by Janice Weber
“The newspaper said he was totaling the receipts,” Emily told her.
“What? I total the receipts!”
“That’s what he told the cops,” Bert scoffed. “It would look pretty stupid for him to admit he was just sitting there drunk, staring out the window.”
“Bert! That’s not true!”
“Sure it is, Lois. The new chef drives him to it.” Bert began to talk in a foolish singsong. “In Sveden ve like valnuts, not peestachios!” He looked accusingly at Emily. “Why did you leave us like that?”
“I had to help out a friend in an emergency,” Emily lied, glancing up and down the street in case Guy appeared. Every few seconds, one of their regulars would stop, read the sign in the doorway, and look around for someplace else to get breakfast.
“When’s this emergency going to be over?”
“Soon.” Then, well up the crowded sidewalk, Emily glimpsed a familiar head, familiar gait: Ross? Of course, Ross! His office was just around the corner. Instinctively, Emily shrank behind a mailbox; he must not see her here. Even now, it might give him ideas. “What’s the new chef’s name?” she asked.
As Bert and Lois launched into cruel parodies of someone called Lina, Emily anxiously followed her husband’s progress down the street. Her heart began to thump as he stopped at the entrance of Cafe Presto and stared at the sign on the front door for a very long time. As Ross finally turned away and resumed walking, she dared to look at his face. He was smiling, not his normal gentle smile, but that huge, euphoric grin Ross wore when contracts were clinched, competitors smashed. Emily even thought she heard him laughing. Laughing! No, impossible. That was just residual guilt playing tricks on her. She watched until Ross had turned the corner.
Having run the Swedish chef into the ground, Lois and Bert began to discuss last night’s accident. “How are they ever going to find the person who did this?” Lois said. “Why couldn’t the car bash into that ugly little rug shop next door? I don’t understand how someone could drive through the front window without aiming for it.”
“Probably some drunk without a license,” Bert replied. “That’s why no one stuck around afterward.”
Up the street, a truck honked at meandering pedestrians. “Can you believe it? New windows!” Lois cried, pointing at the large panes of glass strapped to the vehicle. “Guy must have called the repairmen from the hospital! He’s a maniac!”
The truck slowed to a halt in front of the restaurant. “Shhh. Here comes Lina.” Bert indicated a stocky woman who was ordering the driver around.
Instantly, helplessly jealous, Emily saw Lina inspect the windows and direct the men to begin unloading them. Unable to look anymore, she exaggeratedly pushed back her sleeve, found her watch. “I’ve got to go. Give Guy my best.”
She returned to her car and a bright orange parking ticket. Robotic commuters already jammed the narrow streets, battling for position with cab drivers who would rather take a fork in the eye than stop for a red light during rush hour. Emily squeezed along the expressway toward the turnpike, where she slipped behind a Corvette. They flew west in tandem, slowing down for a few patches of fog. After fifty minutes, Emily left the turnpike and headed into the hills of central Massachusetts. The leaves here had turned brilliant yellow and red; many trees had already become skeletons until spring. Only pumpkins, hay, and a few dry cornstalks remained in the fields. Misshapen carcasses, attended by large black crows, knobbed the roadside. In ten minutes Emily saw only two people, both women, both hanging laundry on clotheslines: looked sort of like the frontier days, except that these pioneers were about as wide as the satellite dishes in their backyards. Emily passed a hospital and a dilapidated gas station. Coming upon a nondescript mailbox with a cross carved in its post, she turned onto a dirt driveway. Two pheasants flapped out of her way as she drove down a rutted hill into the forest: must be a joy getting out of here in winter. Not many of the monks would even try, of course. They were supposed to be inside praying for the wretches vagrant in the twentieth century.
The woods suddenly cleared and Emily braked, staring at the granite mansion in front of her. It was thick and high, tiered with balconies and statues of angels in beneficent poses. Ross must see this, she thought immediately. He would smile at the balustrades and leaded windows, the copper roof, the sheer tonnage of this monstrosity in a meadow. He would probably even know which architect had fulfilled some demented client’s dreams.
Appearing on the front steps, Brother Augustine watched Emily park the car. “You found us.”
“You gave me good directions. This is quite a place.”
“Not all monks live in caves.” He took her arm. “How nice of you to visit. Have you had breakfast?”
Hours ago, with a monk of another sort. “Yes, but I’d love some coffee.”
Augustine brought her inside to a dark foyer with a tremendous fireplace at either end. Overhead hung an iron-and-leather chandelier that looked like a ten-woman chastity belt. A sea of dark green tiles glimmered on the bare floor; one almost imagined that the room perched on a slumbering leviathan. “We’ll go to the library,” Augustine said. “It’s warmer there.”
Pushing a heavy door, he led Emily into a room overstuffed with books, rugs, and leather sofas. A fire crackled in the hearth, baking everything within ten feet. As Emily was removing her jacket, a young woman popped her head in. Had the woman not been wearing a nun’s habit, Emily would have mistaken her for the lady of the house. “And what will it be, Brother Augustine?” she called cheerfully. Irish, pretty: some monastery.
“Coffee, thank you, Sister Grace,” Augustine answered. He settled back in his chair and regarded Emily for a few moments. Then he smiled. “Yes, we’re co-ed here.”
She felt her face redden. “My knowledge of church orders is rather weak.”
“This is a Benedictine monastery. The house and grounds were given by a woman who lost her husband and son in the First World War. This had been the family lodge. The widow added the statues as a last touch. WeVe grown rather fond of them.”
“How many people live here?”
“About forty monks and nuns. There are two hundred acres on the estate. We’re almost entirely self-sufficient. To make ends meet, we raise Labrador retrievers and run a small bakery.”
“And sell mushrooms.”
Augustine shook his head. “No, we eat the mushrooms ourselves. And give a few away.”
“To people like Leo.”
“Yes. Leo’s always been one of our most generous supporters.” Augustine fell silent until Sister Grace had poured their coffee and left. “Has anyone heard from him, by the way?”
“Not a word.” Emily wasn’t interested in Leo today. “Who’s the mushroom expert here?”
“I am.”
“Have you ever made a mistake?”
“Poisoned anyone, you mean? Only myself, and only once. I learned. Why?”
“You may have heard that we had an accident recently at Diavolina,” Emily began.
“What sort of accident?”
“A woman had digestive problems after eating at the restaurant.”
“I see. And now the concerned chef is checking her food sources. I appreciate your diligence, my dear, but I think I know good mushrooms from bad. Has the victim recovered?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Are you expecting a lawsuit?”
“What? No! The woman’s a personal friend of mine.”
“Excellent.” Augustine amusedly placed his coffee cup on the table. “Who else suspects my mushrooms?”
“Just me,” Emily faltered. “I apologize.”
“No need. As long as you’re here, would you like to see my retrievers?
Not really, but she owed him for the mushrooms. “Sure.”
He led her through the cavernous foyer to a rear door. They walked along a grape arbor, pausing where a narrow path led into the woods. “This might be a bit muddy,” Augustine said. “Its’s been raining.” Smiling
grittily, Emily followed him into the foliage. Who the hell wanted to see a bunch of dogs? “We’re almost there,” he called after a while.
The rocky path slithered up a hill. Cursing under her breath as she slipped on the damp stones, Emily followed Augustine to its crest. Suddenly the trees ended and she was gazing at a building that seemed to erupt from the hillside. It looked like a cross between the World Trade Center and a gigantic centrifuge.
“That’s the kennel?”
“No, that’s our chapel.”
“It’s ... uh ... pretty amazing.” Emily knew whose work this was. The clues were everywhere.
“The original chapel burned to the ground. We received a most generous gift to build a new one.” Augustine studied her face as she stared. “Do you like it?”
No. She had never liked Dana’s architecture. “It’s stunning. May I look inside?”
“I’m afraid not. The monks are saying their Divine Offices. But we could walk around in front, if you like. The kennel is just over the hill. Come.” Augustine went ahead.
The path ran a few feet from the cornerstone. As she walked by, Emily read the familiar credits: Major & Forbes, Architects. Ross had never mentioned the project to her. Why should he have? Dana had probably sat down one morning with a pencil and a hangover and had drawn a bunch of asymmetrical windows and shingles. Maybe, on a few nice afternoons, he had come out here in his Jaguar to supervise construction and mortify the nuns. Imagine someone commissioning Dana to design a chapel! What a joke!
She caught up with Augustine, who was walking quite fast now. They finally reached the kennel, where a dozen pups milled inside a high cage. When Augustine whistled, two trotted over. “Well, what do you think?” he asked proudly, sticking a few fingers through the mesh.
Emily knelt beside the monk. “Major and Forbes designed your chapel?”
Augustine played with a dog. “I understand they’re a very distinguished firm.”
Emily waited but the monk provided no further information. “They must have been very expensive.”
“Our patron was very generous.”
Another wait, another silence. Finally Emily said, “I read in the paper that Dana Forbes died recently.”
Augustine muttered a few words in Latin. “How?”
“Drugs.”
He continued maddeningly with the dog. Had Augustine asked one tiny question, made one tiny comment, Emily would have told him everything; she ached with secrets. But she couldn’t begin cold. Perhaps the monk knew that; when he finally stood up, putting a hand on her shoulder, she felt that his silence had been in reality a question, and that her silence had somehow answered it.
“I’ll pray for him,” was all Augustine said. He took her to another path behind the kennel. In a few minutes, they were back at the main house.
“Sorry to have bothered you,” Emily said, getting into her car.
“Not at all.” He patted her hand. “God be with you.”
Sounded like he was shipping her off to war. Emily got back to the main road and immediately called Ross’s office on the car phone; she needed to ask him about Dana’s little chapel in the woods. No answer on his private line, so Emily dialed the main switchboard. An assistant told her that Ross would be out all day with clients. “What about Marjorie?” Emily asked, already guessing the answer.
“She’s with Mr. Major.”
Why the fuck did God create secretaries? Emily nearly drove into a ditch trying to locate her position on a road map. Finally she yanked the car off the road and slapped the map around the steering wheel. Ah, there she was, on that wobbly blue line, heading north toward her second stop, Peace Power Farm. Christ! What was she doing out here chasing phantoms, wasting time, trying to appear busy while her husband got domestic with Marjorie? Emily stomped on the gas, spewing stones everywhere as she skidded back onto the road.
Twenty minutes later, she found a neat, white sign for Peace Power Farm. WE LOVE VISITORS, it said. Emily pulled into a dirt driveway with a strip of high grass in the center. It tickled her car’s underbelly as she bumped toward the rundown house in the distance. Halfway there, a collie bounded off the porch and ran alongside her, yapping.
As she stopped her Saab in front of the house, a woman in a leotard emerged. She seemed about Emily’s age, but floppier: Somehow the natural look didn’t seem quite as natural on bodies whose elastic was shot. “The farm stand isn’t open today,” she called, frowning at Emily’s high-octane car.
“I’m looking for Bruna,” Emily shouted over the barking.
“She’s busy.”
“I won’t be long. Would you mind calling off your dog?”
“Fidel! Come here!” The collie returned to the porch. “Who are you?”
“Emily Major.” She stepped onto the grass. “I’m from Boston.”
“Are you a corrections officer?”
In high heels and a red suede skirt? “No, I’m a chef. Bruna is one of my suppliers.”
“She might be in the barn.”
Emily walked past an archery range, where two women were intently practicing, to the dilapidated barn. There were no cows inside, just Bruna and her leviathan pickup truck. Seeing her visitor, Bruna abruptly stopped prying off a dented fender. “What are you doing here?”
“I was in the area and thought I’d drop by.”
“What for? Tea and scones?”
“I’m visiting my suppliers and happened to be driving by. I like your farm.”
“It’s not a farm. It’s a training center for battered women.” With her bare hands, Bruna twisted the fender to an excruciating angle. “We teach them to batter back.”
“Aha.” Emily looked around at the old harnesses, scythes, and rusty implements cluttering the walls. “What happened to your truck?” she asked after a few moments, trying to sound friendly.
“It hit a phone pole.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“Yeah! My truck!” In a fury, Bruna ripped the fender off. “Look, do you mind? I have a lot of work to do. Come back some other time. Try calling first.”
So much for that WE LOVE VISITORS. “See you Monday?”
“If I can get a new radiator.” Bruna turned her attention to the flat front tire.
Making a hasty three-point turn across the front lawn, Emily decided to skip the remaining courtesy calls on her list and return to Boston; her next impromptu visit would be to her husband’s office. Noticing not one brilliant leaf, not one pumpkin, she sped back to the turnpike. An hour later, she was wedged between a garbage truck and a hearse on State Street, inching toward the traffic light at the corner, growing hotter by the minute because she knew that neither Ross nor Marjorie would be at the office. Still, she felt she had to make an appearance, if only to gain the high moral ground. One of these days, she’d need it.
Emily parked and took the elevator to the forty-eighth floor. Summoning all her courage, she unlocked Ross’s private entrance. What if she discovered him on the couch with Marjorie? Classy wives were supposed to observe for a moment before leaving in arctic silence. Emily didn’t know if she could do that; the temptation to belt whomever was on top would just be too great. She counted to three, dashed open the door: empty. She walked slowly past Ross’s desk. All his papers dealt with business matters. Every single piece of correspondence had Marjorie’s initials typed neatly at the bottom; somehow that defeated Emily. She grabbed the phone and called Cafe Presto. A Swedish voice answered. “I would like to speak with Guy Witten. It’s an emergency.”
“Vun moment.”
She heard hammering, scrooping, then Guy shouting, “Who is it? You have to get their names, Lina!” After a long time, footsteps approached the phone. “Yes?” he snapped.
“It’s me,” Emily said. “How are you feeling?”
There was a short silence. “Go to hell!” Guy replied furiously, hanging up.
Emily felt ill. What had brought that on? For the first time, she had heard genuine hatred in his voic
e, raising the possibility that he never wanted to see her again: horrifying thought, one she had never really entertained. Demoting him from lover to friend had been hard enough. Losing even that bittersweet friendship would throw her totally out of sync; she needed Guy to counterbalance Ross. Damn, damn, this was a very bad day. Emily ripped the top page off of Ross’s daily note calendar and scribbled Sorry I missed you. Love, E. She didn’t mean any of it, but Marjorie ought to know she had been here. Dogs peed to mark their turf, wives left little notes on their husbands’desks. How pathetically depressing.
She next called Philippa in New York. “I’m on my way.”
“Great! Is Ross coming?”
“Nope.” Emily drove to a salon on Newbury Street. “I need a facial right away,” she told the artfully overbeautiful girl at the front desk. “Do you have an opening?”
“I don’t think so.” The girl took a second look. “Excuse me, but are you Philippa Banks?”
This time, Emily thought a moment. “I am.”
Abracadabra: two hours, two hundred bucks later, she left the salon with a new face, new nails, and swelled head. No wonder Philippa was always in such a sunny mood: Complete strangers told her hundreds of times a day that she was beautiful, talented, and terrific. Emily floated to the ludicrously expensive boutique next door and bought an oufit to wear to New York. Already feeling better, she walked down Newbury Street with a little more swivel in the hips, more mischief in the eye, and lunched at the Ritz, this time ordering vodka with four dried cherries.
Emily took the shuttle to New York, arriving late in the afternoon at Philippa’s hotel on Central Park. She knocked on the door of her sister’s penthouse suite. “It’s me,” she called. Finally the knob turned.
For a long moment, the twins stared at each other. Emily spoke first. “What the hell happened, Philippa?”
No reply: Philippa couldn’t take her eyes off Emily, who looked radiant in a dark green silk outfit. “Perfect, Em,” Philippa said unsteadily. “You look just like me.” What a lie: Emily looked fifty times better than Philippa ever would.
Emily strode into the room and studied her sister’s purple bruises in the light. “Don’t tell me a bathtub did this.”
