by Joy Fielding
“Why, Terry Painter, I think you’re actually beginning to enjoy this.”
I nodded, tried to smile, felt tiny fissures at my cheeks, as if my flesh had turned to stone.
“My husband used to give the best foot massages,” Alison said, although from the sudden faraway tone in her voice, I knew she was speaking more to herself than to me. “It’s probably why I married him. Certainly it would explain why I kept going back to him. He had the best hands. Once he started massaging my feet, I was a goner.”
I understood what she meant. Alison had obviously learned a great deal from her former spouse. Her hands were magic. In less than two minutes, I too was a goner.
“I still miss him,” Alison continued. “I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. He’s so cute. You should see him. All the girls take one look at him and faint dead away. Which, of course, was part of the problem. He had no willpower whatsoever. ‘Course, neither did I. He’d cheat on me, and I’d swear there was no way I was going to forgive him, no way I was ever going to take his sorry ass back, and then there he’d be one night, standing at my door, and he’d look so damn good, and of course I’d let him in. ‘We’re just gonna talk,’ I’d say, and he’d agree, and we’d go sit on the sofa, and the next minute, he’d start rubbing my feet, and that was that. Back to square one.”
I thought I should probably comment, assure her she wasn’t the only woman in the world to fall for the wrong guy, or to forgive him too many times. But the truth was that, even had my face been free of its cosmetic constraints, I couldn’t have found the strength to speak. Her little-girl voice was like a lullaby, singing me to sleep. I breathed deeply, the room growing ever darker as I drifted in and out of consciousness.
The next thing I remember was the sound of footsteps overhead. I opened my eyes, found myself staring at the white underside of two slices of cucumber. I removed them, my eyes adjusting quickly to the surrounding darkness. I felt my face, still hidden beneath a layer of hard alpha hydroxy. When had Alison turned off the light? How long had I been asleep?
Again I heard the sound of movement overhead, the opening and closing of drawers. Was she in my bedroom? I wondered, pushing myself to my feet and turning on the nearby lamp. What was she doing? Bright red toenails winked at me from beside the soft, white cotton balls wedged between each toe. Very Cherry, I remembered as I walked on my heels toward the stairs.
She was in the guest room, standing in front of the bookshelf that occupied most of the wall opposite the old burgundy velvet sofa bed. Her back was to me. Obviously, she hadn’t heard me come up.
“What are you doing?” I asked, the masque around my mouth cracking like glass.
Alison spun around, the book in her hand dropping to the floor, landing on her toes. She gasped, although I’m not sure whether it was from pain or surprise. “Oh my God, you scared me.”
“What are you doing?” I asked again, the cracks in my masque lengthening, reaching for my eyes.
Hesitation flickered briefly across her face, like a candle flame caught in an unexpected breeze. “Well, first I came up to look for these,” she said, recovering quickly as she pulled a pair of tweezers from her pocket. “I realized I forgot mine, and you were snoring away, it was so cute, I didn’t want to wake you up. I figured you must have a pair somewhere, but I had to go through practically every drawer in the bathroom till I found them. Why don’t you keep them in the medicine cabinet like everyone else?”
“I thought I did,” I answered lamely.
She shook her head. “They were next to your hot rollers, underneath the sink.” She returned my tweezers to her pocket. “And then I was on my way back downstairs when I saw all the books, and I thought I’d take a second and look up word number four in the dictionary.” She bent down to retrieve the large book with its glossy red-and-yellow cover, held it up for me to see. “A triglyph is a structural member of a Doric frieze,” she announced triumphantly. “Please don’t ask me what a Doric frieze is.”
It was then that I caught sight of my reflection in the window and saw my newly shorn hair sticking out at weird angles from around my mummified face. “Oh, God, I look like the bogeyman.”
Alison winced. “Don’t even joke about that.” She replaced the book on the shelf, laced her arm through mine. “Let’s get that masque off your face. We still have lots more to do.”
“I think I’ve had about all the pampering I can take.”
“Nonsense. I’m just getting started.”
NINE
I took Thanksgiving off.
This was unusual because, since my mother’s death five years ago, I’d worked every Thanksgiving. In fact I worked every holiday, and that included Christmas Day and New year’s Eve. Why not? I reasoned. Unlike Margot and Caroline, I had no family waiting for me at home, no one to bemoan my absence or complain they didn’t see enough of me. And the residents of Mission Care still needed looking after, holiday or not. It was truly sad how few visitors some of them received, how perfunctory many of those visits were. If I could make the holidays less lonely for these people, many of whom I’d come to like and admire, then I was more than happy to do it. Besides, it was a trade-off: I was doing it as much for me as for them. I didn’t want to spend the holidays alone any more than they did.
But this Thanksgiving was different. I wasn’t going to be alone. I was having a dinner party, a slightly bigger dinner party than I’d first anticipated. Aside from Josh and Alison, the guest list now included Alison’s co-worker, Denise Nickson. Alison had asked if we could include her, and although I was reluctant—I didn’t really trust Denise after the incident with the earrings—Alison assured me that she was smart, funny, and basically good at heart. So, against my better judgment, I agreed to include her. Besides, with Denise around to talk to Alison, I reasoned I’d have more time to concentrate on Josh.
“Something smells absolutely fabulous.” Alison swept into the kitchen from the dining room, where she’d been setting the table. She was wearing her blue sundress, and her hair, secured behind one ear by a delicate, blue dragonfly clip, hung in a wondrous rush around her shoulders. On her feet were her silver sling-back shoes. I still couldn’t look at them without feeling a jolt of anxiety. “This turkey is going to be yummy delicious.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“What else can I do to help?”
“The table’s set?”
“Wait till you see it. It looks like something out of Gourmet magazine. I put the roses Josh sent in the middle, between the candles.”
I blushed and turned back toward the stove, pretended to be watching the pot of small red potatoes that were boiling at a brisk and steady pace. Believe it or not, no one had ever sent me flowers before. “I think we’re all set to go,” I said, running through my mental checklist—turkey, stuffing, marshmallow-covered yams, small red potatoes, homemade cranberry sauce, a pear-and-walnut salad with Gorgonzola dressing.
“We have enough food for an army,” Alison remarked, throwing her hands into the air, as if she were tossing confetti. It was a gesture of pure joy, and it made me laugh out loud. “You’re so pretty when you laugh,” Alison said.
I smiled my appreciation, thinking that if I looked especially nice tonight, it was all because of her. Not only was the haircut she’d given me the best, most flattering haircut I’d ever had—it fell about my face in soft amber waves that stopped just below my chin—but my skin still glowed from the facial she’d administered, and the makeup she’d selected and meticulously applied several hours earlier had somehow managed to be both dramatic and natural. My fingernails matched my toenails, Very Cherry going very well with my navy slacks and newly purchased white silk shirt. My silver cupid earrings dangled from my ears. Tonight, I told myself, was going to be a very special night.
The doorbell rang.
“My God,” I said. “What time is it?”
Alison checked her watch. “Only six-thirty. Somebody’s very anxious to get here.
” Big eyes widened in anticipation.
“Do I really look okay?” I pulled my blue-and-white-checkered apron up over my head, careful not to disturb my hair, ran my tongue across the muted red of my lips.
“You look fantastic. Just relax. Take a deep breath.”
I took one deep breath, then another for good luck, before proceeding out of the kitchen. Even before I reached the front door, I could hear giggling from outside. Clearly it was Denise, and not Josh, who’d been anxious to get here. Just as clearly, she wasn’t alone. Had she and Josh arrived at the same time? I wondered, pulling open the door.
Denise, wearing a pink T-shirt with orange letters that said DUMP HIM, and a pair of tight black jeans, her dark hair spiking rudely around the pale triangle of her face, was standing on the outside landing, skinny arms wrapped around an equally scrawny young man with short brown hair, light brown eyes, and a strong, hawklike nose. The face was vaguely sinister, although it softened a bit when he smiled. Still, he filled me with unease.
“We’re here,” Denise announced gaily. “I know we’re early, but . . .” She laughed, as if she’d said something funny. “This is K.C.,” she said, and laughed again.
Was she drunk? I wondered. High? “Casey?”
“K.C.,” the young man explained, biting off each letter. He was about the same age as Alison, I estimated. “Short for Kenneth Charles. But nobody ever calls me that.”
I nodded, wondered who he was and what he was doing in my house.
“Denise?” Alison asked from behind me.
“Hi, you.” Denise pushed past me into the living room of my home. “Wow. Nice house. Alison, meet K.C.”
“Casey?”
“K.C.,” the young man explained again. “Short for Kenneth Charles.”
“But nobody ever calls him that,” I added, thinking he must get awfully tired of having to explain himself.
“I didn’t realize you were bringing a date,” Alison said, nervous eyes flitting in my direction.
“Is it a problem? I just assumed it would be all right. Everybody always makes way too much food on Thanks-giving.”
“If it’s a problem,” the young man interjected quickly, “I can go. I don’t want to put anybody out.”
“No,” I heard myself say. “Denise is right. There’s more than enough food. We can’t very well toss you out on the street on Thanksgiving, can we?” I wasn’t being especially magnanimous. It was more that I suddenly decided Josh might be more comfortable if another man was present.
“I’ll set another place,” Alison volunteered, disappearing into the dining room as I ushered Denise and K.C. toward the sofa and chairs.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I offered.
“Vodka?” Denise asked.
“Beer?” asked K.C.
I had neither, so they settled for white wine. We sat in my living room, sipping on our drinks—Alison and I were sticking to water for the time being—and making awkward conversation. Denise seemed neither particularly smart nor funny, and K.C., who said little, had a way of looking right through you, even in repose, that was quite unsettling. Tonight is going to be a disaster, I thought, almost praying Josh would call to cancel.
“So, where’d you two meet?” Alison asked.
“At the store.” Denise shrugged, her eyes zeroing in on the large painting of lush pink and red peonies that hung on the wall across from the sofa. “That’s a nice painting.”
“Thank you.”
“I don’t usually like stuff like that. You know, flowers and fruit and stuff.”
“Still life,” I said.
“Yeah. I usually don’t like it. I like art with more of an edge, you know? But this is kinda nice. Where’d you get it?”
“It was my mother’s.”
“Yeah? And what—you inherited it after she died?” Denise was seemingly oblivious to the fact this might be none of her business. “Along with the house and everything?”
I said nothing, not sure how to respond.
“I’ve been trying to talk Terry into buying that painting of the woman with the large sun hat on the beach,” Alison chipped in, as if aware of my discomfort.
“You’re an only child?” Denise pressed, ignoring her.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“No, you’re lucky,” Denise protested. “I have two sisters. We hate each other’s guts. And Alison has a brother she never talks to. What about you, K.C.? You have any brothers or sisters you can’t stand?”
“One of each,” he said.
“And where are they tonight?” I asked.
“Back in Houston, I guess.”
“I didn’t know you were from Texas,” Denise said. “I’ve always wanted to go to Texas.”
“It doesn’t sound like you’ve known each other very long,” I remarked.
“We met last night.” Denise giggled, the incongruously childish sound emerging from between deep-purple lips. “Actually, I’d seen him in the store a few times, but we didn’t talk until last night.”
“I thought you looked familiar,” Alison suddenly exclaimed. “You were in on Monday. You asked about the frog sculpture.”
K.C. looked vaguely embarrassed. “I was trying to pick you up,” he admitted with a laugh.
“Oh, nice talk!” Denise said. “And what? It didn’t work, so you came back last night and hit on me?”
“It doesn’t mean I don’t love you,” K.C. said with a sly grin.
Denise laughed. “Isn’t he cute? I think he’s so cute.” She reached over, scraped clawlike fingers across his skinny thigh. “The thing about art,” she continued, as if this were the most logical of continua, her eyes back on the floral painting, “is that it’s such a lie. Don’t you think?”
“I’m not sure I follow,” I answered.
“Take these flowers,” Denise said. “Or the woman with the hat on the beach. I mean, when have you ever seen flowers this big and lush in real life, or sand that pink? It doesn’t exist.”
“It exists in the artist’s imagination,” I argued.
“My point exactly.”
“Just because art is subjective doesn’t make it a lie. Sometimes an artist’s interpretation of something is ultimately more real than the thing itself. The artist is forcing you to view the subject in a new and different light, to arrive at a greater truth.”
Denise waved my theories away with a careless hand. The wine sloshed around in her glass, veering dangerously toward the rim. “Artists distort, they enhance, they leave things out.” She shrugged. “That makes them liars in my book.”
“You got something against liars?” K.C. asked.
I heard a car pull into the driveway, listened to the sound of footsteps on the outside path, was already on my feet when the doorbell rang. I couldn’t help but notice the look of anticipation on Alison’s face as I walked to the door.
“You look great,” she called after me, giving me two encouraging thumbs-up.
I laughed and opened the door, then had to lean against it in case my legs gave out and I fell over the large leafy plant to my right. Josh Wylie was wearing a blue silk shirt and carrying a bottle of Dom Perignon. He looked absolutely gorgeous, and it was all I could do to keep from throwing myself into his arms. Calm down, I told myself. You’re forty years old, not fourteen. Relax. Take deep breaths.
“Am I late?” Josh asked as I closed the door after him, then stood rooted to the floor, as if I’d been planted.
“No. You’re perfect. Perfectly on time,” I qualified quickly, letting go of the doorframe and accepting the bottle of Dom Perignon. “You didn’t have to bring champagne. Your flowers were more than enough.”
“Ooh, champagne.” Denise was suddenly at my side, lifting the bottle from my hands. “I’m Denise, and I love champagne.” She extended her free hand.
“Denise Nickson, this is Josh Wylie,” I said. “Denise works in the gallery with Alison.”
Alison waved hello from the sofa.
/> “It’s my aunt’s gallery,” Denise explained. “So I’m kind of a part-owner, I guess. This is my friend K.C.”
“Nice to meet you, Casey.”
“K.C.,” we corrected in unison.
“Stands for Kenneth Charles,” he said.
“But nobody calls him that,” Alison said.
“You must get awfully tired of having to explain that to everyone,” Josh said, and I smiled, hearing my own thoughts resonating through his words.
What can I say about that night?
My initial reservations were quickly dispelled in a wave of champagne and friendly banter. Despite the disparity in our ages and interests, the five of us made for a lively and interesting group. The food was delicious, the conversation effortless, the mood relaxed and happy.
“So what exactly does an investment counselor do?” Denise asked Josh at one point, the cranberry sauce on her fork competing with the stubborn purple of her lips. “And don’t say he counsels people on their investments.”
“I’m afraid there’s not much else I can say,” Josh demurred.
“Are you counseling Terry on her investments?” K.C. asked.
I laughed. “First I’d have to have some money to invest.”
“Oh, come on. You must have lots of money kicking around,” Denise protested. “I mean, you work, you own your own house, you have a tenant. Plus I’m sure you have a nice pension.”
“Which I don’t collect till I retire,” I told her, a slight twinge of discomfort worming its way into my gut. How had we come to be discussing my finances?
“What about you, K.C.?” Josh asked. “What is it you do?”
“Computer programmer.” K.C. helped himself to another slice of turkey, another heaping spoonful of yams.
“Another job I’ll never understand,” Denise said. “Do you have a computer, Terry?”
“No,” I answered. “I’ve never really needed one.”
“How can you survive without E-mail?”
“You’d be suprised what you can survive without.” I stared into my lap, trying not to picture Josh slamming me against the wall of my bedroom, eager fingers unbuttoning my blouse.