Riverside Drive

“SHE IS A BORN STORYTELLER!”

—Esther Shapiro, cocreator of Dynasty

“STEAMY…You’ll never watch the TV evening news with such indifference again!”

—Los Angeles Times

“AMBITIOUS!”

—Newsday

“REALISTIC…from cocktail party to block party, through marital and job strife…her realistic characters…combined with occasional blasts of sensational sex, will keep her readers turning the pages.”

—Publishers Weekly

“LIVELY AND CONSISTENTLY ENTERTAINING…

With laugh-out-loud humor and fine appreciation for surprise, Van Wormer moves her characters’ stories briskly…. Well-drawn scenes, deft juggling of plots and subplots, and an ample supply of energetic and well-documented sex…Characters to care about and root for, long after the author’s last word.”

—Stamford Advocate

“SEXY!”

—Kirkus Reviews

“UNIQUE!”

—The Beacon (Macon, MS)

Also by LAURA VAN WORMER

WEST END*

BENEDICT CANYON ANY GIVEN MOMENT*

JURY DUTY TALK*

JUST FOR THE SUMMER

The Sally Harrington Novels

EXPOSÉ*

THE LAST LOVER*

TROUBLE BECOMES HER*

THE BAD WITNESS*

THE KILL FEE*

MR. MURDER*

And look for RIVERSIDE PARK*,

Riverside Drive

Laura Van Wormer

In Memory of My Mother

Margaret Garner Van Wormer

And for My Father

Benjamin Francis Van Wormer

And My “New” Mother

Marjorie Law Ault Van Wormer

I would still be talking rather than writing had it not been for two extraordinary individuals named Loretta Barrett and Ann Douglas. Their wisdom, generosity and powers of reassurance are awe-inspiring. Their spirit is, too. I can only wonder at my good fortune in having met them in this life and say, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for all you have taught me.

CONTENTS

PART I

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

PART II

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

PART III

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

1

The Cochrans have a party

Cassy Cochran was upset.

Michael, her husband, had gone to pick up ice four hours ago and hadn’t been seen since; Henry, her son, was supposed to be back from Shea Stadium but wasn’t; and Rosanne, the cleaning woman, was currently threatening the new bartender in the kitchen with deportation proceedings if he didn’t see her way of doing things.

Not a terrific beginning for a party that Cassy absolutely did not want to have.

“Hey, Mrs. C?” It was Rosanne, standing in the doorway to the living room.

Cassy turned.

“If Mr. C comes back, he’s gonna be pretty upset about how this guy’s settin’ up the bar. Could you—” She frowned suddenly and leaned her head back into the kitchen. “What?” she said. “Well, it’s about time.” Rosanne swung back around the doorway, waving her hand. “Never mind, Mrs. C, Mr. Moscow here suddenly understands English.”

Cassy smiled, shaking her head slightly, and then surveyed the living room. It was a very large, very airy room that, in truth, almost anything would look marvelous in. And Cassy’s taste for antiques (or “early attic,” as Michael described her preference) was especially fitting, seeing as every floorboard in the apartment creaked. But then, the apartment was really much more like a house, a big old country farmhouse, only with high ceilings. And windows. The three largest rooms—the living room, the master bedroom and Henry’s room—all had huge windows facing out on the Hudson River.

The windows had been washed this week. Before, shrouded in a misty gray, the view from the twelfth floor had been eerily reminiscent of London on what Henry called a Sherlock Holmes kind of day. But no, this was New York; and the winter’s soot had all been washed away and the late afternoon April sun, setting across the river in New Jersey, was, at this moment, flooding the living room with gentle light.

For a woman from the Midwest, the view from the Cochrans’ apartment never failed to slightly astonish Cassy. This was New York City? That steely, horrid, ugly place that her mother had warned her about? No, no…Mother had been wrong. Hmmm. Mother had been right about many things, but no, not about New York. Not here. Not the place the Cochrans had made their home.

Sometimes the view made Cassy long to cry. The feeling—whatever it was—would start deep in her chest, slowly rise to her throat and then catch there, hurting her, Cassy unable to bring it up or to press it back down from where it had come. She was feeling that now, holding on to the sash of the middle window, looking out, her forehead resting against the glass.

The Cochrans lived at 162 Riverside Drive, on the north corner of 88th Street. Looking down from the window, Cassy’s eyes crossed over the Drive to the promenade that marked the edge of Riverside Park. The promenade was arbored by maple, oak and elm trees, underneath which, across from the Cochrans’, were a line of cannons from the Revolutionary War, still aimed out toward unseen enemy ships. To the right, up a block, was the gigantic stone terrace around the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument, a circular, pillared tower patterned after the monument of Lysicrates in Athens. But this part of Riverside Drive was built on a major bluff, and it was beneath it that lay the heart of the park’s glory.

Acre upon acre of the park was coming alive under the touch of spring, the trees bursting with new leaves, the dog-woods and magnolias flowering their most precious best. From here, too, Cassy could look down and see the community garden; in a month it would be one long sea of flowers, flowing down through a valley of green.

Traveling down the slope of the park, Cassy’s eyes, out of habit, skipped over the West Side Highway and down to the walkway by the river’s edge. It was green there, too. And then, down there, the Hudson River. Lord, she was beautiful.

It was the river that always played with Cassy’s heart. There were days when Cassy looked out and thought to herself, How does she know? She would be as dark and gray and cold as Cassy felt inside. But then there were those days when the river was as blue and as dazzling as Cassy’s own eyes were. Oh, how awful it was on those days when Cassy’s heart was cold and dark, and the river was so beautiful. Like now. How does she do it? Cassy wondered. The river had all of these crazy New Yorkers on one side of her, and all of these crazy New Jerseyites on the other, forever throwing rocks and trash at her, dumping things in her, and, sometimes, even throwing themselves into her in an effort to get this thing called life over with. And yet…her tides continued to ebb and flow, and the winds continued to blow across her, and her rhythms of regeneration went on, pulling, pulling downward, her glorious expanse gracing the urban landscape, pulling, pulling downward, spending herself, finally, totally, into the relentless mouth of New York Harbor.

Cassy sighed.

“You okay?”

Cassy pressed the bridge of her nose for a moment and then turned around. “I’m fine,” she said. And then she smiled at Rosanne. And then she laughed.

“What?” Rosanne said.

“Well,” Cassy began, pausing, touching at her earring.

Rosanne’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Cassy glanced at her watch and then back to Rosanne. Back to the “Cooperstown Baseball Hall of Fame” bandanna that was slipping down over Rosanne’s eyes. Back to Rosanne’s blue denim shirt, whose shirttail was hanging down to her knees. Back to her jeans, whose hem lay in folds around the top of her Adidases. Back to thin little Rosanne, all five feet of her, standing there, just waiting for Cassy to say it.

Cassy moved forward toward her. “It’s time for you to change,” she said, smiling.

Rosanne looked to the ceiling. “Here we go,” she said. “Ya know, Mrs. C,” she continued, as Cassy took her by the elbow and steered her toward the kitchen, “you never said nothin’ about me havin’ to play dress-up.”

They were in the kitchen now, and Cassy stopped, looking back at Rosanne. She smiled, yanked the bandanna down over Rosanne’s eyes and turned to the bartender. “Have everything you need, Ivor?”

“Yes, Madame Coch-ah-ren,” he replied, bowing slightly.

“Good,” she said, pulling Rosanne along through the kitchen to the back hall. Rosanne scooped up her bag from the counter along the way.

“And I never said I was a caterer,” Rosanne reminded her.

“Right,” Cassy said.

“So I don’t know why you get so picky about what I wear—it’s not as if you like any of these guys.”

They were in the master bedroom now, and Cassy headed toward her closet. “I think you’re going to like it,” she said, opening the doors.

“Mrs. C,” Rosanne said, throwing her bag on the bed, “ya know, if you’d just tell me, I’d bring one of the ones you already got me.”

“Well, I was in Macy’s and there it was, just hanging there, calling, ‘Rosanne, Rosanne, I was made for Rosanne.’”

Rosanne sighed, pulled off her bandanna and shook out her hair. Cassy turned around, holding a pretty blue and black print dress. “Hair,” she said, “good Lord, Rosanne, you have hair.”

“Come on, Mrs. C,” Rosanne said, turning away.

Cassy walked over and laid the dress out on the bed. She looked at Rosanne a moment and then smiled, gently. “Tell me the truth—do you really hate doing this?”

Rosanne shrugged and proceeded to pull some things out of her bag: a slip, some panty hose and a pair of shoes.

The doorbell rang.

“Uh-oh,” Cassy said, looking at her watch, “somebody’s here already. No, let Ivor get it, Rosanne. You go ahead and get changed.”

Rosanne shrugged again and started undoing the buttons of her shirt while Cassy walked back to stand in front of the closet door mirror. She scanned it. A few wisps of blond hair were already falling out of the clip. But her eyes were still blue. Her nose was still perfect. Her mouth still had lipstick. Body was still tall and slim. Bracelets, check. Earrings, check.

Cassy was still beautiful. Cassy was still forty-one. She would not stand closer to the mirror than she was; she would not care to see the reminders of her age showing around her eyes, mouth and neck.

“Don’t know how good Mr. Moscow’s gonna be at greetin’ guests,” Rosanne said.

“Hmmm,” Cassy said, raising her chin slightly, still looking at herself in the mirror.

“And you don’t want to scare him right off the bat,” Rosanne continued.

Cassy laughed.

“They said he was the last bartender they’d send us,” she reminded her.

“Oh, Lord, that’s right.” Cassy closed the closet door and sailed out of the bedroom, down the hall and through the kitchen to the front hall, where she found Ivor standing in front of the open door. “Who is it, Ivor?” When he gave her a vacant look, she stepped forward to peer around his shoulder. “Oh, Amos. Hi.”

“Hi,” Amos Franklin said. Both Ivor’s and Cassy’s eyes were fixed on the stuffed head of an unidentifiable animal that was snarling on top of Amos’ head.

“It’s okay, Ivor,” Cassy said, patting the arm with which Ivor was blocking the door.

Ivor did not seem convinced.

“He’s a guest,” Cassy told him. “We’re supposed to let him in.” Ivor’s eyes shifted to her. She nodded, smiling encouragement. He took one more look out the door, frowned, and slipped behind Cassy to return to the kitchen. “Sorry about that,” Cassy said, waving Amos in. “I have no idea what I’ve done to earn his protection.”

“Any man would want to protect you,” Amos whispered.

Here we go, Cassy thought. Amos was forever whispering little things like that—that is, when his wife wasn’t around. “Nice hat,” she said, snarling fangs sweeping in past her eyes.

“Michael gave it to me for my birthday,” Amos said. He reached up, groped around, and patted the animal on the nose. “I don’t think it’s real, though.”

Cassy led Amos into the living room, explaining that Michael was out getting some ice.

“Good,” Amos said, sitting on the couch and patting the seat next to him, “it will give me a chance to talk to you.”

Cassy sat down in one of the chairs.

“You’re beautiful.”

“What?”

“You’re beautiful,” Amos repeated.

“Ivor!” Cassy called out. He was there like a shot. “Ivor,” Cassy directed, “ask Mr. Franklin what he would like to drink.”

Ivor stared at him.

“Scotch on the rocks,” Amos said.

Ivor moved over to Cassy. Bowing, “Madame?”

“A Perrier with lime, please. Thank you, Ivor.”

Ivor took one more look at Amos and departed.

“So, Amos, tell me how you are.”

Amos was not good. As the head writer for Michael’s newsroom at WWKK, he never made a secret of his keen dislike for Michael Cochran. After a minilecture on the abuse and misuse of Amos Franklin at work, he would invariably end up with a pitch for Cassy to hire him at her station, WST. Cassy’s mind wandered, and as Amos progressed with his story about how “a certain egomaniac who will go unnamed” took credit for a job done by “a certain unsung hero who will go unnamed,” Cassy—not for the first time—thought about Michael’s parties.

Once a month Cassy’s husband wanted to have a party. Cassy had never, ever wanted any of these parties, but it wasn’t because she was antisocial. It was because Michael had this thing about only inviting people who seemed to despise him. And too, they—these people who despised Michael—were all professionally dependent on him. And so, whether it was Amos, or a technical director, or a character generator operator, they all came to Michael’s parties and drank with him and laughed with him and despised him. If Cassy made the mistake of trying to talk Michael out of one of these parties he would go ahead and invite the people anyway and then spring it on her the morning of the day it was being held. This was not the case this Sunday evening, however; this party had been announced Friday night. (“Cocktails.” “For how many?” “Ten, fifty maybe.”)

“Have you met the Kansas Kitten yet?” Amos was asking her, taking his drink from Ivor.

Cassy tried to think. “Oh, the new anchor. No, I haven’t. Thanks, Ivor.” He bowed again.

“Alexandra Waring—that wearing woman, we all call her,” Amos said, stirring his drink with his finger. He put the finger in his mouth for several moments and sent a meaningful look to Cassy—who chose to ignore it. Slightly annoyed, Amos continued. “But you know all about Michael’s private coaching lessons.” When she didn’t say anything, he laughed sharply, adding, “Day and night lessons.”

“If Michael brought Alexandra Waring here from Kansas,” Cassy said, rising out of her chair, “then she must be extraordinarily talented. Excuse me, Amos, I have to check on things in the kitchen.”

“Extraordinarily talented,” she heard Amos say. “Too bad we’re not talking about the newsroom.”

In the kitchen, Cassy told Ivor to listen for the doorbell. “And let whoever it is, Ivor, in. All right? Oh—” She retraced her steps. “Take that tray of hors d’oeuvres in, please. And if that animal tries to bite you, you have my permission to kill it.”

Cassy walked back to the bedroom, knocked, and let herself in. Rosanne was standing in front of the mirror—in the dress. She looked terrific and Cassy told her so, moving over to check the fit from a closer view.

“Did Mr. C lose his keys again?”

“No,” Cassy said, turning Rosanne and looking at the hem, “that was Amos.”

“The guy I threw the sponge at last time?”

“Yes. Rosanne, come here.” Cassy pulled her over to the dressing table and sat her down. She picked up her own brush and paused. To Rosanne’s reflection in the mirror she said, “I want to try something with your hair.” Rosanne shrugged. Cassy took it as consent and started to brush out Rosanne’s long hair.

“Too bad you didn’t have a daughter,” Rosanne said into the mirror.

“Hmmm.” Cassy had hairpins in her mouth. She was bringing the sides of Rosanne’s hair back up off her face. The doorbell rang; Rosanne started to rise; Cassy pushed her back down into the chair. “Not yet.”

Rosanne watched her work for a while and then said, “Who did you play dress-up with before me? Not the kid, I hope.” The kid was Henry, Cassy’s sixteen-year-old son.

“No one,” Cassy said. She looked down into the mirror, turning Rosanne’s head slightly. She considered their progress and then met Rosanne’s eyes. “You know, Rosanne,” she said, “the only reason I do this is because you’ll need it one day.” She paused, letting her hand fall on Rosanne’s shoulder. (The doorbell rang again.) “You’re not going to be cleaning houses forever.” Rosanne’s eyes lowered. “Maybe you don’t think so,” Cassy said, resuming brushing, “but I know so. And I want you to be ready.”

Silence.

It wasn’t a lie, what Cassy had said. But it certainly wasn’t the whole truth behind “playin’ dress-up.” The first time Cassy had coaxed Rosanne out of her usual cleaning garb and into a dress, Cassy had been quite taken aback. For some reason Cassy couldn’t understand, Rosanne seemed determined to conceal from the world not only her body but the basic truth of an attractive face. Here, right now, in the mirror, was a nice-looking young woman with long, wavy brown hair, large brown eyes (with lashes to die for) and a slightly Roman nose. And her skin! Twenty-six years of a difficult life, and yet not a mark was to be found on Rosanne’s complexion.

And so the whole truth had a lot to do with Cassy’s pleasure at performing a miracle make-over. And it did seem miraculous to Cassy, this transformation of Rosanne, because she herself always looked the same—at her best. And Cassy longed for a startling transformation for herself, but there was no transformation to be had. No, that was not true. There was one long, painful, startling transformation left to Cassy now—to lose her beauty to age. Others might not have noticed yet but, boy, she had. Every day. Every single day.

“I want you to enjoy what you have while you’ve got it,” Cassy murmured, picking up an eyeliner pencil.

Rosanne made a face in the mirror (decidedly on the demonic side) and then sighed. “Well, if I’m gonna lose it, maybe I don’t wanna get used to havin’ whatever it is you keep sayin’ I got.”

“Youth,” Cassy said, smiling slightly, tilting Rosanne’s face up. “Close your eyes, please.”

“Youth?” Rosanne said, complying with Cassy’s request. “Man, if this is youth, then middle age’ll kill me for sure.”

“I know what you mean,” Cassy said.

The doorbell rang again.

“So you’re on strike, or what?”

“Maybe,” Cassy said. “Hold still.”

Ten minutes later the doorbell rang again and Cassy hurried to reassess and touch up her work. There was a great deal of noise coming from the front of the apartment now, and Cassy hoped that Ivor hadn’t quit yet. “Okay,” she said, stepping back, “that’s it. If I do say so myself, you look wonderful. Here,” she added, handing Rosanne some earrings, “put those on and then come out and make your debut. I better get out there.”

As Cassy reached the door, Rosanne said, “Hey—Mrs. C.”

“Yes?”

Rosanne was admiring herself in the mirror. “Thanks.”

Cassy smiled. “The pleasure’s all mine.” She turned around and nearly collided with a young woman in the hall. Cassy stepped back, profusely excusing herself. The young woman merely laughed.

Who was this?

Looking at Cassy was the most exquisite set of blue-gray eyes she had ever seen. And the eyes were not alone—great eyebrows, good cheekbones, a wide, lovely mouth. And her hair…This wonderfully dark, wildly attractive hair about the woman’s face.

How young you are, Cassy thought.

“You must be Cassy,” the girl said. Her voice was deep, her diction perfect.

Cassy realized the girl was offering her hand to be shaken and so she took it, and did it, still fascinated with her eyes. “Yes,” she said, “and you’re…?”

“Alexandra Waring,” she said, baring a splendid smile.

Cassy apparently jerked her hand away, for the girl took hold of her arm and said, “I’m sorry, did I startle you?”

Oh, Lord, Cassy thought, you may be the one Michael will want to marry. “How old are you?” Cassy said, cringing inside at how ridiculous the question sounded.

“Twenty-eight,” Alexandra said, laughing.

“Well,” Cassy said, clasping her hands together in front of her and composing herself slightly, “Michael has told me a great deal about you.” When the girl merely continued to smile at her, Cassy shrugged and said, “So—don’t you want to ask me how old I am?”

The girl’s smile turned to confusion on that one, and the moment was saved by Rosanne’s head appearing over Cassy’s shoulder. “I saw you in the Daily News,” she said. “Liz Smith says they’re gonna can Boxby to make room for ya.”

“I really don’t know,” Alexandra said vaguely.

“Better read Liz Smith then,” Rosanne suggested.

“Oh, brother!” cried a booming voice. It was Michael, his six-foot-two frame looming from the other end of the hallway. Cassy could already tell that he was three—no, maybe only two—sheets to the wind. “What are you doing, Cassy, introducing Alexandra to the maid?”

“I was just about to.” Cassy made the appropriate gestures. “Rosanne, this is Alexandra Waring. Alexandra, Rosanne DiSantos.”

Michael laughed, lumbering down to the group. “Who is this?” he cried, reaching around Cassy to pull Rosanne out into view. “Wooo-weee, look at you! How did you get so gorgeous?”

“Hey, watch the merchandise,” Rosanne warned him.

Alexandra turned to Cassy, smiling slightly. “Has she worked for you long?”

Cassy glanced at her. “Three years.” Her eyes swung back to Michael. “Not to be nosy, but where have you been?”

“Out,” Michael said, yanking the skirt of Rosanne’s dress.

“Yeah,” Rosanne said, yanking her dress back. “Five hours gettin’ ice. Gettin’ iced is more like it.”

“Big bad Rosanne, huh?” Michael said, putting up his dukes.

“You two—” Cassy began.

“Hey, Mr. C,” Rosanne said, sparring as best she could in the confined space, “listen, we gotta go easy on Mr. Moscow tonight. He’s the last guy they’ll send over.”