Too Much Money Read Free

apartment?” he asked.
    “Yes; that’s why it’s so sad Justine’s not here. She and Hubie literally grew up in this apartment. I’ve lived here almost forty-five years. Hubie’s dead, and Justine lives in Paris. I said to Justine on the phone last week, ‘Why don’t you fly over for a couple of days? It’s the last party in the apartment, and you grew up here.’
    “I told her everyone would love to see my granddaughter, Cordelia, and I even suggested they could drive up to Farmington and register Cordelia for two years from now. After all, my mother went to Farmington; I went to Farmington; Justine went to Farmington; and now Cordelia’s going to go to Farmington. I tell you, that granddaughter of mine is simply divine. I can’t wait for her to move back to New York, where she belongs. Of course, it seems there’s no changing Justine’s mind. She says she doesn’t want to be away from Henri, but I say it’s not as if she can’t afford a quick trip over and back. After all, she got all of the Altemus money when her father died last year.”
    Lil Altemus stopped fiddling with the table, rested her hands on the back of one of the twenty-four Chippendale chairs, and sighed, looking around the room, her eyes welling up with nostalgia.
    “Gus, I have such lovely memories here. Justine had her coming-out dance in this apartment. Oh, it was so pretty. The
magic
that Mark Hampton wrought. Peonies everywhere. Two orchestras. He tented in the terrace for the disco and lined the tent with blue and white toile. The oldies all danced in the hall, and Peter Duchin’s orchestra was on the stairs. So many violins. It was heavenly. Peter was so good-looking in those days. Dolores De Longpre wrote in whatever paper she was writing for back then that it was the prettiest party she’d ever been to.”
    “I used to read about people like you in Dolores De Longpre’s column,” said Gus.
    “And now you write about people like us, and not always kindly my friends say, and your name is in the papers more than any of ours.” Not to be diverted from her reverie, Lil continued.
    “Oh, Gus—if you knew how much I miss Hubie. He was always such a comfort in family situations.” Although Gus knew that not to be true, he said nothing. “If Hubie were alive, he’d have gotten Justine here for Easter lunch today. They were the closest brother and sister I ever saw. Damn that Epstein-Barr. I so wish they’d find a cure for it. They’ve asked me to be on the committee for the Epstein-Barr dinner dance benefit at the St. Regis Roof this year. I haven’t decided.”
    She reached out and halfheartedly picked up a place card from the table. Still lost in her own thoughts and grief for the past, she let it dangle from her fingers, a task forgotten.
    “Lil,” said Gus, “the place cards are fine. The table’s beautiful, and the white lilies centerpiece is a work of art. I bet Queen Elizabeth’s Easter lunch table at Windsor Castle is not as pretty as yours. Now, listen to me for a minute. Your son, Hubie Altemus, died of
AIDS
. He did
not
die of Epstein-Barr, no matter how many times you say he did. Someday you have to face up to that fact.”
    Lil looked squarely at Gus. “It’s Easter Sunday. It’s also my birthday. And it’s my last party in this apartment before I move to that God’s Waiting Room, as everyone calls it, over on East Sixty-sixth Street that my nephew insisted I buy. I so miss my brother managing my money. Young Laurance Van Degan always makes me feel like I’m going to end up in the poorhouse. He has too much control and is making me do things I don’t want to. Forgodssake, you know how much I simply can’t stand my stepmother, Dodo, and I didn’t want to invite her today to the family lunch, but young Laurance said I had to. As you wellknow, she’s twenty-five years younger than I am. I don’t know what my father was thinking when he married her.”
    Gus pulled one of the twenty-four Chippendale