What Nora Knew (4 page)

Mr. Messick owns my neighborhood liquor shop. He looks like somebody’s friendly uncle, mainly because he wears his pants too high. He’s really smart with wines and I like that he knows my name. Not because I’m a lush, but because he’s read it off my Visa card. (One of my goals in life is to have all the maître d’s in New York’s top restaurants know me by name, but I’m about five hundred restaurants away from that ever happening.) As he was ringing up my purchase, I asked, “Mr. Messick, is there a Mrs. Messick?”

“Yes,” he said.

“How did you know she was the one?”

He shrugged. “You marry someone. Wait thirty years. If she’s still there—she’s the one.”

I didn’t bother to ask if I could quote him on that.

*  *  *

I got home, straightened the living room, and ordered two veal parmigianas and a couple of Caesar salads. Then I set the table with my good china, a souvenir from my marriage. Although what’s so good about china that reminds you of your bad marriage?

I had thirty minutes left before Russell was supposed to show up. I spent several of them scowling at the contents of my closet, debating what would qualify as romantic-dinner attire. My wardrobe tends to be of the crisp and clean variety: tailored white shirts, khaki slacks in summer, black slacks in
winter, jeans, jeans, and more jeans. I’m like a walking ad for the Gap. The only time in my adult life that I wore anything close to girlie was my wedding dress, and we all know how well that turned out. I opted for my black funerals-and-cocktail-parties dress and slipped on some heels. I plugged my iPod into my speaker, sorted through my DVDs, and lit the candles. About which time Russell called to say he was running late.

“Darling,” I said, in my best 1950s housewife voice, “the roast will be dried to a crisp!”

“You cooked a roast?” he said. Sometimes it takes Russell a while to realize I’m making a joke.

I said, “Your pipe and slippers are also dried to a crisp. I’ll serve them as a side dish.”

“I’ll bring extra ketchup,” he said, before hanging up.

I kicked off my heels just as I heard someone pressing on the buzzer—which meant Angela.

“What’s with the Steve Winwood music?” she asked as soon as she waltzed in carrying my copy of
Wuthering Heights
.

Angela Leffel lives in a studio apartment across the hall from me. We’ve been friends ever since the first night I moved in, when she knocked and asked to borrow a bottle of wine. Angela’s a former on-air weather girl from Indiana who’s now a self-declared social-media expert. She is congenitally cute, a circumstance she considers irksome for a thirty-four-year-old woman. Dimples. Freckles. Built like a perky pom-pom girl. Without makeup she looks ten years old. She once tried dying her brown hair an inky Goth black. She looked cute. Then she tried going dark red with crimson lips. She looked cute. She’s
back to brown now and has a tattoo of Snoopy on her shoulder. Which might also contribute to the cute perception.

Angela moved to New York soon after her meteorology career fizzled; she could never quite coordinate her arm movements with the green screen. When I first met her, she was working as an assistant to a wedding photographer, until she couldn’t stand one more glowing bride or tossed bouquet or drunk toast from a best man. “I wanted to turn the flashgun on myself,” she said. She’s still a fan of photography, though. She works from home, and since I often do, too, we hang out a lot. When cabin fever sets in, we go eat at one of two diners on Second Avenue, my favorite being the one with the decent chef salad and Angela’s being the one with the triple-decker tuna sandwich. She’s a tuna sandwich fanatic. She takes pictures of everything she eats and posts them on Facebook. We’ll be sitting in a restaurant and she’ll start rearranging the tuna sandwich with the coleslaw, and the french fries with the mayo cup, so they all look more appealing. Her Facebook page is a study in tuna sandwich shots. Her other favorite food is Twinkies, but she never photographs those. Even Angela believes in too much transparency.

“Who died?” she asked, looking at my dress.

“It’s supposed to be sexy.”

“Maybe it needs a belt.”

I thought about my belt collection; none of them were sexy.

“How come I’ve never seen this china?” Angela was walking around my holds-three-comfortably, holds-four-uncomfortably dining table.

“It’s my good china,” I said. “I’m having a romantic dinner with Russell.”

She looked around the room. “Don’t you need Russell for that?”

“He’s on his way. Along with the dinner. I ordered from Zorzanello’s.”

“Oh! I’ve never tried there. Call me if you have leftovers.”

“I’ll leave a doggie bag outside your door.”

I told Angela about having to interview people about recognizing true love, and how I was using the evening as my personal warm-up. To help
me
feel more romantic.

“Why’d they give you this assignment?” she asked.

“No clue.”

“That dress definitely needs a belt.”

“Thank you, fashion expert.”

I don’t know about the other social-media experts out there, but I’ve rarely seen Angela in anything other than sweats and a T-shirt ever since she bought a copy of
The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Social Media
and went into the business.

“I’m returning this,” she said, holding up
Wuthering Heights.
“I don’t get it.”

“What don’t you get?”

“You call this a healthy relationship?”

“I know. They’re both total head cases.” For the past couple years I’ve been writing my own something-or-others; they’re either short stories or essays, I’m not sure, but basically wise-ass commentaries about novels I was forced to read in high school. “Want to try
Ethan Frome
?” I asked, pulling it off my bookshelf.

“Is it good?”

“It’s short.”

“That’s good. Any crazy people?”

“Not as many.”

The intercom buzzed. “Food delivery,” the doorman said.

“Send him up.”

“If Russell doesn’t show, you can invite me to dinner,” Angela said.

“Keep staring through your peephole. If you don’t see him in the next two hours, you can come back.”

Angela left and the food arrived. Then Russell arrived. “I know I’m late, but I brought a movie,” he said, striding into my apartment. Russell doesn’t walk; he strides. He removed his tie and kissed me. I kissed him back. Kissing Russell is one of the best things about dating Russell. He stopped. Looked at me. Looked around. I could see that tenor of panic men get in their eyes when they think they might have forgotten something. “Why are you dressed up?” he asked. “And why the fancy table?”

“I got assigned to write about romance. I’m trying to be romantic.”

“Does this mean we can’t eat in front of the movie?”

Okay. So Russell’s not that romantic, either. But I consider it something we have in common. His pragmatism. My abject fear.

Russell followed me into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine. I was already on my second glass. “We’ve got great veal parmigiana,” I said, shoving the delivery container into the microwave. “Unless the cheese gets hard from reheating,
in which case we’ve got lousy veal parmigiana.” I closed the door, pushed the one-minute button. I never know how long anything’s supposed to cook, so I only use the one-minute button and keep pushing it. “And, yes, we can watch a movie.” So much for my romantic dinner. “But I need to see
You’ve Got Mail.
I’m doing research.”

“What kind of research?”

“A big exposé on the postal system.”

I transferred the salads from their take-out cartons to a bowl and drizzled on the dressing from the little plastic take-out cups. Russell hates soggy lettuce, so we always add the dressing last minute and never add too much. He hates too much dressing.

The microwave buzzed. Russell removed the veal without checking the cheese. “But you haven’t seen the sequel to
National Treasure
,” he said.

“Yes, I did. Nicolas Cage has to steal the Declaration of Independence.”

“That’s the first one. In this one he has to break into Buckingham Palace and either get elected president of the United States or kidnap the current president.”

“Those are options?”

“He’s got no choice.” I handed Russell the plates while he scooped veal parm. “John Wilkes Booth accused Nicolas Cage’s great-grandfather of murder.”

“Forgive me if I don’t comment on that. But I have to watch romantic movies. I’m supposed to make my article romantic like Nora Ephron.”

“Then what about
Moonstruck
?”

I carried the salad bowl and Russell carried the veal into the living room, where we could sit side by side on the sofa with our dinners on the coffee table. “What is it with you and Nicolas Cage anyway?” I said. “And
Moonstruck
’s not Nora Ephron.”

“How do you write like Nora Ephron?”

“Easy. You’re born Nora Ephron.” I reached over for
You’ve Got Mail
. I wish I had a camera to show you Russell’s face. He looked as if somebody had just canceled Christmas. “Okay, fine,” I said. “We’ll watch your DVD.”

We ate our salads. We ate our veal and drank wine. Russell was right. Nicolas Cage’s great-grandfather was getting screwed, and who knew the real reason Calvin Coolidge carved Mount Rushmore was to hide the City of Gold? In between all the excitement Russell’s phone would vibrate and he’d pull it out to check his Words With Friends games. He’s a great speller with an impressive vocabulary and can keep several games going at once. So he’s not as devoted to Nicolas Cage as you might think because, sometimes, instead of watching Nicholas, he’s staring at his phone, and when he does that, I stare at him. He’s got this pleasant, nonpartisan face. Nothing offensive. Nothing controversial. No unique features. But pleasing to the eye.

When the movie was over, Russell rubbed my shoulders, which is a great way to end a day. After all, he’s a professional rubber.

Pammie Salus married money and now she’s Pamela Bendinger. Pammie was my roommate my last two years at SUNY Albany. Back in college she had aspirations of becoming a sous-chef, which sounds sort of like
socialite,
which is what she became.

Pammie had all the prerequisites for marrying money. Long-legged. Voluptuous. Blond and tan. Her tans used to come from Jergens tanning moisturizer; now they come from winters in Palm Springs. If you asked her, she’d say she wasn’t looking to fall in love with a man twenty years her senior with a big fat bank account, that’s just the way things turned out. I’d say parading down the Hamptons beaches in a skinny bikini past the big mansions, the summer after college graduation, didn’t hurt either.

Hello, Bruce Bendinger.

Pammie’s the third Mrs. Bruce Bendinger and, oddly, friends with the first two Mrs. Bendingers. Socialites do that sort of thing, form friendships with ex-wives so they don’t have to avoid each other at parties. Nobody in the Hamptons wants to miss a party, and that’s where Pamela and Bruce spend their summers. And where Russell and I were invited to spend Memorial Day weekend.

June 20 may be the official start of summer on the calendar, but in New York summer starts Memorial Day weekend; that’s when summer leases begin on rentals. And when the citizens of Manhattan make it their business to blow out of town. Every Friday half the city leaves the city to get away from the city and ends up spending the weekend with half the city on a beach. If you don’t own a place, you rent a place, and if you don’t rent a place, you do your best to get invited someplace.

Which is surprisingly easy.

Weekend-home owners are too busy stoking their barbecues and sunbathing by their own pools to go traveling around. So they invite other people to visit. Ever since Pammie became Pamela she starts booking her summer guests by the first week of March. She’ll call and say, “I want you to have first dibs on the weekend of your choice.”

“Can I pick according to the other guests?” I’ll ask.

“I don’t know the other guests yet. I called you first. But you know we only invite fascinating people.”

I could name names of previous guests I’ve met at the Bendingers’ home and be hard-pressed to consider most of them fascinating, but that would be rude and Pammie’s
about the nicest human you’ll ever meet, so I said, “How about Memorial Day?”—figuring I’d get the pressure over with early in the season.

And it is pressure. I feel competitive with the other fascinating guests to come up with a fascinating hostess gift. I’ve seen what sort of items are offered up: wine coolers, coffee-table books, hand towels, beach towels, guest soaps, wooden serving trays, salad servers, picture frames, and ceramic figurines with seashore motifs. I can barely keep straight which boyfriend I’ve shown up with from summer to summer, let alone whether I already gave Pammie a makeup bag last year or was I confusing that with the hostess gift I brought to my friend Nathalynne in the Berkshires when I was still married to Evan and still friends with Nathalynne. Evan, by the way, though he could’ve afforded a summer place, never purchased one. The man is a professional mooch.

Of course, any possible value one’s supposed to obtain from a couple of days away ends up totally wiped out by the getting-to and getting-from parts of the weekend. You’ve never driven bumper to bumper until you’ve driven bumper to bumper on the Long Island Expressway on a summer Friday night.

“Nice digs,” Russell said, as we drove up the Bendingers’ stone-paved drive. He parked between a Mercedes and a Lexus. Bruce was in the front of the house playing with Victor and Mooney, the world’s two luckiest schnauzers. Bruce waved us to the left, off to the side of the house. Russell started up the car again and reparked.

“I guess Bruce doesn’t want a Zipcar logo sullying his front driveway,” I said.

There’s an entire Hamptons hierarchy of status Hamptons and so-so Hamptons, depending on whether you live on the South Shore versus the North Shore, and the South Fork versus the North Fork. Location relative to the Montauk Highway is also involved, but beyond my comprehension or interest. Pamela née Pammie lives in East Hampton, the
good
Hampton.