Trading Up (43 page)

“I guess so,” she said, in the little-girl voice he loved.

“You’d better start packing, too,” he said. “Should I get down your suitcases for you?”

“Oh, yes, Selden. Please,” she said. “I’ll take the Louis Vuitton duffel and the hanging bag, and my makeup case, of course.”

“Of course,” he said, smiling. As he opened the closet and reached up to take her suitcases down from the shelf, she came up behind him and put her arms around his waist, nibbling at his ear.

“Where
are
we going, darling?” she asked. “You
have
to tell me. Tell me
now
. . .” He laughed and took a few steps backward, pulling her down onto the bed.

Maybe they’d start their vacation with a little prevacation sex, he thought happily.

“Okay,” he agreed, “if you promise not to tell anyone . . .”

“I promise,” she said, matching her tone to his.

“We’re going to Mustique!”

“Mustique?” she exclaimed. She sat up in alarm, biting her finger. Mustique was supposed to be glamorous, but part of its glamour was being there with the right crowd. And she didn’t know of anyone who was going there this year. “But . . .

what will we
do
the whole time? We won’t know anyone . . .”

“Ah ha!” he said, still thinking she was going to be pleased with him. “That’s where you’re wrong. You
will
know people . . . We’re spending Christmas with the entire Rose clan. Isn’t that great?”

She gasped and jumped off the bed. “But I’ve never even met them,” she cried.

“Exactly,” he said. “And it’s about time you did.”

“Oh, Selden,” she said with annoyance. She’d known she would have to meet his family at some point, but she’d assumed Selden would give her fair warning.

And on the scale of things, spending Christmas vacation with his family was even less glamorous than spending it alone with Selden . . . She went into the bathroom, and with a small bang, firmly shut the door behind her. He heard the lock turn, and as he flopped back onto the bed, had the sinking feeling that they weren’t going to be having prevacation sex after all.

The endless, rhythmic
thwack
of a tennis ball was nearly putting Janey to sleep and, making an effort to keep her eyes open, she forced herself to at least pretend to concentrate on the game below. From her vantage point under a tree on the little hill above the court, she could see most of the island spread out before her, with its 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:24 PM Page 228

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manicured green fields crisscrossed by narrow, black asphalt roads and, in the near distance, the aqua blue Caribbean Sea. On the road that passed by the tennis court, two housemaids in starched gray uniforms chatted gaily as they slowly made their way up the hill, as if they had nothing more unpleasant to contemplate than an endless series of days that were exactly the same as this one . . .

On the court below, Selden was playing tennis with his father, Richard Rose; his brother, Wheaton, was umpiring. All three men were in whites, following one of the rules of the Mustique Corporation, which called for the upholding of traditional tennis garb. Standing at the end of the court near Selden, Wheaton made a crossing gesture with his arms. “That ball was out!” he shouted. “Out! Sorry, Dad.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll still beat the bastard . . . ,” Richard Rose gasped, throwing the ball up into the air and smashing his racket against it.

Seated on the grass next to her, Paula Rose, Selden’s mother, cried out a warning
“Richard!,”
causing Selden, Wheaton, and Richard Rose to glance up the hill in their direction.

“I’m trouncing the old man and he’s losing it!” Selden called excitedly to Janey.

Janey gave him a wan smile, as Paula Rose called out sharply, “Just make sure you don’t lose your
manners
!” She turned to Janey and, with a shake of her head, said,

“The boys just love their tennis. I think the biggest mistake I ever made was allowing Richard to put in a court at our house in Chicago.” Janey scratched at a mosquito bite on her leg and, trying to appear interested, said, “Is that
so
?” The very first thing Selden had said to his father when they’d arrived, three days ago, was: “So, Dad. Have you found the courts yet?” She scratched harder and the bite began to bleed slightly, offering some relief. The island was full of mosquitoes; even sleeping under a mosquito tent was scant protection, because the insects buzzed around the netting with an angry viciousness that kept her awake half the night. Selden was fine, but
she
was exhausted. If she could only get a decent night’s sleep, she thought desperately, she might be able to get through this week without going nuts . . .

“The temperature’s perfect for tennis now, isn’t it?” Isabelle said pleasantly.

Isabelle was Wheaton’s wife and a perfect example of good, midwestern values: She was friendly and kind—and utterly bland—with a personality that was free of sharp edges or interesting angles.

“Thank God it’s not too hot now,” Paula Rose agreed. “When you come to these Caribbean islands, you’ve got to play early in the morning or late at night.

When we were in Round Hill six years ago . . . ,” she said, and began a long story about the difficulties of securing court time in a climate in which there were only two or three comfortable hours in which to play. Janey quickly lost track of the story, becoming absorbed in the progress of an ant that was dragging a small leaf 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:24 PM Page 229

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through the grass at her feet, which was a mistake, because suddenly Paula Rose turned to her and said, “Well, Janey? What do
you
think?”

“Oh,” Janey said, looking up and attempting to smile. Her mouth hurt from three days of being forced to smile at all kinds of things that she wasn’t the least bit happy about. “What do
I
think . . . ?”

“About Richard getting sunstroke . . . ,” Paula said, exchanging a glance with Isabelle.

“Thank God he recovered,” Janey said, trying to get into the spirit of the conversation.

“Well,
naturally,
he recovered,” Paula said, looking at her like she was an idiot.

“But for those two hours, when we had every doctor in Jamaica . . . I was sure he was having a heart attack. ‘At least wait until we get back to Chicago to die,’ I told him. So now, every time we’re on vacation, he always promises that he won’t let anything happen to him until we’re back home . . .” While Isabelle laughed gamely, Janey found herself unable to summon any response. She was trying to fit in, she really
was,
she reminded herself. But Selden’s family was so foreign to her, it would have been easier if they literally were from another country, like
Sweden,
perhaps . . .

Oh, they were all perfectly
nice,
of course—on the surface. Take Mrs. Rose for example, she thought, glancing over at Paula. Having told her little story, she was now casually ignoring Janey, appearing to be completely absorbed in the game between Selden and Richard. She was what people called “well preserved”; she appeared every morning in a crisp white T-shirt and khaki shorts, an Hermès scarf tied around her neck, with carefully applied makeup and blown-dry hair. She was an attractive woman, and considered by the rest of her family to be endlessly interesting because she was still a journalist for the
Chicago Sun-Times.
At the beginning of the first evening, she’d been so gracious, showing Janey to her room and remarking over Janey’s “lovely” clothes and shoes and handbags, that Janey had imagined that they actually
might
become friends, that Mrs. Rose might be the mother she’d never had . . . And then, at dinner, she’d sat next to Selden’s father, Richard.

Richard had a kindly cartoonish face; a retired lawyer from the Chicago firm where Wheaton still worked, Richard Rose now put all his energy into his diet and exercise program, which, he explained, was responsible for the fact that he had so far managed to ward off “the cancer.” Janey, feeling insecure, had probably paid him a little
too
much attention, and the next morning, there was a decided chill in the air . . .

On the court below, Selden hit a forehand that whizzed by Richard and, throwing down his racket, declared himself the winner. In a moment, the three men came strolling up the hill, and Janey stood up, hoping that the day’s tennis activities were 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:24 PM Page 230

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finally over. Maybe she and Selden could get a drink somewhere—she’d heard there was a cool outdoor bar on the island where Mick Jagger supposedly hung out . . .

“We’ve got the court for another hour,” Selden said breathlessly. “Who wants to play next? Janey?”

“You
know
I don’t play tennis,” Janey said, and before she could suggest that she and Selden go, Richard interrupted her. With a scolding “Never too late to learn,” he said, “Selden, you’ve
got
to get her lessons.”

“I’m not very athletic . . . ,” Janey began helplessly.

“Isabelle didn’t start until
she
was thirty-one,” Wheaton pointed out. “She’s pretty good now. Sometimes she even takes a game off me . . .”

“Only when you feel sorry for me,” Isabelle said, with a laugh.

“Paula?” Richard asked.

“I’ve got to go back to the house and check on that cook,” Paula said. “I want to make sure she got the roast beef for Christmas dinner . . . Does anybody know if the supermarket is open tomorrow?”

“Until noon,” Selden said.

“That’s a relief,” Paula said.

Janey gave up. “You and Wheaton play,” she said to Selden. “I think I’ll go back to the house. I’m tired . . .”

“Tired!” Richard exclaimed. “You’re the youngest one here.”

“It’s the mosquitoes. I can’t sleep,” Janey explained.

“We had a huge one buzzing around our heads last night, didn’t we, Wheaton?” Isabelle said. “Somehow, it got through the mosquito net . . .”

“Those nets are no good,” Richard said. “You’ve got to use the plug-in thing . . .”

“Really?” Isabelle said. “We couldn’t figure out how to make ours work.”

“I’ll show you,” Paula said. “First you have to take the repellent out of the little aluminum package . . .”

Selden took a step toward Janey and put his arm around her. He was sweaty and she recoiled slightly. “Are you sure you don’t want to watch me whup Wheaton’s ass?” he asked.

“Selden . . . ,” Paula said warningly.

“I’ll watch you tomorrow,” Janey said wearily.

“Come on, girls,” Paula said. “Richard, are you coming?”

“I’m going to stay here for a bit.”

Janey started down the hill with Paula and Isabelle. “Selden’s playing a lot of tennis . . . ,” she ventured, in an attempt to make a joke. “I hope
he
doesn’t have a heart attack or something . . .”

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Naturally, Paula took the comment the wrong way. “Selden?” she asked, expiring a small puff of air as she looked at Janey incredulously. “Selden is in
great
shape . . .”

“Oh, I know, but . . . ,” Janey said, weakly.

There was a white Jeep parked at the bottom of the hill and Isabelle got into the driver’s seat. Janey struggled for a moment to push up the passenger seat, feeling Paula’s impatience as she stood behind her. She finally moved the seat forward and got into the back. Paula heaved herself onto the passenger seat. “Are you sure you don’t mind driving?” she asked Isabelle.

“Not at all. I love it,” Isabelle said.

“These roads are so narrow and twisty, they make me nervous,” Paula said with a laugh. And then, as if remembering that Janey was in the car as well, she looked over her shoulder. “Do you drive, Janey?” she asked pleasantly.

“Yes,” Janey said. “I have a Porsche.”

“A Porsche!” Paula exclaimed. “My goodness. Then
you
should be driving . . .”

“It was a gift from the Victoria’s Secret people,” Janey said, scratching her leg.

Paula glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Do you have to give it back?”

“No,” Janey said. “At least, I don’t think so . . . I wouldn’t give it back anyway.”

“You wouldn’t?” Isabelle asked. She and Paula exchanged a look.

“No,” Janey said, her irritation bubbling to the surface. “Why should I?” There was no polite answer to this question, so Paula changed the subject.

“Are your parents upset that you aren’t spending Christmas with them?” she asked.

“No,” Janey said. They were in the little town now, a picturesque village lined with small, brightly colored buildings that housed shops selling T-shirts, ice-cream cones, and sarongs.

“They’re not?” Paula asked in surprise. “If my boys didn’t spend Christmas with me, I don’t know what I’d do . . .”

“I don’t get along with my parents that well,” Janey said primly. “My mother’s never liked me . . .”

This must have stirred Mrs. Rose’s heart, because she cried out, “Oh, Janey.

That’s awful!”

“It’s okay, really,” Janey said. “It’s not such a big deal.” They got through the town and drove past the tiny harbor. There were two huge yachts anchored offshore, and Janey wondered who was on them. If only, she thought for the hundredth time, Selden had bothered to tell her where they were going
beforehand
. At least that way she would have been able to find someone who knew the island, who could have made introductions . . . There had to be
some
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interesting people here . . . But instead, she was stuck with Selden and his family, and if Mrs. Rose had her way, every Christmas was going to be exactly like this one . . .

Isabelle drove the Jeep up a steep hill, and up an even steeper driveway to their villa, a white stucco affair with a large stone fireplace that was situated on a cliff overlooking the harbor. The villa, at least, was nice—supposedly one of the best on the island—but what was the point of having a great villa if no one important was there to
see
you in it?