by Rae Lawrence
The phone rang; it was Patrick Weston. It was only seven o’clock, but Anne was already in sweatpants and home for the night.
“So how have you been,” he said.
“Busy. I can’t believe Christmas is less than two months away.”
“I read about you in the papers. Congratulations, it sounds like everything is going great.”
“And you?” Anne asked.
“Same old same old. Listen, I have an enormous favor to ask.”
“Really.”
“An insanely enormous favor.”
“Uh-oh, this doesn’t sound good.”
“I have a wedding to go to this Saturday, in Bedford, and I need a date. What do I have to say to talk you into it.”
“You want me to go to a wedding with you?” Anne said. She had never met any of his friends, couldn’t even name one. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m desperate. God, I’m sorry, that came out wrong. I mean … what I meant was …”
“I know what you meant. Patrick, I don’t think this is such a good idea.”
“Come on, why not. I’m good company. I’ll have you home by twelve. It’s my cousin Nicole, it’s this huge family wedding, and I can’t go alone.”
“And you just realized this tonight.”
“Long story, let’s just say the girlfriend is now an ex-girlfriend.”
“People go to weddings all the time without dates.”
“Not in my family. And anyway, if I call them now, Nicole will have a fit, she’s already had ten nervous breakdowns about seating arrangements. I’m begging you. I’ll do anything.”
“Anything?”
“Name it.”
Anne couldn’t think of a single thing she wanted from Patrick Weston. “I’m drawing a blank. Wait a minute, I just thought of something. What are you doing on December first?”
“Whatever you say.” His voice grew flirtatious.
“Don’t get too excited. I’m moving, I could use someone to help.” She had hired professional movers, but in New York City you always needed extra people to watch the truck and help carry valuables.
“Deal,” he said. “Black tie, I’ll pick you up at three-thirty.”
“What kind of black tie?” she asked.
“It’s Bedford,” he said. “Think headbands and pearls.”
“I’ve got just the thing.”
She knitted for another hour, falling asleep in front of the television set. When she woke up the loft was dark.
“Jenn?” she said. “You sleeping?”
“I was sleeping.”
“It’s only nine, I wasn’t sure.”
“I have to get up early tomorrow,” Jenn said. “We have a quiz in history.”
Anne got into bed and fell asleep again, only to wake up a few hours later. She could no longer sleep through the night without help, but she hadn’t made it to the pharmacy before closing, and her prescription bottles were empty. She fell asleep for a little while, a shallow sleep filled with odd dreams, and then woke up again, the cycle repeating itself in half-hour intervals. The harder she tried to sleep, the worse it got. The blankets were twisted around her legs; the pillows felt too soft; there was a smell of fried grease coming in from the restaurant downstairs. She stared at the ceiling, full of anxious thoughts. She remembered a phone call she had forgotten to return, a credit card bill she had neglected to mail, a thank-you note it was now too late to send.
She thought about Gretchen, how Gretchen had disappeared seemingly into thin air. Lyon had called Anne to ask what he should do; they decided they would both talk to the Los Angeles police, who didn’t seem particularly interested in Gretchen’s story. Gretchen’s husband told the police that she had a history of running away—hadn’t she run off to New York without telling him?—and she’d show up sooner or later. Jenn said Gretchen had mentioned some cousins in Northern California she wanted to visit. Lyon pointed out the missing two hundred dollars.
But it didn’t feel right to Anne, the way Gretchen had simply dropped the car off at Los Angeles International Airport and vanished without a trace. But she was practically family, Anne had told Lyon, and always so responsible.
It set something off in Lyon, to hear Anne say responsible; it was the word she always used when she didn’t feel he was holding up his end. You were always too trusting, he said.
Now she thought of every horrible thing that might have happened to Gretchen. She knew it was just a chemical thing, her brain begging for the pills she was out of, but she could not make the anxious thoughts stop. By three in the morning she was a wreck. The loft was freezing; she couldn’t wait to move to a building where the landlord kept the heat on. She got two down comforters out of the closet and knocked on the divider to Jenn’s room.
“Sweetie? Are you cold?” There was no answer. Anne tiptoed in. Jenn had pulled the covers up over her head against the cold. Anne covered her with one of the comforters. She stroked Jenn’s shoulder, remembering what it was like to be young and sleep through the night without a care in the world.
But it wasn’t her shoulder. Anne pulled the blankets back. There was nothing but a pile of pillows, stretched out the length of Jenn’s body. At the bottom of the bed was a folded note.
Dear Mom,
If you’re reading this I guess that means I’m busted. Please don’t worry, I’m safe and I’m with friends and I’ll be home before breakfast. I promise I would never do anything to make you worry. I have thirty dollars so don’t worry I’ll take a cab.
Love, Jenn
Anne felt her heart drop in her chest. She dialed Alice’s house.
“Rachel? It’s Anne Burke. Is Jenn there?”
“Anne? What time is it?”
“It’s just after three.”
“Is Jenn supposed to be here?”
“No, of course not. She’s supposed to be here. But it looks like she snuck out. I’m sorry to wake you, but I’m out of my mind with worry, and I just thought—”
“Don’t give it a thought. Hold on, I’ll check Alice’s room.”
Anne sat and waited, wishing she still smoked.
“She’s not here,” Rachel said. “And actually, Alice isn’t here either.”
“My God, where do you think they are?”
“At a friend’s house?” Rachel said. “I have no idea.”
“I’ll make some phone calls.”
“Anne, it’s the middle of the night. Who are you going to call? Anyway, they probably snuck into some club.” Rachel sighed. “It’s that age. How much trouble can they get into?”
“Are you joking?” Anne said.
“Jenn’s a good girl, they’re both good girls. This is just some harmless fun.”
“Alice has done this before?”
“Well, yes. Jenn hasn’t?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Oh, it’s your first time. Oh dear. You sound awfully calm. My first time I got completely hysterical.” There was the sound of a cigarette being lit.
“Well, I’m not calm.”
“They all do it, you know. And they come home safe and sound every time. It’s pretty innocent, really. They just like to dress up and put on makeup and pretend they’re grown-ups. Maybe they have one drink, maybe a few cigarettes. You know, at this point I just count my blessings. At least we’re in New York and they aren’t being driven around by teenage boys. It could be worse.”
“I don’t see how it could be worse.”
“At least they’re popular, and that’s what their crowd does,” Rachel said. “I’d rather have a few sleepless nights than some bookwormy daughter who never has any fun.”
“I was a bookworm,” said Anne.
“Look, Anne, I’m going back to sleep. Let’s talk in the morning.”
“How can you sleep when the girls are out who knows where, doing God knows what? How can you possibly sleep?”
“I’m going to take some Tuinal and sleep like an angel. Good night, Anne.”
Anne tried television, knitting, reading a bad novel, but nothing worked. At four o’clock she telephoned Lyon.
“Hello?” came a woman’s voice at the other end.
Anne had never seen Lyon’s new house, but she pictured him in a king-size bed, wearing black silk pajamas, lying next to a twenty-four-year-old blonde in impossibly small underwear.
“Please get Lyon,” she said. “This is his ex-wife calling from New York, and we have a family emergency here.”
“Anne?”
“Neely?”
“Yeah. What kind of emergency?”
“Is Lyon there.”
“Of course he’s here. If I wanted to sleep alone, I have a perfectly good house of my own. Hold on a minute, he’s in the bathroom, he’ll be right back.”
Anne heard the click of a cigarette lighter.
“You’re pissed off, aren’t you,” Neely said.
“I don’t want to have this conversation right now.”
“Look, Anne, I know you don’t give a flying fuck who Lyon sleeps with, and I know you don’t give a flying fuck who I sleep with, so why do you care if we’re in the feathers together? What do you care about your leftovers? If you were really over him, you wouldn’t give a shit.”
“I don’t care.”
“Good, that makes it easier.”
Lyon came on the line. “Anne. What is it.”
“Jenn’s missing. Well, maybe not really missing.” Anne described what had happened and her conversation with Alice’s mother. “She’s only thirteen,” Anne said. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
But there was nothing they could do. They agreed to talk again when Jenn came home.
“And Anne,” Lyon said. “I’m sorry if … this is awkward. Are you angry.”
Fuck off, she thought. You deserve each other. And then she thought of Aunt Amy, rolling a ball of gray yarn from a skein draped over Anne’s fingers, talking about knitting, how easy it was if you followed the rules, life was all about rules. Count your stitches after every decrease. Never change yarn in the middle of a row. A lady never lets anyone see her cry. A lady never lets an angry word pass her lips.
“Good night, Lyon,” Anne said. She got back into bed and waited. By the time Jenn got home, she was too exhausted to fight.
* * *
Oh, you were right about the headbands,” Anne said to Patrick. It was a beautiful church. Sprays of lilies were tied to the ends of the pews with fat pink ribbons. The bride wore a white satin gown, and there were eight bridesmaids in pink moiré dresses of a precise length that was flattering on no one.
Dinner was at a country club nestled in a grove of pine trees.
“We used to sneak onto the golf course at night and make out,” Patrick whispered after the salad course was cleared.
“Don’t even think of it,” Anne said. “You promised I’d be home by midnight, and I’m holding you to it.” They were seated at a table of five cousins and their dates. Everyone looked so much alike, it was hard for Anne to remember which ones were family. It was the usual small talk: who had bought a new boat, who was going to which football game on the big weekend, who was moving up from the city and who was moving back.
“I knew you’d fit in,” Patrick said.
It was just like Anne’s hometown, only a little richer and a little shinier. She was wearing a midnight-blue velvet skirt and a white satin shirt with ruffles down the front, a pair of pearl earrings, and a single gold bangle bracelet. It was the exact same outfit she might have worn in college, only instead of white opaque tights and patent-leather flats, she had graduated to sheer black stockings and pumps with conservative two-inch heels.
“You have no idea.”
The band segued from Dixieland to an old Cole Porter tune.
“Let’s dance,” Patrick said.
“Oh, I don’t know. This is just a pretend date.”
“Then let’s just pretend dance.”
He was a decent dancer, stiff from the waist down but careful about his footwork. She couldn’t remember the last time she had danced. She wondered why Patrick seemed like much more fun as soon as she decided she definitely wasn’t going to sleep with him ever again.
They went out onto the glass-enclosed patio to get some air, joining a group of people Patrick knew from summers in Maine. He held Anne’s waist lightly as he made introductions.
“Nice to see you again,” said Bill Carter. “I hear good things are happening for you at IBC. Charles Brady, he’s practically an American institution.”
“I’m learning so much from him,” said Anne.
“Such as?”
“He makes me read six newspapers a day. Six! And he quizzes me, so there’s no way I can slack off. And he gives me notes after every show. No matter how much I prepare for an interview, he always thinks of something I should have asked.”
“It sounds rather intimidating.”
“It is, but in the best sense. It’s like being in school. It turns out I like being pushed a little.”
A waiter came by with a tray of champagne and cigars.
“I hate cigars,” Bill said.
“Really? I never met a banker who hated cigars.”
“Genetic mutation,” he said. “Can I talk you into going back inside and having a dance?”
It was a fast song. They shuffled together, with an occasional twirl.
“Tell me you aren’t really dating Patrick Weston,” said Bill.
“Why shouldn’t I really be dating Patrick Weston?”
“No reason. I just don’t think you are.”
“And why is that?”
“He’s being way too nice to you. I’ve seen him around his girlfriends, he’s an absolute heel.”
Anne laughed. “And I thought we were fooling everyone.”
“I’m sure you are. But remember, I make my living by not being fooled by people like my good friend Patrick.” The band struck up a waltz. “Ah, much better.” He pulled her closer. “This I know how to do.” He spun her around the floor. He had a strong lead; she guessed he had been sent to dancing lessons as a child. The next song was a tango.
“Well, perhaps not,” he said. “Let’s get some fresh air.” They sat at a wrought-iron table overlooking the lawn.
“I missed all the leaves this year,” Anne said.
“Stuck in the city?”
“There’s an unbelievable amount of work.”
“There’s always an unbelievable amount of work,” he said. “And there’s always time to get out and look at the leaves, if you want there to be.”
“I guess. But I’m still proving myself.”
“To Charles Brady?”
“A little.” It was easy to talk to him, and she found herself saying things she hadn’t even told Curtis, things she didn’t even know she felt until she heard herself say them.
“Charlie says I have to learn how to make things happen for myself. He says I’m too used to having men look after me. And it’s true. First at the agency. And then Kevin Gillian.” She told him how Charlie lectured her about being tougher in her interviews, about learning to ask uncomfortable questions. “But I’m just a big softy,” she said. “I have the questions all written down, and then at the last minute I decide not to ask them.”
“But it’s your job to ask them,” Bill said. “It isn’t personal, it’s just business.”
“How can you separate them?”
“If I told you some of the things I had to do at the bank, you’d be appalled.” He told her about a deal he had made, a loan withheld and a family business bankrupted. “But it was the right thing to do. Everyone has to play his part. You learn to leave it behind at the office.”
There was something about him that was so different from the other men she knew, but she couldn’t put a word to it. It felt so comfortable, sitting with him at a country club, chatting about work. He had all the old-fashioned values she had been raised with and then rebelled against. And if I’d never lef
t Massachusetts, she thought, if I’d stayed and married and done everything I was supposed to do … It no longer seemed such a terrible fate. Everyone she had met tonight seemed perfectly nice and perfectly smart and perfectly happy. She wondered whether she had traveled in a big circle and was just now arriving at the point where she’d first started.
A new waltz was beginning.
“Let’s,” he said.
“Let’s.” This time she relaxed into his arms and leaned back into his turns. It felt more like floating than dancing. The band followed with another tango.
“Oh well,” said Anne.
“You don’t tango?”
“Not in years. You?”
“Not in front of my aunt Mary,” he said. He took her hand and led her back outside. The music was faint, but they followed along, a proper waspy tango, shy footwork and not much eye contact. When the song ended, they were in a dark corner filled with balloons.
“I want to kiss you, and I’m pretty sure you want to kiss me,” said Bill.
She closed her eyes. It was a nice kiss. Everything was so romantic—the music, the scent of freshly raked leaves, the balloons floating at her feet, the stars twinkling through the glass ceiling, in New York you never saw the stars—she wanted it to go on forever. She felt no passion; what she felt was something else, the feeling of being protected, and it felt even more precious to her, even more desirable.
“You never called me,” he said.
“I’m sorry. It was such a crazy time.”
“May I call you, then?”
On the way back in, they ran into Patrick.
“Pumpkin time,” he said. “The car’s out front.”
They sped back to the city, listening to an oldies station and talking about music.
“You hit it off with Bill?” Patrick asked.
“I never met a banker who knew how to tango.”
