Phoebe looked at the dance floor where a few brave couples were already twirling around. The band had just begun a song she loved. The vocalist almost sounded like Dionne Warwick as she trilled the first notes of “This Girl’s in Love with You.”
She could feel eyes on them, felt the power of being a steamy young couple. He placed his hands on her lower back as they swayed together, then he led her with a strong hand, spinning her out and then back as though he were Gene Kelly.
“We still got it, eh?” He nibbled at her neck.
“Jake!”
“Let them all eat their hearts out. Every guy here wishes he were me.”
When the music segued into Sly and the Family Stone’s “I Want to Take You Higher,” an impossible rhythm for slow dancing, they walked off the dance floor hand in hand.
“Okay. It’s Harry Frankel I want to work with us,” Jake said. “Ollie asked his wife to make sure we were sitting with the Frankels. Get the seat next to her.”
Ollie’s wife moved the women of Greenwich around her social chessboard as though they were pawns to her slightest and largest desires. How Poppy Howard managed the rare feat of being a second wife with first-wife clout was the Nancy Drew mystery of Greenwich, though being a former model and a graduate of Rosemary Hall and Radcliffe didn’t hurt. Nor did being the daughter of a top Hollywood producer. Even old wealth swooned in front of movie money. If she wanted Phoebe and Jake at the Frankel table, that’s where they’d be cutting their sirloins.
“Your wish, my command.” Phoebe headed to the table by the band, enjoying the satiny feel of her dress brushing her skin.
Joan Frankel held a caramel-colored drink. A backup waited on the flowered tablecloth. From the deep color of the liquid, she took her drinks neat.
“Joan?” Phoebe leaned to kiss the woman’s powdery cheek. “What a pleasure to be sitting with you. We don’t have a minute to speak at exercise class.”
Despite being twenty years older than Phoebe, Joan’s leather miniskirt barely covered her overly tanned thighs and, ignoring the heat outside, she wore a short blue-dyed fox jacket over a satiny top. Bumps of gold and diamonds hung from and wrapped her.
“I didn’t realize you were sitting here.” Meaning the Pierces’ place in Greenwich’s pecking order wasn’t particularly high. “Your husband’s quite a dancer.”
“Ah, you know men,” Phoebe said. “Every now and then we can drag them out on the floor, right? I’ll probably be waiting another five years.”
Joan laughed. “I know exactly what you mean.”
“Men. Anyway, you look terrific, Joan. Blue fur—how incredible!”
In fact, Joan appeared to have dipped her money in glitter and hung it on random body parts.
A faint smile materialized, highlighting the woman’s spectral bleach-lightened mustache. “Harry surprised me with this last week. I couldn’t wait to wear it.”
“Of course! My God, it’s fabulous.” Especially perfect if Joan took up stripping. “Are you living at the gym? I can’t bear being next to you.” Phoebe patted her imperceptible tummy bulge before settling beside Joan. “I feel enormous next to you.”
“Darling, you have a little one at home. I never left the house when mine were tiny. You’re adorable.”
Phoebe stroked the hideous fur jacket. “Oh, this is gorgeous! Did Harry pick it out himself?”
Joan laughed. “What an idea! Of course not. This beauty came through the art of the question-hint.”
“Question-hint?”
“You young girls always need schooling. Listen. If I’m reading a magazine or newspaper and see something I like—I found this in a Bergdorf ad—I point and tip my head a bit.” Joan aimed her viciously long red fingernail at a napkin in demonstration. “Then I say, ‘Harry, do you think I can carry this off? Am I too old?’ Do this enough, and he’s bound to pick up on a few things.”
Phoebe feigned a sad expression. “Jake spends every second at work. By the time I’ve washed the supper dishes, he’s half asleep. We don’t talk enough for me to hint about anything.”
“He’s at his burning-ambition stage. I remember it all too well.” She patted Phoebe’s hand.
“Sometimes I think my husband cares more about making fortunes for clients than making me happy.” Phoebe sighed.
The other women at the table turned toward them.
Phoebe pulled up a gravelly imitation of Jake’s voice, infusing her words with irony. “?‘Bottom line, Phoebe, my job is working for the clients—growing their funds steady and upward.’ I swear, if his accounts dip one day out of the month, he’s impossible to live with. Thank God that’s a rare occasion.”
“What does he do, your husband? If you don’t mind my asking.” The woman on the other side of the table spoke with a sugary Southern drawl. “I’m, by the way, Suzy Ramsland.”
The name pinged.
Ramsland Insurance.
Suzy’s breasts spilled out from her Saks-version peasant blouse.
A female-only table until the meal began wasn’t unusual. Greenwich dinner-dance culture put the men at the bar drinking and fetching cocktails for the wives while the women held court at the table, complaining about husbands and comparing their children’s accomplishments.
“He runs JPE. Jake Pierce Equity.” Phoebe gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Actually, he owns it. Jake would kill me for talking. He thinks I’m bragging when I do, and, God, he hates attention.”
Joan waved away Phoebe’s concerns with a flash of gold. “Don’t worry. Nobody’s here but us chickens! If we listened to every little thing our husbands said, we’d probably all be home scrubbing toilets, and they’d be here with twenty-year-old hookers.”
“Smoking cigars,” added Suzy. She snorted and added, “Or having their cigars smoked.”
Suzy’s caustic observations soothed Phoebe. If they accepted Suzy, maybe Phoebe could become a member of this not-so-old-money group. She should let go of her unease at talking up the Club. Obviously these women enjoyed the spoils of wealth, and if Jake did nothing else, he made people rich.
“Spill,” Joan said.
“Mostly JPE is a garden-variety brokerage.” Phoebe gave an exaggerated yawn to show just how boring she found the conversation. “But he has a quiet little investment club on the side.”
“A mutual fund?” Suzy’s inflated breasts belied a sharp brain. Eyes gave away smarts every time.
“Not really. It isn’t open to the public. It’s almost like he considers the Club his hobby.” She leaned in and whispered, “Jake has come up with some sort of investing recipe. He jokes about his secret sauce. I couldn’t explain the method if you tortured me. It doesn’t bring those once-in-a-lifetime insane returns, but he always brings in a steady up. Always. I don’t know how he manages.”
“What kind of ‘steady up’?” Suzy asked.