Vera
What is it about don’t bring anything that people fail to understand?
Entertaining is an art; it takes time and planning. Last-minute additions to the buffet I’ve set up on the sideboard in the
dining room will require rearranging and replating because—no. I’m not putting Iggy’s aluminum foil tray of gluten-free, dairy-free cookies out. April quickly arranges them on a Lennox serving platter. Or Esme’s special meal
ordered from a website that, after extensive DNA testing, delivers weekly organic entrées specially calibrated for Esme’s
specific dietary needs. It’s in a biodegradable paper container that apparently must go in the microwave for two minutes.
April dutifully heats and plates it. I don’t have to say a word about any of it. April just knows how I like things. Which is such a relief since I feel like I’m constantly explaining myself to my kids and my husband, who
stare at me like I’m speaking a language they don’t understand and don’t care to learn.
Then she transfers Ana’s cassoulet from the dirty Dutch oven she brought it in to my Fitz and Floyd Toulouse soup tureen with
a bluebird on a branch as its handle. Ana is proud of herself, chattering on about Aunt Agnes’s old recipe and how it’s perfect
for this cold and blustery day. It does smell good; maybe her skills have improved.
“Remember how Mom loved this?” Ana reminisced as she put the big pot on my stove.
I don’t, but okay.
Payton is the only one with any sense. Plus, she doesn’t cook, or entertain. She works seventy hours a week. And like all
women, she must work twice as hard at her law firm to achieve half as much. And as a woman of color, double that. She brings
a hostess gift, which is appropriate, if unnecessary, and very much appreciated—a bottle of Veuve and a box of Belgian chocolates
in an elegant gold box, noting that she has to be on her way by 2:00 at the latest. She always has an exit strategy for these
gatherings. I respect that.
Anyway, we’re seated now, the meal underway. Late morning light streams in from the big windows. And the table is—if I do
say so myself—set to perfection with woven placements and a simple runner of fresh greenery and fairy lights. And everyone
is oohing and aahing over the brunch offerings. I notice that no one touches the cassoulet. Ana’s reputation in the kitchen
is well-known. No one except Iggy, who I can only imagine is just trying to be nice. She dutifully praises Ana’s efforts.
I’ll stick with the quiche and Waldorf salad.
“Anyway, we have Payton to blame for this,” says Ana, her voice rising over the other conversations.
Payton raises her eyebrows, glass halfway to her glossed lips. Her hair is a lush cloud of silky curls, eyes shadowed in glittering
copper. That watch on her wrist costs more than the used car I’m planning to buy for Coraline—if she ever passes her driving
test.
“How is it my fault?” Payton asks coolly.
“You introduced us,” says Ana.
Payton offers an elaborate eye roll. “Ana, you met Paul at the firm Christmas party last year. I don’t recall personally introducing you. And—if I remember correctly
you invited yourself to that party. My friend, you were trawling.”
Ana gives an assenting nod, a devilish smile. “Fair enough.”
“Where is Paul, anyway?” Payton asks, sipping from her wineglass. I notice that she wrinkles her nose in distaste when she says his name. “I didn’t see him at the food bank board meeting on Friday.”
“Apparently, he’s off to Aruba,” says Ana tightly. A flash of something across her face. Sadness? Maybe she did really like
him. “With the new girlfriend.”
“He was cheating,” puts in Esme.
She’s found her way to the sideboard, is eyeing the creamy quiche Lorraine, her mail-order meal untouched. It sits gray and
unappetizing on her plate. “Ana found an errant thong in his gym bag. Lacy, red, wasn’t it?”
Ana launches a glare like a Chinese star. “You were always good at remembering details.” But Esme only grins. She has a way
of gently teasing Ana that appeals to me.
Iggy, who arrived late with a flurry of apologies and is seated to the right of my place at the head of the table, has been
mostly silent. She watches Ana like a sparrow watches a hawk. I don’t understand their relationship. I like Iggy. She’s a
sweet girl, but she’s a bit of an outlier in this group. A college dropout, she has flitted between jobs since then. Last
I heard she was the office manager at a startup company, a job Esme got her and one to which Ana doubts Iggy will return now
that she has a baby. The girl is apparently on the mommy track, complained Ana.
I stopped myself from asking Ana what type of track she considers herself to be on. Her work as a freelance public relations
and social media consultant can be lucrative when she has the right client. But the work is sporadic. And even though she’s
always rushing off to this meeting or that, Brad and I are still paying most of her bills.
Iggy is eating the cassoulet with gusto. Ana, true to form, has only a few pieces of lettuce on her plate and has barely eaten
a bite. She hands her untouched serving of cassoulet to Iggy, who keeps eating.
“So,” says Ana. “My sister was kind enough to host this little gathering. Welcome to my exorcism.”
“Here we go,” says Payton. She’s seated on the other side of Ana. In spite of another eye roll, she reaches for my sister’s
hand. They, too, have been friends since college.
Ana goes on. “This is where we eliminate Paul Hayes from our digital life. We unfollow him on any social media platform and
block him from interacting on ours. I’ve already gone back through my feed and deleted images of him, and untagged any images
he’s shared of me.”
“So,” says Payton, raising a hand as if she’s a student in class. “I can’t really exorcise Paul, you know. His agency works
for our firm.”
“You don’t have to socialize with him, though, right? It’s not like you’re friends.”
Something rushes across Payton’s face, a worried wrinkle of the eyes. What’s going on there? “No,” she says stiffly. “We’re
not friends.”
“I’m happy to exorcise Paul,” says Esme. “I only interacted with him because of you.” She’s already got her phone in hand. Tap. Tap.
Tap. “Done. Paul Hayes just stopped existing for me. Good riddance.”
There’s an uncharacteristic edge to her voice.
“I never followed him,” says Iggy. “I’m not following any more of the men in your life until you get married.”
“Which will be never,” says Ana, sharply. “I don’t want that life.”
Iggy flushes, fingers the diamond N at her neck. She’s pretty in a lush, feminine way, a kind of country-girl-next-door look in the flowery dress she probably
got online. I flash her a smile, which she weakly returns. You can’t take Ana’s declarations too seriously. If it suits whatever
agenda she happens to be running, she’ll change her mind about marriage and anything else in a heartbeat. Iggy, if she knows
Ana as well as she should by now, knows that.
“Fine,” says Payton. “I’ll unfollow in socials. But I have to stay connected to him in ConnectIn for professional reasons.”
Ana concedes with a pouty nod. “What about you, Vera?”
“You know I’m not on socials much.”
That is a lie. What’s true is that I don’t participate. I don’t comment and like, share or argue. I don’t post recipes or
pictures of the kids. I’m not interested in broadcasting my life for approval. And I definitely don’t want my image out there
any more than necessary. It’s bad enough that our life as community business owners and local philanthropists is so high-profile,
hard enough to dodge the camera at functions. I hate seeing my own image in newspapers or online. I like to control how I
am seen.
But I do watch. I’m what Coraline would call a social media stalker. You don’t see me. But I see you. I watch Ana, the kids,
the kids’ friends. You learn a lot about people that way.
So, for example, though I couldn’t care less about Paul, I followed him because of his connection to Ana. So, I did see the
post that sent Ana over the edge. The sunset shot from Aruba, his feet beside the pedicured feet of a woman, two martini glasses
held to the sky. Paradise found. That’s one of the things I disliked about Paul the most, his utter lack of imagination. He was so—dull.
The post did seem taunting, though. Which is a bit off-brand. I wouldn’t have imagined him cheating, breaking up with Ana,
dashing off to Aruba, and then posting an image that he clearly knew she would see. That showed a lot of imagination, a creative
mean-spiritedness worthy of a woman. Men are usually so basic in their hurtfulness, in their violence.
But my sister does have a way of pushing people to their limit, making them do things they wouldn’t do without her subtle
influence.
Ana’s watching me. We know each other too well. We almost don’t need to talk anymore. Sisters. Just a look, what is left unsaid,
can speak volumes.
“But yeah,” I say. “Of course. Consider him social media dead to me.”
“He was never good enough for you,” says Iggy.
Ana puts a hand to her heart, beams. “Thank you, lovey. Maybe someday I’ll find someone as wonderful as your Brock.”
There’s another layer to it though, and Iggy’s sweet smile falters.
Ana raises her glass. I’ve shared around the champagne that Payton brought as a gift. April filled some flutes and brought
them out on a tray as we sat. Hardly anyone noticed her, except for Iggy, who thanked her quietly. April’s like that, a person
who prefers to go unseen. She does whatever job I hire her to do efficiently and quietly. She disappears until I need her
again. April and I share the rare perfect relationship—unemotional, discreet, transactional. I pay her in cash.
“To Brock,” says Ana. “Who reminds us that there are good men in the world.”
We clink. I notice that Ana only pretends to sip, while Iggy nearly drains her glass.
“And good riddance to cheating slobs like Paul,” says Esme, lifting her glass again. “May he never darken our social media
feeds again.”
Another round of clinking flutes.
Then the doorbell rings. Everybody freezes, glasses still raised. Looking around the table, I clock fleeting expressions,
those little twitches on the face that tell the truth. Ana looks guilty. Trust me, I’ve seen that look a thousand times, underpinned
by a kind of dark glee. What’s she up to? Iggy looks briefly scared. Esme, angry. Payton glances at her watch, like she’s
counting the minutes until she can leave.
I nod to April, who scurries off to answer the door.