Elodie’s never-born child was also a girl. Can anyone rent a baby, make one out of a test tube? Milk-shake it to life?
CHAPTER 9
ELODIE
I don’t remember the last time, if ever, that Simon reached me at work and suggested we meet, just the two of us. When his call came through my office line, Laurie, my assistant, knew somehow and paged me.
“Elodie?” His voice was tense when I picked up.
Aubrey. Those late nights with her bohemian boyfriend. “Dad, is everything all right?”
“It is. I’m calling to take you on an outing. Are you free Sunday morning—at the Shelteere, in the gardens?”
I paused. When have my father and I tooled around on a Sunday morning at a museum? Let alone a Sunday in season. Not since my mother stopped pushing her father/daughter hallucination, before I was eight years old, before Aubrey was born.
“I’d prefer the Flagler, actually. For the history, the scale of it.…”
“The Flagler it is,” he said.
“Let’s meet at ten, when the doors open.” He clicked off before I could say good-bye. That’s how I knew it was a business call.
* * *
Although it’s not a beach day and a cool mist is moving in, the Flagler is quiet. I try to concentrate on the romantic notion that Henry Morrison Flagler built this Gilded Age mansion as a wedding gift for his third wife (and former mistress), Mary Lily Kenan Flagler. Here at Whitehall, they partied in their graceful, grand public rooms. Next week at the Literary Society, a history professor from FAU will pair with Nadia Sherman, the features writer for Palm Beach Confidential, to talk about how the Flaglers created “the season,” how their mansion was the birthplace of Palm Beach society. Meaning I should walk into this Grand Hall with enthusiasm, I should admire the massive Doric column close to the front door. If only I could. What is it my father wants?
I’m twenty minutes early because he is never late. My father wins anyway—already there, beside a table with a bust of Caesar Augustus. He waves his right arm to show he’s procured tickets. His light blue cashmere sweater is tossed over his shoulders; his nubuck loafers tap against the marble floor when he comes toward me. My espadrilles make swishing sounds as I walk to meet him halfway. Have my father and I dressed for those we might see on the Avenue? Or on South County Road if we stop at Classic Books, then a quick lunch at Surfside? Camera-ready—my mother’s motto.
We air-kiss.
“I wanted to talk with you.” He ties his sweater in a knot in the middle of his chest. “Let’s head this way.”
I follow my father into the Music Room. I stare at the marble bust called The Lady in the Veil, sculpted by E. Fiaschi. A guard languidly positions himself at the far corner, by the north door. Simon motions for us to stop, freeze.
“You’ve been going through a great deal.” He’s awkward, facing out.
With Aubrey, he might have begun with small talk. Were it a family affair and Veronica present, there would be gushing, a warmth blended with scrutiny. More manners or style, more Palm Beach–esque. Not that he isn’t polished on his own; it’s that he’s with me, not Aubrey, not the daughter who pleases her father without trying. For the thousandth time, I fail to understand why that is.
I lift my head to say, “It’s been hellish, Dad.”
“I know and I’m sorry. Sorry for you, sorry for James. Of course, it must be harder on you.”
“Do you mean physically, emotionally? I don’t know, both James and I have been going through an awful period.”
“I saw James yesterday at the club. He was perfectly chipper, telling jokes in the men’s locker room.”
“He’s not happy with me, when he’s with me.”
What fills my head today is what my mother has taught me, her clever tricks, applied to being a wife and/or a daughter. Be accommodating, willing to compromise.
“James is happy, Elodie. Don’t you see where I’m going with this?”
I’m listening to a man whose life is ordered. He spends an hour or two a day on the phone with his office, checking on his real estate holdings. Beyond that, there’s the golf, tennis, swimming, high-stakes bridge—compiled on his terms.
“I’m confused, Dad. What are you saying?”
“That James shouldn’t be pressuring you to do something a certain way. James has his success.” Simon pauses. “What is it your mother always says about couples? Either they grow together or grow apart.”
“Dad, James wants a child. Asking Aubrey was his idea.” I feel better telling my father, pushing this fact out into the immense room of a long-gone era. I don’t confide that I question why people ache to be parents. Are they afraid of missing out, anticipating a haunting regret down the road?
“That is why you are so pressured, I see. Does James need a child? You two have an excellent life.”
“We both want to have a family. We want a baby. You and Mom understand that. I mean, you know what I’ve been through, in vitro, hormones. You have your daughters. You and Mom have that.”
He looks away. In the half fluorescent, half natural light, I see how the lines in my father’s face are ridged.
“If this is so relevant, then you should hire a carrier for your baby, a surrogate.”
“Oh, I get it, as long as it isn’t affecting Aubrey.” Welts start—turning to hives beneath my collarbone. “That’s what it’s about.”
“If you and James want this, there are options. No need to push Aubrey to carry for you.”
“Push her? I’m not pushing her.” My one and only very large denial.
“It won’t be good for either of you.” Simon straightens his spine.
“Does Mom know you’re with me to talk? Does she know you are against it? She wants Aubrey to do it for me. I thought you and Mom always agree. Why are you so negative about the idea?” I scratch my neck. I need air.
He sighs and moves one step from me. I imagine him imagining Aubrey.
“James is hell-bent on Aubrey doing it for us. It’s the shared-DNA component, that’s the thing. At first I was resistant; it was too loaded, too much to ask. Then I thought about it and about you, how you would approve,” I say.
“Why, why is that?” Simon stands still enough to be in the military.
“I thought this would please you, that you would be very happy with the Cutler genes being included, that the DNA would be there. That really matters to James. At first I was so worried about this big ask of Aubrey that I couldn’t pay attention to the DNA part. Yet I know it connects me to our baby and how that feels.”
“Is that the key to being a good mother or father?” he asks.
“Well, not always, but family counts, being related counts.”
“Family counts.” He repeats this thoughtfully. My nausea returns, almost overwhelming me.
“I’d pay another surrogate, Elodie, a gestational carrier, whatever you need. Someone who isn’t related in any manner.”
“Are you trying to persuade me against wanting Aubrey?” I want to say, Are you daring to buy me? Instead, I lift my water bottle from my Literary Society canvas bag, uncertain how it got past security, and take a few sips.
“I’m trying to help you,” he says.
I steady myself. “Aubrey is my younger sister, my blood. We are tangled, in a good way, we are in this enmeshed family. Why are you against it?”
I feel the light shift and disintegrate; the length of the Music Room seems distorted. Suddenly I understand. “It occurs to me that you’ve already gone to Aubrey, tried to talk to her. Haven’t you? I don’t need anything, Dad, thank you.”
A mother and her daughter walk inside and the sunlight returns, streaming into the gallery while the clouds roll out. They are startled to find us there, pitched in the very middle. The daughter is eight at most and reminds me of the third graders coming in for our Nancy Drew series at the Society. I watch them move toward the opposite end, as far away as possible.
“I can’t quite understa
nd the depth of your campaign, Dad. Your idea for my baby.”
The mother’s and daughter’s footsteps scrape and pad along the patterned wood floor. Are we not out of place in this mansion from a past era, when life had more grandeur? My father is about to take my hand, I feign that I don’t see. He tries again.
“Dad, I have to go. I have paperwork for the Society, and James will wonder where I am when he gets back.”
“Of course,” Simon says.
I head for the exit door, and turn to see if he is behind. His back is to me; he is standing in this “father as stoic” stance. He appears strong, but then I realize that his shoulders are sloping.
CHAPTER 10
ELODIE
An hour later I’m at the Breakers Beach Club, wishing I were spotless, unblemished. I impel my father’s words out of my mind, as if I have a flyswatter for thoughts and feelings that are too painful. I move through the terrace, where families—guests of the hotel and members—are finding tables for lunch.
“Elodie, Elodie, over here!” Veronica stands beside Mimi; both are waving their arms in a synchronized motion. They have corraled a row of lounge chairs by the main pool, facing the private beach and coastline.
I wave back, my version, a partially raised right arm, a mild sweep of my hand. At least twenty or thirty members of the Literary Society are milling about. My mother waves more strenuously.
“I know. I thought we’d be in a cabana on the beach.” I hear my sister, whispering in my ear.
“Aubrey!” I say.
“I know, startling, right?” Aubrey smiles her brightest, whitest smile. “I drove up after Mom did this ‘Palm Beach Sunday in November early season’ plea. Something about a family afternoon at the Breakers. Tyler got invited, but my appearance is by command.”
“Did he come? Have you seen James?”
Aubrey slopes her brimmed hat toward me. “No, Tyler is with a lead singer called Horace today. I don’t know about James. Mom and Mimi expect him.”
She’s wearing a pastel print bikini with a sheer sea foam minidress over it. Although I’ve brought my Letarte bikini and cover-up that I bought on the Avenue, the contrast is incongruous. Aubrey is enchanting. I hold my bag closer to my hip and remember my father’s defense of my sister’s floatable existence.
“I’m so happy to be with you!” My sister hugs me. Has she forgotten I ever asked for help—for a baby I can’t carry? No matter what happens, we have asked too much of each other. And gone too far, we supposedly exemplary Cutlers. I should apologize; I should get an emotional eraser and erase everything, including my father this morning. Erase it.
“Ohhh Elodie!” someone yodels to my left as we navigate toward my mother and mother-in-law.
“You are being paged. One of your clients,” Aubrey says.
“Society members?” I say. We both laugh at that. A member’s voice, even a board member’s, won’t be so different from anyone else’s at the Beach Club on a busy Sunday afternoon. Anyone is capable of an overloud, jarring hello.
“Look. It’s Katie,” Aubrey says.
Katie, in muted blue yoga pants and a white racer-back tank top, is standing with Zachary. While he is twirling his water bottle, which doubles as a fan, she is tugging on her highlighted hair, gathering it in a loose knot.
“Aunt Elodie!” Zachary runs toward me. “You’re here!” He jumps up and down. I kneel to kiss him. He smells like little boy skin dipped in chlorine.
He tugs on my skort. “I’m going to the kid camp! Mom’s taking me right over! Can you come with us?”
“That would be fun. I’d love to,” I say. “But, Mr. Dinosaur, I’m with my sister, and our mother is waiting for us to have lunch.”
“Zachary, we have to hurry. Your friends Charlie and Christopher are waiting.” Katie takes him by the hand. “We should go.”
“Aunt Elodie, please take me!” Zachary begs. “Did you bring a book for us to read later?”
That’s when DeeDee, Katie’s mother, arrives. “What a zoo! I’ve been looking for you, Katie.” She turns to us. “The Cutler sisters!” Air-kisses ensue.
“Mom, can you take Zachary over? His friends are—”
“Let’s go, sweetie.” DeeDee has a firm grip as she steers Zachary through the crowd, back toward the south entrance to the kids’ club. He tucks his chin as he is led along, then looks back at me. “Bye!”
“Bye, Zachary!” I blow him a kiss.
We watch them moving swiftly away from the pool area.
“Hey,” Katie says. The sweat beads on her shoulders are so perfect, they seem tattooed. “There’s a chakra-balancing hour, for the three of us—for energy centers—or we can do the Soul Stretch fitness class.”
Aubrey’s face lights up. “What time? I’d love either one.”
The three of us stand in the midst of two surges—one toward the bungalows, the other toward the Beach Club Restaurant. Off to the right, beside our reserved beach chairs, our mother has one hand on her hip and is holding up a menu.
“We can talk about it, make a plan. I’ll text you,” I say. “Aubrey, Mom is at a table.”
Behind Katie, a tallish, buff man appears. The best-looking father in the Children’s Library—with plenty of competition.
“Hi, Katie, Elodie.” He is fixed on Aubrey. “I haven’t seen you lately. I’ve been traveling for work.”
“Colby, my younger sister, Aubrey. I don’t know if you’ve met her, maybe back in the day,” I say.
“When you were a very little sister.” Colby holds out his right hand to Aubrey.
She half shakes his hand. “Yeah, I was that. The little naggy sister.”
“You don’t live in Palm Beach, do you?” he asks.
“I don’t.” Aubrey looks out toward our mother. “I’m sorry. Elodie, look. Mom and Mimi are majorly summoning us.”
“Another time.” Colby smiles.
He’s not been gone a minute when Katie grasps Aubrey’s wrist. “You know Colby Akers is almost a billionaire, divorced not a year. Moved his business to Palm Beach from New York. His girls are with him or the nanny, no one sees the mother around. I mean, look at him, listen to him.”
Aubrey pulls down on the hem of her mini cover-up and puts on her red-framed RayBans. “Thanks, Katie, I’m with someone.”
“Oh, maybe I did hear. You’re with someone from Seattle. Elodie told me when we were at the South Palm fund-raiser,” Katie says.
“Portland, not Seattle. He is in South Beach, with me, that’s where we live.” Aubrey is frosty. Reminding me of how she was with her teachers at the Academy, only half there.
“She’s spoken for, Katie,” I say. “Besides, this isn’t how my sister views the world.”
Katie and I air-kiss and I guide Aubrey through the thicket of people standing and seated, ruffling menus, eager to order. I’m sure by now our mother has done the same. She and Mimi have mah-jongg at two o’clock. I glance at my iPhone. James texts that he’s winning at singles and wants to have lunch with the other players. It will just be fine for us.
We walk by the factions: nubile teenage girls counting French fries, coeds sipping limeade, summoned home by their parents during winter break. They sport discreet tattoos at their ankles and wrists—a promise of more to come. There are groups of pristine women over fifty who seem rushed to have a kale and quinoa salad before getting to the card tables, young mothers with small children and their nannies, their husbands coming in from tennis or golf as the hot dogs arrive. I watch more closely. Some congregate with other couples or grandparents, others are nuclear. Nuclear.
“Dad texted. He isn’t coming,” Aubrey says. “His bridge game starts soon at the Harbor Club. Sort of surprising, right?”
Is Aubrey missing how Dad has been recently? An impossible situation to have ever predicted, darkening the day. Where can it go, whatever the outcome? I blame both men; James for dreaming up Aubrey as our surrogate, and Dad for begging us to not get entangled. He’s become unknowable.
I’m not sure I’ll miss him at lunch, not today. My hands are clammy.
To get to our lounge chairs, I greet and grin. To my left are a few women from Mothers and Children, the “good doers” who have supported my mother’s work there for what seems like decades. To the right is a younger crowd, but older than me: Faith Harrison, Lara Mercer, Maritza Abrams, Betina Gilles, and Allison Rochester, members of the Literary Society, major members. Everyone mixes, everyone buzzes. Most Sundays I am happy to be a part of it. The women talk about the programs; my mother boasts about my influence. Mimi is on her best behavior because she is a guest of my parents, James has won in singles and feels appreciated. Yet today I can only greet my friends from afar, the ones who are settled in their reserved lounge chairs, slathering WaterBabies sunblock from bright pink bottles onto their young children’s shoulders and thin, strong arms and legs. I am weighted down, my hair, my body. I’m an outsider rather than the insider my mother trained us to be. I cannot banish the morning at the Flagler with my father—it keeps playing, over and over.
* * *
“Girls, girls. I ordered four lobster rolls.” Veronica, too, is applying sunblock. Although we are under the shade of an umbrella, she pats it across her forearms.
“Mom, Aubrey is a vegetarian,” I say.
“A vegan?” Mimi frowns; her Freywille bangles clank together.
“No, not a vegan, a plain everyday-variety vegetarian,” Aubrey says. “I’ll order a salad. A goat cheese salad. Maybe some onion rings.”
“Of course, silly me,” Veronica says.
Aubrey and I trade a glance. This isn’t the first time that Veronica has decided that Aubrey ought not to be a vegetarian, that she, as the mother, can will it to disappear. What she objects to is the inconvenience, the lack of sophistication in food choice—or so it seems to her. It means Aubrey isn’t like her on this count, not relishing jumbo shrimp or crabmeat, lobster rolls or sushi. I, in contrast, get points for eating every type of crustacean. Definitely at luncheons and dinners in Palm Beach it is sanctioned.
A Palm Beach Scandal--A Novel Page 8