The Dinner Party: A Novel

by Brenda Janowitz

  Fifty-Three

  Joe never needed an excuse to take one of his cars out for a long drive. He loved to hear the roar of the engine, the sound of tires on road, the radio on full blast. The results of his expert handiwork always made him glow with pride. He loved nothing more than driving around, usually to nowhere, for hours on end. If Sarah was sitting by his side, all the better. Today, however, they had a destination.

  Sarah wanted Joe to take a portable GPS with them, but he insisted that he knew how to get to Long Island.

  “You really just need the LIE,” he explained.

  “That’s it?” Sarah asked.

  “More or less,” he said. And more to the point: “It’ll ruin the clean lines of the car. You don’t stick something like that onto an engineering marvel.”

  They were taking the 1968 Shelby Cobra convertible, the one that Joe had just finished restoring. Sarah had complained that the car was too small. She was certain some SUV would come and drive right over their engineering marvel.

  Becca had insisted that Joe and Sarah stay for the weekend. But when Becca found out that weekend guests weren’t one of the privileges of investing your life’s fortune in a Hamptons share, she told them to come during the week. It took some doing, what with Sarah’s production schedule at the magazine and Joe recently having taken over the shop, but they were able to find a quiet week in July. The plan was to drive out on Monday, after the weekend rush was over, then head back to Connecticut on Friday, before the rush started all over again.

  Sarah and Joe weren’t able to speak with the top down. Well, they could speak, but with the Shelby Cobra sailing down the highways and parkways and expressways at 70 miles per hour, they couldn’t hear a thing.

  Joe, true to his word, didn’t need a GPS. They arrived at the house two hours after they’d left.

  “What a dump,” Sarah said. “Is it too late to book a hotel?”

  “Be nice,” Joe said, laughing.

  “That was nice,” Sarah said. “That was actually the censored version of what I was going to say.”

  The house was large—very large. And while it didn’t look like what you’d expect when conjuring an image of “Hamptons house,” it wasn’t a dump. It was new construction—cheap construction, that much Joe could tell. But, as he would later point out to Sarah, they weren’t buying the house, just staying for a few nights.

  “You can’t park here,” a guy wearing a bathing suit and no shirt said to them. He had come out of a garage that wasn’t really a garage at all. He was using it as a bedroom. It was a high school kid’s dream setup, only this kid was well past high school. He had the half-naked girl in his bed to prove it.

  “We’re here for Becca,” Joe said.

  “Oh, cool, great,” the guy said. “Nice to meet you. We can only have two cars in the driveway, and we’ve got ours here already, so you’ll have to park your car down at the train station for the week.”

  Joe looked at his Shelby Cobra. His baby. The car he’d treated himself to months earlier when he took over his father’s shop, and brought back to life on weekends. Then he looked at the guy. He didn’t say a word, he just looked at him. He put his hand on the car.

  “I mean,” the guy stuttered, “I guess it’s okay. I mean, I could always move my car. Or my girl can move hers. No worries, man. No worries.”

  “No worries,” Joe said. Sarah stifled a laugh.

  Joe and Sarah walked into the house where Becca was waiting for them.

  “You’re here!” She practically fell over herself to greet them.

  “We’re here!” Sarah said.

  “I have you guys set up in the master for the week,” Becca said, walking, leading them on a tour of the house, “and I’ll stay upstairs in my usual weekend room.”

  Joe could see from across the room that the fitted sheets weren’t put on the bed properly; one corner of the dirty mattress peeked out at him. The tile floor looked dingy, badly in need of a mop. And the bathroom? Well, that he couldn’t even discuss.

  “I cleaned for you!” Becca said, beaming with pride.

  “Really?” Sarah said. Becca nodded, but Joe knew that the sisters were having two completely different conversations.

  Sarah: Really? You cleaned? It looks filthy.

  Becca: Yes, really! I love you so much that I cleaned for you!

  “Well, I’ll let you get settled in,” Becca said. “We have reservations for dinner in town at eight. I picked up bagels and some salads this morning for lunch. Henry’s going to take the train out tomorrow after class and meet us for dinner, so we can barbecue then.”

  She was speaking as if she’d been held in captivity. As if she hadn’t spoken a word to another human being in a month.

  “Don’t put anything down,” Sarah instructed once Becca was out of earshot. “This place is disgusting. We’re probably going to get bedbugs or an STD.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Joe offered, but his heart wasn’t really in it. Even he had to admit the place was filthy. Sarah kept their own home tidy and welcoming. She may have had a punishing work schedule, but their place was always clean. Joe had gone from his mother’s house to Sarah’s. He was not accustomed to mess.

  “Thank goodness we brought our own linens,” Sarah said. She began making the bed and Joe grabbed the edge of the sheet to help. Once the bed was made, it was on to the unpacking. Sarah refused to put any clothing in drawers where God-knows-what was lurking. She hung everything in the closet. Even her bras and Joe’s boxers.

  They changed into bathing suits and met Becca out back.

  “This is nice,” Sarah said. “Fresh air and all that.” She draped a towel over a chaise longue and then passed a towel to Joe.

  “But this isn’t what you come out here for,” Becca said, motioning toward the backyard. “You come out here for this.” She opened her arms wide, directing their view to the walkout to the beach.

  “This what?” Sarah said, sitting down on the chaise longue.

  “You’re ruining my big reveal,” Becca said.

  “I think we’re supposed to follow her,” Joe said, taking Sarah’s hand.

  “This,” Becca said again, as she led them out to the beach. “This is what you come out here for.” Every time Becca walked onto the beach, she felt it. That instant sigh, the releasing of any tension she was holding in her shoulders. Just putting her feet into the sand, smelling the salty ocean air, did it to her. It was as if she’d been holding her breath and only then, when she walked onto the beach, could she release it.

  Joe and Sarah walked out onto the beach holding hands, as Becca quickly ran ahead. The sound of the waves hit Joe, and he pulled Sarah back toward him and kissed her on the lips.

  “Mmm,” Sarah said, and Joe patted her on the tush. There were hardly any other people on the beach, but Sarah could still feel her face getting a little red.

  They caught up to Becca. She had a little village set up for them: reclining beach chairs, towels, and an umbrella. A beach blanket was set out in front of the chairs, creating the sense of a room. She’d even brought out a cooler with waters, iced teas, and fresh fruit. Sarah sat down in her beach chair and Becca told her to lean back so that she could adjust it for her. Sarah appreciated that Becca had bought the chairs just for them; Joe’s still had a price tag attached to it. Joe opened the cooler and handed Sarah her favorite—a half iced tea, half lemonade. He grabbed a bottle of water for himself. Joe realized that Becca had set things up so that the cooler served as a side table when they weren’t open.

  “Isn’t this heavenly?” Becca asked as they settled in.

  And even Sarah had to admit, it was.

  Fifty-Four

  Valentina hated it when Joe went away. He never went away for long—he’d been forbidden to attend sleepaway camp when he was a kid and college was simply never an option. But even on long weekends, she missed him. She would count the hours until he was back. It was as if she could sense it when he crossed the border int
o and out of Connecticut.

  “What’s bothering my beautiful girl?” Dominic asked.

  “Nothing,” Valentina said, attempting a big smile. “Everything’s fine.”

  “You don’t seem fine,” Dominic said. “You seem a little sad. What should we do today to change that?”

  “You have to go to the shop,” Valentina said. “Aren’t you supposed to be holding down the fort for the week while Joe is away?”

  “You miss Joe,” Dominic said. “Why don’t you just say so?”

  “That’s silly.”

  “Tell you what,” Dominic said. “I’ll run over to the shop, just to make sure everything’s okay, and you go to the market. Get one of your famous picnics together. Spare no expense—I want the best cheeses, the best meats, the best breads. I’ll pick up a bottle of wine on the way home. Just like the old times.”

  Valentina smiled. It was so wonderful to have Dominic back home. But still, her heart ached for Joe. She had always imagined that she’d have a full house, a house full of children. Like the home she’d grown up in. Like the homes her sisters had. Noisy, full of energy, full of love. The home she’d created for Joe and Dominic was full of love, there was no question about that, but she’d always wanted more. Always imagined more. She thought often about the babies she didn’t have, the babies she couldn’t maintain in her belly. The babies she wanted so badly.

  Better to have one healthy child than a dozen sick ones.

  Count your blessings, you have Joe.

  Some women can’t have any children.

  Her mother and sisters always tried to make her feel better about the miscarriages, but it was times like these, when she wasn’t alone but felt alone, that she longed for those lost babies.

  When she got like this, Valentina followed her mother’s advice to count her blessings. Her sister Victoria had four beautiful children, two girls and two boys, but her husband ran around behind her back. Her younger sister, Viola, had three girls—how Valentina longed for a girl!—but she had also fought off breast cancer twice. Viola was brave, but the second time was so very difficult, both physically and emotionally. She wouldn’t throw away her wigs after the second time. Just in case.

  Valentina was blessed with perfect health and a doting husband. She had a healthy, happy son who was married to a lovely girl. Why long for the past? Why wish for things that wouldn’t come true? Her mother was right. A woman should count her blessings. Especially when she had so many to be thankful for.

  “A picnic sounds perfect, Nicky,” she said.

  He pulled her close and gave her a kiss, fully on the mouth. Valentina wasn’t expecting such a passionate kiss before nine in the morning and it made her giggle.

  “I adore you, Val,” he said. She loved it when he called her by her childhood nickname. She had asked people to call her Tina after Joe was born because she thought it sounded more grown-up, more mature. She had wanted a new name to go with her new life. She wanted to be known as Joe’s mother and Dom’s wife, not just one of the Ambrusio girls: Vic, Val, and Vi. So Tina it was. But when Dominic called her Val, she was reminded of the day they met. The day when a bunch of the neighborhood kids were going to the movies and Val had been forced to sit in Dominic’s lap in the backseat of his brother’s car. The ride was only five minutes, but it changed Valentina’s life. She was just fifteen.

  “It’ll be just like the old times,” Valentina said, and smiled.

  Fifty-Five

  Ursella looked around at the house. Her home, where she’d raised her only child. She took such pride in it. How foolish she had been.

  She started in the entryway. That was where the broker would begin his tour. The Italian marble flooring, after all these years, still looked impeccable. It hadn’t scuffed, it hadn’t lost its shine. And the pattern was very much still in style.

  The edges of Ursella’s mouth turned up as she moved to the dining room. The millwork was impeccable. Would this broker realize that? When she’d decided to paint the entire room a deep navy, mouldings included, she’d been right. Even though her decorator advised her against it, she knew that it would create an intimate atmosphere, perfect for dinner parties that lasted long into the night. Flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows, the dark walls created the perfect contrast to the flood of light the room got. And navy was the perfect backdrop for one of her most prized possessions—the Kandinsky that Edmond had bought for her at auction on their first anniversary.

  Ursella sat down in the living room. Edmond’s father’s secretary desk sat in one corner, an antique card table in the other. She took her shoes off and rubbed her toes on the hand-knotted Oriental rug. Then she put her feet onto the leather ottoman. This room was perfect—nothing more had to be done. She could sit and wait.

  The broker would be coming at eleven. “Just to take a look,” he had said. “To show you how to stage it for the market.” As if Ursella needed to be told. More foolishness.

  After she had married Edmond, Ursella had learned everything she could about design. She studied the homes of his friends, of his family, to learn how they lived. She wanted a home that looked just like theirs. Just as refined. Just as beautiful. Just as rich. And, of course, she hired the most expensive interior designer she could find. The one Edmond’s mother had used, the one all his friends used.

  Her home was immaculate. Perfect. Above reproach.

  Yet someone was about to come tell her all the things that were wrong with it. All the ways the house wouldn’t be worth what Ursella thought it was worth. Ursella and Edmond had decided on an asking price. But the house was worth so much more than any number. Every room, every square inch of it held a precious memory. Ursella didn’t know how she would let it go.

  The broker was a squirrely man. Ursella detested him immediately. He arranged his thin hair like a nest on top of his head, and he had an equally thin mustache to match. Ursella thought that men who wore thin mustaches were unmanly. When he shook Ursella’s hand, he pursed his lips, as if she were his dinner and he was ready to eat. His suit was ill-fitting, and his pants were hemmed too high. He spoke very fast, and asked her if she could understand what he was saying, what with English being her second language and all. He then tried to guess at her accent. Ursella found the whole exchange distasteful. And tacky. If there was one thing Ursella didn’t like, it was tacky.

  She gave him a tour of the house, and he oohed and aahed at all the appropriate intervals. He loved the mouldings, original to the town house, and the wood inlays in her floor, also original. He praised her choice of lighting, her window treatments, and fabric choices for the furniture. The broker especially loved the Chagall that hung in her bedroom, a wedding gift from her husband, bought on their honeymoon in the South of France.

  Ursella relaxed. Everything would be all right.

  “Why don’t we go to the kitchen for a cup of tea?” she asked. Maybe she had rushed to judgment? After all, he couldn’t help it if his legs were too skinny, if his eyes were too beady, if his hair was too thin.

  Ursella poured water into a kettle—she hated using the instant hot water faucet they had at the sink, a kettle was the only way to prepare a proper cup of tea—and selected her favorite box of English teas from Harrods. She only offered these teas on special occasions. She hoped he could see that.

  “Let’s talk price,” the broker said, before Ursella had even had a chance to sit down. Before she was even able to pour the tea.

  When he called out a number that was 30 percent less than what Ursella and Edmond had decided on, Ursella dropped the teacup she had been holding. It fell onto the floor as if in slow motion. One minute, Ursella saw it in her hand, and the next it was falling, slowly, gracefully, onto her Italian porcelain tile floor. It crashed down and broke into a million pieces. Ursella was too shocked to even make a move to clean it up. She simply stared at it, at the tiny little pieces, as the broker continued speaking.

  The market has changed.

  There’s not a lot
of interest in these big properties right now, at least not at that price point.

  The tastes of the house are too specific to you and your family. Would you agree to have it professionally staged? Repaint the dining room?

  Ursella didn’t know what she wanted to do anymore. She certainly didn’t want to sell her home for less than it was worth. And now she was questioning the plan she and Edmond had come up with—to sell the Manhattan town house and camp out at their summer home in Nice. Suddenly, Ursella didn’t want to go to France. She didn’t want to leave the city. She didn’t ever want to leave her house.

  “I’ll be in touch,” she said, once she regained her composure. “Thank you for your time.”

  She sat down at the kitchen table with a fresh cup of tea and had her housekeeper show the unctuous little man to the door.

  Fifty-Six

  “Have you spoken to Gid?” Becca asked Sarah.

  Henry had taken a train out to the beach (“I needed to get some studying done on the way out,” he’d explained), and was now firing up the grill. He had insisted on manning the barbecue.

  “Has he ever cooked anything before in his life?” Joe whispered to Sarah.

  He had not. But that didn’t dull his enthusiasm. After all, how hard could it be to cook up some hamburgers and hot dogs?

  “We had a video chat,” Sarah said.

  “How come Gid never tries to video chat with me?” Becca asked.

  “How come you never try to video chat with him?” Sarah asked back.

  Becca ignored the question. “Mom said he’s re-upped with the program. And that Malika dumped him and left.”

  “You spoke to Mom?” Sarah asked. She tried to sound casual, but everyone knew it was a loaded question.

  “Yeah, haven’t you?” Becca tried for her own casual tone. She was far more convincing. The beach had done something to her. Everything about her seemed calmer. Quieter. More relaxed, more fun.

  “Barely,” Sarah said. “She’s still mad about—”