by Jane Green
“Great game.” Kim forces a twisted smile as she shakes hands over the net. “My ankle still isn’t right.” She frowns while explaining why she didn’t crush us. “I’m going back to the bone guy this week. It’s really painful. I could hardly run.”
“Really?” Lara’s voice is pure innocence. “You seemed to be all over the court.”
* * *
“Are you showering here?” Lara asks as we put our racquets away and pack our stuff.
“Can’t. I have the tea at two P.M. at my house, and there’s a ton of stuff I need to do. You’re coming, right?”
“Of course. And I don’t believe for a second you’ve got a ton of stuff to do. You’re the most organized person I know.”
“It’s all an act,” I say, although I welcome the compliment. “I still have to make the sandwiches and I can’t do those until right before or they’ll be soggy.”
“You’re not using the caterers?” Lara seems surprised.
“For a tea? Even I can manage a couple of cakes and some sandwiches,” I laugh, dismayed that Lara—that anyone—might question my ability to bake something wonderful.
“Do you need some help?”
I pause for a second. The truth is I could do with some help. I could always do with help, but whenever I let people help me, they screw it up somehow. They’ll arrange the flowers horribly; set the tables badly; put the chairs out in the wrong positions. I try to delegate because I know it makes people happy to help, but then I end up resenting everyone for not doing as good a job as I would.
Honestly, it just seems to be easier to do the whole thing myself.
“I have a couple of waitstaff coming, so they can do everything,” I lie, knowing I’ll be frantically running around, placing chairs and tables myself, because I’ve never trusted the waitstaff either. “I’ll see you later!” I blow her a kiss good-bye and practically skip over to the parking lot, floating on air at finally putting Kim in her place.
* * *
A quick look at the phone—texts from family, nothing important, nothing that can’t wait while I think about all I have to do before 2 P.M. this afternoon. A deep breath. I can do this. I always do this. I’m known for doing this: pulling off a beautiful event at the last minute.
I check my hair in the mirror and tuck the frizzy bits of hair back under the baseball hat before sliding on the ubiquitous large tortoiseshell sunglasses to hide my lack of makeup.
I really shouldn’t have agreed to play tennis this morning. It’s two hours I really need, but how could I turn down the invitation to play Kim after she thrashed me last time? Particularly after I’ve spent a fortune taking secret lessons in Norwalk three times a week since then.
I swing in to an open spot just outside the flower store on Main Street—thank you, God!—and run in to pick up more flowers. Louise is on the phone, but she knows me well enough to know I know exactly what I’m doing, and I walk quickly through the store, scooping up armfuls of tulips, hyacinths, lilacs, and some gorgeous, lush peonies.
“Anything else?” Louise puts the phone down and wraps the flowers, calling out to Juan in the back to help me into the car. “You must be having a party!”
“You know me,” I laugh. “There’s always something!”
“I don’t know how you do it!” She finishes wrapping as Juan lifts the flowers, and she takes the card from my proferred fingers. “All those kids and all that wonderful charity work. Do you ever rest?”
“You know what they say.” I smile. “No rest for the wicked!”
She doesn’t hear, frowning as she looks at the card, then tries sliding it again.
“Is everything okay?”
“I’m sorry Mrs. Hathaway,” she apologizes, as if she is embarrassed on my behalf. “Your card is being declined.”
I know there is absolutely no reason for my card to be declined, yet I feel instant shame. This is not the first time this has happened recently; I know it is a snafu with the bank—Mark explained it as the transferring of funds into a new account with a lower interest rate—but that does not stop my humiliation.
I pull another card out from my purse, attempting to explain.
“My husband was supposed to sort it out.” We both roll our eyes at the hopelessness of men.
The other card is fine. I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until she hands the card back as the receipt prints out, and I make a mental note to phone the damn bank myself.
You’d think, with the amount of business we do with them, they’d make sure we didn’t have to have these embarrassments. We smile at each other with relief as she wishes me luck with the event, and finally I’m on my way home.
* * *
It doesn’t matter how many times I drive up this driveway, how many years we have lived here, I still pause at the curve, still find myself unconsciously sighing with pleasure at the beauty of this house.
Sometimes I stop, right here, and turn the engine off, feasting on the elegant symmetry, the French planters nestled in between the windows, the huge copper beech that dwarfs the house. I take in the old wooden swing that has borne the weight of all three children over many years, hanging disconsolately from one of the majestic branches.
This is the kind of house around which fairy tales are written. It is the kind of house I grew up dreaming about. After school, while both my parents were at work, I would watch hours of television, with me praying that one of the movies I loved would come on: The Great Gatsby or maybe High Society.
At night, I lay in bed dreaming I was Grace Kelly, designing my wardrobe, imagining my handsome prince, visualizing every room of my elegant home.
In the morning, my father would come roaring through the house in his undershirt, and the dreams of the night before would go out the window. Those were only dreams. How would a girl like me ever have a hope of having a life like that?
As I grew older, I started to realize it was possible. It was unlikely, certainly, but there was nothing I loved more than a challenge, and I was already obsessed with grand lifestyles, the upper classes. I knew everything there was to know about manners, how to behave.
I watched all the movies, read every memoir I could lay my hands on. I could reel off the histories of the Rockefellers, the Du Ponts, the Cabots, as if they were cousins.
Do you think I cared that my parents mocked me mercilessly when I practiced my accent in the mirror, emulating Katharine Hepburn, the way she moved, the way she spoke? I learned to catch myself every time my Astoria accent slipped through, until there wasn’t a trace.
If I changed my accent, my bearing, the things I couldn’t change were less important. I was lucky in inheriting my slim, wiry body from my father, but my fair, freckled skin and red curly hair were my mother’s family through and through. As my grandmother used to say, I wore the map of Ireland on my face.
Granted, no amount of facial scrubs would give me the porcelain skin of Grace Kelly, but red curly hair? Long before Nicole Kidman morphed her fiery curls into a sleek blond mane, I’d already thought of highlights and a flat iron for the same effect.
I’d sit at my parents’ table, as groomed and chic as Grace Kelly, my sleek blond hair tucked in a chignon, a faux Hermès scarf around my neck, attempting to close my ears as my parents screamed across the table at each other.
Is it wrong, I’d wonder—hoping my silence would render me invisible, protect me from their abuse—to want more than this?
Is it possible to reinvent yourself and have the life you’re sure you deserve?
This house remains the strongest evidence that it is. My husband, so charming, handsome, successful, is evidence that it is. This gilded, charmed life on Connecticut’s Gold Coast is evidence that it is.
I am grateful. I will never let my facade slip among the women I have come to call my friends. I am not stupid. I am fully aware of the undercurrent of competitiveness among these women. I’ll never let them know where I came from, who I really am, because all that matt
ers is where I am today, who I’ve turned myself into, the life I’ve created for myself.
Each time I pull around this corner and glimpse our stone house, the climbing hydrangeas now leafing as they climb up the trellised wall, I take a moment to appreciate how far I have come.
* * *
Usually I leave the car in the driveway. Not today. Today I pull into the garage to ensure the house will be picture-perfect for the first guest, no cars to clutter up this example of the quintessential New Salem house.
* * *
The pool is open. A little early, but so pretty to see the water rather than the godawful winter cover, and the planters by the pool have been replanted with huge hydrangeas, already lush and green.
I shake my head with a sigh as I glimpse a flash of orange netting in the middle of the lawn. Despite my rules, despite how many times I tell those boys to clean up after themselves and put their sports equipment away, there are lacrosse sticks and balls all over the yard. I gather them up, put them away, then take the flowers out of the car and put them in the sink in the pool house.
The tea is being held in the pool house. Willow baskets sit on the rental tables, waiting for the flowers; trestle tables are waiting for the crisp folded linen tablecloths to cover them; printed-out minutes for the meeting with cute drawings I found are rolled up in tiny spring baskets, each containing a small sample of a new lilac-scented room spray, donated by a local designer to use as a favor.
I open the French doors, arrange the flowers, and spray some of the lilac spray, which instantly freshens everything up and makes it smell like spring. Damn waitstaff. I should have ordered them far earlier, but there’s nothing I can do now. I check my watch, take a deep breath, and leave the pool house to them—there’s more important stuff to be done at the main house, and if I don’t get started now, it’s all over.
22
Maggie
Thank heavens I made piecrusts yesterday. After pulling the covered tart pan out of the fridge, I open a can of pear halves—and yes, I know it sounds so terribly déclassé, but even Jacques Pépin advises canned pears—slice them thinly, and set them aside. Then I set out eggs, almonds, flour, vanilla, and sugar, mix all of it together, and pour the batter into the crust.
An hour later, a perfect pear and almond tart sits on a crystal cake plate. Alongside sits a plate of buttermilk scones, still hot from the oven, with strawberry jelly in a bowl in the middle. Rows of tiny triangular sandwiches line up on platters: cucumber, smoked salmon, cream cheese and watercress. And finally, the one thing I didn’t make, although I will pretend I did: a plate of delicate pastel–colored petits fours.
Last year, the tea was at Kim’s, and frankly, although I don’t want to be bitchy, it was somewhat ostentatious. Some might even say vulgar. She had a band in the garden, for heaven’s sake. The food was delicious, but there was so much of it! And the flowers were so big, you couldn’t see anyone sitting opposite you, plus seating charts for a tea is a little … too too.
What I’ve learned, after all these years of studying how to do things correctly, is that less is always more. The truly rich don’t wear thick makeup with huge diamonds dripping in their ears; they don’t drive Aston Martins and overwhelm you with enormous flowers and endless food on silver platters.
The truly rich keep it simple. Less is more. Pretty spring flowers in wicker baskets. Homemade food. Tea served in pretty porcelain teapots on small tables around the pool.
It will be the personification of understated elegance. I will, in short, show Kim, mistress of the thirty-thousand-square-foot stone mansion, how it should be done.
* * *
It’s going beautifully, and I couldn’t be happier. The sun is shining down as the women chatter excitedly, complimenting one another on their pastel-colored dresses, wide-brimmed sun hats, gold and diamond jewelry glinting in the sun as they turn their heads to see who else has arrived.
In a break from the traditional white wine, I’ve decided to serve champagne, a spoonful of pomegranate seeds in each glass, causing the seeds to bubble around like a sophisticated handheld lava lamp, bringing a sparkle to the very event itself.
Lara nudges me as Kim walks in, carefully tiptoeing across the grass in her strappy high heels so she doesn’t sink in, a simple cream sheath dress showing off her Bikram Yoga body perfectly, a huge feathered fascinator exploding from the side of her head. A Chanel bag is over one shoulder; under the other arm a Havapoo, or Peekapoo, or Maltipeke. I never can tell one from the other.
“I hope it’s okay to bring dogs.” Kim air-kisses both of us as she puts the dog down. “Although she’s not really a dog. She thinks she’s my baby! I have to take her to the groomers after, so it saves me going home.”
“Of course!” I lie, watching as the dog chooses just that moment to squat and pee. Great.
Kim makes a big show of pulling her sunglasses down and peering over the top of them, looking around at everything as Lara kicks me.
“Look what a beautiful job you’ve done!” Kim enthuses, and I am about to thank her, genuinely thrilled at her genuine compliment, when she ruins it by continuing. “It’s so … country! How cute! You must have done those sweet flowers yourself!”
I am speechless. Lara reaches a hand, unseen, behind my back and gently pokes me as I try to maintain the falsest smile I’ve ever had to fake, not knowing what to say next. What I want to say, in my best Astoria accent, is, Fuck you, bitch. Bring it on. But of course, I wouldn’t do that.
Lara to the rescue. “She’s the most talented woman I know!” she enthuses. “Wait till you taste the food. The almond tart is ridiculous! And she made everything herself! I hate her.”
“I’m impressed.” Kim turns as someone walks past with a plate of petits fours. “You made those yourself?”
Shit. Trust Kim to point out the only things I didn’t make. I’m not giving her the satisfaction, though. No way. I nod.
“That’s so weird,” she says, reaching out for one. “They look exactly like the ones I always get from Great Cakes.” Kim takes a bite. “And they taste exactly the same! But exactly! How on earth do you make those?”
“With great difficulty,” I lie, hoping my face isn’t as red as it feels. “It took me days to get them right. I’m so glad they look professional!”
“I’m telling you,” Lara jumps in. “She should have her own TV show. Maggie, you’re needed in the pool house,” and thankfully she drags me away.
* * *
“Am I going crazy, or is she the biggest bitch ever?” We’re huddled behind the pool house with Heather, the newest addition to the group, who is still trying to discover the lay of the land, and is reluctant to cast an opinon, no matter how hard we push her.
“She seems pretty nice to me,” Heather says tentatively. “But I don’t really know her.”
“You really don’t.” I shake my head. “I suppose you should be grateful she’s being nice to you. She’s a bitch with me. Always has been, and honestly? I don’t see her being that bad with anyone else.”
Lara drains her glass. “She’s threatened by you. She was the queen bee in Richmond, or Charlotte, or wherever the hell she lived before, and she moved here expecting to be the same. Why else do you think they built the biggest and ugliest house in town? She’s desperate to be what she can never be.
“She doesn’t realize that however much money she has, however much she gives to charity, however many events she goes to, it can never buy her class. You’re old money, Maggie. You were born with class. And the jealousy is killing her.”
I shrug as if to say, I guess you’re right, but I don’t look her in the eye. A snapshot of my parents flashes into my mind. My father in a stained vest, mother in apron and house slippers, permanent sounds of shouting and television. Oh, if only you knew.
If only you knew.
* * *
It is traditional for last year’s chair to introduce this year’s, and I will confess to a hint of dread as Kim
chinks her glass with a spoon until silence descends on the gathered women.
She announces the money raised thus far to polite applause before encouraging everyone to sell more tickets and make this the best year ever, although I know she doesn’t mean it; I know she wants last year to remain the best year ever.
“Finally, I want to introduce, and thank this year’s chair, someone you all know: Maggie. I’m sure you all know that Maggie made all this delicious food herself, which I’m so jealous of.” She laughs. “I had to pay a small fortune to Cinnamon Catering!” Everyone laughs, for Cinnamon Catering is indeed a small fortune.
“Next time, I’m paying Maggie!” Kim jokes. The crowd laughs again, a little more nervously this time, the guests turning to gauge my reaction, but I refuse to react right now. I’m saving this to discuss with Lara later. Did Kim really just publicly declare that she thinks of me as her damned staff?
I grit my teeth as I run my familiar mantra through my head. What would Jackie do? What would Grace do? What would Katharine, Babe, Brooke do? They would be gracious and polite. They wouldn’t react.
“But seriously, the pool house is adorable, and everything’s so pretty. You’ve done a wonderful job.” I continue to smile through the condescension, finally stepping up to say the few requisite words of my own.
I am about to take a deep breath to speak, when I pause. Did I just hear a shout from the house? I start again, but there it is. Definitely a shout. I stop as the door from the main house opens and Grace tears across the lawn toward me, Chris following fast behind her.
She is sobbing out loud, distraught, and my blood runs cold as I run to her, knowing that something is terribly, terribly wrong.
Chris catches her and grabs her arm, trying to pull her back, but she shakes him off and screams at him. “I have to tell her!”
My heart pounds so loudly, it is all I can do not to scream. What? Who? An accident? Visions of skewed limbs on highways flash through my mind as nausea rises.
