The Saving Graces (14 page)

   To: Emma From: L.P. Patterson Subject: Anniversary

   Emma: It's all set-we can have the Cape Hatteras cottage the second weekend in June. I wanted the third because, as you know, that's the true 10th anniversary of the S.G.'s, but it was already booked. Henry's planning to drive down Sunday late after everyone else leaves, and we'll stay three more days. Might invite another couple. Care to join us? With or without beau-up to you.
Looking forward to Friday night, Lee
To: Emma From: L.P. Patterson Sub ject: Friday night

   Emma: You're coming to my cocktail party, aren't you? (I ask because you never RSVP'd.) Assuming you are, I have a tiny emergency. Henry and I have an A.I. appointment tomorrow at 3:30. (Our 4th, and this one is it, I'm positive!) So we'll be rushing and may or may not get home in time to pick up the salmon mousse at Fresh Fields. It's on your way-could you do it? Many thanks. It's paid for; all you have to do is pick it up.
Meanwhile, guess who's coming to the party and BRINGING A FRIEND?
Hurriedly, Lee
Ha! Must be Jenny, Lee's mother-in-law. And "BRINGING A FRIEND." This should be good. I love to watch Lee's liberal superego fight it out with her conservative id.
And here I thought the only one suffering anxious moments at Lee's party was going to be me, trying to act natural around Mick and Sally, the Dracos, en faniille. My, what a fun night this is going to be.

   I won't deny that I was watching the door, and yet somehow I missed Mick's entrance. By the time I saw him, he was leaning in the archway to the sunroom, holding a drink. The setting sun poured in through the ja'ousie windows like fire, backlighting the food-laden buffet table. Backlighting Mick's tall, straight silhouette. Our eyes met. As they say. I started to smile, but bodies came between us, a knot of chatting people shifting to make room for Lee and her tray of crab puffs. When the way cleared, he was bending down, saying something in his wife's ear.
Sally's shy at parties. She needs a drink or two before she ventures away from his side and talks to people on her own.
How do I know that? He told me. I forget in what context. An innocent one, though. All our conversations are innocent, and greasy, sleazy Murray's is still our trysting place. He doesn't help me with my coat, doesn't take my arm when we cross the street. Except for when our knees accidentally bump under the table, we never torch. But I am having the hottest, riskiest, most intense love affair of my life. I think it's the same for him.
Lee glided up. "Thanks for bringing the mousse, Em. It wasn't any trouble, was it?" She looked hostessy in a floor-length skirt and a silk tank; Emanuel Ungaro, she'd told me in an E-mail.
"Oh, no," I said, "it was right on my way. Hey, you look great. So does your house." "You, too! That's quite a suit." I guess she meant it, sarcastic understatement being more my style than Lee's. But now that I was here, I was feeling a little unsure of my choice: no blouse under a low-cut cocktail jacket with a matching midthigh skirt. It showed a lot more skin than I'm used to revealing. Well it s a cocktail party I said defensively Where else can a girl show off her assets?" "The beach?" Lee laughed, pleased with her little joke. "Oh, Emma, something I've been meaning to mention -we can't talk about it now, but I just want you to be thinking about it." "What?" She glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. "How do you feel about asking Sally to join the group? The women's group. The Graces," she specified when all I could do was stare. "Does it sound like a good idea to you?" I was speechless.
"You've met her a couple of times now. Do you like her? I think she's really nice. And smart, and interesting. And different enough from the rest of us to bring something new to the group." Diversity was important to Lee. Once she vetoed a woman I knew at the paper because we had the same job. "Then we'd have two journalists," she'd argued. "It's redundant. Don't we want variety?" Sally would add variety, I could see that. A young mother, a Southerner, a primary breadwinner: all unique traits. The trouble with Sally, I've thought more than once, is that there's nothing wrong with her.
I fell back on a craven but obvious excuse. "Well, but don't you think it's not the best time to be thinking of a new member? Because of Isabel? Where is she, by the way?" "She said she might be late. No, I don't think it's-" "Hey, gorgeous, you look good enough to eat." Henry smothered me in a huge bear hug. Frowning at the interruption, Lee absently took his arm and leaned against him. Mutt and Jeff. He could put her in his pocket. They're so cute together, so . . unliberated or something. If he did put her in his pocket, neither of them would think a thing of it.
"1 don't necessarily see that, not at all," Lee said to me. "As soon as they hit on the right drug with Isabel, the worst will be behind her. Then I should think it would be good for her and the group to have someone new to get to know. And she's met Sally," she added, dropping her voice again. "I asked her, and she said she likes her." "You asked her? You asked Isabel about-" "Not about joining, just if she liked her. And she said yes." "Oh." But Isabel likes everybody, she's like God that way. "Oh, Lee, I don't know. I don't have anything against Sally, it's just that-I'm still not sure it's a good time for us to be taking on somebody new." "Well, I don't agree, but if that's your opinion. I'll ask Rudy what she thinks, of course." You do that. "Sure," 1 nodded vigorously. Rudy wouldn't let me down. "And Isabel, of course." "Naturally." She went off to do hostess duties. Henry hung around, shooting the breeze with me, telling a couple of his cornball dirty jokes. Then he said, "Y'know, Em, I hope I'm wrong, but..." He fluffed the carpet with the toe of his shoe.
"What?" "I'm not sure Lee's being that realistic about Isabel.
Her condition. I don't say anything, because I don't want to discourage her. And miracles do happen." He bent his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "What do you think?" "I think we're all trying hard to handle it in our own ways. Lee's an optimist, she's coping with it optimistically." A more polite way of saying she's in denial. "Rudy's scared to death, but hiding it." "What about you?" I looked at him frankly. "I'm a pessimist." "Yeah." His rugged face softened with sympathy. "I'm just scared Lee might get blindsided. You know, if something bad happens. She's not gonna be prepared." "I know." Neither am I. If something bad happens. "Well," I said, "good thing she's got you to take care of her." I sidled closer. "So, Mister Horn o' Plenty. Mister hunka burning love. How's it going in the fertility department these days?" Henry is such a guy, he loves this routine I've been doing since Lee told us about his sperm count. I think he's relieved to be able to talk about the problem, and before, we couldn't. Isn't that ridiculous? It was a taboo subject when it might've been a low sperm count, but now it's okay.
After a few more nitwit sperm jokes, he sobered and said, "The timing's perfect for us, considering what all else is goin' on. Lee's counting on it to work this time. Even if it doesn't, we've got two more shots. Being pregnant, you know, it would get her through. If..
"It'll work," I said, not wanting to hear about if. "Because you are awesome, Patterson. You are so damn potent, you'll probably have triplets. All sons." He threw back his head and laughed. And blushed. Oh, I do love Henry. He's like a big, sleepy bear, calm and sturdy, dependable as dawn. He's good to Lee, and he tones down her anal retentiveness like . . . I don't know what. A good sedative. Lee's live-in Seconal prescription.
The party got a little louder, a little sloppier. Not much; Lee's parties never get out of hand. She'd stocked it with all her preschool and early-childhood-development cronies: smart, interesting, good-hearted women whose husbands make more money than they do. I schmoozed with the ones I'd met before, introduced myself to a couple of new ones. Lee's parties are notoriously low on single men, I'm not sure why. My only theory is it's because her friends are so wholesome, they never get divorced.
Tonight I wasn't trolling for single men, of course. Even though I never looked for him, I always knew where Mick was. Radar. We circulated, but always kept the width of a room between us, a clutch of moving bodies. Me, deliberately; him-I couldn't say. But what a painful, addictive game I was playing. It's true that I hurt all over because of the hopelessness of this infatuation, but at the same time I'd never felt so alive.
As usual, Rudy and Curtis arrived late. He may be a schmuck-no, he's definitely a schmuck-but there's no denying that Curtis Lloyd is a good-looking man. In that Earnest Young Nazi mold, but still. And Rudy, well, besides being beautiful, she's got this effortless model-chic that makes normal people feel gawky and flatfooted and too made-up when they're around her. People like me. I waved to her, hoping she'd extricate herself from Curtis and come over alone. No way. I should've known; he hardly ever lets her out of his sight at parties. Either he doesn't trust her or he's afraid to be by himself. Probably both.
Rudy and I kissed cheeks, while Curtis and I managed to hug without actually touching. "Where's Isabel?" Rudy asked after some small talk.
"Not here yet. Lee said she said she might be late." "I can't wait to meet this Kirby." "Me, too." I can't talk to Rudy when Curtis is around. It's like trying to talk on the phone through glass while the prison guard watches. The only thing worse is talking to Curtis when Rudy's not around.
That's why I could've killed her when she said, "Oh, there's Allison Wilkes, I haven't seen her in ages. I'll be right back," and walked away.
With anyone else I didn't particularly care for, I might've said, "Alone at last,"at a time like this, on the theory that getting the worst out of the way early, even if you do it sarcastically, helps dissipate the tension. But I keep my true feelings for Curtis to myself- that time at Sergei's was an exception. Rudy says she's not afraid of him, but I am. Slightly. Because he's creepy. So I'm civil and onedimensional and deliberately dull with him, practically zombielike in my self-restraint. Pretty admirable, when what I'd really enjoy is punching him out. Anything for Rudy.
Empty-handed-Curtis doesn't drink in public; might lose control-he bounced on his toes a little, surveying the crowd. Checking to see if anybody here could do him any good, I was sure. He's a born politician, except for one thing. He doesn't like people.
"Well, Emma," he roused himself to say. "Rudy tells me you've quit your job." Isaid that was true.
"And you're all set to write a book. A novel." He laughed his hard, sharp, machine gun laugh, Ha ha ha ha.
"Is that funny? You find that amusing?" I kept smiling, smiling, the hostility only coming out of my eyes. He didn't bother to answer. My anger was out of all proportion, but he's like a marksman, an archer with perfect aim. With one shot, he'd hit me in my tender spot.
"How's your new job?" I countered. "Lobbying. That seems so right for you, Curtis. Really a"-I pretended to hunt for the word-"a noble profession." He only smirked. My arrow hadn't even nicked the target. I thought the little game was over, but he said, "So, what is your book about?" Ab, the question a writer hates most. How do you suppose he knew that? "It's still in the incubation stage," I said, still smiling. Talk about understatement. "I'd really rather not discuss it." Across the room, I could see Mick talking to Henry. Laughing with him, kind of bobbing and weaving the way men do. Their new friendship surprises me a little. They're so different from each other.
"They say you should always write about what you know best," Curtis was telling me.
"Yeah, well. Up to a point." "So your story would probably be..." He frowned and pursed his lips, thinking. "Promiscuous spinster's dark dreams of adultery . . . something like that?" I turned to stare at him. He raised his blond brows innocently, half smiling. His eyes flicked up and down over my body, slowing down contemptuously at the areas of exposed skin.
Guilt and fury are a lethal combination. My neck and throat flushed with heat. I loathed him, I despised that knowing look on his smug face. I knew ill opened my mouth, I would curse him.
"Well. Think I'll go find my wife. You take care, Em." He sauntered away, hands in his pockets.
On the way to the bathroom, I nodded, smiled, spoke casually to people. But once inside I locked the door and gripped the sides of the sink, staring at myself in the mirror. Curtis saw this stricken face? No wonder he'd looked so satisfied. "Don't fall for it," I warned, fumbling in my bag for mascara and lipstick. This was what he'd wanted: me to feel hurt and betrayed by Rudy.
But how could she tell him my secret? Not that I'd ever told her not to. I didn't think I had to! I thought she treated my confidences the same way I treated hers, sacredly, respectfully. "Promiscuous spinster" - oh, please. To hell with that, that only proves he's as sick as I've always said he was. But, oh, Rudy, how could you tell him about Mick?
Somebody knocked.
Shit. "Just a sec!" Give me a minute, for Pete's sake. I looked as if I'd been crying.
"Sorry, no hurry!" I recognized the bright, convivial voice of Sally Draco.
Perfect.
I smiled. Grinned. Threw back my head and mimed delighted laughter. My party face. Smoothing down my skirt, I made a decision to confront Rudy later, not tonight, not here, while we were both drinking. We did that once. Never again.
Sally was leaning in the hallway, gazing out across the crowded living room, and she turned when she heard the door open. "Oh, hi! It's you." The second drink must've kicked in; she really looked glad to see me. In fact, if I hadn't folded my arms, I think she'd have embraced me. Which would've been excessive, considering I'd only met her twice in my life, both times at Lee's dinner parties.
"How've you been, Emma? I keep meaning to call you, but you know how it is-" "Oh, yeah," I said weakly, "working and having a child, that must really keep you busy. Well, so how's the job going?" I asked when it looked like she wanted a real chat, not a hit-and-run.
She rolled her eyes. "Let's just say, it's not my life's calling." "No?" What was she, a paralegal? I can never remember people's jobs. No, she was a paralegal when Mick met her; now she was something in the Labor Department.
"But I guess only one person to a family gets to do his life's work." She laughed with rueful good nature, but I know passive aggression when I hear it. "Oh, that is a gorgeous suit, where did you get it?" So we did girl talk while I checked her out and returned the obligatory compliment on her little white cocktail dress. She was an attractive woman, no question, with straight, sleek yellow hair, cut short and styled in a way women admire more than men. Her wide-spaced eyes and strong cheekbones made her face exotic. The mouth was enormous, but not happy. No, it was worried. But sensual-her whole face was sensual. It eclipsed her body, which seemed oddly asexual in comparison; you hardly noticed it.
"Mick tells me you're almost finished your article. I'm glad he could help you with it." "Oh, yes, he's been great. I couldn't have done it without him." "When does it come out?" "It's hard to say. Maybe June. Whenever they decide to print it." "I can't wait to read it," she said, eyes big and sincere.
God knows I've tried to be objective. I've asked myself, would I like Sally Draco if Mick didn't exist? If I met her at a party and we just started talking, would I want to be her friend? And the honest answer is no, but not for any good reason; I mean, she's not Satan or anything. She exudes a lot of warmth you're not sure is real, and the longer you talk to her, the less authentic that initial burst of self-confidence seems. She watches carefully; hopefully, waiting for something. Behind the big eyes, I see big need.
Our conversation, such as it was, petered out. She went in the bathroom and I drifted away, thinking about her. Why did she marry Mick? They're total opposites: he's real, she's not. (Not that I'm biased.) He rarely talks about her, and then only in the most politically correct generalities. Which is no more than I would expect of him. It's frustrating, but I like his discretion, his courtliness. But he's no Mr. Rochester; I think he'd have told Jane about the madwoman in the attic on the first date.