Smart Women (20 page)

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “the reason I asked to see you . . .”

She tossed her hair away from her face, sipped her wine, and waited.

“. . . is that the lease on the Hathaway place is up at the end of this month.”

“Oh, right,” she said. “It was just a three-month lease, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, although I’d hoped it was renewable.”

“You can’t always get a renewable lease around here. Hathaway probably rents to the same people every winter.” She paused and sipped her wine. “So, you’ll be heading back to Miami at the end of the month?”

“No, I’m going to stay here, at least until the end of the school year . . . maybe longer. And that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

He was either going to ask her to find him another place or he was going to ask if he could move in with her, B.B. thought. And she was not going to give him a definite answer now. There was too much at stake.

“I’m moving in with Margo,” he said.

“What?” she asked.

“I’m moving in with Margo at the end of the month. I wanted to tell you now since that’s where Sara will be staying when she’s with me and I hope we can make arrangements for her to spend at least one week each month.”

“No. Never.” She stood up. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“It has nothing to do with you,” he said.

A pounding began in her left temple. “Haven’t you already hurt me enough?”

“I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“I’ll never let Sara stay there. Those children are horrors.” Her voice sounded as if it was coming from very far away. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

“Because I want to be with Margo.”

She picked up her wine glass and threw it at him. He ducked. The glass hit the piano and shattered. She reached across the table for his glass, but knocked over the bottle of wine instead. The wine dripped down onto her Navajo rug. “Look at that . . . look at what you’ve made me do.”

“Where’s a sponge?” he asked.

“Never mind a sponge. Don’t you think I know what you’re after? You’re out to destroy me. You killed Bobby and now you’re trying to take Sara so that I’ll have nothing left, nothing to live for. You won’t be satisfied until then, will you?”

His mouth opened as if to speak, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying.

“What?” she screamed. “What did you say?”

He shouted at her. “You’re making this more difficult than it has to be.”

“Who sent you . . . my mother? The two of you planned it together, didn’t you? She wants me out of the way because I know the truth. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“You’re inventing things, Francine.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He came toward her and tried to put his hand on her shoulder, but she pulled away. “You better calm down before Sara gets home,” he said.

“Don’t tell me what to do! You and my mother both think you can run my life, but you’re wrong. You can’t. So get out . . . out of my house and out of my life.” She picked up a stone carving as if to throw it, but before she could, he was gone. He had turned and said something as he’d slammed the door, but she had missed it. The cloud was forming, making her head feel fuzzy.

She ran into the kitchen and turned on the cold water tap. She stuck her head under the faucet, letting the icy water wash away the grayness. When her scalp felt numb she turned off the water and shook out her hair. Then she went back into the living room. She washed the rug with club soda, swept up the broken glass, Windexed the glass tabletop, and plumped up the pillows on the sofa. She carried the cheese and crackers to the kitchen, where she dumped them into the trash can. She brushed off her hands. There. She had removed every trace of him. It was as if he had never been there, as if this afternoon had never happened.

21

F
ROM
T
HANKSGIVING UNTIL
C
HRISTMAS
Margo worked late into each night stitching the commemorative quilt she had designed and appliquéd for her parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. She had constructed a series of connecting circles in primary colors. The center circle represented her mother and father, the next three, Margo and her sisters, the small circles, the five grandchildren. The idea for the quilt had come to her more than two years ago when she had been afraid that her mother would not live to see her next birthday, let alone her fiftieth wedding anniversary. In some childlike way Margo believed that by working on the quilt she could keep her mother alive. Now, she was determined to finish it before they left for the west coast and the anniversary bash that Bethany was throwing at her home in Beverly Hills.

Long after Stuart and Michelle had gone to sleep Margo and Andrew would sit in the living room, in front of the fireplace, Andrew reading, Margo stitching, the stereo turned to KBOD. During this time Margo felt a peacefulness she had never known. She would sometimes look up at Andrew, just to be sure that he was still there, and he would smile at her or reach out and touch her hair or squeeze her hand. As it grew later and her eyes became tired she would lie in his arms as the fire died and think, this is the way it’s supposed to be. Sometimes they would make love on the rug and Margo would bite Andrew’s shoulder as she came, to keep from crying out. Then they would creep downstairs, climb into bed, and fall asleep, his arms wrapped around her.

For five years Margo had slept in a bed by herself. And even during her marriage to Freddy she had really slept alone, although he had been there, in his half of the bed, with a can of Mace on the bedside table, ready to protect her. But he had not slept with his arms around her, had not made her feel warm and safe and well-loved. There had been no tender kisses in the middle of the night as she’d rolled over in her sleep. No wonder she was sleeping so well these nights.

Margo hadn’t told her family about Andrew until he had moved in and then only because she felt she had to since the kids might mention something. She knew, once she told them, there would be questions.

“What a surprise!” her sister Bethany said. “How long have you known each other?”

“Since August.”

“Since August . . . I see.”

Margo could tell that Bethany did not approve of living together after only three months.

“And what does he do?” Bethany asked.

“He’s a writer,” Margo said.

“One of those Boulder types?”

Bethany did not like Boulder types. Every time she came to visit she walked along the Mall and disgustedly pointed out aging hippies to Margo.
They must all come here to retire,
she once said.
Not all,
Margo assured her.
Some go to Santa Fe.

“He’s new in town,” Margo said. “He’s from Florida.”

“Oh, Florida,” Bethany said. “I wonder if he knows Harvey’s older brother. They moved to Florida a few years ago. You remember Ike and Lana, don’t you?”

“I think so, but it’s been a long time.”

“Well, you’ll see them at the party. You’ll see everyone at the party.” She paused and Margo pictured her sitting on her bed, the phone tucked between her ear and shoulder as she picked last week’s polish off her nails. “You’re bringing him, aren’t you?”

“He doesn’t have a tux,” Margo said.

“Can’t he rent one?”

“He’d rather not.”

“Is he one of those avant-garde types?”

“Not really.”

“Well . . . if he won’t feel out of place, it’s okay with me.”

“I thought everything’s so casual out there anyway. How come the party’s formal?”

“It’s an affair, Margo. And even if we are living out here I’m still a New Yorker at heart and to me affairs are always black tie.”

“Oh.”

“I hope you can convince Stuart to bathe in honor of his grandparents. The last time I saw him you could smell him a mile away.”

“Oh, that’s all changed,” Margo said. “You can’t get him
out
of the shower now. He’s got a girlfriend.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you just never know, do you?” Bethany said, laughing. “You sound happy, Margo.”

“I am.”

“I’m glad. I was thinking the other day about how I warned you not to marry Freddy . . . remember?”

“Yes.”

“But it wasn’t so much Freddy I was talking about. It was marrying and having babies too soon. Before you were ready. I had a lot of my own problems in those days. But now, after so many years, Harvey and I have worked it out. It’s not passionate, but it’s nice. Is it passionate with you and Andrew . . . is the sex really good?”

“Yes,” Margo said.

“I guess the second time around you make sure of that,” Bethany said wistfully. “I know I would.”

Within the hour, before Margo had had a chance to call her parents, her mother called her.

“Margo, darling . . . Bethany just told us the good news . . . that you have a
significant other.
”

“Significant other?” Margo said.

“Yes. Isn’t that what you call it out there? That’s what Joell calls it. She has one too, you know. And to tell you the truth, it sounds so much better than saying she has a boyfriend. So much more grown up. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes,” Margo said. “I guess it does.”

“So darling, tell me . . . he’s a real mensch?”

“He’s a very nice man. I’m sure you’ll like him.”

“So it’s serious?”

“Well, yes. We’re trying it out for six months.”

“For six months?” her mother said. “What does that mean . . . for six months? I never heard of such a thing.”

“Not necessarily
just
for six months,” Margo said, trying to explain. “It could be for much longer. We hope it will be. We’ll stay together as long as it works.”

“Works?” her mother said. “What does
works
mean?”

“You know,” Margo said, wishing she could get out of this conversation. “If we continue to get along and continue to care about each other . . .”

“Where’s love?” her mother asked. “Don’t people fall in love anymore?”

“Yes, of course,” Margo said. “We’re in love.”

“Then it’s settled. After six months you’ll get married.”

“We haven’t discussed marriage yet.”

“You should discuss it, darling.”

Later, when she and Andrew were in bed, Margo said, “My mother refers to you as my
significant other.
”

Andrew laughed. “Come over here and I’ll show you how significant your other is.”

Margo moved toward him.

“Feel that . . .”

“Wow . . . that’s exceptionally significant.”

M
ARGO HAD BEEN LIVING IN
B
OULDER
for just three months when her father had phoned. She had known right away it was going to be bad news. She had heard it in her father’s voice.

“Dad,” Margo had said, “what is it . . . what’s wrong?”

“It’s Mother,” he’d said. “She’s in the hospital . . . just tests . . . she didn’t want me to tell you.”

“What kind of tests?”

“Well, it looks like it could be . . . she found some little lumps . . . under her arm . . . it’s probably nothing . . . but just to be sure, the doctor put her in.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Margo had said.

She had flown east the next morning, after making some hasty arrangements with Michelle’s English teacher, a young woman she had met and liked who had told her that she often stayed with her students while their parents traveled.

She had taken a cab directly from LaGuardia to New York Hospital. As she’d rounded the corridor, looking for Room 412, she could hear her sisters’ voices. Her father was there too, all three of them standing at her mother’s bedside. Her mother had been sitting up, wearing a pink lace bed jacket. Her hair, which was usually teased around her face, was brushed back, making her eyes look bigger and her face very small and white. But she had been trying to make the best of it, of whatever was about to happen, by laughing and joking. She had always told Margo that humor was the only way to get through life.

“Margo, darling . . .” her mother said, holding out her arms. “You didn’t have to fly in for this. It’s just a few tests. Abe . . . why did you have to go and tell her?”

“I’m glad he did,” Margo said, kissing her mother’s soft cheek. She smelled of Shalimar, her favorite perfume. “I want to be here with you.”

The nurse came in then, to take her mother’s blood pressure. She was a big black woman, with steel-gray hair and oversized glasses. “This is my daughter, Margo,” her mother said.

“The one who’s from Colorado?” the nurse asked.

“That’s right.” Her mother began to sing, doing her John Denver imitation. “Rocky Mountain high . . . aye aye aye aye . . . Rocky Mountain low . . . ooh ooh ooh ooh . . .”

The nurse laughed. “You’re such a card, Mrs. Kaye.”

“You should only know,” Margo’s father said.

Later, when Bethany, Joell and their father went down to the cafeteria, Margo’s mother lay back against the pillows and said, “So tell me darling . . . how are you, how are the children?”

“We’re all fine.”

“You like it out there?”

“I think I will. It’s still too soon to say for sure.”