The Rome Affair. Laura Caldwell
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impressed me as much as her gargantuan, two-story, candlelit Michigan Avenue apartment, her designer clothes and the fact that, from what I’d heard, neither Joanne nor her husband had ever held a job.
“If I could just say a word,” Nick said, standing and holding up his glass. “Rachel and I are very glad to have met you all. We feel fortunate to call you friends.” He paused to take in the nods from the group, then raised his glass a little higher. “To the success of the board.”
The group raised their glasses once again. “To the board!”
When Nick had taken his seat once more—on one of the white, silk-covered chairs I was terrified of spilling on—and appetizer dishes of caviar had been served, all eyes fell on us. Again.
“So, Rachel, where do you two live in the city?” asked Valerie Renworth, a thin, raven-haired woman with round green eyes.
I should have anticipated such a question. After all, this was what it had been like since Nick made the board—dinners and charity balls and lots and lots of questions for the new couple. It was as if Nick and I were getting our fifteen minutes of fame in a certain, tony Chicago crowd. But we both knew this was a trial. We hadn’t been truly accepted yet.
Unfortunately, I was in mid-bite when Valerie asked her question, and the saltiness of the caviar caught in my throat. I coughed it down, tried for a discreet sip from my water glass and answered as fast as I could. “Bloomingdale Avenue. Do you know it?”
Valerie shook her head.
“Well, not many people do know it,” I said, warming to my topic. “It’s this tiny street south of Armitage. It runs only for a few blocks alongside an old train line. We’ve got a little bungalow there.”
“It sounds charming.” Coming from someone else, this could have been a backhanded slight, but Valerie had an easy, open way about her, and I smiled in return. I suppose she was used to people liking her. She was married to Charles Renworth, a man I had yet to meet since he was often out of town on business, but whom everyone knew owned half the commercial real estate in the Midwest.
“It is charming,” I said, glancing at Nick. “My lovely husband built me an artist’s studio in our basement. It’s the perfect house now.”
“Except for the cab situation,” Nick said. “In terms of taxi availability, we might as well live in Gurnee.”
Everyone laughed. I shot a confused look at Nick. Like me, he rarely said anything bad about our adopted street. Bloomingdale was like a member of the family, whose faults would never be discussed in public.
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