The Romantics (17 page)

To Tripler, the living room offered just the refuge she had craved. It was bathed in a pleasant lavender light—the weather had served as a gentle dimmer for the light of the moon. Two sofas,
cream chintz with a botanical print, faced each other like rapt lovers. Their pillows were buoyant and full, as though they had just been fluffed. A cashmere throw curled across the sofa, inviting guests to settle in for a nap. The walls were covered with an elegant damask that looked, in the minimal light, like a velvety film of moss. Tripler relaxed within seconds of entering the room. Sighing dramatically, she threw herself onto a sofa with total disregard for her damp clothes. She sunk in and patted the cushion beside her, inviting Jake to join her.

Jake ignored the summons and circled the sofa leisurely, scanning the room for a bar. He paused at a table covered with framed photographs, distracted from his mission by a Hayes family portrait.

“Wanna know a secret,” Tripler asked. She was now reclining on the sofa, one leg dangling over the upholstered arm.

“Sure,” said Jake. He knew perfectly well his response was irrelevant. Tripler would share her secret regardless.

“Annie’s pregnant,” Tripler declared. “I’d say three, no four months.”

“Wow. That’s great,” said Jake. “When did she tell everyone?”

“She didn’t,” said Tripler. “I figured it out.”

“Oh.” Jake nodded. He replaced a frame on the table and lifted a new one.

“She had half a glass of wine tonight!” Tripler scoffed. She might as well have outed Annie for committing a violent crime. “The girl can’t get through Sunday brunch without a drink. I’m telling you. Preggers. A million to one.”

“Hmm,” said Jake. He replaced the current frame and picked up another.

“I just find it so precious,” Tripler went on. “The whole veil of
secrecy. I talk to the girl every day. If she’s going to bother me with all the boring shit, the least she could do is share the fun stuff.”

Jake nodded. It was the largest gesture he could muster without losing his concentration. He was intent on offering Tripler the same portion of his brain that he devoted to reading books in bed. Without fail, within five pages, he was usually out.

“She looks pretty chunky,” Tripler added.

“No, she doesn’t,” said Jake.

“You guys will know the day I miss my period,” she said. “There will be no awkward speculation phase where everyone thinks I’ve put on a few pounds.”

“Don’t people usually keep that secret in case something goes wrong?”

“Yeah, but that’s bullshit,” Tripler said. “It’s just another antiquated Wasp custom designed to punish emotions. If something terrible happens to me, it’s not my job to spare you from my pain.”

It was custom when the friends convened in pairs to indulge in proprietary gossip, to discuss and analyze each other with surgical precision, exhibiting such detachment and cruelty at times that a witness might assume they were enemies as opposed to very dear friends. But this, they felt, was one of the privileges of their long-standing history, as though the time they’d spent together exempted them from basic social amenities like kindness and compassion.

Jake nodded again without looking toward Tripler. Occasionally, she backed her way into a version of sense. It was certainly not common sense, but once in a while, it added up.

Tripler watched as Jake lifted a frame to his face, then, tiring of his neglect, instigated a new conversation. “You guys must be gearing up, too,” she said.

“That’s none of your business, Trip,” said Jake.

“Oh come on, I’m Weesie’s best friend.”

“Then I’ll let her tell you.”

“Maybe she has already.”

“Highly unlikely,” said Jake.

“Why not?”

“Because she doesn’t want them for a while.”

“Really?”

Jake sighed, kicking himself for the naïve mistake. Tripler had the most amazing knack for teasing information out of people. She should have put this skill to use as a reporter or prosecutor instead of wasting her mind and talent on—what was she, anyway? An actress?

“Weesie never tells me anything anymore.” Tripler pouted. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Jake said. “Besides, she’ll change her mind next week. Decide she wants quadruplets.” Tripler shuddered theatrically.

Jake kicked himself for trading his wife’s secrets for Tripler’s consolation.

“How is Weesie anyway,” she demanded, assuming the overly interested tone of a television talk-show host. “I feel like we’ve grown apart.”

“She’s fine,” said Jake without looking up. He was transfixed by a photo of Augusta and William taken early in their marriage. In it, they bore an eerie resemblance to Lila and Tom—the same beauty, the same vague boredom.

“Good,” said Tripler. “She seems good.” She paused. “I mean she seems better.”

Finally, Jake took Tripler’s bait. “Better? Why? Was something wrong?”

“Oh no, not wrong,” Tripler said. She played nonchalance in a way that exaggerated, rather than minimized, concern. “I just know she was having a hard time. With the job and everything.”

“Well yeah,” Jake said. “And her father, of course.”

“Yes,” Tripler said. “I’m so sorry. But I’d heard there’d been some improvement.”

Jake nodded. But as he did, he swallowed annoyance again. Friendships between women so often compromised the privacy of their husbands. How was he to know what Weesie shared with Tripler about their marriage? It was like sitting in the room with a criminal detective—he had no choice but to spill everything. “And we started counseling, as you surely know.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize,” Tripler gasped.

“Oh,” said Jake. “Well, now you know.” It was settled: He didn’t like Tripler anymore. Now that he thought of it, had he ever?

Sensing Jake’s irritation, Tripler strained to change the subject again. She scanned the room imperiously as though she, too, owned a seaside estate and was specially qualified to appraise their parlors. “Augusta did a great job with the renovation.”

Jake said nothing, giving up on the pretense of courtesy.

“It kind of makes you think,” Tripler said.

Jake responded reluctantly. “About what?”

“Just about this house, you know. About the Hayes family.”

Jake focused intently on the photograph in his hands, and it did its part to hold his gaze: Lila, age twelve, in a white tennis skirt. Her legs were like flamingos’ legs, all limbs and kneecaps, but her smile betrayed the same certainty and condescension she possessed as an adult.

“You ever think there was something odd about how Tom and Lila started dating?”

“No,” said Jake. As he stared at Lila’s picture, he could smell the sunscreen on her shoulders.

“It was right after we came here sophomore spring. Remember, we all drove up for that long weekend?”

Jake mustered a nod. His pretense of distraction had become authentic. Perhaps Tripler was right. The thought of landing in Lila’s bed right now seemed totally appealing.

“Don’t you think that’s an odd coincidence?”

“Don’t be retarded,” said Jake. But he was talking to himself more than her. He had seen many tennis skirts in his day but rarely one that beckoned quite so insistently. As he stared, he imagined the underwear beneath—was it plain, patterned, ruffled? Suddenly, his concern for Tom doubled. Any man with a claim on this body should not have been hard to locate.

Tripler took silence as evidence of interest and continued to build her argument. “He asked her out three days after we got back. Three days,” she repeated.

Finally, Jake turned to Tripler. With her legs propped up, her arms stretched above her head, she was a perfect portrait of entitlement. “We were in college,” he sneered. “No one cared about real estate yet.”

“True, but all of this.” She gestured grandly toward the window. “It registered on some level.”

“We’d all seen it before.” Jake shrugged.

“You and I had,” Tripler pressed.

Jake exhaled, disengaging again. He finally understood why Tripler and Weesie fought so much.

“I’m just saying it registered with Tom.” She sank deeper into her cushion as though pulled by the force of her conviction.

“You think Tom started dating Lila because he coveted her parents’ fortune?”

“You make it sound like an episode of
Dynasty.”

“But that’s what you’re saying, right?” he pressed.

“All I’m saying is I think it’s weird,” she snapped.

Now Jake rose to Tom’s defense. “Tom’s no worse than anyone else in this group. Everyone’s got their little act. Laura’s a Jew, pretending to be a Wasp. Oscar’s gay, pretending to be straight. Weesie’s a bore, pretending to be fun. Pete’s rich, pretending to be poor. Annie’s poor, pretending to be rich. You’re intense, pretending to be laid-back. I don’t see the difference.”

“And what are you?”

“I’m just a miserable bastard, pretending to give a shit.”

“Could have fooled me,” she said. Why did Jake hate her so much? But she pressed her point. “You grew up with all this. Imagine seeing it for the first time.” She paused to select her words carefully. “All I’m saying is I think Lila’s lifestyle appealed to Tom just like her perfect tits appeal to you.”

“I’m sure those appeal to Tom as well,” Jake snapped.

Tripler shrugged and looked away. Though she had won the argument, she registered a painful defeat: another compliment paid to a friend.

W
eesie said horribly awkward things even when she felt comfortable. When she was nervous, she could be counted on for abject mortification. She knew it was almost always better just to be quiet. But the habit was so deeply ingrained that it functioned like personality. As she and Pete traipsed across the grass to the Gettys’, she made the usual mistake.

“The rehearsal dinner was lovely, don’t you think. I thought it was lovely.”

“Yeah,” Pete agreed. “How about those speeches.”

“God,” Weesie said. “I can’t believe Chip.”

Pete sighed and shook his head, summarizing his feelings on the subject.

Weesie racked her brain for a new topic, something that would last a few minutes, at least. “So we’ve been assigned to the bedrooms,” she said.

“Yup,” said Pete.

Weesie turned back toward the main house and caught a last glance of Tripler and Jake fading into the darkness.

“You trust him, of course,” Pete asked.

“Who? Jake?” Weesie stammered. “Yes, of course.”

“Good,” said Pete. “That makes me feel better. ’Cause I don’t trust Tripler one bit.”

Weesie laughed. For some reason, the knowledge that they shared this concern relieved her of it. Comforted, she walked in silence until they reached the front door of the house.

One of the benefits of being partnered with Pete was that he turned on the lights. Jake would not have turned on the lights. Jake would have clutched her arm, terrified of every shadow and sound, including the ones he produced. As a result, it was an utter shock to Weesie when Pete dispatched her to wait in the foyer while he calmly completed a walk-through of the Gettys’, checking every dark room for signs of Tom without so much as a flinch.

As she waited, Weesie surveyed the house in detail for the first time: A framed nautical map was covered by a pane of glass with a sliver down its center; in the corner of the floor, wide pine floorboards had been patched with newer, narrower planks. Every detail increased Weesie’s sympathy for Augusta. There was no denying the Gettys had let their house go to pot.

“He’s not here,” Pete said when he returned. He wore a look of satisfied certainty that Weesie had never seen on her husband.

“He’s not?” said Weesie.
“Are you sure?”

“I checked every room,” said Pete.

Weesie said nothing as she digested her disappointment, and entertained a new concern. What on earth would they talk about now?

“Are you worried?” asked Pete.

“No,” Weesie lied. “Not at all. Are you?”

Pete pursed his lips and shook his head in a show of masculine bravado.

“Where do you think he is?” Weesie asked.

“That’s a very good question,” Pete said. “One I need to sit down to consider.” He collapsed onto a chair as though settling in to watch a movie.

Weesie’s spirits lifted as she followed Pete’s example and took a seat on the sofa. The subject of Tom’s whereabouts would provide some fodder for conversation.

Fear of not having something to say was, in many ways, the guiding force in Weesie’s life, second only to her fear of saying something stupid. Her father, a senator for Virginia, had taken every measure to teach his three daughters the art of sparkling conversation. The dinner table was their training ground, boot camp for political banter, polite small talk, eloquent summaries of current events, and pithy contributions about their feelings. Frequent, exotic family vacations endowed the girls with an impressive arsenal of conversation topics. Washington’s Cathedral School provided the polish and the forum for debate.

Of the three girls, Weesie was the only one who had strayed from the political arena. And the choice had cost her, if not the affection of her father, certainly his attention. She dreaded the compulsory one-on-one dinners they shared when he came to New York. For the week leading up to their scheduled meal, she studied the newspaper feverishly, committing editorials to memory as though preparing for an oral exam.

To some degree, she felt this anxiety with everyone she knew, as
though she were bombing a very important job interview. This feeling compelled her to act oddly in most social situations. She adopted a bizarre faux-English accent, peppered her language with overly decorative words, and introduced lofty topics that were of little personal interest. At worst, the habit made her sound pretentious, at best, charmingly confused. But over the years, it had become habit, and she reverted to it unless she was in the presence of the handful of people—Jake, Lila, Laura, Tripler, and Annie—with whom she felt comfortable.

“Tom won the Rose Cup four years in a row,” Pete announced. “He could have swum that with his eyes closed.”

“You think?” asked Weesie.

“I know.”

Weesie nodded slowly.