Folly Cove (18 page)

Which is why you had to stop,
Laura reminded herself, forcing herself to step into the brightly lit kitchen. “Hey, girls, what's cooking?” she chirped, her words sounding false even to her own ears.

Elly looked up and smiled. “We're making spaghetti
alla puttanesca
,” she said, then frowned. “What's wrong? You look like shit.”

“Language,” Laura said.

“Spaghetti
alla puttanesca
means ‘whore's pasta,' Mom! It's the real name, look! It's in the cookbook. So you can't talk to
me
about language!” Kennedy said, and doubled over, laughing.

“Nice. Thanks, Elly.” Laura stomped upstairs.

She showered, fiercely washing her hair, massaging her head until it burned and then giving in to odious self-pity, letting herself weep. She raised her face to the showerhead so the tears would wash away instantly as they fell. She was
useless, useless, useless
.

At last Laura stepped out of the shower to apply moisturizer and comb her hair. She wrapped a towel around her torso and opened the bathroom door to find Elly sitting on the end of her bed, paging through a magazine.

Elly looked up. “What's going on, Laura?”

“Don't ask.”

To Laura's surprise, Elly shrugged. “Fine. Want help getting dressed? I know you're dreading this dinner.”

“No need to help me. It doesn't matter what I wear,” Laura said dully, sitting down beside Elly. “I'll look the same. And I hate how I look.”

“So look different, then.”

“Yeah, right.” Laura gestured down at her towel. “Maybe I'll wear this.”

“That would certainly get their attention.” Elly grinned. “But I have a better idea.”

Twenty minutes later, Elly had tucked Laura into a pair of black wide-legged trousers she dug out from the back of the closet—pants bought for a holiday party ages ago—and a gold silk blouse left partly unbuttoned over a black camisole with a lace edge. Elly added a wide black belt and a pair of high-heeled boots from her own clothing, spilling out of the giant suitcase in the guest room.

Then Elly made her sit on a stool in the bathroom, back to the mirror, while she painted Laura's nails with bright red polish and blew her hair dry, tugging it smooth with a rounded brush. Finally Elly did her makeup.

Laura closed her eyes and felt the tension drain out of her shoulders as she tilted her face up and surrendered to her sister. Elly's fingers fluttered like moths on her face and eyelids, and she kept up a constant, entertaining patter about Hollywood celebrities that demanded no response from Laura.

“So, what are you worked up about?” Elly finally asked as she applied what felt like a bucket of mascara to Laura's lashes.

By that time Laura was feeling so relaxed that she confessed the whole sorry mess: how Tom had started contacting her on Facebook, their e-mails and texts increasing in intimacy and frequency, the phone she'd just tossed, her guilt over deceiving Jake when, simultaneously, she had been harping on him about Anne.

She was afraid to look at Elly after that. But when Elly turned the chair toward the mirror and told her to open her eyes, Laura glanced at
her sister's face and was shocked to see an expression of surprised admiration.

“Wow,” Elly said. “And here I thought you were the family saint! Thank God you have
some
secrets.”

“You don't think I'm awful?”

“Hell no,” Elly said. “I think you've been lonely because Jake has pulled away and you're scrambling to save your marriage. But what about this other guy, Tom? Do you
want
to see him?”

“No,” Laura said, then corrected herself. “Well. Maybe a little. But what we have isn't real. I know that. We haven't seen each other since high school! But Tom made me feel like I matter, you know? Like I'm an actual person instead of a cog in the family wheel.” She laughed. “A rusty cog in a broken wheel covered in mud.”

“Oh, get off the pity pot,” Elly said. “You're essential. Jake and Kennedy depend on you. Mom does, too. It's no wonder you feel swallowed up. What you need is more time for yourself. You need to make yourself as much of a priority as you do everyone else.”

“That sounds like dreary advice out of a woman's magazine.”
Or from a woman who doesn't have to juggle work, a marriage, and children,
Laura thought, but she didn't want to insult her sister by saying that.

Elly shook her head. “I'm not talking spa getaways or even therapy, though both of those things might help. What I meant is that you need to be the real
you
with Jake and Kennedy. Ever since I got here, you've been faking things.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Laura demanded.

“You act happy when you're not,” Elly said. “Remember how controlled Mom was when we were kids? Even that time Dad got so drunk that he mowed down the new rosebushes she'd spent all day planting?”

“She's still the Ice Queen,” Laura said. “I can't remember the last time I saw her yell. Or cry.”

“Right. She's a victim of her highborn Boston family. A stuffed-shirt, stoic New Englander to the nth degree.” Elly smiled. “I can see that more clearly now that I've been living in California, where even the waitresses share their life stories within five minutes. But, look, think about what you're teaching Kennedy. Right now she's watching you
and learning that it's not okay to ask for help. You need to let your flaws hang out more. Ask for what you want. What you
need
. You deserve to be happy as much as anybody.”

“Thank you.” Laura moved to cover her face, ashamed to have Elly know what a fool she'd been with Tom, yet relieved, too, that someone knew what she'd done.

Elly stopped her with both hands on her wrists. “Not the face! Don't touch the face!” she barked. “At least stand up and admire my artistry before you smudge yourself.” She stepped away from the mirror.

Laura stood up and saw a wonderfully distorted reflection. The woman in the mirror looked taller and slimmer than Laura. Her eyes were dark blue and shining and long-lashed; her hair was a smooth, sexy bob of lustrous brown streaked with silver.

This woman was elegant. Beautiful. Not like Laura at all.

“I can't believe you did this,” Laura said. “You're a magician.”

Elly waved a hand. “Just think what I could do if I had my makeup artist with me.” She began tucking the brushes and tubes back into her travel bag. “Now your job is to show off. Head high and shoulders back, okay? Strut into that club like you own it. Beauty is all about attitude. Mom taught us that, if nothing else.”

•   •   •

Jake joined Elly in the kitchen while Laura lingered upstairs, helping Kennedy with some homework. He'd dressed up for the evening, too, opting for old-school preppy: a tweed jacket over slim-fitting brown wool pants and a white shirt with a red bow tie. Comb tracks were still visible in his dark hair, which he'd slicked back from his forehead to emphasize the widow's peak, his cleft chin, and his warm brown eyes. Even she had to admit he looked good.

Elly pretended to read the newspaper on the table as Jake went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of white wine. Being alone with him had always made her uneasy. Not only because of what Laura and Anne had told her, but because Jake was a charmer.

For instance, he never failed to make coffee for her if Elly happened to get up early. Breakfast, too. He held open doors, complimented her clothes and hair, and poured her wine. He was solicitous about how
well Elly had slept and whether she'd eaten enough for dinner. No man had ever made such a fuss over her. Jake did these things for every woman; Flossie used to call him “Jeeves” behind his back.

Lately Jake had made a point of asking Elly about work. He remarked on how interesting her career was, praising her as a “true artist.” He said encouraging things whenever he saw her surfing job sites on her laptop in the kitchen: “Something always turns up when you least expect it.” “Keep knocking on doors and one will open.” “Opportunities are made, not given.”

Everything Jake said amounted to fortune-cookie platitudes, but Elly found herself falling for them anyway. She was comforted by his belief in her.

“Earth to Elly! Want this?” Jake was standing directly in front of her, offering a glass of wine.

“Sure,” she said. “Thank you.”

To her surprise, he'd poured seltzer water for himself. “I'm driving,” Jake explained, then grinned. “Hey, what did you do with my wife, and who's that gorgeous stranger upstairs?”

Elly smiled to be polite. “Your wife is always gorgeous.”

“I know.” Jake was immediately contrite. “Inside and out. I don't deserve her.”

No, you don't,
Elly thought
. You don't make her happy. And you came on to my little sister.

Just then Laura breezed in. “All set, honey?” she said.

“I don't know,” he murmured. “It's tempting to take you right back upstairs, the way you look tonight.”

“Ew, gross!” Kennedy said. She had followed Laura downstairs. “Get a room!”

“Have fun, you two, and call me if you need a ride home,” Elly said, noting the sudden stiffening of Jake's shoulders as he escorted Laura out the door. Why was he so nervous?

Elly and Kennedy slurped up the spaghetti from plates on their laps in the home theater downstairs, where Jake had installed a projector and massive TV screen that made Elly want to move the couch back another ten feet. They watched
Singin' in the Rain
again, pausing
it to study the French posters on the wall behind Gene Kelly during the song “'S Wonderful.”

“I bet we can get posters like that online,” Elly said.

“And we can totally make those French straw brooms,” Kennedy said.

“So who do you want to be? Henri—that's the guy whistling during ‘'S Wonderful'—or Jerry, the one tapping?” Elly asked. She demonstrated some of the easier steps and was astonished by how easily Kennedy picked them up. “You go, girl!” she said as they carried the dishes upstairs. “You'll be the star of Grandma's party, dancing like that.”

“Except I am
so
not dancing,” Kennedy said. “Not in front of people!”

“So I'm not people?” Elly teased.

“Nope. You're some kind of, I don't know. A clone! My real aunt is still in California, hanging with Miley Cyrus.”

“Please. Miley is so last decade.”

Kennedy cracked up as Elly started singing “Wrecking Ball” while they rinsed plates and loaded the dishwasher. When they were finished, Kennedy said, “There's one thing I don't get.”

“Yeah? What's that?” Elly was tucking plastic containers of leftovers into the fridge, marveling at how much food a refrigerator was meant to hold. She'd never stored much more than eggs, wine, and yogurt in hers.

“So, you said we're doing this movie because it's Grandma's favorite and was made the year she was born, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Elly was wiping the counters, only half listening.

“Yeah, well. I Googled
An American in Paris
,” Kennedy said. “It was made, like, in 1951, but that's not when Grandma was born.”

“What are you talking about?” Elly rinsed out the sponge. “She's turning sixty-five. Of course that's when she was born. I'm bad at math, but even I can add and subtract.”

Kennedy shook her head. “No. Grandma told me she was born in 1941. She says her birthday, December 8, 1941, was easy to remember because it's when President Roosevelt made his Day of Infamy speech after Pearl Harbor was bombed.”

Elly froze in the middle of the kitchen, staring at Kennedy. “Why on earth would she tell you that?”

“We were studying World War II in school. Grandma thought it was cool that I was learning about ancient history, I guess.”

Elly laughed. “First of all, that's hardly ‘ancient' history. And Grandma must have been making up that story so you'd do your homework. My mother was born right here in Boston in 1951. Hers was one of the original families in Boston, just like Grandpa Bradford's family. They're both old-school blue bloods, which is what you call rich old families that started out in Back Bay. And she was definitely born in November, not December. I should know my own mom's birthday, right? We always gave her a party just before Thanksgiving.”

“No,” Kennedy said. “Grandma was born in 1941. Ask her if you don't believe me.”

“I'm not going to do that! She'd never speak to me again! If Grandma was born then, she'd be turning seventy-five! Does she look seventy-five to you?”

“No. But that could be because she had, you know.
Surgery
.” Kennedy pulled her skin tight around her eyes with both hands.

“What surgery? You mean a face-lift?”

“Yeah. That's why her face looks young, but her neck still looks old. She came home last year wearing bandages like a mummy. Just her eyes and nose and mouth showing.”

“Huh.” Elly rinsed her hands at the sink. It was possible her mother had work done. She did look good. And Laura might not have mentioned it if there were no complications. Or if Sarah had ordered Laura to keep her surgery a secret.

Still, Kennedy had to be wrong about her mother's birthday. Why would her mother lie about her age?

Because she can,
a small voice in Elly's mind chirped. Because Sarah would hate getting old. Still, wouldn't she have slipped up at some point and mentioned her real birthday?

Elly tried to remember whether she'd ever seen her mother's driver's license or birth certificate. Oh, what did it matter? Who cared? They could still celebrate her mother's birthday this November. Surely Sarah
deserved to have her daughters make a fuss over her and uphold whatever precious illusion she might have created about her age. Who cared?