Live to Tell (11 page)

She looks up to see Lucy behind her, paper shopping bags in hand and an expectant expression on her face.

“Sweetie, I’m sure everything’s okay. Oh, and someone named Josh called looking for you.”

“Really?” Lucy perks right up at that. “What did he say?”

“To call him back.”

“Great! I’ll do it upstairs.”

Lauren should probably ask her who Josh is, and why she’s so happy to hear from him, but isn’t it obvious? Lucy likes Josh. Josh—hopefully—likes Lucy. And anything that gets her mind off her disappointment in Nick is probably a healthy thing.

“Why don’t you go put your new clothes on hangers before they get wrinkled? And here, maybe you can help Sadie do the same thing with her dresses.” Lauren offers Lucy the bags from Gymboree and Gap Kids.

Sadie didn’t want to shop for new clothes; she didn’t want to try anything on; she didn’t even want to carry the bags into the house.

Now, however, she grabs at the purchases. “I can put them away myself.”

“But you can’t reach the hangers,” Lucy points out. “Let me help you.”

“No, I can do it!”

“Fine.” Lucy disappears with a shrug.

Lauren sighs, not in the mood for a tantrum. “Sadie—”

“I don’t want anyone in my room!”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t.”

“Sadie—”

“No!”

Pick your battles
, Lauren reminds herself. She looks her youngest child in the eye, both admiring and dismayed at the spark of determination she sees there.

“Okay, sweetie, you’re right. You’re a big girl. Go ahead and hang up your own clothes.”

Sadie takes the bag from her and marches out of the room.

Frowning, Lauren watches her go. She doesn’t look back.

Concern over Sadie gives way to renewed concern that something might have happened to Nick. Lauren picks up the phone again and dials his cell phone, hoping to hear a “Hey, what’s up?”

Instead, she’s greeted by the usual recorded greeting. This time she opts to leave a message. She hasn’t in a few hours.

“Nick, it’s me again. The kids are upset that you didn’t show today. They’re worried, and I…so am I. Please call me back, okay?
Please
. As soon as you get this.”

“I don’t understand why you let Garvey get away with so much, Marin.” Heather Cottington pokes at her salad with a polished silver fork. “You really need to let him know that it’s unacceptable to come sailing in here out of the blue, and then sail right back out again.”

“Unacceptable to you?”

“Of course not. You know my door is always open for houseguests. Lord knows I have the room.” Heather waves her empty fork toward the house, silhouetted against a twilight sky.

From this perch on the wooden deck amid the dunes, the home looks even grander than it is. Light spills from windows on all three levels. Marin’s girls are inside, along with Heather’s three teenagers and a large group of friends.

“I just think it’s hard on you and the kids when he comes and goes like this,” Heather goes on.

She should talk. Her own husband, Ron, isn’t here. He’s away on one of his many golf weekends.

But Marin isn’t about to bring that up. What does it matter? They’re not talking about Heather’s marriage. They’re talking about hers.

Why? Why does Heather have to bring this up again? Didn’t they have this same discussion earlier today, over a lunch that Heather kept saying she prepared just for Garvey—who, she knew all along, couldn’t stay to eat it?

It makes Heather feel better to criticize other people’s marriages, given the state of her own.

Or maybe she has a point, Marin admits reluctantly—but only to herself.

Aloud, she says, “We’re used to Garvey coming and going on the spur of the moment.”

“I think that’s sad.”

“It isn’t. Not to us. And it goes with the territory.”

Ignoring her friend’s dubious expression, Marin sips from her lime-infused Perrier, glad she opted not to join Heather in another bottle of wine tonight. Last night, they overdid it—Marin did, anyway. She woke up queasy this morning and it lasted, along with a headache, all afternoon.

Heather, who drank twice as much wine as Marin, appeared no worse for wear—which speaks volumes about her tolerance level. She’s the embodiment of the 4Bs—Marin’s private nickname for a certain type of woman: blond, bejeweled, boozy, and bone-thin.

Women like that populate her social circle back in Manhattan. Marin supposes that she herself fits the bill on a good—or bad—day, depending on how one looks at it.

Funny, because she never wanted to become one of
those
women.

But you aren’t.

She might have the physical trademarks, but she’s different.

You just keep telling yourself that.

But it’s true! Marin is much kinder, and softer, and she lacks the overbearing sense of self-entitlement…

If you’re so different deep down inside, then why do you spend so much time with women like that?

Because they’re there.

It’s that simple. She doesn’t meet a vast assortment of women in her everyday life. Neighbors, private school moms, charity volunteers, political wives—they’re all of a certain ilk. 4B ilk.

Like she just told Heather—it goes with the territory.

“It’s campaign season,” Marin points out. “After the primary, and the election—”

“Garvey will be governor of New York State. Don’t think for one minute that your lives will settle down.”

“Sure they will. We’ll be living in Albany, remember?” she can’t resist pointing out, and waits for Heather to wrinkle her surgically perfect nose.

It doesn’t take long. “Don’t remind yourself. Or at least don’t remind me.”

Really, the snob factor is astounding—even to Marin, who’s been party to it for years now.

You’d think she’d just told Heather they’d be moving into a cardboard box on the Bowery instead of the New York State governor’s mansion.

Wait—do people even still live in cardboard boxes on the Bowery? Or has that neighborhood, too, been transformed, like so many Marin frequented in her brief bohemian past?

“I just think Garvey takes you and the girls for granted,” Heather informs her.

“He loves us more than anything,” Marin replies, shaking her head. Maybe she should have had wine tonight. She’s feeling more tightly wound by the second—in direct contrast to Heather, who dismissively waves a bare, salon-tanned arm.

“Nobody said Garvey doesn’t love you…but is that enough?”

“What do you mean?”

“I saw the look on your face when he said he had to head back early today. You were disappointed. And the girls were, too.”

“Garvey is an excellent father and husband, Heather.”

“I’m not a constituent, Marin. I’m your friend. You don’t have to feed me the party line. He’s already got my vote.”

Marin can’t help but laugh at that. “Heather, you co-chaired a Planned Parenthood fund-raiser. Garvey will have the right-to-life endorsement. I don’t believe for a minute that you’re going to vote for him.”

“Okay, okay, but he doesn’t need me. Thanks to the Spitzer fiasco, plenty of people are going to go for the family values ticket.”

“Let’s hope so.”

“Mom?”

She looks up to see someone standing on the stairs leading from the house.

For a split second, Marin isn’t sure whether it was even one of her own daughters’ voices, or which daughter it is. But only for a split second.

“What’s wrong, Annie?”

“You can’t believe how snotty Caroline is being.”

I bet I can
, Marin thinks wearily. No surprise. Caroline has always been spoiled. It’s her own fault, as well as Garvey’s.

“What’s going on, Annie?”

As she listens to the latest account of Caroline’s misdeeds, she finds herself wishing Garvey were here to handle it for a change.

But the reality is, that wouldn’t necessarily help. Caroline is a true Daddy’s girl. And Annie—well, it’s not that Garvey is blatantly unfair to her.

But he treats her differently. There’s no denying it.

Perhaps the girls aren’t even aware of it, but Marin is.

Would things be different, she often wonders, if Annie had been born under different circumstances? Would Garvey love her more? Treat her more fairly?

Looking at her younger daughter, who looks so like Marin and nothing like a Quinn, Marin wishes he could find it in his heart to forgive her for something that isn’t her fault. Something she doesn’t even know she did.

But she didn’t
do
anything. It’s not about what she did. It’s what she
is
.

No.

It’s about what she
isn’t
.

The saving grace is that Annie herself doesn’t know the truth. They agreed never to tell her. What would be the point? It all worked out in the end, thanks to Garvey.

Who can blame him for the way he indulges Caroline?

Who can blame him for the flicker of regret Marin sees on his face every time he looks at Annie?

Who, indeed?

“I’ll take care of it,” Marin assures Annie, rising from the table and putting an arm around her youngest child’s shoulder.

I’ll take care of
you
. No matter what.

It’s a promise she made to Annie before she was even conceived—fiercely, fervently, perhaps suspecting the bitter disappointments that lay ahead.

But Garvey didn’t, try as she might to warn him.

He really believed everything was going to be okay.

And wasn’t it, in the end?

Didn’t he make it so?

Garvey Quinn is nothing if not a good father. No one would argue that.

Ryan had really been looking forward to seeing Ian today. They hung out at his house all afternoon, watching a movie in the home theater, playing tennis on the private court, swimming in the backyard pool, then soaking in the hot tub.

Staying for dinner had seemed like a great idea when Ian’s mother invited him, but now Ryan isn’t so sure.

“How are your parents, Ryan?” Ian’s mom asks, pretty much the second they all sit down at the big teak table on the patio.

The way she says it—as if Mom and Dad are still a single unit—bothers him.

“They’re good,” he replies, and cuts into the enormous slab of beef on his plate. Medium rare, just the way he likes it, served alongside grilled jumbo shrimp, baked potatoes with sour cream, corn on the cob…

Heaven.

“So your dad is living in the city now?”

“Uh…no.” He puts the piece of steak into his mouth so she won’t expect him to elaborate. She’s the kind of mother who’s fussy about manners, and everyone knows it’s impolite to talk with your mouth full.

“No? Where is he living?”

Maybe he shouldn’t have talked Mom into letting him stay to eat. Not that he’d had to do as much begging as he’d expected. When he called, he could tell by the clattering pots and pans that Mom was in the kitchen, but she told him she wasn’t cooking—she was cleaning, obviously still caught up in her clutter-removal frenzy.

Ryan wasn’t crazy about the idea of going home to be put to work. Besides, Mrs. Wasserman said they had plenty of steak and shrimp.

That’s the kind of house Ian lives in, with both his parents and a little brother who never seems to bother anyone. A huge brick house in Glenhaven Crossing, one of the newer developments on the edge of town. A house where there’s steak and shrimp for dinner on a regular old night—
extra
steak and shrimp for unexpected guests like Ryan.

But at least the Kraft macaroni and cheese Mom said she’d throw together for dinner back at home wouldn’t be served up with nosy questions.

Ryan chews, swallows. “He’s living in White Plains.”

“White Plains? Really? Hmm, did I know that?”

Something tells Ryan she did.

“Does he live all by himself, then?”

“Yeah.”
Who else would he be living with?
Ryan wants to ask.

But he’s afraid he knows the answer, and he definitely doesn’t want to get into all that. He hurriedly pops another piece of meat into his mouth.

“Do you see him often?”

Ryan chews helplessly. This time, Ian answers for him.

“Ry was supposed to see him today, but his dad bailed.”

“Bailed? What do you mean, bailed?”

Thanks a lot, Ian.

“It means he didn’t show up. Right, Ry?”

Ryan shrugs, even though his mouth is no longer full. What is there to say to that, besides
Shut up, Ian
?

That wouldn’t really be fair. After all, Ian’s right.

Still, Ian doesn’t like to talk to his mother about his own life. Why does he have to talk to her about Ryan’s?

“Do you mean something came up at the last minute?” Mrs. Wasserman addresses Ryan directly.

“Janet, let him eat,” Mr. Wasserman protests.

“He’s eating. We’re all eating. Ethan, that’s enough salt on the corn.” She grabs the shaker out of Ian’s brother’s hand. “I hope your father at least called to tell you he wasn’t coming, Ryan.”

When someone asks you a question they have no business asking, it’s okay to lie, right?

“Yeah,” Ryan tells Mrs. Wasserman. “He called.”

He shoots a look at Ian, in case he feels like contradicting that.

“He was probably too tired from his trip to hang with you today,” Ian comments.

“What trip is that?”

“My dad went to the beach for a few days.”

“That’s nice. Where did he go?”

“I’m not sure,” Ryan lies.

“Was it Martha’s Vineyard?”

So Mrs. Wasserman already knew that? Then why did she bother to ask?

Probably because she knows Dad was away with his girlfriend.

I bet the whole town knows. And I bet she was hoping I’d spill the dirt. As if.

“I’m not sure,” Ryan reiterates.

“Hmm.”

At last, Mrs. Wasserman takes a bite of her own meal.

Ryan breathes a silent sigh of relief. He’s known Ian’s mom since he was, like, five. He liked her well enough until last spring—specifically, until Mom and Dad separated.

“I haven’t seen your mother all summer. Has she been away?”