physicality, a puppyish lack of coordination, a sort of comical deficit of grace that had earned him the nickname “Crash.” “Hello, my love. Sorry.” “Hello, Russell. I don’t know if you remember Luke McGavock. And this is his wife, Gazelle.” “Giselle, actually.” Yes, she knew, but she couldn’t help herself, and was that a look of amused complicity on Luke’s face? “My husband, Russell Calloway.” “The man of the hour,” Russell said, shaking Luke’s hand. “I’m grateful to you and all the other guests,” said Luke before excusing himself to be towed off by a woman with a clipboard. “Interesting guy,” Russell said after they’d both been swallowed by the crowd. “Tom was just telling me his story.” “I know,” she said. “We worked together for six weeks.” Russell looked blank. “Ground Zero, soup kitchen.” “Oh, right.” Five years later—another era. “You met him once outside Lincoln Center, just before The Nutcracker. ” Russell shrugged. He didn’t seem to remember one of the pivotal moments of Corrine’s life, had no idea that the complex emotional transaction of that encounter had preserved his marriage. Russell’s obtuseness had been a blessing in the event; he’d never suspected anything, so far as she could tell, never noticed how thoroughly she’d withdrawn from him back then, how close she’d come to leaving. The lights were pulsing, summoning them to the main event. “We’d better find our table,” he said. She felt the familiar pressure of Russell’s hand on her elbow, guiding her forward into the throng, the radiant, bejeweled women with their taut faces stretched back over their ears, and their sinking cleavage, the men in their bespoke tuxedos with faraway stares, thinking about share prices in Hong Kong and mistresses in condos in the East Sixties. Seeing Casey, their hostess, standing at the table, Corrine won- dered if this had been some kind of setup. How could she not have mentioned, when she invited Corrine, that this was Luke’s charity? But what was the point, exactly? Luke was married, as was she. So maybe it was a coincidence. “Corrine, you know Kip, of course,” Casey said, indicating Russell’s business partner. “And this is Carl Fontaine, who works with Tom,” she added, directing her attention toward a burly young man with thinning hair and a florid complexion. “A pleasure,” he said. “I can see I’m very well seated tonight.” She wished she could say the same, but at least his enthusiasm seemed genuine. She walked around to double-kiss Tom, who was fiddling with his BlackBerry, and Kip’s wife, Vanessa; they agreed unanimously that their children were doing very well, indeed, thank you. The tables were extravagantly decorated in a safari motif— herds of toy elephants, rhinos and hippos wandering over the zebra-print tablecloths, a tropical jungle sprouting from a sisal bowl in the center. “I’m actually dying to hear all about the charity,” Corrine announced, taking up the glossy magazine-size brochure on her plate that featured a picture of Luke standing
amid a sea of African schoolchildren. “Well,” Kip said, “McGavock was a founding partner in the Riverhead Group, one of the top private equity firms. Big player. He retired a few years back, bought a winery in South Africa and planned to sit and watch the Cabernet Sauvignon ripen, but you know, guys like us, you can’t just sit on your ass no matter how much capital you’ve piled up, and sure enough he finds a project.” “I don’t know if I’d call her a project,” said the man next to Vanessa. “More like a trophy.” “Tony, you’re terrible,” said Vanessa, who, Corrine knew, had once been a trophy herself, and seemed genuinely amused by this remark. “A little young,” Kip said. “No, it’s actually age-appropriate for the second wife,” Tony said. “The formula’s half your age plus six years.” Carl Fontaine picked up the Luke narrative: “Of course, vineyards are pretty labor-intensive, and he started getting involved with his workers. Adopted the village. Built a school and a clinic, and now he’s encouraging his old friends to do the same.” Proud of Luke, Corrine wondered how much it cost to adopt a village. He really was a good man, a generous soul. She’d always known that about him. But how could he have gotten remarried without telling her? “What’s with the scar?” Tony asked. “Car crash,” Fontaine said. “Luke spent, like, three months in the hospital.” Corrine tried to conceal her distress by waving over the waiter. Perhaps the girl had been at his bedside and he’d married her out of gratitude. She held out her wineglass for a refill of Sauvignon blanc, which Kip informed her was from Luke’s winery. “It’s actually surprisingly good,” Russell said. “And I don’t normally go for New World wines.” Did South Africa qualify as NewWorld? she wondered. Wasn’t it the birthplace of the species? The home of Lucy and all those other hominid fossils? Didn’t get much older than that. She brooded through the first course, imagining Luke’s suffering, listening to Tom and the older man to his left comparing notes on game camps in Africa, arguing the virtues of Kenya versus South Africa. “Singita Boulder’s incredible. Amazing chef.” “We were at Masai Mara last year. Top of the line. Saw the big five.” “What exactly are the big five?” Corrine asked. “Five toughest game animals: lion, elephant, Cape buffalo, leopard, rhinoceros.” Vanessa said, “I thought the big five were cats—lion, tiger, leopard, cheetah and . . . panther?” “No, no,” Russell chimed in from the other side of the table. “The tiger doesn’t live in Africa, and the panther’s actually just a melanistic variant of the leopard.” He’d never been to Africa, but he’d read all of Hemingway. Setting aside her notion of Giselle as nurse, Corrine imagined her as a predator, stalking Luke. He’d been alone in a strange land; she was a native, on familiar terrain, hunting him down. As smart and successful as he was, he was, like most men, emotionally naïve. His ex-wife, Sasha, had played him for years. Someone onstage was talking about what a terrific guy he was,
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