Virtually Perfect

by Paige Roberts

  With the staff’s help, she finished cleaning up the last of the mess in the butler’s pantry, stashing the leftover ingredients in the refrigerator and cupboards. There weren’t many leftovers, even with the extra purchases halfway through the party, when Kathryn decided they needed beef kebabs (“I can’t believe I forgot to ask for the kebabs! What was I thinking? It isn’t too late, is it? Oh, Jim will be so disappointed if we don’t have the beef kebabs!”). In a panic, Lizzie had sent Manuel to Avalon Market, where he picked up some beef and peppers and extra onions, and Lizzie went back to the grill to fire off three platters of beef on a stick.

  Lizzie had wiped down the cutting board and slid it into the appropriate cabinet beneath the island when Kathryn popped back into the room. She’d had several drinks by this point, which made her even chattier than normal.

  “Ah, there you are!” she said as if she were surprised to find Lizzie in the kitchen. “You are officially dismissed.”

  Lizzie’s shoulders relaxed.

  “For the evening!” Kathryn added quickly. “Not for good. Just for the evening. God, can you imagine? Firing the chef the first weekend? We’d be screwed for the whole summer! That’s not the only reason we’re keeping you on, obviously. Like I said, the food was fabulous! I told you that, right? Of course I did. Right in this room.” She smacked her forehead. “My brain is not what it used to be. Can I blame the mojitos? Let’s blame the mojitos. Though let’s be honest—I’m not getting any younger! Wouldn’t that be nice, aging in reverse? I wonder if the Paleo diet can do that!”

  Lizzie searched for a figurative floatation device as she drowned in the sea of Kathryn’s speech. There was nothing obvious to latch on to. The words . . . there were so many of them, and they came so fast.

  “Anyway, the rest of the evening is yours. Renata will make sure the staff cleans up what’s left. You’re free to do whatever you like!”

  Lizzie wanted to jump in the pool, but she couldn’t do that in front of the remaining guests, of whom there was a substantial number. So instead, she planned to take a long shower and curl up in bed with a juicy thriller she’d plucked from her mom’s nightstand before she left.

  “Oh, but before you go,” Kathryn cut in, “there’s someone I want you to meet. Do you have a quick second?”

  She waved Lizzie into the main kitchen area, where Lizzie could see groups of five or ten clustered throughout the dining and living areas. Music was still humming through the speakers—a peppy mix of salsa and mambo—and the party showed no signs of winding down.

  “Lizzie, this is Barb, a dear friend of mine. She loved your show on the Food Network.”

  A tan, slim woman with long sable hair reached out to shake Lizzie’s hand. Like Kathryn, she was well-groomed and well-dressed, and also a bit tipsy.

  “Loved it,” Barb said with a husky smoker’s voice. She swayed as she leaned in and gave Lizzie’s hand a limp shake. “What happened? I used to watch you all the time, and now I never see you anywhere.”

  “The show got canceled.”

  “Why-y-y-y?” she moaned. She was more than a bit tipsy, Lizzie decided. She was thoroughly drunk. “All I see nowadays is that freaking . . . what’s his name . . . with the blond spiky hair. . . . I mean, do I really need him telling me where to find a dive? Hello. I live in Phila-freaking-delphia. If I want a dive, I think I can find one myself, you know what I mean?”

  Lizzie forced a smile, but she was more embarrassed for this woman than she was for herself, which, when discussing her career history, was a first.

  “People seem to like him,” Lizzie said.

  Barb made a gagging gesture. “Those people need some taste. You were great. I loved your show. Kids these days need more of that kind of thing, you know what I mean? The healthy thing. It’s all processed stuff now, and GMOs and carbs and all that crap.” She took a sip of her mojito, which was nearly empty. “So why did you get canceled?”

  If ever Lizzie didn’t want to get into her backstory, it was here, now, with this drunk woman, who either wouldn’t remember their conversation tomorrow or, if she did, would trot it around like a prize, as if she’d gotten some scoop from a celeb at a fabulous party. Lizzie also wasn’t sure who else was listening.

  “Oh, you know . . .” she’d begun when she heard a voice over her shoulder.

  “Lizzie?”

  She turned around, and there was her college roommate, April Sherman. Her coffee-colored skin was luminous, as it always had been, and her dark, copper-flecked hair spilled in long waves over her shoulders. She wore a gauzy peach dress that hit at mid-thigh, showing off her toned legs. She looked fabulous.

  “April—hi,” Lizzie said, catching her breath. “How are you?”

  “I’m great.” She sized up Lizzie’s ensemble. On a good day, Lizzie wasn’t half as beautiful or stylish as April, but today, with her tangled hair and stained chef’s coat, she looked particularly bad.

  “What are you doing here?” April asked. “Are you . . . cooking?”

  “I am. I’m working for the Silvesters for the summer.”

  “Oh. Wow. That’s . . . great.” Lizzie thought she detected a smirk.

  “We were just talking about Lizzie’s fabulous show,” Barb chimed in, waving her empty glass in the air.

  Lizzie flushed. Oh, God, she thought. Not in front of April. Please don’t discuss the show in front of April.

  “Former show,” April said. “It got canceled. Isn’t that right?”

  Lizzie nodded, her cheeks burning. Like April needed to ask.

  “That’s what she was saying. Isn’t that terrible? I just loved, loved, loved her show. I mean, I didn’t watch it all the time. But if I flipped by and it was on . . . When was it on, again?”

  “Saturday mornings.”

  “Exa-a-a-a-actly. I’d watch it when I was at the gym!”

  “Me too!” Kathryn chimed in. “It’s been a while, though—since I’ve seen your show, not since I’ve been to the gym. I go every day! Not that I have far to go. We have a wonderful setup in our basement—weights, elliptical, treadmill, Reformer, TVs, the works. I also recently started Zumba, and it’s wonderful.”

  “The one in Ardmore?” Barb asked. She waved over a waiter and swapped her empty mojito glass for a full one.

  “No, Bryn Mawr. On Lancaster. You should come sometime! You would love it.”

  Lizzie had never wanted to eject herself from a social encounter more than she did at this moment. Between running into April and listening to two drunk socialites discuss their fitness schedules, she was sure she could actually feel bits of herself dying inside.

  “Anyway,” Kathryn continued, “I used to flip through the channels on Saturday mornings, and whenever I’d come across your show I’d stop. Jim used to joke that watching food shows while on the treadmill seemed like a form of torture, but I told him at least your food was healthy!”

  “Right?” Barb said. She took a sip of her drink. “That’s what I’m saying. Now all they have is this, you know, extreme stuff— bacon-covered fried cheese dipped in cream sauce or whatever. They need to bring you back. A year or two without your kind of show is too many.”

  “I think it’s been more like five,” April cut in.

  “No,” Barb gasped. “Has it really?”

  “I think so,” April said before Lizzie could answer.

  “So wait,” Kathryn said, pointing her finger between Lizzie and April. “How do you two know each other?”

  “We were roommates at Penn,” Lizzie said, hoping to keep the conversation as civil as possible.

  “Shut up! Roommates?” Kathryn didn’t try to mask her surprise. “So you ladies really know each other, huh?”

  “You could say that,” April replied.

  “And now you’re running into each other here, at our party! How funny is that? Though, Lizzie, I guess you probably knew that April is now working for Jim.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Really? I guess the room
ies aren’t as in touch as they used to be!” She winked.

  “Not exactly,” April said. She locked eyes with Lizzie.

  “Well, April is now part of the corporate and digital communications team. Jim brought her on after all the fabulous work she did at NBC in New York. It isn’t every day that you can snag one of Forbes’s Thirty under Thirty! Though I guess you aren’t under thirty anymore.”

  “Thirty-one in August,” April said, giving a mock frown.

  “Oh, please—what I wouldn’t give to be thirty-one again!”

  “Sing it, sister,” Barb said, raising her now nearly empty glass in the air.

  “But wow, between the two of you . . . One had a show on the Food Network; the other is blazing a trail in the digital space. You ladies haven’t wasted any time, have you? And now you’re both working for Jim! How funny is that?”

  “Very,” April said, but Lizzie just stood mutely staring into April’s eyes, not finding any of it funny at all.

  CHAPTER 10

  Linda,

  Sorry I still haven’t returned your call. Everything has been crazy, and I’m still trying to wade through it all.

  To answer your question: Yes, they’re sending me for a biopsy. The doctor says it’s probably nothing—these sorts of things show up on mammograms and ultrasounds all the time—but it’s worth checking out, just to be safe. Apparently the procedure is pretty quick and straightforward, but I won’t be able to lift things for a bit afterward (not that I lift anything particularly heavy on a regular basis, but it’ll probably interfere with my gardening for a little while).

  Anyway, I haven’t said anything to Gary yet. I’m not sure what to tell him, to be honest. When do you start sharing medical information? I can’t remember when Frank and I started talking about those sorts of things. We were young, so I guess there really wasn’t much to talk about. Maybe a case of the runs, or a sinus infection. But when you’re our age . . . well, the medical history is longer, and there’s more stuff that can go wrong. Is it Gary’s business? It isn’t not his business. I mean, we’re sleeping together. That’s pretty personal! But somehow this feels . . . more personal. I don’t know. I don’t want to worry him for nothing. And the doctor said it’s probably nothing. What do you think?

  In other news . . . Lizzie seems to be enjoying her job with the Silvesters. Kathryn sounds like a talker! And you’ll never guess who she ran into last week at their Memorial Day barbecue—her college roommate! Remember her? The one who produced Lizzie’s on-campus show? As you may recall, they had a bit of a falling-out once Lizzie’s show hit it big. Lizzie didn’t go into a lot of detail, but she sounded as if the whole encounter took her by surprise. Thankfully it doesn’t sound as if there were any fireworks (the figurative kind—I actually do think the Silvesters set off some fireworks at the end of the party). Who knows? Maybe the two of them will finally be able to patch things up.

  Shoot—gotta run. The neighbor’s dog is peeing on my plumbago again. But I’ll call you tomorrow to fill you in on the biopsy details. I’ve scheduled it for Thursday. Think positive!

  xxoo

  S

  CHAPTER 11

  After the Memorial Day barbecue, Lizzie’s first three weeks in Avalon flew by without a hitch. Or at least not many hitches. There were a few. The “wok station,” she concluded, was not meant for a novice, and she had the singed eyelashes to prove it. And one afternoon she stumbled across Kathryn and Barb lying topless by the pool, Barb’s breasts suspiciously upright, defying the laws of gravity, while Kathryn’s flopped beneath her armpits like saggy beanbags. Lizzie tried to act blasé about the whole situation (Pretend you’re European, she told herself. You are Cecile! You spend summers in Biarritz!), but inside she was dying a little and was certain she would never be able to expunge the image of Kathryn’s drooping breasts from her memory.

  But other than a few minor problems, the weeks passed without incident. Lizzie was getting used to living and shopping in Avalon, and she was enjoying herself. There was something about being close to the beach that was so relaxing, even if the only time she was able to relax was after Kathryn disappeared for the evening. Any time Lizzie started to feel frazzled, she could simply look out one of the Silvesters’ many windows and watch the waves crash into the shore and the tall reeds swoosh back and forth in the breeze and almost immediately she’d feel the tension loosen. Even though she’d never been the type who enjoyed lying on the beach all day, she could see why people came here summer after summer. The salty air, the squawking gulls, the glittering ocean—it was a tonic for the soul.

  Lizzie’s initial fears about dealing with a lonely, garrulous Kathryn were only partially borne out. Yes, there were the evenings where Lizzie had to listen to Kathryn prattle on, ping-ponging from one topic to the next until Lizzie thought her ears might fall off. But to Lizzie’s surprise, those nights were in the minority. Most times during the week, if she wasn’t eating at the Yacht Club, Kathryn invited a gaggle of her girlfriends to join her for dinner and cocktails, so her never-ending monologue was directed at them and not Lizzie. Many of them were nearly as talkative as Kathryn—an astonishing phenomenon Lizzie considered worthy of scientific study—meaning Lizzie spent much of her evening cooking to a soundtrack not dissimilar from the sound of cackling hens.

  Mornings tended to be a quiet, peaceful time, when Lizzie could make her shopping lists, visit the markets, and collect her thoughts before launching into her prep work for lunch and dinner. Kathryn awoke much later than Lizzie, and they often didn’t see each other until later in the day. Lizzie didn’t have much involvement with weekday breakfasts anyway. Kathryn regularly received a delivery of cold-pressed juices that she would drink for breakfast, usually on their own, occasionally with a hard-boiled egg and small bowl of “Paleonola” that Lizzie left in the refrigerator. So even when they did see each other, it was usually in passing, as Kathryn floated through the kitchen in a gauzy cover-up on her way to the refrigerator, trying to decide whether to start her morning with juiced beets or kale.

  But on Lizzie’s third Friday morning in Avalon, something in the air changed. She started her day as she usually did, munching on a piece of toast while she planned her menus for the weekend. Jim would arrive in the late afternoon, and according to Kathryn he wanted scallops again for dinner. But whereas normally Lizzie could count on several uninterrupted hours before having to see or deal with Kathryn, on this Friday Kathryn blew into the kitchen before Lizzie had even finished her toast.

  “Ah, there you are,” she said. The characteristic effervescence in her voice had been replaced by a more serious edge. Lizzie wondered what she had done wrong.

  “Everything okay?”

  “What? Oh—yes. Everything’s fine.” She smoothed the front of her white, sleeveless, linen tunic, which she wore over black capris. This was the first morning Lizzie had seen her in anything but a cover-up and the first time she’d seen her awake before 10:00 a.m.

  “I hard-boiled more eggs last night, so there are plenty in the fridge.”

  “I’m not very hungry, but thanks,” Kathryn said. Her eyes darted around the room.

  Was Lizzie in trouble? Kathryn’s sudden reticence struck her as both odd and concerning.

  “Are you sure there isn’t a problem?”

  “A problem? No, no. There isn’t . . . I’m just trying to sort everything out before Zoe arrives. You know she’s coming today, right?”

  “I thought she was coming next week.”

  “No, today. I could have sworn I told you. Then again, I have a goldfish brain these days, so anything is possible.”

  Lizzie expected her to leap into a soliloquy about the origins of the phrase “goldfish brain,” which is precisely what Kathryn would have done on any normal day, but today she left it and simply shrugged. Something was definitely wrong.

  “What time is she planning to get here?”

  “Well, that’s the thing. . . . I’m not exactly sure. I think she’ll
be here for dinner. But she also said she wants to catch up with some old friends when she gets into town, so . . . maybe not? She could also show up for lunch, like she did last year. Or even breakfast! I just don’t know. . . .”

  She seemed so anxious and jittery. Lizzie didn’t understand why Zoe’s arrival time was such a mystery. How hard was it to tell your mom when you planned to show up? I’m leaving at X o’clock. I should be there by Y. Lizzie admitted her own journey had been unexpectedly long and harrowing, but potential traffic didn’t seem to be the source of the uncertainty.

  “Is there anything I can do to get things ready for her?”

  “About a million things,” Kathryn said.

  “Maybe I can start with two or three,” Lizzie joked.

  Kathryn didn’t smile. “Well, first of all, is her cupboard ready?”

  “The one in the butler’s pantry? I was told not to go in there.”

  “For ingredients. Right. But you can check to make sure things aren’t out-of-date, and that she has enough to get started.”

  “Enough . . . what, exactly?”

  “The kinds of things she likes to eat and cook with,” Kathryn said, as if Lizzie had any idea what those things were. “I don’t know, I can barely keep track of her favorites these days. But things like sprouted almonds, buckwheat groats, calendula tea, bee pollen, gluten-free oats, something called—what was it? Maca powder? She put that in lots of stuff last summer. And then there are all of the refrigerated things she likes. Nut butters, almond milk, lots of fruits and vegetables. Last summer she kept asking for reishi and astragalus, but Bob couldn’t find either, and none of the rest of us were even sure what she was talking about, so . . .”

  She raised her eyebrows at Lizzie, as if she hoped Lizzie might reply, Ah, yes! Reishi and astragalus! I know exactly where to go. But Lizzie just stared back blankly because she was as clueless as the rest of them.