Angus is looking at me. His face is a stark contrast to mine. Calm. In control. “I’ll finish it,” he says again.
This time I don’t protest. I can feed the residents hot dogs and frozen peas for a week, if that’s what it comes to.
With his keys in my hand, I leave via the front door. Angus’s truck, blessedly, is right out front. I recognize it from outside Rosalind House. I let myself in the passenger door and slide onto the vinyl, locking the door behind me.
* * *
I don’t remember driving to pick up Clem from school the day Richard told me he was going to jail. I don’t remember parking the car or walking through the gates or greeting any of the other mothers. But I do remember Clem’s smile when she saw me. And I remember thinking: I wonder when I will see Clem smile like that again.
The drive home had been filled with her usual random, fluttery chatter. I answered the odd question, made the odd ooh or ahh but my mind was miles away. I didn’t have any intention of telling her what Richard had done. Richard would have to do that. The twenty or so minutes I’d taken to pick up Clem solidified my shock into something cold and hard. Richard hadn’t just betrayed his investors; he’d betrayed us as well.
A truck was blocking the driveway when we got home. I’d ordered some plants for my new garden bed and some ornamental stones. Ornamental stones! How ridiculous it seemed to have ordered ornamental stones. The tradespeople who swarmed the house probably wouldn’t get paid for the work they were doing. The ornamental stones would have to go back. The decent thing to do, I realized, would be to go around tapping them on the shoulder right now, telling them to stop work and go be with their families, but my cowardice, it turned out, was stronger than my righteousness.
Inside, I went straight to the kitchen and was surprised to find Richard wasn’t there. After what he’d told me, the idea that he could get up and move around freely seemed preposterous somehow. But his barstool was empty, swiveled to the left as though he’d got off in a hurry. I put some shortbread and cut-up fruit on a plate for Clem and then went looking for him.
“Richard!” I called. I wandered back through the house, across the parquetry floor Richard had insisted we have, past the paintings he’d ostentatiously bought at auction. “Richard?” I knocked on the door to his study. Somehow the fact that he went in there, into that place where he’d caused all this trouble, felt like more of a betrayal. “Are you in there?”
There was no answer, so I barged inside, angry now. How dare he ignore me after the bombshell he just dropped! I took two steps into the room, and that’s when I stopped. Dead.
* * *
Angus’s truck is remarkably clean. It has one of those little plastic bags hanging from the glove compartment for rubbish. Like so many things about Angus, it isn’t what I expected.
It’s a short but uncomfortable drive home. Though it’s warm, rainclouds curl in the gray sky, threatening but not delivering. Part of me yearns for the rain to start streaming down, a gray blanket to disappear into. The shopping bags, filled with Lord-knows-what, are in the back. Once he loaded them in, Angus got into the truck without so much as a word, and started driving.
About halfway home, I feel the need to say something. “I appreciate you stepping in like that, Angus.”
Angus shrugs, keeping his eyes on the road. If Mother was here, she’d say it was impolite not to respond when someone spoke to you, but in this case, she’d be wrong. A quiet shrug, no big deal, was the nicest response he could possibly give.
I try for a laugh. “I guess I’ll have to start shopping at Bent & Dent.”
His eyebrows shoot up and his glance touches mine for a heartbeat. “Why? Because one woman who didn’t have her facts straight assaulted you while you were trying to do your job?”
“Because,” I say to my lap, “I’m not strong enough to go through that every week.”
We crunch onto the driveway of Rosalind House. Angus shuts off the engine but doesn’t get out. “I’m sorry about what I said the other day,” he says. “Of course your daughter has lost more than her home and her money. Obviously you have, too.”
Now I’m the one to shrug. Mostly because I don’t trust myself to speak.
Angus lifts his hand, and for a second I think he’s going to touch my cheek, but he stops a few inches short. “How’s the face?”
“Fine,” I say, though it’s starting to throb again. I glance in the mirror. There’s a fairly distinct hand mark. “Nothing that won’t heal.”
“Are you all right to go inside? I can take the groceries in if you’d rather hang out here for a while.”
“No,” I say. “Let’s just go in.”
Angus insists on carrying the bags, and I follow him toward the house.
“What were you doing at Houlihan’s, anyway?” I ask.
He raises his eyebrows. “You don’t think a gardener could be interested in organic food?”
It is, I realize, exactly what I’d thought. Angus rolls his eyes but with a smile.
We arrive in the kitchen, and Angus sets the shopping bags on the counter.
“I needed saffron,” he says. “That’s why I was at Houlihan’s. I’m entertaining tonight, and I’m making paella.”
“Seafood paella?” I try to keep the surprise out of my voice, but I think I fail.
Angus looks a mixture of irritated and amused. “Is there any other kind?”
Actually, there are other kinds. Paella Valenciana. Paella mixta. But I don’t point that out. Instead I start unloading the groceries. Pak choy. Roma tomatoes. Risoni. Mushrooms. No sign of the hot dogs or frozen peas I’d feared. “If you’re making paella, just make sure you don’t skimp on the—”
“Sofrito?” he says. “Don’t worry, I know.”
We lock eyes. As I look at him, I get the feeling that, although I’ve seen Angus many times before, I’ve never actually seen him.
“I’m cooking for my sister,” he says. “She knows her paella. And she’d never let me skimp on the sofrito.”
Keeping my head down, I nod. His sister. The sister who would never have babies because of Richard.
“Well,” he says. “I’d better … get back to the garden.”
“Do you know Anna and Luke very well?” I ask as he wanders toward the door, and it has only a little to do with the fact that I want him to stay a bit longer.
“I’ve known them as long as they’ve been at Rosalind House,” he says.
“What were they like? When they first arrived, I mean.”
He thinks for a minute. “They were a lot more lucid. Almost like regular people, if you didn’t press them too hard to do anything complicated. Luke’s speech wasn’t great, even back then, but mentally, he seemed pretty sharp. They both did.”
“Eric tells me that … they were friends?”
Angus nods. “More than friends, I think. I’m not sure if they were together, but they were certainly always together, if you know what I mean.” Angus smiles and his eyes go faraway. “You know what was sweet? I don’t know if Eric told you, but Anna is terrified of dogs. She was bitten, I think, when she was a kid. But Luke, he loved dogs. During pet therapy, he always had a dog on his lap or at his feet. But after Anna came to Rosalind House, Luke started staying inside with Anna, away from the dogs.”
“Pet therapy?”
“It’s a volunteer group; they come every other week with dogs and rabbits and kittens for the residents to pet.”
“And Luke stopped going outside with the dogs so he could stay inside with Anna?”
Angus nods. “Sweet, right?”
I exhale. “Yeah.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen that, though,” he says. “They’ve degenerated a lot. Mostly they just sit around, staring off into space.”
“If I had dementia,” I say, “or any kind of disease, I’d want the person I loved within arm’s reach as much as possible.”
Angus gives me a quizzical look. “I didn’t say they were in
love.”
“But it’s possible, isn’t it?”
“I guess. But even if they loved each other once, they can’t really love each other now, can they? How can you love someone you don’t remember?”
I shrug, because I have no idea.
Angus smiles. “Pretty heavy, huh, for a Tuesday afternoon?”
I smile back. “Yep.”
“Well,” he says, “I’d better—” He jabs his thumb over his shoulder.
“Okay. Thanks again for your … help today, Angus.”
“No problem.”
He starts toward the door and I turn my back, tying on my apron and then grabbing a canister of flour from a high shelf. As I lift the lid, a tiny cloud of white powder puffs out and scatters, absorbed into the air.
“Oh, Eve?”
I nearly launch right out of my skin. When I turn, Angus is still there. “Yes?”
“I do my grocery shopping every Tuesday afternoon. If you ever want some company—or a bodyguard!—just let me know.”
And then, without waiting for a response, Angus strides away. And whatever it was that had been on my mind just a moment ago floats up into the air and vanishes, just like the flour.
* * *
That afternoon, while I’m attempting to iron one of Bert’s shirts, Mother calls.
“I’m picking Clem up from school today,” she says in her no-nonsense voice. “And I’ll keep her overnight so you can go to Book Club.”
I laugh-cough. “Book Club?”
“It’s tonight, isn’t it? The third Wednesday of the month?”
Wow. She’s right. Her memory can be crazy good when it suits her.
“Uh, yes, but…” It’s hard to find words to describe why I shouldn’t go to Book Club, mostly because it’s so plainly obvious. For one thing, I haven’t been to Book Club in four months. For another, I suspect the members of the book club—Andrea Heathmont, Romy Fisher, Jazz, and a bunch of other mothers from school—would sooner eat the selected book than discuss it with me over red wine and soft cheese.
“I don’t know what book they’re discussing,” I say weakly.
Mother laughs. “As if anyone reads the book! Isn’t it just an excuse for a midweek glass of wine with the girls? Who knows, you might end up going into town and having a dance?”
“Mother, I really think—”
“I’m picking Clemmy up, anyway, so suit yourself. But I think you should reach out to your friends. They may have their grievances with you, but if you don’t stick with them, how can you expect them to stick by you? Like your grandmother used to tell me, the best cure for melancholy is your girlfriends. Go. What have you got to lose?”
That night, I lie on the couch in my pajamas with Mother’s words on auto-play in my head. “What have you got to lose?” Maybe she’s right? The truth is, I don’t have a whole lot left to lose, and who knows, perhaps the ladies would understand it wasn’t my fault?
I look at the clock. It’s 8:01 P.M. If I leave now, I’d be late, but I’d still make it.
Ten minutes later, I’m out in the evening air. I still have my reservations, but I feel surprisingly free. Maybe I can do this? I am, after all, one of the founding members of Book Club. When it started, the members had been just Jazz, Andrea, and me. We used to meet in our living rooms, but when the girls started kindergarten, we invited a few other moms to join and moved the location to the back room at Emilio’s Wine Bar. Now we have about fifteen members, though generally only seven or eight come to any particular meeting.
Emilio’s is quiet up front, but from the entrance, I can hear shrieks of laughter out of the back room, and I get a boost of confidence. It feels like forever since I’ve gone to Book Club. And how long has it been since I laughed like that?
As I round the corner, I count about twelve heads around the table—a good turnout. Romy is talking to Madeleine, a glass of wine hovering at her lips. Andrea digs a piece of flat bread into spinach dip, laughing at something Carmen is saying. Clearly the group discussion has finished (if there even was one), and now the women clump in twos and threes, gossiping. This is the good part of Book Club. I made the right decision to come.
“Eve!” Jazz is the first to notice me. Her face is the image of shock—open mouth, wide eyes, pink cheeks. It takes a few seconds because of the music, but one by one, heads turn.
“Hello,” I say, forcing a smile. “Room for one more?”
“Sure,” Jazz says eventually. “Yeah. Take a seat.”
A couple of women shuffle over, and I sit next to a kindergarten mom I know vaguely. Someone pushes an empty wineglass toward me. I look around eagerly but everyone remains silent.
“So,” I say. “What’s the book?”
“Gone Girl,” someone says. “Have you read it?”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I enjoyed it.”
I sound a bit formal, a bit nervous. There’s an open bottle of red on the table and I pull it toward me and pour the remaining few inches into my glass.
“So … how are you, Eve?” Carmen asks, leaning forward on her elbows. “You must be having an awful time.”
“Oh, no,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“And your … little one? Clementine? How is she?”
Carmen is talking loudly and Jazz and a couple of other mothers look over, casually interested. A few others resume chatting among themselves.
“Clem’s fine,” I say, wondering if this is true. “She’s grieving, of course, but she’s a tough little thing. She’ll get through it.”
“Good.” Carmen pulls on her gold necklace and smiles a little too brightly, the same smile as the woman next to her, and the woman next to her. “Good.”
I smile back. It’s bizarre, but it’s bound to be like this for a while; I know that. Soon people will lose interest. There’s always something or someone new to talk about.
“So where are you living, Eve?” someone asks, and my throat closes up. At a loss, I take another swig of my wine, draining the glass. “Shall I order another bottle?” I ask.
Nobody speaks. A few heads turn; a few silent conversations are had. The song that was playing ends, and there are a few moments of dead air before the next one starts up.
Finally a chair screeches back. “Actually, I’m going to head off,” Andrea says, standing. Her gaze touches mine for a second. “Busy day tomorrow.”
“Yes—me, too,” Romy says. “I have an early start.”
There’s a general hum of agreement. People look at their watches. It’s late. They’re tired. One by one, chairs scrape backwards.
“Nice to see you, Eve.”
“You take care.”
“Might see you around sometime.”
Ten minutes later, it’s just Jazz and me. The room looks sad now, full of the evening’s remains. A half-eaten dip platter, empty glasses, used napkins. But what does it matter? With a good bottle of wine, we won’t even notice.
“What do you say, Jazz?” I say. “One more bottle? Or just a glass?”
I’m tempted to say for old times’ sake, but I hold it in, hoping our friendship is still current enough not to require that particular enticement. But Jazz just glances nervously around, as though she’s forgotten there’s no one left to save her.
“Better not, Evie,” she says finally. “It really is getting late.”
I nod and tell her, “Yes, it’s fine, we probably should get an early night.” But as we reach for our purses, I glance at my watch. It’s 8:30 P.M.
16
Clementine
“All right, class!” Miss Weber says, “Good news. The second grade Family Dance Night is next week!”
It’s after recess and we are sitting in home circle. I’d been zoning out, staring out the window, but suddenly, I’m listening.
Miranda puts up her hand. “What’s Family Dance Night?”
“We do it every year,” Miss Weber says. “It happens after school, in the gymnasium. There’ll be food and drinks and dancing. All th
e second graders are invited to bring a friend or family member with them. It could be a grandparent, a friend, or you could bring your mom or dad—”
“Oh!” Miranda says. She says it in a long and drawn-out way, like this finally makes sense. “The Daddy Daughter, Mommy Son Dance, you mean?”
I see a twig on the floor in front of me and I pick it up and I dig it into a groove in the carpet. Last year I went to the dance with Daddy. He’d called it a date. I remember him arriving at school in his work clothes with a bunch of flowers. Red and pink and yellow and purple. No one else’s dad brought flowers, not even Miranda’s. He opened the doors for me and took off my coat, like he did for Mom. And when the dancing started, he let me stand on his feet and we swished around the room like a King and Queen.
“That’s what we called it last year, yes.” Miss Weber’s cheeks turn pink. “But this year, we thought it would be more fun to let people bring whomever they wanted—”
“In case they don’t have moms or dads?” Miranda asks.
“Or in case they’d rather bring someone else,” Miss Weber says.
Miranda puts up her hand again, but Miss Weber looks over her head and keeps talking. “Anyway, we have lots to do. We need to get our decorations ready—streamers, banners, balloons. So, I’d like everyone to find a partner.”
Miranda grabs Legs’s knee. “Partners?”
It’s the third time Miranda has done that this week. It’s like, all of sudden, Miranda is in love with Legs or something.
Legs looks at me.
“You don’t mind, do you, Clem?” Miranda says. Her voice is all singy, like she’s trying to be nice, but she’s just being tricky. “You could be partners with … hmmm, let’s see—” She looks around, tapping her bottom lip with her finger.
“I’ll be your partner, Clem.”
It’s Harry who says it. He smiles and pushes his hair out of his eyes.
I’d rather be partners with Legs, but Harry is nice, too. I tell him, “Sure, we can be partners.”
“Yes!” Miranda says. “Harry and Clem should be partners. Neither of them have daddies.”
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