by Ann McMan
Maddie smiled at her. “Then as long as you remember that, you won’t have any problems.”
“Okay.”
“Do you have other people you can talk with?”
Roma Jean looked at her. “You mean about this?”
Maddie nodded.
“Not really. Well . . . maybe Jessie. But nobody else.”
“My best advice for you is to find some people you can trust—friends who can offer you support while you try to work your way through the harder parts of this process. Can you do that? Do you know of any places where you might go for support?”
“Charlie said there were some groups in Wytheville and Radford.”
“Maybe you could try visiting one of those, then—when you think you might be ready.”
“Okay.”
“There also are some wonderful books on this topic that you might consider—if you find things like that helpful. I know they were to me. Just being able to read about the experiences of other women—and men—who were struggling to navigate many of the same personal and family issues made me feel less alone. Less isolated.”
Roma Jean seemed interested in that idea. “How would I find out about those?”
“For starters, I’d say that your former librarian would be an excellent resource.”
“You mean, ask Miss Murphy?”
Maddie nodded. “If you feel comfortable with that. I’m sure she’d be honored to help you out with a reading list.”
Roma Jean got to her feet. “Thanks for talking with me, Dr. Stevenson.”
Maddie stood up, too. “Roma Jean. I’m your doctor, but I’m also your friend. I hope you know that you can talk with me any time—Syd, too.”
Roma Jean looked close to tears again. “I know.”
Maddie stepped forward and pulled Roma Jean into a hug. Roma Jean grabbed on to the back of her white coat like she was clutching a lifeline.
“You’re a good girl,” Maddie said into her hair. “And I promise you’ll get through this.”
Chapter 19
“WHAT ON EARTH is all of this?” Syd asked Michael.
He was systematically unloading a tray containing five different appetizers.
“Nadine ordered me to bring these out here to you, and I obey her orders.”
Syd gave him a questioning look, and he tipped his head toward the kitchen and kept unloading.
“You wanna go back there and argue with her—be my guest. But let me forewarn you . . . Raymond backed over her pansy bed this morning when he was out there spreading gravel, and it ain’t pretty.”
Syd looked down at the platters of food. “So her revenge is to put me into an early grave?”
“Not entirely. She knows about your lunch date, and I think she wants to make sure you have something to do if the conversation lags.”
“Lags? With Doris?” Syd rolled her eyes. “That’s about as likely as David having nothing to say during American Idol.”
Michael laughed and looked at the front entrance to the café. “Where is your lunch date, anyway?”
Syd sighed. “Fashionably late, of course. With her, it’s always about power dynamics. The longer she makes me wait, the more subservient I become.”
“She sounds terribly charming.”
“Imagine Joan Crawford on an estrogen patch.”
“Ouch. Want me to join you?”
Syd shook her head. “I promise to scream if she starts making the furniture levitate.” She waved a hand over the plates of food. “Want to tell me what all we have here?”
“Sure.” Michael ticked off the items. “This is Nadine’s famous butter bean spread—a.k.a. hummus. This is a vat of spicy pimento cheese—and it’s truly fabulous today because I added a hefty shot of cayenne. Here is a basket of Nadine’s signature cheese biscuits—rife with Henry’s fairy sprinkles. This is a zesty bowl of hot collard green, bacon, and bleu cheese dip. And last, but never least—a succulent tomato pie.”
“Good god.”
“Now,” Michael tucked the serving tray up under his arm. “Will you be needing menus, madam?”
Syd looked up at him. “I don’t think so, but if we manage to eat all of this, you might need to scare up a couple of body bags.”
Michael laughed.
The bell over the entrance door dinged, and he looked toward the sound. The smile evaporated from his face. “Oh. My. God.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“Don’t look now,” he muttered. “But either your mother-in-law just arrived, or Calista Gingrich is here for lunch.”
Syd took a deep breath. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends . . .”
Michael clucked his tongue. “You got that shit right, sister.” He patted her on the shoulder. “Here she comes. Call me if you need me?”
Syd pushed back her chair and stood up. “Count on it.”
Michael beat a hasty path to the kitchen as Doris approached Syd’s table.
Three years and a helluva lot more Botox made Doris look . . . tighter than ever. She was impeccably dressed, as usual, in some inevitable Oscar de la Renta creation. Perfect for an informal lunch in a country café . . . not.
Each platinum hair was carefully coiled into place. Syd recognized her necklace—a double-strand emerald creation that Howard had bought her at Christie’s one year for their anniversary. Of course, Doris picked out the “gift” herself.
She did not look pleased to be there.
She stopped just short of the table and looked down with disgust at the array of food items on display. “I see you decided not to wait for me?”
“Hello, Doris. It’s lovely to see you as well.”
Doris met her eyes. Syd had a premonition that she might just turn into a pillar of salt if she dared to look back at her mother-in-law for too long.
“Let’s dispense with the pleasantries. You know why I’m here.” Doris dropped her Marc Jacobs bag onto a vacant chair and picked up a napkin to dust off her seat before claiming it.
Syd sighed and sat down. “Frankly, Doris, I don’t have the least idea why you’re here—unless it’s some new-found desire to experience the best in low-country cuisine.”
Doris glanced down at the table. “I’d hardly call this cuisine.”
“I’d hardly call you an authority.”
Doris fixed her with an icy glare. “You always did have a taste for the common things in life.”
Syd smiled at her. “Which goes a long way toward explaining why I once found your son attractive.”
“I would agree that you certainly would qualify as the most common thing about him.”
“Really?” Syd refused to concede the point. “I’m sure there are half-a dozen-waitresses at Sonic Drive-In who would disagree with your assessment.”
Doris colored. “I regard you as my son’s only lapse in judgment. I think it’s clear that any diminution of his sensibilities is entirely due to your influence.”
“You mistake me, Doris. I was referring to your son’s fondness for the waitresses at Sonic, not the food they served.”
Doris leaned forward. “Let’s not mince any more words.”
Syd imitated her gesture and leaned forward, too. “I’m only too happy to expedite this conversation Doris. Why not cut to the chase and tell me why you’re here.”
“Don’t play coy with me. You know what I want.”
“I assumed you were making a sweep through southwest Virginia to raise money for the D.A.R., but apparently, I was mistaken?”
Doris reached into her handbag and withdrew a fat envelope. “This is an amended copy of your prenuptial contract with Jeff.” She unfolded the pages and placed the document down on the only unoccupied spot on their table—between the bowls of hummus and pimento cheese. “I’d like you to initial each page, and sign it where indicated.”
Syd didn’t even glance down at it. “Doris, I’ve already signed this document once—remember? You insisted that I do so before Jeff and I could marry. Why do you
need me to do this again?”
“Because by signing it, you will forfeit your right to invoke the provision that this agreement is nullified if either party commits infidelity.”
Syd wasn’t certain she’d heard her correctly. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I heard you, all right,” Syd explained. “But I don’t think I follow you.”
“Don’t make me spell it out. You’re already fully aware that citing adultery as your grounds for divorce neatly positions you to walk away from this marriage with half of Jeff’s assets.”
Syd was stunned. “What?”
“You heard me. And don’t try and tell me that you knew nothing about this fine print when your carefully scripted aloofness pushed my son into those other . . . dalliances.”
Syd’s head was spinning. Half of Jeff’s fortune? This had to be a ruse of some kind. There was no way this could really be the case. Jeff was worth millions . . . tens of millions.
“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
Doris scoffed at her. “Of course you don’t. That’s why you had that barracuda of an attorney of yours contact us, demanding a copy of the prenup and stating that you were one hundred percent determined to prove your allegations of infidelity in court.”
“Look, Doris . . . I’ve never wanted Jeff’s money. I ended our marriage and walked away from him with little more than the clothes on my back. This is the first I’ve ever heard about any infidelity clause in our prenup agreement—I never read the fine print.” She shook her head in frustration. “I signed the damn thing on the steps of Durham City Hall, for god’s sake.”
Doris took a deep breath. “If that’s truly the case, then you’ll have no objection to signing this document now,” she said, in a softer tone. She uncapped a shiny, gold fountain pen.
Syd looked at her, and then looked down at the document that lay on the table between them. “Just out of curiosity. Why did you put a clause like that into our prenup?”
Doris lowered the pen. “Isn’t that obvious?”
“Apparently not.”
“It was insurance.”
“Insurance against what? Against Jeff’s proclivity for cheating?”
Doris gave her a contemptuous look. “No. Against yours.”
“Mine?” Syd was aghast. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Oh, please. You can’t expect anyone to believe that the perverted tryst which you currently call a relationship is your first foray into sexually deviant behavior.”
“How dare you . . .”
“Jeff suspected that you had aberrant proclivities almost from the start of your marriage. Thank god I had the foresight to plan for such an outcome.”
“I never looked twice at another person the entire time I was with Jeff. Unfortunately for you and your precious bank balance, he can’t say the same thing.”
Doris raised an index finger. “I find your choice of pronoun especially revealing . . . don’t you?”
“You can rot in hell,” Syd hissed.
“Oh, no, my dear. Nothing or no one related to me will ever rot in hell. Too bad I can’t say the same thing about your lesbian lover’s sainted reputation.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“You’re a smart girl. I think you know what I’m suggesting. In addition, I don’t think it takes a rocket scientist to figure out that self-respecting parents in this county don’t want a pervert teaching their children . . . or raising them, for that matter.”
“That’s blackmail, Doris.”
“Is it? Oh, dear . . . I guess it is.” She sighed. “Too bad you’d never be able to prove it.”
“Would eyewitness testimony count?”
They both looked up in surprise. Celine was standing beside their table, and neither of them had noticed her approach.
“Hello, Dee Dee.” Celine’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Doris was speechless. Syd could tell that she was having a hard time making sense of who was standing before her. Syd wasn’t far behind her. Celine looked fantastic—dressed to the nines in a stunning black suit that gave her an almost imperial air. She was carrying a small canvas bag.
Syd couldn’t believe she was there, and that she had managed to creep up on them without detection.
Across the table from her, Doris was sputtering. “Celine? How . . . what are you doing here?”
“It’s the funniest thing, Dee Dee. I was on my way to the drug store to exchange a piece of defective merchandise, and I thought I’d just pop in here for a bite to eat. When I noticed you sitting here in such earnest conversation with Syd, I just had to come over and renew old acquaintance.” She smiled brightly at Doris.
“It’s . . . this is not a good time.”
Syd had never seen Doris so flustered.
“Oh, don’t say that, Dee Dee.” Celine pulled out a chair and sat down. “In fact, you might be just the person to help me out with this thing.” She rummaged around inside her canvas tote and withdrew a flexible plastic bag equipped with a long, funnel-shaped tube. She swung it back and forth in front of Doris like a hypnotist’s medallion. “I think you have some experience with these . . . don’t you, Dee Dee?”
Doris was turning five shades of red. Syd was actually afraid for a moment that she had stopped breathing.
“What the hell is this?” she asked looking from Celine to Syd. “Some kind of shakedown?”
“I guess you’d be the judge of that, wouldn’t you Dorrie?” The words dropped from Celine’s mouth like chips of ice.
Doris pointed at the douchebag. “Take that disgusting thing and get out of here, Celine.” She was starting to recover her composure. “This matter doesn’t concern you.”
“Oh, I beg to differ, Dorrie.” Celine leaned over the table and dropped her voice to a near whisper. “Nobody threatens the sainted reputation of my little girl.”
“Back off, Celine. This isn’t prep school, and you’re way out of your league.”
“Again, I beg to differ. Experience is a hard teacher, Dorrie. Believe me when I tell you that I eat homegrown, new money bitches like you for lunch.”
“Fuck you and your Upper East Side pedigree.” Doris boiled over. “You always thought you were better than everyone else—and your parents were nothing more than dried-up hunks of wetback Euro trash.”
Celine was unfazed. “Is that the best you’ve got Dorrie?” She tsked. “I guess all those years you spent running from the family business finally paid off. Wouldn’t your Brahmin buddies love to know that your family’s real fortune came from all those toxic vaginal powders your granddaddy hawked to unsuspecting hillbillies in Tennessee?”
Syd was stupefied. She’d never seen Celine in action before. No wonder Maddie had been so terrified of her mother growing up. She slowly looked back and forth between them as their face off continued. She had a feeling that she was about to be ringside for the cage fight of the century.
Doris took up the gauntlet. “I’m not surprised that your ‘little girl’ turned out to be such a disappointment, Celine. But then, it could hardly be a surprise when her father was a first class faggot.”
Syd stared at Doris with an open mouth. My god . . .
Beside her, Celine sat in silence for a moment. The only sign of discomposure was a tiny vein, visibly throbbing on the side of her forehead.
“You know, Dorrie. I’m a scientist, and I’ve devoted my life to solving problems,” Celine said. Her voice was eerily controlled. “But there’s one equation that just never comes out right.” She tented her fingertips like a professor leading a seminar discussion. “You left school one month before the end of our senior year, citing a family emergency. Of course, we all knew what that meant. Your prom night fumble in the back seat of Carmine Fazzoli’s Plymouth resulted in a little spring surprise, didn’t it?”
Doris’s lips were stretched thin—pursed so tight they were nearly translucent
. She was taking deep breaths. Her eyes looked like hot coals.
Celine took advantage of her silence.
“I say that because barely two months later, you were the blushing bride of that poor little rich schmoe, Howard Simon.” She dropped her voice. “But here’s the part that just won’t add up, Dorrie. Your precious philandering son was born only six months after that.”
Doris was furious. “This is pathetic—even for you. You’re making slanderous allegations that you can’t possibly prove.”