Four Wives

by Wendy Walker

  Whatever it was they had begun had paused there as they returned to the party, and most of her was grateful when she’d found herself safely tucked away in her bed later that night, next to Daniel, having done nothing, really, but smiled. She could see now how that smile had been the third step. Still, in spite of where that smile had led her, she would never let go of the life she had built, the security for herself and the children. What was this? Lust? The innate curiosity of sexual beings? Passion, desire? Those were nothing but the seeds of fleeting encounters, and complete anathema to the sustaining of a committed partnership. And she wanted that above all else’the companion to look after her when she was sick, when time finally claimed her body. She wanted the father who would walk her daughters down the aisle. But he had found her irresistible’and in the end, that was all it had taken. The final step.

  “Mommy,” Janie’s three-year-old was there now, standing at her hip with a ragged blanket trailing by her side.

  She reached down and picked her up.

  “Good morning, sunshine.”

  Her daughter pressed her face next to Janie’s, and they watched themselves watch each other in the mirror.

  Janie sighed at her angel-faced girl, then turned her head to plant a kiss on the soft, chubby cheek.

  “Come on. Let’s go downstairs and start breakfast.”

  Within the hour, it became clear to Janie that she’d been wrong. The anxiety was quieting, perhaps from the rhythm of the morning routine’ packing lunches, pouring bowls of corn flakes, measuring coffee. Or perhaps from the ease of hiding.

  Daniel breezed in, smelling of shaving cream and menthol deodorant. Standing with her back to him, her apparent focus on the four lunchboxes laid out on the counter, Janie made a conscious effort not to greet him directly as he approached her. This was their way, the casual avoidance of married life, and she was careful not to deviate from it as she worked through the tasks.

  “Morning,” he said. His face was still warm from the shower when he gave her a peck on the mouth and patted her behind. Then he reached for his travel mug from the cupboard next to the sink.

  “Are you catching the train, or do you want breakfast?”

  “Train. I’ve got a meeting downtown.”

  Janie took the mug from his hands, filled it with coffee, then added some milk from the fridge. Only as she handed it back did she allow her eyes to meet his.

  “There you go,” she said with a smile.

  He smiled back, then looked away quickly, as he always did.

  “How was the book group?”

  Janie returned to the packing of lunches. “Fine. The usual.”

  “Was the Rice woman there?”

  “Love? No. She’s in the other group. The benefit committee for the clinic. And she goes by her mother’s name. Welsh.”

  “Ahh” Daniel said, now shuffling through the morning paper on the other side of the kitchen, the wheels turning.

  “We’re meeting today.”

  “How is Gayle? We should see them more.” Daniel was talking, though it had that distant resonance, more like he was verbalizing his thoughts than actually addressing his wife. That was Daniel, always plotting, scheming. It was in his nature’why he was so successful on Wall Street. He knew how to work people, relationships, even friendships’and lately, his marriage. It had cost them ten thousand dollars to buy Janie a seat on the clinic board four years ago. It had been an investment, a way to get close to the Becks and the other local power couples. Of course, Gayle had been the primary draw, being a Haywood, of the New York Haywoods, the family that had made its fortune two generations before by founding its investment firm. That made them old money, the best kind, the kind that looked down on the other kinds. In fact, Gayle Haywood Beck was so far beyond the wealth of anyone in this town that she’d been disqualified from the competition. And Daniel had wanted to rub elbows with her the moment they’d bought into Hunting Ridge.

  In spite of her disdain for her husband’s fixation, Janie had’as always’ complied, serving dutifully on the board and befriending Gayle. Not that it had been an unpleasant task. Gayle was warm, genuine, and among the few on the board who actually cared about helping the young girls the clinic served. Now, seven years later, they were firmly embedded in each other’s worlds within the Hunting Ridge mainstream’husbands who worked on Wall Street and wives who stayed home to care for the children and manage the help. They crossed paths at school functions, the nail salon, restaurants, and high-end boutiques. They were on the same social calendars, and belonged to the same club. And all of this made Daniel feel like a player.

  “Can you set up a dinner?”

  “Not at the meeting. It’s too rude. I’ll have to call her. Maybe in a few days.”

  “I don’t know. You could invite the Rice woman as well. I know they live in town, but it might be fun to know a celebrity.”

  Daniel was still skimming the paper as he spoke, giving his wife an opportunity to roll her eyes. What was this, rush week at the frat house? Aside from bragging rights, which Daniel exercised frequently, knowing someone in the Haywood family hadn’t changed their lives in the slightest.

  “She goes by Welsh. And Marie Passeti will be there as well.”

  “Ahhh. Then you’d better call Gayle in a few days.”

  Exactly, Janie thought to herself. God forbid they should waste their time on the Passetis’townies who weren’t celebrities.

  Daniel checked his watch, then turned and walked to the oval table where his children sat, watching TV and spooning up cereal. “See you guys later. Be good.” His oldest son held up his hand for a high five. “See ya, champ.”

  Janie waited until he was at the door leading to the garage.

  “Hold on!” she said. Daniel stopped, then watched as his wife scurried to the basket on the floor beside him. She reached into the basket for the remote, then pushed the button. Daniel nodded as he heard the garage door pulling open.

  “You have to keep it in the car, Janie.”

  “I know, I know.” It wasn’t the first time she’d had to leave her Mercedes in the driveway, and Daniel always came close to clipping it when she did.

  “Just be careful backing up.”

  He smiled again. “I won’t be too late.”

  “See you tonight.”

  And that was it. Daniel, along with his coffee, his briefcase, and his social-climbing plans, was gone for the day. Janie didn’t wait for his car to pull out before closing the door. She didn’t wave good-bye, completing the fagade of normalcy. She looked at her kids, lost in their little worlds. Oblivious.

  “Five more minutes, then it’s upstairs to get dressed.”

  No one listened, and this made Janie smile. Her world hadn’t collapsed around her. Her children weren’t ruined, her husband wasn’t heartbroken. She still had the keys to the house, the car. And whatever was churning inside her had, for the moment, been contained.

  SIX

  PAUL FROM THE KITCHEN

  TROY WAS GONE BEFORE Gayle woke, catching the five-fifty train that would get him to the office before the market opened. She rolled onto her back and pulled the covers up to her chin. It was still now, calm. A diffused light from the morning sun entered the room through delicate sheer curtains, the clock ticked back and forth on her night table. And though she could still smell his cologne in the air, her husband was gone. She closed her eyes and stretched her arms wide across the entire bed. She had made it through the night, and now it was her room, her house, for the rest of the day.

  She climbed out of the bed, then methodically smoothed the covers, tucking in the sheet and, finally, draping the spread on top. With the bed made, she walked to the balcony doors and slid them open, letting in the fresh spring air. Looking down onto her property, a magnificent eight acres of rolling hills and delicate gardens, she pushed from her mind the details that needed to be tended. A patch of bark on one of the oaks that was black with the fungus that had been spreading across th
e town, the chewed evergreens that were evidence of a hole in the deer fencing. There would always be something, and there would be time for a list later in the day when the groundskeeper arrived. For now, she needed the feel of cool air on her legs as it swept under her nightgown, the faint warmth of the sun on her face. It was in these small moments of peace that she had come to live.

  Under her bedroom floor, she could hear the sound of dishes as Paul prepared the breakfast. There would be fresh ground coffee whose odor would fill the kitchen and linger for hours, eggs, fruit, and cereal for Oliver, her six-year-old son. The table would be set with her grandmother’s china, delicate antique silver, and soft linen napkins. Oliver would sit quietly wishing he could watch TV, but he would sit just the same because he was coming to understand his world, and the importance of his upbringing. They would discuss their plans, what he might do with the day off from school, one of those staff-development vacations that never seemed to result in a more developed staff. She thought about the chapter of Harry Potter they were reading together, and how she would do her best to step outside of her inhibitions to perform the voices properly’the way that made him laugh.

  Six-year-old feet bounded down the back stairs to the kitchen. Oliver was up and hoping to make it down before his mom so he could sneak in a few minutes of cartoons. Gayle smiled to herself as she walked to her dressing room, taking her time, thinking that a few minutes couldn’t hurt. She pulled the nightgown over her head, then carefully dressed herself in the blouse and silk slacks she’d laid out the night before. Like her friend Love, Gayle was a tall woman, though she lacked the soft, feminine curves that drew people in. Instead, she had a stalwart presence, a businesslike aura that she subconsciously fostered with conservative clothing and a short, blond “do,” a signature mark of professional women from the prior decade. She kept with the old school of fashion. Chanel suits, Gucci shoes and handbags, Tiffany pearls. It made people take her seriously, and allowed her to maintain a safe distance from the endless array of vultures who wanted a piece of the Haywood pie.

  Gayle gave her hair a quick comb-through and applied some cream foundation. She chose her shoes, soft Italian leather slides, then descended the back stairs.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Beck.” As expected, Paul was in the kitchen arranging the breakfast trays.

  “Good morning, Paul. How are you?”

  “Very well, thank you. Coffee?” Paul asked, pausing in his task of folding the napkins to address her properly, face to face.

  “Thank you.” Gayle sat on a bar stool at the kitchen island as she watched him pour the coffee into a china cup, the same way he did every morning. Always dressed neatly in black slacks and a white button-down shirt’a self-imposed uniform’he was a presence in the house from sunup to sundown, unobtrusively tending to their every need. His official role was to serve as the cook, though his competence and easy manner had led to an expansion of his duties over the years. With gentle eyes, closely cropped gray hair, and a smile that was genuine, the fifty-two-year-old servant had imbued the Beck household with a peaceful sense of order, and been Gayle’s daily tonic for nearly three years.

  Returning the smile, Gayle accepted the cup as he placed it in front of her from the other side of the island. She closed her eyes and inhaled the familiar aroma. The room was warm with the morning sun, and Gayle let the sensation drift within her. This room, the fine coffee, the sunshine, and, of course, Paul were like a warm blanket around her, and she was instantly serene. It was this very feeling she had sought from her husband when she’d purchased the Hunting Ridge estate, though it was now glaringly obvious that a simple change of address could do little to reverse the bad turn her marriage had taken. She had complied with her mother’s demands to quit work, get pregnant, and oversee the renovation on the 1890s farmhouse. She had complied with her husband’s demands to make the house outlandishly expensive. And for years she had waited, and hoped. But the moments kept coming, hidden beneath the immunity of marital relations.

  “When will the ladies be here?” Paul asked, interrupting the thoughts that were now visible on his employer’s face.

  “About an hour.”

  “I’ve made some muffins for the children. Chocolate chip.”

  “Mmmm. They’ll be thrilled.”

  Paul nodded. “And you’ll be needing the dining room to discuss the benefit plans?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “I’ll put down some linen.” He placed a folded napkin on one of the trays, then stood in front of her.

  “Do you have packets as well?”

  The “packets” were Gayle’s version of place cards, white folders with copies of the minutia for the benefit she was hosting’bids from florists and caterers, linen samples, seating charts, and lists of guests for the invitations. On each folder she’d written a name, one for each of them. Love, Marie, Janie, and herself. It was a small group by design. Janie was a fellow board member of the Cliffton Women’s Clinic, and a friend, who shared her vision for the clinic. The other two were volunteers she’d called to duty. The group’s familiarity was intended to keep the intrusion into her life at a minimum. And its members had been hand-picked to consist of trusted friends, women whose loyalty was to her. Women who would have her back with the rest of the board.

  Paul had stopped folding things, but was still standing across the marble counter’the formal demarcation of their relationship. “Shall I set them out now?” he asked, referring to the packets.

  “Please,” Gayle said, smiling to herself. She walked to her desk and retrieved the four white folders she had prepared the night before.

  “The usual places?” Paul asked.

  Gayle nodded. “It seems to be working.”

  As he took the packets from her hands, they exchanged a warm, knowing look. Paul was deeply perceptive, and there was little about the world that got past him’including the social politics of her friendships. He would seat Marie at the head of the table, closest to the door. She liked to be in charge, and her limited patience for all things suburban (in particular, Janie Kirk) required she be in close proximity to the nearest exit. Gayle would sit across from her at the other end of the table, giving Marie a friendly face in her direct line of vision, and a reminder that her sacrifice was for a dear friend. Love would be to Gayle’s right. She was easy’Gayle’s oldest Hunting Ridge friend, Marie’s best friend and neighbor. She could be placed anywhere, but next to Marie would certainly help matters. Janie would take the seat to the left of Gayle’next to her closest friend in the group, across from Love who had the self-restraint to not gaze at her external perfection, and, hopefully, far enough away from Marie’s radar to prevent an overt display of ire.

  That Paul knew all of this, that it passed easily yet unspoken between them, was profoundly comforting, and Gayle felt lightness sweep across her face.

  Of course, Paul noticed this as well and seized the moment. “I’ll take care of it. You enjoy breakfast with Oliver. I’ll call him in.”

  Having her son beside her was all that was missing.

  Gayle smiled and nodded. “Thank you.”

  SEVEN

  THE MEETING

  “HowMANY BIDS ARE there?”

  Marie was annoyed the moment she picked up her packet. Despite Gayle’s careful placement, the little tolerance Marie had for Hunting Ridge was expended the moment she saw its very embodiment’Janie Kirk’in the room.

  The folders were thick with a sea of papers submitted by every business that wanted a piece of the suburban fundraising action. It was ridiculous to Marie, this winning combination for party vendors, a vast supply of highly educated women with far too much time and disposable income on their hands. With their children at school and their homes tended by staff, the women of Hunting Ridge had taken to three forms of entertainment. Body perfecting, redecorating, and fundraising. Any one of these alone, or in combination with vacation planning, shopping, and obsessive self-assessment, could easily fill the hours betwe
en eight and three, five days a week. That they could simply write checks to the charities that caught their attention, or hire planners to run the events, was neither acknowledged nor considered. And this was more than enough to push Marie to the end of her rope.

  “Look at this!”

  Gayle caught Marie’s eye and smiled broadly. “At least we’re not doing another statistical analysis of Easter Bunny impersonators.”

  “Phase” Marie sighed, remembering the last committee she’d served on with Love and Gayle. It had been her first’a futile effort to meet people when she’d first landed in this town’and she’d sworn it would be the last.

  Marie recounted the discussion. “Well, with the discount on the second bunny we could yield a significant advantage over prior egg hunts. … Little Bobby won’t have to wait as long in the line.”

  “Oh, no, but if the lines are longer, little Bobby’s mommy might buy more crafts to keep little Bobby happy … ,” Love chimed in.

  “I’m so glad I took out all those loans to go to Harvard. It’s come in so handy, and I only have eighty more years before it’ll all be paid off.”

  “Marie,” Gayle said, pausing until her friend looked up from the table.

  “What?”

  “Have I thanked you for doing this?”

  Marie sighed. “Only several hundred times. Sorry.” And she was, instantly. Gayle’s motives were generous and pure, though it was something she tended to forget in the face of the Haywood wealth. Cliffton was the next town over, but in another financial universe. It was a small city, and as such had urban troubles’impoverished women and children being near the top of the list. The clinic provided free medical services, childcare, and after-school enrichment programs. Gayle had joined the board the first year after moving out, and though Marie believed in the cause as well, she believed in Gayle more. Gayle was, after all, a Democrat, a liberal Democrat. Educated at Brown. A women’s studies major. She believed in sex education, accessible birth control, and political contributions to local officials willing to push for insurance coverage and Plan B contraceptives. Marie was on board with all of this.