Four Wives (4 page)

T
ROY WAS GONE BEFORE
Gayle woke, catching the five-fifty train that would get him to the office before the market opened. She rolled onto her back and pulled the covers up to her chin. It was still now, calm. A diffused light from the morning sun entered the room through delicate sheer curtains, the clock ticked back and forth on her night table. And though she could still smell his cologne in the air, her husband was gone. She closed her eyes and stretched her arms wide across the entire bed. She had made it through the night, and now it was her room, her house, for the rest of the day.

She climbed out of the bed, then methodically smoothed the covers, tucking in the sheet and, finally, draping the spread on top. With the bed made, she walked to the balcony doors and slid them open, letting in the fresh spring air. Looking down onto her property, a magnificent eight acres of rolling hills and delicate gardens, she pushed from her mind the details that needed to be tended. A patch of bark on one of the oaks that was black with the fungus that had been spreading across the town, the chewed evergreens that were evidence of a hole in the deer fencing. There would always be something, and there would be time for a list later in the day when the groundskeeper arrived. For now, she needed the feel of cool air on her legs as it swept under her nightgown, the faint warmth of the sun on her face. It was in these small moments of peace that she had come to live.

Under her bedroom floor, she could hear the sound of dishes as Paul prepared the breakfast. There would be fresh ground coffee whose odor would fill the kitchen and linger for hours, eggs, fruit, and cereal for Oliver, her six-year-old son. The table would be set with her grandmother’s china, delicate antique silver, and soft linen napkins. Oliver would sit quietly wishing he could watch TV, but he would sit just the same because he was coming to understand his world, and the importance of his upbringing. They would discuss their plans, what he might do with the day off from school, one of those staff-development vacations that never seemed to result in a more developed staff. She thought about the chapter of
Harry Potter
they were reading together, and how she would do her best to step outside of her inhibitions to perform the voices properly’the way that made him laugh.

Six-year-old feet bounded down the back stairs to the kitchen. Oliver was up and hoping to make it down before his mom so he could sneak in a few minutes of cartoons. Gayle smiled to herself as she walked to her dressing room, taking her time, thinking that a few minutes couldn’t hurt. She pulled the nightgown over her head, then carefully dressed herself in the blouse and silk slacks she’d laid out the night before. Like her friend Love, Gayle was a tall woman, though she lacked the soft, feminine curves that drew people in. Instead, she had a stalwart presence, a businesslike aura that she subconsciously fostered with conservative clothing and a short, blond “do,” a signature mark of professional women from the prior decade. She kept with the old school of fashion. Chanel suits, Gucci shoes and handbags, Tiffany pearls. It made people take her seriously, and allowed her to maintain a safe distance from the endless array of vultures who wanted a piece of the Haywood pie.

Gayle gave her hair a quick comb-through and applied some cream foundation. She chose her shoes, soft Italian leather slides, then descended the back stairs.

“Good morning, Mrs. Beck.” As expected, Paul was in the kitchen arranging the breakfast trays.

“Good morning, Paul. How are you?”

“Very well, thank you. Coffee?” Paul asked, pausing in his task of folding the napkins to address her properly, face to face.

“Thank you.” Gayle sat on a bar stool at the kitchen island as she watched him pour the coffee into a china cup, the same way he did every morning. Always dressed neatly in black slacks and a white button-down shirt’a self-imposed uniform’he was a presence in the house from sunup to sundown, unobtrusively tending to their every need. His official role was to serve as the cook, though his competence and easy manner had led to an expansion of his duties over the years. With gentle eyes, closely cropped gray hair, and a smile that was genuine, the fifty-two-year-old servant had imbued the Beck household with a peaceful sense of order, and been Gayle’s daily tonic for nearly three years.

Returning the smile, Gayle accepted the cup as he placed it in front of her from the other side of the island. She closed her eyes and inhaled the familiar aroma. The room was warm with the morning sun, and Gayle let the sensation drift within her. This room, the fine coffee, the sunshine, and, of course, Paul were like a warm blanket around her, and she was instantly serene. It was this very feeling she had sought from her husband when she’d purchased the Hunting Ridge estate, though it was now glaringly obvious that a simple change of address could do little to reverse the bad turn her marriage had taken. She had complied with her mother’s demands to quit work, get pregnant, and oversee the renovation on the 1890s farmhouse. She had complied with her husband’s demands to make the house outlandishly expensive. And for years she had waited, and hoped. But the moments kept coming, hidden beneath the immunity of marital relations.

“When will the ladies be here?” Paul asked, interrupting the thoughts that were now visible on his employer’s face.

“About an hour.”

“I’ve made some muffins for the children. Chocolate chip.”

“Mmmm. They’ll be thrilled.”

Paul nodded. “And you’ll be needing the dining room to discuss the benefit plans?”

“Unfortunately.”

“I’ll put down some linen.” He placed a folded napkin on one of the trays, then stood in front of her.

“Do you have packets as well?”

The “packets” were Gayle’s version of place cards, white folders with copies of the minutia for the benefit she was hosting’bids from florists and caterers, linen samples, seating charts, and lists of guests for the invitations. On each folder she’d written a name, one for each of them. Love, Marie, Janie, and herself. It was a small group by design. Janie was a fellow board member of the Cliffton Women’s Clinic, and a friend, who shared her vision for the clinic. The other two were volunteers she’d called to duty. The group’s familiarity was intended to keep the intrusion into her life at a minimum. And its members had been hand-picked to consist of trusted friends, women whose loyalty was to her. Women who would have her back with the rest of the board.

Paul had stopped folding things, but was still standing across the marble counter’the formal demarcation of their relationship. “Shall I set them out now?” he asked, referring to the packets.

“Please,” Gayle said, smiling to herself. She walked to her desk and retrieved the four white folders she had prepared the night before.

“The usual places?” Paul asked.

Gayle nodded. “It seems to be working.”

As he took the packets from her hands, they exchanged a warm, knowing look. Paul was deeply perceptive, and there was little about the world that got past him’including the social politics of her friendships. He would seat Marie at the head of the table, closest to the door. She liked to be in charge, and her limited patience for all things suburban (in particular, Janie Kirk) required she be in close proximity to the nearest exit. Gayle would sit across from her at the other end of the table, giving Marie a friendly face in her direct line of vision, and a reminder that her sacrifice was for a dear friend. Love would be to Gayle’s right. She was easy’Gayle’s oldest Hunting Ridge friend, Marie’s best friend and neighbor. She could be placed anywhere, but next to Marie would certainly help matters. Janie would take the seat to the left of Gayle’next to her closest friend in the group, across from Love who had the self-restraint to not gaze at her external perfection, and, hopefully, far enough away from Marie’s radar to prevent an overt display of ire.

That Paul knew all of this, that it passed easily yet unspoken between them, was profoundly comforting, and Gayle felt lightness sweep across her face.

Of course, Paul noticed this as well and seized the moment. “I’ll take care of it. You enjoy breakfast with Oliver. I’ll call him in.”

Having her son beside her was all that was missing.

Gayle smiled and nodded. “Thank you.”

“H
ow
MANY BIDS
ARE
there?”

Marie was annoyed the moment she picked up her packet. Despite Gayle’s careful placement, the little tolerance Marie had for Hunting Ridge was expended the moment she saw its very embodiment’Janie Kirk’in the room.

The folders were thick with a sea of papers submitted by every business that wanted a piece of the suburban fundraising action. It was ridiculous to Marie, this winning combination for party vendors, a vast supply of highly educated women with far too much time and disposable income on their hands. With their children at school and their homes tended by staff, the women of Hunting Ridge had taken to three forms of entertainment. Body perfecting, redecorating, and fundraising. Any one of these alone, or in combination with vacation planning, shopping, and obsessive self-assessment, could easily fill the hours between eight and three, five days a week. That they could simply write checks to the charities that caught their attention, or hire planners to run the events, was neither acknowledged nor considered. And this was more than enough to push Marie to the end of her rope.

“Look at this!”

Gayle caught Marie’s eye and smiled broadly. “At least we’re not doing another statistical analysis of Easter Bunny impersonators.”

“Phase”
Marie sighed, remembering the last committee she’d served on with Love and Gayle. It had been her first’a futile effort to meet people when she’d first landed in this town’and she’d sworn it would be the last.

Marie recounted the discussion. “Well, with the discount on the second bunny we could yield a significant advantage over prior egg hunts. … Little Bobby won’t have to wait as long in the line.”

“Oh, no, but if the lines are longer, little Bobby’s mommy might buy more crafts to keep little Bobby happy … ,” Love chimed in.

“I’m so glad I took out all those loans to go to Harvard. It’s come in so handy, and I only have eighty more years before it’ll all be paid off.”

“Marie,” Gayle said, pausing until her friend looked up from the table.

“What?”

“Have I thanked you for doing this?”

Marie sighed. “Only several hundred times. Sorry.” And she was, instantly. Gayle’s motives were generous and pure, though it was something she tended to forget in the face of the Haywood wealth. Cliffton was the next town over, but in another financial universe. It was a small city, and as such had urban troubles’impoverished women and children being near the top of the list. The clinic provided free medical services, childcare, and after-school enrichment programs. Gayle had joined the board the first year after moving out, and though Marie believed in the cause as well, she believed in Gayle more. Gayle was, after all, a Democrat, a
liberal
Democrat. Educated at Brown. A women’s studies major. She believed in sex education, accessible birth control, and political contributions to local officials willing to push for insurance coverage and Plan B contraceptives. Marie was on board with all of this.

What Marie couldn’t understand was that, despite the large Haywood contributions, the clinic’s finance committee habitually opted to use the yearly benefit money for prenatal care and upgrades to the facility. It was a centrist approach, easily swallowed by the vast Republican majority of their donor base, but it also left a huge gap in the services these women needed.

Now, finally, there was a chance to change all that. The gala had been in desperate need of a new home after the planned venue fell through. And although it would exact an enormous toll on her need for privacy and containment, Gayle had offered her home in exchange for a seat on the committee and a say in how the money was spent.

“How’s the vote leaning, anyway?” Love asked.

Gayle shrugged. “I’m working on it.”

“She’s a brilliant lobbyist,” Janie Kirk chimed in. “In all our years together on the board, I’ve never seen this woman so cleverly infiltrate the enemy ranks.” She looked at Gayle and gave her a wink. Gayle smiled back, though they both knew this wasn’t exactly the case. Gayle was smart, and she could be clever. But it wasn’t in her to engage in warfare, even of the social kind.

Marie knew this as well, and she shot a look of disapproval at Love. Wasn’t that the reason they were all here? Within the scope of half an hour, Marie could negotiate every demand Gayle had. These women needed her house, not to mention the ongoing support of the Haywoods. Marie could get it done in her sleep. That she couldn’t cure Gayle of her inability to exercise her own power was close to maddening.

Love shook her head in that
not now
way of hers, and Marie threw her hands in the air, but said nothing.

Pulling some papers from her folder, Janie changed the subject. “Anyway, can we at least choose the flowers? I have to go in about three min-utes.

“What’s in three minutes?” Marie said, her tone laced with judgment.

It did not go unnoticed, and Janie had come to expect nothing else. Marie had a chip on her shoulder from being a working mother. Her very identity was wrapped up in resenting the SAHMs (stay-at-home mothers), especially those like Janie who could afford help.

“I have a session with my trainer,” Janie said, rubbing it in just a little.

Marie did not look up. “You should just go then. Nothing gets done in three minutes.”

“That’s not exactly true,” Janie retorted, then paused for the slightest moment. “His name was Allen. Senior year. Two minutes, tops.”

Love and Gayle laughed, and Marie gave an obligatory smile.

Having had the last word, Janie gathered her things. “Sorry to leave you with the work.”

“It’s fine. Go to your session.” Gayle waved her off with a smile, and Janie blew back a kiss. Then she was gone, and her exit brought a sudden deflation of energy throughout the room.

“What?” Marie asked, taking note of the silence.

Love looked at Gayle, who shrugged. What could they possibly say about the giant chasm that divided these two women? Marie had a growing disdain of suburbia and Janie Kirk had made a career out of becoming the woman every other suburban woman wanted to be, and that every man wished he had. It was an irreconcilable situation.

“She’s too happy,” Marie said, finally. “Maybe she’s having an affair.”

“Marie!” Love said, putting down a florist bid.

“Well …”

Gayle shook her head. “I’ve known her for many years. She’s just a happy person.”

“OK, OK,” Marie relented. “Christ, I can be a real bitch. She just fills me with thoughts from the devil. What’s
wrong
with me?” Marie dropped her head to the table with customary drama.

Love and Gayle both smiled. There was something comforting in knowing another person as well as they knew Marie.

“Maybe we can perform an exorcism,” Love teased, rubbing her neck.

Gayle let go of her smile, her face growing concerned as she looked at her friend.

“What’s wrong with your neck, Lovey? That’s the third time you’ve had to rub it.” Her voice had a soft, maternal tone, and it made Love want to curl up in her lap.

“The baby was up again. I fell asleep in the rocker. I’ll be fine,” Love said, now self-conscious as she removed her hands from her neck. In truth, the pain had been with her for nearly a month’coming and going, attacking and retreating seemingly at random. That it had coincided with the arrival of her father’s letter was not lost on her, though it presented a significant dilemma for someone who did not believe in fate or any other kind of metaphysical occurrence.

“You don’t look fine,” Marie interjected, getting up from her chair. She walked around the table and stood behind Love, then placed her hands on Love’s shoulders.

“Really, I’m OK.” The feel of the soft hands on her skin reached deep inside her. It had been a long time since she’d let someone try to heal her, to help her even. Standing on her own, taking on as many burdens as she could unearth, had been a necessary distraction to live this life and hold back the currents of the past. But these burdens had become increasingly heavy and they created a powerful longing to be saved’one that she knew she would never give in to. She closed her eyes to hold back the tears.

“Just relax a little.” With gentle, caressing movements, Marie started to work on Love’s neck. “Now’what’s up with the night wakings?”

Love took a long breath as she felt the pain subside. And for the remainder of the hour, they distracted themselves with talk of their lives. Love described in detail Baby Will’s sleeping patterns. Marie, who had been through it herself, offered her own stories. Through concurrent interruptions from one or another of their children’Baby Will insisting on a seat in his mother’s lap, and a call from the electrician about the landscape lighting’Gayle worried out loud about the gala that would turn her home inside out, and they all plotted the revenge they would seek if the finance committee voted to spend the money on chenille throw pillows for the clinic’s lobby when all of this was said and done.

It was a good distraction, a pretty dance around the hot zones that were smoldering in each of them. Love said nothing more about the pain that came and went, or the letter from her father that was threatening to expose her past. Gayle left out any mention of her invisible illness and the pills needed to manage it. And Marie managed to stifle the growing discontentment with her life that was verging on intolerable. With the technical difficulty of a fine tango, they spoke of their children’s troubles and tiffs with their husbands without revealing the fears and secrets that held the threat of change. Motherhood could wear you down, but not make you crave something more. Husbands could be difficult, impossible even, but you could never stop loving them. These were the invisible lines that could not be crossed, the lines that held their world together, suspending reality long enough to get them through the day’until the distractions were gone, leaving nothing between them and the bare bones of their lives.