When Amanda was little, her mother delighted in raising her
hopes and dashing them with a swift tug of the rug. On her eighth birthday, her
mother had wondered if a blue, three-speed bicycle was just
waiting in the garage. Should they look?
“I guess.” Amanda knew this game. And sure enough, her
birthday present was a blue enameled bicycle-charm for the charm bracelet
Cheryl promised to buy her someday. “Isn’t it cute?”
(click here for the first episode; here for the previous.)
It was very cute. She took it to school and left it on a
windowsill.
Now she was hanging up on Walter. But he yelled, “Damn it,
Amanda! Let me explain.”
“Not necessary.”
“I’m angry, too! But her
TV show was cancelled; her movies fell through. Her two thousand closest friends
are all insanely busy. Friday morning she leaves for Tokyo, to launch her beauty
products. But she has a full day layover in Chicago.”
“So we’ll see you tomorrow.”
He phoned again immediately. Amanda let it go to voicemail. He
left two more messages and sent an email. She deleted them all. During his 150 consecutive phone calls since Lake George, Walter had never mentioned
Danielle. Amanda had practically forgotten her.
That night, every time, she closed her eyes, one blackbird killed
another in mid-air.
“Walter’s bringing a guest,” she told the girls at breakfast.
“Please don’t say anything about Lake George. Or you’ll embarrass me.”
Evie and Vanessa looked at each other. “You look sad, Mommy.”
Amanda smiled what felt like the saddest smile her face had
ever made.
Upon entering the house, Danielle screamed, threw her arms in
the air, and kissed them each hello as if they’d miraculously been found alive!
Walter hung back. Amanda hung up their coats, feeling them watch and hearing them
murmur.
“Why aren’t you dressed up?” Danielle asked.
“We’re casual,” Amanda said.
“Today’s an occasion, though.” Danielle wore: a silver and
white brocade dress that looked two sizes too small; very high heels; her
blonde hair in a twist, smelling of hair spray. She insisted the girls show her
their closets. They looked at Amanda, who shrugged, so they led Danielle
upstairs.
Walter was poring over a book about Chicago architecture that
David had given her. From across the small room, she asked if he’d like
something to drink. He set aside the book and stood up. In one fluid motion, he
gave her a bottle of Maker’s Mark, wrapped in seasonal gift-paper, and bent
down for a long white box he had set on the floor.
“What’s this?” Amanda cradled the unfamiliar box and let
Walter bring the bourbon into the kitchen. Removing the lid, she inhaled
audibly and bit her lips: a dozen long-stemmed bright pink-almost-orange roses.
Struggling to sound neutral, she said, “From both of you.”
Hurt, Walter scanned her face. “I ordered them last week,
Amanda, because whenever I see these roses, I see you.”
She handed him bourbon with ice and he reached for her. But she
stepped away, proposing a toast. Their glasses clinked and she said, “To
whatever happens,” drinking the liquor in one long, eye watering swallow.
“Amanda.” He stepped closer, so handsome and so remorseful she
had to close her eyes.
“I need a week, Walter.”
He spoke in a quiet rush. “What if I get us a suite at The
Carleton? Friday and Saturday?”
Mere hours after you’ve slept with her—Amanda didn’t say this;
the fact hung between them. Walter stepped away quickly and sank into the
couch. Squinting at a harsh but undetectable light, his face dark, Walter
sighed, said her name again, and then, “God knows what’s happening to the
girls.”
They were whining inside velvet dresses Caroline had bought
them for the “Nutcracker Suite” next month. Evie ran to her mother as Danielle
approached with a hairbrush.
“Her scalp is extra sensitive, Danielle.”
“Amanda,” she took her fingers. “The girls say none of you ever
moisturizes.”
“What? Oh.” She held up a finger. “Our sunscreen’s a
moisturizer.”
After dinner, Danielle would give them each a secret from her
beauty line, which included products for all ages, even babies. Looking at
Amanda, she oohed at her energetic beauty and asked to select her party clothes.
“It’s one of my talents.”
“No thank you, Danielle. I’m shy that way. But thank you so
much for the roses and bourbon.”
“Bourbon? I love it.” She tottered downstairs in her stilettos.
The girls followed Amanda into her bedroom where she closed
the door. “I don’t have ‘party clothes’.”
Evie pointed to a short, flared skirt Chloe had talked her
into buying. Multi-colored polka dots on shiny black. Festive but silly. Not
with her legs, it wasn’t, Chloe had said. Amanda wore black tights and a
sleeveless black top with the flirty, little skirt. “Perfect for figure
skating.”
Yanking out two hair-bows, Vanessa asked, “Is she our pretend
grandma?”
“No more pretend relatives,” Amanda said.
Danielle cooed at Amanda’s outfit—such stellar style. “I cannot believe, however, you have no
jewelry. Forget hinting and start telling
the men in your life.”
Seated at the main table, she was folding the napkins into semblances
of turkeys. The girls didn’t want to learn the technique and Amanda needed to
fix the gravy. “A shame. Martha Stewart herself taught me.”
During the meal, Danielle raved about The Hemingway Hotel. “My
favorite book is A Movable Feast. My favorite line in that book is:
Hunger is good for the soul.’”
“Discipline,” Walter said. “The quote is: ‘Hunger is good discipline.’”
“Poo to you who always knows everything, Walter.”
Table cleared, Evie whooped for pie.
Danielle said, “Use your inside voice.”
Amanda almost spoke up. But Evie was on it. “‘Inside voices’ are for toddlers. Besides,
you’re way louder.”
“Evie, hush, and you can have all the pie you want.”
“Amanda, my dear! Tell me you do not condone overeating.”
Skinny Evie eyed Danielle rudely. “At least I’m not busting
out of my dress.”
“Go to your room,” Amanda said.
Vanessa, who was not skinny, tossed her turkey napkin on the
table. “I’m outta here.”
Excusing himself, Walter walked out the front door without a coat.
“Danielle, will you excuse me, too?” Amanda asked. But instead
of marching to the girls’ rooms, she changed her mind and stepped outside. Walter
was smoking a cigarette on the front steps. Amanda sat beside him.
“Smoking? We already know you’re bad, Walter, a convict.”
“Danielle doesn’t know. I was Nick’s tax wiz, and hers were a
mess.”
Amanda draped her bare arm around him. “I’m guessing she
doesn’t know about me.”
His moved to embrace her but she indicated, no, and he shifted
in sadness. “Danielle knows nothing. And God knows, I can only stand so much
fun.”
(to be continued)
