“Okay. Well, if I can do anything, you’ll call me, won’t you?”
“Yes, I will. Clayton’s coming in tonight?”
“Yes, and I’ve not forgotten what you said. I want to see how the weekend goes.”
“Fair enough. All right then . . .”
We hung up. Fair enough? What an odd comment. Did she really believe because she was suspicious of Clayton that I had to be suspicious of him too? Poor meddling Maisie. But this was more about Juliet than some diabolical need to control me. Juliet’s death was a terrible dark cloud that colored her every day, and her rage over losing her was always right there. She’d spent all her life since Juliet’s death looking for signposts that bore witness to her loss, and she pointed them out at every opportunity. And she laid the guilt on me with a thick impasto. Why did I survive and not Juliet? I tried to take it in stride. Some days were easier than others.
Clayton arrived around seven thirty. I heard the front door close in his signature style—the creak of it opening wide and three beats later, a gentle closure.
“I’m home!” he called out.
I put my best smile on my face and went out to the foyer to greet him. I was going to get to the bottom of this nonsense.
“Hi, sweetheart!” I said, as though we were newlyweds. “How was your trip?”
“Uh, you look nice,” he said and glanced toward the dining room. “We having company tonight?”
“No, just us. Would you like a glass of wine? I just opened a French pinot.”
He looked at me so strangely.
“Um, sure. Let me just put my things down and wash my hands,” he said.
“Great! I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
On the kitchen counter, I had already arranged a platter of the gravlax with toast points and wedges of lemon, and the cheeses were on a wooden cutting board with slices of apple and some crackers. The open bottle of wine stood there too, next to two goblets. I could smell the potatoes as they baked in the oven. The colorful salad glistened with olive oil and lemon juice and the steaks were seasoned, ready to sear to a juicy medium rare on my grill pan. I poured a glass of wine for him and vodka over ice for myself. I squeezed two wedges of lime into my glass with a spritz of tonic water.
“No point in wasting too much tonic,” I said to the room.
Clayton ambled into the kitchen with the day’s newspaper tucked under his arm and surveyed the counter. He picked up his glass and tossed the newspaper into the recycling bin.
“Well, this is very nice. What’s the occasion? I didn’t forget a birthday or an anniversary, did I?”
“Noooo! I just thought we should have a romantic dinner and see where the night leads us. What do you think about that?”
“I think . . . I think, um . . .” He paused for a very long moment. “Why not? Cheers!”
Then I saw something in his eyes, something he was trying to mask. Some sorrow, some disappointment. The soft skin around his eyes crinkled more deeply than usual as he forced a smile. Maybe he was just very tired. I could feel him giving me credit for trying to make the evening intimate and special, and I knew also that he would prove to be a reluctant partner.
“Cheers! Welcome home.” I raised my glass in a toast and he immediately did the same.
“Thanks. How’s Skipper?”
“It’s unbelievable how well he’s doing and guess what? Ivy flew in to help! Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Really? Yes! That’s great. Well, maybe we should try to have a family dinner tomorrow night. What do you think?”
I wanted to say, Why, because the last one went so well? But I didn’t. I just said that I would call Ashley and Ivy and ask them what they wanted to do.
The conversation proceeded very nicely. We were very civilized with each other and very polite, but there was no tangible spark of anything sensual. So I didn’t object when he left the dinner table to open another bottle of wine. What was the point? We weren’t driving anywhere anyway. And the night had all but dissolved into a puddle of disinterest. At least on his part.
Let me tell you something you probably already know. It’s that second cork that should remain in the neck of the bottle. You can liberate one, but two bottles of wine for two people is one bottle too many. There was a reason the French bottled wine the way they did. Two and a half glasses was plenty of wine for two people to consume with dinner. But that’s not how it went with us. I had a cocktail or two. He had a glass of wine and then maybe another. By the time we got to the table, he had drunk most of the bottle and there was not much left for me. I didn’t want vodka with steak. So, pretending to be the gentleman, when in actuality he was feeding his habit of numbing himself with alcohol, he opened another bottle. Needless to say, the plans I had for the bedroom were a dismal failure.
Saturday morning I got up more determined than ever to discover what was going on with Clayton and to pull my family back together. So I called Ivy and Ashley and asked them to come to dinner at seven that night. They didn’t exactly jump at the invitation but they knew they couldn’t refuse, especially when I asked them to help me with their father.
“And, Ivy? Would you do a small favor for me?”
“Sure. What?”
“Would you say something nice in front of your father about the food tonight? Or about how I look?”
“Sure! Why’s that?”
“Because before I fly to New York and expose his secret life, I want him to know I’m still alive and viable. And I want him to see what he’s at risk to lose.”
“So you do think he’s up to something?”
“Yes. For no particular reason but I do.”
“No problem. Did you invite Maisie?”
“No. Frankly, I was just thinking it would be nice to have my children around the table without the running critique of my mother. But let’s keep that ugly detail between us, all right?”
“Sure,” he said. “I understand. She would probably say no anyway. She’s mooning over Skipper and fussing around trying to anticipate his needs like a love bug. She’s not ready to leave him home alone.”
“Okay, good, then seven?”
“I’ll be there.”
I called Ashley.
“Ashley? Do you have plans tonight?”
“Nope. What’s going on?”
“Well, I’d like you to come to dinner with Ivy and your father and me.”
“Sure. Where’re y’all going?”
“Actually, I’m cooking at your childhood home on Church Street. Remember that place?”
She didn’t even groan but I knew I had to stop being so sarcastic with my children. It wasn’t nice.
“You’re cooking? Wow! Mom, you haven’t cooked for us since like, Easter!”
I was quiet for a moment. On my father’s grave, she was right.
“Oh! My! Word! You’re right! Well, I’m inspired to bring my family together and I’m going to do it, starting tonight!”
“What are you making?”
I hadn’t gotten that far in the thought process.
“I have no earthly idea what to cook!” I laughed at myself then.
“Make baked ziti! Please? Remember how much we loved baked ziti when Ivy and I were little?”
“Okay, I will! With garlic bread and salad and peaches and ice cream!”
“Mom, that sounds amazing. I’ll be there as soon as I get out of work.”
“Just one thing I need you to do for me, okay?”
“Sure, what?”
I told her I wanted the night to be fun for all of us. I wanted laughter and teasing—but only if the teasing was kindly delivered—and I wanted stories of their best memories to be told across the table.
“Why in the world?”
“Let’s just say Mom’s feeling nostalgic, okay? How’s that?”
“It’s okay with me. Did you ask Maisie to come?”
“No, she’s got her hands full with Skipper. I’ll give Ivy something to take home for her.”
That sounded reasonable to her. There was no need to tell her that Maisie was on my naughty list at the moment. As soon as Maisie realized that she was, she’d do something nice or she’d say something nice to be in my good graces again. Maisie was the queen of passive-aggressive behavior.
It was one more trip to the grocery store and the butcher and I surprised myself by remembering how to cook baked ziti. It smelled like my children’s childhood. The bread was in the small oven and I had prepared a big board of antipasto with olives and cheeses and dried meats with another loaf of bread for dipping in two different flavored olive oils. Clayton opened a bottle of a pretty good Barolo and he even made a vodka martini for me. Ivy and Ashley had yet to arrive.
“Dirty, right?” he said as though he couldn’t remember.
“Yes, I like it dirty,” I said and wiggled my eyebrows at him.
“What’s come over you, Liz?”
He didn’t even grin. True, he was a cool character but in the old days he would’ve grabbed me and made a big silly smacking noise on my neck or something like that.
Maybe he had convinced himself that I didn’t want him anymore and therefore he could justify an affair? Was that how the business of infidelity worked?
“What’s come over me? Clayton? Are we ever going to have sex again?”
“Of course we are. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Well, then, one of us has to make a move, right? Send a signal?”
“And you’re thinking tonight might be good?”
“Why not?”
“Well, let’s see what we can do about that.” He finally smiled at me. At least he smiled at me.
The front door opened and closed and my heart lightened to hear the voices of our adult children fill the air. When they reached the kitchen, they gave me a kiss, acknowledged their father with hugs, and poured themselves glasses of wine.
“Wow! Mom! This looks delicious! I don’t know where to start!” Ivy said and picked up a little chunk of aged Parmesan marinating in olive oil and cracked pepper. He popped it in his mouth. “Like butta!” Then he went to work on the prosciutto, winding a slice around a little ball of mozzarella. “Here, Pop!”
Clayton put it in his mouth and said, “This is good. Quite good. Actually.”
“Quit hogging the whole board!” Ashley said, reaching over Ivy for a piece.
“Oh, please,” he said. “Wait! Mom? Do I smell baked ziti?”
Ivy came around the island and took an oven mitt from the counter, opening the larger oven, peering inside.
“Yes. I made it for y’all but especially for you.”
Ivy’s sass dissolved right in front of me.
“It was always my favorite.”
“I know that.”
“I love you, Mom. You know that too, don’t you?”
“Ivy? I love you with all my heart. I do. And you too, Ashley. And you too, Clayton.”
“What’s happened, Liz?” Clayton said.
Everyone stopped talking.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I guess I just want us to all be how we used to be. With each other, I mean. Somewhere along the line there was a shift and I want to make things right.”
“I don’t know about a shift, but I think this is going to be a wonderful night!” Ashley said, pushing her hair back from her face.
That’s when I saw the scab on her forehead that went into her hairline.
“What happened to you?” I asked.
“Oh, you know those black high heels I love so much?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, they’re dangerous little monsters. I was out with Porter and I slipped and fell. Unfortunately, there was a corner of a wall right there waiting for me and I slammed into it before I landed on the ground.”
I didn’t like the story. It didn’t ring right. Ashley had never fallen like that. She was a gazelle.
“Why didn’t he catch you?”
“Because he was like ten feet away. It all happened pretty fast.”
I went over and gave it a closer look. It wasn’t so terrible after all.
“Stupid shoes,” I said. “Let’s get you a safer pair on Monday.”
Clayton popped up with uncharacteristic generosity saying, “Buy two pairs and give me the bill.”
“Thanks, Dad!” Ashley said. “I should hit the wall more often!”
Well, then the lighthearted mood was restored and we went on to have dinner. As I had asked them to, Ashley and Ivy told stories and because they were talking nonstop, Clayton was eating and drinking nonstop. He opened a third bottle and he was the only one still drinking wine. By the time I put the peaches and ice cream on the table, Clayton was fast asleep on the sofa.
“What happened?” I said to Ivy and Ashley.
“I don’t know,” Ivy said. “He just got up and went over there. Next thing I saw was him kicking off his loafers. But he was smiling.”
“Well, at least he knows better than to put his shoes on my sofa,” I said. “I’d kill him.”
“He’s probably just really pooped,” Ashley said.
“You think?” Ivy said.
“Honey? Your daddy’s hammered,” I said. “This is not good.”
Ivy and Ashley helped me clean the kitchen and I gave them each a large plastic container of ziti to take home. It had been a truly wonderful night, except for Clayton slipping into the deep end of the vineyard. When the kids left, we all hugged and kissed but Clayton disappeared to the bedroom to snore like every hog in hell and without a word to anyone. It was all right. I was going to New York.
I almost didn’t make my flight on Tuesday because there was another tropical storm becoming a hurricane and heading our way. For the record, I flew commercial. If it became a hurricane, they were going to call it Lorenzo. We were already up to the Ls. That’s how many storms we’d had over the season. Fortunately, it turned out to sea.
Anyway, I was going to put an end to all the suspicion about Clayton and then we’d see what we would see. Either he was having an affair or he wasn’t. It was pretty simple. I would just tell him I came to take in an exhibit at the Frick I’d heard all about. Everyone who read the arts section of the newspapers knew that Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring was there for a short period of time. And I packed a pretty nightgown hoping to pick up where our good intentions left off. We landed at La Guardia and I hopped in a taxi, telling the driver to take me straight to our apartment building.
Our doorman, Eduardo, was very surprised to see me.
“Mrs. Waters! What a nice surprise! I haven’t seen you in a long time.”
“Thanks, Eduardo,” I said, when he took my tote bag. “It’s nice to see you too. How’s the family?”
“You know my daughter got into Princeton? We’re very proud of her.”
“Wonderful! She must be very smart like her father!”
“Like her mother, Mrs. Waters. Like her mother.”
He held the elevator door for me and I stepped inside.
“Do you know if Mr. Waters is at home?” I asked.
Even though Eduardo was dark skinned, he blushed deeply.
“No, ma’am. I don’t know.” He was staring at the floor.
“Okay, thanks.”
He wasn’t getting involved.
The elevator landed at the second floor and I got out. I fished around in my purse for my keys and found them. When I opened the door of our co-op, my heart sank. It was lifeless. Going from room to room only confirmed my worst suspicions. Clayton wasn’t sleeping here. His clothes were in the closet and there was some recent mail tossed on the kitchen counter, but there wasn’t a drop o
f anything in the refrigerator and not a piece of bread in the drawer. The bed was freshly made, the bathroom dry as a bone. But there was vodka in the freezer and bottled water in the refrigerator. I’d call out for Chinese or Thai food and I’d live until the morning.
The only other sign of life was some dirty clothes that were thrown on the bottom of his closet, shirts and socks and underwear, leading me to decide that he slept elsewhere and came home to change before going to the office.
I’d be in the lobby at seven in the morning to greet him.
Don’t ask how I got through the night without calling his cell and screaming my head off but I did. And at seven A.M. I repacked my things, put my bag in the bedroom closet, and went downstairs. I sat on the lobby couch reading the New York Times, waiting like a black widow spider. At seven fifteen my patience was rewarded. The elevator door opened and out came my old friend, actually archnemesis, Sophia Bacco, followed by Clayton. They were engaged in a vigorous argument and didn’t notice me at first. I stood up. Eduardo wisely headed for the sidewalk.
“Sophia? Is that you with my husband so early in the morning?”
“Liz! What are you doing here?”
“Hello, Clayton,” I said.
“Yes! And for God’s sake, will you please take him home? He’s hounding after me like a schoolboy!”
“You always were a whore,” I said, evenly.
“And you could never keep a man,” she said.
I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Fuck you, Sophia, and get out of my sight before I scratch your nasty Botox and Restylane face off and feed it to the dogs!”
Everyone was frozen in place. This was not the kind of building where you used an obscenity in the lobby.
“Not my face, you won’t.” She all but ran from the lobby to the street.
“I never liked her. So, Clayton? What do you have to say for yourself?”
He began to weep.
“She dumped me,” he said, covering his eyes with his hand, “for an Argentinean polo player. Some asshole named Armando. He doesn’t even weigh one hundred and twenty pounds! He’s only five four! I loved her, Liz. I did.”
He loved her?
“Clayton?” I said as quietly as I could, given the gravity of the moment. “Your sorry ass had better hire a lawyer. I’m going back to Charleston.”
The Hurricane Sisters: A Novel Page 20
