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THE WAR OF THE ROSES
THE WAR OF THE ROSES
THE WAR OF THE ROSES
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THE WAR OF THE ROSES

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LanguageEnglish
Release dateJan 24, 2017
ISBN9781931304566
THE WAR OF THE ROSES
Author

Warren Adler

Acclaimed author, playwright, poet, and essayist Warren Adler is best known for The War of the Roses, his masterpiece fictionalization of a macabre divorce adapted into the BAFTA- and Golden Globe–nominated hit film starring Danny DeVito, Michael Douglas, and Kathleen Turner. Adler has also optioned and sold film rights for a number of his works, including Random Hearts (starring Harrison Ford and Kristin Scott Thomas) and The Sunset Gang (produced by Linda Lavin for PBS’s American Playhouse series starring Jerry Stiller, Uta Hagen, Harold Gould, and Doris Roberts), which garnered Doris Roberts an Emmy nomination for Best Supporting Actress in a Miniseries. His recent stage/film/TV developments include the Broadway adaptation of The War of the Roses, to be produced by Jay and Cindy Gutterman, The War of the Roses: The Children (Grey Eagle Films and Permut Presentations), a feature film adaptation of the sequel to Adler’s iconic divorce story, and Capitol Crimes (Grey Eagle Films and Sennet Entertainment), a television series based on his Fiona Fitzgerald mystery series. For an entire list of developments, news and updates visit www.Greyeaglefilms.com. Adler’s works have been translated into more than 25 languages, including his staged version of The War of the Roses, which has opened to spectacular reviews worldwide. Adler has taught creative writing seminars at New York University, and has lectured on creative writing, film and television adaptation, and electronic publishing.

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    THE WAR OF THE ROSES - Warren Adler

    Author

    Acknowledgments

    The author is grateful for the cooperation, kindness, and expertise of Barbara and Howard DeFranceaux, Victor Shargi, Viola Drath, Joseph Lyman, and Rose Bailor.

    Chapter 1

    Jonathan Rose sat on an aisle seat, a few rows back from the podium, his long legs stretched out on the battered wood floor. The parlor was less than half full, no more than thirty people. Behind the auctioneer, strewn around like the aftermath of a bombing, were the assorted possessions of the family Barker, the last of whom had lived long enough to make some of the junk valuable.

    It’s a genuine Boston rocker, the auctioneer droned, his voice cracked and pleading as he pointed to a much abused Windsor-style rocking chair. Made by Hitchcock, Alford and Co., one of the finest names in chairs. He looked lugubriously around the silent room, no longer expectant. Damn, he snapped. It’s a genuine antique.

    Ten bucks, a lady’s voice cackled. She was sitting in the front row, bundled in a dirty Irish sweater.

    Ten bucks? the auctioneer protested. Look at the tapered back spindles, the scrolled top rail, the shaped seat….

    All right, twelve-fifty, the lady huffed. She had been buying most of the furniture offered, and to Jonathan, it seemed like the auction was being held solely for her benefit.

    This whole thing stinks, a voice hissed. It came from a veined Yankee face beside him. The rain’s mucked it all up. She’s got the antique store in Provincetown. She’ll get it for next to nothing, and sell it off to the tourists for ten times as much.

    Jonathan nodded, clicking his tongue in agreement, knowing that the rain was his ally as well. Most of the tourists who had crowded into Chatham on Thursday and Friday, hoping for a pleasant Memorial Day weekend at the beach, had left by midmorning. At the Breaking Wave, where Jonathan was a summer waiter, the dining room for the Sunday lunch looked and felt like an off-season resort, and his tips matched the mood.

    But the weather on Cape Cod was, at best, uncertain. He was used to it. All through undergraduate school at Harvard, he had worked summers at the Breaking Wave, amusing himself at the antique auctions on those days he couldn’t get to the beach. He was especially fond of estate sales held at old cottages once the owners had died. Rarely could he afford to buy anything, although occasionally he picked up a Staffordshire figure for a song.

    He had grown up being watched over by four Staffordshire Pearlware female figurines representing the Four Seasons garbed in décolleté white robes. They peered out of his mother’s dining room china cabinet, emblems of his father’s war service in England. Once, he had broken Spring, while removing the objet in a clandestine pre-puberty compulsion to feel the little lady’s tits; the figure had slipped out of his grasp, and was decapitated on the floor. Always good with his hands, Jonathan had done a magnificent glue job, and his mother was none the wiser.

    Over time, as if out of guilt, he had acquired a modest Staffordshire collection of his own, some sleeping child figures, and the more commonly found sailor with his wife and child. He had done a bit of research on Staffordshire pottery as well and, although his figures were comparatively cheap, he suspected that they would increase in value someday.

    The auctioneer reached for a figure representing a boxer, and held it above his head. Then he read from the spec sheet.

    Staffordshire Pearlware. The pugilist, Cribb. Champion of England in 1809….

    Jonathan stiffened. The figure of Cribb was white. There was a black figure as well, of the boxer Molineaux, an ex-slave who had fought Cribb twice, losing both times. Both pugilists had been immortalized in caricature drawings, on pottery, and through figures like these. They were always depicted together, facing each other, fists raised. The idiot is breaking the pair, he thought, appalled by the auctioneer’s ignorance.

    Fifteen bucks, the lady in the first row shouted.

    The auctioneer looked at the figure and shrugged. Jonathan knew it wasn’t a work of art, merely souvenir quality, which probably sold for tuppence when first made by some anonymous back street potter. The auctioneer glared contemptuously at the audience, obviously wanting to hurry the sale.

    I have fifteen, he croaked. Going at fifteen. Do I hear sixteen?

    Jonathan raised his hand.

    I have sixteen, the man said, showing a sliver of optimism.

    The lady in the dirty Irish sweater turned in her chair. Her face looked like soggy dough, her red-tipped nose runny.

    Seventeen, she cackled.

    I have seventeen, the auctioneer said, his eyes shifting back to Jonathan.

    Jonathan raised eight fingers, clearing his throat as well. The heavy woman huffed and shifted in her chair. Reaching into his pocket, he nervously pulled out his money. He had thirty-seven dollars, his total weekend tip income. If he got Cribb, he wanted to have some left for Molineaux.

    Nineteen, the lady boomed out. A gust of rain spattered against the windows. The auctioneer ignored it, warming to his task. Jonathan’s heart pounded.

    Bitch, he muttered, before shouting, Twenty.

    Idiot, the woman rebuked, turning to fix on him her gaze of utter contempt.

    I have twenty. Twenty once. A thin smile of satisfaction grew on the auctioneer’s lips as he looked at the woman. He raised the gavel. Twenty twice. Jonathan held his breath. Down went the gavel. Sold.

    Goddamn, Jonathan muttered, energized by the experience, savoring the flush of victory.

    Well, you beat the old cow, the Yankee beside him twanged.

    Molineaux was brought forward a few moments later. Jonathan felt his guts tighten. It’s a pair, he told himself, pumping up his resolution. He peeled off what he had spent on Cribb, and tucked the money safely in his pocket, clutching the remaining bills in a sweaty hand. There were only seventeen dollars left.

    This is another Staffordshire pugilist, the fighter Molineaux, a former slave, who boxed in England in the early nineteenth century.

    Ten bucks, the lady in the dirty Irish sweater shouted. She did not turn to look behind her.

    Jonathan shouted out, Eleven. Please, he begged in his mind, sensing surrender to his own determination. He had no business squandering his money.

    Twelve, a voice chirped from behind him. He turned quickly, startled by this new sound. Two rows down, a girl with long chestnut hair flowing from under a sailor cap smiled primly, a flush on her apple-contoured cheekbones.

    Shit, Jonathan mumbled as the auctioneer responded.

    I have twelve.

    Twelve-fifty, the girl responded without hesitation.

    Don’t they know it’s a pair? Jonathan whispered to himself, as if her bids were a form of vengeance. He held up his fist, in which he clutched the sweaty bills.

    I have thirteen, the auctioneer called, staring directly at the girl. She’s hesitating, Jonathan thought.

    Do I hear thirteen-fifty? …I have fifty—thirteen-fifty, the auctioneer declared. Jonathan was sure the auctioneer was playing games. Jonathan scowled at him, then turned, and rebuked the girl with his eyes.

    Fourteen, he growled. His throat was tightening. He felt the tension in his stomach. Damned bitch, he cried inside himself. It made no sense at all to break up the pair. The auctioneer looked toward the girl.

    I have fifteen, the auctioneer announced. The audience grew restless.

    Sixteen, Jonathan croaked.

    Seventeen, the girl responded quickly, her voice carrying over the din.

    It’s a damned pair, Jonathan yelled, shaking his head. He opened his palm and unrolled the bills. Seventeen. That was it. Not even additional change. He turned again, and looked at the girl. She was calm, almost serene, but there was no mistaking her determination.

    I have seventeen, the auctioneer said, staring at Jonathan, his glare intimidating.

    Eighteen, Jonathan shouted, his voice crackling. The room seemed to grow quieter. The sound of the pounding rain faded. Jonathan felt sinister, manipulative. He didn’t have the money. His breath came in short gasps.

    Nineteen, the girl responded.

    Twenty, he shot back.

    The girl hesitated, a lump rose in Jonathan’s throat. He looked at her again. Their eyes met. There was no mistaking her intensity.

    Twenty-one, she snapped.

    All right, he decided, thankful for the reprieve, She’s a tough bitch.

    I have twenty-one once. The auctioneer paused, watching him. Jonathan felt his blood rise. So, I’m a coward, he told himself, wallowing in his humiliation.

    Twice…. The auctioneer shrugged. Down went the gavel. Sold.

    Jonathan sat through the rest of the auction in a funk. Hell, I should have borrowed the money, he thought. What is the point? By the end of the auction he had calmed down, and when he went to collect his Staffordshire, he confronted her.

    It’s a pair, he pouted. He had been eyeing the Molineaux figure acquisitively, and she drew it closer to herself. They go together.

    That’s not the way they were sold, the girl responded, her widely set green eyes flashing.

    He didn’t know what he was doing, he said as they walked out of the parlor, huddling in the crowded hall as everyone opened umbrellas, and prepared to walk into the rain. All I had was seventeen bucks. I deliberately bid it up, as soon as he uttered the words, he felt foolish and vindictive. I got carried away, he quickly added, hoping to blunt his pettiness.

    So did I, she admitted.

    You’re stubborn.

    My father says ‘tenacious.’ She smiled, showing white, even teeth. The smile warmed him.

    Suppose I’d bid it up to a hundred?

    I was worried you would.

    You would have gone along? Jonathan’s antagonism faded.

    I hate to think about it, she smiled.

    He returned her smile and moved with her towards the doorway.

    Why did you want it? he asked.

    She hesitated, coy now. He felt the give and take of flirtation.

    It’s for one of the girls at the Chatham Arms. I’m a baking assistant for the summer. The girl’s brother is in Golden Gloves. She’s one of the maids… takes a lot of crap. I thought this would be nice… instead of a tip.

    Jonathan was touched. A shame to break up a pair. Even for a good cause. He immediately felt guilty.

    She opened her umbrella and stepped into the rain. He ducked under it, although it didn’t do either of them much good.

    Hope you don’t mind.

    I’m a sportsmanlike winner, she said.

    I’m a lousy loser.

    The Chatham Arms was on the other side of town, and they walked together through the main street. His hand covered hers as they jointly clutched the umbrella against the wind. The rain came at them horizontally, and they finally took refuge in the doorway of a closed toy store. By then they had traded information; her name was Barbara Knowles; she was a student at Boston University; she had wanted to spend the summer as a volunteer for Kennedy to help him win against Nixon, but she couldn’t afford that.

    Anyway, I like baking. It’s fun. And the pay’s good, she continued.

    Unless you spend it all. He pointed to the Molineaux, now wrapped in soggy newspapers.

    You, too. She laughed. He noticed that her eyes were actually hazel, turning from green to brown in the late-afternoon light.

    I guess I just like old things. They’ll be worth more than money someday. Like these figures.

    You can’t eat them.

    Unfortunately not. Better stay away from auctions, he continued. Harvard Law is damned expensive. I start in the fall. My folks pay tuition, but I pay living expenses.

    They were huddled together in the tiny storefront entrance. When she spoke, he felt her warm breath against his cheek. A current was passing between them, something wonderful and mysterious.

    Don’t give him away, he said, conscious of his pleading tone. It was, after all, a symbol of their meeting. Not yet.

    It’s mine, she pouted with mock sarcasm, holding it over his head like a club.

    One isn’t much good without the other, he said. It’s a twosome.

    I beat you fair and square, she said.

    Well, the battle isn’t over yet, Jonathan whispered. He wondered if she had heard his voice above the beat of the rain.

    Not yet, she agreed, smiling. She had heard him.

    Chapter 2

    Through the dormer window of her third-floor room, Ann saw him open the side door of the garage. Holding his toolbox, he moved over the flagstone walk toward the house. A reddish spear of light from the slipping September sun bounced off the metal tools arranged neatly in the box. Startled by the sudden glint, she moved back out of the dormer’s niche, her heart pounding. Hoping she was out of his field of vision, she watched him pause and reattach a string of English ivy that had fallen from the high cedar fence. The fence formed a backdrop for a line of still-maturing arborvitaes that separated the back garden from the neighbor’s.

    Seldom could she study him so minutely, free of her self-consciousness and clumsy shyness. Besides, she was certain that Jonathan Rose viewed her as a country bumpkin from Johnstown, Pennsylvania, that is, if he ever took the time to assess her seriously.

    In his beige corduroys and blue plaid shirt, he looked oddly miscast as a man who worked with his hands in his spare time. Even in his basement workroom—surrounded by his neatly hung power tools; his nuts, bolts, nails, and screws in little glass containers, his circular saw, lathe, and myriad mechanical gewgaws—he could not shed the image of his regular calling, a Washington attorney. Or, as he liked to characterize himself, Just a plodding barrister.

    The deepening orange light set off his wavy, prematurely salty gray hair, which he still wore long, despite the new convention. His lightly speckled, thick mustache and jet-black eyebrows gave him the look of an Anglicized Omar Sharif. The resemblance, however, quickly dissipated when his wide smile flashed, and his blue eyes caught the right light, betraying his Irish antecedents.

    If Jonathan could have surmised the extent of her interest, he would have been flattered, of course, but appalled. Ann herself was appalled. The sensation had crept up on her, like muggers who, she had been warned, prowled the Washington streets. Not there, in the Kalorama section, of course, where there were almost as many embassies and legations as private residences and, therefore, fully protected by a vast army of special police.

    Ann’s newly acquired snobbery took her by surprise. She tore her eyes from the dormer window, and decided that she was afflicted with an adolescent crush, a condition hardly worthy of a twenty-two year old woman. Despite the warmth in her initiation into the Roses’ household, Ann was merely a glorified au pair. The label, she knew, was unfair to them. They tried so hard to make her part of the family, and the free room and board, payment for vaguely defined services, had given her the wherewithal to pursue her Master’s in History at Georgetown University.

    Looking suddenly about her room, Ann could not repress a joyful giggle as she recalled the tantalizing offer of ‘room and board’ in the classified pages of The Washington Post. Mrs. Rose had described each piece of furniture in the house with the confident authority of a museum guide. Ann had had no knowledge of antiques. Yet living among these pieces of tangible history had piqued her interest, and she would wonder how other past lives had fared among these objects.

    In one corner of the room was a sleigh bed, circa mid-nineteenth century. Beside it stood an inlaid mahogany Empire table on which stood an Art Nouveau Tiffany lamp, guarded by a rustic Staffordshire porcelain milkmaid who had wandered in from the downstairs collection. On one wall was a chest-on-chest festooned with intricate ormolu, and a French bibliothèque with glass doors. Near the dormer was an English folding desk on which rested a hurricane lamp.

    We get a knee-jerk reaction every time we get near an antique auction, Barbara Rose had explained. We even met at one… we’re antique junkies. There’s no more room to put things.

    It’s fantastic, Ann had replied.

    We’ve been at it for years, Barbara had told her. But they say that people who collect never really stop. Maybe we’re afraid to…. Her voice had trailed off as if she were wary of the sudden intimacy. Anyway, she had chirped, recovering her lightness, you can commune with all the ghosts of times past.

    With pleasure, Ann had replied. My major is history.

    But if the room part of her salary was awesome, the board part staggered her. Ann remained endlessly fascinated with the Roses’ kitchen. It was a carpeted rectangle lined with French provincial walnut cabinetry and rough stucco walls, designed to resemble a French country kitchen. Built into the walls were two double sinks, two double ovens: one electric, one gas, a huge refrigerator, a matching freezer, and a dishwasher. Also built in were tiers of open shelving filled with cookbooks, bottles, spices, canned goods, pots, pans, plates, jugs, trays, and bowls of various shapes and sizes. Huge drawers containing silver and flatware were fitted below the countertops. Shiny copper pots and pans hung on hooks in corners and cubbies. Arranged on the countertops were a microwave oven, two blenders, a coffee maker, a toaster oven, and a warming drawer.

    In the center of the kitchen was a large rectangular island over which hung a huge hood. Built into the island was another stainless-steel sink, two four-burner stoves—electric, and gas—a battalion of utensils, colanders, ladles, spatulas, a wooden box filled with knives in slots, a wide marble top built into the cutting-board counter, and an electric kitchen center designed to accommodate a variety of mixing bowls and what-nots. With each inspection, it was an inventory that never failed to expand in Ann’s eyes.

    Remembering her mother’s broken-down, noisy refrigerator, the gas stove with a pilot light that never seemed to work, and chipped and stained porcelain fixtures, Ann always felt as though she had wandered into a fantasy world.

    I cook, Barbara had announced, the understatement carefully honed from long use. Ann had followed her into an alcove serving as a storage pantry where a large, humming, temperature-controlled wine vault stood.

    We planned, and built it together, Barbara explained to an astonished Ann. Jonathan’s a whiz at fixing and making things. And I’ve got a degree in plumbing from the school of hard knocks.

    Ann remembered she was as eager to make a good impression, as Barbara was to appear ingratiating. Yes, there had been a certain indelibility about their first meeting, despite the confusing, information-packed grand tour. Barbara had given detailed descriptions of every piece, particularly, in the dining room.

    Duncan Phyfe, she said, rapping her knuckles on the shiny table. "Queen Anne chairs. And that rococo monstrosity is my favorite. She had pointed to an elaborate candelabrum with room for more than a dozen candles. Decadent, don’t you think?"

    I guess they knew their creations would outlive human beings, Ann replied, patting a marble-top credenza for emphasis.

    At that first meeting, Barbara’s curvaceous figure was encased in tight jeans, and a T-shirt on which the word HAUSFRAU was stretched tautly over her ample bosom, an intimidating statement. She possessed, as a miner’s daughter like Ann would observe, Slavic good looks: deep-set hazel eyes, peering cautiously behind apple-contoured cheekbones, under a broad forehead. Her chestnut hair was cut to cascade down either side

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