Good Little Wives (3 page)

She'd smiled and bowed and said, “It was a pleasure to have you,” all the while holding her secret close to her chest, so close that Mr. Chang could not suspect anything might be askew, so close that Bob wouldn't know, either.

Finally they'd left. She'd sat there and watched as Jeffrey packed up his rakes and his hoes and departed, too. And now she stared at the stillness of the earth and the quiet of the
sky as the sun slid toward the horizon, its soft salmon color stretching its arms.

She sat there in the silence and wondered how soon it would be before everything erupted. How soon it would be before someone, somehow, would learn that, before Yolanda, Vincent DeLano had been sleeping with her.

Lauren Halliday had been born Lauren Bryson
of the Boston–Palm Beach–Nantucket Brysons. The silver spoon in her mouth had literally been a ladle, intricately carved by Paul Revere himself and owned by her industrialist and abolitionist great-great-great grandfather, who'd been gifted it for his “statesmanlike spirit” in helping desegregate Boston.

From the Beacon Street brownstone where she'd been raised, to the waterfront mansion where the family wintered, and the sprawling, gray-shingled “cottage” where they summered, Lauren had it all.

She was quiet and sweet, always eager to help. She went to the right schools, had the right friends, wore the right clothes, smiled the right smile. She never had acne, had perfect blond
hair that to this day she wore demurely long, tied back with a pretty ribbon. As a young girl she'd been a natural at dancing and on horseback, and she loved her volunteer job giving out books at the hospital because it made her father so proud. At twelve, however, she was whacked in the head by the boom of a sail mast (did her cousin Gracie really not see her?) and soon after, she developed ulcers, which the doctors said she'd outgrow. When she didn't, they put her on Xanax, which she still enjoyed on occasion.

Bob had been a friend of her father's, a member of the Harvard Club, an investment manager for First New York National, where he'd gone from New Boston Bank & Trust, where her father had been senior vice president.

Lauren married Bob eighteen years ago when she was thirty-one and he, forty-nine. It was a second marriage for both. (Her first to the son of a lobsterman who was more enamored of her cash than of her—as her father, too late, had predicted; Bob's first to a woman who'd borne him seven children, then had the misfortune to be hit by a bus. “A
city
bus, of all things,” Lauren's mother had wailed. “
Public transportation.
”)

Unlike less privileged Gracie, who'd been raised with Lauren's leftover clothes and accessories once Lauren had tired of them or they'd gone out of style, this was the first time Lauren had been given a hand-me-down. Fortunately, by the time she and Bob married, two of his kids had their degrees and were living on their own, two were still in college, and only three were still “school age”—nine, twelve, and fifteen—still in need of some sort of mothering, which Lauren would have done if only she knew how.

But like her father, Bob was rich, so instead of patience and
hugging, Lauren offered nannies (they were too old for that), then summer camps, then child psychologists. When the kids finally grew up she was hugely relieved, though she never said so.

The thing with Vincent had been a fluke.

Bob had turned sixty-five, and along with the milestone came impotence. With impotence came frustration, then confusion, then anger.

He was angry, she supposed, at the clock and the calendar and the fact that, though he played racquetball and golf and ran three miles a day, Mother Nature had pointed her finger and said, “Done.”

So his penis was wilted like overcooked pasta and he refused the Viagra and the rest of the stuff, citing that this must be a “virus” or some other phenomenon, that surely his noodle would come back to life and spring forth once again from his pants.

He had, after all, fathered seven children. Clearly he had no problems in the bedroom.

She tried blowjobs and oils and getting on top. She tried whipped cream and pornography and negligees with the nipples cut out.

None of it worked.

After a year, Lauren was horny. Well, the truth was, after two weeks, Lauren was horny, but it took her a year to admit it. And that long to wonder if Bob's “virus” would define the rest of her life.

Then, on a simple, run-of-the-mill Tuesday, there was Vincent.

She'd been in the city buying china because Dory's wedding
was in a few weeks, and Lauren wanted to be certain the girl had the best. She'd taken the train because Bob was using their driver, and she hated the traffic and the hassle of parking.

There had been an accident of some sort on the tracks north of the city. The train to New Falls was delayed. She went into The Campbell Apartment—a chic bar in Grand Central Station—for wine and the wait. Within five minutes Vincent DeLano sat down beside her.

“If it isn't Lauren Halliday,” he said with a grin.

They talked.

They drank.

The train was stalled another hour.

They discussed having dinner, but drank more instead. Then Vincent told her she was the prettiest of all of Kitty's friends. That she was the sweetest, the absolute sexiest. That whenever he saw her, his penis got hard. Very hard.

Did Bob know how lucky he was?

If he hadn't mentioned Bob, Lauren might have escaped. Instead her hand traveled to Vincent's crotch, right there in The Campbell Apartment in Grand Central. He was right: His package bulged.

Luckily the Helmsley was within walking distance.

By the time they were finished, Lauren was weak-kneed and raw. And God, she felt good. If she felt any guilt, it was over the fact that she didn't feel guilty. For once in her life she had been a bad girl, and God, yes, it had felt good.

A few months and dozens of lusty afternoons later, she found out that Vincent was also seeing Yolanda. The thought of him touching the woman whose hands touched her hair had been too repulsive for words.

Now that he was gone, she should feel relieved, the way she'd felt when Bob's kids finally left. But as she sat in her boudoir, staring out at the sunset, Lauren could think only one perilous thought: Had Vincent told anyone about their affair, and if so, would they tell the police?

Tarrytown, New York, was where Washington
Irving had penned
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow
, so it wasn't unheard of for odd things to happen there. It was also downriver from Ossining, the home of notorious Sing Sing prison that now boasted twice as many annual visitors as inmates. Kitty wouldn't go there if she were convicted because she wasn't a man.

Instead she'd no doubt end up in the quaint little hamlet of Bedford Hills, which housed the only maximum-security facility for women in the state, or at least that's what Dana figured would happen, though no one at the table seemed to want to address it.

They were at Calabrese the day after Kitty's arraignment.
They sat in a private spot in a corner as Caroline had requested.

“It's our fault, isn't it?” Bridget said before Kitty arrived.

“That Kitty killed her husband?” Caroline asked. A hint of disdain laced her voice, as if to ask how Bridget could entertain such a thought.

“That Kitty
allegedly
killed Vincent,” Dana corrected.

“Why on earth is it our fault?” Caroline asked.

“Because we are
dégout
snobs,” Bridget continued. “Kitty was our friend, and when Vincent dumped her, we all did, too.”

Caroline made no comment.

Dana didn't, either. It had, after all, been only yesterday that she'd reminded herself that they were, indeed, snobs. Instead of commenting, she looked around the restaurant. It was decorated in red and green, Italian colors. The tables were dressed up with Chianti bottles whose necks wore long shawls of candle wax. The walls displayed harbor scenes that looked as if they'd been painted by number.

All in all, the place was tacky enough to minimize the number of patrons who might recognize them. Besides, they were in Tarrytown.

Bridget was right, Dana thought. They were
dégout
snobs.

Caroline selected wine and told the waiter they'd wait for the rest of their party to order their food.

“And now Kitty's late,” Bridget added, eyes scanning the room. The women of New Falls
never
were late, no matter how small the event. They might be snobs, but they were not prima donnas, at least not about time.

“I asked her to be here at one,” Caroline said. “I wanted to speak with both of you before she arrived.”

You spoke with both of us—sort of—on the phone yesterday,
Dana wanted to say. But she supposed the wine and the setting were part of Caroline's plan. She always, after all, had a plan. It was how she was able to successfully juggle so many boards of directors.

“I've located an attorney for Kitty,” she said, hand sliding into her Gucci daytime bag and extracting a business card. “Paul Tobin,” she said. “He's in White Plains. She has an appointment Monday at eleven.”

There were two things that Dana found disturbing: first, that Caroline hadn't “located” a Manhattan lawyer; second, that she handed the card to her.

She tried handing it back. “I think you should give this to Kitty yourself,” Dana said. Caroline had been a good friend over the years—well, as good a friend as a New Falls wife could be—but lately she'd begun to irritate Dana. The charities, the agendas, the quest for perfection…God, was Caroline ever not perfect? Then Dana's eyes moved to Caroline's lips. She couldn't hold back a tiny smile.

“I can't stay for lunch,” Caroline said. “In fact, the truth is, I can't be any part of this. I've secured Mr. Tobin and paid his retainer. But that's all I can do on Kitty's behalf.”

Dana's smile waned. She had paid a retainer?

“How generous of you,” Bridget said before Dana could ask what on earth had motivated Caroline to pay thousands of dollars to help a friend that she'd written off.

The wine arrived; Caroline stood up. “Enjoy your lunch,”
she said, adjusting Gucci on her shoulder. “The waiter has been instructed to put it on my card. And by the way,” she added with a cool grin through those lips, “Please tell Kitty not to call me again.”

It was a great exit line, so that's what she did.

 

Dana's husband came home that night, two days ahead of schedule.

She was back on the love seat, feet propped on the coffee table, mulling over the lunch where no one had ended up eating or even drinking. She was thinking about Bridget and Kitty and odd Caroline, when Steven walked through the door.

“Is fifty-eight too young to retire?” He dropped his suitcase on the floor and flopped on the love seat across from her.

Of all her friends' husbands, Steven had retained his looks best of all. He'd never been a Hollywood type, never chiseled and schmiseled and drop-dead Redford or Pitt. But Steven was tall and straight-backed with startling cobalt eyes and good cheekbones and a slightly receding hairline that, along with his wire-framed glasses, made him look sincere.
Sincere
was a good thing for a man who specialized in mergers and acquisitions.

He was not the sort of man a woman might murder.

But did they have enough money for him to retire? After today, she was wincingly aware of the parallel between having money and being a
dégout
snob. She'd never minded being a lighthearted, regular snob, because she'd never really taken it seriously. But now Bridget had made them sound so, well, appalling.

“Was your trip that exhausting?” Dana asked, then added, “Would you like a drink?” It was, after all, a New Falls wifely duty to honor and serve, even if it only meant bourbon.

He waved his hand. “No drink. Not tonight.”

She was grateful she didn't have to get up off the couch. “You're early. Does that mean things didn't go well?”

Rubbing his hand over his hairline (probably encouraging it to recede all the more), he said, “Actually the deal went fine. Quickly. We wrapped it up in record time.”

“And now you're exhausted.”

“Yeah. I really hate all this traveling lately.”

“Then retire.”

He laughed. “And do what?”

Dana shrugged. “Play golf. Take up sailing. I don't know. What do other men do?”

He laughed again, dismissing the notion. “Tell me what you've been up to while I was away. You looked rather thoughtful. Is anything wrong?”

With a giant sigh, Dana told him that Vincent DeLano was dead and Kitty had been arrested and Bridget thought all her friends were snobs and Caroline was acting peculiar.

“Caroline Meacham has always been peculiar,” Steven said, “so that part's not news. And you probably are snobs, so what?”

Dana laughed and poked her foot at his, which was now parked on the coffee table, too. “You didn't say anything about Vincent and Kitty.”

“I'm digesting that.”

“It's murder, Steven. Not chicken soup.”

“Speaking of which, what's for dinner?”

“Steven!”

Now it was his turn to sigh. “I could say I'm not surprised. I could say it's too bad that Kitty has been arrested, but who could blame her?”

“Blame her? Because of Yolanda?”

“Yolanda? The hairdresser?” Steven chuckled. “Christ, what about your friend Lauren?”

Dana blanched. “What? What about Lauren?”

He rubbed his hairline again. “Didn't I tell you I saw them?”

“Saw who?”

“Them.
It was a while ago. Months. Maybe a year. I don't know. I thought I told you.”

Dana sat up straight. “Steven,” she said. “Spit it out.”

“I was meeting Ed Cannon from the UK for drinks. When was that? Was it last summer? Well, whatever. We were going to Harry's but it was packed. No. It wasn't summer. It was in the spring. Right around…oh, I know. April fifteenth. Which was why the bar was packed.” He smiled as if he were a genius.

Dana held herself back from lunging at him.

“I decided to wait for Ed in the lobby. At the Helmsley, you know?”

Of course she knew Harry's Bar was at the Helmsley.

“That's when I saw Lauren and Vincent get off the elevator. They were all over each other, like they'd just come from enjoying one of the Helmsley's fine rooms.”

If he'd said the earth had cracked open and sucked in Manhattan, it might have made more sense.

Lauren and Vincent?

Their
Lauren and
Kitty's
Vincent?

Steven pulled his long legs from the table and slowly stood up. “I think I'll get that drink after all. Do you want anything?”

But Dana sat mute, too stunned to drink or to move or to breathe.

 

If it weren't for Luc, Bridget would cancel her trip to Provence and let Aimée fly home alone. She would go with Kitty and Dana to the appointment with attorney Paul Tobin and help provide backup, the way singers did, her alto to Kitty's soprano. It was bad enough the women were snobs. At least they could stick together.

Bridget was so pissed that Caroline had so blatantly blown off Kitty that she would do just about anything to help the poor woman. Except, of course, cancel her trip.

Back in Aimée's closet, Bridget began counting and folding sweaters again, wondering why she'd let her daughter accumulate the trappings of the wealthy that she was beginning to hate.

Of all the women of New Falls, Bridget was the one who knew what it was like to be the outcast, society's rubbish, the one without money and material stuff.

Her father, after all, had been a French cowboy. Bridget had been raised on the Camargue in southwestern Provence amid the white horses and pink flamingos and the Gypsies who gathered in spring. She'd attended school in Ste. Marie de la Mer—where Mary Magdalene was thought to have landed after Jesus' crucifixion—where the Petit Rhône meets the Mediterranean Sea, where shellfish were abundant and olives and figs were trucked in from the hills. She'd worshipped
in the ninth-century church, rebuilt by the monks into the town's fortifications.

It was a lively, safe, healthy place to be raised, even in the sixties and seventies, when the rest of the world seemed to be falling apart with protests and riots and wars.

When she was eleven, Bridget fell in love with Luc, a cowboy like her father, though he was just thirteen. At seventeen Luc was fighting the black Camargue bulls at the medieval arena in French style, so the bulls were not killed.

They were meant to be together, Bridget and Luc.

When he was twenty, they married. When he was twenty-one, and Bridget, nineteen, they had a son, Alain, who they named after her father. When Luc was twenty-four, and Bridget, twenty-two, Luc was gored by a bull. He lost the use of both legs but not of his penis, though his depression was so great, he hardly cared about sex.

Even a place as idyllic as Ste. Marie de la Mer could not renew Luc's spirits.

He wanted her to leave, to take Alain with her, to have a chance at the normal life she deserved.

But Bridget would not go.

They had little money; they moved in with her parents; when her mother died, they stayed with her father, and Bridget took care of them all. Alain was the glue that held them together, the charming little boy with his father's sensitive soul and his grandfather's name.

Then, one day after school, five-year-old Alain wandered off through the marshes, perhaps following the wild horses. He was found the next day, drowned in the swamp, his perfect little body already bloated with death.

The year that followed was a long bad dream, with time passing like the speed-train from Marseilles to Paris, the image out the window too blurred to allow for emotion. The next thing Bridget knew, she was waiting on tables near the Sorbonne, a woman who had lost her child, and whose husband had become bitter and loveless and so she'd divorced him.

“Life on the Camargue is no life for me now,” she'd said to Luc when she said good-bye. He did not disagree.

Six years later, when Bridget had already been married to Randall for five, had been living in New Falls among the rich Americans, her father died.

She returned for the funeral. She seduced Luc; she wanted him back. He said no: He had another wife now, another child. Apparently his depression had lifted.

She had no pain after that, only a dull, aching loss that never left her, winter, spring, summer, fall. Her life was with Randall, but her heart was not there.

When Aimée was born, Bridget was determined her daughter would have all the things Bridget had not, that her life would be better than life on the Camargue with the white horses. But as time passed, Luc had not left Bridget's mind, and last fall she returned to Provence, under the ruse of enrolling her daughter in a French private school.

She'd seen him then, though not alone. Randall had been with her, after all. She'd introduced Luc as an old family friend, a protégé of her father's, a cowboy long ago.

At Christmastime she convinced Randall to let her cross the Atlantic to escort Aimée home. How could she have known Luc was on holiday in Paris?

Maybe this time
, Bridget thought with a smile.
Maybe I will see him, and I will tell him I am sick, and then he will come back to me.

Her daydream was interrupted by her husband's footsteps across the bedroom carpet. “I thought I'd find you in here,” Randall said. He was shorter than most men and wore a toupee to which his stylist had recently begun adding gray. He had kind eyes and a kind heart and deserved someone better than her. “I heard about Vincent DeLano.”

Bridget nodded. “
C'est terrible
,” she said.

“And Kitty. Your friend.”

“She did not kill him.”

“Do you know that for sure?”

“Non
.”

He gestured toward the suitcase. “I will go get her,” he said. “You stay here in New Falls. I suspect Kitty will need you.”