All That Lies Broken (Ashmore's Folly Book 2)

by Forrest, Lindsey

  A flag waved in the breeze, a reminder of the real meaning of the day. The caterers had set up a series of tables along the eastern end of the terrace, and a group of children sat at a kid-size table, eating hot dogs and hamburgers. The teens and pre-teens had gone down to the pool, and their splashing and horseplay echoed back up the stones.

  Above the conversations around the terrace, the men standing around in groups, the women sitting at the tables, she heard the music on a first-class sound system. Richard had stayed up late to burn his own playlists on CDs (“so I don’t have to listen to anything I don’t like,” she had heard him tell a group laughingly), and she prayed that he hadn’t included any Cat Courtney songs. Enough people recognized her that it would prove awkward if they suddenly heard “Midnight” or “Persephone” and then looked at Laura Abbott, dressed not in lace and pearls but in khaki pedal pushers, navy polo shirt, and sandals.

  It would be even worse if they heard the haunting eroticism of “He Never Loved Me” and figured out that the man in the song was their host.

  Lucy waved at her. Laura squared her shoulders and went down to sit with Lucy and Mel and the Queen Bees.

  Laura had picked up on the group dynamics right away. Surprisingly, Mel, not Lucy, was the Queen Bee. Mel was a natural leader, taking charge without hesitation; Laura suspected that she kept her husband and four children in line. Scott McIntire seemed like a nice man – she had watched the interaction between Ashmore & McIntire at lunch, and had seen that they complemented each other well, the silver-quick thinker and the outgoing former college jock – and he appeared fond enough of his wife not to resent her managing ways.

  If Mel was the head of the Queen Bees, Lucy was the heart, Laura thought, as she fended off the margarita Mel tried to press on her. As bossy as Lucy could be, no one could ever doubt that she acted from the heart, wanting only the best for everyone. Certainly, in her social circle, Lucy seemed to be the one everyone liked, Mel the one everyone obeyed.

  The women – a core group of six – were all professionals married to other professionals, and, except for Lucy, everyone had children of various ages running around. Occasionally, one left the table to go over to straighten something out with a child, but apparently, by tradition, the men were supposed to keep an eye on their offspring. The women were here to bond and drink themselves three sheets to the wind. It was probably one of the few times they could relax.

  And if someone didn’t relax, by God, Mel would know the reason why.

  Listening to them, Laura learned that they numbered in their ranks a prosecutor, a freelance architect, an investment banker, and an internist. They all, Mel and Lucy included, had important jobs; they were a force in their community. They all had graduate degrees. She told herself not to be intimidated. She had no reason to apologize for being Cat Courtney.

  Still, writing a song didn’t seem as important as identifying a child suffering from abuse in the ER, as Mel had done the day before. It wasn’t as important as prosecuting drug dealers or working with AIDS patients or designing libraries or providing venture capital to create jobs. She was an entertainer. She wasn’t making the world a better place to live.

  “What do you do, Laura?” asked the woman next to Mel. Laura tried to put a name to her – Amy Something, the investment banker. She was the only one besides Lucy on the wagon; she was discreetly nursing a baby.

  “I work in theater.” That seemed vague enough not to invite too much comment.

  “Oh,” said Amy, and rearranged a receiving blanket to cover the baby’s head. “You have such an unusual last name. I thought you might be part of St. Bride Investments.”

  There shouldn’t be any danger in admitting this. “That was my father-in-law’s bank.”

  “Is your husband with the bank? Maybe I know him. We have a reciprocal relationship with St. Bride Investments.”

  Laura shook her head, and watched as Mel wrote 9/11 on a napkin and slid it in front of Amy. Amy gave her a startled look and said, her voice hushed, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.”

  She could have kicked Mel. There was no need to embarrass the poor woman. “My husband had a computer company before he passed away. He never worked for the bank, but my sister did for a few years.”

  She listened to a discussion about a charity event later in the summer and sipped a soft drink as defense against Mel’s continued proffer of a margarita. As a doctor, Mel ought to accept no for an answer. For all she knew, Laura could be an alcoholic.

  Perhaps margaritas were an initiation ritual for this suburban sorority.

  “We need to talk about your coming confinement,” Mel said to Lucy. Clearly, she knew all about Lucy’s pregnancy. “When is Chris putting you to bed?”

  “Oh, don’t remind me,” Lucy sighed. “Middle of August until December. She says I can get up after Christmas if everything looks okay. I am going to go insane.”

  “Just remember it’s for a good cause.” Mel pulled out a well-scuffed Palm Pilot. “August, September… okay, ladies, need your attention.” She raised her voice slightly, and the chatter between the architect and the internist died down. Laura wanted to laugh. These women probably took orders from very few others, yet let their leader speak, and they all snapped to. “We need to help Lucy with meals and housekeeping here, or,” and she looked at Laura, “do you want to take charge of this?”

  She probably should. Lucy was her sister, after all. But Lucy cut in before she could say anything. “Laura’s tied up all fall.”

  Her tone didn’t suggest blame; she didn’t hint that Laura should not get involved. Lucy was being helpful, trying to let her off the hook. But maybe Lucy was also, once again, resisting letting her family do anything for her.

  Laura leaned across Lucy and spoke directly to Mel. “It’s true, I have to be out of the country. I wouldn’t have scheduled it if I’d known, but I’m committed now. So if you don’t mind organizing, I’ll be glad to help with whatever Lucy needs.” She could arrange for a housekeeper, pay for catered meals, ensure that Lucy had whatever she needed to keep from going crazy. “I have a week here and there scheduled off where I can fly in.”

  Mel nodded in approval. Apparently, she had passed some test – the good sister test, or the not-too-stuck-up-to-help test. “That’s great. I’ll call you and we’ll figure all this out.”

  “Excuse me,” said Lucy testily. “Do I get a vote in this?”

  “No,” said Mel, “you don’t. So be quiet and let other people wait on you. It won’t kill you. Okay, people, I need volunteers.”

  Lucy subsided. Apparently, she was used to this, however much it startled Laura to see someone out-managing her sister. The other women started talking available dates, and Mel jotted notes on the Palm Pilot screen. Meg’s Girl Scout leader had been like this, brisk and organized, taking charge without hesitation, running from activity to activity without turning a hair. Laura had always felt like a slacker next to her.

  Cam would have disliked Mel intensely. Laura wondered what Richard thought.

  “What weeks are you in town?” Mel broke into her thoughts.

  Laura tried to assemble the tour schedule in her head. “I think Thanksgiving and I know Christmas.”

  But she had planned to spend the holidays with Meg. She realized with a start that she hadn’t yet considered what to do with Meg while she was on tour. Leaving her with Emma was no longer an option, and she couldn’t ask Lucy to take her, now that her sister had to be confined to bed. She looked over at Mel. “I don’t know exactly. I’ll have to get back to you.”

  What was she going to do with Meg for five months?

  Lucy put her hand on Laura’s arm. “What’s the matter? You look upset.”

  “Oh, nothing.” Lucy had to stop worrying about her. She’d figure something out, even if it meant hiring a housekeeper for the London flat and putting Meg back in the American school in Kensington. If she had to, she could fly out the morning before a concert and fly home that ni
ght. She could schedule rehearsals around Meg, lease a private jet, learn to sleep on a plane.

  That one week in Australia and South Africa… she’d pull Meg out of school, hire a tutor, and take her along.

  She sat quietly and listened to the women talking: Montessori versus traditional preschool, a bestseller about a murdered teenager, the onset of Alzheimer’s in a beloved mother. She had never been part of a group. Dominic had restricted his daughters’ social lives, demanding endless practice while the other girls in school went to slumber parties and dances and football games. Cam had kept his family private; he preferred a reclusive family life, and later the need to separate Cat Courtney from Laura St. Bride had ensured that she had no close friends. She’d had acquaintances, women she saw in passing when she took Meg to ballet or they attended church, but no one to hang out with, confide in, be friends with. Not one person had ever known of Laura Abbott.

  That spring, she had reread the Iliad, looking for ideas, and Helen’s lament had stuck in her mind: Lacking the lovely companionship of women my own age. Helen of Troy, isolated, cut off from her past, had lived friendless; she had been just as isolated, the one person she had confided in gone forever. She’d had no women friends after Francie’s death.

  Maybe Helen had missed being a woman among other women. Maybe Helen had missed having girlfriends to talk to. Another woman might have said, “Have a fling with Paris, but for heaven’s sake, don’t run off with him.” Another woman might have said, “You didn’t love Cam enough, but you did love him. Don’t carry it for the rest of your life. Grieve, and love better the next time.”

  If she moved back, she could have the lovely companionship of these women. She could be part of this group, work on food drives with them, talk books with them. She could have someone to turn to besides a sister-in-law who despised her and a brother-in-law determined to bulldoze her into an unwanted future.

  She could have her sister and Tom and, God willing, their child. She could have a niece who needed someone to see behind her mask. And, she knew with a certainty beyond reason, one day she could have Richard. She could have this house, this life. She had Meg already; she could have more children, his children.

  She could have all that Diana had so stupidly tossed away.

  This is dangerous territory, my girl.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Richard with Tom and Scott in a group of other men, and she let her eyes linger on him. Except at Monticello, she had never seen him as an adult with other people, and here he moved among his peers; these were his friends, colleagues, clients. He lived in this world, an accepted part of this universe. He played tennis and served on committees with these men. He was a neighbor to call on in an emergency.

  Right now, he was listening to one of the other men, a longneck bottle in his hand that he had been nursing for over an hour. He looked relaxed, an American man enjoying the Fourth of July. He was a host, the master of this castle; he greeted newcomers easily, welcoming them to his home, taking an occasional look around to make sure everything ran smoothly. He was a father; he kept a sharp eye on Julie and Mike, standing over by one of the olive trees, Mike’s head bent towards Julie, their body language saying everything that Richard resisted hearing. She’s growing up, Richard. Let it happen.

  And he was a lover, glancing over at the Queen Bee table, making sure that she was at home here in his world. She felt warmed by the touch of his glance. Maybe it didn’t matter that he didn’t love her. Maybe love didn’t matter that much.

  Maybe the lovely companionship of this world mattered more.

  “Where are you?” said Lucy, and she sounded put out. “Are you listening to me?”

  Laura turned back to her. “Sorry. I was woolgathering.”

  “Obviously.” From the flicker of her eyes, Lucy had seen the direction of her gaze. “I haven’t found the right broker yet. I don’t know people in high-end real estate. Has Richard recommended anyone?”

  Laura shook her head. Lucy was taking it for granted that she had talked to Richard about this. Will he want me here? What if he doesn’t?

  Mel said, “Are you in the market for a house?”

  “Maybe.” Mel glanced at Lucy, and Laura knew they were thinking the same thing: So he hasn’t asked her to live with him. Yet. “I’d like to see what’s available.”

  “Build,” said Mel. “You’ve got two first-class architects at your disposal. Or do you want something fast? They probably couldn’t design anything and get it built sooner than seven or eight months.”

  “Perhaps January,” Laura murmured. But not if she had to put Meg in her London school again; she’d have to wait until the school term was over. And the divorce – she’d forgotten she couldn’t have any business transactions with Richard until it was over. “I don’t know. It might be next summer. It depends.”

  She saw Mel and Lucy exchange glances again. Maybe she should come right out and say, Yes, I want to live with him, but we have children to consider. So quit giving each other those significant looks. She added, “Maybe I can extend my lease on Edwards Lake.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Lucy said, and took a conspicuous mouthful of her Perrier, the better to hide what she was thinking. “That way, you can take your time, see what you want to do.”

  Mel said idly, “Richard’s looking relaxed this evening.”

  “Yes, he is,” said Lucy shortly, and gave Mel a quelling look across the table. “He’ll be even more relaxed when this is over.”

  “You mean the divorce?” Mel pitched her voice so that only Laura and Lucy could hear her. “I’m sure filing has done him a world of good. He told Scott it’s a relief to be getting it over with.”

  Mel ought to be more discreet than this; she ought to know that Richard did not like his private life discussed. Lucy seemed to think the same thing. She gave Mel a small shake of the head. “I meant the party. He’ll be shoving us all out the door by nine.”

  Mel, undeterred and fueled by at least three margaritas, said, “Maybe we’ll be seeing a different kind of celebration here at Ashmore Park in the not-so-distant future.”

  Her voice did not carry around the table; the prosecutor and the internist were talking preschools, and the architect, who probably knew Richard better than they did, had left to attend to her two children for a few minutes. Amy was the only other one to hear, and she said, “Really? He’s getting married again?”

  She sounded only mildly interested. Mel said significantly, “Could be,” and Laura felt Lucy stiffen next to her.

  Richard was right; Mel made Lucy look like an amateur. Considering that she didn’t know his plans herself, considering that he’d decreed the future off limits, it was presumptuous in the extreme for anyone else to weigh in on the subject. She didn’t care for Mel’s veiled allusions to another woman – how long before someone put two and two together? She comes back; he files for divorce. Coincidence?

  The downside of lovely companionship was that everyone felt free to express an opinion.

  She said abruptly, “Excuse me. I’ve got a call coming in,” and stood up.

  She walked up the terrace, pulling her phone from the clip on her belt to pretend to talk. She passed by Richard’s group, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was watching Julie and Mike in the shadow of the trees. She glanced over, just in time to see the two disappear around the side of the house. She heard Richard excuse himself to his companions, and then – oh, brother – he walked across the terrace after them.

  Well, it was none of her business. Julie seemed to be a past master at getting around her father.

  She pulled open the French doors and went into the house.

  A few people were wandering around, looking for the powder rooms. One approached her to ask, and Laura said, “Hold on,” into her phone and pointed to the room off the kitchen. She waited until no one was looking, then shoved her phone back into the clip and headed into the conservatory.

  The room was cool and shadowed, thankfu
lly empty of everything but Julie’s baby grand and harp. The early evening outside had been warm and humid, the air heavy with the storm predicted to hit by midnight; the air conditioning brushed against her cheek and cooled her tension. She sank onto the piano bench and folded back the cover.

  Here was her world, the world of ivory keys and crescendos and life in 3/4 time. Here she need not guard against wearing her heart on her sleeve. Here she need not accept sympathy, over and over, from strangers who could not let her loss go unspoken.

  Here she need not be a living symbol of 9/11.

  Laura let her hands sweep across the keys. She didn’t know why she chose “Un Bel Dì” from Madama Butterfly; it was generally out of her tessitura, her comfortable singing range. She had to pitch her volume low – the last thing she wanted was to attract an audience – and the softness of her volume made a couple of the notes even harder to reach. But who cared? She was playing for herself, to carve out time and distance.

  Un bel dì, vedremo

  levarsi un fil di fumo sull’estremo

  confin del mare

  E poi la nave appare.

  One fine, clear day, we shall see

  a thin trail of smoke arising,

  on the distant horizon, far out to sea.

  She was playing to be herself for these few minutes, before she had to go back out there and be anyone except the woman who loved Richard Ashmore, who did not love her.

  The woman who might or might not have a future with him, but who was certainly allowing her imagination to run riot.

  Vedi? È venuto!

  Io non gli scendo incontro. Io no. Mi metto

  là sul ciglio del colle e aspetto, e aspetto

  gran tempo e non mi pesa,

  la lunga attesa.

  See? He has come!

  I'll not go down to meet him. Not I.