Authors: Laurien Berenson
Dog Eat Dog (5 page)
“When?” I asked quietly.
“I'll have things wrapped up here by mid-week. I've got some vacation time saved up. I figured I'd pack up the car and drive.”
Pack up the car and drive. Well that brought back memories.
“I'll probably get there sometime next weekend. Will you be around?”
“I guess.”
“Good. I'll call you when I get in. And Mel?”
“Hmmm?” All right, so I was distracted. Could I help it if the possibility of taking Davey and Faith and making a run for it had crossed my mind?
“Put Davey on for a minute, would you?”
“On? On the phone?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“No,” I said firmly. “Not a chance.”
“Melâ”
“Don't even think it. He doesn't know you, Bob. He barely even knows that you exist.”
It was a lie, plain and simple. Not only that, but it was hitting below the belt. But all at once I was just so afraid. I was hurting, and I wasn't even sure why. On some levelââsmall and mean, somewhere deep insideâI wanted Bob to hurt, too.
“Bob, I'm sorryâ”
“No, you're right. Maybe I deserved that. I'll see you next weekend, okay?”
“Davey does know who you are,” I said, hurrying to get the words out before it was too late. “Really he does. And I know he's going to be pleased to have a chance to get to know his father.”
“Good.” Bob cleared his throat. “I guess that gives us something to build on. Tell him I love him, okay? And I'll see you next week.”
Slowly I hung up the phone. Faith nudged her nose against my leg and steered me toward the counter. She likes her food crunchy; the kibble had soaked too long and gotten mushy. I threw it in the garbage and started another batch.
“Mom!” Davey called from upstairs in the bathtub. “Will you bring me my pajamas?”
“Be right up,” I called back.
I had to tell him. And now I had a deadline. One short week. No matter how much I tried to downplay Bob's visit, I knew Davey would be excited. Hell, he'd be thrilled.
But what would happen when Bob left again? How do you explain to a five-year-old that just because your father says he loves you, it doesn't mean he wants to be a part of your life?
Eight
Every day that week I seemed to find a different excuse for not telling Davey about his father's visit. Sam was back, and I'd talked it over with him. He was inclined not to see what all the fuss was about. Then again, he'd never been a parent.
My brother, Frank, arrived a few minutes early Thursday evening. I was putting a meatloaf in the oven. Faith and Davey were in the living room trying to figure out where in the world Carmen Sandiego was. They sat, side by side, on the couch, my son lifting up the long flap of the puppy's ear and whispering the clues inside. Don't knock it. Together, they've made some pretty amazing solves.
Both took time out from the show when the doorbell rang. Guests arriving at my house have learned to beware. Davey and Faith make a formidable welcoming committee. I figured that if I could reach the front hall before Davey got the door open, there was a chance Frank might still be on his feet.
Too late.
All three were on the floor together. The only part of my brother I could see was a pair of blue jean clad legs sticking out from beneath child and puppy. The front door behind them was standing wide open, releasing all the heat from the house. Faith was barking; Davey, shrieking. I couldn't hear Frank at all.
I stepped around them and shut the door. “Frank, are you alive under there?”
“Possibly.” The voice was muffled, but didn't sound too unhappy considering he was outnumbered.
Suddenly Frank's hands came snaking out of the pile. He grasped Davey around the waist, fingers tickling mercilessly. Davey squealed with helpless laughter; Faith fell back to regroup. My brother saw his chance and scrambled to his feet.
“Whew.” He pulled off his coat and scarf and flung them over the banister. “Some greeting.”
“Be glad they like you,” I said mildly. “You should see the alternative.”
“No thanks.” Frank was grinning. He raked his fingers back through his hair, an old habit because there isn't much to rake at the moment.
He and I have the same hair, medium brown and stick straight. Mine hangs to my shoulders; currently, Frank's is cut short and combed back. He stands a good deal taller than me, which isn't hard; and there's an appealing gawkiness to his frame, as if he hasn't quite grown into himself yet.
My attitude toward my little brother veers wildly, ranging anywhere from outraged to over-protective. For the most part we tread, somewhat uneasily, on middle ground. Actually the same could be said of our whole family.
The Turnbulls are a contentious clan, and over the years a variety of issues have created family rifts. Recently, loyalties had shifted once again when Aunt Peg's husband, Max, died about the same time his sister, Rose, left the Convent of Divine Mercy to marry a former priest. All this was complicated by the fact that Rose and Peg have hated each other for years. Since Frank usually takes Rose's side, while I tend to champion Peg's, we try not to let our differences cause too much disruption.
“Something smells great.” Frank was already heading toward the kitchen. “Don't tell me you cooked.”
“Of course I cooked. What kind of a mother do you think I am? I'll have you know your nephew eats a balanced dinner every night.” I had my fingers crossed, but I was walking behind my brother. There was no way he could have seen them.
“Right.” He opened the oven and had a peek, then went to the refrigerator and got out a beer. “What about the pooch? Does she get meatloaf, too?”
“Faith's already eaten. Just try not to let Davey give her too much food off his plate. We'll be at Francisco's in Greenwich. The number's written down, and I don't think we'll be too late.”
“Francisco's, huh? Did Aunt Peg tell you I'm working there now?”
I frowned. “She told me you were tending bar.”
“Right, at Francisco's. She's the one who told me about the opening. I just started last week, and the tips are great. It sure beats selling men's clothes in the mall.”
And for this, he got a college education. I bit my tongue and didn't say a word.
My coat was draped over the back of the kitchen chair. I picked it up and put it on. “Davey goes to bed at eight-thirty. He'll protest some, but he usually caves right in if you're firm.”
“Got it.”
“If Faith goes to the back door, just open it and let her out. The yard's fencedâ”
“Go,” said Frank. He took my arm and walked me to the door. “We'll be fine.”
“I won't be late.”
“You said that already.” He had the door open and was pushing me out.
I can't help it. He's my little brother, so I worry. “If you need meâ”
“We won't.”
The door slammed shut in my face.
“Hey Davey!” I heard Frank yell as I started down the steps. “Let's paaarty!”
He was kidding. At least I hoped he was.
Â
The restaurant had given us the same room as last time. This evening the tables were arranged in a single long line down the center. In a quick glance, I counted fourteen seats, about half of them already filled when we arrived.
Nearly all of the faces around the table looked familiar. It seemed that most of the people who held an office in the club or had voiced an opinion at the meeting, were also show committee heads. Aunt Peg had mentioned that there was a core group of members whose participation involved every facet of club activity. Here they were.
Lydia, wearing the same gray cardigan she'd had on the meeting before, had saved us two seats. Aunt Peg sat down next to the club president and I found myself squeezed between her and Cy Rubicov.
He held out a hand. “You were here last time, but I don't believe we met. Cy Rubicov. And this is my wife, Babs.”
“Barbara,” she corrected with a cool smile. Her suit was spectacular, in an understated way. I was guessing Armani. “You must be a new member. Don't tell me they've got you working on the show already?”
“No, actually I'm not a member at all. Margaret Turnbull is my aunt, and she needed a ride. I'm just here as transportation.”
Cy frowned. He reached around behind me and tapped Peg on the shoulder. “Why didn't you call us if you needed a ride? You know we're right over in Conyers Farm. We could have swung by and picked you up.”
“Why Cy, what a nice offer. Next time I'll think of you first.”
I wondered if he knew her well enough to read the subtle nuances in her tone. Aunt Peg was smiling, but she was picturing hell freezing over.
Cy turned back to me. He lifted a beefy hand and rested it on my shoulder in a friendly fashion. “Now listen, Mel ... It's Mel, right?”
“Actually, it's Melanie. The only one who calls me Mel is my ex-husband.”
Barbara's gaze flicked in my direction, then skimmed away once more.
“As I was saying, if you do want to get involved in the show, you just let me know. I'm in charge of hospitality and we can always use some extra hands.”
“I'll do that,” I said. What the hell. He hadn't read Aunt Peg's tone. He probably couldn't read mine either.
As soon as we were settled in our seats, a waitress came around to take our drink orders. The last dinner had been for socializing; this one was for work. While we were waiting to be served, business got underway.
As club president, Lydia had run the last meeting. This time Louis LaPlante, the show chairman, was in charge. He started by asking each of the various committee heads to give a report. Bertie Kennedy, who was handling the advertising, went first.
She bent down to the floor beside her chair, picked up a notebook and placed it on the table in front of her. For anyone else, the movement would have been mundane; Bertie managed to make it look distinctly sensual. There was the obvious shift of her breasts beneath the cream silk blouse, the toss of her head to flip back the hair that had fallen forward as she leaned over. Biting her full lower lip, she used one manicured fingertip to skim through the notebook until she found her place.
A quick scan of the room confirmed that all male eyes, even those belonging to Paul Heins, who was old enough to be her grandfather, were riveted. After that, the report itself was almost anticlimactic.
“Excellent, Bertie,” Louis said when she was done.
Others around the room were nodding. Advertising sales were up by more than twenty percent over the previous year. For all the physical assets on display, Bertie was obviously no ball of fluff.
Raising her hand, Monica Freedman volunteered to report on the raffle next. She settled her large glasses firmly on her nose and bounced to her feet like an over-age cheerleader. Monica spoke with great enthusiasm about the prizes she'd solicited, the tickets she expected to sell, and the profits she was sure the raffle would make.
But try as she mightâand I got the impression Monica was trying very hard indeedâshe couldn't command the room's attention as Bertie had done so effortlessly. While she spoke, the salads were served and another drink order taken. Water was poured from the pitchers on the table, salt was passed, silverware clinked.
“Well,” Monica said brightly at the end of her report. “I guess that's it.”
Louis nodded vaguely in her direction. “Who'd like to go next?”
Looking disgruntled, Monica found her seat as Cy Rubicov began to talk about hospitality. His wife, who was doing the judges' lunch, followed. The entrees were served. I dug into my steak while Mark Romano, grounds committee, went into a long winded explanation of the difficulties of preparing an outdoor site for an April show date. Judging from the expressions on the faces around the table, they'd heard it all before.
Penny Romano was in charge of decorations. After her husband spoke, she simply waved a hand through the air and assured the members that she had everything under control. Louis LaPlante looked unconvinced. Aunt Peg, assistant show chairman, was frowning. But she didn't say a word when Louis turned to Lydia and asked how publicity was coming along.
The waitress came around for a third time and offered to refresh our drinks. No mystery where this restaurant's profit margin lay. Most club members waved her away; Penny Romano handed her an empty glass and placed another order.
I ate about a third of my sirloin, which was still more red meat than I normally eat in a week. Beside me, Aunt Peg was ladling sour cream onto her baked potato. All this, and she still had dessert to look forward to.
No wonder she enjoyed coming to these meetings. It certainly couldn't have been because of the scintillating discussion. Listening to Paul Heins, who was rambling on about concession space, I was quite certain of that.
Seated beside him, Paul's wife, Darla, smiled sweetly at everything he said. I wondered how long they'd been married. Longer than I'd been alive, probably.
As dessert was servedâvanilla ice cream, topped with a rapidly congealing brown sauceâJoanne Pinkus gave the last report on the trophy committee. I took one look at the bowl the waitress set in front of me, and passed it directly over to Aunt Peg. She's never turned down a sweet yet, and as usual, she didn't disappoint.
“Joanne,” Monica said loudly. “Did you look into that foundry I told you about in Woodbury? The one that was doing such nice things in pewter?”
“I sent for a brochure.” Joanne's ruddy complexion flushed even redder. She looked down and consulted her notes. “But in the end I decided that with the amount of money we had to spend, our needs would be better served by crystal.”
“Glass, you mean.” Monica sniffed. “That's really all it is. Surely a club like Belle Haven could afford to offer trophies that are a cut above the norm.”
“In the past, maybe so. But trophy donations were down this year. Even in an affluent area like Fairfield County, people are cutting back.”
“Not according to Bertie,” Penny Romano yelled out. “She pulled in more money than ever.”
“Yes, but ...” Joanne flipped through the papers in front of her, looking flustered. “In some ways, that's precisely the problem. People allot a certain amount that they're going to give, and they know that with advertising, they'll see a return. There's a page in the catalogue with their dog's picture on it. On the other hand, a trophy donation is really just that ...”
“We see your point.” Louis sounded ready to move on. “I'm sure the trophies you've picked out are lovely.”
“Well, I'm not,” Monica snapped. I wondered if this was her way of getting back at the membership for not making a bigger fuss over her presentation. “I made a suggestion and Joanne ignored it. Those trophies represent our club. Why should she get to choose what they look like?”
“Because that's her job,” said Aunt Peg, speaking up firmly. “Heading the trophy committee is a great deal of work, I've done it myself. Joanne seems to have everything under control. Monica, if you're dissatisfied, perhaps you'd like to volunteer to chair the trophy committee for next year's show.”
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