Three Times a Charm

by Jean Stone

  Sarah laughed and Lily turned around. Her blond curls were slightly askew, her cheeks extra pink, as if she’d run a road race, which Lily never would have done because she didn’t like to sweat. Perspire. It was so ungirlielike.

  “Well,” Lily declared, “look who’s here. The fourth musketeer.” The Four Musketeers was a label Elaine’s father had bestowed upon them back when they were in college. “I would have called but I didn’t have your number,” Sarah said. “What’s going on?”

  Lily moved to an end table, opened a drawer, removed a calling card and thrust it at Sarah. “Here’s my number,” she said. “Someone might as well make use of it.”

  Sarah, of course, was puzzled. On the way to the apartment she’d decided to tell them that Laura Carrington was her mother, that Sarah had been—just then—to where Laura lived. But timing being everything for harmony and balance, Sarah knew that the timing was far from right now. Lily was showing signs of the greatest distress, the kind that might not even be cured by a spa trip or by lunch. She tucked the calling card into her pocket and waited for the next bit of information.

  Lily pressed a hand against her forehead and sighed like Scarlett O’Hara. “I simply can’t do this. We have a business to run now, and I can’t let my emotions interfere with our work.”

  “Which is what I was saying before you got here, Sarah,” Jo said.

  Sarah couldn’t guess at the conversation that had gone on before; she couldn’t imagine what “emotions” had been “interfering” while she’d been standing outside the building on West 82nd.

  Elaine motioned for Sarah to join her on an exquisite, slightly curved sofa that been upholstered in soft butter brocade. Sarah, however, chose to stand. She glanced around the commodious room, perusing the additional matching sofa that was complemented by five chairs in flowered Provençal fabrics, all of which were nicely accented by the dark woods of occasional tables, a long sideboard, and a tall étagère—pieces that might have similar mates in Laura Carrington’s West Side apartment. The focal point in Lily’s room was an ornately carved wood mantel above the wide fireplace, which snapped and crackled a warm January greeting. Now, as in her previous visits to the apartment, Sarah was surprised that Lily had created such a grown-up, down-to-earth place. Lily had always seemed to prefer the childlike spaces like the one she’d created above Sarah’s studio at Second Chances.

  “Well, we do have weddings to plan,” Elaine said. “Like Rhonda Blair’s. You’re right—what a challenge that one will be!”

  Lily did not seem interested in weddings now, challenging or otherwise.

  Sarah sat down. “What’s going on? Did you see Irene? How is she? How’s Andrew?”

  “Don’t get me started,” Lily said, as she flitted to the sideboard and poured a glass of water from a tall decanter. “I feel positively insulted. I don’t know why we’re being snubbed.” She downed the water.

  “We’re not being snubbed, Lily,” Jo said. “She wants privacy, that’s all.”

  “It’s not about us,” Elaine added.

  “Well,” Lily said, tiny bursts of steam nearly visible from her gently flaring nostrils. “This is so embarrassing. I’ve told everyone that we’re her friends.”

  “Everyone?” Sarah asked. “Like who?”

  Lily wrung her hands. Her agony was plain. “Well, Darlene and Dennis, for beginners.”

  Sarah looked to Jo and Jo said, “The cleaning people.”

  The cleaning people?

  “Not just the cleaning people!” Lily replied. “My cleaning people, who also happen to clean the homes of the Stantons and the Percys and the William Hunt the Thirds.”

  “I thought you didn’t care about those kind of people anymore,” Sarah said. “Those society folks.”

  “This is different. This is John Benson.”

  “But no one will know that we were ‘snubbed,’ ” Jo said. “We were the only ones there except for Andrew.”

  “Believe me,” Lily said, “they’ll know. Irene has servants. Servants have ears. And mouths.”

  “Oh for goodness’ sake,” Elaine cried. “Who cares?”

  “Don’t you get it?” Lily wailed. “People are watching. People are judging. Especially Reginald’s friends. They’re dying to see if I fall flat on my Botoxed face—yes, girls, it is Botoxed—or if I end up marrying the next man who comes along, so they can whisper among themselves that they knew I never loved poor Reginald all along, that I only wanted his money, that I can never amount to anything on my own. If they hear that Irene Benson has snubbed me…well, don’t you see? They’ll all laugh behind my back.”

  So, Sarah thought, this was about Lily, not about Irene.

  Lily poured herself another glass of water.

  Sarah stood up. “So what’s your point? People have been laughing at me for years.” Yes, now was definitely not the time to bring up her mother again or to ask their advice. It was better to leave, better to take her troubles back to Jason. She could get to the studio early enough, and watch Burch play too.

  Jo ignored Sarah’s comment. “Think about it, Lily. Didn’t you say your New York friends are in Palm Beach by now? That the season down there has just started?”

  Sarah backed toward the foyer, positioning herself for a quick exit.

  “No offense, my dear friends, but none of you can possibly understand,” Lily whined.

  Before any of them had another chance to try to “understand,” the doorbell rang. Because Sarah was the closest, she quickly opened the door. Someday, she supposed, she’d be proud of herself for not showing surprise or uttering something sarcastic when she saw that the person on the other side was Irene Benson, the woman who, apparently for some unprovoked reason, had insulted the women of Second Chances.

  Sarah asked her to come in. Irene said she would only stay a moment, that her driver was waiting, but she’d wanted to stop by with a few words for Jo.

  “Is Andrew with you?” Sarah asked.

  Irene shook her head and removed her gloves. “Andrew doesn’t need to hear what I have to say.”

  The comment seemed odd, but Sarah was beginning to get used to odd things in her life.

  The new guest walked into Lily’s living room as if she and her husband owned it, along with the rest of Manhattan. “Ladies,” she said. “Thank you for the orchids, though they were hardly necessary. I’ve come to pay my invoice for the wedding. I believe the balance comes to seventy-eight thousand?”

  Lily hesitated before stepping forward. “And some change,” Lily said. “Seventy-eight thousand, one hundred forty-eight, to be exact.”

  It was odd to see Lily be so direct with a woman such as Irene, as if she, for once, gave no thought to trying to impress.

  “So it is,” Irene said, withdrawing a check from her handbag, then slowly filling out the amount while the others sat and stood there in silence. When she was finished, she handed the check to Lily. “I am paid in full now.”

  Lily examined the paper, then slipped it into her pocket. “Would you care for tea? A glass of wine?”

  Sarah would have bet that even though Irene didn’t really know Lily, she would have known that the offer was as thin as Irene’s tightened lips.

  “What I have to say won’t take long,” Irene said. “I’d appreciate it if there were no interruptions.”

  Sarah checked an impulse to return her to the door, to say, Thanks for coming, but you’re really not welcome here.

  Then Irene raised her chin and said, “This is about Jo, but from what I understand you’re all so chummy it won’t matter which of you hears.” She spun on one heel so she squarely faced Jo.

  “I know that Andrew’s fond of you, which is why I decided to come and tell you this in person. He won’t be going back to West Hope. He and Cassie belong here in New York now. With me. He has undertaken the enormous task of handling John’s affairs. I’ve come to ask that you not interfere. I have known Andrew many years, and I know what’s best for him. You’ve k
nown him mere months, most of which, I should remind you, he spent lying to you.”

  Jo stood up. Like Elaine and Lily, Sarah remained motionless.

  Jo smiled at Irene. “I understand this is a difficult time for you, Irene,” she said. Her hands were surprisingly steady, her voice unwavering. “But I’m sure you’ll agree that if Andrew chooses to live in New York, I expect it should be his decision and that he should be the one to tell me.” Her eyes darted quickly around the room. “To tell us,” she added.

  Irene returned the smile, though hers was cool enough to chill the roaring fire in the room. “How shall I say this?” She crossed the room, lifted a finger to the mantel, swept it across the wood as if in search of dust. “This is not that droll little town where you all reside. This is the big time, darlings, and you are way out of your league.”

  The fire hissed and popped and spit.

  “Mrs. Benson,” Lily said, stepping forward, “I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to leave. I’m sorry about your husband, but you’re in my house now, and Jo is my guest.” She planted her hands on both her hips, her edges now visibly returned. “I’m sure in your big-time life, even you understand common courtesy.”

  Irene’s tongue repositioned itself from one cheek to another. She checked the top button on her sable coat—real, smooth, inky sable, for women like Irene Benson did not care what others thought about animals or their rights. “I assure you I did not come here to offend anyone,” she said. “I only wanted to let everyone know where Andrew’s allegiance will be from here on out. As I said,” she added, moving toward the door, “you’ve only known Andrew for a few, unsettled months.” Her gaze fell back on Jo. “But the fact is, he was my lover long before he was yours.”

  With that, Irene went out the door, closing the latch quietly, as a true lady would.

  29

  We need to talk to Andrew,” Lily said a few stunned seconds later—was it only seconds?—when the tsunami of Irene’s visit slowly started to recede.

  “I don’t think he has his cell phone,” Jo replied. She was standing in the same position that she’d been when Irene’s words lashed.

  Was it true? Sarah supposed she wasn’t the only one wondering. Had Andrew really been Irene Benson’s lover?

  “She’s a textbook case of a woman scorned,” Sarah said. “She wants to strike out and hurt others the way that she’s been hurt.” She checked her watch. It was almost two-thirty; she really must leave soon to get to the studio, to think about how she was going to tell Jason about Laura.

  “Andrew with Irene?” Elaine asked, then laughed. “No offense, Lily, but I’d be more inclined to believe that you’d be with my father than that the two of them were…well…” She stopped speaking there, as if linking Andrew and Irene as lovers was too unfathomable to mention.

  Lily walked to Jo and put her arm around her shoulder. “First, I want to say that we all know about you and Andrew, Jo, so don’t be embarrassed.” Jo did not respond. “Next, I want to add that we will get to the bottom of this tall tale of hers. And I will come up with a plan to subvert it. We are, after all, the four musketeers, aren’t we?”

  “We are,” Elaine said.

  Sarah added, “You bet.” Just because she was preoccupied with her own problems didn’t mean she wouldn’t “be there” for Jo.

  Lily paced to the mantel, rubbing her tiny hands together, invisible sparks shooting this way and that, her energy definitely back. She looked into the flames as if they were a crystal ball. “Now,” she said, “where should we begin…”

  Sarah braced herself for another of Lily’s schemes. As much as she wanted to offer support to Jo, could she really fit one of Lily’s brainstorms between Jason, Burch, Sutter Jones, and…well, the rest? “The only place to begin, and end,” Sarah said, “is by talking to Andrew. And I think the only one who should talk to him is Jo.”

  With a small harrumph, Lily said, “Even if it means we lose him as an employee?”

  Sarah averted her eyes to the étagère. She decided that Lily must have had a decorator. Surely she’d never quite matured enough to have such elegant taste. In West Hope, the little-girl furniture and the little-girl accoutrements in her apartment were certainly more “Lily” than butter brocade and sophisticated flowered Provençal.

  “Sarah’s right,” Elaine said. “Lily, you’d be the first to say that love should come before all else. Certainly before something as tedious as work.”

  Lily did not seem to know how to argue with that.

  “Besides,” Elaine added, “I know that Andrew is in love with Jo.”

  Sarah stopped thinking of her watch and what time it said now. Her attention, instead, zoomed to Elaine.

  “We talked about it,” Elaine said. “We had a toast to second chances. And I don’t mean the company.”

  Lily pursed her lips, perhaps a little miffed that Andrew had confided in Elaine and not in her. “Well, okay, then,” she said. “It proves my point that Irene Benson is deranged. Imagine…the two of them together.” She shook her head. She rubbed her hands again. “So unless we think of something better, we agree that Jo will talk to Andrew.”

  Sarah realized that during this conversation Jo hadn’t shifted from her place. Her gaze had moved as Lily, Elaine, and Sarah spoke, but her stance had remained rigid, betrayed-woman rigid.

  “Jo?” Lily asked.

  She wet her lips; she turned her head. “I don’t think Andrew has his cell phone,” Jo said once again. “And, anyway, I’m going to bed now. I feel a migraine coming on.”

  Sarah supposed that, sooner or later, she’d lose Jason too. Irene had been right about one thing: New York was not West Hope, the droll little town, on whose fringes Sarah had been sequestered for so many years.

  She stared out the cab window as it stopped and started down Seventh Avenue, headed toward Greenwich Village. Sarah wondered when the tingling would leave her arms and legs, the tingling that had given her a floating, out-of-body feeling since she stood in front of the apartment building on Central Park West.

  If she lost Jason, she might lose Burch as well. The city had so much to offer a young boy, especially when his father was on the way to fame, to fortune, to hard-earned success. All that West Hope had to offer was her.

  “We always get what we think we deserve,” Glisi often said, though Sarah had not known whether or not it was another Cherokee belief or just the wise words of a caring grandmother.

  Jason believed he would succeed. He believed his music would be loved by many beyond the small towns and out-of-the-way places where he so often performed. It had taken years, but he had grown from bars to lounges and now played in two of the hottest clubs. His new CD should be out in the spring, and he was hopeful that, by working hard enough, he would get what he deserved.

  In the process, would he get another woman? A younger, hipper, city woman, who would take Burch to premieres and to openings and cool stuff at the museums?

  Maybe Sarah could ask Laura Carrington to take him instead.

  She stared out the window at the small, untidy shops that crowded one another for a plot of sidewalk space. Fashions, handbags, shoes, and souvenirs seemed almost animated, clawing for the attention of every passerby.

  And then she saw the dress.

  On a freestanding rack, almost on a corner, Sarah saw a deep, blood-red dress—a gown—the ideal wedding dress for Rhonda Blair.

  “Stop!” she shouted at the cabbie.

  Brakes squealed. She shoved a twenty at the driver, not bothering to check the fare. Then she bolted from the backseat and raced back to check out the dress.

  The skirt was layered with petallike softness—rose-petallike softness. The bodice was crimped and fitted, strapless. With wide, gold-mesh-wire ribbon configured upright from the waist, Sarah could create an apparition, an unfolding of a blossom, a rose blossom. It was a vintage dress, vintage Rhonda Blair. The price was twenty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents.

  She completed the
transaction and hailed another cab, deciding to go back to Jason’s apartment, drop off her purchase, and let Lily know before she continued on to the studio. No sense in the others wasting their time looking for a gown for Rhonda (if Irene had not completely distracted them from their work) when Sarah had the perfect one right here in the bag. She quickly checked her pocket, reassured that Lily’s card was there, so at least this time she had the phone number.

  It was quiet in the apartment. Sarah roamed from the foyer through the living room into the kitchen and rechecked the street address of the studio, which Burch, not Jason, had written on a Post-it and stuck on the refrigerator, right below a large magnet that advertised a pizza delivery shop on East Houston Street.

  Next to the building number he had written Fifth floor, which comes after four.

  She smiled because her son was so fresh and she loved him so much.

  Returning to the living room, Sarah dropped the bag with the red gown on the sofa and picked up Jason’s phone to call Lily. The women would be exuberant, especially when she told them the price. Lily would want to tell Rhonda it cost twenty-nine hundred and had been a great deal.

  As Sarah began to dial, she noticed a red light on the phone base that was flashing the number 01. A message from Jason, no doubt.

  PLAY MESSAGES, read a small black button just below it.

  She held the receiver to her ear and hit the small black button.

  Thursday, two thirty-three.

  “Hi, it’s Melissa,” said a sweet, melodious voice. “Am I going to see you later?”

  It could have been anyone. It could have been anyone, Sarah thought, trying to ignore that her free-floating feeling had abruptly stopped, as if someone snapped a light from on to off, as if someone had flipped a valve from hot to cold. Melissa could be a backup singer at the club or the girl at the dry cleaner’s calling to say Jason’s shirts were ready or a fat old lady who cooked dinner for him on Thursday nights.

  She could be anyone. But anyone would probably not have said, “I love you,” as Melissa did before hanging up.