by Joy Fielding
“How do you know that?”
“Just the way you said he got married again. What’s the matter with her?”
“Nothing. She’s a perfectly nice lady.”
“Then why don’t you like her?”
Lynn was about to deliver a flip answer, but the sincerity in his blue eyes stopped her. He must be a first-rate interviewer, she thought, wishing she had a good answer to his question.
“I don’t know. She’s a perfectly nice woman. She’s polite, she’s a good cook, and she can spend all day talking about her living-room furniture. God knows, she’s cheerful enough. I really don’t know why I don’t like her. I just wouldn’t have picked her, that’s all.”
“Nobody asked you to.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.” They resumed walking, but at a much slower pace. “She’s not my mother,” Lynn continued, after a pause. “That’s probably the most truthful answer I can give you, and I know it’s not fair for me to dislike her for that reason but …”
“That’s the way it is,” Marc said, using Lynn’s earlier words. “Tell me about your mother.”
Lynn felt the push of tears behind her eyes. Even now, she thought, after nine years, the tears were only a few well-chosen words away. “She was a remarkable woman. Very much her own person. She was a housewife all her life, but when she was fifty, she went back to university and got her bachelor of arts degree. In medieval history, of all things. She was always reading. Every time I think of my mother, I picture her with a book in her hands.”
“I like her already.”
Lynn smiled. “She was the one who insisted I go to college, have a career, make something of my life. She told me not to wait for anyone else to do things for me.”
“How did she die?”
“Alzheimer’s disease,” Lynn said, a wayward tear betraying the sudden flatness of her voice. “She just kept losing bits of herself until there was nothing left. In the end, she had no control over anything. Not her bodily functions. Not her mind. She didn’t even know who I was.”
“That must have been very hard on you.”
Lynn shrugged. “That’s the way it goes,” she said, unmistakably ending the conversation.
“How did you meet Gary?” Marc asked after they had walked for a stretch in silence.
“Is this an interview?”
“Just trying to find out more about you.”
“And what have you found out so far?”
“That you’re beautiful,” he began, “sensitive, caring. That you like to be in control. That you walk fast,” he said, and she laughed despite herself. “That you’re a good kisser.”
“I met Gary right here on the beach,” Lynn said quickly, pushing his words away with her own. “I’d come with some girlfriends. He was also with friends. Somehow these friends all disappeared and Gary and I ended up sharing the same blanket.” Lynn tried to make it sound very casual, but even now she could feel the soft breezes that had been blowing that afternoon against her skin, and see the assorted stains that dotted the bright orange-and-yellow beach blanket they had sat on. Her mind reached out to touch the dimples that had creased Gary’s cheeks around his mouth, and she recalled the bitter taste of the beer he had offered her as he confidently transferred the bottle from his lips to her own. “There was something so calm about him. He didn’t push. He was a good listener, which I liked, because in those days, I thought I had a lot to say. I’d just gotten my master’s degree and I was very eager to show everyone how much I knew. I really thought I had met the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with.” Again, she felt the presence of unwanted tears. How could she reconcile what she was feeling for Gary now with the feelings he had aroused in her so few hours ago? “I think I’m all talked out,” Lynn said, and was grateful when Marc asked no further questions. They walked the rest of the way in silence.
As they left the beach and headed up the street to her house, Lynn wondered what she would do if he asked to come inside, if he tried to kiss her, if he suggested they see each other again. She recalled the things that Renee had told her, the reasons why any thought of a relationship with this man was out of the question. She also thought of how angry she’d been at Gary, how powerless he’d made her feel, how nice Marc’s kiss had felt, how excited by it she’d been. Would he try to kiss her again? Would he repeat his suggestion of taking their relationship to the nearest motel?
They reached his car. “You have my number,” he said.
EIGHT
“We’d like to settle this thing with as little fuss as possible,” the lawyer on the other side of the round conference table was saying, giving Renee a carefully constructed smile.
Renee returned Herbert Tarnower’s grin, glancing from the small, rotund attorney to his tall, voluptuous client. Penny Linkletter was twenty-five years old, six feet tall, and looked as if she had just stepped off the stage of a Las Vegas nightclub. All that was missing was the sequins, Renee thought, turning her smile toward the young woman’s elderly husband. Why was the size of a man’s wallet, she wondered, so often inversely proportionate to the size of his brain? Why didn’t people get smarter, and not just older?
“We don’t think that what Mrs. Linkletter is seeking by way of a settlement is in any way out of line,” her attorney further explained, about to say more when Renee stopped him.
“You don’t think that a lump sum of two million dollars plus twenty thousand dollars a month in alimony isn’t just a tad excessive?” Renee made no attempt to hide the sarcasm in her voice.
“Mr. Linkletter is a very wealthy man. His wife is entitled to a share of his earnings.”
“Mrs. Linkletter has been Mrs. Linkletter for a total of sixteen months …”
“During which time she has been an exemplary wife to Mr. Linkletter.”
“During which time she has slept with apparently half of Dade County,” Renee interrupted, pushing a folder across the conference table, watching it slide to a halt at the tips of the opposing attorney’s well-manicured fingernails. “You’ll find sworn statements from a variety of men and women, ranging from the Japanese gardener to the Cuban maid. Mrs. Linkletter was nothing if not an equal-opportunity employer.” She smiled at Penny Linkletter, who, strangely enough, smiled back. “We also have photographs,” Renee added.
“Can I see them?” Penny Linkletter asked, then backed away under her attorney’s hostile gaze. She adjusted the shoulder pads of her cotton-knit white sweater, pulled at the hem of her short skirt, and said nothing further.
Herbert Tarnower paused a moment to try to reconstruct his former expression. “Obviously, we’re prepared to negotiate,” he said.
“But we’re not,” Renee told him directly. “We think that the settlement Mr. Linkletter has suggested is more than fair.”
“Fifty thousand dollars? Why, last year alone the man made over five million.”
“Maybe you should take a look at these photographs, Mr. Tarnower,” Renee reminded him.
“Look,” Herbert Tarnower said quickly, his voice moving from indignation to gentle concern, “we have no interest in going to court. And I’m sure that Mr. Linkletter feels the same way. Revelations of this nature can only prove embarrassing to both parties, and to a man of Mr. Linkletter’s age and stature …”
“Mr. Linkletter is seventy-eight years old and has been married and divorced a total of five times. His last three wives have all been tall blondes in their twenties, two of whom took Mr. Linkletter to court and came away with nothing. I suggest to you, Mr. Tarnower, that if Mr. Linkletter were a man who embarrassed easily, he would never have married your client in the first place.” Renee walked to the door of the conference room and opened it, signaling that the meeting was over. “Think about it,” she advised Penny Linkletter and her attorney before helping a silent but smiling Mr. Linkletter out of his chair and ushering him out the door, “and let me know what you decide.”
“Your line has been frantic all morning,” her secr
etary advised her when she got back to her office.
“Did Philip return my call?”
“Not yet. Do you want me to try him again?”
“No, I’ll do it.”
“Fiona Stapleton has called three times.”
Renee made a face indicating displeasure. “All right. I’d better speak to her. Give me a minute to call Philip and then get her on the line.”
Renee walked briskly into her office, hitting her hip against the sharp corner of her desk as she reached toward the bottom drawer to retrieve a miniature chocolate bar. “Serves me right,” she said, quickly unwrapping the bar and eating it as she dialed her husband’s office. She waited for Philip’s secretary—an anorexic woman with an equally thin voice—to come on the line. The woman, whose name was Samantha, had spent a summer in England some years before and had affected a slight British accent ever since. Philip thought it cute; Renee found it insufferable. “Is my husband free?” Renee asked as soon as she heard the woman’s tinny greeting.
“Hasn’t he returned your call?” Samantha asked, knowing full well he hadn’t. “Well, he’s been frightfully busy all morning. Is it urgent?”
“No, nothing that can’t wait.” Renee reached inside her bottom drawer for another candy bar. Philip had mentioned the possibility that they might meet for lunch, so she had held off making plans of her own, but as it was almost noon now, there seemed little chance they’d be getting together. “I’ll speak to him later. Thank you,” she added, though she wasn’t sure why. She quickly ate the second candy bar, then closed the drawer before she could be tempted by a third.
Her phone buzzed.
“I have Mrs. Stapleton on line one,” her secretary told her.
“Thanks.” Renee pushed the appropriate button.
“You haven’t been returning my phone calls,” the woman on the other end said, her voice angry.
“We’ve been through this,” Renee explained patiently. “I’ve already told you that I can’t proceed any further with your divorce action until you bring your account up to date.”
“Where am I supposed to get five thousand dollars?”
“Mrs. Stapleton, I sympathize with you. I really do,” she added over the woman’s harsh laugh. “But you knew my rates when you contacted me, and you agreed to the schedule of payments. This is a complicated case: I’ve spent a great many hours on it, and you can’t expect me to work for nothing. Now, I’ve already given you several extensions, but as I explained, it was decided at our last partners’ meeting that we really couldn’t continue with your case until all previous bills have been brought up to date. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is.” She heard the phone go dead. “And thank you for calling,” she added, dropping the phone back into its receiver.
The door to Renee’s office suddenly opened and Debbie strode confidently inside, her arms full of shopping bags, followed closely by Kathryn, smiling meekly and similarly encumbered, with Renee’s frantic secretary trailing behind them. “Your sister is here,” Debbie announced as Renee’s secretary was about to. “And your wicked stepdaughter.” Debbie laughed, throwing her parcels on one of the chairs across from Renee’s desk and motioning for Kathryn to do the same.
“It’s all right, Marilyn,” Renee told the somewhat dazed young woman whose hairdo added at least three inches to her height. “I don’t think you’ve met my sister, Kathryn. She’s visiting from New York. And this is my husband’s daughter, Debbie. She’s with us for the summer.”
“From Boston,” Debbie said sweetly. “I live there with my mother.”
“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Renee asked, viewing the many shopping bags with awe, as her secretary excused herself from the room.
“Debbie took me to the Boca Town Center,” Kathryn explained quietly.
“Bloomie’s,” Debbie said, her smile growing wicked. “I charged everything to Dad’s account.”
“I’ll pay him back,” Kathryn added quickly. “Debbie said it would be all right.”
“I talked Kathryn into the sexiest bathing suit. Dad’ll go crazy when he sees it. Kathryn has a beautiful figure, don’t you think, Renée?”
“What are you doing here?” Renee asked, trying to pull her jacket over her spreading hips, and anxious to get Debbie out of her office.
“We came to take you for lunch,” Kathryn said, looking to Debbie for confirmation. While Renee was grateful to Debbie for getting Kathryn out of the apartment and pleased that the girl had actually persuaded Kathryn to go shopping, she was skeptical of her motives. It wasn’t in Debbie’s character to help people when they were down.
“I don’t think so …” Renee stammered, wishing she had been able to get hold of Philip.
“You have to eat,” her sister told her, her voice a gentle plea. “Come on, Renee. It’ll be good for you. Just like going shopping all morning with Debbie was good for me.”
“We’ll go to the Troubadour,” Debbie chimed in.
“The Troubadour? That’s pretty pricey, Debbie.”
“So what? Dad’s treat.” She reached into her canvas bag and pulled out a glistening gold credit card. “I heard Dad say the Troubadour is the best restaurant in Delray.”
“Come on,” Kathryn urged, a small smile creeping into the corners of her mouth. “You know you’re going to give in eventually.”
“Why don’t we just go to Erny’s?”
“The Troubadour,” Debbie told her stepmother adamantly, returning the credit card to her purse. “Come on, Renée, let me do something nice for you.”
They were ushered inside the dark restaurant and given a round, linen-covered table near the far corner of the elegant, pink-and-plum-colored room, where they were immediately offered a basketful of rolls and a wine list. Waiters hovered nearby with helpful suggestions and a list of the day’s specials. They ordered quickly, Renee vetoing Debbie’s expressed wish for a bottle of champagne, and ordering three glasses of grapefruit juice instead.
“You’re a spoilsport,” Debbie told her.
“You’re underage,” Renee reminded her, thinking it was about time someone did, “and I’m working.”
“Busy morning?” her sister asked.
“Very.”
“You didn’t look very busy when we came in,” Debbie said, her eyes casually perusing the room.
“That’s the trick,” Renee said pleasantly. “To be busy but look relaxed.”
“I didn’t say you looked relaxed. Just not busy.”
Renee reached for a roll.
“So who’s getting divorced today? Anyone we know?” Kathryn asked, her eyes moving warily back and forth between her companions.
Renee shook her head, and bit into a chewy roll, which, she was surprised to discover, was warm.
“Renée can’t discuss her cases,” Debbie said knowingly. “I’ve asked her a few times,” she continued, sounding hurt, “but she won’t.”
“It’s privileged information, Debbie,” Renee said, trying to sound patient. “You understand that. Your father has the same problem.”
“My father doesn’t have any problems.”
“Situation, then. He can’t discuss his patients.”
“He does, though,” Debbie said, managing to sound both knowing and innocent. “With me.”
Renee said nothing, letting her eyes adjust to the dimly lit room. “I’ve never been here before. It’s lovely.”
“Dad’s been here,” Debbie said, her eyes straining through the dimness toward the far corners of the restaurant. “I heard him talking about it on the telephone. He said it’s his favorite spot.”
“Really?” Renee heard herself ask, then wished she hadn’t.
“You should see the white dress Kathryn bought,” Debbie continued, changing topics with ease. “Very sexy. No back.”
“I still can’t believe I bought it. It’s so unlike anything I’ve ever owned.”
“It looks great on you.”
“Debbie’s quite the
salesgirl.”
“I’m sure she is.”
“Kathryn has such a beautiful body,” Debbie reiterated. “I think she should show it off.” Her eyes traveled from Kathryn to Renee. “It’s so hard to believe she’s your older sister.”
“Almost five years older,” Kathryn established.
“You’d swear it was the other way around.” Debbie smiled sweetly. Renee gripped the underside of her chair.
“Bon appétit,” Debbie said, when lunch was delivered some twenty minutes later. She took a long, hard look at Renee’s plate. “Should you be eating all those french fries, Renee? What’s the matter? Didn’t I pronounce your name right that time?”
Renee began eating her steak and french fried potatoes in small, steady bites, speaking only when she had no other choice, deliberately finishing everything on her plate, and then making a point of asking for dessert, which the others declined. “Might as well do it right,” she said. She added a spoonful of sugar and a dollop of whipped cream to her coffee, then had a second cup.
“Isn’t that my father?” Debbie suddenly asked, straining her head toward the far right corner of the room. Renee had noticed Debbie looking in that direction several times during the course of the meal, but she had thought better of turning around. Now, her head spun in the direction of Debbie’s eyes. “It is him. Who’s he with?” Renee could see only the back of the woman’s head, but even in the soft darkness and from a distance of some forty feet, she could recognize the familiar red locks of the woman who had once introduced herself as Alicia-call-me-Ali Henderson. “Do you know her, Renée? I don’t think she’s anyone I’ve ever met. Daddy!” Debbie called out suddenly, jumping out of her chair and waving wildly across the room.
Renee turned back toward the table just as Alicia-call-me-Ali swiveled around in her chair. She caught reluctant sight of the woman’s regal profile and ample bosom before bringing her eyes tightly closed. She didn’t have to see Philip to know that he was already getting out of his chair, that he was even now on his way over. She didn’t have to hear his words to know what he would say, just as she now understood that her being in this restaurant was no accident, that this chance meeting was no coincidence, that this was Debbie’s way of “doing something nice” for her. Debbie had probably overheard Philip on the phone making his plans. Philip was as careless as his daughter was meticulous.