chapter      50

Melanie entered the lobby with two bags of groceries from Fairway. She had selected them with care after deciding to make something other than reservations for dinner. And she was going to make it herself, much to her chef’s astonishment. Hey, if Nigella could make it look so easy and sexy, couldn’t she?

While awaiting the elevator, Melanie saw Dr. Herb Stein exiting, toting an old school–style doctor’s bag for house calls. He was the head of internal medicine at New York Hospital, and his patient files were like a carbon copy of the Fortune 500 CEO list, which was a good thing, since he did not accept insurance and got north of two grand for a checkup.

“Hey, Fred,” Melanie said to the doorman after Dr. Stein was out of earshot. “Is anyone sick? Why was Dr. Stein here?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied in a whisper, looking both ways as if he were revealing classified information to someone with top clearance from Quantico. “It’s Mrs. Vance. She’s taken ill. Death of her friend. Hasn’t left her bed in days.”

“Oh,” said Melanie, thinking of her own despondent spell mired in the stagnant sea of sheets and pillows. It was not a distant memory. Poor Cordelia. “That’s terrible.”

As she watched the lit numbers of the ascending floors, Melanie felt a pang for her neighbor. Sure, she hadn’t been a fan of Jerome’s. That was putting it lightly. He sucked. Literally. And frankly, he was snobbishly cruel and spewed poison into the world with his toxic gossip and bitter, bilious words. She had been, in fact, relieved and even a little glad that he had died. One less person on a mission to ruin her life, and not only hers, but others’. He left a long list of people whom he had set out to destroy. But for some reason he was devoted to Cordelia, and Melanie knew he’d left a gaping hole in her life. And that was sad.

It was odd, because the more she thought about it, the more she realized that Cordelia wasn’t like the other women in his flock. Sure, she was weirdly adrift and spacey, but compared to everyone else and the mean barbs they’d chucked Melanie’s way, Cordelia wasn’t bad at all. In fact, she had a sad serenity in her tone, a kind of zoned-out nurturing thing, as if she had the muscles to be warm but just hadn’t flexed them in a long time.

After Melanie and Juanita had put away the wild mushroom ravioli and a battery of sauces and vegetables, Melanie sat down at her enormous desk and thought she’d finally put it to good use for once. She pulled out the first crisp piece of her new Mrs. John L. Strong stationery and drew a casual line through her last name so as not to seem too formal. “Dear Cordelia,” she began. She was about to write a very formal condolence letter full of very correct Guffeyisms, but then she reconsidered. Why not put down her real emotions? Why not say, “You know what? I know right now sucks for you, but it will get better”? That was more to the point anyway. And that was what she truly believed and felt.

An hour later, with a flower- and cookie-filled basket in hand, Melanie got off the elevator to leave her package in the Vances’ vestibule. But just as she turned to get back into the elevator, the Vances’ front door opened. Melanie turned around slowly and was startled to see herself face to face with Cordelia, who had emerged in a robe, her face pale and her eyes weary from cataracts of tears.

Each seemed equally shocked to see the other.

“Oh, Cordelia, I’m so sorry—I just was leaving this for you.”

“Oh, hello. I just . . . was coming to collect the mail.”

Melanie turned and saw the pile on the upholstered bench against the wall. She handed it to her neighbor and was about to retreat when she felt emboldened.

“Listen,” Melanie said warmly. “I know we don’t know each other very well. But I see you’re in pain right now, which is something I know a lot about. I just wanted to bring you some stuff to . . . maybe make you feel a little better and say I’m sorry for your loss.”

Cordelia was not too out of it to be deeply touched. Even through her Percoset haze she was moved by the kindness this woman (whom so many people bullied) was offering her, in a moment when she felt thoroughly forsaken.

“That is so kind of you.” Her eyes began to water just looking at the pretty basket. “So thoughtful. I really appreciate it.”

“My pleasure,” said Melanie. “If there’s anything you ever need, I’m right downstairs. I know what it’s like to lose people. And to feel . . . alone in grief.”

Cordelia looked at Melanie. She had never before been seen looking like such a mess. Even by her help. But for some reason she was not mortified. She was actually very relaxed. This woman got it.

“Thank you so much, Melanie. It’s hard—every hour without Jerome has felt like an eternal battle.” Her voice broke. “He was my best friend.”

“I know. And you think you won’t get through that blackness of the void, but you will.”

“I hope.” Cordelia gave her a soft nod. “His funeral is tomorrow. I’m supposed to write a speech, and I just stare aimlessly at the paper.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something beautiful to say.”

Cordelia wiped a tear from her eye. “How do I summon the language? How can I reduce him to a page of words?”

Easy, thought Melanie. Try two: ass and hole. No, Jerome’s wickedness aside, she sincerely felt for Cordelia. She knew this soft-spoken woman had a special rapport with him. Not to mention a whole other armoire of issues at home.

“I’m sure you can do it, Cordelia. Just think of all the good times you shared. Trust yourself and don’t edit.”

Cordelia looked at Melanie. She never paid much attention to the gossips, but she seemed to recall some silly banter about Melanie when she and Arthur wed. But she now saw that Arthur was truly quite fortunate.

“Arthur is very lucky to have you, you know.”

Melanie was surprised by this pronouncement. And flattered.

“Thank you.”

“Really. I don’t really know him, although I vaguely knew his first wife . . . um?” Cordelia couldn’t recall her name. How odd. She’d been on so many committees with her, and yet for the life of her she couldn’t think of her name.

“Diandra.”

“Yes. She was . . .”

Melanie took a deep breath and waited to hear the superlatives that everyone used to describe how fantastic Diandra was. Brilliant. Witty. Stylish. Classy. Gorgeous.

Cordelia looked at Melanie carefully. “Well, she was not the wife you are. She was . . . a little tough. Brittle.”

Melanie was stunned. Cordelia was . . . bashing Diandra? This was a first.

“No, no. Completely wrong for Arthur. He’s a very sweet man and a lucky man. You’re a very caring woman.”

Melanie smiled gratefully. Cordelia was really nice. For the last two years, Melanie had chalked her up as a robotic Stepford beauty without a beating heart, and here she was breaking through, even in her sorrowful state.

“You know what? There are givers and takers in this world. Diandra is a taker. And it doesn’t surprise me that her current marriage is collapsing.”

Diandra was once again headed for divorce court? Interesting.

“You’re caring as well, Cordelia. Take care of yourself, and good luck tomorrow with your speech. I know you’ll honor him beautifully.”

Before Melanie turned to get back into the elevator, the two women looked at each other and shared a silent, mutually comforting smile.