by Josie Brown
Isabelle’s anger-management classes have taught her to channel her aggression elsewhere. Her new vice: binge eating. Still, I guess you can say that therapy does work after all.
Oh yeah, and drugs. Lots of wonderful mood-altering prescription pharmaceuticals.
Now I feel safe enough to pretend to be miffed. “I’m sorry. Did I say something funny?”
At first Isabelle just shrugs, then looks from side to side at the others for support. Margot’s smirk gives her the courage to go on. “I don’t know, but doesn’t it strike you that his pleading innocent about his wife’s affair is a bit—well, disingenuous?”
My first inclination is to administer my own sucker punch. Instead I feign ignorance. “Gee, I guess I’m not following you. Are you saying he should have been psychic? That he should have deduced what was going on here while he was at work?”
“I think what Isabelle means to say,” Margot interjects quickly, “is that the guy obviously has a lot on the ball. Why didn’t he pick up on the fact DeeDee was unhappy? My God, she was certainly upset enough to take a lover.”
I shake my head, hoping that someone else will jump in on my side, but the others want to see where this is going before they weigh in with their own two cents.
I guess I don’t really blame them. Since very little is known about either half of the Perfect Couple, their natural inclination is to side with one of their own kind.
And since DeeDee has all the right equipment, she wins their vote. At least for now.
Wouldn’t I feel the same way? I ask myself. Well, yeah, I guess I would . . . if I hadn’t seen this very strong, very together guy go to pieces in front of my eyes.
“Look, Lyssa, I’m sure Harry is a very nice guy and all,” says Brooke gently. “But admit it: you’ve only heard one side of the story. You—or any of us—don’t really know why she left. Heck, for all we know, he beat her every night with a stick—”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Oh, come on! The guy’s wife leaves him, and now we have him beating her black and blue? Isn’t that just a bit—oh, I don’t know . . . sexist?”
“Maybe Lyssa has a point,” Colleen, our resident romantic, chimes in with that breathy kewpie-doll voice of hers, all wide-eyed innocence. “I guess we shouldn’t assume anything one way or the other, if we don’t even know the man. Right?”
The rest of them lean forward expectantly.
Cha-ching! The conversation has come around to where I’d hoped. Silently I bless the fact that Colleen is once again attending our meetings (but only because she’s finally weaned herself from the notion that McGuyver, her three-year-old son, still needs to be breast-fed), and I go in for the close. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t I arrange a little get-together tomorrow? You know, we can all meet for coffee, and you all can get to know him better.”
Their slight nods are casual enough, but the sly smiles that slip onto their faces for a mere nanosecond speak volumes.
Only Margot is still wary. “Well . . . I guess that will be okay. His son is the same age as my Laurel, and he seems polite enough. Although, considering how absent his father has been in the past, I assume his manners are his mother’s doing.”
To keep from reacting to her remark, I look down at the marble floor and focus on its dizzying herringbone pattern. I hope I don’t throw up before I can think of an answer that won’t blow this for Harry. The fact that Harry is a man—and a very handsome one at that—makes him catnip to this group of women who, by the time the last mojito has been poured, will readily admit that their sex lives leave a lot to be desired.
Well, Harry is certainly desirable.
Before I have a chance to answer Margot, Tammy mutters, “If you think DeeDee is some kind of Miss Manners, you’re wrong. Admit it, Margot, the only time that woman ever said two words to any of us was when she wanted something. I for one think she’s a very cold fish.”
“Well, she warmed up to someone. Ha! I wish we knew who he is,” Brooke says slyly.
I can feel Margot’s back stiffen. “That’s just my point. We don’t know anything at all, about either of them. So why stick our noses in their business now? I mean, for all we know, it may be one of our husbands she’s sleeping with.”
For the second time this evening, the room is dead silent. Warily we all glance at each other as we contemplate this crazy thought.
Then Isabelle snickers again.
One by one, our giggles join her cackle as we all hit on the same vision:
DeeDee Wilder, Paradise Heights’s ice queen, trading handsome Harry for one of the other husbands whose sexual prowess at least one of us thinks she can vouch for.
Or, more honestly, couldn’t vouch for if her life depended on it.
9
“Men always want to be a woman’s first love.
Women like to be a man’s last romance.”
—Oscar Wilde
Wednesday, 6 Nov., 9:06 a.m.
I’ve arranged for the meet-and-greet to take place the next morning after school drop-off, at the Paradise Heights Starbucks. For some stupid reason I seem more nervous about it than Harry, who laughs off my suggestion that we rendezvous earlier than the nine o’clock appointment time so that we can commandeer enough chairs in the primo spot, a windowed nook.
“In fact,” he says much too casually, “I may be running a little late. Why don’t you save me a seat near you?”
I bite my lip to keep from reacting like an overbearing mother whose first-grader has made the inevitable pronouncement that from now on he plans on walking to school without her.
Unlike Harry, I fully comprehend the importance of this first impression to his future here in the Heights. Thus far, though, playing hard to get has worked in his favor, so maybe he knows what he’s doing after all.
Still, my heart flutters when I get there and realize that everyone has arrived but Harry. My friends try to keep their expressions blank, but I feel an undercurrent of excitement. They are as giddy as sophomore schoolgirls on a first date with the football team’s captain.
Although it has not yet been determined if Harry is friend or foe, full war paint has been applied. (What, did they all stop by Benefit for makeovers first?) And unlike me, all of them have forgone the usual morning attire—yoga pants and hoodies—for slim designer jeans and fitted jackets over tight tees. What better occasion is there to show off the results of a three-day-a-week Bikram yoga regime than a coffee date with the neighborhood DILF?
Each of my friends is sipping her usual poison. For Brooke, it’s a nonfat green chai latte, while Isabelle guiltily tucks into a fully loaded mocha Frappuccino. Tammy is apparently already on her second double cappuccino; and Colleen, a follower even down to her choice of brew, mimics alpha-diva Margot’s pick: a grande caramel macchiato.
I pray that Harry gets here soon, before they are too hyped up to pay him his due.
Today I am too nervous for my usual triple venti vanilla nonfat latte, and settle for a Calm tea instead. Thank goodness only Brooke notices this. I expect she’ll tease me unmercifully when she and I regroup later this afternoon at after-school pickup, when we’ll do our own postgame analysis of Harry’s audition.
I’ve just sat down with my tea when Harry makes his entrance. He is a study in casual elegance: white shirt under a V-neck cashmere pullover, and khakis with a razor-sharp crease. Does he hear the involuntary chorus of admiring sighs that greets him? I’m guessing not. Otherwise he’d be running for his life instead of sauntering over with that confident grin.
As I jump up to make the necessary introductions, my cup of tea tilts and splatters my hoodie. Ever the gentleman, Harry quickly reaches for a spare napkin, but stops short of patting my breast dry.
Margot’s smile is wicked. It wouldn’t surprise her in the least if a burn mark suddenly appeared, shaped like the letter A.
To the other women, though, Harry is a savior, having brought with him a gift box: cupcakes from the Palo Alto Sprinkles just
down the road. Ah, so that’s why he’s late! And knowing my friends’ love of this particular treat, it was certainly worth the trip.
“Can’t do coffee on an empty stomach. Besides, you girls are skinny enough.” He serves up these guilty pleasures with a chuckle before queuing up for his own preferred brew.
I can’t help but marvel at his gamesmanship. Beating DeeDee in this messy divorce may mean winning friends and influencing frenemies. And if our little coffee klatch is any indication, both are in abundance here in the Heights.
“Mmmm, not bad,” murmurs Isabelle. By the way she’s eyeing Harry’s well-toned backside, I take it she’s not talking about the coconut bourbon cupcake she’s just wolfed down.
“Right, a real sweetie. What’s that saying again? Oh yeah: ‘Beware of strangers bearing gifts.’” Only Margot, suspicious as always, refuses to indulge. From her frown, you’d think the cupcakes’ icing was sprinkled with polonium-210. To make the point that she won’t allow Harry’s interview to be, quite literally, a cakewalk, Margot flicks a glazed coconut flake off Isabelle’s cheek.
By the time he’s back at the table, Margot has nudged her reluctant minions into line. Now they won’t dare melt under the heat of his clear blue eyes or the warmth of his smile.
The inquisition begins.
My bet with Harry was that the women would wait at least half an hour before the grilling commenced.
I am wrong. After only fourteen minutes of polite chitchat, in which Harry liberally sprinkles subtle compliments to each woman between questions about their children’s ages, the care and feeding of their lawns, and the sports teams their husbands worship, Isabelle murmurs none too subtly, “A shame. About you and DeeDee, I mean.”
Harry’s smile turns down just slightly at the corners. “Yeah, I think so too. I guess it happens in the best of families.”
Colleen takes up the baton. “Is it true that—well, that someone else was involved?” Then, all doe-eyed innocence, she adds, “Oh! I’m sorry! Look, really, don’t feel you have to answer that.”
Liar.
If he doesn’t answer, they won’t trust him.
And if they don’t trust him, they won’t accept him. Ever.
It is Harry’s moment of truth, his rite of passage, and doesn’t he just know it. His eyes catch mine for a mere nanosecond, as if to say BRING. IT. ON.
Dear Harry, be careful what you wish for. . . .
“It’s funny you should ask, Colleen.” Harry shifts slightly closer to her and oh-so-gently grazes her little finger with his own, creating the kind of intimacy that this perennial sports widow with three hyperactive sons and an obsession with romance novels has only dreamt about. “Since—well, since she left me, I’ve been wondering the same thing myself.”
Brooke’s perfect pout falls open. Her disappointment is obvious. “Then you don’t know for sure?”
He gives Colleen’s hand a light pat before turning those piercing baby-blues on Brooke.
“No, Brooke, I can’t say that I do. All I know is that she—we—quit talking about a month ago. I don’t mean that we stopped chitchatting about the usual stuff: the kids, finances, you know, those ‘Hi, honey, how was your day?’ comments. But one day those really deep conversations we both lived for just went away.” As he looks down at his coffee, the women exchange glances, and I know why. Harry Wilder has just presented the ultimate fantasy:
A husband who actually wants to have a two-way conversation.
“At first I just assumed she was a bit preoccupied. Temple has just started kindergarten, and now that Jake’s in the eighth grade, all of a sudden he’s discovered girls.” Tammy, Brooke, and I chuckle appreciatively. We all have boys in middle school, and have seen a big change in their behavior. “But DeeDee’s never been one to complain. She’ll ask for help only when she’s done everything she can on her own. Frankly, that’s one of the things I love about her. I assume you noticed that about her too.”
The women smile and nod absently, then drop their heads guiltily. The truth is that none of us were ever close to DeeDee. In fact, just hearing Harry talk so lovingly about the woman renowned for her frigid air makes him even more of a saint in our eyes.
“Of course, I assumed that eventually she’d mention whatever was bothering her. But she never did. Little did I know that I was the problem.”
“Surely there must have been some telltale signs. There always are. . . .” Even as Tammy says this, it’s obvious to everyone at the table that she is grasping at straws.
“You know, I’ve thought about that. Were there times she was sad? Or angry? Did she leave me notes, asking to talk things out? No. She’s always grace under pressure.”
Translation: DeeDee’s frozen smile was a Kabuki mask that never came off. Not even for her husband.
“As for our lovemaking—well, quite frankly, if I were to describe it, I guess I’d say we went at it like teenagers. Particularly after a business trip . . . Sorry, I’m speaking out of school here. Oh, what the hell. I’m among friends, right?” Sheepishly he looks down at his coffee. Everyone’s eyes focus on the way his large, broad hands easily envelop his mug. I can just imagine what they are thinking: Large digits, large dick . . .
To break the spell, I ask the question that is on everyone’s lips: “How exactly did she walk out?”
“It happened on Halloween. I’d had a low-grade fever that morning, so I came home from work earlier than usual. My garage door opener wasn’t working, so I parked in the driveway and tried the front door, but it was locked. I let myself in through the back. At first I didn’t hear anything at all. Only when I got into the bedroom did I realize that DeeDee was in the shower, with . . . with . . .” He stops for a moment, closes his eyes, and rubs his forehead. Obviously, the memory of the day still leaves him dumbfounded.
Well, that’s too bad, because the suspense is killing the rest of us. Even the ever-snide Isabelle is enthralled. I can tell because she’s stopped midgobble on her third cupcake to choke out, “With whom?”
The spell is broken. He looks over at her, surprised. “Whom? No one. She was alone. But she was fully dressed. Crying. Sobbing in the shower. It was as if she’d—cracked somehow.”
In her clothes?
That was the very last thing the others expected—or wanted—to hear. Out of her clothes would have been more like it.
And in some other man’s arms.
Especially since they now know a shower was involved. . . .
No one says anything at first. It is Brooke who finally breaks the awkward silence. “So, what did she say when . . . you know, when she finally came out?”
“You mean, when I pulled her out? That she loved me. That she knew I loved her too, but that she was no longer—how did she put it? Oh yeah, that she was no longer in love with me. That she could no longer pretend that everything was just fine, or that she was living her life on terms that worked for her. That something—something big—was missing. And it would always be that way if she didn’t get out. Now. Just what the hell does that mean, exactly?”
He’s addressing that not to any one of us, but to all of us. If we were to be honest with him, with ourselves, we’d have to admit that we’ve all been there at one time or another.
“Listen, I want to thank all of you for just—well, for listening to me go on like this.” We see the pain in his frown. “Maybe if DeeDee and I had had conversations like this, even a month ago, we might still be together. I guess it’s not fair to blame her for something I didn’t do well myself.”
Harry doesn’t exactly tear up, but his eyes are glassy. He is unsteady as he rises to his feet. The comforting pats he receives from Tammy and Isabelle assure him that he has won the redemption he seeks. Colleen and Brooke actually jump up and give him kisses on his cheek.
He is still their Perfect Guy. Better yet, he’s now their friend too.
Only Margot is still a nonbeliever. “Truly touching. But I, for one, would be interested in hearing DeeDe
e’s side of it.”
The others flinch at her bluntness, but Harry smiles as if she’s paid him a compliment. “You and me both. But I guess that’s wishful thinking on my part. Because, despite what happened, I’m still in love with her.”
Her response is a shrug.
Time is up. Harry has given it his best shot, but the reality is that Margot refuses to fold. And because she insists on full submission from her minions, eventually they will find reasons to dislike him too.
Just when I think all is lost, he turns to Margot with a sideways glance. “Wait a minute. You said your last name is Hardaway? Wow, then you must be the mom of that adorable kid Laurel.”
Bull’s-eye!
Margot blushes. A genuine smile breaks out on her lips. Truly, there is no greater sound to a mother’s ear than praise for her offspring. And Harry’s compliment is all the sweeter because Laurel, the leader of the middle school’s posse of mean girls, nets her mother more enemies than friends. (In that regard, the nut does not fall far from the tree.) “You know Laurel?”
“Of course. We are talking about the Laurel who cheers at the middle-school boys’ basketball games, right? My Temple thinks she’s the cutest one on the squad. Jake is the team captain, you know. In fact, I think he’s got a bit of a crush on her. Of course, he probably wouldn’t like it that I let that out of the bag.”
“Oh . . . yes, that’s my Laurel. And, no! I won’t say anything about Jake. And, um, feel free to invite Laurel over anytime. To babysit Temple, I mean.” Jake is the class hunk. Even Margot knows that. The last thing she’d want to do is throw a wet blanket on her daughter’s crush. How would that play out in Laurel’s twice-weekly therapy sessions?
Mine is the last SUV to leave the lot. I’ve just pulled up to the light when my cell phone rings. I don’t recognize the number, but the voice is unmistakably Harry’s. “So, what do you think? Did I pass inspection?”