by Jean Stone
With a short sigh, Andrew got out of the car. Sometimes—not often, but sometimes—he had to admit that he missed the old days when the name Andrew David meant something in some places, when maître d’s called him “Mister” as if he were someone important.
Cassie looked up at the window but she did not wave.
“Hey,” he said, after unlocking the back door and stepping inside.
“Hey yourself,” she said, closing a magazine—not a school textbook.
“What a crappy day,” he said. He hung his jacket on a peg in the back hall. He noticed she hadn’t made dinner. He sat down at the table and said, “How about Friendly’s tonight? I’ll tell you my woes over a huge root beer float.”
Cassie pulled back her hair and lowered her eyes. And Andrew got that uncomfortable feeling in his gut that warned him he wouldn’t like what was coming next.
She slid the magazine across the table to him. “Why didn’t you show me?” she asked. The quick flash of her eyes was all it took for Andrew to know that she had been crying.
His eyes dropped. Crap. It was Buzz.
He covered the magazine with an open palm. “Honey,” he said, going for humor, because what else could he do? “I didn’t know you were into such intellectual stimulation.”
She didn’t say anything.
He moved his hand over to hers. “I would have showed you,” he said, “but I didn’t think you’d love seeing a picture of your mother dancing around on some dumb beach, acting as if she’s having the time of her life.” There. When all else fails, Andrew thought, honesty was still the best goddamn policy.
“I know where you keep your magazines, Dad. I’m not stupid.” Then Cassie’s thick lashes glistened; tears dropped down her cheeks.
No, Cassie wasn’t stupid. But she was curious. Of course she was curious. She was smart; she was eleven. Andrew needed to remember that more often. He went over to her side of the table. “Honey,” he said, first patting her hair, then drawing her head to his chest.
“Is she trying to get back at us?” Cassie asked.
He had no idea why she’d think something like that. “Get back at us for what?” Had Cassie forgotten it was Patty who’d left, Patty who’d filed for divorce?
Oh, God, he thought, maybe she’d somehow learned the rest, the one thing Andrew would never tell her, that Patty hadn’t fought him for custody because she said she didn’t want Cassie to get in her way.
“She must hate that we have such a good life without her,” Cassie said. “That must be why she got married again and had that kid Gilbert. I bet now she’s trying to let us think her life is good, too. But it isn’t, Dad, is it? I mean, it can’t be as good as ours is.”
Andrew hugged her again because he didn’t know what to say. And suddenly the rowboat and Jo and Gunter the God and Jo’s quest for adventure seemed a million miles away and not very important.
Jo slept. For the first time since she’d lived on Shannon Drive, she did not hear the sounds of other people’s lives through the walls, she was not disturbed by thoughts of what would happen the next day or the day after that.
When she opened her eyes and realized it was morning, she knew something was different, but she didn’t know what.
She showered and dressed and grabbed a quick breakfast bar, her thoughts fixed on the fun of the day before.
Jack Allen had been right: She’d needed some adventure; though perhaps he hadn’t meant a rowboat on Laurel Lake. But to be away from the office, to laugh with her friends . . . even the collision she’d had with Andrew . . . maybe that most of all, for its unexpected, quicksilver, hormonal spark.
First Jack Allen, then Andrew.
Had Jo’s interest in men returned in one week?
She applied lipstick over her smile, grabbed her Coach bag and went out the door, knowing that things usually changed without warning, grateful they seemed to have changed in her favor this time.
Though she would have doubted it was possible, Jo’s mood escalated even more when she stepped into the parking garage and saw Jack leaning against her Honda. His arms were folded; his grin was smug.
“You’re back,” Jo said.
“I am,” he replied.
She readjusted her bag on her shoulder. “Was it a good trip?”
“Uneventful. I thought of you often.”
She didn’t know what to say, so she just smiled.
“I thought we might do breakfast.”
Jo laughed. “I’m on my way to work.”
“I know. I’ve been waiting for you.”
She winced at the thought that he might know her schedule. It felt a bit . . . what? Too close, too soon?
“Does that upset you?”
She pushed her fears away. Too many months between dates, she reminded herself. “No. It’s okay. I was surprised, that’s all.”
He smiled. “So let’s have breakfast. You can go in late, can’t you?”
Yes, she could go in late. After all, Andrew would be the only one there.
14
This counted twice Elaine would be in a limo—well, three times if you counted their trip to New York for the television show as one time for each way.
At eight-twenty the phone in her room rang and the receptionist announced that her driver was there. Her driver. As if she were anyone special.
Lily had said any of the silk outfits would be fine, that they’d be in the city in plenty of time to shop for something appropriate to wear to lunch.
Lunch! Of course they would do lunch. Didn’t everyone?
Elaine dropped her tip envelopes at the front desk (yes, one for Gunter—she hoped twenty dollars was the going rate for an orgasm), walked toward the front entrance and wondered about the bounce she felt in her steps, a little bit jaunty, a little carefree. She wondered if it was newfound confidence, and if so, how long it would last.
The driver—a young man in a stunning black suit with a waist-short jacket and high collar—held open the back door of the white stretch. Lily was already seated inside. Elaine glanced over her shoulder, disappointed that no one was around to witness her departure, like the woman from the nature walk, or even Gunter.
She climbed in and Lily said, “Oh, I should have suggested you pull your hair back in a knot.”
Elaine’s hands went to the sides of her head. She’d spent twenty minutes this morning getting it teased and lacquered in just the right way.
“Never mind,” Lily said with a smile. “Karen can bring a brush and we can do it later.” Elaine had told Lily about her plan to patch things up with her daughter; Lily had agreed that the small trip might help.
It was odd, riding through West Hope as if she were the Queen of Sheba. They moved through the center of town: the town green on one side, Second Chances on the other. Elaine waved and said, “Too bad no one’s up this early to wave back.”
The only shop open at that hour was the coffee shop and luncheonette. Elaine considered rolling down the window and having the driver blow the horn, but she supposed that was something the old Elaine might have done.
The limo moved through town then turned down Elaine’s street. As it approached the house, Elaine noticed that Karen was halfway down the driveway. A good sign, Elaine supposed. Her daughter must be looking forward to the day.
“Wait just a minute,” Lily instructed the driver. Then she flung open the back door and held out her arms to Karen. “You look divine,” Lily said, and she was right. Karen wore jeans and a new white sweater and the tan suede jacket Lloyd had given her last Christmas. Elaine had been certain Beatrix picked it out. When Karen had opened the package, Elaine witnessed a look of glee on her daughter’s face. It had been one of those tough-to-swallow moments that Elaine would rather forget.
Karen pirouetted for Lily. “I’m ready,” Karen said, tossing her backpack onto the seat. “But is the Big Apple ready for me?”
Lily laughed and Elaine smiled, grateful that Karen was in a good mood.
�
��Do me a favor, dear?” Lily added. “Run back in the house and grab a hairbrush. Your mother changed her mind about the way she wants her hair today.”
Karen climbed in after her backpack and patted the side. “I have a brush right here.” She unzipped the main compartment, shoved her hand inside, rumbled around a few seconds, then came up with a hairbrush. Attached to the bristles were several one-hundred-dollar bills.
“That looks like shopping money! Hooray!” Lily laughed.
“Karen,” Elaine said, as her daughter detached the bills and stuffed them back in the bag, “are you planning to spend your baby-sitting money in New York?”
The girl shrugged. She made no comment about Elaine’s new hair, new makeup, new look.
“Karen?” Elaine asked again, because she was the mother.
With a loud sigh, Karen raised her eyes to the string of starry lights that ran along the edge of the ceiling. “If you must know, it’s from Daddy.”
Lily closed the door, not that the neighbors would be surprised if they heard Elaine and Karen argue.
“Your father gave you money?”
“I told him we were going today. He wanted me to have fun.”
“You can have fun without spending money,” Elaine replied. Of all of her kids, Karen knew that. What had changed?
The eyes traveled from the ceiling back to Elaine. “Is that what you’re going to do? Refrain from spending?”
Elaine looked out the window at the modest house she’d been awarded in the divorce because it was their home: hers, the kids’. It had been home; it had never been about the money.
Karen took out her portable CD player—from Lloyd on her last birthday—and hooked the wires to her ears. Elaine gave Lily a grim look, as Lily said, “Okay, driver. Take us to New York.”
Jo and Jack Allen went in separate vehicles to the luncheonette on Main Street near Second Chances. On the way there, Jo called and left a message where Andrew could find her if there was a crisis.
The last booth at the back was available. Jo ordered coffee and juice; Jack, a BLT. “My body’s on Belgium time,” he explained. “It thinks it’s lunch.”
“How do you handle jet lag?” Jo asked.
“Ah, the most frequently asked question. The answer is simple: I don’t handle it well. For quick trips, I don’t change my watch. I pretend I’m still on whatever time it was when I left. Other times I just let myself sleep for days.”
The image of Jack Allen stretched out on a bed was not without appeal. Jo sipped her juice as if it were Chardonnay.
“I don’t suppose that I’ll do this indefinitely. Sooner or later I’ll need a break.”
She hoped his break wouldn’t come before they’d gotten to know each other better, certainly not before she’d experienced another of his kisses. “Tell me about Belgium,” she said, “about Brussels.”
Jack launched into a travelogue of the Grand’Place and the market square and its gothic architecture and guild houses. He asked if she knew about “Mannequin Pis,” the peeing-boy statue.
She diverted a comment about the statue’s stone penis. Instead she said yes, that she’d heard it peed beer at certain times of the year.
He said he was impressed with her worldliness.
She realized his hand had, at some point, moved over to hers, and his fingertips now rested on hers. She raised her eyes to look at him. He laced his fingers with hers. She wondered if eight o’clock in the morning was too early for sex with a stranger.
“Jo!”
The sound of her name rose over the clatter of dishes and chatter of patrons. She looked up to see Andrew fast approaching their booth. She pulled her hand quickly from Jack’s.
“Andrew,” she said.
His cheeks were red and he seemed out of breath. “It’s Irene Benson. She’s on the phone. She insists on talking to one of ‘the girls.’ ”
Jo looked at Jack, who patiently waited. “Oh,” she said, “I’m afraid I’ll have to go.”
“We could have dinner,” he said. “Tomorrow, perhaps?”
She stood up. “Tomorrow would be fine.”
“Seven o’clock? My place?”
His place? She hoped that Andrew didn’t see her shiver. “Fine,” she replied. “I know where it is.”
She smiled and he smiled back.
She followed Andrew from the coffee shop knowing that the next day, she and Jack would have sex.
He supposed he’d go to hell for what he’d done.
Andrew didn’t feel guilty, however, for having called Irene, woken her up, and insisted she talk to Jo to keep her away from this new boyfriend of hers.
“Tell her you must decide immediately about a reception venue, that your husband wants the name and details included in an article for his magazine and he has a deadline.”
“Andrew,” Irene had said, “you’re really a romantic.”
He didn’t care if he was romantic or nuts. He only knew that Cassie’s distress the night before had reminded him about pain, about how he’d lost a woman he’d loved to another man.
He damned well didn’t want to lose another, at least not before he was ready.
15
It’s awful,” Karen said to her mother as Elaine emerged from the dressing room in Ann Taylor wool pants and a beige cashmere sweater. Elaine supposed she should at least be happy that her daughter was there, and that she was speaking.
“It’s not awful at all,” Elaine responded. “It’s soft and it’s elegant and it’s tailored to look good for any occasion.” The salesclerk had said so, though Elaine didn’t add that.
“It’s awful,” Karen repeated. She stood next to the triple-view, full-length mirror. “It’s as bad as your hair.” It was the first time Karen had acknowledged her mother as a blonde.
Elaine bit her lip and tried to smile. “It’s just different for me, that’s all.”
“You’re trying to look like Lily, Mom. Forget it. Look like yourself.”
“I am myself. My new self, not Lily.” Each caustic remark of Karen’s only reinforced Elaine’s resolve. Karen’s judgment was skewed. She was still the girl who wanted her mother to get back with her father, despite the things that her father had said and had done. Elaine had shielded her from most of the details, except for one night when he’d shouted that Beatrix had given him head. “Mind-blowing head, Elaine. Do you know what that means?” Neither of them had known that the then-thirteen-year-old Karen was home. Neither of them had known she was standing outside of their room until she let out a wail and raced down the stairs and out the front door.
No wonder Lloyd gave her CD players now, and suede jackets and hundred-dollar bills.
Karen sighed. “Try this,” she said, handing her mother a pink-and-orange shirt with a beaded fringe hem. “It came from another department.”
“It came from Mars, dear,” Lily interjected as she approached them. “Quick, put it back before it multiplies!” She laughed, then eyed the garment more closely. “On second thought, you try it on. It might be perfect with your coloring.”
Having won a form of approval from her mother’s friend, Karen skipped off to a dressing room. Lily turned to Elaine and surveyed her slowly. “You look marvelous,” she said. “The Ann Taylor is very becoming on you.”
“Karen doesn’t like it.”
“Good taste is acquired,” she said, her voice a small whisper. “For Greek olives and malt scotch and good clothes, as well. Karen is still young. She can get away with lots of fashion faux pas. Especially in West Hope.” Lily fussed with the roll collar of the sweater.
Elaine shrugged. “She thinks my hair looks ridiculous, that these clothes are awful, and that I’m trying to look like you.”
Lily’s nose wrinkled. “Like me? Heavens, no. I don’t wear Ann Taylor. I’d look absurd in such conventional pieces.” She stepped back and surveyed her again. “But you really do look marvelous. That sweater shows off your slim waist and those pants drape so softly they camouflage
other parts.”
The lumps and bumps under my white cotton briefs, Elaine knew, but didn’t add.
“I like them, too,” Elaine said. “Can I find others in different colors? If I can just get a couple of outfits, then we can have lunch and get back . . . before Karen totally depletes my Laurel Lake Spa glow.”
“Not spend the whole day shopping? Good heavens, dear, what will my credit card think?”
Elaine laughed. “You’ve been so wonderful, Lily, but I’m not going to exploit your generosity. Besides, I think maybe the less time Karen has to watch my transformation, the better for everyone.”
She strolled to the rack where the pants were hung, and picked out a pair in chocolate and one in black. Lily handed her a black blazer, an off-white tank, and a long chocolate cardigan. “Toute suite,” she commanded, and Elaine dashed into the dressing room, grateful that Lily had the patience for the delicate mother-daughter dynamics.
Lily suggested lunch at Patsy’s, knowing it had purportedly been Frank Sinatra’s favorite hangout; unaware, however, that Sinatra’s number one fan in Saratoga had been Bob McNulty.
The maître d’ escorted them into the long, narrow room that was filled with delightful sounds of laughter and delectable aromas of Italian secrets. Elaine knew her father would have loved the place. Like the walls of McNulty’s, Patsy’s featured rows of eight-by-ten black-and-white photos, photos autographed To Patsy. They were mostly of celebrities, famous singers, movie stars. In Saratoga, the photos had been signed To Bob McNulty and were of horses and jockeys and horses’ owners.
Elaine ordered the Tortellini Bolognese; Lily and Karen, the veal special.
“Reginald and I were here once for a wedding reception,” Lily said, “in the private facilities upstairs.” She laughed. “They had a five-thousand-dollar cake. Can you imagine? The woman who made it lives right here in Manhattan.” She took a sip of Chianti, then said, “Oh no! Why didn’t I think of that earlier! We could have invited her to lunch.”
