The Club

by Jane Heller

  I ran to the phone to call Hunt at his office, but as I started to dial, I changed my mind and hung up. What if he was unimpressed by my cookbook deal, the way he’d been unimpressed by everything else I’d told him lately? Take my news about Ducky and Claire. “Ducky’s dying to get into Claire’s pants,” I’d said. “No way,” Hunt had said. “I’m telling you, I heard him,” I’d said. “You must have been imagining things. Ducky’s not like that,” he’d said. “Not like what?” I’d said, then added, “some men actually have sex once in a while. Some men actually think it’s fun to get laid.” “Are you suggesting I sleep with other women to prove to you that I’m a real man?” he’d said. “No,” I’d said. “I’m suggesting that you sleep with me.” Hunt did not take me up on my suggestion, and life went on.

  So it was with some reservation that I finally dialed his number at the office to tell him I was back in the book business at last.

  “That’s great, Jude,” he said. “I’m really proud of you, of the way you went after this thing.”

  This thing. Nice.

  “Thanks,” I said, trying to stay upbeat. “Want to celebrate tonight? Just the two of us?”

  “I wish I could, but Bree wants me to have dinner with Kimberley tonight. She’s feeling kind of blue.”

  “Who? Bree or Kimberley?”

  “Kimberley. Susie died.”

  “Susie? Was she a classmate of Kimberley’s?”

  “No, Susie was Kimberley’s gerbil.”

  “My condolences. Should I send flowers or a donation to Susie’s favorite charity?”

  “Jude.”

  “Sorry. I’m being selfish. I wanted you to take me to dinner tonight.”

  “I know, but Kimberley needs me.”

  So do I, I wanted to scream into the phone. And I have for months. I need you so much I fantasize about divorcing you.

  “I’m going to be working late tomorrow night and Wednesday night,” said Hunt. “And then there’s a meeting of the Finance Committee on Thursday night. Why don’t we celebrate on Friday night?”

  “I can’t,” I said. “I’m having dinner with Arlene on Friday night. She’s feeling kind of blue. Her rabbit died.”

  “Jude. There’s no need to play tit for tat.”

  “Who’s playing tit for tat? Arlene’s rabbit did die. She’s pregnant.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “You’re right, I am. I was playing tit for tat.”

  “Jude.”

  “I’ll see you at home later,” I said and hung up.

  Since Kimberley wasn’t due to arrive in Connecticut until Sunday and Arlene was spending July Fourth weekend in the Hamptons, Hunt and I invited Valerio up for the early part of the weekend. I cooked dinner for us on Friday night, and we took Valerio to The Oaks for dinner on Saturday night.

  “So thees eez the cluba,” he said as we were shown to a table in the main dining room.

  “Super place, isn’t it?” said Hunt as he surveyed the room. People at several tables waved.

  “Eet’s nice,” said Valerio, who grabbed my hand and kissed it while Hunt wasn’t looking. “But a leetle plain, no?”

  I laughed, thinking of Valerio’s restaurant on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. It was the antithesis of “plain,” with its heavy drapes and tassled lamp shades and thick shag carpet that was such a loud red you could dump a gallon of marinara sauce on it and never see it.

  While we all sipped cocktails and Hunt discussed the finer points of commodities trading, I was busy peeling Valerio’s hand off my thigh, which he kept trying to squeeze under the table.

  Then our dinner arrived. I had warned Valerio that the food at The Oaks wasn’t up to his standards, but when he tasted his steak, he reacted with horror.

  “Thees eez sheeta,” he said.

  “Then send it back,” I suggested. “You ordered it medium rare. It looks well done.”

  “It isn’t that,” he said, abruptly losing his accent. “It’s the meat. It’s not prime beef.”

  “Of course it’s prime,” said Hunt. “Judy’s right, though. If it isn’t cooked the way you ordered it, send it back.”

  Valerio shook his head. “It’s not prime,” he said. “It’s a shitty grade of beef. I can tell by the taste and by the ratio of fat marbling to red meat. Believe me, I know food.”

  Hunt looked peeved. “I’m on the Finance Committee here,” he explained to Valerio, “and I’m telling you, The Oaks pays for prime meat. Not choice. Prime. I see the bills after they’ve been approved by the chef and signed by the treasurer.”

  Approved by the chef. If Brendan was as lousy a food purveyor as he was a food preparer, God knows what garbage we were eating.

  “Let me tell you, Hunt,” said Valerio. “You’re paying for quality you’re not getting.”

  “Valerio,” I said, “why don’t we send your entrée back and get you something else?”

  He agreed. We called the waiter over and explained that our guest was unhappy with his dinner. Valerio took another look at the menu and chose the rack of lamb. When it arrived twenty minutes later, we went through the same scenario.

  “The lamb is shit too,” said Valerio, thoroughly disgusted. “You may be paying for prime, but you’re not getting it. You’re not even getting choice.”

  Valerio said he was no longer hungry. So did Hunt. I, on the other hand, ate virtually every morsel of my dry, overcooked Dover sole. As I said earlier, I never passed up a meal, even one of Brendan’s.

  I was in remarkably good spirits as I dressed for the club’s Wild West July Fourth party on Monday night. Yes, despite the fact that I’d be spending the evening at a place I despised with my recalcitrant, manipulative stepdaughter, my remote, humorless in-laws, and my inattentive, golf-obsessed husband, I was feeling happy and optimistic for the first time in months. It had occurred to me that perhaps I didn’t need a job at Charlton House or any other publishing company; that if the cookbook I was writing with Claire sold even half as well as Valerio’s Kitchen, I’d never have to work for the Leeza Grummonds of the world again. The idea was incredibly liberating.

  “Almost ready?” Hunt asked as he entered the bedroom.

  I took one look at him and burst out laughing. He was supposed to be dressed as a cowboy, but he was the preppiest cowboy this side of Brooks Brothers. I mean, when was the last time you saw a cowboy wearing white pants—pleated and with cuffs?

  “My jeans seem to have shrunk” was his explanation.

  “Maybe your waist expanded” was mine.

  He shrugged. “Like the hat?”

  Along with the white pants, he was wearing a blue denim work shirt (Ralph Lauren), white boating shoes (Topsiders), and an authentic cowboy hat (Billy Martin).

  “The hat’s just great,” I said. “You’re the spitting image of Lee Majors on ‘The Big Valley.’”

  He grinned, and for a moment, he did look every bit the handsome TV star. I felt a sudden attraction toward him and was flooded with memories of how it used to be with us. For despite the distance between us, despite the months of benign neglect, despite the fights and the silences and the tentative truces, I still found the man appealing. He had glorious golden hair and earnest, kind eyes and the whitest, straightest teeth I’d ever seen. And then there were his lean but muscular legs that I used to love to be entangled by. Even his hands turned me on. They were the hands of an artist, not a pork bellies trader—elegant, strong, nimble. I sighed as I thought back on the steamy, endless nights of our courtship, when those hands played magic tricks with my body. I missed that Hunt, that man whose love I felt with such force it used to take my breath away, that man who—

  “Where’s the rest of your costume?” he asked, interrupting my reverie, which was just as well.

  “Here.” I lifted my Davy Crockett ’coonskin hat out of the box and put it on my head. The rest of my outfit consisted of a midcalf blue jeans skirt, a red-and-white-checked shirt, and cowboy boots. Not very original, but what do
you expect? I couldn’t go dressed as an Indian, not in these politically correct times and not when I had been the household’s most vociferous critic of the Tomahawk Chop.

  “What do you say, Davy?” Hunt smiled. “Shall we go?”

  “Is Kimberley ready?” I asked. My stepdaughter had decided not to dress in costume. She’d said the idea of a July Fourth Wild West party at the club was weird. I couldn’t argue with her there.

  “Mother and Dad are meeting us at the club,” said Hunt.

  “Good,” I said and meant it. The less time I had to spend with my in-laws, the better.

  It was a beautiful, crystal-clear July evening, with the temperature hovering around seventy degrees and the humidity low and comfortable. There was no threat of rain, the mosquitoes were tolerable, and the club’s manicured grounds looked positively pristine. Thanks to the great weather, the party was set up outside, on the terrace by the pool. When we arrived, the band—six men in denim overalls who called themselves The Cowpokes—were entertaining the members with their rousing rendition of the theme from “Bonanza.”

  Our table, I was pleased to discover, was only a few feet away from Claire’s, and you’ll never guess what she came dressed as: an Indian! Of course, she described her costume as “the authentic garb of a Native American medicine woman,” which only goes to show that political correctness is as political correctness does.

  She stopped by to say hello as we were having cocktails.

  “Here’s to America’s independence,” she said, then shook hands with each of us.

  Hunt told Claire how thrilled he was about our cookbook, which was something he’d neglected to tell me. I told Claire that I hoped we could finish the outline for the book within the next few weeks. Kimberley asked Claire if she had ever met Oprah Winfrey and, if so, whether she looked fatter or thinner in person. And Hunt’s parents never opened their mouths, even to say hello. Eventually, Claire went back to her table, where she held court with four single women who had applied for membership in The Oaks and were waiting to hear if they’d been accepted. They were all very young and attractive, and they drew daggers from some of the established members—male and female.

  I spotted the Duncan Tewksburys and their guests, Larkin and Perry Vail with their five children, and Ducky and Nedra Laughton with the Vanderhoffs and the Etheridges. I also noticed that Brendan, the chef, was busy toting large silver platters onto the buffet table, and I wondered if he suspected that Claire was doing her best to have him fired. Ditto: Rob, the tennis pro, whom we passed in the parking lot as we arrived at the club.

  “So, Mom and Dad,” I said to my in-laws, “how’ve you both been?”

  Hunt’s father, Hunter Dean Price II, had taken the club’s invitation to dress in Western clothing seriously. He had come as a ranch hand, complete with leather chaps and a lasso. The outfit was perfect, except for those white socks, which he wore everywhere, even to bed.

  Hunt’s mother, who was called “Kitty” by her husband and “Betty” by everyone else, had chosen not to come in costume, but wore a sleeveless cotton dress with a floral print, white sandals, and a pearl necklace. She was dressed not for a Wild West party but for church. As I’ve said, my mother-in-law was not a barrel of laughs.

  “How’ve you both been?” I asked again, having not gotten a response the first time.

  “Well,” said Hunt II.

  I assumed my father-in-law’s “well” was a prelude to the rest of his answer, as in: “Well, we’ve been just fine.” But it turned out that “well” was his answer, as in: “Fine.”

  “How about you, Mom?” I asked Hunt’s mother. “Are your cataracts still giving you trouble?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  And that was the end of that. Oh, I could have pressed on. I could have said daughter-in-lawish things like: “I’m sorry to hear that, Mother dear.” Or: “Can I drive you to the eye doctor next week?” Or: “Would you like me to switch seats with you so the moonlight isn’t in your eyes?” But why bother? I decided. Let Hunt be the sport. She’s his mother. My mother didn’t make people work so hard. If you asked Lucille Mills about her cataracts, she’d tell you, probably much more than you’d ever want to know. But then my parents were as different from Hunt’s parents as bagels and Wonder Bread. When the two couples met at our wedding, they came to the swift and unspoken conclusion that they had nothing in common; that they would never play bridge together, never take transatlantic cruises together, never get together to giggle over our baby pictures. The only time they communicated with each other was at Christmas, when my father, the former “Mr. Butcher,” always sent Hunt’s parents a package of freeze-dried Omaha steaks, and Hunt’s parents, people of few words, always sent my father a one-line thank-you note.

  “When’s dinner?” Kimberley asked as she sucked the last of her Shirley Temple through the straw and made obnoxious, slurping noises in the process. When I asked her to stop, she began to play with the book of matches on the table, then lit one and blew it out.

  “Kim, please don’t do that,” I said, since no one else did.

  She looked over at her father, who was busy waving at Addison Bidwell and his wife. Then she looked back at me and asked again about dinner.

  “I think it’s a buffet,” I said. “Why don’t we all get in line?”

  I’d always thought buffet dinners were incredibly uncivilized. You had to slough your way through food that had already been picked over by dozens of other people and was inevitably ice cold, except when it was supposed to be. Still, buffets served their purpose: they provided an escape from one’s dinner companions—a respite from having to sit at the table and make conversation with people whose idea of small talk was speaking in monosyllables.

  We ate cheeseburgers and baked beans and cole slaw (the mayonnaise-y kind Hunt loved), and for dessert, we had make-your-own ice cream sundaes. Kimberley knocked hers over as she was taking her first bite, and I agreed to walk over to the buffet table to get her another one. As I passed Claire’s table, I noticed that she wasn’t there. Then one of the women waved me over.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I saw Claire talking to you earlier.”

  “Yes, I’m Judy Mills. Claire and I are writing a cookbook together,” I said proudly. I still couldn’t get over the fact that my name was going to be linked with Claire’s for all eternity.

  “Hi, Judy. I’m Sharon Klein, Claire’s accountant.” We shook hands. “We’re all a little worried about Claire,” she went on. “She told us she had to meet someone and would be back in plenty of time for dinner.”

  “Someone here? At the club?” I asked.

  “Yes. She said it would only take a few minutes.” She checked her watch. “But that was over an hour ago.”

  My face flushed as I thought of Claire and Ducky. Had he talked her into a quickie on the golf course? No, neither of them was that tacky. Besides, it had sounded to me like Claire didn’t want anything to do with Ducky.

  “We don’t know anyone here, since we’re not members yet,” said Sharon. “But we saw Claire talking to you, so we thought maybe you could give us some idea of where she might have gone.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t have a clue offhand,” I said. “But let me get my stepdaughter her ice cream sundae and I’ll take a look around.”

  “Thanks, Judy.”

  “Sure.”

  Boy, that was strange, I thought as I waited on the dessert line for twenty minutes and then heaped hot fudge sauce and chopped M&Ms and whipped cream and slivered almonds on a scoop of vanilla ice cream. When I brought the sundae back to Kimberley, she took one look at it and said, “You forgot the cherry!”

  No, I didn’t throw the sundae at her, much as I wanted to. But I didn’t run and get the cherry either. I told Hunt to do it, then I excused myself and went to look for Claire.

  First I checked the powder room. Then the ladies’ locker room. Then every room in the clubhouse. Then I walked over to the parking lot to see if Cl
aire’s car, a white Range Rover with a “Pro Choice” bumper sticker on it, was still there. It was. Where on earth could she be? I wondered.

  I decided to return to the party in case Claire had come back. But when I approached her table, I saw that her place was still empty.

  “Jude? What are you doing?” Hunt asked.

  “I’m trying to find Claire,” I said. “She’s missing.”

  “What do you mean ‘missing’?” he said, in that exasperated tone meant to suggest that I was imagining things again.

  “Just what I said, Hunt. Her friends say she’s been gone for over an hour.”

  “So? Maybe she’s been on the phone all that time,” Hunt said. “She’s a lady with a lot going on.”

  “I checked the phones,” I said.

  “How about the bathroom?” said Hunt. “Maybe the Wagon Train menu didn’t agree with her.”

  “She never got around to sampling the Wagon Train menu,” I said. “She left before dinner was served.”

  “She could be anywhere,” said Hunt. “The Oaks is a big place.”

  “I know. That’s what worries me,” I said. “I think we should call the police. Maybe she fell and hurt herself. Or maybe she’s been kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped? Oh, cool,” said Kimberley.

  “Jude, sit down and have some coffee,” said Hunt.

  “I don’t want coffee,” I said. “I want to find Claire.”

  “I’m telling you, she’ll turn up,” said Hunt. “Let’s not spoil our evening, huh?”

  Maybe he was right, I thought. Maybe Claire had simply gotten into a long conversation with someone and had lost track of time. Or maybe she was in the bathroom. I didn’t peek under every stall, for God’s sake. Maybe she was fine. Maybe she would turn up.

  I sat back down at the table and tried to make light banter with my in-laws, which is like trying to squeeze orange juice out of a baseball. Another half-hour went by and still Claire had not returned to her table.