Four of a Kind (31 page)

“You can’t cancel,” said Robin on the phone to Carla. It was Carla’s turn to host the poker game. “I need to see you guys tonight. I’m begging here.”

Robin was on her cell, already walking toward Bess’s house to catch a ride to Carla’s. The babysitter (not Amy) was ensconced at her place with movies, popcorn, and Stephanie. It’d been a week since Harvey Wilson’s unexpected appearance, and he still hadn’t called to discuss his future as a father. Every day, every hour that went by further convinced Robin that Harvey was making plans to sue her for joint custody. He’d been angry (quiet anger, the scariest kind) and disgusted with her at Pete’s. During her hours replaying that conversation, Robin recalled their contentious chat at Barnes & Noble, how he described his ex-wife as “another woman who lied.” Lying was a particular sore spot for him, and Robin had done nothing but, as far as he knew.

Harvey’s revulsion had to be purged from her thoughts. If Robin couldn’t get some love from her friends tonight, she was genuinely afraid for her state of mind. Alicia, Bess, and Carla had received “Harvey watch” updates via daily emails. Caretaker Bess called each morning to check in, and Robin much appreciated the dutiful attention. But Robin needed face time. She needed Carla to screw her head on straight. Alicia would make witty little jokes that always took Robin by surprise. And Bess would smile sympathetically; attempt to take Robin’s pain onto herself (if only she could).

“I need to see you,” said Robin, her voice devoid of irony.

Carla sighed into the phone. “I know you do. But it’s not a good time. Claude is home. We’re in the middle of a discussion.”

“A fight,” said Robin.

“His company went under,” said Carla. “A week ago. And he only just told me.”

“Shit,” said Robin, getting a flash of dread on Carla’s behalf. “Interesting. Your bad news made me forget my own problems—but just for a second. What else you got?”

Carla laughed. “My roof is leaking. Does that help?”

“Thank you, Carla. You’re a good friend.”

“I was able to reach Alicia, but Bess’s home phone has been busy for an hour and her cell is off.”

“I’ll tell her,” said Robin.

“Good. I’ve really got to go,” said Carla. She hung up.

Robin flipped her phone closed just as she reached Bess’s townhouse door. Maybe Alicia would come
here
, thought Robin. Bess loved to host. Robin buzzed and waited on the stoop. The night air was finally warm enough for just a jacket. Spring was close, hovering on the brink, in need of one good push over the edge. Like an orgasm, just one stroke away.

I must be horny
, thought Robin. She should be. It’d been an incredible eight months since she’d been naked with a man. This card game had, strangely, replaced her sex life, such as it was. Was that a good thing? A bad thing? Probably both, she decided.

Bess appeared in the vestibule between the two front doors. Her yellow hair shone under chandelier light. She was luminous, really.
And I don’t hate her for being beautiful
, thought Robin. How could that
be
? It must be real friendship, the kind that transcended petty jealousy.

But her beautiful friend didn’t look happy. Opening the street door, Bess frowned at Robin, stress lines on her forehead.

“I should have called you,” said Bess. “Borden’s father had a massive heart attack. He’s on life support in San Francisco. We’re packing to leave tomorrow morning with the kids. His mother is freaking out. Borden is a wreck.”

“Poor guy,” said Robin. “How old is his dad?”

“Seventy-two,” said Bess. “But he was in excellent shape. No one saw this coming.”

Robin felt an urge to hug her friend, to show her support. But before she could get in there, Bess dangled her car keys. “Take the car to Carla’s. It’s in the garage on State Street. I called to tell them you might be coming. Just park it back there when you’re done. In fact, use the car whenever you want. I’m not sure when we’ll be back. Not until after the weekend.”

“Okay,” said Robin, taking the keys. “Do you need me to help
you pack? Maybe Borden would like to get his mind off it. Play a few hands of poker?”

“That’s totally sweet of you to offer,” said Bess. “But I’m pretty sure he wants to be alone. I mean, just family.”

“Say no more,” said Robin. “Give him my best.”

They said their good-byes. Now what? Alicia would be home tonight, thought Robin. She’d take Bess’s car and drive to Red Hook. Tim and Joe loved poker. They could fill in for Carla and Bess. It would be swell. Tim could whip up some pasta or a frittata—soft yummy stuff that Robin could stomach. They’d let Joe win, have a few laughs.
Game on
, she thought. Spirits rallied, Robin hoofed to the garage.

Robin had never driven a BMW before. As soon as she slipped into the leather seat, she felt like a road-raging asshole—in a good way. She sped down Columbia Street to Red Hook, and parked in the Fairway lot. Despite his sexlessness, Robin liked Tim. He was funny, flirty. A nice night at Alicia’s was exactly what she needed.

She buzzed Alicia’s apartment. Tim asked, “Hello?”

“It’s Robin.”

He buzzed her into the building, and then opened the door to their apartment. Natty as usual, Tim wore pressed gray trousers, a lavender shirt, sleeves rolled up to above the elbow to show off his sleek forearms, and black dress shoes. He must’ve had an interview today, thought Robin. It’d be strange to dress up to watch your kid, she thought.

“ ’Sup?” asked Robin as she entered the apartment.

“I have no idea,” said Tim.

“Where’s Alicia?”

“According to her, she’s at Carla’s house playing poker with you and Bess,” said Tim, folding those arms across his slim chest.

Robin gulped, hard. Oh, crap—she’d stepped in it, big time. Maybe she could shovel her way out. “Oops, communication breakdown. I thought I was picking her up on my way over,” lied Robin,
sounding plausible, she hoped. “Well, I’d better get moving. They probably started without me, impatient bitches.”

“Why don’t we call Carla, tell them you’ll be along in a few minutes?” asked Tim, his expression granite.

“Good idea,” she bluffed, taking out her cell phone and starting to pretend dial.

“Allow me,” he said, calling her bluff, reaching for a phone on the coffee table.

“Don’t bother,” said Robin, edging toward the door. “It’s only a ten-minute drive.”

“You have a car?”

“It’s Bes … a rental,” said Robin. Honestly, if she weren’t having such a bad week, she’d be much better at this. She was, after all, a champion fibber. If there were a Liar’s Olympics, she’d be a gold medal winner.

“You rented a BMW? To drive the five miles to Windsor Terrace?” he asked, pointing at the key chain in her hand with the brand insignia on it.

While she simmered in a broth of her own lameness, Robin wondered,
Where the hell
was
Alicia?
For her life, Robin couldn’t imagine that Alicia’s lie didn’t involve a man. The hot younger guy from her office? Shark? Guppy? What was his name?

That sneaky mouse weasel
, thought Robin. How
dare
Alicia withhold a secret that huge? They’d all had to listen to her whine about not having sex with her husband for months and months. Now that Alicia was getting some on-the-side action, she kept it to herself? As the young folk say, WTF?

Because she’s in love
, thought Robin.

Meanwhile, Tim was watching Robin too closely. Had her thoughts played out on her face? She’d tried to freeze her facial muscles, but some of them might’ve twitched.

“Can I get you a drink?” Tim asked suddenly, softening.

If his scheme was to get her drunk so she’d talk, Robin sincerely
doubted he had enough alcohol on the premises. “I’m driving, Tim. But just one couldn’t hurt,” she said. “Joe is?”

From the kitchen, Tim said, “On the computer in his room, playing games. He won’t move an inch until I force him to go to bed. Total absorption. The building could be on fire and he wouldn’t notice.” Tim pulled a bottle of red wine (not her favorite; instant hangover) off a shelf and slowly inserted a corkscrew. “You’re sure the other women can wait?”

Robin couldn’t help notice the muscles moving in Tim’s forearms as he twisted the screw into the cork. She’s always found him handsome. Too polished, possibly gay, but still easy on the eyes. She’d had a couple of fantasies about him, Robin had to admit. But she’d also had a few choice daydreams about Borden, too. And one satisfying vision about Claude and his, she imagined, enormous shlong. Didn’t all women have little affairs of the mind with their friends’ husbands? Robin had fantasized about nearly every man she’d ever met, if only to take two seconds to decide if she’d do him.

Regarding Tim, the answer was yes. In a vacuum, she’d do him. But they weren’t in a vacuum, or a bread box, for that matter. Tim was Alicia’s husband. Therefore, he was off-limits, no matter how horny, drunk, lost, depressed, amoral, detached, in need of comfort, and desperate for adventure she might be.

And she was.

Very, very much, all of those things. Except drunk. At least, not yet. The night, however, was young.

Tim walked toward her, carrying a full glass of wine. He smiled at her, his cheeks crinkling deliciously. Apart from her encounter with Harvey, this was the most male attention Robin had received in months. It felt good, the simple act of making eye contact with a member of the opposite sex. Robin’s blood picked up speed.

“How’s the polling biz?” asked Tim.

Robin had made only fifty calls today. Thanks to rising unemployment, a higher percentage of people were home to answer her
questions. She couldn’t get a dozen respondents off the phone. They were almost tearfully happy someone cared about their feelings.

“Would you like to know the temperature reading of America?” she asked Tim.

“Of course,” he said.

“The question of the day: Do you feel like a recovery is close at hand?”

“I’d answer ‘No,’ ” said Tim.

“And I’d answer, ‘I don’t know,’ ” said Robin. “Because no one really knows what’s going to happen next, with the recession, the country, or our own lives.”

“One person’s life is a microcosm for the state of the union?”

“Not just one person’s,” she said. “Every person’s. Mine. Yours.”

He laughed. “Then let me poll the pollster: Do you feel like
your
recovery is close at hand?” asked Tim.

She grinned and recited, “I. Don’t. Know.”

“Wait and see,” he said, sipping his wine.

“Wait, see—and pray,” corrected Robin, “in a godless, secular way.”

“A toast to desperate times,” he said, raising his glass.

“Cheers,” she said, clinking.

They were still standing. Leaning on the kitchen island seemed safer than sitting together on the couch of cold comfort. Alicia had described it to the group as a raft adrift on the turbulent marital ocean. Hard to believe that Robin had never shared a couch with a man, even if it was to sit on opposite ends, not touching. She’d entertained men on her couch. But she hadn’t hung out with one just watching TV, reading the paper or a book. She tried to imagine a large hairy being seated in the corner of her sectional. Robin reclined on the chaise part, feet stretched out, resting on the man’s lap. Stephanie playing on the floor, organizing a Barbie group therapy session. What a pretty picture.

The man in the picture was Harvey Wilson, unfortunately.

Tim said, “I know you’re lying about meeting Alicia at Carla’s.”

Robin had momentarily forgotten that she was supposed to be rushing off to join his wife at a poker game.

“I’m sure Alicia talks a lot about our marriage,” Tim said, barely maintaining a friendly tone.

“Only good things,” said Robin, trying to keep it light.

“Bullshit,” he said bitterly.

“This is none of my business,” she said, finishing her wine, putting the glass on the butcher block island, and backing toward the door.

“There are two sides to the story,” he said, moving toward her, in a boldly aggressive manner. “You haven’t heard mine.”

“Why don’t you keep it to yourself?”

“Just listen to me for five fucking minutes.”

“Tim, you’re too close.”

“Whatever she’s told you, Alicia has her share of the blame. She’s very hard to live with,” he said, eyes wide and wild. “First, it was my fault we couldn’t get pregnant. Then I couldn’t do anything right as a father. Then I was a loser who couldn’t keep or get a job. Now I’m her goddamn house slave. Great life, let me tell you. Chores, errands, cleaning, cooking. Shlepping the kid around. It’s a real turn-on.”

“I should go,” Robin said nervously. It made her head hurt, how fast Tim changed from chatty charmer to hostile defender of his own honor.

“I was once a vice president at Macy’s, did Alicia bother telling you that? I had a staff. I made six figures. And now I oversee Joe and make dinner. It’s like I used to exist, and now I’m nothing,” railed Tim. “If a man doesn’t make money that makes him a fucking moron?”

“Well, in your case, not a
fucking
moron,” she said out loud. Totally by mistake. Slipped out. She felt threatened and instinctively pushed back with her big mouth.

Tim broke the glass in his hand. Wine splattered. Robin’s gasped
at the sound and sight of it.
Meltdown in progress
, she thought.
Get out now!
Was it safe to leave Joe alone with Tim? Should she grab the kid and run? No, that would make him really lose it.

Better to flee alone. She backed up, toward the door. When she felt it behind her, she managed to get it open and slip through. Running down the stairs (the elevator couldn’t come fast enough), Robin flew out of the building and into the parking lot at Fairway, her peasant skirt fluttering.

She fumbled with the fob, but got the BMW door open. Her heart pounding, Robin turned the key in the ignition, stepped on the gas, and drove straight into a pole.

“Shit!” she fumed.

She’d done some damage tonight. No point examining it or worrying about repairs now. She’d deal with it (the car and Alicia) tomorrow. Or the day after.