Frenemies (8 page)

Hallelujah.

Finally—
finally!
—Helen had overplayed her hand.

I couldn’t help myself.

I gloated.

Because there was one thing I knew about dirty, underhanded girl politics, whether it involved
that girl
or not: nobody wanted another woman to be
friends
with her boyfriend to this degree, unless she was very worried indeed that
friends
wasn’t what her boyfriend had in mind at all.

Which meant something glorious.

Nate still had feelings for me!

Nate still wanted me!

Enough, at least, to get Helen all up in a tizzy.

Gloating felt good. It felt, in fact, like summer in the middle of November gray. I let myself bask in it.

“I really hope you understand,” she said at last, studying my expression as she wound down. “I just want what’s best for everyone.”

“Believe me,” I told her, unable to hide my smile. “I understand you perfectly.”

chapter ten

I
would have liked nothing more than to spend the next week or so going over Helen’s every word, movement, and facial expression with Amy Lee and Georgia, but I was foiled by the national holiday.

The fact that it was Thanksgiving week meant that Georgia was pulling twenty-three-and-a-half-hour shifts at the office in order to get some time off to see her mother, which was obviously nonnegotiable. She was also, she told me in hushed tones, planning to keep seeing Jethro or Jamie or whatever his name was, whom she’d met at the Park Plaza. I could tell by the way she told me that he was already getting slippery, some three days after they’d first met.

Thanksgiving week also meant that Amy Lee was consumed with her usual holiday rage over her mother-in-law’s historic inability to say what she wanted, which inevitably resulted in her not getting it, which led directly to tears and recriminations when Amy Lee just wanted to eat turkey. Neither one of them had time to parse Helen’s visit for clues. I had to pretend to be gracious about it.

The fact that it was Thanksgiving week also meant that I would have to wait until December—next week, sure, but it felt like forever—to see Nate at one of the many holiday parties I knew were coming. He couldn’t actually call me, of course, not after everything that had happened, so I had to try to be patient and wait for a party. Once there, I was gleefully sure, things would fall back into place, Helen could chase someone else’s boyfriend, and everything would be fine again.

I barely slept Tuesday night, because I had to go home and issue the usual holiday press releases about my life to my family. It wasn’t that I felt I had to lie to them about anything—I’d simply learned over long years that it was better to wrap up the bullet points of my existence into easily digested sound bites. The more positive, the better. I usually spent most of November crafting the appropriate little nuggets of information to share when I headed home. Thanks to Nate, Helen, and Henry in equal measure, I’d left the crafting until too late, and had to cram it all in at the very last minute.

Which was another way of saying I had some wicked insomnia Tuesday night as I lay awake, coming up with perky nuggets to fling around the Thanksgiving table.

Examples:
Work is great! I’m so lucky to have such an advanced position so early in my career. Minerva’s a dream to work for—I have complete autonomy to conduct whatever research I want and to organize the collection the way I like.
Or, because I hadn’t told them about dating Nate in the first place, so I hadn’t told them about his defection, either:
No, I’m not seeing anyone
special
, but you know I have other things on my mind. Minerva’s thinking of expanding the entire library …

Toward dawn, I gave up my frustrated attempts to sleep and moved into the living room, where I sat with a comforter wrapped around me and channel-surfed until the clock hit nine and I could take Linus to the kennel. My sister had requested that Linus not join the family this year, since her youngest son was working on a fear of dogs—possibly the fear Linus had instilled in him the previous year with his version of “kisses.” I’d reluctantly agreed, since Linus was a walking failure of obedience classes. He was also kind of psychic—wherever you least wanted him to go (like the baby’s face), that was where he would head immediately. Like some kind of hairy homing missile.

Getting Linus to the kennel was a process. It involved tricking him into thinking he was going on an innocent morning walk, and then coercing him through the door to the vet’s office with various bribes: bacon, pleading, and assorted dog biscuits. Or anyway, that was the plan.

Linus was no fool. He was having none of it.

He took one look at the vet’s front door and hurled himself onto the ground where, every five seconds or so, he would twitch impressively as if undergoing electroshock therapy. No amount of tugging on his choke collar could move him—unless I wanted to actually hurt him, which I really didn’t.

At least not at first.

“Come on, Linus,” I tried to croon, as suspicious citizens hurried by on their way to work, no doubt planning to call the ASPCA from the next block to report the obvious cruelty I was inflicting upon my poor, defenseless dog.

Yeah, right. I glared down at him. His gray-and-tan fur stuck out in all directions, making him look like a surly, canine Einstein. Linus was so ugly that he became cute—or at least, I’d always thought so—but one thing he wasn’t was
defenseless.
I could see that cunning, defiant look in his eyes even if no one else could.

After about a half hour of this nonsense, when I was just about ready to hire the nearby, bemused homeless guy to lift Linus up and cart him inside for me, Linus condescended to rise from his protest position—which was completely prone, across the sidewalk, feigning death. And not because of anything I did, but because he was probably either cold or bored. I dragged him inside—ignoring his jaunty little trot, which was his version of flipping me the doggy bird—and filled out the necessary paperwork.

“Oh no,” I assured the anxious-looking receptionist. “He’s actually fine. That wasn’t a seizure. He just likes to act up.”

“Dogs aren’t
people
, you know,” she told me with a sniff. “They don’t actually
perform
unless trained to do so.”

You must be a bird person
, I thought,
or possibly a fish person, whoever
they
are.
I showed her my teeth in an approximation of a smile.

“You don’t know Linus,” I told her.

“I know dogs,” she retorted, crossing her arms over her scrubs. “They don’t have agendas. They’re
pets.
”

I wanted to vent my spleen in the worst way possible, but I was already late for work, so I was forced to smile instead, and fume about her all the way to the Museum, where Minerva insisted upon celebrating her Puritan ancestors by dressing in period costume and forcing me to eat “harvest stew.” (About which I refused to think, as I had some serious concerns about the ingredients.) Afterward, she served pumpkin muffins from the local bakery, which were at least edible.

After work, I raced home and commenced shoving things into a bag. Jeans—but only the pair without any tears or distressed patches, as my mother had made her feelings plain about torn clothing back in the eighties. (Not a fashion choice she’d supported, let’s just say.) I piled in a few sweaters and was digging into the terrifying back of my closet for my ancient pair of Timberland boots when my buzzer rang. Early, as usual.

Narrowly avoiding death when an entire pile of bags tottered over and rained down on me, I lurched to my feet and through the living room toward the door.

“Yes?” I asked through the intercom. I braced myself as I pressed the LISTEN button.

“DOUBLE PARKED!” my father roared, knocking me back a few feet. I suspected that he didn’t quite believe in the concept of intercoms, and that was why he always bellowed into mine. But I knew better than to make him wait too long, and hurried downstairs just as soon as I wrestled the zipper shut on my duffel.

“We’ll catch up after I make it out of the city,” Dad said after the obligatory cheek-kissing. “You wouldn’t believe the traffic. Boston is a parking lot as far as I can tell.” He frowned at my doorway. “Can’t believe you still live in this place.”

As this was a variation on the same theme he trotted out every time he was forced to taxi me about for holiday get-togethers, I only smiled and directed my attention out the window at the dark night settling all around us.

I ordered myself to relax. It was marginally successful.

Despite the dorm room decor of my apartment and my constant envy of Georgia’s wardrobe, I thought as my father navigated the holiday traffic headed north out of the city, I had just about everything the average woman on the cusp of thirty could want. I lived where I wanted to live, had a job I loved, the two best friends in the world, a larger social circle that meant lots of invitations, and a romantic situation that, while complicated, was looking up. At least I hoped it was. As far as I could tell, I was back on track to having it all.

What I didn’t have, I thought on Thanksgiving Day while recovering from a gravy overdose on my parents’ couch, was a time machine that could catapult me forward to the next party.

I couldn’t wait to see Nate. I couldn’t wait to get him back.

And when I did, maybe I’d spend some time hanging around Helen’s apartment, harassing her into awkward conversations. Maybe I’d embarrass her in public by throwing her at random men, the better to suggest that she was incapable of finding one on her own. Maybe I’d trap her in bathrooms and, when she asked how I could treat her so badly, maybe I’d act confused as to why she wasn’t just a little bit more supportive of me and my needs.

Turnabout on Helen wouldn’t just be fair play, it would be sheer delight.

I felt a searing sort of pang then, and remembered that hushed dawn on Cadillac Mountain, with the world still and dark everywhere around us. We’d huddled together in the early-morning cold—so cold I couldn’t bring myself to imagine winters in Maine, if that was what June felt like—and giggled. It didn’t feel like a personal memory—it was more like a movie I’d seen once. The kind of movie that made you believe that friendships that involved vision quests to Cadillac Mountain would last until the friends in question were old, quarrelsome women on a porch somewhere. Men should never come between those kinds of friends. Not even someone as golden and sweet as Nate Manning.

I curled myself into a ball and pulled the fleece throw up to my chin, tuning out the football game and my mother’s chatter.

Cadillac Mountain hadn’t mattered to Helen. It shouldn’t matter to me, either. She’d showed me what our friendship meant to her.

Now it was my turn.

Back in Boston, I spent the first week of the last month of my twenties recovering from food overindulgence and trying to cope with Minerva’s new affinity for the didgeridoo, traditional musical instrument of the Australian aborigines.

“The power!” Minerva warbled from halfway up the stairs. “The earthy
mysticism
, Gus!”

It was a long week.

And then, soon enough, it was Friday night and I was on my way to a party at a sprawling house out in Winchester that belonged to an old friend of ours who’d given in entirely to her Daughters of the American Revolution roots. We all assembled dutifully enough at Amy Lee and Oscar’s place in Somerville so we could pile into Oscar’s car. We’d even come bearing the hostess gift all the manners mavens insisted upon. Because we were grown-ups, damn it!

This time around I was dressed like a normal human being instead of a giant berry, which was doing wonders for my mood. Not to put too fine a point on it, I felt hot and sexy in the sparkly little dress I’d found on sale just that morning, during the shopping trip I’d felt compelled to take after a long contemplation of my blueberry appearance at the last event.

I’d put my hair up and created a little mascara magic. Everything was perfect. All I needed was to see Nate, andeverything would fall into place. He would forget all about Helen and race to my side, and in a year or so we’d laugh about that strange gap of time when he’d been so confused.

I didn’t consider Helen’s feelings in this scenario.

Which concerned me for about as long as my feelings had concerned her—about three point five seconds.

I was sipping my white wine and feeling very nearlymerry when there was a sudden pressure at my elbow.

An unpleasant pressure.

“Ouch,” I said.

“We need to talk.”

I looked up, and was somewhat confused to find Nate standing there, still grabbing me. Not to mention, looking as close to furious as I’d ever seen him. Nate didn’t really get mad, as far as I knew. This had a lot to do with the fact that most people simply melted when he looked at them with those big brown eyes. Except tonight those eyes were narrowed with temper and aimed right at me.

This wasn’t how I’d planned our reunion.

There was no knowing glance or secret smile. His eyes were darker than usual, the rose in his cheeks more pronounced. He was definitely worked up about something. Something that appeared to be me.

“What is wrong with you?” I demanded.

“What’s wrong with
you
?” he retorted. “Helen told me all about the conversation she had with you. You are
out of control
, Gus!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Helen—”

“Don’t try to put this on her! I had to drag the story out of her! She was actually trying to protect you!”

“I bet she was.” I glared at him. “I don’t know what she told you, Nate, but she’s playing you—
again.
This is what Helen does.”

He glanced around then, which is when I noticed that we were attracting attention. Not in a Janis Joplin karaoke way, thank the gods, but attention nonetheless.

“I can’t believe you would try to mess with me like this,” Nate hissed at me. “But it stops now.”

He propelled me across the well-appointed living room with its lush Oriental rug and huge blue-and-white china vases, into the drafty front hall laid with bricks and sporting a wrought-iron banister on the stairs. I was forced to concentrate on the decor, because the only other thing to concentrate on was the fact that Nate was
manhandling
me.

I let him do this mostly because I was determined that this time I would not cause a scene. I wouldn’t cause one, and I wouldn’t be
part
of one. The vision of me in the blueberry gown, reflected back to me in the Park Plaza bathroom mirrors, was with me still. Which meant Nate got off pretty lucky.

“Exactly what is it you think I’m doing?” I asked him when we were more or less alone.

“Like you don’t know,” he scoffed. “Helen refused to come tonight, by the way. She’s mad at me because I forced her to break your confidence, but I’m glad she did.”

“I still have no clue what you’re talking about,” I assured him. Although I wasn’t that dim. I had an inkling.