Chapter Three




Ben needed a drink. For the past fifteen minutes he’d been listening to Martha Belle Clancy, Claire’s mother’s best friend, talk about her hobby—a series of needlework dioramas she was making of major Civil War battles (she’d completed six already, through Fredericksburg)— and for at least twelve of those minutes, his glass had been empty. Feigning interest in Martha Belle, a challenge to begin with, was getting harder by the second. Ben had already chatted pleasantly with Claire’s mother about all the things she disliked about New York—the weather, the traffic, the noise—and by now he figured he had just about fulfilled his husbandly obligations.

Surreptitiously, he glanced around the room—wasn’t a waiter supposed to be circulating? He’d settle for another blue martini, though what he really wanted was a Scotch. Where might Colm have hidden the hard stuff? If Ben could somehow extricate himself, maybe he could hunt it down.

Just then Alison emerged from a crowd in the hall, and Ben was momentarily distracted. He watched as she moved across the room to the drinks table, where the bartender poured her a martini. My God, she’s lovely, he thought—those fine features, bright inquisitive eyes. She seemed flooded with quivering energy, like a doe standing in a clearing. The gray sweater and black pants she was wearing reminded him of how she’d looked in England ten years ago. With faint creases around her eyes, her slim body softened slightly by motherhood, she was still, he thought, gamine, with an Audrey Hepburn–like grace.

Why was she alone? Why hadn’t Charlie come? Being present at these kinds of events was the sort of thing the two couples always did for each other, expected of each other. It was Claire’s first, perhaps only, book, as important to her as the births of Alison and Charlie’s children (and hadn’t Ben and Claire come to the hospital as soon as they could, hadn’t they brought flowers and gifts even as Ben’s heart was aching with longing for a child of his own as he held the astonishingly light bundle in his arms, looking down at its curranty face?). Clearly it had something to do with that falling-out between Claire and Alison, which Claire refused to discuss with Ben in any kind of rational way but also refused to get past. What was that all about, anyway? It was so unlike Claire to hold a grudge. Ben attributed it to prepublication jitters and maybe some unresolved childhood issues. It did make things awkward for the four of them. Ben didn’t feel that he could call to make plans, and even his friendship with Charlie—which he’d thought of, perhaps näively, as separate from the couples’ friendship—had suffered; Charlie stopped calling. Ben picked up the phone several times to dial Charlie’s number at work and then … put it down.

Ben and Charlie used to meet for lunch twice a month at least, at the Harvard Club (if Ben was paying) or a hole-in-the-wall Chinese place called Kung Pao (if Charlie was). More often they’d send each other e-mail arcana—a funny video clip, an absurd real-news story, a link to someone’s noteworthy blog or an obscure band’s Web site. Sometimes they’d get together to listen to live music in the Village. Over the past few years, what with Charlie having kids and moving out to the suburbs, it had gotten harder to see each other, particularly without spouses. Their jobs were demanding; their interests had diverged. Amiable, affable Charlie had become a bit tense and distracted. He spent weekends, now, changing diapers and puttering around the house. His life had taken on the gravity of responsibility, which trumped petty outside interests. When Ben talked about a play he’d seen or a book he’d read or even an article in The New Yorker—anything more taxing than the sports page—Charlie would shake his head. “I’m living under a rock,” he said once. “I can’t think of the last time I went to a show or finished a book. It’s all-work, all-kids these days.”

Not that there was anything wrong with that. Ben envied Charlie’s transition to parenthood, the way he talked about his children with wonder and puzzlement and something verging on awe.

Ben caught Claire’s eye across the room and raised his empty glass in a tacit offer to refill hers. She smiled and shook her head, almost imperceptibly, then gave him a playful grimace no one else could see— Here I am, soldiering through.

“You and Claire simply must get down to Bluestone to visit,” Martha Belle was saying. “I know y’all have a lot going on, but it has been a while, hasn’t it?” She nudged him with her elbow. “And Lucinda is dying to have some grandchildren. She says she doesn’t want to put pressure on you, but I think a little pressure can do wonders.”

“Martha Belle, you are too much,” Ben said. “But you don’t have to convince me. Claire is going down there on her book tour, so you might raise it with her then.”

“Well, maybe I will,” she said, raising her eyebrows with a significant pause, as if all had become clear.

Ben clasped her hand. “It’s been a pleasure. I want to see those dioramas one of these days.”

“I look forward to showing them to you,” she said, beaming. “I know you need to mingle. Go, go!” She shooed him away with plump, fluttering fingers.

Ben made his way over to the bar, in search of the elusive blue martini and the ill-at-ease Alison Granville. He found both.

“Oh, Ben!” Alison said, with obvious relief. “It’s lovely to see you.”

He took a martini from the bartender and kissed Alison on the cheek. “Lovely to see you, too,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get over here since you walked in.”

“I saw you with Martha Belle. She always scared me a little when we were kids. She’s so—energetic.”

Ben nodded. “She’s the manic to Lucinda’s depressive. Have you heard about those dioramas?”

“Oh, yes. In fact, I’ve seen one or two. They’re quite impressive.”

“I’m sure they are.” Though Ben and Alison had little in common, and he couldn’t remember a time he’d ever been with her alone, having a shared knowledge of Claire’s world gave their exchanges an easy familiarity. “You look wonderful,” he said.

“Do you think so? I feel a little—dowdy,” she said. “It’s hard to keep up with you city slickers. And I’m sure I have kid goo on my pants somewhere.”

“So that’s what that is,” he said. “Everyone was talking.”

She gave him a smile. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Where have you been lately? I haven’t seen you in months.”

“I know,” she said.

“Anything new?”

“I’ve been doing some freelance work. Not much, to be honest. I know it sounds ridiculous, but with the kids and everything—”

“It doesn’t sound ridiculous,” he said. “It sounds nice, actually.”

“It is. It is nice.” She tilted her glass to take a sip, but it was empty.

“You need another drink,” he said. He took the glass out of her hand and set it on the table.

The bartender handed her another martini. “Thanks,” she said. She took a sip and turned back to Ben. “It’s so funny that Lucinda’s kitschy cocktail has spawned all this.”

“The next big fad sweeping the nation,” Ben said in a radio announcer’s voice. “Bluuue martinis.”

“I doubt Claire would mind.”

“I wouldn’t either,” he said. “We have big plans, you know. We want to open a Blue Martini theme park, for adults.”

“No roller coasters, I hope.”

“Oh, definitely roller coasters. Cocktails and roller coasters. How great would that be?”

She laughed.

“So did you come alone?” he asked. “Where’s the ball and chain?”

“He had to stay home,” Alison said. “A minor domestic crisis.”

“Nothing dire, I hope.”

“No, just … ” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. He wanted to come.”

No point in belaboring it, Ben thought. “Well, tell him he was missed.”

“I will,” she said. “Who are these people?”

“Let’s see,” he said, looking around. “Editorial assistants, publicists, media types, relatives. All here for the free drinks.”

“Do you know everybody?”

“Just the relatives.”

“I used to love these parties,” she said. “I guess I’m out of practice.”

“It’s all publicity, anyway. We’re just stage props for the marketing team.”

“No, we’re here to celebrate Claire’s achievement.”

“It’s only an achievement if it translates into sales,” he said.

“That’s a little cynical, isn’t it?”

“Is it? You know the business better than I do.”

“All right,” she said. “So—I assume you’ve read it?”

“Of course. Have you?”

She shook her head.

“It’s pretty good. There is this annoying character named Jill, but other than that … ” He grinned. “Look, it’s a novel and all. But you don’t come off too badly. In case you’re wondering.”

Was it his imagination, or was Alison blushing? She took a sip of her drink and cocked her head to the side, as if she were trying to decide what to say. “Ben, can I ask you something? Do you … ” She stopped. Her cheeks were flushed. “Do you know about this—this thing Claire and I had a few months ago? It wasn’t a big deal—or at least I didn’t think it was. But we haven’t really spoken since.”

He nodded. “I heard something.”

“I guess I really hurt her feelings. I must have.”

“Don’t assume that. Frankly, I wouldn’t take it personally. She’s been crazed with this book stuff. We’ve barely had a conversation in the past few weeks, and I live with the woman.”

“Well, okay,” she said. “It’s just not pleasant to be—estranged, you know?”

In that moment he sensed Alison’s vulnerability, as deep and raw as a wound. It wasn’t just being alone at a party, or being at odds with Claire; it was something more. She might not have known it yet, but it seemed to Ben that she was deeply unhappy. And in some way, impossible to articulate, even to himself, Ben felt linked to Alison in this, as if his fortune and hers were entwined.

“I do know,” he said.