Good Little Wives

by Abby Drake

  Dana shook her head, resigned to the grim fact that she had three raucous boys, not prim little girls.

  Sam threw his napkin at his older brother and Michael threw it back at him, then Sam flung a roll and Michael ducked and it grazed the Lalique orchid bowl that stood on the sideboard. They all held their breaths and waited for the crystal tremor to abate without breakage, then they shuddered and laughed and Dana pretended to be upset, but the truth was, all was now right in her slightly dysfunctional world.

  Bridget and Randall sat at the dining room table that had been crafted of Zimbabwean teak and expertly carved in Vietnam. It was part of Randall’s effort to rise up and be global, to display “Christian forgiveness” that his brother had been killed in the jungle, Tet, 1968, while he’d been protected, a sophomore at Avon Old Farms. Unlike Randall, his father and mother had not leaned toward absolution, but had both died too young of broken hearts that masqueraded as cirrhosis and colon cancer respectively, and had remained angry with Lyndon B. Johnson right up until the end.

  “The police changed Vincent’s time of death,” Bridget said, slicing the pork tenderloin that she’d cooked herself because Randall said she was the best.

  “What?”

  Her eyes moved from the pork to her husband. “Vincent was shot earlier than they’d thought. So maybe Kitty didn’t do it after all.”

  When Randall was surprised his eyes seemed to narrow and his head seemed to shrink and his toupee looked too big for his skull. He reached for the plate that Bridget passed to him and said, “That’s ridiculous. Who else would want to kill Vincent?”

  For a bright, global man, Randall could be awfully naïve. She handed him a bowl of turnip au gratin. “I cannot imagine,” she said. It would be best not to tell him about Lauren and Vincent because when it came to matters of the emotional kind, Randall preferred make-believe to the real world.

  They chewed, they ate.

  “Dottie made my reservations for Marseilles today,” he said, because, after all, the issue of France was there at the table whether Bridget liked it or not.

  Dottie was the woman at Randall’s Wall Street office in charge of his business appointments and travel arrangements. She worked five days a week and half a day Saturday and should have retired several years ago. But Dottie had no family and few friends because she’d been wed to the firm.

  Bridget nodded, helped herself to more Cabernet.

  “I’ll leave at seven-thirty tomorrow night, get to Paris by nine, Marseilles by noon.” His fork clinked on the china.

  “Have you packed yet?” she asked. He was one of the few New Falls husbands who never expected Bridget to pack for him. He always took care of his personal needs, like his shaving kit and his socks and, of course, his passport. She swallowed her worry that her scheme wouldn’t work.

  “I won’t need much,” he said. “I’ll only stay one night.”

  He would not stay a whole week as Bridget would have. Provence, after all, had been her home, not his. She would have spent the first part of Aimée’s holiday right there, ushering her daughter to visit old friends, Madam Buteux from the market, Mademoiselle du Paul whose mother had been best friends with Bridget’s, and Monsieur Luc LaBrecque, who sold horses now. She tried not to say his name too often, but, like a lover, Bridget was sometimes compelled to repeat it, to taste its magic on her tongue.

  Luc.

  She wondered if Lauren had been that way with Vincent.

  “Do I have fresh shirts?” Randall asked.

  “Oui,” she replied quietly, “the cleaners delivered them today.” Thankfully they had separate closets, so Randall wouldn’t know she’d already packed her own suitcase. She wondered when he’d notice that his passport was missing and how she’d stay composed until then.

  “Aimée will be surprised,” Randall said, “to see me, not you.” Then his eyes moved from Bridget toward the entry hall. “On the other hand,” he said, his head shrinking again, a grin quickly widening his mouth, “it appears our young lady has beat us to the proverbial punch.”

  With a perplexed scowl, Bridget’s gaze followed her husband’s, then alighted on their daughter, or on someone who looked a lot like their daughter, who was now in the dining room instead of Provence.

  Aimée?

  Everything in Bridget decelerated: her sense of comprehension, the flick of her eyelashes, the beat of her heart. Her jaw went literally, figuratively, anatomically slack.

  Aimée?

  Randall stood up, went to the girl, and gave her a big hug. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, “you came home on your own.”

  Was it true? Was it she? Was she here and not there?

  But no! That was not Bridget’s plan!

  “Maman’s horse friend needed to come to New York.”

  “Monsieur LaBrecque?” Randall asked before Bridget had a chance to process what Aimée had said, before she could absorb the fact that Luc’s name had been spoken by Randall, not her.

  “Oui. He has a business trip the same time as my holiday,” Aimée said. “He offered to save Maman a trip. Escort me back and forth, you know?”

  “Hey. Great.” The words still came from Randall, because Bridget could not speak.

  “His wife came, too. Their daughter goes to my school.”

  His wife. Their daughter. Words Bridget detested.

  “But your ticket…”

  “Dottie arranged everything. She said she’d keep it a surprise.”

  “Ha!” Randall chuckled, draping his arm around Aimée now and turning toward Bridget as if the girl were a showpiece and he, the proud owner. “So Dottie held out on us, eh? I’ll bet she never even booked that flight for me.”

  “No,” Aimée said with a smile.

  “Well, let’s look at you, girl,” Randall said. “No worse for wear.”

  As if any fourteen-year-old, with raven hair and azure eyes and a complexion the color of Mediterranean sand and the texture of cream from a Camargue farm, could look worse for any wear.

  “You must be starving,” Randall continued, taking her suitcase and setting it in the hall, then leading her toward the table. “Pork tenderloin tonight. One of your favorites.”

  Aimée sat down and looked at her mother. “Maman,” she said, “aren’t you going to say hello?”

  It had probably been less than a minute since Aimée had appeared in the doorway, yet it seemed an eternity, a slow-motion scene, a classic depiction of perfect film noir. Bridget stood up because she knew that she must. “Ma petite chérie,” she said, moving toward her daughter in a measured, lumbered motion and planting right-then left-cheek kisses. “Forgive me. I was startled, that’s all.”

  The petite chérie laughed and Randall said he’d get her a plate and Bridget returned to her seat.

  She placed her napkin back in her lap, though she was damned if she remembered removing it in the first place. She took a hefty gulp from her wineglass. “I did not realize Mr. LaBrecque had business in New York.” It was amazing to Bridget that her voice sounded so steady, so nonchalant.

  “Something to do with the horses,” Aimée said.

  “Oh, mais oui,” Bridget replied. “And did they drive you here? Mr. LaBrecque and his wife?”

  “No. He got me a limo. I said that would be fine.”

  “It’s too bad they didn’t come with you,” Randall said, returning with a place setting of everything. “We could have asked them to dinner.”

  If she hadn’t been drinking from her sturdy Waterford Lismore, Bridget’s grip might have snapped the stem.

  Fourteen

  Brunch.

  For the eighteen years Lauren had been married to Bob, Sunday meant a gathering of the Halliday clan: seven children plus a few spouses now, and six grandchildren at last count with another due any day, Dory’s first. It hurt now to remember that when Dory got married Lauren had been sleeping with Vincent, well not at the exact same time or even on the same day, but Lauren clearly recalled when she’d watched Dory inc
h down the aisle, her thoughts had been completely on him.

  What would it be like to be married to Vincent, to have sex every night, every day, all the time?

  The thought still sparked a warm rush all these months later, even now though he was dead. She wondered how long Vincent’s memory would linger in her mind and in her vagina, and if even the clamor of Bob’s children would ever be loud enough to quell the loss.

  “Should Florence prepare more eggs Benedict?” The question came from Dory, who poked her head into the garden room where Lauren stood, daydreaming in silence away from the brood who apparently remained in the dining room awaiting more food.

  “No,” Lauren said. “There’s been enough for one day, don’t you think?” She meant, of course, that there had been enough visiting as well as eggs Benedict.

  Dory stepped into the room. She sat down on a white wicker chair and rubbed her quite bulbous belly. “Agreed,” she said. “At least it’s quiet out here.” Of all of Bob’s kids, Lauren felt closest to Dory. They both were size fours and were blue-eyed blonds and were only eight years apart. Like Lauren, Dory wore her hair tied back in a demure ponytail. On occasion they’d been mistaken for sisters.

  “I’ve never grown used to all the commotion,” Lauren said. “It’s not that I don’t love everyone…it’s just that, well, you know.”

  Dory nodded. “There are too damn many of us, that’s the problem.”

  Lauren rebuffed the truth. Like memories of Vincent, some thoughts were best kept to herself. “But tell me, dear. How are you feeling?”

  “Like I’m too old to be having a baby.”

  “Nonsense.” Not that Lauren would know. “Besides,” she said with her best effort to be cheerful, “it’s a little late for that, isn’t it?”

  Dory looked at her, paused a short moment, then burst into hormonal tears. “I hate my life,” she sobbed. “I hate everything about it, especially Jeffrey.” That would be Jeffrey, as in her husband.

  “Oh,” Lauren said, going to her stepdaughter, crouching in front of her, taking her small hands in hers. “Oh dear.”

  “Yeah, ‘oh dear’ is right. What am I going to do, Lauren? I don’t want this baby…I want a divorce!” That’s when Dory’s water broke, straining through the wicker, dribbling onto the floor.

  Lauren screeched and promised Dory that later they’d talk about Jeffrey and what she should do, but that right now Dory needed to breathe in and out.

  She wondered if there was a Lamaze technique for ridding her own mind of Vincent.

  Dory whimpered.

  Lauren stood up, shook off her despair, stepped over the puddle, and raced from the garden room, deciding that Sunday brunches had, indeed, become too traumatic, and she must tell Bob that, from now on, she’d be sleeping in.

  Bridget had lost faith in God years ago, the day they’d buried her tiny Alain. But she supposed she should try and find it again, now that she had cancer and all. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to say a prayer or two that she would see Luc before he went back to Provence.

  If only she knew where he was staying.

  She’d wanted to quiz Aimée last night, but Randall had monopolized the girl, asking about her friends and her studies, then showing off the media room he’d had renovated since she’d gone back to school after Christmas. He’d popped in a movie—Ben Affleck’s latest—and they settled in front of the giant new screen until Aimée fell asleep with jet lag.

  Bridget had downed a Lunesta and gone straight to bed.

  Over breakfast, Randall announced he wanted to go to the twelve-fifteen Mass, which was the most crowded. As the three of them strolled up the long sidewalk to the big stone church now, the bright sunlight bounced off Randall’s broad smile and spun a proud glow around his cherished Aimée.

  Then one of Randall’s cronies pulled him aside and Bridget seized the opportune moment.

  “Aimée,” she whispered while grinning at the passersby who were accustomed to seeing Randall at church but not her. “I thought about what your father said regarding Monsieur et Madame LaBrecque, that it would be nice to invite them for dinner. Did they give you a number where they could be reached?”

  “Oh,” Aimée said, “It’s not them, Maman, it’s only Monsieur. His wife went on to Houston where she has family.”

  Only Monsieur? Only Luc? Bridget wanted to shout, Thank you, Jesus, but held herself back out of respect for the time and the place. Instead she said, “Well. Did you get a number?”

  “Aimée, dear,” Randall suddenly said as he turned back toward them and scooped an arm around the girl’s waist. “You must say hello to Mr. McNaughton. He hasn’t seen you since your first Communion.”

  Mr. McNaughton was older than dirt and probably didn’t remember who Randall was, let alone Aimée. Bridget set her jaw into a clench.

  “And my dear wife,” Randall said, and Bridget stepped forward and murmured bonjour. Then she took Aimée’s elbow and guided her away.

  “You were saying,” she said, “about Monsieur LaBrecque.”

  “Oh. Well, no, I didn’t get a phone number.”

  Bridget longed for the old days when one wore a hat and a short veil to church, when one could conceal unfettered emotion.

  “Who didn’t get what?” Randall asked, having jogged to catch up with them now as they ascended the steps of St. Bernadette’s.

  “Monsieur LaBrecque,” Aimée said. “He didn’t leave me a number so Maman could call him.”

  Bridget wanted to gulp the sunshiny air. She didn’t dare look at her husband, for fear he would see the hope of infidelity dance in her eyes. “I liked your idea. To invite them for dinner.” No sense in Randall knowing that the madame had gone on to Houston.

  “Well,” Randall said. “Yes.”

  They went into the narthex, which was dark and quiet and emoted more guilt than Bridget thought she deserved. At least the priest she’d paid off long ago was now in another diocese.

  “But it doesn’t matter,” Aimée quickly whispered. “I gave him the house number and he said he will call.”

  Organ music and incense rose up to greet them. Bridget clutched her purse.

  He said he will call.

  She wanted to ask when Luc would call, but decided to temper her interest for the sake of both her husband and her guilt.

  Checking her watch before she genuflected, Bridget and said a short prayer that Luc wouldn’t phone before they were back home at one-thirty, two o’clock at the latest.

  Caroline leaned against the antique writing desk in her morning room even though it was past noon. She stared at the large banquet table in the center of the room and the four-by-eight-foot sheet of plywood that rested on top. It was a model floor plan of the Hudson Valley Centre where the gala would be held, and had been crafted by the hospital maintenance department exactly as Caroline had instructed, with a matching sheet covered with velveteen and fashioned to scale, and miniature tables strategically set. Around each table were ten die-cut slots where Caroline could insert tiny name cards. It was an idea she’d picked up from Windsor Castle, which had made entertaining a proper science.

  She looked at Chloe and Lee’s name cards. The thought of seating them at the coveted table of Meachams and Hallidays and Fultons and Hayneses had waned this morning: They’d not showed up today, Sunday, the day the Meachams typically, historically, without fail, went to the club, had been going to the club on Sundays since before Chloe was born. When Chloe had been at school, Caroline and Jack had gone alone. Mount Holyoke (and Northfield Mount Hermon before that) was an acceptable excuse. A finicky fiancé was not.

  “We can’t make it today,” Chloe said. “Lee isn’t feeling well.”

  Not well, indeed. He didn’t like Caroline, it was now apparent. Didn’t he know how hard she was working to sculpt Chloe into a perfect wife for him?

  It was bad enough Chloe had left the rite-of-spring luncheon early because “Lee had made other plans,” and that she hadn’t been there for the
post-party “review” as Caroline liked to call it. It was tradition, wasn’t it? For Caroline and Chloe to curl up on the sofas and talk about everyone who’d come and what they’d worn and what they’d said or done to whom? Why else had she bothered having a daughter?

  But tradition had been broken this year, because Lee had “made other plans.” Would he make last-minute plans the night of the gala? She wondered how bad it would get once he and Chloe were married, once they lived together full-time, not just when he was in town and wanted Chloe in his bedroom at his beck and call.

  “How about if we drive up to the Adirondacks?” Jack, her husband, asked now as he came into the morning room wearing a frown.

  Caroline looked up from her work. “What on earth for?”

  He shrugged. “Something to do.” He, like her, did not want to go to the club, just the two of them, with no acceptable excuse for Chloe’s absence. It was best if people thought they were all out of town, that no one suspected their absence was a hint that the Meachams and their future son-in-law did not get along.

  “I don’t think so,” Caroline replied. She’d rather stay there than pretend to enjoy a road trip with Jack. “Why don’t you watch a movie? Or practice on your putting green?” He’d had the green installed last summer so he could finesse his game without leaving home.

  Without offering an answer, Jack left the room. Caroline sighed. She was no longer a good wife, so what? It wasn’t as if Jack would divorce her. It was far too late for that.

  She looked back at the seating chart, thought about Vincent, and wondered if she should have done away with her husband when she’d had the chance.

  Dory wouldn’t let Jeffrey into the birthing room, citing that he’d done too much damage already.

  “But he’s your husband,” Lauren argued on his behalf. “He’s the father of your baby!”

  Dory threw her a look of disgust, and Lauren convinced Jeffrey and the rest of the entourage to wait in the hall until she could convince Dory otherwise. Though Lauren had never given birth, she knew what it was like to feel smothered. There are too damn many of us, Dory had said quite succinctly.