The Best of Enemies

by Jen Lancaster

  As for the washer and dryer?

  Moss green. Custom painted. No lie.

  Pretty sure I broke the Internet the day I posted shots of the completed project. Betsy said I was probably going to receive death threats from Martha Stewart. (They met at a charity event, BTW. Betsy’s not a fan.)

  When I die, I want my ashes scattered in this room.

  As for our current marital laundry sitch, um . . . not quite so picture-perfect. My whites haven’t been bleached for a while. I’m in desperate need of a spin cycle. The lint trap is full. I’ve been worried that if we don’t run a load real soon, Dr. K might send his shirts to Brandi for pressing.

  That’s why I had a whole date-day planned for us. As soon as Kassie was out the door with her grandmother, I’d hoped to show Dr. K how much more flexible I am now that I’ve upped my Pilates workout. Then I’d make him a luxurious breakfast of cream-topped Belgian waffles containing no pureed pumpkin whatsoever! (I post adult recipes, too. They aren’t nearly as pin-able.)

  Later, we’d have wine with lunch, followed by a second vigorous wash cycle, and then we’d spend the night chilling in lawn chairs at the outdoor amphitheater a couple of towns to the north, listening to Third Eye Blind perform, our second favorite college band behind Weezer. Jackass Jordan used to claim that Weezer couldn’t be anyone’s favorite band, because that was tantamount to saying “plain” was the best flavor of yogurt. Wrong! Some of us happen to ADORE all of Fage’s fruit-free, sugar-free, lower-fat offerings.

  Anyway, LaundryDay2015 was clearly not to be for Dr. K and me, so I figured I may as well start working on the No Screens for Ice Cream program the PTO’s implementing this fall. That’s why Ashley’s here.

  I usher Ashley into the breakfast nook, which opens into our professional-grade kitchen and great room. The sixty-inch industrial Wolf Vulcan range with double ovens and built-in griddle/broiler really has allowed me to take SecretSquash.com to the next level. In retrospect, I can’t believe I fought Dr. K on the extravagance! In terms of social gathering spots, we also have a media room in the basement, plus a living room and a library on this floor, and four bedrooms and a mother-in-law suite upstairs.

  Hopefully someday we’ll actually have enough couches and chairs to fill all these rooms.

  “Why can’t we just live here for now and save up for a remodel?” I asked Ken as we walked through our Cape Cod for the first time after closing. I still called him Ken back then. I’m not entirely sure when I started referring to him as Dr. K, although I suspect it was when Cookie started calling him that. “Why take on so much debt when we’re still paying off your student loans?”

  “It’s all about image, babe,” he explained. “If we don’t look successful, then we can’t be successful. You don’t want everyone in town to be all, ‘Who lives in that tear-down?’ ‘The dentist.’ ‘Then he must not be very good.’ Fake it till you make it. In the dentistry game, image is everything.”

  Is it? I wondered, although I never said that out loud. Instead, I reasoned, “This house is so cute, even if it is dated.” The darling fifties kitchen was right out of my idol Meg Ryan’s apartment in Sleepless in Seattle. “We’re already in the Lakeside school district. Who cares if there’s only three bedrooms? We can make the little blue room the nursery for Kassie, while Kord and Konnor can share.”

  “You’re advocating the boys bunk together?” he asked, with what seemed like a smirk crossing his chiseled features.

  “Why not?”

  He snickered. “I’m worried they inherited their mommy’s territorial DNA. You don’t have the best track record with roommates, Kit.”

  Unfair! Granted I’d had only two roommates in my life, but one turned out spectacularly well. I mean, Betsy was my maid of honor! Of course, the other roommate situation morphed into a cautionary tale, where the level of aggression escalated from passive to aggressive lightning-quick. I mean, you speak one simple truth and, bam!

  World War Three.

  I decided I’d prefer to spend the extra money on a rebuild rather than allow my boys to grow up to be mortal enemies. I feel like that would ruin Christmas. So we tore down, we never looked back, and everyone at my parties circulates really nicely now as there aren’t enough places to sit.

  Everything worked out as it should . . . even though I wouldn’t mind a little more liquidity right about now.

  As we sit down at the scrubbed farmhouse table topped by an ironstone tureen of fresh lemons and a burlap runner, Ashley removes her gum, placing the chewed bit of strawberry-scented neon in her espresso saucer to save for later.

  Oh, honey.

  You can buy all the St. Johns in the world but, as Countess LuAnn says, money can’t buy you class.

  I open my No Screens for Ice Cream binder and smile to myself, content that in terms of the big picture, the Brandis and Ashleys of the world have nothing on me.

  • • •

  I’m partway through (halfway through) (all the way through) the bottle of wine I’d planned on packing for Ravinia when Dr. K finally arrives home. I’ve been up here in the den off the master suite watching Dance Moms, my guilty pleasure show. I can never quite figure out if I love or hate Abby Lee Miller.

  On the one hand, she drives those kids extra-hard, but on the other, they’re better dancers for it. Also, I share her opinion that most of the mothers in her orbit are dingbats. I have to wonder if her “bullying” is often just her attempt to herd cats, much like my life in the PTO. Like that time I practically had to frog-march Brooke Birchbaum into the Parental Involvement committee meeting? The irony was not lost on me, so you can see my dilemma in regard to the controversial dance maven.

  “That must have been some emergency!” I exclaim from my perch on the Pottery Barn love seat, adorned with the pillows I fashioned from old grain sacks. (My no-sew tutorial has received twelve thousand views on YouTube!)

  When I talk, I try to sound flirty, but I wonder if I’m not coming across as slurry.

  “What?” He pops his head into the den. His cheeks are flushed and he looks awfully invigorated for having had such an unexpectedly long day. “All I heard was emergeshesh.”

  Darn it! Definitely slurry.

  But how was I supposed to spend my suddenly free day? I sure as hell wasn’t doing laundry as planned. Except for the three loads I washed, folded, and staged next to detergent-filled Mason jars and sprigs of dried lavender. My Instagram caption? “Laundry today or naked tomorrow!” Which is also kind of ironic, now that I think about it.

  If the Littles were here, I’d be ferrying them all over to practices and playdates and lovingly preparing them all manners of meals, but no such luck today. After I met with Ashley, I added graphics to the PTO summer newsletter, wrote a blog post about an exciting new carrot-and-fennel laden pizza (delish!!), photographed the salmon and citrus salad I ate for a late lunch, read the new Real Simple cover to cover while I walked on the basement treadmill, rearranged the living room to try to make it seem less desolate (fail), and swapped out the pansies in the window boxes for petunias and verbena after seeing EarthMama’s latest Twit pic.

  I called Betsy but I never heard back from her. Thought about stopping by with some fresh fudge banana muffins (with bonus kale!), but she may not be in town. She said something about heading to Madagascar last time I saw her. I assume she’s taken Trip’s corporate jet—must be nice, eh? And even if she was at home, she’s been so busy on her newest fund-raising campaign that I figured trying to pop in would be an exercise in futility.

  At least, I’m hoping she’s just busy. We did have that weird moment when Trip cornered me in their butler’s pantry at the end of the last big charity dinner at Steeplechase. I chalked the incident up to our having been overserved. I’m sure Betsy isn’t actually mad at me. She’s not the jealous type. If she was, she’d never have allowed Trip to work so many long hours with his Jessic
a Rabbit–looking, twenty-five-year-old assistant, Ingrid. Likely her last text was terse because she was swamped. Everything will be fine when we finally see each other.

  I mumble, “I opened the goddamned wine because I was out of stuff to do.”

  “You owe the swear jar a dollar.”

  Two weeks ago, a cyclist pulled out in front of the Escalade, causing Kassie to exclaim, “What the fuck is his problem?” My first instinct was to laugh hearing that terrible curse coming out of her cherubic lips. But clearly she’s heard the word somewhere—I’m looking at you, Nana Baba—so I’m actively trying to set the example now.

  I take a sip of water and I say, more distinctly, “I said, ‘That must have been some emergency!’ You were gone all day. And part of the night.”

  He enters the den and begins to pull off his shirt while we speak. He’s not cut like he was back in his power-lifting fraternity days, but he’s in better shape than a lot of men his age, even if he is carrying a couple of extra pounds. (Suspect he doesn’t always eat the healthy lunches I pack for him.) Regardless, I’m the appreciative beneficiary of how he takes care of himself. He says keeping fit is an important part of his “professional image.” Again, this must be new in the world of dentistry because my father was the most popular practitioner in all of Lake County, complete with a bald spot and a paunch I could barely wrap my arms around as a kid.

  “Didn’t Cookie tell you I was dragged into a pickup game of hoops with Brad?” Ugh, Brad the Cad, King of the Girlfriend Cheats. Granted, his rep comes from junior year of college, but I’m slow to forgive. I hate anything that smacks of infidelity. Like, I feel physical anger just thinking about any form of unfaithfulness. That’s probably why I was so wigged out at Steeplechase for the W3 dinner. Trip’s a demonstrative guy and I shouldn’t have been so huffy over a meaningless gesture. He’s plenty friendly with all the women in his life. He didn’t make a pass at me. I’m sure of it now. I just wish I hadn’t been so histrionic.

  I’m embarrassed about our misunderstanding—I’d definitely hit the vino too hard that night. (Is not a trend, I swear.) Every time I turned around, a waiter was right there to top off my glass. I generally have admirable self-control, but perhaps I was feeling a bit out of place. We were the only couple at Betsy and Trip’s event who weren’t either high rollers or local celebrities.

  “I have a big surprise for you!” Betsy said as we approached the head table in the Steeplechase ballroom. We walked up to a petite, polished brunette in a stunning Carolina Herrera two-tone jacquard sleeveless dress. The top and bottom were the most gorgeous shade of oyster gray with a center panel of midnight blue. The oyster and blue sections were divided by sprays of embroidered daisies in alternating colors. I didn’t know love at first sight was possible until I spotted this garment. Suddenly, my darling scalloped, lace-overlay Ann Taylor tank dress felt decidedly pedestrian.

  “Do you remember Dylan Blass?” Betsy asked.

  Dylan let out the kind of hearty guffaw that seemed at odds with her tiny little body. Her brown eyes sparkled in the glow of the candelabras on the tables. While she seemed familiar, I still couldn’t connect the dots. She said, “I doubt it—I was Dyta Blaszczyk back then. Someone told me early on that when people can’t say or spell your name, you’re leaving money on the table. She used the Ralph Lauren né ‘Lifshitz’ example to sell me. I had it legally changed about fifteen years ago.”

  Her huge laugh was what sparked my memory. I remembered hearing that sound from a dozen cubicles away. “Oh, my goodness,” I exclaimed. “Yes! We were at Eiderhaus PR together right after graduation. I didn’t recognize you at first—was your hair different then?”

  “Brazilian blowout. Because someone used to say that frizz was a Glamour Never, not just a Glamour Don’t.”

  “Surprise!” Betsy cheered. “I’ll leave you two to catch up.” Then she excused herself to mingle. I still can’t get over how effortlessly Betsy works a room now. She glided away, a vision in a champagne-colored sequin Hervé Léger bandage dress.

  Dylan said, “Remember we both worked on the Calvin Klein Obsession launch? Those were the days, huh? All those late nights, using hot water from the coffeemaker to fix our Ramen noodle suppers? That’s when you dropped your last-name bomb, which obviously resonated.”

  Unsure of how to reply, I filled the silence with, “Wow, it’s so good to see you.” We exchanged air kisses. “What are you up to now? Still at Eiderhaus?”

  “Nah. Started my own firm.”

  “Hold the phone—you’re that Dylan Blass? Of the Dylan Blass Revolution? With the show on Bravo? You guys brought back the skort! You’re seriously amazing!” I said. And I meant it. For the most part. As I was reflecting on our early days, I remembered having to tweak a few of her pitches.

  Dylan stretched on her toes to whisper, “Don’t worry, I’m better at it all now.” She let out another one of those booming laughs. “Thank you again for always guiding me, whether or not I wanted it. Just think, if it weren’t for your coaching, I might have never won the Carolina Herrera account. Check out this snappy dress they just sent me! Could you die?”

  Yes. Yes, I could.

  And just like that, the free twenty-two-dollar striped shirt I’d received that morning from StitchBroker.sg (Singapore’s premiere online discount personal shopper’s subscription box site) seemed a lot less enviable.

  So maybe I was swallowing a little disappointment along with the Kongsgaard chardonnay that night. On top of the whole Ghost of PR Christmas Future, Dr. K saw fit to hand out his business cards to everyone, whether or not they wanted one. I’m usually so proud of his hustle, but I wish he’d shown a touch more discretion with such a sophisticated crowd. Was he offering a luxury cosmetic dental experience or selling a used car?

  So I’d say the wine plus envy multiplied by feeling out of place equaled me misinterpreting a completely innocuous gesture. I wince, remembering my reaction.

  Dr. K sniffs at himself and grimaces. “I can tell by your expression that I must reek. I went right from the office to the gym and then we had a couple of beers, so I smell like a gym and a bar. Lemme hop in the shower and then we can talk.” He tosses me his dirty shirt. “Here. For when you do laundry.”

  “Not exactly the kind of laundry I was hoping for,” I grumble. Yet I can’t help but admire his lats while he walks away.

  He calls, “Babe? All I’m hearing is nexjussho.”

  I hold his shirt to my nose to see if I catch a whiff of Brandi’s trademark Harajuku Lovers perfume. Nope. All I smell is my homemade fabric softener (rosemary and lemon oil—seventeen thousand and ninety – six pins within the first week!), cologne, and a slight trace of cigarette smoke, which comes from working in the vicinity of little Miss Two – Packs-a-Day.

  Who smokes anymore?

  Don’t answer that, because it’s apparently the same people who have grandchildren in their forties. My God, woman, you are the poster child for bad choices! We should pull Jerry Lewis out of the mothballs and hold a telethon for you!

  I ball up his undershirt to use as a pillow while I shut my eyes, waiting for him to exit the shower. I’ll steal a quick nap now because when he’s done, we’re running a load together; I’ll be damned if I have to hand wash my delicates myself again.

  • • •

  “Kit, wake up.”

  I’m shaken into consciousness, muscles aching from not being able to stretch out on the love seat.

  “I wasn’t asleep,” I protest. Technically, I was passed out. There’s a difference, although I’m not sure I should argue it.

  He sounds anxious as he drops down onto the couch next to me. “Listen, Kitty, you have to get it together, okay? It’s important.”

  I sit up and try to brush away all the cobwebs. I’m all groggy and my light buzz has been replaced with a pounding headache. This? Right here? Is why no one should ever
day-drink, regardless of how festive a tight, backlit shot of wineglass condensation looks on Instagram.

  I squint at the clock and see that I’ve been out for a solid three hours. Stupid wine. I scrub at my eyes and chug some water from a Mason jar. I turn to Dr. K and give him a come-hither smile while he takes my hand. Maybe we’ll get in a quick cycle after all. “I’m just peachy. What’s up?”

  He gestures toward the television with the remote. The news is on, but it’s paused. “Watch.” I lean into him and rest my head on his shoulder, placing my hand on his thigh, but he doesn’t pull me toward him. Instead he says, “Brace yourself, babe. It’s about Betsy.”

  And suddenly, I’m wide-awake.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Evanston, Illinois

  December 1993

  “We should live in Ellison Hall,” I suggest. “Campus is kind of a hike, but the rooms are big. Bonus, right? Plus, it’s coed. John-John lived there freshman year and I remember it being nice.”

  Sars and I are sitting at the breakfast bar, poring over the colorful brochures we just received from the university’s housing department. We started off in the family room at her house, but her mom chased us out due to her hosting a Tupperware party later this afternoon. Too bad, because Sars’s mom always has fresh-baked cookies in a jar for us and keeps an endless supply of milk on hand. We also never have to drink out of jelly jars over there when all the regular glasses are dirty at the same time, largely because their glasses are never all dirty at the same time. I glance at the sink, brimming with dishes.