Was it delusional to hope that her mother’s potential discomfort about Shane’s race would be eclipsed by her far greater discomfort about needing to move? Be the change you wish to see in the world, Liz thought, and she emailed her former classmate.
FOR SEVERAL MORE mornings, Jane didn’t run with Liz, and on the fourth day, when Liz came back upstairs after eating breakfast, Jane still lay in bed. Liz crossed through the bedroom to take a shower and, after she emerged from the bathroom, dressed quietly. When Jane spoke, however, it sounded as if she had been awake for some time. She said, “Will you hate me if I go back to New York early?”
Liz turned around. “Of course not. You probably need to see your obstetrician, right?”
“They don’t actually test much before the end of the first trimester, although they might because of my age.”
“You’re not thinking—” Liz paused and rephrased the question. “Are you considering, ah, terminating?”
“I keep waiting for a text from Chip,” Jane said. “I have this idea he’ll invite me to come over.”
“I think you’ll hear from him,” Liz said, though as the days had passed, her optimism about what more he’d have to say had diminished.
“I really, really wanted a baby,” Jane said. “It was what I wanted most in the world. And now—” She didn’t finish.
Liz said, “But you know Chip, and you don’t know the baby yet. I’m sure we’ll find your baby totally delightful, but it’s hard for an abstract idea to compete with someone you’ve been hanging out with.” Lifting a beaded bracelet from the top of the bureau, Liz added, “I keep meaning to tell you I found a website for this organization called Alone But Together. It’s for women who choose to have kids on their own.”
Jane smiled sadly. “I’ve been a paid member for two years. You haven’t said anything to Mom, have you?”
“God, no.” That Jane wouldn’t be able to hide her secret indefinitely was a fact that Liz assumed she didn’t need to convey. And Jane’s wish to leave Cincinnati was wholly understandable to Liz, even if the idea of staying behind without Jane was disheartening. As Liz slid the bracelet over her left hand, she thought of the year Jane had skipped May Fete because she, Liz, had chicken pox. Liz meant it when she said, “Whatever you want to do, you have my support.”
ONCE AGAIN, THE scent of nail polish led Liz to Kitty; this time, Kitty was creating on her fingers an intricate tiger pattern of black stripes over a reddish-orange background.
“Lydia and Ham seem kind of serious,” Liz said. “Are they?”
As she dipped the brush back into the bottle of black polish, Kitty said, “Ask her.”
“Will you suggest that she invite him to a family dinner? I think Jane and Chip might be done, and meeting Ham could soften the blow for Mom.”
Still focused on her fingers, Kitty said, “If you want to make Mom happy, marry Willie.”
“Ham seems like a good guy, but if I tell Lydia to invite him, she’ll refuse just to spite me.”
Kitty glanced up. “Do you know Ham?”
“I’ve talked to him a few times. Why?”
“There are things about him that might surprise you.” The smug and coy expression on Kitty’s face—Liz didn’t care for it.
Nevertheless, she said, “Like what?”
Kitty shrugged. “Just things.”
“Is he actually a jerk?”
“No.” Really, Kitty looked irritatingly pleased with herself. Partly to change the subject and partly because it was true, Liz gestured at Kitty’s nails and said, “Have you ever considered doing that professionally? You’re really good at it.”
Kitty’s expression turned sour. “You’re so condescending.”
“Kitty, I work in an industry where the best makeup artists and stylists are treated like rock stars. Not that those kinds of careers are the norm, but I bet a regular person can make a decent salary.” Or a regular person could make a salary that compared favorably, Liz thought, to no income at all.
Kitty was watching Liz with doubt. “Why did Chip and Jane break up?”
“I’m not sure if they want the same things.”
“He dumped her?”
“They’re still not officially finished, but I think it’s mutual.” Briefly, Liz was tempted to ask if what Lydia had declared several nights prior in the kitchen was true—that everyone in the family knew about Jasper. He was due to arrive in Cincinnati the following week, and as the date approached, Liz had become increasingly conscious of the oddness of hiding his visit from her family. Yet surely the oddness of his entering the Tudor, which she had no plans for, would be even greater. At least he’d meet Charlotte; for the second of Jasper’s two nights in town, Liz had made a dinner reservation at Boca, for which Jane also would join them, assuming she was still around.
In any case, asking Kitty about Jasper would eliminate all doubt, and whether because of age difference, geography, or temperament, Liz had never spoken openly to her younger sisters. In certain ways, they knew one another well, they recognized one another’s habits and preferences; yet years could pass without a conversation of real substance occurring between them.
“Chip once had a patient who’d stuck a lime up his butt,” Kitty said. “Did you know that?”
“I can only imagine what questions you asked to elicit that information.”
Kitty grinned. “Maybe Chip’s proud that he got it out.”
AS LIZ AND Mr. Bennet left the rehabilitation center after his physical therapy appointment, her phone buzzed with a confusing and unpunctuated text from Jane: Chip gone
Calling Jane in front of their father was impossible; then, as they headed south on 71, Mr. Bennet said, “Stop by the fish market, will you? I’d like some oysters.”
She knew he meant the smoked kind, and Liz tried to remember whether smoked oysters were healthy. She said, “A Seven Hills classmate of mine is a real estate agent now, and he can come over and discreetly look at the house. What do you think?”
“Supposing I say no—in that case, what time will this fellow show up?”
If the situation were not so dire, Liz might have felt abashed. She said, “He’s free tomorrow at the same time Mom has a Women’s League meeting.”
“Of course he is.”
In the fish market parking lot, Liz said, “Are you okay going in alone?”
“For heaven’s sake,” Mr. Bennet said. “I’m not a boy in short pants.”
“I didn’t know if you’d need help carrying stuff.”
As Liz watched him walk in the rear entrance of the store, she called Jane and said, “Gone where?”
“To Los Angeles.” Jane sounded more confused than upset. “Remember when I told you Eligible is doing a reunion show? He decided to be on it after all.”
“Did the hospital let him take a leave?” Liz asked.
“I don’t know. He only sent a text.”
An unpleasant recognition was spreading within Liz that Jane’s worst fears about Chip were wholly justified. “What a flake,” Liz said. “I’m sorry, but who bails on their job—their job as an ER doctor—after less than three months? Will you forward me the text?”
“Hang on.”
A few seconds later, the gray bubble appeared on the screen of Liz’s phone: Hi want to let u know I’m headed to LA today 4 eligible fan favorites reunion show. Been wondering if dr right fit. Great getting to know u, u r really special person.
Raising the phone back to her ear, Liz said, “Is this a joke?”
“He must have been in a hurry,” Jane said.
“I don’t care if his hair was on fire. This is appalling.”
“I want to feel compassion for him.” Jane’s voice was firmer. “I don’t like being angry.”
“Jane, even a yogi can be pissed when her boyfriend turns out to lack basic communication skills.” Liz could see their father emerge from the store carrying a plastic bag.
“I know I can,” Jane said. “I just don’t w
ant to.”
“Well, you’re definitely better off without him.” How rapidly Liz’s once-favorable opinion was curdling, what unflattering details, previously ignored, could be marshaled as evidence for a contrary view: Chip had been nice enough, yes, but clearly narcissistic and immature; he had never been serious about medicine or her sister. “Dad and I will be home in five minutes,” Liz said. “Want to go to Graeter’s and drown our sorrows in mocha chip ice cream?”
As Mr. Bennet opened the passenger-side door, Jane said, “I hope you know how much I appreciate your support, Lizzy. But now I think it really is time for me to leave Cincinnati.”
LIZ HAD SCHEDULED Shane Williams’s visit to the Tudor for one o’clock; meanwhile, her father had, albeit without good humor, agreed to ask Mary to drive him to the Mercantile Library; and under the guise of sisterly thoughtfulness, Liz had scheduled a prenatal massage for Jane. Though Lydia and Kitty were unaccounted for, they were the least likely to be home in the middle of the day.
Shane remained much as Liz remembered him: fit, preppy, cheerful, and loquacious. After she opened the front door of the Tudor and he leaned in to hug her, she stole a glance at his ring finger and noted that it was bare. In light of Shane’s profession, there was a decent chance he was gay. Yes, he’d been the prom date of her friend Rachel in 1993, but back then, even at progressive Seven Hills, students hadn’t exactly been bursting out of the closet.
“If anyone comes home, we can pretend we’re just catching up,” Liz said. “I know I mentioned this on the phone, but my dad hasn’t told my mom they need to move.” Such candor about her family’s financial predicament would, Liz knew, particularly displease her mother, but Liz didn’t see how she had the luxury of discretion.
“It’s a beautiful house,” Shane said.
As Liz led him into the living room, she said, “How have the last twenty years treated you?”
Shane laughed. “Can’t complain.” He gestured toward the large water stain on the wall. “What’s up with that?”
“It looks awful, doesn’t it? I keep meaning to call a contractor and figure out the problem.”
“As long as you’re at it, you could think about painting this room. If you went a few shades lighter, it would really brighten things up. Maybe a pale gray or ecru.”
As he spoke, Liz noted—how had this fact never registered with her?—that the walls were an uninviting mustard shade.
“If you replace the painting over the mantel with a mirror, that’ll also help lightwise,” Shane was saying.
Liz pulled her phone from her pocket and typed in his suggestions as they moved from the living room back through the front hall to the den, then the dining room. In the kitchen, Liz said, “Unfortunately, since the goal is to sell quickly, I can’t see them doing a full renovation here.”
“At least this is really open,” Shane said. “Buyers like that now.”
Upstairs, his suggestions were similar: painting the walls, removing clutter, fixing anything conspicuously broken (such as the pocket door on the tiny bathroom in Mary’s room, which had for at least a decade closed no more than halfway). In Kitty’s room, Liz said, “In case this isn’t obvious, my three younger sisters still live here. I’m not sure if it’s the boomerang generation thing or just their personal immaturity, but they basically—”
Before she could complete the thought, a form rose from the swirl of sheets and pillows on the double bed and took the shape of Kitty herself. Bleary-eyed and messy-haired, yet still displaying her unconcealable native beauty, Kitty squinted at Liz and her guest. “Why are you in my room?” She pointed to Shane. “Who are you?”
Uneasily, Liz said, “This is my friend Shane. I didn’t realize you were here.”
“Shane Williams,” Shane said warmly, and he waved. “A pleasure to meet you.”
Kitty stood, apparently unself-conscious about wearing a T-shirt, a pair of pink-striped underwear, and nothing else. She glared at Liz. “I’m not immature.”
“I didn’t mean you,” Liz said. “You know what? We’ll give you privacy.”
Hastily, Liz led Shane to the third floor and then to the basement. “Steel yourself for the worst,” she said as they descended to the Tudor’s lowest level, and Shane said, “You’d be surprised what I’ve seen.”
In the front hall again, Liz said, “Be totally honest. How much do you think my parents can get?”
“Hyde Park is always desirable, and this is one of the premier streets. But I can’t lie: Your folks will see better offers if they do some updating.”
“But it’s still worth at least a million, right?” Liz said. “Even in the condition it’s in?”
“Let’s say you declutter like crazy,” Shane said. “Because you’re just shooting yourself in the foot otherwise. But if that’s it and you do nothing else, yeah, I’d say asking a million is reasonable. Or maybe we price it at 1.1 million with the hope of grossing a million even.”
“You’re trying to sell our house?” Kitty said, and Liz looked up to see her sister on the stairs; though fifteen minutes had elapsed since their last encounter, Kitty still wore nothing other than the T-shirt and underpants. “Do Mom and Dad know?”
Liz exchanged a look with Shane. “They’re getting old, Kitty. They can’t stay here forever.”
“We won’t do anything without your parents’ blessing,” Shane said. “Here—” He walked up a few steps and passed Kitty a business card. “Any questions I can answer for you, anything you want to talk about, call me twenty-four/seven.”
Kitty glanced at the card, then looked between Shane and Liz. “Shane and I went to Seven Hills together,” Liz said. “I didn’t just meet him for the first time today.”
“I’ve got a showing now out in Sycamore,” Shane said, “but, Kitty, really, don’t be shy.” Was he, Liz wondered, hitting on her sister? To Liz, he said, “You and I can touch base later today or tomorrow.”
“Please don’t say anything to anyone else,” Liz said to Kitty after Shane left. “I’m only doing due diligence.”
“But we’re happy living here.” Kitty’s expression was petulant. “It’s not fair for you to kick us out, then go back to New York.”
NEED TO TALK to u, the text from Charlotte read. Got a min?
“What’s up?” Liz said after she’d called her friend.
“I hope you won’t be weirded out,” Charlotte said, and Liz detected in Charlotte’s tone both pleasure and genuine nervousness. “I’m pretty surprised myself. But here goes: After you and I had drinks last week, I sent an email to Willie. Just like, Hey, heard your trip to Cincinnati may have ended on a strange note, hope you’re taking care. He emails back right away and wants to know if he can call me, and I say sure. We end up talking till four in the morning. Then the next night, the same thing. To make a long story short, he’s invited me to visit him this weekend.”
“We’re talking about Cousin Willie, right?” Liz said. “That Willie?”
“Yes,” Charlotte said. “That Willie.”
“You shouldn’t feel sorry for him,” Liz said. “Willie’s a big boy.”
Some retracting on Charlotte’s part occurred. “I don’t feel sorry for him.”
As if she were unaware of the retracting, as if this conversation had not become deeply strange, Liz said, “How did you have his email?”
“We’d exchanged cards at Chip’s dinner party.”
Which in itself, in light of subsequent developments, seemed suddenly suspicious. There was something displeasing to Liz about this unexpected association between Charlotte and Willie, and an additionally displeasing awareness of her own displeasure. If Charlotte was happy, and indeed this was how she sounded, shouldn’t Liz be happy for her?
“Obviously, you can do whatever you want,” Liz said. “But you don’t think he’s, like, a tech doofus?”
Coldly, Charlotte said, “No, I don’t.”
“I don’t mean doofus like he’s an idiot. He’s very smart. He’
s just, I don’t know—he’s so awkward. You don’t think?” She was making things worse, not better, and she could hear herself doing it, but Charlotte and Willie? Really?
“I’ve got to get ready for a meeting,” Charlotte said. “I’d appreciate if you don’t mention this to your family.”
Why was Liz the repository for everyone’s confidences? She wanted to say something complimentary about Willie, but it was hard to figure out what. When the call had ended, Liz winced, balled her right hand into a fist, and bit her own knuckle.
ON THE THIRD floor, Jane stood in warrior pose, her left leg extended behind her and her arms outstretched. As Liz entered the bedroom, Jane gracefully let her arms return to her sides and said, “Amanda and Prisha want to hire me as their private yoga instructor, and they told me I can live with them for as long as I want, even after the baby comes.”
Though Liz felt some dismay, the plan made sense: Amanda was a college friend of Jane’s, a Barnard graduate who’d made a fortune at a hedge fund before trading corporate life in Manhattan for recreational beekeeping and lucrative, long-distance, part-time consulting from the Hudson Valley. Amanda’s wife, Prisha, was a high school English teacher, and they lived with their eight-year-old son, Gideon, on a bucolic five-acre spread two hours from the city.
“Do you think you’ll tell Mom and Dad you’re pregnant before you leave?” Liz asked.
Jane shook her head. “I want to sit with it a while longer.”
Liz sighed. “Well, there’s something I have to tell you. It turns out Mom and Dad are hugely in debt.” Jane looked aghast, and Liz said, “I know. But it is what it is, and their only choice is to sell the house. You shouldn’t worry, but if you were planning to borrow money from them in the next little while, borrow it from me instead. Just focus on taking care of yourself. The reason I’m telling you is that this could be the last time you’re in the house.”
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