by Amy Poeppel
The doorbell rang, and Marge walked to the entry, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. Opening the door, she pulled twenty dollars out of her pocket and handed the money to Frank, who was standing next to a young woman under the portico.
“Hello, Frank,” Marge said.
Frank carried the woman’s suitcase inside the doorway, saying, “Hiya, Marge.”
He walked back to the woman, who had not yet taken a step toward the house, and said to her with a laugh, “I gotta say, that’s the first time anyone’s ever asked to see my driver’s license before. You New Yorkers sure aren’t very trusting.” He turned and walked out to his car, waving at Marge before he drove off.
Marge introduced herself. “Welcome, Jackie,” she said. “Come on in. Shoes off, please.”
Jackie walked in stiffly, posed like a Christmas caroler with her hands clasped in front of her, a small handbag hanging off the crook of her arm.
“Excuse me?”
“Your shoes? Mr. Stratton doesn’t allow them in the house.”
Jackie looked flustered as she stepped out of her black patent leather pumps, and Marge, looking down, could see why. Jackie’s toenails were painted a nice shade of pink, but they were chipped and peeling. “I didn’t get a chance to—”
“No worries,” said Marge. “What size shoe do you wear?”
“Seven?” Jackie said.
Marge went to the closet and found a pair of small-size, close-toed, terry cloth slippers.
“Thank you,” Jackie said. She took the slippers, noticing the S stitched in green, pulled them out of the plastic sleeve, and stepped into them. “I didn’t know. I’ll get my own.”
“You can have those,” Marge said. “Consider them a gift, a perk of the job.”
Jackie, who looked to be about the same age as the twins, had long, straight hair with bangs and a fitted buttoned-up blouse.
“How long have you been working for Mr. Stratton?” Marge asked.
“Only a week. I’m mostly helping him with… technology.”
As Jackie leaned over to pick up her pumps, Gwen flounced down the staircase in bare feet, wearing a tennis dress and carrying a racquet over her shoulder. “Good morning!” She walked up to Jackie and introduced herself. “We talked on the phone the other day. I’m Edward’s daughter, the younger one. Did you take the train up?”
Jackie nodded.
“And you’re here most of the summer?”
“I’ll be here this week,” Jackie said formally, “and we’ll discuss future visits before I leave.”
“I come and go, come and go,” said Gwen, “depending on my work schedule, but I stay away as much as possible after the dreaded composers arrive.”
Marge saw a look of fear cross the new assistant’s face.
“Mr. Stratton told me,” Jackie said, “that I’m supposed to be here in August while the composers are in residence.”
“Well,” Gwen said, clearly amused, “better you than me.”
“Now, Gwen—” said Marge, wishing she wouldn’t scare the poor girl to death.
But Gwen was already doing her falsetto impression of a guest composer: “Oh, help, I need Faber-Castell pencils or I can’t write a single note!… Can someone silence the crows outside? They’re cawing off-pitch… I must have Darjeeling tea, and only Darjeeling tea, if I’m going to finish my composition to the Maestro’s liking.”
“Don’t generalize.” Marge turned to Jackie. “Most of them are perfectly nice, actually, if a tad needy.”
“They’re eccentric, almost always,” said Gwen. “You were saying on the phone you haven’t been in the area before, right? Let me know if you want some tips, places to see or things to do.”
Marge appreciated Gwen’s easy way with people, how quickly she befriended them, but some people, Jackie appearing to be one of them, needed more time to warm up, more space in order to feel comfortable. Gwen could come on a bit strong. “Don’t you have a tennis lesson?” Marge asked her.
“I’m off to use the ball machine.” She turned to Jackie. “It’s a great workout. Thirty minutes of randomized shots is about as much as I can manage. Do you play? Because I need a partner. Nothing competitive, just hitting the ball around.”
“Don’t fib,” said Marge. “You play to win, and you should say so. She has a right to know what she’s getting into.”
“Fine,” said Gwen. “Well?” she asked Jackie. “What do you say? I’m not very good.”
“Gwen!” said Marge sternly.
“Fine, I’m good. I’m very good. I’ll probably demolish you.”
Jackie looked flustered. The bottoms of her cuffed slacks were pooling on the floor, too long now that she’d swapped her heels for slippers, and her upper lip was getting sweaty.
“You can think it over,” said Gwen. “I’m in desperate need of coffee.”
Gwen walked away as Marge turned to consider the suitcase. It looked heavy. “You can leave your bag, and I’ll find someone to carry it up. I don’t do luggage anymore; I’m ancient.”
Jackie looked flummoxed. “I can carry it myself.”
“I don’t want scuffed walls,” Marge said as a warning. Jackie didn’t look like she could lift a toaster.
“If you don’t mind,” Jackie said, “I’d be more comfortable carrying it myself.”
It’s your back, thought Marge. She led Jackie up the stairwell, through the billiards room, and down the hall toward one of the guest rooms, the farthest from Gwen’s so they wouldn’t be bumping into each other.
“I thought it would be prudent,” Jackie said, giving her suitcase a tug to get it rolling on the Persian rug.
“What’s that, dear?”
“I thought it made sense to ask for the driver’s ID. His cab was unmarked, and I had no way of knowing who he was.”
“Of course,” said Marge. Jackie was new to rural life—that much was clear.
“He said he was ‘Frank,’ but,” she said, shaking her head, “he could have been anyone.”
“That’s true.”
“I could have gotten in the car and—”
“You’ve got street smarts,” said Marge.
“I didn’t mean to offend him.”
“Don’t give it another thought.”
They went into the bedroom, and Marge pulled open the drapes. “Here we are,” she said. “You have extra pillows and plenty of hangers in the armoire. Towels are in the linen closet in the bathroom. If you have clothes you need to have washed, put them in the hamper, and the ladies will take care of it. There’re towels down in the pool house, so you don’t need to bring one with you when you go. There’s sunblock down there and drinks, too, so you can pretty much show up empty-handed.”
“I won’t be swimming or playing tennis,” Jackie said. “I’m here to work.”
“True,” said Marge. “But he can’t work you twenty-four hours a day, can he? Do you have a suit?”
“Of course,” she said, somewhat indignant. “I have several.”
Marge noted that Jackie was wearing a blazer that matched her slacks. “I mean a swimsuit. We can find one for you if you want. Just let me know.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Jackie.
“I hope you’ll take some time to enjoy yourself while you’re here. Do you ride?”
“Ride what?”
“Horses,” said Marge.
Jackie didn’t say anything. Her eyes were wide open and her mouth shut tightly as she shook her head no, definitively.
Fish out of water, thought Marge, resisting the urge to pat her on the shoulder; Jackie wouldn’t like to be touched, Marge could tell.
“But I run,” said Jackie.
“There are plenty of places to do that, too, about three hundred acres, in fact,” said Marge, trying to sound cheerful. “We have trails, or if you don’t mind a hill, you can stay on the driveway, which will take you all the way down to Hardscrabble Road. There’s very little traffic on it. Either way, check for ticks at nig
ht.”
“Ticks?”
“I can offer tweezers if you find one. Don’t wait; the sooner you remove it, the better.”
Jackie flinched, like she could feel a tick crawling up her leg just from thinking about it.
“Or you could use the gym if you prefer the indoors,” Marge said. “It’s in the basement and has weights and all that other equipment you girls use. I can show you when you come downstairs. Would you like some coffee?”
“Yes,” she said, “thank you. I’ll settle in first. May I have the Wi-Fi password?”
“The network is called Stratton,” said Marge, “and the password is ‘Stratton,’ uppercase S.”
“That’s not very secure,” said Jackie.
Marge had no opinion on the topic. “There’s a printer in the office off the kitchen.”
“Great,” said Jackie, “I’d like to know where that is.”
It struck Marge as very telling that Jackie showed more interest in the printer than the pool. “I’ll see you downstairs.”
She didn’t want to underestimate this young woman, but she couldn’t help but notice that Jackie did something peculiar right then, bending her knees primly, in a manner that brought to mind a curtsy. Marge suppressed a smile and left the room, hoping Jackie would change into something more casual, like pedal pushers or Bermuda shorts, before she came down. Gabardine pantsuits weren’t really the right costume for the country.
She walked back down the hall, hearing a ruckus coming from downstairs, followed by Gwen’s voice, sounding alarmed: “Marge!”
Getting from point A to point B in a big hurry was not something Marge enjoyed doing anymore. She felt off balance and her knees hurt, especially going downstairs. By the time she made her way to the library and took in the scene—Edward in his bathrobe sprawled on the floor, unable, apparently, to get up—Gwen was already on the phone, calling 9-1-1.
7
Bridget woke up, saw the sun shining out her window, and did a gut check: she was sad, yes, but she had to admit she’d slept well. Having both Will and Isabelle with her certainly took the sting out of Sterling’s rejection.
Will and Bridget had brought a bottle of wine over to the guesthouse, where Isabelle was settling in by piling up her dirty laundry on the living room floor. She thanked them for the wine but made herbal tea instead; her throat was sore. “I think I have some kind of growth,” she told them. “I can feel it whenever I swallow.”
“You don’t have a growth. Strep maybe.” Bridget wondered if the doctor she’d taken her kids to for ringworm when they were ten was still around.
“I’m so glad I got out of that toxic workplace,” Isabelle said, as though she deserved a trophy. With Hudson beside her on the couch, his head on her leg, she spoke as though coming to terms with some newfound wisdom: “I’m going to start appreciating my life more, spending my time in a way that has value, cherishing the people I love. I don’t want to be part of a massive corporate machine anymore. Small, local businesses, that’s what I want to explore.”
Bridget glanced over at Will to see if he was similarly baffled by Isabelle’s new personality, but he was listening to her politely, paying attention, nodding his head.
“How did you get here?” Bridget asked. “We would have picked you up.”
“Frank drove me,” she said. “I didn’t want to disturb you and—” Isabelle, looking first at Will and then at Bridget, suddenly realized that something was wrong. “Where’s Sterling?”
Will put his arm over Bridget’s shoulders and said, “You won’t be meeting him after all. He’s…” Bridget could tell Will wanted to say something hostile. “…had a change of plans.”
A change of heart was more accurate.
Isabelle took the news of the breakup with righteous outrage: “What is wrong with him?” “You’re such a catch, Mom!” “He’s an idiot!”
Her indignation soothed Bridget’s wounded feelings, although her use of the words “toxic,” “toxin,” and “toxicity” was over-the-top: “You know, if you’d stayed with him, his narcissism would have become a toxin in your life.”
Will changed the subject, telling Isabelle about the woman he’d just met, and she gave her enthusiastic support: “Good for you!” “Go for it, Will!” “Look at you, you’re blushing!”
And it was true, Bridget noticed. He was blushing.
* * *
Isabelle had called her a “catch.” Lying in bed in her sunny bedroom that morning, Bridget lifted her T-shirt and patted her stomach; she could use a few sit-ups, and tagliatelle with gorgonzola cream sauce was probably not the sort of thing she should be eating. But she felt she’d earned it. Getting dumped was certainly justification for a high-calorie, comforting dinner.
Bridget was usually the one who did the breaking up. Seth was the first man she dated and dumped after having the twins. He was a urologist with an attractive smile; reliable, respectable, and energetic. He loved reading about well-reviewed cultural happenings in the New York Times and Time Out and making plans, whether it was going to movies, museums, or plays. Lectures or poetry readings. It was fun to attend so many interesting, talk-of-the-town events, but Bridget decided she needed more than a seat in the audience, and Seth’s own performance was not deserving of a five-star review in any paper; Bridget wasn’t willing to settle for mediocre sex.
There were others she broke up with: A choral director she met in New Hampshire one summer whose veganism became a source of constant conflict. A high school teacher who she had reason to suspect liked Will more than he liked her. A couple of men Gwen fixed her up with, an immigration lawyer and a restaurant owner, neither of whom fit the bill for one reason (too much chest hair) or another (not enough confidence).
There was one notable exception when Bridget was the one who got dumped. After the kids went to college, she met Benjamin, a tattooed percussionist who had a gorgeous smile and a very cool, steady job playing in a ’50s rock musical off-off-Broadway. He was funny, sexy, and edgy, and Bridget was crazy about him. Six months after they started dating, he got cast in the international touring production of Stomp and had no plans to return to New York. She missed him, longed for him, in fact, and was ready to hop on a plane to visit, but when she called to plan a trip, he said she was only postponing the inevitable, and he didn’t see any point in pretending they had a future together. Bridget was blindsided. She tried to change his mind. That was when he told her he was already hooking up with a girl in the cast, stomping on her heart.
Bridget liked being in a relationship. She just hadn’t managed to find the right guy. Will, on the other hand, didn’t actually want his relationships to work out, not after his failed marriage to Molly, his Holy Roller, high school sweetheart from Louisiana. He’d married her right after his Juilliard graduation, in spite of the fact that he’d become a die-hard New Yorker in four short years and Molly had never been farther north than Memphis.
Bridget went to the wedding, a praise Jesus, Bible-thumping daytime ceremony in an ugly church in Shreveport, and she tried not to be a snob. She met Will’s dour, tacky mother and gum-chewing, humorless father in the church parking lot before the service. She said hello at the church door to the effeminate Baptist pastor, who wore cowboy boots with his robe, and she took her seat in the church, looking around her. She simply couldn’t believe that Will—Will!—was actually going through with this, that he came from this place where he didn’t belong, was connected to these people he had nothing in common with. It actually crossed her mind to kidnap him, to grab him by the hand and run. Instead she sat there with a fake smile on her face, trying to feel enthusiastic when she heard her twenty-two-year-old friend say “I do,” knowing his marriage would never last. After the ceremony there was a reception in the neon-lit, multipurpose room in the church basement. Bridget almost died from culture shock—What, no candles? No champagne? No sexual innuendo in the best man’s toast?—but she nibbled her sugar cookie, sipped her lemonade, and watched in horro
r as Will and Molly danced to a country song called “I Cross My Heart,” played on a Sony cassette deck. No one else might have noticed, but Bridget knew Will’s face so well, having studied it hour after hour while they played music, and she could tell he was miserable.
After their Hampton Inn honeymoon, the newlyweds moved to New York and became spectacularly miserable together. Molly hated their studio apartment, hated that Will was out teaching lessons during the day and performing at night, hated everything about New York City.
Bridget tried to bond with the bride, assuring her that the city was more welcoming and charming than it appeared. As a native New Yorker, Bridget felt a responsibility to highlight the city’s best attractions, but Molly was a tough audience: Central Park was too dangerous, MoMA was too crowded, and tea at the Plaza was a total scam. She was probably right about all three, but Bridget felt she could have at least tried to enjoy it.
And then, one night, Bridget was in her studio watching TV when Will buzzed up, saying through the intercom, “Buy me a drink?” Bridget put on her coat and met him downstairs.
He had come home from teaching to find Molly gone and a note that said, I’ll pray for you.
They sat side by side on bar stools, Bridget’s arm over his shoulders, while Will explained what had happened.
“Did you have to tell her you slept around?” Bridget asked. “You were still in college and she was… five thousand miles away; of course you cheated.”
“Fifteen hundred,” Will said. “And I broke our pledge.”