by Herta Feely
“Oh, Ron, I—” she yammered softly. “I don’t know.” As strong as Isabel was most of the time, certain events had a way of undoing her.
“If Amanda can host this after what happened, then of course you can stay,” he said and took a half-step back. “If people ask, just say that you don’t know all the details yet, like everyone else here. Give them your ‘innocent ‘til proven guilty’ spiel. You’re a lawyer. Just say it’s been a trying day, like Amanda.”
He smiled at her. “Look, hon, it’s not like Phoebe robbed a bank or something. In fact, we don’t know for sure she was there, whether she smoked or not, or if she even knew that some of the kids were planning to smoke. So remember that. Act like she’s innocent, which she probably is.” He drained what little was left of his scotch. “Come on, I’ll get you another drink.”
They began to circulate and things didn’t go as badly as Isabel had anticipated; she found the wine bolstered her confidence, and the years of lawyerly training allowed her to steer conversations. Isabel’s feelings toward Phoebe, however, remained mixed and confused. And when she came face to face with Sandy, the thought occurred to her that this had all been Jessie and Emma’s fault. They’d probably convinced Phoebe to accompany them.
“You’re not letting them get to you, are you?” Sandy asked.
“Get to me? Who?”
Sandy tilted her head, as though examining Isabel’s face to see if she was serious. “You know, everybody here. About the big deal.”
Squaring her shoulders and narrowing her eyes, Isabel asked, “Exactly what do you know?”
Sandy drew closer and adopted a confidential whisper. “Well, the girls and a few boys were over at Sam’s and his mom walked in on them. Right in the middle of everything. Caught them red-handed. So people are talking about that … and our girls.”
“Are they talking about our daughters? And what is it they’re saying?”
“Well, no one’s said anything specific, not to me. But you know how people are. They’re thinking it.” She arched her brow then moved even closer to Isabel, who couldn’t help but notice her cleavage-revealing garb. A fur-trimmed ivory cashmere sweater.
Isabel took a half-step back. “So let’s just keep it that way,” she said with a meager smile. “They can think all they want. But I dare them to talk about my daughter.” Though she’d promised to be nicer to Sandy, she simply couldn’t.
“I getcha and I’m with ya,” Sandy said with a half-cocked grin.
Isabel inched away. “I’m sorry, will you excuse me? I promised Amanda I’d meet up with her. Room parent stuff, you know.” She smiled dismissively.
“Sure, no problem.” Sandy’s grin had turned into a frown. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything,” she managed.
“I’ll do the same,” Isabel said before she turned and left. Only later would she reproach herself for not having pried out the details of the girls’ day that Sandy seemed to possess.
Chapter Nine
Sandy took in a deep breath before heading into the adjacent room for a drink. She certainly needed one. She couldn’t believe what a snobby bitch Isabel had been. Wedging her way into the crush of people surrounding the bar, she glanced around for Bill but instead spied Ron at the front of the crowd and edged toward him. She brushed up against several men along the way, smiling coyly as she squeezed by.
More than once Les had commented on her resemblance to Marilyn, and Sandy wondered what the star must have felt. So beautiful and sexy, and yet so lonely and sad. On occasion she could relate to her sense of abandonment, and at other times she felt plain sorry for her. Mostly, though, given Marilyn’s fame, the words “what a waste” would flit through her mind.
Sidling up behind Ron, she said in a low breathy tone, “I hate to ask, but would you mind getting me a glass of champagne?”
Ron glanced over his shoulder. The attractive woman seemed familiar, surely he’d seen her somewhere, but he drew a blank.
“Sandy Littleton, Jessie’s mom,” she explained as if reading his thoughts. With a beguiling dimpled smile, the woman added, “And Bill’s wife, among other things.” Then she actually winked at him like some 1950s starlet.
Now he recalled who she was, though he knew her mostly from snippets of conversation with Isabel. Her shameless flirtation fit Isabel’s description. He smiled back at her. “Sure, sure. No problem.” With the Phoebe mess foremost in his mind, her upbeat attitude felt like a temporary reprieve. He couldn’t help welcoming her attention either. At the bar he ordered another Dewar’s on the rocks for himself and a glass of champagne for Sandy.
When he handed her the fluted glass, she said, “Come on, let’s get out of here,” and gave his hand a tug as if she planned to flee the party. He half-wished he could go with her. Reluctantly, he said, “’Fraid I have to stay. Isabel’s one of the room parents.”
Her brows knitted together in a little frown, then another smile bloomed onto her plush red lips. “Silly, I just meant let’s find a quiet place to drink.”
“Oh, of course,” he said, the heat of embarrassment pinking his cheeks. As he trailed behind her, his mind flipped into gear, convinced that he was entitled to enjoy her company – they were here to meet other parents, after all – but also that he might be able to glean some valuable information about Adams Morgan. Perhaps she knew something from Jessie. He hoped, though, that they wouldn’t run into Isabel before he could do a little digging. Surely she’d disapprove.
Several rooms later, they entered a parlor devoid of people but filled with an astonishing array of original artwork, including a John Singer Sargent and an Andrew Wyeth. Ron ogled them. A baby grand piano stood at one end before an ornately curtained window.
“How about this?” she said, and drew him to a moss green velvet sofa. As they sat down, she purred, “I’ve been trying to get a word with you all night, Ron Murphy,” and laughed lightly.
“First of all, I don’t believe you, and second, it’s Murrow, not Murphy,” he corrected her with an indulgent smile.
“Oh dear, I’m sorry.” She turned to face him, her knee touching his thigh as her mouth drew into another dimpled smile. “Really, Ron…Murphy, Murrow, does it matter?”
He smiled. “I wouldn’t say that to everyone here. You know how people are in Washington. Names are important.” He kept his voice low, not wanting to embarrass her.
“Oh, brother, don’t remind me,” she said. “What a bunch of stuffed shirts, if you ask me. Now you’re not like that, are ya, Ron?”
“Maybe just a little.” He smiled at her again and she giggled.
“So, how about Isabel? Are names important to her?” Without waiting for an answer, she added, “I get the feeling she doesn’t like me.”
“No,” Ron said quickly. “I mean…yes. What I mean is, of course she likes you.”
“Now, Ron, I wasn’t born yesterday,” she said with a laugh, and gave his bicep a good squeeze. “Ooh, feel that,” she said.
Watching her eyes dance, Ron knew what she knew: on occasion men loved to be teased and complimented. Though grinning stupidly as if to tell her he wasn’t immune, he also agreed with Isabel and felt a tad sorry for her husband.
When a few people wandered in, Ron slid several inches away from her.
It was understandable that people weren’t saying much about the afternoon’s event to her, so Isabel decided to find out what they were saying to each other. She drew Jane, one of her dearest friends since high school, to an out of the way spot to talk. Jane was also a Georgetown alum and the mother of a boy Phoebe had played with as a toddler. Isabel trusted her. “What have you heard?” she asked.
Jane gazed at her. “Honestly, not much, but then people know we’re friends. If they have any sense, though, they’re not saying anything. They should know better; it could just as easily have been one of their kids.’”
Isabel gave a resigned little shrug, hoping her friend was right. “I don’t know what to think.” She paused. “Tel
l me the truth, do you think Phoebe was smoking?”
“Who can say?” she said. “At that age they have to spread their wings; they experiment, do what their peers do; you know that.” Jane’s deep-set blue eyes probed her gently. “We’ve all been there. Even you were an imperfect teen once,” she teased.
“I suppose,” Isabel said, a hint of a smile lighting her up, “but my Phoebe’s always been such a good girl.” She could hear the slight whine in her voice. Stop it, she told herself.
“What if she did smoke? It’s not the end of the world.”
“But we can’t condone it, can we?”
“No one’s saying you should. But wait to hear her version of things. You need to talk to her.” Jane had a way of calming her. Of being truthful and at the same time providing a sane perspective.
“I know. You’re right. It’s just that,” her gaze strayed off, “there’s that dangerous edge between—” A moment ago, she hadn’t noticed anyone in the room behind Jane. Now Sandy sat on the couch, not two fingers’ width from Ron, wearing a sexy grin.
“Between?” Jane said.
“Between—” she’d lost track of what she was saying. She held Jane’s eyes in the hope that her friend wouldn’t turn around. Then she remembered. “Oh, yes, between trying something once and then wanting to do it again.” A dozen examples crossed Isabel’s mind.
“Well, yes, I know what you mean, but I wouldn’t worry about that with Phoebe—”
“No, maybe not,” Isabel said, “but what about the other two, Emma and Jessica? Should I just let Phoebe remain friends with them? You’ve heard stuff and so have I.” She shrugged her eyes meaningfully.
Jane ran a thoughtful finger through her hair. “That’s a tough one. Let me sleep on it.”
Isabel glanced off again at Ron and saw Sandy laughing and talking animatedly. She forced her attentions back to Jane, praying she wouldn’t see what a spectacle Ron was making of himself. “Feebs had a tough year last year; this one can’t be the same.”
“I understand, but it won’t be. I’m sure of it.”
“I hope you’re right. Still, I’m dreading the fallout. You know the whole thing will mushroom before it dies down. I wonder if we’ll have to meet with Alison Kendall. Oh, God, the whole thing’s making me incredibly tired.” Isabel knew that just as with news cycles, some other event would have to take center stage before this one disappeared from the lips of gossipy parents. She wondered what that might be. “Oh, gosh, here I am going on and on.” She paused then told her friend to go enjoy herself.
“Call me if you want to talk,” Jane said.
“You know I will,” she said, and reached out to squeeze her hand. “You’re the best, Janie. Thanks.”
“Thanks, nothin’, how many times have you been there for me, Iz?”
Isabel decided the time had come to go home. She strolled with Jane into another room before circling back to collect her husband.
At once Sandy saw Isabel stride toward them. She felt Ron tense up and scoot further away from her. In the next instant, Isabel was hovering over them.
“We were just talking about you,” Sandy said, looking at her with faux innocence.
“Oh, really?” Isabel’s lips pressed into a tight smile.
Sandy watched a series of emotions ripple across Isabel’s face and imagined she was dying to know what had been said.
“Hate to break this up, but we need to get going, Ron,” Isabel said, her gaze fixed on him. She drew in a deep breath.
Before Ron could answer, Sandy’s laughter curled into the air. “Oh, Isabel, the fun’s just starting.”
“That may be, but the fun will just have to go on without us.”
Ron looked at her awkwardly.
Isabel’s jaw tightened. “Phoebe is expecting us.”
“She’s a big girl,” Sandy interjected. “She can wait a little, can’t she?”
“No. She can’t. I promised.” Her words were clipped. “Anyway, I don’t know about the two of you, but I had a long day at the office. I’m beat.” She stared at Sandy.
Drawing her legs out from under her, Sandy slid off the couch and stood up. “Well, all right then,” she said, a smile reaching across her face. “Nice talking to you, Ron. Murphy.” She threw him a tantalizing grin. “And you too, Isabel.” She gazed about the room, pretending to be undecided about where to go next.
Ron continued to sit on the sofa as Isabel made an about-face and left.
Sandy watched her go as Ron levered himself off the couch. Sandy couldn’t resist. She gave him a peck on the cheek, leaving behind a scarlet stain, and with a rueful smile she wished him luck. You’ll need it, she thought, wondering how Isabel had landed such a catch. Those tousled looks of his reminded her of the Kennedys; he had their boyish enthusiasm and a certain familiar charm too.
As her eyes followed the movement of his tight ass, she thought she might hear from old Ron again. She wasn’t sure he’d noticed, but she’d tucked her business card into his pocket.
Isabel glanced over her shoulder to make sure Ron was coming. She knew she was hopeless at masking her feelings in situations like this. But then why should she? She shot a final icy stare at Sandy. How old was she when she’d had Jessie anyway? She barely looked over 30. A high school pregnancy, maybe? The woman had social climber written all over her. All those pies she was forever dropping off at people’s homes the minute they sniffled. No one really joked about it, but they smiled, as if tolerating a child.
The image, though, that crept into Isabel’s mind was of ivy sucking the life out of sturdy oaks. No, she didn’t trust Sandy. Not for a minute. And what the hell was that Murphy thing all about?
Chapter Ten
Darkness enveloped them on the ride home. For a time, Isabel sat without a word. She didn’t take what happened between Ron and Sandy lightly, but she’d mull it over before broaching the subject. It wasn’t the same as eight years ago, but it felt uncomfortably close.
As Ron turned onto their street, she broke the silence. “We’ll need to question Phoebe when we get home.”
Ron turned to look at her, perhaps trying to gauge whether or not she was still angry with him. “I don’t know, Iz,” he said. “Can’t it wait till morning? It’s practically midnight.”
“Morning? We need to get to her before she hears word got out at the parents’ party and has time to make up more lies,” Isabel said with a disgruntled look. “How she thought this would stay quiet is beyond me. These kids’ sense of invulnerability really does make them stupid. Not to mention a menace to themselves. So what do you suggest?” Now she was placating him. There was no way she’d wait until morning to confront their daughter.
“What are you going to say?” he asked.
“I’m going to ask her why she lied. Plain and simple.”
“Will you let me take the lead?” he asked.
“I’d be delighted.”
At home, the scent of desiccating leaves permeated the night air. Climbing the stairs to their wrap-around veranda, Isabel took in several breaths and composed herself. This was not how the evening was supposed to go. As for Phoebe, she told herself she wasn’t angry with her, or even terribly upset over the fact of her disobedience; no, the nub of her distress revolved around Phoebe’s lying and the fear of what smoking marijuana might lead to. If this now, then what next? How could she adequately protect Phoebe from the evils of the world? This thought terrified her.
And, in truth, she felt a stew of emotions reminding her of something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It hovered just beneath the surface.
They reached the front door and Isabel’s thoughts ricocheted back to the present. What to say to Phoebe? She knew she had to be careful, because she routinely made mincemeat of lying witnesses, just as her father had taught her. Another breath. Come to think of it, in her own teen years he hadn’t spared her, regardless of the infraction. No, he’d been judge and jury, blunt and to the point. Meting out sentences wi
thout room for appeal.
“Okay, you ready?” Ron said, glancing at her sideways.
“You know the answer to that, so why ask.” Her tone was curt. “And you might want to wipe that lipstick off your cheek.”
“Oh, Iz,” he said, giving her lifeless hand a squeeze. He rubbed his face with the back of his hand and unlocked the door.
They found Phoebe and Jackson lying on the couch in the den – Phoebe half-asleep, her eyes affixed to the TV screen, while Jackson snored lightly. It was a sweet scene and softened Isabel’s frame of mind. She felt a sudden impulse to hug her daughter as she had earlier, but the desire evaporated when she remembered the ease with which Phoebe had lied.
“I’m going to get myself a glass of water. You want anything?” she said to Ron.
“Sure, I could use one, thanks.”
Phoebe lifted herself off the couch as if to leave, but Ron stopped her. “We need to speak with you a minute, honey.” His voice was gentle, yet commanding and firm.
Isabel turned to see Phoebe glancing warily at him, but then sitting back down and saying nothing. She hurried off to the kitchen, poured two glasses of Perrier, returned with them and took her place in one of their recently purchased Osvaldo Borsani arm chairs.
“Okay, Feebs,” Ron began, his steepled fingers touching his lips. “We heard some disturbing news at the parents’ party tonight and want to ask you about it. Okay?”
Phoebe’s eyes grew wide at Ron’s pronouncement. She tucked her bare legs under her bottom and folded her arms around her torso as if curling inside a protective shell. She glanced at Isabel, then rested her eyes on Ron. “What did you hear, Daddy?” she asked softly.
Dropping his hands into his lap, he spoke with notable calm. “We heard that a group of kids got caught smoking marijuana today, and that you were there. We’d like you to tell us what happened.”
They both watched Phoebe squirm a bit and waited for her response. She looked like every delinquent at the moment of capture. Surprised, afraid and desperate for a way out.
