“What would Francesca Weissman want with Judy Tremont? She’s a flibbertigibbet.”

“You know her?” Samantha didn’t expect that, and it annoyed her even more when she couldn’t predict Charlie.

“I knew her husband, Albert, from the Knickerbocker Club. Nice man. Very old school.”

“Stop it, Charlie.” She poured herself a glass of water.

“Stop what?”

“I hate when you start with that ‘old school’ crap. You sound like a Republican asshole.”

Charlie knew she would now pick a fight just for the sport of it. “I just don’t want to have drinks with her.”

“But you’d be happy to put her butt in your refrigerator.”

“Honestly, you make me feel like some sort of cannibal.” He picked up the phone and began to dial. “Darling, we have to call Judy Tremont and cancel or we’ll be stuck with her at six o’clock. It’s the right thing to do.”

Samantha admired Charlie’s innate decency. For all his recent polish, he wasn’t hard like so many in their circle. He would always do “the right thing.” Charlie was the kind of guy you raise a family with. In fact, for six years, Samantha and Charlie had tried every fertility doctor, in vitro procedure, and even a surrogate egg donor to no avail. Afterward, Charlie thought they should adopt, but Samantha had lost confidence in her ability to mother. Like everything else, it seemed too complicated, and not necessary. Besides, after years of hormone shots and biological procedures, Samantha preferred to avoid any prescribed intimacy, even with a baby. She longed for pure abandonment.

Sometimes Samantha thought she would be happier with a bolder man who had made a new fortune in the nineties that was even larger than her mother’s. But most bolder men wouldn’t have been so solicitous. Samantha married Charlie because he wanted her so much. And besides, everyone in New York adored him. After all, he made them all look good.

Samantha ran her hand over Charlie’s chest, hung up the phone before he could place the call, and kissed him on the lips. “Oh fuck Judy Tremont! I love you, Charlie.”

·CHAPTER EIGHT·

Charlie

“Det er med den storste glede,” Albert picked up his glass after the second round of martinis appeared. “Å onske alle tilstede, På nordisk mål—En heilnorsk skål, Så drikk hverandre til alle dere!”

“What is that?” Charlie asked.

“Old Norse for ‘It is with the greatest pleasure, I wish all of you present, in the Nordic way, an old Norse skål, let’s drink together, all of you!’”

“I read Beowulf in Old English in college, but Old Norse is really something!” Charlie was honestly taken by Albert’s eclectic scholarship.

“I feel we could all still learn a little something from the Prose Edda.” Albert sipped his drink.

“What?” Samantha asked.

“The Nordic Beowulf by Snorri Sturluson. I’ve read it twice.” Albert caught himself and laughed. “And I’m sure everyone else here at The Breakers has, too.”

“Here, here!” Charlie patted Albert on the back with friendly admiration while Samantha curled her lip into a wry smile.