Heart of the Matter (25 page)

“Too late,” I say, pointing at my Saks bag in the hallway, further goading him. “Needed some new shoes to go out in , . .”

He rolls his eyes and says, “Oh, I see. I guess none of the thirty pairs you already own will suffice for a girls’ night out?”

I roll my eyes back at him, feeling my smile stretch and tighten, thinking of Cate’s closet. And April’s. And even Rachel’s—restrained by Manhattan banker wives’ standards but still more indulgent than mine. The contrast between their rows and rows of jeweled and satin and edgy black leather, impossibly high-heeled designer footwear—and my understated, mostly sensible collection.

“You have no idea what a
lot
of shoes looks like,” I say, a hint of defiance in my voice. “Seriously. I have a paltry wardrobe.”

“Paltry? Really?”
he says, raising one judgmental eyebrow.

“Well, not compared to a Somali villager. . . But in this context,” I say, pointing 180 degrees around me, indicating our big-spending neighbors. “I am
not
a shopper . . . You know, Nick, you really should be glad you married me. You couldn’t handle these other women.”

I hold my breath, waiting for him to soften, smile a real smile, touch me,
anywhere,
and say something to the effect of:
Of course
I’m glad I married you.

Instead he appears thoughtful, moving on from the bill to a Barneys catalogue from which, incidentally, I have
never
ordered, as he says, “Do you think it’s too late to get a sitter? For this weekend? I might want to go grab a few beers myself. . .”

“With whom?” I ask, instantly regretting it, trying to retract my suspicious question with a guileless smile.

It seems to work, although he still hesitates in a way that stabs my heart. I look at him, knowing I will replay this second of silence and the blank look on his face, just as I will replay the way he stumbles on his next words, “Oh, I don’t... I don’t know. . . Maybe alone ...”

His voice trails off as I nervously fill the awkward gap. “I’ll call Carolyn and see if she’s free,” I say, the word
enabler
springing to mind.

Then I turn and take my new shoes upstairs, thinking that if my husband is on the verge of cheating on me, at least he’s not very good at it.

***

On Thursday morning, April convinces me to fill in for her usual doubles partner, who is home with a stomach bug, in a practice match against Romy and her longtime partner, Mary Catherine—known in tennis circles as MC because she occasionally bursts out with “Hammer Time!” when acing her opponents. In short, all three women take their tennis very seriously, and I am sure that my high school tennis team prowess won’t live up to their religious ten hours a week of dedication to the game. And I’m even
more
sure when I see Romy and MC strut onto the indoor tennis court at Dedham Golf & Polo with their all-business, full-makeup game faces, and perfectly coordinated outfits, down to their matching wrist bands and sneakers—Romy in powder blue, MC in lavender.

“Hello, ladies,” MC says in her husky voice. She removes her warm-up jacket and shakes out her arms, her biceps rippling like an Olympic swimmer’s.

“Sorry we’re late,” Romy says, slipping her short blond hair into a nubby ponytail and then stretching her hamstrings. “Nightmare of a morning. Grayson had
another
meltdown on the way to school. My decorator showed up thirty minutes late with positively
loathsome
fabric samples. And I spilled a bottle of nail polish remover all over our brand-new bathroom throw rug. I knew I shouldn’t try to give myself a manicure!”

“Oh, honey! That sounds dreadful,” April says, her tone changing as it always does when she gets around Romy. It’s as if she wants to impress her or win her approval—which I find odd given that April seems smarter and more interesting than her friend.

“So, Tessa. April says you’re a great player,” MC says, cutting to the chase. She is the matriarch and captain of their tennis team, and apparently looking to fill one spot in their spring lineup. In other words, I am clearly auditioning today. “You played in college?”

“No!” I say, appalled with the misrepresentation.

“Yes you did,” April says, running her hand across her newly restrung racket and then opening a can of balls.

“No, I
didn’t.
I played in
high school.
And I didn’t touch a racket for years until I quit my job last year,” I say, setting the record straight and lowering everyone’s expectations, including my own. Still, I feel a surprising current of competitiveness, something I haven’t experienced in a long time. I want to be good today. I
need
to be good today. Or at least competent.

For the next few minutes, the four of us make small talk and warm up, hitting ground strokes as I replay my tennis instructor’s advice from a recent lesson—keep my feet moving, my grip tight, approach the net on second serve returns. But as soon as we begin the match, all my competency melts away, and thanks to my inability to hold serve or win a point on my return side, April and I quickly find ourselves down a set and three-love.

“Sorry,” I mumble after one particularly embarrassing return, an easy shot that I hit directly into the net. I am speaking mostly to April, but to Romy and MC, too, as I know I’m doing nothing to help hone their skills or elevate their level of play.

“No worries!” Romy shouts, barely winded, her makeup still perfect. “You’re doing fine!” Her tone is patronizing, but encouraging.

Meanwhile, I gasp for air and wipe my face with a towel, then chug from my water bottle, returning to the court with fresh determination. Fortunately, my play seems to improve slightly from there, and I even hit a few winning points, but within thirty more minutes, we are still facing match point, which MC announces as if speaking into a microphone on Centre Court at Wimbledon.

I feel a sudden surge of intense nervousness, as if the next point could prove life-changing. Gripping my racket in the ready position, I watch MC line her toes up behind the baseline, bounce her ball three times, and stare me down, in what is either her pre-serve visualization or an obvious attempt at intimidation.

“Serve already,” I hear April mutter, as she finally tosses her ball in the air, simultaneously coiling her racket behind her head, crushing a slice serve with a Monica Seles—esque grunt.

The ball whizzes over the net, spins sideways, and slides off the singles line in the wide corner of my deuce service box, pushing me off the court. I spot the spin and the angle, stretching into the tennis version of a warrior-three yoga pose as I fully extend my arm and flip my wrist. The frame of my racket barely makes contact with the ball yet I still manage a high, deep forehand return. Feeling satisfied, I watch the ball lob its way down the line toward Romy, who yells “Mine! Mine!” a crucial instruction when playing with MC.

Romy hits an overhead up the middle.

“You!” April shouts as I, once again, stretch to make contact, this time with an awkward backhand that somehow manages to place the ball on the other side of the net.

MC hits a high forehand volley back to April, who returns with a topspin forehand of her own. My heart races as Romy s half volley sends the ball back to me, and I return it with a lucky lob deep in MC’s court.

And so on and so on until the point culminates in a dramatic, close-to-the-net, reflex-volley exhibition, finally ending when MC gets her racket over the ball, smashing it directly into me.

Hammer Time.

“Game, set, match!” she yells jubilantly.

I force a smile as we all walk to the sidelines, where we gulp from our water bottles and rehash the last point—or at least MC rehashes it. Then she turns to me and mentions that they are looking for a new team member.

“Would you be interested?” she asks while April beams, proud of her latest project—to remake me into one of the glamour girls of Wellesley.

“Yeah,” I say, thinking that I could get used to this life, a thought I have again after we shower, reconvene, and indulge in an après-tennis lunch at the juice bar, sipping protein shakes and commencing rigorous girl talk. We cover shoes and jewelry, Botox and plastic surgery, our diet and exercise regimes (or lack thereof), and our nannies, babysitters, and housekeepers. The conversation is mostly shallow and mindless, but I enjoy every minute of it, loving the utter escapism, akin to opening a tabloid magazine. I sheepishly admit to myself that I also like the feeling of belonging, of being included in their elite clique. It occurs to me that I haven’t had a true group of friends since Cate and I joined a sorority in college, perhaps because I typically prefer one-on-one friendships, but more likely because I have a family now. It also occurs to me that Nick would scoff if he could hear the Cliff’s Notes of our conversation—which, in turn, makes me feel defensive and all the more resentful.

Perhaps for this reason, I am unfazed when Romy finally gets down to the subject of Charlie. “Charlie Anderson is back at school this week,” she says, sipping her mango shake, gingerly broaching the subject.

“That’s great news!” April says, her voice an unnaturally high octave.

I echo the sentiment, murmuring something noncommittal but supportive, my way of giving Romy permission to say more.

“Yeah, I know,” Romy says, letting out a huge sigh.

“Tell them about Grayson,” MC prompts.

Romy pretends to balk, shaking her head, looking down at the table. “I don’t want to make Tessa uncomfortable,” she says.

“It’s okay,” I say, meaning it. “And whatever you say, I’ll keep it to myself.”

She flashes me a small, grateful smile, and says, “Grayson’s having a rough time at school,” she says. “He’s still going through post-traumatic stress syndrome and I think seeing Charlie again has brought back a lot of bad memories.”

“That must be hard,” I say, feeling genuinely sympathetic. “And on top of that,” Romy says. “Charlie’s not being very nice to Grayson.”

“Really?” I say, surprised to hear this—and still a bit skeptical of the source.

“Well, it’s not that he’s being
mean,
per se. He’s just. . . ignoring him. They aren’t nearly as close as they once were . . .”

I nod, thinking of Ruby’s class, how the mean-girl syndrome has already begun, the popularity dynamic shifting on a weekly basis as the girls recast their silent votes for four-year-old queen bee status and realign accordingly. So far Ruby has managed to dwell somewhere in the middle—not a victim, not the predator. It is where I always managed to linger, and where I hope she stays, too. “Maybe he’s just shy?” I say. “Or self-conscious.”

“Maybe,” Romy says. “He is wearing a mask—as I’m sure you know.”

I shake my head and say, “No. Nick and I really haven’t talked about the case.”

Romy says, “Well, in any event, I think Charlie being back just makes Grayson feel worse . . . Maybe even a little guilty since it happened at his party.”

“He shouldn’t feel guilty,” I say, which is clearly the truth.

“And neither should
you,”
April says to Romy.

I nod, although I’m not sure I’m willing to go this far in the analysis.

“Have you run into her again? Valerie Anderson?” MC asks. “Since that day at the hospital?”

“No. Fortunately,” Romy says, biting her lower lip, appearing lost in thought. She shakes her head. “I just don’t understand that woman.”

“I don’t, either,” April says.

Romy’s face brightens as she turns to me. “Did April tell you we saw your cute husband at the hospital? What a doll.”

I nod and smile, relieved that I don’t have to weigh in on the issue of Romy’s accountability and corresponding guilt.

“I love a man in scrubs,” she says.

“Yeah. I used to feel that way,” I say, cynicism creeping into my voice.

“What happened?” Romy asks, smiling.

“I married him,” I say, laughing, but only half kidding.

“Yeah,
right,”
April says, then turns to Romy. “Tessa has the perfect marriage. They
never
fight. And he’s watching the kids all weekend so she can go to New York and play.”

“He can handle the kids alone?” Romy asks, amazed.

I start to tell her that I have Carolyn lined up to bridge the gap between my departure tomorrow afternoon and his return from work, as well as giving him a break over the weekend, but April answers for me, gushing, “He’s great with the kids. The
best
father. I’m telling you—they have the
perfect
marriage.”

I give her a look, wondering why she’s trying to pitch me so hard—my children, my tennis game, now my marriage. I appreciate it, but have the sense she’s overcompensating for something, perhaps for the fact that I don’t pull off that instant, cool first impression. Although it’s good to know that Nick does. In his scrubs.

Romy and MC give me a wistful look that makes me feel like a June Cleaver imposter as I consider what the past few weeks have looked like in my house.

“Nobody has the perfect marriage,” I say.

MC vigorously shakes her head. “Nobody,” she says, as if speaking from a wealth of experience.

We all fall silent as if contemplating our relationships until Romy says, “Speaking of . . . did you hear about Tina and Todd?”

“Don’t
even
tell me,” April says, covering her ears. Romy pauses dramatically, then whispers, “With a
call girl,”

“Omigod. You’re kidding me,” April says. “He seems like such a nice guy. He’s an usher at our church, for God’s sake!”

“Yeah. Well. Maybe he’s stealing from the collection plate, too.”

MC asks if it was a one-time thing and Romy turns to her and snaps, “Does that make a difference?”

“I guess not,” MC says, finishing her shake with a final, long slurp.

“But for the record, no. It was
not
a one-time thing. Turns out he’s been doing it for years. Just like—what was his name—that governor of New York?”

“Eliot Spitzer,” I say, remembering how obsessed I was with that hooker scandal, and more specifically, with his wife, Silda. How I had marveled when she stood behind him at the podium, her eyes puffy and red, looking utterly defeated and disgraced as he confessed and resigned on national television. Literally standing by her man. I wondered how long she had deliberated on what to wear that morning. Whether she had Googled the hooker in question, poring over her pictures online or in the tabloids. What she said to her friends. To her three daughters. To her mother. To
him.