No longer hungry, Ann made herself a decaf, sugar-free, skim-milk vanilla latte. She sat at the kitchen table and slowly sipped it. Her head was pounding. She took her coffee up the stairs to her bathroom, where she set it down on the side of the tub. Taking off her clothes, Ann stepped on the scale and was pleased to see she’d lost ten ounces. She then poured her favorite, special order, French bubble bath into the running water and watched it foam. She stepped into the tub, lay back against the cool ceramic, and closed her eyes. In twenty minutes she would towel off and get into bed, where—without Mike, an active sleeper—she could get a decent night’s rest. Tomorrow, she would talk to her mother about the leftover situation. Tomorrow, she would sterilize the refrigerator. Tonight, she would do nothing for anyone but herself for a change.
CHAPTER 17
February always chilled Ann to the bone. She had enough trouble with January and its obligatory New Year’s resolutions. What was she supposed to do, lose ten pounds like everyone else? Get into shape? At forty-five, she was in the best shape of her life. And January was too damn long. It was as if every day someone secretly tacked on another, of skin-freezing cold and endless snow. Yet it was February and its deceiving twenty-eight-day length that tried Ann’s patience. She pulled her car into a parking space half-cleared by the overworked snowplows and prepared herself for the wall of winter she would slam into the moment she opened her door to step outside. The wind blew harder than ever and the sleet stung her face as she ran from her car to the offices of Noble and Robertson, the best and most expensive architects in the area.
Peter Noble and Tim Robertson knew the Barons family well because they designed and built their $3.4 million house and guesthouse. In Ann’s mind, they were worth every penny. It was all in the details, she told Mike, who had asked about it every time he wrote them a check. Four-inch molding around the windows and along the floor and ceiling didn’t come cheap. Neither did imported Italian marble or hardwood floors or six-panel solid wood doors or custom windows. Her house was a testament to the finest building materials available. During construction, Ann was ecstatic. Peter or Tim visited the site every day throughout the nine-month project, both joking this was the Baronses’ third and final baby. They worked closely with Ann, catering to her whims. Ann hadn’t received such attention since she and Mike were dating.
She was hoping to recapture that feeling of power and feminine authority with her sunroom proposal. What she had in mind was a sunny, tropical room off the family room end of the main hallway. The southern exposure was perfect for it. Floor-to-ceiling windows would ensure light and warmth throughout the day; the month of February would pass in a blink. Casual and inviting, the room would serve as a perfect location for anything from an afternoon of reading and napping to an informal luncheon spot for close friends.
“Hello, Ann,” said Peter Noble, with a warm smile. He ushered her out of the waiting room and into his spacious office, impeccably decorated with contemporary furniture, carpeting, and window treatments in soothing earth-tone colors. “It’s good to see you again. Sit down and tell me what you have in mind.” Just before he closed the door, he called back to his receptionist: “Darlene? Please get Mrs. Barons a sugar-free, caramel latte with skim milk.”
Ninety minutes later, the preliminary plans for Ann’s sunroom were mapped out. Peter suggested a semicircular room, mirroring the shape and intensity of the sun, and Ann readily agreed, even though she had pictured something square or rectangular. Peter acknowledged his suggestion would give her less useable space, but it would certainly be more dramatic and more architecturally pleasing from both the outside and the inside. It would make a statement, said Peter, knowing how much Ann Barons loved and lived to do just that. Ann left his office after promising to talk to Mike that very evening. She ran to her car and called Sally, hoping she would be free for lunch. Sally was on her way to a library committee meeting. “You don’t need to go to that meeting,” said Ann. “You need to have lunch with me.”
“I can’t,” said Sally, who, truth known, had not fully recovered from the fashion show snub. Ann had called her just twice since—once to go shopping and another time to have coffee after exercise—and both times Jesse had been asked, too.
“Of course you can,” said Ann. “Those library committee meetings are excruciating.”
“How would you know?” sniffed Sally. “You haven’t been on the library committee.”
“Mike’s been on that board,” said Ann. “And he said it should have been called a B-O-R-E-D instead of a B-O-A-R-D.” Sally allowed herself to smile. “Come on,” said Ann. “I need my best friend. I’ll treat.”
Best friend? Sally’s heart swelled. “Okay,” she said. “Where do you want to go?”
“I’ll meet you at Tony’s in thirty minutes,” said Ann. “Believe it or not, I’m absolutely craving carbs.”
As they ate linguini drizzled with olive oil and garlic and drank house wine, Ann told Sally all about the sunroom. Feeling envy but feigning enthusiasm, Sally nodded her head, smiled, and said, “Ooh, sounds lovely,” in the appropriate places. As the story dragged on, Sally realized Ann didn’t need her, in particular. She merely needed an audience, anyone to listen to her talk about her money. Maybe she’d tried Jesse or Paula before she called her. Maybe she hadn’t thought of the best friend trick until the other two had declined her invitation. Sally glanced at her watch—a well-established signal of boredom in Ann’s little coterie—but Ann, oblivious, carried on. It wasn’t until their plates were empty that the topic turned for the better. “So, here’s what I think,” said Ann, filling her wineglass for the third time. “We need a little trip to Florida for some sunroom inspiration. Just the girls.”
“Now that sounds marvelous,” said Sally, meaning it. “When do you want to go?”
“Before the end of the month,” said Ann. “You know how much I hate February, and this year is no exception. It’s been nothing short of horrendous.”
Sally took a sip from her water glass. The two glasses of wine she’d consumed had gone to her head and she was feeling slightly dizzy. “Have you spoken to the others?” asked Sally, referring to Jesse and Paula.
“No,” said Ann. “I thought I’d run it by you first.”
Sally smiled. “Let’s go!”
Ten days later, Ann and her friends were at the airport, headed for the Baronses’ four-bedroom duplex in the Keys. Mike had given Ann permission to go ahead with the sunroom and construction was penciled in for the fall. Eileen had volunteered to “look in on” Lauren and Nate while Ann was away, and Emma—knowing Eileen would again give her time off in secret while Mike was at work—had declared herself available for extra help. The Baronses’ Fun Only bank account was full, thanks to Mike exercising some stock options; Ann was as giddy as a high school senior on prom night. When everything was as it should be, she loved her life. And she was generous with those close to her.
When they stepped off the second plane in Florida, the weather was perfect—a cloudless sky and brilliant warm sunshine. Ann removed her cherry red leather blazer and slung it over her arm as they walked into the tiny terminal. A hired car and driver were waiting, courtesy of Mike, enabling the women to get away quickly, without going through some of the procedural hassles that arriving in the Keys could include. Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the beachside condo. It was clean and bright and fresh—Ann having made all the arrangements ahead of time. The windows were wide open, allowing the ocean breeze to flow from one room to another, leaving its salty scent behind. As soon as the driver deposited their luggage into the foyer and accepted his generous tip and drove away, Ann opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a pitcher of margaritas. “Welcome to the Islands,” she said, filling the first of four glasses.
“Oh, honestly, Ann, you think of everything,” said Paula.
“That I do, my friend,” said Ann, handing a glass to each woman. “When you’ve got a limited amount of time, it’s best to use it wi
sely.”
“Cheers,” said Jesse, clinking glasses with everyone.
“Now,” said Sally, after her first sip. “Where is everyone going to sleep?” In fact, Sally had mapped out who was sleeping where and cleared it with Ann beforehand. She and Ann would share the master bedroom. It was so big, and Ann didn’t like staying in it by herself. And Paula and Jesse would bunk in at the other end of the hall in the next biggest room, simply called the East Room. The two bedrooms on the lower level—where Nate and Lauren stayed—would remain vacant. Sally told Ann it was much more fun to share a room than be alone.
“I’m easy,” said Jesse. “And I don’t snore.”
Ann laughed, her carefree mood enhanced by half a margarita.
“Great,” Sally said. “I was thinking it would be fun to share rooms.”
“Well, the last time we were here, I was in that room at the back,” said Paula. “You know, the one that gets the morning sun.”
“Yes,” said Jesse. “The East Room; that’s lovely.”
“Then it’s settled,” said Sally, a little too quickly. “You two will share that room.”
Jesse smiled at Sally. “And where will you sleep, Sally?”
“Well,” said Sally, avoiding Jesse’s amused gaze, “I guess I could keep Ann company.”
“Whatever,” said Ann, refilling their drink glasses. “Let’s unpack and go to the beach.”
“Sounds good,” said Jesse, putting her untouched refill down on the counter. She had made a pact with herself and her husband that she would not spend three days living in a wineglass. Jesse could not match Ann’s drinking capacity and had long ago stopped trying. For the first few years of their friendship, Jesse got drunk whenever Ann did. It didn’t matter if they were meeting for lunch or a late afternoon catch-up, Jesse drank whatever Ann was drinking, glass for glass. For Jesse, it was an effort to be social more than it was a desire the consume alcohol. She didn’t want Ann to drink alone. It finally came to her one night when she was kneeling on the bathroom floor in front of the toilet, waiting for the next round of nausea, that Ann didn’t care if she drank alone.
The women walked up the stairs with their suitcases and parted company at the top. “Let’s meet on the deck in fifteen minutes,” announced Ann, walking toward her bedroom with Sally in tow.
“Perfect,” said Paula, downing the rest of her margarita and setting the glass down on a table in the hallway.
As soon as she and Jesse reached their bedroom, Paula sat down on one of the two queen-sized beds separated by a wicker nightstand. A moment later, she lay back, appearing as exhausted as her coral-colored capri pants straining to imprison her generous thighs. “Phew!” she said. “I’m feeling a little dizzy.”
“Close your eyes for a moment,” said Jesse, looking at her watch. “You’ve just had two drinks in twenty minutes.”
“Oh God,” said Paula, following Jesse’s advice. “I can’t do this.”
“You don’t have to.”
Down the hall, Sally closed the door to the bedroom as soon as she and Ann were inside. “Did that go okay down there?” she asked.
“Did what go okay?” asked Ann, rolling her bag across the floor to a whitewashed pine bureau.
“The bedroom discussion,” said Sally, setting her drink on the pine table next to the king-sized bed. “I hope no one has hurt feelings.”
Ann unzipped her suitcase and pulled out a stack of T-shirts in bright colors, freshly ironed by Emma. She carefully laid them in a bureau drawer. “And why,” asked Ann, returning to her suitcase, “would anyone have hurt feelings?”
“About the sleeping arrangements, silly,” said Sally, hands on her hips, standing over her unopened suitcase. “Honestly, Ann.”
“And honestly, Sally,” said Ann, removing the first of eight pairs of sandals from her shoe bag. “You think about this stuff too much.”
Sally opened her suitcase. “I’m not sure that’s true,” she said, taking out three pairs of capri pants and setting them on the bed. “Because I know Paula can have issues with this kind of thing. You know how easily her feelings get hurt.”
“Paula has a lot of issues,” said Ann, placing six of her favorite cotton sweaters in the bureau’s bottom drawer. “But I don’t think sleeping with me is one of them.”
Sally smirked. “That’s cute, Ann,” she said sarcastically.
Ann, several bathing suits in hand, turned and looked at Sally. “Let’s move on,” she said. “I’d like to get to the beach before dark.”
“That’s fine,” sniffed Sally. “I just like to bring these things up so they don’t blow up on us later.”
Ann turned her back on her friend, walked into the master bathroom, and closed the door behind her. She took off her clothes and checked out her body in the mirror that sat above the double sinks embedded in pink marble and ran from one side wall to the other. The dieting she had done in the last week had paid off. Her stomach was completely flat, almost concave. She slipped on the first of three bikinis she recently bought, then twisted and turned in front of her image. When she wheeled all the way around, she frowned; her bottom looked big. The second suit was better, from every angle. Ann walked toward the mirror, then away from it, looking over her shoulder. Yes, this was the suit for the day. Ann smiled at her reflection before opening the door to the bedroom. Sally was sitting on the bed, examining her new pedicure, and wearing the same suit. “Oh my gosh!” said Sally, smiling. “We’re twins!”
Not smiling, Ann said, “Where did you get that suit?”
“Going Along Swimmingly,” said Sally. “At the Sunset Mall.”
“That liar Candace,” said Ann. “She told me she’d just unpacked the suits and that no one had bought one.”
“It’s no big deal,” said Sally. “Jesse and Paula will get a kick out of it.”
“I don’t think so,” said Ann, hands on bony hips. “One of us will have to change.” Recognizing an order, Sally slowly stood and walked to the bureau that held her clothes. She grabbed her other suit, last year’s aqua one-piece with a low-cut back, and walked silently into the bathroom. Two minutes later, she emerged. “You look fabulous,” said Ann, grinning. “Let’s find the others.”
Sally watched as Ann quickly pulled a pink diaphanous cover-up over her head, the same cover-up Sally had purchased from Candace because it matched the suit. Luckily, Sally had packed her white, terry-cloth cover-up. When she put it on, Ann told her how versatile it was, a word Sally well knew meant uninteresting.
Paula, wearing a black tank suit under a large black and white vertical striped tunic, and Jesse, wearing a pale yellow one-piece with a matching sarong tied around her hips, were already sitting on the porch when Sally and Ann walked downstairs. As soon as compliments were paid all around, Ann suggested they head down the cement pathway to the beach, where they would find chairs, towels, umbrellas, and—most importantly—the bar. Wearing her new straw hat and Juicy sunglasses, Ann led her friends under the palm trees to the sand. She told the beach boy to set up four chairs and a table under two umbrellas. She then ordered four frozen margaritas for delivery. “Now this,” said Ann, as soon as she sat down in a chair, “is what it’s all about.”
“I’ll second that,” said Sally, taking the chair next to Ann.
“All I need now is that drink,” said Ann, craning her neck around to see if the margaritas were on their way.
Jesse sat in the fourth chair, giving Paula the seat next to Sally. Paula hadn’t been sitting thirty seconds when she pulled a romance novel from her beach bag and started reading. “Oh, here we go,” said Sally. “Has the prince invited the scullery maid to the ball yet?”
“No, no, no,” said Paula. “This one takes place in the here and now, in Manhattan,”
“Let me guess,” said Ann, grinning at the muscular, tanned, Speedo-clad beach boy offering her a margarita on a Lucite tray. “She’s an ad executive, and he’s a well-mannered office boy who doesn’t yet know he’s heir to th
e throne of a faraway kingdom.”
“They’re in retail,” said Paula dismissively.
“I don’t know how you read those books,” said Sally, taking a sip from the drink just handed to her. “They’re really kind of silly, aren’t they?”
“Haven’t we had this discussion?” asked Paula, taking her drink from the tray but keeping her eyes on her book.
“Well,” said Sally, removing the latest thick issue of Vogue from her canvas beach bag, “perhaps we just haven’t found your answer satisfactory.”
“And since when has my goal in life been to satisfy you?” said Paula, looking up from her book and through the gray lenses of her aviator sunglasses at Sally.
“Touché!” said Ann, giggling.
Jesse took her drink from the beach boy and set it down in the sand next to her. “There’s a good reason women read romance novels,” she said, gathering her shoulder-length brown hair into a ponytail. “They’re hugely popular.”
“And why is that?” asked Sally, still smarting from Ann’s remark.
“Women love romance,” said Jesse. “Ninety-nine times out of a hundred they don’t get it from their husbands of twenty years, so they read about it in books. Experience it vicariously, so to speak.”
“My husband can be romantic,” said Sally defensively.
“Think about when and why he’s romantic,” said Ann, drink in hand. “Isn’t it because he wants sex? Then again, Jack’s ahead of the rest of his gender if he’s romantic at all, Sally. Most men hop into bed and expect their wives—wild with lust after a day of caring for the children, running errands, and doing housework—to jump on top of them and beg for it.” Paula laughed out loud.
“Are you saying making love isn’t romantic?” asked Sally, removing her sunglasses, looking confused.
“It can be very romantic,” said Jesse, “especially if both people want it at the same time. However, if the husband wants it and the wife simply acquiesces to get him to focus on something else, that’s not all that romantic.”
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