Jackie scrambled into the car and slammed the door and Doris backed out angrily. Cheryl had to leap out of the way to keep from getting run over.
Crunching across the ice toward her car, Cheryl’s vision was double as though she were drunk. She felt like she was. Somehow, she got into her car, and through her rearview mirror, watched as a baffled Doris started firing questions at Jackie. But Jackie wasn’t talking. She just had that pretty blond head buried in her hands.
Chapter Forty-two
IN THE CAR, JACKIE REALIZED THAT IF SHE EVER AGAIN CAME across that Orangesicle air freshener smell in another vehicle or a car wash shop, she would be transported right back to this moment. The moment when she’d never felt so humiliated in her entire life.
“I don’t understand . . .” Doris said again, still trying to take in what Jackie had just explained to her. “All of your money? Gone?”
Jackie nodded, squeezing the tips of her fingers with all of her might, choking back the lump in her throat.
“So, Cheryl’s right,” Doris realized. “You’re not just staying with me because Doug’s gone. You’re staying . . . because you don’t have anywhere else to go?”
The light debated whether or not to turn red, hovering at yellow a moment too long. Doris put her foot on the gas and shot through. Jackie wanted to applaud her but at the same time knew Doris’s driving recklessly was proof of how upset she really was.
“That’s not true.” Jackie sighed. “I could have figured something out. I always do.”
Doris shook her head, automatically checking her rearview mirror for the police. “I really don’t mind, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Doris said softly. “I’m glad you’re staying with me. I mean, you’re my best friend. If you’d told me about your situation I would have been the first to help you.”
Jackie fought back tears.
“Have I done something to make you not trust me?” Doris wondered. “I mean, Cheryl was totally out of line with everything she just said. I really hope you know I feel that way, but I’m trying to understand why you didn’t just tell me you were in trouble.”
Jackie shifted her feet on the floorboards, trying to warm her cold toes through her faux alligator-skin high heels. She wanted to explain that the things she kept from her friends had never been about a lack of trust, it was about protecting herself. Born into a family of secrets, lying was the only way to avoid talking about the truth.
“It’s okay.” Doris sighed, reaching out and taking her hand. “I like you because of you. I always have. If you lost all your money and we have to add starving artist to the list, then . . .”
“But Cheryl’s right, I’m not even an artist,” Jackie scoffed, tugging at her mink. “I’m this middle-aged woman who was good at something twenty years ago and to be honest with you, I don’t even like to paint anymore.”
When she went to Paris, Jackie had joined the artistic community with the same enthusiasm she would have had for joining a dental club. The community bored her. All these artists with their petulant ideas of what life was and how they could reflect it in their sculptures, paintings, collages—ugh!—and the modern artists were the worst. The risk takers who thought it was so avant-garde to stand up on a stage and defecate or cover themselves in blood. Ick.
Half the time, Jackie thought it would have been just as meaningful to get up and flip around her shaggy blond mane, fully clothed. When she made that remark to someone who seemed as bored as she was, he’d congratulated her with, “How brave. Where do you show?”
Just as insincere were the cocktail receptions, where everyone wore black and eyed one another, trying to determine who was important. When discussions began about various types of stylistic painting, a topic Jackie should have been fascinated by, she’d find herself nodding and smiling, wondering how many pieces of shrimp the fat man with the fedora had already inhaled.
Christian determined she was just going through an artistic downtime and that, when it was over, her inner landscape would be full again. There would be color combinations and images she had never even dreamed of. She would then speak of her intent to paint, her deep desire to paint . . . but she’d only said it to make him happy. It had been a lie.
Doris turned the car onto their street. Suddenly, Jackie stiffened and grabbed for the door handle as though she’d jump out. “Wait!” she shrieked.
Doris slammed on the brakes and the car fishtailed, weaving side to side over the yellow lines. Squealing, Doris maneuvered the Lexus with her gloved hands, finally bringing it under control. “Gosh darn it, Jackie,” she panted. “Don’t do that. I thought I’d hit something.”
“No, I . . . I . . . just realized I forgot my . . .”
Jackie was desperately trying to think of something to prevent Doris from driving down her block. She had full-on forgotten she’d told Mandy they wouldn’t be home until midnight. It was 11:05. If she let Doris walk into that house, things were going to be very bad indeed.
“My medicine,” Jackie lied. “I left my medicine at the restaurant.”
“You’re on meds?” Doris asked. “I didn’t know that. For what?”
“Um . . .” Jackie tried to think of something. “Birth control? I can’t skip one or I’ll get pregnant.” Forget the fact that it had been months since she’d had sex.
“I’ll just call Gabe,” Doris soothed her. “He and Anthony will be there wrapping things up until late and he can just drop off your pills on his way home.”
Doris dove into her purse, rummaging for her phone. The Lexus was still parked in the middle of the road, hazards now flashing with that annoying clicking sound. It sounded like a robotic voice repeating, “You’re screwed . . . you’re screwed . . . you’re screwed . . .”
“Please, let’s just go get them,” Jackie begged. “Please, Doris. Let’s just go back and get them. I’m also in the mood for some ice cream.” Jackie grasped to remember her favorite brand of Ben and Jerry’s. “We could get some Everything But The . . . After the day we’ve had, we are two women who deserve to eat some ice cream.”
Doris had already eased her foot off the brake, saying, “Let’s drop me off, then you take the . . .” She stopped speaking, suddenly spotting Will’s beat-up Toyota. “There’s a car in the driveway,” Doris said. She turned to Jackie, sudden understanding dawning on her face. “This had better not be what I think it is.”
Doris gunned it down the block, threw the SUV in park, and slid out, slamming the door behind her. She circled Will’s Corolla like a bloodhound. Black-and-white bumper stickers from various bands and the same Dumb Bunny stickers Betsy had had hanging above her cubicle were plastered on the back bumper. A math book was nestled in the front seat against a wadded-up red hooded sweatshirt, a pair of cleats, and a dirty soccer jersey. All it needed was a busty model from the auto show standing next to it with a microphone, reciting: “Typical make in our Teenage Boy category . . .”
“Maybe it was someone just stopping by to drop off homework or something,” Jackie tried, grabbing her purse and following Doris, who was already bustling up the front walk.
Doris threw open the front door, ignoring her. “Mandy,” she called. “Who’s here?”
As Doris stomped her way up the stairs and down the hall, Jackie felt sick. This was not going to go well. A few seconds later, from Doris’s screams, Jackie determined that Will and Mandy were actually in the act of . . . well, something, when Doris burst into the room.
A red-faced Will scampered out of Mandy’s bedroom, yanking up his jeans and racing for the front door like it was the jump exit of a plane. Doris was chasing after him with what appeared to be a purse, but on closer inspection was actually a Trapper Keeper with a big sticker of false teeth plastered in the middle. Like a batter forced to walk when she was ready to take it all the way, Doris threw the binder out the front door and after Will with all her might. Papers scattered over the walk.
Jackie took her place on the firm love seat and waited for the ax
e to drop. That took about five seconds. Mandy burst down the hallway with her face splotchy and red, especially around her mouth. Her neck looked like Will had given her a hickey.
“You,” she screamed, pointing at Jackie like she’d been the one to chase Will out of the house. “You wanted this to happen. You wanted me to get caught!”
Doris turned accusing eyes to her best friend. “How could you do this?”
“No, I . . .” Jackie’s blue eyes were helpless, darting from mother to daughter.
“I should have known,” Doris said, hands on her hips. “You added yourself to the schedule to help Mandy sneak around. You don’t even take birth control, you . . .”
“Yes I do. She’s the one who helped me get it,” Mandy screamed.
Jackie’s shoulders slumped.
“You did what?” Doris’s face paled. “You need to get out of our home.”
“You can’t kick me out, I’m your daughter!” Mandy screamed, tears streaming down her face.
“She means me,” Jackie said quietly.
Standing up, Jackie took a look at her best friend. That’s what betrayal looks like, she thought. Doris’s eyes were a million shades of hurt, different colors and depths of emotion. If Jackie hadn’t admitted that very night she was no longer an artist, she would have put them on a canvas.
As Jackie got to her feet, the expensive rug sank under the pressure of her heels. With Mandy’s sniffles ringing in her ears, Jackie went to her room and started folding items to place into the Louis Vuitton bag she’d stolen from Christian. It was funny. Christian had always said he didn’t have money for rent yet he still had the best in designer accessories. No wonder she’d liked him.
With a studied glance around the room—just in case she was never invited back, which seemed pretty likely—Jackie memorized the lace comforter, dried flowers hanging over the reading desk, and pink Tiffany lamp just aching to start a fire with its rich antiquity.
It was kind of funny. Jackie felt greater guilt over the fact that she would not strip the sheets and leave a thank-you note and a bunch of wildflowers as she typically would after being a guest in someone’s home than she did for interfering with Doris’s daughter. And for that, she knew she deserved to leave—immediately.
Chapter Forty-three
THE WINDOWS OF CHERYL’S BMW WERE STEAMED WITH RAGE. AS she waited at a stoplight, she caught a reflection of herself in a storefront window. She took a moment to be impressed with the general girth of the front of her car. Hit or be hit. That was its motto and Cheryl couldn’t think of another vehicle that could have represented her more. She was just glad the damn thing was paid for.
“Fuck it,” she shouted, gunning the engine. “Fuck Jackie, fuck Doris, and fuck everybody.”
If there was any justice in this world, Cheryl would have stayed on the open road, speeding up entrance ramps and exit ramps until she squealed to the front door of her brothers, and fell into their arms. She had no friends, no job, and no money. What better time was there to leave?
“Sorry for the language, my baby,” Cheryl apologized, patting her flat stomach.
Cheryl had gone ahead and taken the pregnancy test the night before, confident it would come up negative. She’d been busy, she’d been distracted—she’d probably gotten her period and forgotten about it. The pink stick took issue with that.
It smiled.
No matter how many times Cheryl reread the directions, determined to learn that a smile meant, “No! It’s okay. You’re not going to have a baby at fucking forty,” she finally accepted that wasn’t what it meant at all.
Cheryl had ached at the news. How embarrassing—she could just imagine the flack she was going to take from her brothers. “You’re pregnant at that age? Wow. Even your ovaries are overachievers.” God, she’d be cashing in senior discounts when her kid turned sixteen. Cheryl had sunk down and sat on the cool edge of the tub. It was humiliating but maybe . . . She had looked in the bathroom mirror, squinting hard at her reflection. Maybe it was good, like a second chance, so late in life . . . She put her hand on her stomach, wishing she didn’t have to go through it alone. A pregnancy should be a time with pink and blue parties, Doris trying to hand-sew perfect outfits, Cheryl and Jackie laughing at the result. But she wouldn’t even tell them this crazy news. They were no longer her friends.
Cheryl’s heart had broken into a million pieces that morning in George’s office. Jackie had been lying to her for years. It hurt so much to learn that Jackie had moved back to town not to be with them as Cheryl had thought, but because she had no other options. Then the way Doris had defended Jackie, hustling her into the car like some bodyguard, protecting her from the bad guy.
That moment drew the lines quite clearly.
If the house were burning down and Doris had to save someone, Cheryl would be on her own. It had always been that way, ever since the day Jackie had flounced over to them in the cafeteria. And this nonsense about being a team . . . her former friends had been ganging up on her from the start of this project, ignoring all her experience in the business world to do whatever they wanted. No. They didn’t care about her at all. It was about time Cheryl admitted it.
Cheryl couldn’t believe she had been stupid enough to trap herself into a partnership with these women. It was such an amateur move, thinking with her heart instead of her business sense. When The Whole Package went under, which it most certainly would, Doris and Jackie would live the same lives they had always been living. Cheryl would be the only one left out in the cold. If Cheryl didn’t think of something and fast, her poor kid was certainly going to get the short end of that pink little stick.
Her poor kid.
Just the strangeness of that thought made her squeeze the steering wheel a little harder, dreading the thought of going to the obgyn. Other than spiders, there was little Cheryl hated more than a needle. At her age, there were probably thousands of tests . . . Cheryl shook her head. She would put off the appointment until after Christmas. She’d already had enough pain for one year. Was it even safe to have a kid at this age? Maybe she’d die and then Jackie and Doris would really be sorry.
Speaking of making people sorry, she almost wanted to call Andy and tell him it was his. Then they’d see just how much he wanted to be her “friend.” It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that he really was the father. She couldn’t be that far along or they would have caught it at the hospital when she had her concussion.
Downshifting her vehicle, Cheryl focused on the road ahead. It was an icy night and it was time to start thinking about a slower pace. Forget friends. It was time to focus on family; she might even go and be with hers in California. That certainly didn’t sound so bad.
Cheryl nodded, watching the snow fall. Maybe it was time to go.
THE WHOLE PACKAGE was dark when Jackie returned, lugging her Louis Vuitton carrying case. Keying in through the front door, Jackie hoped she wasn’t about to discover Anthony and Gabe had come back for some reason. Other than the owners, they were the only ones who had keys.
Bells tinkled as she pushed open the front door. Jackie smiled wryly. She had hung up those bells two weeks ago, in honor of all the shops in Paris. At that point, there had not been a doubt in her mind that this place would be a success.
Jackie’s heels clicked loudly as she walked across the floor. The open room reminded her of a museum or mausoleum. The shapes of the shadows seemed to shift in front of her. If a statue was actually going to come alive like in Mannequin, Jackie hoped it would be the one by the fireplace. He was different from the others, not as fragile or blond. From his stone form he seemed to sport a commanding quality, with his dark hair and broad chest. He had probably been modeled after a king.
Walking over to the fridge behind the bar, Jackie pulled out a bottle of San Pellegrino. Getting kicked out of Doris’s wasn’t the end of the world. Staying here would be kind of . . . an adventure. She thought about a children’s book she used to love, From the Mixed-Up
Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. Growing up, Jackie had read it probably thirty times. In it, the kids had run away from home and hidden in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, surviving on cheese and crackers, sharing dreams in antiquated beds. Camping out someplace she wasn’t supposed to be—away from her father, away from her life—had always sounded like such an adventure.
Jackie could have called George, instead of staying here. That bed in his guest room had been comfortable but Jackie was too embarrassed to even speak to him now. He’d invested a quarter of a million dollars in her he would never get back. It was absolutely humiliating. Jackie had never admitted her failures to anyone and regardless of what Cheryl said, it was not time for her to start. Even though it would be painful to cut him from her life, it was a lot less painful than standing face-to-face with a man she’d admired and respected, telling him the awful truth—that just like with Robert, she had squandered his money away.
With another furtive glance around, Jackie picked up her bag and crossed over the red carpet. The red and black patterns led past the tables to the office where that thick leather couch would be waiting. Jackie could camp out there for a few days, clearing out when the restaurant opened in the morning. That routine would be fine for a while; give her a little time to clear her head and figure out her next move—if there was one.
TWO DAYS LATER, a car door slammed outside of Doris’s house. In her mind, she likened the sound to the first notes swelling at the end of a romantic movie. When she’d spoken to Doug during the blow-up with Mandy, Doris had put her foot down and ordered him home.
“Doug, enough is enough,” she’d said, speaking into the receiver of Mandy’s cell phone. Doris had called him from that number to be certain he’d pick up. “It is time for you to come home.”
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