When We Fall (7 page)

“She seems great.” Allison smiled softly. She barely knew Charlotte. What else could she say?

“Yeah, definitely.” There was an awkward silence.

“Okay, well, thank you again. So much. For all of your help.” She hugged him. “I owe you at least a few more lunches.”

“Don't be ridiculous. I wouldn't have it any other way.” He held her at arm's length and shook his head. “Allison Parker. I still can't believe you're here in Wincourt.”

S
eptember came and went in a whirlwind of books, binders, and backpacks, every crisp page and freshly sewn monogram beset with the promise of cultivating bright young minds. The longer days, which typically commenced at seven a.m. with a mildly grouchy Gia fighting to wear an outfit that was age inappropriate, ended with an arms-belted-across-her-chest-fists-balled-and-a-scowl-on-her-face Gia refusing to go to bed before ten p.m.—and that was on a good night. By the time October was threatening to slip into November and the leaves were changing colors like a chameleon, Charlotte felt as though she'd been trudging through wet cement for weeks on end. Soon the leaves would be tumbling into heaping piles for kids to cavort in until being swept away in advance of the first snowfall.

Charlotte could barely tolerate northeastern winters. Having grown up in central Florida, she felt allergic to the freezing temperatures and bulky clothing. Forget about the wind, hail, and, heaven forbid, a real storm. If she could have
hibernated like a bear from early November until mid-April, she would have. Her first semester at Cornell University had been an unwelcome shock to her system. She'd been warned that it was going to be cold and had purchased what felt like a full wardrobe of clothing to accommodate her new environment. Unfortunately, she'd grossly miscalculated just how freezing it was going to be and somewhere around December had been forced to buy a better-late-than-never, full-length down coat in a gleaming shade of white, which was so puffy she'd looked like a swollen marshmallow waddling around campus. Charlotte had pleaded with the salesgirl to check in the back for another color, any other color, but she'd just shrugged sympathetically enough and said,
Sorry, sweetie. Out of stock. This is what you get at the end of the season.

During the first months, even years, of her relationship with Charlie, they'd talked about moving somewhere warmer. She'd suggested San Diego. He'd countered with San Francisco, citing a long-standing fascination with the Golden Gate Bridge. They'd even mulled over the Carolinas and Texas.
I'd look killer in a pair of brown lizard cowboy boots and a Stetson,
Charlie had joked, and she'd laughed effortlessly, thinking that, to her, he'd look killer in anything. Better yet, nothing at all. But the years had gone by, one colder than the next—or so it seemed to Charlotte—and Charlie had become further ensconced in his career as a hedge funder and she in the Wincourt social scene. Every now and then, in the depths of winter, when the frigid temperatures were almost too much to endure, Charlotte would resurrect the conversation, but Charlie would just laugh and say something like, “Where would you get your hair and nails done in South
Carolina?” or “How would you survive without Sabrina and Missy in Dallas?”

Those were the things he thought mattered to her most?

Charlotte placed a large hand-painted salad bowl filled with arugula, sliced mushrooms, and slivered almonds in the center of the kitchen table, feeling particularly buoyant about today's lunch. She'd invited Allison weeks earlier, but with both of their hectic schedules, it'd taken this long for them to settle on a free afternoon—the last Saturday in October and possibly one of the few remaining days evocative of spring. The air was light and sweet, like a wisp of cotton candy on your tongue, and the warmth of the sun enveloped you like the tender cradling hands of a first-time mother.

Quite intentionally, she hadn't invited Sabrina and Missy to join them. She was intent on getting to know Allison without the other ladies around. Charlotte suspected Allison just might be the kind of friend who cared more about the latest life was dishing out than your latest designer shoe purchase. But she hadn't figured her out yet. And there was still the obstacle that was Charlie to factor into the equation. It was silly, she knew, to view her own husband as an impediment. After all, she and Allison might never have made it past pleasant smiles exchanged in the school hallways if not for him. Either that or Sabrina would have gotten to her first, deciding whether “they”—as a group—were going to accept or alienate the new girl on the block. Still, Charlotte couldn't help but feel cheated. She wanted Allison all to herself, and she couldn't put her finger on why.

The doorbell chimed and Charlotte instinctively tossed the salad, hurrying to answer the door before Layla—their
weekend babysitter—could beat her to it, not that Layla had a fighting chance, seeing as she and Gia were tucked away in the outermost wing of her ten-thousand-square-foot house. “No disruptions, please, unless there's an emergency,” Charlotte had politely requested of Layla that morning when she'd arrived promptly at eight to find the kitchen in turmoil from Gia's prebreakfast temper tantrum. “Mr. Crane will be working in his office, so once you've cleaned up in here, please take Gia to the playroom until lunchtime. Sorry for the mess.”

Reliably, Layla had nodded and offered a soft-spoken, “Yes, Mrs. Charlotte.”

“Just a second. I'm coming . . . ,” Charlotte called out, as if Allison could hear her through their impenetrable iron door with copper patina finish.

Before Charlie, Charlotte had never considered the fact that one could customize so many details in a home. She'd have been just as happy with the wooden door that was there when they'd purchased the place five years ago. And the light fixtures in every room. And the hardware in all the bathrooms. Who really knew the difference between pewter and brushed nickel anyway? Apparently Charlie did. He'd once told her that he'd always dreamed of being an architect but he didn't have the brain for all the geometry that went with it. At some point he'd figured that if he earned enough money, it would be equally gratifying—not to mention a lot less time spent studying—to renovate an already existing property that he could puff his chest over being able to afford.

“Hey!” Allison beamed over the rims of two brown bags
overflowing with a cornucopia of fruits and vegetables. “These are for you.”

“Oh my gosh. Let me take those from you.”

“No, no, I've got them balanced. One false move and your foyer will be aisle one at Whole Foods. Just lead the way.” Allison followed Charlotte into the kitchen and set the bags down on the counter. She was dressed in her uniform—cork wedge sandals and a billowy maxidress, this one an almost-sheer, chiffon-like fabric swathed in a maelstrom of turquoises and pale yellows.

“What is all this stuff?” Charlotte started unpacking vibrant orange peppers, baseball-bat-sized cucumbers, and Ziploc bags stuffed with unidentifiable green herbs. “It looks and smells amazing.”

“Logan and I picked it from our garden this morning. The previous owners moved out in June. I guess they were good friends with our Realtor, so they let my mom in to plant. It was her surprise to us, and I think she went a little overboard!” She smiled and Charlotte noticed for the first time that Allison's nose was slightly crooked in the most flattering way. Somehow the awkward curvature, which would have been unbecoming on anyone else, complemented Allison's naturally flushed cheeks, her light gray eyes, bee-stung pink pout, and long, beachy blond waves, which always looked elegantly and effortlessly tousled, even at school drop-off early in the morning. Charlotte couldn't tell if she wore any makeup at all, but if she did it was scarcely more than some lip balm and a coat of clear mascara on her offensively long, butterfly-like lashes.

“Well, we're thrilled to be the recipients of your mom's exuberance. What's in these?” She lifted six Tupperware containers packed with a thick greenish-brown substance from one of the bags and wrinkled her nose, which was not at all crooked, thanks to Dr. Morton Rosen, and still was not as well-suited for her face as Allison's.

“That, my friend, is the best pesto you will ever eat. Our backyard may have been overtaken by a jungle of basil if not for that pesto. It's a little brown because the olive oil settles at the bottom, but once you mix it . . .” Allison closed her eyes and licked her lips. “Heaven.”

“Did you make it?” Charlotte was kind of hoping she'd say no.

“Of course! But it's my mom's recipe. Thus the accolades. Honestly, it's easy. I can give you the recipe.”

“Oh, okay, thanks.” Charlotte nodded. “Are you hungry?”

“Starved.” Allison rubbed her belly.

“Excellent. Have a seat.” She motioned to the kitchen table, which was draped in a burnt orange silk tablecloth and adorned with candles wrapped in cinnamon sticks and corn husks and lumpy gourds in varying shapes, sizes, and colors. The centerpiece was a hulking carved and seeded pumpkin stuffed and overflowing with vibrant leaves, each one at least the size of Allison's hand. Even the salad matched the décor.

“This is spectacular.” Allison sat down at one end of the long table. “You really have a talent.” She leaned forward to smell one of the cinnamon sticks. “Yummy.”

“Oh, please, you think I did this?” Charlotte laughed. “I don't have a creative bone in my body.” It wasn't strictly the
truth. When she'd worked in advertising, albeit briefly, she'd often been praised for her inspired ideas. Still, she hadn't massaged those muscles in years, and anyway, concocting campaign slogans had come naturally to her, unlike domesticity.

“I doubt that.” Allison swept her hand in front of her. “Look at this place.”

“Yeah, I can't take credit.” Charlotte shook her head and set a Gruyère and broccoli quiche, which Layla had left warming in the oven, in front of Allison—the browned and bubbling cheese was so fragrant Charlotte was almost tempted to indulge in a slice. Almost. “We have an amazing interior decorator. I can give you her name if you want. All I did was tear pictures of rooms I liked out of magazines and occasionally a lone piece of furniture. As for the table, I swear my housekeeper, Janna, is the Filipino version of Martha Stewart. What can I tell you? She changes the theme with every season.”

“That's convenient.” Allison took the silver knife from the quiche plate. “Shall I?”

“Oh, absolutely. Let me get us something to drink. Iced tea good?”

“Great.”

“Help yourself to salad too.”

“This looks delicious.” Allison smiled. “I won't bother asking if you made it.”

“Now you're catching on!” Charlotte returned to the table with two tall frosted glasses filled with iced tea and decorated with a skewer of fresh blueberries tangled in fresh mint. “Oh, no quiche for me.” She dismissed Allison's attempt to serve her even a small piece.

“You're a better woman than I am!” Allison put the slice on her own plate and gave herself some salad as well, passing the bowl to Charlotte. “You do eat lettuce, right?”

“Oh yes. It's a favorite!”

“Well, I'm definitely in awe of your willpower.”

“It's either that or fat thighs.” Charlotte smacked the side of her leg. “So tell me, how's everything going? I wish we could have done this sooner. I've been dying to hear how you're settling in. Is Logan liking school?”

“He is. And the house is shaping up really nicely. Lately I've been holed up in my studio working on a new project. It feels nice to be inspired to paint something of my own again. Something I'm not being commissioned to do.”

“I can imagine.” Charlotte nodded. “Have you made any . . . friends?”

“Aside from you and Charlie, not really.” She took a bite of salad. “Can I be honest?”

“Of course!” Charlotte let herself relax for the first time all day. This was exactly what she'd been waiting for. Girl time alone with Allison.

“I haven't found the other moms in the class to be that
welcoming
. I know that sounds awful, but I was sort of hoping there'd be a few more women I could relate to. I guess it's still early days.”

“Yeah, it's a tough crowd. But you have me. And Sabrina and Missy.”

“True.” Allison tilted her eyes downward.

“You don't like them, do you?” Charlotte had noticed Allison wince more than a few times during the Wine and Whine. And Charlie had been over to Allison's sporadically
in the past few weeks to help out with this or that. God only knows what he'd said to her about Sabrina and Missy. She only hoped he had the sense not to say anything negative about her.

“Oh no. They're sweet. I just . . .”

“Sweet? Ha!” Charlotte hooted. “Not necessarily the word I'd use. You can be straight with me. I know they're my friends, but I'm not really like them.” There. She'd said it. But wasn't she like them? If you asked most of the other moms at school, they'd probably say the three of them were one and the same. Still, in her heart, she knew that Sabrina could turn on her faster than spoiled milk if someone more appealing came along. It had almost happened three years back when word had gotten around that Ben Affleck was going to be filming a major motion picture in Wincourt and that Jennifer Garner and their kids might be moving there with him. Sabrina had very nearly dropped Charlotte and Missy on the spot.

It wasn't that Sabrina and Missy were bad people. They were fun to hang out with, especially when Sabrina was in a good mood, and there had been times when they'd come through for her in a pinch, but still, Charlotte remained cautious about letting her guard down entirely. She feared that if she was too forthcoming about her problems and frustrations, it could come back to bite her. That was why meeting Allison felt like such a gift, especially since Charlie used to be her outlet from the superficial social circle in which she roamed. Not in a “girl chat” sort of way, but he'd been her partner—for better or worse—which, sadly, they seemed to have lost. And once they'd started drifting apart, she'd found
herself desperate to rely on someone more genuine, someone to whom she could open up without reservation. She'd considered trying to befriend a few of the other mothers at school, ones who seemed slightly less shallow, but she knew that Sabrina was territorial when it came to her, and at the end of the day, it was easier to sit comfortably on the boat than to rock it.