Totlandia: The Onesies, Book 1 (Fall) (4 page)

The thought of her still made him ache, for all the wrong reasons.

1:24 p.m.

“Ah, my boy! My perfect, sweet little boy! Where have you been all my life?”

This inevitable declaration by Eleanor Morrow Connaught never failed to draw a hearty laugh from her son, Matthew, despite the fact that she wasn’t addressing him but her grandson, Dante. It happened whenever the little boy came in view, whether it was the first time that day or like now, after he’d been roused from his nap.

Lorna’s reaction to it never changed, either: she swelled with pride, knowing that after eight years of trying so desperately, it was Dante who had finally secured for her the respect she sought from Matthew’s mother.

Matt propelled his son around the room with stiffened arms that went straight out in front of his chest. The softest landing Dante could make was always in his grandmother’s arms, where he responded to the physical and emotional warmth he found there with a gentle smile.

Bettina’s reaction was less indulgent. “Matthew, one day you’re going to drop that boy, and all hell will break loose.”

Matt shrugged. Bettina’s acerbic barbs never seemed to prick her brother’s perennially upbeat mood. “He’ll bounce…right?”

Only Art Cross, Matt’s brother-in-law, laughed at the joke that brought a chorus of groans from all the women.

“Mother, admit it: I was dropped on my head at least once, and it didn’t hurt me.”

“The jury is still out on that, Matthew.” Eleanor’s remark was accompanied with a raised brow.

Only Lorna seemed concerned that Eleanor’s jibe was more than a joke at his expense.

Why am I concerned, Lorna chided herself. In Eleanor’s eyes Matthew is perfect because he’s her son. I feel the same way about Dante.

Watching her mother-in-law with her child, it was nice to know Eleanor did, too.

Just then, Bettina piped up. “Speaking of your perfect grand
children
, I got a letter from Lily on Friday—in
 
Russian!
 
Isn’t it wonderful that she’s also picking up a language while she’s away at ballet camp?”

“Who?” Eleanor asked, as she tousled Dante’s curls.

Bettina scowled. “Lily! My daughter.
 
Your granddaughter
.”

Eleanor shrugged. “I was teasing, Bettina. Jesus, lighten up! It’s just my way of letting you know how disappointed I am that you let her go away to camp for the whole summer.”

“I can’t help that they insist the dancers stay for ninety days. You know the Russians: such taskmasters.”

“Lily is only four, Bettina. She is not a ballerina. She’s a kid who wants to wear a tutu and pretend she’s a fairy. She shouldn’t be in St. Petersburg, Russia, but here with us.”

“Mother, you were a ballerina. You know the dedication it takes. I’m sure Lily’s drive and love of the art comes from you, and it is truly awe-inspiring—”

“Her drive, or yours, Bettina?” Eleanor looked over at her daughter. “Honey, I danced to meet and marry a wealthy man. And because I did, you and Lily don’t have to. End of story.” Eleanor sighed. “By the way, Lorna, that salad of yours…what was it again?”

“Quinoa and asparagus. I found the recipe online.”

“Loved it. New and refreshing.” She graced Lorna with a smile.

“I stuffed myself with Bettina’s potato salad,” Art piped up. Bettina rolled her eyes at him. If Art had been hoping his cheerleading would please his wife, he was wrong. Time to double down. “You liked it, too, didn’t you, Mother Connaught?”

“Delicious,” Eleanor declared. Bettina’s shoulders eased with the compliment, but tensed again when Eleanor added, “Whole Foods, I presume?”

“No, Mother, I made it fresh! Yukon Gold potatoes, dill, and mustard seed, all from my own garden! And crème fraiche—”

“Did you curdle the cream, too?” Matt’s question was posed seriously enough that Bettina paused before answering.

“My God, children. We’re talking about potato salad. Give it a break.” Eleanor shook her head sadly. “Is there anything for dessert?”

“Devil’s food cake,” Lorna responded at the exact same time Bettina said, “Lemon sorbet.”

They stared at each other, then said in unison, “I made it myself.”

Eleanor laughed out loud. “Aren’t we busy little bees. Well don’t just stand there, let’s have at it.”

“Let the games begin,” Matt muttered, as both his wife and his sister moved toward the kitchen.

Lorna couldn’t blame him for grumbling. He hated the way she and Bettina had turned every family gathering into a competition.

He can’t really blame me for it, she reasoned. I wasn’t the one who started it. But one thing is sure: I’m certainly not going to let Bettina act as if she is better than me, either as a cook or as a parent.

Besides, a little healthy competition never hurt anyone.

The sooner Dante learned that, the better.

***

At least Bettina waited until the coffee was served, and the cake was cut, before easing the most important issue of
 
Parent
ing
 
magazine out of her tote bag and onto Eleanor’s gleaming mahogany dining room table:

The one devoted to ranking “The Top 100 Moms-and-Tots Clubs in the US.”

Bettina’s attempt at humility was laughable at best. “I suppose I should be flattered that they chose Pacific Heights as the number one club in the country,” she murmured with a sigh.

Matt grabbed it off the table. “Oh yeah? Based on what criteria? Which mom can send their kid to the most far-flung camp?”

“Don’t be silly.” Bettina sniffed. “Yes, youth trips are one criterion. And granted, we topped it. But the true reason we’re first is because we rank highest in so many categories. For example, we’re also number one in applicants who get accepted into our city’s highest-achieving private schools. And we’re number one in parents who are renowned—”

Matt nodded vigorously. “Oh, so they
 
do
 
include CEO and SEC perp walkers. Bravo, Sis.”

Upon hearing that, Art’s lavender complexion, which had been attributable to the amount of Johnny Walker Blue he’d been guzzling since before noon, darkened to an aubergine hue. “Now see here, Matt. You and I both know that a lot of great men take the fall in the name of commerce—”

“Maybe not enough,” Eleanor murmured.

All conversation ceased. Art’s face went from eggplant to cauliflower. Last year, a financial investment he had made on behalf of Eleanor, in order to shore up his sagging partnership at Lichman Parker Bowles, had tanked—big time.

At the time, Eleanor had dismissed it by pointing out that, “It’s exactly the amount I had set aside in Bettina’s trust. Consider it a wash, Art.”

Bettina realized it was time to change the subject. “There is one disappointment to being first in the nation. Seeing that the club has got such an incredible wait list already, all this can do is make it worse! Seriously, too many people consider themselves high achievers.”

“Amen,” Matt said as he wiped a chocolate smear from Dante’s cheek. “What this country needs is a reality check. In fact, Bettina, you should make that the new mission of your club. Instead of playing zookeeper to a pack of tiger moms, think of what joy you’d have whipping all the clueless moms into shape! Sort of a mommy dominatrix. I guess that would make you a Mama-matrix, right?”

Even Art, Bettina’s ever-faithful lapdog, snickered at that.

Bettina raised her head high. “The last people I’ll let into the club are those who aren’t accomplished.”

Matt turned to face her. “What are you saying? It’s a matter of ‘My bling is heavier than your bling?’”

Bettina smiled. “Something like that. Or ‘My title is heavier than yours.’ And ‘My bank account is larger,’ or ‘My credentials are better.’ Status is what drives western society. It always has, and it always will. It’s survival of the fittest. Everyone knows that.”

Eleanor waved away that thought as if it were a bothersome gnat. “Bettina, you’re not running some presidential cabinet. We’re talking about kids who poop in their pants and the mothers who wipe their butts.”

“And over a hundred of those mothers want to belong to the Pacific Heights Moms and Tots Club. They covet acceptance because it’s the very first step their child will take on the road to success. In our club they, and their children, meet the right friends and make lifelong connections. They feed into the best preschools, elementary, and prep schools. They get a reference to Harvard or Princeton or Stanford, or a job at Microsoft or Apple or Google. They don’t just survive, they thrive.” She took Dante from her mother and leaned him against her hip. “Mother, you did it, too. You just said so.”

Eleanor laughed uneasily. “Yes, I guess eventually I joined some mother’s group and made a few friends. But what I said was that I married well.”

“My point exactly. Even in this day and age, it all begins with the gold ring.” Her gazed shifted to Lorna. “But that’s just the starting point. The club can afford to be picky. If you want in, you and your child have to earn the right to be there, no matter how well you’ve married.”

I hear you loud and clear, Lorna thought. Yeah, okay then: Bring. It. On.

On paper at least, Prospective Mom Number 103 looked like a shoo-in to the Pacific Heights Moms & Tots Club application committee.

Attached to her application were four very enthusiastic endorsements, all handwritten, from current members (one each from the incoming Twosies-, Threesies-, Foursies-, and Fivesies groups).

And when grilled in the ensuing weeks by Bettina, these supporters hadn’t revealed anything that could have knocked her out of contention: no bad habits or annoying tics, and no driving desire to get back into the workplace anytime soon.

Best of all, her husband had a real job: he was a financial manager at Schwab. Bettina winced whenever an applicant listed “self-employed” as her spouse’s employment status, or worse yet “freelance.” In the few short years Pacific Heights had been in existence, she’d learned that just meant these members would, at the very least, dominate their playgroup’s conversation with the trials and tribulations of their teeter-tottering finances. More than likely the entrepreneurship would flounder, and the family would (a) move out of the city to a less expensive exurb in the Bay Area, like Santa Rosa (or worse yet, Tracy); or (b) the wife would have to go back to work anyway.

As for the working moms who slipped into the Club somehow, they weren’t discouraged,
 
per se
, but politely ignored. And woe be it if they dared to send the au pair in their stead. The next time the execu-mom showed up, Bettina’s stare was enough to make her shiver.

Eventually, they took the hint and quit coming altogether.

On the surface, Bettina’s reason for encouraging the freeze seemed justified. “It’s perfectly understandable that some mommies may have more important things to do. After all, there are only seven days in a week. Still, if you’re not willing to devote three mornings to PHM&T, you’ll never get the full benefit of our friendships—not to mention, you’ll miss out on all the fun. That wouldn’t be fair to you, let alone your poor child.”

Like Bobbleheads, the members of Bettina’s hand-chosen “T
☺p M☺ms Applicati☺n C☺mmittee”— Sally Dunder of the Twosies group, Mallory Wickett of the Threesies, Kimberley Savitch of the Foursies, and Joanna Blunt of the Fivesies—nodded in unison.

Just as they were doing now.

But only because the committee was anxio
us to go ahead and vote.

Every morning for the past four weeks they had commandeered the Program Room in the basement of Pacific Heights’ Golden Gate Valley Library to winnow down this year’s Onesies group of one hundred-and-three applicants to a manageable number of finalists.

Now that they were down to the very last candidate, they were ready to get the hell out of there. They were bone tired and longed to take an aspirin—downed with a martini or two—to alleviate the month-long headache they’d endured at the behest of their peerless leader.

Bettina smiled supremely. She reveled in her ability to make others jump through hoops to the point of exhaustion.

“Let’s see her in action, shall we?” she said, and clicked on 103’s digital video file, which was already on the media screen on her iPad.

Nothing looked out of place. The woman’s daughter, whose first birthday had taken place just last month, giggled sweetly in 103’s arms. The bright stripes of the baby’s long-sleeved Zutano jumper popped against 103’s simple white shirt, which was buttoned up just far enough to expose the white lace camisole underneath. Rolled up at the sleeves and tucked neatly into her size two rag & bone denim leggings, it was a nice contrast to her husband’s crew-neck black tee and relaxed-fit jeans: the weekend uniform of practically every thirty-something family man in San Francisco.

“Hi, I’m Heather,” said the woman, smiling. As she held her baby to the camera, she added, “And this is Lola! We look forward to having fun with all the wonderful Pacific Heights moms and tots, don’t we honey?”