by Nancy Thayer
“Two hundred thousand dollars.”
“Well.” Aubrey paused, then regrouped. “That doesn’t seem exorbitant for new furnishings.”
Carolyn disagreed, but kept silent.
Heather’s lower lip quivered.
“I think you owe Heather an apology,” Aubrey told Carolyn.
“What for?” Now Carolyn was angry. “I didn’t accuse her of anything. I only asked you for an explanation.”
Heather sat up straight, sniffing, blinking back tears, the perfect picture of the brave little soldier. “ I wanted to buy furniture that was really elegant. Important furniture. It’s not like Aubrey is just starting out in life, after all.”
The implication lay unspoken before them: Aubrey’s old. This furniture will be the last he has until he dies. How heartless of you to deprive him of joy.
“Are you satisfied?” Aubrey asked curtly. Before Carolyn could reply, he stood up. “This is all the time I want to spend on this unfortunate interrogation. I’m taking Heather to our quarters now where we can turn our thoughts to happier matters.”
Carolyn sighed. “Good night, then, Father. Good night, Heather.”
“Good night,” Aubrey and Heather replied in sync.
Carolyn watched the pair leave the room, so closely entwined they moved as one. She was exhausted, vaguely embarrassed, and still not entirely satisfied. Her pulse hammered in her throat.
14
Agnes and Belinda were on the living room sofa, watching Wheel of Fortune. Agnes had her granddaughter sitting on her right, and her enormous pocketbook stationed on her left, right next to her thigh, as if she were in a train station and needed to protect it from theft. Julia would have bet $500 a new jar of Marshmallow Fluff was hidden inside the purse.
Julia squatted in front of Belinda, who clutched Kitty Ballerina with one hand. Belinda still wore a pink leotard and ballet slippers. When, after the Halloween party last week, Belinda had refused to take off her ballerina costume, Julia had had a genius idea. She’d enrolled Belinda in ballet class. Belinda loved it.
“Okay, curly girly,” Julia said brightly, tugging on Belinda’s toes, “Dad and I are going out to a movie! You get to have Grammy for the whole evening!”
Belinda looked sullenly at Julia and stuck her thumb in her mouth.
“Can I kiss Kitty Ballerina good-bye?” Julia asked.
Belinda shook her head and clutched her doll tightly to her chest. Agnes smiled.
Fine, Julia thought. Embarrass me in front of my archenemy, you little traitor. Rising, she leaned forward and quickly pecked Belinda on the top of her head. “Later, gator.”
Tim ruffled his daughter’s hair and kissed her unresponsive cheek. “Have fun, Belly.”
At the door, Julia turned. Although Agnes had made frequent Gestapo Stealth Raids, this was the first time she’d babysat for Belinda since Julia and Tim had married. “Agnes, I’ve left the phone numbers of the restaurant and movie by the kitchen phone. We’ve got lots of tea and cookies in the cupboard, and Belinda’s nightie—”
“I believe I know my way around my daughter’s home!” Agnes bristled, insulted. “I helped her decorate Belinda’s room!” You thoughtless bitch!
A soft answer turns away wrath, Julia reminded herself. “Yes, and it’s a beautiful room.”
“We’d better go or we’ll be late,” Tim cut in. “Thanks, Agnes. See you both later.”
During the ride to the restaurant, Julia felt smothered by the thick venomous cloud of Agnes’s dislike. She wanted to roll down the car window and stick her head out, like a Newfoundland on a hot night. But once they were seated in the restaurant, with a glass of ruby red wine in her hand, Julia relaxed. Tim relaxed. They stopped talking about Belinda and Agnes. Tim talked about work, and as Julia listened, she felt her spirits rise. She loved him so much. She’d almost forgotten that.
During the movie, Tim held her hand. In the car afterward, he pulled her against him and kissed her so thoroughly, Julia nearly melted into the seat.
“My, my,” she whispered. “We’ll have to have Agnes babysit more often.”
——————————
The autumn night was brisk, slapping their cheeks with cold as they hurried from the car to the house. Inside, it was like the Sahara. Clearly Agnes had changed the thermostat. Agnes was in the same spot on the sofa, watching television.
“How did it go?” Tim asked.
“Oh, we had a wonderful time!” Agnes stood up, clutching her purse against her chest, no doubt hiding the Marshmallow Fluff. “We watched television, and I made her a snack, and then I gave her some little prezzies. An adorable baby doll. I made a dress for Belinda just like the doll’s dress, pink with white lace, so sweet! Belinda liked the dress so much she went to sleep in it!”
Julia laughed. “She does get attached to her clothing. She wore her Halloween ballerina costume day and night until she had the flu and barfed on the net.”
Agnes’s face fell. “You mean the dress I made for her is nothing special.”
“Oh, no, Agnes, not at all!” Julia protested. “I’m sure the dress you—”
“I know what you meant.” Nothing good, that’s for sure, you sadistic slut! Agnes turned to Tim. “She went to sleep at nine thirty, Tim.” Head high, Agnes went to the hall closet. “And I did all the dishes and cleaned the kitchen.”
“Thanks, Agnes,” Tim said.
“It was nothing.” Agnes pulled on her gray down coat.
“Agnes,” Julia said, “you’re not leaving! We thought you’d spend the night here.”
“I’ll sleep better in my own bed.” Away from you, you heartless bitch.
“But Agnes,” Tim said, “it’s a three-hour drive back to the Berkshires.”
“Well, I know that, of course. But I’ve got my gospel tapes to play, and a nice Thermos of hot chocolate to keep me awake on the way.” She patted her capacious bag.
“Please don’t go,” Julia begged. “I hate the thought of you driving all alone through the night. Stay here. Sleep in your room.”
With a martyred expression, Agnes said, “I wouldn’t feel comfortable.”
“But you’ve stayed here before,” Tim reminded her.
“True, but George was always with me. No, I’m leaving. I had a lovely time with my granddaughter, and six hours of driving here and back is a small price for me to pay for the pleasure of seeing my daughter’s little girl.” Slump-shouldered, she left.
Julia and Tim stared at each other, half-amused, half-depressed.
“Will I ever be able to win with that woman?” Julia asked.
“Just don’t take it personally,” Tim said. “Agnes would behave the same way toward any woman who took Annette’s place.” He pulled Julia against him. “But don’t let her spoil our mood. I’m feeling relaxed and just a little bit amorous.” To prove his point, he nuzzled beneath her ear and kissed her throat.
“Mmm.” Julia leaned against her husband, giving herself over to the rush of lust.
“I’ll check the doors and shut off the lights,” Tim said. “You get ready for bed.”
“Lovely.” Julia trailed her fingers down his torso, then went down the hall to their bedroom, taking a moment to peek in at Belinda. The child was tucked in bed, sound asleep, Kitty Ballerina next to her.
Not bothering to turn on the bright overheard light, Julia crossed her darkened bedroom and flicked on the bedside lamp. Dreamily, she undressed, thinking this might be the night to wear the red lace teddy Tim had bought her last Valentine’s Day. Naked, she strolled into the bathroom.
And stopped dead, every hair on her body bristling like an animal scenting danger.
She scanned the room. Next to the sink she kept a tray of lotions, creams, and bath salts. Everything had been moved.
Well, Julia thought. Well, okay. Perhaps Agnes used her hand cream. So what? But Agnes always used the other bath that served the guest bedroom and Belinda.
She opened the cupboard wher
e she kept her tampons, pads, potions, creams, and powders. Here, too, everything was just slightly in the wrong place.
Feeling slightly sick to her stomach, Julia returned to her bedroom and turned on the overhead light. In the bright glare, she opened her chest of drawers.
The top drawer held her serviceable everyday cotton undies and sports bras, as well as her few bits of sexy lingerie. Hidden beneath, Julia kept several pair of old cotton panties, the stains from menstrual blood washed and bleached to pale taupe blotches, ready for the first day of her period, when she often, in spite of all precautions, bled through everything. Now these stained garments lay on top of her other lingerie. The sight was like a kick in the stomach.
In the other three drawers, her T-shirts and sweaters had also been rearranged. Obviously Agnes had gone through her clothing. Either she didn’t care whether Julia knew or wanted Julia to know and was daring Julia to confront her.
Sick at heart, Julia opened Tim’s drawers, hoping to find them in similar disarray. No, everything here was as neat as it had been earlier today, when Julia had folded his laundry and put it away.
In the closet, Tim’s jackets, shirts, and trousers hung in their usual places, but Julia’s clothes had been moved around. Because most of her clothes were black, she’d developed a kind of ranking system, putting her best black slacks and shirts at the far end of the closet, because she used them the least, and hanging her everyday jeans, trousers, and shirts at the front, where she could grab something in a hurry. Now her expensive black crêpe Ralph Lauren pants were mixed in with the ordinary clothes. Her little black knit Prada shirt was balled up on the floor, beneath one of her good high-heeled shoes. When Julia retrieved it, she found the shoulder seam ripped.
Moaning, she backed away from the closet.
Tim came into the room, pulling his tie from his shirt collar. “Belinda’s sleeping like a—what’s wrong?”
“My clothes,” Julia gasped. “Agnes went through my clothes.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This.” She held her shirt out to him. “She went through my things. She ripped my shirt!” Her lip trembled. “I f-found it on the floor.”
“Oh, Julia, how can you be sure?”
“Look!” She thrust the shirt toward him. “It was on the floor! It was torn! My most expensive shirt!”
Tim shut the bedroom door. Taking the shirt, he let it hang limp from his hand as he inspected it, noting how the seam had been ripped from neck to armhole. “It can be sewn back up.”
“That’s not the point!” Julia cried.
“I know.” He sank onto the bed.
“Tim, this is creepy. This is sick.”
Tim looked miserable. “Oh, Julia—”
“What? You don’t think it’s sick? That crazy old bitch goes through my things, ruins my best shirt, and—”
“I’m sure she didn’t know it was your best shirt. I’m sure she doesn’t even know what Prada is.”
“And that makes it okay?” Julia was so angry she had to pace the room.
“No, of course it doesn’t. Calm down, Julia, or you’ll wake Belinda.”
She turned on him. “Is that all you care about? That I might wake Belinda?”
“No, of course it’s not. I’m just as appalled as you, Julia.”
“I doubt that very much. Tim, she went through my lingerie. She handled my personal-hygiene things, my tampons, for God’s sake.” Julia shuddered with revulsion.
“I’m sorry.” He ran his hand over his forehead.
“You don’t need to be sorry.” Julia strained to keep from shouting. “You do need to help me decide what to do!”
“What on earth can we do?” Tim was ashen.
“I don’t know.” Julia collapsed on the bed next to him. “I don’t know. Except we’ve got to agree right now that she’ll never be alone in this house again.”
Tim nodded bleakly.
“I won’t call her.” Julia was thinking aloud. “I won’t give her the satisfaction of letting her know how angry she makes me. She’s such a manipulative, convoluted old cow, she’d be thrilled if I got angry with her. She’d use that somehow, to prove I was a bad stepmother.” Julia hit her pillow. “But it’s not fair! I try so hard, and this is what I get, all my things grubbed around with, her nasty cooties over every single thing I own and wear!”
Tim tried to put his arm around her, but Julia jerked away. “Don’t think you can make this okay with a little jolly snuggle, because you can’t!”
“I wasn’t trying to make it okay,” Tim protested. “I just want to help you, somehow. We were having such a good time. I thought we were going to make love.”
“Oh, right, like I could enjoy that! Agnes probably spat on the sheets.” Julia stormed to her dresser and began to dump her clothes into a wicker basket. “I’m not sleeping there until I wash the bed linen. I’m not going to be able to change my clothes until I’ve washed everything.”
“Julia, please.”
“Please, what? Please don’t feel violated by your mother-in-law’s invasion of all my personal things?”
Tim raised his hand, palm up. “I just—I don’t know, Julia. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want Agnes to come between us.”
Hefting the heavy wicker basket, Julia went out of the bedroom, down the hall, through the kitchen, and out to the utility room. Her rage was making her illogical. She wanted to dump the entire contents of the Tide container into the washing machine. She needed to do something huge and reckless that would use up her anger. She wanted to kick something, tear something, she wanted to throw back her head and howl with rage. She turned the dials on the washing machine, then stood there, gripping the cold white metal. Her fury roared through her head, blocking her ears with white noise. No way could she calm down enough tonight to sleep, and the thought of making love with Tim was repulsive right now.
So Agnes had caused discord between them. Tonight, Agnes won.
15
Hello,” Faye said eagerly, expecting to hear Laura’s sweet voice.
She hadn’t spoken with her daughter for three days now, and she had been the one to call her. Faye didn’t want to be a pest, but wasn’t it only natural for a mother to be concerned about her only child and grandchild when they’d just moved clear across the continent to a city where they knew no one? Lars would be fine, of course, he’d spend his days working with one of his best college buddies, but Laura was a stranger in the city, a young woman with a new baby, not to mention a history of postpartum depression.
“Is this Faye?” growled a gravelly voice.
“Yes?” she squeaked.
“Faye, this is Tank, Jimmy’s friend. Shirley Gold told me to call you.”
Oh, Lord! For days she’d rehearsed a polite but unambiguous refusal, but now that this strange man had actually gone to the trouble of dialing her number and making himself vulnerable, she didn’t want to be rude. It was like high school. She was weak with embarrassment for both of them. A hot flash raced through Faye’s body. Beads of sweat popped up beneath her breasts, under her arms, along the back of her neck.
“You still there?”
Faye forced a laugh that came out in a trilling high soprano. God, she sounded like a neurotic aging belle, like Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire. Cringing, she shakily replied, “Still here.”
“Shirley thought we should meet for a drink,” he said in his gravelly voice.
Faye could only imagine how this man lived, his apartment littered with beer cans he’d smashed against his forehead, his sheets stained and dirty, his underwear not washed for days at a time—why was she thinking of his underwear?
“Faye?”
“Oh,” she gushed, hideously ill at ease, “that Shirley! She’s such a good friend, so protective and kind and wanting to help, but I’m a widow, you see, and very, very, very happy with my single state, but Shirley’s a bit of a romantic, and she’s worried because I’ve been just a bit despon
dent because my daughter’s moved to California, but really, I’m absolutely fine!”
There was a moment of silence at the other end of the line. Then: “So. Do you want to get a drink sometime?”
Faye closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall. “You really don’t have to do this, you know.”
He let out a brief, rumbling laugh. “It’s just a drink.”
The man was persistent. With enormous effort, Faye pulled herself together. “Yes, Tank, I would enjoy meeting you for a drink.” Now her clothes were completely damp with perspiration, but at least she’d made it clear she wasn’t inviting him to her condo or agreeing to go to his place.
“You live out near Acton, right?”
“Right.”
“I live in Revere. Let’s split the difference and meet at O’Malley’s in Arlington.”
Of course. A bar. She’d prefer the coffee shop of a bookstore, but would that sound too prissy? No doubt he’d be uncomfortable there. “I don’t believe I know O’Malley’s.”
“It’s right on Mass. Ave. Easy.”
“Fine. What time?” She sounded almost like her old self.
“Seven? This Friday?”
“All right.” A thought crossed her mind: what does a middle-aged matron wear to a bar? “How will we recognize each other?”
His abrupt, crashing laugh interrupted her. “Well, Faye, I think I’ll be able to pick you out in the crowd. And I look like someone from ZZ Top.”
“ZZ Top?”
“The band.”
“Ah, of course.” She didn’t want to seem utterly clueless. She’d go to a record store and check out the album cover.
“If the weather cooperates, I’ll give you a ride on my Harley.”
Faye pressed her hand to her heart. “Well. That would be nice.” I’ll pray for rain, she thought.
——————————
Friday night, terror gripped her by the back of her neck with a lock like a tiger’s jaw. How could she walk into a bar? She’d been raised to believe that a lady never went into bars, especially not alone. And she looked like such a lady, with her white hair in a bun, her grandmotherly body, her breasts like two bags of flour propped on the counter of her stomach. People would laugh when she entered the bar. People would snicker.
