“Let me know when she gets up,” Renee said. “I’ll come join you guys then.”
Renee sensed that Cate wanted company, but she didn’t trust herself to go into the kitchen. She forced herself to open her laptop, hoping work might distract her. She needed to add a status report to the Facebook page the magazine had created for her and tweak her blog post on easy beauty fixes, which was going live tomorrow. She’d titled the blog “15 Minutes to Gorgeous” and listed head-to-toe products that could be picked up at any drugstore—everything from hot-oil cuticle cream to deep conditioner. The idea was, if you sat in a dry bathtub and applied everything at once, you could just turn on the shower to rinse it all off and emerge a new woman—or at least one with tighter pores. In case the cost was prohibitive to some readers, Renee had listed home spa substitutes, like mayonnaise hair treatments and egg-white face masks.
Renee typed quickly, responding to a few Facebook comments and questions—one of her friends had generously thrown her a softball, asking Renee to recommend a product to tame frizzy hair—but something kept tickling the back of her mind. She Googled the name on Naomi’s prescription bottle.
It was a diet pill.
Renee closed her eyes and saw Naomi’s long, thin legs and her stomach, which was as flat as a . . . oh, God, a hot, buttery pancake, dripping with syrup.
Renee stood up, walked into the bathroom, and fished through the trash can until she found the bottles. She counted the pills left—twelve in one container, ten in another. She palmed the bottles and carried them back to her room.
Did all fashion models take these? Maybe half the women in New York did; you probably got a prescription with every purchase in certain stores on Fifth Avenue. Renee couldn’t diet and exercise her way to a model-thin frame, but she could do this.
She swallowed the pill and waited for the magic she so desperately needed to take hold.
Ten
SO MUCH FOR CATE’S rare venture into cooking. Abby finally came out of her room and ate half a pancake. Renee claimed to be full, so Cate ended up tossing most of her Bisquick masterpieces into the trash.
“It’s okay,” Cate said when Abby began scraping her plate. “I can take care of it.”
But Abby had turned to her with those gentle brown eyes—so unlike Trey’s ice blue ones—and said, “I don’t mind. It’s actually kind of nice, having something to do.”
Renee, bless her heart, had jumped into that tiny opening and blasted it wide apart. “In that case, I was going to take on a project this morning and I’d love your help. I have to organize my closet. God, I’m such a mess. Could you just tell me what looks horrible and what to keep?”
“Sure,” Abby said.
Suddenly Cate remembered Trey’s words about his sister: She’s a nurturer. Renee had instinctively hit upon perhaps the only thing that would draw Abby out—asking her for help.
Cate had planned to go into the office for a few hours, but instead she found herself taking her laptop and plopping down on the floor of Renee’s room. While Renee began bringing out armloads of clothes and tossing them on the bed—How in the world did she fit so much into that closet? It was like a circus trick where a dozen clowns piled into a tiny car—Cate read through the two-sided advice column the magazine ran every month. Readers posed questions that were answered in dueling responses by Robyn, the Jewish Mama, and Wayne, Your Sassy Gay Friend.
Both columnists had vivid voices and humorous solutions, and it was one of the magazine’s best-read features. Luckily this month was as strong as ever; Cate wasn’t sure how she’d handle another confrontation—especially with Robyn, who’d recently grilled Cate about her romantic life, determined she was single, and promptly suggested a date with her nephew. “He’s a doctor, you know. Harvard,” Robyn had said, as if that should be enough to send any woman scampering to the nearest bridal shop. Cate had just laughed, and, luckily, another phone call had come in, allowing her to end the conversation.
“Can I just offer one thought?” Abby said as she sorted through the jumble of clothes. “You’ve got so much black.”
“But it’s slimming,” Renee said.
“I think bright colors would look good on you! Here.” Abby pulled out a cherry-colored sweater. “Try this one.”
Cate glanced over at her. It was the first time Abby had spoken to them—really spoken, rather than briefly responding to their questions.
Renee yanked off her black silk turtleneck and reached for the sweater.
“I look like a tomato,” she grumbled. “This was one of the pieces I wanted to get rid of.”
“You’ve got such perfect skin, and your eyes are so blue,” Abby said. “Bright colors can wash out some people, but they do the opposite for you.”
“Plus it sets you apart from half the women in New York, since everyone else wears black,” Cate added.
“Yeah?” Renee stood up straighter and looked in the mirror.
Cate glanced down at her computer as a gentle chime announced an incoming e-mail. It was from Trey.
How’s everything going?
Abby’s right here with us now, Cate wrote back. We had pancakes and now she’s giving us fashion advice.
Seriously? You’re amazing!
It was Renee’s idea, Cate typed, before she realized those were the exact words she’d used about the newly painted bedroom. She quickly wrote a new line: How’s Thailand?
Gorgeous. Worth the 15 hours in a plane. I’m in Phuket, and when I was having dinner, I saw an elephant being walked down the beach by its trainer.
Wow. How’d the interview go?
Good. I got what I needed. Oh, and speaking of interviews, I set something up with Reece for the day after I get back.
Cate closed her eyes in relief. Excellent! I owe you big-time . . .
Let’s grab lunch afterward if you’re free. I’ll let you know how it went.
Cate’s fingers hesitated over the keyboard. She glanced up at Renee, who was mock-preening as she put on a purple hat with an ostrich feather and saying to a laughing—laughing!—Abby, “What was I thinking? That I’d get invited to a royal wedding?”
It was a working lunch. Nothing more.
Sounds great, she wrote back. Safe travels.
“What are you working on?” Renee asked, looking over. Cate snapped shut the lid of her laptop. She didn’t want Abby to know her brother was checking up on her. And after that scene in the lunchroom, she wasn’t sure she wanted Renee to know Trey had written, either.
“Nothing important,” she said. “Do you guys want to head outside in a bit? Maybe grab some lunch? My treat.”
“Two of my favorite words!” Renee said. “Actually, three, if you count lunch.”
Cate looked over and saw that Abby was chewing her lower lip.
Renee slipped back into her jeans. “Abby, you’ve got to come,” she said. “I need to lose ten pounds in . . . well, the next day or two.” She sighed dramatically. “Will you protect me from the bread basket? Just wave your knife menacingly if it tries to throw a slice into my mouth.”
Abby hesitated, then nodded again, and Cate looked down to hide her smile.
Annabelle was about sixteen months old when she came down with her first real illness: a double ear infection. She spiked a fever of 102 and lost her appetite. Abby coaxed her to swallow the sticky pink amoxicillin, using a dropper to squeeze the right amount into a corner of the baby’s mouth, and she dried Annabelle’s brow with a soft towel when she grew sweaty.
“Sweet Bella,” she whispered, offering the baby sips of orange-flavored Pedialyte in a sippy cup. The little girl was so listless she just wanted to be held. So they listened to music and Abby read stories—Go, Dog. Go! and Angelina Ballerina—and when Annabelle fell asleep, Abby gently laid her on the sofa, with cushions on the floor in case she rolled off, and washed all her sheets and blankets in scalding water, hoping to zap the germs.
“She’s not any better?” Bob asked when he came home from w
ork. He’d canceled his last appointment of the day once Abby had phoned from the doctor’s office. Joanna was out of town; she’d left the previous evening, before Annabelle’s symptoms had surfaced, to attend a leadership summit at the Greenbrier Resort with the senator. She wouldn’t be home until the next afternoon.
Abby shook her head. “She’s not worse, though. The doctor said to give her some Motrin tonight to help her sleep. By tomorrow the antibiotics should be kicking in and she’ll feel better.”
“Poor thing.” Bob gathered Annabelle into his arms, and she snuggled against his chest, her eyelids drooping. “She’s burning up.”
“You could give her some medicine now,” Abby said. “But the doctor thinks it’s better to let her body fight it off, as long as the fever doesn’t get too high.”
Bob started to say something, but his cell phone rang, cutting him off. He wrestled it out of his pants pocket, trying not to jostle Annabelle.
“Hey, honey,” he said. “No, I’m home. I’ve got her right here. . . . Mmm-hmm, she’s still hot. But the doctor told Abby she’ll be better tomorrow . . .”
Abby gathered up the dirty towel and sippy cup and carried them to the kitchen, but she could still hear Bob talking. “No, that doesn’t make sense. You wouldn’t get in until after she’s gone to bed. . . . Just finish up and get home tomorrow. Okay. . . . Yeah. . . . Me, too.”
Abby came back into the room with a fresh cup of Pedialyte. “Just in case you need it,” she said, putting it on the floor within reach of Bob’s hand.
“Thanks,” he whispered. Abby looked at Annabelle and saw she was already asleep, her long lashes resting against her flushed cheeks.
“Give a yell if you need anything,” Abby said softly. “Her medicine is on the kitchen counter. She gets one more dose at eight o’clock.”
She started to walk out of the room, then paused. Bob had walked straight in the door and reached for Annabelle; he hadn’t even taken off his shoes. His feet were up on the couch, and Abby could see he hadn’t gotten the hole in the sole fixed; it made her heart contract with affection for him.
“Can I get you anything before I go?” she asked. “Something to drink? A snack?”
“Oh, man, that sounds so good,” Bob said, his voice low so he wouldn’t disturb Annabelle. “I worked through lunch and I’m starving.”
“Be right back.” Abby hurried to the kitchen and poured lemonade into a tall glass of ice. She spread mustard on crackers before topping them with slices of cheddar cheese and spicy sausage, then arranged everything on a tray along with a dish of fresh hulled strawberries. She put the tray on the floor right next to Annabelle’s drink.
“You’re a lifesaver,” Bob whispered. His hand moved in rhythmic circles around Annabelle’s tiny back. She was so congested she was snoring.
“Call if you need me,” Abby said again. She paused. “I’m staying in tonight.”
She watched the two of them for another moment, then walked through the kitchen and went downstairs, shutting the door tightly behind her. In her bedroom, she picked up her cell phone and dialed Pete.
“Hey, babe,” he said. She could hear traffic in the background and knew he was on his way home from work. She could almost see him in his red pickup truck, listening to classic rock, his left hand tapping out the rhythm on his thigh.
“Hi. Listen, Annabelle’s not feeling great tonight. I feel like I should stay in, just in case.”
“What?” Pete said. She heard someone honk. “Jerk. Hang on a sec. . . . Listen, Abby, aren’t her parents around?”
“Just her dad. Her mom’s out of town.”
“Well, can’t he take care of her?”
“It’s not that,” Abby said. She tried to explain it and realized she couldn’t; she just had a nagging sense that she needed to be here. It was easier to lie. “My throat’s feeling scratchy, too. I think I’m coming down with what she has.”
“You want me to come hang out over there?” he asked.
It was the last thing she wanted, even without Joanna’s disapproving face hovering in her mind.
“Better not,” she said. “I think I might go to sleep really early.”
He sounded disappointed. “Call me if you change your mind. I really wanted to see you tonight.”
After she hung up, Abby turned off her cell phone, then walked up the stairs and cracked the door, so she’d hear Bob if he called out for her.
Bob didn’t call. Instead, he knocked on her door at 2:00 A.M.
Abby woke instantly, as if she’d been skimming along the very top layer of sleep, waiting for that precise sound. She rubbed her eyes and got out of bed and climbed the stairs to open the door.
“Is she okay?”
In his arms, Annabelle was crying, a soft, mewling sound, and her breathing was wet and heavy.
“Her fever isn’t any worse but it’s still high,” Bob said. “I’m sorry I woke you. She just . . . she wants you. She was crying for you.”
Abby reached out for Annabelle, murmuring, “It’s okay.” The baby fit her head under Abby’s neck, the way she had hundreds of times before. Sometimes Abby wondered if she did it because the sound of Abby’s heartbeat comforted her.
“She’s so upset. I didn’t know what to do,” Bob confessed. He was wearing a white T-shirt and navy blue athletic shorts, and his hair was rumpled; he looked like a college kid who’d woken from a nap. “She’s been up for almost an hour.”
“Let me take her back to her room,” Abby said. “Did you give her Motrin?”
Bob nodded. “Right before bed. At eight o’clock.”
“Then let’s give her a little Tylenol. The doctor said we could alternate every few hours if we need to. She feels so warm.”
“I’ll bring some up,” Bob said, already heading toward the kitchen counter, where Annabelle’s medicines were lined up in a neat row.
The baby’s bedroom looked like a picture from one of her fairy-tale books, with a mural of an oak tree filled with butterflies on one wall and stars dotting the ceiling. Abby switched off the overhead light but left on the night-light. She sat down in a rocking chair and began to sing—“Mary Had a Little Lamb,” then “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” She didn’t stop when Bob came in the room with Tylenol, and by unspoken agreement they worked together to get Annabelle to take the medicine—with Abby distracting her while Bob slipped the eyedropper full of sticky liquid into her mouth.
“Did she take it all?” Abby whispered, and Bob held up the dropper and squinted and nodded. “Good girl,” they said in unison.
Abby kept rocking, and very quickly, Annabelle fell asleep. Abby waited another ten minutes, then slowly stood up and moved across the room. She gently laid the baby down in her crib and covered her with a light cotton blanket.
“You’ve got the touch,” Bob whispered. “That’s the second time you’ve saved me today.”
Abby turned and raised her eyebrows. “What was the first?”
“The snack,” Bob said.
Abby grinned. She hadn’t thought about it earlier, because she’d been so focused on Annabelle, but now she realized she didn’t have on a bra. She wore a tank top and loose pajama bottoms. Nothing overtly sexy, but the tank top was light pink. Was it transparent, even in the dim lighting? She and Bob were standing close together because they were whispering. She became acutely aware of the vein curving across his strong-looking bicep and his slightly sweaty, male smell. He had a few golden freckles on his nose and cheeks, and his eyebrows were the same exact shade of blond as his hair. She wondered if he slept in just the shorts, or if he wore anything at all to bed. She folded her arms across her chest, pretending it was because she was cold, and rubbed her hands up and down her arms.
“Give a yell if you need me,” she said. Her voice made a weird cracking sound on the word need, and she quickly cleared her throat.
“Thanks,” Bob said softly. He kept looking at her for a moment, really looking, but he wasn’t trying to stare th
rough her tank top or at the strip of tummy it left exposed. He was looking at her face. I must be a mess, Abby thought. Her hair was tangled around her shoulders, and she hadn’t even bothered to splash water on her face. But she caught a glimpse of the expression in Bob’s eyes—before a shade fell across them, closing him off.
It was yearning.
Eleven
“HOW’S THE POLYGAMY STORY coming?” Nigel asked. He hadn’t knocked before strolling into her office, and even though the door was open, it still rankled Cate. It seemed proprietary. Unnecessarily intimate, even.
“I’m meeting Sam to talk about it this afternoon,” she said. “Almost there.” Or at least it had better be, Cate thought. She’d told Sam she wanted a rewrite with a more personal focus. “If you can’t do it, we’ll have to scrap the piece,” she’d said. She hadn’t liked the look that came into Sam’s eyes.
“The National Magazine Awards are next week,” Nigel said, perching on a corner of Cate’s desk. He was too close; didn’t the guy have any awareness of the concept of personal space? She shifted her chair back, casually, as if the only reason she was doing so was to cross her legs.
“They’re in DC this year, right?” Cate asked. The awards were the magazine industry’s Oscars. Since there were no Pulitzers for magazines, these were the most coveted awards. Prestigious journalists picked the best news and feature stories and photographs every fall, as well as the magazines in different circulation ranges that exhibited general excellence. Last year Gloss had won one award, for photography. This year they were finalists for three honors.
Nigel was still too close, but she couldn’t move any farther back. She picked up her blue editing pencil and twirled it to give her fingers something to do.
These Girls Page 12
