Trading Up (44 page)

“I guess I’ll have to go back in a hour to pick up the boys,” Isabelle said. Janey winced; they were really starting to get on her nerves now, with their quaint little colloquialisms, like calling the men “the boys” and the women “the girls” . . .

“Maybe we should rent another Jeep,” Janey suggested. “That way . . .” Paula Rose cut her off. “Selden was thinking the same thing, but I told him
not
to waste his money,” she said firmly. “We’ve had dozens of family vacations with just one car . . . And besides,” she added. “I think it’s
fun,
being all cozy together. It’s just like when the boys were young . . .”

I am now officially going crazy
, Janey thought, as they went into the house.

She had scarcely lain down for ten minutes when Isabelle knocked on the door and came into the room.

“Are you sleeping?” Isabelle asked.

“Not really,” Janey said.

“I was thinking about going into town to do a little shopping before I picked up the boys. Do you want to come?”

“Sure,” Janey sighed, thinking that shopping might be just slightly preferable to staring at the ceiling.

“I’ll meet you at the car in five minutes, then,” Isabelle said.

Janey got up and looked at herself in the wicker mirror, positioned over a long, glass-topped white wicker dresser. She had a slight tan, giving her skin a golden glow, and she looked good, despite her exhaustion. But she always looked better in warmer weather, and, changing out of her shorts and into a sleeveless Pucci shift and flat gold sandals, she reminded herself that she had to make the best of it . . .

But it was all just so slightly disappointing. She’d brought all of her beautiful resort wear, which she now realized was completely wasted, especially given the fact that Isabelle’s wardrobe seemed to consist solely of shapeless cotton print dresses and colorful nylon surfer sandals. Even if they
did
come across some chic people, she’d never be able to introduce them to Isabelle, and once again she wished she were anywhere but here—any place where she didn’t have to be around Selden’s family. Even Patty and Digger were in Aspen, Patty’s excuse being that she and 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:24 PM Page 233

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Digger had had such a stressful year, they couldn’t bear to be with anyone who was related to them . . .

Isabelle was standing by the Jeep, a worn leather knapsack slung over one shoulder, bouncing the keys in her hand. “God, you look great,” she said, getting into the car. “I’d ask you where you got that dress, but it probably costs a million dollars . . .”

“No,” Janey said. “It’s Pucci. It was probably only two hundred dollars . . .”

“That’s way more than I could afford to spend on a summer dress,” Isabelle said with a laugh.

“But I thought Wheaton was a lawyer,” Janey said. “And you work, don’t you . . . ?”

“I’m a headhunter,” Isabelle said, nodding. “That’s how I met Wheaton. It’s great, because every day is different. I’m the kind of person who doesn’t like to be bored,” she explained, “and Wheaton is the same way, so it works out.” Janey nodded, unsure of what to say. It seemed to her that Isabelle and Wheaton were exactly the sort of people who did like to be bored, as so far they’d been perfectly content to do nothing but play tennis and go to the beach. But feeling a response was required, she said, “Wheaton is
adorable
.”

“Do you think so?” Isabelle asked, carefully steering the Jeep around a sharp corner. “Once you’ve been married for a while, you forget what your husband really looks like.”

Janey didn’t, in fact, think Wheaton
was
so adorable—his eyes were set close together over a slightly bulbous, crooked nose; like Selden, he had a slightly goofy quality that kept him just on the wrong side of handsome—but now that she’d said it, she couldn’t go back. “Oh yes,” she said emphatically. “He’s so . . .
cute
. . .”

“He thinks so anyway,” Isabelle said with a genial laugh, as she parked the car in front of the boardwalk that ran along the ocean side of town. In an automatic gesture, Janey pulled down the sun visor and checked out her appearance. As she reached for her lipstick, Isabelle said, “I’m just dying to know the name of that lipstick you wear. It’s so pretty . . .”

“It is, isn’t it?” Janey said, running the lipstick lightly over her lips. “It’s not quite red and not quite pink . . .”

“It’s a bit of both, isn’t it?” Isabelle said.

“It’s called Pussy Pink,” Janey said, replacing the cap on the tube and slipping it into her purse. “I’ve been wearing it for years. I found it in Paris . . .”

“Did you live in Paris?” Isabelle asked.

“Oh yes,” Janey said. “Most models do when they’re first starting out.”

“I’ve always wanted to live in Paris,” Isabelle said. “It must have been fascinating.”

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“It was . . . interesting,” Janey agreed cautiously. Paris was full of unpleasant memories, most of which she preferred to forget. Changing the subject, she asked,

“Do you and Wheaton have children?”

“We don’t,” Isabelle said, fastening her long, frizzy dark hair to the back of her head with a plastic clip. She could probably still be pretty, Janey thought, if she would take care of herself a little—dye her hair to cover up the gray streaks and have those two deep lines between her brows injected with Botox. “But Wheaton does,” she continued. “From his first marriage.”

“I didn’t know Wheaton was married before,” Janey said, as they began walking toward the shops.

“It was a long time ago,” Isabelle said. “I think Mandy—that’s her name—was kind of the town slut and Wheaton felt sorry for her. Anyway, she got pregnant and Wheaton married her, and they have a little girl . . . Well, she’s not so little anymore, she’s fifteen.”

“That’s a difficult age,” Janey said wisely.

“It is,” Isabelle said. “And she’s a wild girl—I keep telling Wheaton that if he’s not careful, she’s going to end up pregnant, but you know how men are. They just never see the things that women do, do they?” She stopped in front of a shop to admire a pair of flip-flops festooned with plastic flowers. “But I have to say, Paula is just amazing. She still sees that little girl every weekend, no matter what . . .”

“Do you want to have children?” Janey asked, as they went into the shop.

“We’ve been trying . . . ,” Isabelle said, picking up the pair of flip-flops and turning them over to check the price. “My doctor says I’m going to have to do in vitro next. But you have to take shots, and I’m not sure how I feel about that, you know? And then sometimes I look at Wheaton, and I think, Wait a minute. I already
have
a child . . .”

Janey nodded. This was, she understood, the way most women felt about their husbands, and she knew Isabelle meant it as a source of camaraderie. But Janey only found it depressing. “You should buy those,” she said, nodding at the flip-flops in Isabelle’s hand.

“Should I?” Isabelle asked.

“Why not? . . . If you like them,” Janey said.

“They’re only eight dollars,” Isabelle said, considering.

“Then you should definitely buy them,” Janey said firmly.

Isabelle paid for the flip-flops and they left the store. On the sidewalk, Isabelle turned to her and smiled. “I’m sure this trip must have been a bit of a surprise,” she said cautiously.

“Oh, it was,” Janey said, nodding.

“Paula told Selden to tell you, but he wouldn’t,” she said, pushing the flip-flops 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:24 PM Page 235

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into her knapsack. “I think Selden can be a bit stubborn. But maybe,” she added, with frightening insight, “he was afraid if he told you, you wouldn’t want to come.”

. . .

“Shall we open our presents now or later?” Paula asked excitedly. It was Christmas morning and they were having breakfast, seated at the dining room table located outdoors under a vine-covered trellis, where they took all their meals.

“Now,” Wheaton demanded childishly.

“We have to wait until we at least finish eating,” Paula said. And Janey, listening to this exchange as she scooped a wedge of grapefruit onto her spoon, imagined that Paula and Wheaton had probably had this conversation every Christmas morning for the past forty years.

“It’s so weird, not having a tree at Christmas,” Isabelle said.

“It’s very LA,” Wheaton agreed.

“That isn’t true,” Paula said. “Selden and Sheila always had a tree in Los Angeles.”

“Just a small one,” Richard said.

“Dad, when did you ever see our tree?” Selden asked.

“We were there one year. Don’t you remember?”

“That was the year Sheila . . . ,” Wheaton ventured.

“Let’s not talk about it,” Selden said quickly.

“Absolutely,” Paula agreed.

“Where should we open our presents?” Isabelle asked. “In the living room?”

“There’s no tree anyway,” Richard said. “I say let’s open them right here. Live a little, eh, Selden?” he asked.

They were still opening presents forty-five minutes later as Janey took a sip of orange juice and stared morosely down at the table. Next to her was a neat pile of wrapping paper, which Paula Rose had insisted on saving, carefully folding the pieces and handing them to Janey to “take care of.” Next to the pile were the two presents Janey had received: A folding Totes umbrella from Wheaton and Isabelle, who explained that they hadn’t known what to get her but that every woman needed an umbrella for her purse; and an Hermès scarf from Paula and Richard, which Janey had enthused over and then returned to its orange box. Janey had given Selden a pair of Prada sandals, a pressed leather Prada wallet, and a Prada shaving kit, which, she’d explained to Paula, she’d purchased at a thirty percent discount, but which Paula declared “excessive” nevertheless.

It was all just so awkward and embarrassing, Janey thought, as she watched Isabelle cooing over a pair of hand-knit heavy woolen socks—a gift to her from Paula. Selden hadn’t told her they were going to be with his family, so naturally, she 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:24 PM Page 236

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hadn’t bought them any gifts, and every time someone opened a present, it was a reminder of how out of place she felt . . .

“Well, I guess you all know what our present is,” Selden said, pushing back his chair and standing up. He had paid for the entire trip, including the villa rental and plane fare for the family. He walked over to Janey, and motioning for her to stand up as well, put his arm around her. He lifted his juice glass in a toast. “Here’s to our family vacation, and to my new wife, Janey. And to many more Christmases just like this one.”

“Hear, hear,” Richard said.

“Thank you, Selden,” Paula said, holding out her arms for a hug. “And thank you, too, Janey. You really shouldn’t have.”

“Oh, I . . . ,” Janey said awkwardly.

“That reminds me,” Selden said, snapping to attention. “I’ve got one more present. For Janey.”

They all looked at Janey as Selden disappeared into the living room.

Paula Rose raised her eyebrows. “I hope he isn’t spoiling you, Janey,” she said, as if this “extra” gift were somehow Janey’s fault.

“Oh, he’s far too practical for that,” Janey said.

Selden returned carrying a large white envelope. He handed it to Janey ceremoniously and sat down next to her.

She turned the envelope over. In the return address space was printed “Millionaire Real Estate, Greenwich, CT.”

“What is this, Selden?” she asked, with a mixture of curiosity and dread.

“It’s an envelope!” Wheaton exclaimed, taken with his own humor. “Get it? An
envelope
. . . ?”

“Is there anything
in
it?” Isabelle asked.

“Of course there is,” Paula said sharply, silencing her.

“Open it!” Selden said eagerly.

She looked at him in fear, sliding her finger underneath the flap.

Inside was an eight-by-ten, six-page color brochure. On the cover was a photograph of a gnarled, sickly looking tree surrounded by scrub brush situated on a small hill. At the bottom of the hill was a dirty beach that ended in a point surrounded by greenish brown water. “Welcome to Pirate’s Pointe!” the lettering declared.

“Oh . . . my . . . God,” Janey said. She’d thought that Selden had understood that the matter of the house in Connecticut was closed, but apparently, she hadn’t made her feelings clear, and he had simply taken her silence as acquiescence . . .

“Keep reading,” Selden said, pulling his chair close to hers and turning the page as if he were reading a bedtime story to a child. On the next page was a map of Greenwich, Connecticut, with “Pirate’s Pointe” shaded in red; it was a narrow spit of 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:24 PM Page 237

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land, shaped like a crooked finger that jutted out into Long Island Sound. Unable to contain himself, Selden began reading aloud: “Pirate’s Pointe is eight pristine untouched acres located in the best section of exclusive Greenwich, Connecticut, on Long Island Sound. Forty-five minutes from New York City and four hours from Boston, this is a millionaire’s dream. Secluded and private, it’s like owning your own island, and yet you’re just steps away from a major metropolitan area . . .”

“Can you afford this, Selden?” Paula Rose interrupted.

“Of course, Mother,” Selden said. He continued reading: “On offer for the first time in one hundred twenty-five years, Pirate’s Pointe is a piece of living history.

For only the most discriminating buyer . . .”

“I don’t understand,” Richard Rose said. He got up and stood behind Selden, peering over his shoulder at the brochure. “Have you
bought
this land?”

“I closed last week,” Selden said proudly. He took Janey’s hand and squeezed it.

“We’re going to build our dream house there. We’ll have a pool and a dock, a couple of boats, and a tennis court . . .”

Wheaton emitted a long, low whistle.

“I think you’re going to have lots of guests,” Isabelle giggled.