The Danish Gambit

Kamy is behind the wheel of the old Altima. Heading up NY 9N, along the west coast of Lake George, it is the last bit of her trip. The I-87 piece from Albany to Bolton Landing is often mindless miles. Today, Christmas Eve, NY 9N can be bare-knuckle driving for most. She looks through the passenger window. Ice is already forming along the shore. This is the most dangerous time of year as north-easterlies can whip icy spray onto the road surface. Or Favonius can bowl the snow down the foothills of the Adirondacks, forming treacherous drifts. Kamy knows this road too well. Her Dad chose to eschew Saratoga Springs for Hague. He would gleefully pilot his old SL500 to Skidmore, top down, deep into autumn. For twelve years, she rode shotgun for the drop off at the central school campus.

Kamy welcomes the two-hour forced march to clear her head. While she was packing the trunk, the blackguard stopped by her studio apartment, dropped off a Christmas gift, and proposed marriage. He has opened with a Danish Gambit. She muses the suitor’s uninvited advances could be crushed in twenty moves. For eighteen months, she has planned his punishment.

Kamryn MacDonald, “Kamy” to most, is six months into her accounting career in Albany. Four years of diligence, year-round coursework, enjoying few frat parties, yielded a B.S. and an MBA in accountancy. Like many of her ilk, Kamy did a summer internship her fourth summer. She suffered through endless administrivia, picking up three credits and a job offer. Kamy had chosen Albany as it is the closest “big” city to Hague, facilitating visits home to see her parents. She and her Dad are tight as thieves, but the real draw is helping her Mom, suffering from multiple sclerosis. At first, Kamy measured her Mom’s decline in years. Later it was months. And now, weekly, Kamy witnesses the barrage of insults hurled by this most brutal, if non-fatal disease. Her Mom observes that MS does not kill you, it just saps your will to live.

Today, Kamy has detoured to Morrison’s in Glens Falls. Her high school buddy, Dave Morrison, recognizes the beautiful eyes framed by that seductive, untamed hair. Her requisite COVID mask is no disguise. Her first visit ever to his Dad’s store places her out of context. He focuses and shakes off the memories of his high school crush, unreciprocated. Christmas Eve can be very busy at a jewelry store, procrastinating husbands and boyfriends working to beat the clock. This year, COVID has other plans. The store empty, he offers up some cocoa and a peppermint stick, a Morrison’s Christmas tradition. The two share awkward pleasantries, reminiscent of high school reunions. Kamy, all business, gets down to it. She reaches into her purse, half fashion accessory, half knapsack, and pulls out the scoundrel’s Christmas gift. With index finger and thumb, she expands the top of a felt satchel. She extracts an exquisite heart-shaped emerald attached to an ancient gold necklace. “What do you think it is worth?”, Kamy queries. Dave has never seen an emerald finished in a cut other than its eponymous one. The standard rectangular emerald’s cut is a concession to the prevalence of needle inclusions in almost every emerald. Risking the raw stone with a heart-shaped cut implies there are no visible flaws. He places the stone on a scale, and it weighs in just over 10 carats. Despite broad experience with all gems, he has never seen an emerald this color. It is deep pure green with the occasional wink of blue as he rotates the stone in the light. Dave places the loupe over his eye and studies the stone for several minutes. Even under magnification, it is flawless. Dumbstruck, he blurts out, “Kamy, where did you get this?” She ignores him, repeating, “What is it worth?” Dave knows that there are few comparable pieces, but he hazards a guess. “Figure it would cost $50,000 at retail.” “Dave, what would you give me for it?”

She pulls into the driveway of the only home she has ever known. Dr. MacDonald had built the modest, but roomy house on Cooks Bay, a gazebo on the beach and a boatless boat dock. With one hand, she grabs her suitcase, overstuffed for an extended holiday stay. With the other, she gathers up her purse, phone, and keys. The gifts can wait in the trunk. Hands still full, she offers a peck to each of her parents perched around the Formica dinette table. She heads to her bedroom. Inside the room, above her desk, is a solitary caricature of Kamy and a boy with the Spartan mascot between them. She throws everything on the bed and settles into her desk chair. She opens the desk drawer and pulls out a little black book. For the last eighteen months, she has employed it for a devious purpose. She unclasps the snap and opens it to the next blank page, about twenty pages in. At the top, she writes in her most precise accountant penmanship, “Christmas Eve 2020”. On the first line, on the left side, she prints, “Antique necklace with heart-shaped emerald (10 ct.)”. On the right side she pencils, “$50,000 ($20,000)”. Before reclasping, she studies the first page, entitled June 15, 2019. The other words on the small page are “Antique set of four Rothschild Blue salad plates”. Like the page just constructed, on the right side, “$1,280 ($500)”.

Paul Mason grew up in Scarsdale, the son of two successful attorneys. The Masons are several generations deep with lawyers and politicians. Despite the dollars spent on private secondary and college educations, Paul is of mediocre talent. He is good-looking enough, the product of the careful breeding practices of the wealthy. Following his parents and siblings to Harvard Law was not in the cards for Paul. He struggled through his CPA exams. His deep social connections landed him a job at Kamy’s firm. He found his wife at the overly expensive, but unspectacular, college, which, in bygone days, existed explicitly for that purpose. Sarah Hyland, in preparation for a lifetime of European travels and museum charity events, majored in art history. This complemented her real love, sculpting, at which she is accomplished, but unsung. What attracted Paul is Sarah’s free spirit, her joie de vivre. Five years into the marriage, all the incompatibilities had accumulated, and she saw him for the dullard he is. He tired of a wife both flighty and aloof. What is holding the marriage together is things, all the toys accumulated, all that might have to be forfeited. That month of their fifth anniversary, a vivacious, brilliant young intern showed up. She is eight years his junior and he fell immediately in lust.

A problem for all men, but most challenging for good-looking, spoiled, rich boys is they know nothing of seduction. Paul, unsurprisingly, lacks any imagination. His family has taught him that the best gifts mean the most love. The problem for Paul is his family is wealthy, but his income is unspectacular and his expenditures visible. With their strained relationship, Sarah and Paul scrutinize each other’s spending in anticipation of solo lives. Paul invites Kamy to “business” dinners easily expensed on his corporate card. His total lack of creativity rewards her with grocery store roses from Hannaford’s. Kamy is polite, her sights set on different prizes – college credits, résumé building, a strong recommendation, and maybe a job offer. Each day she tells herself to persevere. Paul’s company is not awful, his attention flattering, and it is only three months and then back to college.

One worst aspect of our era is secrets vanquished. Social media and the Internet have destroyed all mystery. Before she received the internship offer, Kamy had done a bit of business research on the accounting firm, and then on Paul, the intern manager. Faced with his unwanted attention, she takes a deeper dive. An hour later, his dossier complete, the best thing she can say about Paul is that he is ordinary. Kamy finds his wife, Sarah, much more interesting. She happens upon a website with examples of sculpture Sarah has created. Some are modernist, bordering on the abstract. Others are Renaissance style, crafted playfully. All carry hefty price tags, disproportionately expensive to Sarah’s reputation.

One morning a box is sitting on Kamy’s cubicle desk. Inside is a note: “Just because – Paul” with four beautifully hand-painted plates. Flattered, but confused, she wonders what a college girl is supposed to do with porcelain plates. They remind her of ones in her grandmother’s breakfront that are too treasured to ever be used. These plates are more exquisite, although one has a bit of the 24k gold trim nicked. Over the next few weeks, other boxes, with the same note are carefully centered on her desk. There are bracelets, baubles, pendants, crystal, china, none of it looking worn, but none of it looking new. The loot piles up. She decides to research the original plates offering and discovers the four are worth over $1000. Kamy knows enough about accounting salaries to know that Paul does not have the income to support so extravagant a gift-giving habit. She assumes (correctly) he is raiding his parents’ or grandparents’ cache. All the gifts seem precious, so she sets her plan.

Near the end of her internship, Kamy’s habit is a lunchtime stroll to Washington Park. She roosts on a bench at the edge of the park looking across Lark Street to a shop door. This day, a “buffy-type” blonde walks in. Kamy casually crosses Lark, entering the gallery. The curator excited by any prospect rushes over offering assistance. “I am interested in a Sarah Hyland sculpture.” With that the blonde turns around, “I am Sarah Hyland.” Kamy feigns surprise. “I am interested in buying one of your pieces.” After the customary gallery walkaround and chit-chat, Kamy asks Sarah if she is married, to which Sarah gives the least enthusiastic affirmative. “Does he like your work? He should.” “He thinks it is frivolous, a waste of time. His idea of art is ‘Dogs Playing Poker’”. Kamy snickers and decides she likes Sarah well enough. Kamy notes the largest item in her collection. Kamy plants a seed, “When I have the extra cash, maybe I will buy one of your pieces for my boyfriend.”

The internship ends and she returns to her SUNY campus. The nine months pass quickly. She graduates. and starts her accounting career. Throughout, the gifts from Paul continue to arrive. She has carefully catalogued each into the little black book. Each earns a page where she records estimated retail value and the cash she received for it. Her goal is to accumulate $35,000, all from his “generosity”. The surprise $20,000 from Morrison’s safe has put her over the top. Before heading downstairs to family Christmas Eve dinner, she makes one more telephone call to the gallery on Lark Street.

After Thanksgiving, Kamy had left a photo on Paul’s desk of a curvaceous, stainless obelisk, suggestively phallic in design. Peeking around the corner of her cubicle wall, his response was a leer and a wink. She said it was the work of a local sculptor. Priced at $35,000, this one was beyond her means. If he likes, she might be able to find one smaller, priced more modestly, a reminder of their friendship. Paul smiles, oblivious - “Dogs Playing Poker”, indeed.

It is Boxing Day. Paul opens his office door to find a four-foot stainless steel sculpture, the exact sculpture from the picture. Attached is a double entendre – “Just because you deserve it – Kamy”. He texts Kamy to thank her and reiterates his proposal. He writes that her amazing Christmas gift is displayed prominently next to his office credenza. She responds that she would feel uncomfortable having it in the office each day, too many prying questions. He should take it home. She then turns off her phone.