The One That Got Away (17 page)

Gloria led the way to a pretty yellow church with a modern stone-and-glass addition. An etched gold sign announced the place: “St. Andrew’s School for Children, Established 1886.” A wrought-iron fence enclosed a slate courtyard and a mulched playground, while two rows of teachers, all looking like Jennifer Garner on her errand days, were clapping and singing a “good morning” song.

On the sidewalk, our trio waited in line, competing with kids jumping out of Land Rovers and nannies pushing double strollers. Gloria gave me a quick kiss good-bye and then ran through the gauntlet of teachers, while Sam looked around with glee. For a school built in the center of one of the nation’s grittiest cities, it felt more like a day with the von Trapps, but I guess this was the kind of educational environment that five-figure tuition buys you.

A few other mothers mouthed hellos under the din, but none stopped to chat. Most of them looked just like me in their expensive exercise tights and bright sneakers, their morning runs either complete or imminent. I saw one mother in a gray pinstriped suit kiss a little boy and then rush off down the sidewalk, thumb-typing on her iPhone. She was no doubt sending a clever but apologetic text to her boss, explaining why she was late for work—again.

The crowd thinned and the singing died down, so Sam and I made our escape. We were just turning out of the gate when a monstrous white Mercedes SUV ran up onto the sidewalk, dangerously close to the entrance. Twin boys burst out of the backseat door and raced inside, not bothering to say good-bye to their exasperated mother stepping out from the driver’s side. Against the white car, her hair gleamed black, while her overly bronzed skin skewed orange.

Apparently she knew me, because the moment Sam and I passed by, she screeched, “
Aaaaaaabbey
,” and ran over to us. I stopped strolling and braced for impact as she came toward us at top speed, her giant breasts heaving.

“I’m so glad I saw you,” she said as she caught her breath and then extracted some long black hairs from her lip gloss. “Did May quit too?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, noticing her overly penciled eyebrows and platform heels.

“My nanny quit last week. Missed her boyfriend, so she moved back to Sweden. Didn’t even give notice,” she said as she leaned over and gave me a quick hug and a
mmmm-ah!
kiss. “I figured the same happened to you!”

“No, just decided to bring the kids myself.” Why was this so shocking to everyone?

“I’ve been e-mailing Betsy, but she never responds,” she continued. “Where the hell is the next benefit committee lunch? I’ve got updates on the caterer.”

“Um, I don’t know,” I said. “Is that today?”

She gave me a look:
Duh.
“Yes, it’s today, silly. We always meet on Thursdays.”

This woman had a little too much of everything—jewelry, teeth, cleavage—but I liked her smile and her blatant disregard for school policies: a sign directly above her car said “Absolutely No Parking.”

“Oh, right. Today is Thursday,” I said slowly, awkwardly. “And Thursday is when we meet. For the benefit… committee… lunch.” I was beginning to get used to sounding like a total moron.

I watched her face drop and realized she didn’t think I was stupid; she thought I was being coy, trying to evade the question. Luckily, an idea surfaced.

“Let me check my phone!” I whipped it out and held it up as if it
was the first phone ever invented. I scrolled through messages while she cooed over Sam, and eventually I found one from Betsy marked “Today.”

“Looks like it’s at twelve thirty at a place called Le Jardin on Broad Street,” I told her.

“Never heard of it—but I’m sure I can find it,” she said, happy again. She bent down and touched Sam’s cheek, then attempted to get her bracelets away from his grasp. This time she tickled him hard and he let go, gurgling with delight.

“You’re such a little roly-poly cannoli,” she said as she kissed his head. “God, I just love them at this age. Once they start talking, the bullshit begins.” I laughed out loud, and as I heard my own voice, I realized it was the first time I’d done so since Saturday. It felt good.

A long honk from a blocked taxi sent her scurrying back to her car, her big boobs and hair bouncing in sync. She flipped off the driver, told him to fuck himself, and then sped off in her oversized Mercedes. The few remaining mothers looked aghast but then quickly moved on, shaking their heads.

“Well, my little cannoli,” I said to Sam, mimicking my new friend’s South Philly accent. “I guess Mommy’s going out to lunch today.”

At noon, dressed and ready for lunch, I was relieved to hear my phone buzz. I ran to my purse and picked it up. It was Alex.

“Hey, doll, just wanted to let you know that Dr. Cohen can see you this afternoon.”

“Okay. But I didn’t know I had an appointment today.” I had scoured my e-mails earlier, eager to find out how Abbey van Holt occupied her day, but found nothing.

He ignored me, continuing: “It’s at two. No, three. Wait, let me double-check.” I stood with my phone to my ear until he got back
on the line. “Mother says get there around three and he can work you in. But don’t be late because he’s playing squash at four.”

“Got it,” I said, looking around for a piece of paper and a pen.

“And don’t forget I have that dinner thing tonight and then tomorrow I’m gone all day for debate prep.”

“Got it; doctor, dinner, debate prep.”

“Bye, doll. Gotta jump.”

I started to ask about Dr. Cohen, but the line went dead. I stared at the phone for a moment, then slid it off. Mirabelle made the appointment? I almost laughed out loud. Jimmy’s mother, Jane, wouldn’t even buy me a plant without checking with me first.

I sighed, then caught a glimpse of myself in the wide gilded mirror that ran the length of our foyer. I couldn’t help but punch out my hip and pose like a Heidi Klum selfie.

In my leather-trimmed leggings, white silk tank, and cream cashmere cardigan cinched with silver buckles, it dawned on me that I looked like one of those magazine women I’d always longed to be.
Excuse me,
I said to myself with a sly smile and some eyelash batting,
I’m just dashing out for a quick lunch to hatch a plan to save the world, before picking up my incredibly well-schooled and adorable children, then rushing off to meet my male model turned congressional candidate husband for a night of dancing and champagne.

In the mirror, I was the Abbey I always knew I could be.

Le Jardin was one of those restaurants that was billed as a café but was actually more like a ballroom at Buckingham Palace. The main dining room was octagonal, with mirrors on all sides that reflected its incredible views of both rivers. The soft, plush, Louis XIV–style chairs beckoned, as did the smell of fresh roses at every table. There was no entrée under twenty-two dollars, including the cheeseburger.
Not that it mattered—I was the only one at the table who ordered more than a side salad or cup of soup.

Betsy stared at me as I asked the waiter for an iced tea with no lemon.

“I hope you’re joking,” she said as she flicked out her folded napkin. “The waiter is bringing us that fumé blanc you like. I already ordered it.”

“Super!” I said, playing along. “Just needed a quick hit of caffeine first. Barely slept last night.”

“Stop it with your fabulous sex life,” she said in mock exasperation. “It’s too depressing.”

“Sorry?”

“I can’t take any more stories about you guys,” she said with a laugh. “Bill and I can barely manage once a month. And even that’s a chore.”

I cringed to think Abbey van Holt bragged about her sex life to these women. Wasn’t she envied enough?

“About time,” Betsy chided the waiter as he set up a silver bucket beside us. “I really need a drink. This morning, the builder told me I can’t have the pool tiles I wanted because they take eight weeks to make. In Italy. And the chandelier I picked for the library is too heavy for the custom plasterwork. I know he just doesn’t want to do it. He lies to my face.”

“You poor thing,” said Ellen, staring hungrily at the bread basket. “Contractors are just the worst, aren’t they?”

“The absolute worst…” Betsy’s voice trailed off as she saw someone enter the restaurant. Her hand hit the table and the ice in our water glasses tinkled in protest.

“Who told
her
where we were meeting?” she seethed. I turned around and saw my foul-mouthed friend from this morning checking a black patent trench coat. She waved and smiled and gave us the “one-minute” sign.

“Oh, I did,” I said, turning back. “Sorry, I didn’t know it was a secret.”

“What? I thought that was the whole point of a new restaurant,” said Ellen, chiming in. “It’s embarrassing enough to have her on the committee, but now she’s going to ruin our lunch with her constant chatter. And all her tacky ideas.”

“But she said she has info on the caterer,” I added, trying to be helpful.

“Well, thank God for that,” quipped Betsy. “That’s the only thing these South Philly girls are good for—food. That and recommending a good plastic surgeon.”

Apparently Betsy had forgotten that my maiden name was DiSiano and that my dad was born and raised on Two Street. I hadn’t had any contact with him in decades, but I was still offended.

“Does it really matter?” I snapped at her. “It’s just lunch.”

She started to say something back, and then, amazingly, she shut up and greeted our friend sweetly.

“Mindy, don’t you look adorable,” Betsy cooed.

Mindy! I practiced a mnemonic device so I’d remember: Mindy drives a Mercedes and wears minis.

“What?” said Mindy, plopping down beside me in a satin blouse and short stretchy skirt, her best guess at a ladies-who-lunch outfit. “You have to be kidding. I just threw this on.” But I knew better; she’d probably agonized over it. I smiled and winked at her, and I saw her shoulders relax.

We spent the next half hour gossiping about another absent committee member’s upcoming anniversary party, why bangs were always a bad idea, and at what age a child was old enough for a WaveRunner. I listened for a while, but then started looking around, losing interest.

Finally, Ellen placed a folder marked “Benefit” on the table, and I
snapped back into focus. I took out a pen and a note pad and wrote “To Do” across the top. Time to get to work.

The Philadelphia Animal Rescue Center Gala was to be held in the art museum’s foyer on Thursday, November 6, just two days after the election. All of Philadelphia was invited, and we expected it to sell out, despite charging five hundred dollars for a two-hour event that didn’t even include a sit-down dinner. When I heard the theme—a fall fashion show featuring local celebrities’ pets, all wearing miniature couture outfits, including jewelry—it was all I could do to keep from choking on my crab cakes. Even after ten years in public relations, it was one of the more absurd, and out-of-touch, ideas I’d ever heard of. I cringed when I found out the genius idea was Abbey van Holt’s.

I sighed and took a sip of wine. At the very least, I should help it to be a success. I began to ask questions in rapid fire: “How many more tickets need to be sold? How much do you think we’ll raise? What media is confirmed? Who have we yet to reach out to?”

No one responded.

I turned to Mindy. “And the caterer. Is he locked in?”

She just looked at me and shrugged. I looked at Betsy and Ellen. But only blank stares from them, too.

Had we already been over this last week?

“Sorry, guys, it’s been a long week,” I said. “Just thought we could recap what’s been done, what’s yet to do.”

“But, Abbey,” said Ellen incredulously. “We don’t need to worry about any of
that
! The museum handles it. As long as we got our RSVPs to Alistair, we’re fine.”

“Oh. Right,” I said. “I forgot.”

Betsy hit me with a strange look, Ellen giggled, and Mindy swallowed the bite she had been working on for twenty minutes. But then Betsy took over the conversation again, and I realized what was going on. This wasn’t a planning lunch; this was just a lunch.
And we weren’t going to roll up our silken sleeves and help Philly’s unwanted dogs and cats; we were here simply to donate money, put our names on the invitation, and make important decisions like whether to serve French or Italian wine, whom to blackball from the event, and whether “festive cocktail” meant Ellen could wear a strapless dress. Not knowing the answer to any of these questions—or, frankly, giving a shit—I quietly sipped my wine.

Back in my old life, whenever a deadline was pushed or a client quit the firm, I was secretly giddy. Nothing thrilled me more than found time or scratching an item off my list. But now, as I put away my notebook—the blank page practically neon white without my slanted handwriting—I felt untethered.

It wasn’t just that I had no to dos. It was that the ones I did have didn’t really matter. At least, not to me.

Two hours later, the food everyone pretended to eat long ago taken away, the conversation turned back to houses. Everyone at the table was in the midst of a major renovation. I tried to contribute as best I could but was pretty sure they weren’t talking about installing new garbage disposals or tearing out old quarter round. We also talked vacations, a hot topic given the looming fall break.

“Oh, I meant to ask you,” said Ellen nonchalantly. “What is that little hotel you recommended in New Orleans?”

“Excuse me?”

“The one near where you and Alex lived? The one with the great coffee or something?”

“Uh, I can’t remember. Can I text it to you later?”

New Orleans? Alex and I had lived in Louisiana? When? For how long? I put down my wineglass and sat up straighter. But just as it was about to get interesting, everyone started checking their phones and lifting their heavy quilted purses onto their toned shoulders.

Ellen motioned for the check as Betsy took a call. As I waited, I
tried to ignore her conversation, but her voice was loud, fueled by white wine.

“I am sorry, Principal Murray, but there is no way my son did this. No. Possible. Way.” A hush fell over the table. We were all listening now.