Smart vs. Pretty (7 page)

Amanda nodded. “I wonder what we can do to help.”

Clarissa slunk back over. She was wearing a silk seashell-colored shirt. Frank could swear she saw the outline of her nipple. Clarissa said, “This is so, so great! I can see it all unfolding, just like I imagined. There must be forty people here! That’s quite a few more than when I first walked in last week—but I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the way things were.” She gazed over at Walter. He was doing a fine job of entertaining his female tablemates. “And Walter—he’s a sweetheart. He has some great ideas about the contest. We were up all night talking about what we should do during his tenure as Mr. Coffee. We agreed that if he and some of his model friends come in regularly, they’re worth more than just free coffee and cakes. I told him we’d pay them thirty dollars an hour. I think that’s fair, considering how much more coffee we’ll move and how much publicity we’ll get. Just think: we could do a Romancing the Bean calendar. Mugs. Coaster sets. We’ll make a fortune.”

“Incredible,” said Amanda, apparently settled into her role as house slaughterer.

“This is going too fast for me,” said Frank. Her control over her own store was slipping away. When she allowed herself to envision their great revival, this wasn’t how she pictured it.

“Think of the buckets of money,” said Clarissa. “I’m seeing expansion. Opening a site in Park Slope.”

“Hold on,” Frank said, her hands raised. “I’m still confused about a couple of things.”

Clarissa and Amanda again looked at each other sympathetically, as if they were united in their tolerance of Frank. Clarissa said, “What don’t you understand?”

“Why would you be up all night talking to Walter about his reign as Mr. Coffee?” asked Frank. “Chick’s body wasn’t found until morning.”

C
larissa seemed momentarily flustered. She said, “Excuse me?”

Frank asked again, “What made you think that Walter would be Mr. Coffee before you knew that Chick was dead?”

Amanda watched her sister and her new friend square off. The confrontation disturbed her. Amanda hated tension of any kind, except sexual. And even that wore on her nerves before long. She said, “I called Clarissa when I got home late last night. I wanted to prepare her for the possibility of finding a new guy. I didn’t know if Chick would ever talk to me again.”

Frank nodded. “I see. Well. Then all this makes perfect sense, of course.”

The blond woman settled her blue cut-glass eyes on Frank. Amanda watched her sister squirm a bit. Clarissa said, “I’m glad you asked, Francesca. It’s good to ask questions. That’s how we learn in life. And I wasn’t offended in the least.” To show her continuing support, Clarissa mussed Frank’s black hair. It fell back into shape immediately.

“So you and Walter spent the night together?” asked Frank.

Clarissa said, “I guess we did.” So much for Amanda and Clarissa’s little secret pact. “Just talking. Nothing happened, if you want the truth,” Clarissa continued. “You seem disappointed, Francesca. You were hoping for something more exciting?”

Frank said, “Actually, I was hoping for something incredibly dull, like running a coffee bar. Love affairs are not my area.”

Amanda attempted to make peace. “Come on, you guys. We all want the same thing. And we’re succeeding. Look at Walter. Look at all the customers. We’re making it.”

“I’m still not sure why it was necessary to portray Amanda as a murderer,” said Frank to Clarissa.

“Please, Frank,” Amanda pleaded. “Can you let someone else be right? Can’t someone else make a few hard decisions? Clarissa knows what she’s doing. I trust her completely.”

Amanda knew that her defense of Clarissa would antagonize Frank, but she felt she had to do it. Otherwise the two women might lose sight of what was really important. Amanda was the victim, if there was one, of Clarissa’s plan. Her picture was on the cover of the paper. If she wasn’t mad, why should Frank be? Maybe Amanda should be pissed off. No, she swatted that idea out of her mind. She couldn’t manufacture anger if she didn’t feel any. And why would she want to? Hatred, even justified, only corrupted the soul. That included contempt for something as inert as broccoli.

Frank said, “One day of good business is not a turnaround. But it is progress.” She paused, wrestling with a decision. “No more contests for a while. Let’s see how things unfold over the next couple of weeks without one. Doing one every Friday is too much anyway. People will get bored.”

“It’s probably a good idea to wait,” said Clarissa, ever the diplomat. “My plan has always been about buzz. The opposite of bored.”

On that, Frank and Clarissa took to opposite corners of the shop: Frank went to help Matt brew fresh pots (she hated letting coffee sit for longer than half an hour); Clarissa circled the tables and made all the customers feel welcome. Her beauty, Amanda observed, wasn’t the kind that made other women envious. With her grace and style, Clarissa drew admiration, not criticism. She moved as fluidly and softly as her flannel pants.

Amanda didn’t know who to talk to next. If she went to help Frank, Clarissa might feel betrayed. But if she followed after Clarissa, Frank would feel conspired against. She wished she could turn back the clock: only twenty-four hours ago, Frank and Clarissa had had a nice, budding professional relationship and Amanda had found a man with real potential. Now her two allies had built a wall between them, and she was as alone—romantically speaking—as ever. The sudden crush of desperation weighed on Amanda’s soft shoulders.

To everyone, Amanda said, “I’m going out for a little while.” She collected good-byes, slipped her tightish pea coat over her black turtleneck and boot-cut black trousers (miracle pants, she called them), and went outside. For the first time in years, Amanda decided she could use a midafternoon cocktail. Her bartender friend, Paul McCartney, would make her feel better. He had the knack. And she could assure him that she didn’t blame him for fabricated quotes in the paper.

Amanda headed for the Heights Cafe. On the way, she was gawked at by people on the street. A couple of old ladies nearly stumbled on the pavement as they swerved out of her path. At first she thought the avoidance was in her imagination. But everywhere she looked, strangers pointed and scrambled away from her. She cut a wide swath on the Montague sidewalk. Amanda subconsciously wiped at her face and clothes. One thing she hadn’t anticipated about the exposure in the
Post
—it left her exposed.

She breathed deeply, in, out, in, out. Only two blocks separated her and a friendly face. Amanda wondered what Paul had really told the reporter. She waited for the light at Hicks Street. The woman standing next to her screamed suddenly and ran to the other side of the street. A man bumped into her shoulder a bit too aggressively. She felt under attack and started to run into the street against the light. A couple hissed at her as she raced by.

Using both hands, she slammed through the Heights Cafe’s double doors. The familiar surroundings filled Amanda with relief. Todd Phearson, the shrimpy, fifty-something owner/maamp2;ˆtre d’, rushed to meet her at the door. Amanda expected him to encircle her in a teddy-bearish, supportive hug (he was an old friend of her parents’ from the neighborhood). Instead he put his hands in the upright “halt” position.

He said, “I’m sorry, Amanda, but I think we should keep our distance until this whole thing blows over.”

Was he kicking her out? She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You don’t think I could kill someone?” she asked. Of every person he knew, Amanda had to be the last one to fit the role of killer. She wouldn’t harm a fly. She’d caught flies to set them free. Amanda had caught mosquitoes to set them free. It was no simple trick to catch a mosquito in a Dixie cup.

“Amanda, you know I’d never suspect you of such a thing,” he whispered as his needle gaze never left her face. Amanda recognized this as a sign that he was lying: Honest people look you in the eye. Dishonest people stare you in the eye.

“I want to talk to Paul,” she said, backing away from Todd. Her stomach lurched. This shunned feeling was ghastly. It was as if she’d entered a parallel universe where everyone hated her.

“Paul isn’t here,” said Todd quietly. “I told him to stay home today. I don’t want any more trouble to come to my restaurant. Your presence might be disturbing to the rest of the staff—and the customers. I can’t risk it. I’ve got a business to run.”

Amanda couldn’t believe the betrayal. She’d known Todd for a dozen years. To be treated this way over nothing, a publicity stunt—it was ridiculous and hurtful. With great restraint, she said, “I’ve got a business to run, too, Todd. That’s what this is all about.”

Todd sighed and pushed her toward the door. “You handle your business and I’ll handle mine. I’m very sorry this is happening to you, but I’m also angry you’ve involved my restaurant in this mess. Once it’s resolved, come in anytime.”

He might as well have said, “Your parents meant nothing to me.” Amanda struggled with the bubbling volcano of anger in her chest. She’d been fighting to maintain her sense of self. Everyone assumed she was a killer; she knew she wasn’t. Amanda knew she was a good person. She had a river of love in her heart. She believed in God. She gave to charity. But this ejection. This turning out. This was over the line.

As she looked at Todd’s pinched face, she saw him clearly for the first time. He was a spiteful, unkind man. “Dad was right about you,” she said, tears spilling out of her green eyes. “He always suspected you were an anti-Semite.”

Todd’s face twisted even more. “Just get out, Amanda,” he said.

She took one, two, three, four deep, cleansing breaths (the sun, the moon, the waves, the sand) and tried to control herself. Didn’t work. The hurt and anger were now unstoppable forces of nature. She said, “You’re very, very abnormally short.” Then she ran out.

Short taunts. Was this what she’d been reduced to? Insulting a man about his physical limitations, as if his stature had anything to do with the content of his soul? Amanda huffed and puffed down Hicks Street, wondering how she could sink so low. Poor Paul must have received a tongue-lashing from Todd, too. All because of her. Amanda let the guilt gather in her gut. It was one thing to be used for her own sake, but Paul had been taken advantage of by that reporter.

Amanda knew Paul lived on Grace Court Alley in one of the few apartment complexes in Brooklyn Heights (prewar brownstones or townhouses were the norm). His 1950s deco sprawl was the last structure on the cul-de-sac. He’d told her that his apartment had a view of the East River, the murky body of water that separated Brooklyn and Manhattan island. The building was square, about five stories high, with a courtyard in the middle. Amanda had walked past the structure before, but she’d never been inside. She wasn’t sure which floor he lived on, or even which wing, but she resolved to find out what happened between Paul and Todd. If his job was endangered, she would do whatever she could for him. Paul’s marriage wasn’t on such solid ground. Being out of work could do more damage.

She was thankful she wasn’t tormented by anyone as she made the short walk to Grace Court Alley. At the entrance to Paul’s building, Amanda approached an old woman in ermine with a pit bull on a leather leash. Amanda said, “Excuse me, ma’am. I’m looking for Paul McCartney.”

“Try Liverpool,” she said.

Amanda followed her into the main lobby. No doorman on duty. No directory of apartments. She closed her eyes and tried to picture a door with a number on it. The door to Paul’s place. Where he lived. With his wife. And two daughters. The door. It was red. With a gold handle. And the number on the door was…This was ridiculous. Amanda wasn’t getting anywhere. How she wished she had some tangible psychic abilities. Instinct was good. But if she could see visions, the future…that would really be something. Of course, Amanda would use her powers for good. She’d help people. She’d—An
ahem
behind her drew her attention back to sad reality.

Spinning around, Amanda found herself face-to-face with a nice-looking dirty-blonde in an overstuffed goose-down coat, a purple ribbed turtleneck, and black leggings. Amanda hadn’t seen a woman wear leggings in earnest since 1997, the year of the trouser. Two little girls and one Jack Russell terrier stood at the woman’s side. The older girl—maybe five—glared at Amanda as she clasped her mother’s hand. She seemed so serious. She must have an old soul in her new small body. The way she held her head and looked up at Amanda from under half-closed lids made the girl seem wiser and wearier than her years.

“You look just like your picture,” said the woman. Her voice was sticky, as if she’d just eaten a fistful of honey.

“You must be Sylvia,” Amanda said to Paul’s wife. “I’ve heard so much about you. It’s great to meet, finally.” Amanda leaned down to acknowledge the girls. The younger girl—about three—had golden ringlets around her face.

The toddler giggled and said, “You’re pretty.”

Amanda said, “So are you.” Turning toward her older, more serious sister, Amanda started to say “You, too,” but the girl interrupted.

“Let’s go, Mommy,” she whined. Not in the mood for chitchat. Neither was Mommy.

“I’ve got to go,” said Sylvia, pulling on the leash.

Amanda hadn’t been invited up. She quickly said, “I came by to see Paul. I need to talk to him.” Amanda paused as Sylvia examined her pea coat, or what was underneath it. “Do you think I could come up for a minute?” she asked.

“Girls, why don’t you push the elevator button for Mommy,” she instructed her children. The three-year-old ran off immediately, taking the dog with her. The older child refused to let go of her mother’s hand. Sylvia had to insist. Once the women were alone, Sylvia said, “I don’t want you to see Paul. Ever again. Stay away from my husband. You’re the reason my marriage is in trouble.”

“I beg your pardon?” Amanda asked, shocked.

“That article. He read it and nearly passed out at work,” she said. “Todd sent him home. Paul was a complete mess. I’d never seen him such a wreck. And then he told me everything. How he’s been in love with you for years. That he works such horrible hours because he’s hoping you’ll come in for a drink. How he tries to make fun of the men you bring to the restaurant so you lose interest in them. How he gives you free drinks and rushes your dinner orders. I had to get the girls out of the house. I didn’t want them to see their father like that.”

Amanda was speechless. “I didn’t…I wasn’t…You don’t think…”

“He told me that you’ve never…that nothing’s happened,” she said. “That you see him as a friend. But when Todd told him to stay away from the bar for a few days, Paul broke down at the thought of not seeing you. In my seven years of marriage, I’ve never seen Paul cry. I can’t believe I’m not up there crying myself.” Amanda had never picked up on Paul’s secret love. Strange. Perceiving male attraction was her specialty.

“You poor woman!” was all Amanda could blurt out.

Sylvia continued, “I don’t really know how I’m supposed to react. He doesn’t want to leave me. He says he loves me. Paul’s been so absent in the last few years, I’ve come to expect little from him emotionally. I’ve got my own life, my own ambition, the girls. I’ve been fine with the aloneness. But now—maybe it’s you—I really feel like talking. You don’t have a few minutes to grab a cup of coffee, do you?”

Amanda shrugged, still mute with shock. Sylvia took that as a
yes
to chat. She said she was going to let the girls into the apartment and she’d come right back down. Amanda was supposed to wait for her. Outside, the night had turned black already. It was only around 5:00
P.M
. Amanda watched Sylvia walk toward the elevators. She stood stony as a statue, paralyzed by the cumulative events of the day. The planets had to be in kooky alignment. In a few moments Amanda snapped out of her stupor. Without a glance over her shoulder, she ran out of the lobby, up the street, and around the corner. She would have kept running, but it was cold and she wasn’t in the best of shape. So she slowed to a stroll and did some more cleansing breaths. In, out, repeat. A few cycles of this led to a stark realization: breathing was like aspirin; what she needed was a scotch.