Smart Women (38 page)

“I’m good with real estate,” Robin had said one night when the four of them were having dinner in Denver. “And I’d like to do this for B.B., if you two have no objections.”

“It’s not our place to object,” Andrew said. “And it’s very decent of you to make the offer.”

“I’ve written to B.B. and I’ve talked about it with Lewis,” Robin said. “Lewis says I should go ahead. Of course, I won’t be taking any commissions. Everything will be put away for B.B.”

“It’s a lovely idea,” Margo said.

“Being semiretired I can pretty much do what I want,” Robin said.

Clare and Margo smiled at each other across the table.

“Do you think it’s possible to forgive and forget?” Margo asked after dinner, when they went to the Women’s Room.

“Forget . . . never,” Clare said. “Forgive . . . I hope so.”

M
ARGO HAD BOOKED A TABLE
for ten at the Flagstaff Inn following graduation, more for the elegant setting and the fabulous view than the food, which was mediocre. She had requested a round table, but a long one had been set up, screwing up her seating plan. Freddy had already taken her aside that morning, insisting that the graduation lunch be on him. Well, why not? she thought. He was always quicker with his checkbook than with anything else.

When she had introduced him to Andrew, at the field, before graduation, Freddy had said, “So this is Andrew.”

And Andrew had said, “So this is Freddy.” Then both men had laughed self-consciously, but Margo had not.

Now, at lunch, the appraisals were over and everyone was behaving in a civilized way. There were no gaps in the conversation until Freddy, reminiscing about his student days at Penn, said, “Remember that weekend, Margo . . . you’d come down from Boston and it turned so cold I had to buy you a sweater? Do you still have that sweater . . . the one with the silver buttons?”

“No,” Margo said, “but I had it for a long time.”

Everyone was quiet for a moment. Then Freddy went back to his sole amandine and Margo, buttering a roll, thought,
This man was my husband. I lived with him for fourteen years. I made love with him one thousand four hundred and fifty-six times, more or less.

Ready, Margo?

In a minute.

Now?

Yes, now . . . now . . . hurry.

Margo tried to imagine Freddy making love to Aliza, but she could not.

She reached for Andrew’s hand under the table.

Aliza was telling everyone about the trip to Israel that she and Freddy were taking with Stuart and Michelle. “Three weeks . . .” she said. Her accent was halfway between Yiddish and British. “Everywhere from Haifa to Eilat.”

“Andrew lived on a kibbutz for a while,” Margo said.

“Really . . .” Aliza said. “I’m more of a city girl.”

“When Abe and I went to Israel,” Margo’s mother said, “we visited a kibbutz.”

“They were picking avocadoes,” her father said.

Aliza turned to Michelle. “Next year, when you graduate, we’ll go to Paris and Rome . . . yes?”

Michelle smiled halfheartedly.

Michelle had once told Margo that Aliza felt threatened by her, that Aliza was concerned that Margo would come back east and take Freddy away from her.
Don’t worry, Aliza. He’s all yours.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Margo drove Andrew and Sara to the airport. When they got there Andrew went off to see about their seats and Margo and Sara stood with the carry-on luggage.

“I hope it goes okay with your mom, Sara,” Margo said.

“Me too.”

“I know you’ve missed her very much.”

Sara mashed her lips together and looked down.

“You know something, Sara . . . you’ve become an important part of my life. I’ve learned to like you very, very much in these past few months. And whatever happens in Florida, you’ll always be welcome at our house.” Margo had rehearsed this moment in her mind, but somehow her words sounded all wrong now.

“I had a nice birthday party,” Sara said.

“I’m glad.”

“Thanks for my new jeans and sweater.”

“They look nice on you.”

Sara looked down at her clothes. “Mom will probably say . . .”

“What?”

“Oh, never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

Margo hugged Sara, holding her close, thinking,
I should have hugged her more often. Why did I think she wouldn’t let me?
There was so much to say, but it wasn’t going to be said now. Maybe it would never be said.

“You’ll remember to take care of Lucy?” Sara asked.

“Of course.”

“And it’s okay if she drinks out of your toilets.”

“I thought she’s not supposed to drink out of toilets.”

“No . . . it’s okay now.”

Andrew came back waving their seat assignments. “Goodbye, Margarita,” he said, kissing her. “I’ll call you.”

“Yes,” Margo said.

“Come on, Daddy . . . they’ve already announced our flight.”

“Oh, wait a minute . . .” Margo said, fishing a package out of her purse. She handed it to Andrew.

“What is it?” he asked.

“You’ll have to wait until you’re on the plane to find out.”

“
H
E’S A LOVELY MAN, DARLING,
” Margo’s mother said that night over dinner. “So, do I hear wedding bells in your future?”

“I don’t know, Mother,” Margo said.

“Why should they ruin it by getting married?” Michelle asked her grandmother.

“You think marriage would ruin it?” Margo’s mother said.

“It might,” Michelle said.

“Margo, darling . . . do you think marriage would ruin it?”

“No,” Margo said. “I don’t think marriage would ruin it.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind?” her mother said.

“Mind what?” Margo’s father asked.

“Marrying him,” her mother said.

Margo laughed. “No,” she said, “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Mother, I’m shocked!” Michelle said. “I thought you believed that marriage was obsolete.”

“No, Michelle . . . impossible, maybe . . . but not obsolete.”

45

F
RANCINE HAD GONE OVER
this moment a million times in her mind. The bell would ring and she would walk quickly across the living room to the front door, open it, and there, looking exactly the same, except an inch or two taller, would be Sara.

Sara would say,
Hi, Mom
 . . .

And Francine would say,
Hello, Sara
 . . .

They would embrace naturally, as if they had seen each other yesterday, and then Francine would say,
Would you like a glass of juice?

What kind have you got?
Sara would ask.

Francine would show her into the kitchen, open the refrigerator and proudly display a jar of apple juice, a large carton of orange juice, and a six-pack of V8. Sara would laugh and choose the apple juice.

Then they would go for a walk on the beach.

Francine had moved into her own apartment ten days ago. She still lived at the hospital during the week, but weekends she was on her own. She was stronger physically too, exercising in the gym at the hospital and swimming laps in the pool. But not compulsively. If she skipped a day or two it didn’t matter. The point, Dr. Arnold had explained, was to enjoy the exercise, not look at it as punishment. She had started to read again, novels with uplifting endings, and to listen to music. Sometimes, in the evenings, she would watch a movie on HBO, but nothing depressing.

She had become angry, rather than depressed, when she had found out two weeks ago that Lewis was footing the bill for her treatment. “It’s my illness,” she had told Dr. Arnold, “and I’ll be damned if anyone else is going to pay for it.”

“Fine,” Dr. Arnold had said, “then pay yourself.”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

For a while after that she’d felt ready to face the world, but her confident feelings hadn’t lasted.

She still had not written to Sara. She had bought her a birthday card, but she had not mailed it. After almost four months a birthday card made no sense. She had discussed her fears about seeing Sara again with Dr. Arnold.

“Remember . . .” Dr. Arnold had said, “Sara will be uncomfortable too. She won’t know what to expect. She may even be frightened. It’s up to you to help her, Francine.”

“But what will I say to her? How will I ever be able to explain all that’s happened . . . and why?”

“You don’t have to explain it all at once.”

“What about next year? How do I tell her I’m not ready yet . . . that I can’t take full responsibility for her? Suppose she thinks that means I don’t want her?”

“Tell her the truth, Francine, in as simple a way as you can. Tell her that you’re going to stay on here for a while longer. Maybe another six months. That you’ve made a great deal of progress, but you still need extensive therapy in order to understand what’s happened to you.”

“Suppose she hates it at Margo’s . . . suppose she’s miserable there?”

“Then we’ll all have to get together and try to find a solution.”

“Are you sure I’m ready for this?”

“I can’t be sure, Francine, but if you want to see her, you should. Make the first visit short, no more than half an hour. And don’t sit around looking at each other. Go for a walk on the beach.”

“Yes, I know . . . a walk on the beach.”

46

S
ARA SAT ON THE PLANE
watching her father open the package from Margo. It was wrapped in slick white paper with little red hearts all over it and tied with a red ribbon, as if Valentine’s Day were in June, not February. When he’d finally opened it, Sara was disappointed. All that was inside was a big box of raisins. Not the most exciting gift in the world. But her father laughed.

The plane rose higher, the mountains disappeared below them, and still, her father kept laughing. Sara didn’t see what was so funny until he showed her the front of the box. Where the picture of the raisin girl used to be Margo had cut a hole and had inserted a photo of herself wearing a dumb-looking red hat. Her father would not stop laughing. Everyone on the plane was looking at him. Sara was so embarrassed.

She had felt uncomfortable at the airport too, when Margo had gotten sentimental, telling Sara how much she had learned to like her. What did that mean, anyway—
learned to like her
—did it mean that Margo didn’t used to like her at all, or that Margo hated her before but now she thought she wasn’t so bad? Sara hadn’t asked. And she hadn’t said anything back to Margo either, even though Sara was sure Margo had expected her to say something like,
I like you too.
It wasn’t that she disliked Margo. Margo was all right. So long as she didn’t try to be her mother. If Margo ever pulled that Sara would tell her off. She would say,
You’re not my mother, so don’t try to act like one. You’re not even my stepmother. You’re just some woman who sleeps with my father.
She had rehearsed those lines over and over, but so far she had not had to use them.

That morning, while her father had been loading the car and Margo had been upstairs in the kitchen, Sara had tiptoed down the hall to Margo’s bathroom and had put the envelope with the Polaroid pictures back where she had found them, under Margo’s cosmetic tray. She could not go away for the summer leaving them in her bottom dresser drawer and she couldn’t take them with her either. She had thought about cutting them up into little pieces, the way Michelle had cut up Eric’s postcard, but that seemed wrong. After all, they weren’t her pictures.

She wondered what this new summer camp would be like. It was in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. Sara had never been to Pennsylvania. You were supposed to do your own thing there. Sara didn’t know what her own thing was yet, but she liked the idea of finding out. Maybe it would be painting. Margo had set up the easel for her a couple of times, showing her how to use watercolors and acrylic paints. She was not allowed to use the oil paints though. They were kept in an old wooden box, which Margo’s parents had given her when she’d graduated from high school.

Margo said she didn’t have time to paint much anymore, but she had shown Sara her sketch pad and Sara had been surprised to find a charcoal portrait of herself. Margo had drawn her with very big eyes, and no smile.