Mrs. Everything (56 page)

Jo didn’t believe that Kim was keeping Flora home because she thought that Jo and Shelley would send her home in a onesie decorated with rainbow triangles, or with a special affinity for the girl babies in her Tumblin’ Tots class. What she actually thought was worse: Kim was spending as much time as she could with her daughter because she was trying to make up for Jo’s deficiencies. Kim was determined to give her daughter the focused, loving attention that she’d decided she’d never received . . . and the truth was, her daughter wasn’t entirely wrong. Jo hadn’t been entirely engaged in Kim’s childhood. She’d been exhausted, she’d been bored, she’d been frantic for just thirty seconds by herself in the bathroom, without the knocks and cries of
Mommy, Mommy
, just so that she could change her tampon and wash her hands. Dave had been good with the girls, even if he’d called it
babysitting
, but Dave had been at work five days a week, and there were no extra hands for Kim and Missy, no one to say,
Oh, let me take them, you go take a shower, or a nap.
That house, that life, that husband, none of it had been what she’d really wanted, and Kim must have sensed that somehow.

Jo turned as she heard the door open. “Aunt Bethie!” Flora said, and began wiggling toward the door. Bethie’s brown hair was styled in layers, with blond highlights around her face. She wore a plum-colored wrap dress, black suede boots, a single gold cuff on her right wrist, and her wedding and engagement rings. Harold stood behind her in a sport coat and sweater, flannel pants, and polished cordovan loafers. He’d gotten broader in the chest as the years had passed, and his hair had turned a distinguished silver, but his smile, warm and welcoming, was just the way Jo remembered it. She felt tears prickling her eyes as Harold hugged her.

“You look terrific,” Jo told Bethie, thinking that Bethie could have passed for forty-five. She’d lost a little weight, too. The Zone diet, Jo thought. “I’m Zoning,” Bethie had said the last time Jo had visited. She’d been eating the same grilled chicken and fish and salads that she’d eaten on every other diet. She didn’t think there was a single eating plan or program that her sister had missed . . . and except for the diets that let you eat butter and heavy cream, they were all the same. Grilled fish, chicken and salad, no breads, no desserts, no fun.

“I stay out of the sun,” Bethie said. Jo handed the baby to Shelley and took Bethie into the living room, where a gigantic sectional sofa and a glass coffee table the size of a small skating rink failed to fill the empty space, and where artwork that Jo guessed had been bought for its scale and not its beauty barely covered a quarter of the walls. Persian carpets lined the floor, including one in shades of cream and gold and gray that Jo knew, because she’d seen the price tag, had cost more than Kim’s first semester of college, and an enormous television set stood in an equally enormous cupboard against the wall.

“Did you tell them yet?” Bethie asked.

Jo shook her head. “After dinner, I think. I’ll sit them all down together.”

“Are you feeling okay?” Jo nodded. Bethie looked at her, hard, then said, “You know I’m here for you. Anything you need.”

“I know. Thank you.” Jo felt tears threatening. She heard the front door open again, and Flora yelled, “Aunt Missy!” A minute later, Melissa was hugging her aunt and her mother hello.

“Look at you!” Bethie said, her voice approving. Melissa had never cared much for clothes, unlike her sisters, who’d always wanted this brand of jeans or that kind of sweater. Like her mother, Missy had always been the most comfortable in her T-shirts and sweatpants, but she’d figured out a uniform that worked for her in New York and was dressed in a version of it that afternoon: a crisp white blouse, open at the throat, high-waisted black trousers, and lace-up black patent-leather oxfords. The shirt and the shoes were both styled like menswear, and Melissa wore a man’s heavy watch on her wrist, but her tumble of shoulder-length curls and dangling, delicate gold earrings were feminine counterpoints to her masculine attire. She carried a leather messenger-style bag slung over one shoulder, bulging with manuscripts and advance reader’s copies of books that she’d distribute to her mother and her sister.

Kim poked her head into the room.

“Does anyone know where Lila is? I told her dinner was at four, and she promised to be here.”

Jo sighed, pulling her cell phone out of her purse and punching her daughter’s number. Unsurprisingly, the call went to voice mail, with Lila’s smart-aleck voice saying, “You know what to do,” and then a beep. Jo had offered to give Lila a ride to New Jersey, but of course Lila had plans for Wednesday night. “Everyone from high school’s going to be home, and a bunch of us are going out. I’ll probably sleep in and take a train,” she said.

“I guess we can wait . . .” Kim was wiping her hands on her apron when Matt came up behind her, in boat shoes and jeans and a dark-blue polo shirt. His round pink face had gotten rounder and pinker over the years, his fine blond hair had gotten thinner, and, as he put his hands on Kim’s shoulders, his expression was almost smug. That, thought Jo, hadn’t changed at all.

“Not too long,” he said. “Don’t want the turkey to dry out!”
He shook Harold’s hand and kissed Bethie’s cheek, treating them both with the kind of respectful deference that, Jo supposed, their wealth afforded them.

Kim looked at her mother. “Mom, what do you think?”

Jo gripped her phone, considering her son-in-law’s impatience and her own news. “Let’s get started,” she said. “Lila can eat when she gets here.”

*  *  *

The dinner was delicious. Jo couldn’t find fault with a single dish: not the creamy pumpkin soup or the sausage and pecan stuffing, not the velvety, lumpless gravy or the roast turkey, its skin lacquered a gorgeous dark brown, not the salad of arugula and baby spinach and fennel, with a tart, citrusy dressing, which cut the richness of the turkey and the honey-butter served with the biscuits and the corn bread. Jo didn’t have much appetite. The announcement she’d soon be making sat like a lead ball in her belly. She kept one eye on the door, looking for Lila, thinking that, as tasty as the food was, none of it had history. Jo thought about the turkeys that her father used to baste with melted margarine and teriyaki sauce, and wondered what Kim would say if she’d offered her daughter that recipe, and whether the hydrogenated fats in the margarine or the corn syrup in the teriyaki sauce would strike her as more offensive. She remembered how, years ago, Bethie and Harold had hosted Thanksgiving, and Harold had deep-fried a turkey in the garage of their house in Buckhead. That bird had been succulent, the skin crisp, the meat meltingly tender, so good that she’d snuck out of bed for a midnight snack and found Harold, his father, and two of his brothers in the kitchen, all of them happily gorging on turkey sandwiches, biscuits and gravy and sweet potato pie.

She looked down the table and was unsurprised to see that her Jell-O had gone untouched.

“Flora, want to try some Jell-O?” she asked. Flora frowned,
asking, “What is Jell-O?” and Jo, hoping Kim wouldn’t start grilling her about preservatives and Red Dye No. 3, scooped a bit onto Flora’s dish.

“So, Kim,” Jo asked. “How much longer does your maternity leave last?”

Kim, who’d been holding Leonie on her lap, exchanged a guilty look with her husband. “Actually,” said Kim, “I’m going to stay home for a while.”

“For how long?” Jo asked.

“I’m not sure,” said Kim, who, Jo knew, was sure of everything, from precisely how many pounds the turkey had weighed to how much money, to the penny, she had in her checking account. “It’s kind of open-ended.”

“She quit,” said Matt, popping a forkful of stuffing into his mouth. “Decided to let me be the breadwinner for a while.”

“You quit?” Jo repeated.

Kim glared at Matt, then turned to Jo. “I decided it was time to look for a job with more flexibility. I’ll be home for a while, and then I’ll find something else.”

“But you loved your job!” Melissa said, which was exactly what Jo had been thinking.

“It was just a lot,” Kim said. She was trying to smile, doing her best to sound happy. “If I went back I was going to be the lead attorney on a new case they were bringing to trial. It would’ve meant fourteen-hour days, plus commuting, and I just couldn’t.” She smoothed her free hand on her napkin, then patted her hair and repeated, “I just couldn’t.” She looked at her mother, and for the first time Jo could see the dark circles beneath Kim’s concealer, the pallor beneath the blush. “And I want to be here for my daughters. I’ll never get these years back if I miss them. I missed Flora’s first step . . . her first word . . .” Kim’s voice was cracking, and Jo, keeping her voice light, said, “You saw her second step. And you heard her say ‘Mama’ that night instead of that afternoon. Flora knows you’re her mother. She knows you love her. And, honey, if you’re not happy, she’s going to know that,
too.”

“I’m going to be happy.” Kim sounded like she was making a promise, although Jo wasn’t sure if she was making it to her, or her daughters, or herself. “I’m going to be here for them, and I’m going to be happy.”

Jo and Shelley looked at each other, and Shelley took Jo’s hand. “You know I’m free if you ever need help,” said Jo, and Sandra put down her wineglass and said, “And I’m just down the street!”
Which she was
, Jo thought,
Goddamnit
. She poured herself more wine, wondering if she had it in her to make her announcement here at the table. Maybe it would be better if she told everyone individually—Kim first, then Missy, and Lila, if Lila even showed up. She was thinking it through when the door slammed, heels clicked across the marble floor, and a voice called, “Let the games begin!”

And there was Jo’s youngest, her baby, in a tiny, clinging Lycra miniskirt, black tights, black boots with stacked heels, and a black leather jacket over a crop top that revealed a sliver of smooth belly and the glint of a new piercing. Lila’s hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun, with tendrils escaping to brush her cheeks and the back of her neck. Her lips were painted a vivid red, and her eyes looked unfocused. Down at the opposite end of the table, Jo saw her son-in-law and his mother exchange a look as Lila sauntered toward the table.

“Auntie Lila, sit near me!” Flora crowed.

“Jo, Ro, and Flo!” said Lila. She pulled out the chair beside Flora. “What’d I miss?” she asked, helping herself to a biscuit.

“Well,” Kim said, with a tight smile. “I just told everyone that I’m going to be extending my maternity leave and looking for a new job.”

“Oh?” Lila’s eyes glittered as she cocked her head, looking like a curious, malevolent bird. “The Stepford Wives of Fort Lee finally got to you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Kim, smoothing her napkin.

“Bitch, please,” Lila drawled.

“Language,” Sandra murmured. Lila ignored her.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Every single woman on this street went to an Ivy League school, and most of them have advanced degrees, and all of them stay home full-time with their kiddos. They drive around in Range Rovers and take the kids to Tot Shabbat.” Lila filled her glass with red wine, took a swallow, and reached for the turkey as Kim said, “It’s true, some of the women have put their careers on hiatus . . .”

“Hiatus!” Lila hooted.

Kim’s voice was high and indignant. “But they’re going to go back to work. I am, too.”

“So what’s your plan?” Lila’s voice was silky. “You’re going to take five or six years off and then walk back in there and pick up exactly where you started?”

“Maybe not there,” Kim said, “but I can find a job that’s more flexible. I’ve got skills. I’ve got experience.”

“Sure you do,” said Lila. “And what’s a little five-year vacation when you’ve got skills and experience?” She paused for a swallow of wine. “Personally, I think Melissa’s the one who’s got it figured out. No kids. No husband. Excuse me, no spouse,” she said, giving Jo and Shelley a look of exaggerated apology. “Nothing on her plate but the great Lester Shaub. Right, Missy?”

Jo thought she saw Missy cringe. Lila’s voice became dangerously soft.

“Whatever Lester wants, Lester gets.”

“Lester is a legendary editor,” Melissa said. “I’m lucky to work for him.”

“Sure,” Lila said, in that deceptively calm voice. “You’re lucky. But he’s lucky, too. He gets whatever he wants. Doesn’t he?”

Matt’s voice was bluff and hearty. “Sounds like you’ve got some good publishing gossip.”

“Oh, I’ve got stories,” Lila said. “Who here read
Stone Soup
?”
Stone Soup
, Jo knew, was Lester’s latest big book, written by a twenty-six-year-old wunderkind named Isla Clare. The book had
been written up everywhere, with the stories accompanied by a photograph of the young, dark-haired author in some sultry, sloe-eyed pose, with her hair tumbled around her shoulders and her tattoos on display.

“I bought it,” Matt said.

Of course he did
, thought Jo.

“Of course you did,” said Lila.

“I read it,” Shelley said quickly. “It was fantastic.”

“Lester thought so, too,” Lila said. “Of course, it needed some changes. He put the author up in the St. Regis, and he’d visit her every afternoon. To help her with the edits, he said.”

“That’s how it works,” said Melissa. “Lots of editors don’t even edit. They just acquire books, and they don’t even try to make them better. Lester’s different. He sees writing a novel as a partnership.”

“A partnership,” Lila repeated. “Except in a partnership, both people get something, right? Although maybe it was a partnership. Isla Clare got the best editor in America to make her book as good as it could be. And Lester got Isla.”

“That’s enough.” Missy was half out of her seat, her face flushed.

“Lucky Lester,” Lila said. “To have such a loyal second-in-command. Someone who defends him, no matter what he does. Or who he does it to.”

“Shut up,” Missy snapped. “And, just FYI, Lila, Lester told me that you were the one who came on to him.”