Erica Orloff - The Golden Girl

“Well, I’ll talk to Katherine on Monday. I have to go into a board meeting.”

“Hey…by the way, did you see today’s Rubi Cho column?”

“You read that junk?”

“Oh, come on, admit it. You undercover gals all read her—hell, you’re in it enough—not so much you but some others of Renee’s agents.”

“Okay, on occasion, I like my gossip as much as the next person. But no, I didn’t see it.”

In The Know With Rubi Cho

You know their names: the Pruitts, the Sinclairs, the Daltons, the Whitmans, the Rothschilds. They’re the names that dot this column and all society pages, the names of the city’s greatest philanthropists and the names of the city’s greatest scandals.

Admit it, sweethearts, we all love to read a nice juicy scandal. And a doozy of one is brewing. First Jack Pruitt divorced Chantal Taylor in one of the messiest front-page divorces this city has ever seen. Tales were told of secret lovers and infidelities, not to mention whispers of Taylor’s multiple face-lifts (come on…not even a baby’s skin is that smooth!). But after Taylor left for Paris, the city was on to the next eight-figure divorce-and-custody case.

But this new scandal just may be the juiciest yet. Sources are telling moi, Rubi Cho, that the police are, indeed, probing further into the murder of Claire Shipley, and this one has all the makings of front-page tabloid fodder, dear readers. First of all, Claire used to be the best friend of one Madison Taylor-Pruitt, she the Golden Girl of real estate and sometime–arm candy of Ryan Greene. Sure, they deny involvement with each other, but the eternal bachelor has a soft spot for Madison, those same sources tell me.

Once Claire started her love affair with Jack Pruitt, the friendship soured. Until Claire showed up dead in a warehouse owned by Pruitt & Pruitt. It all looks a bit fishy to police detectives who are working overtime. And I hear that soon, they plan on bringing Pruitt in for formal questioning. Of course, you know he won’t arrive without an army of lawyers that’ll make the Dream Team look like public-defender hacks. But if the charges stick, could it be that Jack Pruitt will finally be brought down, not by the stock market, or even his own hubris, but by something far darker? Stay posted, kids, because this one ain’t going away. But I promise, as soon as I hear it, you’ll read it and remain…

In the know…

With Rubi Cho.

Madison rolled her eyes. “You have to take Rubi with a grain of salt.”

“Yeah, but the agency is hearing that Briggs, the detective who interviewed you, likes your dad for murder suspect number one. The papers are all hinting at it.”

“Well, this is going to make for a very interesting board meeting. If you like being invited to a hanging, you can come sit in.”

Hours later, Madison left the magnificent Pruitt boardroom—with its long table, espresso bar and view of Manhattan—with a raging headache. Though the vote had been put off, the board said it was in the best interests of Pruitt & Pruitt’s shareholders that if the scandal continued, Jack should indeed “pull a Martha” and step down.

That left Madison and her uncle Bing poised with the support of half the board each for control of the company. Madison had spent her entire career being groomed for the role of her father’s successor—but this wasn’t the way she wanted to take control.

Chapter 9

The next day, Saturday, Ashley called her.

“Just so you know, Madison, I am not Rubi Cho’s source.”

“Oh, Ash, I wouldn’t have thought you were. Most of that was yesterday’s news—except for the police angle. But the article was enough to have the board howling at the moon and circling my father like a pack of hyenas.”

“It’s just awful. Whatever happened to ‘innocent until proven guilty’?”

“Come on, remember when that book came out about my mother? The guy who wrote it picked through our garbage. Our garbage. ”

“The depths people will sink to.”

“Exactly. And the people who read that kind of stuff, they don’t care about innocence. They just want good dirt.”

“What do you say to some martinis tomorrow night? I know the best little intimate bar—the king of the velvet rope keeps out the commoners,” Ashley sniffed.

“You are such a snob.”

“It girls like us have to be, dahling,” she said, affecting an accent. “So are we on?”

“Sure, Ash.”

“Great. I’ll pick you up in my limo. Dress to kill, and I’ll have a bottle of champagne chilling. We’ll forget all about the tabloids—either that or get so drunk we won’t care.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Yes, but at least I don’t fling my thong around.”

Maddie smiled. She hung up her apartment phone just as her cell phone rang. She had her ring tone set to “New York, New York.” She loved her town. Looking at the number, she realized it was John Hernandez and her heartbeat quickened a beat or two.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Madison, it’s John.”

“Hi…” She hoped he wasn’t calling to cancel.

“Listen, I don’t know how close you are to Central Park, but what would you say to me riding my motorcycle in and meeting you there, and taking a long stroll, then we can still go for Tex-Mex if you want.”

“Sounds wonderful. I’ll you meet over by the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

“About two o’clock?”

“Perfect.”

Maddie hung up and looked out her window. Central Park was her backyard, for God’s sake. Originally, she’d told John she was “Maddie Taylor”—an ordinary volunteer—precisely because she wanted to be treated as ordinary. But now, she hated the web of tiny white lies she’d created. All right, maybe not so tiny. She hoped he didn’t read the Wall Street Journal. She hoped, until the time was just right, she could keep her real name and position at Pruitt & Pruitt a secret.

She felt guilty about her situation, but at the same time, she thought as she turned around and surveyed the art in her apartment, how would John deal with the fact that paintings by Paul Klee and Basquiat hung in her hallway? That she owned whole buildings?

Dressed in a pair of black velvet jeans and a warm emerald-colored cashmere sweater, Maddie waited by the museum steps. The Pruitt Family Trust always gave generously to the arts in Manhattan, and there was a gallery named for her great-grandmother in the museum.

Soon, John came strolling up in the afternoon sun. He wore a black leather jacket, jeans and black boots, and he had a confident stride—not a swagger, but definitely the walk of a man comfortable in his own skin. He smiled as he approached her and then kissed her on the cheek.

“You look like a million bucks,” he said.

“Thanks…” If only he knew how true that was. Though technically it was a hundred-million bucks—give or take.

He grabbed her hand as they started strolling down the street toward the park. Madison cast a sidelong look at him. He was so different from the men she dated—when she had time. Still, compared to the men she knew, John was so open. He didn’t seem interested in playing games. And here, on the street, he was openly affectionate. She was used to men like Parker Whittington III, who wouldn’t hold her hand if his life depended on it. She guessed it was from a lifetime of being raised by nannies and distant parents. Madison’s mother hated being kissed in public—or private. Her father used to sneak into the nursery, when he was still married to her mother, and give her bedtime kisses if he was home. Otherwise, the only tucking in she got was from Matilda, her old nighttime nanny. Her day nanny had gone on to work for another prominent New York family, but Madison always felt it was to her father’s credit that he still kept Matilda on—though her only duty now was tending to a lone Cavalier King Charles spaniel at Jack’s country house. Matilda, seventy-two now, spent her days reading and doing needlework, flower arranging, and enjoying her semiretirement. As Madison strolled, she realized there was much more to her father than his ruthless reputation, and she hoped the police would find that out, too.