The First Wives Club (40 page)

She had bought a dozen, then was shocked by the price. I can’t even pay my daughter’s tuition and I blow forty-eight dollars on a bunch of flowers. Annie sighed. Well, what was forty-eight dollars in the face of the million and a half that her husband had squandered?

Now she was certain she wouldn’t see the money anytime soon. Perhaps never.

Aaron had called and stiffly said there were some problems with the business right now. Annie wondered if it was true. Armed with her knowledge of the agency from both Jerry and Chris, she had been silent for a moment. Then her anger had gotten the best of her. “Can’t you sell the business?” she asked.

”Sell it?” he’d exploded. “I want to buy it.”

“But if you sell it, you could replace Sylvie’s money.”

“Oh? And then how will I make a living?” he asked bitterly. She hadn’t pushed, and now she shook her head as if to clear the memory.

She wouldn’t think of it now.

For the next hour she unpacked and stowed away the provisions, dusted the house, and brought in wood for a fire. Then she went up to the guest bedroom and down to the study and prepared them, the first for Elise and the other for Brenda.

Annie put out clean towels, flowers in pottery jugs, fresh soap, and a few magazines beside each bed, then went onto the porch that served as a dining room and set the table for the next morning’s breakfast.

Elise and Brenda didn’t arrive until half past eleven. She heard the car pull up—it was Elise’s Lincoln limousine. The driver carried in the women’s bags and a big turkey, then left to spend the night at Elise’s East Hampton mansion.

Both Brenda and Elise complained about the holiday traffic and said they were tired, wanting nothing more than to go to sleep. Annie showed them to their rooms and went to bed herself. They had both seemed especially grumpy and irritable. They had probably offended one another half a dozen times on the long drive out.

quietly as she could. Then she padded across the hallway balconY that overlooked the living room and took a moment to survey it.

Below her, the living room was already bathed in the early light of the sunrise, which poured in through the two sets of east-facing French windows.

In the west wall, opposite the windows, a large fireplace with a simple white-painted pine mantel had pride of place. Facing the fireplace was a long, deep sofa, covered in her grandmother’s favorite blue, rose, and white floral print, and flanked by a couple of cretonnecovered armchairs, each with its own hassock. I must remember to be thankful for all this. For everything, Annie reminded herself.

On the wall between the French windows, Annie had placed her desk—an English Regency secretaire, the only really fine antique in the house.

This would be a good place to write, she thought suddenly. I could write a book here, without the distraction of New York. Now that Sylvie is gone … but I’d be lonely.

The room was lovely, the house was lovely, and she was lucky to have it. But it was so isolated here. Oh, I’m so foolish, she thought. I can’t work with distractions and I’m afraid I can’t live without them.

She had to smile. The peonies looked spectacular on the table behind the sofa.

Their fat white heads drooped with just the right amount of heaviness.

In the warmth of the room they had opened wider, and now, even from up above, Annie could see the few magenta petals that flecked the heart of every bloom.

Lovely, she thought again as she went down the stairs as silently as possible.

Before her, the white-painted dining room table and the white Windsor chairs surrounding it looked fresh and inviting. The blue-and white-checked cloth and the three places she had set all charmed her.

But she needed something for a centerpiece. She decided to go outside and see what she could scout up. She shrugged into an old duMe coat and boots.

It was cold, with a breeze blowing from the south, filled with the fresh scent of the sea.

At the far end of the garden, Annie spied some fire thorn. Perfect for the table, a Thanksgiving color, a little gift to enjoy over breakfast.

Annie cut some branches, feeling the stab that she always did when she sacrificed something from the garden for the house.

She walked back, admiring the place as she did. She loved coming here It had been her grandmother’s and it still remained so in Annie’s mind Annies taste was more toward the simplicity of design of the Japanese, but here Nana’s hand still prevailed. It comforted Annie.

She even used her nana’s now-ancient percolator on those rare occasions when she made coffee. Its strange internal sounds and its pleasant perk had so often kept the two of them company.

Oh, God, she thought. Perhaps I’ll have to sell the place. How much could I get for it? she wondered. How many tuition payments would it cover? The thought of giving up Nana’s house brought tears to her eyes.

Now, the percolator was making its strange grunts and burps. Soon the delicious smell of the vanilla-almond coffee would waft up to the bedrooms.

”What the hell is making that noise?”

Annie spun around. Brenda, disheveled and in a fantastically colored muumuu stood in the kitchen doorway, sleepily scratching her head.

“It’s the percolator.”

“Jesus, it sounds like it’s taking a dump on the counter.”

Annie laughed. “Well, it’s old. It struggles.”

“So do I.”’ Brenda moved to the refrigerator and opened the door.

“Have you got anything to eat?” Before Annie could answer, Brenda had picked up a banana from the blue and white china bowl on the top of the refrigerator.

“Yes, there’s plenty. But let’s wait for Elise.”

“Your waiting has ended,” Elise said. She was impeccable as always, dressed in simple cream-colored slacks, a crisp cotton blouse, with a deep green sweater elegantly tossed over her wide shoulders. ‘Annie, what an absolutely charming little house.”

“It is, isn’t it?”’ Annie agreed. If there was a tiny note of unconscious condescension in Elise’s compliment, Annie chose not to hear it. ‘Breakfast in the dining room?” she asked. They moved to the porch.

“Annie, what an absolutely charming little breakfast,” Brenda said in a perfect imitation of Elise, and then grinned wickedly at her. “And I do mean little.” Brenda looked down at the single croissant on each plate, the berries, the pretty but inadequate swirl of butter. These goyim don’t know how to eat, she thought. Luckily she had brought a little something to keep in her room, just in case.

Elise, too, had brought “a little something,” hidden at the bottom of her bag.

The idea of visiting someone who might have no liquor available was terrifying, so Elise had stooped to packing a bottle of vodka. She’d been trying hard to control herself, drinking much less lately. But Christ, holidays were too depressing to get through sober. She would attempt it with these two friends, but she might as well face it, this was pathetic.

After breakfast they took a walk to the farmer’s market, where they bought a lot of side vegetables to go with the turkey (not that Annie would eat turkey) and planned a strategy session and drinks to follow.

“Now, let’s spend the afternoon without men or food or children on our hands,” Annie said, trying hard not to miss Chris, away at his girlfriend’s, or Alex at school, or Sylvie.

Brenda napped while Annie stuffed the turkey and put it in the oven, and Elise lay beside the fireplace leafing through annual reports and taking notes. By one it was overcast, looking like snow, and Annie went up for a hot bath while the others started to set the table for the holiday dinner.

Trying to think of something positive, Annie smiled at how well Elise and Brenda were getting along. It was fun to be with them together.

Brenda’s earthiness offset Elise’s tendency to be cool, and Elise’s class contrasted vividly with Brenda’s admitted vulgarity. Annie had to smile again. She really was having fun.

The dinner was delicious. Chris called from Pennsylvania where he had gone to meet Karen’s family, and Alex from California at school, and then Brenda called her kids, who were spending the holiday with their father. Annie looked over at Elise, staring at a magazine she wasn’t reading, Elise who had only her senile mother. But she’d had more than a bottle of wine.

As they finished dinner, it began to snow, and the sight of the big flakes was a pleasant end to the pleasant meal. Elise and Brenda cleared the table and washed up despite Annie’s protest, so she filled her nana’s percolator and added decaf this time.

”Well, who wants to tell what they are thankful for?”’ Annie asked.

“Not without another drink,” Elise said.

“Not even with one,” Brenda corrected. ‘Annie, stop being such a damn goody-goody. The nuns aren’t here taking notes.”’ They had drunk almost all of the white wine, but when Elise asked for another glass, Annie opened the red. She had trouble with the cork. “I really miss having a man around when it’s time to open the wine.”’ “Get screw caps,” Brenda suggested. Annie began to giggle. It wasn’t that funny, but Elise joined in. Then Brenda. The three of them stood in the warm kitchen, laughing. We may be getting drunk, Annie thought Just then the percolator began its gruntings. This set them off again.

”It’s disgusting,” gasped Elise.

“It’s obscene,” agreed Brenda.

“Oh, stop picking on the poor thing. He can’t help it. Anyway, who wants cream on their pie?”’ ”How decadent!” Elise shook her head.

“How delicious,” Brenda approved. “The pie is what I’m grateful for.”

Annie carried the coffee into the cozy living room and added another log to the fire. They settled in, each of them finding a comfortable seat before the fireplace. There was a silence. Annie took a deep breath. It was now or never, she thought. Confession is good for the soul, so why is this so difficult for me? She looked at the other two women. I don’t think they’ll judge me or pity me. I hope not. “I’m grateful for friends like you two,” she began. “Friends I can confide in.” She paused. ‘I’d like to tell you about my divorce.”

Slowly, calmly, she told them about the unpleasantness at the Carlyle, her eagerness, her desperation, Aaron’s betrayal, and worst of all, the final horror of Dr. Leslie Rosen lurking in the other room, hearing her beg Aaron for a reconciliation. She was thankful she could get it off her chest.

”Did you used to tell Dr. Rosen everything?” Brenda asked.

Silently, Annie nodded. ‘Well, I hope you told her Aaron had bad breath in the morning, or was getting soft in the gut. Something she’d tell him and he’ll eat his heart out over,” Brenda cried. ‘I can’t believe you’re still wearing his wedding ring!”

Annie looked down at her hand, selfconscious. ‘You’re wearing yours!”

Elise said to Brenda.

“Yeah, well, my finger’s too fat to get it off. What’s your excuse?”

”I paid for it. It’s a perfectly good Winston. Anyway, we were talking about Annie at the Carlyle,” Elise said coldly. “What did you do?”’ she asked Annie, her voice warm with sympathy.

”I ran.”

The two women nodded. “But now I’m tired of running. And I’m tired of blaming myself. And I’m tired of excusing either of them. And I’m tired of loving a man who doesn’t love me.” Annie paused. “There’s something else. Something worse. Aaron’s lost the money from Sylvie’s trust fund and I don’t know when he’ll pay it back.”’ The two women looked at her. Brenda knew about the loss, but not about Aaron’s refusal or inability to repay it. And Annie hadn’t ever told Elise about it at all. Now she expected to feel the shame over what he’d done. But for the first time, instead of feeling Aaron’s feelings, too, she felt the tear, the true separation from him. He had left her, he wasn’t part of her, and what he did didn’t reflect on her. She wasn’t ashamed.

Her chest hurt, as if something physical had been pulled apart, as if a rib had been torn away. Involuntarily, unconsciously, she put her hand to her heart. Telling them, her friends, had made this possible.

She wasn’t ashamed anymore. Hurt, yes. And angry. But no longer ashamed.

“Something’s different,” she said, and she knew how stupid it sounded.

“Something’s changed.” She sat quietly for a moment while they waited.

She bowed her head for a moment, bit her lips. What was it? What was it? “I don’t love him anymore,” she said simply.

Brenda raised her hands in triumph. “Hallelujah,” she yelled. “A wonderful Thanksgiving. The worm has turned.” Then she calmed down.

“But how much money are we actually talking about?”

Leave it to Brenda, Annie thought. If sex was secret and dirty and shaming, money was more so. “Almost a million and a half dollars. The money for Sylvie is gone.”

“Yeah, but you said he’s paying it back,” Brenda said. “He’s not a lying cheapskate like Morty. It’ll be made up, right, Annie?” For once, Brenda sounded like a child, a hopeful little girl.

“Well, now Aaron isn’t so certain. He doesn’t know when he’ll be able to replace it. He said business isn’t great right now.”

“You didn’t tell us that!” Elise accused her. “Anyway, how did he do this? You can’t simply break into a trust fund.”

Annie shook her head. “He did it without my knowledge. It probably was illegal, and perhaps he could be sued, or even worse, but what’s the point?”

Then she told them about her visit to Gil Griffin’s office, of his threat.

Tears filled her eyes. “I can’t sue. Aaron can’t pay Sylvie’s tuition from jail.”

“I’ll lend you the money,” Brenda offered.

Elise shot her a look. Why was it people with so little could be so generous?

she wondered. She thought of her mother’s rules. She was already breaking one, trusting these women, so different from her. Should she break another? She loved Annie too much to risk losing her friendship.

But Annie had given them a gift tonight. A gift of trust. All at once, Elise, too, wanted to share.

“Well, now I have something to confess.” Elise paused. “I slept with a man who is half my age. I was drunk. I was lonely. And now, I think that I’m falling in love with him. I’m ashamed. And I’m afraid of what people will say.”

“They’d probably say, Lucky her!”