Dead Certain

that I looked beautiful. A little girl, walking with her mother, asked shyly if she could touch the fabric of my skirt, and a pair of college kids asked if I wouldn’t mind twirling around because they just wanted to see the skirt move. By the time Elliott pulled up to the curb, I must confess I felt a little bit like Cinderella—enchanted and transformed.
    “You look beautiful,” said Elliott, hopping out of the car to hold the car door open for me. I clambered into the passenger side of the Jeep, pulling masses and masses of shimmering rust-colored satin in behind me. As he slid behind the wheel he flashed me a grin so big and gorgeous that it set my stomach doing flip-flops. “Thanks for not making me come in to meet your father,” he quipped.
    “You’re welcome,” I replied, as we pulled away from the curb. “However, I have news for you. The requisite paternal inquisition is still to come.”
    “I’ve had some experience with fathers,” Elliott confided easily. “All you do is call them sir and they’re putty in your hands. It’s your mother who scares the bejesus out of me.”
    “Be afraid,” I said ominously. “Be very afraid.”
     
    As we drove north on Lake Shore Drive past the ever increasing number of boats that now dotted the harbor, I cast a surreptitious glance in Elliott’s direction. I was rewarded by the sight of the familiar tousle of brown hair, the fluid assurance of his hand on the gearshift, and the realization that nothing between us had changed. I still wanted to sleep with him as badly as I had ever wanted anything.
    The Founders Ball has always been held in the grand ballroom of the Drake. As we made the turn onto Walton, traffic thickened and slowed to a Saturday-night crawl. Up ahead I could see a phalanx of red-vested car parkers sprinting to relieve the black-tie crowd of their Lincolns and their Lexuses. It seemed strange to think that this was taking place on the same block as my new apartment. Granted, the block was enormous and the north side (with the exception of the back of the Drake) was entirely residential. Still, it was quite a contrast to Hyde Park, with its bodegas and its bus stops, its Nobel laureates and its poets of street violence.
    As we inched our way toward the Drake, Elliott, who’d been chatting easily about the trial in Springfield, suddenly turned serious.
    “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he inquired, nervously eyeing the ornate portico of the Drake.
    “What’s that?” I asked.
    “Can you get a beer at one of these things?”
    Before I had time to decide if he was pulling my leg, the passenger door was pulled open and I was being welcomed to the Drake. I stepped out onto the red carpet that had been laid over the curb and pulled my skirt out after me. Then I waited demurely under the gilded awning while Elliott accepted the claim check for the car and came around to take my arm.
    We went through the big brass doors together, up the stairs to the first landing, where a floral arrangement the size of a Volkswagen was meant to signal the fact that you had finally arrived. We crossed the burgundy carpet past the Palm Court and were about to ascend the second set of stairs that led to the ballroom when I stopped dead in my tracks.
    “So how come you aren’t wearing a rented tuxedo?” I demanded, marveling at how quickly the sensation of fine wool beneath my fingers had somehow formed itself into this question.
    “So how come you’re supposed to be so smart and you didn’t realize I was giving you a hard time?” he countered.
    I looked at him for a moment and reached up to ostensibly straighten the loops of his tie, which was not only perfectly straight, but hand-tied, as well.
    “You look wonderful,” I said, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek.
    “As wonderful as him?” inquired Elliott, chucking his head over my shoulder. I turned in time to catch sight of Stephen Azorini sweeping past with some kind of Nordic goddess on his arm. I didn’t say anything. Instead I moved closer and kissed Elliott softly on the mouth.
    “Better,” I whispered in his ear, oblivious to the popping of flashbulbs all around us.
     
    Elliott took my hand and didn’t let go. I couldn’t tell which one of us the gesture was meant to reassure, but I was grateful nonetheless. As we climbed the half flight of stairs up to the ballroom together I took a deep breath and felt a wave of something that felt suspiciously like