by Nancy Thayer
The annual Plastic Surgeons of New England Gala had been on the Eastbrooks’ calendar for months. It would take forty minutes, more or less, for the Eastbrooks to drive in to the Copley Plaza where the reception, dinner, and dance would begin at seven, so the earliest they could return home would be midnight, and Lila told Faye that in the past few years, her parents had stayed out past two.
So it was safe.
Faye opened the box and switched off all the alarms. She hurried to her room, seized the duffel bag hiding at the back of her closet, and carried it swiftly down the hall to the family room. She unlocked Dora’s door and entered.
Dora sat in her wheelchair, rubbing her hands together nervously. “Have they gone?”
“Yes, and they won’t be back for hours. We’ve got all the time in the world. Don’t worry. Let’s concentrate on you.”
Dora giggled. “Sounds like a plan.”
“Need the bathroom first?”
“No thanks, I’m set.”
Faye unzipped the duffel bag and pulled out a garment of lavender silk and chiffon.
Dora sighed with pleasure. “It’s so beautiful.” She leaned forward, allowing Faye to undo the Velcro fasteners at her shoulders and lift off the brown dress.
“The dressmaker promised me this would be as soft as an angel’s kiss.” She shook out the lavender silk, hoping the rustle of the fabric would distract Dora from any embarrassment she might be feeling at having someone new see her bare back, twisted cruelly and laced with scars from operations. Carefully, Faye slid the garment over Dora, clasping the Velcro straps at her shoulders and letting them rest against the young woman’s skin.
“Okay?”
Dora smiled, watching herself in the mirror. “Oh, yes.”
Faye knelt in front of Dora, tugging the silk, arranging it to fall in little waves to her feet, resting on the wheelchair footrest. “There’s more.” From the duffel bag, she lifted a swath of chiffon, pale as lilacs, sprinkled with seed pearls and silk violets. This she settled over Dora’s shoulders like a shawl. Then she lifted one more thing from the bag, a ring of real violets and pale white baby roses, which she settled on Dora’s head.
“Wow!” Dora whispered. Pressing a button, she zoomed forward, getting as close as she could to her reflection.
“Would you like some lipstick?” Faye asked. “I don’t think you need blusher, your cheeks are already rosy enough. Maybe mascara?”
Dora nodded eagerly. “Lipstick. Mascara.”
Faye knelt next to the young woman and carefully applied the makeup.
Dora’s eyes widened. “Why, I’m almost pretty.”
“Honey, you are pretty,” Faye told her. But as she looked at Dora’s reflection in the mirror, she saw the young woman’s eyes darken, and she knew what Dora was imagining—being healthy, upright, strong, walking arm in arm with a man who couldn’t stop looking at her, dancing with a man who would drink in her beauty with his eyes.
Perhaps, Faye thought with a terrible pang in her heart, perhaps she’d been wrong to clothe Dora in such attire, even if only for one night. Perhaps it would make Dora feel more deeply the difference of her own circumscribed circumstances, and grieve for all she would never have.
“Dora!”
Faye and Dora turned—Dora with a whir of her power chair—to see Lila coming through the door from the family room. Lila was radiant in a white silk dress, her blond hair crowned with a halo of baby roses.
Lila rushed to her sister and fell beside her. “Oh, darling, you look so beautiful!” Her love for Dora was like an invisible bridge over the darkness, like a rainbow arching through clouds.
Faye’s throat ached with tears as she dug through the duffel bag for her camera. She found it, removed the lens cap, and began snapping photos of the sisters together.
Then Teddy Becker entered the room, debonair in a handsome navy blue suit, white dress shirt, and red tie, a white rose on his lapel.
“Teddy. Come meet my sister,” Lila called.
Marilyn Becker, lovely in a pale green suit, arrived next, followed by a tall young woman wearing the white robe and purple stole of a minister, carrying a Bible.
Introductions were made all around, and then the Reverend Smith organized the wedding group into their appropriate places, the bride and groom in front of her, Dora on Lila’s left, Marilyn on Teddy’s right.
“Dearly beloved,” the minister began.
Quietly Faye circled the group, pressing the zoom button, clicking the shot. The modern little camera whirred with exquisite efficiency, its clever digital speed counter-pointing the solemnity of the old familiar words.
“For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health.”
Faye remembered the day she married Jack, the gloss and weight of her heavy ivory satin gown, Jack’s smile when he saw her come down the aisle, the blur of the minister’s words, and most of all, the way Jack took her in his arms and kissed her passionately, right in front of everyone, not for show, because Jack didn’t care about shocking his parents or hers, but because he wanted to give her a kiss she’d never forget.
“With this ring I thee wed.”
Laura’s wedding to Lars had been held on Nantucket in August. Both families had rented several large houses for all the bridesmaids, ushers, friends traveling back from afar, and relatives. Beneath a sunny sky, everyone spent the days before and after the ceremony swimming and sunning on the beach, and the wedding reception took place beneath a tent on a lawn at the edge of the ocean. Strings of white lights had laced the hedges and trees, a small band had played, champagne had flowed, Laura had never been more beautiful, and Lars had blushed the entire time he danced with her.
“Let no man put asunder.”
Faye snapped a shot of Marilyn smiling as her son said the venerable words. If Marilyn was pinched by the irony of hearing the words as she stood alone, her husband having filed for divorce, having moved in with a younger woman, she showed no signs. But then Marilyn was a generous-hearted woman. She might be obsessed with the distant past, but she clearly understood that with a wedding, as with a birth, the world begins anew, as fresh and full of hope as the sun rising up to bring a new day.
The ceremony was finished. The groom kissed the bride. Faye zipped down to her own room, wheeling back a cart of champagne, glasses, and clever little canapés. She poured the champagne and handed it around, she passed the canapés on their silver tray, then she took more photographs. She had a glass of champagne herself—she deserved it.
“How can I ever thank you?” Marilyn hugged Faye. “This is the best wedding I’ve ever attended! And Teddy looks so happy!” She leaned closer, whispering in Faye’s ear. “Dora’s adorable! How can her parents keep her hidden away like this?”
“It’s Dora’s choice,” Faye told her, turning her back to the young woman to hide her words. “She finds most people’s attention too painful to bear. And she tires easily. She likes having this room, everything within reach, nothing surprising, she likes her routines.”
Marilyn said, “Teddy told me he and Lila have asked Dora to live with them, but she refused.”
“Well, Dora’s happy here. She feels safe. And she worships her mother. But I’m sure Dora will want to have Lila and Teddy visit.”
Her power chair humming, Dora rolled toward Faye. “I want to give them my present.”
“Of course.” She handed her glass to Marilyn. “Hold this a moment, will you?” She followed Dora to the back of the room. Hidden behind a bookshelf was the picture Dora had drawn with her pastels. Faye had spirited it out to a shop where it was encased in a beautiful gold frame, and now she slid it from its hiding place and set it on Dora’s lap.
“This is my wedding present to you!” Dora called out.
Dora had drawn a yellow vase holding pink tulips on a blue background. The lines were slightly wobbly, and there was no sense of depth, but even so it was a fine and cheerful sight. Faye watched proudly as Lila and Teddy made a great fuss ove
r the drawing, promising to hang it in pride of place above their fireplace in their house.
But Faye noticed how Dora was sagging in her chair, and Dora’s face was strained, too; she was becoming tired. Faye caught Lila’s eye and cocked her head in Dora’s direction. Lila nodded, and soon everyone was hugging and saying good night.
Marilyn and the minister left. Lila stayed to help Dora undress while Teddy and Faye gathered up the champagne glasses and returned the cart back to the kitchen.
“So you still plan to let Dora break the news to the Eastbrooks?” Faye asked, hands deep in soapy water.
Teddy picked up a dish towel. “Lila says it’s what Dora wants. She’s had so little power in her life, and very few chances to help her sister—it’s always been the other way round.”
“It’s going to be quite explosive around here.” Faye carefully rinsed the soap off the last flute and set it in the drainer. “I think Dora’s strong enough to take it.”
“And you’re leaving tonight?”
“I am.” Faye dried her hands and looked around the kitchen to be sure everything was in perfect order. “If I thought it would help Dora, I’d stay, of course. But the Eastbrooks will know I’m the one who disarmed the alarms—Dora could have managed to open the front door, but she couldn’t have reached the alarm boxes. This way, I’ll disappear, and the Eastbrooks can spend their fury trying to trace down a person who doesn’t exist.”
“Won’t they call the people who gave you—who gave ‘Mrs. Van Dyke’—references?”
“I doubt it. They never called them when they hired me. Just having the names on my résumé was sufficient.”
“What about tracking you through your car?”
“Alan rented it. If the Eastbrooks pursue it that far, they’ll have to assume they have the wrong license plate number. But I’m sure they didn’t bother to notice the number. They were too busy.” Faye flicked off the kitchen lights and led Teddy back down the hall. “They’ll be overwhelmed by all this,” she told the young man. “I’m glad Lila had Dora with her for your marriage ceremony. I wouldn’t have done this if I didn’t firmly believe it was the right thing to do. But I wonder whether Lila might reconsider now, and go through with the wedding her mother planned for September.”
Teddy tried to look solemn, but he couldn’t keep from breaking into a great smile. “I don’t think that would work. Lila’s pregnant. The baby’s due in September.”
“Oh, Teddy!” Faye swooped to hug the young man. “Does Dora know?”
“Lila’s telling her now.”
At eleven o’clock, Faye stood alone in the imposing front hall of the Eastbrook mansion. Everything was quiet; everything was done. She’d stripped her bed and washed the sheets and towels; they were in the laundry room off the kitchen, tumbling in the dryer now. She’d packed her bags and carried them stealthily out to her car. She’d looked in on Dora, who was sleeping soundly in her bed, the circlet of flowers lying on her bedside table, where her mother would see them when she brought Dora breakfast in the morning. Faye could imagine the scene Eugenie Eastbrook would make. Dora’s face had glowed mischievously as she assured Faye she was up for shocking her parents. Faye smiled, thinking how everyone should have a chance to rebel at least once in her life.
Checking for the third time to be certain all the alarms were set, Faye laid her house keys on the antique table in the front hall, opened the door, and stepped out into the night. She pulled the door shut firmly behind her and stood for a moment, saying farewell to Mrs. Van Dyke and the life she’d led in this sumptuous place.
She was glad to be leaving. For the first few days it had been amusing, playing at being a housekeeper, and she was glad to have helped Dora, and Lila, and especially Marilyn. But she missed her old life, her real life. Eugenie Eastbrook’s world of taut perfection was too chilling, too humorless. Faye was eager to become herself again, and so she hurried over the white gravel to her little rented car and drove away, back toward the comforts of her own home.
37
Who was it who said, “Beware of all ventures that require new clothes?” Shirley wondered, as she dressed for her Saturday seminar in a six-week cram course on business management.
Whoever said it was dead wrong, because Marilyn had bought new clothes to play her part as Alice’s secretary, and look at her now, she was a babe.
Today was Shirley’s moment of transformation. Her goal was to appear professional, managerial, capable of efficient thought, and Alice and the other HFC’ers—but especially Alice—assured her that her usual wardrobe didn’t come within a mile of that image. Marilyn had given some of her suits and dresses to Shirley—they were about the same size—and dutifully, Shirley tried them on in front of a mirror, grimacing at the reflection. In these drab garments, Marilyn might look like a scientist; Shirley looked like a scientific experiment.
But that didn’t leave much else. She wished she could afford to do what Marilyn did, skip off to the mall on a shopping spree. But she didn’t have the money to buy a new shirt. Actually, she did, but she needed to save every penny toward Golden Moments, or Alice would skin her hide.
Finally, she settled on a pair of jeans, her own plain black T-shirt, and a muted heathery tweed jacket of Marilyn’s. She still didn’t look like herself—the jacket was so rigid, it didn’t flow . She focused on her face, putting on a minimum of makeup, leaving off the violet eye shadow and toning down her blusher and lipstick. When she was finished, her face had about as much allure as her elbow.
Still, she persisted. She stuck simple silver studs in her ears instead of any of her fabulous earrings. She skinned her hair back from her head into a long fall held by a scrunchie—and nearly gagged at the result. Without the flamboyant cascade of red, every line and wrinkle and sag was visible. How could she walk into a room full of energetic, tech-smart, cell-phone-sporting, Palm Pilot– punching young people, looking like this—old?
What had she advised Julie? Don’t let fear rule your life? Great advice, but sometimes difficult to follow. Even harder to do it alone. She needed a friendly voice to buck her up and blow away the clouds of self-doubt.
She grabbed up her phone and called Alice. “Alice! I can’t go to this seminar! I look old and dried-up!”
“Nonsense,” Alice assured her. “You look like Bonnie Raitt.”
“More like Willie Nelson.”
Alice laughed. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. And remember, you’re not entering a beauty contest. Neither are the other people at the seminar. They’ll be as nervous as you, afraid they won’t understand everything, trying to take it all in—they won’t even see you.”
“I suppose you’re right. Oh, but Alice, I didn’t even go to college!”
“Neither did I, until late in my twenties, and then I put myself through night school.”
“Yes, but you’re smart!”
“So are you.”
“No, I’m not! When I read the seminar options, I couldn’t understand half of them or pronounce the other half!”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not! Listen—what the hell is macroeconomics ?”
“Well, if micro means small, and macro means big, what do you think?”
Shirley chewed her lip. “The economics of big corporations?”
“Sure. Or even bigger, of nations, of international trade, of the world.”
“Oh, jeez,” Shirley moaned.
Alice became serious. “Shirley, you don’t have to worry about macroeconomics. No one’s going to force you to. You need to look at this seminar as a tool. Like your massage table’s a tool, or your aromatherapy candles. If you want to be the head of your own business, if you want to run Golden Moments properly, so you make a profit, you’ve just got to get a grasp on certain concepts. And you can do it. I know you can.”
“I know I can, too. I just needed to hear someone else say it.”
“Well, look,” Alice continued. “I’ll be glad to help you with th
e start-up, if you’d like, and I’ll get your office in shape for you.”
“Oh, Alice, that’s so good of you!”
“I’ll enjoy doing it. But I wouldn’t do anything if I didn’t think you were going to make a success of it.”
“Thanks, Alice. You’re exactly what I needed!”
Buoyed like a kite on a fresh spring breeze, Shirley grabbed up her notebook and pens, raced to her car, and sped to the Natick Marriott. Borderline late because of her mini nervous breakdown, she ran across the enormous parking lot, checked the room event schedule in the hotel lobby, and, rather than wait for the elevator, took the stairs to the third floor, two at a time.
A pretty young woman at the reception table flashed a smile. “You must be Shirley Gold,” she called out. “Here’s your name tag and packet. Go right in. They’re just about to begin.”
“Thanks.” Shirley slapped the name tag above her left breast and slipped through the doors into the function room.
Long tables filled the room, facing the front where a white board and a video screen were set up. Every table seated four, and every table was filled to the max.
“Over here,” a woman called, gesturing to a place at a table in the corner.
“Thanks,” Shirley said to the woman as she took her place.
Maybe fifty people were there, she figured, scanning the room. She saw the backs of everyone’s head. White hair, black hair, gray hair, no hair. All ages. All ethnicities—jeez, she never thought of that, of trying to set up a business when English wasn’t your first language. At least she knew English. Many of the other students wore jeans and T-shirts, and quite a few of them were overweight and out of shape and, Shirley could tell by their posture, riddled with stress. Yet there they were. She could feel the optimism in the room. If a hope and determination meter existed, this group would send it over the top.
The instructor, Dr. Newcott—but call him “Bob”— was talking, pacing back and forth across the front of the room, slapping his hands together, making jokes, like a coach before a game. He softened them up, whetted their appetites, then hit them with a list of the hard stuff they were going to cover during the day.
