Hanging by a Thread (6 page)

But you know, nobody forced him to marry Tina. And she's right: he did know going in she didn't want kids.

His decision, I tell myself. His consequences to deal with.

“Man, she's getting so big,” he says when he comes back downstairs.

“Yep. Give 'em food and water and damned if they don't grow.”

He smiles, a sad tilt of his lips. “It's late,” he says, lifting his jacket from the back of the chair. “I should go.”

This time, I don't stop him. We walk out to the front door; Leo's gone up to his room, so no eagle ears are listening (I assume) as we stand in the foyer.

“I saw your mother earlier,” I say. “Pete and Heather are finally getting married, huh?”

Another smile, this time a weary one. “Yeah. At least there's some good news, right?”

I grab his arms, my impetuousness clearly surprising him. Not to mention me. I get another whiff of his scent, and something inside me goes,
Huh?

“You and Tina need to talk. Tonight,” I add, ignoring both his scent and the
Huh?
-ing. “You gotta get all this out in the open, tell her exactly what you've told me.” It's a long shot, but maybe if Luke opens up, Tina will too, absolving me of a responsibility I realize I do not want. “I'm not a marriage counselor, a shrink or a priest, and I'm tired of getting caught in the middle.”

He gives me a hard look and says softly, “Then maybe you shouldn't've put yourself there,” and walks out the door.

What the hell…?

My cell rings, faintly. It takes me five rings to locate it, still in my purse on the kitchen counter.

“Hi,” Tina says in a voice I haven't heard her use since she was about six.

“Uh…hi?”

I hear a whoosh of cigarette smoke. “Luke's there, isn't he?”

“Not anymore. And no, I didn't say anything.”

“What? Oh…I didn't think you would.” Surprise peers out from between her words, as though it never crossed her mind that I might. I can't decide if I'm touched or ticked.

“Teen—you two have got to hash this out. By yourselves.” I give her a second or two to absorb this. “And I think you know that.”

When she next speaks, I can barely hear her. “God, Ellie…I'm so scared.”

“I know you are, sweetie,” I say, as gently as I know how. “Which is why you have to talk to Luke. Trust him, okay? You know he loves you.”

I do not like the silence that greets this observation. So I prod her for the answer I want. “Right?”

“Yeah,” she says at last. “I guess.”

“Tina?”

“What?”

“Promise me you won't do anything until you've talked to him?”

There's another long pause, during which I can hear smoke being spewed.

“Promise?” I prompt.

“Okay, okay, fine.”

“I mean, I know it's your body and all that, but—”

“Jesus, I get it, already!” I expect her to hang up, but instead I hear, “Luke's the best thing that's ever happened to me, you know? The thought of letting him down…it makes me sick.”

I don't know what to say to this. Then she says:

“You really think I'd make an okay mother?”

Like I know what kind of mother she'd make. But I inject a bright note into my voice and say, “Hey. If I can do this, anybody can—”

“Crap, I hear Luke's key in the door, I gotta go. I'll call you tomorrow, 'kay?”

I click off my phone and toss it back in my purse, thinking, man, I am so glad I'm not in her shoes right now.

Especially since I'm not sure I'm doing such a hot job staying balanced in my own.

 

“So what's up with Luke and Tina?”

Frances's low, furtive voice ploughs into me when I emerge from her downstairs bathroom the following Sunday. Thank God I already peed. But I look Luke's mother straight in the eye and say with remarkable aplomb, “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Like that works. Knowing nobody will hear my screams for mercy over the din of Scardinares yakking away in the dining room—half the Italians left in Richmond Hill are in this house right now—Frances drags me into her home office and shuts the door, leaning against it for good measure. Underneath artfully tousled hair, bittersweet chocolate eyes bore into mine. A look I know is responsible for hundreds, if not thousands, of impassioned promises over the years to never do again whatever it was that provoked the look to begin with.

“I know Tina,” she says with the exasperated affection of a woman who loves more than understands her daughter-in-law. And who, like everybody else, wanted nothing more than to see Tina finally get a fair shake, to really be happy. She's hugging herself over a velour tunic free of any signs of having even been in a kitchen today. That would be because Jimmy Sr., not Frances, does all the major cooking. He says it relaxes him.
Frankly, I think it was that or starve to death. “Since when does she miss the first viewing of an engagement ring?”

I tell myself that since I'm not her child, I am impervious to The Look. “Maybe one of them's not feeling well?”

“So they'd call.” Her eyes narrow; my resistance dissolves like an ice cube in a frying pan. “You know something, I can tell you do. Luke's always talked to you more than anybody else, ever since you were kids.”

You remember what I said about not lying if I can possibly help it? This isn't due to an overabundance of moral fiber on my part, it's because I totally suck at it. My mouth goes dry; my cheeks flame. Then I realize that, since I haven't heard from either Luke or Tina since the other night, anyway, whatever information I might be able to dispense is already outdated. Right?

“Sorry, Frances. I honest to God have no idea what's going on.”

“Which I suppose is why your cheeks are the color of Jimmy's marinara sauce.”

“It's hot in here?”

The question mark at the end probably wasn't very bright. But before she can move in for the kill, somebody knocks on the door. It's Jason, looking particularly fetching tonight in several layers of shredded black T-shirts, torn jeans, and rampant despondency. He looks at me, his mouth struggling with the effort to smile. Kinda like my belly the one time I tried Pilates.

“Starr's wonderin' where you were,” he says to me, then turns to his mother. “And Luke called. Said he was sorry they couldn't make it, but Tina's not feeling good.”

“Oh?” Frances perks up like a hound catching a scent; Jason ducks her attempt to brush his hair out of his eyes. “He say what was wrong?”

“Uh-uh.”

“He want me to call back?”

“Dunno.”

“Oh, for God's sake,” Frances says, but I'm already out of the room to go find my daughter, so my butt is safe.

Until the next day, when Luke calls me at work.

“El! Guess what? I'm freakin' gonna be a
father!
”

T
he joy in his voice is indescribable. As is my reaction. Although let's go with stunned senseless, for the moment. I mean, yes, I'm relieved she's changed her mind. I guess. But at the same time, I'm getting disturbing images of trucks heading straight for brick walls.

Behind me—I'm taking the call in the middle of the workroom—Nikky and Jock are screaming at each other in different languages.

“Wow!” I force out. “That's wonderful! Congratulations!”

“Isn't it great? I mean, I had to do some fast talking to convince Teen it's gonna be okay, but she'll come around, I know she will. And maybe this'll get things back on track for her and me, you know?”

I swallow past a knot in my throat. “What did your mother say?”

“I haven't told her yet, Tina says she doesn't want to tell any
body until she's really sure. Something about getting past the first trimester. But how could I not tell you, huh? Anyway, gotta run, we'll see you later. Dinner to celebrate, you and Starr, our place, maybe this weekend?”

“Sure,” I say, but he's gone.

Well. This is great. Really. Luke's gonna have Tina
and
a baby. Just the way it's supposed to be. What he wanted. What I'd helped him get.

Well, send in the big fat hairy clowns, why not.

Behind me, Harold sticks his nose into the argument; the noise level is deafening. And heading my way.

“Where the hell do you get off,” Harold is now screaming in my face, “accepting that return from Marshall Field's?”

You know, I am so not in the mood for taking the brunt of somebody else's screw-up right now.

“Since the order clearly states the delivery date was three weeks ago,” I say with the sort of calm I imagine someone resigned to their imminent death must feel, “I didn't see as I had much choice. I couldn't exactly send it back, could I?”

Harold's face turns an interesting shade of aubergine. And the finger comes up, close enough to my nose to make me cross-eyed. “Then I suggest you get on the goddamn phone, young lady, and do some fast talking and get them to take it back! We can't afford to lose that order!”

The first words that come to mind are,
“So why didn't somebody make sure they got the frickin' order on time?”

“Harold,” Nikky says as she comes up behind him. “Leave Ellie alone. It's not her fault—”

He whirls on her. “That's right, it's not. It's yours, for being so goddamn disorganized you can't even make sure your goddamn orders are delivered on time!”

She doesn't say a word. Nor does her expression change. But not even three layers of makeup are sufficient to mask the color exploding in her cheeks.

Swear to God, I want to wrap my hands around the man's blubbery neck and choke him until his froglike little eyes pop out of his head.

“Nikky?” I say, “I'll call the buyer, see what I can do. Maybe if we give them a small discount—?”

“Like hell!” Harold bellows.

“Hey!” I bellow right back, because frankly, I don't care if Harold Katz thinks I'm the biggest bitch on wheels. “You wanna give me a little leverage here, or you want the whole order to land in an outlet mall in Jersey?”

The aubergine begins to fade to a dusty magenta. “Do what you can,” he finally says. “Just don't start out talking discounts, you got that?”

He turns on his heel and storms off. I'm tempted to salute behind his back, but Nikky's still standing there, looking at me as though I've either lost my mind or deserve a medal, I can't quite tell. Then it occurs to me that, to add insult to injury, Harold didn't suggest
Nikky
call the buyer. That he trusts some schleppy little assistant with about as much clout as a worm more than he does his wife, who happens to own the business.

“You wanna call 'em?” I say.

She seems to think this over for a minute. “I take it you're not asking me because you don't want to make the call.”

“Truthfully, I'm not sure that anybody should be making this call. But I don't mind doing it. If that's what
you
want.”

Her Lancômed lips twitch into a smile. “Start off with ten percent, on top of the standard seven/ten EOM.” The usual seven percent discount for bills paid by the tenth of the month following delivery. “And then pray the damn stuff sells so it doesn't boomerang back to us, anyway.”

Then she, too, turns and walks away, basically trusting me to fix things. Not that I mind—or care—but, excuse me? What's happening here? Is this really the same woman who only a few days ago played hardball with that fabric vendor,
who shrugged off her husband's bad-mouthing as nothing more than a mild annoyance?

Suddenly, I want to curl up in a ball and cry. Or go to sleep for a very long time. And I have no idea why. Aside from the fact that all the yelling has made my head hurt. But that, for the moment at least, seems to be over. Nikky, Harold and Jock have all spun off in different directions; all I can hear now is the hum of the heaters, the stop-and-start whirr of the sewing machines, the sporadic ringing of the phone and Jock's totally irritating Easy Listening FM station.

I'll make that phone call in a few minutes, when I'm not feeling quite so shell-shocked. Instead, I wander back out into the showroom, which, once again, is a wreck. So I start cleaning it up, my thoughts more jumbled than the samples covering every piece of furniture.

Luke's going to be a father, which he's always wanted. Tina's going to have the baby, which absolves me from having to keep a secret that was going to make me sick to keep. And who knows, maybe they can work things out, get their marriage back on track.

So why do I feel like shit?

Actually, I think I know. But going there would be on the same level as the dumb-as-dirt Gothic novel heroine who goes down into the cellar, by herself, at night, in her nightgown, because she hears a strange noise.

I pick up a wool crepe dress with a loose waist. The fabric is gorgeous, but I've never liked the neckline. Or where the waist falls. What's the point of making loose-fitting clothes if they just make a heavy woman look fatter?

You could do better,
a voice whispers, startling me.

“Ellie,
cara,
have you seen the pleated linen skirt?”

I look up. Jock's leaning against the door frame, one hand in the pocket of pleated black trousers, a lock of black hair casually slung across his forehead, just a hint of chest hair
curling over the dip of his black, V-neck cashmere sweater. He has these weird light eyes, somewhere between gray and green, that surrounded by his olive skin seem to laser right through me.

“The 1140?” I say.

He smiles. “I have no idea what the number is. Do we have more than one pleated linen skirt?”

“No, actually,” I say, riffling through the pile on a padded bench until I unearth it. Needless to say, it's a total mess. Which means I'll have to press it,
blech.

“Yes, yes, that's it,” Jock says, crossing the room to take it from me, his aftershave arriving five minutes before he does. “
Cara?
Are you all right?”

My head whips around at the genuine concern in his voice. “I'm fine. Why?”

To my shock, he tucks a finger under my chin, his eyebrows dipping. “You are lying. I see worry in your eyes.”

I turn away from his touch, which I neither need nor want. Or rather, I don't need or want Jock's touch. Because I'm suddenly and profoundly aware that I wouldn't mind
somebody's
touch. You know, a little masculine tenderness? Some guy who wants to take care of
me,
for a change? Not that I need to be taken care of, but it would be nice to have someone who wanted to.

Does that make sense? Or does it just make me a dopey, prefeminist throwback? And do I really care?

“I'm tired, that's all,” I say, realizing I'm perilously close to tears and really, really pissed with myself that I am. A linen blouse slips to the floor when I try to hang it up; Jock retrieves it, deliberately grazing my hand with his when he gives it back. It's everything I can do not to roll my eyes.

“That Mr. Harold,” he says gently, “he is a son of a bitch.”

Tempting as it is to agree with him, discretion isn't exactly one of Jock's strong suits. And playing people against each
other is. So I mutter something noncommittal and will him to go away.

He doesn't.

“Ellie…you are so young to be taking on other people's burdens,” he says, so naturally I turn to say, “What are you talking abou—?” which Jock somehow interprets as an invitation to kiss me.

I guess I kinda poke him with the hanger because the next thing I know he's yelling “Ow!” and holding his palm over his eye.

“Oh, God, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you! But I don't fool around with married men, Jock. Ever.”

“It was just a little kiss,” he says, pouting. He slowly lowers his hand, as though he's afraid his eyeball might fall out.

“Something tells me your wife might not see it that way.”

“She would not have to know.”

“I would know. You would know. Whether she knew or not is immaterial.” When he frowns, I explain, “It wouldn't matter. Whether she knew or not. Because we did.”

“Ah. You have, how do you say? Principles?”

“One or two I keep tucked away for special occasions.”

A rueful expression crosses his face. “I apologize, then. It was just that I thought—”

When he hesitates, I prompt (because I'm clearly insane), “You thought what?”

“I see a very pretty young woman who has not been kissed in a long time, so I think maybe I should do something about that.”

Gotta hand it to the guy. If he was aiming to stun me silly, he accomplished his mission.

“You know, maybe I should've wrapped this hanger around your
neck
instead,” I say, jamming it into the blouse's sleeves and clanging it onto the nearest rack. “Even if it had been a long time since I'd been kissed—which you would know
how?—where do you get off thinking it's up to you to do something about that?”

Jock chuckles. God, what an annoying little man. “Ah, there is the passion I suspect lies beneath that beautiful skin of yours.” He leans closer and winks. “The passion I feel in your soft lips.”

And then he walks away, rumpled skirt in hand.

Leaving the words “beautiful,” “passion” and “soft lips” hovering in the air in his wake.

Is my life a joke or what?

I take several deep breaths, reassure my poor bedraggled hormones it was just a false alarm, to go back to sleep, and manage to get through the next several hours without anyone trying to either bully or seduce me. Later that afternoon, I'm checking in several bolts of a gorgeous silk/linen blend that just arrived when Nikky—who's been gone most of the afternoon—pops up beside me.

“Were you able to make that phone call, darling?”

“To Fields'? Yep. All taken care of. I've already relabeled everything for UPS. Second Day Air.” When a pained look crosses her face, I add, “It was that or nothing, Nikky.”

She nods. I fully expect her to leave. But as I rip through the plastic wrapping to inspect the next bolt of cloth, she says, “Is everything okay?”

Geez, am I wearing a sign on my forehead or something? I blink up into what passes for Nikky's worried expression. I mean, I think she really wants to be empathetic. It's not her fault she's missing that gene.

“Yes, everything's fine.”

“Oh. Well, then…Marilyn and I were wondering if you could do us a huge favor.”

Marilyn's the daughter. Who must've come in the back way, unless I can now add blind to befuddled and depressed. While I can tolerate doing favors for Nikky—since she pays my
salary and doesn't treat me like pigeon poop—the idea of doing a favor for her daughter—who doesn't and does—isn't sitting well, just at the moment. However, resisting would require more energy than I have. So I abandon the bolts of fabric and follow Nikky back to her office.

And there she is, the dear.

“Hi, Marilyn,” I say brightly. “How's it going?”

Suspicious, dull blue eyes peer out at me from the safety of an equally dull, lethargic pageboy. A silvery gleam catches my eye—a stethoscope, nestled against a flat, broadcloth-covered chest all but hidden by a blah-colored trenchcoat. “Vintage” Burberry, as
Vogue
would say. Otherwise known as “old.”

Her chapped, bare lips purse, the word “Fine” squeezing through like a desiccated turd.

This epitome of charm and elegance is a first-year resident at Lenox Hill. I've yet to see her when she hasn't looked like a snarly, starving dog who dares you to take its bone away. However, since I'm a nice person—mostly—I offer her a smile. It is not returned. I do not take this slight personally, since I've never seen Marilyn be nice to anybody. Somehow, I doubt she's in medicine due to an overwhelming desire to ease the suffering of her fellow man.

I catch the expression on Nikky's face when she glances at her daughter, though, and I can't help but ache for her, a little. It's that did-
I
-do-this-to-you? look. It's a look I hope to God nobody ever sees in my eyes. A look I'm petrified somebody will, someday.

Do all mothers live in mortal fear of screwing up? I think of Tina, her terror at the thought of being a parent; of Frances, the worry lines permanently etched between her eyebrows, bracketing her mouth, lines that deepen to gullies whenever her kids pull a number on her. Whenever Jason enters her line of sight.

My heart begins to race as all the 4:00 a.m. ghoulies make
a rare daytime appearance, that Starr will be irrevocably damaged because I work / am single / leave her with her grandfather / leave her with Jason / leave her with Frances / won't get her a dog / let her eat junk food / eat too much junk food myself / wear my father's clothes / give her too much freedom / don't give her enough freedom.