The process became a daily round. She concentrated on the obituary columns of the Palm Beach Post and, after attending a number of funerals for "beloved wives of," she began to narrow down the possibilities by assessing the relative cost of both the memorial sites and the cemeteries where the internments were to take place. Obviously, she concentrated her attention on the most expensive places.
After a few weeks, she embellished her research by searching out the homes of the deceased and making her subsequent funeral attendance decisions on the size and location of the residences. Her effort and its daily routine had all the earmarks of job-hunting, and she would often return home in a state of disappointment.
The fact was that the operation had more promise in theory than in practice. Opportunity was not as commonplace as Mrs. Burns had promised. Real prospects were difficult to find. She was a fortune hunter, and anyone with a fortune was by nature cagey and illusive. If Grace were a man she would have a much easier time finding her mark. There was, after all, no equality in the chronology of death. Men simply did not live as long as women.
Three weeks later, she had managed to attend several funerals, none of which offered a truly viable candidate. Most were for older women, in their seventies and eighties, whose husbands were out of her age range. Some were in wheelchairs; the others seemed almost comatose. She considered the possibility, but the price seemed far too high.
There were moments of optimism. She attended a funeral for a woman in her fifties with a husband who was attractive and remarkably stoic, and appeared, at first blush, to be a perfect candidate. She had checked out their home and learned that the man was a well-known banker.
Dressing carefully for this one, she arrived at the service full of great expectations, until she noted that the man sat in a row behind his three grieving children and their spouses, which seemed unusual. Then she learned that the couple had been in the midst of a bitter divorce when she suddenly died from an embolism, which could have been brought on by the tension.
"There's a relief," she overheard a woman say as they filed out. "Now he can marry his nafka." Days later at a funeral she overheard both the Yiddish word and its translation: whore.
The funeral of a woman in her early sixties was another hopeful possibility. From Grace's research, she knew that the couple had lived in a lovely old mansion off Banyan Road, one of the most expensive areas of Palm Beach. The woman, Rebecca Horowitz, had been a socialite. Her husband had made a fortune in oil. He was handsome and reasonably well-preserved for a man in his late sixties.
The funeral was held in the most prestigious synagogue in the area. Shiny Rolls-Royces and Mercedes stretch limousines filled the parking lot. The women who attended were appropriately solemn but dressed to the nines, and the men all looked prosperous and successful. The deceased was lauded by the rabbi, family, and other attendees, focusing especially on the woman's many good deeds. The widower sat in the first row among his children. He was tall and good-looking, with a dignified, gracious way of accepting condolences. During the service she fantasized about the various ploys she would use to make contact with him and the manner in which she would conduct herself.
After the funeral was over, she joined the procession, managing to get a lift from one of the well-groomed couples who had room in their big cream-colored Cadillac. By then, experience had taught Grace that the grieving family served a wonderful repast after the return from the cemetery, which was an ideal time to meet the widower.
Grace gave the well-groomed couple—they introduced themselves as the Saypols—her real name and cover story: she met the deceased at Saks.
"We became friends and confidantes," Grace said.
"That must have been before she got worse."
"Yes," Grace said. "Before."
"Too bad the way she went," Mr. Saypols said. "Up to me, I'd go off myself." He pantomimed a gun with his hand to emphasize the point.
"Still, it wasn't very decent of him to start dating while she was still alive," Mrs. Saypols said.
"He was lonely, for Crissake. His wife was in a damned nursing home with Alzheimer's. She didn't even know who he was."
"She was still his wife," Mrs. Saypols said.
"He had needs," the husband grumped.
Mrs. Saypols looked toward Grace. "Men and their needs," she said with disdain.
"What do you women know about those kind of needs?" he said, with a sudden burst of anger.
"He didn't have to flaunt it," she said. "He's already made plans to marry some bimbo. Everybody knows it. I think it's disgusting."
"Betty is not a bimbo."
"She's barely thirty."
"That's not bimbo, that's just young. Are you jealous?" he asked.
Mrs. Saypols shot her husband a knowing glance. "Me? Don't be ridiculous. He's more than thirty years older than her and he won't be able to keep up. No way. And in the end she'll get all his money and the kids won't get a dime."
"He's already worked out a prenup."
"Very wise," Grace said, remembering Mrs. Burns' warnings against a prenup.
"Sure, it's a smart move," the man explained. "It lays out the boundaries."
"For the moment," Mrs. Saypols pointed out. "Wait'll she gets her hooks in. Women like that know what they're about. The day will come when he'll tear up the agreement or else."
"Or else what?"
"You know what. She'll play his libido against him."
"What do you mean?" Grace asked.
"You know," he said. "Sex. It's all men think about."
"You got that right," Mrs. Saypols agreed. "And we're all about money, possessions, hair, clothes, face-lifts, security, shopping, gossip, the children. Nothing about the man. You're just here to make the dough while we figure out how to spend it on ourselves. What would you do without us?" she asked with a mocking laugh.
"Plenty," the man said.
After that, they both seemed to crawl into themselves, remaining silent and morose until they got to the cemetery.
Once there, Grace sat under a canopy next to a woman who could not contain her contempt for the newly widowed man. "Look at him, the lousy bastard, making like he's gonna miss her."
The rabbi said a prayer and the mourners watched as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Having seen so many funerals lately, Grace was beginning to view death with less fear, and to consider the concept of time with more appreciation. Funerals certainly gave the living a moment to reflect, not only on the worthiness (or lack thereof) of the deceased's life but also on the conduct and finite nature of their own lives.
What was it all about, Grace wondered, if this is the way it ends, a bag of bones in a box? She realized that human beings, despite all the differences of gender, race, and religion, ultimately came to the same fate. This was small comfort for someone like her, who, barring a catastrophe, had about half her life remaining.
After the burial, the couple Grace had come with drove her to the mansion of the widower.
"You gonna cry at my funeral, George?" Mrs. Saypols asked.
"I won't be there," the man said. "Statistically, I'll die first."
"You'll be there."
"No, I won't."
"I've heard of couples in long relationships who die at the exact same time, like destiny," Grace blurted out.
"Who'll cry then?" George asked.
"Not our daughters-in-law," Mrs. Saypols huffed. "They'll be dancing on our graves."
At the widower's home, a huge spread was laid out, the food catered and beautifully displayed. There was champagne. It was more than a repast—it was a feast. It seemed like a celebration of life rather than death. However, Grace spent most of her time inspecting the rooms, the magnificent artwork and antiques and other expensive decors in the house. She wondered if the new woman had given up her claim to them in their prenuptial agreement.
After a dozen or so funerals, she began to recognize a few familiar faces, both men and women, who nodded knowingly to her. She soon realized that these were the "regulars," who attended funerals solely for the food. Few questioned them, but when pressed, they had a story ready to account for their appearance. One of them, an oldish woman with a solemn face and hair done in an old-fashioned gray bun, appeared most often. She would eat sparingly and always managed to find an opportunity to offer what appeared to be heartfelt words of condolence to the grieving spouse. Once, Grace was close enough to overhear the conversation.
"Parting with her worldly goods can be traumatic," the woman said. "I knew her well enough to know that she was a woman of deep compassion. I'm sure that after the children have made their selection, she would have been honored to have her clothes donated to homeless shelters."
"I'm sure," the grieving husband replied.
"And you can avoid the trauma of going through her things. I can tell you, it hurts. I had that experience with my own dear Sidney. It was awful. All those memories. It's too painful a process. I can spare you that. Why not let us take care of everything? We owe her that, don't we?"
The grieving man looked at his hands in despair. "Yes, please. That is so kind of you. That's a wonderful idea."
The conversation made an impression on Grace. She hadn't thought about that aspect of death, the intimate possessions left behind. She had often wondered where on earth those shoppers at Saks stored their mountains of clothes. In these big homes, she supposed there were acres of clothing racks and closets.
Would that woman really give the clothes to charity, or would she sell them to secondhand clothing stores, which were abundant in southern Florida?
A brilliant scam, Grace concluded.
***
That night Grace came home tipsy from wine, causing Jackie to remark that she hoped that Grace was not hanging out in bars and heading toward alcoholism.
"If you found yourself a nice guy, then you wouldn't have to resort to drinking."
"I'm trying, darling. Really I am."
"Not very hard," Jackie would harrumph. "And you're always dressed so… so gloomy. You really look lousy in black, Mom."
"I want to look conservative, Jackie."
"That I can understand. But you don't have to look like you're going to a funeral."
Grace was getting discouraged, not that she felt bothered by going to funerals, as the events started to seem so commonplace and banal. There was the body in the coffin, the first row occupied with visibly distraught mourners, the rest filling the sequential rows in order of their emotional stake in the proceedings, the various eulogies, all of them sounding alike. Why did people wait until death to say such nice things about each other? She wondered if people would say nice things about her when she died. There would probably be less than a handful of mourners present. Maybe Jackie would attend on Darryl's motorcycle. She supposed her father would be long gone by then.
Grace was glad she wouldn't be around to see the turnout. She began to contemplate cremation. Quick and clean. No fuss, no muss, no bother. It occurred to her that attending these funerals was, for her, encouraging a macabre sense of humor.
Unfortunately, it hadn't put her one step closer to finding her quarry. Until the Goodwin funeral.
***
By then, not wishing to waste her time on marginal opportunities, she had taken more care with her research and had investigated Sam Goodwin. She had learned that he was a sixty-four-year-old successful and rich businessman. His wife had died of cancer.
He had a large home on the north side of Palm Beach, the only place on the island with houses directly on the beach, which was an excellent measure of his considerable net worth. The house was close to the former Kennedy estate, as well as other homes owned by old moneyed families. She had actually toured the area the evening before the funeral.
By chance, as she observed the property, a man came out of the house with a golden retriever who relieved itself on the manicured front lawn. The man was tall, slender, and handsome, with steel gray hair and a strong chin. She wondered if this was the Sam Goodwin, the grieving widower. She hoped he was, and she observed him with more than proprietary interest until he went back into the house.
What she had witnessed set off her fantasies. The house was lovely, designed in a Tudor style. She sat in the car as the sun went down and the house lights came on. From her vantage point, with the blinds only half drawn, she could see that the inside was tastefully furnished.
She contemplated getting out of the car and moving closer to the house, where she could peek through the windows and inspect the inside more thoroughly. It seemed too risky. Besides, other people suddenly appeared, leaving through the front door. They were well dressed and she suspected that they were heading to the funeral parlor.
Grace usually didn't attend the visitation, held the night before the funeral, when the carefully groomed body was displayed, and visitors viewed it in hushed silence. At times, depending on the wishes of the relatives, the coffin remained closed. Most importantly, she didn't want to expose herself too blatantly to the mourning family and risk her presence being called into question. But this time the man's appearance encouraged Grace. She felt, despite the risk, that she needed a closer look.
Grace was not disappointed. The open coffin was elaborate, with lighted candles in candelabra on either side, which displayed the vestiges of a once-pretty woman. She had bleached blonde hair and was appropriately made-up and in an expensive designer gown. A diamond brooch was pinned to the gown. She looked vaguely familiar; but then again, on the Saks floor many of the customers looked as if they were stamped out by the same plastic surgeons and beauticians.
Sam Goodwin was indeed the man she had seen the night before. He wore a dark pinstriped suit and sat on a velvet-upholstered chair on one side of the room. Seated beside him, each holding one of his hands, were a man and a woman—his grown children. The son was a younger version of his father, probably in his late thirties. The daughter was younger, with black hair brushed severely off her smoothly white skin. She wore round steel-rimmed glasses, and no makeup, although Grace could tell that with the right makeup she could be quite startling. It was obvious that they were all in a kind of mourning trance, barely able to communicate. Everybody spoke in whispers, offering condolences and paying their respects.
Grace stood in a corner trying to appear equally emotional, while peripherally focusing her attention on Sam. She did not want to appear conspicuous. At one point Sam's eyes rose and scanned the room. His gaze fell upon her briefly and she imagined he nodded in her direction.
"Will you sign the book, Mrs…?" a tall man said. He was standing behind her, near a lectern on which sat a visitors' book.
"Sorentino," she said. "I was a friend…." Her voice trailed off. The man was already asking another person to sign the book.
While signing, Grace noted the various names on the list above hers. She vaguely recalled some of them from the society section of the Palm Beach Post, including the Goodwins. In the face of this, Grace felt unworthy and remote, far below him and the sophistication of his lifestyle. She slinked out of the room, feeling defeated.
A man she recognized as a former senator from Florida came in and immediately sought out the grieving trio, who rose in tandem. The man embraced the widower, who towered above him, and then embraced the children in turn.
"I'm so sorry, Sam," the former senator said. Sam nodded and dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief.
Am I any better than Jason, chasing rainbows and impossible dreams? Grace wondered. It wouldn't take him five minutes to discover what she really was, a lowly, out-of-work cosmetician—just a fancy name for makeup salesperson—with no money nor prospects.
When she went home, Grace took a realistic inventory of her present position, and it offered dreary prospects. Maybe people are supposed to stay within their own circles, she thought as she let herself in the door of the apartment. Jackie wasn't home yet from her job.
Grace went into her bedroom, took off her clothes, and lay on the bed. Often in this state of uncertainty and despair she turned to her vibrator for comfort. She fished in her lower drawer and took it out. But when she lay back in the bed, switched on the device, and began the process she felt nothing. She shut it off and put it aside. Sex, in this artificial manner, now struck her as repugnant.
Grace's life seemed to have stopped on a dime, just like she supposed Sam Goodwin's had. At this very moment, he was probably considering his future without his beloved wife. Grace assumed that the manner in which he was grieving attested to his devotion to her. She admired that kind of devotion. It was the curse of her early Catholicism that made it impossible for her to be morally neutral. She could not escape the clearly defined sense of right and wrong promulgated by the Church.
Deliberately, she pushed aside the concept of sin. Was it really sinful to want to replace a man's loving departed wife, to bring him joy and rejuvenation? She pictured Sam as she had seen him earlier that evening, looking after his dog. She imagined him coming closer to her car. He smiled at her and offered his hand, which she took. It was strong, yet gentle. He eased her out of the car and hand in hand, they moved into the house. Inside, he turned to her and they embraced. He kissed her deeply, his tongue caressing hers as he enveloped her in his arms. She responded, felt all the wonderful sensations of his embrace.
A sudden thrill charged through her and she reached for the vibrator again, turned it on, and placed it on her clitoris. She pictured him naked, erect, entering her. She felt very wet, open, accepting, as she imagined him moving deeply inside her, his strokes increasing in strength. She began to feel an oncoming orgasm. Finally it came, more intense than she'd ever felt before. She calmed slowly, surprised at how smoothly Sam Goodwin had entered her fantasies.
Hold that thought, Grace, she told herself as she dropped into a dreamless sleep.
***
She awoke from turmoil. It was still dark. Her body was hot and sweaty and her heart was racing. Her fantasies had continued as she slept, fully realized with more than just the sexual component.
She saw herself as the chatelaine of his big Tudor house on the beach, the new Mrs. Goodwin. It would be morning and she would be locked in his arms when she awoke. The sun would peek through the blinds, lighting the room, dancing along the walls bedecked with works of art and ornate ormolu-trimmed mirrors and antiques. The sunlight would awaken the colors of the gorgeous Oriental rugs on the floor. She would stretch on the silken lining of a canopied bed, and soon he would stir beside her and they would make love, a long, lingering episode with foreplay and glorious orgasms for both of them; then, a time of leisurely afterglow.
Later there would be breakfast on the terrace. She would be wearing a long, silk, embroidered morning gown enhanced by a delicate gold chain around her neck. The maid would serve them, cold orange juice in stemmed glasses, eggs over-easy (the way she liked them), crisp bacon, toasted bagels, strawberry jam, and wonderful coffee, the aroma complementing the sea air.
They would read the news and occasionally comment about various events in the United States and abroad, lock eyes at times and purse their lips in a mimed kiss. Before them would stretch the white sands of the beach and beyond, the sea, shimmering in the morning sun.
Sam would enter the study and do his various business responsibilities, overseeing his investments, calling his brokers. He was still in action, of course, a captain of industry, critiquing his underlings and making suggestions for his colleagues. She would be involved in her many activities, running the house, meeting with the staff to plan the evening's dinner party. Of course the governor would be coming, along with his lovely wife and two or three other couples, perhaps a famous actor and actress couple, and for extra excitement, a duke and duchess from Great Britain, laden with the latest gossip on the royal family. Dinner served on the good china, the set that had belonged to the czar of Russia.
Once breakfast was finished there would be tennis doubles at the club, and then an exquisite lunch overlooking the eighteenth hole with the retired chairman of AT&T, after which they would be driven back to their home, still a little tipsy from the Dom Perignon at the club they had imbibed a bit too freely.
Once home, they would have a brief swim in the pool, then retreat to the beach house and have delicious afternoon sex before falling off into a delightful nap, rising with just enough time to dress and prepare for a dinner party. They would supervise the table settings, and discuss the final arrangements with the cook and servers.
Dinner would go off without a hitch and they would lounge over brandy, the men smoking Havanas. They would have knowledgeable discussions about the current state of affairs around the world. Their guests would listen to her viewpoints with rapt attention as she outlined the prospects of financial reform based on the latest conference of the World Bank.
Before the guests would say good-bye with effusive two-cheek kisses, Jackie and her upstanding boyfriend would come home from a classy club near the beachfront, Jackie looking radiant in the latest Oscar—by then she would be referring to all designers by their first names. Grace would introduce her boyfriend to the guests; he would be the son of the owner of the largest cruise company in the world, and they would all remark on Jackie's beauty and poise and her date's good looks and sophistication.
Just past midnight Grace and Sam would be alone for one last nightcap. Before turning in for the night, they would take off their shoes and walk to the water's edge and kiss in the moonlight. Then they'd finally go to bed, but not before one last slow turn at lovemaking. They'd fall asleep in each other's arms.
Suddenly, the first beams of the rising sun brought Grace back to reality, her dreary bedroom, the sounds of the early morning, the working people setting off to their dead-end jobs. The fall from her fantasy to reality had taken mere seconds, and she was now abruptly back to her anxieties.
She heard Jackie in the shower. Grace put on her quilted, much-abused robe and went into the kitchenette to brew coffee, pour juice, and make toast. It was certainly a far cry from the breakfast she had created in her fantasy world.
"Sleep well, Jackie?" she asked when Jackie came out of the bathroom. She wore a beige skirt and a cream-colored blouse. She bent down and kissed her mother's cheek.
"You were asleep when I came in. I didn't have the heart to wake you."
Grace reached up and caressed her daughter's cheek, wary of showing too much affection, fearful that it might be interpreted as phony or manipulative. She loved this child with every fiber of her being, but guiding her through this crucial period of her life was difficult.
"That's my girl," Grace said. "Just have patience, Jackie. Things are beginning to turn around. I can feel it. You'll see. Something's in the wind."
"Like what?"
"I can't say."
"What are you keeping from me?" Jackie asked.
"Nothing really," Grace replied. "But I do believe there is a possibility." It was, of course, pure hope at that point, but she felt she needed to believe something would come of Sam Goodwin.
"Possibilities?" Jackie sighed. "Sure, Mom, possibilities."
"And if I latch on to something good, first thing we do is get you that car."
"I've heard that before, Mom."
"I mean it. Maybe even… more." Grace sat down at the table and sipped her coffee and delicately buttered her toast.
"It's nice to think about."
"Yes, it is," Grace agreed. "Very nice."
"Things just can't stay like this."
"No, they can't."
"It's the pits."
"We have to make good things happen," Grace said suddenly. "Take the bull by the horns." She was giving both Jackie and herself this pep talk.
"You're right, Mom. We can't just let things happen to us."
"We've got to make them happen. We've just hit a bad patch is all."
"To put it mildly," Jackie said.
"I'll find a better way for us Jackie. I promise."
"Sure, Mom," Jackie agreed, studying her mother's face with a wry smile.
"What are you looking at, darling?" Grace asked.
"I do think about you a lot, Mom."
"You do?"
"Darryl is probably right."
"I thought we had an understanding," Grace snapped.
"No. You did. I didn't."
"He's trouble, Jackie."
"Shows how much you know. He has convictions. And he's smart. He knows what's really going on. He's against the government and he thinks there's a conspiracy to make us all slaves to the Jews."
Grace felt her stomach tighten. "Can't you see, he's just a Nazi creep from some militia? He's trying to brainwash you. You need to find someone decent."
"That's my business."
"He does have guns, doesn't he?"
"Considering what's going on in the world, it's not such a bad idea."
"Stop seeing him."
"You never like my boyfriends, no matter who they are," Jackie pouted.
"We have enough on our plate without him," Grace said.
"You're just angry because you caught us in bed."
"Yes I'm angry! You're underage! How old is he?"
"If you're thinking of turning him in, don't. You'll be looking for trouble," Jackie warned.
"That's exactly what I'm thinking."
"You'd be making a big mistake."
"What are you now, a gun moll?"
"You don't know him. All that matters is that he likes me."
Grace's anger burst through her. "Why shouldn't he like you? You're jailbait."
"What is it with you?" Jackie yelled. She looked at her mom and frowned. "Tell you the truth, I'm jealous of you."
"Of me?"
"He said you were sexier than me. He said you didn't look like a mom, that you didn't know how hot you are. He said he liked you better."
"Is that supposed to be a compliment to me or an insult to you?"
"I think Darryl is right. You should tune into yourself. Give your desires more room to breathe."
"You're sixteen going on fifty," Grace said. She stood up, the last vestiges of restraint collapsing. "And this is the most ridiculous mother-daughter conversation ever."
At that moment, she heard the raucous sound of a motorcycle as it stopped nearby. "I'm not going to stop seeing him," Jackie said.
Jackie ran out of the door before Grace could respond. Looking out the window, she watched Jackie put on a helmet and straddle the bike behind Darryl. Then they roared away. The sound was ominous, like distant thunder warning of an impending storm.
Grace closed the front door and leaned against it for a long moment. Suddenly, all options seemed closed. Except one: Sam Goodwin.
When you're drowning, she thought, you grab anything that floats.
