by Josie Brown
Mallory started to speak, but then thought better of it.
“Fine,” Bettina continued. “That brings us to Lorna Connaught. Her husband is Matthew, and her son is Dante. She’s on the San Francisco Foundation board and volunteers at Glide Memorial—”
“She’s also your brother’s wife, isn’t that right?” Mallory’s words sliced the air like a saber.
The other women hid their smiles as best they could. Touché.
Bettina waited a full sixty seconds before acknowledging the accusation. By the time she did, her lips were once again pursed into a stony smile. “Everyone here knows me well enough to presume I’d never play favorites. Lorna’s good name and deeds stand on their own merits. In fact, I’ll recuse myself from voting on her. If you pass on Dante, their little family will certainly be disappointed, but they’ll weather it in stride. That is the Connaught way. Our tribe are hearty folk.”
The other committee members exchanged anxious glances. Apparently none of them could cipher her true feelings about Lorna Connaught. Was Bettina’s recusal some form of admission that she couldn’t stand her sister-in-law? But wasn’t that bit about “good name and deeds” her way of indicating they’d be fools to vote against Lorna, who also carried the Connaught name?
Not to mention that she had called the Connaughts a tribe. Did that mean they had Native American blood flowing through their veins? If so, and the committee voted them down, would they be branded as racists?
It was all terribly disconcerting.
Fuck the aspirin. Bring on the martini shaker. No glass needed.
Having successfully heightened their fear factor, Bettina’s lips curled into a smile. “There is also Chakra Crutch. Stone, her husband, is a professor at Berkeley. Their son’s name is Quest. Chakra has even offered to head up the club’s organic vegetable garden.”
Sally gave a loud sigh of relief. “Thank God! I’ve been saddled with that committee since my little Lucy was a Onesie! Well then, the woman certainly has my vote—”
Bettina’s frown shut her up her instantly. “Sally! You know the rules. Our votes are anonymous, remember?”
Sally nodded so vigorously that Linus lost his hold on her nipple. The two-year-old’s frantic wails had her shifting him to her other breast.
“And last but not least, there is also Kelly Bryant Overton, and her little boy, Wills,” Bettina announced. “The Bryant name is ‘old San Francisco,’ if you get my drift.”
Drift? The committee was practically gagging on the inference. “Old San Francisco” meant that Bettina—whose own lineage went back to the Gold Rush on this side of the country and to New Amsterdam on the other—had probably grown up with this Kelly person. If that were the case, did Bettina expect two of the six votes to go to her personal connections?
Or was there only one vote they’d have to give up? Was her relationship with Lorna Connaught in name only?
She’d said it herself: already they had more boys to choose from than they needed. There was one knock against the Connaught tot, as well as the Overton kid. In any regard, the other moms and tots—that Jade person and her son, Oliver and all their dot-com connections; the cute twin girls with the well-connected father; Ally, the ballet patroness-slash-lawyer’s wife and her sweet little girl, Zoe; the eco-friendly professor’s wife—
It was all so damn confusing!
For the first time in the club’s history, every member of the committee came to the same conclusion, at the same time:
They would vote for whomever they wanted, Bettina be damned.
Everyone sat silently until Bettina, obviously still annoyed, muttered, “It’s time to take a vote.”
Since its inception six years ago, the club enjoyed the enviable dilemma of too many candidates for so few spaces. Always one to let power go to her head, Bettina, who relished her founder status, took it upon herself to establish an intricate voting system that would resolve any annoying ties.
Not that there should be any. As far as she was concerned, Bettina had clearly expressed her own desires.
She led everyone out into the hallway where she handed each of them four safety pins. “We’ll walk back in, one by one, and drop a safety pin in the piggy bank of the candidates we feel are worthy of an open slot. Kimberley, you’ll go first.”
Solemnly, the women nodded. Kimberley got up and walked back into the room, voted, and returned.
Mallory did the same. Then Sally. Then Joanna.
Bettina went last. When she was done, she called them back in. “Time to count!”
It only took a minute.
Each piggy bank contained the same number of safety pins: four.
Stalemate.
Bettina shook her head in amazement. “Ah. Well. Seems like we’re going to have to go again. This time, we’ll reverse the order. So let’s all rethink any weak links.”
A second vote would break any stalemate.
In theory, yes. In practice, not so much.
Those who live in the picturesque and well-heeled neighborhood of San Francisco’s Pacific Heights have, on occasion, enjoyed an excursion or two to France’s renowned capital city. Having done so would have exposed them to the torrid history of that country’s revolution, which culminated with the severing of the head from the body of its regal, albeit tyrannical, king. Perhaps it was that spirit the members of the Pacific Heights Moms & Tots Club application committee channeled when, once again, they voted their consciences.
And again.
And yet again.
Liberté, égalité, fraternité. Democracy is a stubborn trait.
Even Sally couldn’t be cowed. In fact, she had the audacity to mouth the unspeakable: “So, why not just let them all in?”
Bettina shook her head emphatically. “No way! PHM&T playgroups have always been equally populated. This is why when someone drops out, we do an open call and vet the candidates the same way. And besides, it would make this year’s Onesies larger than any other playgroup, which sets a very bad precedent. It tells people we can’t make up our minds.”
What she wasn’t saying—but they all knew—was that the key to the club’s success was its exclusivity. Ten toddlers per preschool year only. No excuses. No ifs, ands, or buts.
“I’d like to make a suggestion,” The way Mallory’s eyes glowed left the others to wonder if chants and curses were involved. “Why not have the six applicants compete for the four slots? They’ll prove they deserve it by earning it.”
“Brilliant!” Bettina exclaimed. “Just like that Survivor show, but the prize is so much greater.”
Taken aback at the compliment, Mallory blushed. It was the first time any of the others had seen her face flushed with anything other than anger.
“We’ll call it a probationary period,” Bettina continued, warming up. “The applicants will be judged on their social connections, their personal grace under pressure while hosting an event, and of course, their toddlers’ sociability. Then, at the end of the first ninety days, we’ll vote someone off. At the end of the next ninety days, another applicant bites the dust. The last four standing are the victors. And once again, we’ve got a perfect Onesies Group.” She clapped her hands with delight. “I’ll get out the invitations first thing tomorrow.”
Wednesday, 5 September
CONGRATULATIONS!
You are now a member of the Pacific Heights Moms & Tots Club!*
Your Inaugural Play Date takes place on Monday, September 10, 10am at
The James Leary Flood Mansion, 2222 Broadway, in Pacific Heights (of course!)
RSVP Bettina Connaught Cross at [email protected]
*Pending the successful completion of your probationary period. Details to follow.
Friday, 7 September
“—got it! It arrived yesterday in the mail.” The stiff wind took Clarisse Tanner’s nonchalant words and carelessly tossed them over her shoulder at her jogging partner, Jillian Frederick.
Every day, come rain or shine, Jill
ian laced up her sneakers and jogged out of her house on Pacific Street and around the corner to Baker Street, then down to Lombard and beyond Chestnut Street in the Marina district and on to Crissy Field with her one-year-old twin daughters, Amelia and Addison, in tow. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, Clarisse joined her, strolling her two-year-old son, Travis.
Invariably, by the time they reached the midpoint of their jog—Fort Point, under the Golden Gate Bridge—Clarisse was huffing and puffing. “I don’t know how you do this seven days a week,” she groaned. “Three days a week is more than enough torture!”
Jillian’s grimace gave Clarisse the false impression that she agreed with her. In fact, Jillian loved running.
It was the best way to run away from her fears.
By now her life should have been perfect. She had quit college in order to work as a waitress in order to support Scott, her husband, as he finished his undergraduate and master’s degrees in finance. After he’d finally gotten a job as an associate in one of the largest financial management firms in San Francisco, her role in their marriage took on one she enjoyed: moving them from their tiny studio in the basement of an ancient Victorian walk-up in San Francisco’s North Beach, to a roomy (albeit even shabbier) townhouse she’d found for them on one of the most desirable streets in Pacific Heights. With its view of San Francisco Bay, and the fact that it backed up to the wooded and wondrous Presidio National Park, the house was a dream come true. Granted, its rock bottom price reflected its condition. The townhouse needed a new everything: foundation, wiring, and plumbing.
“I can’t take on a project like this,” Scott had warned her. “I’m working twelve hour days, and I’d rather be golfing on the weekends.”
“I hear you loud and clear. I promise, come weekends, we’ll both be on the links. And just think, from here, we’re mere minutes from the Presidio golf course.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and smiled up at him. “The asking price is much less than we bargained for. I’ll use the balance for the renovations and supervise the work myself. I can do that, now that I’m not working. And on the weekends, we’ll both work on our handicaps.”
Reluctantly, he agreed.
Long, exhausting days were the norm for both of them. The house’s transformation became a five-year labor of love for her. She turned it into a showcase with elegant mouldings, arched doorways, and large picture windows that allowed its breathtaking views to be admired from every room.
As for golfing, on most weekends, while she managed whatever workmen and handymen were lurking about, Scott made it out to the course without her.
In time, Jillian gave up golf altogether and took up jogging. It was less time-consuming, and the positive effects on her body were much more gratifying.
When Scott finally made partner in the firm, he was just as reluctant when she told him about her next project—having a baby.
“A kid? Aw, hon, I don’t know.” His smile was wary, tired. “When will I ever see the little bugger?”
She was so surprised at that question she laughed out loud. “When you get home, silly! And you’ll have weekends, too, to play with our child. You’ll just have to give up golf.” It was a joke, of course.
Apparently he didn’t think so. “But I like golf.”
“Good. You can teach it to your son.” Her determined smile never wavered.
In anticipation, he bought a full set of toddler-sized U.S. Golf Kids golf clubs, which he placed in the nursery beside the window.
That she was carrying twins wasn’t as disappointing to him as the fact that both the babies were girls. “I guess this means our shot at a boy goes out the window.” He sighed.
“Next go-round, right?” She meant that in all sincerity.
“What, are you crazy? Two is more than enough. Besides, there are no guarantees it’ll be a boy.”
She never had the nerve to ask him why he’d taken the toddler clubs out of the nursery and what he had done with them.
If she thought he’d give up his weekend rounds of golf after the girls were born, she was sorely mistaken. While he golfed, she jogged with the girls in tow. Rolling their Bugaboo Donkey Duo stroller up Divisadero gave her biceps other women admired, not to mention an ass that turned men’s heads.
But the only man whose head she ever wanted to turn was Scott’s.
Unfortunately, these days he was too busy to notice.
Jillian had no doubt that Clarisse had timed her dire announcement about the Pacific Heights Moms & Tots Club to take place here at the base of Fort Point so they’d at least be near a bench, should Jillian want to sit and talk about it.
Appropriately enough, it was also a convenient place for jumpers who wanted to end it all.
Jillian wasn’t that upset, but yes, talking it out might keep the tears at bay until she got the twins home in time for lunch and their baths. “How do you know the invitations went out already?”
“A big-mouthed birdie told me. I ran into Sally Dunder, the Twosies’ group mom, inside Whole Foods. She says it was such a close call that they’re trying something different this year, whatever that means. It will be announced at next Monday’s meet-up, when the Onesies group is introduced to the rest of us.” She tightened little Travis’s hat. Already, she’d lost his pacifier to the brisk winds. “Bottom line: those who got in should have received their invitations by yesterday. Of course, the brunt of the applicants were long shots anyway.”
“What does that mean?”
“Between you and me, they look down their noses at working moms as well as single moms. And while no one will just come out and say it, I’m guessing they’re not too fond of anyone who isn’t at least a size four, either.”
“I’m married, and I’m a stay at home mom. And I’m in shape—”
“‘In shape?’ Sweetie, with all the jogging you do, I’d say you’re more like a minus two! My guess is you have a hard time keeping the weight on.”
Jillian shrugged. Yes, she was overdoing it. But she liked being lean.
And Scott liked her slim.
These days, though, she couldn’t tell if he liked her at all.
She couldn’t think about that now. The last person she’d ever tell there was trouble in paradise was Clarisse, who knew everyone’s business.
That’s why she’s the perfect person to ask why I wasn’t chosen for PHM&T’s Onsies group, Jillian thought. “What do you think they had against me?”
“Got me.” Clarisse sighed. “Scott is well-placed. But they try for an even number of boys and girls. Maybe the fact that you have twins blew your chances.”
Jillian shook her head angrily. “Well, I’m not going to leave one on someone else’s doorstep just to get into the darn club! I guess I could have faked having just one daughter and brought a different one to every other play date—you know, like The Parent Trap.”
Clarisse snorted at the thought, but the pitying look in her eyes was all Jillian needed to know that her friend felt sorry for her.
“Got to go! Someone’s coming by this afternoon to give a bid on refinishing the deck.” It was a lie, but Jillian couldn’t stand sitting there any longer. She jumped up from the bench and stretched, then trotted off, stroller in hand.
She could hear Clarisse panting to catch up, but she refused to slow down for her.
Clarisse certainly wasn’t waiting for her either, so why bother?
11:33 a.m.
Jillian couldn’t remember a time Scott had been home mid-morning on a Friday since he’d started at Colby & Trask, not even when he was sick with a cold.
In truth, he was barely home at all anymore.
He must have heard the front door open, not to mention the click of the stroller’s wheels as she rolled it over the granite floor of the entry foyer, and yet he didn’t bother turning around.
Instead, he stared out the big picture window, at the bay out beyond the Palace of Fine Arts.
The run up the hill was like a sleeping tonic for Addiso
n and Amelia, so she left them in the stroller but whispered, “Honey, what’s wrong? You don’t have a fever, do you? The girls couldn’t have given you something, because neither is sniffling—”
When he turned around, she realized it had been too long since she’d truly looked at his face. The grooves in his forehead were deeper than she’d ever remembered. The hair beside his temples was completely gray.
And his eyes were red and damp. He sighed heavily. “I want a divorce.”
If she hadn’t still been holding onto the stroller, she would have collapsed to the floor.
“What? Why?” She looked down at the girls in a useless attempt to collect her thoughts. All she could think about was how she should take them out of their tiny jackets before they got too overheated, and then go through the motion of preparing their lunch—
Anything but listen to Scott explain why he wanted to destroy the life they’d built together.
“I’m sorry, Jillian. But the truth is that I’m in love with someone else.” He refused to look her in the eye, but he guessed her next question. “It’s Victoria.”
His assistant.
Ah, now it all made sense.
It was always Victoria who stayed late with him at the office. And it was Victoria whose calls he took at all hours of the evening, with the excuse that “the China deal has a few details that we’ve yet to pin down…” or “It’s a conference call with Singapore. The investor has questions on the prospectus.”
Lies, lies, lies.
“She’s pregnant, Jillian.”
“Pregnant?” Jillian couldn’t believe her ears. She had to ask, “Boy, or girl?”
“It’s—a boy. Not that it matters.”
“You’re lying.”
He flinched but didn’t deny it. Instead, he rubbed salt in her wound, the worst way possible. “I love her, Jillian. It wouldn’t be fair to either of you if I stayed with you–”
“Fair? Don’t talk to me about fair! I gave up college and waited tables for you!”
So he couldn’t see her cry, Jillian looked down into the stroller. Amelia was fussing in her sleep. Jillian knew she should pick her up, peel her out of her coat, and stroke her back to calm her down—