Chapter THIRTEEN

“SO YOU AND BRADFORD MADE LOVE after he told you he was leaving?” Berni asks me Sunday morning, as I’m sitting in her sunroom.

“After he told me he was going to Hong Kong,” I correct her.

“Do you think he’ll come back?” Berni asks, absentmindedly folding some of the babies’ tiny T-shirts. “I mean I know he’s not going to stay in Hong Kong forever. But how’d you guys leave it when he went off yesterday?”

“He wouldn’t let me drive him to the airport,” I admit. “He had a car service pick him up.” I bite the side of my thumbnail. For some reason, his ordering a cab upset me more than anything. I thought driving him to Kennedy would be a loving gesture, proof that I understood this was a business trip, not a breakup. He said my driving him made it too dramatic, and he wasn’t looking for a good-bye scene. We shared the same sentiment, but had different ideas about how to express it.

“If you had sex, you know he still loves you,” Berni says, trying to be comforting.

“You know better than that,” I say. “The sex was great, always is. But I can’t figure out if it was makeup sex, I-love-you sex, or good-bye-forever sex.”

“Any of those are better than I-just-had-babies-so-stay-away-from-me sex.”

I force myself to smile, but I’m not feeling very lighthearted today. I keep picturing Bradford in his Hong Kong hotel suite. Is he spending as much time thinking about me as I am about him? He couldn’t be or he’d never get any of his work done. He left a voice message saying he’d arrived, but that was it. I’ve picked up the phone and put it back down about fifteen times without calling him. We didn’t set up the rules for our time apart and I’m not going to be the one to call first. Before he left, Bradford kept saying that the trip would be good for both of us because we needed a break. He said it gently, but to me a “break” doesn’t sound very gentle—it evokes images of smashed china, windows blown out by Hurricane Ivan or a horrible accident that lands you in the emergency room.

I blow my nose and stuff the Kleenex back in my pocket. “Allergies,” I tell Berni, but she knows I’m lying.

“Look, I know you’re heartbroken but no crying until after the photo shoot on Tuesday,” says Berni, switching hats from love counselor to career coach. “And no salt. Can’t have you showing up on a bus ad with puffy eyes.”

“Fine,” I say, thinking that after the shoot, I’ll let myself have one heck of a good time sobbing for hours and stuffing myself with potato chips. If Bradford hasn’t called by then it’s going to be three bags of Lay’s Sour Cream & Onion. Or maybe garlic, since I’ll be sleeping alone.

Berni takes her babies’ folded laundry and I follow her into the nursery where Dylan is currently babysitting. At least he thinks he is. Baby A and Baby B are sound asleep in their cribs, but Dylan is perched on a chair reading them The Very Hungry Caterpillar. From the number of baby books at his feet I can tell he’s taking his assignment seriously and clearly enjoying it. He’s having fun being a big kid and reading books where he recognizes all the words.

Berni ruffles Dylan’s hair. “You’re the best babysitter I ever had,” she tells him.

Dylan beams. “This is my first job,” he admits.

“I’ll never find anyone better. You’re such a good reader. The twins are lucky to have you here.”

“Thanks,” says Dylan, whose little boy chest seems to have puffed out under the praise. Who knew Berni would be this good with children? Having her own babies has clearly opened a whole new world to her. I’m not sure that before the twins Berni had a whole lot of interest in anyone under twenty, unless he was a teen actor starring on the WB.

Berni puts the T-shirts into one of the dresser drawers and pulls out a stack of tiny embroidered smocks and crocheted sweaters that still have the tags on them. “The babies have outgrown these already and they never even wore them. Such a waste.”

I rifle through the stack of precious clothes that must have cost a fortune.

“All gifts,” Berni says.

“What are you going to do with these?” I ask.

“I could donate them,” says Berni. “Who wouldn’t want to get such beautiful things, even if your baby can only wear them once?” She looks at the items thoughtfully. “But maybe there’s something even better I can do.”

“Isn’t this the one Tom Cruise sent you?” I ask, fingering a suede fringed vest in a size 3 months. Too small for Berni’s big babies fifteen minutes after they were born. “Useless, but I’d take Tom’s present just as a souvenir.”

“So would most people,” says Berni. She pauses and refolds the suede vest with yellow tissue paper, so it won’t get creased. “Can I run an idea by you?”

“Sure.”

“I mean a serious idea. Or maybe it’s silly. I can’t tell,” says Berni hesitantly.

“Hit it,” I say, curious now. I’ve never heard Berni uncertain before.

“I’ve been thinking about a project I could do from home. I’d still be right here with the twins. In fact, they could watch me and they’d probably be proud.”

I wait, not sure where she’s going. What more could Berni do to make the twins proud? I’m guessing it’s not my new contract at the Food Network.

Berni takes a deep breath. “So here’s the point. My twins were born lucky, but there are a lot of needy babies out there. If I sell all this show-offy stuff, I could use the money to buy things for other babies that they really need.”

“Nice idea,” I say, impressed.

“And then I’d try to get more things to sell. I could call all the stars I know in Hollywood and see if they’ll contribute their over-the-top baby gifts, too,” Berni says enthusiastically. “If I sell just one pair of crystal-encrusted booties, I could get enough stretchies and Pampers for three dozen kids.” As evidence that she’s not making up that extravagant fashion item, Berni opens another drawer and pulls out a pair of shimmering silk blue booties, so heavy that any baby wearing them would probably never be able to take his first step.

“If anybody can get the stars involved, you can,” I say encouragingly. So now it’s going to cost me to get that Tom Cruise vest. But it’ll be for a good cause.

“Do you really think this will work?” Berni looks at me so intently that I realize the plan means a lot to her. Instead of being a Hollywood agent, she wants to become an agent for change.

“Anybody who made a TV star out of me should be able to save the world,” I say. And then I grin. “And I really mean it.”

Berni smiles. “Thanks.” But her next words are drowned out by her housekeeper, who’s been vacuuming in the hall and now opens the nursery door. I wave frantically to signal that the babies are sleeping and she should leave, but Berni motions her in.

“Don’t worry, I have her do this every day,” Berni explains. “I figured out that if babies get used to noise they’ll be able to sleep through anything. It’s only when you make everyone whisper around them that they wake up at the drop of a pin.”

Dylan covers his ears but I notice that the babies barely stir. Maybe Berni’s onto something. She seems to be figuring out a lot of things about her babies—and her life. I wish I were doing as well.

 

“How are your sex toys working out?” community queen Priscilla asks when she calls me a week later. I guess the news about Bradford’s leaving hasn’t spread around Hadley Farms yet. What’s the use of living in a small town if nobody’s going to gossip about you?

“Not well,” I say, for some reason confiding in my neighbor. “Bradford left for Hong Kong.” Look at that, I’m gossiping about myself.

“He did? Without you? Oh, you poor dear,” Priscilla gushes sympathetically. Then getting an inspiration, she asks, “Are you putting the house up for sale? I’d love to show it. I’ve had my real estate license for two months now and I’m already the best in town. But for you, I’ll drop my commission to four percent. I can get you an appraisal this afternoon and have buyers there in the morning.”

Priscilla rushes along with her plans at such breakneck speed that in another minute or two she’ll be filing my divorce papers—and I’m not even married.

“Bradford’s just away on a business trip,” I say, trying to haul her back to reality and convince myself at the same time.

“What a shame,” Priscilla says. But she’s resilient and shakes off her disappointment. “So the reason I called is I’m throwing a little Hadley Farms party.”

Another one? I have so much whipped cream left over from her last get-together that I might as well use it on my chocolate mousse.

“Boys and girls at this one,” Priscilla says, and it takes me a moment to realize that she’s not referring to our children.

“I’ll be there,” I say, thinking that maybe a party will cheer me up. And only when I put down the receiver do I realize that being the only single person in the room is just going to depress me more.

As per Berni’s orders, I keep from crying too much until the photo shoot’s finished. It goes off without a hitch, even though this time Berni can’t be induced to come. She’s too busy making plans for her new project, which she’s named Celebrity Kids’ Clothes. Or at least that’s what she’s calling it today. Yesterday it was Designer Duds. The day before that, it was Why the Hell Do People Buy Such Expensive Stuff When They Could Buy Things People Really Need. Actually, I don’t think Berni ever really planned on using that one because she couldn’t get the initials on a button. But she’ll make a final decision after she has the results from the focus group and phone survey she’s commissioned.

From time to time during the week, Priscilla’s party crosses my mind. The Lilly Pulitzer ladies already surprised me once at the Newcomer’s Club. Do their R-rated afternoons turn into X-rated evenings when their men are around? Or do the guys have the opposite effect and turn Hadley Farms’ sex-crazed wild women into doting, proper wives?

The morning of the party, Dylan and I are supposed to meet James at the Museum of Natural History, but I’m too down about Bradford to cope with being upbeat for an entire day. For the first time since James reappeared in our lives, I tell him he can pick up Dylan and take him out by himself. Once they’re gone, I wish I’d joined them, because I don’t even get out of my bathrobe. Actually Bradford’s bathrobe—which seems to be the only connection I have to him at the moment. He hasn’t called in three days. And the last time he did, we only talked for a few minutes because he had to run off to a meeting. Bradford says he’s working round the clock, but who doesn’t have time for a phone call?

James thoughtfully checks in with me twice during the day, once to ask if it’s okay for Dylan to eat three hamburgers and four servings of fries for lunch. And then to ask if Dylan often complains of stomachaches. Later, I talk to Dylan, who’s eating ice cream and floating on cloud nine, and I agree that he and James can—as usual—stay out longer than we’d planned.

I pull myself together to get dressed before they get home in the evening and even put on eyeliner, lip liner and a pale peach cheek gel. I’m getting so good at coloring things I could become a cartoonist.

“You look fabulous,” James tells me, appraising my low-cut pink cashmere sweater and black leather boots, all borrowed from Kate for the photo shoot. Apparently they’re mine now, because the clothes are from last season and she doesn’t want them back. She did, however, ask that I return her Ralph Lauren lapis lazuli belt since it was a gift from Ralph himself. I’m thinking I might wear it a few more times—and then get her to donate it to Berni’s charity.

We all sit down for a snack because for some reason Dylan is hungry again. The babysitter, who happens to be Priscilla’s sixteen-year-old son, joins us and then whisks Dylan off to play catch by the lights in our backyard.

“You’re all dressed up and you’ve got a babysitter,” James says. “What are you doing tonight?”

I look down at my low-cut top, wondering if I’m showing too much cleavage. No, for once I’m like Kate. Just right.

“I’m going to a party,” I say dispiritedly.

“You don’t seem in the mood,” James says. And then risking being too personal, he asks, “Anything going on? Can I help?”

I don’t feel like having a conversation with my ex-husband about my current fiancé. Or at least I hope he’s still my current fiancé. So I just say, “Bradford’s on a business trip, and I don’t love going to parties alone.”

“Then let me come,” James offers with his endearing shy smile. “I’m pretty good at social events. If things get dull, I can always do my card tricks. Remember that Christmas party we threw?”

Despite myself, I smile at the sweet memory of James mesmerizing a room full of happy guests in our tiny apartment by pulling the king of clubs out of somebody’s ear. I haven’t thought about what a charmer he is in a while. And what the heck. I’m not feeling very charming myself tonight so I might as well bring him along.

“Sure you can come,” I tell him. “For some reason, everybody’s always happy to have an extra man in a room.” Though frankly, I don’t know why. Who needs extras? Dealing with one man is usually more than enough.

James stands up and rubs his hands on the back pockets of his Levi’s. “I’m not really dressed for a big evening out. Can I go like this?” he asks.

I have to admit that in his jeans, hiking boots and work shirt, ruggedly handsome James doesn’t look like the typical Hadley Farms husband. Not at all. He looks a lot better. So I tell him we’re good to go.

We say good night to Dylan and head out into the unexpectedly cool evening to walk over to Priscilla’s house.

“What’s this crowd going to be like?” James asks as we stroll down the quiet street. “I don’t know how good I’ll be at talking about stock funds, soccer games and SUVs.”

“You’re not up to date on your suburban stereotypes,” I say, laughing. I don’t mention that around here, sex toys are the big topic of conversation because I can’t bring myself to say the word “sex” in front of James.

But Priscilla has no such inhibition.

“Hello, sexy guy,” she says, opening the door for us and giving James a bold once-over. “Who are you?”

“I’m the extra man,” James says, with a big grin.

“How thoughtful of you to bring him, Sara,” Priscilla says, leaning in to throw an air-kiss to my cheek. “Most people just brought a bottle of wine.”

Priscilla’s husband comes up to introduce himself. He’s a head shorter than Priscilla, slightly round, completely bald, but wearing a very expensive suit. I’m guessing she didn’t marry him for his dashing appearance. And glancing around the room, I realize that the Hadley Farms husbands must have all wooed their wives with the only assets they had available—their bank accounts. In this community, you’ve got to hope that the kids get their mother’s looks and their father’s money. Another reason to support DNA research.

A waiter comes by with a tray of mixed hors d’oeuvres and carefully describes each one.

“I’ll take the crabmeat and Sara will have the mushroom quiche,” James says without thinking. Then we catch each other’s eyes in surprise. “I mean, you can have whatever you want,” he hastily amends.

“Actually, that’s still my favorite,” I say, reaching for the minitart. Have my tastes really not changed in all these years? I’m oddly uncomfortable realizing how well James still knows me, and I walk away from him and sit down on the sofa. I spot Berni and Aidan outside on the deck, but I don’t have the energy to rouse myself and go join them. Berni waves and in another minute rushes inside.

“Did you hear what our not-prissy Priscilla has planned for tonight?” she asks me excitedly.

“A refresher course on handcuffs and whips?” I ask nonchalantly.

“No, but I’ll suggest that for next time,” Berni says. She’s momentarily stopped in her enthusiasm when she sees that instead of paying attention, my eyes are wandering across the room to James.

“Who’s the hunk?” she asks, following my gaze.

“James. My ex.”

“James?” she repeats, turning to me in amazement. She seems more shocked than if I’d told her I’d just given up shopping at Target.

“He’s cute but what the hell is he doing here?” she whispers to me as James saunters over toward us.

“I invited him,” I say trying to keep my tone casual. What other explanation can I offer? Let’s see, my fiancé is in Hong Kong and I’m terrified that he’ll never come back, so why shouldn’t I hang around with my ex-husband who I knew would never come back but now somehow has? More comings and going in my life than on the cast of Law and Order.

When James joins us, I make introductions, and it doesn’t take long for Berni to warm to James’s easygoing style and comfortable banter.

“He’s delightful,” Berni whispers when James goes to the bar to get all of us fresh drinks. “I don’t know how you ever let him get away.”

“I seem to have a knack,” I say, shrugging my shoulders.

Priscilla comes over, her arm tucked around James, who’s somehow managing to balance three glasses in his one available hand.

“So you’ve all heard the theme of tonight’s party, right? Everybody ready?” asks Priscilla.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this, Priscilla,” says Berni, the only one in our group who knows what our hostess has planned.

“Hard to keep topping myself, but I always do,” says Priscilla proudly. “And I expect everyone to join in. Remember, dears, it’s not every day you get invited to a key party.”

“What’s a key party?” James asks.

“My question exactly,” I echo.

“You two are such innocents,” Priscilla says, putting her arm around each of us. “I used to read about key parties in the eighties. I think Warren Beatty started them.”

“So what is it?” I ask impatiently.

“A sexy little game,” Priscilla says with a laugh. “Every man tosses his key into a big container, and each woman closes her eyes and fishes one out.”

She flits away and the three of us stare at one another.

“What happens after you get your key?” I ask innocently.

Berni looks at me, surprised that I don’t know. But she’s a lot more sophisticated than I am. She spent her time in L.A. hanging out at Le Dome and lunching with Sharon Stone. I haven’t learned as much as I thought I would at the Olive Garden.

“It’s simple,” she explains. “You have a man’s key, and then you know who you’re going home with.”

James tosses back his head and roars with laughter. But sure enough, Berni’s not making this up. Priscilla is now strolling around the terrace collecting keys in a heavy cut-glass bowl that’s probably been passed down in her family since the Mayflower. If her great-great-great-grandmother had known what kind of feast her precious bowl was going to be used for, she probably would have smashed it on Plymouth Rock.

The less than GQ-quality Hadley Farms husbands are gamely tossing in their keys. Priscilla is heading in our direction and I’m wondering what to do. Talk about peer pressure. I’m new to this community and I want to make friends. But not such close friends. On the other hand, I’ve always been a good sport. I’m not a party-pooper. I even play charades if I have to.

James reaches into his pocket and takes out his keys. “Now I see why you moved to the suburbs. This is a lot more interesting than anything that goes on at Lincoln Center.”

“You’re not really planning on playing, are you?” I ask in horror.

James makes a show of studying various women around the room. He shakes his head a couple of times as if considering and then rejecting the possibilities. “Nobody here I’d like to have come home with me,” he says thoughtfully. “Except one person.” He unhooks his house key from his lanyard chain and holds it out for me.

He can’t be serious. And even if he is, I can’t take his key. I don’t even know where he lives. Besides, I’m engaged—or at least I think I am. Bradford says we’re on a “break,” but just how broken are we? I look at the silvery key and shake my head. This isn’t the way to find out.

“I’m going to pretend you’re joking,” I say, pushing away his hand.

James pockets the key and gives me a hug. “Of course I am,” he says lightly.

But was he? I don’t even want to think about it. “I’m going home alone,” I say stalwartly. Though I’m hoping that won’t be the case for the rest of my life.

I start to leave, but then I see that Priscilla has finished her rounds and the game is about to begin. I’m not going to play, but at least I can watch. More fun than reading a John Cheever novel.

“Who’s first?” calls Priscilla brightly, holding out her bowl and waiting for the first woman to step forward. “Time to grab a key from one of these handsome men.”

Either Priscilla’s good at compliments, or she collected the keys at a different party.

A bubbly redhead bounces up to the bowl.

“I’m ready!” she says. “I’ll pick while the picking’s good.”

Priscilla pulls out a purple eye mask and places it over the redhead’s eyes. I wonder if the rules say she has to stay this way for the whole night. Might be a plus—at least she won’t have to look at the guy.

“No cheating,” Priscilla says.

No? Then what’s this whole game about?

With a well-manicured hand, the woman digs around to select her party favor. So much more creative than the potpourri guests usually go home with.

“Let me see what I got,” she says, pulling off her blindfold. She studies the key in her hand then squeals with delight. “Ooh, I hit the jackpot! Look, the key to the Maserati!”

She waves the key around triumphantly and Priscilla looks equally excited.

“The Maserati!” Priscilla exclaims. “Who’s the lucky guy who threw in this key? Don’t be shy.”

But the Maserati owner isn’t just shy—he looks downright worried when he hesitantly steps forward. Given that the redhead’s gorgeous and he’s as round and bald as Priscilla’s husband, I’m not sure why she’s jumping up and down and he’s shuffling his feet.

“Do I really have to go through with this?” he asks.

“Yes!” says Priscilla, who’s never taken no for an answer.

“She really gets to drive my car?” he asks.

It takes a moment for that to sink in, and then Berni bursts out laughing. So does James. And so do I. Maybe Hollywood is still kinkier than Hadley Farms. At this key party, you don’t go home and sleep with your neighbor. You just drive his car.

The Maserati owner offers to come along with the redhead. Not in the hopes of having a wild night, but in the interest of avoiding scratches on his high gloss paint job. Poor Warren Beatty. How was he to know that his sexy key parties would turn into a game where you switch cars instead of partners? Though maybe he’d understand. After all, the guy’s married now and has four kids. He probably doesn’t even get to drive a convertible anymore.

One by one, the women go up to the bowl to find out what motor—not whose—they’re going to rev for the night. James comes over and squeezes my hand. “See, in the end there was nothing to worry about. Sometimes you just have to go with the flow.”

I look at James’s twinkling blue eyes and the confident set of his jaw. “Still want to give me your key?” I ask him.

James’s mouth drops open.

“Because I’m ready to play. It sounds like fun. You stay here and I’ll take the Prius for a spin.”

 

A few nights later, Dylan and I are working on his incredibly tedious homework. I’m trying to be upbeat about my second grader copying the entire alphabet in Palmer method script twenty times. But I don’t understand why a school that has a computer keyboard for every kid still makes such a fuss about handwriting. It must be so the children can sign checks when they grow up. Although if the school doesn’t get around to teaching them some more practical skills, they’ll never have bank accounts.

We’re finally up to the M’s when Skylar appears in the room and we both jump.

“You scared me,” I say, my hand flying up and hitting my chest in surprise.

“Why?” Skylar asks, popping the top on her bottle of Snapple and flopping down on an overstuffed chair behind us. “This is my house. And it’s my week to be here.”

It never occurred to me that Skylar might show up when Bradford was gone. He had taken her out to dinner to tell her he was leaving, and I just assumed she’d stay with Mimi during his three-month business trip. Or however long he’s away.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I say, recovering quickly. Though I’m wondering what’s up. I never got the feeling that Skylar craved my company.

Skylar gets up from the chair and wanders over to us. “You have to do that dumb homework, huh?” she asks Dylan, standing over his shoulder and looking down at his white-lined paper. “Want me to show you how to get the computer to do it for you? I have a program that prints script and I bet your teacher won’t be able to tell the difference.”

“Cool!” says Dylan, jumping up, ready to follow Skylar into her room.

Another day, another moral dilemma. Skylar’s plan sounds pretty reasonable to me, but I know I can’t agree to it. It’s my job to preach honesty and integrity über alles. No shortcuts, no flimflams, no deceptions. Unless of course Skylar’s absolutely sure that the teacher won’t be able to tell.

I go to see what they’re doing on the computer. But instead of loading a script program, Sklyar is busy showing Dylan how she downloads music onto her iPod. From a legal site, of course.

“Skylar’s really smart,” Dylan tells me with an innocent grin as I come in.

“I know she is,” I say. “But you’re probably keeping her from her homework.”

Instead of giving me a hard time, Skylar for once agrees.

“Yeah, I got a bunch of English to do,” she says. And listening to her, I’m hoping the homework isn’t grammar. Or maybe I should be hoping that it is.

After Dylan’s gone to bed, I check on Skylar a couple of times and she’s actually studying Romeo and Juliet. Which she tells me is almost as good as Shakespeare in Love. Given that I have a good excuse for calling, I dial Bradford in Hong Kong to let him know that his daughter is here—and turning into an Elizabethan scholar under my tutelage. But as usual, I only get the voice mail on Bradford’s cell phone and when I leave him a message I don’t mention Skylar. I just tell him how much I love him.

The evening passes calmly and I realize that this is the first time Skylar’s been around when she hasn’t tried to push my buttons. Maybe we’re making some headway. At close to midnight I see the light still on in her room and I go in to tell her it’s time to get to sleep. She won’t be missing anything. Romeo and Juliet ends badly, anyway.

But Skylar’s already abandoned Shakespeare for Teen People, and she doesn’t budge when I come in.

“I’ll go to sleep when I want to,” she says snottily.

“You have to get up early so I can drive you to school,” I tell her, trying to be reasonable. Though fourteen isn’t necessarily the age of reason.

“I don’t want you to drive me to school. I don’t want you to do anything for me,” she says, not deigning to look up from the magazine.

“You need to get to sleep anyway,” I say, getting irritated and wanting to go to bed myself.

“You can’t tell me what to do. You’re not my mother.” Skylar glares at me, ready for a confrontation. Well, then, dammit, I’ll give her one.

“When you’re in this house you follow the house rules,” I say.

“I like my mother’s rules a lot better than yours.”

“Then why didn’t you stay with her?” I ask, finally losing my cool.

Skylar slams shut the magazine. “Because she’s never there,” she says defiantly.

I start to answer, but then go over and sit at the edge of her bed. Skylar’s a teenager and I’m a grown-up. Hard as that may be to remember sometimes, she’s still a kid. And probably doesn’t know how to ask for help.

“I know there’ve been a lot of changes,” I say quietly to Skylar. “It must be hard for you. Maybe even confusing.” Skylar doesn’t say anything, she just stares at the back of the magazine, with its ad for Cover Girl lipstick. So I go on. “I don’t know why your mom’s not home a lot, but I do know your dad’s in Hong Kong on business. That’s hard for me, too. Maybe we can make it all a little easier for each other.”

Skylar sighs and uses her finger to trace the outline of a heart over and over again on her quilt. “Yeah, okay,” she says. She seems to be waiting. But what else can I tell her?

“Anything you want to talk about?” I ask.

Skylar looks at me for a long minute. “Maybe sometime,” she says finally. And then kicking back her covers, she climbs into bed and turns out the light.