He knew that this meeting, this very relationship, was why Olga had agreed to accompany him to this party in the first place. Now that it was budding, he resented that she had found her way to Mrs. Blumenthal on her own. More than anything, though, he resented that just being with him for the day would not have been enough for her.
“Darling,” he said, as he slipped a hand around her waist, a bit more firmly than he’d intended to. Her postured stiffened. “There are so many people here that I want to introduce you to.”
Olga, Dick noticed, had a way of laughing in public that was not quite her private laugh. It was rounder, going up and then down, like a song she’d practiced. She laughed that way now, as she gently touched Mrs. Blumenthal’s shoulder.
“Dick, who could possibly be more important than our hostess?” She paused and Dick simply stared at her. “Prieto! Prieto,” she called to her brother and he stopped what he was doing and turned his attention to her, “come here. I told Laurel that you would fill her in on your plan to protect women’s reproductive rights.”
Dick noticed the way Mrs. Blumenthal looked at Olga with wonder, admiring her ability to command her powerful brother that way.
“You, Mr. Eikenborn,” she said to Dick, “are one lucky man!”
“I know,” he said as he guided Olga away and scooped two mojitos off a tray, one for each of them. For a moment, a brief moment, he felt the day had been turned around.
Dick guided them towards a step and repeat, where the Times society photographer snapped a pic in which he made sure to press Olga close to him. （It was beneath him, he knew, but he loved knowing his ex-wife would see this as she thumbed through the Sunday Styles section.） He then directed them towards some of his old classmates from Exeter, who he knew, once they met Olga, would be gossiping about him for the next month at least. Olga was just engaging in a spirited conversation with Nick Selby over the further development of their waterfront property in Brooklyn when there was a loud commotion, and the evening’s true calamity ensued. A service tray came flying out of nowhere, the top half of a cocktail table was severed from its lower parts, and suddenly, sprawled on the floor was a large puddle of mojitos and a tall, lanky Black man in highly impractical shoes. Everyone turned to see.
“Christian!” Olga exclaimed.
“I think you mean Christ, dear,” Nick Selby offered.
“I know how to curse, for fuck’s sake. His name is Christian.”
What followed played out, for Dick at least, in slow motion. Olga was wearing a sensational jade green summer dress that hugged her every curve, and these elaborate high-heeled sandals, but she effortlessly glided over to this Black man on the floor, squatted down, and held out her hand to help him up. Then, once standing, they hugged for a moment. Longer than a moment really, because Dick had enough time to watch her do it and then watch his buddies from Exeter also watch her. She wiped a tear from the man’s eye, kissed his cheek, and directed him somewhere. Rather than leave well enough alone—to be content with her act of kindness—she then proceeded to go to the rear of the tent, where the drinks and the food had been coming from, and he could hear her, faintly, barking orders. She reemerged with a small army of staff, some with mops, some just picking things up. On the far side of the tent, where he could spot Meegan and Trip and Mr. Blumenthal （that lucky shit Trip should thank his stars he walked in with him!）， he could tell no one noticed any of it. The Brazilian band continued playing their Samba. （Ah! That was the theme! Brazil!） People kept drinking. But in his corner of the tent, the only show that mattered was Olga leading the clean-up crew. In his corner of the tent was Mrs. Blumenthal and her daughter. He wanted to evaporate. It was a feeling he’d never known before.
“Well,” one of his Exeter buddies exclaimed, “she’s certainly different than the former Mrs. Eikenborn, isn’t she?”
He was walking over towards Olga to stop the humiliation, but Laurel and her daughter intercepted him, broad smiles on their faces.
“Olga!” Laurel exclaimed. “Did you know I used to do summer stock?”
Olga appeared confused and nodded no.
“Well, nothing teaches you that hard work is talent’s best companion quite like summer stock. I knew you had talent, but you, my dear, are not afraid of W-O-R-K! My husband’s friends are lovely, but they don’t understand working girls like us, dear.”
From where he stood, he could see Olga, his Olga, reassert herself, her shoulders tipped back and her head back up high.