Good Intentions (12 page)

“It’s all right, Marilyn,” Renee told the somewhat dazed young woman whose hairdo added at least three inches to her height. “I don’t think you’ve met my sister, Kathryn. She’s visiting from New York. And this is my husband’s daughter, Debbie. She’s with us for the summer.”

“From Boston,” Debbie said sweetly. “I live there with my mother.”

“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Renee asked, viewing the many shopping bags with awe, as her secretary excused herself from the room.

“Debbie took me to the Boca Town Center,” Kathryn explained quietly.

“Bloomie’s,” Debbie said, her smile growing wicked. “I charged everything to Dad’s account.”

“I’ll pay him back,” Kathryn added quickly. “Debbie said it would be all right.”

“I talked Kathryn into the sexiest bathing suit. Dad’ll go crazy when he sees it. Kathryn has a beautiful figure, don’t you think, Renée?”

“What are you doing here?” Renee asked, trying to pull her jacket over her spreading hips, and anxious to get Debbie out of her office.

“We came to take you for lunch,” Kathryn said, looking to Debbie for confirmation. While Renee was grateful to Debbie for getting Kathryn out of the apartment and pleased that the girl had actually persuaded Kathryn to go shopping, she was skeptical of her motives. It wasn’t in Debbie’s character to help people when they were down.

“I don’t think so …” Renee stammered, wishing she had been able to get hold of Philip.

“You have to eat,” her sister told her, her voice a gentle plea. “Come on, Renee. It’ll be good for you. Just like going shopping all morning with Debbie was good for me.”

“We’ll go to the Troubadour,” Debbie chimed in.

“The Troubadour? That’s pretty pricey, Debbie.”

“So what? Dad’s treat.” She reached into her canvas bag and pulled out a glistening gold credit card. “I heard Dad say the Troubadour is the best restaurant in Delray.”

“Come on,” Kathryn urged, a small smile creeping into the corners of her mouth. “You know you’re going to give in eventually.”

“Why don’t we just go to Erny’s?”

“The Troubadour,” Debbie told her stepmother adamantly, returning the credit card to her purse. “Come on, Renée, let me do something nice for you.”

They were ushered inside the dark restaurant and given a round, linen-covered table near the far corner of the elegant, pink-and-plum-colored room, where they were immediately offered a basketful of rolls and a wine list. Waiters hovered nearby with helpful suggestions and a list of the day’s specials. They ordered quickly, Renee vetoing Debbie’s expressed wish for a bottle of champagne, and ordering three glasses of grapefruit juice instead.

“You’re a spoilsport,” Debbie told her.

“You’re underage,” Renee reminded her, thinking it was about time someone did, “and I’m working.”

“Busy morning?” her sister asked.

“Very.”

“You didn’t look very busy when we came in,” Debbie said, her eyes casually perusing the room.

“That’s the trick,” Renee said pleasantly. “To be busy but look relaxed.”

“I didn’t say you looked relaxed. Just not busy.”

Renee reached for a roll.

“So who’s getting divorced today? Anyone we know?” Kathryn asked, her eyes moving warily back and forth between her companions.

Renee shook her head, and bit into a chewy roll, which, she was surprised to discover, was warm.

“Renée can’t discuss her cases,” Debbie said knowingly. “I’ve asked her a few times,” she continued, sounding hurt, “but she won’t.”

“It’s privileged information, Debbie,” Renee said, trying to sound patient. “You understand that. Your father has the same problem.”

“My father doesn’t have any problems.”

“Situation, then. He can’t discuss his patients.”

“He does, though,” Debbie said, managing to sound both knowing and innocent. “With me.”

Renee said nothing, letting her eyes adjust to the dimly lit room. “I’ve never been here before. It’s lovely.”

“Dad’s been here,” Debbie said, her eyes straining through the dimness toward the far corners of the restaurant. “I heard him talking about it on the telephone. He said it’s his favorite spot.”

“Really?” Renee heard herself ask, then wished she hadn’t.

“You should see the white dress Kathryn bought,” Debbie continued, changing topics with ease. “Very sexy. No back.”

“I still can’t believe I bought it. It’s so unlike anything I’ve ever owned.”

“It looks great on you.”

“Debbie’s quite the salesgirl.”

“I’m sure she is.”

“Kathryn has such a beautiful body,” Debbie reiterated. “I think she should show it off.” Her eyes traveled from Kathryn to Renee. “It’s so hard to believe she’s your older sister.”

“Almost five years older,” Kathryn established.

“You’d swear it was the other way around.” Debbie smiled sweetly. Renee gripped the underside of her chair.

“Bon appétit,”
Debbie said, when lunch was delivered some twenty minutes later. She took a long, hard look at
Renee’s plate. “Should you be eating all those french fries, Renee? What’s the matter? Didn’t I pronounce your name right that time?”

Renee began eating her steak and french fried potatoes in small, steady bites, speaking only when she had no other choice, deliberately finishing everything on her plate, and then making a point of asking for dessert, which the others declined. “Might as well do it right,” she said. She added a spoonful of sugar and a dollop of whipped cream to her coffee, then had a second cup.

“Isn’t that my father?” Debbie suddenly asked, straining her head toward the far right corner of the room. Renee had noticed Debbie looking in that direction several times during the course of the meal, but she had thought better of turning around. Now, her head spun in the direction of Debbie’s eyes. “It is him. Who’s he with?” Renee could see only the back of the woman’s head, but even in the soft darkness and from a distance of some forty feet, she could recognize the familiar red locks of the woman who had once introduced herself as Alicia-call-me-Ali Henderson. “Do you know her, Renée? I don’t think she’s anyone I’ve ever met. Daddy!” Debbie called out suddenly, jumping out of her chair and waving wildly across the room.

Renee turned back toward the table just as Alicia-call-me-Ali swiveled around in her chair. She caught reluctant sight of the woman’s regal profile and ample bosom before bringing her eyes tightly closed. She didn’t have to see Philip to know that he was already getting out of his chair, that he was even now on his way over. She didn’t have to hear his words to know what he would say, just as she now understood that her being in this
restaurant was no accident, that this chance meeting was no coincidence, that this was Debbie’s way of “doing something nice” for her. Debbie had probably overheard Philip on the phone making his plans. Philip was as careless as his daughter was meticulous.

“Renee,” Philip was saying jovially as he bent forward to kiss her cheek. “What a wonderful surprise. Hello, Kathryn,” he continued, “how are you feeling today?”

“Much better.” Kathryn smiled, unconsciously touching her wrists, oblivious to the drama she was witnessing.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to return your calls. You know how time can just get away from you. Was it anything important?”

Renee shook her head. He’d obviously forgotten their tentative arrangements. There was certainly no point in bringing the matter up now. “Just calling to say hello.”

He smiled pleasantly. “How was your meal?” he asked. “The food here is wonderful. If I’d seen you earlier, I’d have recommended the swordfish. In fact, any of the fish or pasta dishes are first-rate.”

“I had pasta,” Debbie said proudly. “Kathryn had the red snapper. Renée,” she added flatly, “had steak and french fries.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Philip told them. “Steak is steak.”

“Next time, I’ll know,” Renee said, and wondered what exactly she meant by that.

“Who are you with, Dad?” Debbie asked.

“You remember Alicia Henderson from Bennett’s party,” Philip whispered, leaning close to Renee’s ear. “She’s having a few problems with her husband. Says he’s schizophrenic, but he refuses to get help, and she doesn’t
know what to do about him anymore. She wanted some advice, and she didn’t want to be seen coming into my office, so I agreed to meet her here. She’s a little embarrassed, so she doesn’t want to come over, although she said to give you her regards.”

Renee nodded without speaking, and reached up with her lips to kiss those of her husband.

“I’ll see you later.” Philip gave his daughter a big hug. “It was great seeing you,” he said, and managed to sound as though he meant it. “It’s nice to see my girls out together having a good time.”

“She’s gorgeous,” Debbie said after Philip had returned to his table. “All that beautiful red hair, and what a figure.” Renee looked toward the waiter and signaled for the check, wondering how long it would take her to dismember Debbie’s body, and thinking of appropriate places where she could hide all the pieces.

“Lynn Schuster on line two,” Renee’s secretary announced over the intercom late that afternoon.

“Lynn, I’ve been thinking about you lately.” Renee forced a note of cheeriness into her voice although cheery was far from the way she actually felt. Her lunch—both the food itself and the accompanying events—had been repeating on her all afternoon. She hoped she hadn’t let Debbie see how upset she was. She’d simply gritted her teeth and smiled, following her husband’s lead, and told the girl how much she’d enjoyed their outing, all the while fighting growing feelings of acute anxiety. It had never been easy for her to lie. She wondered how Philip could do it so effortlessly. But then, maybe he wasn’t lying, she tried to convince herself. Maybe the lunch with
Alicia Henderson was every bit as spontaneous and innocent as he claimed. And maybe she would be appointed a Supreme Court Justice. And maybe the moon really was made of cheese.

What was she doing wrong? What was it about her that drove Philip into the arms of all the Alicia-call-me-Alis of this world? What was missing? Renee looked down at the bulging buttons of her blouse. It wasn’t what was missing, she told herself. It was the opposite. There was simply too much. She had to start another diet. She had to get her weight under control. “I’m sorry,” she stammered when she realized that she hadn’t heard a word Lynn had been saying and that Lynn sounded very upset. “What? Say that again…. He what? Sent you flowers? Who sent you flowers? … I don’t believe it…. All right, all right. Calm down. Throw the flowers in the garbage, if it makes you feel better, which I suspect it will, and then go fix yourself a good stiff drink. Lynn, are you listening to me? … Good. I haven’t had such a great day myself. I’ll tell you about it some other time. But right now, chuck the flowers, have a drink, and try to relax.” They exchanged goodbyes, and Renee replaced the receiver, shaking her head. “Men,” she repeated until the word lost all meaning.

T
he flowers had arrived just minutes after Lynn walked through her front door at the end of a frustrating day. She had spent hours at work on the phone getting nowhere and several more hours going in a similar direction with a family whose lives had been torn apart by their son’s drug use. To top it off, she’d had to endure a lengthy lecture by a lawyer named Stephen Hendrix, who represented an angry Keith Foster, father of the allegedly abused child, and who had told her plainly to stop harassing his client or he would have no alternative but to take legal action against her.
Her personally
, the lawyer stressed.

“We’ve received a complaint regarding a possible case of child abuse,” Lynn had told him, trying to keep her voice even, “and as I’m sure you’re well aware, Mr. Hendrix, all such complaints have to be investigated fully. I’ve tried to contact both Mr. and Mrs. Foster repeatedly to set up an appointment, and have met with the utmost resistance. The last time I drove out to the Harborside Villas, Patty Foster refused to open the door. I am not harassing your clients. I simply want to interview them, and their daughter, Ashleigh. I not only have that right,
but that responsibility. If need be,” she had continued, looking up into the eyes of the man, who was a good foot taller than herself, and refusing to be intimidated, “I will bring along members of the Delray Beach police force on my next visit. You can sue them too. The choice is up to your clients.”

“I intend to be there,” Stephen Hendrix had announced at that point, capitulating, though he made it sound as if he still maintained the upper hand, “to monitor the conversation.”

“As you wish.” She had her secretary make the appointment for the following week. The Fosters were out of town and would be unavailable until then. Mr. Foster was a very busy, very important man, Stephen Hendrix had explained, not for the first time.

“We’re all busy,” she had told him plainly. “The child is who’s important here.”

Much as Lynn hated to admit it, such scenes took a lot out of her. She hated confrontations, voices raised in anger. Boy, did you get into the wrong line of work, she told herself as she pushed through her front door at the end of the day, heading straight into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice from the oranges that grew in her back yard. Megan and Nicholas would be home soon. She had just enough time to crawl into a nice, soothing bath. And then there was the knock at her front door, and a young delivery boy all but hidden behind a large box of flowers.

“Lynn Schuster?” he asked, quickly shoving the flowers at her before she had time to confirm or deny her identity. She watched him leave in something of a daze, the flowers balanced precariously in her arms, her eyes
staring blankly ahead. It couldn’t be, she thought. He wouldn’t.

Slowly, not moving the rest of her body, she extended her right foot forward and kicked the front door gently closed. No, she thought, once again standing resolutely still, he wouldn’t.

She didn’t know how long she remained there, barefoot in her front hallway with a long rectangular box of flowers in her outstretched hands, but she gradually became aware of the box’s weight. She marched determinedly into the living room and sat down on the sofa, tearing open the box, temporarily ignoring the card. He wouldn’t, she thought again, staring at the dozen beautiful, long-stemmed yellow roses.