ON A CLEAR AND DEWY SATURDAY IN MAY, the Harrisons—Mildred, Tom, Cynthia, and Grampy Harry—climbed into Tom’s new Buick Regal and drove from Blue Bell to New York City. Brooke had invited them up for a dual celebration of Cynthia’s nineteenth birthday and the start of her rehearsals for the off-Broadway play The Roses. It was her riskiest career move to date, returning to the stage in a controversial new play, one that dealt frankly with early sexual abuse and would require a number of uncomfortable scenes, some nudity and profanity. This was her chance to prove she could really act, Brooke told Mildred, and if reviews were good, it could be her ticket out of daytime. Although Mildred worried that Brooke was setting herself up for yet another disappointment, she managed, as was her way, to sequester those feelings.
The troupe arrived in Manhattan at noon. Brooke met them in the lobby of the Hilton, where she’d booked a suite. There followed the requisite hugs and kisses, then Mildred watched as Brooke clasped her arm through Cynthia’s in a proprietary gesture and they giggled all the way to the elevators, as if only Brooke understood the inner workings of her larger younger sister. Compared to Brooke they were all large, Mildred thought, and they really weren’t big at all. Even Cynthia, who’d been overdoing it on the whole wheat bread and peanut butter—what else was a vegetarian to do at the university cafeteria?—was not overweight by anyone’s standards. She looked like a normal young person in her nondescript cotton clothing and basketball shoes, while the slight and bony Brooke looked alien, almost fossil-like. She wore a tight leather miniskirt that accentuated her protruding hipbones, checkerboard stockings, and tastefully doused her eyes with cobalt-blue shadow, but beneath the trendy clothes and makeup her body seemed barely past puberty. As soon as Mildred saw her, despite receiving the wide-eyed grin she’d been aching for, the one that said, “You are my mother, you gave me life, and for that, no matter how many friends, lovers, and fans pass through my world, you are still my number one,” despite even that, she wanted to cry out in bold tabloid fashion: The girl is evaporating!
Of course she did no such thing, afraid of upsetting Brooke upon their arrival, after her daughter had gone to so much trouble planning the weekend. So Mildred bit her lip and followed the family up to the seventeenth floor, where a two-bedroom suite awaited them. Cynthia, of course, would be staying with Brooke in the sublet the World producers had arranged for her. While they were not happy about adjusting their most popular story line to accommodate Brooke’s “little theatrical diversion,” they would do whatever it took to keep her happy. She was a huge audience draw. Yet Mildred wondered whether it was best for them to placate her. Sacrifice was often the wisest of teachers. If she’d had to choose between the play and securing her role on the soap, she might have learned to prioritize and maybe not push herself as hard.
Mildred dropped her jacket on one of the beds and walked into the shared living area, where Grampy Harry was ogling the selection in the mini bar.
“Have whatever you want,” Brooke said.
“I say, that’ll cost me an arm and a leg. I’ve heard about these outfits.”
“Don’t be silly, Grampy.” Brooke jumped up and kissed his cheek, laughing. “You’re not paying for anything. It’ll cost me an arm and a leg, but what the heck? I’ve got a couple of each.”
Grampy Harry took a Coke from the tiny refrigerator and pulled off the top, still looking a bit nervous. He’d never really understood just how successful his granddaughter had become. To him she was always the little girl who’d climbed in his lap to talk into the wooden spoon they pretended was a microphone, giving dramatic readings from his Popular Mechanics. He held up the soda can in a toasting gesture before taking a sip. It was a convivial moment, capped by a most convivial afternoon. They had lunch at the Carnegie Deli, Tom’s favorite restaurant, then strolled through Central Park, a slight breeze tickling their noses as their shoes squeaked across the damp grass. At four, Brooke took them to tea at the Pierre, quite a scene on Saturdays. The dining room was filled with dignitaries, financiers, a famous white-haired talk show host, and what Brooke called Eurotrash—decadent young Europeans with infinite time and resources at their disposal. She said they were revenge for all the rich Americans who flooded into Paris between the two big wars. Grampy Harry told them how eager he’d once been to serve his country, but when he was finally old enough join the U.S. Army in 1918, just as they were shipping off the war ended, and the boat returned to the States without ever touching ground in Europe. A career in civil service would thus be the extent of his public duty, a son who fought in Korea the closest he’d come to any war. Though they’d all heard the story a million times, the Harrison clan sighed with its grand patriarch as they sipped china cups of Earl Gray tea and munched on dry scones and clotted cream. Tom joked that he always gained five pounds whenever he came to New York, while his wife silently charted her daughter’s stymied appetite.
Afterwards they had a few hours to rest and prepare for the celebratory dinner that evening. Brooke had made a reservation at a restaurant called Gotham, the sound of which seemed slightly ominous to Mildred. The Harrisons senior and grand patriarch hailed a taxi at the Hilton and arrived at the restaurant before the girls. They were shown to their table and promptly served champagne and black caviar, a delicacy Mildred never would have known herself to favor had it not been for Brooke. The restaurant was quiet and dimly lit. People dressed in evening wear; one man even wore a tuxedo. Mildred wished Tom had worn the tux they’d bought him when Brooke started inviting them to award shows, parties, and various charity events. It was a classic black suit and vest, with a white shirt—no ruffles, as they reminded Mildred too much of wedding musicians—and black bow tie. In it, Tom looked more like Robert Redford than usual, although wherever they went he always got the you-know-who-you-look-like routine from strangers, and it never failed to make him blush.
He didn’t say much, her husband, but he looked great in a tuxedo. And he was a pleasant companion, despite his occasional flare-ups, and who didn’t have those? Mildred reached her hand across the table and laid it on top of Tom’s. He smiled, clasping her fingers between his own, and they stared silently into each other’s eyes, satisfied for the moment with what their lives had amounted to.
“Ugh! Gag me with a Swiss army knife,” Cynthia said. She stood above them, a sneer crossing her lips.
“So this is what you’ve been up to without Cyn around?” Brooke winked. Tom let go of his wife, who quickly folded her hands in her lap. Cynthia and Brooke filtered into their seats and it was as if a tidal wave had washed over the table. The smell of perfume emanated from the two girls, as if they’d been accosted by vigilant sample sprayers in a department store, and their faces looked as if they’d ransacked a few makeup counters. More surprising, however, was Cynthia’s black cocktail dress that hugged her right shoulder, cutting diagonally down across her breasts to wrap beneath her left armpit. Mildred hadn’t seen her younger daughter out of pants since her graduation from high school, and even then it had been a shapeless floorlength skirt and sensible top, but there she was dressed like her sister, although she reminded Mildred more of a field hockey player stuffed into a tutu. “You like it?” Brooke said. “It’s Fiorucci. So are the shoes. Cyn, show them the shoes.”
Cynthia backed up her chair and raised her right foot in the air. It was covered with a plaid Mary Jane on boxy rubber souls that Mildred thought looked clownish and didn’t go with the dress, but when she mentioned that fact, Cynthia huffed, “That’s the point!” and Mildred once again felt rebuked as her daughters exchanged a conspiratorial wink.
The girls were quite talkative. Apparently a “scene” had occurred in the cab downtown. Like a rehearsed duet, they took turns telling the story of their driver who’d practically had a coronary when he hit a traffic jam on Broadway and wouldn’t stop pounding his fist against the dashboard, crying for God to clear the streets. He slammed the breaks on and off so often his tiny statue of Jesus looked pallid. When Brooke finally suggested he try cutting east, he exclaimed: “You are so selfish!” At that, Brooke and Cynthia jumped out of the cab without paying and walked to the restaurant, giggling and calling each other selfish the entire way. It was too beautiful to be in a cab anyway, Cynthia said, and Mildred wondered where the sentiment had come from. Never before had she heard her youngest daughter call anything beautiful, but she reminded herself she’d never seen her dressed like a misguided debutante either. There was so much she would never know about her children.
A man in vest and bow tie approached to take their dinner orders, and again Brooke reminded Grampy Harry he wasn’t paying and could have whatever he wanted. He chose the grilled salmon, the one entrée on the menu he said he recognized, and a lightly creamed portobello mushroom soup, though he confessed the word portobello sounded like a public urinal, and they all politely ignored him. Brooke was about to order when her jaw dropped. “Oh shit!” she said, then apologized for the obscenity before popping up from the table. Mildred watched her walk to the bar, where they seemed to be letting her use the telephone. After she returned and they completed their first course, Cynthia excused herself to visit the ladies room and Brooke explained that she’d left Cynthia’s birthday cake in the refrigerator, after she’d secured special permission from the restaurant to bring it, no small feat at a new establishment with one of the hottest pastry chefs in the city—“But they know what’s good for them,” Brooke winked, and Mildred startled at her words, the stroke of venom in her eyes and subtle rise of her back. This was the daughter she rarely saw, the one who thrived on her own publicity folder. It was not a pretty sight.
“Anyway, I caught Johnny, and he’s going to bring it down,” she said.
“John’s in New York?” Mildred asked. “Well, why didn’t you say something? We’d love to see him.”
“Oh, he had a drinks thing but, actually, it got cancelled, so there you have it. He’s on his way.” Nodding nervously, she threw her hands in the air and smiled, but there was no fooling Mildred. Brooke was obviously uncomfortable with the situation, and she hadn’t mentioned John in weeks. The waiter brought another bottle of champagne, refilling around the table, but when he got to Brooke, she crossed her palms over the glass, flashing an anxious smile. “I’m not drinking during rehearsals,” she said, and Mildred was pleased. Perhaps all of those drunk-driving classes were finally paying off, or maybe the play was more difficult than she’d imagined or she and John were experiencing some of the problems the tabloids chronicled or she’d simply had enough. But there was no time for a followup question as Cynthia had just returned, and their main courses were being served.
Mildred once again held her tongue when she saw that Brooke had ordered only a bowl of tomato bisque to follow her mixed-greens salad. Even Cynthia had indulged in an entire plate of grilled vegetables, some of which Mildred had never even heard of, let alone seen, with a strange assortment of purées. Brooke said she’d spoken to the chef about making sure there were vegetarian options for Cynthia on her birthday. It was sweet the way they took care of each other, and nobody could accuse them of not eating their vegetables! Besides, Mildred’s roast duck smelled too delectable not to warrant her full attention. She looked down at the sliced fowl doused with a rainbow of colorful peppers and orange peels, resting on a bed of some sort of grain, and before sticking her fork and knife into the meat, softly said, “I’m all yours.” A tiny snicker rose through her radiated cheeks. Alrighty, she thought, no more champagne, although it was difficult to stop with those waiters refilling her glass every few minutes, but at least everyone except Brooke received the same treatment and therefore, as far as she knew, they were all equally impaired and probably hadn’t heard her flirting with her food.
They ate fiercely and happily, chatting mostly about (rather than directly addressing) the food in rich adjectives and making mellifluous lip-smacking noises. They reminisced about the day’s events—they couldn’t have had nicer weather! In May, New York became the most wondrous city in the world, Brooke said. And so much closer to home than Los Angeles, they all agreed.
A waiter approached the table but stood off to the side as two busboys cleared their dinner plates, stepping up only after they’d finished to skim the table with his silver crumber. He handed out dessert menus, and just as they settled in to read them, a boisterous current overtook the restaurant and seemed to sweep all heads toward the front door, even the disaffected waiter proffering a sideways glance, as John Strong and two tall women with short dark hair entered the restaurant. Brooke grimaced, “Oh god, I can’t believe he brought them!”
They all stared as John Strong approached the table looking every bit the screen idol, his face illuminated by the twenty candles in the big chocolate cake, and a stunning girl on each side of him. “It’s the Gargolye twins,” Brooke whispered loud enough so they’d all hear. “Anna’s okay, but a bit weird, and Paulina … she’s another story entirely.”
“Which is which?” Cynthia asked, and was quickly informed that Anna had the rounder, sweeter face, although Mildred thought they both looked like the somber women she remembered from her parents’ union magazines in the fifties: dark hair and eyes, milky-white skin and prominent jaws, as if they’d been trained forward by years of sloganeering. Only these girls were much, much taller than she’d envisioned.
“Who are the Gargle twins?” Grampy Harry asked.
Brooke laughed. “Don’t call them that, Grampy. Paulina loves throwing things. They’re models, from somewhere in Eastern Europe.”
“Eurotrash!” Mildred exclaimed merrily.
“No, Mother,” Brooke rolled her eyes, but it was Cynthia who scoffed worse than when she’d seen Mildred and Tom holding hands earlier. As if Mildred were the most ridiculous creature she’d ever set eyes on. Why did Cynthia have such a problem with her? Or was it Mildred’s problem? Was she acting that badly? Nobody else seemed to notice. Perhaps the champagne was making her paranoid. She remembered then that she wasn’t supposed to drink so much. Easier adhering to this precept at home, of course.
“Mom, Eurotrash is like if you’re from Italy or France, the real Europe,” Brooke explained. “They’re from the Communist bloc. Anyway, they’ve been on the cover of practically every magazine. Now they’re trying to do movies, but I’ve seen their reel—”
The trio reached the table and John Strong set down the cake, throwing his fingers in the air with a resounding “one-two-three,” and, as they all launched into a honeysuckle-sweet version of “Happy Birthday to You,” Mildred was charmed the Eastern European models knew all the words, surmising they must have let them celebrate birthdays behind the Iron Curtain, a thought that for the moment brought her closer to the vast melting pot of humanity. She sang out at the top of her lungs. By the time they reached the climactic “Happy birthday, dear Cynthia!” Mildred’s eyes were clouded with tears.
Cynthia smiled and blew out her candles. The maître d’ whisked away the cake and had three more chairs brought to the table. John Strong put his hands on Brooke’s shoulders and kissed her forehead, then sat down next to Grampy Harry, who seemed nonplussed by the sudden boost in star power at the table. He proudly announced he was feeling a bit of indigestion, and everyone laughed. Mildred was mortified. “Fantastic! You are the real thing, sir,” John Strong clucked with more charm than ought to be allowed. He had the kind of smile any car salesman would have bargained away his mother for. Turning to Brooke, he said, “He’s special, isn’t he?” Brooke smiled and said of course he was. “I’m going to call you Sir Special,” John Strong said. He put his arm around the old man and handed him a cigar. Cuban, he said. Smuggled in from Havana that very morning. John Strong offered one to Tom as well but he declined, and thus the famous young actor and wanna-be war hero knighted Sir Special shared a smoke, accompanied by a few serious words about cigars.
A Gargoyle reached for the bottle of champagne, filled the empty glasses all around, then shouted for the waiter to bring another bottle. “How old are you today?” she asked Cynthia.
“Nineteen.”
“Ah, nineteen,” she said, and her accent sounded exactly the way Mildred had imagined it from the magazines. “I think always of nineteen. It is like another lifetime to go.”
“How old are you now?” Mildred asked her.
“A true woman must not reveal her age,” she sighed.
“We’re twenty-three,” the other one said.
“Anna!”
Mildred giggled. “That’s hardly old.”
“In Europe, no, but in America, we are spoiled,” said the first one, Paulina, Mildred thought. “Over here, past twenty, nobody wants to hear from you nothing. And in America is where the money is. It is the difference between gray and black, right, Anna?”
Okay, she was definitely Paulina, Mildred registered, and made a mental note to remember that she was seated between John Strong and the sweeter-looking one, Anna. Yet as soon as she thought she had it straight, the two of them started tumbling like gymnasts out of their seats and gliding to the bathroom, the public telephone, or whispering together by the bar. Once John Strong had to get up and fetch them from the front of the restaurant. Another time Brooke dragged one of them out of the bathroom, and she came back with the same dour expression, though her eyeballs flared like fireflies. She told them all she was a student of soap, and nobody thought to ask how she’d embarked upon such an endeavor nor what it entailed.
John Strong tried to move things along, proposing toasts to Brooke for her work on the play, to Cynthia for her birthday and for making it through her freshman year, and finally to Mildred and Tom. “These people are parents,” he said, and chugged an entire glass of champagne.
Mildred wasn’t surprised to see Tom’s cheeks redden, yet she was practically knocked from her chair when he stood up and raised his glass. “I’d like to say a few words,” he said. The Gargoyle girls whispered heatedly to each other. Anna, the sweet one who studied soap—Mildred was getting good—looked distraught; Paulina angry. “Hey, hey, the man is speaking!” John Strong shouted. Paulina bolted from the table. “Don’t worry about her, she’s got a social disease. Go ahead, Tom.”
John Strong picked up his glass for the toast. Tom curled his tongue against his upper lip, and for a second Mildred worried he’d lost his train of thought and felt embarrassed, but thankfully he recovered, taking a deep breath and slowly beginning to speak: “Well, of course, this isn’t really my thing, so I hope you’ll all indulge my sloppiness and forgive the inarticulate moments—”
“Hear, hear!” John cheered, then put his arm around Brooke, and she fidgeted as if the limb were a heavy satchel she would be glad to relinquish at the soonest possible occasion. Mildred remembered the night she’d first met the young actor, how Brooke had nestled into his shoulder as if they were the two missing pieces of a puzzle, how much in love they’d seemed. Watching them, Mildred couldn’t help reminiscing about her own first love, who happened to be her husband. Funny, she thought, how infectious love is and how off-putting its disintegration. Mildred studied her husband as he stood, cheeks flushed and glass in hand, and wondered if she was still the one he thought of when he thought about love.
“The truth is,” Tom continued, “I just wanted to take this opportunity on behalf of Mildred and myself to say what we find ourselves mostly writing in greeting cards these days—it’s not easy watching your children leave home, right Dad?” Tom raised his glass to his father, who nodded politely. “Anyway, seeing these two girls go off into the world and make their mark, each in her very own and very dynamic way, has really been the highlight of our lives. We are so proud of you both, so moved by your creativity and inspired by your generosity, and we are just pleased as punch to be here tonight. So … cheers!”
Mildred’s cheeks radiated, her heart swelled. She was floored by Tom’s eloquence: a man of few words but he made each one count. John Strong bounced up with a champagne bottle in his hand, took a long sip, and passed it on to Grampy Harry who stood and did the same. Like this they passed around champagne bottles and cheered. Mildred glanced over at Brooke and her face seemed peculiarly void of emotion. Or was Mildred being paranoid again? Now that she thought of it, she was a bit self-conscious standing and guzzling hundred-dollar champagne in the middle of one of the finest restaurants in town, but nobody seemed to mind them causing such a ruckus—fringe benefits, again. Sometimes Mildred could hardly believe the things they got away with.
The waiter returned with slices of birthday cake and they all sat down to their final course. Mildred, though relieved to be off her feet, felt a bit wistful. If she required a few moments of introspection, however, they were robbed by Paulina Gargoyle, who returned to the table and dropped a black patent-leather handbag in front of her sister. “You are the most luckiest girl in the planet,” she said.
“Where did you find it?”
“In the telephone box. This was the one thing I ask you, I ask you can you take the big bag and you say, ‘Yes, yes, yes.’ You idiot! You will not lay your fingers near it anymore. Understand?”
She looked crestfallen. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, don’t cry, you are simply lazy.”
“My mind is no good.”
“It’s finished … don’t go down on yourself.”
“Sometimes I think there is always a PA to follow me and picking up things and everything.”
“Anna, I said stop. Enough!”
“I totally get that,” Brooke nudged Anna.
“You too!” Paulina shouted. “Enough.”
Brooke ignored her. “I leave things all over the place, too.”
“Shut up, will you!” Paulina picked up a champagne flute by the stem and slammed it against the table. Tiny flecks of glass shattered to the floor like crystals in a snowglobe. Mildred covered her eyes.
“If you even knew what she did!” Paulina shouted at Brooke. “She is so stupid, and you, you are even more horrible encouraging her.”
“How dare you, like, come in here and insult me in front of my family!” Brooke shouted. “You weren’t even invited.”
“That’s what you think—you are so stupid!”
“Me! Have you looked in a mirror recently?”
“Okay, I think we’d better be going,” said John Strong, and grabbed Paulina by the arm. “Anna, you too,” he said, and they all looked at the sweet one who caressed a small piece of soap between her hands, as if she were washing. A look of panic crossed the leading man’s face. Mildred glanced over at Tom, who cut the air with his outstretched hand, a sign they shouldn’t get involved. This sort of trouble was out of their league.
Grampy Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny wrapped bar of soap. “I collect the little ones,” he said. “Got a whole jar of ’em back home. Here, take it.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Now, don’t stand on ceremony, miss. They leave more than ought to be allowed in our room. I insist.”
Anna took the tiny bar from Grampy Harry, unwrapped it, and held it under her nose. “Ah, but it is not milled,” she said. “There is an exclusive pleasure in milled soaps, and they are only sometimes found in restaurants.”
“You stupid girl!” Paulina shouted, struggling to free herself from John’s grip. “I am going to break you off your head.”
Still restraining Paulina, John nudged Anna up out of her seat with his free hand. “Give me the soap,” he said, and she held them tighter into her stomach. John turned his head to the table. “Nice seeing you all but we’ve got another party to go to.”
“Let go of me!” shouted Paulina.
“Young man,” Grampy Harry addressed John. “If you’ll allow me to offer one final word of advice.”
“What’s that, sir?” John Strong said through gritted teeth, a Gargoyle clamped in each arm.
“You are going to be so sorry only one hour from now!” Paulina shouted at Brooke. She twisted under John Strong’s shoulder but couldn’t break free. “Remember the thing you ask from me, well, you will come and cry to my feet!”
“When hell freezes over.” Brooke stood up in front of Paulina and was so dwarfed by the stealth bomber of a fashion model that Mildred found herself rising to move behind her daughter, despite her husband’s silent warning.
“Never serve only yourself,” Grampy Harry advised John Strong. “And always find the right man for the job.”
John smiled. “Thank you, Sir Special. I’ll send you a box of Havanas, but we really gotta go now.”
“Thank you for gifting me,” said Anna to Grampy Harry.
“Now hands off!” Paulina shouted. She shoved her elbow back into John Strong’s stomach. He heaved forward. The irate Gargoyle glared down at Brooke, who held her stare. For one second, they were all stilled. Mildred could hear the fizzle of champagne bubbles coming from the table, a soundtrack too elegant for Paulina as she turned and stormed out the front door. John Strong took Anna under his arm and followed, flipping his head slightly to call out a name that must have meant something to Brooke.
She picked up a champagne flute and emptied its contents into her mouth. “It’s medicinal,” she said, upon catching her mother’s worried eye. Mildred drained her own glass, hoping it might quell the pounding behind her forehead or drown out the obnoxious silence left by the glamorous, if not a bit off-color, trio.
“What a fine boy,” Grampy Harry said.
“Yeah,” Cynthia agreed. “But those models are a little creepy.”
“I know, totally,” Brooke said, then almost immediately her face collapsed as it had when she realized she’d forgotten Cynthia’s cake, and Mildred knew she remembered something, perhaps the “thing” Paulina had said she’d be crying for, and this set Mildred’s mind racing at a roadrunner’s pace. She wondered if the Gargoyle girls were some kind of front, if perhaps they were Russian spies, the kind Mildred had read about in thick bestsellers, or maybe they were drug runners, a more troublesome equation given their proximity to her daughter. America was presently embroiled in a war on drugs. Mildred remembered the Reagans appearing together on TV last fall, pleading with Americans to swing into action just as they’d done during the Second World War, as this, too, was a fight for freedom. Talk to your children about drugs, the first lady had said. But where did you start? And what if they told you it wasn’t what you thought, if you’d let them convince you it was all about image and not based the slightest in reality? Mildred shuddered, thinking again of that night in Brooke’s apartment and wondering whether she’d been hoodwinked. Such suspicions would have to wait, however, as everyone had rebounded from the previous scene, and Brooke suggested that Cynthia open her birthday present. She handed her sister a rather large box with a big red bow. Cynthia ripped it open and pulled out a thick chain and padlock, then discovered a Polaroid of the ten-speed bicycle Brooke had purchased for her. Cynthia wailed, gleefully jumping up from her seat and throwing her arms around her sister.
The two girls hugged and cried and told each other they were the best, as Mildred and Tom looked on, if not exactly upstaged (they’d given their daughter a few of the books she’d requested and a small tent she’d once admired in the sporting-goods store), then a bit perplexed. Cynthia had never expressed any interest in a bicycle, always a stalwart proponent of public transportation. She wouldn’t even let Mildred and Tom pick her up at school, preferring instead to store her few belongings on campus and ride the bus home from Philly, and as far as Mildred knew Cynthia had never even sat stationary on one of Brooke’s old bikes, all of which were still kept in the garage. Mildred glanced across the table at her husband, who shrugged and raised his eyebrows as if to say, Who knew? and by way of agreement Mildred shook her head back and forth slightly.
When the waiter passed, Tom made certain to ask that the check be delivered to him and not Brooke. If Brooke had heard him, she decided not to argue or was simply too overwhelmed by her own generosity and its effects upon her sister that she simply didn’t care. Watching Brooke run her fingers through Cynthia’s hair as the young girl giggled, the two of them shivering with delight, Mildred softened slightly and couldn’t help thinking how blessed they all were, really, and at that moment she made a silent vow to talk to each one of the girls about drugs. She would find a way. Tom yawned loudly, calling Mildred from her silent crusade, and she smiled at the dashing man aglow in the warm light of the candles, the man who’d managed to articulate so stunningly everything they’d been feeling these past few months though they hadn’t once confessed their thoughts on the subject, reminding Mildred, much like his hand between her breasts at night, that they were together in this—married—and it was more romantic than ever. She couldn’t wait to feel his body beneath the quilted covers of their king-sized bed back at the Hilton. Tom gave his wife a quick wink, then took out his money clip, and she purred silently, slathered in their connubial transference.
“What a day!” he cried.
“A wonderful day,” Brooke agreed.
And they gathered up their belongings and left the restaurant, Brooke promising outside in the breezy spring night that she and Cynthia would go directly home, and even if Mildred had suspected anything different she kept her mouth shut, heeding instead to her own agenda. There would be plenty of time for her children, she thought, plenty of time for the family. The rest of the night in the city belonged to her and her husband.