“COCKTAIL, MRS. BARLOW?” A young woman in a neat blue uniform was leaning over Rosalyn with a small brown tray and a broad smile.
“No, thank you.”
Barlow, who was sitting across from his wife, did not wait to be asked. “Scotch. Neat.”
The woman left for the front of the plane and began to fix the drink.
Barlow leaned forward to see out the window one last time. “Where can they be? If we miss our time, we’ll get bumped back an hour. Look at all those goddamned planes.”
Rosalyn didn’t bother to look up from her BlackBerry. “They’ll be here. I sent a car for them.”
“Uhh,” Barlow moaned. What the hell were they doing anyway, jetting down to Florida for two days just to parade the Livingstons around in front of the admissions committee? This was their annual retreat, and they liked to be left alone. Rosalyn usually skipped the whole thing, feeling above the rest of them as a senior member and mother of young children. Most of the members were well into their sixties.
Of course, he knew the answer. Rosalyn was hell-bent on blackballing the Conrads, and this move would cement the deal. Still, she was pulling all of them away from home at the start of the holiday break—a time typically reserved for decorating, shopping, and being with family. At least, that was what he had observed from afar all these years. This was the first year he would not be working like a prison inmate, so he couldn’t say for sure. But that was what he would like to be doing. Brett would be home tomorrow. Cait was already on break, and the little guys would have nothing to do but watch TV and wait for their parents to return. It was just wrong.
His wife, on the other hand, seemed to have no problem abandoning her children at Christmastime.
“Could you stop working for one second?” he asked finally, when his drink arrived.
Rosalyn looked up, annoyed by the interruption. “I only have a few more minutes before I’ll have to stop, so no—I can’t put it down for one second. This is a crazy time of year for me.”
“How? How is it so crazy? What the hell are you doing?” Barlow took a long sip of the drink, then nodded a thank-you to the flight attendant, who was standing at attention by the front of the plane.
“Let’s see—I’m checking the delivery status of the boys’ iPods. They’ve been on back order for weeks, and if they don’t ship by tomorrow, I’ll have to bid for them on eBay. I’m checking our golf reservations for tomorrow. I’m scheduling a lunch with Dr. Wright, who’s coming to town to discuss her presentation on blow jobs. I’m—”
“Enough!” Barlow raised his hand in a show of defeat. “Enough.”
With her fingers moving quickly now across the tiny keypad, Rosalyn did not look up, but she kept speaking. “How many times have we had this discussion? When running the house becomes your job, you can tell me how I’ve done it all wrong for the past eighteen years. Until then—”
“Yes, I know—just shut up and do my job.”
Only Barlow didn’t have a job anymore, and Rosalyn was now convinced her husband’s unemployment was at the heart of their recent marital freeze. He was bored and testy and needing to re-create himself. That he thought Sara Livingston could do that for him was laughable. Only it wasn’t.
“There they are!” Barlow shouted, jumping from his seat.
Looking out the small window, Rosalyn saw the black town car pull up to the plane. She quickly finished her work and shut down her BlackBerry.
“Hello, welcome!” Barlow was standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at the Livingstons. “No, no—don’t touch the luggage. Mitch will get it—Mitch! The bags!”
Rosalyn couldn’t see them yet, but heard them as they climbed up to the plane’s hull. Sorry we’re late . . . traffic . . . what a gorgeous plane . . . we’ve never been on a private jet.
And there was Barlow, being the perfect host. “Welcome aboard,” he said as they appeared through the door. They looked tired and disheveled, and mostly uneasy about having held up the plane.
“Come down here,” Rosalyn said, grabbing their attention. “Let’s sit together around the sofa.”
Sara, with her hair pulled back in a baseball cap and a colorful knit scarf roped around her neck, looked like a kid as she walked back.
“Wow,” she said, reaching Rosalyn. She leaned in to give her hostess a peck on the cheek. “This is incredible.”
“Thanks. We’ve had it a few years. It makes much more sense when you’ve got five kids, three nannies, friends . . . and commercial flights these days . . . well, might as well stay home.”
Sara smiled politely as she took a seat on a leather sofa in the center of the plane. It was like someone’s living room, with end tables, reading lamps, and footrests, though everything was bolted to the floor. Toward the front were more traditional seats, which swiveled to face either direction and appeared to recline down into beds. There were little draperies for the windows, a wet bar, oven, and mini-fridge, and an attractive woman standing at attention, waiting to serve them. After a nice meal and a few drinks, they would walk off into the brilliant Florida sunshine. It was surreal. Too surreal for Sara, who didn’t know what they were doing here and was already missing her little girl.
Nick, on the other hand, was in his bliss. Taking a seat beside his wife, he patted her gently on the knee and stole a look around while the Barlows took their seats in the plush chairs on the opposite side of the coffee table. When he caught her eye, he mouthed the word wow. Sara smiled and nodded. Why did she agree to do this? It was the start of the Christmas week, her favorite time of year. The smell of pine from the tree in the living room, the bright reds and greens, the cards from other families with the annual picture that the mothers pained themselves to acquire. Then, of course, there were cookies and more cookies, those cutout shapes that looked like blobs until the frosting was applied just so, Santa’s red coat, an angel’s white dress. She and her sisters would speculate about their gifts and watch the evening TV cartoons. Charlie Brown, Rudolph, and Frosty. Annie was just old enough to do these things with her, just old enough to start forging her own memories. And now, thanks to Nick, Annie would be making different memories with Nanna while her mother was golfing in Florida. And Sara didn’t even play golf.
Sara in surreal life felt like bolting off the plane when she heard the door pulling shut. Her head was spinning as she felt her life being stolen out from under her by billionaires and private planes. By country clubs and golf. By her own husband, it seemed. And yet her husband was the only reason she remained in her seat—Nick, and her aversion to looking like a complete lunatic. Nothing had been the same between them. Even after she resumed taking her pills, in secret, they hadn’t made love once. Not once in almost three weeks. That was a new record for them. Now he needed her to do this with him—to do this for him, if that was all she could manage it to be.
So she crossed her legs and ordered a drink. “I’ll have whatever he’s having,” she said when the woman arrived, brown tray in hand.
Nick gave her another look, this one laced with disapproval. He hadn’t exactly enjoyed her performance the last time she and Ernest Barlow had a few drinks together.
“Wonderful!” Barlow bellowed out. “And I’ll have another.”
“Champagne, thank you,” Rosalyn said, her voice subdued by contrast. “Nick?”
“That sounds perfect for the occasion. Sara—how about champagne?”
“Fine.” She didn’t care. Not about the drink or the fact that her husband was treating her like a child. She had gone underground, to some bunker within herself, and she decided to pretend that nothing mattered for two days. Nothing mattered until she returned to Wilshire and her little girl and the cookie dough that was in the freezer.
“So. Are you ready to see the West Palm facility? It’s really something. If you’re not already sold on the club, this will certainly do the trick,” Rosalyn said, smiling.
Nick jumped right in. “Oh, we are already sold! Truly, we’re honored that you offered to sponsor us. I just hope we’re able to meet enough people in time.”
Barlow scowled. “Nonsense. You’ve met everyone you need to know right here. What my wife says goes.”
Rosalyn pretended to take it as a compliment, though the sarcasm was hard to miss. “Thank you, darling. But I think it’s wonderful they’re coming with us. It is a good idea to meet the committee members.”
When the drinks arrived, Barlow watched the faces of his guests. Nick was practically bursting out of his seat, his eyes were bright, his face on permasmile.
“Well, we’re glad for the company. But it must be hard to leave your little girl. Rosalyn had to pull me kicking and screaming away from Mellie.”
Sara nodded, but she couldn’t speak. Barlow’s words had dragged her from her bunker right back to her reality, which was unbearable at the moment. Her eyes welled with tears as she got up from her seat. “Excuse me . . . ,” she said.
“Sar—they’ve already pushed back . . . ,” Nick called after her, but she was up and headed for the restroom. Spotting an unbuckled passenger, the flight attendant gave a knock on the pilot’s door and the plane came to a smooth stop. Then the small phone on the wall buzzed softly.
“I’ll get this, you get her,” Rosalyn said, waving Barlow off to fetch Sara.
Nick sat there, helpless. He should have been the one to get his wife, but the orders had been issued and Rosalyn had her own agenda.
With the phone pressed to her ear, Rosalyn handled it seamlessly. “I know, Bob. We’ll get her back in her seat. Don’t take us out of rotation. . . . Okay . . . great.” Rosalyn replaced the phone on its cradle, then smiled at Nick. “It’s no problem. They’ll hold our spot for a minute or two.”
Nick shook his head. He was more than a little embarrassed. “I’m so sorry.”
“Please. Don’t worry about it.”
Then they sat silently, watching the scene unfold at the back of the plane, where Barlow was now talking to Sara through a closed bathroom door. His face was serious at first, his head pressed to the wood paneling. Then he listened intently before speaking again. A smile broke out, then a slight laugh. Then he got that look—the one he always got when he was amusing someone and enjoying himself in the process. Nothing boosted Barlow’s ego like making a woman laugh.
Nick shifted nervously in his seat. He checked his watch.
But Rosalyn had no worries. A few seconds later, the door opened. Sara stepped out, her eyes red, but a smile on her face. She gave Barlow a playful pat on his forearm, then followed him back to their seats.
“You see,” Rosalyn said to Nick before they came within earshot, “Barlow has a way with women.”
Nick looked at her, surprised by the comment, but whatever concern was born from it was quickly replaced with relief at the sight of his wife and, finally, the feel of the plane resuming its course to the runway.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Sara said, wiping her face one last time.
“It’s my fault for bringing up those damned rugrats. No more mention of such things for the duration.” Barlow raised his glass and the others followed, clinking glasses.
“To a wonderful trip,” Nick said.
“Hear, hear,” the others agreed. Then, as they were taking their first sips, Barlow winked at Sara, who managed to smile.
And Rosalyn, for the first time since boarding the plane, was unable to do the same.