Chapter 27
Keeley sat on the hard cushion of one of the ornate chairs that flanked the couch in Brooke’s library, waiting for the two other members of the entertainment committee. Tatiana always managed to arrive exactly on time, so she would arrive in exactly five minutes, the elevator door sliding silently open as the clock struck three. Brooke, who always seemed flustered when it was just the two of them, had made excuses after depositing Keeley in the room, saying she’d be right back with the tea. The phone had rung as she was exiting the room and Keeley could hear her answer it in the hall, her voice too quiet to be overheard.
Ever since the first meeting, Keeley had tried unsuccessfully to get it right. Afraid of being late again, she arrived ten to fifteen minutes ahead of time. Unfortunately, just as being late was a problem, so was being early. Today, Keeley had arrived twenty minutes early and then spent ten minutes walking around the block in the rain to kill time, the cold and damp cutting her to the bone. Finally, shivering, her feet wet from the splashing rain, and at a loss with no nearby stores or restaurants to take refuge in, she’d given up and gone in. When Brooke answered the door, the extreme alarm on her face made Keeley feel her gaffe more keenly; as if she had had done something insane like arriving in the nude.
Next time she’d do whatever it took to arrive exactly on time, even if it was raining and cold. Even if there was a blizzard. Even if cats and dogs actually fell out of the sky and landed on her head, she wouldn’t arrive early or late. She and Tatiana would share the elevator.
She crossed her legs again, trying to find a comfortable position on the rock hard chair. She’d love to sink in to the soft padded couch facing the fireplace, but that was reserved for Tatiana and Brooke, the queen bees. Queen bitches, more like. Damn it, if it wasn’t for Rebecca, she wouldn’t be here. But if it wasn’t for Rebecca, she’d still be talking to waiters at parties.
Lately when Ben told her of a party they were invited to due to his business connections, she actually looked forward to it. With Brooke’s seal of approval, the women looked at and spoke to her now, and the men, released from sanction, flocked to her for a little light flirtation and her often-bawdy jokes. And to look at her. She knew that, though she couldn’t see it, that often-quoted great-beauty business. When she looked in the mirror, all she saw was herself, some days looking tired, some days looking downright old. Recently, looking fat.
It was the bottle – again. She used to resist the siren call of her wine until five o’clock on the dot. Lately, she gave in earlier and earlier. And with that soothing tonic came bags of gourmet chips and other “nibblies” she couldn’t resist once she had a glass or two. The black slacks she was wearing were her fat pants. What was she going to wear next? A muumuu?
From the minute she woke up in the morning until she heard that satisfying pop of the wine cork slipping out of the bottle, she was assaulted by terrible memories that flashed across her mind like snippets of projected movies. Some she had actively and successfully tamped down for years. Others must have been unconsciously suppressed – so terrifying she had trouble believing they were true. Did that really happen with her mother and the knife, or was it her imagination? She remembered reuniting with the Barefooters and their midnight swim, but it was a shadowy memory of skinny dipping with the girls. The only thing that was bell-clear was that magical prayer of Zo’s, one she still loved with its message of water-borne absolution.
What also plucked at her nerves all day was her daughter’s book, two copies piled together on her bed stand. Who had sent the other copy? What were they trying to say? She had opened the novel at various places, searching for some clue, but the whole of the book seemed to be about a little girl wandering her neighborhood, an old woman who loved to bake, and some kind of lawsuit with all the typical courtroom drama involving the child and the old woman. It had nothing to do with Hannah or herself, and she really couldn’t understand what that awful reviewer had been talking about. Or was she missing something? She picked up the book every day, opening it to read a random paragraph, searching.
Keeley turned her head slightly in order to look at the large portrait on the far wall out of the corner of her eye. The two women sat in sleeveless evening gowns on a couch much like the one next to Keeley, but with a moss-green brocade fabric instead of a pale cream stripe. Brooke’s face in the painting seemed as rigid and hostile as ever, but it was hard to believe that the artist would paint her that way. In stark comparison, Brooke’s sister looked as soft and delicate as a flower, her eyes and lips gently smiling, her blond curls cupping her lovely face. Keeley couldn’t see the resemblance between her and Brooke’s sister that Rebecca had spoken of, except for the blond hair. Anne was much prettier.
The soft bing-bong of the doorbell came in unison with the delicate chiming of the porcelain mantelpiece clock. Hurrying into the room, Brooke deposited the tea tray on the low table in front of Keeley with an uncharacteristic clumsy clatter, winced and smiled her toothy-fake smile at Keeley, and then trotted out to the hallway to greet Tatiana.
Keeley tried to position herself to look relaxed, but it was impossible sitting on such a hard bony chair. Finally she just crossed her legs and sat up straight. She could hear the two women do their usual routine where they acted like they hadn’t seen each other in years, their excited voices bouncing down the hall and into the library. Then there was the clicking of heels as they approached, and they entered the room. Keeley rose and stepped forward to press cheeks with Tatiana, who always smelled of baby powder even though her children were in high school. With her straight yellow-blond hair in a girlish pageboy and her overdone wind-tunnel facelift, it appeared that she wanted to pretend that time had stood still, her babies still crawling and cooing.
“Keeley, lovely to see you.” Tatiana smiled perfunctorily at her and sat down in her customary spot on the opposite end of the couch.
Keeley marveled. How was it possible to sound so bored? “You, too.”
Brooke poured their tea. Keeley took her cup and saucer wishing it was a big glass of wine, which she had been craving horribly since lunchtime, and put a small almond cookie on a rosebud-decorated little plate in front of her. If any of the Barefooters could see her sitting here having this fussy little tea with the-ladies-who-lunch, they would laugh out loud. Amy would probably make gagging noises. They wouldn’t understand, they couldn’t. Even Keeley didn’t understand until she moved into Ben’s moneyed and rarified world.
“Well, let’s get started, shall we?” Brooke, after taking a quick sip of her tea, picked up her notepad and pen.
“Yes, let’s,” Tatiana said, sounding excited again.
“So, Keeley. Tell us. Has Ben had a chance to talk to Susan yet?”
Keeley clenched her teeth. She hated how Brooke referred to the recording star as “Susan” even though they had never met. As if, through Ben, they were now good friends. In a way, the arrogance of it made saying the dreaded words easier. “Yes, well, he did. Unfortunately, she has another obligation for that date. She’s very sorry.”
Brooke blinked and shook her head a little. “Already? It’s six months away? Are you sure?”
Keeley wondered if she was imagining it, or if Brooke was implying that she had mixed up a simple date. “Oh, yes, I’m sure. He was very clear about the date. He even emailed her the link for the website page with all the details.”
Brooke turned to look at Tatiana. “Oh, dear. We were really counting on her. Hmmm.”
Keeley forced herself to breathe. Were they going to kick her off the committee now? “I’m sorry. I tried. Ben was very enthusiastic about the possibility and just as disappointed when she couldn’t do it.”
Tatiana’s hyper-stretched face didn’t register any emotion and probably couldn’t, but she nodded. “I’m sure he tried.”
“Well,” Brooke said, turning back to face Keeley and sighing hugely. “I guess we’ll have to come up with some other ideas. Does Ben know any other musicians?”
Keeley reached for her teacup. Really? Again? “I can’t think of any, but I’ll ask him. Maybe there’s someone he knows that I don’t know about.”
“Oh! That would be great.” Brooke, smiling again, made a note on her pad.
Keeley sat up straight. Wait, what about Tim Terrell? “I have an idea. What about a comedian? Ben knows Tim Terrell?” Oh, that would be so much fun. Keeley felt the first burst of enthusiasm she’d felt since that first luncheon when Rebecca had pumped up her ego to monumental proportions. Tim was side-splittingly funny, edgy, cool. And Ben had hooked Tim up with his latest purchase of a pied-a-terre in Chicago, so he was more than likely to be willing to return the favor.
“Tim Terrell!” Tatiana shrieked, her always-high eyebrows shooting into the stratosphere.
Brooke made a concerned face and shook her head at Keeley. “Oh, no. We don’t do comedians. They always say the wrong thing. Especially someone like Tim Terrell. Oh, no, that really wouldn’t work. We stick with musicians. Everyone loves a beautiful song.”
Keeley felt her enthusiasm deflate. “Oh, okay. Just….didn’t know. Thought it’d be fun.”
“Oh, we have to be careful,” Tatiana said, leaning forward. “There are some really important people at this event. They spend a lot of money. We can’t take any chances.” It was the most Tatiana had ever said to Keeley, usually addressing all of her comments to Brooke.
“Speaking of money,” Brooke said. “How many tables have you two filled? I’ve got five full tables and I’m working on my sixth.”
“I’ve only got three,” Tatiana said, her voice sad. “I’ve got to make more calls.”
“I know you, you’ll fill the most tables of all. You always do!” Brooke turned to Keeley. “And you?”
Not again. One wasn’t enough? And she hadn’t even brought it up yet with Ben, she was so focused on the whole Susan Blackburn thing. “Uh, I will. I really will. Just-“
“Well, at least one?”
“Yes, we will. At least one!”
Brooke’s eyes bugged out a little and then she looked down at her notepad. “I should hope so. Your husband knows so many people. I’m sure…”
Keeley bit the inside of her lip. Was it worth it? Maybe she’d be better off talking to waiters. But Rebecca – she couldn’t let Rebecca down. “Yes, I’ll talk to Ben. Don’t worry. And I’m sure Ben might have some ideas for other musicians.”
Brooke looked at her, smiled a tight-lipped smile and said, “It would be so helpful. Tatiana and I have used up all of our entertainment contacts over the years, so we’re really counting on you.” She made a line across her notepad, signaling the end of that topic. “Now, ladies, we’ve talked about our headliner, let’s move on to the silent auction. I’ve been able to get a week at Canyon Ranch, that pristine beach house in East Hampton for Fourth of July week, and Candice Snow has agreed to have dinner with a lucky winner again. I know, the same as last year, but they’re always the most popular items. But…” She smiled more widely now and turned to Tatiana. “I’m counting on you, darling. You always have the most creative ideas! Do tell.”
Tatiana went on to regale them with a long litany of potential auction items while Brooke cooed and squealed and wrote them down on her notepad. Keeley, forgotten, slumped a little in her chair. She stopped listening after the fifth “brilliant” idea, nibbled on her almond cookie, and kept one eye on the clock. Just as Brooke was obsessed with a punctual start time of every meeting, she also insisted that they end exactly on the dot. This committee met for one hour. All she had to do was wait. And wait.
As with the last two meetings, she wasn’t consulted again after discussing the headliner. The two women went into overdrive as they planned every aspect of the event. This small subcommittee was called the Entertainment Committee, but it really should have been called the Everything Committee. Although there were subcommittees for decorations, catering, audio-visual, donor solicitation, and publicity, they were all ultimately foot soldiers for Brooke and Tatiana’s vision.
By the time the mantelpiece clock chimed again, Keeley was convinced her feet had fallen asleep, they were so numb.
“Well! How time flies!” Brooke and Tatiana leapt to their feet.
Keeley stood up more slowly, afraid she would stumble. “Yes,” she murmured. Could she keep this up? What if Ben didn’t know any other appropriate musicians? And what was appropriate had already been clarified to her in no uncertain terms – no rappers, no heavy metal, no crazy pop stars. Only elegant songbirds, folk artists, and opera singers need apply.
They were ushered out quickly, pins and needles piercing Keeley’s feet and calves. Tatiana, as usual, said nothing in the elevator and waved a quick goodbye on the street before stepping into her waiting car. Keeley watched the sleek black Mercedes pull away with Tatiana in the back seat with a mixture of relief and depression, and then turned to walk to the corner to hail a cab wondering if maybe she should also have a car and driver. The rain had slowed to a pattering shower but the wind had picked up, driving raindrops under her umbrella and soaking her fat-pants-clad legs.