Tracy Kelleher - It's All About Eve

He watched Simone hold the tray of drinks toward Ted. “And besides, you’re constantly reenergized by the love of a good woman,” he added. Well, maybe some kinds of paradise lasted beyond a few spectacular sunsets.

Ted beamed up at Simone, who was perched on the arm of his chair. “And don’t I know it.” He reached over and took a glass, but not before offering her a full-blown kiss.

When they broke, Simone sat back with a pleased look on her face. Her own drink had sloshed on the tray during the embrace. “It must be true love. Why else would I allow your sweaty body to get this close to mine?”

“Because you love my sweaty body getting this close to you.” Ted raised his head for another kiss.

Having grown more than a little cynical and detached over the years, Carter normally would have snorted at this overt display of affection. But the thing of it was, it was genuine. And it was between two of the nicest people he knew. Check that, maybe the only genuinely nice people he knew well.

Carter and Ted had been roommates at Grantham University. Talk about opposite ends of the spectrum. Ted, the easygoing product of good taste and old money, was the archetypal scholar-athlete, a high-scoring lacrosse player who was content to graduate with respectable grades.

Not Carter. Driven could have been his middle name. He’d migrated to the elite Eastern college from just outside of Dayton, from a family that tenuously clung to its lower middle class status. His father drifted through a variety of blue-collar jobs. His mother, a homemaker, had resigned herself to maniacally vacuuming their ever-diminishing apartments and clipping coupons for Hamburger Helper.

Carter had determined not to be resigned to anything. He worked his butt off to get good grades, get into a prestigious college, and win a full scholarship to boot. He was eager to prove that he had what it took to succeed.

Did he ever. In four years, he earned a combined bachelor’s/master’s degree in economics, graduating with highest honors, while serving as editorial page editor of the student newspaper. He wasn’t sure about a career in journalism; but he knew the post was a great contact for after graduation.

He was right. One phone call, one interview, and he was fast-tracked into investment banking in New York City. Carter didn’t stop there. He became one of the youngest mutual fund managers in his firm, regularly racking up double-digit annual growth figures, even when most stocks and bonds slipped badly after the high-tech bubble burst. The “Financial Wunderkind,” Fortune Magazine had dubbed him. And he was scrupulously honest, publicly denouncing companies whose CEOs were greedy for Learjets and lackadaisical when it came to corporate accounting factors. “The Conscience of Corporate America,” declared The Financial Times.

Not surprisingly, his personal portfolio bulged as well. He acquired tidy holdings in stocks, bonds and real estate. The garage space for his Porsche Boxster cost almost as much as his penthouse overlooking Central Park. Then there was the vacation “cottage” in the Hamptons. And who could forget the tall, willowy wife with a degree in art history and a deep-seated ability to spend money—lots of money. After all, he was too hot a catch to escape the matrimonially inclined junior members of the Save Venice Society and other like-minded causes.

Not bad for a boy from Dayton.

The only problem was, Carter never saw his apartment, his country house or his wife, who he seemed to have forgotten somewhere along the way, after all. And when his wife divorced him, taking both the apartment and the summer house—not to mention a Lhasa apso he never knew he had—Carter suddenly realized he might have had it all, but so what?

And that’s when he ran into Ted, standing on a subway platform, waiting for the E-train. Ted had suggested that Carter visit him in Grantham, where he had moved back into his parents’ old place; they had retired to warmer climes and better golf courses in Scottsdale.

Carter thought of the good times he had shared with his former roomie, and he took him up on it. And he’d stayed. Quit his job and moved into the chauffeur’s apartment over the garage. First, he sat around and drank beer, swam in the pool and played tennis with Ted. Ironically, now it was Ted who was putting in the long hours building up a practice, while Carter was perfecting his two-handed backhand and sleeping in.

But retirement soon proved boring for someone who had always been a confirmed overachiever. Carter thought of joining a local investment firm, but decided that making money no longer held that much charm. In any case, he was comfortably set for life if he didn’t do anything foolish. Forsaking his Porsche had caused only momentary regret.

So, as an alternative to adding yet another zero at the end of his holdings, he worked out daily at a local gym, took an adult education course in Italian, and read the complete works of Charles Dickens and Elmore Leonard. But that was simply a way to fill in time.

And then it hit him. After years of being totally self-centered, he would help others. He no longer craved fast cars and gold watches. He created a foundation out of most of his investments, and with the aid of a local law firm—run by the husband and wife team of Ted Daniger and Simone Fahrer—he anonymously supported needy causes. He even went back to college, the state university this time, taking courses in law enforcement. He passed the state exam, and applied and got a job on the local police force.

And he loved it. Even liked the paperwork. Well, sometimes he liked the paperwork. Mostly, he liked being part of a community without having to make a personal commitment to anyone in particular. Interaction from a distance was the ticket, he decided as he contentedly sipped his gin and tonic. Secure in his new world, he admired his friends’ affection but didn’t have to feel guilty about wives he neglected or Lhasa apsos he had never known he had.

Ted, after all, was the one who had made the turnaround in Carter’s lifestyle possible, and if he and Simone wanted to smooch to their hearts’ content, so be it.

Then Carter remembered. “Actually, talking of underwear, sorry, lingerie, how’s that little number you bought?” he asked Simone.

Ted looked interested. “And what little number would that be?”

Simone grimaced. “Aw, Carter, now you’ve ruined my surprise. I was saving it for later tonight, after pizza at Tonino’s.” Tonino’s was a Grantham institution; a pizza parlor/bar that attracted adult league baseball teams and families with armies of kids. The decor was early fifties—tiny, mirrored tiles on the support columns and pink Formica on the tabletops. The waitresses had big hair and little aprons. They didn’t slop the beer, and they always remembered the ketchup for the fries.

Ted held up his glass. “Ah, the anticipation is killing me. Please, everyone, drink up, so we can move on to dinner, and get to the quote-unquote dessert as quickly as possible.” The dog, Buster, took that moment to thump his tail.

Simone beamed at Ted. “Eagerness is one of your more endearing traits, you know.” She patted him on the arm, then turned to Carter. “Speaking of eagerness, I was pretty sure I detected a certain, what you might call tension in Eve Cantoro’s store today.”

“That’s only because I’ve never been surrounded by so much black lace and sheer stretch material in my entire life,” Carter said defensively.

Ted kicked the tennis ball, and Buster lumbered across the grass to retrieve it. “You must have had an interesting day. Tell me more.”

Simone patted him on the shoulder. “It’s a new lingerie shop in town—Sweet Nothings. And it’s run by this woman, Eve Cantoro, who seems to have a good head on her shoulders.”