Seidel, Kathleen Gilles (9 page)

Jill folded back the tissue. Beneath it was a pair of peach T-straps. Jill lifted one shoe out of the box. It was piped with an ivory trim.

Jill and Melody had identical feet. Not only could they wear each other's shoes, they could buy each other shoes. When Melody had been married to George and stranded, absolutely
stranded,
among the conservative shoppers of Boston, she would occasionally call Jill for a Care package of shoes.

"The peach is the right color, isn't it?" The flow of Melody's voice had an anxious undercurrent.

Jill held the shoe next to her skirt. They were precisely the same shade. Melody's eye for color was unerring.

The anxiety in Melody's voice grew. "I had them add the trim."

She what? Jill looked at the shoes again. The seam between the soft leather and the fabric lining had been slit open and the ivory piping sewn in place before the seam was closed again. The piping circled the vamp of the shoe, then ran across either side of the ankle strap and up and down the T-strap. Adding that trim would have been no small undertaking. How on earth had Melody persuaded someone to do that kind of work over a weekend? Jill didn't care how much money and leisure a person had; this seemed like a waste of both.

This was the sort of moment Jill did not know how to handle. Across the table her mother looked so eager, so desperately wanting Jill to be pleased with the shoes.
Good God, Mother, where are your values?
But Jill couldn't say that.

So she swiveled sideways in her seat and pulled off her loafers, slipping her feet into the T-straps, crossing her legs one at a time to fasten the tiny silver buckles. She put her weight on her feet, testing the feel of the shoes. "They feel great," she said. Then she stood up, knowing her mother would want to see how they looked. A waiter dodged out of her way. "And they are exactly what the skirt needs. I'm always telling myself that off-white and ivory are the same, but they aren't, are they?" All that was the truth. She sat back down. "But I don't like the idea that you spent so much time looking for them."

"Don't be silly." Her mother waved a hand, happy now, pleased that Jill liked the shoes. She didn't hear the reservation in Jill's voice. "I enjoyed it. Now tell me what you've been up to. I don't think I talked to you all week."

"Did you read about that rally yesterday? I helped Betsy and Lexa on it. But I want to hear about your book. The agent liked the first three chapters? That's wonderful."

"You can't be as surprised as I am," Melody responded lightly. The praise she had gotten from Jill, as mild as it was, was making a tremendous difference in her manner. "She even thinks that there are enough participles and such, that a good, strong editor is all we'll need. I'm not going to have to hire one of those 'as told to' people... although Shelia really liked that man she worked with."

"Aren't you pleased? I'm certainly impressed. I don't know that I have enough participles in me for a whole book."

"Part of me expects that tomorrow she'll call and say it was all a mistake." Melody's laugh was clear and bell-like. One of Jill's first memories of her mother was her light, beautiful laughter. "Guess what her biggest complaint was?"

"I haven't a clue." When at ease and unthreatened, Melody was a delicious companion. "If you've got participles, what else could they want?"

"Sex. She's very disappointed that I haven't slept with more people."

"See, there's the problem with customizing your shoes. It doesn't leave you with enough time to sleep around."

"That's what I told her. Middle America can read about sex from anyone. Who else will tell the truth about the agonies of a badly lined beaded gown?"

"Only you," Jill admitted.

"And I think the women who'll read my book are unhappier with their clothes than they are with their husbands."

"That's a nice thought."

"It is if you believe husbands are more important than clothes."

The waiter was hovering near their table, so like two guilty schoolgirls they opened their menus. It was pages long. Jill wondered if she could just order a taco.

Melody closed her menu with a snap and handed it to the waiter. "Surprise us."

He blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"We're not going to read this thing. Bring us something to eat. We're not fussy."

The waiter backed off.

Jill admired her mother's tactics. "That should put them in a tizzy."

"It serves them right." There was no longer a trace of the hesitant, unhappy woman Melody so often was. This was the charm that three talented, successful men hadn't been able to resist. "They have no right to inflict such a long menu on women who are too vain to admit that they need glasses." She leaned close to Jill again. "Isn't this splendid? I never sat down inside a restaurant until I was fifteen, not even to have a Coke at the counter in the bus station. And now I don't even care what I'm served."

Melody rarely spoke about her past and certainly never in such a light way. Writing about it in her book was making her able to talk about it. Jill was curious.

Interview your family,
the Bowenian psychotherapists said.
Find out if your mother faced the same problems you are.

But Jill's mother had grown up in a trailer park. It took Jill a frantic moment to come up with a common ground. "Do you remember that crush I had on the actor Bix Ringling? Did you ever have a crush like that?"

"Heavens, yes." Melody's laugh had a silvery tinkle. "It was Cary Grant. A dark movie theater and Cary Grant, that's all I needed... of course, that's all I had."

Jill hadn't known this, but she wasn't surprised that the debonair, elegant Cary Grant had been Melody's icon through the squalor of her early years. "But you met him, didn't you? Was it wonderful or a big disappointment?"

"I was lucky. Not a man on earth aged better than Cary Grant. All the girls in my high school were in love with Elvis, poor things. And the few times I met my idol, it was always public enough that he was being Cary Grant, so it was quite grand. If he was doing LSD and beating his wife or all those awful things that people are saying now, I never knew about it." Melody's voice trailed off as her interest in her own story was replaced by curiosity about Jill. "Why do you ask? I'm sure Candy Jimenez from my high school sees Elvis two or three times a month. Did you run into Bix Ringling at the Safeway?"

"Almost." Jill started to tell her mother about Doug's visit and ended up telling her the entire story, which surprised Jill very much indeed.

She had never confided in her mother. Melody had always longed for it. Every other Friday afternoon throughout Jill's schoolgirl years, Cass's driver would drop her off at Melody's house for the regular weekend visits. Waiting on the kitchen counter would be a beautifully arranged tea tray with delicate porcelain cups and tiny frosted cookies. The water would be simmering. It would take Melody only moments to bring it to a boil and pour it over the tea leaves. She would carry the tea into the living room, setting it down on a low table. The sofa would be piled high with clouds of pillows. She would pat the spot next to her, inviting Jill to sit down. "Now we can have a nice, long talk."

And her eyes would seem so needy. She would seem so frail that Jill would be overwhelmed and retreat into silence.

But now, for nearly the first time in her life, she told her mother everything, not just the facts of Doug's story, but how Jill felt, how threatened she was on her father's behalf. Her mother's eyes were warm with sympathy. "You don't think Cass would do anything dishonorable, do you?" she finished.

"No, not dishonorable."

There was reservation in Melody's voice. Jill was surprised. Her parents had never spoken ill of one another. "But?"

"Film is a collaborative business. Your father understood that. That's why he was always so productive. He knew you had to compromise. 'We're not Keats here,' he always used to say."

"So you think he might—"

Melody interrupted. That was unusual for her. "I don't think anything. But we don't know if there was a secret script, much less whether or not it was a masterpiece. It seems to me like you've got a long way to go before you can decide what your father's role was. You may be getting a little ahead of yourself."

Ahead of herself? Jill could not believe what her mother was saying. How could having faith in Cass's integrity be getting ahead of herself? That's where she was starting from.

CHAPTER 4

Jill and Cathy obediently reported their off-site meeting to the group on Tuesday. Cathy offered a straightforward factual account, "...I did a little research, she came to my office, the meeting lasted no more than twenty minutes."

"So what was it like?" one of the members asked Jill.

"Fine," Jill answered. "Her office is beautiful, and she really did a lot more than I expected. It saved me a lot of time. I appreciated that."

"Wasn't it odd?" someone else asked. "Did you feel like you knew her real well or not at all?"

"A little bit of both." Jill was careful not to look at Cathy when she said that. "But it was fine, it really was. It was no big deal."

Everyone was silent. Jill knew that two or three members were itching to get on to their own concerns and were waiting the requisite number of beats to be sure that this subject was over.

But Bill, the therapist leading the group, spoke first. "I think there's more to be said here."

Now, this was exactly what Jill hated about being in any kind of therapy. She hadn't liked talking about her mother's breakdown last fall, but she knew she needed help, so she had done it. But this, people expecting her to talk when she had nothing to say, she flat-out hated. It was like being back on her mother's pillow-filled sofa. She had met Cathy, had gotten help, had thanked her, and said good-bye. That was truly all that had happened. But six pairs of eyes were staring at her, waiting for her to say more. At least Cathy had the grace not to look at her.

So Jill looked back at the six pairs of eyes, her face as blank as her mind. What did they expect from a woman raised by a proper British governess? Alice had brought her up on cold water and brisk daily walks. Alice had loved her, Jill knew that, but history and geography had been the order of the day, not emotion. Jill could still recite all the kings of England. Did they want to hear that?
Egbert, Ethelwulf, Ethelbald...

In a moment, the eyes all switched to Cathy.

"Why did you do more than Jill expected?" a member asked her.

A touch of distaste flickered across Cathy's face. "I was very pleased that she called," she answered.

"Why aren't you looking at her when you say that?"

"Because I was talking to you." Pointedly Cathy turned to face Jill, first looking at a spot near the center of Jill's forehead, then making reluctant eye contact. "I was very pleased that you called."

Do you hate this as much as I do?

You bet.

"Why were you pleased?" someone asked. Cathy turned back to her questioner. "Because like everyone in this room, I want Jill's approval—" Jill stared at her, horrified.

"—and I'm proud of the way my office looks. I wanted her to see it."

The therapist spoke quickly. "This is an important issue. Why do we all like Jill? Why do we value her opinion so much?"

Jill had once fallen while mounting a horse and had bruised her tailbone. For weeks, every time she sat down, she felt exactly as she was feeling right now.

"Jill," Bill went on, "why don't you go first? How do you view your role in the group?"

"No," Jill protested, acutely miserable. She wasn't going to go first. She wasn't going to go at all.

But she was. She had gotten a lot of help from this group because other people had been willing to be honest. So she took a deep breath and spoke. "We've talked about our sibling rivalry issues before." Jill knew it was crucial to three members that they get their fair share of the group's attention; they would become agitated if they found themselves ignored. All had several brothers and sisters, and in their plea for the group's attention they were re-enacting their need for their parents' attention. "I was an only child. I don't need to be Bill's favorite, because I've never been in competition with anyone for either of my parents."

The other people were nodding. Jill's comments were often accepted without much question. She supposed that was part of what Bill was trying to explore.

"But it's more than that," someone added. "You're always so interested in everyone else, so open... and then when you told us about your mother, that was obviously hard for you."

And it had also been more than six months ago. Jill knew she had been coasting for a long time on that one piece of self-disclosure. She hadn't even told the group that she had lost her house to a mudslide.

Other people were chiming in, now with comments about Jill's intelligence, her insight.

"It sounds like we're back to everyone trying to win Jill's favor," Bill said. "Cathy, you started this. How do you explain it?"

Cathy's eyes met Jill's briefly. Jill thought she saw an apology there, an apology for having brought this up. "I think there's always a magic about people with... people who are so very attractive. Jill's wonderful to watch; her movements are so graceful. I adore her clothes. That presence gives people power."

Jill started to squirm; then, suddenly self-conscious about these allegedly graceful movements, she froze.

Bill was looking at Cathy intently. "Is that really what you want to say?"

Cathy looked right back at him. "Yes."

Jill was suddenly alert. Cathy was lying.

She had said, "I think there's always a magic about people with..."

With money.
That's what she had started to say.
With money.

Jill's wealth had never come up in group. She hadn't wanted it to. Money could be such a barrier, a reason for people to dismiss who you were or over-value who you were. Jill didn't want to come to group and have to listen to other people talk about her money.