On Turpentine Lane(70)

Ignoring that, she asked, “Have you met her?”

“Leslie?”

“No, the woman who gives your father what I never could.”

“I haven’t. Nor do I want to.” I walked to the kitchen window. Nick was sweeping the roof of his car with our kitchen broom. “Would you believe it’s snowing again?” I asked her.

“One thing, hon—a favor?”

I expected, thanks to my change of subject, that her request would involve sidewalks or gutters or fresh milk. But what she said was “I want you to meet this woman.”

“To what end? What could I tell you that wouldn’t be painful?”

In chummier fashion than I expected, she explained, “Usually, when a husband cheats, the wife knows the other woman—either she lives next door or works in the same office. But I know nothing! Maybe you could snap a picture.”

“But if I tell Dad I want to meet Tracy, it’ll look as if I’m giving them my blessing.”

“Who said anything about giving them your blessing? You could size her up without being cordial. I’ve seen you do that—remember Stuart’s mothers? Bring Nick. Didn’t he go through a divorce with his parents?”

“No. His mother died.”

“Same thing,” she said.



“Come next Saturday,” my father had said, after conferring with Tracy. We were on our way, Nick driving and I with the street and house number in hand. But how could it be this big brick columned and porticoed one with so many cars in the driveway and more spilling out onto the street? We parked as close as the overflow allowed, wondering if we had the wrong night. I called my father’s cell phone and he answered. “Did you say 38 Wingate Terrace? We’re here, but there seems to be a party going on.”

The massive oak front door opened, exposing a two-story atrium with a live ficus tree straining toward the skylight and wall-size tapestries above champagne-colored marble tiles. “You made it!” a woman cried. She was wearing an outfit that was all at once pants and tunic, black and white, opaque across personal places and translucent elsewhere, with rhinestone—or were they diamond?—earrings nearly grazing her shoulders.

I said, “I’m Faith. Henry’s daughter. And this is Nicholas Franconi.”

“I know who you are! Come in! Caesar! Take their coats! Did you bring shoes? Never mind, just take off your boots. You won’t be the only ones in stocking feet!”

Who was Caesar, and was he appraising my business-casual turtleneck and skirt? And who were these people milling about in the room beyond, all dressed up and holding blue drinks? Our greeter hadn’t introduced herself, but it was clear this was our hostess—auburn haired, coral lipped, not even forty, and stunning by anyone’s standards: Tracy.

“Darling!” she called toward the crowd at the bar. “Faith and her friend are here!” And to us, “The bartender designed a special drink just for tonight!”

“The occasion being . . . ?” asked Nick, unwinding his scarf as Caesar waited with outstretched arms.

“A preopening, prerepresentation. Meet the artist in his milieu. And, of course, meet . . . you two.”

I said, “I had no idea. I hope you didn’t . . .” Hope she didn’t what? Worry that we’d be baffled and underdressed?

“Darling!” she called again.

And trotting toward us was my father, in a dark suit and a red silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. He kissed me and shook Nick’s hand. I said, “I didn’t realize we were invited to a party.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Tracy said. “The caterer was already hired, and the invitations had already gone out when you wrote.” She leaned sideways and bumped shoulders with my father. “Some people I know are better at painting than keeping their social engagements straight.”

“We could have rescheduled,” I said.

Nick asked, “Are these people friends of yours—by which I mean do they know the situation?”

I appreciated that blunt question with its suggestion that a visit to the home of Public Enemy Number One was fraught enough without a pack of sequined art patrons looking on. Tracy seemed puzzled, but not for long. She smiled, then leaned in to confide, “They absolutely know that your father’s creations are copies. Of course! We’re proud of the ‘faux,’ aren’t we? We don’t hide it. We celebrate it!”

“Faux as in f-a-u-x,” my father explained. “Is that apparent? It’s obvious when written, but I’m not convinced it works when spoken.”

I said, “Alliteration is always good.”

“And who doesn’t want their very own custom Chagall?” Tracy asked, her eyes now scanning the crowd.

I said, “I think when Nick referred to the ‘situation’ he was asking whether your guests know I’m Henry Frankel’s daughter and this is our first meeting.”

“We’ll talk, I promise,” she said. “But first I need to find the caterer.” With a pat to my forearm, she strode away.

My father said, “She’s not happy with the flow of canapés. The trays aren’t leaving the kitchen fast enough.”

“Glad she has her priorities straight,” I said.

“Please,” he said. “Not now.”