“I am! I am the guy who stayed. That was thirteen years ago, Elodie.” James actually laughs.
“You called me ‘sweetie.’” I stare into his eyes.
“Will you dance with me, sweetie?”
James comes to my chair. I stand up. The ring captures what light is reflected. He holds me close, dating-style. There is no talk of building a house that consumes him, and I’m not obsessed with my writers, with the next poet on the docket at work.
“Elodie.” James tucks me toward him. I’m Penelope to his Ulysses. He’s come back from the war, the Sirens’ call, the vagaries of the sea. I’ve been waiting, years on end. The longing on both sides for us, how it remains, what we ourselves couldn’t have predicted. Sated by my husband’s reappearance, at last.
I put my right hand up to his left shoulder and again the color stones catch the dimness, brighten this patch of James’s blazer.
“Elodie, what is it?”
“I’m okay, James,” I say.
“Are you?”
“With you, yes.”
We slow-dance without moving our feet, folding into each other. The tile is cold beneath; my shoulders are cold, too. His arms around me are almost a shawl, a blanket. His neck is completely perfect and I want to sniff it, sniff his skin and feel the smoothness. James leans down for a kiss, a public kiss. How out of character, as if he left his brains at the new house, at the construction site this afternoon. While I’m kissing him back without proof or reason, a chill runs through me. In the middle of our return to each other—after what feels a very long time—I’m planning tomorrow. When I’ll call my father, then my sister and mother, to have an hour together. And I’m tugged to the Cutler side, despite how I love James. No other conversation matters.
CHAPTER 22
ELODIE
In the luxurious anteroom of Mar-a-Lago, my sister and I face south. To our left is the ocean and to our right is the putting green. Aubrey adjusts her sunglasses, shaped like hearts, squints into the room, and tugs on her Zara print dress. The print is very like the flowered Erdem that I notice on both A. J. Barker and Linnie Langley, except it’s not. Women are coming through the doors. Aubrey might know a third of the guests, maybe a quarter, from growing up in Palm Beach. For me, it’s a roll call.
I’m tapped on my elbow by Mimi, reminding me of how first graders in our Wednesday-afternoon Reading Hour approach me.
“There you are.” Nearby, the scent of musk, which should be outlawed, hovers. Mrs. A. is holding on to Veronica’s wrist while she speaks. Other conversations surround us. Not in the city in June … her third marriage … downsizing, auctioned the art … gutted the house … not on her guest list … I read it the day it came out, the writing … liposuction … Yale, I heard … miserable grandchildren, thankless.
Mimi and I air-kiss while Veronica edges out of Mrs. A.’s grip.
“Girls!” Veronica is beside us, vibrant, her social graces in full throttle. Has she been bonged on the head since yesterday’s conversation took place? She is impeccably outfitted in a navy-and-gray tweed Chanel dress and a Davidor bangle bracelet. Aubrey frowns when our mother does her wide, although not widest smile. She’s adept at shifting gears, compartmentalizing her life. I yearn to be distracted, to have my mother’s talent for escape, her ongoing need for society.
There is the first line surge and we spill onto the alfresco patio to find our assigned seats. Sunlight sparkles; there is hardly a breeze. The high winds of yesterday are forgotten; they never occurred.
“What I’ve missed is lunacy,” Aubrey whispers to me.
I purse my lips; we can’t jeer and be part of it. “Eh,” I say.
“Aubrey!” Jessica and Tiffany pile behind us and say her name together.
“Hey!” Aubrey smiles, more air-kisses.
“What are you doing here?” Jessica asks.
She is consummate for a luncheon at Mar-a-Lago, with her five pounds of hair pulled into a messy ponytail or bun, indicating that a stop at the Blow Bar is planned for after the luncheon. No one under forty has her hair coiffed; only women over fifty care.
“I’m in Palm Beach a lot these days, when I’m not booking groups,” Aubrey says.
“With that guy?” Tiffany asks. She, too, has that unkempt long hair. I put my hands to my head, where every hair is tucked into a neat ponytail.
“Yes,” Aubrey says, “still that guy.”
“Wow.” Jessica checks out Aubrey’s face and the rest of her body. “It’s been a while. So it’s serious, finally a man who gets your attention?”
“Must be some kinda guy,” Tiffany says. Her eyes move toward Aubrey’s middle, since she, too, is expecting a baby. A normal-pregnancy baby.
A slithery panic rises in me. We, my mother and I and my sister, although she’s certainly more blithe, have miscalculated the luncheon today. Aubrey’s bump could prove a feed for the Palm Beach gossip machine. I try to catch my sister’s eye, my mother’s eye. Mrs. A., standing in the center of the patio, takes a knife and raps her fluted glass filled with a virgin Bellini.
“Ladies, ladies. Welcome, all.” Mrs. A.’s two-headed tiger Cartier bracelet glints in the sun. Allison Rochester and Rita Damon stand with her, both in shades of violet. They are too chic to be uniformed yet they are uniformed.
“Please be seated with your group,” Allison, an ideal host, says. “If you haven’t yet claimed your place card, I know the chart by heart.”
The guests clap, do a weak laugh, and move toward their assigned seats.
“Doesn’t Mom seem all right today?” Aubrey asks. She is behind me on the walk to the tables.
I face her, my fingers on my lips. “She’s pleased we’re both here.”
Aubrey gets it. “Of course. It’s great that we are.”
The furtive and not-so-furtive glances keep going. I can virtually touch how word of Aubrey’s pregnancy will travel in every circle. Especially with the present lull in local stories and a deliberate avoidance of any world news. Aubrey and I are up next.
* * *
Veronica is settling in at Ina Coles’s table, as she does every year for this midseason Mar-a-Lago luncheon. Seated next to Karenna Tapper and Nan Payton, our mother is doing a hawklike inventory and misses my wave. When her gaze circles back to Ina, who is watching Aubrey, I know she knows. I try but fail once more to get her to glance in my direction. I am furious with myself. Am I not the elder daughter, schooled in the Veronica and Simon Show? Could I, could we, truly be this ill-prepared, this unpolished? I look at my friends, who glom on to one another, perhaps in search of the next gabfest. Our mother’s friends could be unpredictable; they might or might not be supportive. That will be followed by Mom’s and Mimi’s ability to deal with being iced or judged. Or both.
Far to the right, my sister, still standing, texts me a heart emoji. Love the playlist. The beat. She would notice the playlist—ABBA, Cat Stevens, the Rolling Stones. Is she kidding? I sidle into my seat between Katie Kutin and Linnie Langley, nodding to Mrs. A.’s nieces from Boston. I entertain having a glass of wine. Any voodoo or potion to pour the old me back into my veins, the one who seeks out members of the Literary Society at these gatherings. Beyond who wears Valentino, Oscar, or Chanel, wedges versus stilettos, platforms versus kitten heels, more Manolo than Louboutin, Jimmy Choo alongside Stuart Weitzman. Beyond the urgency of a Dior, Balenciaga, or Vuitton bag. It is about wardrobe as a lead to heavy hitters, women who might double their contribution to the Society. I don’t have it in me today to work the room.
“How is Zachary?” I ask Katie.
“Wonderful. He wants you to come over to do a hundred-piece puzzle.”
“A hundred pieces? I can do that,” I say. “And then a game of Clue. He loves that game.”
The taller Boston niece is fanning herself with the calligraphied menu. Chicken salad with avocado. Lemon cake, chocolate cake. Across the table, there’s talk of the Academy, small children, how orders at Neiman’s for the spring collec
tion have already started. If I felt set apart these last few years without having a child, I will soon be set apart for another reason. My child will be brought into the world in an unconventional way. Unless there is a surprise reaction and what I’m doing is a trend, it won’t be welcomed in Palm Beach. Isn’t that what our parents were trying to tell us when Aubrey was inseminated?
“White baby roses!” the other Boston niece says. “They’re ambrosial.”
“Ambrosial,” Linnie, Katie, and I repeat, as if we’re saying “Amen.”
The first course is brought to us, slivers of smoked salmon with caviar and crème fraîche. A bread basket of whole-wheat rolls is passed. Everyone refuses, except for me—I take two rolls, one with walnuts, one without. Linnie is staring at my sister, who is standing with Jessica beside their table. Together they are looking at their iPhones, Aubrey is showing her bands, gigs, photos of Tyler.
“Well, your sister—look at her,” Linnie begins.
“I noticed, too, Elodie.” Katie becomes syrupy. “I suppose everyone is wondering what Aubrey will do.”
“Do? About what?” I ask.
“Evidently she’s…” Linnie’s voice trails off.
I’m about to play with their heads, act as if I don’t see Aubrey as they do. Then I notice fifty feet away that my mother is in distress. She bends her neck like a maimed egret. I jump up, holding my iPhone.
“Excuse me,” I say. “It’s work. I’m being texted by my assistant, I’ll need to take the call.”
I practically hopscotch on the terrace to get to my mother’s table, en route to a good spot for cell reception. Other conversations stream from Rita Damon and Mrs. A.’s corner, moving like a symphony, rising music, soft sounds, large sounds, through the air. Look at her. Whose baby? Veronica and Simon … A Breakers wedding? Poor Elodie … over forty. Am I the only one who hears it?
With purpose, I stand behind Veronica as Dory Rainee, who is talking to Mimi—Mimi? “Did I blink and wasn’t invited to a wedding? Veronica at last with a grandchild!” She makes eye contact with each woman, then puts on her bifocals for more drama. “Look at Aubrey.”
I bend down slightly. “Mom, one question?”
“Of course, Elodie.”
I watch her rise gracefully and we step to the side. Aubrey comes to us and says, “I feel like I should have brought a billboard to answer everyone—or held a press conference.”
“We ought to stop the talk,” our mother says. “Agreed?”
“A great idea.” I smile the smile my mother has mastered, leveled at everyone.
Veronica gathers herself; she will not tolerate another word. Nor an overt or covert glance. She claps her hands together. The sunlight behind us is like latticework.
“Excuse me, ladies, may I have your attention? I’m sorry to interrupt the luncheon—I ask only for a few minutes of your time.”
My sister and I shadow our mother.
“I have heard talk today, questions about Aubrey, my younger daughter. What’s going on? Is she actually pregnant? Is she married? I want to offer the entire story—and be brief. After miscarriages and heartache, Elodie has asked Aubrey to be a surrogate. The baby, their baby, is due in the fall. That’s what I thought you should know,” Veronica says. “And perhaps it’s a first for Palm Beach.”
Aubrey and I step up. Our shoulders touch our mother’s.
“Does anyone have a question?” Aubrey asks.
The entire patio of women seems to have fallen under a spell.
Allison Rochester holds up her glass. “To the Cutler sisters, who haven’t come together to one of our winter lunches for many years. Isn’t that true, Veronica?”
Mrs. A. is standing with Allison. “I believe it is true. And they are very welcome.”
I raise my glass. “To our gracious hosts.”
Aubrey is radiantly pregnant. “Thank you for including me. I am happy to be part of this.”
Gulls, warblers, herons, the birds my sister and I have known since we were children, circle above. For now, any shreds of gossip evaporate into the ether.
CHAPTER 23
AUBREY
I pace back and forth in my parents’ formal living room. The couch and love seat are so fresh, it’s as if they’ve just been delivered from an upholsterer. Has any of this room ever been used? I keep pacing, counting steps.
“Aubrey, stop.” Elodie walks in through the patio doors. “Please, you’re making me anxious.”
“I am making you anxious? I don’t know why we have to keep the drama going. Mom is reeling from lunch two hours ago.” I try to glare at her.
Mom appears, kicks off her medium-heel nude Manolos, collapses on the couch. “I agree. Haven’t we had enough for today? Can’t we just be pleasant?”
“I can’t skip talking to Dad, we planned it,” Elodie says.
“And you, Aubrey?” Mom asks.
“I don’t know, I don’t,” I say.
Our baby somersaults. Although I’ve not told my family, I’ve begun to call her Grace. Baby Grace. As dire as this family moment is, my mind wanders to the Lake Trail. I wish I were there now, finding other pregnant women to walk with along the southern end. We could trade notes, cravings for Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, lemonade, chili peppers. They might think it’s my baby.
“I can go either way,” I add.
* * *
Dad walks into the living room in his tennis whites, holding his Prince racket. Mom is about to ask that he place the racket in the mudroom. Instead, she opens her mouth and closes it, looks off toward the garden. The colors of the hibiscus are vivid, life aglow outside these glass doors.
“Simon, perfect timing, right on cue.” Mom sounds strained. “With the girls, together again.”
“On cue! High praise.” When Dad smiles, his teeth seem more spread out and whiter than they used to be. Or maybe I never noticed his teeth before.
I am ill, not a lingering morning sickness, but something soupier, heavier. Obviously, he didn’t hear us yesterday morning at the pool, luckily. Or has decided to be stoic. Stoic. I feel sicker. Elodie stands up, leans against the far wall, silhouetted, her hands on her hips. Exhausted, as no one is on an ordinary afternoon.
“We wanted to speak with you,” she says.
“Sure,” Dad says. Then he frowns. “What happened at the luncheon? Is Mimi around, too?”
“No, no, she stayed. She’s in a card game at Mar-a-Lago.” Mom is grim.
Dad sits on the end chair, while Elodie is on a chair that is parallel, completing the set. I decide to stay on the couch beside Mom, although the beige fabric is scratchy through my dress. Was life always like that—my hypersensitivity to anything tactile, to smells, to sounds?
On the Intracoastal, boats steer by slowly. Sunshine sparkles over the water and a family on a Sea Ray navigates the strait. Happy travelers, a family without secrets. The clouds move in.
“What’s going on?” Dad puts his right hand over his skull, where his hair has thinned the most. He’s very handsome. How could he not be my father—what is it called on the websites, my “bio father”? She’s so pretty, our mother. How could my sister and I—such high-end offspring—not be theirs totally, the result of their union?
Don’t Elodie and I have Dad’s lankiness, the heavy ash brown hair he had when he was younger? What about his eyes, which can be brown or hazel? For all the eye shadow, eye powder, and clever eyeliner in the world, Mom’s eyes aren’t as tantalizing as Dad’s. His whole style, how he doesn’t get unnerved or surprised. He calms us down; he has that humor, that IQ. I can’t stand that he isn’t our father, our biological father. I don’t believe it. Too many fairy tales were read to us, after that we were expected to read too much literature. This has to be a story, a fable, not what really happened.
“Aubrey and I have gotten results from the 23andMe tests,” Elodie begins. “The tests we took because we were given the kits. We wanted to know if we carry any dread disease or … I don’t know. I swear,
I can’t remember why we took the test beyond curiosity. What I can’t get over is what we found out.”
For some reason, I’m watching Mom rather than Dad. She stands up, maybe to go to Dad, toss her arms across his shoulders, comfort him. Instead, she assumes an odd pose, bending at her waist without breaking. Like a dancer—like the swan princess in Swan Lake. In the version that we know—the Miami City Ballet rendition that she took us to each year—the swan princess is a victim and a heroine.
Mom almost stumbles, then sits back down. “Simon, no one planned to take these tests. I didn’t know about it until…”
His face is red, redder—he’s never red, only tan. He could be having a stroke. I take my iPhone out of my pocket in case I need to dial 911.
“What happened?” His voice is husky.
“We want you to know we know.” Elodie speaks as if she is introducing a controversial author or poet for her winter series. She is concise; she enunciates. Is my sister hopeful that this conversation will be positive, that every member of our family will be all right afterward?
Mom pushes her hair off her forehead. The air is too warm, stifling. “I’m not equipped for the tumult,” she says.
“Okay, all right, let’s try to parse it out.” Dad remains red. The kind of power—that presence he has because he is my father—is missing. He is diminished, shorter, less than eager to be with us.
“Parse it out? What would that be, Dad? Would that mean the part of you that I’ve had in my life and the part of you that Aubrey’s had while we never knew anything?” Elodie asks.
“What are you expecting me to say, Elodie? What is it that you’re after?” he asks.
Except he has not spoken to us in such a gravelly voice before. His eyes have a flash to them, as if he’s very angry, possibly afraid.
“Simon, we don’t have to have this conversation,” Mom says. “Ever.”
“You and Mom are amazing parents. We’re not trying to ambush you,” I say.
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