by Leslie Meier
“I’ll be back in a mo’,” promised Norine, who returned promptly to top off all their cups.
“You know,” said Sue, tapping her coffee mug, “I bet you could stay with Sidra. She has a big new place, with a guest room.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose,” said Lucy, who had seen Sue’s daughter Sidra grow up, marry, and establish a career as a TV producer in New York.
“She and Geoff would love to have you,” said Sue, taking out her cell phone. In a matter of minutes she’d arranged the whole thing, including having Geoff meet Lucy at the airport. “It’s no trouble for him,” she insisted. “They live in Brooklyn, which is practically next door to LaGuardia.”
“Brooklyn?” asked Lucy, whose teen years had been largely spent riding the subway between her home in the Bronx and her high school in Manhattan, and thought of newly fashionable Brooklyn as possibly bordering Outer Mongolia.
“Is that a problem?” asked Sue.
“Oh, no,” said Lucy, who had been brought up to never look a gift horse in the mouth. “I’ll take the subway.” What she didn’t mention was the fact that the trip from Brooklyn to St. Andrew’s in the northernmost reaches of the Bronx would entail a very long subway ride. “Thanks for setting this up for me.”
“No problem,” said Sue. “That’s what friends are for, and we’ve been friends for, could it be? Over twenty-five years?”
“Speaking of which,” said Pam, scraping the last bit of yogurt with her spoon, “what do you think of Sylvia Bickford’s Silver Anniversary Weekend?”
“It seems like years ago,” said Lucy, “but I was grocery shopping yesterday afternoon and Sylvia and Warren were there, too. Poor Warren couldn’t do anything right. Sylvia was all over him. Dot told me she calls them the Bickersons. It’s hard to believe they’ve stuck together for twenty-five years.”
“They’re quite a pair,” said Pam, smiling naughtily. “Maybe the sex is good.”
“I don’t want to think about it,” said Lucy. “Sylvia and Warren—yuck!”
“Something’s holding them together. . . .” began Rachel.
“Yeah, and that something is called business,” said Sue. “She’s got the bridal shop, he’s got the limo service, and this is just a publicity stunt. Renewing their vows and having a fake wedding reception, asking all the ladies in town to parade around in their wedding dresses—clearly mutton dressed as lamb—well, it’s absolutely disgusting and I hope nobody falls for it.”
“Well, I’m all for it,” said Pam. “I pulled out my dress and it still fits! Of course, it’s not a traditional white one. I had a sort of orange caftan. We had one of those barefoot-on-the-beach weddings. I’m not at all sure Sylvia will want me to model it for her fashion show.” She looked down rather sadly at her empty yogurt bowl. “Oh, well, Ted and I can still go to the reception. What about you guys? Are you all coming? It’ll be fun. I’m sure there’ll be dancing and cake!”
“I think I’ll skip it,” said Sue. “I never liked cake.”
“What about you, Lucy?”
“I do like cake, which is why my wedding dress no longer fits. . . .”
They all laughed.
“Although in my defense I was a tiny slip of a thing, practically a child when I got married.”
“Likely story,” scoffed Pam. “What about you, Rachel? You’ve been strangely silent today.”
“Oh, sorry. I’ve been thinking about friendship and how relationships change through the years, but sometimes there’s still a really strong tie, even when people go in separate directions.”
“That’s true,” said Lucy, thinking of Beth.
“And I’ve been thinking about the Bickersons,” continued Rachel. “It’s clearly an unhealthy, abusive relationship, and I don’t want to celebrate or encourage that sort of marriage. Marriage should be based on respect and shared values, and it should be a partnership of equals. I’m very uncomfortable when I hear one partner picking on the other and I can’t imagine how Warren and Sylvia are going to get through this celebration without embarrassing themselves and everybody there. If you ask me, they should take whatever amount they’re planning on spending and use it instead to consult a qualified marriage counselor. This so-called Silver Anniversary Weekend is nothing more than a diversion, a way of avoiding the hard work of addressing the problems in their marriage.”
“So nobody’s going?” asked Pam, disappointed.
“Don’t be silly—we’ll all be there,” declared Sue. “Nobody’s going to miss this show.”
Chapter Three
The Friday evening flight from the Portland Jetport to New York’s LaGuardia Airport was only supposed to take ninety minutes, but when she added in the extra time needed to get to the airport from Tinker’s Cove, park the car, and get through security, it turned out that Lucy had plenty of time to reflect on Beth’s life and her untimely death.
With more than an hour on her hands before boarding, Lucy chose a seat in a row of connected black leather chairs, considerately slid her carry-on roller case beneath it, and prepared to wait. She had bought today’s New York Times to read, intending to acquaint herself with the city’s news, but the paper remained folded in her lap, unopened. Ever since she’d learned of Beth’s death she had found it hard to concentrate on anything else, and kept playing and replaying the same memories in her mind.
In some ways, she thought, it was like picking at a scab, which behavior, as her mother had frequently reminded her, only served to prevent the wound from healing, and might even cause it to become infected. Beth’s death was indeed festering in her mind, bringing all sorts of uncomfortable emotions to the surface.
Regret was a big one. Why hadn’t she fought harder to keep her relationship with Beth alive? Why hadn’t she done more to keep Beth from joining that crazy cult? Looking back, it was clear that had been the turning point, the moment when their paths began to diverge. Lucy had stayed in college, opting for the safe and conventional, while Beth had veered off into the fringes.
She remembered meeting Gabriel Thomas and had to admit he was very good looking and had a charismatic personality, if you went for that sort of thing. During that time Lucy herself had been a popular coed mostly occupied with fighting off the advances of oversexed frat boys, but she had learned in a comparative religion class that sex, either overtly practiced or strictly repressed and controlled, was an important factor in a number of religions. Hearing this theory, she was quite sure that Miss MacIntyre, her Methodist Sunday School teacher, would have offered a strong rebuttal. But looking back, Lucy doubted that even Miss MacIntyre could have prevented Beth from embracing Gabe’s fervent faith, or Gabe himself, for that matter. And, thought Lucy, it was entirely possible that Beth was already pregnant with Dante when she joined the cult.
Once Beth had disappeared into the Angel Brigade, Lucy had lost all contact with her. She’d mourned the loss, but she’d also felt resentful at being suddenly dropped after so many years of friendship. That resentment had lingered, coloring their relationship when Beth emerged, after about a year, and their on-again, off-again friendship resumed. Beth hadn’t offered much information about the cult or her experience there, preferring to focus instead on her adorable baby, Dante. Their meetings had been infrequent, but Lucy remembered some pleasant afternoons spent with mother and child, often in a park or playground.
It wasn’t too long, however, before Beth disappeared again, this time into the artistic underground of Manhattan and the arms of artist Tito Wilkins. Wilkins was the flavor-of-the-month at the time, and Beth had enjoyed mingling with celebrities and glitterati at openings and parties. She’d also enjoyed the easy availability of drugs like cocaine and heroin, which led to addiction and a near-fatal overdose. She’d been fresh out of rehab when she called Lucy, ready once again to renew their friendship, and by the way wondering if Lucy wouldn’t mind occasionally babysitting Dante.
Lucy hadn’t minded. She’d come to accept her new status as Beth’s sometim
e friend. She was looking forward to graduation and her upcoming marriage to Bill and was thinking of starting her own family. She enjoyed spending time with the energetic little preschooler, and had been pleased when Beth began dating Colin Fine, a chiropractor devoted to healthy living and natural foods, marrying him in a humanistic ceremony at the Ethical Culture Society. It couldn’t last, of course; she should have seen the handwriting on the wall. Dr. Fine was rather like a big bowl of brown rice, good for you but lacking in flavor, especially for someone like Beth, who was used to more exotic fare.
After announcing the divorce, Beth had vowed to Lucy that from now on she was done with marriage. She was going to concentrate on being the best person she could be, if she could only find that person, and was determined to provide Dante with the best upbringing possible. By then Lucy was living in Maine, and Beth had remained in New York City, but they made an effort to get together once or twice a year, occasionally called each other, and exchanged annual Christmas cards with newsy, handwritten notes.
Lucy noticed people around her getting up and realized she must have been so occupied with her thoughts that she missed the call for boarding. She tugged her carry-on out from under the seat and got in line, digging out her ID and boarding pass. Once she’d made her way through the aggressively welcoming gauntlet of unhelpful crew members and found her assigned seat, stowed her case in the overhead bin, and settled into the cramped window seat, she was having second thoughts about this trip. The aisle seat was occupied by a very large man who spilled over onto the dividing armrest, and their nearest neighbor, the woman across the aisle, appeared to be a nervous flyer who was already holding the barf bag.
Beth, I’m not sure you’re worth all this, thought Lucy, immediately ashamed of herself. It was a short flight and the discomfort was temporary, certainly nothing to compare with whatever hell Beth had been going through when she decided to take her own life. But that was the frustrating part—it was very hard to understand what exactly had been the problem during these last few years of Beth’s life. She was married to a billionaire, Jeremy Blake, who doted on her and made sure she had everything any woman could possibly want. There was the penthouse apartment in Manhattan, the house in the Hamptons, the pied-à-terre in Paris, and a private jet to travel between them all. There were servants and daily deliveries of floral bouquets, freshly washed and ironed sheets on the bed every night, huge walk-in closets packed with designer clothes and more Manolos and Louboutins than anyone could possibly wear, and lots of huge bathrooms, bigger than most people’s bedrooms. Beth’s calendar was packed with charity galas, Broadway openings, and appointments for massages, facials, and coiffures as well as discreet visits to the best plastic surgeon in Manhattan. It was a life that anyone would envy, and Lucy admitted to herself that she’d had a few struggles with that particular green-eyed monster.
Maybe, she thought with a sigh, she’d understand better after this weekend. But for now, she turned her attention to the flight attendant’s instructions on how to use the emergency oxygen mask, just in case. She wasn’t taking any chances. You never knew when such knowledge might be necessary. The safety lecture at an end, she made sure her seat belt was tight and settled back for takeoff.
Geoff Dunford was waiting for her when she got off the plane, dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans. It seemed you could take the boy out of Maine, but not the Maine out of the boy. He was the principal of a highly regarded charter school that focused on science, but Lucy couldn’t help seeing him as the kid who was always roaming the woods around Tinker’s Cove, studying birds and fishes and everything that moved.
“How was your flight?” he asked, taking her roller bag.
“Cramped,” admitted Lucy, who had been greatly relieved when the lady with the barf bag managed to avoid using it. “Thanks for meeting me. You must have better things to do on Friday night.”
“Not really,” he said, with a smile. “Sidra usually has a project for me. We’re trying to turn our little patch of yard into a garden. So far I’ve dug up a couple of old tires, numerous concrete blocks, and a bedpan.”
“You should get your brother down to help,” suggested Lucy, referring to Fred Dunford, an archaeology professor at Winchester College, the liberal arts college in Tinker’s Cove. “Tell him it’s an opportunity to research urban life.”
“I tried,” admitted Geoff, leading the way to the parking garage. “I’m afraid he saw right through me.”
“That’s the trouble with siblings; they know you too well.”
Traffic was light and they made good time in Geoff’s little Fiat, though Lucy found the car’s small size rather unnerving. She was used to tooling around the back roads of Maine in her compact SUV, which was huge compared to the Fiat. Parking took a bit of time, as Geoff searched for a spot, but that gave her a chance to get a sense of the neighborhood. The narrow streets were lit by streetlamps, a rarity in Maine, and she could see that they were lined with brownstone town houses, some of which still had quaint gaslights burning in their tiny front yards, and there were lots of trees. When a spot opened up, Geoff quickly swerved into it, which Lucy realized was one of the advantages of a small car. She could never have fit her CRV into a spot that small.
“We’re right across the street,” he announced, a note of triumph in his voice. “And this spot is good until eleven a.m. Tuesday, so I hope Sidra doesn’t have any weekend plans that involve driving.” How ridiculous, thought Lucy, to have the expense of maintaining a car but not feel able to use it for fear of losing a parking spot.
Moments later they were ducking under the stoop of a newly renovated brownstone and entering the “garden level” apartment, which Lucy thought was a rather precious way of referring to the basement. Geoff paused in the entrance and removed his shoes, adding them to a rather large collection that was neatly stowed in a wooden cubby. Lucy followed his example, which she guessed was one way of coping with the city’s dirty streets.
Then the door opened and they stepped into a light, bright space where she was welcomed by Sidra with air kisses on both cheeks. Sidra had inherited her mother’s good looks and a good deal of her furniture, thought Lucy, glancing around and recognizing several pieces.
“Are you hungry? Thirsty? What can I get you?” asked Sidra. She was freshly showered and dressed in an oversized T-shirt and yoga pants, without makeup and her damp hair combed back in a simple, short style.
“Nothing, thanks,” said Lucy, struggling to stifle a yawn.
“You’re tired,” said Sidra. “I’ll give you a quick tour and show you your room, okay?”
“Sounds perfect.”
The apartment was roomier than Lucy expected, with exposed brick walls in the large living and dining area. A compact kitchen was tucked beside a long hall, which led to two bedrooms. The larger contained a double bed and a couple of dressers, the smaller guest room was only large enough for a futon, lit by a pin-up lamp on the wall. The hall also contained a large closet with a stacked washer and dryer. “That’s what sold us on this place,” said Sidra. “Now we don’t have to go to the laundromat.”
“You mean I don’t have to go to the laundromat,” teased Geoff.
“Well, admit it, Geoff. You love these machines.”
Lucy couldn’t help smiling, amused by the couple’s enthusiasm for what appeared to her to be very tiny, toy-like appliances. Back home in Maine she had heavy duty machines with extra-large capacity, able to deal with Bill’s filthy work clothes.
“And here’s the bathroom,” announced Sidra, flinging open the door to a truly tiny space, where the toilet was squeezed next to, and almost beneath, a pedestal sink. “With a full-size tub,” proclaimed Sidra, proudly. “And it’s all yours for the next twenty minutes.”
“Sidra’s on a tight schedule,” explained Geoff. “She has to get to bed by nine-thirty at the latest for her job.” Lucy knew Sidra was a producer for an early-morning news show and had to get up very early.
“It’s s
o boring, I know, but if I stay up late on the weekend it throws me off,” she said.
“I understand,” said Lucy, who had learned the value of a good night’s sleep when her kids were small. “I’ll be quick.”
“I’ll stow your case in the guest room,” said Geoff.
Lucy was good as her word, taking only a few minutes to use the toilet, brush her teeth, and wash her face before tucking herself into bed in her tiny room. There was something odd about it, she thought, looking around as she opened her book. Suddenly she had it: there was no window. There couldn’t be. The apartment was in a row house, with other houses on either side, which meant there could only be windows in the front and the back. For a moment she struggled with claustrophobia, hoping there was enough oxygen to sustain life through the night in the windowless room. Oh, to be in Maine, where her house had two full baths as well as a powder room and the pine-scented breeze blew through the open windows and lifted her gauzy bedroom curtains. Setting her book aside, she clung to that image as she turned off the light and closed her eyes.
Next morning there were no instructions about the bathroom. There wasn’t even any sign of Geoff or Sidra, so Lucy indulged in a long shower. When she emerged from the bathroom the young couple had returned and were sitting at the kitchen table in running clothes and drinking coffee from take-out cups.
“We usually go for a long run in Prospect Park on Saturdays,” said Geoff, as Sidra hopped up and claimed the bathroom. “We got you some coffee—I hope black’s okay. We weren’t sure how you take it.”
“Thank you.” Lucy took Sidra’s vacant chair and wrapped her hands around the cup containing the magical elixir. “Black is perfect. Just what I need.”
“What time is the funeral?” asked Geoff.
“Eleven.”
“How are you getting there?”
“Subway, I guess.”
He glanced at the clock, which read a few minutes before nine. “You’d better get a move on, then. It’s going to be a long ride.”
