by Abby Drake
Quail eggs, crab cakes, escabesche of diver scallops, fricassee of freaking wild mushrooms.
As if any of it mattered.
Elinor wondered what would happen if the blackmailer arrived at the Washington Fairmont demanding the ransom drop when the dessert cart arrived.
Raspberry chocolate pot du crème?
Profiteroles with Madagascar vanilla bean ice cream?
Half-million-dollar cheesecake, anyone?
She stared at the computer screen, grateful that Malcolm was back in Washington, preparing for what she deemed the “new year”—the post-Labor Day return to normalcy. It was a holdover from her upbringing, when all seasons had been defined by the McCready calendar: Classes Begin, Midterms, Finals, Christmas Break, which no doubt was now called “Holiday Break” in keeping with political correctness.
Life had order then. It had rules that were unspoken, such as when to wear white and when to not, and certain expectations, such as who would sit with whom at the engagement party for the offspring of a senior congressman and a longtime lobbyist. Such as what the food should be and if it really had to hail from a hundred different nations.
Elinor knew that, unlike her sister, she did much better when there were rules, when her days and nights, her weeks and months and years, had uniformity. Order. She did not do well feeling as if everything around her was collapsing. The way she felt now.
She propped her elbows on the keyboard tray and stared at the tiny dots on the screen. Not even CJ knew the pressures Elinor felt, had always felt. Not even CJ knew how hard it was always trying to be perfect, and always coming up second best in their father’s eyes.
Oh, sure, Elinor was the one Father had turned to for advice. Elinor, after all, had learned to be like him: pragmatic, stern. He had taught her well.
But just once before he’d died she would have loved to have seen Father look at her the way he’d looked at CJ: his eyes warm with laughter, his outer shell a little softer.
“You’re not as appealing as your sister,” Father had told Elinor one afternoon at that god-awful lake house that CJ had insisted on keeping. “But you are clever, and you carry yourself well. Still, we’ll need to find you the right man—a man with power and intelligence that will translate into privilege. A man like the fathers of your classmates.” A man with money, Elinor, even at age thirteen, had understood he had meant.
When Elinor was in college, he’d found Malcolm for her.
Later, after Janice was born and Elinor had the hysterectomy, Father was alarmed. “A man needs a son,” he said, apparently forgetting he was speaking to one of his only two children, both of whom were girls. She sensed he was more concerned that Malcolm would leave her if she only had one child. Having two children made leaving more difficult. Maybe that’s why Father and Mother had stayed together all those years; maybe if Elinor and CJ had only been Elinor, or, better yet, had only been CJ, one child would not have been enough to keep the marriage glued.
Jonas had been Father’s idea.
“Let’s have them think the idea came from you, though,” he had said. “It will be better that way.”
So CJ and Malcolm thought the proposal was Elinor’s concept, Elinor’s coercion. Because it was what Father had wanted.
The mantra of her life was Father Knows Best.
Would he forgive me for not being as perfect as him, she wondered now if he were still alive?
Snapping off the computer, Elinor sat back in her chair and let the tears spill from her eyes.
CJ was out in her studio, pretending to be painting but thinking instead about what to pack, as if she was going on vacation and not merely to Elinor’s. The batik sundress and matching shrug? The white swimsuit and hardly modest cover-up? Her favorite capris and crop top that made her feel sexy and young again? Certainly, a thick cardigan in case the air chilled at night.
She should be ashamed, she knew, for picking out the things she would like Malcolm to see her in.
She should be ashamed, but she was not. It was as if Elinor’s infidelity had instilled a new twist on the rules.
What would their mother have advised?
“Do you love him?” Dianne Harding had asked CJ when CJ was heavy with a pregnant belly. Dianne had walked into the greenhouse at Elinor and Malcolm’s new house in Washington and caught Malcolm and CJ in a kiss. Not just any kiss, but a breathless, tongue-touching, lip-melting kiss. Oh, and Malcolm’s zipper was undone and CJ just happened to be holding his throbbing member in her hand, or at least that’s the way Dianne Harding described it after Malcolm had zipped and CJ had turned red and they had pulled apart.
His throbbing member, CJ thought now with a hint of a smile. Her mother had sounded more like Poppy’s, as if CJ and Mac had been in the middle of a romance novel and not a real-life family drama.
“Yes,” CJ had answered. “I love him very much.”
Dianne had paced the narrow rows of the aptly called “hothouse” that smelled of earth and dampness and of Malcolm and CJ and family betrayal.
“It must be your hormones,” Dianne said. “When I was pregnant with you girls, I wanted to jump the mailman.”
Their mother always had tried to be more contemporary than their father. (“The world is changing, Franklin. If CJ wants to study at the Sorbonne, perhaps that’s where she belongs.”) Still, this was the first CJ had heard that their mother had even known what hormones were. CJ had not, however, had the heart to tell her mother that her feelings for Malcolm—indeed, their feelings for each other—had begun that first night they had attempted to conceive, when they’d “been one” according to Elinor’s plan and CJ’s ovulating schedule.
Dianne had stopped and turned and looked back at the lovers, at Mac, who was as frozen as the small statue of Saint Francis of Assisi that he’d bought to watch over the shoots and roots and buds of the offspring in the greenhouse.
“I love her, too,” he’d said before Dianne had a chance to ask.
She stood quietly for a moment, or maybe it was a year. Then she said, “Well, we can’t have this, can we?”
She had not reminded them that Elinor was fragile, that she’d been through so much, that she trusted her husband and her sister with her life and, good heavens, with her child. She had not had to tell CJ that the headmaster would never allow it.
Instead, Dianne left CJ and Malcolm standing in the greenhouse.
Three weeks later, Jonas was born, and that was the end of that.
And now CJ thought about the black silk nightgown in her lingerie drawer. She hadn’t worn it since she’d walked out on her husband, Cooper, who had then moved to Denver, as if distance would help him forget. She stared at her paintbrush, trying to decide whether or not to pack the black silk, when the crunch of tires upon gravel interrupted her thoughts. Peering out the window, she saw the Esplanade and watched the three women clamber out.
Thirteen
“I need a wig Poppy announced when CJ met them in the driveway and they traipsed into the cottage. “Should I be a brunette or a blonde?”
They dropped, one at a time, onto CJ’s furniture—even Yolanda, who now seemed quite at home.
“A blonde,” Yolanda said. “You’re too fair to be a brunette. No one will believe you.”
“But will they believe she’s lost her momma?” Alice asked.
Yolanda laughed and Poppy said, “They will! They will!” her cheeks flashing pink, the way they did when she was excited.
“Excuse me,” CJ said, “what are you talking about?”
“Poppy wants to go back to the hotel tomorrow and pretend she’s lost her momma,” Alice said.
“Maybe I can access security,” Poppy chattered. “Yolanda says there must be a room where all the monitors are kept. If I can get in there, maybe I can see if there’s a camera pointed at the Dumpster where Elinor’s panties were found!”
CJ supposed a good shrink would diagnose Poppy as bipolar, with the emphasis on whichever pole was more manic. Between
Poppy’s erratic behavior, Elinor’s need to control, and Alice spending her life mimicking Elinor, it was no wonder CJ had once gone off to Paris and left the others to their harebrained lives.
“She’s hoping there’s a tape of the blackmailer taking the panties out of the Dumpster,” Yolanda said. “She thinks he’ll turn and wave to the camera so we can see his face.”
“I do not!” Poppy exclaimed. “Besides, none of you are coming up with alternative ideas!” Which made it sound as if she’d been speaking about alternative energy solutions or alternative medical miracles.
“If there is a tape, how the heck will we get it?” CJ asked. “And do they even make tapes anymore? Isn’t everything digitally recorded?”
Poppy played with her hair. “I guess that’s another thing we have to find out.”
“And we need to hurry,” CJ said. “On Wednesday, Elinor will be leaving the country for a couple of days. She’s going to get ransom money.”
No one asked where she was going or why she had to leave the country to get the cash. It was almost as if that part of the adventure was more information than they felt they should know.
Yolanda stood up. “Sorry to break up the party, ladies, but I have to get home. If you insist on doing this, Poppy, come by the shop. I’ll fit you with a wig.”
Yolanda left the cottage. The rest of them heard the roar of the Jaguar that had belonged to Vincent, Yolanda’s dead husband. Poppy looked at Alice and Alice looked at CJ and CJ said, “I think this is nuts,” but Poppy said she thought it was nice to have something important to do.
Alice wasn’t certain she agreed with Poppy’s assessment that thinking they could find Elinor’s blackmailer was important. Childish, maybe. Risky, perhaps. And maybe, as CJ said, nuts.
After leaving the cottage, Alice dropped off Poppy and headed home to focus on her own things to do. Within a few minutes she was in her garage, then her kitchen, where she nearly jumped a damn foot. Neal was sitting at the table with a bowl of minestrone and a petit baguette.
“Neal?”
Her first thought was that he’d been fired.
Or he’d heard about Elinor.
Or he’d learned of her out-of-town activities and had come home to confront her.
She rubbed her throat and dallied with the five-carat diamond necklace he’d presented to her on her fortieth birthday.
“Alice?” he replied with a note of sarcasm that he deferred to when he was trying to be funny.
She wondered if she’d turned off the computer in the media room, or if she’d left her e-mails displayed. She was still so unaccustomed to having something to hide.
Steam oozed up from her toes; she grabbed a place mat and fanned her face.
“Sit,” Neal said. He gestured to the slim, postmodern Sacha Lakic chair that he’d insisted on buying because he’d said less was more.
She sat.
“We made the presentation this morning. It looks as if we’ve landed the account.”
She couldn’t remember if “the account” was the beauty products manufacturer or the national chain of health-food stores. After so many years, they all sounded the same. “That’s great,” she said. “Congratulations.” Apparently the conversation would be about him, not unemployment or Elinor or Alice’s indiscretions. She set down the place mat.
“They’ve invited management to dinner.”
When the invitation was formal, it often meant wives were included—or, rather, domestic whatevers, since the management of Neal’s firm now boasted one or two females and a homosexual man in order to attract clients who cared about that sort of thing.
“Well,” she said, “it certainly seems as if you’ve landed it.”
“They’ll make the announcement at the dinner. I’m sure they think everyone will be thrilled to have an inside connection to the resorts and spas.”
Resorts and spas. Neal must be referring to Tang Worldwide, named for an early Chinese dynasty famous for its delicate, hand-painted folding screens that brought inner peace and balance. Alice once remarked it sounded more like the orange powder mix they’d been encouraged to drink in school because the astronauts brought it with them to the moon.
She watched Neal’s spoon scoop a piece of tomato and a red bean. “Will we get ‘family’ discounts? I’m sure the girls would love to go.” How many cities and countries enjoyed a Tang Worldwide resort? Could it be a chance for Alice to go international with her new hobby? When Neal finished his minestrone, she’d have to go online. If he didn’t get there first and figure out what she’d been doing.
“The dinner is Thursday,” he said, as he stood up.
“Thursday?” she asked, her voice in a squeak. “But I won’t be here Thursday. Kiley Kate has her competition in Orlando.”
“I’m sure Melissa will go, under the circumstances.”
Melissa was a sweet girl, though she’d gotten pregnant too young and robbed Alice of the fun of planning a big wedding. She was a good mother and a good wife, but she was terrified of flying. Neither Ativan nor Xanax seemed to penetrate her fear. “You know that’s not possible, Neal.”
“Well, David, then,” he said as he carried the soup bowl to the sink because though he now could well afford domestic help, he’d been raised in a row house in Reading, Pennsylvania, where he’d shared a tiny bedroom with three brothers and a dog and cleaning up after yourself had been instilled. “For God’s sake, Kiley Kate is their daughter, not yours.”
Alice sighed. “David is not at a point in his career that he can take a few days off for something, well, unscheduled.”
“Of course he can. I’ll make the call.”
Alice stood up. “No, Neal. That isn’t fair. Helping Kiley Kate is one thing, interfering with David’s job, quite another. It won’t teach the children to be independent.” Neither of them mentioned their dependent daughter, Felicity, whose Miss Porter’s education had been a waste of time and hope, not to mention dollars. So, too, had been the girl’s college years, which she’d turned into a career from Barnard to Boston College, from Swarthmore to Simon’s Rock. She was such a bright girl, but sometimes brains just didn’t count.
“Then ask the babysitter to go with Kiley. Good God, Alice, it’s not as if I ask for much.”
“It’s hard to ask for anything when you’re never home.”
She supposed she shouldn’t have said that. She supposed she should be a dutiful, spoiled wife and say, “Okay, honey, whatever you want, honey, you’re the one who wears the pants.” Sometimes, however, the working-class roots of her father leaked through, and Alice spoke her mind.
“You seem to like the money I bring home.” He turned around, leaned against the sink, and folded his arms. He was marking his turf, she supposed, the way a dog pees on his terrain. In Neal’s case, the property was her.
She rose from the uncomfortable chair, tossed back her hair, and said, “They need to change the date. I won’t disappoint my granddaughter. I’m sure they’ll understand.” With more attitude than she felt, Alice left the kitchen and headed for the computer room before Neal could beat her to it.
“She’s going to dress up in disguise and say she’s lost her momma. I’m going to fit her to a wig.” Yolanda balanced Belita on one hip while she tossed laundry into the dryer. Her cell phone was tucked between her ear and neck. “She’ll get into trouble, I’m afraid.”
Manny let out a big whoosh of air. “And you want me to do what?”
“Go with her?”
He laughed. “You are insane.”
“Tomorrow is Tuesday. It’s your day off.”
“Summer’s over. The kids are back in school.”
“Big deal. They’re teenagers. They know how to get on and off the bus without you.”
“I told you, Yo. I can’t get involved.”
“You live in Brooklyn. The Lord Winslow is in Manhattan. A thousand miles away.”
“I have friends on the force there.”
“Great. Maybe the
y’ll help. You don’t have to say what’s going on. Just that some lady left behind unmentionables, and she’d like to find them before someone else does.”
He laughed again. “These guys are pros. They’d see right through that.”
Yolanda sighed. “Okay,” she said. “I get it. It’s just that Poppy is so delicate. I’m afraid she’ll get caught and wreck everything.”
“Her name is Poppy?” He didn’t laugh again, but she could tell he wanted to.
She slammed the dryer door. “Manuel,” she said, “forget it, okay? You think because you sent me to school and I live, as you say, ‘uptown,’ that my life is terrific. Well, I’m not one of those rich ladies who you think has nothing but air inside her head. I was born and raised in the Bronx, and I learned to care about other people, no matter what their name is or how much money they have in the bank. Maybe you’ve forgotten what that feels like because you’re so important, Mr. Police Detective.”
“Yo…,” he said, but she hung up before he could say more.
Fourteen
“Momma? What are you doing in the orchid garden? It’s time for tea.” Poppy never understood why Momma liked getting her hands dirty when there were day laborers for that.
“My red swans are magnificent this year. Come inhale their perfume—it’s just like sandalwood and rose.”
“I’ve smelled them, Momma. Now come in. Your tea is getting cold.” Some years ago, they’d made the transition from Momma being the one to watch over Poppy to Poppy watching over Momma, though Poppy was never quite sure why that had happened or when. She supposed it was a mother-daughter thing that happened in most families, even the best.
Momma stepped out of rubber clogs and into purple flip-flops. She untied the sash of her wide-brimmed straw hat and hung it on a hook beside the potting table. Her bright white hair looked even brighter in the greenhouse light, like halogen illuminating a translucent face. Her bright blue eyes blinked and winked and smiled. “I must remember to have Lucky move a ‘Jumbo Lace’ into the house,” she said. “I do enjoy its lilac fragrance in the powder room downstairs.”
