by Elaine Viets
“We can’t. It happened in front of the whole restaurant. By last night, all of Golden Palms knew. By today, the news will have spread as far north as Palm Beach and from there it will go straight to New York. It’s the talk of the country club set. I thought I’d better give you a warning, in case you get calls about it.
“That’s not the worst.” Jessica paused dramatically. “Last night was the ice cream social.”
“And that’s a problem?” Helen had visions of women in fluttery pastel dresses and flowered hats, men in linen suits, and little children frolicking.
“A big one,” Jessica said. “We had to bring in security to handle the complaints.”
“At an ice cream social? What could the members possibly complain about?”
Jessica picked up a pad on her desk and started reading: “The ice cream was too cold. The ice cream was not cold enough. A member couldn’t bring in a guest, even though he offered to pay her way. Security was called and the member shoved the guard.”
“A fight over ice cream?” Helen asked.
“Soft-serve,” Jessica said. “This isn’t even the good stuff. Between Mr. Casabella and the ice cream social, the phones have been ringing off the hook.
“Oh, one more thing. Solange is still looking for the Winderstine file. Are you sure you haven’t seen it?”
“Positive,” Helen said.
“So is everyone else. I can’t imagine what happened to it, but she’ll make our lives hell until she finds it. By the way, how are you?”
“Fine,” Helen said. “Thanks for calling my landlady.”
“I’m glad it worked out,” Jessica said. “Oops. There’s my phone again.”
That was it. Helen was accepted back. Jessica didn’t ask for the juicy details of Helen’s day with the police. She was barely a footnote in the club’s chronicle of gossip. She’d spent the night dreading her return to work, wondering how she’d face her co-workers after her shameful departure. Things were back to normal—almost.
Helen waited until Jessica’s back was turned, then slipped her fake driver’s license out of her co-worker’s purse. Jessica never noticed. She was too busy watching the front counter drama starring Jackie.
A hard-faced woman came to the counter in a red Escada suit that made her look like a fireplug. “Jackie dear,” she cooed. “Why don’t we see you for bridge on Tuesdays anymore?”
The face-lifted fireplug knew why. Jackie simply said, “I don’t have Tuesdays off, Estelle.”
Helen admired the cool way Jackie handled the sly dig, but it must have hurt. The pencil Jackie was holding snapped in two. How many times a week did the poor woman have to endure those slights? Her nails were bitten to the quick.
Helen’s phone rang, and her ear was assaulted by a loud, insistent New York voice.
“This is Mrs. Amos Sherben.” The voice bored into her brain like a corkscrew. Where did people learn to talk that way? Mrs. Sherben owned miles of South Florida beach. She could afford elocution lessons. “I’m calling to complain.”
“Of course you are,” Helen said.
“What did you say?” Mrs. Sherben’s words seemed to latch on to Helen’s ear with iron grappling hooks.
“How may I help you?” Helen said.
“I’m calling to complain about the ice cream social. The bowls are too small. The ice cream dripped on my linen pants. If you had bowls the proper size, this would never happen. It’s your fault. The ice cream was chocolate. The pants were D and G.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Helen said. “What do you want us to do?”
“Pay for my dry cleaning,” Mrs. Sherben said. The words were now razors, slicing into Helen’s eardrum.
“I can’t do that, ma’am. You filled the bowl yourself. The ice cream is self-serve. You eat it at your own risk. But I’ll make a note of your complaint about the bowls. What’s your member number, please?”
“Look it up,” Mrs. Sherben said. “That’s what you’re paid to do.” She slammed down the phone.
“You old bat,” Helen said to the disconnected phone.
Jessica burst into applause. “Now you’re officially one of us. On the phone with a smile, off the phone with a snarl.”
Xaviera shook out her long hair. “I think she deserves to go to lunch first today, don’t you? It’s Jackie’s turn to eat early. Go with Jackie, Helen. You need to be with someone nice and calm.”
“What about my blood sugar?” Cam whined. “I have a medical condition. I should go first.”
“A convenient medical condition,” Xaviera said. “You’ve spent the whole morning cleaning your desk. You can wait.”
“A clean desk is important. Brenda said so.”
“Your phone is really clean,” Xaviera said, pointing at it with a manicured nail like a bloody dagger. “You never pick it up.”
“And you never use yours except to call your boyfriend,” Cam said.
“Want to compare phone logs?” Xaviera said.
“Please, don’t fight,” Jackie said. She looked pained. “Shall we go, Helen?”
She reached for a Chanel bag that was beautifully made. Helen saw the leather was worn gray on one corner.
It was the first time Helen had spent any time with Jackie. She was about forty, with fine bones and hair pulled into an elegant chignon. In Helen’s hometown of St. Louis, Jackie would be a knockout. But here in Florida, among the very rich, Jackie was considered past her prime: There was a slight droop to her eyelids, with small lines around her mouth and larger lines on her forehead. Jackie couldn’t afford an eye job or Botox.
The two women clocked out and threaded their way through the dingy back halls. “I need to be careful,” Jackie said. “I’m wearing open-toed slingbacks. I could get written up for improper footwear. My other pair of heels is at the shoemaker for new soles. They won’t be ready for another day.”
“Kitty won’t mind,” Helen said.
“Brenda will,” Jackie said. “And she has it in for me. Well, let’s not spoil our meal talking about Brenda.”
“What’s for lunch today?” Helen studied the cafeteria board.
“Roast beef. So fattening,” Jackie said. “I brought my own food. I’ll get us a table.”
Helen came back with a plate piled with beef, string beans and fruit salad. Jackie carefully unwrapped a single hard-boiled egg. Poverty food.
“How are you settling into the job?” Jackie said.
“It’s OK,” Helen said. The beef was tougher than the club members. Maybe she’d bring her own food, too.
“What do you think of the members?” Jackie asked. She nibbled her egg.
“I don’t understand how people with so much can be so unhappy,” Helen said. “They live in paradise.”
“Adam and Eve weren’t happy in paradise, either.” Jackie delicately wiped her mouth with a paper napkin and took a small sip of the free water from the cooler. “We have two groups of members here. The young ones, the trust fund babies, have no concept of work. They inherited their money. They are rude, arrogant and demanding.”
“That’s for sure,” Helen said.
“The old ones earned the money. They’re usually in poor health. Their spouses are either sick and old, or divorced and living with someone younger. Their children are gone. Their choices are gone. Their families are sitting around waiting for them to die so they can get the money. There’s nothing left for them to do. That’s why they spend all day quibbling their bills and complaining. We shouldn’t envy these people.”
“I don’t,” Helen said. “They’re so unhappy. I always thought I wanted to be rich. Now I realize I just want enough money. They have too much.”
“But when do you know you have enough?” Jackie said. “That’s the key.”
I didn’t know in St. Louis, Helen thought. I was almost as unhappy as the club members.
“I used to have a house in Golden Palms.” Jackie sounded wistful. “I loved to entertain. I had a dinner service for eighty, w
ith silver, plates and linens. I never had to rent anything for my parties, not a single wineglass. My house had a view of the ocean and a big veranda where I could entertain. The worst part is, I thought we had a happy marriage. I had no idea anything was wrong until he came home and said he wanted a divorce.”
“Another woman?” Helen asked.
“No. He said I wasn’t any fun anymore. I did everything he wanted, I went everywhere he wanted and I wasn’t fun. He wound up marrying someone who ordered him around. I guess that’s his idea of fun. Never give a man everything he wants—you’ll get nothing.”
“Did she get the house?” Helen asked.
“No, he bought her a newer, bigger place,” Jackie said. “No point in talking about the old days. It’s all gone now. I didn’t do well in the divorce.”
“Me, either,” Helen said.
“I’m so tired,” Jackie said.
“This job takes a lot out of you,” Helen said.
“I’m tired of the struggle,” Jackie said. “I’m not sure I can afford to live in Golden Palms anymore. The rent is going up on my apartment.”
Ohmigod, Helen thought. Jackie lives in those little servants’ apartments by the Dixie Highway. She’s gone from a beachside mansion to a one-bedroom box.
“Maybe you could get some place cheaper in Fort Lauderdale or Miami,” Helen said.
“But I’ve lived here all my life,” Jackie said. “I don’t want to leave the only place I know. My friends try to get me to date, but so far, nothing’s worked. A gentleman I knew from before has asked me out to lunch on my day off.”
Before. Jackie’s life, like Helen’s, was divided into BD and AD—before the divorce and after.
“He is interested in charity causes, like I am. He’s recently divorced. We were in the same circles before.”
“Sounds interesting,” Helen said.
“It’s too soon to plan our wedding,” Jackie said, but Helen could tell she had hopes. “I haven’t even gone out with him yet. But I feel I know him so well. We were part of the same social circle for years. I’d like to live the way I did before.”
I wouldn’t, Helen thought.
“You know the worst part of being single?” Jackie said. “There’s no one to share your thoughts with. No one cares whether you wake up in the morning. There’s no one to find your body if you die in the night.”
Helen shivered. She liked being single, but then she wasn’t really, was she? She had Phil. Jackie’s loneliness surrounded her like a thick perfume. Jackie carefully rolled the aluminum foil that she’d wrapped her egg in and put it in her purse. She reuses it, Helen thought. She’s that hard up.
“That can’t be true,” Helen said.
“Oh, but it is,” Jackie said. “I have no children.”
“But your friends are fixing you up with dates.”
“They feel sorry for me. They don’t come around the way they did before. Well, things will get better.” Jackie put on a too-brave smile. “They have to.”
There was an awkward silence. Jackie, in her loneliness, had revealed too much too soon. Now she was embarrassed. “Guess we’d better get back,” she said.
Helen clocked in early. She was glad to be at her desk, away from Jackie’s sad desperation. She reached for her insistent phone almost gratefully.
“Hello,” said a soft, pleasant voice. “This is Demi Dell.”
The wife of the hairy, horny plastic surgeon.
“I misplaced my club member card,” Demi said. “I took it out of my wallet before I went to New York, and left it on my dresser. Now it’s gone.”
“No problem,” Helen said. “Would you like me to freeze your account?”
“No, I don’t think the card was stolen,” Demi said. “It’s lost somewhere in the house. I’m coming by to play tennis shortly. I’ll stop by and pick up a new one.”
“I’ll make sure it’s ready.”
“Thanks,” Demi said.
There was a word Helen didn’t hear much from the members. She printed out the new card and examined the photo. Helen had seen many hard, rich faces at the club. Demi was a surprise. Everything about her seemed soft and sweet: her curly dark hair, her plump lips, her big brown eyes. How could the ugly surgeon cheat on such a pretty woman?
“Hello? Is anyone alive here or am I in a wax museum?”
Helen looked up from the card machine. The young woman at the counter wore a pouty expression and a tight halter top. Her cantaloupe breasts looked as though they were fighting for room in the tiny top.
“How may we help you?” Jessica asked. Frost should have formed on the young woman’s shirt.
“I want to return this useless shit,” the young woman said, and threw a Superior Club shopping bag down on the counter. Jackie gasped.
“When did you buy it?” Jessica said.
“I didn’t,” the young woman said. “Dr. Dell bought it for me last month. I have the receipt.”
Helen wondered whether this was the infamous staffer who’d caused Dr. Dell’s recent tirade over the bill. She looked a bit chubby to be some doctor’s new cookie. They usually liked flat-stomached babes.
“Are you a member here?” Jessica asked, though she already knew the answer.
“Of course not,” the young woman said. “I wouldn’t join this old folks’ home if you paid me.”
“What is your name, please?” Jessica said.
“Mandy,” the young woman said. “Now, are you gonna give me my money back or not?”
Jessica studied the receipt. “I’m afraid all I can do, Mandy, is direct you to the Superior Togs shop, where they will issue Dr. Dell a credit for the clothing.”
“You mean I can’t get any freaking cash?”
“Sorry,” Jessica said. “But you didn’t buy the items.”
“Screw that,” Mandy said. She grabbed the bag and flounced out.
“Is that Dr. Dell’s new cookie?” Helen said.
“That’s her,” Jessica said. “And what a piece of work she is.”
“I’ve never seen two people who deserved each other more,” Helen said.
There was a soft “excuse me,” and Demi Dell was standing at the front counter in fresh tennis whites. Helen recognized her from her club photo.
“I’ll handle this,” Helen said to Jessica. “Demi Dell wants to pick up her new member card. I’ve already run it off the machine.”
The staff studied their desks or suddenly grabbed their phones. No one knew if Demi knew about the scene her husband created trying to get the bill or the infamous day of relaxation he’d bought for Mandy, his nasty staffer.
Demi signed the paperwork for her new card and left with good-byes and thank-yous. Helen could almost hear the audible sighs of relief when she was finally gone.
“She’s a nice person,” Xaviera said. “She doesn’t deserve him.”
“Who does?” Jessica said.
“Ms. Halter Top,” Helen said. “I wonder if Dr. Dell installed those outsized breasts.”
With that, Brenda with the hatchet-blade hair blew in the office. “We aren’t paying you to hold a cocktail party,” she said.
“Oh, boy,” whispered Jessica. “She’s in a mood.”
“Cam!” Brenda shouted. “What is that pile of files doing on your desk?”
“They’re resignations. I just got them this morning.”
“You should have processed them by now. You know Mr. Ironton hates desk clutter.”
Cam resentfully picked up the files.
“I’m going to reorganize the supply cabinet,” Brenda said. “It’s a mess.”
“Terrific. We won’t be able to find anything for weeks,” Jessica whispered. “I hate it when she starts straightening things. She always loses something important.”
The staff worked in sullen silence, except when they were on the phones. Helen could almost see the black clouds over their heads. She could hear slapping and thumping as Brenda worked in the supply cabinet.
By
three o’clock, Helen was hungry. She sneaked an energy bar out of her purse and took a bite, then hid the rest by her phone.
Brenda emerged, carrying a box of envelopes. “Helen! What’s that thing on your desk?” She pointed a nearly meatless arm dramatically at the half-eaten energy bar. “Throw it away. You know it’s against the rules to eat at your desk.”
Helen picked up the bar and shoved it in her purse. She wasn’t tossing it.
Brenda wheeled around and said, “Jackie, what’s that on the floor behind your desk?”
Jackie swivelled in her chair to check. “A piece of paper,” she said.
“Pick it up. This office is a pigsty. And why are you wearing open-toed slingbacks? You know they are against regulations.”
“My shoes—” Jackie began.
“No excuses. I’m writing you up.”
Jackie cowered miserably at her desk.
“And you, Xaviera. Why do you have those unsanitary daggers? Your nails should not be longer than half an inch. And red polish is strictly forbidden.”
“Go to hell,” Xaviera said. “You’re jealous because my nails are real. So are my boobs.”
“You can’t talk to me like that,” Brenda said. “I’m an assistant manager.”
Kitty came running out of her office, Kewpie-doll curls bouncing. “And I’m Xaviera’s supervisor. I’ll discipline my people. That’s not your job.”
“You aren’t doing your job,” Brenda said. “You’re letting them get away with murder.”
“Obviously, Brenda, you have a lot of time on your hands if you can interfere with my staff. Maybe I should ask Solange to give you additional duties.”
“She’s not here,” Brenda said.
But the office door opened, and Solange was there. She still looked like she’d just gotten out of bed, but after a sleepless night. There were dark shadows under her eyes that even concealer couldn’t cover.
“I had a horrible meeting with Mr. Ironton. Horrible.” Solange nervously ran her fingers through her tousled red hair. “But first, I have another issue to address. Has anyone found the Winderstine file?”
“We would have told you,” Kitty said. “We’ve looked everywhere.”
“The file room is a mess,” Brenda said. “I don’t see how you could find it.”
