Perfect Little Ladies (4 page)

A slightly wicked smile crossed her lips. In light of Elinor’s, well, indiscretion, it might be safe now—and kind of fun—to share her own silly truths with her friends.

“There was Donald in Dallas,” she could begin.

“And Larry in Las Vegas.

“And Parker in San Jose.

“I found them online, arranged date after date, in cities and towns where auditions were held—the first rounds, the quarterfinals, the semifinals, too, not to mention the regional tryouts in between.”

Elinor and Poppy would need a drink before Alice could continue. They would have wine, because this would be a long story.

“It began on a lark,” Alice would explain, “something to pass the time while Kiley Kate was in chaperoned sessions or early-to-bed.” There was, after all, little to do in a strange place for a few days. The other contestants and their families could hardly socialize; competition did not breed good friendships.

She would say she’d grown tired of being sequestered in hotel rooms, cranking up noisy air-conditioning units with each drippy new hot flash. She would say she’d needed to find a pastime more engaging.

She wasn’t certain how much more she should tell. Should she mention that Chicago had been first? Danny. Alice had wondered what sort of grown man would call himself by a childhood nickname; she’d soon learned it was the sort who showed up for their date with a single red rose, who made up for below-average looks with kind, gentle words, who sent teardrop sapphire earrings (“To match your lovely eyes”) the next day with a promise of dinner to be followed by “clothes-shredding sex.” She’d sent back the earrings and said, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

She could tell them that in Richmond there had been a Civil War reenactor, who had a tattoo of a Confederate flag on his chest and claimed that his dick was a musket.

Or that in St. Louis there had been a tall, thin man who’d
resembled the arch and was a descendant of Harland Bartholomew, the great urban planner who’d designed the city.

She just didn’t know how much to share with Elinor, her once-perfect idol. Could she admit that this harmless game had begun on a lark but had grown to salvage her day-today sanity? That it massaged her dispirited life, which should have been ideal, because, like Elinor, Alice Sussman Bartlett had made sure she had gotten it all: home, husband, children, health, wealth, and oh, yes, status, at least unless Mount Kasteel learned the rest.

Had middle-aged mania spurred Elinor, too?

If Alice only knew who Elinor’s lover was, it might help her decide how much to share. Was he one of many, or was he a real lover? Was he a man Elinor might leave Malcolm for? No. Not hardly, any more than Alice would leave Neal for the amusement she found on the road.

But yes, hers was a harmless game. It was simply something to think about other than the infernal hot flashes that left her feeling wrecked the better part of most every day.

Pulling into the driveway of her daughter’s small but neat Tudor, Alice nearly hit a flying football that dropped, then bounced, onto the asphalt. She slammed on her brakes, grateful the ball wasn’t a kid.

“Mother,” called Melissa, Mom-of-the-year, as she trundled over the front lawn with seven-year old Steven and five-year old David, Junior, trailing behind her. “We weren’t expecting you.”

Alice turned off the ignition, grabbed the shopping bag, and got out of the car. “Your father’s in the city. I thought I’d deliver Kiley Kate’s new outfit for Orlando.”

“She’s inside,” Melissa said, then pointed to the bag. “But
you can return that. She says she’s not going to go to the tryouts. That she doesn’t want to be a singer anymore.”

“Of course you want to be a singer,” Alice said once she was in the house and found Kiley Kate in her bedroom, playing with Coco, the calico kitten. Alice was ashamed to acknowledge to herself that her stomach had pitched like the football in the driveway when Melissa had said Kiley Kate was done with her career. She was ashamed that her out-of-town pastime had become so important. “Every kid in America wants to be on
USA Sings
. You’re lucky enough to have a real chance.”

That part was true: Kiley Kate was an energetic child with a power-packed voice, a thick head of blonde waves, and giant cobalt eyes, the same color as Alice’s, the same color as Kiley Kate’s Aunt Felicity’s, who never enhanced them with a light schmear of shadow or swift stroke of liner. If
USA Sings
had a “best-looking” category, Kiley Kate surely would win. The judges, however, maintained that the decisions weren’t based on looks but on talent, as if that’s all it took to make it these days.

Alice sat on the bed and stroked her granddaughter’s hair.

“Mommy says you and Grampy have spent a lot of money and I shouldn’t disappoint you by dropping out.”

Alice wished Kiley Kate hadn’t reminded her it was
Grampy’s
hard-earned, overachieved dollars that paid for her fun.

“Honey, if you want to drop out, you should. But first, make sure you know why. Is it because of Morgan Johnson? Or Taylor LeDuc?” Morgan and Taylor, rock and rap performers, had received recent attention from local judges. With the final-finals set for Philadelphia just weeks away, no doubt Kiley Kate did not want to fail.

“I can’t win,” she said. “I’ll never win.” She’d had a real chance for the free trip to Hollywood and a slot on the show before either Morgan or Taylor had arrived on the scene with high-priced coaches Alice suspected of being judge-related: brother-in-law, mother-in-law, whatever.

Alice picked up the kitten and held it close. She’d always hated letting things go. She supposed that was why she’d held onto Neal for so long.

As she rubbed Coco’s fur, she thought about the theme-park magician named Bud. He was the latest man she’d found online, her Orlando game waiting to happen. She’d been looking forward to fun conversation, slice-of-life stories about stressed-out vacationing families, stories he’d no doubt reenact to show how entertaining he was, how clever, how charming, how able to conduct an irresistible prelude to foreplay.

Irresistible, no doubt, to him.

She supposed she’d known all along that she’d been taking chances. Someday Bud or Donald or Larry or Parker might not take no for an answer; someday Alice might not
want
to say no; someday it could be her panties, not Elinor’s, found in a Dumpster, and a blackmail note could be delivered to her. Or to Neal.

“What’s in the bag, Grammy?” Kiley Kate suddenly asked.

Alice nuzzled the kitten, then set it on the floor. “It was for Orlando. But maybe we shouldn’t go after all.” She stood up, picked up the bag.
Yes
, she thought,
maybe we shouldn’t. Maybe it’s time for the game to be over before I’m the one who ends up in a pickle.

“Can I see, Grammy?” The sapphire eyes pleaded with Alice.

“No, honey. I’ll return it. I’ll buy you a pretty outfit for school.”

“Please, Grammy? Can’t I just peek?”

Well, maybe a peek wouldn’t hurt. Alice pulled out pink and white sparkly shorts and a matching, dazzling fringed top. Despite her pronouncement, Kiley Kate gasped.

“Oh, Grammy, they’re beautiful!” She quickly scrambled out of her clothes. “Help me try them on!”

Alice faltered only a second. Then she unzipped the zipper, slipped the top over Kiley Kate’s beautiful waves, and said a quick prayer that Bud in Orlando would be benign like the others, that she’d merely been overreacting because of Elinor and the lavender lace.

Six

Yolanda Valdes DeLano wouldn’t have been
where she was if her big brother hadn’t joined the army and sent money home to the Bronx. The cash had been for beauty school, The Big Apple School of
Esthetology
—a word that had given Yolanda’s mother a hoot.

“Well, aren’t you something?” her mother had said.

Ten years later, Yolanda really
was
something, after she’d done a wash and set on a woman from New Falls, who’d been in town for a funeral. The woman had been cursed with coarse hair, and Yolanda had performed such a miracle that the woman found her a job in the classy-ass town that she’d said was “upstate”—if that’s what the Hudson River Valley was called.

Upon her arrival, her new customers hadn’t been able to tell
if she was black or white or Hispanic, and they hadn’t cared, as long as she did their hair and their nails. Then she met Vincent, and they fell in love, and the women looked at her differently, but not good. He tried to convince her to tell them that her father had come from Havana on a raft—a real, freaking
raft
. He said that if they knew the truth, they would take pity and love her like he did.

But she’d been embarrassed, and then she’d been pregnant, and then they’d gotten married, and the rest was ancient history, including the fact that Vincent, her husband, was now dead. But Yolanda had her little daughter, and she’d opened her own business, and she was doing well. She was finally receiving some respect from the wives of New Falls.

She still missed Vincent sometimes, but she didn’t need a man. When she wanted a male’s opinion, she had her big brother, Manny, which was why he now sat across from her at the kitchen table in the apartment upstairs from her shop, which she’d decorated herself.

“It’s blackmail,” she said. “Do you have any ideas?”

He laughed, sprinkling more Cheerios on the tray of Belita’s high chair—Belita, the beautiful one. The little girl laughed, too, then stuck a tiny finger through the hole in the
o
.

“Your friend needs to call the police.” It was easy for Manny to say; after the army, he’d joined the police force in Brooklyn and was now a detective, plainclothes.

“She can’t. There are reasons.”

He laughed again, as did Belita.

“Manuel, this is not funny. This woman is my friend.”

“This woman is your customer.”

“All right, she’s my customer. But she’s a good customer. And she’s a good person.”

“Who cheats on her husband.” Manny was known as one of the few cops who still believed marriage was sacred, no cheating, no boozing, no gambling the money that had been hard-earned for the family. Too bad his wife hadn’t agreed. He had full custody of his three kids (son, daughter, son), and was as good a dad as he was a cop. Except for the fact that he liked eyeing women, Manny could have been a priest from a time when the collar had meant something.

“Judge not, Manuel,” Yolanda said. That shut him up; he hadn’t always been so high and mighty back in the old neighborhood days.

He formed a
B
for “Belita” out of the Cheerios. “So what do you want me to do? I’m a cop. I can’t get involved unless it’s official. I shouldn’t even know about it.”

“You don’t have to get involved. Just tell me what to do.”

“So
you
can get involved.”

“Consider it part of my business. They think I’m street smart.”

“Because you’re not one of them? Because you’re Latino, so naturally you’d know about criminals? Like it’s a birthright that comes with your skin? Why can’t you just be like other women and meet a nice man and be a nice wife? How many times do I have to ask you to have dinner with Junior Diaz? He won’t wait forever, you know.” His voice had grown louder, and he’d shoved back his chair and was standing now. Belita’s dark eyes followed his movement. Suddenly, they filled with tears.

Waaaaah. Waaaaah.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Yolanda said. “You’ve scared my poor baby…”

She picked her up and hushed her, while Manny said, “Oh,
man, I’m sorry, Yo. Honest, I’m sorry. Do you want me to hold her?”

“No,” Yolanda said, smoothing Belita’s black hair. “I want you to forget about trying to fix me up and let me be myself. I want you to tell me what to do for my friend.”

He poured more coffee. “Start at the hotel. Find out where your friend left her…her
things
…before they wound up in the Dumpster.” Tough cop though he was, Manny got flustered when the talk was of a womanly nature. “Then you’ll have to figure out who had access to them.”

“So you’ll help me help her?”

“Only if you don’t tell anyone. Or I could get fired, Yo.”

Seven

CJ rose at dawn on Sunday morning, hitched
her yellow Lab, Luna, onto a leash, then went for their predictable walk around the lake. Summer was nearly over; a few leaves on the birch trees had already turned yellow, though the thermometer was nearly sixty degrees and would no doubt reach eighty by noon.

Last night, she’d barely slept.

This business with Elinor was crazy, insane. Putting aside her feelings for Malcolm, it was hard to believe that Elinor was having an affair. If there had been an award in high school for “Least Likely to Screw Around on Your Husband,” Elinor would have won, without question. In fact, rumor once had it that Elinor kept her legs and her spine so tight most of the
time that it was surprising she’d landed a man at all, let alone Malcolm.

“Morning, CJ.”

She hadn’t heard the Williams boy—Ray’s son—ride up on his bicycle, which was hitched to a cart that held stacks of Sunday
New York Times
for the lake neighbors.

“Good morning, Kevin.”

Luna loped over in search of a scratch on her ears. Like his dad, whom CJ on-again-off-again dated, Kevin thought Luna was the second-best dog on the planet, rated only slightly behind his chocolate Lab named Jerome.

“Want your paper now?”

“Sure. We’re almost home.” She took the paper; Kevin waved and drove off, pumping down the dirt road that was not much more than a path. Luna lumbered after him for a bit, then charged into cattails that hugged the water’s edge, stirring up the cicadas, the noisy, heat-lazy insects that had three legs, “like a wheelbarrow,” her father had always said.

Though there were times CJ wistfully thought about living in Paris again, she’d never regretted making her home where she and Elinor had grown up during summers and school vacations when they hadn’t been on the campus of McCready School. Their mother had been more relaxed, less formal here, their father less stern. He’d sat by the lake, smoked his pipe, and read Victorian classics to his girls: Dickens, Trollope, and CJ’s favorite, George Eliot, a woman doing a man’s job.