“You’re kidding. Someone’s actually named Dishy Manfranke?” Mimi asked. The question was rhetorical: Mary did not kid.
Mary didn’t deign to answer.
Mimi reached out and disconnected a green broccoli floret from an artfully constructed vegetable tree on the table beside them. “Well, from the looks of it, I’d say Dishy wants to go steady.” She popped the floret into her mouth.
“What a wit,” Mary said. She cleared her throat and looked Mimi dead in the eye. “Speaking of going steady, seeing anyone?”
“Mom asked you to ask that, didn’t she?”
Mary didn’t deny it.
“Tell her, ‘nope.’ I am an island unto myself.”
“Then, you must have a gold mine on that island. I’ve never seen you wear anything like that before.” Mary looked markedly at Grandmother Charbonneau’s redesigned pearl necklace hanging around Mimi’s neck.
Mimi did not for a minute think Mary’s interest avaricious; whatever her faults, covetousness was not one of them, but she must be dying to know where Mimi had come by something like the borrowed necklace. Let her die.
“This? Lovely, isn’t it,” she said, then, “Hey! Truffle quiche. Yum.” She used the little silver tongs to deposit a couple on her plate. “Mary, look behind you. What are those figs stuffed with?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m not the caterer.”
“Well, try one and tell me.”
“Forget it.”
“Come on. Goat cheese makes me nauseous and I wouldn’t want to spit something out at Mom’s party.”
“Oh, for God’s sake—” Mary snatched up a fig and took a bite. “Roquefort. You are such a child.”
Mimi smiled and rescued the fig from Mary’s hand. Old habits die hard. When Mary was a little girl, Mimi had always been able to coerce her into doing her bidding. Mary had idolized her, following her around the Werner estate, just waiting to be asked to fetch her a soda. Ah, those were the good old days.
Mimi was still wallowing in nostalgia when Sarah arrived. Or, more accurately, backed into her. Sarah spun around, her toffee-colored blond hair swinging like a satin curtain. Mimi caught her by the arms to keep her from falling. In the four-inch stilettos she was wearing, Sarah, five foot nine without the heels, towered over Mimi. Mimi found herself staring into Sarah’s exposed cleavage.
Now this, she thought, was different. Not that Sarah was tall, obviously, but that Sarah was exposing her bosom in a soft rose jersey dress. The last time Mimi had seen Sarah she’d been dressed in an ill-fitting navy blue, no-iron pantsuit, and sensible flats.
It must have been longer than she’d realized since she’d seen Baby Precocious—her pet name for the dour little automaton who, in all of Mimi’s memories, was planted in an armchair in the Werner library reading a book. Mimi did a quick calculation. Almost a year. Before that she’d seen even less of her—not on purpose, but because Sarah had graduated from high school at sixteen, finished her undergraduate degree at Penn State by eighteen and her master’s at Stanford at twenty. Now twenty-three, she was pursuing her doctorate in international economics at the University of Chicago. Sarah was not only a genius; she was an über-genius. Solange had finally hit the jackpot with her third daughter. Boo-rah! You’d think she’d be content with that, but nope.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah hastily apologized, looking down at Mimi. “I was just—Oh, it’s you. Hi, Mimi.”
“Hi, Sarah,” Mimi said. “You look great.”
It was true. Sarah had shed the last bits of baby fat, exposing some pretty spectacular cheekbones. Also, the Accutane Sarah had reported using some years ago had worked big-time. Sarah’s skin was creamy and smooth, a perfect foil for the honey blond hair. And speaking of foils…were those highlights in Sarah’s golden tresses? Sarah, whose idea of fashion forward was Lands’ End? Even more impressive, Sarah looked frankly happy. As in cheerful of mien and agreeable. The Sarah Mimi recalled had been a somber, earnest child with all the spice of an egg-white omelet.
“Thanks,” Sarah said, smiling.
Unlike Mary, Sarah still retained a sliver of her big-sister worship. Even when she’d been taking double credit loads at Stanford, Sarah had dutifully e-mailed Mimi at least once a month, mostly about what she was studying.
“Still working for that, ah, you know, spirit thing?”
Spirit thing? What was this? Sarah always used exact terminology. The fact that she’d used such a nonspecific noun as “thing” was also new.
“Oh, yes,” Mary answered for her. “Mimi’s still whispering to ghosts.”
“Actually, I often have to shout,” Mimi said. She rolled her eyes. “They are so distracted by the whole wings and halo thing, you know? Ghosts. Can’t live with ’em; can’t live with ’em.”
Mary scowled and drained the rest of her highball.
“That’s ridiculous,” Sarah said. “The common religious iconography of angels as human beings with wings can be traced back to ancient depictions of the ancient Assyrian sun god, Assur, within a winged disk. Besides, only certain orders of angels have wings. And halos, though currently denoting Christian holiness and divinity, were originally depicted in Roman art, particularly in reference to the god Mithras.”
Ah. There was the Sarah Mimi knew. “My bad,” she said.
She popped another fig in her mouth and glanced at Mary. “How’s the cyber–Peeping Tom business going? Catch a lot of voyeurs this year?”
“Sub-Surfer is an important tool,” Mary said stiffly. “We save people from financial and emotional devastation. Wouldn’t you want to know where the money that you need to pay the bills was being spent? What your significant other was doing when they shut the door on you and spent the evening on the computer? Or would you rather live in ignorance, hoping the ax you don’t even realize is hanging over your head doesn’t fall?” Mary asked.
“I choose ignorance!” Mimi declared without hesitation.
Mary made a disparaging sound and motioned a nearby server over.
“You’re kidding,” Sarah said, her expression stunned. “You’d actually choose to live in a state of ignorance?”
“Information is overrated,” Mimi answered. “Clutters the mind and muddies the priorities. Plans can be thwarted, blueprints lost, fast tracks derailed. It’s better to just go with the flow and let things slide, because what you don’t know can’t hurt you.”
“Like not knowing where certain family members are?” Mary asked.
The allusion to Mimi’s father was as subtle as a jackhammer.
“Exactly,” Mimi said, knowing insouciance would annoy Mary far more than a counterattack. “And the health benefits are fabulous.” She gave Mary the once-over. “Are you getting enough sleep, Mary? You look peaked. Haven’t you ever heard the old saw about stopping to smell the roses?”
“Like you? Mimi, you didn’t stop, you laid down and rolled around in them, and you’ve never gotten up.” The server arrived and Mary ordered a Scotch old-fashioned.
“I am blissful.” Mimi nodded agreeably.
“Yeah, blissfully taking up space and little more.”
“Maybe. But it’s space no one else seems to want, so what’s it to you?”
Sarah was scowling, not anxiously, but clinically, as if she was watching a debate and hadn’t yet decided who was ahead on points.
“It’s a waste.” Uh-oh. Mary was channeling Solange again. More good-daughter points to Mary. “I used to look—”
“What are you all talking about?” Whatever Mary used to look at would remain unknown, as Solange emerged from a knot of nearby guests.
Drat. Mimi hadn’t noticed her mother there. Not that her mother lacked presence; she just lacked inches. At a firm five feet nothing in heels, Solange Charbonneau Olson Werner looked like a plump little squab, all front-forward breasts and small ass and bright little eyes. She even walked like a pigeon, little forward-darting motions interrupted by abrupt pauses. Her coal black hair apologized to no one for it
s artifice, and the arch of her brows had been tattooed in place of the thick ones nature had bestowed and electrolysis had removed years ago.
“Nothing of importance,” Mary said to their mother.
“Hi, Mom,” Mimi said.
“Hello, Mignonette.” Solange’s gaze frankly assessed Mimi. “Good,” she approved in a low voice. “Very nice.”
Bless Ozzie’s self-indulgence, and bless his hobby more, and bless his generosity in sharing his wardrobe with Mimi most of all. Of course, since they wore the same size, Mimi had been commandeered to act as his model–cum–stand-in on more than a few shopping trips.
“You’ve lost weight,” Solange murmured, cocking her head.
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t own a scale.”
Her sisters traded openly disbelieving looks. They can’t prove anything without a key to my apartment, Mimi thought. “It’s incredibly liberating. You should try it.”
“There is more to life than liberation,” Solange said, her small eyes aglitter. “Have you spoken with anyone?”
For a woman whose nationality prided itself on its sangfroid, her mother sometimes displayed an amazing lack of sensitivity. Mimi made a discreet gesture toward her sisters.
“I mean, anyone who might help you professionally?”
Mimi’s eyes went round with feigned surprise. “You didn’t tell me you had a palm reader lurking amongst the unsuspecting. Aren’t you the mother to beat all mothers? Are they hiring?”
Sarah laughed and Mimi glanced at her in surprise. Maybe she had a sense of humor after all.
“Mignonette,” Solange said, “would you please be serious? I know you don’t really want to spend the rest of your life pretending to give strangers on the phone messages from their dead relatives.”
The quip Mimi hoped would occur to her didn’t arrive. Her easygoing smile gelled into something stiffer. Whatever else might be said to Solange’s credit or discredit, her ability to cut to the very heart of the matter was never in doubt.
“Am I pretending?” she finally muttered.
Her mother ignored this, patting her arm. “It’s not too late, you know. Forty’s the new thirty.”
“I thought fifty was the new thirty. And I’m forty-one.”
Her mother, knowing full well her point had been made with surgical precision, didn’t bother pushing the blade deeper. “Promise me you’ll mingle. That’s all I ask.”
It would be so much easier if Mimi could convince herself that her mother was only interested in Mimi’s success, or lack thereof, inasmuch as it reflected on her, but Mimi knew this wasn’t true. Solange wanted the best for all her daughters. She just had a very specific definition of “best”: challenging work, satisfaction in a lucrative career, social standing. She’d been waiting Mimi’s entire life for her to “sort through things and find a purpose,” and no matter how many times Mimi had told her mother she had a purpose (which was living with as few complications as possible), Solange refused to believe it.
Not my daughter. You have too much potential. I refuse to believe you intend to squander it. How many times had Mimi heard a variation on this theme? A thousand? Two?
Poor Solange. Still, if it would make her mother happy…
“Sure,” Mimi said.
“Excellent.” Solange nodded approvingly. “Sarah knows everyone here. So, if you want to know who anyone is, ask her.” She turned to Mary. “Your father is in dire need of salvation. He’s been tending to your grandmother for the last fifteen minutes. I’d go, but…”
But Mother Werner despised Solange, Mimi silently finished. Mimi had never met Solange’s mother-in-law. For years, the old lady, a staunch Catholic as well as a second-generation German American, had not recognized her son’s marriage to a divorcée, and a French one to boot, and so had never visited the Werner household while Mimi lived there. From the few remarks Sarah had let drop over the years, Mimi thought Solange had probably met her match in Mother Werner.
Mary lifted her chin like a soldier who’d been given a suicide mission and chugged off through the crowd, her gown swishing. Solange turned the laserlike focus of her gaze on her youngest. “Hm. You look awfully well, Sarah.”
Sarah’s smile held a hint of trepidation, and Mimi realized she was hiding something. Mistake. Solange could detect dissembling like a guard dog can sense fear. She had a similar reaction, too: attack. Mimi had long ago learned simply to tell the truth and mentally hum until the storm of words passed.
“You, too, Mom,” Sarah said, tucking a lock of her blond hair behind her ear and leaning forward to kiss their mother’s cheek. “Happy anniversary.”
Solange was so startled by this unprecedented display of affection from the most undemonstrative of her very undemonstrative children that she became flustered and lost whatever train of thought she’d been pursuing. She blinked, opened her mouth, closed it, said, “Oh. Well. Thank you. Ah…Well…Be sure to introduce Mimi around,” and disappeared back into the crowd.
Mimi eyed Sarah thoughtfully. Sarah handle Solange? Nah.
“What’s up with Mary?” she asked when Solange had vanished. “She’s reached new levels of bitchiness.”
“Cankles,” Sarah answered without preamble.
Cankles, the uninterrupted merging of the lower calf with the ankle resulting in a column effect, were the curse of the Werner women. Mary had them; Sarah had them to a degree. You could lose all the weight you wanted and do toe raises until you fainted; there was no cure for the Cankle Gene. Thankfully, Mimi did not carry any Werner genes.
“You may have noted the floor-sweeping dress,” Sarah went on. “She’s covering them up. She’s become preoccupied with them.”
“But she’s always had cankles.”
“I know, you know, but I’m not sure she did,” Sarah said. “It’s like she looked down one day, discovered them, and has been pissed off ever since.”
She grieved for her sister’s cankle tragedy for a few seconds before shaking it off and sweeping a champagne flute from the tray of a passing server. She lifted the glass in Mimi’s direction and twinkled at her. “Here’s to us, Big Sister.”
This was unsettling in the extreme. In all the years Mimi had known her, Sarah had never, not even once, twinkled. It was like Sarah had had a personality transplant.
“You look pleased with life,” Mimi said.
“I am.” Sarah nodded eagerly as if she’d been waiting for an opening. “I’m seeing someone.”
“Seeing someone?” Oh, poor Sarah. Mimi didn’t know for a certainty, but she strongly suspected—and she was usually never far off mark in her strong suspicions—that Sarah had never had a serious relationship before. Mimi asked, “Female or male?”
“Male. Definitely, extravagantly male.”
The twinkling, the laughter, the dress, the cleavage. All was explained. “So, you’re in love, huh?”
Sarah’s brow furrowed and she looked at Mimi like she hadn’t understood her. “Love?”
Mimi was pretty sure her face wore a similarly confused expression. “Yeah. Love.”
Sarah’s face cleared. “Wow, Mimi, I didn’t realize until now just how much older you are than me. I’m not in love. We hook up on weekends.” She leaned forward, her voice lowering to a whisper. “The sex is fantastic.”
“Oh,” Mimi said because she didn’t know what else to say. Good for you? Congratulations? Does he have an older brother?
“He’s my first,” Sarah said happily.
“But not last.”
“Don’t get me wrong, he’s a nice guy,” Sarah said with such casual insouciance Mimi was taken aback. “Smart, too. He’s one of my—”
“Professors,” Mimi said, feeling a stir of anger.
“No. One of the grad students I tutor.” She giggled. Sarah giggled. “Isn’t that naughty?”
“Yeah. My sister, the Ivy League Mary Kay Letourneau.”
Sarah gave a ladylike snort. “Oh, he’s older than me. But what makes it great
is that neither of us wants a relationship. But we’re not pathetic bedroom prowlers, either.”
“Does Mary know?”
“Good lord, no! She’d go Judge Judy on my ass.”
Ass? Sarah didn’t use vulgar language. Did she?
“I knew I could tell you, though.”
Mimi wondered why and was about to ask when Sarah grabbed her arm and pulled her into the crowd. “Mom at twelve o’clock high. She’ll be over here in a few minutes unless she sees you talking to someone.”
“I am talking to someone.”
“Me? Thank you! Aren’t you a honey?” Sarah said, tickled. “So, who do you want to meet?” She looked around the room, her eyes narrowed purposefully. “Aha! See that guy over there? Darn, he just turned. He’s talking to Congressman Popitch. Dark hair, tallish?”
Mimi nodded.
“Dad just sold BioMedTech to an equity trading company and he’s their ax man. Man, I bet he has stories to tell.” Sarah was practically licking her lips.
“Ax man?”
“You know nothing about business, do you, Mimi?” Sarah asked pityingly.
“Nope.”
“He’s the scouting team and advance unit all rolled into one. When his company is deciding whether or not to buy a business, they send him in to scope out the situation, find the weak links, and determine the business’s value. If his company goes ahead with the purchase, he makes recommendations about how to, ah, trim the fat.” She made a cutting motion across her throat.
“Cold,” Mimi said. Which is exactly why she never wanted to be in business. All the responsibility, all the cold-blooded decisions to be made, all the people depending on you to make a sound judgment. What if you had hay fever that day and your judgment was impaired? No, thank you.
“Growth, especially economic growth, is never painless.” Sarah cast an appraising look at the tuxedo-clad back. “But if your head has to be on the chopping block, he’s the guy I’d want swinging the ax.”
“Oh?” Mimi asked.
“I met him a couple days ago. Sex appeal. He oozes it.”
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