Gold Diggers Read online

  The esteemed Baines family had been wealthy and powerful for generations, back when Negroes were property themselves. The Baineses were fiercely proud of their auspicious heritage—slave-rape beginnings and all—and considered it their responsibility to breed only into families of similar status. When June married a poor, dark-skinned man with no pedigree, the unblessed union sullied their pristine gene pool, and, unfortunately, Paulette was the by-product.

  If Paulette could handle all she’d been through, Lauren reminded herself, surely she could handle Max. But before she could adequately shore herself up, she heard the chirping of the door’s alarm sensor. Her wayward husband had returned home. Lauren was as nervous as if she were the one caught having an illicit affair. She took a deep breath to calm her shaky nerves, straightened her back, and held her head high as she marched through the spacious brownstone to confront him in his den, the first place he always stopped whenever he entered the house. Every evening Max walked in and compulsively checked his computer screen for the status of the world financial markets, keeping a wary eye out for any changes that might affect their overall net worth, as though his own blood, sweat, and tears had earned every dime. In truth, those seven zeros behind the comma were the result of his ability to woo Lauren, thus leading her, her mother, and a chunk of their money right down the aisle. Even though there were ropes tied to the hefty sum—namely remaining married to Lauren—it was worth every penny to be able to go to bed comforted by the presence of so much dough.

  Soothed by Paulette’s report of how well her conversation with Lauren had gone, Max was no longer worried. In fact, he didn’t even bother to look up from the computer monitor when he heard Lauren walk through the door.

  “Max, where were you?” Lauren demanded, trying to remain calm and not give her hand away too quickly.

  He was taken aback. Based on Paulette’s recounting, he hadn’t thought Lauren would question him at all. “Out to dinner. Why?” Nonetheless, he was wily enough to know not to offer any details while under inquisition. He remembered telling Lauren the lie about having dinner with his business partner, and instinctively knew he’d better leave room to wiggle out of it if necessary.

  “With whom?” she asked. Normally she wouldn’t dream of questioning him, but emboldened by her knowledge of his lie, she went for it.

  Max saw red flags whipping in the wind. She somehow knew that he hadn’t been at dinner with Rob, so he’d have to sidestep across a land mine of his own lies. He looked up from the computer and decided that the best offense was always a good defense, especially where Lauren was concerned. “Why are you questioning me?”

  She stood her ground. “Why don’t you answer me?”

  “To be honest, I’m a little upset. I’ve been working since seven o’clock this morning, and it’s unsettling to be greeted with a Spanish inquisition when I enter my own home twelve long hours later,” he retorted, with more than a dose of outraged indignation.

  His tone and anger caught Lauren off guard. She’d expected to hold all the cards and easily trap him in a twist of lies. But she wouldn’t give up that easily; she still held her ace of spades. “For your information, I know that you didn’t have dinner with Rob. He called and said he was still out of town.” Her tone was icy as she stood over him with her arms folded across her chest.

  Max swallowed the sigh of relief he felt for not leaning on the shaky lie he’d set up that morning. “So?”

  Lauren looked as though she’d been jabbed with a left. “So? You told me you were having dinner with Rob tonight.”

  “I was until his secretary called to cancel earlier today.” He stood up and towered over her, using his six-foot-one height to his full advantage.

  She hadn’t thought of that possibility. Of course Rob’s secretary would have managed his schedule more efficiently than he had, but that still didn’t explain where Max had been. “So where were you?”

  He grabbed the newspaper from the desk and faced her again. “If you must know, Danny and I met to prepare for next week’s board meeting. Is that all right with you?” he asked snidely. When she didn’t have a ready comeback, Max sidestepped Lauren and walked out of the room, leaving her standing there with her foot lodged firmly in her mouth.

  TWO

  Paulette’s mouth was fixed in a snarly pout as she lay on her now-empty bed, remembering the day four years earlier when their unwitting ménage à trois had begun.

  As usual, Lauren had shown up at Paulette’s office finely turned out on that early summer afternoon: Hermès khaki pantsuit, a tasteful bag from Gucci’s new summer collection, and fresh but subtle makeup. Her unaffected air of superiority was worn as casually as a second layer of skin. She wasn’t necessarily arrogant, just supremely comfortable in her uncontested role as the most beautiful, best-bred, and wealthiest well-connected girl in most social circles. Thanks to ancestors with good DNA, astute social-climbing skills, and a legacy of trust funds, Lauren’s life had been carefully crafted, paid for in full, and neatly wrapped in Tiffany blue.

  “Hi, I’m Lauren. I’m here for lunch with Paulette.”

  “Miss Dolliver is just wrapping up a meeting and should be with you momentarily,” Paulette’s assistant chirped with an ultrabright smile plastered across her face. “Have a seat; it shouldn’t be too long.”

  While Lauren cooled her four-inch Chanel sling-backs, she picked up the latest copy of Uptown magazine. The hot publication was the uncontested barometer for hip social movers and shakers. Leafing through the glossy pages, Lauren saw several pictures of friends and acquaintances she’d met over the years in Boston, Martha’s Vineyard, and Manhattan, all smiling broadly at various New York social events. There was even a photo of one of her college roommates grinning like a Cheshire cat on crack, alongside the handsome bachelor, Maximillian Neuman III, at the Studio Museum’s spring gala. After spying the same photo days earlier, her mother, Mildred, had speed-dialed Lauren, fully armed with the man’s bio. In short order she’d proclaimed him acceptable “son-in-law material.” Sometimes Lauren rightfully wondered whether it ever mattered to her mother if a prospect were “husband” material. She strongly (and correctly) guessed that it did not.

  Mildred Baines-Dawson epitomized the second generation Jack-and-Jiller; she was someone who was capable of measuring her own success only by executing a direct comparison to the Joneses, the Smiths, the Hunnicutts, et al. Since Lauren was her only daughter, and by extension a direct reflection on and of her, Lauren’s script called for a handsome and successful leading man to be guided, with great grand fanfare, down the wedding aisle. The “blessed” union was then to quickly produce two kids, preferably a boy and a girl—in that order. Later, if Lauren so chose, she could work outside of the home, perhaps volunteering on occasion for an of-the-moment charitable board, since it was considered (at least by Mildred) to be très gauche for a woman of her status to ever actually need to make money—but spending it was another matter entirely.

  In fact, Lauren’s script was just an updated, brushed-off reenactment of Mildred’s own, which had been—for the most part—flawlessly executed decades ago. She had her $8 million Westchester mansion, a pied-à-terre in the city, a five-bedroom beach house in Martha’s Vineyard, a brand-new Jaguar XL, a wood-paneled boudoir full of designer clothes, and all the other necessary accoutrements that bespoke wealth and fine living. Never mind the intermittent bouts of clinical depression, the countless sleepless nights, or her increasing reliance on vodka gimlets, starting the moment the clock struck five. Those little trifles aside, Mildred’s life was perfect!

  The only unscripted scene was when her son, Gregory, abruptly yet flamboyantly exited the closet at the age of twenty-one, leaving a serious legacy issue for Mildred. There would be no male bloodline to carry on the illustrious family heritage. After months of intense therapy, outright bribery, and high-scale histrionics, Mildred finally gave up claim to her son’s sp
erm supply, which meant that all procreation obligations were left squarely in Lauren’s lap. Unfortunately, Lauren graduated from Harvard undergrad without an engagement ring, so plan B was swiftly called into action.

  Lauren was going to law school. Mildred reasoned that this was an acceptable way to pass more time until Mr. Just Right showed up. Mildred even adjusted a few of her previously ironclad requirements. Before, only another blue-chip black would be considered, but time was ticking, so Mildred deigned—to herself—to consider young men who were merely accomplished and attractive, since her family was already well stocked with a lofty pedigree from which to look down on the rest of the world.

  Ever the strategist, Mildred chose Columbia to keep Lauren visible in the most lucrative breeding ground in the country: Manhattan. As she pointed out on more than one occasion, it was only in New York City that Lauren would have access to Wall Street tycoons, media moguls, and heads of business, all on one ten-mile island. Of course, athletes and entertainers were also plentiful, but, regardless of bank accounts, as far as Mildred was concerned they need not apply.

  “Hey, girl. Sorry I’m late, but a couple of meetings ran over; you know how it is,” Paulette said.

  Lauren stood and gave her cousin a hug and an air kiss. “No problem. I’m just glad you could find time in your busy schedule,” she teased, nudging Paulette with her elbow.

  Paulette blushed unconsciously, enjoying, for once in her life, that she had something her wealthy cousin didn’t. Since opening About Time Publicity two years ago, Paulette had made quite a splash in the choppy waters of celebrity publicity. Just last week she’d been featured in Essence magazine, and was a party-page regular in publications ranging from Town and Country to Gotham.

  Fifteen minutes later they were settled at a prime outdoor table at Pastis, watching the nonstop parade of fashionistas, metrosexuals, and others drift by. It was one of those incredible afternoons that made living in New York—regardless of the ups and downs—fully worth the high price of admission.

  “So, what’s the big news?” Paulette asked after placing their drink orders. She relished playing the wise older cousin. For Paulette, theirs truly was a love/hate relationship, whose balance teetered precariously from one moment to the next.

  “I’ve decided to go to law school,” Lauren announced, wearing a look that begged for Paulette’s approval. And for that reason alone, she’d never get it.

  “You decided, or your mother decided?” Paulette gave her an appraising look. She knew her aunt all too well. The woman lived her daughter’s life as if it were her second act—Lauren was simply Mildred’s body double.

  Lauren gave Paulette a tight smile. “Well, she suggested it, but what else am I supposed to do?”

  “God forbid, you could do what hundreds of thousands of other college graduates do—you could get a job.” She gave Lauren a wide-eyed did-you-think-of-that look. “It’s not like you’ve got a degree from Podunk Community College. You went to Harvard, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Mom said—”

  “Enough about what your mom said. You sound like a four-year-old. What do you want?”

  Lauren bristled at Paulette’s sharp tone. Slinging her straight auburn hair over one shoulder, she brusquely retorted, “If I didn’t want to go to law school, certainly I wouldn’t do it. After all, it is my decision.”

  “Glad to hear that,” Paulette snapped back. Fortunately the waitress appeared with their drinks, helping to take the edge off of the brusque exchange. Lauren had ordered a French rose, and Paulette requested her favorite summer drink, a mojito. She took a sip, savoring the mint-infused rum concoction, and bracing herself for the rest of the inane conversation that was sure to follow. “So where are you going?”

  “To Columbia.”

  Suddenly a frightening thought torpedoed Paulette’s composure: Instead of being tucked away in Boston, or anywhere else on the planet, Lauren would now be encroaching on her territory, the isle of Manhattan. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea. Truth be told, she was sure: She hated it! Having Lauren stuck up in Boston the last four years, while Paulette was making her mark in New York, had been great. It was one thing to be the poor relative from the other side of the tracks when her family was hundreds of miles away, but facing that indignity in her own city was something else altogether. Paulette tried to swallow her concern along with her cocktail. “So, when are you moving?”

  “I figured I’d get an early start on finding and decorating an apartment. So, rather than wait until the fall, I’ve decided to stay for the rest of the summer.” She practically glowed with excitement.

  Paulette wasn’t nearly as excited. She had been sure—and happy to know—that her cousin was leaving the city for Martha’s Vineyard this very weekend.

  “Oh, that’s great!” Paulette lied, chasing her lie down with another long sip of her cocktail.

  “I’m really looking forward to hanging out in New York.” Though, growing up in Westchester, Lauren had spent time in the city her whole life, living here was an entirely different matter. “Speaking of hanging out, what are you doing later?” It was Thursday, the best party night in the city.

  “Nothing, girl. I’ve gotta work.” This was partially true. Paulette attended most of the hottest parties in town, but as a publicist, she did it under the guise of work.

  Lauren gave her the little pout that had worked like a snake charm on her father for years. “I really wanted to hang out.”

  There was no way that Paulette would willingly assist Lauren in scaling Manhattan’s social ladder. She had enough of a head start already, with her family money and famous (at least in the “right” circles) Baines-Dawson surname. Besides, who needed the extra competition? It was hard enough to get noticed among all of the Gucci-clad, size-four-wearing females constantly prowling the streets, so why add another? Especially a beautiful, rich cousin?

  After settling the tab—which, as usual, Lauren picked up compliments of the Baines-Dawson family credit card—they were heading up Ninth Avenue. “Paulette!” They turned to find a statuesque, buttery-complexioned beauty with long, dark, wavy hair that flowed over her shoulder caressing full but perky breasts. She looked like Thandie Newton with J.Lo’s body and Nicole Kidman’s height. “I thought that was you.”

  “Oh, hey, girl.” Paulette looked a tad uncomfortable.

  “I saw that your assistant RSVP’d for you to attend tonight’s party. That’s great! You know it’s gonna be hot. Everybody will be there. Oh, and of course you’ll have VIP access.” Mystery Girl was obviously very excited about this little soiree that Paulette had conveniently forgotten.

  “Oh, yes.” Paulette bumped the heel of her hand to the side of her forehead, as though all thoughts of this hot party had escaped her. “I’d forgotten about it.”

  The dark-haired diva turned to Lauren and extended a beautifully manicured hand. “Hi, I’m Reese. Reese Hutton.”

  “I’m Paulette’s cousin, Lauren Baines-Dawson.”

  Reese lit up. “It’s great to meet you, Lauren.” Turning to Paulette, she asked, “Is Lauren joining us tonight?” Reese was an assistant coordinator for Uptown magazine. Though she’d been hired to assist Jocelyn Taylor, the associate publisher, what she did best was make sure that she attended every entertainment-related party in the city, often by tossing around the magazine’s name as though it were free currency. The party tonight was being given by the magazine in honor of the sexy Oscar-winning actor Denzel Washington.

  Before Paulette could conjure up a plausible excuse as to why her cousin couldn’t join them, Lauren answered the question herself. “I’d love to!”

  “Great! Gillian, my roommate—she just finished Jelly’s Last Jam on Broadway,” Reese explained to Lauren, “will also be hanging out with us. It’ll be fun—plus I’ll have a car and driver, so I’ll pick you guys up, say, around nine? We’ll have dinner fi
rst.”

  Continuing up Ninth Avenue, Lauren excitedly pulled out her cell phone, calling Joseph’s Hair Salon, insisting that Joseph Junior squeeze her in for an emergency visit. As far as she was concerned, tonight could serve as her adult entrée to the fabulous social scene in New York. Now she need only look her best—which was never difficult for her to do.

  Paulette had walked beside her, feeling like a lamb being led to slaughter. Somehow she had known that that night would be a turning point for them both, but not necessarily in a good direction.

  Now, four years later, as Paulette sat in bed simmering in Lauren’s husband’s wet spot while he raced off home to appease his simpering wife, she was surer than ever that that night had been the beginning of a bad accident waiting to happen.

  THREE

  Later that fateful night, after Lauren inserted herself into Paulette’s carefully crafted life, their course, along with their friends, became set for the next five years.

  “Heeey, boo,” Reese crooned into her cell phone, which she had cradled between her diamond-studded ear and shoulder. She tossed a sly smile to Paulette, Gillian, and her new friend, Lauren. Their stiletto heels were kicked back in a sleek Mercedes limo on the way to the hip New York nightclub Nikki Beach. “I know; I miss you already, too, baby cakes,” she lied smoothly. She winked at her partners in crime, who were barely able to stifle a rousing case of the giggles. Earlier, at Nobu, “baby cakes” had picked up a hefty tab for a fabulous dinner, so they’d had the pleasure of meeting the disheveled but sinfully rich older Jewish man whose money Reese spent on a regular basis. He was her plan B in case her NBA-playing boyfriend, Chris, dropped the ball. She’d had Chris on the hook for three years now, but so far he’d eluded her clutches.