by Nicola Marsh
As if I could abandon this conversation without trying to ease Claire’s pain.
“I’ve got contacts in several adoption agencies. And I know a top-notch attorney who facilitates private adoptions without charging a fortune.”
When she doesn’t respond, I add, “I have experience in this field so could speed up the process for you if that’s what you choose to do?”
Claire finally lowers her hands and looks at me. She’s lost the death glare, thankfully. “It’s kind of you to offer but leave it with me for a while, okay?”
Her gratitude is audible, like it’s helped just talking about it and I know I have to do more.
“Sure,” I say, ready to start investigating options for my friend first thing in the morning, just in case. Better to be prepared. A motto I’ve followed my entire life and it hasn’t steered me wrong yet.
Elly holds up the wine bottle. “Top-up?”
“To the brim.” Claire drinks what’s left in her glass then holds it out, her expression grim. “I’ve finally got a week off starting tomorrow, even though I needed it more when we first found out six days ago. But it’s worked out well because I’m still not handling the infertility news and I plan on spending at least half that time drowning my sorrows.”
Elly raises a perfectly shaped brow. Claire rarely drinks more than one glass at our monthly meetings and even less if we go out for dinner. I could lecture her on the futility of consuming alcohol to help solve problems. I don’t. Who am I to talk when I’ve been guilty of the same vice late at night, alone, when the doubts creep in and I’m left wondering if my perfect life isn’t so perfect after all?
I raise my glass and clink it against Claire’s. “To you and Dane.”
Elly winces at my faux cheerfulness but does the same.
Claire says nothing. The devastation in her big brown eyes says it all.
Of course, Ryan chooses that moment to waltz into the backyard like he owns the place. I resent the intrusion because our faux garden club meetings are a great way to de-stress. We usually swap pleasantries at the start – nothing like the bombshell Claire dropped on us today – then Claire talks about work but after a glass or two of wine we really get going. Laughing at inane jokes, gently jibing at each other in self-deprecation, complaining about the men in our lives, gossiping about people we know. We could’ve really done with the distraction today but Ryan’s appearance has circumvented that and for a moment I contemplate sending him home. But I’m never that rude, especially not to family, considering I have none other than the one I married into.
“Hello, lovelies.” He vaults the balustrade surrounding the patio and I’m pretty sure we all sigh in unison.
Ryan has that effect on women. He’s not classically handsome, with that slight bump on his nose and his eyes spaced a tad too far apart, but there’s something about him that draws attention. He’s six-two, fit, with dark wavy hair and blue eyes the same shade as the Atlantic on a summer’s day. Elly had once mentioned the comparison and he’d loved it.
“Can I join this party?” He doesn’t wait for an answer and pulls up a chair. “Hey, gorgeous, can I have a drink? I’m parched.”
I roll my eyes like I always do when he calls me this and gesture at the table. “Help yourself. But one drink and you’re out of here.”
“Heartless.” He clutches his chest in mock indignation, his little boy grin beyond charming.
“That’s not very hospitable,” Elly says, reaching for the Shiraz and pouring a healthy slosh into a glass while her coy smile makes Ryan’s cheeky grin widen. “Here you go, handsome.”
“Thanks.” He raises his glass. “A toast to the three most beautiful women in the Hamptons.”
Claire snorts but at least her eyes have lost that devastating, haunting darkness.
I say, “Don’t let Maggie hear you say that.”
He waves away my dry response. “Maggie’s fine.”
“Is she?” We lock gazes and he knows I’m asking for real answers and not making small talk. “I haven’t seen her in a while.”
For the first time since he arrived, his inherent cheeriness fades. “She’s going through one of her phases.”
I know what that means. She’s hibernating, zealously cleaning the house and throwing out barely used items, frantically culling everything from clothes to kitchen utensils, skipping meals and dosing up on herbal tonics. I learned early on not to interfere when she’s in one of her phases, as Ryan calls her obsession with detoxing. It’s not a medical condition but I often think maybe it should be, she’s that manic with regularly cleansing her life.
Maggie only tolerates me when she wants something and thankfully that’s not very often. We’re not close. Not from lack of trying on my part. I’ve cooked healthy meals for her during her phases, I’ve dropped off groceries, and I’ve included her in my social circle. But there’s always an invisible barrier between us, like she’s ashamed I’ve seen her at her most manic. She doesn’t have to be. I’ve seen it all and then some working at the Help Center.
It must be tough living with her vagaries and I admire Ryan’s patience in dealing with her eccentricities. Then again, Ryan enjoys a lavish lifestyle and thanks to his marriage to Maggie and her trust fund, he has it.
I eyeball Ryan. “Please give her my best and tell her to give me a call if she needs anything.”
Elly, getting bored with our polite family conversation, interrupts. “Whenever Maggie pops into work she’s fine, so let’s stop discussing my boss and move onto more important things.”
She does a cutesy finger wave at Ryan. “Personally, I think this man has excellent taste and if he thinks we’re the most beautiful women in the Hamptons, I believe him.”
Ryan laughs and the usual tension that discussing Maggie elicits dissolves. “What about you, Claire-Bear? You’re awfully quiet.”
Claire doesn’t suffer fools lightly but for some reason she puts up with Ryan’s overt personality. He’s loud, brash and flirtatious but she’s like me, tolerating him with a fondness that borders on indulgence and treating him like a younger brother.
“I’m trying to enjoy my wine by tuning out your bullshit.”
He winces. “Ouch. You wound me, Claire-Bear.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” A small smile plays about her mouth and I’m glad that Ryan dropped in. He’s the perfect antidote to the glumness pervading my friend. “You’ve got a hide like a freaking rhino.”
He half lifts off the seat and pats his ass. “So you’ve been checking out my hide?”
We all laugh as he intends and I catch Ryan’s eye. He has no hope of interpreting my grateful glance and his eyebrow rises. I shrug and he smiles, so much like Avery that for a moment my heart skips. I’m not attracted to Ryan, not in a sexual way, but his personality is so much bigger and brighter than my husband’s that I envy his ease with people.
Whereas my girlfriends love Ryan, they tolerate Avery. Claire’s always wary around him, like she doesn’t quite trust him, and Elly’s interaction with him is muted, which is a sure-fire sign she doesn’t like him.
Avery picks up on their subtle dislike too. He’s always polite but in that reserved way at complete odds with his usual charm with other women. I guess I should be grateful he’s not like Ryan, always pretending to hit on my friends. But where Ryan’s flirtations are harmless, I often wonder if Avery’s flattery toward women holds more intent.
Claire drains her glass far too quickly and stands. She’s unsteady for a moment, clutching at the back of the chair. “I have to go.”
“So soon?” Ryan grabs her hand and I know my friend’s tipsy when she lets him hold it.
“Thanks, Ris, it’s been fun.” She yanks her hand out of Ryan’s and stumbles a little. Three glasses in quick succession is way too much for her.
“You’re not driving home,” I say, and Claire rolls her eyes.
“I’m not stupid. I’ll leave my car here and walk home.”
I nod in ag
reement and Claire waves at Elly. “Bye.”
“Take care.” Elly blows her a kiss.
“Thanks.” Claire touches Elly’s shoulder and bends to give me a brief hug. I squeeze tight, hoping to convey how much I’m hurting for her.
When she straightens, Ryan’s arms are wide. “Where’s my hug?”
“You’re an idiot,” she says, but hugs him just the same.
Despite his bluster Ryan’s incredibly perceptive and waits until she leaves before asking, “What’s up with Claire?”
“Women’s business,” Elly and I respond in unison, surprisingly in sync for once.
Ryan chuckles and holds up his hands. “Say no more. But she’s sad and even my bullshit couldn’t snap her out of it.”
“It did for a while, so thanks.” I pat his arm and he actually blushes.
“You actually don’t mind me hanging out here despite the many times you tell me to leave?” He knows I’m a pushover for his hangdog expression because it works every time.
“That’s because you practically live here.”
I know why. It’s difficult being in Maggie’s company for more than thirty minutes; how Ryan puts up with her emotional fragility I have no idea. My minimal meaningful contact has nothing to do with a lack of understanding or compassion. I want to smother her with kindness she doesn’t want and has told me in great detail during one of her particularly bad phases. She’s borderline OCD and has to be in control all the time. I guess accepting my help equates with weakness for her, so she’d rather avoid me and I can’t stand not being needed.
“I love you too, sis-in-law.” He blows me a kiss and I roll my eyes.
“On that note, lovelies, I’ll leave you to your inane gossip.” Ryan places his glass on the table and pops a cube of cheese into his mouth. “Feel free to talk about me as much as you like when I leave.”
“Good riddance,” Elly says, but there’s no bite behind her words and Ryan’s wide grin indicates he knows it.
“See you later.” He holds up his hand in farewell and vaults over the balustrade again before strolling around the side of the house in the direction of his.
“He’s such an idiot.” Elly sips at her wine, her expression pensive.
“But he’s our idiot.” I gesture at the food. “Please eat.”
She shakes her head and points at her teeny waist. “And ruin this?”
“You’re too thin.”
“Yes, Mom.” She rolls her eyes but her smile is kind. “Speaking of weight, I haven’t seen you at Pilates lately?”
I grimace and flex my knee gingerly. “I’m too old to twist my body into a pretzel.”
Elly snorts. “You’re gorgeous and you know it.”
“Actually, I don’t.”
Damn, where had that come from? I never air my insecurities with the girls, unless Claire and I are joking around and poking fun at our thigh cellulite, our muffin-tops and our necessity to have more frequent waxing sessions as we age and hair sprouts faster.
I can blame the wine for my loose lips but I know it has more to do with my life; Avery taking me for granted and barely acknowledging I exist unless he wants me to host one of his work parties. A lifetime of pretense wears thin eventually.
Elly’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re the most confident, poised, amazing woman I know so where’s the insecurity coming from?”
I wave away her concern. “Don’t mind me. Wine makes me maudlin sometimes.”
Elly stares at me and I wait for her to call me on my BS; we both know wine makes me giggly rather than sad. But thankfully she raises her glass instead.
“I know that look, Ris. And whatever the jerk has done or not done, he’s not worth it.” She scowls. “No man is.”
She’s way too intuitive and I force a laugh before I blurt exactly how unhappy I am these days. “Hey, keep that up and you’ll be taking over my job.”
Her nose crinkles. “I could never be a social worker. I’m not that much of a goody-goody.”
“Now who’s kidding who?”
Our gazes lock and I’m struck once again by how special the bond is between the three of us. We’re lucky to have found each other and I’ll do anything to maintain our friendship.
As if sensing I’m about to get all deep and meaningful, Elly makes a grand show of glancing at her watch.
“Sorry, but I have to run. Do you think Claire’s going to be okay?”
I nod, though I’m not confident at all. “I’ll give her a call later. Maybe we can all get together in a few days, show our moral support?”
“Sounds like a plan.” Elly kisses me on the cheek. “Thanks, Ris.”
Her tone is wistful and when she eases away I glimpse something akin to regret in her eyes. But before I can ask if she’s okay she’s gone, traipsing down the patio stairs at an impossibly brisk pace for those towering wedges.
Two
Claire
It’s almost sunset when I leave my car at Marisa’s and walk home. Luckily, we both live on Sunnyside Drive and it’s just a fifteen-minute stagger until I reach my front door. I’ve consumed enough alcohol to take the edge off my ongoing sadness. I’d fail a sobriety test if one of my colleagues pulled me over, which is why I don’t drive home. I’m shattered but not stupid.
I usually consider Marisa’s monthly gardening club gathering as something to tolerate. Ris, as she insists we call her, is the planner of our little threesome. She makes an effort to get us together regularly: dinners, movies, coffee dates, the occasional fundraiser, as well as the hokey gardening club. I should be grateful. If it weren’t for Ris I’d have no friends in this town. She made me feel welcome at a time I needed it most, floundering in a new job in an affluent town, missing the vibe of the city and my old precinct.
So I attend out of obligation and try not to analyze why three women with so little in common are best friends. I think Elly feels the same. Elly’s gratitude probably compels her to front up too. We’re like some co-dependent sorority who bonded when we least expected it.
Deep down I know why we still cling to this unlikely friendship. We’re similar: fiercely projecting our independence but with wounded cores we determinedly hide from the world.
Ris is a doer. She’s so active in our local community that everybody knows her name, from Dirk the trash collector to Phil the old guy who manually sweeps the boardwalk every night. She raises money for countless causes and is revered among the local charities. But I see behind her ruse. She keeps busy for fear of standing still. I don’t know what’s behind her funk – her marriage to that egotist Avery, missing her twins at college or something more sinister – but I pity her. She appears to have it all but seems so… lost.
With Elly, her brashness hides a world of pain, some of which Ris and I have been witness to. I want to hug her every time I see her but knowing her she’d brush it off. She exudes fragility beneath her faux confidence and I hope that if she ever needs to talk about that horrendous night fourteen months ago I’ll be there for her.
As for me, today I spilled too much. I blame Ris. Her nurturing always gets to me. Maybe that’s why I like her. She’s the sister I never had. One minute I’d been staring into my wine wishing things could be different, the next I’d almost started sobbing and had reluctantly divulged the truth.
Ris, the fixer, offered practical solutions. Elly, the emotionally repressed, appeared concerned. And I sat there, pretending I wasn’t dying inside. Ryan’s arrival had been timely. I’d been on the verge of bawling and his usual nonsense had been a welcome distraction.
I lurch to the front door and jab my key in the lock. Miss three times. Get it on the fourth. But before I can turn it, the latch clicks and the door swings open.
And he’s there.
Bright blue eyes filled with compassion, mouth curved into an understanding smile, his expression serene. Like he’s trying to calm me without saying a word.
My throat tightens like it does every time I see him. If I’m this much
of a basket case, how much worse must it be for my loving husband who can’t father the child we both want so badly?
Dane’s empathy is all-encompassing. He’s handling the news of our infertility so much better than I am. He’s solicitous and understanding and way too nice when it takes everything within me not to scream at the injustice of it all.
Then again, he’s not the one who has to prove his worthiness in a family of high achievers: a mother who held down two jobs in the garment industry while raising five kids, a father who made chief at thirty at the busiest precinct in NYC. Four brothers who balance their stressful cop careers with fatherhood, producing eleven kids between them.
I see their sideways glances when they think I can’t. Condescending. Curious. Pitying. Like I’m a failure because I haven’t contributed to the O’Grady clan yet. I’ve tolerated my brothers’ light-hearted jibes for years, first about my lack of a man, then later my lack of kids, and my mom’s subtle probing as to the reason behind my childlessness. They’re incredibly insensitive, blasé and unaware that there could be reasons why I haven’t had kids yet. I want to snipe back often but it’s not worth the drama. They’re my family. I love them. But I wish they’d give me a break. Dad is the only one who never pries. I love him for it. Like all good Irish Catholic families, they see kids as God’s gift. It makes me wonder. Am I being punished for my sins?
“How are the girls—”
“Sorry, babe, I need water.” I push past him and stumble toward the kitchen, banging my elbow on the doorframe in the process and cursing under my breath.
“Take a seat and I’ll get it.” His hands, strong, capable, comforting, rest on my waist and guide me toward the table.
His solicitousness is sweet but my head is starting to pound and I scowl at my foolishness in trying to drown my sorrows when he places the glass in front of me, along with a couple of painkillers.
