The Things We Keep (10 page)

“I'll be keeping a special eye on Clementine, and if there's anything you'd like to discuss at any time, please let me know.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“And you're Allegra's mother,” she says, moving on to Jazz. “I did some substitute teaching in the first grade last year, so I met both Clem and Legs. Conjoined twins, I called them. I think we'll have a lot of fun this year.” She smiles over my shoulder to greet the next mother, pauses, then looks back at me. “Oh, Mrs. Bennett?”

“Please, call me Eve.”

“Eve. I believe you've recently moved. When you have a chance, could you fill out a change-of-address form for me and hand it in to the office? There are some forms in the green pocket on the door.”

“Yes,” I say. My voice echoes into the teeming hallway. “Yes, of course.”

Jazz and I stand for a few minutes while Clem and Legs run around. Andrea actively avoids my gaze, as do most of the other moms.

“Can Legs come over after school, Mom?” Clem asks, crashing into my legs.

“Not today, Legs,” Jazz says quickly.

“Awww,” the girls say in unison.

I was going to say no, anyway, but the swiftness of Jazz's decline is a punch to the stomach.

Across the room, Andrea whispers something to Romy Fisher, and they both look over at me. I feel Jazz's eyes.

“What?” I ask.

“I just.… I don't know how you can do this. It must be awful, everyone knowing your business. Have you thought about…” Her eyes point overhead as she tries to think. “… I don't know … leaving town or something?” A flush rises on Jazz's cheeks, and I know she feels like a traitor for suggesting it. “I mean, I'd miss you, but … anything would have to be better than this. I don't know how you can do it, day after day.”

I suspect Jazz is actually wondering how
she
can do it; keep up the pretense of a friendship with a social pariah without becoming one herself. But I don't call her on it.

“People aren't falling over themselves to give Richard Bennett's widow a job, Jazz,” I say. “Besides, Mother and Dad are around the corner, and I'm going to be relying on them a lot more now that I'm a…” I drift off, strangely unable to say “single mother.” Instead I look at Clem and Legs, who have formed a human rope on the floor, hugging and laughing. “Anyway, how could I break up the BFFs? It'd be the biggest split since Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie!”

Jazz smiles reluctantly. And a few seconds later, I feel her arm around my shoulder. It's brazen in a classroom full of cold stares. The small gesture sends tears rocketing to my eyes.

“You're very hard not to love, you know that, Evie?”

She says it gruffly, and I smile, because from Jazz, it's the sincerest compliment I could have asked for. Also, because I remember Richard saying something very similar to me once.

*   *   *

I was making guacamole when I met Richard. As part of our training at the culinary school, we were required to get some practical experience, and I'd managed to land a gig on James Mendoza's gourmet taco truck—The Mexican
—
on the corner of Wall and New Street. The taco truck was decent pay, and the upside was that unlike in a restaurant, we were outside, amid the bustle of the city. That day, the sky was a rich cobalt blue, and the air that blew in the serving window was warm and sweet. Full of promise.

“I'll … um, take a taco,” I heard a man say to Carlos. Carlos was a wonderful chef, but he should never have been allowed in front of customers. If they didn't know exactly what they wanted, they didn't get served.

“Uh…,” the man stammered when the silence continued. “Just the taco, please.”

Carlos sighed loudly. He pointed to the board where the menu was listed then nodded at the next person in line. I wiped my hands on my apron. Part of my role, I'd quickly realized, was to smooth things over with Carlos's disgruntled customers. He needed my help fairly frequently.

“What kind of taco would you like?” I asked. “There's beer-battered mahimahi, shrimp, lobster, turkey.…”

I looked down at the man, who was our typical Wall Street guy—expensive suit, gold watch, shiny shoes. His hair was thick and black, his eyes chocolate brown. His adorably perplexed expression gave away the fact that he wasn't a regular at the food truck.

“My favorite is the mahimahi,” I said finally. “We make it with fresh lime and cumin—it's a bestseller, I think you'll like it.” I arranged the fish on a flour tortilla and topped it with slaw and a dollop of Mexican
crema.
Then I rolled it up and handed it to him. “Here you go.”

I'll never forget the way he looked at me—as though I were the most unexpected treasure, a nearly extinct animal he'd stumbled across in the wild. Beside me, oblivious or uninterested, Carlos grunted at the next person who dared not to know exactly what he wanted.

“Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” he asked.

I laughed, surprised. Behind him, someone jostled him and someone else yelled, “Keep it moving, man!” But he didn't budge.

“I insist,” he said. “A thank-you for this … this wonderful taco. I'm Richard, by the way.”

“Eve,” I said.

It wasn't the first time a customer had invited me to dinner. It was, however, the first time I'd been tempted to accept. Perhaps it was the fact that, unlike most of the Wall Street stockbrokers we served, he didn't seem entirely assured of my response? On the contrary, he seemed … nervous. It was endearing.

“Eve, I need guacamole,” Carlos yelled.

“I'll pick you up,” the man—Richard—said, moving in closer. His face, I noticed, was full of surprises, from his wide-set eyes to his cleft chin. He stood like a rock in a stream while customers flowed on either side of him. “Around seven. Anywhere you want to go.”

Carlos thumped around, making his impatience known.
“Guacamole!”

Richard's gaze pierced me, pinning me in place even as Carlos's thick arm reached around me for the guacamole. Then Richard closed his eyes, pressed his palms together in faux prayer.

“Yes,” I said, laughing. “Yes, okay. Fine. Tonight.” I gave him my phone number and hurried back to the guacamole.

“Guess he's pretty convincing,” Carlos muttered when Richard was gone.

I wish I'd known how right Carlos was.

*   *   *

I am just inside the gates of Rosalind House when I hear the bushes rustle behind me.

“Hi,” I say, when Angus emerges.

“Hey.” He drops his secateurs into a bucket and dips to snatch up a larger pair of garden shears. “Thanks for the sandwich,” he mutters, then turns his back and starts chopping.

“You're welcome,” I say. Angus's demeanor is barely civil, but I choose to be heartened by the fact he is talking to me. “Actually, I'm glad I ran into you. I'd like to talk to you about starting a vegetable and herb garden.”

“A vegetable and herb garden.” He pauses, the shears still in hand. “I guess we could do that.” He turns to look at me. “How big do you need it?”

“Well, I'd like to plant carrots and potatoes. Plus herbs.”

I may be imagining it, but Angus seems slightly more upbeat. “You'll want something with shade then.” He wipes his forehead with the back of his arm. “There's a spot in the yard that might work, but you'd need a canopy. One that can be retracted—”

“You can buy those at Garden City,” I say, a little too enthusiastically. “I used to have one above my vegetable garden at my old place.”

He gives me a long, cool look. “I was going to say I'd build you one. I doubt Eric has money for a Garden City canopy in the budget.”

“No, of course not. I didn't think—”

Angus shakes his head. “No. You wouldn't.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.” He lifts the shears and starts hacking at the bush with sharp, aggressive strokes.

I stare at his back. “Is there something you want to say to me, Angus?”

He turns around. “You probably think you and your daughter got a rough deal, don't you? You lost your big house. Your money. You had to get a job in a residential care facility and have your canopies built instead of bought—”

I open my mouth.

“My sister and her husband lost everything because of your husband. Not just money but—” His throat works. “—they were in the middle of doing IVF. Kelly's forty-one. Now they can't afford to do it anymore, so she'll probably never have kids.”

I blink back tears at the unexpected outburst and Angus resumes hacking at the bush. I stay quiet. At least now I know why Angus has been so cold with me. His sister is one of thousands of people harmed by my husband. And, by extension, harmed by me. “I'm sorry,” I say. “But for the record, I don't think I got a rough deal. I got off lightly. I can live with losing my money and my house. I'll get used to being a social outcast, to working menial jobs and having no friends. I'd take all of it, and more, if it meant I could give my daughter back her father. So, say what you want about me, but don't lump my daughter into the same category. My daughter got one hell of a rough deal. And she is as innocent as your poor sister.”

With that, I spin on my heel and march toward the house. As I walk, I think I hear Angus call my name, but I just keep walking.

*   *   *

I find a cart in the housekeeping closet and drive it down the corridor. I shouldn't have said that to Angus, but Clem is my Achilles' heel. She seems like she's okay, but every now and then, I get a glimpse of her grief, and it worries me. Her father was her hero. But what will happen when she finds out he wasn't a hero at all?

Eric's instructions were that each room and bathroom be given a light “going-over” each day. Empty, clean, and reline wastebaskets. Strip beds on Thursdays and make them on other days. Inner windows should be done weekly—Mondays are best because of grubby fingers from grandchildren on Sundays, when most residents have visitors. It's not exactly what I envisioned when I applied for a cook position, but if it keeps Clem out of Butt Road, I can do it for a while.

When I peek into Anna's room, I see Clara in the armchair by the window.

“Oh,” I say. “I thought this was Anna's room.”

“It is,” Clara says, nodding toward the bed where Anna is lying. “Anna, honey, Eve's just here to make the beds and clean up a bit.”

“Oh,” Anna says. “Okay.”

I open the door wide and push my cart inside. The room is lovely, small but bright, furnished with just a bed, a couple of armchairs, and a dresser. It reminds me of a hotel room. What is
unlike
a hotel, though, is that everything is labeled—each drawer has a sign labeled
UNDERWEAR, BRAS, T-SHIRTS, PAJAMAS
. The doors to the closet, the bathroom, and the hallway are labeled, too. It stuns me. Really? Does Anna really not know which door goes where?

“That … thin-jacket suits you,” Anna says to Clara. “It's the exact blue of your eyes.”

“Thanks, honey,” Clara says. “Blue's my favorite.”

I take a hand cloth and steal a glance at Clara. Her eyes
are
a striking blue, almost violet. The exact blue of her cardigan. I slide the cloth back and forth along the windowsill. It's already pretty clean, and all I'm doing is dragging the little dust that is there back and forth.

Behind me, pages of a notebook ruffle.

“Eve's the new cook,” Clara says to Anna. “Started this morning.”

I look over my shoulder in time to see Anna visibly relax. “
That's
why you're not in my book.”

I glace at the spiral notebook in her lap. Three rows of Polaroid photos line the double page. I recognize Eric, and a bunch of the residents. A few of the people I don't recognize, perhaps family members? Underscoring each photo is a name in a thick black pen, as well as a one-word explanation—
Doctor. Resident. Friend.
Farther below are a few other notes, scrawled in blue Biro.

Anna looks at me. “But if you're the new cook, shouldn't you be cooking?”

“You would think so, wouldn't you?” I smile.

Anna smiles back and I get a strange feeling that somehow, she feels my pain. And for the first time, it occurs to me that perhaps I could just ask Anna what she meant when she said “Help me” the other day. It's a long shot, of course, but worth a try.

“Anna, can I ask you something?” I say.

She looks surprised. “Sure.”

I squat to rinse out my cloth in the bucket. “The other day, when I was here for my interview, you asked me for help. We were out in the garden. Do you remember that?”

She frowns. “No. I'm sorry.”

“I was handing you your scarf,” I persisted, “and you grabbed my hands and said ‘Help me.'”

There's a flicker on her face, and I allow myself to hope. “Maybe I needed help registering for the New York marathon? I've been meaning to tick that off my bucket list.”

She holds my gaze for a moment, deadpan, then chuckles. A laugh bursts out of me. And something inside me, something that was tightly clenched, unspools. I don't know what I expected. That Anna would be incapable of humor? That she wouldn't be a real person? Yes, that's exactly what I'd thought. And after all the trouble I go to, to make sure Clem treats people with an open mind, I should have known better.

“Do we know each other?” Anna asks suddenly.

My smile fades away.

“You know, you do look familiar, honey,” Clara says.

I can't believe my bad luck. A person with Alzheimer's recognizes me.

“You probably recognize me from the newspaper,” I admit.

“The newspaper?” Clara asks. “Are you famous, Eve?”

“Infamous, perhaps. My husband was Richard Bennett. You've probably heard of him.”