These Girls (11 page)

“Tell me a little more about Abby,” she said to Trey. “What does she like?”

Trey didn’t hesitate. “Kids. She adores kids. She’s a nurturer.”

Cate nodded. She’d been thinking more along the lines of chocolate ice cream, or pink sweetheart roses. Most grocery stores didn’t carry selections of toddlers.

“Anything else? I’m trying to think of things we could do together. Maybe watch a movie?”

Trey took a sip of coffee before he spoke. “Sure. Just—a light one, okay? I don’t know if she’ll want to watch anything, but it’s worth a try.” He raked a hand through his hair, and a bit of it stood up in the back. For some reason Cate wrestled with the urge to run her hand across it and smooth it down.

“Renee’s a terrific cook,” Cate said, hoping it might make up for the way she’d just cut out her roommate. “She’ll probably whip something up so the three of us can have dinner together.”

“Abby isn’t eating much these days,” Trey said. He gave a half smile as a memory took hold. “She always used to make me order pizza when she came to visit. I’d offer to take her to a nice restaurant, but she always said there wasn’t anything better than real New York pizza.”

“So we’ll get a pizza and rent a Sandra Bullock movie,” Cate said. “We’ll figure out a way to cheer her up.”

“I hope so,” Trey said. “She’s finally getting out of bed now, but she’s like a ghost of who she once was.”

A shadow passed over his face, and Cate saw him look down and swallow hard. Suddenly he wasn’t Trey, the hunkiest guy in the building. He was just a person in pain.

Instinctively, Cate reached forward and covered his hand with her own. “You’re the person she came to when she was in trouble,” Cate said gently. “She must really love you.”

“Thanks,” Trey said. He lifted his eyes to meet hers.

A screeching sound made Cate jerk back her hand. Renee had pushed back her chair against the tile floor and closed the plastic clamshell lid of her half-eaten salad. She passed by a table’s length away without looking at either Cate or Trey, even though Cate tried to catch her eye.

“I should get back to the office,” Cate said, glancing at her watch.

“Go get ’em,” Trey said. He stood up, too. “I’m going to work from home the rest of the day.” He picked up their empty coffee cups and headed for the trash can.

“Trey?”

He turned around.

“Thanks again.”

He winked and walked her to the elevators before being
swallowed up in one heading toward the lobby. Cate climbed into the next elevator over and hit the button for the twenty-seventh floor. She glanced at her watch: two hours until the editorial meeting. She couldn’t wait to announce Trey was taking over the cover story.

She passed by Renee’s desk, but it was empty. She checked the bathroom, but Renee wasn’t there, either. Cate thought about leaving a note explaining what had happened, but she wasn’t even sure Renee had seen them. Associate editors were always dashing off to press conferences—that’s probably where Renee was now. Either way, a note might make the moment take on more significance than it warranted.

Cate would have to figure it out later. For now, she needed to reread the draft of the polygamy story so she could give Sam her notes after the editorial meeting. She’d just closed the door to her office and sat down with her blue editing pencil—every editor had a different color; Nigel had claimed red and the managing editor had chosen green—when her phone rang.

“Cate Sommers,” she answered, cradling the receiver between her neck and shoulder.

“Hi, sweetie.”

Cate instinctively lowered her voice, even though no one could possibly hear her. “Hey, Mom.”

“What’s new with you?”

Cate felt her blood pressure soar ten points. “Just about to head into a meeting,” she said. “It’s sort of tricky for me to talk during the day at the office.”

She’d reminded her mom of that a half dozen times, but she’d stopped short of setting an outright ban on work calls. It felt odd to be imposing such restrictions and curfews on her mother, as if they’d somehow swapped roles during the past few years. “Can I call you back tonight?”

“Of course,” her mom said, sounding deflated.

Another flash of guilt. A dull ache formed in Cate’s temples.

“Is everything okay?” Cate asked.

“Yes, just wanted to check in.”

“I’ll call you tonight for sure,” Cate said. She softened her voice. “I’d love to catch up.”

By the time the meeting started, Cate was thoroughly distracted. She’d wandered by Renee’s desk twice, but her roommate still hadn’t shown up. Plus the aftereffects of her mother’s call tainted her thoughts, impeding her concentration. Unease ran through her like the steady, insistent tap of a leaky sink faucet.

She forced herself to stand up straight and smile as she walked into the conference room. A huge oval table consumed most of the room, with twenty leather, swivel-wheel chairs positioned around it. Seats weren’t assigned in editorial meetings, but they might as well have been; it was an unspoken rule that the higher up the editor, the closer he or she sat to Nigel.

On one wall was the Creativity Board, a collection of ever-changing photos that illustrated the mood the magazine was striving to conjure. There was a laughing couple tipping out of a hammock, a golden retriever leaping into the air to catch a Frisbee thrown by a shirtless guy, an attractive-looking group dancing at a nightclub, a woman stepping out of a limousine onto the red carpet . . . Everything about the magazine—from the glass-walled offices and art deco–style reception area to the sleek stainless-steel cappuccino makers—was designed to reinforce its image.

Nigel was a stickler for starting meetings on time, and he didn’t waste a moment once the senior staff was assembled. He asked for updates from the managing editor, then turned to Cate.

“Fill us in,” he said.

Cate took a moment to compose herself. “We’ve got a great
lineup for February,” she said. “Trey Watkins is writing our cover story on Reece Moss.”

That got the attention of the dozen editors and staff writers around the oval table. Cate tried to gauge the reactions. There was probably some envy; was it because she’d hit a home run, or because the other writers hadn’t gotten the assignment?

“Nice,” Nigel said, jotting something down on a notepad. “He’ll bring a different touch. What else?”

That was easy, Cate thought, though she would’ve liked to linger on the triumph just a few moments longer.

“The polygamy story. It’s shaping up well,” Cate said, keeping her voice calm and even.

“Is there a draft in?” Nigel asked.

Cate and Sam, the writer, both nodded.

Cate opened her mouth to speak, but Sam beat her to it. “There’s a lot people don’t know about polygamy,” he said, pushing his dark-rimmed glasses higher up on his nose. He had a high, squeaky voice that made even the most innocuous statement sound like a whine. “I described one woman’s ordeal—she was basically raped at thirteen by her much older husband—but I also want to show how widespread it is.”

Nigel nodded again, and Cate drew in her breath sharply. It wasn’t Sam’s job to summarize the story. It wasn’t a hard and fast rule that the features editor described the month’s offerings, but that was the way it was traditionally done.

“I’ve done the first round of edits,” Cate said, speaking a bit louder than usual. She felt her heart begin to pound. “As I told Sam, it’s in pretty good shape, but it needs some work. I’d like more of an emphasis on the personal part of the story, instead of statistics.”

Sam picked up his pen, then set it down. “I did a lot of research for the piece,” he said. He folded his thin arms across his chest.

Here we go, Cate thought. Somehow, she kept her voice even. “It shows. The research is terrific.”

“So why does it need a rewrite?” Sam demanded. He swiveled his chair slightly, so that he was facing Cate.

She sipped from her bottle of water while the words hung boldly in the air. Sam was taking her on in public. She’d never expected this.

“One person’s private story is more universal than a page full of airtight statistics,” Cate said. “The thing I love about the subject you found is that she was a normal girl until she got pulled into that life. She could’ve been any of us, any of our readers. Our audience will relate to her.”

Sam shook his head. “I’ve read that kind of story before.”

Cate felt her face grow hot as the rest of the staff turned to look at her. “Really? Where?”

Nigel finally cut in. “Cate, I’m sure the two of you can work it out outside of here,” he said, clipping the words impatiently.

Cate nodded. “Of course,” she said, even though her insides were churning. Nigel hadn’t backed her up; he’d just made it sound like she and Sam were bickering four-year-olds. Even though he’d chosen her as features editor, he didn’t seem to fully trust her judgment, and now everyone knew it.

So why had he picked her? Cate wondered. Once again, she heard an echo of the noise he’d made as she leaned over her desk.

She picked up a pen and scribbled blindly on her notepad so she could keep her head tilted down until the blush faded from her cheeks. Cate didn’t know why Sam had managed to take away the triumph of her cover story so easily, but she knew it wasn’t a good sign.

Seven

HERE WERE THE THINGS
Abby loved about Annabelle: the way she curled up like a little shrimp in her pink pajamas at bedtime. Her belly laugh, which was so incongruous coming from her tiny body. How her hair felt, slippery as silk, between Abby’s fingers when Abby combed it after a bath.

As months passed, Abby discovered new enchantments. She was there when Annabelle first sat up, and when she learned to blow a sputtering raspberry with her lips. Abby adored the scratchy sound of Annabelle’s voice when she called “Bee-Bee!” as she awoke from a nap.

“Bee-Bee is here,” Abby would say while the baby stretched out her arms to be lifted from her crib. She’d singsong in her ear: “Bee-Bee loves you, yes she does.”

She felt so at ease puttering around the house with Anna-belle on her hip, lining up the baby’s miniature plates in the dishwasher, organizing Annabelle’s toys into baskets lined with pink-and-white polka-dotted cloths, and crawling across the room as Annabelle giggled and imitated her.

One day shortly after Annabelle turned one, Abby was tossing back her hair and neighing like a horse to make Annabelle
laugh. Something made her look up, and she saw Bob in the doorway in his tan pants and crisp blue shirt. Abby didn’t know how long he’d been there. She had trouble deciphering the expression on his face. He couldn’t possibly be mad, could he?

Suddenly, he dropped to his knees. “Can you walk to me, Annabelle?” he asked. Abby clapped as Annabelle moved unsteadily across the floor, and when she reached Bob, he swept her up in his arms and said, “You’re the best baby.”

“Isn’t she?” Abby asked. “I took her to the park today and everyone thought she was at least a year and a half. They couldn’t believe she was only thirteen months old. She’s so advanced!”

“And beautiful,” Bob said. “Do you think I should buy a shotgun yet and sit out on the front porch?”

“Give it another two months,” Abby said, laughing. “It’ll take that long for most of her boyfriends to crawl over here.”

Abby glanced out the window and noticed it was getting darker; it must have been around six o’clock. Too early for Joanna to be home. Usually around this time, Abby and Bob exchanged a few pleasantries, chatting about what Annabelle had eaten and how long she’d napped, then Abby handed over the baby and headed downstairs to pack her backpack for school or get in a few hours of studying. She went out sometimes, too, to meet her boyfriend, Pete, or some friends for dinner or drinks.

She never lingered upstairs when Bob came home. Living in the house made Abby feel the need to establish specific boundaries. She didn’t consider herself part of the family, and she knew Bob and Joanna needed privacy. She wanted to make sure she had some, too, so that Joanna didn’t feel comfortable popping into Abby’s room after one of her predawn runs. There was a lock on Abby’s bedroom door, but not on the main door connecting the basement to the rest of the house.

Once Abby had heard Bob and Joanna fight—not actual words, just the rising timbre of their voices—and she’d frozen
in embarrassment. Should she try to leave? But what if they glanced out the window and saw her hurrying across the front lawn toward her car? In the end the argument stopped, abruptly, and she wondered what was happening next. Almost unbidden, the image came to her of the two of them having sex. But it was Bob’s face she saw, flushed and intent, and that was the image she dreamed of that night. She could barely look at him the next morning as he buttered a piece of sourdough toast when she came upstairs.

Though she talked to Bob every day, their conversations usually centered on Annabelle, the star in both of their orbits. Sometimes Bob asked a question about her classes, or Abby told him that Annabelle was starting to look just like him, but that was as personal as they got. Their mutual love for Anna-belle bound them and gave them permission to be together; it was easy to delight in her little accomplishments, to talk about what made her laugh, to list the books and songs she liked best. The baby both connected them and served as a screen between them.

But tonight something felt different. Abby realized what it was: When she’d looked up to see Bob in the doorway, he’d been watching her, not Annabelle.

Bob stood and handed Annabelle to Abby. “Can you hold her a sec? I’m going to warm up the veggie lasagna I made last night. I thought I’d let Annabelle try it.”

“I’ll bet she loves it,” Abby said, holding Annabelle under her armpits and nuzzling her neck. “You little gourmet. You eat edamame and Greek yogurt and kiwi!”

She could hear the squeak that meant Bob was pulling open the microwave door. “Abby? You want to bring her in here?” he called a few minutes later, as a beep announced the reheating was complete.

She strapped Annabelle into her high chair and slid on the
white plastic tray. “Want me to give her some blueberries for an appetizer?” she asked.