Chapter 1 Members of the Club #2
prefers him to me, treats my husband like the son he never had and me like a titian-haired, addlebrained idiot. Denise won’t
take her nose out of her books to speak to me, or anyone else, and is still set on going to Oxford after graduation. I don’t
blame her for wanting to escape, but why England? It rains incessantly, there’s no central heat, and the men have terrible
teeth. Why not go someplace hip, with good weather and good-looking people? Why not escape to Rome? Or even Los Angeles?”
Charlotte craned her neck to the side, as if actually expecting a response. The doctor made a note on his pad. Charlotte sighed, wishing she’d worn her watch so she’d know how long it would be until the end of the session and her next cigarette.
“I suppose Junior is doing fine at the military academy, but he hasn’t written in weeks, so who knows? Laura and Andrew are
still sweet, but at twelve and eleven, you’d expect that. Of course I was an early bloomer, but I don’t think most people
start despising their parents until they hit their teens, do you? Let’s see . . . What else is new?” She drummed her fingernails
against the brown leather of the therapy couch, which was really more of a chaise.
“Oh yes! Another gallery turned me down. This time the owner phoned personally to say he found my paintings amateurish and derivative. Good of him to make the effort, don’t you think? But that’s about
it. Nothing new to report.
“Oh, wait,” she said, and snapped her fingers. “There is one thing. I joined a women’s book club.”
“A book club?” Barry scooted forward in his burgundy wingback chair. “Well, that’s excellent, Charlotte. Do you know these
women?”
“Just one, Margaret Ryan. She showed up at the door unannounced with a plate of cookies and invited me to join.”
“Excellent. Making connections with other housewives can be very therapeutic and help you adjust to your role. Do you think
you can become friends with this woman?”
“We’ll see,” Charlotte said, squishing her lips together. “She may be too nice. Her taste in literature is much too nice. I only agreed to join because she let me pick the book.”
“And what book is that?”
Had Dr. Barry been able to read Charlotte as well as he thought he could—something she was determined to prevent him from
ever, ever doing—he would have seen the bow of her lips and known it was the smile of a woman who took pleasure in baiting hooks and
seeing the barbs swallowed whole.
“The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan,” Charlotte said sweetly. “Have you read it?”
Barry’s bristly white brows became a disapproving line. “I’ve heard about it, and that’s quite enough. Therapeutically speaking, Charlotte, I don’t think—”
“Oh, but you must,” she interrupted, rolling onto her side and fixing him with her emerald-green eyes. “I found chapter five, ‘The Sexual Solipsism
of Sigmund Freud,’ particularly enlightening. I’m sure you would too. Would you like to borrow my copy?”
“No, thank you,” Barry said stiffly, and scribbled another note on his pad.
Charlotte’s purse was sitting next to the couch. She reached inside for her cigarettes.
“Sorry,” she said when he shot her a look. “It’s beyond my control. Oral fixation. You understand.” She pushed herself to
a sitting position and lit up. “I believe our time is up for today. But I think we’ve made real progress, don’t you?” She
stood. “Oh, one more thing? I’m going to need a new prescription. The one Dr. Gould wrote for me is about to expire. Doesn’t
have to be today though. I can get it at my next appointment.
“See you then,” she chirped, giving a little wave as she headed to the door.
* * *
The late afternoon sun was shining in Rock Creek Park, turning the newly unfurled leaves of the trees that lined the horse
trail an even brighter shade of green.
As the end of the bridle path came into sight, Bitsy Cobb—whose hair, worn in a pageboy held back from her face with a narrow
red velvet ribbon, was as black and shiny as the coat of her mount—loosened the reins, letting Delilah canter for the final
hundred yards. Though the same age as her twenty-three-year-old rider, the horse moved well.
“You’ve still got it, don’t you, girl?” Bitsy said as they approached the stable and Delilah slowed to a walk.
The horse, spotting a well-dressed woman of middle years standing near a fence, perked up her ears and picked up her pace, jogging toward the woman, who murmured affectionately when Delilah stopped in front of her.
“Beautiful girl,” the woman said, pulling half an apple from the pocket of her well-cut tweed jacket and offering it to the
horse. “You’re aging better than I am, aren’t you?”
Bitsy climbed down from the saddle.
“Mrs. Graham, have you been waiting? I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d planned to ride.”
“No time today, I’m afraid. Two dozen editors, plus wives and girlfriends, are coming for dinner. Tomorrow it’s freshman congressmen—Democrats
and Republicans. I’m putting the summer slipcovers on early in case blood is drawn,” she said, then laughed.
Katharine Graham was an heiress, the wife of Phil Graham, publisher of the Washington Post newspaper, and one of Washington, DC’s, most influential hostesses. Though Bitsy had only been working at the stables for
a few weeks, she’d found Mrs. Graham to be unpretentious and kind.
“I just dropped by to say hello to my girl,” Katharine said, stroking Delilah’s neck as the horse munched the apple. “She
was a wedding gift from my father, did I tell you? I was far more excited about Delilah than I was about those eighteen place
settings of Limoges, believe me.” Mrs. Graham smiled. “Thank you for taking such good care of her.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Bitsy said in a soft Kentucky drawl. “Sometimes I can’t believe how lucky I am, getting paid to ride horses. Honestly, I’d do it for free. Don’t tell my boss though.”
“It’ll be our secret. But you do a lot more than just ride the horses. You curry, water, and feed them, too, among other less
savory jobs.” Mrs. Graham shifted her gaze to a nearby manure shovel. “And always with unflagging dedication, I’ve noticed.”
Unaccustomed to much praise, Bitsy felt her cheeks go warm. “Well, I grew up with horses. My daddy was barn manager at Prescott
Farms for thirty years before he passed.”
“In Lexington? You don’t say. They’ve produced some fine thoroughbreds, quarter horses too. Delilah’s grandfather came from Prescott Farms. You should be proud.”
Bitsy beamed. “Yes, ma’am. I am. Ever since I was this high,” she said, flattening her palm just above her knee, “I’d tag
along behind Daddy, helping in the barn. Mother wanted me to be a lady, but the only thing I cared about was horses and books.”
Delilah nudged her shoulder, and Mrs. Graham stroked the animal’s nose. “I thought as much. I didn’t suppose that as the wife
of a successful equine vet, you took this job for the money.”
“Well, he’s still building his practice,” Bitsy said. “But yes, we’re comfortable. We bought a house in Concordia. It’s nice,
but different from Lexington. I’m the youngest woman in the neighborhood and the only one without children, so I don’t quite
fit in. King is older than I am and anxious to start a family—I am, too, naturally—but no luck so far.
“Anyway . . . ,” she murmured, fearing she’d shared too much and remembering Mrs. Graham had things to do. But instead of
making an exit, Katharine nodded.
“It’s a lot of pressure, isn’t it? You know, nearly three years passed before Phil and I had our first child. My mother called
every single day to ask what was taking so long.”
Bitsy gasped. “Mine too! She doesn’t even say hello now, just, ‘Well?’ It’s unnerving!”
When their shared laughter faded, Mrs. Graham patted Bitsy’s arm. “Things have a way of working out when and how they’re meant
to. You’ll see. As far as the women in your neighborhood, don’t turn yourself inside out trying to make everyone love you.
Instead, be on the lookout for two or three like-minded souls who’ll take you as you are and stand by you no matter what.
Acquaintances abound, but true friendships are rare and worth waiting for.”
“I just joined a book club,” Bitsy offered. “Maybe I’ll find friends there. We’re reading The Feminine Mystique. It’s interesting.”
“And controversial.” Mrs. Graham nodded appreciatively. “I like these women already.”
“Me too. So far.”
“Give it time,” Katharine said, then glanced at her wristwatch. “Speaking of which . . .”
Bitsy led Delilah toward the stable, and Mrs. Graham walked to her waiting sedan. After turning on the ignition, she pulled
the car up alongside the fence and rolled down the window.
“Bitsy?” she called out. “When your mother phones, tell her that not only is it possible to love horses and books and still
be a lady, but Katharine Graham says it’s practically required!”
* * *
After laying the teasing comb on the counter and giving her blond bouffant a final coat of hairspray, forty-one-year-old Vivian
Buschetti cranked up the volume of the bathroom radio, hoping the sound of Eydie Gormé blaming it on the bossa nova would
drown out the noise of her six children, whose argument over the television set was reaching a fever pitch.
Knowing she had only moments before the kids would start pounding on the bathroom door and demanding justice, Viv applied
her eyeliner and pulled a black nylon and lace slip over her head, tugging to clear her full bosom and generous curves. There
was a knock.
She turned down the radio. “Do not make me come down there,” she warned through the locked door. “If I do, nobody is watching anything for a week. Vince? Andrea? You hear me?”
“Loud and clear. But it’s not Vince. Or Andrea.”
Viv smiled and blotted her pink lipstick with a tissue. “Who is it?”
“The man of your dreams. But don’t tell your husband. I hear he gets crazy jealous.”
Viv opened the door. After eighteen years of marriage, the sight of tall, dark, and handsome Anthony Buschetti in his crisply