Play Dates (10 page)

At first, I couldn’t spot my niece amid the purple gloom. She found me first, making her presence known by launching herself into me, grabbing me around the waist. “MiMi!” she yelled, trying to be heard over the recorded haunted-house sound effects. Then she dragged me around the room, introducing me to everyone.

Mrs. Hennepin was in a good mood; she thanked me, glad I was pinch-hitting for Claire. Someone must have spiked her cider.

They brought up the lights so I could work my magic. I figured it would be more fun for the kids if I showed up in a costume, so I dressed as a witch—my idea of one, anyway—which was a bit more Elvira-ish. Long black wig, tight black mini, black fishnets, lace-up patent-leather spike-heeled boots, also black, of course.

The pointed black hat was a concession to tradition.

I set up shop at the end of a long table. I’d also forgotten how low everything was in grade school. My butt was practically on the floor, my knees up near my chin. I opened my paint box, laid out the colors and the brushes, and was ready for business.

Zoë muscled right to the front of the line. “MiMi is my aunt so I get to go first,” she announced, her tone of voice suggesting no alternative. She plopped down in front of me. “I want a mermaid,” she said. “With blonde hair.”

“Hey, I like that,” I said, pointing to Zoë’s necklace. It had been fashioned out of a chain of blue plastic beads and Pepperidge Farm Goldfish, strung together and shellacked.

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“Mommy made it,” Zoë proudly said, “to go with my Ariel outfit. A school of fish . . . because I was going to wear it in school!”

She giggled. “And see this?” she added, pointing to the real scal-lop shell that hung like a pendant from the center. “We found this on the beach last year near Granny Tulia and Grandpa Brendan’s house. A seagull dropped it.”

“It’s great,” I said, admiring it again. “Your mommy’s really clever. You know, she used to make jewelry out of all sorts of things when we were little. We would have fashion shows at home and
our
mommy would put together the outfits and Claire would do great stuff with all kinds of bangles and necklaces—we were too little to wear earrings, then—and your Granny Tulia would let me play with her makeup. We called it playing ‘runway.’ ”

Zoë pouted. “I wish we could play ‘runway’ now. I mean at our house. Mommy doesn’t have time to play stuff with me anymore.

I only get to play dress-up when I go to your house. Can I come to your house soon?”

I nodded. “You bet!” I finished Zoë’s mermaid, painting the fishtail so it followed the curve of her jaw, the fins sprouting right in the center of her chin.

“It tickles,” she giggled.

“Sit still. I can’t work when you wriggle.”

“Okay,” she sighed, and wriggled some more.

Mrs. Hennepin passed by the table, a Dixie cup of orange soda in her hand. “You Marshes all have such artistic tempera-ments,” she observed.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I replied, ready to loan her my witch’s hat. I finished up Zoë’s mermaid and sent her off to snag me something to eat, while I got to work on her friend Ashley, who has a thing for butterflies. My niece returned with a paper plate loaded down with a chocolate cupcake frosted in the most garish shade of orange I’ve ever seen, a few fistfuls of Cheez Doodles, and a bunch of orange jelly beans (the only other PLAY DATES

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color they had was black and Zoë knows I don’t like licorice, another trait all the Marshes share).

“Oops, forgot the chocolate,” she said, then skittered off in the direction of the mini-Hershey bars.

Ashley fluttered away from my table to join her, although I warned her not to touch her face, because the paint wasn’t dry yet. Not a minute later, while I was creating an ugly scar on the face of mini-pirate Xander Osborne, Ashley ran up to me in tears with smudged cheeks.

“Fix it,” she wailed.

“Fix it,
please
,” I corrected.

A mother, eavesdropping, beamed at me.

“Fix it now,” she insisted. She gave Xander a push, nearly top-pling him into my lap. Good thing my brush was nowhere near his face.

“Go away! It’s my turn,” Xander said, shoving the little girl.

Ashley lost her balance and ended up on her butt. I was surprised at what a scrapper this blonde fairy princess was. She scrambled to her feet and grabbed Xander by the bandanna he was wearing on his head, an Upper West Side interpretation of a buccaneer’s do-rag.

They were going at it like two alley cats. I laid my paints and brushes aside and tried to separate them, but I realized I was getting the worst of it, buffeted by both sets of tiny fists in their attempts to clobber each other.

“Hey, that’s enough!” A large male arm clad in blue serge swooped down and collared Xander, lifting him out of the fray. “We don’t hit girls, son,” the man scolded, yanking the boy to one side.

Ashley looked around the room—for her mom, I guess. When she didn’t see her, the kid threw herself on my mercy. “He pinched me! And he pulled my hair, too!”

I crooked my finger at her, like I was going to tell her a big secret. She leaned forward while I took up the paints again to repair her butterflies. “I won’t tell if you don’t,” I whispered.

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“Don’t tell what?” Ashley whispered back.

“That you started it,” I said. “You’ve got a mean right hook.”

She broke into a huge grin, showing a gap between her front two teeth. “I take boxing after school,” she lisped, then hopped away to find Zoë.

“You handled that really well.” Xander’s dad extended his hand to me and pulled me out of the pint-sized chair to my feet.

“You weren’t so bad, yourself,” I said, noting the strong jaw-line and the thick, dark—though receding—hair just beginning to turn an elegant shade of pewter around the temples. “I’m Mia Marsh, by the way. I’m Zoë’s aunt. The little mermaid over by the popcorn.”

He shook my hand. “Robert Osborne. And . . . you’ve met my son, Xander. So, if you’re hungry for something more substantial than sugar later in the day, how ’bout I take you to dinner?”

Chapter 5

NO VEMBER

“You are coming here for Thanksgiving, sweetheart?” my mother asks, the response a forgone conclusion. We gather at the family clapboard in Sag Harbor
every
Thanksgiving. The East End of Long Island, particularly the little seacoast villages, have a New England-y atmosphere that feels especially appropriate to the observance of all things
Mayflower
-y. “We know you don’t have much to spend on a party for yourself this year, so your dad and I thought we’d make a birthday bash out of it.” Growing up, I felt that being born around Thanksgiving was inordinately unfair because I never seemed to get a separate celebration of my own—though Zoë probably has it even worse. She was born on Christmas Eve. I’ve always had to share my special day with Pilgrims, Native Americans (weren’t we
all
native after the first generation of Johns and Priscillas?) and other assorted travelers making the annual trek over the river and through the woods to Grandmother’s House. An added inequity was a birthday dinner inevitably composed of turkey and all the fixings, as opposed to a celebratory meal of my choice At least a

.

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homemade, frosted layer cake, topped with buttercream roses—my favorite part of the confection—usually replaced the requisite pumpkin pie.

Although, in Tulia’s favor, our holiday visits to Sag Harbor are more akin to a weekend in Wonderland. The most traditional thing about my parents is their Federal-era home, bearing a discreet plaque from the local society for historical preservation, the house itself a relic of a young and idealistic nation.

“I’ve already invited Mia. She asked if she could bring a date.

Is that all right with you?”

“Mia usually brings a date to Thanksgiving,” I say. “Why should you need to vet it with me this year? Although, if it’s that Italian photographer who took the Marilyn pictures of her, he might not really get into the spirit of the holiday. We might have been better off inviting him to Columbus Day dinner or to Garibaldi Day, if there is one.”

“Garibaldi Day,” my mother muses. “It wouldn’t be such a bad idea to celebrate that some time. After all, we’ve embraced Bastille Day and
Cinco de Mayo
. We could all show our solidarity by wearing red shirts. Though the puffy sleeves would be a tough sell in menswear.”

That’s my mother the garment designer talking.

“Anyway, she’s not bringing Luca. The photos are lovely by the way. Have you seen them? Very soft focus.” Only Tulia Marsh could find a way to condone her daughter’s foray into photo-erotica. “Clairey, the reason I’m asking you in advance about Mia’s date for your birthday celebration is that he’s the father of one of Zoë’s classmates.” I try to absorb these words.

Thackeray was never Mia’s bailiwick, even when she was a student. “Clairey, are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m still here,” I mumble.

“Oh. For a minute there, I thought I’d lost you. Well, provided whatever’s going on between them lasts for another three weeks, she’ll be bringing a man named Robert Osborne to Sag Harbor.”

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Robert Osborne. Where have I heard that name? Oh, God. Oh, no. My brain is assaulted by an onslaught of what-ifs, none of them good. The last I heard of Robert Osborne, he’d deserted his prize of a wife, Nina, for something very young and very blonde with the exotic kind of name often attributed to Swedish porn stars. Maybe that’s why I saw Ula at the playground a week or so ago with a little boy. If Robert dumped her, too, of course she’d need to find another nanny job, although a good reference from her most recent employer might have been a tough ticket. I have immediate visions of Robert bringing his holy terror of a son along for the holiday, followed by nightmares of an enraged Nina showing up on my parents’

landmarked doorstep, then proceeding to hack us all to death with my father’s beloved Hoffritz carving knife. “Ummmm, Mommy?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“I’m not so sure it’s a good idea. I’ve met the former Mrs. Osborne. She’s a force of nature.”

My mother emits a musical little sigh. I can just picture her repeatedly running her hand through her still naturally dark hair, streaked with one equally natural slash of white. This is her customary reaction when faced with a dilemma. “Well, you know your father and I have always let you girls forge your own paths in this world. We’ve never told you when we thought something might be a wrong turn and have always trusted that you both will figure out when something isn’t working. You and Mia have a strong center.

Sooner or later, if you decide the detour isn’t worth it, you’ll return to that center and head off in a different direction.” My mother should be writing map text for the American Automobile Associa-tion. “So, maybe Mia will break up with Robert in the next twenty-one days or so. And if she doesn’t, I’ll just make sure not to set out the good crystal and we’ll all have an adventure.”

No wonder I’m a confused parent.

“Is Daddy around?” I ask.

“He’s working on your birthday poem. You know how he can get when he’s deep inside his head.”

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“Yeah. You need to send spelunkers after him. It’s okay. I’ll call him later to say hi.” I smile, maybe a bit smugly, thinking how lucky I am. How many people grow up with a poet laureate penning a special creation for each of their birthdays? Brendan has promised that by the time Mia and I hit forty-four and forty, respectively, he’ll have enough to publish an anthology.

We girls aren’t too sure how we feel about that.

I say goodbye to my mother and dial Mia. “Before I head off to give my movies-made-in-Manhattan tour for Go Native! we need to talk,” I tell her.

“So talk.”

“What’s going on between you and Robert Osborne, and why didn’t you feel it was important enough to share with me?” I ask, miffed and still incredulous.

Conspicuously omitting a full response to either question, she says, “I met him at Zoë’s class Halloween party.”

“Thanks to which she is only eating orange food,” I mutter.

This is true. Ever since the party, she has refused to eat anything that isn’t orange in color. Thank God it’s fall, because at least orange things are somewhat seasonal. We’re okay with carrots, yams, oranges, of course, and mac and cheese, as long as I add a bit of paprika to make the pasta an acceptable color. Otherwise, it’s “too yellow.” Most vegetables and all meats are an obstacle I haven’t been creative enough to overcome. Tomato sauce has been deemed “too red,” and convincing her to eat a chicken breast coated with an apricot glaze turned into negotiations worthy of the King David Accord.

“Don’t blame me for the orange food,” Mia says. “Robert?

Okay, I do take responsibility for that. I don’t know how long it will last, though. Do you know he sends his dog out to the Hamptons on a special bus? It’s called the
Petney
. Swear to God, I am not making this up. Seventy-five bucks one way. The Jitney for humans costs half that. His terrier doesn’t like too much open air and Robert likes to drive out to East Hampton in his PLAY DATES

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two-seater Jag convertible. When he’s not saying how ‘different’

he finds me, all he does is talk about himself. I have to come up with new ways to make him shut up.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something. If you live that long. Mia, do you know anything about Robert’s ex?”

“It’s not exactly a subject we discuss.”

“I told Mommy Nina Osborne is a force of nature.”

“You discussed my new lover’s ex-wife with Mommy?” she asked, appalled. Suddenly, I was thrown backwards into a vortex, revisiting years of tattling on each other’s most egregious transgressions, usually involving members of the opposite sex.

Wait a minute.
Lover?
It’s only November 6th. She just met him on Halloween. I guess there’s something to be said for their fling to have survived Election Day. Robert must vote Democratic.