Good Intentions

by Joy Fielding

  The intercom on her desk buzzed and Marilyn’s voice cut into her reveries. “Mr. DeFlores on line two.”

  Renee glanced at the phone. Mr. DeFlores had returned home one evening to discover that his wife of five years had left him, taking with her virtually every stick of furniture, including the plastic dishes that had been left over from his bachelor days. Would Mr. DeFlores believe that she had been a cheerleader in high school? “Mr. DeFlores,” she said into the receiver, trying not to sound pessimistic as she explained that his estranged wife had again refused to sign the agreement she had already approved, even with the changes she had insisted on. “There’s really nothing we can do at this point unless you want to go to court, which, as I’ve explained, will be a very expensive proposition. Why don’t we give her a few more weeks. You’re not in any hurry for this divorce, are you?”

  Mr. DeFlores agreed he wasn’t in a hurry.

  “Good, then I’ll explain to your wife’s attorney that there will be no more changes, and that until your wife is ready to sign the agreement as written, we have nothing further to discuss. We’re quite prepared to wait as long as necessary. If she wants this divorce as quickly as she says she does, she’ll have to make the next move…. Yes, I’ll get back to you. In the meantime, Mr. DeFlores, try to stay calm. Time is always kind to the person who’s willing to wait.” Renee wasn’t sure if this was true, but it sounded good, and seemed to make her client happy. She hung up and was about to dial Mrs. DeFlores’s lawyer, then changed her mind. Mrs. DeFlores’s attorney was a thoroughly unpleasant young man who never failed to give Renee a headache. He talked loud and fast, and Renee could actually see him punching the air with his fingers through the phone wires when they spoke. Every time she talked to him, she was reminded of the joke Philip had told at a party one night. Question: what have you got when you have six lawyers buried up to their necks in sand? Answer: not enough sand. Renee had found the joke painful, but because she didn’t want to be accused of lacking a sense of humor, she had laughed along with everyone else.

  Renee decided she needed a cup of coffee and headed for the staff room at the far end of the hall. She poured herself a cup from the pot that was kept brewing all day, adding ample amounts of cream and sugar, and sat down in one of several low-lying blue chairs, lifting her feet onto the well-scuffed coffee table in front of her.

  It was all a matter of control, Renee understood, her mind back on Mr. DeFlores, though to tell him that would only upset him further. Agreeing to sign separation papers and then refusing to do so at the last minute, finding something unacceptable in what had already been declared quite proper, throwing out old demands, making fresh ones, all at the eleventh hour, that was all part of the game. Divorcing couples did it to each other all the time. It was their way of trying to maintain the upper hand, of calling the shots, pulling the strings. Lisa DeFlores was doing it to her husband; Gary Schuster was doing the same thing to his wife. Renee closed her eyes, stretching her head back across the top of the chair so that her Adam’s apple protruded into the air.

  At least her clients weren’t giving in, giving up, she thought gratefully, especially pleased that Lynn Schuster had decided to fight back. So many women didn’t. They collapsed under the pressure, either financial or psychological, sometimes both. Lynn was frightened and hurt, but she had given Renee permission to do whatever she felt necessary to deflate Gary’s threats. Renee was looking forward to their meeting next Monday.

  Renee realized she liked Lynn Schuster and hoped that when Lynn’s divorce was settled, they could be friends. She’d lost touch with all her close female friends over the years, and she was just beginning to realize how much she missed them. Despite everything that was happening to her, Lynn Schuster seemed to be a woman who had her life under control. Well, so what? Don’t I? Renee asked herself, suddenly angry and impatient, though she wasn’t sure why.

  “Hi. Everything all right?”

  Renee opened her eyes to see Margaret Bachman, a lawyer who had recently transferred into the firm, standing a few feet away, watching her with a mixture of curiosity and concern. “I’m fine,” Renee said.

  “Your face was twitching,” the woman explained. “You looked like you were in pain.”

  Renee tried to smile. “Just arguing a case in my mind.”

  Margaret Bachman laughed. “John says I do that all the time. Now I understand what he was talking about. How’s the coffee?”

  “Great.” Renee watched the woman, who was approximately the same age as herself though her voice made her sound older, help herself to a cup of coffee. Renee also noticed that she took it black.

  “We missed you at the party Saturday night.”

  “Party?”

  “At Bob’s.”

  Bob was Bob Frescati, one of the firm’s original partners.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Margaret Bachman said immediately, obviously embarrassed. “I just assumed you’d been …” She stopped, knowing that whatever she said now would only make matters worse.

  “We had another engagement on Saturday night,” Renee told her, giving Margaret Bachman her widest, most sincere grin. It was true after all. She and Philip had had another engagement on Saturday night, the party they had attended with Kathryn. So they wouldn’t have been able to make Bob Frescati’s party anyway, even if they had been invited. Just like they had been unable to make any of the other firm get-togethers lately because Philip always had other plans. Bob had undoubtedly sensed this. People had a way of not extending invitations once they had been turned down too many times. Still, she had to admit that it hurt. She had cut herself off from all her friends over the years. Was she starting down the same path with her partners and colleagues as well?

  “I’d been looking forward to meeting that handsome husband of yours. He’s the buzz of the secretarial staff, you know. They all say he’s so gorgeous.” Margaret sat down beside her.

  “He’s a very handsome man,” Renee agreed.

  “Lucky you.”

  Renee nodded. She recognized the look. How did you manage to land a man who’s the buzz of the secretarial staff? it said.

  “I was thinking of having a small dinner party one of these nights. Maybe you and your husband would like to come?”

  “I’m sure we’d be delighted,” Renee told her, sure of no such thing.

  “Well, why don’t you tell me when is good for you—I understand you’re pretty hard to pin down—then I’ll work around that.”

  Renee took her feet from the coffee table, trying not to show the effort it involved. “I’ll call Philip now,” she told the startled woman, who obviously had not been expecting such immediate action.

  Renee returned to her office, feeling angry and hurt, knowing it was all her own fault. She couldn’t expect people to keep inviting her to parties when she made something of a habit of not showing up, sometimes not even calling until she was already late. She wondered if there had been other events from which she had been excluded. Well, that was it. It was time to start fresh. She picked up the phone and dialed Philip’s office, bracing herself for the fake friendliness of Philip’s would-be English secretary.

  “Dr. Bower’s office.”

  “Samantha, can I please speak to Philip?”

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “It’s Mrs. Bower,” Renee said, not quite believing her ears. The nerve of that woman!

  “Oh, do forgive me, Mrs. Bower. I didn’t recognize your voice. Dr. Bower is gone for the day.”

  Renee checked her watch. It was barely three o’clock. “Gone? When did he leave?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “I believe he said he was going home.”

  “Home? Was he feeling all right?”

  “He was feeling fine,” Philip’s secretary said with an unpleasant laugh. Does he have to be feeling sick to want to go home? it asked.

  “Thank you.” Renee replaced the receive
r and immediately buzzed her secretary. “Marilyn, can you try to reschedule my four o’clock meeting? Thanks.” Then she dialed her apartment, letting it ring eight times before hanging up. Maybe Philip was out on the balcony and couldn’t hear the phone, or maybe he was down at the pool. She wondered again if he was feeling all right. It was very unlike him to go home in the middle of the day. She wondered where Debbie and Kathryn had gone, recalling that Debbie had said something about going to Singer Island with friends. Kathryn had declined Debbie’s invitation to join them, saying she just felt like a quiet day around the apartment. Maybe she and Philip had gone for a walk on the beach together. Maybe Renee could get home in time to find them and join them. The hell with work.

  “Your meeting’s rescheduled for Thursday at four-thirty,” Marilyn’s voice announced over the intercom.

  “I’m at home if there are any emergencies,” Renee told her a minute later on her way out.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine,” Renee said.

  Philip’s white Jaguar was in his parking spot when Renee pulled her white Mercedes in beside it. She walked briskly through the lot, then through the lobby, greeting the obviously disinterested doorman with perhaps a touch too much enthusiasm. She rode the elevator up to the sixth floor and found herself almost skipping down the lushly carpeted hall, then she pushed the key into the lock and opened the door. “Philip … Kathryn … anybody home?”

  She heard familiar noises and realized it was the sound of the shower in her bathroom. What the hell, she thought, feeling reckless. Should she take off her clothes and join Philip in his midday ablutions? What was the old saying from the sixties? Save water—shower with a friend?

  Philip would be surprised to see her. He had claimed several times that she lacked spontaneity. Perhaps he would be sufficiently stirred by her leaving work early and joining him in the shower that he might find time for a little love in the afternoon. It definitely beat arguing with Mrs. DeFlores’s attorney.

  “Renee?” A thin voice from another room. “Is that you?”

  Renee followed the hollow sound to the guest bedroom. Kathryn was sitting up in bed, her blond hair disheveled, her green eyes clearly frightened, the white sheet pulled up tightly to just beneath her chin. Renee walked quickly to the side of her bed. “Kathryn, what’s the matter? Are you all right? You look awful.”

  “I don’t feel very well.”

  Renee reached for her sister’s forehead and was surprised when Kathryn jerked quickly out of her reach, surprised also when she realized that underneath the sheet, Kathryn was nude.

  “I don’t have a fever.”

  “Maybe not, but look at you. You’re perspiring. Maybe you need a doctor.”

  “It’s just a little touch of flu,” Kathryn protested, tears starting to form. “I’ve been trying to get some sleep.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

  “No, it’s all right.”

  Renee sat down on the bed beside her sister. Something in the air caught her attention momentarily but it disappeared before she had a chance to identify it. “Have you had anything to eat?”

  Kathryn started to respond but froze at the sound of Philip’s voice.

  “What say we go out and grab an ice-cream cone?” he was saying as he approached the door, his hips wrapped in a familiar white towel, shaking his wet hair dry with a few careless tosses of his head. Renee’s eyes shot from her sister, whose skin had turned whiter than the sheet with which she was protecting herself, to Philip, who was as imposing as ever despite the fact he was barely dressed. “Well, what do you say?” he continued without missing a beat. “I heard you come in and thought you might feel like a nice, cold ice cream.” He looked toward Kathryn as if seeing her for the first time. “Hi, Kathryn. I didn’t know you were home.”

  “I’m not feeling very well,” Kathryn whispered. “I must have fallen asleep. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Patient canceled, so I decided to come home early and relax, take a shower. It’s hot out there today.” He turned his attention back to Renee. “Well, what do you say? Feel like going out with your husband for a giant double-scoop ice cream in a chocolate waffle cone?”

  Renee’s face relaxed into a wide grin. “Sounds great.”

  “How about you, Kathryn?”

  Kathryn shook her head. She looked like she was about to throw up.

  “Kathryn probably shouldn’t have any solid foods. I think the best thing you could do, Kathy, would be to just stay in bed and try to get some more sleep. I can make you some tea and toast, if you’d like …”

  “No, nothing.”

  “We won’t be long.”

  Kathryn nodded.

  Renee stood up, drawing the blanket that lay crumpled around Kathryn’s feet up over her shoulders. “You probably should put something on. You don’t want to catch a chill.” She leaned over to kiss Kathryn on the cheek, but Kathryn turned her head, burying her chin against her shoulder, and Renee’s lips brushed against some stray wisps of her sister’s hair instead. “You’ll be all right,” she said, wondering why the words sounded so hollow. Then she put her hand in Philip’s and walked from the room.

  NINETEEN

  In Lynn’s dream, she was in Marc’s apartment. They were in the middle bedroom, the one reserved for his sons’ visits. The snake slept in its glass tank, and every now and then Lynn cast a wary eye in its direction.

  “I know,” Marc said, moving toward her. “You like things that jump.”

  In the next instant, they were on the larger bed in his room and he was removing her clothes. She felt his hands as they moved slowly up and down her body. She felt his beard brushing against the sides of her mouth. She sat up suddenly. “Let’s play a game.”

  “I don’t play games,” he told her.

  “I spy with my little eye,” she said anyway, “something that is red.”

  “There’s nothing in this room that’s red. Everything’s brown.”

  “I spy something that is red.”

  “But there’s nothing red.”

  “Do you give up? Give up? Give up?”

  The childish refrain turned into the ringing of a telephone. Because it was a dream, Lynn knew who was calling even before she answered it. It was her children announcing that they were alone in the house and that a strange man was trying to get in. “Lock the doors,” she told them, running down the street toward her house. But her house wasn’t where it was supposed to be. In its place was a small dance studio. Lynn raced to a phone booth which materialized at the corner.

  “Mommy, help us,” Megan cried. “The man is coming. He’s getting in.”

  “Run,” Lynn urged helplessly, not knowing where to find them.

  “Where can we go?”

  “Go to my half of the house,” Lynn instructed, her voice rising. “He can’t touch you as long as you’re in my half of the house.”

  “Which half is yours?” the child asked.

  Lynn looked up and down the deserted street for answers that refused to come. “I don’t know,” she said finally, seeing the shadow of the man as he reached for her children. “I don’t know which half is mine.”

  Lynn opened her eyes with a start.

  Megan and Nicholas were standing over her bed. “Happy birthday, Mommy,” they chimed, almost, but not quite, in unison. Lynn reached up gratefully and encircled both children in her arms.

  “Careful,” Megan warned, backing gingerly away.

  “What have you got there?”

  Megan proudly displayed a small round cake covered with white icing and a row of delicate yellow flowers. Lynn scanned the words written across its top. “H.B. Mommy?” she asked.

  “The lady in the store said there wasn’t enough room to write Happy Birthday. Is this okay? She said you’d like it just the same.”

  “I love it,” Lynn said truthfully, trying not to laugh. “When did you get it?”

  “Yesterday. Mrs
. Hart took us to the store before you got back from work.” Mrs. Hart was the woman who lived a few doors away and who babysat whenever Lynn was going to be late. “She said to keep the cake in the refrigerator overnight but I didn’t because I didn’t want you to see it. I wanted to surprise you.”

  “We wanted to surprise you,” Nicholas interjected testily. “It’s not just from you. It’s from me too.”

  “I paid for it,” Megan told him haughtily.

  “So? It was my idea.”

  “It was not.”

  “Children,” Lynn said steadily, “it’s a lovely cake and it was a lovely idea. It doesn’t matter who paid for it or whose idea it was.”

  “It was mine,” said Nicholas.

  “Mine,” insisted Megan.

  “Where did you keep the cake?” Lynn asked warily.

  “Under my bed.”

  “All night?”

  “Is that okay?” Megan’s eyes filled with fear.

  “It’s fine,” Lynn said quickly. “I’m sure it will be delicious.”

  “Can we have some now?”

  “For breakfast?”

  “Yea,” Nicholas shouted. “Cake for breakfast.”

  Lynn looked at the faces of her two beautiful children. If she had done nothing else right in forty years—my God, forty years—she had at least managed to produce two beautiful, healthy children. Please, God, she thought, don’t let him take them away from me. “Oh, sure. Cake for breakfast. Why not?”

  “I’ll cut it,” Megan exclaimed, running from the room.

  “I’ll cut it,” Nicholas shouted after her.

  “I’ll cut it,” Lynn told them, though she doubted that either of them heard. She followed them into the kitchen, where Megan had already deposited the cake in the middle of the table and was reaching for a knife. “I’ll cut it,” Lynn repeated.

  “Why can’t I do it?” Megan asked.

  “All right,” Lynn said, surprising herself. “You do it. Just be careful.”

  Megan beamed.

  “Daddy’s going to have a fit when he hears we had cake for breakfast,” Nicholas said, laughing.

  Lynn shuddered, feeling the shadowy figure from her dream return to surround the house. “You’re cutting too big a piece, Megan.”