Misfortune (7 page)
“His physical therapy is slow, though. He’s discouraged, but he can’t see the progress he has made. The therapist loves him, as you might expect. Says she has never seen anyone more determined. That’s Richard, I guess. That part of him will never change.” Clio looked wistful.
“How are you holding up?” Jack laid a hand on her shoulder.
“It’s hard, impossible, really, not to have what we had.” Clio stopped, looked up at Jack. “What am I saying? I’m fine, absolutely fine. You must think me a terrible person to complain.”
“Not at all, my dear. It’s an unfortunate situation.”
Clio nodded knowingly at Jack. “The addition is a huge improvement,” she said.
Beverly had heard of the Pratts’ recently completed construction project, a separate wing designed for Richard that had nearly doubled the size of the already opulent Pratt residence. Rumor had it that Clio had hired a construction team of nearly forty and over-seen personally every detail.
“Because of the ramps, Richard can get everywhere,” Clio continued. “The architect did a wonderful job. He actually got in a wheelchair himself to make sure that Richard’s access would be perfect.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “It’s a much better setup. His nurses even seem happier now that they have their own living space. I guess everyone needs privacy.” She paused and sipped her water. “I must confess I sleep better knowing they are right near Richard. I’d lived in such fear that something would happen, something that I wouldn’t know how to handle. I’m sure you would understand.” Clio addressed this last remark to Beverly.
“I’m sure I would.” Beverly regretted her defensive tone. Dudley Winters, her only husband, had been dead for nearly three years. He had committed suicide while she slept in their bed. Clio’s thinly veiled reference made her uneasy.
“Any exciting summer plans, or will you be here like the rest of us, puttering around?” Jack, ever the perfect host, turned to Beverly to change the subject.
“I’m renting the house for August. Otherwise, I’ll be here.”
“Do you mind having strangers in your home?” Clio tossed out her remark.
“Oh, it’s not that bad.”
“I just couldn’t imagine it.”
Beverly wished she had the luxury of staying in her house all summer. Accepting renters was tantamount to erecting a “Cash Needed” sign for all to see. Worse than an embarrassment, it was a humiliation, but the month of income paid most of the house expenses and property taxes for the whole year. She could not manage without it.
“Who are you renting to?” Jack asked.
Clio laughed. “Since when did you take an interest in the transient population around here?”
Beverly ignored her. “A nice couple from Manhasset. He works for an investment bank, Morgan Stanley, I think. They have several small children and an au pair.”
“Good. Sounds good.” Beverly couldn’t tell whether Jack had paid attention.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” Clio said. She squeezed Jack’s hand. “A dreamy party, perfect as usual. I would love to stay, but I’m already late for the Bancrofts’ dinner.”
“Yes, I’m sorry we can’t make it, but people are bound to hang on here,” Jack replied, glancing at Beverly. “Give my best to Marshall and Beth, won’t you?”
Clio smiled. “Of course. Love to Constance. I’ll call her tomorrow.” She embraced Jack.
“She’ll want to know all the details, I’m sure.”
Beverly watched her depart. Her lithe body slid across the polished hardwood floor. She knew without looking that Jack was watching Clio leave, too. Clio inspired such glances from other women’s husbands.
Beverly imagined Clio’s call to Constance Von Furst at nine the next morning, the earliest civilized hour to start phoning. Clio would sit at the antique farm table in her sunny breakfast room and gaze out over her expansive lawn as she finished a bowl of raspberries and sipped iced cappuccino. Beverly could hear their polite chatter, Clio thanking Constance again for a lovely cocktail party, filling her in on the details of the Bancrofts’ intimate dinner for thirty-eight of their nearest and dearest, the menu, the seating arrangement. “The Bancrofts are such lively hosts, even at their age.” Then Clio would reassure her, “You were positively missed.” Constance, relieved that her absence was noticed, might ask whether cigars were offered after dinner or who wore “Oscar” or “Calvin,” shorthand references to designers so patronized by these women that there was no need for formality. Clio and Constance shared criticisms of unsuspecting people, women mostly, who could never have imagined that their actions and appearance were monitored so closely. Constance, listening, would sip herbal tea sweetened with one teaspoon of clover honey out of a hand-painted porcelain cup. Beverly wished that she could start her day this way, wished that she could be included, once again, in the inner circle.
Jack interrupted her musing. “Excuse me, won’t you,” he said. “I’d better see how the Champagne supply is holding up.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
Beverly’s gaze remained on Clio. More than a dozen people stopped her on the way out for a final comment. Each one appeared more interested than the last in establishing a connection before she disappeared into the night.
Life is easy for some people, Beverly thought as she emptied her wineglass. The oaky alcohol soothed her hot throat. She nodded at the bartender for a refill.
“I don’t understand why you spend any time at all with that woman.” Valerie Moravio’s Texas drawl startled her.
Beverly turned to face her friend and smiled. Valerie, a former Dallas Cowgirl, had a flair for the dramatic. Tonight was no exception. A fountain of blond curls cascaded from the top of her head. Heavy makeup accentuated her blue eyes. She wore a yellow sleeveless dress that clung to her ample bosom. Her neck and earlobes dripped gems. A diamond ring, easily five carats, dwarfed her long-nailed fingers. This farmgirl had struck gold when she married Luca Moravio, a sports agent, whom she met at the Super Bowl in 1978. When the Dallas Cowboys defeated the Denver Broncos, Luca turned his attention to the nineteen-year-old cheerleader performing her synchronized splits, jumps, and cartwheels. Valerie was set for life.
Despite the fact that Luca and Valerie didn’t belong to a single country club, Luca’s outrageous humor and endless anecdotes about major sports figures ensured that they were included on every guest list. Beverly admired the fact that Valerie, easily bored by most of the cocktail parties, actually turned down invitations. That took confidence.
“How are you?” Beverly asked.
“Clio Pratt has done you wrong, and you’re the fool if you waste time on civilities.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, sugar. Maybe this soiree is not the time for conversation. I can respect that. God knows I should learn to be as discreet as you, but I can’t stand to see a woman humiliated, especially by another woman. It’s not right.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Clio Pratt is playing you for a fool.” Valerie put her hands on Beverly’s shoulders and turned her slightly. “You listen to me. That woman’s told everyone who would listen to her that you were responsible for Dudley’s death.”
“Dudley committed suicide.” Beverly coughed out the words.
“May he rest in peace.” Valerie looked upward, seemingly to the heavens, crossed herself, and then returned her gaze to Beverly. “Clio says you drove him to it. She told me just the other day that you planned to leave Dudley, for another man, maybe, she didn’t know, but leave him nonetheless. That set him off. Made him do it.”
Beverly couldn’t breathe.
“Apparently, Dudley told Richard that he couldn’t stand the thought of getting sicker, dying, alone.”
Valerie’s words stung. Dudley’s debilitation, his protracted, worsening emphysema, had consumed their lives, but they had kept their problems quiet, or so she thought. Beverly was stunned to hear that Dudley had confided in Richard, a friend to be sure, but hardly to that degree. As if the humiliation of his suicide had not been painful enough, Beverly now felt her wounds reopen.
“When I saw you being so sociable and all with Clio, well, I just thought I should let you know.”
Beverly felt dizzy. Why was Clio circulating such a rumor now, three years after Dudley’s death? She reached for the edge of the bar for balance. “Look, honey, Luca and I are leaving for dinner. He’s had enough of all this finger food hors d’oeuvres stuff. He says that itty-bitty bites of nothin’ just make him hungrier for a meal. A nice fat sirloin, although tonight I may be able to get him to settle for a veal parmigiana. You want to join us?”
“No. No, that’s okay.”
Valerie leaned forward to kiss her friend. “Oops, sorry.” She wiped red lipstick from Beverly’s cheek. “You watch yourself. Call me tomorrow.”
Beverly turned away from the house and walked across the lawn. Rage ripped through her. Nearly three years of trying to put Dudley’s death behind her, to resurrect the semblance of a life for herself, had been undone in a moment. She had lived through the whispering, the gossip. She blamed herself for his death because she’d wanted a divorce, but no one understood that their marriage had fallen apart long before Dudley ever grew ill. She had nursed him, washed him, and comforted him even after she’d stopped loving him, only to be subjected to insincere condolences upon his death. She knew that most people would have preferred that she, not Dudley, had been found at the bottom of the swimming pool strapped into a wheelchair. But she had survived. She wouldn’t go through all of that again.
Dew seeped through her sandals as she stood on the lawn trying to collect her thoughts. The cool air stung her flushed face. She had to confront Clio. She had to stop the rumors. She had to shut her up.
G
eorge Welch, vice president of the Fair Lawn Country Club’s Membership Committee, turned the leather-covered steering wheel to the left. As his silver Mercedes pulled into the driveway, its tires crackled on the broken shells bleaching in the sun. He pressed the power button in his center console to lower the window and inhaled the smell of the ocean. There is nothing like it, he thought, relishing the moist, salty air in his nostrils. Proximity to the water invigorated him. Each morning he drove from his house on South Main Street to the end of Dune Road, parked at the landing, and spent the next thirty-eight minutes walking, a mile with the water on his right, then a mile back, retracing his steps. These beach walks did more for his mental health than years of counseling had begun to do. His anxiety and aggression shed as he dug his heels into the sand. He returned home relaxed, tranquil. Some might even call it happy.
George pulled up to the shingled home and turned off the engine.
The cloudless sky accentuated the edge of the gambrel roof. Trimmed in white with navy blue shutters, the house looked well maintained, especially for one exposed to the battering of sea winds. No paint peeled. No shutters hung askew on their hardware. The glass in window after window sparkled in the sun. The landscaping was similarly meticulous. Surrounding the house in beds mulched with cedar chips, rhododendrons bloomed cottony white flowers. Between each shrub grew clusters of purple iris and pale pink peonies. The lawn had been recently mowed, leaving neat lines in the grass. Not a single weed marred the brick walk. Picturesque, George thought.
Standing by the entrance, George could hear the ocean, the sound of the surf just on the other side of the house. He had dreamed of living right on the beach, watching the Atlantic from every room, hearing the rhythm of the waves. George remembered the sound machine that he had bought for his daughter, now so many years ago, when she was just a baby. The small box had several natural noises selected for their soothing qualities, the ocean, the rain, birds, a fire. He had used it to help put her to sleep, especially when her mother wasn’t around. Like most things in his life, it had been a success.
His wife hadn’t wanted to live by the ocean. “It’s a maintenance nightmare. You think upkeep is expensive now,” she’d warned. “All of the furniture will have to be reupholstered every three years. We’ll have a constant mildew problem. Plus, I’ve read that excessive moisture is bad for the trachea.” That was Mary. Economical, orderly, she ran the house much as she had run her second-grade classroom: tidy, punctual, planned. Their neighborhood near Southampton village had the characteristics of an affluent suburb, not the windswept feel of a coastal town. They could be anywhere. Mary’s idea of a water view was a glance at their gunite swimming pool.
Although the front door was slightly ajar, George Welch rang the bell. Almost immediately Henry Lewis opened it. Trim and athletic, Henry looked younger than forty-three. He had cocoa-colored, smooth skin, high cheekbones, dark eyes, and close-cropped hair. He wore beige linen pants, a green polo shirt, and loafers. George fought back the urge to think Henry handsome. He had always believed it was inappropriate for men to notice other men’s looks.
Henry extended his hand. “George, good to see you.”
George shook hands and felt Henry’s grip tighten around his.
“Come in, come in. Is Mary with you?”
“No. She’s at home, straightening up from the weekend. She cleans before the cleaning lady arrives. Don’t ask me why. She sends her best.” He hoped the nervous edge to his voice did not reveal his anxiety.
“This way.” In response to Henry’s gesture, George stepped forward into the living room. Two taupe couches straddled the field-stone fireplace. A slab of glass on a chrome stand formed a table in between. George looked around for the customary clutter, the figurines, magazines, and knickknacks of people’s lives. The room was spare. The breaking surf appeared to roll in through the far wall of glass.
“Pretty dramatic views you’ve got here,” he murmured.
“Thanks. It’s a nice change from Manhattan. Have a seat. What can I get you? Iced tea? A beer?”
“Oh, nothing, really. I’m fine.” George perched on the edge of one sofa.
“Okay, then. I’ll just get Louise. Make yourself comfortable.” Henry turned to leave.