by Zoey Dean
Chapter Thirty-two
Number eight,” I read to the twins. “Who wants to take number eight?”
In an effort to jump-start their brains, we’d changed study environments and settled down for the morning in my den instead of on the pool deck. I was stretched out on my couch. They were sprawled on a floor that was already a mess of papers, books, calculators, notebooks, half-eaten bags of Healthy Pop microwave popcorn, and half-consumed bottles of FIJI water.
It had been a week since the long day’s journey into the endless night of New Year’s Eve. The twins hadn’t spoken with me about it, hadn’t even mentioned it. If they’d talked about it with each other, they certainly hadn’t shared that with me. But the result was impossible to miss—they were kinder to each other now. Sage didn’t jump to the bitchy quip as often. Rose didn’t look to Sage so much for approval.
I was proud of them, and I felt pretty good about how I’d helped. I’m sure you’d guess, what with my sensitivity and maturity and everything, that all this would have been the catalyst I needed to pick up the phone and call my sister. But I didn’t.
It’s so much easier to be wise and mature on behalf of others.
Rose called Thom to apologize. When he didn’t answer, she left a heartfelt message on his voice mail. When he didn’t call back, she wrote him a letter (we’re talking snail mail here, so this was perhaps a life first for her), which she’d asked me to proofread so there wouldn’t be any embarrassing errors. She’d misspelled psychological and misused vilify, but otherwise, it was sensitive and self-aware.
I only wish her efforts had paid off. Thom imposed a total blackout. Oh, sure, Rose knew she could go out on the Heavenly and talk to him face-to-face, but personal progress did not equal personal transformation. I couldn’t blame her. I mean, did you see me heading over to Barbados for a little face time with Will? Ha.
“I’ll read number eight,” Rose volunteered. She picked up the test booklet, where we were working on grammar. “‘Some Italians consider Americans to be overweight, wasteful, and they don’t understand international politics.’”
“Who wants to correct the grammar in this part of the sentence?” I asked. “‘To be overweight, wasteful, and they don’t understand.’”
Rose pointed to her answer key. “I’d say E: ‘Overweight, wasteful, and ignorant of.’ It’s that parallel-structure thingie that Megan was talking about last week.”
“Fuck,” Sage said.
“Too bad they’re not testing you on that,” Rose joked. To my surprise, instead of getting pissed, Sage managed a half-smile in response.
“Review it later, you’ll get it next time,” I encouraged Sage.
I hoped that my voice belied my concern. We had only seven days to go before the SAT, and we were running out of time for “next time.” Their academic progress had stalled at the worst possible point—just below where they would need to be to get in to Duke. They’d improved so much, but it still wasn’t enough, and I was at a loss as to what I should do.
Rose admitted to being stressed about the SAT; Sage didn’t. But I noticed that her nails, normally in a state of constant manicured perfection, had been picked and bitten to the nub. She’d taken to curling her fingers under so that no one would see.
“Okay,” I told them. “Let’s try the first math problem in the next section. Rose, want to take a crack at it?”
“My brain doesn’t work this way,” Rose groused, trying to make sense of the equation.
“You can do it; I know you can,” Sage encouraged.
That made one of us. To see them working together was a thing of beauty, but between Sage’s work on the qualitative side of the ledger and Rose’s on the quantitative side, my optimism was dissipating like beach fog under the hot sun.
Rose knocked her knuckles against her forehead. “I can’t concentrate!” she lamented. “I keep thinking about Thom.”
“Honey, no love is that blind,” Sage stated. “You were the one who kept telling me not to fuck us out of the eighty-four million. Take your own advice.”
“I know,” Rose agreed. “But it’s hard. I need a break.” She pulled the most recent issue of Scoop from underneath her books. I half expected to see a photo of Lily Langley with her “new mystery boy toy” or whatever my replacement had decided to call Will.
“Rose, put away the magazine,” I said gently. “We’ve got seven days. If you get up at seven and work until eleven-thirty at night, that’s more then sixteen hours a day. Times seven, minus short breaks to eat and pee. Whacked up three ways between math, humanities, and writing.”
The girls groaned in unison.
“Okay, so we know you won’t take it for us,” Sage mused. “But how about Ari? Seriously, the guy is walking brain cells.”
“Even Keith can’t dress Ari to pass for you,” I told them. “How about you decide you’re willing to kick your ass and do everything I say, and only what I say, for the most important week of your life?” I looked at Rose. “And you, too?”
When I was little, my father had taken Lily and me up to Mount Washington one June. He was a skier, we were both snowboarders, and he wanted us to hike up Tuckerman Ravine with him—it was still full of snow—and ride down as he followed us on skis. There is no chairlift at Tuckerman. To get to the top, you climb. Both Lily and I were dying when we reached the last five hundred feet. I was only ten years old.
Lily quit. She threw both her board and her body down in the snow. But I did everything my dad told me to do, listened to every direction. And then I was up and over the last steep incline. At the summit, I buckled onto my board and took that first reason-defying plunge over the lip of the headwall.
And then I was flying. It took only thirty seconds to carve sweeping turns to where Lily was still waiting.
“You did it,” she said admiringly.
“I just listened to Dad,” I told her.
Why did I remember that now? I always thought of Lily as doing everything better than me. But that time on Tuckerman she’d given up, and I’d gone the distance. Memory can be so selective.
Sage got a cunning look on her face. “Tell you what, Megan. If you do something for us, we’ll do something—”
“Oh, no, you don’t! I’ve been down this road, remember? Nude swim?”
“Actually, what we want you to do is a matter of . . .” Sage leaned over and whispered in Rose’s ear.
Rose grinned and then nodded. “Sage is right. Something has to be done. About the hair.”
This was the last thing I expected. “But Keith cut it!” I protested. “The Keith!”
The sisters traded looks. Sage folded her arms. “Let me put it to you this way, Megan. Remember the fashion show? Rose lent you some panties?”
“You are, in a word, hirsute,” Rose explained with great dignity.
I laughed. Hirsute had been a recent vocabulary word.
“I would not laugh if I were you.” Sage sniffed. “Hirsute is a plus only on her-head.”
I blushed, of course. “It’s not that bad.”
“Excuse me,” Rose intoned. “Nude swim? You were standing fifty feet away.”
Sage made a chopping motion at her midsection. “Waist.” She chopped two inches lower. “Bush.”
“It’s physics!” I protested. “Water magnifies!”
“Remember that gift certificate I gave you to the spa at the Breakers?” Sage asked with unaccustomed sweetness. “There was a reason for it. It’s time to put it to good use.” She stared pointedly at my crotch.
“We’re not talking bikini wax, either,” Rose added. “And we’re not talking landing strip.”
Which could only mean . . . I was aghast. “No. Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes,” Sage said gleefully.
“Do that, and we’ll do what you asked us to do,” Rose said.
Sage nodded. “Twenty-four/seven for the next seven days.”
Seven weeks ago, they’d offered me a bargain and used it to humiliate me
. Now they were offering me another one. But this time it was different. They were different. Maybe even I was different.
Whatever look was on my face, they took it as a yes.
Three minutes later, the appointment was made. One hour later, I was on Jinessa’s table at the Breakers. One hour and five minutes later, Jinessa was wielding a set of scissors, and I was keeping my eyes closed for dear life. Ten minutes after that, a spatula of liquefied wax came dangerously close to a spot where few—none of them female, unless I counted myself—had gone before.
I have heard that childbirth is excruciatingly painful. But I sincerely doubt that it hurts more than what the spa menu so delicately—but accurately—described as Surrender the Pink.
Choose the definition that best matches the following word:
ACCOLADES
(a)punishment
(b)charm
(c)astonishment
(d)praise
(e)OMG, the best news ever!
Chapter Thirty-three
Promptly at seven, please, Megan,” the Skull had intoned when he’d summoned me to dinner with Laurel.
Mr. Anderson spoke in the same sonorous tones he’d used for the past eight weeks; however, progress had been made—he’d finally called me by my first name.
That made me smile, as did the fact that the twins had been true to their word. For the past seven days, they’d been Yale-quality students, in effort if not in achievement. I had tried to make it bearable, but studying for the SAT can be mind-numbing. Even so, there’d been a minimum of bitching and moaning. They’d made a deal and stuck by it.
I was reminded of my end of that bargain every time I peeled down. The exquisite La Perla thongs that the twins had delivered to my suite while I was under Jinessa’s ministrations were so beautiful that anything inserted into them would have to be considered a work of art. Not that anyone was appreciating my art these days. I hadn’t heard from either James or Will. This, of course, reminded me of the age-old philosophical question: Is art still art if no one sees it? Or something like that.
Anyway, back to the twins. Every day we’d worked for three hours in the morning, four in the afternoon, and three in the evening. Their practice test scores were in the low—really low—range of what Duke required. But they were in the range. I couldn’t have been happier.
On this last morning before the SAT, we’d done a review. Then I’d told them that they were as prepared as they were ever going to be; they should forget about the test that afternoon and engage in their favorite activity: shopping. There are few things in life a Baker twin loves more than Worth Avenue and a coveted no-credit-limit black AmEx card.
So. What to wear to dinner with Laurel? I stared at my considerable assortment of Marco’s designer hand-me-downs. I now knew that I looked best in peach, which brought out the green in my hazel eyes, and that beige washed me out. I decided on a simple peach Vera Wang cotton Empire-waist dress that wasn’t too fussy or low-cut—but then, her stuff never is. I now knew that, too. I took a long, hot bath, washed and flatironed my hair, and applied subtle and flattering makeup.
I arrived at the main mansion at seven on the dot. The Skull was waiting for me. “Good evening, Megan. You’re looking well. Follow me, please.” Coming from the Skull, “You’re looking well” was the equivalent of “Damn, girl, you’re smoking.”
I thought he would take me to the formal dining room on the main floor. Instead, we went downstairs, toward the wine cellar.
“Um, didn’t Madame say dinner?” I asked.
“Yes. This way, please.”
At the far end of the wine cellar, he opened the door to a room I hadn’t even known existed. It held a single table carved out of a massive block of granite. The eight chairs surrounding it were rough-hewn wood. The walls featured frescoes of rural scenes from the French countryside.
There, Laurel was sipping a glass of wine at the head of the table, which was set for two. She looked the way women her age dreamed they could look. She wore a fitted gold and black glazed-linen sheath. Her hair was swept off her face in a French twist, tendrils falling artfully around her face. Her blue eyes, fringed with long dark lashes, looked even more enormous than usual. Once again, Laurel was a walking advertisement for her own products.
As Mr. Anderson took his leave, Laurel gestured to the empty place setting. “Please.”
I sat.
“Join me?” She motioned to a carafe of wine and then poured some into my water glass. It was odd. She had the market cornered on crystal. Why were we drinking from water glasses? I noticed that the earthenware dishes set before us were more utilitarian than elegant.
Laurel entwined her fingers. “I reviewed the twins’ most recent practice tests today. They’ve improved a great deal.”
I smiled. “Yes. They have.”
She took a sip of her wine. “I admit, Megan, there were times when I doubted you were up to the task of tutoring these girls. But you have proved me wrong.”
Compliments from the Skull and Laurel Limoges in the same evening? This was either shaping up to be an amazing evening or a sign that the apocalypse was imminent.
“Thank you. I appreciate that,” I said.
“I don’t know if my granddaughters are going to succeed tomorrow,” she continued. “But I do know that Debra Wurtzel steered me correctly when she suggested you.” Laurel lifted her glass. “To you, Megan Smith. You have accomplished a great deal in your two months here. Congratulations. À ta santé.”
I clinked my glass against Laurel’s, startled that she’d used the familiar French word for you instead of the more formal and distant à votre santé, then I sipped the wine. It was earthy and biting, unlike the vintage Bordeaux that I knew she usually preferred.
“To tell you the truth, Madame Limoges, I’ve learned a lot since I’ve been here.”
Laurel’s eyes twinkled. “I think perhaps you’ve learned to appreciate your own beauty, no?” I had no idea how to reply to that. She patted my hand. “Beauty is a gift, dear. It is meant to be enjoyed.” She shook out her napkin and placed it in her lap. “And now, Megan, we shall see whether you’ve learned to appreciate the best meal that Marco can prepare.”
“And serve,” Marco chimed in from the door. “I will be your garçon for the evening, darling. And might I add that I don’t respond well to finger snapping as a means of getting my attention.”
“Perish the thought.” I winked at him. He was one of the aspects of Palm Beach I would miss the most.
“The menu, Marco?” Laurel queried.
“Very campagne. You’ll begin with pâté de foie gras. The main course will be cassoulet, followed by a peasant salad of field greens, flowers, goat cheese, and pine nuts. The wine, true French plonk, le pinard like the peasants drink. And for dessert, my petite doughnuts.”
Laurel leaned toward me confidentially. “I don’t allow him to make them very often. They are so fantastic that I simply cannot resist.”
“Each has a different filling—hazelnut crème, dark chocolate orange peel, Grand Marnier, et cetera.” Marco kissed the tips of his fingers and left to get the first course.
“The twins will join us for dessert.” Laurel broke off a small hunk of the baguette.
“They didn’t mention that.”
“I’ve asked Mr. Anderson to summon them. But I wanted to talk to you first.” She stopped as if deciding exactly what she wanted to say. “Eight weeks ago I created . . . I suppose you could call it a trial for my granddaughters. Now that your work is done, surely you have questions about it.”
Once a journalist, always a journalist. She was about to give me the inside scoop. I could feel it. Even if I wasn’t going to write my article, at least my curiosity would be satisfied.
Marco brought in the pâté. Laurel spread some of it on a chunk of baguette, then waited for him to depart before she spoke again.
“The worst thing in the world is to have your child die before you,” Laurel continued. “You
cannot imagine it, and I hope that you never experience it. Two years before I lost my daughter, my husband died after a sudden crise cardiaque.” She sighed. “Loss changes a person. You don’t know that, cannot know that, unless you are forced to live through it.”
I nodded and waited for her to go on.
“When the twins came to me, I am afraid I was quite unready to care for them. I was too deep in my own grief.” She gave the smallest of shrugs. “I have so many regrets. But we cannot go backward. We have only to move forward.” She drank a healthy swallow of her wine. “By the time I was ready for them, they had put up a wall that I did not know how to climb. Then I saw that execrable magazine story about them, and the truth of who they had become—the result of what I had failed to do—was staring me in the face.”
She looked into her glass as if the wine were some kind of oracle. “That is why I came up with this défi—this test—where their beauty would not help them and where they would have to depend on each other. I hoped and prayed that this would lead them back to the girls they would have been had tragedy not so deeply touched their lives. And that, my dear, led me to you.”
There were so many questions that the writer in me wanted to ask. For starters, had it never occurred to her that she and the girls were a family therapist’s dream? Why was her grief an excuse for neglecting her own granddaughters? And how about: Once she realized that she’d made a mistake, why didn’t she just tell them the truth?
Me. Me! Wondering why someone else didn’t just tell the truth. I’ll pause here while you laugh your ass off.
Here’s all I did ask. “Sage and Rose—did you want them to hate you?”
“No. But if they needed to hate me to learn to love themselves and each other, then so be it.”
Marco returned, took the appetizers’ dishes, and set redolent plates of mouthwatering cassoulet in front of us. As we ate, Laurel recounted stories from her childhood—there’d been an uncle who lived in the Morvan district between Autun and Nevers and cared for the Charolais cattle of a wealthy landowner. His patron had rewarded him with a small stone cottage whose kitchen looked very much like this room.