventured the other question that had been on my mind since my arrival.
“I hope you’re not offended by this, Mrs. Finley,” I began.
“Lila.”
“Of course, Lila. It’s just, you said it’s been twenty years since you saw me, but I’m afraid I don’t remember meeting you.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Lila said, with another charming smile. “It was your father’s funeral. You and your sister were so young. I remember you, though. So poised and mature even then. I was quite charmed by you. I loved hearing about all of your accomplishments over the years.”
“My accomplishments? I don’t understand. How did you—“
“From Felicia, of course.”
“You knew my mother.” This was a surprise to me, as I had only ever heard of Lila Finley by reputation.
“We were on a number of committees together,” Lila explained. “She spoke often of you and your sister. She was very proud of you.”
I stared out over the park, a little overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of emotion that hit me. I thought about my mom every day, but I tended to regulate those thoughts. But right now, there was no constraint and I was feeling a fresh wave of loss. I felt a light touch on my hand, and turned to look at Lila.
“I was so sorry to miss Felicia’s funeral,” Lila said. “I tried everything to get a flight back from Cairo, but nothing was available. I wanted to be there for her – and for her girls.”
“Thank you,” I said. My dormant memory kicked in then and I quickly added, “And thank you for your lovely arrangement and the donation to the Met.”
“Of course, dear.” Lila gave me a moment to gather myself. Then she broached the subject that had brought us there in the first place. “I admire you for what you have done to get your life back together after what that man did to you. Your business is quite a clever idea.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m sure Michael told you that I would like to engage your services.”
“He did,” I replied, a little uncomfortable. For a short time I had forgotten that this vibrant woman thought she was dying. It didn’t seem possible. Lila Finley was a force of nature. I could not imagine any force in nature that could stop her.
“Michael thinks I am being foolish.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” I said quickly. Then I wondered why I was defending the man who had pretty much trashed my career choice and, by extension, me. It seems Lila was thinking much along the same lines.
“You are kind to say so. Especially when I am certain Michael was more than a little blunt in his conversation with you.” Lila smiled again. “He doesn’t approve of you.”
“So he said.” I shrugged. “He’s not hiring me.”
“That’s right,” Lila said with approval. “I am. And since Michael doesn’t approve of me much right now, I’d say you and I will get along famously.”
Now I did have to defend him, because our short conversation had made it clear that Michael Rhodes loved and admired his grandmother, and I said as much.
“Oh, I know Michael loves me,” Lila assured me. “But, as I said, he thinks I am being foolish in believing I will die soon, and in engaging your services.”
“Why –“ I hesitated. “Why do you believe that you are dying?”
“You mean aside from the fact that I’m 75 years old? Let’s face it, I fewer days ahead of me than behind.”
I smiled involuntarily. “But that doesn’t mean that your death is imminent.”
“I like you, Francie,” Lila said. “You don’t sugar coat things. You’re up front and professional. Michael and those quacks he takes me to are afraid to even say the d-word.”
“I’m sure Michael doesn’t want to think about losing you,” I offered. “That’s a difficult thing to accept. It’s part of why I do what I do – it’s easier for families to allow someone without a personal connection to handle the most difficult details.”
“And that’s why I want you here,” Lila said simply. “When the time comes, Michael will need you.” She sighed. “I don’t know when I’m going to die, Francie. But I am an old woman, and my heart is weak. Whenever the time comes, I would feel better knowing I had left everything in order. Will you help me with that, Francie?”
I looked Lila in the eye and knew there was only response I could give. “Of course, Lila. I’ll be here for you every step of the way.”
Feel free to visit my website: www.kristenmareecleary.com, or follow Francie on Twitter @franciefellowes)
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