Riverside Drive. Laura Wormer Van

but…

      But?

      Did Howard realize that Melissa was—was rather special?

      Yes, yes, he certainly did.

      She had smiled, though her eyes had not smiled. Slowly, carefully, she said that Melissa was her only child, that she loved Melissa very, very much, but…

      But?

      Howard could see how spoiled Melissa was, yes?

      Spoiled, nonsense!

      A chuckle from the invalid lady. “Oh, Howard, she’s dreadfully spoiled, and she always will be. Her father has seen to that.”

      Silence.

      “My husband, and please, do understand, Howard—it is out of his love for Melissa that he did it—”

      “Did—”

      “Looked into your background. Your parents, your father’s—real estate business…”

      Sigh. “Mrs. Collins, my father’s not in real estate, he’s in the landscaping business.”

      “Yes. I know. Howard—listen to me, Howard.”

      Silence.

      “You must sit down and explain to Melissa. She—and I’m sure you did not misrepresent it to her—but Melissa led my husband to believe that your father owns half of Columbus.”

      Oh, boy.

      “And you must set my husband straight—now, Howard, before he…”

      Mrs. Collins had started to cry.

      “It’s okay, Mrs. Collins, it’s okay.”

      “She so needs a man who understands her. She’s fragile in ways…Oh, Howard, promise me that you’ll help Melissa leave this house. She won’t be able to do it on her own and I’m too ill…”

      Howard explained everything to Melissa that afternoon, prompting her to moan, “Oh, my God, what will I tell Daddy?” and flee to the guest house. And then Howard found Mr. Collins in the playroom and set him straight about the exact state of his finances and those of his family. Though he had readied himself for a fight, Howard was frankly a little scared when Mr. Collins grabbed the wrong end of a cue stick and smashed the sliding glass door with it. “Goddam carpetbagger!” he screamed, face turning purple. (Mr. Collins was from the South.) He broke the cue stick on the corner of the billiard table and slammed the remaining portion down on it, again and again, ruining the mahogany. “A fraud, a goddam fraud, strutting around here like the King of England!”

      (Years later, Howard realized that it was not the state of his finances that had so enraged Mr. Collins, but that he—having volunteered the information before proposing to Melissa—had disarmed Mr. Collins of the weapon he had been planning to use to get rid of him with. Ill as she was, Mrs. Collins had been quite on the ball.)

      Howard did not hear from Melissa for five days, and then she had called him at work. Could he come to New Canaan? Please, could he? Right now? They needed him, Daddy and she did, desperately. “Oh, Howard, Mother died this morning.”

      Harrison gave him some time off and Howard went out to New Canaan. (Poor Harrison. It had been some time since he had got any real work out of Howard, what with this time-consuming business of courtship.) Mr. Collins didn’t say a word to him, but he did seem relieved that there was someone to look after Melissa as he went through the ordeal of funeral services. And then, after the burial, Mr. Collins disappeared to have some time to himself and Melissa became so hysterical that a doctor had to be called to sedate her.

      “Why did he leave? Why?” she kept crying, Valium seeming to do very little but confuse her and slur her words. But after a few days she started to come around and soon she was not hysterical but furious with her father. She started cursing Daddy and endearing Howard. She started discounting Daddy (“He has no imagination, none”) and overpricing Howard (“No one is smarter than you, Howard, I’m sure of it”). And then she started tearing Daddy apart (“He is heartless and cruel and selfish”) and building Howard up to ever increasing heights (“You are the finest, greatest man I have ever known”).

      (Howard didn’t know what the hell was going on, but he knew he liked it a good deal better than Melissa locking herself in the guest house and Mr. Collins calling him a carpetbagger.)

      And then—and then, the night Howard came upstairs to check on Melissa and found her on her knees, crying next to her mother’s bed. Howard had knelt down beside her, held her close, and told her he loved her. He was not good enough for her, he knew, but he would do everything in his power to make her happy. He loved her, God, how he loved her, and he would take care of her. He would never ever leave her. No, never, and they would have each other, forever and ever and always. “Oh, Melissa, please let me take care of you so you’ll never be hurt again.”

      “Hey, Howie?” Rosanne called from the hall.

      “Yeah?”

      “I want ya to come see Mrs. C on TV. She’s doin’ an editorial or somethin’ and I told her I’d watch.”

      “Yeah, okay.” Mrs. C? What was her name? “Fridays” was how Rosanne usually referred to her.

      Howard wrapped a thick elastic around the manuscript he had (not) been reading and dropped it to the floor. He certainly wasn’t getting much done this morning. But then, even when he was working full throttle these days, he still felt like he was spinning his wheels.

      Howard went into the living room and sat down on the couch. “Turn to Channel 8, would’cha?” Rosanne said, coming in from the kitchen with a toasted bran muffin on a plate. He picked up the remote control from the coffee table and pushed 8. “Oh,” Rosanne said, sitting down cross-legged on the floor, “I found that envelope in the couch. It belongs to her highness.” Howard saw the envelope on the arm of the couch and picked it up while Rosanne hummed along with the theme song of the Mc-Donald’s commercial.

      “138 East 77th Street” the return address said in thin black type.

      Jackass, Howard thought, turning the envelope over.

      “Melissa Collins.”

      Melissa Collins Stewart, jackass.

      “Oh, Howard,” Melissa had said to him when the first one arrived. “Stephen’s just lonely. The divorce really hit him hard.”

      Yeah, right, Howard had thought. So hard that Stephen Manischell felt free to call and write his wife whenever he felt like it.

      “Oh, Howard,” Melissa had said later, “it was entirely accidental. Stephen used to summer on Fishers Island and he rented the house this year not even knowing we’d be there.”

      Yeah, right, Howard had thought.

      “I thought you’d be pleased, Howard,” Melissa had wisely added. “You won’t have to play gin with Daddy.” (Daddy owned a house down the road.) “Stephen loves playing gin with Daddy.”

      Hmmm, Howard had thought, brightening a little.

      What the hell do I care anyway? Howard thought, tossing the envelope on the table. If he gets her in bed, I’ll pay him for the secret of how he did it.

      “She’s on! She’s on!” Rosanne cried, pointing to the screen.

      “Hey—I know her,” Howard said. “What’s her name again?”

      “Mrs. C—now shut up, Howie.”

      Mrs. C was the stunning blonde who lived on the other side of 88th, in 162. Howard had been watching her in passing for years. From the way Rosanne talked about her, Howard had always visualized “Mrs. C” as looking something like his mother (slightly plump, graying, matronly). Melissa knew her from the Block Association but had never introduced him to her. (“Oh, I suppose Cassy’s all right,” Melissa would say, “but not for us.”)

      “How