The Best of Enemies

by Jen Lancaster

  Before I can plead my case again, I hear the enthusiastic toot of a car horn coming from the driveway. I peek out the side window to see Cookie in the front seat, taking a drag on her cigarette, not a care in the world. She exhales plumes of smoke at the tangle of Mardi Gras beads hanging from the rearview mirror of her Scion. I bet her car smells like Keith Richards and estrogen pills.

  “Ride’s here!” he says. He leans in for what I assume is a proper kiss, but instead he bends down over the burner I’m standing next to. He uses a wooden spoon to taste the white bean ragout I’m simmering to pair with pan-seared sea bass to feed everyone staying at Steeplechase. “Not your best. Bland. Add some of that pink Himalayan salt. Love to the kids, see you next week.”

  Then just like that, he’s out the door. Faintly, I hear him say, “Hey, Cookie Monster!” before they pull back down the drive.

  Much as I’d like to, I can’t indulge my disappointment because his learning new techniques will make the practice more profitable. I have to believe his effort will pay off soon.

  Hopefully in cash money, and not just dental floss.

  After reaching for the salt, I sample the ragout first to determine exactly how much to add. I take another bite for good measure, letting the portion linger on my tongue and penetrate my soft palate to really get a sense of how it tastes. That’s when I slowly start to simmer.

  How can he say the ragout is bland? I’m sorry, but this dish is flipping perfect. The chopped aromatics give the stew depth and complexity. Adding more sodium would overpower the delicate interplay between the tomato, garlic, and pancetta. The flavor isn’t meant to shout in your face; rather, it should whisper sweetly in your ear.

  I notice I’m clutching the Himalayan saltcellar like a baseball I’m about to whip to center field. For a brief moment, I contemplate how satisfying it would feel to throw this container at the fridge’s loathsome glass door.

  Before I can wind up for the pitch, I’m startled by the sound of my cell phone.

  If you want it/Come and get it . . .

  I’ve been crazy in love with David Gray’s music for years, hence the ringtone. But now? Now I’m starting to despise him because I’ve come to associate this song with Dr. K’s aggressive student loan collection calls. How’s this debt not yet settled? I could have sworn we’d paid them all off last year.

  Crying out loud . . .

  Plus, while I did the right thing by leaving a message at Jack Jordan’s brother’s house (WHERE HE RESIDES WITH HIS PARTNER BECAUSE I TOLD YOU TEDDY WAS GAY), I’ve been dreading her return call. That’s why I’m especially jumpy about the phone. Jack and I don’t play well together under the best of circumstances, so this? This is an apocalypse waiting to happen. We’ve thus far avoided each other because the wake has been stretched over the past few days to accommodate everyone. Tomorrow we won’t be so lucky at the funeral or the private gathering afterward.

  Once upon a time, a ringing cell phone was full of promise, the prelude to a date or an awesome party. Now either it’s a demand for money or Lacey Churchill needing to complain some more about Jeremiah’s teacher reading aloud from The Perils of Paul, the Peanut Butter Beagle.

  “Lacey, sweetie, please,” I said when I made the mistake of answering earlier. “I promise you this is simply a cute children’s book, totally age-appropriate. There’s no agenda and the sales go to support animal shelters. Homeless dogs and cats are helped and no actual peanut butter’s involved. Everyone wins.”

  “The book’s an attractive nuisance,” Lacey replied, absolutely discounting reason. “These kids are being systematically conditioned to crave pulverized nut spreads. Like brainwashing. Extra-crunchy brainwashing. The school is colluding with Big Peanut Butter, I just know it. I sense Jif’s sticky fingerprints all over this story.”

  Fortunately, my phone’s caller ID says it’s Kelly. I don’t see her much since she relocated to West Palm Beach with her pro-golfing husband and two daughters a few years ago.

  “Yo, Kitty-cat! You rich yet?”

  Is this sarcasm or a subtle barb? I’ve kept our financial issues on the down-low because I’m mortified, so I’m shocked Kelly’s picked up on my deception. But I decide to follow her advice to ABD—Always Be Denying, so I don’t offer any info that might confirm her suspicions. “I have no idea what you mean,” I reply, trying to sound breezy.

  “I mean, you’ve got a dead Chandler on your hands. I bet the life insurance policy alone is eight figures. Possibly nine. They didn’t have heirs, so you’ve got to be a benefactor. The estate needs to throw a few bucks your way, amirite?”

  Jack used to insist that Kelly was the anti-Christ. Oh, please. While Kelly can be—

  Kelly tells me, “Listen, this is important.”

  Thank goodness, I think, hoping she might offer some advice or solace, given—

  “When you get your share of the inheritance, be a pal and pick up a new Range Rover for me. I hate mine. Mean it. I can’t believe Brett cheaped out on the Evoque instead of buying the full-sized. I’m embarrassed to drive this subpar model to the club. You realize I won’t even valet park at Mirasol? Too shameful.”

  Perhaps Kelly’s not Mother Teresa, but she’s always looked out for me. And regardless of how much we might need a temporary cash infusion, I’d live outdoors before taking a cent from the Chandler estate.

  “Make a note, I want the Four Zone Climate Comfort pack. Got that? Obvi, cold weather’s not a problem in West Palm, but that’s the only model with the shiatsu seats. My Evoque doesn’t even have adjustable lumbar support! It’s like Russia or something! I asked Brett, ‘What am I supposed to do? Drive around in an SUV that can’t offer a post-tennis ass massage, like a poor?’”

  Sure, Kel’s not for everyone and can come on a bit strong, but her heart’s in the right place. Once when we were kids, she—

  “Supercharged. God help you if it’s not supercharged. Are you writing this down? Write it down, your memory’s for shit. I want the LCD displays on the first and second row seats. I need separate surround sound for the stereo. I have to be able to play my music outside of the wireless headphones for the DVD player because if I have to listen to those little fucks blather on about 5SOS any more on the way to ballet class, I will pull a Susan Smith. Not kidding.”

  Fine. She’s Satan.

  Before I can say a word, the back door flies open and Nana Baba enters in a tornado of vaguely blue-tinged white hair, paper bags from the Jewel, and cat-themed, elastic-waist clothing.

  “Why aren’t you keeping this locked?” she demands, pointing at the door Dr. K exited moments earlier. “Any lunatic could let themselves in, and then where would you be?”

  I think, Likely exactly where I am right now, seeing how one just did. But I say nothing, pointing to the phone at my ear by way of excuse.

  She makes tsk-tsk sounds as she unpacks grocery sacks full of Pop-Tarts, mini chimichangas, and a frozen patty-based product called “Chykyn Wingzz,” which I suspect contains neither chicken nor wings.

  “Kel, I’m sorry I have to go—Nana Baba’s here.”

  “Ahh! Kill it with fire!” she exclaims before hanging up on me.

  Kelly is Satan, but at least she’s my Satan.

  I paint a polite smile on my face and say, “Nana Baba, thanks so much for coming up to stay with us because I’ll be in and out over the next few days. The boys are both on day trips with friends and won’t be home until late tonight, but Kassie will be thrilled to spend the evening with you.” I’ll give her that: the Littles adore her. I suspect it’s because she swears and watches soap operas with them.

  “Where’s my girl? Kassie! Kassie, baby! Your Nana Baba’s here!” she calls and her words echo.

  “Sorry, Baba, she’s down the street at a birthday party. We’ll pick her up at five o’clock.”

  The last thing I needed was Brooke Birchbaum�
��s spoiled daughter Avery’s party. I had to shell out more than a hundred bucks to buy one of the lower-priced items on her registry. A gift registry! For a child who isn’t even a decade old! Because Avery’s bash is award-ceremony-themed, Kassie needed a noteworthy new outfit for posing in the step and repeat area of the red carpet, too. Paparazzi. For eight-year-olds.

  How ridiculous has this whole competitive-birthday-party enterprise become with the swag bags and professional DJs? There’s such pressure to outdo the previous fete that the costs have skyrocketed. Fortunately, this is one instance where I’m glad to have access to sponsored merch, or else we’d never be able to keep up. For example, last month, Merritt Wilhelm served fresh sushi brought up from Katsu in the city for over two hundred guests! Have you priced hamachi lately? Unreal! (P.S., I’d have been impressed if her son Winston had eaten more maki rolls and less of his own boogers.)

  Ashley’s been planning a bash for Barry Jr., and her flower budget’s twice as much as what my folks spent for our peony-and-gardenia-based wedding centerpieces and rose wall. I wish someone would say, “Enough already!”

  However, that person won’t be me. I’m not about to be the one parent who doesn’t go along and causes my children to be singled out, especially when there’s no reasonable alternative.

  Nana Baba screws her face up and I can tell I’m about to be hit with a tsunami of judgment, which is ironic considering she’s standing there in a cats-wearing-tiaras printed sweatshirt with the caption Pussies Rule, Dogs Drool! cross-stitched across the bottom. “How far away is she?”

  “The party’s a couple of blocks east of here.” Lake-adjacent, Brooke Birchbaum always claims, even though she’d have to scale the neighbor’s eight-foot privacy fence to catch a glimpse of water.

  “Two blocks? And you’re driving her?”

  Wait for it, wait for it . . .

  “What, are her legs broken? She can’t walk home? When I was eight, I was riding the bus by myself all the way from Belmont Ave up to the Superdawg. Their malteds were the boss.”

  Two points to make here: first, leaving my door unlocked for thirty seconds is bad, yet allowing a child to roam free-range just north of the third largest city in the country is good? Second, each time Baba tells this story, she’s a little younger in it. When I heard the tale initially, she was thirteen. At some point, she’ll be navigating Chicago’s public transportation system on her own as an embryo floating in a cup of amniotic fluid. Ha! A cup of Nana Baba. I’ll be sure to share this little nugget with Bets—

  Damn it. For a blessed second, I forgot.

  I begin to tidy up the already immaculate kitchen as an outlet for my nervous energy. I spray a homemade vinegar solution on the counters and wipe with a cloth printed in the yellow racecars Konnor absolutely could not sleep without for a six-month period. “I wish I had your confidence, Baba, but I’m not comfortable with an eight-year-old managing herself. We’ll pick her up.”

  “That kid needs more fresh air.”

  “We’ll roll down the windows.”

  “She needs exercise.”

  “Outside of tap, ballet, field hockey, tennis, and tae kwon do, what do you suggest?”

  “Mmmph.” She stows all her groceries, completely obscuring my fridge staging, and begins to poke through my cabinets. “Where do you hide your coffeemaker?”

  I gesture toward the Keurig. “Right there.”

  “That’s not a fancy can opener?”

  “Nope.” She sidles over to the Keurig, dubious it’s not meant to pry lids off of creamed corn cans, eager to correct me.

  I inquire, “What flavor pod would you like? Hazelnut? Mountain Blueberry? Ethiopian Yirgacheffe, perhaps?”

  She’s still manhandling the appliance, unconvinced it makes coffee. “What the shit are you trying to say? And where do the grounds go in? Why isn’t there a burner on this thing?”

  The path of least resistance will be to make the cup for her, so I invite her to get comfortable while I brew.

  I present the steamy Fiesta-ware mug on an old oak barrel tray made of wine staves (complete with cooper’s mark) along with a small, coordinating Fiesta-ware bowl of raw sugar cubes, a pair of tiny silver tongs shaped like birds’ feet, an adorable vintage cow’s head creamer filled with half-and-half, a couple of linen beverage napkins, and a plate of orange zest shortbread cookies and darling little pecan tartlets. When I serve her, Baba holds up one of the tartlets. “What’s in here?”

  “Pecans, sugar, eggs, flour, vanilla, cinnamon, and some heavy cream.”

  She casts a gimlet eye. “You know what I mean.”

  I’m so not in the mood to argue. “Sweet potatoes.”

  She sets the tartlet down on the other side of the tray so fast you’d imagine it was radioactive. “Did you get my e-mail?”

  Did you get my e-mail? I’ll take “What Are the Five Most Terrifying Words the Elderly Can Ever Utter?” for two hundred, Alex.

  Wait, those are the second most terrifying. The first are, “I’m moving in with you.”

  Fortunately, I was savvy enough to provide my old Hotmail address years ago, or else my SecretSquash in-box would currently be brimming with urban legends, virus-laden gifs of dogs playing the piano, and chain letters written in multicolored Comic Sans font. I haven’t purged anything in that account for a while, so I take an educated guess as to the content.

  “What a patriotic story!” I say. Easily, fifty percent of all her forwards include American flags and bald eagles.

  “No, not that one. The other one.”

  There’s zero benefit to telling her most of her mail goes unopened, so I guess again. “The monkey who uses sign language to communicate with her fluffy kitten? So cute!”

  “I sent that three weeks ago.”

  I nod noncommittally. “Are you talking about the list of all the uses for apple cider vinegar, or why I should never again park in the garage at Old Orchard Mall?”

  She dunks some shortbread into her coffee, then takes a bite. Through a mouthful of crumbs, she says, “Are you daft, girlie? I mean the one about Trip. Did ya read it or not? Whole lot of rumors flying around right about now. Figured you’d have the inside track on the truth.”

  “Baba, now is not the time for unfounded rumors,” I reply, with more acid in my voice than intended.

  Nana Baba’s fairly unflappable, so she doesn’t match my tone. “Suit yourself. Hey, that clock right? It’s four p.m.?” She points to the display over the stove.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then I got a hot date with Dr. Phil. Lemme know when we’re picking up Kassie.” With that, she takes her coffee and ambles up to her mother-in-law suite over the garage because she prefers to recline on the Tempur-Pedic while watching her “stories.”

  She shan’t be missed.

  To keep the peace, I’ll pretend I didn’t see her snatch up the rejected tartlets first.

  Of course, I’m curious as to what kind of ridiculous conspiracy she’s touting now, so I open my MacBook and log in to my old Hotmail account. My password’s still “Macaroni,” named for my childhood pony. Ugh, there’s so much crap in here. Nana Baba’s e-mails take up most of the entire first page and I sort of want to kill Dr. K for setting her up with an iPad because now she can forward me nonsense from anywhere.

  I click on the note she mentioned and skim the contents. Hoo-boy, here we go again, New World Order . . . Trilateral Commission . . . the Masons . . . secret meetings in a bunker under a mountain in Colorado. Come on, Nana Baba—you’re better than this. One would imagine a woman who single-handedly raised, nurtured, and provided an undergrad education for four young children in the city after her husband passed away would have more sense. Delete.

  I read the subject line of every e-mail before sending them to the Big Trash Can in the Sky. That way I’ll be prepared if—no, when—Baba quiz
zes me during her week here.

  You’ve Gotta Read This! No, I actually don’t. Delete.

  You won’t believe what happens next! I bet I would. Delete.

  The REAL story behind Hussein Obama’s Birth Certificate! Maybe it’s time to switch over to CNN, Baba. Delete.

  AmAzinG DOg VidEo Will HaVE U Cryin! Probably. Delete.

  If I had a dollar for every fw: fw: fw: that I run across here, I could actually pay the landscapers.

  I Can’t Stop Thinking About You. Sure, you can’t stop thinking about me. Specifically, you can’t stop thinking about how I buy my kids’ shoes with inadequate arch support, about how I spend too much time building an online presence, about how I don’t put enough starch in Dr. K’s shirts. De—

  Hold on.

  This e-mail isn’t from Baba at all.

  This e-mail is from Trip. I feel my heart begin to pound inside my chest and a sour taste in the back of my throat.

  Kitty,

  I wasn’t joking when I propositioned you in the pantry. My feelings for you are real. You pulled away and pretended you weren’t interested, but I understand your game all too well. Players recognize players.

  Remember—I always get what I want. You and I are going to happen and the sooner you recognize that, the better. Things are changing around here and I’m in a position to make your life very easy. Call me on my private line at (312) 555-1820.

  XO, Trip

  According to the time stamp, he sent this e-mail approximately seventy-two hours before his Gulfstream jet depressurized and crashed into the shark-infested waters around Belize.

  All those on board perished.

  I barely make it to the sink before I vomit.

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHANDLER FINANCIAL GROUP MEMO

  TO: All Employees

  FROM: Henry Allen Black, Interim President

  SUBJECT: Funeral Services

  The office will close today at 1:30 p.m. so that employees may attend the funeral for our beloved founder and friend, James “Trip” Chandler III, who tragically passed away last Wednesday when his plane crashed into the Caribbean Sea off the coast of Belize.