by Sally Koslow
There was considerable detail to take in at one-thirty in the morning, especially for someone not acquainted with the customs of buying apartments, but I got the central plot. When Quincy finished, she sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. I thought she might be trying not to cry.
“I can’t believe this,” I said stupidly. “It doesn’t sound like Jules.” Not the Julia de Marco I thought I knew, who usually repaid friends with a high rate of interest.
“I assure you, I am not making any of this up.”
I could hear the hurt in Quincy’s voice. It was going to be a long long weekend.
CHAPTER 14
Chloe
In the morning I headed to Maine. I parked my SUV in Westport, where we switched to Jules’ new Mini Cooper, a convertible so compact and golden it was like riding in one of the minaudières I see women casually toss on the tables at charity dinners. Jules and I took turns driving and, as usual, she was prepared, not only with a thermos of strong coffee and shortcuts but with rock mixes—classic, indie, alternative. The two of us were harmonizing with Feist when Arthur’s name spontaneously combusted. “That fucking Arthur” were her exact words as she looked at her cell phone.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“The dickhead just texted a list of things I should buy for him up in Maine. Lobster Newburg, cranberry chutney, Maypo, and that revolting canned brown bread. Can’t he find his way to a grocery store?”
“Maybe he misses you and it’s his way of showing he cares.”
“Did I not tell you to cut the crap if we were going to be stuck together for seven hours?” This was said with love.
“Tell me honestly, are you cursing the day I gave him your name?”
“Dollface, you did good,” Jules said. “I’m only cursing myself.” She paused. A mile later, after I thought the topic was dead, she started up again. “When Arthur pulls something like this I want to shoot back with my own list—of his faults. Except I know that the moment I hit send I’ll get all ‘Julia Maria, you’ve been dating for almost thirty years, and who’ve you found who’s better?’” She was mimicking her nonna. “‘Don’t give up on this one, not yet. In the long run, will you turn out any less happy with Arturo than with George Clooney, who, if you haven’t noticed, isn’t returning your calls?’”
I had to ask, because we’d had this conversation before. “Why talk yourself into a guy?”
Jules glanced at me with a look close to pity. “I appreciate the sisterly support, but have you checked out my ass lately? Each cheek’s the size of a pizza pan. What makes you think Arthur isn’t settling for me?”
Behind closed doors, I suspect, Jules has a sensuality men can’t get enough of, but I think every bad boyfriend she’s ever had, along with her mother and father, is living inside her, rent free. “I’m not buying it. You’re going to have to convince me.”
Two exits and a long Eric Clapton set passed before she tried. “For the record, I do admire many things about Arthur. Number one, he needs managing, and I am a born manager. Two, at least half the time I laugh with him, not at him. Three, he’s smart, which I assume you must know, since he used to be your boss. Four, he isn’t a drunk, an actor, or a drunk actor. Five, he’s straight, and six, he doesn’t need Viagra. Seven, he’s not a divorced daddy with nose-ringed teenagers whom I’d hate as much as they’d hate me. Eight, neither is he a politician or athlete, whose job description apparently includes philanderer. Nine, he hears me when I call him on his bullshit, and ten, the most important reason of all, he calls me on mine. I’ve run out of fingers. Shall I go on?”
“Tell me one thing, do you find any of this romantic?” Jules had overlooked what I consider the most crucial element of any couple.
She howled. “Chloe, my child, do I look like a romantic?”
“Seriously, in this century, what constitutes romance?”
“Please tell me the answer is you. I don’t want to be completely disillusioned.”
I cannot deny I had a wedding as old-fashioned as a petticoat. Jules, Quincy, and Talia used to own the pink seersucker bridesmaid dresses to prove it until Jules sold all three to a cousin. Xander—or at least his secretary—occasionally sends me flowers, but I have to admit what goes on between the two of us now often feels less like a date than a board meeting, where the primary goal of the chairman—that would be Xander—is to make sure we’re running at a profit. Talia and Tom? I’m guessing what connects them comes from mutual respect and chemistry—I doubt Talia would anoint herself with a word like romantic. Quincy and Jake seem to be content to spend an enormous amount of time alone together, which I count as romantic, but might simply be because they don’t have a child: the Blues versus the world.
“I’ll say this in Arthur’s defense—he recommended me for a job.”
“See?” Jules said as she tapped her temple. “Did I not say he was smart? Comes off generous and costs him zilch.”
I chose not to add that he’d implied he would receive a finder’s fee if I got hired.
“Did I miss something, by the way?” she asked. “I didn’t know you even were interested in changing jobs.”
“I’d go on an interview if I was called. Change is good, right?” Which I absolutely don’t believe. I hate change, which, in my experience, is terrifying. I drove a few more miles before I added, “The job’s through a headhunter and I haven’t actually gotten called yet.”
“If the headhunter even exists.” Jules laughed. “Arthur’s seventy percent hot air.”
Soon it was her turn to drive, and apparently I nodded off, because “We’re almost here” were the next words I heard, while Jules shook my arm. “Chloe, wake up or you’ll miss Mayberry.”
I blinked. We were apparently floating in a music video for a patriotic country-and-western song. American flags flapped in front of small clapboard houses. Large, hairy dogs wandered unleashed. Kids were riding bikes and running through sprinklers. A few enterprising girls with braids had set up a stand selling whoopie pies.
“Stop!” I shouted.
“No can do. We’re an hour behind schedule.” We continued past a post office, a pocket-sized library, a store with a hand-lettered sign advertising worms, and a gas station. “And you have to navigate.”
I checked our directions. “Look for the intersection past the church and the grange hall.”
“Whatever that is,” Jules said.
“Wells Point Road,” I called out a minute later. It was unpaved, bordered by pines that stretched to heaven. We’d driven about three-quarters of a mile further when we noticed the T. Wells mailbox and turned in.
What I saw was a pastel illustration from Dash’s Beatrix Potter book. I expected Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle herself to toddle across the gravel road, all prickles and freshly starched laundry for Sally Henny Penny. The house was yellow with blue shutters. Morning glories crawled up its front porch, which was tilting to the left and crowded with wicker rocking chairs and settees.
I was enchanted by its hollyhock charm. Jules, not so much. She parked the car, stared, and shook her head. “To think we could have been rolling off a plane now, preparing to eat the world’s best risotto,” she muttered.
We carried our suitcases and as many bags of groceries as we could manage and made our way up an overgrown stone path, past a birdbath and a swing set. I rapped a brass door knocker shaped like a crab.
“It’s open,” Talia shouted. She emerged from the shadows, a ringlet escaping from under a kerchief.
“What the hell is that around your waist?” Jules asked.
Talia wiped her hands on a faded cotton apron. She gave Jules a hug, then me.
“Is Quincy here yet?” I asked.
“She’s out in the rowboat trying to catch dinner.” Talia laughed. “Not to worry. I’m marinating chicken to grill.” She peeked in the bags and licked her lips. “Woo-hoo. Put everything down here and I’ll take care of it. Just go upstairs and make yourselves comfortable.” She pointed toward a doo
r. “The two of you can share the big room. Or pick separate bedrooms. Work it out.”
We flipped. Jules won the bedroom with two canopy beds. I settled in toward the back. The room was tiny, but frankly, I’d sleep better there, where it was dim and cozy. Talia had put out a bouquet of sweet peas, and the linens were crisp on a narrow bed with pineapple finials.
I hung some clothes in an armoire and tucked the rest—and a brand-new sachet—into the drawers of a warped dresser, on top of which I placed my perfume, an alarm clock, and a photo of Xander and Dash. I was ready to walk down to the lake with my newly purchased book, Your Three-Year-Old: Friend or Foe? I searched my suitcase, my handbag, my canvas tote.
I found Talia adding way too much flour to a pie crust she was trying to roll out in the humid kitchen. Clumps of pastry were sticking to a wooden board. “I’m such a moron,” I said. “I forgot my book. Is there anything here I can borrow, please?”
“Lots. When she’s not into her dark-and-stormys, Abigail does nothing but weed and read. Go to the bedroom where I’m staying—it’s off the living room—and check the shelf.”
That’s when I saw it. While I was crouched next to a bookshelf, deciding which title had the least dust, I heard the phone ring. After the fourth ring, I thought I’d better answer it. As I reached for the receiver the sound stopped, but a breeze from the opened window rustled a stack of papers and my eye caught a fax cover sheet titled Jackson Collegiate essay. I stood still and stared at it, a rattlesnake ready to strike. I tiptoed to the door—no one was near—and shut it. I returned to the desk. The fax wasn’t mine to read, but that failed to stop me.
The tribute to Master Henry Thomas Fisher-Wells explained in well-supported detail why this tiny male would be ideal for Jackson Collegiate. I read the essay twice. Based on this document, there was no doubt that Henry was destined for greatness. If he didn’t negotiate peace between the Sunnis and the Shiites, at the very least, I couldn’t imagine why the woman running the school wouldn’t select Henry to chair the admission committee, where he could personally reject Dash, who couldn’t yet tell an antelope from an anteater. I wanted to collapse on the faded blue chenille bedspread and erase what I’d read, not only from the page but from my memory.
Even I, though, can find my backbone if put to the test. I quietly returned the essay to its place, grabbed a random novel, and hurried to the kitchen. I thought I sounded remarkably cool as I showed Talia what I’d picked. The book was more than eight hundred pages, with a provocative, unmade bed on its cover.
Talia was slicing tomatoes. “The Crimson Petal and the White? ‘A gripping tale of Victorian England—from whores to high society—by a twenty-first-century Charles Dickens.’ Abigail buried herself in this a few summers ago—you had to faint to get her attention.”
At least I’d picked the right book. “May I help?” I asked, feeling guilt along with an emotion I hadn’t yet identified. I knew it was one of the bitter flavors—jealousy, shock, fury—tossed with ordinary confusion.
“How about the corn?” Talia suggested.
I stationed myself at the table and began to rip husks from each fat ear, plucking away pale green silk. The calendar said autumn, but this fragrance was the essence of late summer and I inhaled it deeply, as if the scent were desperately needed oxygen. I forced myself to concentrate on the task, counting the rotations of the lazy fan spinning in the center of the ceiling. The room filled with silence that I’m sure Talia thought of as sisterly.
Of course, I told myself, there was no reason that she and Tom shouldn’t, couldn’t, and wouldn’t consider for Henry the same school Xander and I had decided was our top choice for Dash. They had every right. What surprised me was the speed and polish of their effort, when—compared to Xander and me—they presented themselves as the most laid-back couple in Brooklyn. More than that was the secrecy. Not that the bylaws of friendship required full disclosure, but something about the whole effort seemed sneaky and disingenuous.
I gnashed my teeth as I husked. Did Talia and Tom think they concealed their contempt of Xander? They all but heckled him for his frantic ambition. I felt a swell of deep affection on my husband’s behalf. This sweetly solid summer house, which Talia liked to mock, was a château compared to the sorry bungalow where Xander had lived until a teacher noticed his potential and worked to win him a scholarship. It was at boarding school where he met Henry Thomas Wells III, legacy student. Xander’s parents would still have been in the hovel if their only son hadn’t made enough money to buy them a new house, though his parents flat out refused central air-conditioning. They even said no to a dishwasher. Not that Xander would ever mention this to any of our friends. He was too proud to admit the extent of his family’s poverty.
I reached for another ear of corn, and realized I’d shucked the whole dozen in five minutes. “What else can I do?” I asked.
“Want to set the table?” Talia’s hands were busy measuring olive oil. She nodded toward open shelves stacked with Fiestaware.
Questions began popping like firecrackers. Why had Tom and Talia vetoed public school? What had happened to the idea of a special smarty-pants program? Why the big secret about the application, which seemed like the sort of thing Talia would discuss? But while I’d never call myself shrewd, I realized that I should bury my urge to talk about this, at least for now. I’d take my cue from Talia and see if she raised the topic.
“You’ll find the silverware in those drawers. The smaller plates and glasses are there.” She pointed toward a hutch.
Grateful for the distraction, I made several trips to the patio to set the table, cut dahlias for a centerpiece, and opened the umbrella to shield us from the setting sun. I stepped back to admire the scene, tranquil and inviting. We had several days ahead of us. I’d have to put a lid on my rage and bury it in an undisclosed location.
Talia was snipping basil and mint from pots next to the back door. “What do you think? This isn’t so bad, is it?” she said. Her grin was wide and open. A broad-brimmed hat shielded her eyes.
I am cursed with good manners. “It’s lovely, as long as you let us help,” I said.
“You know work’s what I do best.”
“Hey, that reminds me,” I said. “Do you remember if a June Rittenhouse called me?”
Talia continued to cut herbs.
“She’s a headhunter.”
Talia moved on to the thyme, then the parsley.
“Arthur said he’d given out my name for a job she was filling.”
She stopped cutting but asked the ground in front of her, “What was that name again?”
“June,” I said. “Rittenhouse.”
She didn’t respond.
“Like the square in Philadelphia.”
“Hmmm,” Talia said, as if she were deciding whether to order chocolate or vanilla. “Right. Oh, yes, she did call. I passed on that message to you, weeks ago.”
“Really?” I said, as evenly as possible. “That’s odd. I don’t recall.”
“Yeah, I’m positive.” She still hadn’t looked at me. “You probably forgot. You’ve been pretty busy lately.”
I’d have remembered that name and noticed that she was a headhunter, since one had never sought me out. I would have been flattered, curious, and surprised.
“Maybe it just wasn’t that important to you,” she added.
That was when I realized my best friend was lying.
“Well, if it isn’t Huck Finn,” Talia said, looking beyond me with an extra helping of enthusiasm. I turned. Quincy was walking toward us, her usual baseball cap on her head. Saved, I thought, as Talia shouted, “Catch anything?”
“Not a nibble.” Quincy put down her fishing pole and threw her arms around me. “Glad you finally showed.”
“Hey, you,” I said. “You’re here one day and you look like you’ve been in St. Barts a month.” I was genuinely relieved to see Quincy, the friend I’ve always found hardest to know. More than any of us, she lives inside her
own brain, but—unlike Talia—I have no reason to associate her with anything less than fair play.
“The easy life, kid,” she said, embracing me with her slender, tanned arms. “I’m going to run inside and put on dry clothes. Then I’ll be down to help you two.”
Talia stood up, her basket brimming with herbs. “While you’re upstairs, poke Jules—I heard her snoring.”
“My pleasure,” Quincy said, and disappeared into the cottage.
“I hope she doesn’t chop off her head,” Talia said when Quincy was out of earshot. I looked at Talia blankly as she walked to a metal lawn chair and sat down. “Ah, that means you don’t know,” she said, and motioned for me to sit next to her, which I did. She proceeded with a convoluted tale of avarice and greed. The villain was Arthur, assisted by an equally culpable Jules.
When she was finished, I wished I hadn’t heard the story—and at the same time hoped that The Crimson Petal and the White would be equally compelling. “You’re telling me Jules tried to steal away the apartment that Quincy found first and wants so much?”
“I’m only repeating what Quincy told me.”
I refused to believe it. “What’s Jules’ side?”
“Does it matter? Jules was wrong, no two ways about it.”
Who was Talia to talk? “Am I allowed to know this?” I asked.
“Good question. But I didn’t want you to be out of the loop. I felt you should know—everyone else does.”
This she felt I should know—and why was I the last to learn it? “What am I supposed to do with the information?” I didn’t care that I sounded petulant.
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Talia said, and shrugged, peeved at my lack of gratitude. “Either forget I told you, or ask Jules about it, or Quincy. Take your pick.” With that she walked inside.