That was it. An attempt at poetry on an old picture frame, probably because she’d liked that other poem so much.
Jackie sat back in disappointment. She had wanted something that could have summed up all their years together, especially something that could take the sting out of Cheryl’s words. Instead, she was left with a framed photo where, basically, she was caught flirting with George. If George was even dishonest in the least, Jackie would have thought he’d set up the whole thing.
In an uncharacteristic move, Jackie told Anthony the whole story. At the end, he shook his head, baffled. “We are two peas in a pod,” he said. By now, he was seated on the floor of the office, his legs drawn up and held against his chest. Jackie was lying on the couch, her hand still absently stroking his hair.
“What are we going to do?”
DORIS SHOT UP from a dead sleep, slapping her hand to her forehead. “That’s it!” she said out loud. She had been dreaming of her mother. The words from their conversation seemed to echo in her head.
Doug stirred in the sheets. “What, Doris?” He reached out his hand and ran it over her arm, eyes still closed. Doris’s heart leaped. In the dim light from the clock, she gazed at Doug’s familiar profile. She was so happy to have him back in her bed.
That morning, her husband had come down the stairs cautiously, as though he were a stranger in his home. In a way, he was. Doris had made him sleep in the guest bedroom and she wasn’t waiting on him hand and foot like she used to. Even the breakfast she was cooking up wasn’t meant for Doug, it was meant for her and Mandy.
“Good morning,” he said, watching as she attempted to flip a piece of French toast.
“Hello,” Doris said. “I already threw out the coffee, so if you want any the filters are above the stove.”
“What are you making?”
“French toast,” Doris mused, studying the piece stuck to the pan. “But it’s not turning out so good.”
Doug laughed. “Darlin’, the only thing you can cook are eggs,” he said. “And even those aren’t very good. Let me take you out to breakfast.”
Doris was so surprised she actually dropped the spatula on the floor. Not the part about her cooking; everyone knew that. She was surprised by Doug’s invitation to brunch. They hadn’t had breakfast together at a restaurant in maybe ten years.
“What about Mandy?” she said, turning off the stove and tossing the spatula in the sink.
“She’s still asleep,” Doug said. “Why don’t we just make it the two of us?”
Cautiously, Doris nodded. Pulling on a knit cap, she wrapped herself in her mother’s wool coat and followed her husband to the car. Twenty minutes later, they found themselves facing each other in, of all places, a Cracker Barrel. Doris liked the little syrups and enjoyed the option of getting a little shopping done while waiting for a table. In the back of her mind, she made a mental note that The Whole Package might want to consider selling novelty T-shirts or something and maybe having a take-home of some sort. People liked that sort of thing.
When they were seated and had placed their order, Doris didn’t know what to do. For the first time in weeks, she was sitting across from her husband with nothing to do but talk to him. Since she had no idea what to say, Doris picked up the little game that sat on every table and started moving the colorful tees. Doug had stopped her, putting his large hand over hers.
“Doris,” he said, voice breaking. “I have been a terrible husband and I’m begging you to let me make it right. I don’t want you to sign those papers.”
Doris looked up at him in shock. She had never seen her husband cry for anything other than her mother’s funeral. Now, tears were streaming down his face, right there in the middle of the restaurant.
“Hush, Doug. It’s okay,” she said. Their waitress set down their coffee and rushed away. “What . . . what do you plan to do?” Doris said, fiddling with a creamer. “To make it right, I mean?”
“Counseling,” Doug said. “I think that’s a good idea you had and . . . I don’t know. Whatever you want me to do. I love you, Doris. I have since we were sixteen. I just don’t know what came over me.”
Doris ached to leap across the table and smother him with kisses, but she remembered Gabe’s advice. She would wait for Doug to make those types of overtures. Instead, she stirred the creamer into her coffee and listened as Doug started talking about the history they’d shared.
“We’ve had some good times,” he said, as the waitress set down their meal. “Do you remember when we took Mandy to the zoo the first time and that goat tried to eat her hair?” Doug asked, taking a bite out of a piece of bacon. “The look on her face . . .”
Doris burst out laughing. Four-year-old Mandy had practically turned purple, she was so outraged by those buck teeth nibbling away at her hair. “She started screaming at him,” Doris said, picturing the tiny girl Mandy had been. She was shaking her finger, scolding the animal like it was one of her many dolls. “We bought her an ice cream and you put her on your shoulders and she was the happiest girl in the world.”
Doug’s chubby cheeks stretched into a smile. Then he said, “Remember that night in the pontoon boat? That summer?”
Doris blushed, setting down her orange juice. She and Doug had been about twenty, and had gone on a camping trip with his family for the weekend. His mom and dad were really into the experience, getting up early for trail hikes and cooking powdered eggs over the fire. After three days of sleeping in the same tent as Doug’s parents, Doris and Doug were sexually frustrated. So, when the parents had fallen asleep, Doris and Doug sneaked out of the tent. They felt their way through the dark campground, then stumbled through twigs and sand down to the lake.
On a stranger’s pontoon boat, Doug had pushed up Doris’s shirt and suckled her full breasts with the desperation of a starved man. Then he’d eased down her pajama bottoms and pushed her against the rough turf of the boat, hungrily pressing himself inside her. They had coupled frenetically, rolling around the floor as the sultry heat of the summer night mixed with the buzz of mosquitoes in their ears. Doug had made love to Doris for hours, the bottom of the boat slapping steadily, echoing across the still water of the lake.
“We had so many good times,” Doug said, reaching out his plump hand to hold hers. “When did it all go so wrong?”
“Cheryl’s divorce,” Doris said. “Then Mom. Then I just got so fat. I felt unattractive.”
“But I love your body.” Doug smiled, eyeing her ample bosom. “I always have.”
Doris’s blueberry pancakes tasted like heaven but for the first time in a long time, she decided to listen when her stomach felt full. Pushing her plate aside, Doris gave a sly look at her husband and whispered, “Then Doug, it’s time you take me home and . . . and make love to me.”
Two people had never left a brunch so fast. In the car, they kissed with frenzy. Back at the house, Doris and Doug tore at each other’s bodies with a passion that would have put The Whole Package’s dance numbers to shame.
That night, Doug back in her bed and promising never to leave it, Doris’s heart leaped to wake up with him beside her. “Sleep, my darling,” she whispered, touching his face. “Go back to sleep.” When Doug was breathing rhythmically, Doris pushed back the blankets and slipped her feet into the white slippers she kept by the bed. Bustling down to the kitchen, Doris looked up Gabe’s number. Even though it was just after midnight, she called him.
“Doris?” Gabe was confused, half asleep. “Are you okay?”
Gabe was such a nice man. Doris’s heart swelled with pride that he’d chosen her to be his friend. “I just had this crazy dream. I was sitting there talking to my mother and . . . I need to talk to you and Anthony about The Whole Package,” she said, excitedly. “Do you have time tomorrow before we open?”
After Gabe assured her he’d set up something with Anthony, Doris hung up and she sat at her kitchen table, eyes dancing in excitement. “Thanks, Mom,” she said softly. Thanks to the conv
ersation in her dream, Doris had come up with a surefire way to save them—her investment, Cheryl’s, Jackie’s, the guys, The Whole damn Package. All of it.
Doris crossed her fingers and her toes. She said a little prayer. And for the first time since her mother’s death, Doris felt like her old self again.
Chapter Forty-five
CHERYL TOOK A DEEP BREATH AND TUCKED IN HER SHIRT. SHE was in the restroom at the courthouse, getting ready to go in and make her case against Stan. The bathroom doors and white porcelain sinks were all lined up uniformly, just like jurors on a bench. Cheryl was glad her case wasn’t at that level. Today, they were just going in to see if the judge thought they had enough evidence for trial. If that happened, Stan would certainly make the move to settle.
Adjusting her light gray Donna Karan suit, Cheryl noticed she was starting to look pale around her eyes. The spray tan was fading. For the first time in years, Cheryl would not be going in for a touch-up. Her roots were also coming in. Cheryl ran her fingers through her hair, admiring her long-hidden natural color. According to one of the million baby books she’d been reading, hair dye was not good for a baby either. Caffeine was supposedly out, too but—Cheryl clutched at her Venti Starbucks as though her life depended on it—that was something she couldn’t sacrifice. Maybe her baby would come out bouncing off the walls, but Cheryl was willing to pay the price.
“Cheryl?” the bathroom door squealed. Her lawyer walked into the bathroom. “Are you all right?”
Melody was just twenty-six but was at the top of her game. A graduate of the University of Chicago’s law school, Melody had snapped up Cheryl’s case via the recommendation from George. Melody was convinced they would win, unless Stan showed up with one hundred clients ready to swear an oath on the fact that Cheryl’s marketing efforts were worthless.
“You ready?” Melody asked, punching something into her phone.
Cheryl leaned against the cool porcelain for a minute, wanting to wash her hands, but the bathroom was out of soap. Plus, the sinks were the kind that had a single circle on the faucet to push in, dictating the length of opportunity you had for your hands to get clean. She pulled a tiny bottle of hand sanitizer out of her purse, immediately thinking of Doris and that day they had all interviewed the models.
It wasn’t easy living without her best friends. Thanks to Stan, Cheryl had ditched the Racquet Club, switching over to the Tennis Club instead. There, she’d met a couple women who were eager to let her fill in on their team when they needed a sub and were happy to chat with her in the locker room about their lives. Every week, this woman Suzie had invited Cheryl to join them all for lunch. Cheryl decided she may as well give it a try—as long as they didn’t go to The Whole Package—but what a mistake that had been.
The lunch had been a disaster, from start to finish. When Suzie called her with the location and time, Cheryl repeated, “Leave my house at 10:45?” Suzie said, “No, lunch is at 10:45 a.m.” Baffled, Cheryl agreed to see her there. After she hung up, she realized these women got up at 5 a.m. with their children.
Once at the restaurant, Cheryl was startled to discover she was dressed all wrong. Suzie’s friends had all shown up in their Juicy sweat suits, while Cheryl sported a designer suit. When they looked her up and down, Cheryl felt obligated to fabricate a lie about some meeting. As the host walked them to their table, Suzie eyed the location in distaste. The moment they were settled in, Suzie sniffed, saying, “These air vents are blowing out cool air instead of warm, we’ll have to move.”
“I’ve got a sweater in my car—” Cheryl started, but Suzie had already swept up from the table, and Cheryl found herself trotting after the group to another table.
When the food came, it got even weirder. When she dined with Jackie and Doris, they would always grab at each other’s plates, trying whatever they felt like trying. At lunch with these women, one of them started raving about the fries so Cheryl reached out and grabbed one. They exchanged glances and the woman said, “They’ll let you order fries as a side, you know.”
Cheryl felt herself turning red, then stayed quiet through the conversation. Most of it was about the group’s book club. Apparently, the women were mad at one of the members, Allison. Allison had hosted the most recent book club and the women couldn’t stop complaining about her cooking. Seeing an opportunity to relate, Cheryl jumped in with, “I know! My friend Doris is a disaster in the kitchen,” and the group fell silent, once again exchanging glances.
“It’s not that Allison can’t cook,” Suzie finally explained, “it’s just that the rest of us go to the trouble of having it catered. She’s just being cheap. We’re sick of it.”
Cheryl almost asked why someone didn’t just talk to Allison instead of ripping her apart behind her back, but she decided to keep her mouth shut.
Suzie’s rules about generosity apparently didn’t apply to their bill. The waiter added a standard 18 percent gratuity for the large party of women and Suzie complained until it was taken off the check. Then, she tried to justify leaving fifteen percent since he “tried to pull that.”
Tight-lipped, Cheryl left an extra twenty on the table as they filed out, trying not to remember how she, Jackie, and Doris always overtipped, even before they owned a restaurant.
When the horrible lunch was over, Cheryl sat alone in her car, miserable. She missed her friends and wished she were brave enough to call them. The fight had been her fault, especially that whole situation with Jackie. In fact, Cheryl kept expecting to hear from George, threatening to sue her for snooping in his paperwork. He didn’t call, probably because Jackie was being her loyal self and didn’t rat her out.
Now, Cheryl put her hand to her head, feeling her eyes fill with tears. When her lawyer cleared her throat, Cheryl remembered she was in the county courthouse, not living in the past. She forced herself to stand up straight and pull it together.
“You’ll be fine,” Melody promised. “Don’t make this harder on yourself than it is.”
“I make everything hard, Melody,” Cheryl said ruefully, taking one last glance in the dim courthouse mirrors. “It’s my schtick.”
The lawyer blinked. “You ready to win?”
Cheryl nodded. “Always.”
Chapter Forty-six
JACKIE STRETCHED UP HIGH TO REACH THE HOOK OVER THE window. With a gasp of relief, she tucked in the final loop of the burgundy curtains and jumped back down from the chair.
“Voila,” she proclaimed, echoing Anthony’s favorite expression. “Shows you what a woman’s touch can do.”
“Those curtains should have been gone on the first day,” Anthony apologized, blushing and sinking into his couch. “The very first day.”
That night when Jackie had found Anthony crying in the office of The Whole Package, he had put his foot down as a friend and a manager. “You are coming home with me,” he’d insisted. “I am not going to have you living here, stealing all the food. You’re eating away any profits you ladies might actually be making.”
Jackie tried to protest but Anthony put a finger to her lips. “Look, honey,” he told her. “Here’s the truth: I’m sad and I’m lonely and will jump off the roof if I spend another night in that apartment alone. Please come stay with me,” he pleaded. “Come stay.”
It wasn’t like she had anywhere else to go, but the dreary condition of Anthony’s sublet shocked her. Jackie immediately got to work, adding the artistic touches it needed to glimmer. She painted the main wall magenta, adding bright purple and pink accents to the floor runners and the doors. Using wine catalogues, she tore out colorful pictures and created glittery collages to hang on the walls. She even hand-sewed the curtains, recycling Anthony’s burgundy velvet blanket and adding shiny gold tassels. In just a few days, her new home was fit for a princess—or a queen and a princess, as Anthony liked to say.
“It’s beautiful.” He beamed, hugging her. “So beautiful. What would I do without you?”
Jackie sauntered over to her bed on the
couch and flopped down. “You might have a personal life.”
“You’re the perfect beard,” Anthony said. “Besides, I love our dates.”
They had gotten into the nightly ritual of having tea. Jackie would start the water boiling on the studio’s hot plate, silently thinking about George and his careful lessons on tea preparation. She hadn’t spoken to him in two weeks.
After her fight with Cheryl and Doris, Jackie had disconnected her phone. Her sole relationships consisted of Anthony and an orange tabby cat that lived in their building. The cat liked to poke his large paws under the door and swipe them around. Jackie would let him in and giggle as he hopped up on the couch, stalking through the apartment like he owned the place. Some days, he would let her cuddle his big, furry form, offering the soothing vibration of a friendly purr.
Most nights, Jackie heard Anthony’s heavy steps on the stairs just as the tea started to whistle. The apartment was old, so the steam radiators would switch on every half hour, clanking and hissing, keeping them up at night. But sometimes, if her timing was just right, the radiators would harmonize with the whistle of the tea.
As he walked through the door, Anthony would wave the familiar waxy white bag. Every night, he brought her leftovers. One day they would feast on pork chops and squash; the next, beet salad with warm goat cheese. Jackie never knew what would be in the bag.
“Ooh, what is it?” she asked, racing for the food. She beamed, discovering saffron risotto over a lamb shank. “That looks amazing.”
“It is,” Anthony said, hanging up his coat. “I already tried it.”
“Didn’t you lure me to your apartment because I was eating away the company’s profits?” Jackie asked, after they’d devoured the tender meat and lay satiated against the back of the futon.
“Nah. I just said that to get you to move in.” Anthony grinned. “I needed the company.”
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