Wide, dark wood planks ran the length of the hallway with more white on the walls and several closed doors. She made her way to the stairs. Then froze.
All along the stairway, perfectly spaced with large mattes and huge gold frames, hung black and white pictures. Of children.
The first one, a baby. Fuzzy duck-down head and wide eyes, she looked out on the world brand new. Clara’s heart caught in her throat.
She took a step down and stood in front of the next one, a few months older, in a simple white smock dress, hair long enough for a big white bow. And those gorgeous big eyes.
It continued like that, each step moving Clara a few months along this perfect baby’s life until—bam—midway along when the girl looked about two years old, another baby! Clara brought her hands to her mouth, tears springing to her eyes. Could she possibly be looking at her own children? These perfect, gorgeous creatures? In the second photo of the boy baby he wore a sailor suit and had Brad’s exact smile.
Then she heard it, the sound of voices. Her family? Clara suddenly felt terrified and amazed and frozen to the spot. How was she supposed to go meet her own children? Surely they’d see right through everything, know she wasn’t their Mommy, the one who wiped their noses and kissed their boo-boos and read their bedtime stories.
Why hadn’t she asked Jeanie more about how all of this worked? She’d been so confused, at first, and then simply so fixated on when she could see Brad she’d barely asked any questions. How was she supposed to re-insert herself into a reality she had no memory of?
She padded softly to the base of the stairs and listened. She heard the faint slam of what could be a cabinet door, but no more voices. To her right, she saw the living room, immaculate and decorated with still more gold-on-white. Did she keep her children in Hazmat suits?
She started down the hallway. Another closed door to her right. Taking a deep breath, she slowly turned the handle.
Cornell-a-pa-looza! A Cornell University pennant—wait, make that three pennants—shouted school pride from the tops of the wall-to-wall bookcases. Keeping them company was the Cornell clock, the black rocking chair with the official insignia in gold, a framed print of the clock tower and what looked like a campus map circa the 1920’s. Brad’s old lacrosse gear stood at the ready in the corner: helmet, jersey and stick. In the middle of it all stood a gigantic, pristine pool table that looked clean enough to eat off of. This Clara sure was a neat freak.
Exiting the man cave/study/shrine, she kept heading down the hall and then, to her left, turned into the kitchen.
Heart fluttering like a hummingbird, she saw them. Her children! Sitting at the breakfast nook, the sunlight illuminated their light blond hair. The little boy couldn’t be more than three; he kneeled on chubby legs and ate Cheerios with his fingers while studying something on the table. The girl looked around five and oh how beautiful she was! A soft wave in her hair, well past her shoulders, held back in a big bow. They both still wore their PJs, the boy’s blue with trains and the girl’s white with purple trim. She, too, looked down in rapt concentration.
Paralyzed and having some difficulty breathing, Clara stood in the corner, unnoticed. She realized she didn’t even know her own children’s names! But didn’t people call their kids all sorts of nicknames anyway? They only used their names when they were in trouble. She could simply say good morning and let things take their course.
A petite dark-haired young woman whisked a plate in front of the girl. “We have to leave in 10.”
With a loud clatter, the girl threw her plate to the floor. A muffin rolled off. “Are you trying to make me fat?” she screeched.
The young woman scurried after the muffin. “Please, Chandler,” she pleaded.
“I want Mommy toast!”
Wiping the back of her hand across her forehead, the woman looked remarkably exhausted for so early in the morning. “You know Mommy doesn’t like it when you eat all her special toast.”
“I want Mommy toast!” the little girl yelled again. With a hand up to her ear, she removed an earbud connected to a white wire down to what Clara could now see was an iPad. “And a teaspoon of almond butter. No jam,” she dictated, a tiny Mussolini. Then she put the earbud back in and resumed watching her show.
Defeated, the young woman moved toward the giant stainless steel refrigerator and retrieved a loaf of dark, thinly-sliced bread. The boy didn’t look up once throughout the exchange; Clara realized he was plugged into an iPad, too.
Clara took an involuntary step backward and smacked her head against the corner of a cabinet. She yelped in pain.
The young woman looked up, startled. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were there! You didn’t meet with your trainer today?”
Clara couldn’t find any words to answer.
The woman continued, “I’m so sorry! We’re running late!” Like a spaceship shifting into light speed, she began rushing around the kitchen with a sponge and a dishrag, wiping everything down as she thrust fruit and milk and jam back into the fridge and boxed up the cereal. “I’m so sorry everything’s such a mess! Chandler wouldn’t get out of bed and Bradley Jr. peed next to the potty instead of into it. But I’ll still try to get them to school as close to 8:30 as I can.”
“That’s OK.” Clara ventured forth a few steps. Neither child looked up.
“Kids! I need to get you dressed!” The young woman begged the children, neither of whom responded in any way. She spoke with a French accent—probably an au pair, Clara realized—and she moved toward Bradley Jr. with a t-shirt in her hand. He hit her, impressively quick and vigorous considering his divided attention.
“Trains! I wear trains!” he yelled.
“OK, OK,” she appeased him. With a shrug, she turned to Clara, who stood wooden with shock. “I’m so sorry.” Facing Chandler, she gestured to a neatly folded pile of clothes on the table. “Chandler, I laid out an outfit for you.” She spoke hesitantly. “Since you slept so late, I thought—”
“I’m not wearing that!” The clothes followed the prior course of the muffin, jettisoned across the kitchen floor. With a stomp and a flounce, the 5-year-old channeled her inner teenager and stormed out of the kitchen. Her iPad tight in her clutch, she didn’t spare a glance toward Clara.
The au pair cranked back into panic mode, whirling around the kitchen picking up discarded items and depositing uneaten food into the sink. “I’m sorry,” she said for the umpteenth time. “I know you don’t like me to leave dirty dishes in the sink but—”
“That’s OK.” Clara stood next to the kitchen island, mouth agape.
Ducking down, the au pair started pulling out drawers in the mud room leading to a side entrance. Grabbing a pink bag with ballet slippers on it, she yelled, “Chandler! We have to go!” Rushing to a cabinet, she took out two water bottles and filled them at the faucet. “I’ve been remembering to bring extra water bottles like you asked. I know you were angry last week. But Mondays are so hectic with Bradley Jr.’s preschool then tumbling then Music Together. And after school Chandler has her piano lesson and ballet and then her tutor.”
How old was Chandler again? “She has a tutor?”
“Remember, we had to switch it to Mondays because she has spring soccer now Tuesdays and Thursdays?” Shifting into a yell again, the au pair belted out, “Chandler!”
A brush along her leg and Clara watched Bradley Jr. walk out of the kitchen, slip on Crocs in the mudroom and head out the side door into the garage where a gleaming, brand-new silver SUV awaited. All without looking up from his iPad.
Another rush past her. “Lates,” Chandler called out as she ran into the garage.
“Sorry,” the au pair apologized once again. In a bundle of bags she closed the door, leaving Clara standing alone and utterly bewildered in what was supposedly her own kitchen.
With a chirp, her iPhone reminded her “9am Botox!”
CHAPTER 9
BANANA HAMMOCK
Lunch at the club. OK. Clara s
teadied her nerves for a moment, sitting in the country club parking lot in the driver’s seat of her immaculate, brand new white Cadillac Escalade. It had to have at least 4,000 pounds on her old tiny Mazda. Trying to navigate the great mass of metal and glass down winding, narrow, tree-lined streets had nearly given her a heart attack. She used the term “driving it” loosely; it had felt more as if the giant machine were driving her.
Flipping down the mirror in her sun shield, she checked her face. It felt itchy. The doctor at her morning Botox appointment had applied some make up with a sponge intended to both soothe and mask any red inflammations resulting from the treatment. It felt like being covered in a thin film of Elmer’s glue. Frightened of touching her skin—Clara had been reminded by the doctor not to massage it—she simply fanned herself. And decided to re-apply her lipstick. This Clara needed to keep up appearances.
She’d just spent nearly $1,000 at Saks on lingerie. Melissa, her personal shopper, had set aside the new looks from La Perla for her. She’d nearly passed out at the price tags. $480 for a babydoll and thong set? She doubted she’d spent that much, total, on clothing in the past year. Then again, you got a lot for your money at Walmart.
She wished she’d let loose and enjoyed the experience more, but she had so many questions. How did it work with a personal shopper? When she went through all that trouble to set things aside and spend time with you, did you give her a tip? Or did she work on commission and, if so, how much was Clara expected to spend? And what did this Melissa think of her? Obsequious as a geisha, she’d repeatedly gushed over how perfect everything looked on Clara and told her she should seriously be an underwear model. And yet, had she caught Melissa rolling her eyes? Once, when she’d thought Clara’s back was turned? Actually, her back had been turned but those 3-way mirrors afforded all sorts of angles.
Clara shrugged it off, telling herself that she just wasn’t used to all of this yet.
That had to be why scenes like what happened that morning in the kitchen rattled her so. When her daughter, whom she’d apparently named after a character from the sitcom Friends, had thrown her plate across the floor and screeched like a banshee. They’d been wired in so deep into their iPads they hadn’t noticed a thing around them. She didn’t think she’d left for school once during her entire childhood without a hug from mom. Those two kids seemed like they’d sock her in the eye if she tried any such thing.
That’s probably just how kids were these days. It only struck her as strange because she wasn’t used to being around children. She’d get used to it.
Bracing herself, she stepped out of the Escalade. More like jumped down from a great height, then wrestled with the giant door to whack it closed. Glancing down, what had seemed like a killer ensemble now looked somehow lacking. Melissa at Saks had said, “I like your casual look.” But what did that mean?
She began walking down the spotless, white walkway framed on either side by perfectly trimmed, perfectly bright green grass. Pressing a hand against her super-flat and toned abs, she realized she nearly had a six-pack down there. She suppressed an urge to pull up her shirt and check herself out. Tomorrow morning she’d be sure to make her 6:30am appointment. Sure enough, when she’d checked her phone she’d noticed she’d missed it. No outdoors trail running for this Clara; she was a certified gym bunny. Monday, Wednesday and Friday she started the day by working out for an hour and a half with a personal trainer at a nearby health club. Tuesdays she went to a Pilates class, Thursdays cardio kickboxing, and Saturdays yoga. Clara had viewed Sunday with wry surprise—what, a day off? Slacker.
At the door, some men in white button-down shirts and ties nodded to her. One rushed down the stairs behind her to meet a car. Valet parking, of course. She nearly bonked herself on the forehead. Duh. She wasn’t supposed to park all the way over in the far lot and walk in her pretty little shoes the long, arduous way over to the entrance. She had so much to learn.
Another young man held open a 10-foot-tall French door for her. She resisted a strong impulse to curtsey. Either that or wave like the queen of England. Eyes in appropriately servile downcast mode, he murmured, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Wilkins.”
Ooh! First time she’d heard that! Mrs. Wilkins. That was her! Clara stepped through the door with a “thanks!” and a new bounce in her step. She had yet to actually see her husband, but her husband he was. She’d left him a voicemail; surely she’d see him soon. And they had kids! Bratty and checked out they may be, but they were hers. What better project to devote the next few months to: Operation Connect, in which she and her children got to know each other.
At the front desk a young woman saw her and cleared her throat somewhat nervously.
“Which way is the restaurant?” Clara looked across the expansive foyer decorated in burgundies and creams. Through a doorway to her left she thought she saw some tables.
A serious-looking man in the staff white button down and burgundy tie intercepted her path.
“Ma’am,” he murmured, “do you have any more suitable attire?” Clara looked down at her diamond baubles and gold ballerina flats, unable to find an answer. “As I’m sure you’re aware,” he continued in low, discrete tones, “we do not permit jeans in the clubhouse.”
Clara’s cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. How dumb of her. Of course she’d never actually stepped foot in a place like this before; the swim or tennis clubs she’d gone to growing up had been the California variety where flip flops and tanks tops reigned supreme. She had no experience with this kind-of formal, stodgy Country Club, but you’d figure she could have picked up the dress code knowledge from watching TV. Yet no one in Downton Abbey even owned jeans.
“Perhaps you have something else? With your personal belongings in the ladies’ lounge? Or in your car?”
“I don’t know,” she mumbled, wishing she could crawl right under the carpet. She fit in as well as Elmer Fudd attending a premier at the Metopolitan Opera, or a cast member of The Jersey Shore delivering an address to the United Nations.
“Well, now, good afternoon, Mrs. Wilkins.” Another gentleman in staff attire joined their trio. Graying at the temples, he nodded a polite smile toward her. “What seems to be the trouble?”
“It’s, ah…” The younger man looked notably less comfortable after his boss greeted the jeans-clad woman by name.
“Proper attire, is it?” The older man discretely noted Clara’s jeans.
“I had an accident!” Clara suddenly blurted out. Realizing it sounded as if she’d peed herself, she added, “With a cat! It got sick all over me.” She waved her hands around her middle as if demonstrating the scene of the crime. “And I tried to clean it up but then a pen broke. And I sat on a lollipop.”
The man in charge cleared his throat, perhaps to stop her crazy train of excuses. “I’m terribly sorry to hear of your difficulties.”
“This was all I had in my car.”
“Certainly. Well, I’m sure an exception can be made for one of our favorite members. I know it won’t happen again.” He smiled at her reassuringly. The younger man blanched. “If you’d like to join the rest of your party.” He stood, gesturing to the side with his hands.
Clara tried to follow his suggestion but couldn’t see where she should go. “Are they…?”
“Allow me to escort you.”
Clara fell into step behind him. Why had she added that bit about the lollipop? She’d always been a terrible liar. Weren’t you supposed to keep it short and simple?
How had he managed to keep a straight face throughout her story? She pictured his country club management training. Aspiring administrators would have to spend weeks cultivating their poker face as they confronted preposterous scene after scene: an older woman declaring, “I’m the Pope”, a young blonde man claiming, “My father owns Bahrain!”, a nude couple caught in the act insisting, “Nothing’s happening here!” At the end he’d be given marks on how well he maintained his composure, his polite demeanor and his solicitous at
titude.
“There you are, Mrs. Wilkins.” He ushered her into the bright, airy dining room. More French doors overlooked a lawn with tulips in full bloom. “Your usual table by the windows.”
Two women sat at a table set for three. One wore a dazzlingly bright neon print maxi dress with both breasts and hair larger than life. Her super-sized Jackie O sunglasses—still on inside the club, perhaps due to the glare coming off her dress—threatened to swallow her face whole. The other women looked like the Formula 1 racecar version of high fashion: Prada, Gucci, Fendi, Ferragamo, and Tory Burch accessories plastered all over a Dianne Von Furstenberg wrap dress.
“Clara.” Jackie O sneered, lifting her drink in way of greeting.
“Don’t you look adorable.” The other friend sounded as enthused as a teenager forced to clean her room. She hoisted a handbag the size of Toledo off the table, then rested it on a nearby chair.
Clara squeaked a hello.
Jackie O tilted her giant sunglasses down a notch, enough to skewer Clara mercilessly with her eyes. “Volunteering at the preschool today?” She tittered at her own joke.
“Oh, yeah.” She looked down at her all-white ensemble, envisioning how wrong that could go amidst finger painting.
“I think you look cute,” the other protested in a nasal drawl. “A pair of tennies and you’d look like you were back in college.”
Oh. She got it. They were making fun of her jeans.
Clara sat down silent in the empty seat. She didn’t concoct another crazy story. She didn’t get snarky, either, pointing out that if she’d known she was dining with the former first lady she would have dressed up more. No, this was her new life and she was going to at least try it on for size.
A young, handsome waiter arrived at their table. His crisp white shirt showcased his olive skin nicely.
“Ladies,” he offered in greeting as he filled their water glasses.
“Just water, Marco? Is that all you have for us?” Labels removed her sunglasses—Gucci—then toyed with the metal arm along her blood-red lips.
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