30
UPON RECEIPT OF e-mail invitations to Stuart and Brooke’s Christmas-Hanukkah-Winter-Solstice open house, I asked Nick if he’d known that our exes’ housing arrangement had worked out.
“Only because she had the decency to tell me that my half of the rent was now covered.”
After the RSVP deadline had passed, Stuart sent a reminder, asking whether I was attending and was I bringing a guest. No and no, I e-mailed. Only then did he plead his case: that he and Brooke didn’t know many people in Everton, and could I please put our differences aside and come? Nick hadn’t RSVP’d, either. Could I tell him the same thing: guests needed.
When I relayed Stuart’s message across the office, Nick said, “I have zero interest in doing Brooke the favor of making her party not a bust.”
I asked, “Do those double negatives add up to a yes or a no?”
“A no. N-O.”
“Me, too,” I said, returning to the list of names needing to be thanked for end-of-year donations. “What do I say to someone I happen to know has a summer home on Martha’s Vineyard and a ski lodge in Stowe, and donates twenty-five dollars?” I asked. Without waiting for an answer, I narrated, pretending to write, “Dear Cheapskate, Are you kidding? Twenty-five dollars? Why even bother? Homeless alums give more than you do. Sincerely yours, Faith Frankel, Director of Stewardship.”
And suddenly there was Reggie at our open door. His eavesdropping had become chronic since Nick moved to 10 Turpentine, when, conscious of appearances and without consulting each other, we’d been keeping our office door conspicuously open.
“Whoa,” Reggie said. “You can’t write that!”
“I can’t? Oh, dear. I always say that if the donation is two figures.”
“They deserve it,” Nick said. “Twenty-five lousy bucks? Who needs ’em?”
“But, but—we never call our donors cheapskates! We don’t question the amount of their contribution. No matter the size of the check, it’s good for our yield.”
I fluttered the blank notecard in the air. “Reggie? Seriously? Do you really think I’d write that? Or—just maybe—could I have been kidding?”
He walked over to my desk and pawed through a few blank notecards. I gave his hand a light slap. “Do you mind? I was joking!”
Of course, he had to say that he knew it was a joke, knew I had to be kidding. Ha, good one!
“In that case, you’ll excuse me while I get back to thanking”—glancing at the top name on my to-do list—“Tanner Rowland for his generous gift to his beloved alma mater.”
Reggie still didn’t move. “Now that there’s nothing to worry about,” I said, “you can amscray.”
He glanced Nick’s way then back to me. “You two have some kind of holiday party you’re going to? Not our department party. I mean, a private one?”
“Very private,” I said.
“Which I’m skipping,” said Nick.
“Did I hear ‘open house’? Like you can bring a guest?”
“I’m not going,” I said. “He’s not going,” pointing at Nick. “So you can hardly be a plus-one.”
“Who’s throwing it? Anyone I know? Alums?”
“No,” said Nick.
“Is it the kind of party where an invitation is transferable?”
“Doubt it,” I said.
“Whose party again?”
“You don’t know them,” said Nick.
Case closed, topic moot, I granted, “Stuart Levine and Brooke somebody.”
“Stuart and Brooke?” Reggie repeated. “I know those names.”
I pointed to the wall where the map of the continental United States once hung. “He’s the friend whose walk across the country I was tracking.”
“Friend? Aren’t you going to marry the guy?”
“Not anymore.”
Nick said, “She realized around Illinois that it wasn’t meant to be.”
“And why does the name Brooke ring a bell?” Reggie asked.
Nick shrugged. I shrugged. At this social dead end, Reggie returned to his default jock goofiness. “Your good friend here, Mr. Can’t Make a Save to Save His Life, allowed four goals last night.”
“Do I care?” said Nick. “I shouldn’t be in the net anyway.”
“C’mon. Two more games. You’re no quitter. You just need to focus.” Then, fond as he always was of his coach mode, Reggie turned back to me. “None of my business, Frankel, but here’s what I’m thinkin’: you should go to that party.”
“Really? Why is that?”
“Don’t make me say it,” said Reggie.
“Not ‘do it for the school’ so I can network there?”
He lowered his voice. “Seriously. Do you get out? Do you go to parties? Lots of people call off weddings and they move on. Would a little social life kill you? I mean, if you went to a party, you might—you know—meet someone.”
“Is that how you met the nonexistent Mrs. O’Sullivan?”
“I’m a guy. We do just fine.”
I looked over to see if Nick had heard. His face and posture registered nothing but full attention to fund-raising.
I said to Reggie, “Surely you know you’re not supposed to ask me about my personal life. And, just for the record, I go to plenty of parties. Have I missed one single reunion gala or trustees’ cocktail party?”
Reggie said, “That’s not partying. That’s work. We don’t even drink at those things.”
I said, “I have a ton of work, so if you’ll excuse me . . .”
“Okay, sure. Just sayin’.”
“Just sayin’ what?”
He smiled. “You could do okay out there.”
“Bye,” I said. “And close the door behind you for once.” I waited for the sound of Reggie’s footsteps to fade. “From now on, we work with the door closed. No more eavesdropping for that yenta,” I said to Nick.
“It’s reportable,” he said. “You don’t ask employees about their personal lives. Ever.”
Of course, he’d heard every word.
Brooke’s apartment was crimson walled, with odd objects hung in the living room: a toy ukulele, a mangy fur-trimmed cardigan on a hanger, and a framed Boston Globe front page featuring Jackie Kennedy’s marriage to Aristotle Onassis. Brooke may have realized that the woman in the black-velvet tunic over lacy tights from a Soho boutique, with freshly cut and blown-dry hair, was me, but she clearly wasn’t in the business of greeting or welcoming her guests.
“Mulled cider on the stove,” Stuart told me. “Cups somewhere close by. We figured it would be do-it-yourself. So great you came!”
The kitchen was merely one end of the living room, with a counter dividing the space, and a mess of epic proportions. It was as if every pot, pan, and utensil used in the preparation of the buffet offerings was on display, unwashed, on every surface and piled high in the sink. A few onion skins and potato peels decorated the floor.
This was when Brooke found me, staring—perhaps a little smugly—at the inexplicable mess. “Disgusting, right?” I heard.
I said, “No. No. Perfectly understandable. This is what a kitchen looks like when you’re getting ready for a party.”
“I should’ve started earlier. Did you ever make lotkeys?”
“Um, excuse me? Did I ever make what?”
“For Hanukkah? Potato lotkeys. It didn’t sound like such a big deal until I did it. What a mess. I was still in the shower when the first guests showed up.”
I said, “It was nice of you to acknowledge Hanukkah.”
“It was Stuart’s idea. He’s Jewish.”
I said I knew.
“How do you know him?” she asked.
Really? I took the opportunity to downplay my embarrassing and unaccountable romantic alliance with him by saying only “I supported his walk across . . . the early states.”
“I’m Brooke,” she said. “You probably figured that out already.”
“I’m Faith Frankel.”
A curtain of ice dropped between us. “You work with Nick,” she said. “Side by side, I understand.”
Maybe if there had been congeniality rather than accusation in her tone, I wouldn’t have answered as I did. “That’s right. I work and live with him.”
“Thanks a lot. Thanks for everything,” she sputtered.
I’d like to report that I’d answered cleverly, but I was too stunned to speak. And I may also have failed to report that Brooke, by any standard, with the blond streaks in her abundantly perfect hair and dewy everything else, was exceedingly, scarily attractive.
“Saint Faith,” she spat. “The perfect coworker and . . . and”—with a sweeping gesture that took in the mess—“so organized! Okay, and smart. Well, thank you, because I left a really good job and moved here because of him and that stupid school!” And with that, she strode to the refrigerator, where I watched her root around for something that turned out to be a carton of sour cream.
I finally said, “I’m not Saint Faith, not by a long shot.”
“Oh, believe me, I know that! I’m not stupid. Do you know what he likes? Need any tips?”
Of course, I could have protested the sexual innuendo, but the inner actress I didn’t often summon said, “No, thanks. I’m doing just fine.”
Before a frosty good-bye, I added, “FYI? Applesauce should be served as well as sour cream.”
Did I even need to find Stuart for a good-bye? No. Let bratty Brooke tell him that I’d been the target of her tantrum.
I went straight to the smaller bedroom where I found my jacket and scarf buried under someone’s big raccoon coat. I was still buttoning up and arranging my outerwear in a mottled mirror when I heard “Faith?”
Reflected in the mirror was the round, hopeful, unadorned face of Rebecca, Stuart’s mother. She launched her coat across the bed, revealing a blue and white sweatshirt, decorated with a puffy dreidel, then enfolded me in a hug.
I extricated myself at the shortest possible polite interval, and said, “Happy Hanukkah.”
“Iona will be so delighted to see you. Shall we mingle?”
I said, “No, sorry, I’m leaving.”
“You can’t!”
“I have to.” And not because I was looking for sympathy but only to squeal on Brooke, I announced, “Your son’s cohostess was unaccountably rude to me after I told her who I was.”
“What did she say?”
“She called me Saint Faith—”
“Which could be taken as a compliment!”
“Believe me, it wasn’t. She was extremely sarcastic and she called Everton Country Day ‘that stupid school.’ ”
“Are you quite sure she wasn’t saying it in a joking, affectionate way? Like I might say”—she pointed to the dreidel—“my wife bought me this stupid sweatshirt.’ ”
“Believe me, it’s not about the school. It’s because Nick, my office- and housemate, used to be her live-in boyfriend. And it ended badly.”
“Maybe it’s just her manner,” said Rebecca. “Some people come off as cold. It’s cultural.” She whispered, “Her last name is Winthrop. And why would she invite you to her party if she disliked you?”
“She didn’t invite me. Stuart did.”
That answer seemed to make her happy. “Are you keeping in touch with him?”
“He is. I don’t answer.”
“He’s buckling down,” said Rebecca. “You know he runs our practice?”
“He told me he was your substitute receptionist.”
“Exactly. Receptionists run the world!”
I said, “I can’t stay. Say hello to Iona . . .”
“I’m sure there’s an explanation,” said Rebecca.
“For what?”
“Brooke’s lashing out.” She paused. “It could be the green-eyed monster. Stuart might have confided in her. About you, about his feelings—”
It was then that Stuart appeared in the doorway, clueless and grinning, holding two plastic glasses of eggnog. “Two of my favorite women!” he boomed. “I wondered what was taking so long in here! C’mon in. Brooke just brought out the potato latkes.”
Rebecca said, “I’ve been having a heart-to-heart with Faith.” Then, turning to me: “Do you want to tell Stuart what you felt transpired earlier?”
I said, “No, I don’t,” and to Stuart: “Gotta run. I have another party to go to.”
“C’mon,” he said. “Five more minutes. I was hoping everyone would be here for the announcement.”
“Announcement?” I repeated.
“We’re excited,” said Rebecca, beaming.
I didn’t quite leave, but stood by the front door, a mittened hand on the doorknob, listening to the breaking news. Stuart, tall and messily handsome, his walkathon tan not entirely faded, his hairline unreceded, announced in a wobbly voice, hand on heart that he, Stuart Ira Levine, had the honor of being chosen to father a child by two friends of his moms! Granted, he wouldn’t have any legal standing, but what a thrill to help two wonderful women become a family. How could he not share such happy news, which he’d just found out himself yesterday, that his enzymes had worked their magic. The baby was due in August, the very month of his own birthday! Another Leo! He raised his glass. “To the future! To a little Levine—not that he or she will have my name, but still mind-blowing. And so flattering, to be chosen over an entire sperm bank catalogue! And what better present this holiday season: to be a biological dad, even the silent kind, at forty! L’chaim!”
Except for his two moms, the most common expression on the faces of this small crowd was perplexed. Who gets excited about being a sperm donor? Surely everyone else was entertaining the same thoughts that were running through my mind. How much money changed hands for this donation, how did the job get done, and who in all of Everton, Massachusetts, was a bigger jackass than Stuart Ira Levine?