Part 4 (2/2)

”Bebe Blake.”

”She's big all right.” Harry roared. ”We're talking wide-angle lens. But I'm not connecting the dots. What does she have to do with Lady?” ”Bebe wants to do an Oprah. Start an empire, mold nubile minds, preach to the little people. The Scary folks are thinking of giving her Lady on a silver platter.”

”Which makes you the turkey?”

”Stuffed, trussed, eaten alive.”

”Magnolia, luv. Dial back. They can't just give away a magazine.

Utter rubbish. Wouldn't get all worked up if I were you. The folks at Scary have got to be smarter than this.”

”Have you met Jock Flanagan?”

”Only in Liz Smith.”

Magnolia raised her eyebrows and gave him a long, skeptical look.

”I take your point,” he said.

As Harry smiled at her, she noticed a dimple. That and what a fast driver he was. They were already beyond Scarsdale, sailing through that slice of good-school-district burbs to which most of Magnolia's college friends had migrated with their reliable husbands and fast track toddlers. By the time Exit 4 on 684 came into view, an hour had melted away. They'd covered all the safe subjects: their first jobs (his was at Rolling Stone), their last vacations (Barcelona for her, Reykjavik for him), and their dogs (could she warm up to a hyperactive Jack Russell?).

Magnolia guided Harry through the twists and turns of what New Yorkers loved to refer to as ”the country.” Then they entered the grounds. It was 8:30. Showtime.

Beyond stands of evergreens and birch, elegant gray gates parted on a winding road. At the top of a hill stood not a condo development but the house Natalie had christened Simply Simon. Every lamp and chandelier was ablaze, rivaling dozens of Chinese lanterns strung along an open front porch and swinging from old oaks in the soft breeze. The only thing missing was Bambi. That and the paparazzi- though for all she knew, Natalie might have hidden a crew in the bushes. They got out of the car, handed the key to the valet parking attendant, and walked to the front door.

The first time Magnolia laid eyes on Natalie's house, her envy was like a rash. Natalie and her husband had bought their mini-estate only three years before. After a contractor had gone belly up, he'd unloaded his family dream house and its nine hilly acres to Natalie and Stan (”all cash”) Simon. Within a year, Natalie had nestled a swimming pool and Jacuzzi into rocks that looked cloned from the set of The Flintstones-if Wilma and Fred had lived beside a man-made waterfall and hot tub. She and her decorator had tag-teamed at every antique show on the Eastern seaboard for insta collections of McCoy pottery, folk art tchotchkes, and flower-sprigged English china, which crowded into imposing cupboards with their requisite peeling paint.

Outside, weathered European garden furniture dotted the lush, rolling grounds. An herb garden sat next to two tennis courts surrounded by a tasteful log fence. A cutting garden wasn't far from the basketball court and campfire circle, should anyone have a k.u.mbaya moment.

”Cookie, you made it,” Natalie shouted as she encircled Magnolia with a warm hug. Natalie wore a heavily embroidered purple kimono over silky black cigarette pants. Her hair was secured by chopsticks.

Magnolia was glad she'd ixnayed her Chinatown jacket.

”And you must be . . . ?” Natalie asked. ”Harry. Harry James,” he said as he extended his hand.

Natalie clasped Harry's hand with both of her own. ”Harry, I'm so glad you could join us.” But when Harry began to thank her, she had already turned to receive the next couple, whom Magnolia recognized from the Sunday Times Evening Hours photos as a Park Avenue plastic surgeon and his bony wife. Natalie didn't bother to introduce Harry and her, and motioned them toward the door to the back veranda. Waiters circulated with delicate walnut-stuffed artichokes, gooey Brie tartlets, and spears of asparagus to dip in a lemony sauce.

Magnolia and Harry maneuvered past a throng to the bar, trying to avoid eye contact with the head of Scary circulation, who looked like the missing Marx brother but who, sadly, lacked the family's wit.

Drink in hand, Magnolia noticed an old-fas.h.i.+oned glider at the end of the porch. She weighed whether she might park herself with Harry for a respectable length of time, dodge the small talk with other guests, and get to know this man just a little better. She didn't know if it was due to the magical combination of dusk and high-voltage electricity-or the fact that she hadn't eaten so much as a six-ounce yogurt all day-but during the ride, he seemed to have grown more attractive.

No such luck. ”Magnolia, speaking of the devil . . .” It was Darlene, coming at her like a tornado and speaking with that natural disaster's force. ”Charlotte and I were wondering if you'd be here. I knew you were a Wong girl.”

Magnolia had almost forgotten that the party was in tribute to Dr. Winnie Wong, the dermatologist, and Darlene and Charlotte were patients, too. Not that Natalie would have left them out even if tonight's celebration honored the a.s.sistant to the head of sanitation in Queens. Charlotte and Natalie were the best of friends and Darlene was, well, Darlene, who got herself invited everywhere.

Charlotte, she suspected, had done a bit better at the Chanel sample sale than she had. As Magnolia was complimenting her on her satin pants and tiny beaded halter, both of which exactly matched her Gwyneth-blond hair, Darlene was leaning dangerously close to Harry, snorting at something he'd said. Magnolia tried to eavesdrop while nodding attentively as Charlotte described in footnoted detail the house she was building in Sagaponack.

”After a lot of thought, we decided to go with bidets in three out of five bathrooms,” she said. ”You know, from Waterworks. The white, not the bone. Definitely not the ivory.” As Magnolia tried to concentrate on the stress of picking high-quality porcelain fixtures, she realized Darlene had commandeered even more of Harry's personal s.p.a.ce and was now whispering-she hoped only that-into his ear. Magnolia waited until Charlotte drew a breath, then turned to Darlene.

”What are the girls doing this summer?” she asked. Magnolia knew Darlene always s.h.i.+pped the three of them and the two senior nannies to her parents, the ranking royalty of Des Moines's country club set. Then in August she and her husband spent two weeks en famille on Martha's Vineyard. But Magnolia suspected that Darlene wouldn't want to out herself to Harry as a young matron with a large family.

”The Vineyard. The usual,” Darlene responded, with less than complete enthusiasm. But Darlene was not to be bested easily. ”Harry, have you met Jock, our president?” she asked.

There he was, strolling toward them, arm in arm with Bebe and Felicity, each of whom was dressed as if for the Grammys. In her red sequined pants and flowing top, Bebe appeared ready to accept her trophy with thanks to Jesus and her band, the Mother f.u.c.kas. Felicity took it down a notch, in a black-and-gold-striped caftan. A vaguely familiar-looking man trailed them. Oh, yes, the Southerner, Arthur Montgomery, Jock's elevator friend and Bebe's lawyer.

”Can you imagine anything more ideal than all of us meeting up here?” Jock boomed, pecking Magnolia's cheek.

Magnolia could, actually. She and Jock exchanged introductions.

”Magnolia, I believe you've met Arthur,” he said.

”Mag-knoll-ya, the magazine girl,” Bebe asked. ”Who's the hottie?”

Bebe zeroed in on Harry. Arthur disappeared to refresh both Mag nolia's drink and his own. Darlene, Charlotte, and Felicity attached themselves to Dr. Winnie, who was being led around like a show dog by book publis.h.i.+ng's glamour girl, Rachel Wright. Wright had made the doc's book, The 30-Day No-Wrinkle Diet, the top of her summer list, along with political screeds from both the right and the left. That left Jock holding a double-malt Scotch, waiting for Magnolia to speak.

”I'd hoped to get to you this week,” she began.

”Right.”

”About Bebe.”

”Change of heart?” Jock asked. He wasn't making it easy.

”Not exactly,” she began.

”But you'll trust me to make the right decision?” he said.

Magnolia began to answer, but there was Arthur, back with the drinks. ”My lovely Magnolia,” Arthur said, ”you've done up one pretty little magazine. Good girl.”

”We made a big change when we brought Magnolia Gold in as editor in chief of Lady,” Jock said. ”Our job right now is to support her, to give her both the time and the room to perform.”

Magnolia thanked him, although nothing he'd said or done in the last two weeks suggested that his statements were anything but hooey.

”You are a generous man,” Arthur said, ”given the numbers you showed me,”

Score one for Bebe: her attorney had seen Lady's books, although not necessarily the ones with the figures Magnolia had been shown.

Magnolia downed her second martini.

”Magnolia, care to join us tomorrow at Winged Foot?” Jock asked.

”Arthur, Darlene, and I are in hot pursuit of a fourth.”

During her marriage, whenever conversation drifted to putters and the back nine, Magnolia's boredom began to simmer. She'd explained to her ex, Wally-who'd always wanted her to join him at his parents'

<script>