Smart Women (5 page)

S
HE RAN UP HER DRIVEWAY
and paused at the car, checking her pulse. Lucy came up to her and licked her legs. B.B. patted Lucy on the head, then went inside to the kitchen.

“Hi, Mom . . . table’s all set,” Sara said. “Did you have a good run?”

“Yes, I could have kept going. I didn’t even feel tired.”

“Did you know that female athletes sometimes have trouble getting pregnant?”

“Really?” B.B. said, washing her hands at the kitchen sink.

“Yes,” Sara said, popping an English muffin into the toaster. “I read about it. They get too thin and their periods stop. All that exercise isn’t good for their reproductive organs.” Sara drained her glass of orange juice and poured another. “So you should be careful, just in case.”

“In case what?”

“In case you want to have more children.”

“I’m forty, Sara. I’m not about to have any more children.”

“You never know,” Sara said. “Jennifer’s mother is forty-one and she just had a baby.”

“Well, I’m not going to have any more babies.”

“Okay . . . fine. I just thought you should know.”

“Thanks for the warning. Do you want scrambled eggs or fried?”

“Fried . . . so the yolks don’t run.”

“Hand me the frying pan, would you?” B.B. said, putting up the kettle.

“Do you remember your first day of junior high, Mom?” Sara asked.

“Yes . . . I was so scared I couldn’t eat a bite of breakfast and my mother made me carry a buttered roll in my book bag. I flushed it down the toilet in the Girls’ Room.”

Sara laughed. “I’m not that scared. Besides, all my friends from Mapleton will be with me and Jennifer’s in my homeroom.”

“You’re braver than I was.”

After breakfast B.B. brushed Sara’s hair, which was thick and honey-colored, like Andrew’s. “A braid or a ponytail?” B.B. asked.

“A braid,” Sara said.

When B.B. finished her hair, Sara collected her new notebook and pencils. They walked to the front door together. “Goodbye . . .” B.B. said, “I love you.”

“And I love you,” Sara answered.

“For how long?” B.B. asked.

“For always and forever.”

“That’s how long I’ll love you too.”

B.B. gave Sara a hug, then went back to the kitchen and put the breakfast dishes in the sink to soak.

U
NTIL LAST SPRING
B.B.’s life in Boulder, aside from Mitch, had been peaceful and rewarding. Then, in May, the letter from Andrew had come. B.B. had arrived at her office a few minutes later than usual that day because she had taken extra time dressing. She had invited Clare and Margo to join her for lunch at The James to discuss an intriguing real estate deal. A twenty-acre parcel of land outside of town had come on the market and if she could interest Clare in putting up half the cash, she was ready to make an offer. It was the perfect site for passive-solar cluster housing, a concept she knew appealed to Margo. She was prepared to offer Margo a piece of the action in exchange for her architectural services. She admired Margo’s work. It had a class feeling, even when it was just a remodeled garage.

Miranda, B.B.’s secretary, had brought in the morning mail before noon and B.B., thumbing through it, had stopped when she’d come to the letter from Andrew, marked personal.

They never wrote. All communication between them regarding Sara was handled through his attorney in Miami and hers in Boulder. So what was this?

She slit the letter open with a silver and turquoise opener, a gift from a satisfied client. She read it quickly the first time, then slowly, to make sure she understood.

Dear Francine,

I plan to spend the next school year in Boulder, writing another book. That way Sara and I can have more time together, which we are both looking forward to.

I expect to leave here the second week in August and to drive cross-country, arriving in Boulder somewhere around the 20th. I hope that we can work out the arrangements easily when I arrive. I will need to find a small apartment or house, with enough room for Sara. If you have any suggestions I would be grateful.

Yours,
Andrew

She felt herself grow hot, then cold. A pounding began in her temples. And although she rarely sweat, she felt a dampness under her arms.

She stood and walked around her office, watering her African violets, straightening the Fritz Scholder posters on the walls. She went back to her desk and read the letter a third time. She lifted the phone to call her lawyer, then changed her mind and hung up. She folded the letter and dropped it into her purse. She could not believe that he was serious.

She took five shallow breaths and did a Lion, one of the yoga exercises she learned last year. Then she grabbed her purse and went to meet Margo and Clare at The James.

4

M
ARGO HAD BEEN SURPRISED
by B.B.’s invitation to lunch last spring. Margo and B.B. were not close. Margo could never get beneath the surface, could never connect with B.B.’s feelings, so she had settled for a friendly relationship rather than a true friendship. Clare was really the link between Margo and B.B. and while the three of them lunched together every now and then it was always informal and arrangements were made at the last minute.

It had been a soft May day, a perfect day to eat outdoors and as they were seated at a table in the courtyard of the restaurant Margo caught the scent of lilacs. They were served by a waitress who was both pleasant and efficient, a welcome change from the sullen crowd usually employed by The James.

B.B. explained why she had asked them to join her as soon as their salads were served and Margo was flattered that B.B. had chosen her to design the cluster housing and grateful for the opportunity to participate in the joint business venture. If the deal took off it could mean big money. Margo got by on her salary and commissions, had even managed to save a little, but she wasn’t exactly rolling in it. Freddy’s child support payments helped, but she couldn’t count on them after the kids went off to college, nor did she want to.

Several times during lunch B.B. put her hand to her head and closed her eyes, but Margo did not find that unusual. B.B. often seemed to be someplace else, even when she was talking to you, even when it was business.

They lingered over their coffee until B.B. checked her watch and said, “I’ve got to get back to the office.” She paid the check and the three of them walked out of the restaurant. But before they reached the corner B.B. put her hand to her head again and swooned, as if she were about to keel over. Too much wine, Margo thought.

“Are you all right?” Clare asked, grabbing her.

“No,” B.B. said quietly. And then she broke away from Clare and flung her purse into the street, shouting, “No, goddamn it, I am not all right!” The contents of her purse spilled out, a bottle of Opium smashing at Margo’s feet, lipsticks rolling under cars, a hairbrush, a notebook, a pocket calculator, an envelope, all scattered on the ground. “I wish he were dead!” B.B. yelled.

“Who?” Margo and Clare asked at the same time.

“My ex-husband, the fucking bastard!”

Margo was stunned. Until that day she had never seen B.B. react emotionally to anything. And that was the first she had heard of Andrew Broder.

F
IVE DAYS LATER
Clare had called Margo, asking if she knew how to make chicken soup, because B.B. had not eaten anything but tea and Jell-O since climbing into bed on the afternoon of their lunch.

“She says the only thing she wants to eat is the kind of chicken soup her mother used to make when she was a little girl. Jewish chicken soup. She says her father told her it would cure anything except warts and he wasn’t sure it wouldn’t cure those too. Do you know how to make it, Margo?”

“I haven’t made chicken soup in years,” Margo said, “but I could call my mother. I think the secret is in the kind of chicken you use.”

“Let’s try it,” Clare said. “Otherwise I’m afraid she’s going to wind up in the hospital.”

That night Margo phoned her mother in New York. Her mother was on her way to the ballet at Lincoln Center, but she was delighted that Margo wanted to make chicken soup and she explained how to do it, step by step, reminding Margo to use only a pullet, enough dill, and not to forget the parsnip.

On Saturday morning Margo shopped early. She came home and set the ingredients on her kitchen counter. The house was quiet. Stuart was at work, churning out ice cream, and Michelle was still asleep. Margo washed her hands at the kitchen sink, dried them with a paper towel, rolled up her sleeves, and soon the aroma of her childhood filled the house.

When Michelle came up to the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she sniffed around and asked, “What
are
you doing, Mother?”

“Making chicken soup.”

“Chicken soup?”

“Yes. B.B. isn’t feeling well. It’s for her.”

“You never make soup for me when I’m not feeling well.”

“I thought you don’t like homemade chicken soup, Michelle. I thought you said the little particles of fat floating on top make you nauseous. That’s why you always ask for Lipton’s when you’re sick.”

“I like it fine when it’s cooked with rice,” Michelle said. “The way Grandma used to make it.”

“Which Grandma?” Margo said. “Grandma Sampson or Grandma Belle?”

“Grandma Belle,” Michelle said. “Grandma Sampson used to make vegetable soup for me and she always strained it so I wouldn’t gag on the vegetables.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Margo said and she laughed.

“So what’s wrong with B.B.?”

“She’s depressed. Her former husband is coming to town unexpectedly.”

“You mean the Brat’s father?”

“Sara’s not a brat, Michelle.”

“You don’t know because you never babysat her.”

“Well, that’s true. But she’s older now.”

“I doubt that makes much difference.”

“Michelle, you’re so hard on people. Why can’t you give them a chance?”

“Me . . . hard? Come off it, Mother.” She grabbed a carrot from the refrigerator and stalked out of the kitchen.

“Is that all you’re having for breakfast?” Margo called.

“Carrots are extremely nutritious.”

Late that afternoon Margo tasted the soup. She wasn’t sure if she had put in enough dill, but it certainly wasn’t bad. She was pleased. She had sworn off everyday cooking when she’d left Freddy, but now she found that cooking could be fun if nobody pressured her. And her kids had learned to cook too.

That night Margo and Clare arrived at B.B.’s house with supper. Margo brought the chicken soup and Clare brought a salad, french bread, and a bottle of white wine. B.B. was sitting up in bed, wearing a white eyelet robe, her hair pulled back and tied with a ribbon. She looked as fragile and beautiful as Camille on her death bed. She made Margo feel shlumpy in her jeans and plaid shirt. Everything in B.B.’s house was as white and delicate as she was. There were fresh flowers in every room, even the bathrooms. Her house made Margo want to go home to clean, scrub, and redecorate.

B.B. laughed over the chicken soup. “It’s delicious,” she said. “It’s just like my mother’s.” She finished her first bowl and asked for another. “I’m going to get out of bed tomorrow,” she told them. “And on Monday I’m going back to the office. I may even go to see Thorny Abrams . . . just for advice.”

Thorny Abrams was one of Boulder’s many shrinks. Margo had worked on a solar addition to his house last year. His wife, Marybeth, could never make up her mind about anything, so plans for the addition had to be reworked seven times. Thorny would say,
It’s up to Marybeth.
Marybeth would look forlorn and say,
You know I can’t make decisions, Thorny.

“And Richard Haver is looking into the law for me,” B.B. continued. “It may be that I don’t have to let Andrew have Sara at all. We’ve got an agreement, you know . . . and it calls for two weeks at Christmas, Easter vacation, and one month every summer. That’s it. So if he comes to town and isn’t allowed to see Sara, then surely he won’t stay.” She looked from Margo to Clare. “I mean, why would he stay under those circumstances?”

A
WEEK AFTER THAT
B.B. had phoned Margo, asking her to meet for a drink after work at the Boulderado.

“I’ll get right to the point,” B.B. said as soon as they had ordered Perriers. “Do you know if the Hathaway apartment is available?”

“I haven’t seen anyone in it lately,” Margo told her. “They usually rent it to university people for the summer.”

“I’d like you to find out if it is available,” B.B. said, “and if it is, I’d like you to secure it in the name of Andrew Broder, for three months beginning the third week in August, at say three hundred and fifty dollars a month.”

“You’re going to find him a place to live?” Margo asked.

“I’ve decided that’s the best way to deal with it,” B.B. said.

“It sounds tricky to me. Are you sure you want to get involved? Why don’t you let him find his own place?”