"What? Did I hear you right? Chelsea, are you there?"
"Seriously. I'm going to stay in. But thanks!"
"Whoa...seriously she says. All right," Amanda said, and paused as if waiting for Chelsea to contradict herself. Finally she said, "Well, if you change your mind, let me know. Gotham's supposed to be banging?"
"I will. Have fun!"
"All right. Later."
"Later," Chelsea said, hit the end button, and sat staring into space, the new idea unfolding in her mind thanks to Amanda. She turned to her computer, got on Google and typed in "careers in information technology". A long list of pages filled with results came back, results that surprised her with possibilities that had been waiting for her all along, answers that pointed to a life that wasn't built around a man but around herself.
Her delicate doll-like face lit by the pale blue glow emanating from her computer screen, Chelsea typed and took notes and gave out little cheers as the night deepened and she found her way out of the darkness within.
Chardonnay
One of her physical therapist's directives was for Lucie to climb the stairs at least three times a day, but after cocktails with the girls that included two glasses of wine and a lot of greasy fried seafood she already regretted eating, Lucie found herself pausing in front of her apartment building's elevator and gazing at it longingly. She could just press the button and float up to the top floor, four stories away. It would be that easy. And her hip was so much better, she barely limped anymore.
But that was the thing; the reason why she didn't limp was because she listened to Adrienne, who was kind but unrelenting.
Lucie turned away, gritting her teeth, and climbed the stairs. As she mounted them, she distracted herself by thinking about what she had told the girls about Bianca. It was true, the woman was a sociopath; Lucie didn't have a single doubt. But it was still hard to say out loud to anyone, hard to see the looks of doubt that appeared on the faces of those who listened. All the girls had made noises of surprise and interest, but she wondered if any of them believed it. Her psychology professor had spoken at length about the difficulty of exposing sociopaths. Part of it was the popular but erroneous belief that all sociopaths were serial killers. The other and far more challenging part was that people had a hard time accepting that someone without a conscience could live among them without detection; yet it happened all the time.
Pausing for a rest before the last flight of stairs, Lucie sighed and shrugged a little, remembering the other girls' skeptical expressions. Even Sharon, whose instincts were powerful and keen, clearly had a hard time with the idea. Lucie sighed again and resumed climbing. At least Bianca was committed, locked away where she couldn't hurt anyone again. That was the important thing.
Lucie reached the top of the stairs and then headed down the hallway toward their apartment door, smiling with anticipation. Ryan would be home tonight, was home much more often now that his images were starting to sell, both on stock photography sites and through his own website. He still bartended, but only on Thursday and Friday nights. Wednesday night had become "their" night as Lucie usually didn't have a catering job and could put off all the other work that her business demanded for one night with her boyfriend. Erin checked and returned any messages that were urgent on Wednesdays, so Lucie didn't even have to do that.
So Ryan had been rightfully frustrated when Lucie had told him about her cocktail hour with the girls tonight, the only night that all the girls could make it out. Lucie promised to make it up to him by cooking his favorite, coq au vin, which they could heat up and have for dinner when she got home afterward. Another reason she regretted the fried popcorn shrimp and belly clams she had eaten along with the rest of the girls: she didn't have room now for the wine-marinated chicken and green salad they would be sitting down to in a moment.
After turning her key in the lock and pushing open the door, Lucie was surprised to hear low male voices rumbling in the living room. Had Ryan invited a friend over? Pushing aside her disappointment at the loss of their private candlelit dinner, Lucie put on a polite smile and stepped into the living room before coming to a stop. Her father sat on the couch next to Ryan, his hands clasped at his knees. Her father was here, now, after months of the brush-off, a brief word or two on the phone before he had to go.
Seeing Lucie in the doorway, her father slowly rose to his feet. Ryan turned to look at Lucie, his expression unusually cheerful considering he was in Donald Scott's company. Two half-empty beers sat on the coffee table.
"Hi, Dad," Lucie said. Unsure of whether to go and embrace him or hold back, she wavered where she stood.
"Hello, Lucie," her father said. "I was just telling Ryan here how much we've missed you two at brunch on Sundays."
Lucie shrugged, not knowing whether to mention that they hadn't been invited. The broken olive branch her father was extending was the closest to an apology that she had ever gotten from him.
"So," her father continued in a hearty voice. "Can you make it this Sunday?"
Lucie smiled a little. "Sure. Ryan? We don't have anything going on, do we?"
Ryan shook his head, clearly trying to convey something important to her with his eyes, bugging them out and raising his eyebrows. "Nope."
"We'll be there," Lucie said, squinting at Ryan and trying to decipher his meaningful looks.
"Hey," Ryan said, getting to his feet. "I've got to go run an errand. It was good to see you, Mr. Scott. Sunday at the Hyatt, noon?"
Her father looked over at Ryan with surprise before raised his square chin at him. "You've got to go? All right. See you then."
Ryan crossed the room and then, taking Lucie's arm, pulled her gently out of sight. He whispered in her ear, "Ask him about the letter."
"What letter?" Lucie whispered back, but Ryan only shook his head and raised his hand in farewell, opening and closing the door to the apartment behind him, the lock clicking a moment later with his key in it.
Confused, Lucie turned and walked back into the living room to find her father seated again. His face, always rocklike and walled-off, looked strangely open, younger. She went and sat down next to him on the couch. "I know this is going to sound strange, but Ryan told me to ask you about a letter?"
Her father's face colored a little, something Lucie had never seen before, and he reached to pick up his beer. Clutching it in both hands, he looked down at it. "That Ryan. He's a tough one," he said and laughed in a bewildered way. "He really won't take no for an answer."
"No? What were you saying no about?"
"Well, he wanted to know why I was here. Why I showed up like this. He didn't buy my brunch at the Hyatt story."
Lucie felt her throat growing tight, a sharp zing of fear going through her. Was her father sick? Or was it Flo? "What's the matter? Are you okay?"
Her father glanced up at her before looking down again. "Yeah, I'm fine. Everything's fine. I just..."
Lucie held her breath, waiting.
"Flo was cleaning out the attic, found an old box of papers of mine. She insisted we go through it, keep what we needed and throw out the rest. She was in one of those hoe-and-throw modes of hers, you know how she gets," her father said, throwing another glance at Lucie before returning his gaze to his beer bottle. He sighed, pausing, and then said, "There was a letter in there from your mother. Back from when we got our divorce. It was about some promises I made. I'd forgotten all about it."
He paused again, swallowing visibly. Lucie softly prompted, "What did it say?"
"It said," he said in a wavering voice before stopping. He took a deep breath and continued, "It said that I had to keep my promise about you. That I couldn't hold grudges or close you out. That I had to be gentle with you, even if I wasn't willing to be gentle with myself or with her. That you are my daughter and that it's different, too special, to treat roughly." His voice was wobbling again and he stopped for a moment before continuing. "I broke my promise. I've been rough with you."
"No, Dad
, you haven't-"
"No," her father said, shaking his head and looking at her finally, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "I have. And I'm going to stop now. Whatever you want to do, whatever it is, I'm behind it. One hundred percent." His last words were a growl, as if arguing with himself.
Lucie's mouth trembled as she tried to hold back the urge to sob that pulsed painfully in her throat. "Thank you," she managed.
"Come here," he said and wrapped his arms around her, hugging her so hard it made her bones ache. And Lucie reveled in it, being crushed in a bear hug by her undemonstrative father as he crossed into the unknown territory of vulnerability for his daughter's sake.
Corona
Pulling into their driveway in Darien, Kate's heart leapt again against her will at the sight of their storybook-quaint house. Even now, when the glitter and glamour of Fairfield County had worn off for her, she couldn't stop imagining their family happy there: their children running and playing in the deep backyard, frequent summertime cookouts with the smell of burning charcoal and freshly cut grass hanging in the air, decorating the house with pine and holly for Christmas, reading stories to her little ones by the gentle light of a single lamp and then goodnight, sweet dreams.
Kate tightened her lips as she parked and climbed out of the car, resisting such thoughts just as she had resisted going out tonight with the girls. If it hadn't been for Grant, she wouldn't have gone at all, said she was too busy, which wasn't a lie with all the packing and organizing and searching for a rental in Vermont where they would live while house hunting.
When another conversation on Facebook was started by Sharon, who said they had to get together and hinted at a surprise she had for them, Kate had been sitting in the kitchen table in front of her laptop and about to type her usual "no" - Connecticut had brought her and Grant so much pain, she wanted to cut all ties with it - but then Grant walked into the room.
"What are you doing? Oh, on Facebook, huh? Any more news from the girls?" Grant asked, referring to the full story of what happened that night at Bianca's after Kate and Grant left, related by Sharon and Lucie. It had been in the papers, of course, but with very few details. What the girls had written was mind-numbing and rock-solid evidence damning the woman Kate had foolishly believed to be her best friend, breaking what trust remained in Kate's heart. The only way Kate could describe herself these days was as wary, on high alert against everyone except old friends and family. She knew it wasn't healthy and hoped it would pass.
"No, just another invite to meet for drinks," Kate said, looking up. "Though Sharon says she has some kind of surprise. I hope it's not some new nightmare."
"Well, what's her tone?"
"She's hard to read, I think it's that dry sense of humor of hers. Anyway, I'm not going," Kate said, turning back to her laptop.
Grant sat down next to her. "Why not? You should. It would be good for you to have a break, see your friends."
"I don't know. Are they?"
"Are they what?"
"Friends? I mean, after Bianca, I don't know anymore."
Grant put his hand on Kate's arm. "Of course they are. Not everyone's Bianca."
Kate laughed a little at that, a bitter edge showing. "Thank God for that."
"So, you're going to go, right?"
And she had, and, in the end, she was glad. Sharon's surprise had been a wonderful one, showing off her engagement ring and talking about her and Dean's plans for the future, looking more sweetly girlish than Kate had ever seen her. Lucie's catering business was booming and she walked normally now thanks to her "miracle worker" physical therapist, Adrienne. Chelsea was the only off-note and understandably so. Kate had wanted to stay mad at Chelsea for being so immoral and foolish and weak, allowing adultery to ruin her life, but seeing how sad and beaten Chelsea was, Kate could only feel sympathy for her.
Kate walked into and through the house that was now filled with packed cardboard boxes looking for Grant and found him outside in the backyard sitting on the stand-alone old-fashioned porch swing that they had bought and set up back when they first moved in, back when possibility was all around them and everything seemed to glow. She'd imagined sitting in it together and watching their children grow up from its comfortable padded seat. It hurt Kate to look at it. But Grant was sitting on it, elbows on his knees, so Kate walked over and sat down next to him.
"Hey," she said. "What are you doing out here?"
"Oh, daydreaming. Remember when we first got this and we sat out here and-"
"No, don't. Please. I don't want to remember."
Grant looked away from the lawn and his memories. "Why? We can still have all that. Well, almost."
Kate shook her head. "Dreams only seem to hurt people. I just want to live in reality right now, no more blown-up fantasies."
"They weren't that bad. We just wanted a better life for our kids. That's the American Dream, isn't it?"
Kate sighed and leaned back against the seat, putting her hand protectively on her slowly growing abdomen. "I guess."
Grant leaned back and put his arm around her. "Did you have fun with the girls?"
"Yeah, it was okay. Actually, it was fun. I hate to admit it, but I'm going to miss them."
"Are you sorry we're leaving now?"
Kate looked up, eyes wide. "No! I just...it's..." Then she heard the phone ringing inside the house. "The phone, it might be the movers," she said, jumped to her feet, and ran across the lawn and into the house.
The phone was ringing for the third time, about to go to voicemail, when she picked it up. "Hello?"
"Katie? It's David!"
"David! Oh, I'm so glad to hear your voice."
"I had a bad dream and Mom told me to call you tonight and you could tell me it's not true."
"Okay, what did you dream?"
"I dreamed you were sad and all dark and nothing would make you better."
Her breath caught in her throat for a moment before she replied, "Oh, no, that's not...true."
"But the dream was scary and I think you might be really sad."
Kate swallowed and shook her head. "No, I'm happy, David! And I'm going to see you real soon. And...," she paused, still afraid of telling anyone but wanting to tell him something that was full of joy, something that helped dispel even her darkest clouds. "And Grant and I are having a baby! Isn't that exciting? You'll have a new niece or nephew!"
"Really? Wow! Mom! Mom! Katie's having a baby!" David called, yelling into Kate's ear, and in that moment she felt it, something that had eluded her since that terrible night at Bianca's: hope.
David dreamed of a dark and sad Katie, but that person had to be banished for everyone's sake including her own. Kate smiled into the phone and listened to the joyful screeching of David and her mother on the other end of the line and felt herself becoming whole again. It was a patchwork kind of whole, Humpty-Dumpty-style with cracks all over, but the cracks could heal someday, with enough time.
Vodka Martini
Sharon could hear how loudly the stereo was playing inside their house as soon as she turned off her car engine, the high hooting voices of choirboys unmistakably marking the beginning of Dean's favorite song, the Rolling Stones' "You Can't Always Get What You Want".
She rolled her eyes and asked her car's dashboard, "Again? Really? How many times can he play this song?"
Climbing out of the car and entering the house through the door that connected to the garage, the volume only increased, now with Mick Jagger crooning about a woman holding a glass of wine, a man at her feet who was somehow footloose, which only perplexed Sharon with its obscurity. What did that have to do with not getting what you want? Did the woman not want wine? Or did she want a different kind of man? Why did Dean like this song anyway?
Along with the booming stereo, the mouthwatering aroma of Dean's homemade marinara sauce filled the air. Just the thought of the disastrous state the kitchen would probably already be in made Sharon's blood pressure skyrocket, her previously c
alm and peaceful mood from her a long drive home from Stamford and cocktails with the girls evaporating into the basil-and-tomato-scented air.
Crossing through the living room, she saw that Dean had done his usual routine and scattered his work bag, shoes, and papers everywhere, as if trying to decorate with his personal effects. Sharon clenched her teeth and resisted the temptation to tidy up after him, instead continuing into the kitchen which was steamy with boiling water for the pasta and cluttered with bowls and ingredients and dirty pans as usual. Fred was curled up on the cushion in the corner next to his empty food bowl, surveying the wreckage with weary half-closed eyes.
In the center of his own cooking hurricane, Dean was leaning over and tasting the marinara sauce directly from the spoon he'd been stirring it with, something that used to drive Sharon batty until he calmly explained that they shared spit anyway, so why did it matter? She hadn't had an answer for that and let it go, just as she had let go of many other things, trying to learn to compromise. It was made marginally easier by the knowledge that he was trying too: he didn't sing in the shower unless she was awake and up, he picked up his own messes more frequently, and had gotten in the habit of shedding his clothes directly into the hamper instead of onto the floor.
The music and his need for constant noise, though, hadn't abated. He'd even added wireless speakers to every room in the house so that he was never without music. The speakers had been brought over from his house which they were in the process of selling, planning to invest the money in a joint retirement fund and using only a small chunk of it for their honeymoon in Maui after their wedding in October.
Sharon yelled over the stereo, "Hey! I'm home!"
Cocktail Hour Page 42