a hard time understanding Graham’s obsession with the house in the country. They were living in a lovely apartment in a full-service building on Sixty-Third and Park, close to the midtown law office where he was working backbreaking hours as a new associate. Who needed Greenwich? They did, Graham swore. Acres of manicured lawn and great restaurants and fabulous shopping and only a stone’s throw from Manhattan. They could have a garden and a pool and enough space to host all their friends over snowy winter weekends or long vacations in the summer. She remained steadfastly unconvinced until he had played his trump card: Harry would have a place to roam and explore without fear of getting hit by a taxi or kidnapped in plain daylight. Was she really going to say no to that? The boy was two when they got married and still wouldn’t walk barefoot on grass. Harry was motherless – Graham’s first wife had died tragically of a rare type of stomach cancer when he was an infant – so how could Karolina possibly be the one to deny him this opportunity? Wasn’t it time that Harry had a swing set?
Those were some of the sweetest times of their marriage. She was still swept off her feet by Graham’s charm and social connections, his private clubs and the ease with which he navigated his world. He was a twenty-first-century JFK Junior, dashing and handsome and wealthy. She knew he could have chosen anyone, but he’d chosen Karolina. As successful a model as she’d been through the years, deep down she was still just a poor girl from Wrocław. Beautiful, yes. But also sheltered by a protective mother and surrounded by friends and family who had lacked education. How could she not fall for a man who swept her into private clubs where Rockefellers and Carnegies dined? It was a glimpse into an entirely different world than modeling afforded her. It was storied.
In those early years they threw lavish parties and extravagant dinners and booze-heavy cocktail hours. They laughed all the time and liked watching the same shows. It was hard to pinpoint exactly when things began to shift, but Karolina thought it had a lot to do with searching for the perfect Greenwich house.
It didn’t take long for Graham’s wish list to balloon in both size and grandeur: the quest for a modest four-bedroom home on a cul-de-sac quickly became an intense hunt for a minimum of seven bedrooms, two acres, a pool, and a tennis court. And although at the time Graham drank exclusively beer or whiskey, it was suddenly imperative that they have a humidity-controlled wine cellar with a tasting room. Newest. Biggest. Fanciest. Karolina should have listened to those warning bells. But she didn’t.
On the fourth visit, a spectacular October weekend at peak foliage, Graham fell in love with a house that was designed by a famous architect. It was ultra-modern, with jutting angles and miles of glass: 35 Honeysuckle Lane sounded like it fit the bill, but it looked like it belonged in a movie featuring a sociopath. It was perhaps the least child-friendly home she’d ever seen, but she couldn’t argue with Harry’s obvious glee as he sprinted across beautiful backyard and giggled uncontrollably as the oversize fish in the koi pond leaped up as he tossed them bits of his bagel. They’d closed fifteen days later, a record, according to the blue-haired realtor. Karolina had the good sense to require that the house be in both their names. The money was entirely hers, earned from nearly a decade of modeling while Graham was still living off the interest from the trust fund he couldn’t touch until he was forty. He tried to argue it would be better for ‘tax purposes’ to list only his name on the deed, but she had insisted. If only she had known how many weeks and months the house would sit empty and unloved save for a quick trip out to pay the caretakers and groundskeeper and make sure it was still standing. The last time they’d stayed there as a family was before Graham had won the Senate race four years earlier and they’d all relocated to Bethesda, and that was only for the night.
Karolina checked the picture window facing the lawn once again. She’d been in Greenwich a few days, not enough time to get lonely, but there she was, desperately waiting for Miriam. Usually an elderly couple lived in the house as a kind of caretaker-and-housekeeper team, but Karolina had asked if they’d like to take some vacation time, and they’d been all too happy to go visit their daughter. She didn’t feel like making polite conversation. Or, honestly, showering. And the solitude had been healing. It was a relief to look out on one’s front lawn and see only empty stretches of space after the paparazzi crush in Bethesda.
A text came in from Harry.
what do i wear to a school dance????
She smiled and typed back. Your navy Brooks Brothers suit with your white dress shirt.
Tie????
Yes. Winter Party! Your first dance!
He replied with a ‘Y.’
Is Daddy going? He knows that parents are invited, right?
This time the three dots popped up, disappeared, returned. Then: No, he’s dropping me off. Your sure about the tie???
Karolina felt her throat tighten. Wasn’t it obvious? This boy needed her. To advise on outfits, yes, but also to accompany him on his first time being a guest at Sidwell’s Winter Party. Who was going to help him choose shoes or cheer for him beside the dance floor when he competed in Coke & Pepsi, or chat with all of his friends and their parents? She knew that Harry was growing up, that soon he would start to negotiate these things on his own, but good God – the boy was only twelve! And twelve-year-olds needed their mothers.
Finally the doorbell rang, sounding like a Buddhist monk hitting a giant gong. Karolina yanked the front door open and found Miriam smiling, looking very suburban in jeans and Uggs and a massive puffer coat, holding her arms outstretched. It was strange to see Miriam in something besides a suit. The women embraced, and as Karolina inhaled the vanilla-scented moisturizer Miriam been wearing for twenty years, she thought how wonderful it was to be with someone who didn’t hate her. Miriam motioned toward the Highlander, where Karolina saw a woman in the passenger seat smoking a cigarette and screaming into her cell phone. Karolina raised her eyebrows.
‘Sorry. It’s Emily Charlton. She’s staying with me now for … I don’t know how long. She’s an old camp friend. Anyway, she overheard me on the phone with you and insisted she come too. She says she knows you from Runway? I feel terrible bringing her by unannounced, which is why I told her to wait in the car while I—’
Karolina held her hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes, and squinted. ‘Emily?’ she said. ‘Hey! Come on in. And bring those cigarettes!’ She turned to Miriam. ‘I totally remember her from Runway. Miranda Priestly’s senior assistant. She was such a bitch!’
‘Oh, I know it. Emily has told me all the stories …’
‘No, I meant Emily! She was a first-rate ball-buster and funny as hell. I could use funny right now.’
Both women watched as Emily jammed her finger into the phone screen to end the call and opened the door in a cloud of smoke. ‘Am I cleared to enter? Did I pass?’ she called as she walked toward the house.
Karolina and Emily exchanged double-cheek kisses. ‘It’s so good to see you! How long has it been? Years,’ Karolina said as she escorted them to a sitting room. She pointed a remote toward the fireplace and flames leapt to life. ‘Here, sit. I made some tea, I’ll bring it in.’
When she returned holding an enamel tray with a glass teapot and three glass mugs, both women were assessing the room. ‘Welcoming, isn’t it?’ Karolina asked, acutely aware of how it looked to outsiders: the couches low and stiff and uninviting; the surfaces devoid of books or knickknacks; the walls bare except for a few fine-art black and whites.
‘I fucking love it,’ Emily breathed, looking around. ‘It’s like no one lives here.’
‘No one does live here,’ Karolina said. ‘Although I guess I might soon.’
Miriam’s face crumpled. ‘I’m so sorry about everything that’s happening.’
‘Yeah, quite the drama,’ Emily said. ‘That headline this morning: “Most Hated Celeb: Rizzo Benz or Karolina Hartwell?” My God. I haven’t seen the press this excited since Harvey Weinstein.’
Karolina