32

THE NEIGHBORS STAND
UP TO BE COUNTED

“Kitty-cats like to be stroked,” Rosanne explained to Jason. “You can’t pet them like a doggy. Here, like this.” She showed him how to stroke Missy, a movement Jason studied with a great degree of seriousness.

Amanda, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter, was smiling.

“See how much she likes that? Okay, Jason, you can hold her now.” Rosanne gently lowered the cat into his arms.

“Why doesn’t he take her into the writing room?” Amanda suggested. “He’ll be all right in there, won’t he?”

“Oh, sure,” Rosanne said, smoothing Jason’s hair back off his forehead. “Go on, Jason. Mommy’ll be right here, talking to Amanda.”

Jason nodded, clutching his new friend. By the time he reached the door, the lower half of Missy was dangling down his front, but she did not seem to mind.

“Mommy?” he said, turning around.

“What, Jason?”

“Can I have this?”

“The cat?”

He nodded, his cheek rubbing the fur on Missy’s head.

“She belongs to Mrs. G, sweetie.”

“Oh,” he said, wandering out.

“Phew,” Rosanne said, sitting down at the table. “Am I ever beat. What time’s Mrs. W coming? I have to get Jason back to Brooklyn by seven.”

“Any minute,” Amanda said. “So, Rosanne, we’re in agreement now, yes?”

Rosanne did not look happy. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Rosanne—you persist in making it sound as though it was your fault. And it wasn’t. It was our fault. We were supposed to pay Social Security—” The doorbell rang. “There she is,” Amanda said, jumping down from the counter.

It was Harriet Wyatt, and Cassy Cochran was with her. Amanda led them back to the kitchen, where Harriet kissed Rosanne hello and Cassy dropped her briefcase to hug her, whispering, “Don’t you worry. We’re not going to let anyone come between you and Jason.”

“If I’m still alive,” Rosanne said. “You’re strangling me.”

Cassy and Harriet sat at the table and extracted papers from their briefcases, while Amanda poured them glasses of cold seltzer water.

“We liked Mr. Thatcher a great deal,” Harriet said, opening a large folder on the table. “He went through everything with Sam and me and our lawyer—”

“I sat in too,” Cassy said, slipping on her glasses.

“And everything seems fine,” Harriet finished. “Thank you.” She took a sip of seltzer and then thumbed through the papers. “Everything’s signed and ready to go—the Social Security papers and our check. And our statement about Rosanne is here too.”

“Great,” Amanda said, lifting herself back up on the counter. “I signed mine,” she said, tapping a manila envelope, “and I’ve got Mrs. Goldblum’s as well.”

“And I’ve got Howard’s,” Harriet said, opening another folder. “He gave it to me at work this afternoon.”

“Howie doesn’t have the money for this,” Rosanne protested. “Can’t we just leave him out of it?”

Amanda visibly paled.

“Rosanne,” Harriet said gently, “it’s all been taken care of. Howard’s as anxious as we are to help.”

“I must confess—” Cassy said, handing a folder to Amanda, “this is ours —I was rather relieved that we didn’t have to deal with Melissa.”

Amanda averted her eyes. “Why didn’t we have to deal with Melissa?” she asked matter-of-factly. Cassy hesitated and then looked over at Rosanne, who was making a frantic motion for her to shut up—which Amanda saw. “I repeat,” Amanda said, looking at Rosanne, “why didn’t we have to deal with Melissa?”

Rosanne sighed, sending a now-you’ve-done-it look at Cassy. “Howie moved out. He doesn’t want anyone to know—yet.”

“He told—” Harriet started to say, but stopped when she felt Cassy kick her under the table.

“Really,” Amanda said faintly, avoiding all of their eyes.

“He’s up on 95th Street,” Rosanne added.

Silence.

“Amanda,” Harriet said, “Howard tells me you’re the same Amanda Miller that Patricia MacMannis wants to sign up—a novel about Catherine the Great.”

“The one and the same,” Rosanne said, grinning.

“They were talking about you in editorial meeting last week,” Harriet continued, trying to figure out what it was that Cassy was mouthing to her from across the table. “It sounds wonderful. Patricia and Howard”—Cassy kicked her again and Harriet’s eyes grew wider—”were raving about it.”

“Good!” Rosanne said.

“Rosanne’s my agent,” Amanda explained.

“I’m sorry,” Harriet said, still squinting at Cassy, “what did you say, Amanda?” “Rosanne’s my agent. She was the one who told Howard about my book.”

“But Patricia’s going to be the editor,” Harriet said, looking slightly confused. DON’T TALK ABOUT HOWARD—oh—that was what Cassy was mouthing across the table.

“Well,” Amanda said quietly, “Patricia and I seem to work rather well together. “

“That’s great,” Harriet said, rubbing her shin. “I look forward to reading it.”

“I had no idea you were a writer,” Cassy said, turning around in her chair to look at Amanda. “And this second vocation of yours, my dear,” she said to Rosanne, “is one of the better-kept secrets on the block.”

“I get ten percent,” Rosanne said.

“Really?” This was from Harriet, who was smiling at Amanda.

Amanda reached down from the counter toward her. “May I have your forms? I’m seeing Mr. Thatcher in the morning.”

“Sure.” Harriet closed the folders and passed them to Cassy, who in turn handed them to Amanda. “Amanda,” Harriet added, “Cassy and I thought it might be helpful if we came to Rosanne’s hearing too. Mr. Thatcher said it was a good idea, being mothers ourselves.”

Rosanne looked at Harriet. “You’d do that?”

“Honey,” Harriet said, leaning across the table to give Rosanne’s hand a squeeze, “we want you to get Jason, but we also don’t want to lose you.” Cassy murmured her agreement.

Rosanne looked down to the floor.

Cassy took a breath. “And we need to talk about where you’re going to live,” she said.

“Yes,” Amanda said.

Rosanne looked up, eyes glistening slightly.

“Mommy!” came the cry from the other room.

“Coming,” Rosanne called, up on her feet in an instant.

After she left the room, Cassy said, “I’ve thought about having them stay with me temporarily. I’ve got the guest room—”

“I’ve thought about it too,” Amanda said. “But I don’t know what’s going to happen with Mrs. Goldblum. She’s going to require someone to be with her for a few weeks after she is released from the hospital, and I was rather hoping she would stay here with me.”

“I’d like to say she could—” Harriet began. “Well—wait a minute.”

Both women looked at her.

“Where is Mrs. Goldblum’s apartment?”

“On the comer of 91st Street,” Amanda said.

“Well,” Harriet said slowly, “if she’s not going to be there for a while, would she consider letting Rosanne...?”

Cassy’s head whipped around to Amanda. “Would she, Amanda? It would give us some time to find Rosanne an apartment.”

“Yes, I think she would,” Amanda said. “And you know,” she added, pushing her hair back over her shoulder, “you’ve given me an idea.”

A slow smile was emerging on Cassy’s face. “Are you thinking the same thing I’m thinking?”

Amanda looked at her, one eyebrow rising.

“What?” Harriet said.

Cassy turned to her. “Amanda and I are thinking that maybe Mrs. Goldblum might want someone to live with her now.”

“She has three bedrooms,” Amanda said.

Harriet thought a minute. “But would Rosanne—”

“Leave Rosanne to me,” Amanda said.

Herself came in at that moment. “The cat’s hiding under the couch,” Rosanne announced. “A major trauma.”

The women laughed.

“I don’t know how I’m gonna get him to leave that cat,” Rosanne continued, sitting down.

The other three women smiled, exchanging looks with one another.