her polite and sincere condolences to his mother. Brooke hugged Liesel and grasped her son’s hand as they shared a silent moment acknowledging the loss of Ruthie.
“Well, I hope you all took the bus,” said Grant to some chuck-ling guests. Chase smiled, recalling how his grandmother, who always had a driver, loved taking the bus and would often still take it to remind her of her childhood on the Upper East Side, even though she could be in a quiet and far less crowded chauffeur-driven Denali, or, as she called it, “a living room on wheels.” Chase recalled her saying once that if she wanted to be in her living room she’d stay at home, but that she preferred to be in the outside world, among the people. Brooke always scoffed at this, saying that it was ridiculous for a high-profile political wife to choose public transportation, but only on occasion over the years would someone stop her on the bus. In her old age, though, she rarely ventured out without her nurse. Her few short blocks’ stroll each day made her feel part of society, like a citizen of the world instead of a holed-up hermit.
And now she was gone. Chase was beside himself, and while he also grieved for his mother and aunts, deep down he felt like no one had had the connection with Ruthie that he had. No one else had her irreverent sass, her sailor’s tongue, her desire to be real, unedited, unencumbered by rules. And no one knew him the way his beloved grandmother had. Theirs was a special bond that no one could possibly understand.
Liesel hugged him and offered bland words of comfort. “She led such a good life, sweetie, you were truly the most devoted grandson.”
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
“Ninety-two is a ripe old age,” she continued. “It’s really a blessing she didn’t suffer for longer.”
She was right; pain is always relative, and sure, losing someone who is young is much worse and more tragic. Chase knew Ruthie was old, and he had been expecting this, but that didn’t change the fact that he lost someone who was such a huge and guiding force in his life.
“Honey,” Liesel said, patting his head as he lay in bed later that night, fighting in vain to sleep. “She lived a long, fulfilling life! It’s a blessing she didn’t suffer. You know she didn’t want to suffer.” Chase blinked back any emotion, swallowing the growing lump in his throat, and he rolled over and pretended to fall into slumber.
17
A diamond cannot be polished without friction, nor a man perfected without trials.
—Chinese proverb
O f all people, it was Otto who tried to fix up Eden at his birthday dinner in March at Moto in Brooklyn. She thought it would be the right thing to attend and help him celebrate, as they were still friends, so she went, but she cringed as Mary giggled at Otto’s every word. John Cavett Morley, a famous writer who had come of age with Otto and was in the Clydes’ circle of friends, had asked if he could bring his old pal Rory Sussman, her fix-up, who was not-so-subtly seated next to her.
“So what do you do, Rory?” Eden asked in a bit of a revenge-fueled flirt.
“I’m actually a hotelier. I just opened a boutique hotel in West Hollywood. Starck designed it and Kelly Wearstler decorated it. You should come for a visit.”
“I always thought it was funny how people could be a hotelier instead of what they called ’em back home in the sticks,” Eden said.
“Oh yeah,” said Rory, turned on by her not-giving-a-shit-about-him tone. “What do you call them at home?”
“Innkeepers.”
Rory grinned. Most girls threw themselves at him, but this gal was trickier, more confident. He was worldly and grand, a sexy scenester presiding over countless special events at his Hollywood haunt, with multiple slashies (model slash actress slash massage therapist slash whore) roaming his lobby. He’d suffered a freak heart attack after two helpings of foie gras, and it changed his life. Now he lived for the
“Well, I hope you all took the bus,” said Grant to some chuck-ling guests. Chase smiled, recalling how his grandmother, who always had a driver, loved taking the bus and would often still take it to remind her of her childhood on the Upper East Side, even though she could be in a quiet and far less crowded chauffeur-driven Denali, or, as she called it, “a living room on wheels.” Chase recalled her saying once that if she wanted to be in her living room she’d stay at home, but that she preferred to be in the outside world, among the people. Brooke always scoffed at this, saying that it was ridiculous for a high-profile political wife to choose public transportation, but only on occasion over the years would someone stop her on the bus. In her old age, though, she rarely ventured out without her nurse. Her few short blocks’ stroll each day made her feel part of society, like a citizen of the world instead of a holed-up hermit.
And now she was gone. Chase was beside himself, and while he also grieved for his mother and aunts, deep down he felt like no one had had the connection with Ruthie that he had. No one else had her irreverent sass, her sailor’s tongue, her desire to be real, unedited, unencumbered by rules. And no one knew him the way his beloved grandmother had. Theirs was a special bond that no one could possibly understand.
Liesel hugged him and offered bland words of comfort. “She led such a good life, sweetie, you were truly the most devoted grandson.”
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
“Ninety-two is a ripe old age,” she continued. “It’s really a blessing she didn’t suffer for longer.”
She was right; pain is always relative, and sure, losing someone who is young is much worse and more tragic. Chase knew Ruthie was old, and he had been expecting this, but that didn’t change the fact that he lost someone who was such a huge and guiding force in his life.
“Honey,” Liesel said, patting his head as he lay in bed later that night, fighting in vain to sleep. “She lived a long, fulfilling life! It’s a blessing she didn’t suffer. You know she didn’t want to suffer.” Chase blinked back any emotion, swallowing the growing lump in his throat, and he rolled over and pretended to fall into slumber.
17
A diamond cannot be polished without friction, nor a man perfected without trials.
—Chinese proverb
O f all people, it was Otto who tried to fix up Eden at his birthday dinner in March at Moto in Brooklyn. She thought it would be the right thing to attend and help him celebrate, as they were still friends, so she went, but she cringed as Mary giggled at Otto’s every word. John Cavett Morley, a famous writer who had come of age with Otto and was in the Clydes’ circle of friends, had asked if he could bring his old pal Rory Sussman, her fix-up, who was not-so-subtly seated next to her.
“So what do you do, Rory?” Eden asked in a bit of a revenge-fueled flirt.
“I’m actually a hotelier. I just opened a boutique hotel in West Hollywood. Starck designed it and Kelly Wearstler decorated it. You should come for a visit.”
“I always thought it was funny how people could be a hotelier instead of what they called ’em back home in the sticks,” Eden said.
“Oh yeah,” said Rory, turned on by her not-giving-a-shit-about-him tone. “What do you call them at home?”
“Innkeepers.”
Rory grinned. Most girls threw themselves at him, but this gal was trickier, more confident. He was worldly and grand, a sexy scenester presiding over countless special events at his Hollywood haunt, with multiple slashies (model slash actress slash massage therapist slash whore) roaming his lobby. He’d suffered a freak heart attack after two helpings of foie gras, and it changed his life. Now he lived for the
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