Best Friends Forever

by Margot Hunt

  “Speaking of tennis,” I said, “I was going over the bills, and I wanted to ask you about something. Did you really spend $224 at an online tennis store? I was hoping that was a mistake on the bill.”

  I could see from my husband’s sheepish expression that it was not. My spirits plummeted.

  “I know, I know,” he said, holding his hands up. “It was an impulse purchase.”

  “What was?”

  “A new racquet. But it’s the racquet Federer plays with. I was just going to try it out—they let you take it out on a test run and then return it if you don’t like it—but I couldn’t not keep it. It’s the best racquet I’ve ever played with. It’s the racquet that helped me finally beat Joe Hammond! Anyway, it was on sale.”

  Tension tightened my shoulders, and acid roiled in my stomach. I took a deep breath, trying to contain the anxiety, not to lose my temper.

  “We can’t afford a purchase like that right now.” I pointed to the Visa statement I had pulled up on the computer. “Have you seen this lately? Our balance is over ten thousand dollars. That’s the limit. We’re now officially maxed out.”

  I could have continued with a full accounting of our current financial struggles. We were a few weeks late paying the mortgage because the majority of Todd’s last paycheck had been swallowed up by an expensive car repair. The school tuition bill was due. Liam’s birthday was in two weeks and he had been begging for a laser tag party, which we couldn’t afford at the moment.

  It was times like these, the nights when I was poring over the bills, trying to figure out where I could cut our already tight budget, that I tried to remember why I had ever given up my job. But almost as soon as the question floated up into my consciousness, I would remember anew, with a fresh jolt of pain. It hadn’t been a choice to stop working but a necessity. The grief I experienced after losing Meghan was a dark, smothering force that robbed me of my will to do just about anything. Eating, sleeping and showering were all equally unappealing options. But I had a three-year-old and a newborn to take care of. Falling off a cliff wasn’t a luxury I could indulge in.

  I had arranged for a three-month maternity leave before I gave birth to the twins. When that time was up and I was still struggling, I went to see the dean of the math department. He suggested I take the rest of the semester off. But even when the grief started to recede and I slowly rejoined the world, going back to work still seemed like an impossible task. Then Todd was offered a job in West Palm Beach, which at the time seemed to offer a fresh start for our family.

  But it also meant that we suddenly went from enjoying a comfortable two-income existence to living on one. We learned to make do while we waited for the raises and bonuses Todd had been promised when he was hired. We made up the difference with a series of credit cards we were paying only the minimum on each month to cover the unexpected expenses. A repair to the air-conditioning unit at our house. A cavity that needed filling. Tennis club memberships.

  “It was only $200,” Todd said. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Besides, how much have you been spending on all of those lunches out with Kat?”

  “I don’t spend $200 on lunch,” I retorted.

  “No, but $30 a couple times a week adds up.”

  “So it’s okay for you to burn through money on your tennis hobby, but I’m not allowed to have a social life?” I hated how thin and brittle I sounded. But I resented more that we couldn’t have the simplest conversation about our finances without it turning into a fight.

  “I didn’t say that. Jesus, why do you have to be such a...” Todd struggled to find the proper word to describe just how awful a person I was.

  “Bitch?”

  “I did not say that,” Todd said, pointing at me. “I would never call you that.”

  Bridget appeared at the door to the office, looking anxious. She was wearing ladybug-print pajamas, and her hair was tousled. She was clutching Leo, her well-loved plush lion, to her chest.

  “Are you fighting?” she asked in a small voice.

  “No, we’re just talking,” I said at the same time Todd was saying, “No, honey, everything’s fine.”

  “You were shouting,” Bridget said. “It woke me up.”

  “We weren’t shouting. We were just talking a little...loudly,” Todd said.

  Bridget’s lower lip trembled. “It scared me.”

  “We’ll keep our voices down,” I said, hoping the smile I gave her looked more genuine than it felt.

  “Come on, Monkey, I’ll tuck you in,” Todd said, holding out his hand.

  “Good night, sweetheart,” I called after them.

  Todd didn’t return to the office to continue our fight after getting Bridget settled. I found him in the kitchen, a beer in his hand while he flipped through the mail on the kitchen counter. I rubbed a tired hand across my face and decided to leave the argument about the Visa bill for another day.

  “Don’t forget Kat invited us over for dinner tomorrow night,” I reminded him.

  “Oh, right. To celebrate your book,” Todd said. His face relaxed. “That’s some good news, for a change.”

  I had gotten the word a few days earlier. My book of logic puzzles would be published by a small university press. The advance I was getting was nominal—certainly not enough to make much of a dent in our current financial woes—but it was still an exciting development. Even this small success—or at least, small compared to the publishing I’d hoped to accomplish in the course of my academic career—made me feel a little more like the Alice I’d been before Meghan’s death.

  “So I’m finally going to meet the mysterious Kat,” Todd said. He lifted his bottle of beer in a mock toast, then brought it to his lips.

  “She’s hardly mysterious,” I said, annoyed by his flippant tone.

  “She is to me,” Todd said. “What’s her husband like? What’s his name?”

  “Howard, and I’m not sure. I’ve never met him.”

  “But you don’t like him?”

  “Why would you think that? I just said I’ve never met him.”

  “Yes, but right after you said it, you did that thing you do when you disapprove of something or someone. You twist your lips up.”

  “I don’t do that.” As I said it, I could feel my lips starting to twist. What a horrible habit to have developed.

  “Yes, you do. You do it all the time,” Todd said. “You did it a few minutes ago when you were asking about the charge on the credit card.”

  I hated the idea of having a tell and decided that I would not allow my lips to twist ever again.

  But Todd was right. I wasn’t at all sure I was going to like Howard. Whenever Kat talked about her husband, which wasn’t very often, she hadn’t exactly extolled the positives. Howard was selfish, she’d told me, and people often found him abrasive.

  “I finally get to meet the mysterious Kat and her apparently unlikable husband. That should make for an interesting night,” Todd mused. He took another long draw from his beer.

  I used to find my husband’s insouciance charming. I wondered when that had stopped.

  7

  Three Years Earlier

  I knew by then that Kat and Howard were very wealthy. Kat drove a sporty new Porsche convertible with creamy leather seats. Her clothes were all impeccably cut and clearly not purchased at The Gap, where most of my wardrobe came from. The bag she carried was probably worth more than my car. And she had already disclosed that her house wasn’t in the town of Jupiter, where I lived, but on the far tonier, far more expensive Jupiter Island.

  But Kat was my friend. My very good friend, the person I was starting to confide in even more than my husband. When I received the email from the publisher to tell me that they wanted to publish my book, I had called Kat before Todd. Although, to be fair, she’d been far more excited for me than my husband had been. The diff
erence in our respective net worths shouldn’t have mattered. It didn’t matter. All it meant was that Kat was quicker to pick up the lunch check and more likely to splurge on a nice bottle of wine for us to share.

  But then I saw where she lived, and I realized just how different our lives really were.

  Todd pulled our Volvo wagon into the crushed-stone driveway, the tires crunching on the gray gravel. We got out of the car and stared up at the building in front of us. The house, which would more accurately be called a mansion, was certainly impressive. It was white stone and built in a U shape around a neatly manicured front courtyard featuring elaborate topiaries. It had casement-style tile windows and a red Spanish tile roof. A detached garage, which looked more like a stable and was large enough to store five cars, was set off to the right of the driveway.

  “Holy cow,” Todd said, staring up at the house.

  “Is that your professional assessment of the architecture?” I teased.

  “I think the whole point of that house is for people to look at it and say ‘Holy cow.’ It isn’t exactly subtle. I wonder who designed it.”

  “You don’t know whose work it is?” Todd had an encyclopedic knowledge of the architects behind much of the real estate throughout South Florida.

  “No, but it’s a fantastic example of the Spanish Colonial Revival style,” Todd said. “It’s really very nicely done. Look at the detailing around the windows.”

  We walked up to the front door, an enormous wood-and-glass affair surrounded by a decorative casing nearly two stories tall. I rang the bell and realized suddenly that I was nervous. Why? I wondered. Was it about meeting Howard? Or were my nerves jangling because I wasn’t sure Kat and Todd would like one another? But then I heard footsteps echoing against a hard floor and the front door opened.

  Howard Grant wasn’t at all what I had pictured. For some reason, I had envisioned Kat’s husband as a tall, fair man with broad shoulders and a cleft chin. I had no idea where I’d gotten this mental picture, since as far as I could remember, Kat had never described her husband to me.

  The real Howard was of average height and very slim. He had thick dark hair speckled with gray, an aquiline nose and deep-set brown eyes. He wore a black T-shirt and slim-fitting dark blue jeans with soft, expensive-looking brown loafers. When he smiled at us, the expression didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Howard Grant,” he said, holding out his hand to Todd.

  “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Todd Campbell.”

  Howard looked at me but did not offer his hand.

  “I’m Alice,” I said. “Kat’s friend.”

  “Right. The author.” Howard spoke the word ironically, as though I didn’t quite qualify to be called one. I had been predisposed not to like Howard, and so far, he wasn’t doing anything to change my mind. But before I could respond, he had turned. Walking away, he called back over one shoulder, “Come on in and let me know what you like to drink.”

  Todd and I exchanged a look. Todd mouthed, What the fuck? which made me laugh and feel a surge of affection for my husband. We did not always have an easy marriage, it was true, but these moments of connection were our saving grace.

  We followed Howard through the airy, expansive foyer with marble floors and soaring ceilings. The exterior of the house had been over-the-top, but the interior was austere and curated—more like the K-Gallery. This was especially true when we reached the living room, which featured two black chesterfield sofas, a pair of low-slung white leather chairs and a few tall sculptural potted green plants. It was clear that the furnishings, while lovely, had been left intentionally understated so that the art was the star of the room. I was still not well versed in modern art, but even I could appreciate the visual impact of the large colorful canvases that hung on every wall.

  Howard headed for a large and well-stocked glass-and-chrome bar cart set behind one of the chesterfields.

  “What can I get you, Todd?” Howard asked. “I have a fantastic twenty-five-year-old Glenmorangie whiskey.”

  Todd did not drink whiskey. His drink of choice was almost always beer, with an occasional glass of red wine with dinner. But he smiled, squared his shoulders and said, “That sounds great. Thank you.”

  I had a feeling there was some sort of a man-test at work, where whiskey was a line that had been drawn in the sea grass rug.

  Howard had poured them each a glass of whiskey but hadn’t yet asked me for my drink order when Kat strolled into the room. As always, Kat was impeccably dressed, tonight in a long red strapless sundress that set off her smooth shoulders and pale arms.

  “Alice!” she cried, folding me into a hug. Then she turned to Todd and smiled. “And you must be Todd. Unless, of course, Alice decided to pick up a date for the evening.”

  I could tell that Todd was charmed by Kat, and also that he hadn’t expected to be. I suspected that he wanted to categorize Kat as a “bad influence,” a snake charmer who seduced his wife away from her domestic life into wasting time and money over long, gossipy lunches. But if there was one word that could entirely sum up Kat’s character, it was that she was, more than anything else, charming.

  “Don’t tell me you started pouring whiskeys for you and Todd before you got Alice a drink,” Kat exclaimed, turning to her husband.

  Howard winced and said, “Oops,” while Kat turned to me with an exasperated sigh.

  “He always does this. He makes sure the men have drinks and leaves us women to fend for ourselves,” Kat complained.

  Howard gave a theatrical eye roll. “Women,” he said in a mock-withering tone. “Can’t please them.”

  I knew we were supposed to take the exchange as witty banter, a cocktail-hour performance for our benefit. But I sensed a real simmering antagonism behind their words.

  Howard and Todd found some common ground over a discussion of professional tennis, of which Howard was also a fan. While they debated the merits of Nadal versus Federer, Kat and I slipped off to the kitchen, which was another huge space featuring dark cabinets and a dramatic marble island with gold stools lining one side. A wonderful aroma of cooking food mingled with the smell of exotic-scented candles burning on the counter.

  “Your house is amazing,” I said, looking around in wonder.

  “Thank you.”

  An older woman wearing a tan uniform came into the kitchen. She was small and plump and wore her short gray hair feathered back from her face. I shouldn’t have been surprised—of course, anyone who lived in a house like this would have domestic help—but Kat had never mentioned having staff.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Kat,” the woman said in accented English.

  “Marguerite, this is my friend Alice Campbell,” Kat said. “Alice, this is Marguerite Sampson, our housekeeper.”

  Marguerite smiled and nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

  “You, too.”

  “If you don’t need anything else, Mrs. Kat, I’m going home.”

  “No, thank you, Marguerite. Good night.”

  “Have a good night, Mrs. Kat.”

  Once the housekeeper had left, Kat smiled at me.

  “Mrs. Kat?” I teased.

  “I know, it’s so silly. She’s been with us for fifteen years, and for fifteen years, she’s refused to call me Kat. Anyway, I hope you like short ribs. I’ve never made them before, but the butcher swore they would be easy and delicious. He was right on the easy part, at least. I just plunked them in the oven hours ago and haven’t touched them since.”

  “They smell fantastic,” I said.

  Kat pulled a bottle of chilled Pouilly-Fuissé from the enormous stainless steel refrigerator. She poured us each a glass.

  “Cheers!” Kat tapped her wineglass against mine. “I’m so glad you came tonight.”

  “Thank you for inviting us,” I said. “It’s such a treat to have someone cook me dinner.”

&nbs
p; “Todd isn’t at all how I pictured him.” Kat pulled out a plate of cheese and crudités from the refrigerator and put it on the counter. “He’s much taller than I thought he’d be.”

  “Really? That’s funny. I was just thinking the same thing about Howard.”

  “But Howard’s not at all tall! What, did you think he was a midget?” Kat exclaimed.

  I laughed and relaxed. “No, actually he’s shorter than I thought he’d be. I just mean I’d pictured him differently. For some reason, I thought he’d be blond.”

  “Oh, no, I’ve never gone for blond men.” Kat gave a humorous shudder. “Or redheads. No offense, because your hair is gorgeous. But it doesn’t translate well to men.”

  “Really? I’ve actually always been attracted to redheads,” I admitted. “And Scots.”

  “And kilts on men?” Kat teased.

  “I draw the line at men wearing skirts.”

  “Good Lord, what are you two talking about?” Howard asked as he strode into the kitchen. Much like his wife, Howard’s pace was a few notches faster than average. I wondered if they were both naturally quick walkers or one had influenced the other over the course of their marriage. “Tom, watch out. Our wives are talking about men in skirts.”

  “Todd,” Todd said, coming in behind him.

  “Right. Todd. Sorry.” Howard picked up a slice of cheese and popped it into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed it before turning his intense gaze on me. “I can’t believe your husband is such a tennis fan and he’s never been to the Miami Open.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “It’s a huge tennis tournament held every year down in Key Biscayne. All the top players go. I never miss it,” Howard said. “Kat’s father’s company has a box there.”

  “Your father owns a company?” I shouldn’t have been astonished, but I was.

  Kat had mentioned her parents to me only in passing. I knew they lived nearby, but I didn’t think she’d ever mentioned what they did professionally.