Wellesley Wives (New England Trilogy) (16 page)

“Hello, doll,” he said when she came into his room. His voice was frail, and he still looked poleaxed. It shook Popsy to see him so ill.

“Hey, you. What a fright you gave us all. How are you feeling?”

He gestured for her to come closer, and closer again, until her ear was right next to his lips. Then he kissed her. “Gotcha,” he said and smiled weakly.

“You still have it, darling, but don’t stress yourself.” Popsy sat in the seat next to the bed and took his hand.

“I’m fine. They have me doped up so I can’t chase any of these nice nurses.”

“There’ll be none of that for some time yet,” she whispered but winked at him at the same time.

He made an “aw shucks” gesture but didn’t try to talk.

“Everything’s fine at home. Marcus and Rosie stayed with me last night. You know, just for some moral support.”

He nodded and closed his eyes. She was surprised at how sedated he was.

“I think Matilda has fallen in love with Natasha. She adores having a child to fuss over, and Nat even managed birthday pie for breakfast.”

“Maybe we should have another baby,” Peter joked, keeping his eyes closed.

Popsy laughed. “Not out of this body, you won’t. You’d need to trade me in to manage that trick.” She’d said it before she realized how close it hit home. Peter opened his eyes.

“Where’s Lily?”

Popsy shook her head and dropped her gaze to the bed. In her head she berated herself for inadvertently bringing up the one subject she was trying to avoid.

“You don’t know where she is?”

She shook her head again. “I haven’t seen or spoken to her. I assume she’s at work, but I have no idea what happened last night.”

Peter said nothing for a while, and Popsy was happy for the silence.

Then he said, “I’ll kill him when I get out of here. I swear, I’ll kill him.”

“Stop talking nonsense. You almost killed yourself yesterday. I’m not letting you within a mile of Jack Hoffman. I’m serious. You’re to stay calm and think nice thoughts.” Even as she said it, she knew how ridiculous it was. “Your sole function at the moment is to get better. Then you and I are going away from all of this. We might not ever come back. If I find a nice beach bar in the Bahamas or Australia, who knows, I might just whisk you away forever.”

He smiled as if the idea had appeal.

Then a nurse arrived. Couldn’t she just leave them alone?

“Well, Mr. Power, perhaps that’s enough excitement for now. I see your heart rate going up. What did we say to you about getting excited?” Her loud voice seemed a gross intrusion.

Peter flinched but didn’t reply. He just closed his eyes again. The nurse addressed Popsy.

“I’d say that’s enough visiting for this morning, dear.”

“But I only just got here.”

“This is ICU. There shouldn’t be any visitors in here at all.”

She studied the notes at the bottom of his bed.

“I gather we’re losing Mr. Power later today.” Popsy disliked her tone. The nurse made it sound like she was misplacing patients and nobody was going to misplace her husband while she was around. Then the nurse said in a softer voice, “You can spend more time with him there.”

That’s when Popsy realized that perhaps she did understand and was just trying to sound flippant to keep everybody calm. The ICU was a pretty stressful place. Either way, her hovering indicated that Popsy’s time was well and truly up. She managed a quick kiss on her husband’s cheek before the nurse escorted her to the door.

Popsy wasn’t happy, but she couldn’t do anything about it. She had to conclude that the hospital staff knew what they were doing and rest was what her husband needed more than anything else.

Just as much as Peter needed rest, Popsy decided, Sandra would need a friend. The worrying bit was whether or not she still qualified as one.

“Mrs. Hoffman, there’s a Mrs. Power here to see you,” the hotel receptionist said into the phone intercom.

Popsy couldn’t hear Sandra’s reply but she knew it was rude because the receptionist looked flustered and then hung up. “I’m afraid she’s unavailable right now,” the young girl improvised.

Popsy had visited Sandra’s home thousands of times. She even recognized the receptionist. “Look, the truth is Sandra and I had a bit of an argument last night. I just want to go up to talk to her—to say sorry. Can you please try one more time?”

With visible reluctance, the receptionist phoned through again and when she hung up she said, “She really doesn’t want to see you.” The receptionist looked a little more shaken after receiving what was clearly a tongue-lashing from Sandra.

Popsy knew that she wasn’t going to get past this kid. She was too wet behind the ears and obviously terrified. There was a certain folklore surrounding the permanent residents of the hotel. At the time the hotel was built, over a decade earlier, a six-story tower was added with what were then the most luxurious and secure residences in Wellesley.

There was also a major scandal surrounding them, because it was the tallest structure in the town and the building permits had been turned down several times. There was still some mystery surrounding the ultimate green light to its construction, but C&J Industries were not involved in the development. So Jack used to laugh it off, pleading innocence. There was no doubt the penthouse was the jewel in The Celtic Crowne Plaza Hotel.

Back then Jack Hoffman had been licking his wounds, having just concluded his divorce from Olga. His ex-wife took the three girls to live in New Jersey, by the sea, and he didn’t fight it. Pretty soon after, he and Sandra agreed to move in together. His ego got the better of him, and he bought what was back then Boston’s most expensive piece of real estate—the only penthouse in The Celtic Crowne Plaza Hotel.

To the young receptionist, the idea of even phoning the penthouse, let alone getting into trouble with the resident, must have been terrifying.

The hotel porters were another story. Popsy knew most of them from over the years. To her good fortune, Noel, the head porter, was walking toward the elevators.

“Noel,” she called after him, and he stopped and smiled.

He was in his sixties and had been with the hotel since it opened. He was a gentleman and a veteran of the hotel industry. More importantly, like Popsy, he was Irish.

“Mrs. Power, it’s yourself. Are you here for a function or are you on your way up to Mrs. Hoffman?” His soft, warm accent was still as thick as the day he’d left Ireland.

She filled him in on a story similar to the one she had given the receptionist, but Noel was a good deal more sympathetic and open-minded.

He tapped the side of his nose and escorted her to the residents-only executive elevator. There he used his security key to get the elevator to go straight up to the top floor. Only senior management or the head porter could do this. It meant that Popsy could at least get to Sandra’s front door, if not quite into the penthouse.

He stepped out of the elevator just before the doors closed and winked at her.

“Twasn’t me who let you up, girl.”

“Bless you, Noel. I didn’t even see you today,” she said, her own accent reverting to its old patter, and winked back as the doors glided closed.

There was only one penthouse, so when Popsy reached the top floor, she wasn’t worried that anybody else might overhear their conversation. When she got there, she knocked on the door gently. “It’s me, Sandra. Please let me in. We need to talk.”

There was no reply, so she knocked a little harder. “Sandra, it’s Popsy.”

“Go away.”

“I’m not leaving until you at least speak to me,” she said, sounding a lot more confident than she felt.

“You came, you heard my voice. Now go away.”

“Sandra, I want to see you. Please open up.”

Popsy waited for a moment or two. “I can stand here all day if you like, talking at you like this.”

There was a moment of silence, and then she heard the double bolt sliding. Sandra swung open the door but walked away without saying anything or acknowledging her and flopped onto the sofa.

Popsy knew that Sandra was going to be upset, but it was shocking how fast her home had fallen into a state of chaos. The rooms looked utterly trashed—like there’d been a herd of teenagers through the place on a booze and cigarette binge. It smelled like a full ashtray and looked about as appealing. Very un-Sandra like.

Popsy ignored it all. “Thanks for letting me in. I wasn’t sure if you were going to talk to me.”

“I don’t want to.” Sandra took the TV remote and turned the volume up.

Not really sure what to do, Popsy watched the film with her. “What’s this?” she eventually asked.

“
Something’s Gotta Give
. It’s a good movie, but I think it’s too happy for me today.” Sandra looked like she was going to change the channel.

“Oh, I don’t know. There’s a very good crying scene at the end if it’s the movie I’m thinking of. Is Diane Keaton in it?”

Sandra nodded.

“Yes, I know this. You get to see Jack Nicholson’s backside, too. I loved this movie.”

Such positivity seemed to annoy Sandra. She switched the television off. “Look, I’m not sure that you should be here. I have a lot going on in my head, and I really think I need to be alone. You, of all people, should get that.”

“Please don’t hate me,” Popsy said. “I can’t believe what’s going on. I just can’t. I do feel guilty, but I don’t want you to blame me. You’re my best friend. Peter’s in the hospital, and I’m not talking to my daughter. I can’t even say her name. Please don’t shut me out.”

“Oh, Popsy. How do you end up being the victim here?” Sandra grabbed her packet of cigarettes. “You’re the one with all the cards—the adoring husband, the beautiful daughters.” Sandra let that comment hang for a moment. “Too beautiful, by all accounts. You even have the grandchild box ticked, and what the hell do I have?”

She paused to light up and inhaled deeply, making herself cough.

“I have nothing, that’s what. I was the second wife. We’re already a pretty despised bunch, and now I’ve been discarded. I have no kids, no grandkids, and if Jack’s telling the truth, then I’m broke, too.”

“You heard about C&J?”

“He told me last night, and I didn’t believe him, but that didn’t stop me from calling Olga to tell her.” Sandra almost smiled.

“You didn’t!” Popsy gasped.

“Hey, why the heck not? It gave me a certain satisfaction. I guess we’re in the same boat now—the ex-wives club.” Sandra looked at her. “What does Peter say about it?”

“He had a heart attack. He hasn’t said much since he tried to thump Jack last night.”

“He was trying to punch Jack when it happened?” There was a slight smile on her face, so Popsy smiled back and nodded.

“It all happened so fast. I asked Jack was he having an af—well, you know—with Lily, and Peter went crazy and lunged for him. That’s when he fell over. The doctors say it was a small attack, but it still scares the hell out of me. You hear all the stories these days about middle-aged men just falling over dead. That could have been Peter.” As she started to cry, Sandra handed her the box of tissues.

“I’m sorry, Popsy. Peter is a great guy. Please tell him I hope he’s feeling better and thanks for trying to take Jack down, too. Don’t worry too much about Peter. He’s tough. Wait and see, he’ll be up and around in no time.”

Popsy blew her nose. “I know. It was just a warning call, but still. Yesterday was definitely the worst day of my life. First the business, then Lily’s bombshell, and then Peter. Some birthday lunch. I never want to have another birthday.”

“That reminds me, I got you a present.” Sandra got up and headed into her study, taking her cigarette with her.

Popsy thought about opening the curtains and the windows while she was gone but decided not to risk annoying Sandra. She was picking up the newspaper when she saw the broken vase with flowers scattered all over, and the enormous water stain that had formed on the wood.

“Oh my God, Sandra,” she whispered. “Your beautiful floor. I don’t think that stain is going to come out now.” She rushed into the kitchen, which also looked like a hurricane had hit it, and grabbed a dish cloth and the trash can.

“What are you doing?” Sandra walked back into the room. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I tried to kill Jack last night.”

Popsy gathered all the dead Irises. “It’s not Jack I’m worried about. It’s your famous flooring.” She still remembered when Sandra had ordered the most expensive Calamander wood floor. The wood was very rare and grew only on the Indonesian island of Sulawesi. When Jack heard about it, he insisted they get it just
because
it was the most expensive. And now it was ruined—crazy.

“You have a serious water mark here, I’m afraid.” She examined the stain. “If it had been wiped up straight away, it might have survived, but not now that the water has soaked in.”

Sandra lit a new cigarette from her last one and Popsy, who was a passionate anti-smoking person at the best of times, said, “Don’t do this to yourself. Not the cigarettes.” It had been so tough for Sandra to give them up when she first began dating Jack. To start again seemed insane. “Come on, this isn’t the answer. You’re stronger and better than this. Just because your husband—”

“Ex-husband. No man does that to me and gets away with it.”

“Sorry. Ex-husband. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You’re the strongest person I know, and I’m sorry if I came across as the victim. You’re the one who’s going through hell here, and I just want you to know that you’re amazing and brilliant—”

“Okay, okay, I get the message. I’m friggin’ magnificent and he’s the idiot. I get it. So tell me this: why am I the sad old fool sitting here all alone while he’s off living the life?”

Popsy forgot about the floor and came to sit beside her friend on the sofa. She hugged her and rocked her gently, and Sandra started to cry.

Chapter 14 

Happily Ever After?

By Monday evening, Lily wasn’t even sure if her legs would carry her from the car to her apartment. Work had been horrible. The news about her father and Jack’s business going into Chapter 11 had hit the financial circuits around town, and that included her employer.