The White Rose by Jean Hanff Korelitz Read Free Book Online

hostilities to read her book?
    “Poor man.” Valerie shrugs off her coat. “So lonely. Imagine what his life must be like, with those bodyguards. I tell you, they looked like longshoremen.”
    Marian clucks sympathetically. She watches, with resignation, as Valerie slings her coat over one of the foyer chairs.
    “Marian,” says Barton, who has appeared in the doorway of the living room, pointedly holding his empty glass. “I didn’t know you were expecting company.”
    “I wasn’t!” she says brightly. “This is an unexpected…”
    “I always try to be unexpected!” Valerie says, clicking across to him with her immaculate hand outstretched. “You must be Marian’s cousin! There’s certainly a family resemblance.”
    He takes the hand. “The Warburg chin,” he says, seriously. “It’s quite distinct.”
    “Warburg?” she chirps. “As in Warburg?”
    Barton looks sharply at Marian. The notion that she has not informed each and every one of her acquaintances of her Our Crowdliness is nothing short of astounding to him. “Certainly,” he says fiercely, as if his very manhood has been challenged.
    Valerie pivots on the spike of her heel, without letting go of Barton’s hand. “Marian,” she scolds.
    “On my father’s side,” Marian says, with reluctance. “My father and Barton’s mother were brother and sister.”
    “Well, of course!” Valerie says soothingly. “And where have you been hiding yourself, Mr. Warburg?”
    For a minute he looks abashed, but he recovers. “My mother was a Warburg. My father’s name was Ochstein. Which is also my name.” He has always resented that, Marian thinks. That Marian, a mere female, got the Warburg surname for her very own (and then was so poor a guardian that she traded it for her husband’s!) while he, though obsessively attentive to family history, is one name removed from their illustrious mutual ancestor. Marian has sometimes known Barton to refer to himself as Barton Warburg Ochstein, though she knows perfectly well that his middle name is Samuel.
    “Well, Mr. Ochstein,” Valerie says. “Don’t tell me we’ve met before! I’ve met many, many people, but I would certainly have remembered you.” She has left him and his hand in her wake, now, and moved into the living room. Marian and Barton meekly follow her. “Do you live abroad? Are you in town for this party at the Guggenheim?”
    It takes Marian a moment to understand this question. To Valerie and her ilk, charitable events are entirely divorced from the actual causes they benefit. They are parties. With themes. Valerie, more likely than not, has no idea that tonight’s very elaborate shindig is meant to fund art programs for inner-city children.
    “Not abroad,” he responds, sinking again into the soft cushions of the couch. “Only as far as Rhinebeck. My home is The Retreat. It once belonged to Henry Wharton Danvers.”
    Henry Wharton Danvers? Valerie frowns.
    “Surely…” he begins, but she interrupts with gaiety.
    “Oh, I’m an utter moron! You must understand! That’s why my column is so successful. Because people are forever having to explain things to me! They sit me down, and they say, ‘Valerie, you’re clearly ignorant, my dear, so I’m going to tell you everything.’ And they do!”
    “Column,” Barton says, puzzled.
    “In the New York Ascendant. I am the Celebrant,” she says, solemnly.
    “Ah.” He is blank. Marian is not surprised: Barton’s snobbery is rooted in the past. He has, and this is perhaps to his credit, never been very interested in new money. Except, perhaps, in the rather newsworthy new money of his prospective in-laws.
    “You read me,” she says smugly.
    “I have,” says Barton. And now he remembers his glass. “Marian? I’ve just time for another.”
    Marian rises.
    “Are you off somewhere?” Valerie asks.
    “My fiancée’s family home. Her father is giving a little dinner tonight.”
    “You’re getting married!” Valerie