“What do you mean you’ll pick me up at midnight? And why on earth are you whispering?” Dana had finally had a chance to languish in her bath, and now she was stretched out on the chaise in the bedroom, wearing a soft terry robe, her legs wrapped in an afghan her mother had made when Dana was twelve and had contracted the Hong Kong flu.
She’d been reading Sam’s textbook titled The Criminal Mind when Bridget called.
“Just be ready. Please.”
“It’s after eleven, Bridget. Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine. But I need you to go somewhere with me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Dana said with a laugh.
“Please, Dana. Don’t make me beg. Or worse, don’t make me call Lauren. Or Caroline.”
“Now that’s a threat.”
“It’s only because there’s somewhere I must go, and it’s not a good idea for me to go alone.”
“Where?”
“Into the city.”
“New York City?”
“Well. Of course.”
“Bridget…”
“Please, Dana. I know Steven’s not home.”
“But Sam is.”
“So, leave him a note.”
“If this has something to do with Vincent’s murder, he’ll want to go.”
“It doesn’t. It’s all about me.”
Dana paused. She rubbed the back of her neck that had stopped aching but now threatened to start up again.
“I’ll drive Randall’s new Mercedes,” Bridget said.
“You’ll stand out like a beacon.”
“I don’t care. I’ll feel safer.”
“You’re insane,” Dana said.
“I know. But I’ll make it worth your while.”
“How?”
“I’ll tell you a secret too juicy for you to believe.”
“Oh, Bridget.”
“Oh, Dana.”
“Oh, for godssake, all right.”
Lauren didn’t know why Bob always fell asleep so quickly, why his snores kicked in with the first refrain of the white noise machine that he kept by the bed.
It must be so he wouldn’t have to think about having sex. Or about not having sex, as was more the case.
She lay on the warm sheets—“Audrey only bought eight-hundred count,” Bob announced shortly after their marriage, so, for eighteen years, Lauren had done the same. It hadn’t mattered that she preferred cool cotton percale, the kind that reminded her of Nantucket nights, when salty breezes blew and buoy bells rang in the foggy distance and life had been simple and safe, well, relatively safe, if one discounted Uncle Raymond.
Lauren hated that things had changed, that time had raced by too quickly while Bob’s kids were growing up, while he was growing old, while Lauren was trying so hard to please. In the end she pleased Vincent but only for a short time.
Sliding out of bed, she slipped on her white satin robe and matching mules. She padded from the room, into the hall, and down the wide marble staircase. Unlike for Bob, sleep rarely came easily for Lauren. And now, with Chloe’s engagement crisis added to the New Falls mix, how could she think about sleeping when Caroline was so upset? When next week—of all weeks—was the grand hospital gala! Now, more than ever, Caroline needed her friends. Too bad Lauren was the only one who seemed to care.
She moved into the den with its semicircular wall and its bank of wraparound windows that gave a perfect view of the town. It was Bob’s favorite spot in the massive house, the place from which—if Caroline had allowed it—he could practically steer the New Falls ship.
He’s a control freak, his daughter Dory had said. Didn’t you ever want to just leave him?
Guided by the moonlight, Lauren made her way to the bar. She removed the crystal stopper from the Courvoisier decanter and poured a snifter more than half full. She supposed that in order to be such a successful banker, any man would have to be a control freak. Or any woman, if she wanted to work.
For a brief period, in between marriages, Lauren had considered having a career. She’d envied her cousin Gracie, who was riding the wave of women’s lib, the feminine tsunami set in motion by Friedan, Steinem, and Bella Abzug in her hats. Gracie had gone to law school—law school!—then clawed her way up from the cesspool of poor relations. Lauren suspected that when she and Bob were on Nantucket and the opportunity arose, Gracie still stole small, inconsequential things from her—a bottle of suntan lotion, a notepad from Lauren’s purse, a simple gold earring. It might have been from habit, or a need to feel in control.
Like Bob, had Gracie ended up with a negligent sex life?
Meandering to the window, looking down on the quiet neighborhood, Lauren swirled the brandy in her glass. She wondered if Dory would stay married to Jeffrey and if sweet little Liam would have a happy home. Then she wondered why neither Bridget nor Dana would have lunch with Caroline:
“I have to go into New York,” Bridget had said.
“I’m sorry, I must bring my son to an appointment,” Dana had said, had lied, more than likely, when Lauren had called her that afternoon. Dana had been so distant since she’d told her about Vincent, about their affair. Friends, Lauren thought, could be such a disappointment.
She tasted the slow burn of the brandy, then stopped halfway into her swallow. At the bottom of the hill, where the front lawn met the road, Lauren saw headlights. They swept this way and that as the vehicle maneuvered the winding road, traveling with purpose, going too fast for this late at night.
She kept her eyes on the vehicle. Who on earth could it be? From her bird’s-eye position, she recognized the style—a big Mercedes, not unlike so many in New Falls. But where other big ones were black, this one was silver. Silver, the same color Mercedes that Randall Haynes drove.
Was it Randall?
And if so, where was he going?
It was almost midnight.
Should Lauren call the Haynes house and make sure everything was all right?