by Anita Hughes
Cassie opened the door to her mother’s office, smelling a mix of Lemon Pledge and Chanel No. 5. The walls were papered in beige linen, and the wood floor was covered with a thick Oriental rug. Vases holding bunches of lilies graced the coffee table, the end tables, and the fireplace mantel. There was a cherry desk, a Louis XIV chair, and a cream-colored sofa with throw pillows shaped like seashells.
“Your mother has the best taste, even where no one can see it.” Alexis admired the silk pillows.
“I’m not in the mood to discuss interior design.” Cassie lay facedown on the sofa.
“Maybe she’s Aidan’s TA and he bought her the pendant to thank her for grading papers.” Alexis opened the drawer under the desk and extracted a crystal decanter and two shot glasses.
“That would be such an ethical thing for a professor of ethics to do,” Cassie moaned into the cushions.
“Cassie, sit up.” Alexis dropped onto the sofa, holding a shot glass in each hand. She kicked off her heels and tucked her stockinged feet under her legs. “Drink this, quickly.” She put the glass under Cassie’s nose.
Cassie drank the Scotch in one gulp. She felt the alcohol burn the back of her throat and her eyes stung. She blinked and held her glass out for another shot, promising herself she would not cry.
“That’s the girl who wrote love notes to Father Chatham senior year and signed Sister Agnes’s name.” Alexis nodded approvingly, refilling Cassie’s glass.
“Sister Agnes was in love with him.” Cassie threw back the second shot. “The whole school knew. Every song in chapel was a love song.”
“I think those were called hymns, to God.” Alexis grinned. “Honestly, Cassie, I know Aidan looks like a lion, king of the jungle, and all those sophomoric undergrads hang on his every word, but has he ever given you a reason to doubt him?”
“No”—Cassie shook her head, choking back a hiccup—“but he’s never given anyone a Fenton’s red box. The only things he buys for me from Fenton’s are scarves because my skin is so sensitive I break out if it’s not true cashmere.”
“Fenton’s does carry the best scarves, and I should get more. Maybe on the way down we can check and see if they have any new colors.” Alexis rubbed her finger along the edge of her glass.
“You can have the ones Aidan bought me for Christmas, if I don’t use them to strangle him.”
“I know you’ve been married much longer than me”—Alexis poured herself another shot—“but it could be completely harmless. A silly misunderstanding.”
“This isn’t one of those old black-and-white movies where the hero gives the heroine a gift and it’s intercepted by the wicked stepsister.” Cassie leaned back on the pillows.
“A few weeks ago I found a cigar in Carter’s blazer pocket. Not that I snoop of course, I’m not that sort of wife”—Alexis put her glass on the rug—“but I felt this long, hard thing in his pocket, like a small penis.”
“How is this relevant?” Cassie interrupted.
“I was really angry because I hate the smell of cigars. It stays in the sheets forever.” Alexis plumped the pillow with one hand. “He said he didn’t know how it got there and I didn’t believe him. I withheld sex”—she sucked in her breath—“until he told the truth.”
“Carter without his nightly pillaging? He must have climbed the walls.” Cassie tried to smile.
“It turned out one of the guys at work put a cigar in everyone’s blazer. Invitation to a bachelor party.”
“I hope you gave Carter some sex before he went to the bachelor party. Who knows what might have happened?”
“I’m serious, Cassie. All you have is circumstantial evidence. Don’t you watch Law & Order or The Good Wife? Circumstantial evidence is never going to carry a conviction.”
Cassie opened the red Fenton’s box and stared at the offending pendant. The stone was light brown on a thin gold chain. She turned it over to see if there was a card or a note enclosed.
“How many times have you told me Aidan gets a dozen friend requests a day from students and deletes them all, unread?” Alexis pressed on. “And what about the fresh pizza that showed up at your front door with a note written in haiku? Aidan threw it away even though it was from Gino’s.”
“You’re turning things around. Aidan gave this to that girl.” Cassie waved the box in the air like a red flag.
“It might have ended up in her hands a number of ways.”
“Like how?” Cassie sat up straight. The shots had made her brain sharper, instead of numbing the pain.
“That’s my point. You have to find out how, and you can’t jump to conclusions until you do.”
“Do you want me to hire a detective, like that guy on CSI: Miami?”
“David Caruso? I don’t know what all the fuss is about. How can anyone with red hair be sexy? Do you believe in your marriage?” Alexis asked.
“Yes.” Cassie nodded, blinking to stop the tears from spilling down her cheeks.
“Then take the box and show it to Aidan, let him explain it.”
“What if he can’t?” Cassie stared at the box as if a genie would pop out and give her the answer.
“Do you remember our last semester at the Convent when you found me crying in the boiler room eating peanut butter sandwiches?” Alexis asked.
Cassie closed her eyes. She saw Alexis in her plaid school uniform, her skirt grazing her thighs, her white socks pushed down to her ankles, making her legs look as if they belonged on a racehorse. She wore her blond hair in a thick braid to her waist, and had a henna tattoo of a rose on the inside of her wrist.
Cassie in high school had been the poster Catholic schoolgirl: chestnut hair brushed into a wavy ponytail, white collared shirt pressed and buttoned to the top button. But Alexis managed to look like a Maxim cover without breaking any major rules: her skirt a fraction too short, her lips smeared with lip gloss with just a hint of color, her blazer pulled a little too tight over her breasts. Half the boys at private schools in the city attended Sacred Heart volleyball games just to see Alexis spike the ball.
“Why are you crying? You smell like peanut butter, you’re going to get detention.” Cassie had squeezed between the hot water furnaces and crouched down next to Alexis.
“Why is this school a peanut-free zone?” Alexis brushed breadcrumbs from her uniform. “It’s bad enough they don’t let you smoke, but peanut butter always makes me feel better. It’s comfort food.”
“Come home after school and I’ll make you a double-decker peanut butter sandwich.” Cassie had tried to pull Alexis to her feet.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Alexis had shook her head, her eyes welling with new tears.
“What happened?” Cassie had slid down on the ground beside her.
“Carter is going to Stanford. I thought we were going to UCLA together. I had it all mapped out: a year in the dorms, a couple of years living in frat and sorority houses, and then our final year living in a condo near Wilshire Boulevard. But now he’s decided to go to the Farm. He probably heard all those New England prep school girls come to California to get laid.”
“Or maybe because Stanford is in the thick of where he wants to be: venture capitalists, hedge funds, dot-coms. There isn’t an inch of Sand Hill Road where guys fresh out of Stanford aren’t making billions.” Cassie had nibbled a peanut butter crust.
“He’s going to forget me.” Alexis’s mascara had run down her cheeks. “He’s going to go to the Stanford-Berkeley football game and fall in love with some cheerleader. UCLA doesn’t even play Stanford, we play USC.”
“No cheerleader could hold a candle to you.” Cassie had stroked Alexis’s hair the way she used to at their preteen sleepovers.
“I just know he’s The One.” Alexis had squeezed the last peanut butter sandwich between her fingers.
“Last semester Brian Peterson was the one, and before that Pierce Stone, even though he went to boarding school in Vermont and you guys spent a total of four long weekends togethe
r.”
“Cassie, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t want to lose him.”
“Then tell him,” Cassie had said with the wisdom of countless hours in the school library reading Seventeen and Teen Vogue. “Go over to Carter’s house and tell him four years and five hundred miles is not going to come between you. Whatever happens in college, you’re going to be waiting for him after graduation.”
“Whatever happens in college?” Alexis had repeated, tearing the sandwich into small pieces.
“You’re going to UCLA,” Cassie had replied. “Land of surfers and bronze movie stars. But if you believe in your relationship, it’ll be there.”
Alexis had stood up. She had a spot of jelly on her white shirt and a trace of peanut butter on her blazer. “Do you think he’ll listen?”
“Carter worships you. Wear that teddy you picked up in the Fillmore last weekend. With heels. He won’t say no.”
* * *
“I only had to wait for Carter to get his degree, his MBA, and his partnership for him to marry me, but what you said was true. I needed to believe in us for the relationship to work.” Alexis slipped on her Pradas and put her glass on the desk. “Don’t doubt Aidan, ask him.”
“Since when did you become a relationship guru?” Cassie snapped the jewelry box shut.
“You don’t just get married and think you’ll still be spooning on your golden anniversary. You have to work at it. I take massage classes, Cordon Bleu cooking classes, makeup classes, and we do couples yoga.”
“Not couples yoga!” Cassie leaned forward, laughing.
“Carter and I had a bit of a rough patch a couple of months ago so I’ve ramped it up a bit. And it’s working. I set my alarm for eleven-fifty at night so I’m awake when he comes home, and we have sex like porn stars.”
“I don’t think I have the energy for yoga or a midnight rendezvous.” Cassie smiled. “But I get it. Like Sister Agnes used to say, ‘face your enemy head on, and you have nothing to fear. God will be at your side.’”
“Aidan isn’t your enemy. He’s been your twin for a decade. I can never peel you away to go shopping because you’re glued to his side. You guys even go to the grocery store together. It’s nauseating.”
“Not the grocery store.” Cassie felt a little better. “The Berkeley Co-op. It’s more a gathering place, and they have the most amazing vegetables, better than anything I grow in my garden. Last week I picked up a purple eggplant from Japan. I served it on a bed of long-grain organic rice, and it was delicious.”
“Enough.” Alexis held up her hand. “I don’t want to hear about purple eggplant, let alone eat it. That’s why you and your professor live in Berkeley, and I live in Presidio Heights. You’re made for each other. Don’t let some bottle blond coed come between you. Go home, pour a glass of Kenwood Chardonnay, show Aidan the box, and ask him where it came from.”
Cassie stood up, testing her legs to see if they were still wobbly. For a moment she relaxed. She had had a delicious tea in the city, saw her best friend for the first time in weeks, and was going home to sit by the fire and nibble on snow peas with her husband. But then her eyes settled on the red Fenton’s box and she sucked in her breath as if she’d been slapped.
“Cassie, go on.” Alexis followed her eyes. “You can do this.”
“You should have your own afternoon talk show.” Cassie picked up the box. “Let’s go before I lose my nerve.”
They took the elevator down to the parking garage. Cassie had parked in a reserved space, next to her mother’s smoky blue Jaguar XL.
“Your mother knows how to treat herself.” Alexis peeked through the window at the spotted maple dashboard and the cream leather upholstery. There were three purses on the floor of the passenger seat: Louis Vuitton, Prada, and a Fendi clutch, and a couple of pairs of boots on the backseat.
“Are those Chanel ostrich-skin boots?” Alexis pressed her face harder against the glass. “I’ve only seen them in Vogue.”
“Stop drooling, you’ll fog up the glass.” Cassie opened the door of her Prius. “Wish me luck.”
Alexis kissed Cassie’s cheek. “Maybe I’ll ask Carter for a Jaguar for my birthday.”
“Thanks for your support.” Cassie put the keys in the ignition.
“You have all my love and support. Trust me, it was some silly mistake. You’ll drink Chardonnay and eat Japanese eggplant and have the best sex of the holidays.” Alexis grinned. “You’re Aidan’s angel. You’re irreplaceable.”
2.
Cassie drove across the Bay Bridge listening to Mariah Carey sing “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” She thought someone should tell the DJ Christmas was over. The sparkle, the mistletoe, the eggnog was gone and all that remained were leftovers and returns. She glanced at the red Fenton’s box on the passenger seat and considered opening her window and tossing it into the bay. But then she’d be facing Aidan empty handed.
She flipped the radio station and heard an old Train song: “Drops of Jupiter.” Instinctively she smiled and hummed along. Train had been their favorite band when they were first married. Cassie remembered going to their concert at the Warfield theater and spending the whole night sharing Irish coffees: Aidan’s arm draped around her, her face buried in his leather jacket. When the song “Calling All Angels” was played on heavy rotation, Aidan would turn up the radio and boast that he had asked the lead singer to write the lyrics for Cassie.
Cassie’s eyes filled with tears, and she wiped them away so she could see the cars in front of her. She rested her elbows on the steering wheel and remembered the day she met Aidan. She walked into his lecture class fifteen minutes late, and he stared at her, his fierce black eyes sizing her up, as if she was interrupting a presidential address.
“And who is this young lady who has the courage or the bad manners to walk into my class three days and fifteen minutes late?” Aidan addressed the lecture hall.
Cassie blushed and took a seat at the back of the class. She had heard about Professor Aidan Blake: he loved to hear himself talk, he wasn’t afraid to offend students if it made his lectures more interesting, and he had the sexiest mouth of any professor on campus. Girls signed up for ethics in modern society just to see him pout.
Cassie had made the class a last-minute add. It was her final semester, senior year, and the philosophy of cooking class she wanted was full. Thomas Keller and Alice Waters were creating such a buzz with reduction sauces and seven-course tasting menus that cooking was the new rock ’n’ roll. Undergrads lined up for culinary courses and spent their evenings prowling Williams-Sonoma.
Cassie’s roommate suggested Professor Blake’s ethics class, so she climbed three stories to the top of Newberry Hall and tried to blend in with the desk chairs.
“Cassie Fenton,” she replied when it seemed Aidan wouldn’t continue his lecture until she answered.
“Miss Fenton, ethics, if you read the course guide, is about the pursuit of good within the confines of society. We do not murder, rape, or steal from our fellow men, and we do not”—he paused to put emphasis on his words—“interrupt a class that is already in progress.”
“Would you like me to leave?” Cassie’s voice was very small. She wondered if it reached the podium.
“And disrupt the class further? You make an attractive addition to the back row; just make sure you take notes. I’ve kicked students out for less.”
Cassie wished she had signed up for conversational French. But as she listened to Aidan, her pen filling her notebook, she became interested in the lesson: Plato, Aristotle, the pursuit of good, the idea that happiness was attainable. At the Convent, moral code had been laid out in inarguable language while her mother had one God: Fenton’s. Aidan put new ideas in her head, and when the lecture was over she put her pen down reluctantly.
“Miss Fenton,” Aidan addressed her as she stuffed her backpack. Cassie gazed at Aidan up close and blushed a deeper pink. Her roommate’s description hadn’t done justice to his
black curly hair. Not only was his mouth gorgeous, but his chin was chiseled, and his eyes were the color of raisins. His shoulders belonged on a quarterback and his waist was as small as a dancer’s.
“Yes, sir.” She swung her backpack over her shoulder and stood up. She wore white capris and a collared Ralph Lauren shirt. She had a J.Crew sweater tied around her waist and her favorite navy Tod’s on her feet. Even after four years of college she shopped at Fenton’s, and she suddenly felt preppy and overdressed.
“I keep office hours on Tuesdays and Thursdays from two to four, if you need help catching up.” He smiled and walked out of the room.
* * *
It took more than a month for Cassie to get up the courage to knock on his door during office hours. She sat at his oversized metal desk, wearing a tie-dyed shirt and denim cutoffs borrowed from her roommate, and tried to ask intelligent questions about the reading. Cassie told herself she was there because she was interested in the material, but whenever she was close to Aidan, she felt like there was a magnet drawing her even closer.
“What does a department store heiress do with her diploma?” Aidan asked one afternoon in late April, when graduation was just weeks away.
“How did you know about Fenton’s?” Cassie looked up from her lecture notes.
“Students don’t just gossip about professors, they run a pretty thorough commentary about one another.” Aidan didn’t seem to notice that she was blushing. He wore a black cotton T-shirt, khaki pants, and his signature leather jacket. His teeth were blinding white and his fingernails were smudged with ink.
“I’ll probably join my mother at Fenton’s.” She shrugged.
“Is that what you want to do? Sell overpriced merchandise to women whose closets will swallow it up like a black hole?”
“It’s what I should do,” Cassie said. She had spent every afternoon of her childhood at Fenton’s; the elevator music still played in her head. “It’s what I’m expected to do,” she repeated, as if trying to convince herself.
