by Jean Stone
She stared at her locket and hoped that the trust had not changed.
“Would you care for something while you wait?” asked a slim waitress with just enough French accent to make her sound sophisticated without being gauche.
Abigail raised her head with what she hoped was her best TV-viewer smile. “No, thank you.” As long as two bottles of Dom Pérignon had been chilled, as long as the cracked crab was fresh today, everything, she assured herself, would be fine. She wished her trembling hands would get the message.
Studying her manicured fingernails (gleaming and nut-colored, a shade deeper than her silk moiré suit but not too dark for September), a chili of excitement ran through her as she realized that with the help of her friends—if they agreed to help—she might not have to worry about such trivialities as manicures again, ever again, for the rest of her life, no matter how many years after fifty would remain.
Her thoughts drifted to the unanswered questions of how many more years would have remained for her parents if they had not been killed, if they had lived to see Abigail’s enormous success, lived to see their only child preside over the family manor in the regal tradition of the Hardy lineage. She wondered if they would have approved.
Father, perhaps, would have; for despite his lust for adventure, he still had been Hardy blood.
But Leslie Hardy, the gypsy-woman, may have been appalled that her daughter had become like … them.
“She never understood the responsibility of being a Hardy,” Grandfather told Abigail right after the funeral. Then he had harrumphed and retreated to his study.
Abigail may have been only eight, but Grandfather’s words had stuck in her mind. And she became determined to understand. In a short time, she did. She understood that in order to please Grandfather, in order to keep him from harrumphing about her, she would have to do everything possible to win his favor. He was, after all, the only family she had left.
Even after her marriage Abigail continued to please him. Or, at least, to try. Though Edmund had protested, she retained her maiden name; though Edmund preferred Europe, she insisted they live at Windsor-on-Hudson, Grandfather’s manor house, Abigail’s legacy.
And though Grandfather remained distant and unreachable, Abigail kept hoping that someday, one day, he would appreciate her, someday, one day, he would be the loving grandfather she needed. So she kept trying. The only thing she didn’t understand was why, ten years after his death, she was still trying to please him, still trying to prove that she understood her responsibility.
And now it was all going to change.
Her eyes dropped to the locket again; her hands relaxed, and Abigail felt herself smile as a small voice within told her that her gypsy-woman mother might applaud.
Then she reached up and took a small sip from her water goblet, grateful that her mocha lipstick was ColorStay, so the rim remained pristine and perfect.
A pink awning with the name La Chambre silk-screened in gold hung on a building that looked more like a posh brownstone than a restaurant for lunch. Maddie hesitated a moment, took a deep breath, then clomped up the three steps. As she reached for the brass knob, on the glass-stenciled door, the door opened. She almost fell inside.
Quickly regaining her balance, Maddie stood face-to-face with a living mannequin in white linen. It figured that Abigail would choose a snotty-stiff place with a doorperson.
She blinked back her annoyance and tried to swallow, but in her throat was a lump the size of her foot.
“I’m here to meet Abigail Hardy.”
The mannequin’s mouth barely tipped up in a grin. “Right this way.”
Maddie adjusted her backpack, stepped behind the woman, and wondered if it was too late to turn back.
It was.
In a quick four steps they were at the window table where the princess awaited her court.
Abigail stood, smiled, and kiss-kissed Maddie’s cheeks—never, of course, meeting her flesh.
“You look wonderful,” Maddie said, because what else could she say when surely Abigail knew it was true. The cover shot on the book obviously had needed little retouching. Maddie moved her backpack in front of her, trying to hide her out-of-date skirt. She wished she could do the same for her face.
“It’s so good to see you,” Abigail said, motioning for Maddie to sit. She did not mention that Maddie looked wonderful. She must have decided, Maddie suspected, that there was no point in lying.
Maddie’s hand moved up to the tam on her head, then she decided to leave the hat where it was, covering her flyaway hair. “Well, your phone call sure was a surprise,” she said, settling onto a pink padded chair. Beneath her weight, the chair legs wobbled. She hoped it wasn’t going to collapse.
Abigail laughed her perfect, light laugh, the laugh that, along with her looks, hadn’t changed. “It’s been too long. But you’ve been busy, too.”
“Yes, well, the boys keep me busy.” There. She’d mentioned them up front, the chips in her corner that Abigail could not match.
“Of course,” Abigail answered too quickly. “And your career! Your mother told me you’re taking pictures for Savoir.”
“Well,” she responded, glancing around, wishing someone would bring some nerve-numbing wine, “some of us belong on the side of the camera that the public never sees.” She unfolded the linen napkin and plopped it down in her dirndl-covered lap, hoping that Abigail would not mention Parker, Our World, or Maddie’s divorce. “So. Is Kris coming, too?”
“Her agent said she was supposed to be in Houston. She changed her schedule to have lunch with us.”
Maddie nodded, conscious that she hadn’t had to change her schedule, because her schedule could never compare to Kris’s. Or Abigail’s. “I just returned from L.A.,” she blurted out. “I shot Madonna for the December issue.”
“That’s nice,” Abigail answered vacantly. Apparently she was not impressed.
“I hate L.A.,” Maddie said quickly, attempting to temper her outburst.
A polite nod was Abigail’s acknowledgment.
Quickly scanning the table, Maddie noticed the only thing on it was water. No rolls, no relishes, no crunchy little breadsticks. Not even a menu to peruse while the proverbial ice decided whether or not it was going to break. She reached for her glass and took a drink. “I guess it’s rather ludicrous to mention that your career is going well.” She wished they could talk about rollerblades or hockey games, or even chemicals that were best for film processing. She wished they had something in common, like English class or a math test next week. Better yet, Maddie wished Kris would arrive. She wished Kris would save her from this polite, stranger-like talk, this awkward slice of getting-to-know-one-another again, when, in fact, their friendship had passed years ago into history, ancient, no-sense-in-digging-it-up, ancient history.
So why were they here?
Abigail laughed that laugh again. “My career keeps me busy.”
“And you’re still living at Windsor-on-Hudson?” Duh, Maddie thought. Even Abigail’s fans knew the answer to that, for the kitchen and dining rooms of the familiar estate were squeezed onto the television screen every week. God, how she wished she hadn’t come.
“It seems rather foolish to stay there now that Sondra is married. But Louisa’s still with us.”
A picture of the woman frosting a cake was now in the photo albums Maddie had brought, the ones stuffed into her clumsy backpack, the dinosaur backpack now wrapped around her feet. Her eyes fell on Abigail’s neat, compact purse. “Louisa. Wow, she must a fossil by now.”
“Not quite. She’s still the same, though. It’s nice to have her around. Edmund travels so frequently.”
Edmund. Of course. Abigail still had a husband. Still had her looks, still had her wealth, and still had someone who occupied the other side of her bed. Kris, Maddie thought with a frown, Hurry and save me! Out loud she said, “Edmund. He’s … what? An art dealer?”
Before Abigail could answer, there was a flurry o
f commotion near the front door. They both turned their heads in time to see her strut in—lean, long-legged, bronze-skinned Kris, with her black hair cropped to within an inch of her scalp, her laughter as bewitching as ever, her body not quite covered by a chocolate suede micro skirt that barely grazed the tops of her thighs.
Maddie was unsure whether or not she’d been saved.
Kris held her head high and reminded herself that she walked good, that she talked good, that she was good. No matter what Abigail did or didn’t know, no matter why she had arranged this lunch, Kris was her own person. And she was strong.
She spotted the table, lifted her chin, and prepared to go on the offense. It was the only way to beat Abigail at her game, the way she’d once beat her at hopscotch and checkers and hours of playing Old Maid.
“Ladies!” Kris cried. “We are here!” Ignoring the doorperson in the uptight white linen, she strutted toward her old friends and held out her arms. If Abigail didn’t like the theatrics, she could go to hell.
Maddie leaped to her feet and dove into Kris’s hug. “You look stunning,” she hooted.
Abigail rose with the proper decorum indicative of the everlasting stick up her ass. On her face, the hint of a grin quickly confirmed that indeed she was up to something. Hopefully it wasn’t blackmail.
“Abigail,” Kris said, turning from Maddie. The hug Kris received was less rigid than she’d expected. She scolded herself for being so melodramatic, for thinking that real life imitated her art.
With a laugh, she sat down. “I can’t believe we’re here. Together. Just like old times.”
“Old is the word for it,” Maddie chuckled as she and Abigail returned to their chairs. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“I’m so glad we’re all here,” Abigail added.
A waitress arrived with a bottle of champagne. While it was being poured, Kris’s eyes darted from Maddie’s gray ones to Abigail’s green ones. They had both changed. Aged, she suspected, was the word. Maddie’s hair was thick with gray and her shoulders were rounded; deep lines were carved at the sides of her mouth. And the dark circles under her eyes suggested that Maddie was just plain worn out.
On the other hand, Kris noted that Abigail looked a little too good. Her skin was a little too artificially tight, and Kris bet it felt putty-like to the touch. She smiled to herself and remembered her own struggle a few years ago when she’d discovered that without makeup her trademark black eyes no longer looked huge and enticing, but rather melded into her face.
They spent the next twenty minutes sipping champagne and exchanging news. Maddie’s twins were fifteen now (fifteen? already?), and no, Kris hadn’t known she was divorced; Abigail’s stepdaughter was pregnant (be grateful she’s married), and her grandfather had died several years ago.
Kris drained her glass. “Well, I have no exciting news to share,” she said, “except that I’m starving. Do you think we could order?”
While Abigail signaled for the waitress, Kris felt uncomfortably sober, aware of the truth she had spoken, that she had no tales of children or grandchildren or even of divorce. Her life was simply as it was—stimulating, yes, but simply life. One day at a time. One millisecond at a time. She rubbed the stem of her champagne flute and reminded herself it was better this way.
“I saw the movie of your last book,” Maddie said, after their orders had been placed and the waitress was gone. “Where do you come up with all that stuff?”
She laughed. “Well, it’s not based on real life. Real life is not so exciting.”
“Yours is,” Maddie answered.
Kris smiled. Poor, pathetic Maddie in her unfortunate clothes had apparently never learned the unimportance of envy.
“Speaking of exciting,” Maddie continued, leaning down and digging something from her bag. “I have to get this over with before I die of embarrassment.” She pulled out a book. “Abigail, would you please sign this for my mother? She continues to be one of your biggest fans.”
Abigail smiled and, without comment, took a Tiffany pen from her purse.
While Abigail was writing, Maddie looked at Kris. “Sorry,” she said. “Sophie doesn’t like fiction.”
“Ah, Sophie the realist,” Kris responded.
When Abigail had finished, Maddie returned the book to her bag and then brought out something else. “I have a gift for each of you.” She placed two pale apricot–colored, lace-fringed volumes in front of them. On the cover was inscribed “Arbor Brook Days.”
“Oh, God,” Abigail said. “Something tells me there will be pictures inside.”
Maddie laughed. “Open them! They’re both the same.”
Staring at the cover, Kris froze as if she’d been blind-sided, as if she’d been shot. From the corner of her eye she saw Abigail turn back the cover.
“Oh, no!” Abigail cried, “our first birthday together. My God, look how young we were …”
Kris held her breath.
“Isn’t it great?” Maddie asked. “Look at that cake! Louisa must have worked on it for days …”
Abigail turned the page. “There’s the one with the frosting …”
The other two laughed. Kris did not. She didn’t have to look—she remembered the photo. Maddie had taken it in the dining room of that god-awful house.
Suddenly Maddie turned to her. “Kris? Aren’t you going to open yours?”
Kris ran her palm over the cover. “You know, girl, I think I want to save it. I think I’d rather wait until I’m in some faraway place and want to feel my friends around me.” She removed the album from the table and set it on her lap. Then she refilled her glass from the second bottle of champagne, trying to ignore their eyes upon her and wondering why she no longer felt as strong as she had coming in.
Between the champagne and the food, Abigail excused herself. “Must dash to the ladies room,” she said, and Kris mustered a comment that wasn’t it a pity that our bladders aren’t what they used to be.
Maddie laughed, but after Abigail left she reached across the table and placed her hand on Kris’s. “I’m sorry about the album,” she said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Shaking her head, Kris looked at Maddie’s hand, felt her well-meaning touch. “You didn’t upset me, Maddie. Memory Lane is a road I only like to travel when I’m alone.” She patted the album. “I’ll enjoy this. Really I will.” She hoped she sounded more convincing than she felt. “Now, as for you, Madeline, you look … content.” It seemed like a safe word, a word that could not be construed as condescension or criticism.
Maddie laughed and pulled back her hand. “Content? Wow. I guess the older I get, the better an actor I become.”
Kris leaned forward, more comfortable now with the focus off her and off the killer photo album that lay heavy in her lap, “What’s wrong, Maddie? Can I help?”
“What is this, research?”
“Hey, you’re my friend. We haven’t seen each other in a long time, but I can tell something’s wrong. You laugh, you joke, but beneath it, girl, you’ve lost your sparkle.”
“My sparkle? I’ve lost more than my sparkle.” She sighed and drained her glass. “Sometimes I think I’ve lost my nerve. Or that it was robbed.”
“Robbed? By whom?”
“Not whom. What. It was robbed by life. When Parker left me, I guess.”
“You’ll be okay, Maddie. We all go through rough times.”
Maddie raised an eyebrow. “Even you?”
“Well, not exactly rough. But the less you have, the less you have to lose.”
Maddie nodded toward the ladies room. “Abigail has a lot. I doubt she’ll lose any of it.”
“Abigail has always needed to be on top. To be the best.”
“Are you kidding?” Maddie asked with a grin. “She wouldn’t be anywhere if it weren’t for you.”
“Me?” Guilt bubbled beneath Kris’s skin and threatened to ooze from her pores. “Believe me, I had no hand in Abigail’s success.”
Madd
ie leaned into Kris’s face. “Yes you did, Kris. You took risks. You’re the reason Abigail wasn’t afraid to do what she’s done with herself … to make something of her life.”
“Me?” she repeated in a burst of laughter, the guilt submerging itself once again. “I’m the last person anyone should use as an example of how to run their life.”
“It’s true, though. After her grandfather died I think she was a little lost. That’s when she started her business. She saw the success you’d become. She wanted some of that for herself.”
Kris didn’t know what to say. “You’ve got to be joking.”
Maddie shrugged. “I’m just telling you how it looks from the other side.”
The other side, Kris thought. The other person’s viewpoint that people can rarely see, can rarely know. “It’s funny, isn’t it? When everything’s fine, people just live. When they’re faced with change, they start chewing on their lives, groping for meaning, trying to identify their purpose.” Her suspicions returned. “Do you think that’s why Abigail wanted this lunch?”
“She told me she wanted to celebrate our birthdays.”
“Our birthdays? Well, don’t be surprised if it’s something more. I’ve never known Abigail not to have an agenda.”
“Maybe she’s just unhappy. Or lonely,” Maddie said. “I mean, aren’t we all?”
Kris hoped the answer would be that simple.
Abigail leaned against the vanity in the white marble ladies room, lit a cigarette, and admitted to herself that this was not going well. Maddie—with her pitiful outfit and empty chatter—looked at least twenty years older than she should and acted like a regressive old woman. That photo album was too much. Blowing out a stream of smoke, Abigail could almost picture Maddie hunched over a table, carefully gluing the photos in place as if she were working on a science project in the eighth grade. It was a wonder she had a career at all.