The Best of Enemies (25 page)

I will not let my best friend down again.

Sars and I are saying our good-byes under the grand portico, waiting for a valet to bring my car from the parking area by the helicopter pad.
We’re midembrace when there’s a mighty flash and a huge crack.

For a second, everything goes white.

When the smoke clears, we see that one of the massive old oaks on the periphery of the property has been struck by lightning and a limb the size of a Subaru is strewn across the driveway, blocking the gate.
No one’s hurt, but someone will have to be called to clear the area, so we return indoors.

Ever the compassionate soul, Sars says, “You want to get out of that ‘monkey suit,’ don’t you, Jack?
Go up to Great Meadow and look in the closet.
Trip’s sister keeps some things here and she’s about your size.
Please help yourself.”

Even at her nadir, Sars is sterling.
“Aw, Sars, you will always be my Goose.”

I kick off my shoes before sprinting up one of the two grand staircases that lead to a bridge that connects one side of the second floor to the other.
Because Steeplechase is so large, Sars gave each guest room equine-related names, to honor the home’s past as the Sausage King of Chicago’s weekend horse farm.

I turn down the hall to the right, having to stop and read each placard, passing Breeder’s Cup and Saratoga.
I find Great Meadow across from an open gallery between wings where oil paintings of each generation of Chandler are displayed.

After I change into sneakers, yoga pants, and a snug yet stretchy black hoodie, I exit the guest room, dress in hand, when I notice Kitty stepping into the gallery.
I lunge back into the room, hiding behind the door so she doesn’t see me.
I’m determined to leave here before we have an incident, so I’ll simply wait her out.

She inspects Trip’s portrait with great reverence.
He’s standing on the prow of
The Lone Shark
, peach sweater casually draped around his shoulders, face raised to the light, as though the sun shines only on him.
Never have I seen smug so perfectly captured in oil.

She runs a neatly manicured finger along the scalloped gold frame, likely paying homage.
Of course this ninny would consider Trip’s death a telling blow, a tragic loss for society, a dreadful—

“Rest in peace, motherfucker,” she snarls.
“Rest in peace.”

So . . .

Kitty and I may share a sliver of common ground after all.

NEW POST ON SECRETSQUASH.COM

Who Wants Lemonade?
Kassie Does, Kassie Does!

Is there anything more adorable than a Little running a lemonade stand at the end of the driveway?
Survey says . . .
no!
And how proud does sweet Kassie look here in her pinafore-apron?
One, please!

There’s sooooo much to love about setting up a lemonade stand with your kids this summer!
A few of the many benefits include:

*Developing a work ethic

*Gaining an understanding of planning and budgeting

*Exercising creativity and fine motor skills in building and decorating a booth

*Appreciating the value of earning a dollar

*Learning to give charitably by donating a portion of the sales

*Crafting a quality product full of fresh, wholesome ingredients

Basically?
A lemonade stand’s a win/win for everyone!

To begin our project, Kassie and I sketched out what her dream stand might look like and—MORE AFTER THE PAGE JUMP

North Shore, Illinois

Wednesday

Okay, here’s my chance.
I’ve been psyching myself up for this since last night.
Operation Be Nice to Jack starts now.

With my gold-medal, ten-out-of-ten-dentists-approve grin, I lean in and say, “Your dress is to die!
Mean it.
That peplum?
Love.
And I so admire how polished and pulled together you are, right down to the stockings.”
I speak to her using my most loving, mommy’s-tucking-you-in-now whisper.
“You’d kill at rush right now.
You should be really proud of yourself.
What a lovely woman you’ve become.”

“Fuck you in the fucking eye, you fucking fuck,” Jack retorts, practically shoving me in her haste to distance herself.
We’re on our way down Betsy’s street, coming back to her house after the funeral for the WASP version of sitting Shiva.
Betsy’s about fifty paces behind us, what with her cousins swooping in to surround her, then clinging like a couple of barnacles or kids who refuse to get into the bath.
Cilla and Gracie’s profound displays of grief feel self-serving to me.
I’m not sure I trust their intentions.

To Jack, I say, “I wish you’d take the compliment.
I’m absolutely sincere.
You really are radiant.
Your hair!
Your skin!
You’re still such a Phoebe Cates!”

“Eat a dick, thundercunt.
Or don’t.
Nah, you wouldn’t.
I bet that’s why Sean slept with me.”
She whirls around and plants herself on the sidewalk, taking a highly aggressive posture.
She’s acting just like that angry silverback gorilla the kids and I saw the last time we went to the zoo, thumping her chest and stomping the ground.
Please, someone shoot this ape with a tranquilizing dart!

I gasp, “My goodness, such language!
I’m glad there are no children around to hear your potty mouth!”
A couple of Betsy’s neighbors have to walk on the median to pass by us.

Jack rolls her eyes.
“No one cares what you have to say, Soccer Mom.
Hey, don’t you have any balls to inflate?
No?
That must be why Sean picked me.”
Then she grabs my wrist, squeezing the dickens out of it, and tells me, “Listen, I don’t want any of your shit because I’m here for Sars.”

I gently take her other wrist, as though to calm her.
We appear ready to do the fox-trot.
Fortunately, I understand how to de-escalate a situation, having learned from raising boys.
This conversation is getting out of hand and I want to make sure we’re both mellow, so I come in close to speak slowly and clearly.
“Please, Jack, Betsy doesn’t need you starting yet another scene.”

“And Sars doesn’t need some broke housewife sniffing around after her money,” she says.
“That’s right, I learned all about your finances.
I’m a famous reporter, you know.”

Before I can defend myself, Betsy reaches us on the sidewalk.
She throws herself between the middle of us, hugging and saying, “The only thing that’s keeping me from shattering into a million tiny pieces right now is seeing the two of you get along.
Thank you.
I understand the depth and breadth of this sacrifice.
I love you both so much.
Now let’s hurry home before the rain hits.”

•   •   •

Despite Jack’s terrible attitude on our walk over here, I pledge to not let her suck me into anything.
I will be the adult here, even if she won’t.

Betsy’s being so stoic, so strong.
She barely shed a tear during the service.
I admire her so.
I thought I’d have to be her pillar, but she’s the one maintaining a brave facade for us.
Right now, surrounded by so many people who love and support her, she has to feel buoyed, but I imagine once the last car pulls away, the impact will hit her.
And I’ll be there for her, as long as it takes.

I decide that I’m simply not going to think about Trip’s e-mail again.
That’s the only way I can deal.
Somehow it was a prank or a joke gone wrong.
Perhaps a glitch in the system.
Didn’t happen.
Even if there were bad intentions on his part, nothing came of it.
When Trip knew he was at the end, in those few precious remaining moments on the plane, I bet his thoughts were of his one great love, and not some unrequited crush.

I’m done obsessing.

It’s over.
Moving on.

“That you, Kitty?”
Jack’s brother Bobby sits down next to me in the solarium.
Rain falls in earnest now, running down the glass roof in rivulets, coming so thick and fast that the view of the lake is obscured.
Earlier, the wind whipped so hard that the normally gentle waves of Lake Michigan bashed against the seawall, sending sprays upward of six feet.

Bobby looks desperately uncomfortable in what are surely someone else’s clothes.
The neck on his white dress shirt is too tight, so he’s left it unbuttoned behind his sloppily knotted tie, while his pant cuffs hang onto his shoes.
Likely he’s not the only Jordan to have had assistance dressing today.
“Been a while, huh?
How ya doing?”

One might imagine I despise the entire Jordan clan, but I don’t.
Mr.
Jordan is a jovial old soul.
I’m embarrassed on the rare occasion I bump into Teddy (things went a bit too far too fast during our brief courtship) (before completely going sideways, I mean), but I don’t hold any animosity and he’s always pleasant.
Bobby’s my favorite—he’s a genuinely nice person, and I wish I could have spent more time with him way back when.
He’s always been kind.
After the carnage known as the Fourth of July at Steeplechase, Bobby was the first to find a steak for my eye before he whisked Jack away.
He’s good people.
(John-John, I can take or leave.)

I tell Bobby, “I’d be better if we weren’t here for my best friend’s husband’s funeral.”

He clinks his beer against the glass of chardonnay I’ve been carrying but haven’t touched.
“Word.”
He takes a sip and the dense foam gets caught on his upper lip.

“You’ve got a little . . .”
I point to my lip.

Bobby swipes at his mouth with the back of his wrist and I laugh because it’s the same unaffected gesture he’d have made twenty years ago.
“Wait, that called for a napkin, didn’t it?”
He begins to look around at the crowd in the other room.
“Shit, did my dad see me do that?”

“No one’s paying attention to us in here.”
I lean in to stage-whisper, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell on you.”

“Kool and the Gang.”
He takes another pull on his beer.
“Hey, how come you’re not drinking your wine?
It’s bad luck not to take a sip after you toast.”

“Not into wine today, I guess.
Tastes bitter.”

“Wait here.”

He sets down his glass and trots off to the bar.
A minute or so later, he returns with a highball filled with a creamy, iced concoction.
“This is what I serve when people seem sad.
I call it a Jordan Almond.
Didn’t have crushed nuts for the rim, so you’ll have to pretend they’re there.
Now we’ll toast again and then you won’t have bad luck.”

I taste the blended drink, which is really more of an alcoholic Frappuccino.
There are coffee undertones from the Kahlua and the rich, nuttiness of actual almonds from the Amaretto.
Between the sugar and the alcohol, it feels like a hug in a glass.

“This is delectable,” I tell him.

“I normally hide some lychee nuts in there, too.
Good source of vitamin C and they add a real nice perfume to the whole thing,” he says.
“I don’t tell anyone I put ’em in because they’d just argue.
They don’t know what’s good.”

He and I chat about his adventures over the past few years.
Seems like he’s been everywhere, even the beach I’m dying to see in Little Cayman.
Said it’s one of his favorite places in the world.

Sigh.

Anxious for more travel-by-proxy, I ask, “Where are you off to next?”
envisioning some new, exotic locale.

He sets down his beer and begins to unbutton his shirtsleeves, rolling back the cuffs, as though he’s ready to really dig into our conversation.
He was the best listener years ago, which worked well when I was such a talker.
I notice he already ditched the sport coat after the service and figure it’s only a matter of time before the tie comes off, too.
I always did appreciate his sincerity.

He tells me, “I was in Nantucket when I heard about Trip.
Gotta be honest, his death hit me pretty hard.
We hadn’t met more than a dozen times and we weren’t best buds or anything.
But something about him going out like that really made me reassess.”

I wrap a napkin around my glass to catch the condensation.
“How so?”

“Well, there I was, doing my regular summer share house, working my bartending job, having a good time, like ya do.”

I smile.
“Like ya do,” I repeat.

“Then here’s this guy on the screen and I’m all, ‘
I know him
.’
See, the networks are covering the story all over the place about his plane going down.
Like, he
mattered
.
His death was important enough to break into the baseball game.
The Red Sox.
On a Boston station.
Trust me, that’s a big deal.
So Trip dies, and he leaves so much behind—a wife and an industry and a home like this.
He created this whole legacy, you know?
Even though the both of us were close to the same age, he had, like, a
permanence
about his life.”

Now that the napkin’s damp, I begin to roll little bits between my thumb and forefinger.
“There isn’t a permanence about yours?”

Bobby sighs and begins to pick at a loose thread on his pants.
I see that it’s hard for him to sit still.
Know the feeling.
“Nah, not in any kind of way.
I thought,
‘I’m not tethered to anything.’
Being unattached always made me so happy, up until Trip’s passing.
Didn’t know what else to do, so I packed up all my shit and came back here.
Not planning to return to Nantucket this summer, and I’m not sure what’s next.
Staying with Teddy and Terry until I figure it out.
Being footloose has been the plan ever since I got done with college.”