Penelope's Suitors

Chapter 01

Chapter 1

Spring, 2006

Ted almost bought Penelope a kimono when he was in Japan. He suspected she'd be one of the rare Western women who could carry it off. She would wear it as easily as one of the custom-tailored suits she wore in court, with the cool self-assurance she had possessed even as the teenager he had fallen in love with more than 20 years ago. But that had been among the pines up north, and he knew he'd never see her there again.

As Manhattan came into view over the Hudson, Ted liked to imagine one of the lights was her apartment, although he knew that was geographically impossible. His mind wandered to what she was doing, if she was already asleep or up late reading in bed, perhaps with a mug (no, she'd use a cup and saucer) of herbal tea on her nightstand.

Perhaps she wasn't alone, but he couldn't bear thinking about that.

The plane landed smoothly and rolled to the gate. Ted made sure his watch was set correctly, but realized it scarcely mattered. He had spent three weeks in London and a few days in Tokyo, followed by a brief visit to his parents in San Diego, so he had lost track of what time his body thought it should be. He shrugged into his trench coat—early spring in New York could still be cold—and walked down the aisle. He was careful with his carry-on, because it contained the present he had ultimately bought Penelope, a wood and ivory sushi serving set. The kimono, he knew, would have been greeted with amusement, and an arched eyebrow. But the sushi set she'd use, perhaps even with him, deftly manipulating the chopsticks as if they were extensions of her long white fingers.

The televisions in the waiting area were still flashing to an audience that had long gone. The California flight was the only plane arriving at that hour, and the departing travelers didn't give the screens and the low CNBC voices any notice on their way to baggage claim. Ted looked up out of habit. "What do you know—it's Maxwell Tolford." He was dispensing witticisms and pearls of wisdom even as Ted was musing over his elder daughter. It wasn't a big coincidence—Ted thought often about Penelope, especially when he was alone and away from home, and Maxwell liked being on TV.

People brushed by him, so he moved out of the exit path to watch. As usual, Maxwell was the picture of relaxed elegance, the blue double-breasted blazer nicely offsetting his silver hair. The studio lights caught the occasional glint off his cufflinks.

Maxwell was talking about the growth in the international real estate market. Ted frowned. That was what he spoke about on another appearance a year ago, wasn't it? Yes, the same questions, Ted remembered it well. It was a repeat—but why…?

The interview cut away abruptly, and Ted's heart lurched as the interview was replaced with a headshot of Maxwell and the caption "1924 – 2006" underneath.

"…that was typical of the many interviews he gave us. Maxwell Tolford, billionaire real estate developer, philanthropist and a friend to so many of us here—dead at 82. We will have a fuller obituary tomorrow, or as I should say, later today. We'll be back after this." And a commercial came on. Ted kept watching, as if there would be more on Maxwell. For a second he fumbled for his cell phone—but no, he couldn't call her, not at this hour, and he stood there watching, with his phone in his hand.

"Excuse me sir, I'm going to have to ask you to move on. We're closing this section down for the night." It was a TSA Guard. He and Ted were the only ones in the room.

"Oh of course…I'm sorry…my friend died…" He put his phone back in his belt holster.

"You're going to have to head to the exit or baggage claim area," said the officer, as if he hadn't heard.

"Yes," said Ted. He grabbed his bag, and walked quickly, and there was no sound but the soft whirr of the wheels on his bag and the echoes of his footsteps.

Outside, cabs waited to take the last passengers home, and for a few moments Ted wondered whether Penelope would be at the mansion, or by now back in her apartment. He checked the time again, decided he was insane to even consider a visit, and just gave the driver his own address. The roads were thinly populated, and they zipped through the tunnel and onto nearly empty Manhattan streets. Ted saw papers bound by cords and propped next to newsstands, and he almost asked the driver to stop so he could check them, but realized Maxwell's death was probably too late in the day to get coverage.

He paid off the cabbie and got a receipt. The late night man helped him carry his luggage to the elevator. Ted opened his door and didn't notice the musty smell. He dropped his bags and tossed the trench coat over the nearest chair. He quickly booted up his laptop, then grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. He surfed through several news stations but found nothing.

By that point the computer was online. Ted went to the N.Y. Times first, business section, his practiced fingers dancing over the keyboard. Yes…there it was. A brief wire-service write-up: "Real Estate King Dead at 82…Anglo-American philanthropist, financier and developer Maxwell Tolford, noted for a near-perfect track record in buying and developing commercial real estate in half a dozen U.S. cities…largely retired two years ago…short illness…wife, Katrina, predeceased him more than 30 years ago…survived by two daughters, Penelope and Ariadne, and one granddaughter." Yes—Ted had sent a hideously expensive outfit at her birth and had received a nice note and a photo of a serious little baby in return.

There was nothing about William. He was deeply grateful for that, and he knew Maxwell would've been too.

He let his fingers touch the screen for a moment, before going to the Tolford corporate website, but nothing had been posted there yet. Additional searches only found the same wire service report. Suddenly, the day caught up with him, and he was exhausted. He threw open the windows and the traffic drifted ten stories up to his apartment. He had promised himself a shower, but realized he didn't even have the energy for that.

He stripped and washed his hands and face, and brushed his teeth. He left his clothes on the floor with what he knew was childish satisfaction and crawled into bed.

Ted knew he'd have another falling dream that night, although it had been several years since the last one. This time, the dream merged with the recent flight. He was running faster and faster, now through the empty corridors of Newark Airport, and getting further and further behind. He had forgotten he had an appointment, forgotten even where he was supposed to go, but he'd never get there. Suddenly, he was at the end of the terminal, and through the windows he saw the dark tarmac, down below.

There was white at the bottom: William's pale body. He had not actually seen William's body that night but had imagined it countless times in his nightmares. He ran through the door, and fell down into the emptiness, moving closer to William. The TSA guards hit the alarm, and the bells shattered the quiet of the abandoned gates.

Half awake now, the TSA alarms resolved themselves into a telephone ringing. An American ringing, he vaguely noted, not the British one he had become used to. He knocked the clock radio off his night-table, but finally got his hand around the receiver. In several quick steps he realized he was not overseas, not in the airport, he was back in his New York apartment, and Penelope was across town mourning her father. He was breathing heavily and his heart was pounding as he answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“Ted? Is that you?”

“Yeah.”

“It's Larry.”

“What can I do for you Larry? I’m still on London time.” Or maybe Tokyo time, or West Coast time.

“Have you had the radio or TV on? It happened earlier this morning so it wouldn’t be in the papers today. I heard CNBC has something, although I haven’t seen it myself. I know the company issued a statement about an hour ago.”

“I just woke up, Larry. Let’s not play this game. What do you want?” Suddenly he made the connection with the disjointed ramblings of the assistant managing editor. "You mean Maxwell Tolford?"

“Oh, so you did hear.” Pause, while Larry switched gears. “I thought you might. I knew you knew him. I mean socially. I gave the obit to Miranda. I thought it would be a good thing for her. Anyway, I thought you could give her a hand if she needed it. Are you coming in? I didn't know if you wanted to take a few days off—”

“Yeah, sure. Uh, what day is this? It’s Tuesday, right?”

“Tuesday. 11:00 A.M.”

“Then we can wait until Thursday? Or at least until tomorrow?”

“Oh, sure Ted. Sure. I’ll tell Miranda you’ll call her. You’ll call her then. You have her direct number? Do you want me to get it for you?”

“It’s on my Palm,” said Ted, and he hung up.

Business writers around the country, around the world, were writing about the death of Maxwell Tolford. How long had it been since he had seen him? He had had an 80th birthday party at his Manhattan mansion. Ted had been there, Penelope had carried the presents to him, where he sat in a big leather chair near the fire, but Ariadne had been in L.A.

Were the girls there today? They were in their 30s but he'd always think of them as the Tolford Girls.

The phone rang again. “Larry, I told you already that I'd call Miranda—”

“Hello? Ted?” It was a woman’s voice, but it wasn’t Miranda. She wouldn't call him this early.

“I’m sorry. I thought it was someone else.”

“It’s me.” And he felt the same glorious butterflies in his stomach that had preceded all his conversations with Penelope for decades. For God's sake, he thought, I'm too old for this. He struggled to pull himself together.

“Penelope—I was thinking about you. I heard late last night. I am so very sorry.”

“How did you hear?” She sounded surprised, even disappointed.

“I'm a reporter at a financial news magazine. I hear everything first.”

“Of course.”

Ted tried again. “I’m very sorry, Penelope. I have some great memories of your father.” He winced at his own trite words, but she rescued him.

“I know,” she said quietly. “I thought you’d want to know that there will be a private memorial service, this Friday, at his club. I hope you can come and say a few words.”

“You want me to speak?”

“If you would,” she said. “Maybe a few kind words about Dad. You know, he loved your column. You could talk about the old days, at the Lake. Now, I can’t talk any longer. Call—” he heard paper rustling “—Vera Morton at the TRED PR office, and she’ll give you the details. I’ll see you then."

“How’s Ariadne taking it? How's she doing?”

“She’s fine. She’ll be there. See you Friday. And Ted…I'm looking forward to talking to you there.” That was all, and it was a few moments before Ted noticed he was listening to a dial-tone.



Summer, 1986

Ted told the cab driver to drop him off at the big house at the top of the hill.

"Oh, the Stone House," said the driver. It was well-known in the county, an unusually large residence for the area, built, as its name suggested, of local stone. Originally a 19th century retreat for a long-forgotten New York robber baron, it had passed through several hands before the property was turned into a resort.

No one was home. As lovely as the house was, Maxwell spent little time there. Even when he gave himself time to spend by the Lake, as opposed to his New York mansion or his business trips, he was always wandering at some place on the property, or playing a round of golf. Maybe he, and possibly the girls, were by the beach.

Ted hooked his bag over his shoulder and set off down the gravel road. The trees arched over the road blocking the light. Footpaths on the left led to the guest cabins that dotted the mountainside, in small clearings carved from the woods. And one footpath on the right led to a cabin that was a little smaller, a little darker, than the rest. The "staff cabin" wasn't nice enough to be rented, but it was certainly good enough for the help.

Joan, the local woman who cleaned the cabins, had thrown open the windows, airing it out nicely. Ted found it welcoming. Like the road, it was dim even in midday, because of how deep it was in the woods, but that kept it cool.

The cabin had one large bedroom, with three single beds. Ted saw one duffle bag was already on a bed. It was marked KAPLAN in block letters. So Vic was already there. Like last year, he threw his bag on the bed closest to the window, then he went out. He continued down the road to the lake—the Hall was open. It was a rambling wood building—a social hall, warehouse and machine shop all rolled together, with a tin roof that magnified the sound of the raindrops.

Ted slipped through the small back door, into the empty Hall. It looked the same as last year, in fact, the same as when he was eight and bought Popsicles with money his mother had given him, clutched in his damp hands.

A scarred pine counter separated the main room, dominated by the Ping Pong table, from the employee-only areas in the back. Maps of the lake, old and new, decorated the walls along with photos of guests with improbably large fish: fat bass, vicious-looking pike, even a few trout from the icy streams that fed the lake. Wooden benches, fixed to the walls, ran around the main room.

Ted walked down the steps, across the room, and through the great front doorway that led onto the docks. The aluminum outboards bounced gently again the wood, but that was the only sound.

Looking north, along the shore, Ted could see one person on the beach. He walked back through the Hall, then across another dark footpath that opened onto the beach. Vic saw him, smiled and waved.

“Just got in?”

“The bus dropped me off in the Village, and I took a cab here. My folks are taking my brother to camp and then they’re going to spend a few weeks enjoying an empty apartment.”

“My parents dropped me off yesterday. There's a spa near here, then they're off to Europe.”

“But your car…” said Ted.

Vic gave a rueful smile. “It needs some work, plus insurance costs through the roof. I just didn’t have the cash, not if I want it again at college. Dad’s on one of his ‘value of a dollar’ kicks. So my car is sitting in the garage at home. And we’re going to have our fun right here this year.” Then he brightened. “But there should be plenty of girls. And wait—now that you’ve finished your first year of college, you’ll be in a whole new category. The high school girls coming up with their families love hanging out with college guys. I found that out last year.” To punctuate that observation, he picked up a flat rock from the beach, and skipped it neatly across the lake. Vic punched the air in triumph.

“How was your sophomore year?” asked Ted.

“Fine. Met a great a girl in statistics.”

“I mean academically,” said Ted, immediately feeling like a prig.

“Oh. Fine. Good enough for Dad not to freak.”

Ted looked at Vic as he skipped another stone. Was college really an aphrodisiac? He thought Vic’s romantic success was due more to “boyish good looks.” I’m in as good a shape as he is, thought Ted, who had just finished a year of varsity track, but he knew he wasn't as handsome as Vic.

“Maybe the new guy will have a car,” said Vic, returning to pleasanter topics.

“I don’t think so. My folks spoke to Maxwell in April and he said the third guy is the son of some guy he did some business with, and that his parents would be dropping him off. So I guess no car either.”

“We’ll live. And if Penelope will be around, that should be enough to keep you occupied.”

Ted was saved from having to find a suitable reply to this by Stanislaus's arrival. A local man, his wiry build and strong arms, contrasted with a heavily weather-beaten face, led to age estimates running anywhere from 45 to 85. He had been the general caretaker and fix-it man at the resort for years before Maxwell had even purchased it. He lived alone in a cabin about five miles north.

In his teeth he clenched a pipe that looked even older than he was.

“You boys have a good winter?” he asked, reaching out with a heavily calloused hand.

“Yes. How was yours?”

“Can’t complain. That big pine at the north end finally fell in February. On the east side some damn fools drove their Jeep where the ice was thin and fell in. Nearly died. The Jeep was a complete loss. Bill Neddick drove a nail into his own hand with a nail gun, but fortunately it was his left hand.”

“Still driving that Dodge pick-up?” asked Vic.

“Why not? It runs fine.”

“It must be 20 years old,” said Ted.

“You just have to take care of cars, and they’ll last forever. Albert Bertram didn’t take care of his brakes—oh, this was maybe 10 years ago—and he went straight down that long hill at the end of Route 505, through the guardrail and into an oak.” He fished an old silver lighter out of his pocket, and re-lit his pipe. He took a few test puffs. “They fixed the guardrail, and the oak is fine, but Albert was never the same.”

Conversation flagged for a few minutes.

"Maxwell has Penelope working in the office this year," continued Stanislaus eventually. "She's the only one who so far has been in swimming. Unusually heavy runoff this spring, the lake is colder than normal. Also, the third guy with you in the Hall—haven’t met him yet, but Maxwell knows his father. College kid, like you guys. Named William. He’ll be here tonight. Meanwhile, we have to get the camping gear out of winter storage." He puffed on his pipe. "Might as well do it now."

Stanislaus put them to work on the floor of the Hall, sorting out the old camping equipment, disposing of tents and other items that had fallen apart over the winter.

At about 3:00 he had left, telling the boys he’d see them the next morning. The work had made them hot; they stripped off their shirts and worked in silence in their denim shorts. Stanislaus frowned on beer during the working day, but the fridge was full of Coke.

Joan joined them as they were working, her long brown hair casually tied off her neck. She belonged to a local army of mothers in their twenties and thirties, visible all over town. They were young enough to still sport their high school hair and worked hard to keep their nice figures. But now their nails were short and unpainted, and their eyes were tired as they pulled fussy children across the hot parking lot of the Grand Union. They were friendly, and being lonely in their small homes, they liked to talk.

So her winter update took a while, but was less gruesome than Stanislaus’s. “The boys did okay in school, and Eddie got a new route, mostly local.” Her husband Eddie drove a truck, and delivered baked goods to supermarkets. “So he doesn’t have to do much overnight work anymore.”

“Sounds good,” said Ted.

“Not really,” she replied, and laughed. Joan and Eddie were born and raised in the town and got married when they were 19.

“Thanks for making the cabin look so good,” said Ted.

“I don’t suppose there’s a chance you’ll keep it looking that good,” she said. “When I cleaned it out at the end of last year, I thought I was mucking out a pigsty.”

“We’re sorry,” said Vic, was his best effort at “contrite.”

“Don’t apologize. I charged double rate for that. It should’ve come out of your salaries. Anyway, welcome back, I'll see you around. Time to go home and make dinner.”

They continued to work, but they weren't alone long. A few minutes after Joan had left, two girls walked through the front, single-file, along the path that led from the beach. They wore matching blue one-piece suits, with towels tossed over their left shoulders.

The first was tall and slim, nearly six feet, with midnight black hair pulled into a braid that went all the way down her back. The hair provided a striking frame to a pale white face that was strong, unusually so in a woman that young. The jaw was a trifle too prominent, the cheekbones a bit too sharp. But the first thing you noticed were her eyes, deeply penetrating and as dark as her hair.

The girl behind her was shorter and younger, with the same pale face and long black braid, but her features were softer and she carried a little baby fat on her hips. Her eyes were just as dark, but they flashed with a humor lacking in the older girl's.

When they saw the boys, the younger one ran ahead.

"I was waiting for you guys!" she shouted, grinning. Ted and Vic stood up and received her enthusiastic hugs. Vic got a kiss in addition. "And here you've been working. Penelope and I came straight down to the beach—we should've come here first. It's been so boring. School is out and hardly anyone is here yet."

The boys smiled at her enthusiasm.

"How ya doing, Ariadne," said Ted. He was already looking over her shoulder at Penelope, who entered the Hall at a more measured pace. She was closer to Vic, and greeted him briefly, then turned to Ted with a wry smile. They kissed quickly, and he held her a little longer than necessary. When they separated, his face was red and she looked amused.

"I missed you," he said. "It's good to see you again."

"It's good to see you, too," she replied.